DETECTING JAPANESE VERNACULAR MODERNISM:

SHINSEINEN MAGAZINE AND THE DEVELOPMENT

OF THE TANTEI SHÔSETSU GENRE, 1920-1931

DISSERTATION

Presented in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for

the Degree Doctor of Philosophy in the Graduate

School of The Ohio State University

By

Kyoko Omori

*****

The Ohio State University

2003

Dissertation Committee:

Professor William J. Tyler, Adviser Approved by

Professor Richard Torrance

Professor Mark Bender Adviser

Department of East Asian Languages and Literatures
 ABSTRACT

The post-war discourse on modern Japanese literature has presented the binary

opposition between “pure” versus “popular” literature as a historical fact, configuring

popular literature as the disposable “other” of “pure” literature. Consequently, Japanese

literary studies have paid relatively little attention to popular forms such as mystery

fiction, samurai “period” fiction, the romance novel, and “nansensu” humor.

This dissertation examines the discursive formation of the Japanese modernist

popular genre known as “tantei shôsetsu” or “detective fiction.” Focusing on the popular

monthly magazine Shinseinen and several of its writers, it discusses the theoretical and

practical dimensions of “tantei shôsetsu” as a vernacular form of modernist literary

production. In doing so, it situates the genre within contemporaneous debates about the

meaning of both modernity and literature in Japan during the 1920s.

Chapter One establishes the theoretical terms for “vernacular modernism” by

illuminating the ways in which popular literary production engaged with the forces of

commercialism and Westernization that also shaped the development of canonical

Japanese literature during the early twentieth century. Chapter Two surveys established

critical views of Modernism in Japan and shows that they fail to account for the

significance of vernacular expression. Chapter Three discusses the history and growth of
ii
Shinseinen magazine and its promotion of tantei shôsetsu as important aspects of

“modanizumu” culture during the 1920s-1930s. Chapter Four focuses on the principal

theorist of tantei shôsetsu, the renowned socialist critic Hirabayahsi Hatsunosuke, who

advocated the genre as the most appropriate means for cultivating the kind of critical

intelligence necessary for young people to negotiate modernity. Chapter Five discusses

the life of Hasegawa Kaitarô (known as Tani Jôji), the most commercially successful

writer of the time, as emblematic of the generation of readers targeted by Shinseinen.

Chapter Six examines selected popular literary works by Hasegawa. It traces his

development from a more orthodox approach to tantei shôsetsu, exemplified in his short

story, “The Shanghaied Man,” to a highly parodic use of the genre, as reflected in his

famous “’Merican-Jap” stories, The concluding chapter summarizes the over-arching

argument of the dissertation and lays out possible avenues of future research.

iii
 Dedicated to my parents in Japan,
Shirô Ômori and Shunko Ômori
as one of the many ways to repay their unconditional love and faith in me
throughout the journey

iv
 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I could not have come this far without the help and encouragement of so many

people. First and foremost, I am grateful to William J. Tyler, my advisor, who patiently

listened to my ideas since the early stages of this project and guided me with

indispensable advice throughout my graduate work. His detailed and insightful feedback

on my drafts always pushed me forward, even when I felt this dissertation work was not

going anywhere. I appreciate our many conversations, from which I drew inspiration.

I enjoyed stimulating discussions with Richard Torrance in his courses on

Japanese detective fiction. I am grateful for his enthusiasm about my research on genre

fiction and the socialist critic, Hirabayashi Hatsunosuke. Mark Bender’s work on oral

performance in China led me to think about the idea of culture in new ways, and to

recognize the power of popular tradition.

I also would like to express my gratitude to Sadami Suzuki at Nichibunken

(International Research Center for Japanese Studies) in Kyoto. The pioneering scholar of

Shinseinen magazine, he pointed to crucial sources, as well as introduced me to scholars

who shared my interests. My stay at the center came at a crucial time in the research for

this study, and I am deeply appreciative of the hospitality and kindness that everyone

showed me there.

v
 Maureen Donovan at the Japanese Collection in the University Main Library has

been of tremendous help. Thanks to her, Ohio State University was one of the first two

libraries to purchase the reproduction of Shinseinen. She also frequently amazed me by

finding a variety of materials related to the magazine. Without those sources related to

Japanese popular culture, my dissertation would have suffered immeasurably.

Among the many scholars and friends to whom I am indebted, I especially would

like to mention Ann Sherif, Masao Shimozato and the members of the Shinseinen

Research Group in Japan. I appreciate the help that Toshiko Tsutsumi, Yûsuke Hamada

and Shôji Suenaga extended to me. Mr. Ôshima, the director of the Hakodate City

Museum of Literature, also provided valued assistance. This dissertation project was

supported by the Tanakadate Aikitsu Award and the PEGS Grant for International

Research. I also wish to thank Hong Gang Jin, De Bao Xu, David Paris and the entire

Asian Studies Group at Hamilton College for their continuing interest in and support of

my work.

I cannot express enough of my appreciation and affection to Steve Yao, who saw

the potential in my research and was always there to listen to my ideas and explore the

issues of vernacular modernism. I hope we will keep growing together over the many

years to come. Finally, deep love and gratitude are also due to my parents, my brother

Hajime and my sister Satsuki.

vi
 VITA

Autumn 2002-present . . . . . . . . . . . Assistant Professor, East Asian Languages and

Literatures Department, Hamilton College

Summer 2000 and 2001 . . . . . . . . . . Instructor, The Japanese School, Middlebury

College, VT

Autumn 1999 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Visiting Instructor, East Asian Studies Program,

Oberlin College

1996 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . M.A. Japanese Literature, The Ohio State

University

1994-1999 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Graduate Teaching Associate, East Asian

Languages and Literatures Department,
The Ohio State University

PUBLICATIONS

• “’Merican-Jap and Modernity: Tani Jôji’s Popular Negotiation of the Foreign,”

Japan from Somewhere Else: The Proceedings of the Association for Japanese
Literary Studies, West Lafayette: AJLS, 2003.
• “Gurôbarizumu de miru Nihon no Modanizumu: Nihon modanizumu senshû no
shuppan ni mukete.” (Investigating Japanese Modernism in a Global Context: Toward
the Publication of the Japan Modanizumu Anthology): Shinseinen shumi. Vol. 9.
Tokyo: Shinseinen Kenkyûkai, January 2002.

FIELDS OF STUDY

Major Field: East Asian Languages and Literatures

vii
 TABLE OF CONTENTS

Page

Abstract………………………………………………………………………………... ii

Dedication……………………………………………………………………………… iv

Acknowledgments……………………………………………………………………… v

Vita…………………………………………………………………………………….. vii

Chapters:

1. Introduction: Literature as Art or/and Commercial Production Activity…………… 1

2. Japan’s Modernity and the Literature of Modanizumu……………………………… 13

2.1 Modernism in the West………………………………………………… 13

2.2 Amorphousness of Modanizumu in Japanese Literature………………. 16
2.3 The Tripod View: Hirano Ken’s Three-legged Concept and
Literature of Modanizumu……………………………………………… 22
2.4 Cultural Importations and the Return to Japan:
Donald Keene’s View………………………………………………….. 31
2.5 Recent Discourse on Modanizumu…………………………………….. 33
2.6 The Complexity of the Shinkô-geijutsu-ha Meeting…………………… 39

3. Shinseinen
…………………………………………………………………………………… 51

3.1 Shinseinen as a Torchbearer of Modanizumu……………………………51

3.2 Publications about Shinseinen and Its Writers:
The 1960s to the Present……………………………………………….. 56
3.3 Detective Fiction in the West and the Tantei Shôsetsu………………… 64
3.4 Philology of “Tantei” – An Action of Probing, Exploring and
Investigation………………………..………………………….………... 68
3.5 Advancing Detective Fiction as a Legitimate Genre…………………… 73
viii
 3.6 Shinseinen’s Critical Discourse on Tantei Shôsetsu – Rampo’s
Debut…………………………………………………………………… 80
3.7 Shinseinen’s Bi-Annual Special Issues on the Tantei Shôsetsu Genre… 86
3.8 Tantei Shôsetsu: Examination of the Genre Vis-à-vis
Proletarian Literature…………………………………………………… 95
3.9 “Seinen” (Youth): Negotiating Modernity Through Economic Activity.. 99
3.10 Probing Literature: Pushing the Limits of Genre into Parody………… 104

4. Hirabayashi Hatsunosuke…………………………………………………………… 107

4.1 Hirabayashi and His Theory of Tantei Shôsetsu………………………. 107

4.2 Tantei Shôsetsu and Bundan Literature………………………………... 130
4.3 Hirabayashi’s Literary Practice: His Tantei Shôsetsu…………………. 135
4.4 Conclusion……………………………………………………………... 151

5. Hasegawa Kaitarô: Twists of Subjectivity………………………………………….. 153

5.1 Introduction………………………………………………………….….153
5.2 Hasegawa Kaitarô and His Father………………………………………157
5.3 One Man as Three: Kaitarô’s Writing Career Begins…………………..177
5.4 Maki Itsuma……………………………………………………………. 181
5.5 Hayashi Fubô………………………………………………………….. 182
5.6 Tani Jôji………………………………………………………………... 183
5.7 Kaitarô’s Simultaneous Use of Three Pen Names ……………………. 184

6. Tani Jôji’s Tantei Shôsetsu and ’Merican-Jap Stories………………………………. 186

6.1 “The Shanghaied Man” ……………………………………………….. 186

6.2 The Contrast Between Maedakô Hiro’ichirô and Hasegawa Kaitarô…. 199
6.3 ’Merican-Jap Stories…………………………………………………… 202
6.4 The Multivalent Voices in ’Merican-Jap Stories……………………… 207
6.4.1. Play on Names in “ ‘The Master’ and the Plates” ………….. 207
6.4.2 “Marû Ship” – Writing is Telling Lies……………………… 209
6.4.3 Alienation and Assimilation: “Pitiable Tuxedoes” …………. 211
6.5 Stories of Japanese Schoolboys……………………………………….. 215
6.5.1 American Writer Uses a Japanese Perspective for
Light Social Critique…..…………………………………….. 215
6.5.2 Takamura Kôtarô’s Sense of Alienation and Victimization… 220
6.5.3. Schoolboys at “Japanese Rolling Ball” – The case of
Nagai Kafû’s “Daybreak” ..…………………………………. 222
6.5.4. Schoolboys at “Japanese Rolling Ball” – In the Case of
Hasegawa Kaitarô’s “The Town in the Sleet”.……………… 224
6.6 Japanese Hobos and American Society..……………………………… 228
6.6.1. “Dassô” (Running Away) – Frustration over the Gap
Between the Two Discrepant Images of Himself…………… 229
ix
 6.6.2. “Mekishiko onna” (The Mexican Woman) – Story-telling by
Taking Advantage of “The Other’s” Preconception of
a Bellboy..……………………………………..…………… 234
6.6.3. “Sam Kagoshima” – Switching Identities by Using
the Other’s Prejudice Concerning Ethnicity..……………… 235
6.6.4 “Kuni no nai hitobito no kuni” (Country of People Without
a Country) – American Society as Mosaic of Ethnicity and
Classes……………………………………………………… 238
6.6.5 “The Maniac Who Collects Rejection Slips”
– the Writer as Commercial Producer……………………… 245
6.7 The Ending……………………………………………………………. 255

7. Conclusion ………………………………………………………………………… 260

Appendices:
A. English Translation of Tani Jôji’s “The Shanghaied Man” ………………… 270

B. The Cover Illustration from Hitori sannin zenshû (One Man as Three),
Hasegawa Kaitarô’s 16-Volume Complete Works published in
1934-1935 by Shinchôsha Publishing House …………………………… 293

Bibliography…………………………………………………………………………. 294

x
 NOTE TO THE READER

In this dissertation, Japanese names are generally given with the surname first,

followed by the personal name, the order that is customary in Japan. I also followed

another general practice in Japanese literature and used first names for writers employing

pen names. For writers who wrote under their given names, I refer to them by surname.

Hence, Edogawa Rampo is referred to as Rampo, while Hirabayashi Hatsunosuke is

mentioned as Hirabayashi. Hasegawa Kaitarô is an exception to this rule. Although

“Hasegawa Kaitarô is his legal name, I chose to refer to him with his first name, Kaitarô,

in order to differentiate him from his father, Hasegawa Yoshio.

For long vowels in Japanese names and terms, I adopted the caret (^) instead of a

macron, e.g., Kaitarô. In the case of such commonly used terms as Taisho, Showa and

Tokyo, the caret is omitted, except when they appear in Japanese phrases or titles.

Japanese words and phrases are italicized, except in the case of personal names,

names of associations, companies or literary schools, which remain unformatted.

When a series of collected works or complete works (zenshû) are quoted more

than once, I use the following abbreviations:

HHBHZ: Hirabayashi Hatsunosuke Bungei Hyôron Zenshû

HKZ: Hirano Ken zenshû
NSS: Nihon suiri shôsetsu-shi
HSZ: Hitori sannin zenshû

xi
 CHAPTER 1

INTRODUCTION

Literature as Art or/and Commercial Production Activity

In the first Japanese full-fledged “talkie” ( ) movie, Madamu to nyôbô

(The Neighbor’s Wife and Mine: 1930), the director Gosho Heinosuke comically

depicts a playwright’s struggle to meet the deadline for a play commissioned by a

theater in Tokyo. The very first scene hints at the question explored in the movie:

Whether a writer is an artist or merely a paid worker. In this opening scene, Shibano

Shinsaku (tellingly the kanji for “Shinsaku” means “New Production”) is taking a

walk in a suburban neighborhood and encounters a painter who is portraying nearby

houses. It is a serene day, and live music by a chindon-ya (a Japanese street band

playing music to advertise products for local stores) filters through the air. Shinsaku

looks over the painter’s shoulder to see the houses on the canvas. Instead of

appreciating the quality of the painting itself, however, he focuses on the value of the

information he obtains from it. As soon as he notices that the houses in the painting

appear nice, he looks up and gazes at the actual houses, saying it is a perfect

1
neighborhood to move into because its quiet environment will help him be productive

as a writer. His comment upsets the painter because Shinsaku essentially regards the

artist’s work as an advertisement for a commercial housing development.

This opening scene maps out two concerns pursued throughout the movie. The

first is that of the status of art: Does art exist for art’s own sake, or does it function as a

tool in commercial reality? In this sense, it is quite telling that the very first sounds

presented in the movie are those of the chindon-ya’s commercial music. The second

point, which is closely related to the first, is that the opening scene encapsulates how a

writer tries to negotiate modernity, while still clinging to older values. For example,

Shinsaku shows a consumerist attitude by interpreting the artwork of the painting in

terms of economic transactions. More specifically, he extrapolates the necessary

information from the painting (instead of looking directly at the actual houses) and

concludes that he wants to live in this neighborhood, treating the painting as a means to

obtain housing information. On the other hand, he is upset when the painter dismisses

him as a scribbler or huckster. However, he refutes the insult by claiming that he writes

for a famous and popular theater in the Ginza, thereby once again borrowing the aura of

a popular brand name as a seal of approval for the quality of his work. Also, his

decision to move to the neighborhood is firmly based on what the move will bring to

him in a monetary sense. Rather than considering how good the environment is for his

children, etc., he focuses on the point that the quiet neighborhood will enable him to

write more. That will result in more money and enable him to live in a better house or

2
to purchase anything else that improves his and his family’s standard of living, which

will also enable him to write more and make more money.1

Surely enough, Shinsaku finds one of the houses on the block is available for

rent, and he moves in with his wife and two young children. In the new residence, he

posts a note to himself on the wall in front of his desk: “REMEMBER, THE PAY IS

500 YEN. JUST WRITE. NO EXCUSES.” Again, this clearly indicates that while he

has some artistic desire presumably to produce artwork, he is also driven by the

prospect of money. Despite the reminder, however, he seems to suffer from writer’s

block (indicating that literary production is not simply a mechanical production of

words). He procrastinates by playing mahjong with his friends, who came to help them

move to the new house. It is only after his wife repeatedly urges him to finish the work

in order to feed his family that he finally starts to scribble a few lines. His

concentration in his tiny study is soon disturbed by various noises, however, ranging

from mice scurrying in the attic and cat’s mewing outside, to his own children’s crying

in the next room. There is also his wife’s nagging about his inefficiency.2 Feeling

exhausted from lack of sleep the following morning, he pulls himself together and tries

to write. This time, he is distracted by the cheery, quick-paced live Jazz music coming

from a fashionable Western-style house that belongs to his neighbor. He rushes over to

complain and meets the couple that owns the house. The husband is a producer (or

1
This does not mean that Shinsaku is portrayed as a selfish husband and father. Later scenes in which he
interacts with his family show how hard he attempts to juggle his responsibilities as a father, husband,
and writer.
2
The director is apparently having a good time in this first Japanese talkie, experimenting with a variety
of sounds as effective factors to the story progression.

3
manager) of the band, and his wife is a voluptuous Jazz singer, whom Shinsaku later

describes to his wife as “The Madam,” the popular term to refer to ladies adopting latest

modes of Western dress and behavior. They are making music with several other band

members. At first Shinsaku hesitates to stay because he thinks Jazz is merely noise.

However, as the moga wife/singer pours him whiskey and asks him to join in the music,

he soon finds himself happily tapping in time with his folded fan to the band’s up-

tempo Jazz song called “The Age of Speed” (Supîdo jidai). After a while, thanking the

band for a fun time and telling them that even his writings have to speed up, he goes

home cheerful and drunk. By humming “The Age of Speed,” he effortlessly finishes

the entire play at an amazing pace. In other words, while the process of writing is not

completely mechanical and effortless, the traditional image of a writer waiting in

seclusion for artistic inspiration is flatly rejected here.

The last scene depicts the results of his speedy production. It shows Shinsaku

and his family happily walking under a clear sky in open fields in the neighborhood.

They are dressed in brand-new clothes, clearly the result of his speedy and successful

playwriting.3 Although everyone is dressed up, such a change in the family finances

most obviously affects the wife’s attitude. For example, earlier in the movie, she was

jealous of Shinsaku’s interaction with the neighbor’s sexy – or what she described as

“100% erotic (ero hyakupâsento)” – Westernized wife, and she pestered him for a

Western dress. In the end, she is still dressed in kimono and thus does not look as

3
Kawamoto Saburô points out that the manuscript fee of 500-yen was considerable. At the time, a
college graduate’s average monthly salary was 50-yen. Kawamoto, “Shô-shimin eiga no ‘tanoshii
wagaya,’” Taishû-bunka to masu media, Kindai Nihon bunka-ron Series 7 (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten,
1999) 12.

4
fashionable as the modern girls who were in vogue in those days. But a nicer kimono

and a new Western-style hairdo are apparently enough to make her feel her life has

improved. Thus, the wife reproves her husband and little daughter for their “unsightly”

(mittomo nai) manners and behavior, stopping them from chanting “en’yakora,

en’yakora” like physical laborers working in the fields.4 In addition, she tells the

daughter not to urinate outdoors, suggesting she feels her family needs to behave

according to certain class standards now that they have more money, as revealed and

embodied in their purchase of items symbolic of the middle class.

On one obvious level, this movie is about “tradition” versus the “modern”

embodied by Shinsaku’s old-fashioned wife in kimono on the one hand5 and the super-

modern neighbor’s wife (“madamu”) on the other. However, as indicated in the last

scene where Shinsaku’s wife seems satisfied even while still dressed in kimono, the

movie reveals that, in capitalist society, commodities (including paid services like

hairdos) and their effects are having a powerful impact on people’s everyday life, even

the lives of those engaged in artistic production. It should be stressed here that

Shinsaku does not work to get out of poverty. Even when he is still struggling to write

the play, he and his family never look too poor to purchase luxury items. For example,

4
While walking in the field path, they notice that a group of farmers are threshing rice in the field, using
a bulky old-fashioned wooden threshing facility. Shinsaku demonstrates to his daughter what those
farmers are doing by chanting “en’yakora, en’yakora,” and the daughter starts to chant it with him.
5
In terms of her old-fashionedness, it is not only depicted and symbolized in her fashion (kimono) and
hair-style but also in the song she sings in the movie. Feeling deserted by her husband who is apparently
having a good time with the Jazz band next door, the wife sings A Bride Doll (Hanayome ningyô), a song
about a bride in traditional bridal kimono on the day of her wedding. It became extremely popular in the
mid-1920s, to the extent that a movie was made under the same title in 1929. (It should be noted that it
was a silent film.) Although A Bride Doll was composed only a few years before The Neighbor’s Wife,
its old-fashioned pentatonic scale is a clear contrast to the Jazz melodies in The Neighbor’s Wife.

5
he nonchalantly purchases a suspicious-looking “beauty cream” from a door-to-door

salesman who flatters Shinsaku by calling him a very popular playwright. Thus, to

finish the play does not affect the writer’s life in a fundamentally “live-or-die” manner,

but he understands that speedy production of work will enable him to participate more

successfully in the capitalist game. By having Shinsaku and his family look up at an

airplane in the sky, the closing scene emphasizes once more that this is the age of speed.

The wife suggests to Shinsaku that they should fly on the plane to Osaka, indicating her

willingness to spend extra money in order to actively participate in the age of modern

technology and speed. As they look up at the plane, they also hear a Jazz song,

“Aozora” (My Blue Heaven), wafting out of their Jazz neighbors’ house.6 A variety of

stimulations of high speed surround them, from the songs to the planes. As if they were

expressing their active participation in such speedy production and consumption,

Shinsaku and his wife smile at each other and hum along with the song.

While this dissertation does not discuss film per se, I find The Neighbor’s Wife a

good representation of the theme I am about to explore: During the interwar years, how

did writers negotiate the modernity they found in commercialist commodity society?7

When writers examined, analyzed and explored the socio-cultural and socio-economic

changes understood and recognized as modernity, how was their literature produced and

read? In The Neighbor’s Wife, a writer is depicted as a salaried worker who needs to

6
“My Blue Heaven” was originally written by an American composer, Walter Donaldson, in 1925. It
was introduced to Japanese audiences when the Japanese Jazz singer, Futamura Teiichi, sung the
Japanese version in 1928. It became the first big hit in the Jazz category ( ) in Japan.
7
By the term “interwar years,” I refer to the period of the 1920s through the early 1930s. I use this
designation to distinguish the period in Japanese history from the era in the West known as “modernism.”

6
meet a deadline in order to be compensated for his work not only to survive, but even

enjoy the luxury provided by modern times. Socialists and Proletarians may have

accused him of participating in the promotion of Capitalism; writers of Naturalist-

influenced “pure literature” writers may have despised him for not writing sincerely

about life; and avant-garde experimentalists may have criticized his lack of iconoclastic

consciousness that went beyond tradition and the establishment. Nonetheless, as The

Neighbor’s Wife clearly emphasizes, Shinsaku remains deeply engaged, as well as

shaped, by the forces and trends of the period. Hence, the film also underscores the

extent to which this type of popular commercial literature participates equally in

modern capitalist society, precisely because it exists within the new socio-politico-

economic system as an industry with its own particular mode of production and

consumption. As a matter of fact, the relation between commercialism and the act of

writing was one of the most heated and frequently debated topics in various newspapers

and magazines of the interwar years, especially in a time of increasing attention to

socialist ideology, as more writers began to realize the act of writing was not

independent of technological and economic change.8 Whether one thought it positive or

negative, it was an indisputable fact that literature was produced and disseminated to

readers via commercial means.

Thus, while interwar Japanese literature has been discussed oftentimes in an

ideological frame as the struggle of three contending literary camps (i.e., bundan pure

8
I will further discuss this issue in subsequent chapters, especially in Chapter Four about the socialist
thinker, literary critic and detective fiction writer, Hiyabayashi Hatsunosuke.

7
literature, avant-garde literature and proletarian literature),9 there is no denying that

vernacular literary genres deserve equal attention, precisely because the drastic changes

in the media such as the development of mass-printed and mass-distributed newspapers,

books (enpon), magazines, records and radio (radio plays) affected the process of

production for literature. For example, when the publishing industry dramatically

expanded the quantity of available venues (as seen in the number of new magazines that

sprouted up like mushrooms after a rain), it thereby provided writers with abundant

opportunities to write for various types of magazines with different orientations and

themes. Consequently, it no longer makes sense to exclude popular commercial

periodicals from a discussion of Japanese literature. With Kingu – which sold as many

as 760,000 copies per issue by targeting a wide range of generations – at the top of the

list, many of the vast number of periodicals had circulation figures ranging from 10, 000

to 100, 000. In addition, during the famous “enpon” or “one-yen book” boom circa

1925 to 1930, more than three hundred “collected works” and “complete works” were

published –some containing as many as one hundred volumes. They targeted the new

urban middle class as its customers. Consequently, during the 1920s and 30s,

commercial publication emerged on an entirely new scale as an arena within which

writers and readers alike sought to address the challenges of an expanded print market.

To ignore what stood outside the realm of “pure literary” (especially coterie) magazines

is to ignore the larger portion of the literary activities occurring in the interwar period.

9
I will discuss this in further detail in Chapter Two, the overview of the mainstream modern literary
criticism and the definition of modernism.

8
 Hence, this dissertation explores the vernacular aspects of modernist

(modanizumu) literature, with its focus on the modanizumu magazine, Shinseinen (New

Youth). My principle concern will be to examine the various ways in which Shinseinen

created a venue for promoting opportunities for readers actively to participate in the act

of writing, by offering a variety of reading materials and actual writing opportunities to

readers. For example, it published educational, pragmatically informational or critical

essays on science, technology and literature, providing its young-adult readers with the

basic knowledge and ideological perspective needed to view society critically. It also

published satirical cartoons, to which the magazine occasionally requested readers add

blurbs by imagining the situation and inventing a clever punch line. Most importantly,

it promoted the genre of tantei shôsetsu (detective fiction) as the genre most suitable to

developing the skills necessary for negotiating modern society analytically and

critically, and it called for readers’ active participation in the further development of the

genre by holding prize contests on original tantei shôsetsu and publishing critiques on

those contributions by established critics and writers. By supplying information on

various fields ranging from criminology and Marxism to the latest fashions, Shinseinen

sought to provide ideological, scientific and literary guidance to its readers. As I will

further discuss in Chapter Three, the definition of the Japanese term, tantei,

philologically referred to the individuals who probe, investigate and explore the

unknown, not only as authorities such as the police or government but also as

marginalized figures such as spies and anti-establishment activists. “Tantei” is an act of

“tantei-ing” (tantei suru) rather than a fixed profession that solves criminal cases as

9
society’s representative of justice. That is because in modern society, with the

advancement of science and technology, people are more aware, or paranoid, that every

entity is imbued with the “double-sidedness” that problematizes simple dichotomies of

good and evil or right and wrong. Such critical reflexivity was soon applied to the

genre of tantei shôsetsu itself, which resulted in the production of “nansensu”

(nonsensical) stories that even parodied the formulaic characteristics of the genre.

Up to this point, the term modanizumu (Modernism) has been applied in a fairly

limited fashion to refer to High Modernism operating under the influence of Western

writers such as Joyce and Proust, or occasionally to the types of literature that took up

the sociological phenomenon of moga and mobo as its main topic. However, the

vernacular approach to modernity seen in both The Neighbor’s Wife and Shinseinen

remains largely unexplored. By presenting a writer as its protagonist and showing the

secular impetus (i.e., the pragmatic reason to make money for a living) for the

production of his artistic work, The Neighbor’s Wife assumes that literature is not a

transparent description of the world. Rather, the act of writing is a form of labor that

participates in the age of speedy and massive production, and it is also closely

connected to the desire for speedy and massive consumption. Its last scene in particular

presents the writer as a consumer interested in luxury items such as expensive-looking

clothes, hats and toys for himself and his family. It also depicts the wife as newly

apprehensive that her family should not behave in vulgar ways. The movie

demonstrates how the act of writing is closely tied to capitalist commodity society,

precisely because a writer is a producer of commodities as well as a consumer of them.

10
Such commodities enable people to differentiate themselves from the masses, although

that difference may be an illusion created by capitalism. Likewise, I argue that

Shinseinen unmasks this aspect of the act of literary production, as well as educates

readers with a variety of information and discussion that can be used in literary

constructions and scientific/logical inventions of tricks. In other words, by treating its

readers as the consumers of the commercially distributed periodical, as well as the

creators who participate in literary production of a formulaic genre for such commercial

venue, Shinseinen reveals the double-identity of modern urbanites.

The film makes a strikingly effective visual statement about the link between

production and consumption in modern capitalist society, from which artistic activities

are not segregated but rather actively involved. In such a society, literary work may

reflect both the writer’s artistic and creative aims and her/his consciousness as a

consumer. Thus, to borrow Terry Eagleton’s words on the process of literature:

Literature may be an artefact, a product of social consciousness, a world

vision; but it is also an industry. Books are not just structures of
meaning; they are also commodities produced by publishers and sold on
the market at a profit. Drama is not just a collection of literary texts; it is
a capitalist business which employs certain men (authors, directors,
actors, stagehands) to produce a commodity to be consumed by an
audience at a profit. . . . Writers are not just transposers of trans-
individual mental structures, they are also workers hired by publishing
houses to produce commodities which will sell.10

Shinseinen provides a fine example of such consumer-producer participation

through literature in capitalist modern society.

10
Terry Eagleton, Marxism and Literary Criticism (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1976) 59-
60.

11
 As a result of its promotion of tantei shôsetsu as a genre for readers who are

sophisticated and curious about current times, the response to Shinseinen’s promotion of

tantei shôetsu in the 1920s was overwhelming. Shinseinen created a tantei shôsetsu

boom, and other magazines followed suit. In addition to Edogawa Rampo, Shinseinen

helped launch the careers of such mystery translators and writers as Tani Jôji,

Yokomizo Seishi, Yumeno Kyûsaku, Kôga Saburô, Mizutani Jun, Oguri Mushitarô and

Hisao Jûran. Already established writers in the bundan such as Tanizaki Jun’ichirô and

Satô Haruo, as well as socialist and proletarians such as Hirabayashi Hatsunosuke,

Kataoka Teppei, Hayashi Fusao, Hayama Yoshiki and Hirabayashi Taiko, also wrote

detective fiction for Shinseinen. Far from being merely disposable and meaningless

stories that simply allowed readers to escape temporarily from daily life, formula fiction

participates deeply in the dialectic between culture and social environment. Regarded

as a distinct genre with its own conventions, formulae and corresponding horizons of

readerly expectations, detective fiction as a category provides insight into the ways in

which culture functioned for a broad, popular audience as a means of negotiating the

demands of modern life.

12
 CHAPTER 2

JAPAN’S MODERNITY AND THE LITERATURE OF MODANIZUMU

2.1 Modernism in the West

In his review of the history of Western Modernism, Tony Pinkney notes that the

term “modernism” is “the most frustratingly unspecific, the most recalcitrantly

unperiodizing, of all the major art-historical ‘isms’ or concepts.”11 While scholars have

undertaken numerous historical, social, ideological and cultural re-examinations of

modernism from a variety of perspectives, no clear consensus has emerged about either

a paradigmatic set of aesthetic strategies and practices or the temporal markers that

define the term “modernist.” Within this ongoing and frequently contentious debate

over the variety of “Modernisms,” the single element that stands out as definitive is an

attitude or rhetorical stance that consciously employs the concept of the “modern” in an

effort to represent human experience within the context of a world undergoing rapid and

monumental change. Tracing the historical usage of the term, Raymond Williams notes

that the idea of the “modern” first became established during the Renaissance as a

concept in contrast to the “ancient.” During this early stage of its use, the “modern”

11
Tony Pinkney, Editor’s Introduction: Modernism and Cultural Theory, The Politics of Modernism, by
Raymond Williams (London: Verso, 1989) 3.

13
carried with it an unfavorable connotation that to change always meant change in a

negative way. Williams explains that, in the course of the nineteenth century, and more

markedly into the early twentieth, however, “modern” began to connote changes that

were positive, to the extent that it was “virtually equivalent to improved, satisfactory or

efficient.”12 In other words, the early twentieth century marks the turning point when

the concept of the “modern” came to be widely understood as a positive way of

radically breaking with established modes of society and culture. In the case of

literature, writers sought various means of distancing themselves from what they

considered an old and outmoded tradition no longer suited to depicting the complexities

of the “modern” world. Toward that end, writers developed and experimented with

numerous techniques and aesthetic strategies. According to Matei Calinescu, this

conscious effort on the part of the “modern” to break with tradition finds expression in

art and literature as follows:

During the last one hundred and fifty years or so, such terms as
“modern,” “modernity,” and more recently “modernism,” as well as a
number of related notions, have been used in artistic or literary contexts
to convey an increasingly sharp sense of historical relativism. This
relativism is in itself a form of criticism of tradition. From the point of
view of modernity, an artist – whether he likes it or not – is cut off from
the normative past with its fixed criteria, and tradition has no legitimate
claim to offer him examples to imitate or directions to follow. At best,
he invents a private and essentially modifiable past. His own awareness
of the present, seized in its immediacy and irresistible transitoriness,
appears as his main source of inspiration and creativity. In this sense it
may be said that for the modern artist the past imitates the present far
more than the present imitates the past. What we have to deal with here

12
Raymond Williams, Keywords: A Vocabulary of Culture and Society (New York: Oxford University
Press, 1976) 174-175.

14
 is a major cultural shift from a time-honored aesthetics of permanence,
based on a belief in an unchanging and transcendent ideal of beauty, to
an aesthetics of transitoriness and immanence, whose central values are
change and novelty.13

To put this another way, artistic and literary “modernism” in the West is

“associated with the avant-garde, bohemianism, experimentation with traditional genres

and styles, and a conception of the artist as creator rather than preserver of culture.”14

Typically characterized as “a reaction to the stringent aesthetic formulas and moralism

of the Victorian period,”15 as well as to World War I and the drastic changes in values

arising from transformations in political and social systems, various “modernist”

movements and practices such as Fauvism, Dadaism, Futurism, Surrealism and “stream-

of-consciousness” emerged. This dynamic view of Modernism as more attitude than a

fixed group of aesthetic strategies offers a way of getting beyond a simplistic and

unidirectional model of “influence” in thinking about the rise of “modernist” practices

in other cultures and in different parts of the world. Most significant for my purposes

here, such a fluid conceptualization helps to explain the complex literary debates during

the 1920s and ’30s in Japan surrounding the idea of modanizumu, a transliteration of the

English term “modernism,” that refers to both the broad social and cultural changes of

the period and a loose-knit association of writers and movements actively engaged in

various forms of literary experimentalism.

13
Matei Calinescu, Five Faces of Modernity (Durham: Duke University, 1987) 5.
14
Joseph Childers and Gary Hentzi, ed., The Columbia Dictionary of Modern Literary and Cultural
Criticism (New York: Columbia University Press, 1995) 192.
15
Childers and Hentzi, 192.

15
2.2 Amorphousness of Modanizumu in Japanese Literature

Just as Modernism in the West is a highly amorphous concept, the notion of

modanizumu in the history of Japanese literature is equally varied and difficult to pin

down. In the usage from the decades between the two World Wars, modanizumu

bungaku16 refers to the various literary works by Ryûtanji Yû and other contemporaries

that appeared in the late 1920s and early 1930s, and which share a common thematic

interest in depicting a hedonistic lifestyle common to young urbanites during those

years. This usage comes from the fact that the terms, “modan”17 and “modanizumu18

emerged as neologisms19 in those years as markers for the social and cultural

phenomenon that was drawing more attention from intellectuals and the general public

as a matter of both curiosity and concern. As Barbara Hamill Sato discusses, modan

and modanizumu were “identified with pleasure seeking, entertainment, and

decadence,”20 which “reflected comprehensive changes in everyday lifestyles,

particularly in Tokyo.”21 In Japan, “modan” first entered the popular vocabulary as a

transliteration of the English word “modern” in the early twenties, especially in the

years following the Great Kanto Earthquake of 1923, a period that experienced both

16
Literally, “literature of modernism” or “modernist literature,” with the katakana word, as
the transliteration of “modernism.” See footnote 17 for more detailed information on this point.
17
Modern is spelled as , but also occasionally spelled out as “modân,” as or .
18
Modernism ; also modânizumu .
19
For example, this trend is seen in that, in 1930, “modan” became attached to the titles of various shingo
jiten (neologism dictionaries), e.g., Modan jiten (1930), Modan yôgo jiten (1930), Modan go jiten (1930),
Chô-modan go jiten (1931), Urutora modan jiten (1931), Modan go manga jiten (1931), etc. See Matsui
Eiichi, Sone Hiroyoshi and Ôya Sachiyo, Shingo jiten no kenkyû to kaidai for details.
20
Barbara Hamill Sato, “Japanese Women and Modanizumu: The Emergence of a New Women’s Culture
in the 1920s,” diss., Columbia University, 1994, 9.
21
Sato, “Japanese Women and Modanizumu,” 9-10.

16
economic depression and reconstruction of the modern city..22 Another term,

“kindai,”23 which derived from a semantic rendering of the English word “modern,”

also appeared in major dictionaries in the Taisho Period.24 However “modan” enjoyed

greater popular currency due in part to its connection with to the discourse surrounding

the modan gâru (modern girl) craze, as seen in Kitazawa Shûichi’s essay of 1924 titled

“Modan gâru no shutsugen” (The Appearance of Modern Girls).25 As a result of this

cultural trend that focused on the fashion and behavior of young women and men in the

cities as a specifically “modern” phenomenon, “modanizumu” became a popular term

by the late 1920s. Heated discussions took place over whether “modanizumu”

constituted merely a fad from the United States (“Americanism”) or whether it reflected

more fundamental changes in Japanese society.26 As Ôya Sôichi argues in his 1930

essay “Modan-sô to modan-sô” (Modern Stratum and Modern Aspect), intellectuals

were concerned that “Americanism’s world hegemony”27 operated in nearly all aspects

of people’s everyday lives in the form of airplanes, automobiles, movies, radio, sports,

22
One example is seen in a brief discussion of it in Chiba Sen’ichi’s “Geijutsuteki kindai-ha.” Nihon
bungaku shin-shi, ed. by Hasegawa Izumi (Tokyo: Shibundô, 1991) 30.
23
For the transition of the definitions of “kindai,” see Yanabu Akira, “Sesô no kîwâdo: ‘kindai’ no baai.”
24
“Kindai” had been used as a translation of “modern” since the Meiji Period, but it did not become a
more widely used word until the Taisho Period.
25
Kitazawa Shûichi, “Modân gâru no shutsugen,” Josei August. 1924.
26
During the Taisho Period, Japan’s interest in foreign cultures was directed more to the United States
than other Western countries, and the Taisho Democracy was deeply influenced by the image of America
as a democratic nation. However, by the early 1920s, especially as results of the WWI, it is generally
observed that the American influence shifted from ideological and political concerns to social and
cultural fashion.
27
Ôya Sôichi, “Modan-sô to modan-sô” (Modern Stratum and Modern Aspects,” Shihon bunka no
modanizumu: Bungaku jidai no shosô, ed. Sekii Mitsuo (Tokyo: Yumani Shobô, 1997) 106-108. The
essay appeared in the February 1930 issue of Chûô kôron magazine.
Other essays on the issue of modanizumu include: “Modan o kataru” by Uchida Roan in the
March 1928 issue of Chûô kôron; “Modan êji to modan raifu” by Nii Itaru in Gendai ryôki sentan zukan
of April 1931; Modan gâru no kenkyû by Kataoka Teppei in 1927; and “Modanizumu no shakaiteki
konkyo” by Hirabayashi Hatsunosuke in the March 1920 issue of Shinchô.

17
jazz, capitalism and journalism. Thus, “modan” life and “modanizumu” became the

signifiers of materialist culture. It was in this sense that the literary critic Chiba Kameo

(1878-1935) used the term “modanizumu bungaku” in his 1929 critique to identify the

cult(ure) of the moga-mobo (“modern girls and modern boys”) in Ryûtanji Yû’s story

“Apâto to onna-tachi to boku” (Apartments, Women, and Me) published in 1928.28 In

other words, among Ryûtanji’s fellow writers and contemporary critics, “modanizumu

bungaku” (hereafter, the “literature of modanizumu”) referred to literature describing

the hedonistic life of “ultramodern” (sentan-teki)29 city dwellers who circulated along

streets lined with neon signs, concrete buildings, cafés, dance halls, automobiles,

department stores and movie theaters.30 It carried a negative connotation of being

superficial, ephemeral and immoral, on account of its identification with the erotic,

grotesque, and nonsensical aspects of city life.

In the mean time, in the post-WWII critical discourse addressing literary

production of the interwar period, “modanizumu bungaku,” or the “literature of

modanizumu,” has been employed in three separate, but interrelated ways. All three

28
In the chronological table concerning Shinkô-geijutsu-ha in Shinkô-geijutsu-ha bungaku shû, volume
61 of Gendai Nihon bungaku zenshû (or the so-called enpon or “one-yen book series”), Ryûtanji explains
that Chiba was the first to identify this story as the literature of modanizumu. As quoted in Shimada
Atsushi, “Bungaku ni arawareta modanizumu,” 59-60. Chiba also coined the term “Shin-kankaku-ha” for
Yokomitsu and other Bungei jidai coterie members in 1924.
Ryûtanji’s story appeared in the November 1928 issue of Kaizô. The story takes place in a
modern apartment house of the sort that began appearing in Tokyo in the 1920s, and it depicts the lives of
a male medical school student named UR (presumably “U, or ‘yû,’ Ryûtanji”) and the female residents of
the apartment house. It is largely descriptive of “modern life” with such modern scenes as smoking
cigarettes called “Airship,” eating bread and drinking cocoa, and flirtatious women who tease the young
UR.
29
30
In response to the popular discourse that regarded modanizumu as a pleasure-seeking social
phenomenon and the literary discourse that saw modanizumu bungaku as literary work of such life, the
definition of “modanizumu bungaku” became a topic of heated debates among intellectuals in 1930. I
will discuss this subject in details later in this chapter.

18
overlap, but each focuses on a relatively narrow body of writing based either on the

thematic content of the works, the particular ideological commitments of individual

writers, or the apparent influence of authors and narrative techniques identified with

Western Modernism. The first follows the approach of Chiba Kameo, and it refers very

specifically to the hedonistic urbanist literature represented by Ryûtanji and others

writing about the excesses of so-called modan life. Meanwhile, “kindai-ha bungaku”

(literature of the modern school), “kindai-shugi bungaku” (the literature of the “ism” of

the modern), and “geijutsu-teki kindai-ha” (the artistic modern school) are used as

substitute terms to describe other types of modernist literature, in order to avoid the

pejorative connotations associated with the urban hedonism of the “ero, guro,

nansensu” literature of modanizumu bungaku.

The second common definition of modanizumu bungaku designates those avant-

garde and “art-for-art’s-sake” (geijutsu shijô-shugi) literary movements that emerged

between 1924 and 1931 as the dominant force among a range of other experimentalist

groups from the period. In this configuration, the “literature of modanizumu” refers

specifically to the movements that began with Shin-kankaku-ha (New Sensationalist

School; 1924-1927) and ended with Shinkô-geijutsu-ha (Rising Art School; 1930-

1931).31 In his scholarly work from the 1940s-50s on Showa literature, 32 Hirano Ken

31
Its range also sometimes extends to the Shin shinrishugi-ha (New Psychologist School; 1931) and Shin
shakai-ha (New Society School; 1931) both of which emerged from the split of Shinkô geijutus-ha.
32
Chiba Kameo, who first named Ryûtanji Yû’s literary work as modanizumu bungaku in 1929, wrote in
1935, looking in retrospect that Shin-kankaku-ha was the birth of modanizumu (he uses “moderunizumu”
in katakana) bungaku. It was not until Hirano’s study, however, that the definition of modanizumu
bungaku as the movements that began with Shin-kankaku-ha and ended with Shinkô-geijutsu-ha, Shin-
shinrishugi-ha and-shin Shakai bungaku that the definition described above was established. For Chiba’s
essay, see the March 1935 issue of the Serupan magazine.

19
established this conception of modanizumu bungaku, and other mainstream critics such

as Sasaki Kiichi and Takami Jun subsequently adopted it in the 1950s and 1960s. In

fact, the majority of current historical surveys of Japanese literature follow this

definition. For example, among the recent historical surveys of modern Japanese

literature that are widely available, Hoshô Masao uses “modanizumu” in this fashion.33

Similarly, in an essay “Shin-kankaku-ha and Modanizumu,” Satô Kôichi names Shin-

kankaku-ha, Shinkô-geijutsu-ha, Shuchi-shugi-ha (Intellectualist School) and Shin-

shinrigaku-ha, which date from the latter half of the 1920s to the early 1930s, as

movements connected with the “literature of modanizumu,” a category that emerged

from the process of rapid urbanization during the post-earthquake era. According to

this definition, the “literature of modanizumu” identifies a literary movement that arose

out of writers’ desires to employ innovative narrative devices for portraying the life of

the middle-class in the rapidly modernized cityscape of Tokyo after the devastation of

the Great Kanto Earthquake of 1923. Equally important, Hirano argues that

“modanizumu bungaku” also developed out of the art-for-art’s-sake schools’ desperate

attempts to contend with another major literary movement at that time, namely,

proletarian literature.

Finally, the third use of modanizumu bungaku derives from the work of the

American scholar of Japanese literature, Donald Keene, who employs it as a blanket

designation for all the various experimentalist and art-for-art’s-sake movements from

the early part of the twentieth century. Although he does not explicitly state the range

33
Hoshô Masao, “Taishô bungaku kara Shôwa bungaku e: Kantô dai-shinsai kara ‘bungei fukkô’ made.”

20
of movements covered by “modernism,”34 his selection of modernist writers –

Yokomitsu Riichi, Satô Haruo, Itô Sei and Hori Tatsuo – suggests that he sees the

literature of modanizumu as beginning with the importation of European modernist

movements in the early 1910s and ending with the Shin-shinrishugi (New

Psychologism) inspired by Proust and Joyce in the 1930s. Ryûtanji Yû and other

Shinkô-geijutsu-ha works, for example, do not figure in his conception at all. His

approach to Modernism in Japan focuses on such Japanese versions of Futurism,

Fauvism, Expressionism, Dadaism, Constructivism, Surrealism, etc., and he questions

whether they successfully, or unsuccessfully, adapted the techniques of European avant-

garde movements.35 In the end, he sees Modernism as a temporary phase among

Japanese writers who subsequently engaged in a return to “traditional” Japanese

practices and values. Grounded in a metaphysics of cultural authenticity, Keene’s

conception of Modernism tends to emphasize the influence of Western expressive

practices and movements over indigenous strategies, modifications, and developments

in Japanese literature during the period. Accordingly, Keene’s use differs slightly from

other deployments of the term in that it treats modanizumu as a foreign cultural import

34
The Japanese translation of Dawn to the West, Nihon bungaku no rekishi, chooses modanizumu
bungaku as the translation of Modernist literature in the original. Although Keene did not take on the
translation work himself, from the fact that he was involved in the revisions of the content as it was being
translated, it seems reasonable to regard that Keene chose to use “modanizumu bungaku.”
35
Thus, in his encyclopedia entry on ‘modanizumu” from 1967, Sasaki Kiichi writes as one of the
definitions of modanizumu as “a variety of isms and styles such as Futurism, Constructivism,
Expressionism, Surrealism, Abstract Art, New Materialism, Functionalism were indiscriminately
imported and copied as things modern” as the broader definition. Sasaki, “Modanizumu,” Sekai
daihyakka jiten, vol. 21. As quoted in Satô Takeshi, “Modanizumu to Amerika-ka: 1920-nendai o
chûshin to shite,” Nihon modanizumu no kenkyû ed. Minami Hiroshi (Tokyo: Burênsha, 1982) 3.

21
rather than as a particular response on the part of Japanese writers to the enormous

social changes taking place throughout Japan during the 1920s and 30s.

In summary, the definitions given for modanizumu bungaku vary according to

context. The first use of the term is its historical usage from the period when it was first

coined; the second developed in the post WWII literary critical discourse on literary

production from the 1920s and 30s; and the third stems from the model of European

High Modernism through a direct translation of “Modernist literature” as modanizumu

bungaku. As previously mentioned, these definitions are not always clearly separated.

For example, in his recent historical survey of art-for-art’s-sake movements in the early

twentieth century, Chiba Sen’ichi uses such terms as “Geijutsuteki-kindai-ha” and

“modanizumu bungaku” interchangeably to refer to all the avant-garde movements from

the early 1920s – from Surrealist poetic movement to the Shin-kankaku-ha in 1924 and

Shinkô-geijutsu-ha in 1930.36

2.3 The Tripod View: Hirano Ken’s Three-legged Concept and Literature of
Modanizumu

As the preceding suggests, the instability surrounding the term “modanizumu”

both reflects and arises in part from differences among the prevailing critical

approaches adopted toward Japanese literary production in the 1920s and 1930s. The

most widely accepted of these approaches has been the one advanced by Hirano Ken

(1907-1978) after World War II. His first critical survey of the history of Showa

36
Chiba Senichi, “Geijutsu-teki kindai-ha,” Nihon bungaku shin-shi. Ed. by Hasegawa Izumi (Tokyo:
Shibundo, 1991).

22
literature was published in 1949.37 Continually revising and developing his view of

Showa literature, he published other critical studies on Showa literature such as Gendai

Nihon bungaku nyûmon (1953), Shôwa bungaku oboegaki(1954), Showa bungaku-shi

(1963), and Shôwa bungaku no kanôsei (1972).38 Arguably the most influential critic of

Showa literature, Hirano explains that “the literature of modanizumu”39 flourished in the

1920s and early1930s as one of three literary movements contending for influence and

control over the literary world. The other two were “proletarian literature”40 and what

he calls “the existing realist literature,”41 or I-novels and shinkyô shôsetsu that fall

within the lineage of the earlier Naturalist movement. He argues that modanizumu and

proletarian literature both emerged to oppose the established realist literature. They

also contended with each other, thereby forming a triangulated competition.42 This is

what he metaphorically describes as “sanpa teiritsu” (“triangular standing or tripod of

37
It is entitled “Shôwa shonen-dai no bungaku” (Literature in the First Decade of the Showa Era), and it
was published as a chapter in Gaisetsu:gendai Nihon bungaku-shi (Outline of Modern Literary History).
38
Gendai Nihon bungaku nyûmon was published in 1953 by Kaname Shobô. The first part is a revised
and enlarged edition of the 1949 text. The second part is a history of proletarian literature. Later, in
1956, it was republished by Kawade Shobô as Showa bungaku nyûmon. Showa bungaku no kanôsei
originally appeared in the periodical, Sekai, 1971-1972. It was published as a monograph in 1972 by
Iwanami Shoten.
39
He uses the term, . See, for example, Hirano, HKZ, 16-17, and HKZ, 123, for his
usage of the term, “modanizumu bungaku.” Hirano considers that the literature of modanizumu began
with Shin-kankaku-ha (1924), and developed into other movements such as Keishiki-shugi bungaku,
Shinkô-geijutsu-ha, Shuchi-shugi and Shin-shakai-ha. It ended with Shin-shinri-shugi (1930). When he
refers to the mainstream usage of the term in the 1920s-1930s (i.e., the term which specifically referred to
the urbanist literary works represented by Ryûtanji Yû’s), he differentiates it by setting it off in quotes, as
it were, referring to it as “the (so-called) literature of modanizumu” (iwayuru modanizumu bungaku).
40
“Puroretaria bungaku” (proletarian literature). Is described as follows: “Marxist literature that seeks
the emancipation of the proletariat” (1963) and “the literary movement (bungaku undô) that evolved in
the order of rôdô bungaku, dai-4 kaikyû no bungaku, proretaria bungaku, marukusu-shugi bungaku and
kyôsan-shugi bungaku” (1951). Hirano, 15. (Shôwa bungakushi-ron oboegaki)
41
In 1963, he describes it as “the existing realist literature (kisei riarizumu bungaku) that is represented
by I-novel.” Hirano, 123.
42
See, for example, Hirano, 10-11.

23
three schools” or the “rivalry of three competing forces”).43 This image of a Chinese-

style kettle with three legs remained key to his thinking, and it was received with much

esteem in Japan.44

Among various modanizumu literary movements in the 1920s and 1930s, Hirano

privileges two. The first is the Shin-kankaku-ha (New Sensationalist School). He

marks 1924 as the first significant date in the history of modanizumu because that was

the year when Yokomitsu Riichi, Kawabata Yasunari, Kataoka Teppei and eleven other

writers started the coterie magazine Bungei jidai (The Era of Literary Art; 1924-1927)

and literary critic Chiba Kameo named the group the “Shin-kankaku-ha.” Hirano

argues that 1924 was also when the proletarian literature established itself, alongside,

but in opposition to modanizumu, because the proletarians published their first coterie

magazine, Bungei sensen (Literary Front Line),45 in that year. Although Bungei jidai

was short-lived,46 he explains that its experimentalist works led avant-garde movements

forward. Moreover, he sees the Shinkô-geijutsu-ha (Rising Art School), which had its

inaugural meeting on April 13, 1930, as the next high point in the development of

modanizumu. Initiated by Ryûtanji Yû, the group called for the participation of the

43
. (kanae) is a tripod kettle originally imported from China and used as a cooking device
in old days in Japan.
44
Hirano, HKZ (Tokyo: Shinchôsha, 1975) 123.
45
Bungei sensen was published after the first proletarian literary coterie magazine, Tanemaku hito (The
Sewer), was discontinued in 1923 due to government suppression at the time of the Great Kanto
Earthquake and subsequent implosion of the magazine. It was published from 1924 to 1932, and in its
heyday, the circulation rose as high as 20,000 copies in the mid 1920s. For its first issue, Aono Suekichi,
Komaki Ômi, Maedakô Hiroichirô, Hirabayashi Hatsunosuke and nine other members were contributors.
46
The members attempted to create a revolutionary literary style for art’s sake, but they were also
influenced more or less by socialist thought. They sought the ways both to realize revolution in literature
and to produce literature that would bring revolution to society. However, they disbanded in May 1927
when they could not find unity in either artistic or political beliefs and several members moved further to
the left.

24
newly emerging art-for-art’s-sake writers, and thirty individuals ultimately joined the

movement. Among them were Ryûtanji Yû, Narasaki Tsutomu, Yoshiyuki Eisuke and

Kamura Isota from the Kindai seikatsu group; Kon Hidemi and Funabashi Seiichi from

the theatrical company, Kômori-za; Kobayashi Hideo and Hori Tatsuo from the

Bungaku group; Ibuse Masuji and Abe Tomoji from the Bungei toshi group; three

members from Waseda bungaku and one from Mita bungaku. More established

experimentalist writers such as Yokomitsu Riichi and Kawabata Yasunari from the

Shin-kankaku-ha movement did not attend. According to Takami Jun, the club was

intended for “newly emerging and rising” writers (shinshin, chûken) to meet and form

an alliance against the proletarian movement. 47 Hirano follows this view.

In “Shôwa bungaku no gaikan” (1950) and Shôwa bungaku-shi (1963), Hirano

argues that the Shin-kankaku-ha emerged from a combination of two elements: first, the

avant-garde, iconoclastic ideology brought to Japan by European movements such as

Expressionism and Dadaism in the post-WWI period; and second, contemporary trends

in “Americanist” (Amerikanizumu) machine civilization that came with the

reconstruction of Tokyo after the Great Kanto Earthquake.48 In other words, for Hirano,

Shin-kankaku-ha was the first key movement for Japanese modernist literature because

it emerged from, one, an artistic desire to create an innovative literary style that would

overcome the limits of realist literature, and two, the desire to produce literature in sync

with rapid changes in society. Moreover, he emphasizes the conscious steps taken by

members of Shin-kankaku-ha to use their “new senses brought on by the activity of the

47
Takami Jun, “Bungei jihyô,” Kindai seikatsu, June (1930) 18.
48
Hirano, “Shôwa bungakushi-ron oboegaki,” HKZ (Tokyo: Shinchôsha, 1975) 16.

25
intellect and the discovery of [scientific] reason,”49 in order to achieve a “revolution in

style” (buntai no henkaku).50 By contrast, he asserts that the Shinkô-geijutsu-ha was

merely an artificial movement created by an odd combination of two elements: one, an

eroticism tinged with the influences of Americanism and modanizumu found in

Ryûtanji’s writing; and two, an ideological opposition to Marxism in literature

expressed in the form of creating an opposing group. In Shôwa bungaku-shi, he calls

the Shinkô-geijutsu writers a “mixed bag” or “composite troop” (konsei butai) because

it was formed by writers of different artistic approaches who merged solely with the

objective of building a force against the Marxist literary “corps.”51 He notes they

accomplished nothing as a group other than publish an anthology called Geijutsu-ha

varaeti (Art School Variety) in June 1931.52 He concludes such frivolousness led the

movement to split into the Shin-shakai-ha (New Society School) and the Shin-

shinrishugi-ha (New Psychologist School) by the end of 1931, and that proletarian

forces soon overpowered it. While he sees Shin-kankaku-ha and Shinkô-geijutsu-ha as

both belonging to modanizumu, this is so only in the sense that they represented

consumerist urban culture which was widely considered during the 1920s to be a form

of garish Americanism.

49
Hirano, “Shôwa bungakushi-ron oboegaki,” HKZ, 23.. “shoki no Murou Saisei ni mirareta yôna,
jôchoteki na kannon byôsha no atarashisa o tokuchô to suru koto naku, chisei no katsudô to richi no
hakken ga motarasu “shinkankaku” ni tayorôto shita”
50
Hirano, “Shôwa bungakushi-ron oboegaki,” HKZ, 22.
51
Hirano, “Showa bungaku-shi,” HKZ, 160. The attending members virtually equaled to almost all the
leading writers outside of proletarian literary circle.
52
It was published as a coterie publication by a small publisher called Sekirokaku, indicating that it did
not have a large circulation.

26
 Like Hirano, Takami Jun’s 1958 critique of the initial Shinkô-geijutsu-ha

meeting also argues that the reason “[Ryûtanji Yû] planned a grand meeting of the

newly emerging and rising ‘geijutsu-ha’ [writers]” 53 was “to compete with proletarian

literature.”54 As a result of this picture presented by Hirano and Takami, it has been a

widely shared view among recent scholars that the Shin-kankaku-ha attempted to bring

innovation to literary style, but the founding of the Shinkô-geijutsu-ha was motivated

primarily by a desire to form an anti-proletarian, anti-Marxist power.

At first glance, Hirano’s metaphorical “tripod” appears to be a formulaic and

simplistic picture in which the literary world of early Showa was composed of three

separate ideologies. In particular, he presents the 1920s-1930s as a series of power

struggles fought largely by two factions, namely the proletarian and modanizumu legs

of the tripod. However, he also complicates the picture by stating that, from their

earliest stages (i.e., the early 1920s), the proletarian and avant-garde groups largely

overlapped in terms of their political stance vis-à-vis society. For example, the

proletarian movement and the anarchistic poetry movement of Aka to kuro (Red and

Black) were very similar in their anti-authority position. The gap between the two

started to widen, however, when the socialists began to prioritize the dissemination of

Marxist theory over artistic expression. Although many writers faced the dilemma of

having to choose between literary and political accomplishments in their writing, more

switched from the avant-garde to the proletarian view than vice versa. For example, at

the founding of the proletarian writers’ organization NAPF (Nippona Artista Proleta

53
Takami Jun, Shôwa bungaku seisui-shi (Tokyo: Fukutake Shoten, 1983) 161.
54
Takami, Shôwa bungaku seisui-shi, 161.

27
Federacio) in 1928, many radically minded avant-garde writers such as Takami Jun,

Fujisawa Tsuneo and Takeda Rintarô deserted the Shin-kankaku-ha and turned to

Marxism and proletarian literature. Among other writers who “went left” was the

Japanese Futurist leader, Kanbara Tai, who came to the conclusion that Futurism was

nothing more than the expression of frustration among the petit bourgeois. The

Japanese constructivists also turned leftist by the mid-1920s, employing artistic

expression as a political weapon. According to Hirano, the entire literary world was

under the strong influence of Marxist thought by 1929, and Kobayashi Takiji and

Tokunaga Sunao, leading proletarian writers, were regarded as the central figures in the

literary world. The proletarian influence became so great that the gathering of the

Shinkô-geijutsu-ha forces had no effect. Because the Proletarian movement gained in

such numbers and increasingly flirted with Communist thought, it came to pose a grave

threat to the government and was suppressed in 1930.55

We see that Hirano’s “tripod” theory presents Japanese literature during the

1920s-1930s as a series of struggles between ideologies differently prioritizing the

political and the aesthetic. Born in 1907 and spending the late 1920s to the 1930s as a

young leftist, he himself belonged to the interwar petit-bourgeois intellectual population

who experienced deep disappointment in the pre-war socialist movements, which failed

both because of severe government repression and internal strife among their members

over irreconcilable ideological differences in the pre-WWII era. In the immediate post

WWII years, Hirano participated in the leftist Shin Nihon bungakukai (New Japanese

55
Hirano, “Showa bungaku-shi oboegaki,” HKZ, 16-17.

28
Literature Association), but he soon came to doubt the worth of reviving the pre-WWII

proletarian/Marxist movement. Instead he helped to found the coterie magazine Kindai

bungaku56 in 1946, and he continued to explore the possibilities for non-ideological,

leftist-inspired literary expression in post-war democratic Japan by re-examining the

interwar literary movements, with a particular focus on proletarian groups. Thus

Hirano’s writing as a literary historian in the wake of WWII reflects his desire to map

out the relationship between literature and political activity, and to reconstruct a picture

of the interwar petit-bourgeois intellectual’s negotiation with modernity brought on by

capitalism. 57 Seen in that context, the Shinkô-geijutsu-ha was merely anti-proletarian

and lacking in a political ideology of its own. Hence, he argues it was driven simply by

capitalist desire, without any significant ideological underpinning. To support this

assertion, he points out the involvement of the Shinchôsha publishing house in the

Shinkô-geijutsu-ha movement, saying that “the Shinkô-geijutsu-ha was . . . manipulated

by evil literary journalism [he seems to mean here “commercial mass media”] because

it could not establish any artistic method unique to the group.58” In particular, he

attacked Nakamura Murao, the editor-in-chief of Shinchô magazine, and other

modanizumu writers employed by the publisher for this crass commercialism. Intent on

56
Kindai bungaku was published from 1946 to 1964. The founding coterie members were Hirano Ken,
Ara Masahito, Honda Shûgo, Sasaki Kiichi, Odagiri Hideo, Yamamuro Shizuka and Haniya Yutaka.
57
For a discussion on Hirano, see Kurihara Yukio. “Hajimari no mondai: Bungaku-shi ni okeru kindai to
gendai.” Haikyo no kanôsei: gendai bungaku no tanjô. Bungakushi o yomikaeru, vol. 1, ed. Kurihara
Yukio (Tokyo: Inpakuto Shuppankai, 1997) 4-19.
58
“Shinkô-geijutsu-ha naru ekôru wa, . . . geijutsu-hôhô ni oite dokuji na mono o uchidasu koto ga
dekinakatta tame ni, oshiki bundan jânarizumu ni odorasareta kekka ni owatta no de aru.” Hirano,
“Showa bungaku-shi,” HKZ, 162.

29
defining the significance of Marxist movements during the interwar period, he simply

dismisses popular commercial magazines as reflections of capitalist society.

By taking a limited and what might be termed purist focus on past coterie groups

and their magazines, however, he fails to recognize the significance of the mass media

as a product of modernity. He estimates only a small portion of interwar Japanese

literary production, thereby missing the activity that occurred outside bundan circles.

As mentioned earlier, he argues that modernity in the form of urbanization and

commercialization greatly influenced writers of the period. He sees the Shinkankaku-ha

arising out of the social changes of the 1920s brought on by the importation of Western

technology, when writers realized that they needed innovative techniques to depict a

new society. It needs to be pointed out, however, that Hirano focuses exclusively on

modern society as a theme to be found in modernist works. Consequently, he fails to

recognize the extent to which writers experienced major changes in their lives not only

as urbanites and consumers but also as cultural producers and workers subject to the

rapid development of the mass media.59 These changes included fundamental alteration

in the ways their works were advertised and published, as well as terms of copyright

regulations and standardized rates for manuscript fees due to the effects of mass-scale

printing and sales. In order to gain a more comprehensive understanding of how the

59
Of course, not everyone followed his “tripod” view. Over the course of three decades from the 1940s
to 1970s, it was criticized either entirely or partially, and argued against by such critics as Ôkubo Norio,
Sasaki Kiichi, Hashikawa Bunzô, Etô Jun and Isogai Hideo. Hirano himself continued to examine the
adequacy of it. In Shôwa bungaku no kanôsei (The Possibilities of Showa Literature) in 1972, Hirano
proposes a renewed view that I-Novel, Proletarian literature and “the twentieth century literature”
pioneered by Dostoevskii were unified in a “socialized self” (shakai-ka shita watakushi) and sublated.
(He used the German term, Aufheben.) See “Jiga no shakai-ka” in “Shôwa bungaku no kanôsei”
published in Vol. 3 of HKZ. 412-437.

30
social changes associated with modernity influenced interwar Japanese literature, one

must also give due consideration to the changes in the economy of literary production,

which switched from largely individualistic action to a collective, assembly-line work.

Indeed, young modernist writers themselves recognized that the act of writing was not

as free from economic concerns as the established bundan writers claimed. As a matter

of fact, in addition to the appearance of highly specialized coterie magazines, the 1920s

and 30s saw the emergence of a large number of commercial magazines, some selling

as many as a million copies per issue and finding their audience among a growing

middle class. Increasingly, bundan writers also began to write for such popular

magazines and to involve themselves in the formation of new, popular literary

movements such as, for example, taishû bungaku, the literature of the masses, or tantei

shôsetsu, detective fiction, etc.

2.4 Cultural Importations and the Return to Japan: Donald Keene’s View

In his chapter on “Modernism and Foreign Influences” in Dawn to the West,

Donald Keene asserts that Japanese Modernist literature (or “modanizumu bungaku” in

the Japanese translation of the book60) “is marked by the conscious attempts of the

authors to impart an unmistakably nontraditional quality to their writings, usually by the

use of experimental techniques.”61 Defining modanizumu strictly in terms of the

stylistic influence of Western Modernism on Japanese works, he argues that “almost all

60
Keene, Nihon bungaku no rekishi, vol. 13, Japanese translation of Dawn to the West, trans. by Tokuoka
Takao (Tokyo: Chûô kôronsha, 1996) 13.
61
Keene, Dawn to the West, 630.

31
the important Japanese writers of the twentieth century were at some stage

Modernists.”62 In addition, he goes on to note that “translations of European modern

literature (or, much less frequently, original texts) affected every writer seriously

interested in his craft, and often led to direct imitations of the new stylistic methods.”63

Operating primarily within a model of European “originality” and Japanese “imitation,”

he examines Modernist literature in Japan as a product of direct or indirect influence by

such figures as Proust, Joyce, Wilde and Nietzsche. Thus, like Hirano, he excludes

discussion of the impact of broader social and cultural phenomena during the interwar

years on the writers whose works were categorized as modanizumu by their

contemporaries. Moreover, he does not address the literature of modanizumu in its full

range, narrowing his focus to only four writers, chosen because of their linkage or

allegiance to particular European “predecessors.” For Keene, Satô Haruo (inspired by

Wilde and Nietzsche), Yokomitsu Riichi (Paul Valéry),64 Ito Sei (Joyce) and Hori Tasuo

(Proust) are representative of Japanese modernist writers because they were dissatisfied

with the dominant naturalist literary approach and zealously turned to the works of

Western thinkers and writers for new modes of artistic expressions.65 He goes on to say,

however, that all except Hori eventually abandoned such Western techniques, thereby

62
Keene, Dawn to the West, 630.
63
Keene, Dawn to the West, 630.
64
As the Shin-kankaku-ha member, Keene also refers to Kawabata Yasunari and Tanizaki Jun’ichirô as
modernist writers in the early years of their writing careers. However, he chooses not to include them in
this chapter because, as he says, “Modernism was only a passing phase in careers devoted to more
traditional literature.” Keene, Dawn to the West, 631.
65
Keene, Dawn to the West, 630. He also mentions that the Japanese modernism is generally traced back
to the early 1920s when Italian Futurism was introduced to Japan and its influence precipitated “a flood
of bewildering and often incomprehensible poetry, sometimes designated as Surrealist or Dadaist,
although no one in Japan knew what these terms meant.” Ibid., 630. Keene also discusses the modernist
poetry in his volume II of Dawn to the West on “Poetry, Drama, Criticism,” but I will not repeat his
arguments here as this dissertation is focused on prose.

32
proving that modanizumu was merely a superficial and flirtatious experiment with

foreign methods. This dalliance ultimately resulted in a return to “traditional” Japanese

subjects and techniques.

On the whole, Keene’s narrow scope of the definition of Modernism appears to

derive from the influence that he receives from the conventional and mainstream view

originally presented by the intellectuals associated with Kindai bungaku after WWII. In

their view, Japan’s modernization was never fully realized in the pre-WWII years

because Japan tried to hastily adopt Western-style modernization while it never

established a “modern self” (kindaiteki jiga) since Japan had never abandoned its

feudalistic socio-cultural system. As a result, modernization had only a cursory,

superficial effect. It did not put down real roots.

Because of their interests in coterie group movements and the stylistic

experimentalism undertaken by a small body of writers, both Hirano and Keene focus

their attention on literary works produced inside the bundan circle. However,

considering that the period of 1920s and early1930s was an era when the publishing

industry dramatically expanded the quantity of available venues, providing writers with

abundant opportunities to write for various types of magazines with different

orientations and themes, it is clear that excluding popular commercial periodicals from

the discussion of Japanese literature does not suffice.

2.5 Recent Discourse on Modanizumu

33
 In short, consideration of a large number of works have been excluded from

discussions of modanizumu, because they do not contain obvious elements of Western

High Modernism or they were not the product of specific coterie groups emphasized in

the post-WWII critical discourse.

In the last decade and a half, however, scholars such as Unno Hiroshi, Suzuki

Sadami, Kawamoto Saburô and Sekii Mitsuo have contributed towards the re-imagining

of the literature of modanizumu by moving beyond the limited scope of existing

historical surveys of Japanese literature to discuss the relationship between literary

production of 1920s and 1930s and various social and cultural phenomena associated

with the period. In Modan toshi Tôkyo (1988), for example, the art historian and

urbanologist Unno Hiroshi sees the 1920s as a crucial era because it marks the time

when modern urban life emerged simultaneously in Japan and Europe.66 Thus, he does

not see modanizumu as a unidirectional flow of influence from Europe to Japan.

Instead he seeks to explore the parallel development of modernity (kindai) in Europe

and Japan through his examination of social and cultural modernization and the urbanist

literary works that reflect such modern life. This is what he calls the phenomenon of

dôjidaisei, or contemporaneousness.67 He points out as follows the limitations of the

view of the literature of modanizumu that has dominated until now.

66
Unno, Modan toshi Tokyo (Tokyo: Chûô kôronsha, 1988) 10-11.
67
, contemporaneousness or syncroneity.

34
 The subject of Japanese modanizumu bungaku68 from the Shin-kankaku-
ha to the Shinkô-geijutsu-ha – i.e., the Japanese literature of the 1920s –
has been discussed far from comprehensively. The works that have been
buried in obscurity need to be dug out. Also, limiting the focus of
evaluation only to novels brings poor results [and should be changed]. A
more comprehensive re-evaluation will be necessary by including various
expressions such as the travel writings and reportage on cities from the
era. The essence of Japanese modanizumu bungaku is hidden rather in
reportage and essays. [Therefore] we should not limit [the subject of our
study] to such coterie groups as Bungei jidai, Bungei toshi and Kindai
seikatsu. Instead, we have to explore the expressions of modanizumu
from a wider scope. For that, we need to go beyond the conventional
definition of “literature” and we need to examine modanizumu [bungaku]
in its interfaces with [different fields such as] theater, film, arts and so
forth.69

In his book, Unno examines eleven literary pieces by such writers as the mystery

fiction writer Edogawa Rampo, the writer of “nonsensical” humorous urbanist stories,

Gunji Jirômasa, and the proletarian writer who addressed problems of modern capitalist

society, Tokunaga Sunao. These writers have been neglected in academic study of the

1920s literature because they were considered outside the realm of highbrow bundan

literature.70 Although Unno includes a discussion of the “bundan writer,” Kawabata

Yasunari, the piece he chooses for discussion is, interestingly enough, Asakusa kurenai-

dan, a work that has yet to receive much attention because it does not fall within

Kawabata’s later canonical works famed for their “haiku-esque” quality. Its lack of

reputation as a masterpiece not withstanding, Unno claims that Asakusa kurenai-dan – a

68
Unno uses .
69
Unno, Modan toshi Tôkyo, 48.
70
Since he is looking at literature in the context of its relationship with urban space, his discussion does
not limit itself to conventional modanizumu writers. He discusses Edogawa Rampo, Tokunaga Sunao and
Gunji Jirômasa, as well as writers more famous as modernists, Kawabata Yasunari, Hagiwara Kyôjirô,
Ryûtanji Yû, and Yoshiyuki Eisuke.

35
work of fiction about teen-age gangs in the Asakusa district in Tokyo – is a literary

work that was scrupulously constructed through the use of documentary techniques and

other strategies comparable to those employed by the European avant-garde. In other

words, Unno presents it as a representative example of Kawabata’s experiments with

narrative technique. It was inspired by the rapidly changing social and cultural

phenomena that Kawabata encountered during his period of loitering about the Asakusa

district in Tokyo. It is not merely derivative of techniques borrowed from European

modernism.

In a similar way, Suzuki Sadami focuses on the social manners and customs of

the 1920s-1930s in his Modan toshi no hyôgen. By examining such urban phenomena

as cafés, street advertisements, career women, urban wanderers, modern girls and

apartments, and by discussing the expressly “modern” experience of cosmopolitanism,

as well as the boredom and loneliness felt by the middle class in their daily lives, etc.,

Suzuki also focuses on the world-wide parallel emergence (sekai-teki dôjisei) of

modernity. Likewise, his view of the literature of modanizumu is not restricted by

conventional definitions. Instead, he discusses various expressions of the cityscape in

four different genres: poetry, detective fiction (tantei shôsetsu), proletarian artistic

movements, and literature by female writers. For example, he discusses Edogawa

Rampo and shows how the boredom, loneliness and alienation associated with urban

life are reflected in his writing, as well as how scientific discoveries and developments

function in his detective fiction. Or Hayashi Fumiko is discussed in relation to the

economic and social independence of women. Similarly, Suzuki examines the work of

36
Maki Itsuma and Uchida Hyakken, focusing on their interests in the mysterious

elements within “the concrete jungle” as a means of escape from quotidian life and old-

fashioned morals and values. Meanwhile, in his analysis of Kajii Motojirô’s works, he

explores the transformation of the expression of “self” in modern mass society. Suzuki

has also contributed to the study of magazines representative of commercial

modanizumu by leading the Shinseinen Research Group and conducting a meticulous

examination of this important magazine from 1920-1950. The reexamination and

rethinking of the significance of Shinseinen in early twentieth-century Japanese society

has resulted in the publication of Shinseinen dokuhon71 and the Shinseinen soshô

series.72

Finally, in his introductory essay for Shihon bunka no modanizumu: Bungaku

jidai no shosô, Sekii Mitsuo takes the same stance as both Unno and Suzuki in claiming

that the Japanese literature of modanizumu in the 1920s was not merely a product of the

influence of European avant-garde movements.73 He argues that Yokomitsu Riichi is an

example of a writer who “did not acquire the ‘writing’ (bun) of ‘new sense’ (shin

kankaku) from the [European] avant-garde art. Rather he discovered the [new]

‘writing’ via the process of finding a new landscape [in the 1920s as Tokyo underwent

71
Shinseinen kenkyûkai, ed. Shinseinen dokuhon. Eighteen members contributed to the publication. The
book divides its thirty years of history into five periods and traces the editorial shifts in accordance with
the social, political, and cultural environment of each period. Although it does not include textual
examinations of Shinseinen’s modernist stories, and each article is limited to three pages at most, it is the
first and most encyclopedic publication available on Shinseinen.
72
Shinseinen sôsho (Tokyo: Hakubunkan Shinsha, 1992-1995). 5 volumes.
73
He quotes Chiba Sen’ichi’s critical essay, “Geijutsu-teki kindai-ha” (quoted earlier in this chapter) to as
an example of the prevailing critical view of the 1920s established after the WWII. “Shihon-shugi no
bunka aruiwa Nihon no modanizumu.” 16.

37
rapid changes].”74 Sekii asserts that modanizumu is not only a mere liking for new

things. More importantly, modernist expressions stand in opposition to the traditional

consciousness of the past. Not all of the Shin-kankaku-ha members were modanizumu

writers because some did not consciously attempt to create works opposed to tradition.

He argues that technological innovations and mass-consumerist capitalism are the two

crucial factors that made consciousness about the modan emerge, creating the new

middle class’ mass society.75 “Individuals [in the literary text after the 1920s] ceased to

have distinct faces,” he notes, “because, in consumerist society, [even] humans were

increasingly converted into mere commodities, signs and modes.”76 He asserts the need

for more research that specifically examines how technology and capitalism are

interwoven into the literary texts of modanizumu. In other words, he insists textual

analysis alone is inadequate for understanding the complex significance of the literature

of modanizumu.

Also key to the rethinking of modernist literature was publication of the ten-

volume Modan toshi bungaku, co-edited by Unno, Suzuki and Kawamoto Saburô. It is

a collection of both literary and nonfiction works from the 1920s-1930s that depict the

social and cultural phenomena of the period. Introducing various themes such as

megalopolis Tokyo, modern girls, transportation systems, technology, crime,

cosmopolitanism, proletarian literature and poetry, the collection introduces works that

have been long out-of-print because they were originally published in popular media

74
Sekii Mitsuo, Shihon bunka no modanizumu: Bungaku jidai no shosô (Tokyo: Yumani Shobô, 1997)
16-17.
75
Sekii, 17.
76
Sekii, 19-20.

38
and did not belong to the highbrow literary genres subsequently canonized by the

critical establishment after WWII. Moreover, all issues of the commercial periodical,

Bungaku jidai (published by Shinchôsha from 1929 to 1932) were reprinted in the

1990s, and as already mentioned, the reprinting of the modanizumu magazine,

Shinseinen has been ongoing.77 However, as of this moment, Japanese popular

modernist works remain practically unknown to Western audiences. Even in

scholarship in Japan, the introductory work by the aforementioned scholars marks only

a beginning, inasmuch as Sekii calls for further study of the actual works themselves.

Precisely because modern developments affected writers not only as consumers but also

as workers in the mass system of the publishing business, it is necessary that we

examine what occurred outside the arena of the bundan, which employed a rhetoric that

supposedly set writers apart from capitalist forces.

2.6 The Complexity of the Shinkô-geijutsu-ha Meeting – Commercial Publication

The Japanese economy during the 1920s was like a roller coaster, veering

between periods of prosperity and hardship.78 Nevertheless, the publishing industry

77
These efforts to break away from the politically engaged literary criticism in the postwar years (as seen
in Hirano’s “tripod”) became a mainstream approach in the 1980s and 1990s. Accordingly, at the
“Kindai bungaku 100-nen to Kanagawa” (Modern Literature and Kanagawa Prefecture) exhibition which
commemorated the opening of Kanagawa Kindai Bungakukan in 1988, the exhibition committee grouped
leftist literature and the literature of modanizumu (of art-for-art’s sake) together as “toshi-ka jidai no
bungaku” (literature in the era of urbanization). For more detail of the content of the exhibition, see, for
example, Isoda Kôichi’s essay, “Aru bungaku-shi no kôsô” (A Conception of One Literary History).
Nevertheless, popular literature is still excluded from his discussion.
78
As James McClain states, “Japan’s accelerating pace of industrialization and the growth of trade during
World War I made the island nation more vulnerable than ever to fluctuations in the world economy, and
a particularly severe recession followed on the heels of the wartime boom as export demand for war-
related capital goods dried up and Western traders reclaimed their markets in southern Asia. Then, just as
businesses were making a tolerable recovery from the postwar downturn, the Great Kantô Earthquake

39
steadily grew throughout the decade.79 One sign of this phenomenal growth is to be

found in the publication figures for periodicals. In 1920 the number of the periodicals

registered under the Publication Law (shuppan hô) had already reached 22,412. By

1929, it rose as high as 37,402.80 An approximate ratio of non-periodicals (i.e., regular

books) to periodicals remained 2:3 throughout the decade.81 In addition to a rise in the

number of different periodicals, the number of copies sold also rapidly increased. For

example, the total number of copies sold for the eighty major periodicals combined

amounted to 48,600,000 in 1929.82 The major magazines included “established”

magazines published since the Meiji Period such as Kaizô, Shinchô, Taiyô, Jitsugyô no

Nihon, Fujin kôron, Shufu no tomo, Fujin kurabu, Shônen kurabu, as well as such

newcomers as Shinseinen, Bungei shunjû, and the famous popular magazine, Kingu.83

They are said to have sold between 100,000 and 200,000-plus copies per month.84

rocked Tokyo and surrounding cities on September 1, 1923. . . . To stimulate reconstruction of the
nation’s industrial base, the Japanese government provided new sources of credit to banks, which then
extended loans to businesses wishing to rebuild. Economic growth rates began to climb once again, but
in the spring of 1927 rumors spread that banks holding the loans were in danger of collapse. In April
panicky depositors began to withdraw their savings, and the government declared a three-week banking
moratorium as dozens of lending institutions shuttered their doors. Over the following year the financial
sector got its balance sheets back in order, only to see the Japanese economy engulfed in the worldwide
depression that followed the 1929 crash of the U.S. stock market.” James L. McClain, Japan, A Modern
History. 359-361.
79
For details, see Suzuki Toshio, Shuppan (Tokyo: Shuppan nyûsusha, 1970) 170-187.
80
“Taisho-ki shoseki, zasshi hakkô tensû (Naimushô keihokyoku nôhon uketsuke sû) from Nihon
shuppan 100-nenshi nenpyô. As quoted in Suzuki Toshio, Shuppan. 178 and 215.
81
Suzuki Toshio, Shuppan, 178 and 215.
82
This is according to a research conducted by Tokyo-dô and put together in Nihon shuppan hanbai-shi
by Hashimoto Motome. It combines the sales of the seventy-eight to eighty-three major periodicals.
(The number of the periodicals included varies depending upon the year.) The statistics do not specify
which periodicals are included in the number. Hashimoto Motome, Nihon Shuppan hanbai-shi, 386.
83
Its inaugural issue in 1925 sold more than 740,000 copies, and circulation leaped up to 1,400,000 in
1928, bringing in great profit to its popular publisher, Kôdansha.
84
Nihon shuppan hanbaishi. Quoted in Suzuki Toshio, Shuppan, 183.

40
 Periodicals were not immune to the effects of severe recession, however. With a

large number of unsold books and periodicals being returned from bookstores in the

mid-1920s, publishers sought various means to survive. In 1926, Kaizôsha Publishing

House gambled its future on publication of a sixty-three volume series titled Gendai

Nihon bungaku zenshû (Collected Works of Modern Japanese Literature). It put large

advertisements in major newspapers, calling for subscriptions at the cost of one-yen per

volume set. The set claimed to cover all the canonical Japanese literary works from

Meiji to Taisho. Initially, other publishers regarded Kaizôsha’s plan as suicidal.

Contrary to their expectations, however, Kaizôsha lined up 230,000 subscribers in its

initial campaign. Later the number rose from 400,000 to 500,000.85 Kaizôsha’s success

spurred great interest among other publishers in similar ventures, leading to the so-

called enpon boom that lasted until around 1930.86 The success of Kaizôsha’s enpon

ushered in a period of mass production, advertisement and consumption in the

publishing industry, and urban, petit-bourgeois intellectuals emerged as the population

bracket that could afford to purchase such subscriptions.87

As an established commercial publisher, Shinchôsha publishing house (1904-

present), participated in both the periodic economic and enpon booms in the 1920s and

early 1930s. Its magazine, Shinchô, was a major commercial magazine for the literary

arts, and its editor-in-chief was the critic Nakamura Murao (1886-1949), who had been

85
For more details, see Senuma Shigeki, Hon no 100-nenshi, 171-175.
86
The themes of those series ranged from World Literature, taishû bungaku, World Art series, to Science
and Economics. Incidentally, this boom brought technological improvements in the printing industry.
Printing plants purchased the high-speed Albert printing machines with state of the art equipment. See
Suzuki Toshio, 206, for more details.
87
Nagamine Shigetoshi discusses the details of this issue in “Enpon bûmu to dokusha.” See especially
188-197.

41
influential as an editor on the staff of Shinchô since the 1900s.88 It was primarily under

Nakamura’s influence that the Shinchôsha became involved in the literature of

modanizumu by the latter half of the 1920s.

The company’s first assay into the literature of modanizumu is to be found in the

June 1928 issue of Shinchô. Nakamura issued his first statement in support of the art

for art’s sake movements in a famous essay entitled “Dare da? Hanazono o arasu mono

wa!” (The Destroyers of the Flower Garden! Who Are They?). In this essay, he raised

a passionate call for recapturing the autonomy of the arts from overtly ideological

concerns by criticizing the Marxist literary movement for emphasizing political issues

over artistic ones. Moreover, in May 1929, the Shinchô Publishing House inaugurated a

new magazine titled Bungaku jidai (The Literary Era) after discontinuing its youth

magazine, Bunshô kurabu (Composition Club; 1916-1929).89 Bungaku jidai was

published with the full support of Nakamura Murao, who helped Katô Takeo (1888-

1956) work as its editor-in-chief at Nakamura’s recommendation. The design for the

cover was by the avant-garde artist, Tôgô Seiji, and it published literary pieces by such

writers as Ryûtanji Yû, Ibuse Matsuji and Kataoka Teppei, and essays by Hirabayashi

Hatsunosuke, Tosaka Jun and Kurahara Korehito. Its content was focused on

cosmopolitanism and modern aspects of the cityscape, as seen in the life of the young

88
He first gained recognition as a journalist in 1908 by interviewing for Shinchô such leading writers as
Natsume Sôseki, Shimamura Hôgetsu and Tayama Katai. He also edited the Shinchô special issue on
Kunikida Doppo in 1908, which helped to establish Shinchô’s authority as a literary magazine.
89
Bunshô kurabu was popular among youngsters for the stories about writers’ lives and current topics in
the Taisho bundan. By the late 1920s, it lost its popularity among youngsters.

42
middle-class.90 In December of 1929, Nakamura and Katô also participated in the

inauguration of a coterie group called “Jûsannin kurabu” (The Club of Thirteen).91 The

following June, Shinchôsha published their Jûsannin kurabu sôsaku-shû (A Collection

of Original Works by the Club of Thirteen).92

Earlier that year, Nakamura invited several leading intellectuals to discuss the

meanings of modanizumu both in society and in literature.93 As already discussed in

this chapter, modanizumu had come into vogue as a social term in the late 1920s, but

Nakamura proposed to examine it in light of the literature of modanizumu, as well as

modanizumu in society in general. The proceedings of the meeting were published as

“Modânizumu bungaku oyobi seikatsu no hihan: dai 78-kai Shinchô gappyôkai”

(Criticism on Modernist Literature and [Modernist] Life: the 78th Roundtable

Discussion for Shinchô).94 In this article, Tokuda Shûsei, Nii Itaru, Okada Saburô,

Hirabayashi Hatsunosuke, Kawabata Yasunari, Asahara Rokurô, Ryûtanji Yû, Yoshiya

Nobuko and Nakamura Murao debate the characteristics of modanizumu literature and

its relation to contemporary society.95 The participants express a variety of opinions

90
Takami Jun describes Bungei jidai as “a semi-popularized version of literary magazine that is one rank
lower than Shinchô” (Shinchô yori kaku ga ichidan shita no han-taishûteki bungei zasshi). Takami Jun,
Showa bungaku seisui-shi, 2 vols. (Tokyo: Fukutake Shoten, 1983) 272-273.
91
Participants from Shinchô Company were Nakamura Murao, Katô Takeo, Kamura Isota, Narasaki
Tsutomu, Sasaki Toshirô. The other “club” members were Ozaki Shirô, Asahara Rokurô, Iijima Tadashi,
Kawabata Yasunari, Kuno Toyohiko, Ryûtanji Yû, Okada Saburô and Okina Kyûin.
92
It consisted of the works by Nakamura, Katô, Ryûtanji, Asahara, Iijima, Kuno, Narasaki, Kawabata,
Kamura, Okina, Okada and Ozaki and Sasaki Toshirô.
93
Shinchô regularly carried roundtable discussions by inviting writers and literary critics to speak on
various current topics.
94
“Modânizumu bungaku oyobi seikatsu no hihan: dai 78-kai Shinchô gappyôkai,” Shinchô Feb. (1930),
126-146.
95
Chiba Sen’ichi’s article is not accurate in listing Narasaki Tsutomu as a participant and excluding
Sasaki, Shûsei, Asahara and Yoshiya in his mention about this roundtable discussion in “Geijutsuteki
kindai-ha,” Nihon bungaku shinshi: gendai, 46.

43
about what they conceive as characteristic literary modanizumu, and whose and which

works can be defined as such.96 While they never fully agree on the details of a

“modanizumu ideology,” or on its defining techniques or style, they shared the basic

point of view that “nonsense” (i.e., light and satirical works), “eroticism,” and “the

machine” (“kikai”) are the three major terms that characterize the literature of

modanizumu. Since, as they indicate, nonsense and eroticism are generally considered

to be of inferior quality in literature, they debate whether nonsensical and surrealist

works constitute no more than the literature of escape. Or are they radical enough to

intellectually transcend the status quo? In the case of eroticism in particular, they

discuss whether modernist eroticism is an attempt to pull issues of sexuality, which had

been hidden as impermissible, into the public arena, or whether the erotic is introduced

out of a scientific or sentimental spirit. Kawabata notes that he sees many more “purely

nonsensical and erotic elements outside the bundan, for example in a column called

‘Toilet Room Marching Song’ in Modan Ûman (Modern Woman) and in columns and

short essays carried in Shinseinen.”97 He sees bundan literature as not having gone to

such extremes in expressing the erotic, nonsensical or satirical humor because of

inhibitions on the part of the writers’ “artistic conscience.” To this, Nakamura counters

that Kawabata’s works are full of erotic elements. The speakers also discuss whether

modern technology represents human will, or if humans are controlled by technology.

96
For example, Ryûtanji summarizes that it is “a particular kind of life style that integrates Europiamisn,
Americanism, Oriental tastes that became popular in America and other foreign countries and is now
reflected back in Japan, and it is characteristically light and nonsensical, with experiments with the
rhythm and tempo in the writing.”
97
“Modanizumu bungaku oyobi seikatsu no hihan,” 136-137. Kawabata thinks that such magazines aim
at more extreme nonsense and eroticism with short essays and columns.

44
Finally, they discuss if literature will become nihilistic, as machines and science

become more deeply involved in literature. While they recognize that modanizumu is

the literary form of modernity, they agree Hirabayashi is fundamentally correct when he

argues that Japanese modernist literature is still in a transitional phase that anticipates

further development. In their opinion, “real modanizumu bungaku” has yet to be

realized. After the discussion of these three elements in literature, Nakamura leads the

group to a discussion about modern social life as “the mother’s womb”98 for the

literature of modanizumu, and how literature and society affect each other. What is

important here is that this roundtable discussion demonstrates the participants’ belief

that the literature of modanizumu is closely tied with the street phenomena of modern

society. At the same time, they anticipate the advent of a true reform of modernist

literature that probes the core mechanisms of modernity, especially technology.

In addition to supporting the modanizumu writers by providing Bungaku jidai as

a venue to publish their works, Nakamura also wrote for mass media outlets other than

Shinchô magazine. In March 1930, or less than a month before the roundtable

discussion, he wrote an article in the Asahi Shinbun that advocated experimentalist

movements.99 In it, he laments the current situation in which only erotic (ero) and

nonsensical (nansensu) aspects of modanizumu literature, or what he called superficial

elements, prevailed. Instead he calls for a kind of modanizumu literature that involves

science and technology -- or what he considers the core of modern civilization. Such a

literature has yet to appear. Some of the writers he lists in the essay as modanizumu

98
Nii’s description. “Modanizumu bungaku oyobi seikatsu no hihan,” 142.
99
It was published in three installments.

45
writers were avant-garde writers who started out championing art-for-art’s-sake but

soon leaned to the left in the late 1920s. Nakamura sees it as natural that leftist

elements prevail in the works of many avant-garde writers.100 He describes writers who

attempt to integrate a socialist agenda with an art-for-art’s-sake approach as modernists

who possess an “understanding of Marxist ideology.”101

Less than two months after the roundtable discussion, the inaugural meeting for

the Shinkô-geijutsu-ha (Rising Art School) was held, with thirty writers and critics

joining as members. Promoted under the names of Ryûtanji Yû and Kuno Toyohiko, it

was actually arranged by Shinchôsha Company’s Nakamura and Katô. The name,

“Shinkô-geijutsu-ha,” was suggested by the writer, Ozaki Shirô, and then approved by

the president of Shinchôsha, Satô Yoshiaki. As already discussed in this chapter,

Hirano Ken dismisses the significance of this meeting and the movement of Shinkô

Geijutu-ha as merely anti-ideology (i.e., anti-proletarian, anti-Marxist) instead of pro-

actively creative. One of his grounds for his charge is that the group produced only one

publication, Geijutsu-ha Varaitê (Art School Variety).102 However, if we look to other

publications not necessarily edited and published by Shinkô-geijutsu-ha but written by

its members, we see that the their movement did not disappear only with the publication

of Geijutsu-ha Variety.

100
For example, see Kaizôsha publishing company’s 28-volume set called Shin’ei bungaku sôsho (The
Library of New and Powerful Literature) of 1930-1931. Several of the writers in this series were also
published in Shinkô-geijutsu-ha sôsho, but the series included primarily the works by proletarian writers.
101
Nakamura Murao, “Modânizumu bungaku ni taisuru ichi-kôsatsu” (One Observation on Modernist
Literature), Asahi Shinbun, March 17-19 (1930).
102
Edited by Shinkô-geijutsu-ha Kurabu and published in June 1930.

46
 About the time of the assembly meeting, Shinchôsha announced that it would

begin publication of a newly collected series of works to be called Shinkô-geijutsu-ha

sôsho (Rising Art School Library). This was one of Shinchôsha’s versions of the

“enpon” books.103 Twenty-four volumes were published from May to October, 1930.

As was characteristic of all kinds of enpon, the series was advertised sensationally.104

Although the series was entitled Shinkô-geijutsu-ha sôsho, it was not limited to

participants in the Shinkô-geijutsu-ha Kurabu meeting, but included other famous

experimentalists such as Yokomitsu Riichi and Kawabata Yasunari. At the same time,

works by Kamura Isota, who did attend the meeting, were considered realist and not

modernist; nonetheless he was included in this series because he had been an editor for

the magazines, Fudôchô and Kindai seikatsu, both of which Nakamura patronized. In

other words, while a breakdown of the participating writers shows that the major

experimentalists of the time were included -- whether or not they claimed to be Shinkô-

geijutsu-ha members, it also included writers associated with Shinchô. Nevertheless,

just as other enpon sets contributed to the process of canonization in other genres,

Shinkô-geijutsu-ha sôsho came to represent the literature of modanizumu. In relation to

the meeting of Shinkô-geijutsu-ha, in June 1930, Shinchô magazine held a roundtable

discussion and published it as “Shinkô-geijutsu-ha hihan-kai” (Critique of the Rising

103
Shinchô was the first to follow Kaizôsha’s “enpon” series and published a 56-volume set of collected
works titled Sekai bungaku zenshû (Collected Works of World Literature) in 1927. It achieved the
amazing number of 580,000 subscriptions. This led to the “enpon boom” because other publishers
attempted to make a fortune just as Kaizôsha and Shinchôsha had done. It is said that more than three
hundred sets of zenshû and sôsho were sold in this period.
104
Many publishers used multimedia such as “chindon-ya” street musicians, kami-shibai, advertisements
in newspapers and magazines, advertising balloons, handbills dropped from airplanes, advertising boards,
posters and flags displayed at bookstores to promote enpon sales.

47
Art School) in its June 1930 issue. In it, the attendees critically examine the

significance of the recent emergence of the Shinkô-geijutsu-ha, thereby abetting the

discursive formation and development of the experimentalist and urban literature of

modanizumu.105

This intimate connection between the formation of modanizmu discourse and the

commercial publishing industry was readily apparent to writers and editors even in

1930. Indeed, critics of modanizumu literature recognized this interconnection. So, for

example, the proletarian critic Kobori Jinji (1901-1959) saw it as the point at which to

attack the apolitical literary group. In the June 1930 issue of the journal Puroretaria

bungaku (Proletarian Literature), he criticized the Shinkô-geijutsu-ha meeting, arguing

that Shinkô-geijutsu-ha meeting did not arise out of a desire for solidarity among

writers subscribing to a coherent literary ideology. Rather, it was the case that the

writers happened to be controlled by a commercial publishing concern named Shinchô.

He called Shinkô-geijutsu-ha not a “school,” but a sort of collective writers’ labor union

set up to secure their income. In other words, he saw the group as merely the result of

the writers’ desire to advance their economic success by provoking an image of the

group as influential at the same that Shinchôsha exploited the writers’ anxieties and

labor. As a proletarian thinker, his intent was to criticize the commercial aspects of the

art-for-art’s-sake movement. 106 Yet, his argument underscores the interconnection of

105
However, the discussion is desultory and did little to advance or develop the significance of the
modernist force in Japanese literature.
106
Other publishers and newspapers reported on the meeting and included major modanizumu writers in
their new zenshû and sôsho. For example, The Yomiuri Newspaper Company hosted a public lecture
titled “Shinkô-geijutsu-ha sengen narabi ni hihan kôenkai” (Lecture Meeting on the Proclamation and
Criticism of the Rising Art School) on April 18, or only five days after the Shinkô-geijutsu-ha meeting. It

48
modanizumu with commerce, how modanizumu was thoroughly implicated in the

commercial publishing industry. The point to be made here is not to follow Kobori’s

dismissal of modanizumu, but rather to show the importance of popular mass media

outlets in the discursive formulation of the idea of modanizumu.

Shinkô-geijutsu-ha group was officially dissolved in July 1931 when Ryûtanji

announced the end of it.107 In the February 1932 issue of Shinchô, Asahara admitted

that, in retrospect, the name “Shinkô-geijutsu” meant little more than “a group of newly

arising writers who focused on art, as opposed to Marxist literature.”108 Although the

lack of a unified literary ideology among Japanese modernists has been identified as a

critical weakness, doubtless it was connected to the very nature of the desire on the part

of individual modanizumu writers to produce a literature that differed from tradition or

what had already been tried. The articles, essays, literary works and advertisements

published by Shinchôsha promoted the formation of the idea of modernist literature,

irrespective of disagreements concerning ideology. Shinkô-geijutsu-ha remains at the

invited Kobayashi Hideo, Kawabata, Yokomitsu, Aono Suekichi and Funabashi Seiichi. Yomiuri also
invited Kobayashi Takiji, but Takiji refused to attend, claiming that a discussion on Shinkô-geijutu-ha
was not worthy of his time. Kaizô Company’s Sin’ei bungaku sôsho (Library of New and Powerful
Literature; 28 volumes, published 1930-31) included Ryûtanji, Nakamura, Ibuse, Kuno and Hori.
Shun’yôdô’s Sekai daitokai sentan jazu sirîzu (The Ultramodern Jazz Series from the World’s
Megaropolis) included several of the same writers from the Shinkô-geijutsu-ha sôsho in volume one
entitled Modan TOKIO enbukyoku (Modern TOKIO Waltz). In 1931 Kaizô also added to their Gendai
Nihon bungaku zenshû (Collected Works of Modern Japanese Literature, or the series that had started the
enpon boom, volume 61 entitled Shinkô-geijutsu-ha zenshû.
107
Ryûtanji, “Shinjin ni” (To New Writers), Shinbungaku kenkyû, vol. 3. As quoted in Chiba Sen’ichi,
“Geijutsuteki kindai-ha,” 50.
Even though representatives of the six coterie groups (Waseda, Mita bungaku, Kômori-za,
Bungaku, Bungei toshi and Kindai seikatsu) agreed to attend the meeting, with the exception of the
members of Kindai seikatsu-ha (i.e., the group consisting mainly of Shinchô people) were dubious about
the significance of it. See Takami Jun, Showa bungaku seisui-shi, vol. 1, 255-257.
108
Asahara Rokurô, “Shin shakaiha bungaku no shuyô-ten.” As quoted in Chiba Sen’ichi, “Geijutsuteki
kindai-ha,” 50.

49
center of the literary discourse surrounding modanizumu in the late 1920s and early

1930s. Although proletarians decried the commercialism of the literature of

modanizumu, and further claimed that modanizumu writers had been taken advantage of

by the mass media and quickly faded from the literary limelight, nonetheless it cannot

be denied that the popular aspects of modanizumu were tied to socialist thought to

which almost all writers of the 1920s were exposed.

The role of Shinchôsha publishing house in the Shinkô-geijutsu-ha movement

shows how deeply Japan’s modernist movement came to be tied to the methods and

values of the commercial publication industry in late 1920s Japan. In other words, it

reveals the participation of commercial publications and popular literary production in

the very formulation of the idea of modanizumu in Japan, indicating the importance of

popular forms of modanizumu. Accordingly, it is incumbent upon us to revisit

modanizumu with an eye to attending more closely to the discursive complexity of its

early articulation within various literary debates taking place in popular commercial

publications during the 1920s and 1930s. Among these publications, it is the assertion

of this dissertation that Shinseinen was the magazine most thoroughly dedicated to and

associated with exploring the ideas and potential of modanizumu. One of the principal

ways in which the writers and editors of Shinseinen pursued these ideas was through the

medium of a newly developed popular genre of fictional crime narrative, tantei

shosetsu. We shall turn next to a discussion of Shinseinen and the role in the

development of this genre in Japan.

50
 CHAPTER 3

SHINSEINEN

3.1 Shinseinen as a Torchbearer of Modanizumu

In an article written in 1980 and entitled “Otoko-tachi o toriko ni shita

Shinseinen” (Shinseinen That Captivated Men), mystery fiction writer and literary critic

Nakai Hideo (1922-1993) describes Shinseinen as a torchbearer of Modanizumu

culture.109 Published in the popular monthly variety magazine Burûtasu (Brutus), which

is marketed to young males, the essay begins as follows:

Until recently, Shinseinen was regarded [only] as a mystery fiction

magazine. Because we have looked back at it within that [limited] frame
of reference, its character as a stylish magazine for male readers has only
recently come into the spotlight. However, if we shift our perspective,
[we see that] in the late Taisho to early Showa periods, tantei shôsetsu110
– an equivalent of what is now called suiri shôsetsu111 – was considered
stylish literature precisely because it was so fresh and full of urbanity.
Indeed the extent of its stylishness is hard for us to imagine now.
Because the strengths of tantei shôsetsu [as a modern literary genre] were
a perfect match for the Zeitgeist [of the late 1920s-early 1930s],
[Shinseinen] was able to become the torchbearer of Modanizumu culture.
It shone as the mainstay of such culture.112
109
Nakai Hideo, “Otoko-tachi o toriko ni shita Shinseinen,” Burûtasu, no. 2, 1980. 98-104.
110
; literally, “detective fiction.”
111
; literally, “fiction of ratiocination.”
112
Nakai, 101.

51
 This passage appeared in Burûtasu as part of an article discussing how readers of

Shinseinen fondly remembered the magazine, even a half century after its golden age,

especially as a trailblazer for trends in the 1920s and 1930s. The attention that Burûtasu

gives to one of its most notable predecessors is indicative of the new magazine’s

aspirations to achieve long-lasting influence over its young adult readership, by

promoting like Shinseinen its keen, modish outlook on the latest events and phenomena

of the time.113 Revealingly, the article’s unsigned introduction written by the editorial

staff of the magazine defines Shinseinen as a “stylish magazine for men” (haikara na

menzu magajin)114 that had the “new sense” (shin-kankaku) to publish works in the

emergent genre of mystery/detective fiction and to report on the latest socio-cultural

trends for “modern boys” during the late Taisho to early Showa eras.

Although the introduction is only a quarter of a page in length, and it does not

offer a detailed discussion of what constitutes being “stylish,” Nakai’s essay helps us to

better understand the assertions made by the editorial staff. It explains that Shinseinen’s

brand of Modanizumu – “chic and sophisticated” – is expressed by not only specific

113
This second number of the magazine ran a quarter-page, unsigned introduction by the Burûtasu
editorial staff, followed by photographs related to Shinseinen. There were a selection of fifty-two front
cover designs from 1923 to 1944, illustrations, satirical cartoons, as well as the photos of Shinseinen
translators, writers, and editors who promoted Modanizumu in Shinseinen with translations of Western
stories, original mystery tales, satirical and witty short-short stories (or what are called contes in French),
critical essays, reportage, and cartoons.
114
Although Shinseinen’s fiction, essays and articles especially in the late 1920s to the mid 1930s targeted
both men and women (mobo and moga), it has generally been considered as more of a male magazine.
Moreover, the magazine produced very few female writers, as opposed to the large number of male tantei
shôsetsu writers who debuted in Shinseinen and received wide recognitions. Ironically, Hisayama Hideko
-- the most famous female tantei shôsetsu writer to debut in Shinseinen -- later turned out to be a male
writer using a female pseudonym. The issue of gender in the tantei shôsetsu genre is a topic worthy of
being pursued in another context.

52
articles on popular fashion, music and movies, but also the fact that all writing in the

magazine – from satirical cartoons, short-shorts, humorous tales, articles on sports, to

tantei shôsetsu – “vividly reported the ‘colors of the time’ (jidai-shoku)

comprehensively.”115 Even more important for our purposes here, note that when Nakai

argues that tantei shôsetsu as a genre embodied Modanizumu to its contemporary

readership, he is clearly arguing against the dominant critical discourse that, as a

general rule, treated tantei shôsetsu and Modanizumu culture as separate phenomena.

As discussed in the previous chapter, Hirano Ken, Takami Jun and other mainstream

literary critics in the post-WWII period developed the critical discourse that

“Modanizumu bungaku” referred only to the avant-garde literary movements of coterie

groups such as the New Sensationalist School and writers associated with the literary

periodical, Bungaku jidai. In a more specific sense, their discussions defined

Modanizumu as literature that focused on the themes of various socio-cultural

phenomena connected to the late 1920s to 1930s. Hence, depictions of life at cafés and

dance halls, where young urbanites dressed like characters out of Hollywood movies

and danced to the accompaniment of Jazz were often regarded as the minimum

condition for works of the literature of Modanizumu. In addition, this critical discourse

covered only “highbrow” literature – or only a small part of what was actually available

to readers in the interwar years when large numbers of popular books and periodicals

reached mass audiences via a publishing boom made possible by newly imported

technology enabling mass production, distribution and consumption. Because the

115
Nakai, 102.

53
critical approach of Hirano et al. prevailed, what we may call “vernacular modernism”

was largely excluded from mainstream criticism. By “vernacular modernism,” I mean a

range of forms of expression, including but not limited to various forms of print, audio

and visual media directed toward a popular or mass audience and arising from the same

set of socio-historical forces and events that produced better-known achievements in the

realm of high art, which heretofore have been identified under the rubric of modernism.

By asserting a fundamental, even constitutive interconnection between Shinseinen

magazine, the genre of tantei shôsestsu, and the larger field of Modanizumu culture,

Nakai departed significantly from established views of both the significance and the

dynamics of popular literary expression during the late Taisho and early Showa periods

in Japan.

Moreover, the fact that he makes his relatively bold assertion about the

fundamental modernity of tantei shôsetsu within the pages of a popular magazine

suggests that, circa 1980, a general readership no longer identified tantei shôsetsu as

being new or stylish. Even today, tantei shôsetsu has yet to gain broad recognition as a

crucial instrument in the development and propagation of Modanizumu culture, and the

genre continues to be freighted with decidedly old-fashioned or outmoded connotations.

This view arose out of a variety of historical factors. Most importantly, the very term

“tantei shôsetsu” had been almost completely replaced after World War II by “suiri

shôsetsu” (lit., the fiction of ratiocination) and “misuteri” (lit., mystery). It has been

said that the promulgation of the tôyô kanji (the set of 1850 kanji characters chosen by

the Japanese government for public use) in 1946 contributed to this shift because the

54
exclusion of the kanji for the tei ( ) of tantei from the tôyô list forced the publishing

industry to switch to suiri shôsetsu as a substitute in the late 1940s and then to misuteri

in the late 1950s. Moreover, the use of “suiri shôsetsu” had the effect of distancing

works of suiri shôsetsu or misuteri from the tantei shôsetsu of the pre-WWII era,

suggesting the development of a more ratiocinative literature.116 By the time the

character tei was returned to the tôyô list, the use of suiri shôsetsu and misuteri had

become too widespread to be displaced again by tantei shôsetsu.117 In tandem with such

shifts, in 1963, the authoritative association for mystery writers, Tantei Sakka Kurabu

(The Detective [Fiction] Writers Club), changed its name to Suiri Sakka Kyôkai (the

Association of [the Novel of] Ratiocination Writers). With this shift in genre names,

tantei shôsetsu came to refer to a specifically historical genre of mystery fiction that

existed from the1880s to the 1940s.118

116
“Suiri shôsetsu” is believed to be coined by Kigi Takatarô (1897-1969) in 1946. Kigi
was a mystery fiction writer who debuted in Shinseinen in 1934. In 1947, he argued for the ratiocinative
and reflective elements as prerequisites for the genre, thus he began to use suiri shôsetsu to include wide
range of works such as the tales of mystery, ratiocination, science and psychology. Other writers and
critics argued for their own definitions of the term. For example, Edogawa Rampo (in the September
1946 of Kaizô) argued that, in the situation where “tantei shôsetsu” had been used to cover too wide a
range of literary works, “suiri shôsetsu” should be useful to differentiate the literature of puzzle-solving
and sleuthing from other various types of work loosely grouped in tantei shôsetsu. See in Kobayashi
Nobuhiko’s “’Tantei shôsetsu’ kara ‘suiri shôsetsu’ e.”
Kigi Takatarô’s article in the January 1947 issue of Puromete also argues for the use of “suiri
shôsetsu.”
117
See the entry for “suiri shôsetsu” in Nakajima Kawatarô’s Tantei shôsetsu jiten.
118
“Tantei shôsetsu” launched its first step in the 1880s when the influential tabloid reporter, translator
and novelist, Kuroiwa Ruikô (1862-1920), translated several pieces by Western mystery writers and
categorized them as tantei shôsetsu. The writers Ruikô translated include Fortuné Du Boisgobey, Emile
Gaboriau and William Wilkie Collins. (Incidentally, since Ruikô’s specialty was limited to English-
Japanese translation, his translation of Du Boisgobey and Gaboriau was done from an English translation
of the French originals. The English translation had appeared in American dime magazines.
Unlike tantei shôsetsu, the terms “suiri shôsetsu” and “misuteri” do not sound outmoded.
Indeed, mystery fiction genre thrives as an extremely popular genre in current times, as seen in the fact
that mystery stories by Miyabe Miyuki, Kitamura Kaoru, Akagawa Jirô, Kasai Kiyoshi, Ôsawa Arimasa,

55
3.2 Publications about Shinseinen and Its Writers: the 1960s to the Present

Nakai’s claim that tantei shôsetsu was the “torchbearer of Modanizumu culture,

and it shone as the mainstay of such culture” in the interwar years corresponds with

comments made by editors, translators, writers or illustrators who were involved with

the publication of Shinseinen at the peak of its fame. One example of such attention

being directed to Shinseinen appears in the transcript of a roundtable discussion

published in a leading mystery magazine, Hôseki (Gem) in 1957 that gathered together

writers and staff members involved with Shinseinen in the 1920s-1930s.119 The

discussion was hosted by Edogawa Rampo, who debuted in Shinseinen in 1923.

Eventually, he became one of the most popular mystery fiction writers in twentieth-

century Japan. Other participants included the first four editors-in-chief who presided

during the golden era of the magazine from 1920 to 1938,120 two editorial staff members

who worked with them, as well as the illustrator, Matsuno Kazuo, whose front cover

illustrations for Shinseinen famously depicted the cultural and political trends of the

time. As I will discuss later in this chapter, this roundtable shows how the young

people who were engaged in the production of Shinseinen actively sought to cultivate

an expressly “modan” sensibility that, on the one hand, embraced the cultural

Norizuki Rintarô, Kyôgoku Natsuhiko, Kitakata Kenzô and Hanamura Mangetsu appear constantly on the
best seller lists.
119
“‘Shinseinen’ rekidai henshûchô zadankai,” the December issue of Hôseki. 98-119.
120
Morishita Uson (1st editor-in-chief; 1920-1927), Yokomizo Seishi (2nd; 1927-1928), Nobuhara Ken
(3 ; 1928-1929), and Mizutani Jun (4th; 1929-1938).
rd

56
possibilities arising from the enormous changes taking place in Japan at the time, and

on the other, maintained a critical, rational attitude toward those changes.

In addition to the people engaged in the production end, those involved with

Shinseinen primarily as readers – many of whom sent their own stories to the editors to

compete for prizes and publications – have also waxed nostalgic for the magazine as a

venue for the cultivation of Modanizumu, especially through its advocacy of tantei

shôsetsu as a literary genre. Take for example Kobayashi Nobuhiko’s autobiographical

roman à clef which tells us about the days when he worked as a young editor in the

1960s. His Yume no toride (A Fortress of Dreams) depicts such nostalgia. In the mid-

1960s, a young editor named Tatsuo becomes interested in learning the secrets of the

magazine’s lasting fame after hearing older editors talk longingly about it. He reads old

issues of Shinseinen stored at the publishing house where he works, gleaning

specifically “modan” ideas from them and trying to recapture the spirit of the times in

the pages of his general magazine.121 Tatsuo’s plan to publish a remake of Shinseinen

as a special issue falls through, and nothing comes of it. However, in actual fact we see

that the publication records from the late 1960s to early 1970s indicate a notable

increase in the reissuing of works by, and publication of critical essays on, once

extremely popular but subsequently forgotten Shinseinen writers such as Yumeno

121
Yume no toride was originally serialized in a weekly popular periodical, Heibon panchi from January
1981 to December 1982. It was revised and expanded when it was published as a book in 1983. In the
story, the protagonist goes so far as to interview Yokomizo Seishi, the legendary editor-in-chief who
promoted “Shinseinen Modanizumu.” (Incidentally, this story takes place before the revival of interest in
Yokomizo’s works. He became extremely popular as the creator of the detective, Kindaichi Kôsuke,
when Kadokawa Shoten publishing company promoted his works by making movies out of them and
advertising them sensationally in the 1970s. Kadokawa’s multimedia strategy generated best-seller
novels, hit movies, idol actors, hit theme songs, etc.)

57
Kyûsaku, Tani Jôji (who also wrote under the pseudonyms of Maki Itsuma and Hayashi

Fubô), Hisao Jûran, Kigi Takatarô, Oguri Mushitarô, as well as Edogawa Rampo who

remained popular throughout his career. Indeed, Rampo himself wrote about

Shinseinen in his Tantei shôsetsu shijûnen (Forty Years of Tantei shôsetsu), a history of

tantei shôsetsu narrated in relation to his own writing career from the 1920s to the

1960s and presented in the form of behind-the-scene stories. The essays included in his

book (published in 1961) were originally serialized in Shinseinen from 1949 to 1950

and subsequently in Hôseki from 1951 to 1960.122 In this retrospective, Rampo uses

excerpts from newspapers, magazines and books, letters from various writers and

critics, as well as his own memos, all of which he kept collecting and organizing

throughout his career. Based on these “scraps” of information, he reconstructs a picture

of the world of Shinseinen and the tantei shôsetsu. As a result, these memoirs are more

than a personal autobiography, and they serve as great source material for

reconstructing the history of the genre. Even so, Rampo tends to mention only the

positive aspects about events and individuals. In addition, he discusses modernism only

briefly, and the discussion is set strictly within the context of the French and British

witty short-shorts that Yokomizo Seishi promoted while editor-in-chief of Shinseinen in

the mid 1920s. Rampo offers no larger discussion of detective fiction as a modernist

genre. Consequently, his book cannot provide us with a critical perspective on the role

of Shinseinen in the formation of tantei shôsetsu as a genre.

122
Rampo was famous for collecting newspaper and other articles about him or tantei shôsetsu, as seen in
his well-known scrapbook titled Harimaze-chô (lit., “paste and mix” book).
Nakajima Kawatarô’s Nihon suiri shôsetsu-shi and other major writings on the history of tantei
shôsetsu that cover the1920s through 1960s owe largely to Rampo’s memoir for historical details.

58
 In addition to nostalgic and experientially based accounts concerning Shinseinen

magazine, materials on the tantei shôsetsu include those by critics who have given

renewed attention to popular publications since the 1960s in an effort to redress the

oversights of the dominant approaches to literary history. Most notably, Nakajima

Kawatarô (1917-1999) edited a pioneering five-volume series titled Shinseinen kessaku-

sen (An Anthology of Shinseinen Masterpieces) in 1970 that covers a range of works. It

is divided into five categories and organized into separate volumes: (1) mystery fiction;

(2) ghosts and fantasy; (3) horror and humor; (4) translations of Western mystery

fiction; and (5) essays, reportage and short-shorts. Nakajima presented the magazine as

having been a venue for various types of literary expression.123 Likewise, in the 1960s-

1970s, another leading scholar of Japanese popular literature, Ozaki Hotsuki (1928-

1999), anthologized and republished works by Shinseinen writers such as Edogawa

Rampo, Yumeno Kyûsaku, Hisao Jûran, Tani Jôji, Kunieda Shirô and Shishi Bunroku.

Ozaki affectionately called these figures “heretic writers” (itan sakka) because they

went beyond the confinement of the “guild-like” bundan literary circle of the naturalist-

influenced I-novel and Shirakaba school to produce literature that became popular with

the new middle class living in modern metropolises.124 Consequently, Nakajima and

123
Nakajima anthologized second Shinseinen kessaku-sen published by Kadokawa Shoten in 1977
because the Rippû Shobô version had gone out of print. Although the anthologies share the same title,
the contents are different.
124
I argue that the revival of interest in Shinseinen and its writers as an anti-establishment and counter
tradition also reflects the cultural and political circumstances of the 1960s-70s in Japan such as the
campaigns against the Japan-U.S. Security Treaty and other student movements directed against the
Japanese government. A discussion of these social implications goes beyond the scope of the current
study, however.
For some of Ozaki’s arguments on these “heretic” writers, see his Igyô no sakka-tachi
( ), a collection of essays that he wrote from 1969 to 1975. Nakada Kôji also discusses

59
Ozaki helped to initiate and lend critical authority to the series of “Shinseinen booms”

instigated by the commercial publishing industry over the last thirty years. Scholars of

popular literature have tended, however, to focus on recovery and description rather

than detailed analysis of, for example, the specific cultural function of tantei shôsetsu as

a popular form.

More recently, a younger generation of scholars has begun to examine

Shinseinen within the context of the development of the modern city. For example, in

his pioneering study of 1988, Modan toshi Tokyo, Unno Hiroshi includes Shinseinen in

his examination of various aesthetic expressions in art, theater, literature, film and

music that emerged in the modern urban space of the 1920s and 1930s. Similarly, in

Shôwa bungaku no tame ni written in 1989, Suzuki Sadami discusses the extensive

changes that Shinseinen underwent during the 1920s by relating its numerous shifts in

editorial policy to transformations in consumption practices that accompanied social

modernization. He focuses attention specifically on Shinseinen’s transition from a

didactic youth magazine with the objective of shûyô, or the cultivation of the mind – or,

a motto associated with state-sanctioned ideology – to an intellectual entertainment

magazine that promoted the notion of enjoying various entertainments as a form of

amusement or recreation among young urbanites.125 As already mentioned in Chapter

several of Shinseinen writers in the same light in Itan sakka no arabesuku (Arabesque of Heretic Writers).
Shibusawa Tatsuhiko, the influential literary critic who became particularly famous for being put on trial
for introducing the works of Marquis de Sade via his Japanese translations, also showed interest in
Shinseinen writers, particularly Hisao Jûran.
125
As mentioned previously, Suzuki chaired Shinseinen Research Group and published Shinseinen
dokuhon in 1988. Several of the group members such as Eguchi Yûsuke and Kawasaki Kenko published
monographs and articles on representative Shinseinen writers in the Sôsho Shinseinen series of 1992-
1995, etc., but their main focus was on individual writers.

60
One, Unno and Suzuki, along with Kawamoto Saburô, collectively opened up new

avenues for the study of early twentieth-century Japanese literature by establishing “the

literature of urban space [of the 1920s-1930s]” as a thematic rubric.126 Their success in

redefining the terms of previous approaches is seen in their grouping leftist literature

and the literature of “Modanizumu” together as shared aspects of toshi-ka jidai no

bungaku, or “Literature in the era of Urbanization,” at the inaugural exhibition of the

new museum, Kanagawa Kindai Bungakukan (Kanagawa Museum of Modern

Literature) in 1988.127

Finally, Ikeda Hiroshi has discussed the tantei shosetsu in Shinseinen as part of

the emergence of a “populist” literature during this same period of intense social and

cultural change. In Taishû shôsetsu no sekai to han-sekai (The World of Popular

Literature and Its Anti-World), he examines the theorization and practice of tantei

shosetsu as one of the most important avenues by which a genuinely populist literature

was achieved and general readers come to have a meaningful engagement in the

development of culture. For Ikeda, the very structure of the tantei shosetsu as a

formulaic genre cultivates reader participation by confronting readers with a mystery to

be solved. Furthermore, he argues for the importance of Shinseinen as a populist organ

because it solicited and published submissions of original works from its readers, as

well as relay serializations and collaborative versions of tantei shôsetsu. Ikeda bases

126
They co-edited a ten-volume series, Modan toshi bungaku (Literature of Modern Cities), which
introduced various works from the urban space of the interwar years (1920s-1930s) that ranges from
proletarian to modernist prose to poetry to non-fiction works.
127
This exhibition was organized by another group of literary scholars; namely, Isoda Kôichi, Odagiri
Susumu, Maeda Ai, Kôno Toshirô, Hoshô Masao and Ozaki Hotsuki.

61
much of his discussion on the work of the socialist leader and literary critic Hirabayashi

Hatsunosuke, who is discussed in Chapter Four of this study. He concludes:

As Hirabayashi’s theory and practice indicate, the field of tantei shôsetsu

was an exceedingly important and fruitful sphere within which to
problematize the relation between changes in social life style (such as
urbanization, increasing stratification and friction between classes, spread
of mechanization, reinforcement of police authority, the promotion of
information manipulation, etc.) and reforms in expressive means; also to
investigate the possibilities of the formation of autonomous readers who
do not become mere subjects of manipulation [by their environment].128

By attributing historical and social significance to the genre, Ikeda goes a long

way toward advancing a critical discussion of the tantei shôsetsu, especially in the

context of the proletarian movement’s search to find a suitable avenue for expressly

social and ideological concepts in literature. His view is slightly idealistic and

romantic, however; he follows Hirabayashi’s idealism with regard to the nature of the

tantei shôetsu, and he does not pursue approaches and characteristics taken up by other

critics and writers. Thus, he fails to show how the genre was actually developed by

editors, critics and writers as a discourse with mixed, and at times contradictory,

approaches. While there is no disputing that Hirabayashi was a key figure in

establishing the tantei shôsetsu as a modern genre, development of the genre was far

from unified or internally consistent. Hirabayashi promoted the sleuthing whodunit of

the British mainstream, but in actual fact, the genre of tantei shosetsu arose in a highly

mixed fashion, drawing formal, narrative, thematic and artistic characteristics from

128
Ikeda Hiroshi, Taishû shôsetsu no sekai to han-sekai. 110.

62
novels of ratiocination (e.g., works by Edgar Alan Poe), tales of irony (e.g., works by O.

Henry; Victor Hugo’s Les Miserables), fantastic/horror tales (e.g., Western Gothic and

Japanese folk tales), seventeenth-century Japanese trial narratives (e.g., works by Ihara

Saikaku), tales based on real-life sensational crimes or famous criminals (e.g., stories

and ballads based on the life of famous femmes fatales, or “poison women ,” such

as those about Takahashi Oden), science fiction and adventure stories. Moreover, the

variety and value of such approaches were pursued by writers advocating different

ideologies, including socialism, art-for-art’s-sake, and nationalism. Thus, while the

discourse on tantei shôsetsu as a genre that developed via Shinseinen’s publication of

critical essays reveals the complexity of a modern genre which mirrors society, at the

same time, the genre stands in a position of opposition to society and attempts to

critique new social standards or norms. Shinseinen published in the same issues

critiques and essays by the writers and critics who represented a variety of standpoints

such as radical proletarian, art-for-art’s-sake, romanticism and the novel of

ratiocination. Even more significant is the noticeable presence of a critical discourse

that shows how this modern genre adopted a rigorously critical view towards just about

everything, including self-reflexive attitudes toward the very act of literary production.

As I discuss later in this chapter, both what Ikeda has to say about the characteristics of

the internal structure of tantei shôsetsu, as well as his assessment of Shinseinen’s

various efforts to promote reader participation need to be complicated through

examination of actual works, essays and other articles in Shinseinen. In doing so, we

can see how such efforts functioned to demystify the belief, commonly held at the time,

63
that literature was a domain completely detached from and untouched by the

mechanisms of capitalism.

3.3 Detective Fiction in the West and the Tantei Shôsetsu

By building on existing scholarship, we shall examine how, as the principal

organ for the dissemination of tantei shôsetsu in Japan during the early part of the

twentieth century, Shinseinen helped to create the entire field of discourse surrounding

the genre at the same time that it attempted to deploy the tantei shôsetsu as an important

instrument in the formation of an expressly modernist Japanese subjectivity. More

specifically I will discuss the evolving cultural function and meaning of tantei shôsetsu

as a popular literary genre. To do so, I will examine how writers and editors at

Shinseinen sought to develop and employ the genre as a way to help a young reader

view the world more analytically, thereby making the chaotic state of society seem

more coherent and rational. Then, I will turn to a discussion of how they

correspondingly attempted to present the genre as the one most ideally suited to a

rapidly modernized society. Finally, I will examine how, by situating the artistic self in

the context of capitalist economic relations, they called into question the values of

mainstream styles of literary expression such as, on the one hand, the naturalist-

influenced I-novel and, on the other, highly politicized proletarian literature.

In contrast to the situation in Japanese literary studies, detective fiction in the

West has for sometime now received sustained attention from a variety of critical

perspectives, including reader-response and reception theory, postcolonialism,

64
psychoanalysis, deconstruction, narratology, Marxism, feminism, and multiculturalism,

as well as philosophical and other approaches.129 As part of this effort, scholars have

addressed the relationship between detective fiction and the socio-historical conditions

in the West out of which the genre emerged. In addition, they have begun to consider

the spread of the genre to other cultural contexts and traditions. For example, as one of

the first scholars to give critical attention to detective fiction and other popular

formulaic genres, John G. Cawelti argues in his recent overview of English and

American Detective fiction that early detective stories at once reflect and promote the

generally conservative ethos of their times. In particular, in the case of The Sherlock

Holmes series, the famous detective and Watson serve to embody the values of the

British gentry in opposition to criminals, who are portrayed as “groups who threatened

this traditional order.”130 Similarly, in America, detective fiction began as “an

expression of conservative, bourgeois, ethnocentric Anglo-American values.”131 The

picture of Western detective fiction in the context of modernity that he draws is as

follows:

In essence the detective story constitutes a mythos or fable in which

crime, as a distinctive problem of bourgeois, individualistic and quasi-
democratic societies is handled without upsetting society’s fundamental

129
To list a few examples: Marivale and Sweeney’s Detecting Texts: The Metaphysical Detective Story
from Poe to Postmodernism, Christian’s The Post-Colonial Detective, Klein’s The Woman Detective:
Gender and Genre, Knight’s Form and Ideology in Crime Fiction, Muller and Richardson’s The
Purloined Poe: Lacan, Derrida, and Psychoanalytic Reading, Gosselin’s Multicultural Detective Fiction:
Murder from the “Other” Side.
130
John G. Cawelti, “Canonization, Modern Literature, and the Detective Story,” Theory and Practice of
Classic Detective Fiction, ed. Jerome H. Delamater and Ruth Prigozy (Westport: Greenwood Press, 1997)
6.
131
Cawelti, “Canonization,” 9.

65
 institutions or its worldview. When he or she solves the crime, the
detective reaffirms the fundamental soundness of the social order by
revealing how the crime has resulted from the specific and
understandable motives of particular individuals; the crime represents a
situation that is possible but not fundamental nor endemic to the society.
In other words, the detective reveals to us by his or her actions that,
however corrupt or unjust society may be in some of its particulars, it yet
contains the intelligence and the means to define and exorcise these evils
as particular problems. Even in the more pessimistic vision of some of
the hard-boiled detective stories, where the corrupt far outnumber the
innocent, it is still possible for the detective to accomplish a significant
act of justice or vengeance. Of course, it is precisely this optative and
optimistic view of the world that many postmodernist writers are
questioning, but because the detective story as a genre is so deeply
pervaded by the bourgeois individualistic worldview, it is almost
inevitable that such stories become inversions of the double structure of
the detective story.”132

Touching upon the spread and development of detective fiction in a global

context, Cawelti also surmises that the increasing internationalization of the detective

story genre from its Anglo-American roots is “related to a growing global influence of

the ideologies of individualistic, bourgeois democracy.”133 While he may describe the

history and dissemination of Western detective fiction in accurate and broad terms, his

claims concerning the meaning of the genre in other parts of the world rest on far too

narrow a sample to constitute a convincingly nuanced account for the entire range of

pertinent historical and cultural contexts. Relevant to the concerns of this study,

Cawelti mentions only Edogawa Rampo as the sole example of a detective fiction writer

operating in a non-Western language and context. Moreover, his model is one of

unidirectional influence from West to East, and it gives no consideration to possible

132
Cawelti, “Canonization,” 12-13.
133
Cawelti, “Canonization,” 13.

66
complications attendant upon indigenous deployments of the detective story. In

particular, he defines detective fiction as a genre in which “the key point is that every

mystery can be explained not only by human agency but also by reference to the actions

and motives of particular individuals.”134 In the case of tantei shôsetsu, however, such

reliance on the explanatory power of human agency and individual motivations and

actions did not necessarily obtain. In addition, as we shall see, the structural

characteristics of the genre were debated and developed through a critical discourse

specific to early twentieth-century Japanese society. Consequently, his model needs to

be rendered more complex by directing attention to the specificity of particular socio-

cultural constellations.

In a related endeavor, Jon Thompson has sought to link detective fiction to more

canonical forms of (Western) Modernist literary expression. Because (Western)

Modernist writing is “organized around the desire to translate the incoherent into the

coherent, the inarticulate into the articulate, the unsaid into the said,” 135 Thompson

argues, Modernist literature “shares an analogous epistemological form with detective

fiction”136 because the two are both fascinated with “uncovering, revealing, decoding,

sleuthing.”137 While these Western theories are helpful for discussing the global spread

of detective fiction in broad terms, when we turn our attention to Japanese tantei

shosetsu in particular, their limitations as universal statements become apparent. That is

134
Cawelti, “Canonization,” 13.
135
Jon Thompson, Fiction, Crime, and Empire: Clues to Modernity and Postmodernism (Urbana and
Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1993) 111-112.
136
Thompson, 112.
137
Thompson, 111.

67
because the development of tantei shôsetsu as a distinct form of popular literary

expression inevitably reflects and participates in the socio-political and cultural

circumstances particular to late 19th and early 20th century Japan out of which the genre

arose. More specifically, when we look at the historical development of the genre in

Japan, we see that the definition of “tantei shôsetsu” is much looser than the English

term, “detective fiction.” Furthermore, the definition of the genre was itself the subject

of heated debate in the pages of Shinseinen. Those who wrote tantei shôsetsu and/or

critical essays for Shinseinen included established writers and critics from various

camps such as the naturalist, art-for-art’s-sake, proletarian and the avant-garde. We

need to examine such essays for their differing definitions of tantei shôsetsu.

3.4 Philology of “Tantei” – An Action of Probing, Exploring and Investigation

A small but significant indication of the difference between Western “detective

fiction” and the Japanese tradition lies in the very term used to identify the genre.

Although in the contemporary popular imagination tantei is readily identified with a

“detective,” especially a “private eye,” when we look at the pre-WWII period, we find

that the term, tantei shôsetsu, encompasses a surprisingly wider range of literary works

than would be included in Western detective fiction. For example, in addition to

publishing numerous translations of highly ratiocinative puzzle-solving works by Sir

Conan Doyle and Edgar Allan Poe, Shinseinen also included in its tantei shôsetsu

section adventure stories of the man with the dual identity by Baroness Emuska Orczy

(1865-1947), ironical stories by O. Henry (1862-1910), humorous pieces by P.G.

68
Wodehouse (1881-1975), the “Thubway Tham” series about the rivalry and friendship

between a detective and a pickpocket by Johnston McCulley (1883-?),138 works of satire

and parody on detective fiction by Pierre Henri Cami (1884-1958) and so forth. In

short, the works were categorized as tantei shôsetsu as long as they involved some sort

of mystery or surprise. For example, the table of contents of the second number of 1923

– one of the earliest special issues on tantei shôsetsu published by Shinseinen –

categorizes the stories into six different subgenres, i.e., “pure” mystery (jun-tantei),

witty mystery (kichi-tantei), bizarre mystery (kaiki-tantei), adventure mystery (bôken-

tantei), sentimental mystery (jôshu-tantei), and humor mystery (kokkei-tantei).

Moreover, the latitude with which tantei shôsetsu was viewed is revealed by the

frequency of editorial debates about what proper detective fiction ought to be both

within and without the Shinseinen circle. Hence we see that the conceptualization of

the genre was quite fluid. As a result, we need to reexamine the very term itself in order

to avoid automatic conflation of tantei shôsetsu with Western detective fiction. More

importantly, this reexamination will help to illuminate the cultural and social function

of “tantei” in the Japanese modern period.

It remains unclear exactly when the term, tantei, was coined, but one of its

earliest usages appears in the 1878-1879 translation of a Western political novel by

George Bulwer-Lytton.139 Here the term tantei is used to describe the action of

investigation by using the noun ‘tantei’ plus the verb ‘suru’ (to do). The passage reads:

138
In the West, McCulley is more famous as the creator of the double-identity hero, Zorro.
139
The Japanese title is Karyû shunwa (A Springtime Tale of Blossoms and Willows); It is a Japanese
translation of Ernest Maltravers (1937) and its sequel, Alice by the British politician and novelist, George
Bulwer-Lytton (1803-1873).

69
“[I] investigated the two villains, but they have not been arrested yet” (futari no akuto o

tantei suredomo, imada nawa ni tsukazu).140 Gensen, a dictionary from 1921, gives a

definition of tantei, first as “[the action of] secretly probing into others’ [secret]

situations” (hisoka ni ta no jijô o saguru koto), and second, “the individual [who takes

such an action]” (mata, sono hito). As seen in the above-mentioned passage in the

translation of Bulwer-Lytton’s novel and in a translation of Jules Verne’s Tour du

monde en quatre-vingts jours done in the late 1870s,141 tantei was used equally as a

verb, as well as a noun. Also, the second definition in the Gensen dictionary as “a spy;

secret agent; inquirer; police detective” (mawashimono; onmitsu; tansaku; keiji-junsa)

suggests that neither the person who investigates nor the action of investigation

necessarily belongs on the side of justice. A tantei can be anyone involved in the action

of checking into others’ secrets.142

The literary critic, Kawasaki Kenko emphasizes the verbal usage of the term and

the dubious nature of the individual who does “tantei-ing” in terms of his/her stance

toward society:

The Meiji “tantei shôsetsu” and journalistic coverage of crimes that were
written by Ruikô and others often identified the people who collected
information under the direction of the police, as well as the police
officers themselves, as tantei. In that sense, “tantei” was a concept of
acting or doing as in a verb [rather than static like a noun] that refers to

140
Nihon kokugo dai-jiten under the entry, “tantei.
141
Kawashima Chûnosuke’s translation was published in two installments, the first in 1878 and the
second in 1880. Daijien dictionary cites a passage with “tantei seyo” as an example, but it is not clear in
which installment the passage under discussion appears.
142
Daigenkai (1932), another authoritative dictionary from the early twentieth century, lists definitions
almost identical to the Gensen definitions.

70
 the act of solving and elucidating a puzzle. Everyone can be called
tantei, whether they are criminals, police officers, agents who worked for
the police officers, spies, professional or amateur detectives, newspaper
reporters attempting to make a quick report on a [crime] case, or curiosity
seekers whose hobby was to play detective. The air of impropriety and
ambiguity that surrounds a person who plays at detecting [tantei-ing],
and the fundamentally split personality that underlies it, is what gives a
detective novel its deeper, breadth and dark shadows. It is what drives
the tale and makes it complicated.143

Natsume Sôseki’s usage of the term in his novel, Higan sugi made (1912), a

novel about a young man whose “private investigations” are set in motion by the

appearance of a mysterious woman, also supports Kawasaki’s observation that the

meaning of “tantei” is broader than an official title such as “a detective.” Rather, it is

the action of inquiry and spying that qualifies as “tantei.”144 From these and other

examples, we can draw a portrait of the individuals who typically perform the act of

tantei. They are people interested in others’ secrets, regardless of whether their

curiosity is directly linked to financial gain or other personal benefit. They can be

143
Kawasaki Kenko, “Taishû bunka seiritsu-ki ni okeru ‘tantei shôsetsu’ janru no hen’yô,” Taishû bunka
to masu media, vol. 7, Kindai nihon bunka-ron Series (Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1999) 66.
144
In Higan sugi made (translated into English in 1985 as To the Spring Equinox and Beyond) the
protagonist, Tagawa Keitarô, is described as someone with an interest in investigating unusual, especially
psychological, questions. Asked what job he wants to do, he replies that he wants to be a police
detective, but then he immediately denies the statement, explaining that a detective is a profession whose
goal is to reveal that someone is guilty of a crime. He does not want to work towards tricking his suspect
into being revealed as guilty. He says: “I just want to be a scholar of human kind; Or I just want to
observe, with admiration, how a man’s abnormal (ijô na) mechanism works in the darkness.” I will not
discuss here Sôseki’s neurotic aversion to others’ attention directed toward him, although he was
paranoid to the extent of suspecting that his family was keeping watch on him. But in his novel and
essays, he often mentions “tantei” to refer not only to professional detectives but anyone who is prying
and therefore a threat to his privacy. However, while expressing aversion to people’s “tantei-ing,” like
Tagawa Keitarô, Sôseki himself seems to have been fascinated by human psyche as seen in his highly
psychological novels. When he has the painter protagonist of Kusamakura (The Three-Cornered World;
1906) disgustedly comment that “ordinary novels are all invented by detectives” (futsû no shôsetsu wa
minna tantei ga hatsumei shita mono desu yo,” Sôseki seems to be satirically looking at his profession.
For more on this, see Takeo Doi, The Psyhological World of Natsume Sôseki. Doi discusses Sôseki’s
paranoid, and the role of both the writer and reader as a “snoop” in his insightful discussion of Higan sugi
made.

71
connected with judicial authority, or they can be villains who attempt to outwit it.

Often, the opposition between good and evil is reversed, and the authorities are also

found to be corrupt. People may be driven to the act of tantei by the boredom that they

feel in their uneventful daily lives. Or they may openly embrace the excitement of

being involved in a large, even global, espionage operation. Even in the same story, a

person can be presented as both a good secret-seeker and/or evildoer depending on the

perspectives of others. Or take the case of a good gumshoe who needs to operate

illegally in order to detect others’ secrets. So much depends on the circumstances and

the person to be pursued. Moreover, those who play detective also occasionally need to

assume different identities because they can be spied on and investigated by their

opponents. In short, the detective or tantei acquires a double consciousness, or a

double-voicedness, by virtue of the fact that he or she travels constantly between two

poles of dichotomies such as good and evil, law and criminality, civilization and

anarchy. Thus identity is in perpetual flux. It is precisely this split consciousness, or

split personality, inherent to the genre of detective fiction that explains the interests of

the Shinseinen writers and critics in tantei shôsetsu. They saw the genre as a means for

youths to confront the challenges of specifically modern life in Japan, a period

characterized by a whirlwind of change in everyday life. The changes were brought by

incredible cycles of economic growth and depression, as well as the technological

advancements of a commodity society, which promoted a conception of modernites

either as cogs in a mass production line or as faceless consumers of mass-produced

products.

72
3.5 Advancing Detective Fiction as a Legitimate Genre

The process of the formation and dissemination of the tantei shôsetsu genre

clearly reflected shifts in editorial policy in the history of Shinseinen. In 1920,

Hakubunkan, a leading publishing house since the Meiji period, started the magazine to

educate and inspire youngsters living in the countryside. Following the nation’s

militaristic victories over China and Russia in 1895 and 1905 and geared to promoting

nationalistic success on an individual level, Hakubunkan urged young people to

consider the importance of shûyô, “the cultivation of the mind,” and to undertake kaigai

yûhi, “launching abroad” to Manchuria, Sakhalin, the Americas and South Sea Islands,

or what can be considered to be acts of colonialistic adventure on the individual level.145

Accordingly, the main features of the magazine in its earliest phase were adventure

fiction that happened in foreign and often unknown lands. The fictional stories were

accompanied by reportage and essays about actual militaristic or immigration

experience. However, the progress of colonial expansionism and nationalistic

militarism slowed in the early 1920s in response to rising anti-Japanese sentiment in

Europe, Asia and the Americas. Due to the good economic times brought about by

World War I, “Japan’s real gross national product jumped by 40 percent between 1914

and 1918, an average annual rate of nearly 9 percent; profits soared, often topping 50

percent of paid-up capital for leading companies; and the 1919-1920 edition of the

145
See Kawamura Minato, “Imin to kimin,” Kokubungaku kaishaku to kanshô, October, 1999, for related
issues.
Also see the almanacs entitled Nihon teikoku tôkei nenkan published by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs
for the data of “Kaigai kakuchi zairyû honpô naichi-jin shokugyôbetsu jinkô hyô.”

73
Japan Year Book noted that the number of narikin [get-rich-quick]‘millionaires’ had

increased by 115 percent between 1915 and 1919.”146 Also during the 1920s,

“manufacturing’s proportion of the gross domestic product approached and then

surpassed that of the agricultural sector,”147 turning Japan into a full-fledged industrial

and capitalist society. Advances in science and technology imported from the West also

began to have a direct impact on the everyday life of the general public. As in the West,

people came to know and understand both the advantages and disadvantages that

modernity brought.

In response to such changes, Morishita Uson148 (1890-1965; first editor-in-chief

of Shinseinen from 1920 to 1927) began as early as 1922 to shift the magazine’s target

audience from the youngsters living on farms in the countryside to what was called “the

new middle class,” or the rapidly increasing numbers of young white-collar workers,

which also included professional hopefuls living in big cities like Tokyo, Osaka and

Nagoya. This new middle class was a product of the thriving domestic capitalist

economy of World War I, the establishment of the public school system, and the

growing desire for political and social reforms among the public during the period of

“Taisho Democracy.” Although generally well-educated and well-off, those young

urbanites differed from the elite in the Meiji Period in that they did not necessarily enter

top elite universities nor find high-paying jobs. Rather, the “new middle class”

146
James McClain, Japan: A Modern History. 359.
147
Ibid., 359. McClain uses a table titled “Structural Changes in the Economy, 1885-1930” which he
derived from Kazushi Ohkawa and Miyohei Shimohara, with Larry Meissner, eds., Pattern of Japanese
Economic Development: A Quantitative Appraisal. 278-279.
148

74
included men of a wide range of professions typical of an urban space – “government

officials, doctors, teachers, policemen, military officers, bankers, corporate managers,

and even certain skilled blue-collar factory workers who made their living in large

cities.” According to McClain in his discussion of the rise of the new middle class in

Japan during the early twentieth century, it also included women as “teachers, telephone

operators, typists, office workers, department store clerks, bus conductors, midwives,

nurses and even doctors.” In addition, college students and unemployed graduates due

to the waves of economic depression in the interwar years also fall into this category.149

In his memoirs, Morishita comments on the role of detective fiction in

Shinseinen. Incidentally, he was only twenty-six when he was first assigned to the post

of editor-in-chief. He himself belonged to the magazine’s target audience of “new

youth” who sought an exciting literary form that would challenge the confessional I-

novel mainstream and better respond to the Zeitgeist of the rapid changes taking place

in various aspects of society. Although Morishita was excited about his position with a

new magazine appearing at the height of the Taisho Democracy movement, he was

disappointed that the executive editorial members of the Hakubunkan Publishing House

lacked originality, or that they made little or no attempt to take the magazine in new

literary directions. Hakubunkan had been a leading publisher during the Meiji period,150

but it was slow to respond to the various social and political changes associated with the

149
McClain, 345. He explains that most newspapers’ official statistical compilations included those
professions among the new middle class.
150
Hakubunkan published magazines such as Taiyô (1895-1928), Shônen sekai (1895-1933), Bungei
kurabu (1895-1933) and Bunshô sekai (1906-1920).

75
new social transformation.151 In order to make Shinseinen culturally relevant in contrast

to the company’s other publications, Morishita proposed that detective fiction become

the centerpiece of Shinseinen – something that other major periodicals had yet to

feature. He also suggested that its brand of detective fiction should emphasize

scientific, analytical, and logical approaches to narrative.152 During this transition

period, he featured detective fiction that was chiefly romantic and adventurous in nature

because it was already familiar to his audience. At the same time, he gradually

increased the number of logical and analytical stories translated from Western

languages, i.e., stories involving ratiocination and the action of solving a mystery. Soon

Shinseinen began to have a special section in each issue devoted to tantei shôsetsu. It

even published special issues on tantei shôsetsu, introducing this new formula genre via

translation of popular western detective fiction. Works that were typically featured

included stories by Edgar Allan Poe, Conan Doyle, Maurice Leblanc, Agatha Christie,

G.K. Chesterton and O. Henry, as well as the Sexton Blake series written by several

Western writers.

Whereas the journalist/translator Kuroiwa Ruikô had introduced Japanese

literary audiences to Western detective fiction through his translations (or rather, loose

adaptations) of Western detective tales as early as 1888, tantei shôetsu had yet to be

151
The farming population in the countryside, which consisted over 50% of the domestic population
(excluding emigrants to Manchuria and other places) suffered from severe economic conditions and
started a series of tenant farmers’ labor disputes. The executives of Hakubunkan decided to target the
youngsters in such areas, attempting to help them through the publication of rather outmoded shûyô
( ) articles.
152
Morishita was hired by Hakubunkan on the referral by his elder acquaintance, Hasegawa Tenkei
(1876-1940). As is widely known, Hasegawa promoted the Naturalist movement. Although he often
argued for the necessity of a scientific attitude in literature, he never proposed any specific approach to
apply science to literary production. What he promoted was the confessional mode of I-novel.

76
widely accepted as a literary genre in the early 1920s. When Ruikô became popular,

first, as a translator of Western works by Hugh Conway (also known as Frederick John

Fargus), Fortuné Du Boisgobey, Emile Gaboriau and William Wilkie Collins, he

labeled tantei tales as entertainment in tabloids. In 1893, he discussed the nature of

detective tales as follows:

In our country, many have named tanteidan153 (detective tales) as

tantei shôsetsu (detective novel), because they assume that [detective
tales] observe [matters] from literary perspectives. In extreme cases,
some people attempt to claim that tantei shôsetsu [is the kind of literature
that] ruins the literary world. However, [I consider that] detective tales
are detective tales, and they are not novels.154

. . . I have been a frequent translator of tantei-dan. However, it has

not been for the sake of literature (bungaku). It has been for the sake of
newspapers. Having witnessed that the works by such writers as
[Kanagaki] Robun and his kind are increasingly losing readers’ interest, I
have been translating [the Western detective tales] only with the intention
of informing readers that such a serialized tales (tsuzukimono) also exists
in the West. It is not a novel (shôsetsu), but it is serialization
(tsuzukimono). It is not literature (bungaku). It is a news report (hôdô).
[The other translators of] the detective tales that have been appearing
nowadays must have been translating them with an intention similar to
my own. Nevertheless, some critics consider that [the translators]
translate [such detective tales] with the ambition to trample on the literary
world, seeing that the sales of novels have slowed down as detective tales
are thriving. I consider such critics the most narrow-minded of fellows.155

Ruikô considers bungaku and tsuzukimono to be in different categories, and he

draws a distinction between highbrow and lowbrow literature. The “serializations” he

153
154
Ruiko’s essay in 1893, quoted in Nakajima Kawatarô, Nihon suiri shôsetsu-shi, vol. 1 (Tokyo: Tokyo
Sôgensha, 1993-1996) 150.
155
Kuroiwa Ruikô’s essay from 1893. Quoted in Nakajima, Nihon suiri shôsetsu-shi, vol. 1, 39-40.

77
discusses here are the serialized tales published in tabloid newspapers like his own

works in Miyako and Yorozu Chôhô newspapers. He sees that the detective tales he has

translated as falling into the same literary category as the works of the famous gesaku

writer, Kanagaki Robun (1829-1894), who was popular among lay people and whose

works had a disposable, entertainment quality. As the lowbrow literature represented

by Robun became obsolete, according to Ruikô, Western detective tales are becoming

popular among the same readers as a form of news reportage. He sharply criticizes

what he sees as the ignorance and irrational panic of the highbrow literary camp for

their accusing of detective tales to be invading and degrading the literary world.

However, in doing so, he clearly situates detective tales as mere entertainment.156

Although he briefly discusses that “some detective tales improve (shinpo-suru) and

enter into the category of novel” and that “among famous novels of human feelings

(ninjô-teki shôsetsu), there are works that have the same structure as detective tales,” his

view of detective genre remains one of entertaining story-telling that focuses on

reporting a crime rather than the aesthetics of depicting the human psyche. Although he

never identifies the names, the literary group that Ruikô tacitly criticizes here is clearly

the Ken’yûsha157 writers who tended to indulge in an Edo-esque nostalgic and emotional

literary world. They bitterly criticized detective tales as blasphemy to literature. While

it seems ironic and contradictory, they collectively published a twenty-six volume set of

156
Quoted in Nakajima, Nihon suiri shôsetsu-shi, vol. 1, 27-28. In another essay which he attached to his
first original detective tale titled Muzan (Merciless) in 1889, he says the tanteidan is excluded both from
the category of the novel and from logical literature (ronrisho) in the current literary world.
157
. The Ken’yûsha writers, together with a publisher Shun’yôdô ( ), decided to publish the
tantei shôsetsu set, for the ostensible purpose of “tantei shôsetsu taiji” (Extermination of tantei shôsetsu)
as though they were the righteous heroes ridding society of injurious books.

78
Ken’yûsha versions of detective tales under the series name of “Tantei shôsetsu” – just

to show how ridiculous tantei shôsetsu was. The incident reveals, however, the fact

that “lowbrow” or “genre literature” was beginning to sweep aside the more established

or conventional literary world.

Shinseinen began publication in 1920, or almost three decades after Ruikô’s

comments, and coincidentally in the same year that he died. It adopted a new and

different strategy towards tantei shosetsu, however, defending detective fiction as a

category of the novel, even if it continued to be regarded as lowbrow. Where Ruikô had

been almost deprecatory in saying that detective fiction was not really literature and

thus no threat to the status quo in mainstream literary genres, Shinseinen published

various essays about tantei shôsetsu to create a venue for discussions on the

significance of the genre. At this point, detective “novel” – instead of detective “tales”

(shôsetsu versus tan or dan) – becomes the consciously preferred terminology. The

magazine’s premise was that tantei shôsetsu deserves to be acknowledged as a

legitimate literary “genre,” now that people faced different pleasures and problems

characteristic of modern times. Thus, Shinseinen writers and editors believed a new

type of literature was called for. After publishing light essays and columns on detective

fiction by Hakubunkan Publishing House authorities such as Baba Kochô,158 Morishita

Uson, etc., and reportage by Japanese police detectives on actual crime cases,159

158
For example, “Aran Pô no kenkyû” (Study of Allan Poe) by Baba in no. 1 (New Year) issue in 1922.
159
For example, “Tantei jijitsu monogatari” (Actual Stories of Detectives) in No. 10 (September) issue in
1921 included four essays by incumbent police detectives.

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Shinseinen made the bold move in 1923 introducing a work of detective fiction by an

unknown writer, Edogawa Rampo.

3.6 Shinseinen’s Critical Disourse on Tantei Shôsetsu – Rampo’s Debut

When Morishita Uson received two manuscripts from an amateur writer named

Edogawa Rampo (b. Hirai Tarô; the pen name is a phonetic transliteration of “Edgar

Allan Poe”) in 1923, he saw them as exhibiting great promise as a catalyst for a new

type of Japanese detective fiction. The stories were not merely romantic or fantastic but

they utilized scientific and logical techniques of detection in natural Japanese language

and settings. Of the two manuscripts, “Nisen dôka” (“Two-sen Copper Coin”) was

chosen as Rampo’s debut work, and it appeared in the April 1923 issue of Shinseinen.

It was accompanied by an essay by Kozakai Fuboku (1890-1929), a former medical

school professor who became a critic, translator and writer of detective fiction.160 Since

1920, Kozakai had been writing informational and educational essays for Shinseinen on

science and tantei shôsetsu such as “The Relation of Scientific Studies and Detective

Fiction,” “On Immunity,” “The Secret of Blood,” “On Poison and Murder with Poison,”

etc. He also played the role of a disseminator of medical knowledge to his lay audience,

and he connected such technical data with the literary entertainment of Western

160
Kozakai Fuboku, “’Nisen dôka’ o yomu” (Reading “Nisen dôka”). Shinseinen, Number 5 (April)
issue, 1923. 264-265.
Kozakai earned his degree in physiology and serology at Tokyo Imperial University and became
an assistant professor at Tohoku Imperial University in 1917. He resigned from the position when he
contracted T.B. in 1920. From his retirement until his death at the age of forty, he devoted the last decade
of his life to translating Western detective fiction and writing critical essays and his own tantei shôsetsu
primarily for Shinseinen. He often utilized his medical knowledge in his stories. As a critic, he argued
for the importance of scientific elements in the genre.

80
detective fiction. In his essay on “Nisen dôka,” Kozakai first praises Morishita’s

discerning eye of discovering a work of Japanese detective fiction of a quality that was

in no way inferior to Western works. He then argues that, unlike in a play or poetry that

places importance on excellence on skills at literary description, a well-crafted plot

should be regarded as the most important factor in tantei shôsetsu. He backs up his

argument by citing the influential literary scholar, Baba Kochô for having the same

view.161 In regards to the development of the plot and the solution of the crime case,

Kozakai emphasizes that nothing should be coincidental, supernatural or artificial. He

claims that the lack of artificiality reveals the author’s genius most clearly. In other

words, however much the author is versed in science, there are limits to which an author

can rely on scientific novelty or advancements. What makes the difference are the

author’s skills in developing the plot and using scientific materials in the most effective

way. After laying the critical foundation for what he believes is important in tantei

shôsetsu, he proceeds to critique Rampo’s “Two-sen Copper Coin.” He praises the

piece, especially the ingenuity of the cryptogram in the story. He is impressed with

Rampo’s novel idea of combining Braille and the famous Buddhist prayer, namu-

amida-butsu, to create an elaborate cryptogram. By listing such big names in Western

mystery fiction as Poe, Doyle, Le Blanc and Wells,162 he claims that Rampo’s trick is in

no way inferior to his predecessors’ great inventions of cryptograms. Moreover, by

161
Although a scholar of more traditional English literature and a strong advocate of Romanticism, Baba
praised the romantic beauty of detective fiction and was regarded as leading figure to support the genre.
162
Although Rampo would list H.G. Wells in later essays as one of the leading tantei shôsetsu (i.e.,
mystery and science fiction in this context) authors in the West, since both Carolyn Wells and H. G.
Wells were introduced to Shinseinen readers through translation, it is not clear which Wells Rampo
means here.

81
pointing to Rampo’s utilization of Japanese Braille and a prayer embedded in Japanese

language and culture, Kozakai claims that Rampo’s work not only rivals the high

quality of Western works, but it is also exceptionally original. He is impressed that the

plot development and literary descriptions are superb, therefore fulfilling what he

claims to be the conditions for a good tantei shôsetsu. He concludes by expressing his

wish to see more fine works by Rampo, as well as wishing that other Japanese detective

novelists will follow suit.

What follows Kozakai’s critique is an essay entitled “Tantei shôsetsu ni tsuite”

(On Tantei Shôsetsu) by Rampo.163 He begins as follows: “I don’t think tantei shôsetsu

is as vulgar as generally considered. Among the Japanese bundan [i.e., highbrow and

mainstream] writers, for example, it seems there are many tantei shôsetsu fans.

Moreover, Tanizaki Jun’ichirô, Satô Haruo, Akutagawa Ryûnosuke and many other

writers have not only enjoyed tantei shôsetsu, but have also even written such type of

works themselves.” He then turns his eye to the situation abroad and mentions a

famous playwright in the West: “Among the writers abroad, Ibsen, for example, is said

to have enjoyed collecting detective fiction from various countries.” He suggests that

there is meaning in the fact that leading authors are interested in “pure [junsui na] tantei

shôsetsu,” although the genre was yet to become widely popular among general readers.

By “pure tantei shôsetsu,” he seems to refer to highly ratiocinative works as opposed to

literary works that contain elements of tantei shôsetsu as a supplementary part of its

plot. As an example of the latter, he mentions later in this essay The Brothers

163
Edogawa Rampo, “Tantei shôsetsu ni tsuite.” Shinseinen, number 5 (April) issue, 1923.

82
Karamazov and Crime and Punishment by Dostoevski. To build up his argument for

the significance of tantei shôsetsu, he also mentions the names of several Japanese

intellectuals such as Kozakai Fuboku, Inoue Jûkichi and Baba Kochô as fans of the

genre. Rampo once thought that detective fiction and science fiction occupied their

own unique place as “intellectual literature [spelled in English in the original] which

provided nourishment to intelligence” as opposed to “regular literature which mainly

provided nourishment to the heart.” Now, however, he is disillusioned and realizes that

such a distinction is too idealistic. In reality, it applies only to “high quality” pieces by

“Poe, Doyle, J. Verne and Wells.” In other words, in contrast to his idealistic view of

detective fiction, he observes that the current studies of detective fiction genre,

especially in Japanese literature, of lesser quality and this is due to authors’ lack of

ability in constructing stories that stimulate and inspire readers’ intellects. Surveying

this less than satisfying situation, he proclaims that he has set his standards for the genre

on the level of Poe, Doyle, Verne, Wells, and he seeks to maintain that level. In order

to further bolster the significance of tantei shôsetsu, he cites an argument in Über den

Witz: ein philosophischer Essay, or Theory of Wit, by German philosophy scholar,

Kuno Fischer (1824-1907). Just as the essence of comedy exists in the audience’s

action of shedding light on hidden meanings by using its discernment, tantei shôsetsu

also depends on the reader’s curiosity to discover hidden meanings in the text through

the use of ratiocination. Thus, he feels “it is unfair that humor and wit in comedy have

been given a high status in art [as Fisher discusses], while tantei shôsetsu is denounced

as vulgar.” Rampo believes that tantei shôsetsu stimulates one’s use of discernment

83
even more deeply than comedy. He also claims that there is no literary work that does

not adopt a tantei shôsetsu-like element of curiosity. He cites as examples The Brothers

Karamazov and Crime and Punishment by Dostoevski, and as well as works by

Andreev, or Wilde, who was heavily influenced by Poe. At the same time, he criticizes

the status quo of what is overtly labeled tantei shôsetsu in Japan. He recognizes that

works currently available are inspired by a curiosity akin to the one found in good (or

pure) detective fiction, but they are of “low quality” nonetheless. Lastly, he spends the

final quarter of the essay discussing the important implications of translations of

Western detective fiction, acknowledging that a large number of high quality detective

novels from the West have been introduced to Japanese readers thanks to the work of

Kuroiwa Ruikô, Mori Ôgai, Honma Kyûshirô, Mitsugi Shun’ei, Morita Shiken,

Oshikawa Shunrô and Hoshino Tasuo. He acknowledges that quality tantei shôsetsu

pieces from the West have been introduced to Japanese readers via translation –

especially by publishers such as Hakubunkan, Kongôsha, Osaka Mainichi and Osaka

Asahi, but he also considers original works of Japanese tantei shôsetsu as generally

unsatisfactory. For him, tantei shôsetsu was not categorically of poor quality, as was

generally believed as of 1923. Instead, he emphasizes its intellectual aspects as an

essential ingredient in any type of literature. Like Kozakai, he declares that the

development of quality tantei shôsetsu is overdue.

That the critical essays by Kozakai and Rampo were published in tandem with

Rampo’s debut work indicates the significance Shinseinen attached to the power of

critical discourse in forming and establishing the new genre. By having Kozakai’s essay

84
advocating Rampo’s work alongside Rampo’s own discussion of the genre, Shinseinen

tacitly champions Rampo as a product of the magazine’s educational and critical

program, which had been laid out in articles in previous issues. Moreover, the

magazine implicitly asserted that Rampo was both aesthetically and intellectually

sophisticated enough to back up his literary production with theory. Kozakai was

versed in both Western detective fiction and science, especially in the field of medicine,

with which he had direct experience as a doctor. In addition, he had been writing

critical essays for Shinseinen. These essays situate Rampo within the global picture of

detective fiction as an equal to Western star writers as well as a unique creator of plots

and devices based on Japanese culture. In doing so, Shinseinen heralded the dawn of

original Japanese detective fiction, setting the tantei shôsetsu apart from an earlier stage

of adaptation, and later, translation of major Western works. It reinforced this image of

Rampo as a great tantei shôsetsu writer by means of textual layout as well. For

example, in the twelfth issue of 1924 (i.e., two issues after the special issue that

introduced his maiden work), the table of contents lists Rampo’s work directly

alongside three other detective stories written by British, French and American writers

in a section titled “The Masterpiece Collection of Detective [Fiction].” The editors

were not just emphasizing the international dimensions of detective fiction as a genre.

They were implicitly declaring Rampo to be a Japanese equal to foreign masters.

In short, Shineseinen actively sought to create a new social/discursive space for

detective fiction by regularly including essays from social critics and leaders of new

intellectual movements touting both the positive aesthetic and social qualities of the

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genre. Despite differences in details, what the Shinseinen essays share is an attitude of

seeking to discern the true value of tantei shôsetsu by stressing its utility for negotiating

the challenges of modernity. A modern mind attempts to discover what is behind the

façade of an ephemeral and garish Jazz Age culture by using its logical and scientific

intelligence. This desire to probe into secrets is directed not only toward others. A

modern individual also wants to explore inward to the human psyche, probing the

deeper levels of psychology, as seen in the fact that Freudian theory increasingly drew

attention in Japan, especially among members of the younger generation. In other

words, at the same time that people had scientific and theoretical tools to reveal what

lies behind secrets, the more modern they become, the more paranoid they are. It is

arguably the case that the expansion of knowledge of the mind leads to the discovery of

“supernatural” aspects in the modern atmosphere. Shinseinen promoted its young urban

readers to be better prepared for modernization by publishing educational essays on

science, philosophy and politics. Yet it also provided stories by Rampo and others

whose penetrating narratives created a venue for the readers to examine what lies

behind familiar-looking everyday life. This includes the meaning of the body as an

extension of one’s psyche or as merely an object when it is dead, and also what was

deep in anyone’s mind, even by venturing into abnormal psychology and supernatural

phenomena.

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3.7 Shinseinen’s Bi-Annual Special Issues on the Tantei Shôsetsu Genre

In the summer of 1924, Shinseinen devoted an entire volume of 400 pages

(Summer Special issue: Masterpieces of Tantei Shôsetsu”) to twenty-three translations

of Western detective fiction and twelve essays about tantei shôsetsu written by leading

Japanese intellectuals and writers.164 Since this special issue helps us understand how

debates on tantei shôsetsu evolved at an early stage of the genre’s development, I will

discuss the gist of the individual essays here. When we open the front cover of the

Summer 1924 Special issue, a catchy advertising line jumps out: “[The essays included

in this issue are] the criticism and thoughts on, and hopes for, tantei shôsetsu, [and they

were contributed] by the leading bundan novelists and critics in Japan.” The

contributors were critics, writers, playwrights and poets who were established in

bundan circles: Hirabayashi Hatsunosuke, Katô Takeo, Kimura Ki, Sasaki Mitsuzô,

Uchida Roan, Baba Kochô, Inoue Jûkichi, Satô Haruo, Kume Masao, Nanbu Shûtarô,

Kozakai Fuboku and Nagata Mikihiko. Hirabayashi was a socialist intellectual leader

and leading literary critic. Uchida was an established literary critic and novelist. Baba

and Inoue were leading scholars in Anglo-American literature. Kozakai was known

both inside and outside the Shinseinen circle as a leading theorist of tantei shôsetsu.

The others were bundan novelists, though some switched to taishû bungaku or more

164
Regular monthly issues would normally include various essays about how to successfully “launch
abroad” (kaigai yûhi), articles on scientific knowledge such as forensic science, etc., and four or five
detective stories in translation, which took up about a half of the volume. Shinseinen began publishing
special issues other than monthly issues starting in 1921, and Kozakai Fuboku serialized educational
essays on science and tantei. This Summer Special issue was the first volume to publish several essays
by people outside of the Shinseinen regular circle, however.
Incidentally, this same issue also contained a translation of an informational French article on
cryptogram translated by Beppu Tarô.

87
popular literature in subsequent years. Although responding to Morishita’s request to

write about tantei shôsetsu, they did not necessarily give it uncritical praise. Several

contributors pointed out what they believed could be improved. This fact tells us that

Shinseinen considered the presentation of pros and cons, or praise and criticism, as

more productive in cultivating tantei shôsetsu and in making it emerge as a genre. In

presenting tantei shôsetsu as a controversial genre that attracted considerable attention

from influential people in the Japanese literary world, the magazine sought to create an

image of the genre as one that would rise to be powerful enough to contend with such

other camps as the pure literature bundan circle and the newly emerging proletarian

fiction and literature of the masses (taishû bungaku) movements of the interwar era.

The essays vary in their focus, but common threads can be identified. For

example, most agree that a good tantei shôsetsu is a superb narrative that provides both

interesting plot development and skillful aesthetic qualities. In his essay, Katô Takeo

asserts that tantei shôsetsu requires an intelligent writer whose “brain works accurately

and promptly like a machine.” But he also states that the story must not be a police

crime case report, the implication being that such reports may be interesting, but they

lack a powerful narrative force that is exciting in terms of both plot and aesthetics. He

also states that in-depth psychological depictions are essential. In this connection, he

praises Edgar A. Poe’s works and Dostoevski’s Crime and Punishment. Kimura Ki’s

essay claims that works by great writers as Dostoevski and Hugo would be of no appeal

without the “detective interest [tantei-teki kyômi],” suggesting that masterpieces achieve

a balance in the storyline driven by both constructing the plot of ratiocination and

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literary mastery in depicting psychological drama. Similarly, Sasaki Mitsuzô argues

that aesthetic elegance and detective-like curiosity should be balanced to establish a

high-quality literary field. It is then that a detective tales become more properly called

“tantei bungaku (detective literature).”

An acrimonious and influential literary critic for three decades, Uchida Roan

displays his critical and skeptical attitude toward tantei shôsetsu. He does not think

highly of the present state of tantei shôsetsu, and he makes sarcastic comments. While

he admits that everyone experiences infatuation with tantei shôsetsu at some point in

life, he adds that, as a reader’s tastes become more serious, she/he will become more

interested in learning about actual issues such as experiments in physics, chemistry and

psychology, or criminal court cases and criminology. It becomes clear, however, that

he is condemning the kind of tantei shôsetsu represented by Ruikô in the introductory

stage of detective fiction to Japanese readers in the 1880s and 1890s. First, he sharply

criticizes Ruikô’s translations as too much like newspaper reports to be satisfactory as

literature. For example, he censures Ruikô’s translation of Fortuné Boisgobey’s No

Name for shortening it to half its original length, especially for omitting the first section

in which Boisgobey develops the main character as a man of mysterious behavior. In

skipping the first half of the story, Ruikô provides only the section in which the mystery

man confesses the reason for his suspicious actions. Because the first half builds

suspense by presenting the mysterious aspects of the man’s personality, Uchida finds

that the omission of such psychological depiction damages the in-depth explorations of

the character’s psyche and thereby spoils the excitement of the entire reading

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experience. As a translator of Dostoevski, Tolstoi, Zola, and Dickens, and also as

someone who was deeply moved by No Name in the original,165 Uchida views Ruikô’s

cavalier treatment of Boisgobey’s exquisite psychological plot build-up as a clear

failure.

Uchida’s criticism does not stop with Ruikô. He also criticizes his fans, looking

down upon tabloid readers’ lack of cultivation in literature and easy seduction by a

subgenre of little or no aesthetic merit as literature. Although he despises the kind of

tantei shôsetsu that Ruikô produced, nonetheless he gives credit to detective fiction’s

ratiocinative nature, recognizing that the dramatic structure of tantei shôsetsu exists in

“all the [major] novels from older times” both East and West, be it the Chinese novel,

Water Margin, Japanese tales about the legendary judge in the Edo Period, Ôoka, or the

popular French novel, The Count of Monté Cristo. He states that all human beings are

instinctively curious, and it is “human curiosity” that is typically depicted in tantei

shôsetsu. In real life, he says, “complex human affairs are structured, painted and

operated in a way similar to the tantei shôsetsu.” Thus, he argues, life would be

“deadly boring” if a human being is deprived of the “inquisitiveness” – he uses the

English word “inquisitive” in katakana – to “sniff out [others’] secret actions and

various intrigues.” He thus sees that “psychological vicissitudes” in masterpieces like

Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter or Dostoevski’s Crime and Punishment, as using

inquisitiveness in a similar manner. Lacking a skillful narrative, however, the current

165
Although it is plausible that Uchida read the Boisgobey piece in the original (French), from the fact
that he was known as a translator from English into Japanese, it seems reasonable to assume that Uchida
read No Name in English translation.

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crop of tantei shôsetsu both inside and outside Japan are shallow and “like merely a

magic trick or bit of acrobatics, which intrigues people at first but is soon given up in

favor of an interest in science and criminology.”166

The essays by Baba Kochô and Satô Haruo share points in common with the

essays already discussed. For example, they see canonical works by Victor Hugo,

Dostoevski, Zola and Dickens as superb examples. They argue that what makes a tantei

shôsetsu of lesser quality is not the topic and materials (i.e., immoral acts such as

murder, theft and spying), but an imbalance between literary aesthetic factors and plot

development. Baba fleshes out the point, arguing for a need to go beyond the simple

dichotomy of bundan highbrow versus lowbrow literature and not hesitating to take up

crime even if the material will be criticized as vulgar. He writes, “Crime is a dark

shadow that has remained in our minds since the days before civilization. [However]

the minds of modern men are more eagerly in search of stimuli. [On the one hand,]

inwardly [i.e., within the existing literary world], modern minds have produced

Impressionism and also have been reflected in Symbolism. On the other hand, one

cannot help but think that the literary works of imagination by moderns such as Poe,

London and Wells -- what is called [the literature of] detective, mystery or adventure –

have appeared outside [of the highbrow literary circle with the same impetus.]” He

points out that works of mystery and adventure have not been recognized as a legitimate

literary genre because of the prevalence in Japan of “Realism that focuses on depicting

everyday life.” In this, he is speaking of dominance of the Japanese naturalist and

166
Uchida, “”Tantei shôsetsu no omoide,” 89-92. Quoted from 92.

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realist mainstream within the literary world. He calls for finding literary approaches

more suitable to modern times (kindai).

While perhaps best known for his Modernist-influenced novel, Den’en no

yûutsu (Rural Melancholy, 1918), Satô Haruo was also a bundan writer who became

interested in tantei shôsetsu and produced such short detective pieces in the 1910s and

1920s. For example, he published a short story titled “Shimon (Fingerprint)” in the

Summer Special issue of Chûô kôron in 1918. This Chûô kôron issue was entitled “An

Edition [Devoted to] Secret and Revelation (Himitsu to kaihô gô).”167 Because Chûô

kôron was a major general magazine (sôgô zasshi) which published articles on various

fields such as politics, economics, art, etc., as well as literature, it did not devote a

single issue exclusively to detective novels. This special issue, however, contained

various essays that discussed the importance of probing into secrets and seeking

clarification in politics and family life for the general public. For example, it included

“From Secret Diplomacy to Open Diplomacy” (Himitsu-gaikô yori kaihô gaikô e) by

the politician and statesman Yoshino Sakuzô (1878-1933) who advocated the

democratization of everything, ranging from politics and diplomacy to everyday life,

and “Family Happiness with Having No Secrets” (Himitsu naki katei no kôfuku) by the

influential socialist, Abe Isoo. For literature, it had two sections titled “Artistic New

Detective Fiction” (Geijutsu-teki tantei shôsetsu) and “Plays and Novels That Handles

Secrets (Himitsu o toriatsukaeru gikyoku to shôsetsu).” Satô, Tanizaki Jun’ichirô,168

167
168
In the case of Tanizaki, it is widely known that Poe had a significant influence on his creating
literature that goes beyond what naturalists called faithful depictions of life. He published tantei shôsetsu

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Akutagawa Ryûnosuke, Satomi Ton, Kume Masao, Tayama Katai, Masamune Hakuchô

and Nakamura Kichizô all published original short stories and plays in this number.

Because “Fingerprint” was published in Chûô kôron as a piece of “Artistic New

Detective Fiction,” Satô (a rising star of bundan in the late 1910s to the early 1920s)

was frequently mentioned in Shinseinen’s discourse on tantei shôsetsu in the early

1920s, and so was Tanizaki.169 For that reason, it is not surprising that Shinseinen asked

Satô to contribute an essay to this special issue dedicated to tantei shôsetsu. Although

in the opening paragraphs he says he has not been following detective fiction of late, he

argues that currently in Japan, there is no detective fiction worthy of discussion. Thus

pieces such as “Himitsu” (Secret: 1911), “Jinmenso” (Human Face Tumor:1918), Yanagiyu no jiken”
(An Incident at Yanagi Public Bath: 1918), “Norowareta Gikyoku” (Cursed Play: 1919), “Tojô” (On the
Way: 1920), and “Hakuchû kigo” (Demon Words in Broad Daylight: 1918), in which he adopts, among
other techniques, a cryptogram from Poe’s work. The stories show his strong interest in crime, especially
its psychological aspects.
169
Satô’s “Fingerprint” is a story about two old friends involved in a murder mystery at a secret opium
den in Nagasaki. One of the main characters has wandered around Europe for ten years and has just
returned to Japan as an opium addict. The other man is the narrator of the story – an old friend to whom
the opium addict reveals his sleuthing on a murder case that took place at the opium den. One day, after
seeing a newly released foreign film at a movie theater, the opium addict becomes interested in
fingerprints and starts reading technical books in German on the science of fingerprints. Finally he
confesses to the narrator that he might have found the perpetrator of the murder that took place at the
opium den several years ago. For a long time, the addict thought he killed a stranger under the influence
of opium, although he did not possess any recollection of his own actions. On the night of the murder, he
saw a fingerprint on the back of a watch that he found at the opium den, and he claims that he saw the
same fingerprint in the film. At first the narrator is dubious about his friend’s confession, suspecting it
amounted nothing more than an opium-induced hallucination. However, a few years later when he reads
a newspaper report about the discovery of a dead body reduced almost to a skeleton in a deserted house in
Nagasaki, he realizes that the murder actually took place. He remembers that his friend had taken him to
the opium den a while ago and explained how he saw a dead body lying next him when he regained
consciousness after smoking opium. Satô ingeniously introduces mysterious and exotic elements such as
the old opium den in the exotic port city of Nagasaki, where people of various nationalities gather, hiding
their identities and indulges in the pleasure of secretly smoking opium. Or there is the Western movie
that accidentally reveals a significant clue to the murderer when the camera focuses on a theater-screen-
sized close-up of a fingerprint of one of the actors. Although this story is constructed as a story of
sleuthing, and it uses fingerprints as scientific evidence in modern criminal investigation and trial, it
appears that Satô does not want to limit his story to a straightforward tale of mystery solving. Instead, he
depicts the opium addict’s consciousness slipping back and forth between states of insanity and sanity,
and he adds a twist at the end by having the narrator say he is uncertain about his own sanity after
experiencing a chain of strange phenomena. For the narrator, the divide between sanity and insanity, or
the definition of reality versus illusion, is no longer clear.

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he limits his discussion to Western writers with particular emphasis on his admiration

for Poe. In his principal argument, he states that there are two types of tantei shôsetsu,

one being the highly ratiocinative kind that requires a highly pragmatic and intelligent

mind, and the other being based on hypersensitive and neurotic mental states. In both

types, he believes that bloodcurdling ecstasy and mysterious beauty are far more

important than the element of adventure or a plot about warm human relationships. He

describes that tantei shôsetsu is “a branch of the tree called abundant romanticism; The

fruit of curiosity hunting (the English phrase “curiosity hunting” being given in

katakana, ) for the Japanese phrase ryôki tan’i (lit.,

hunting for the novel/weird and indulging in the peculiar/different); it is a mysterious

beam of light reflected by a facet of the gemstone called poetry.” He says it should also

be based on the psychology of both “strange admiration for evil and bizarre curiosity for

the terrible,” and “the healthy spirit of love for clarity.”170 In conclusion, he presents

two final, important points – that the content of the story needs to be both romantic and

intellectual, and that the narrative style should be in agreement with that content and

thus both eccentric and lucid.

As discussed earlier in this chapter, Ruikô placed detective stories as a genre

that existed outside of “novels” (shôsetsu) and separate from “literature” (bungaku).

170
In the original, it goes as follows:

Satô, “Tantei shôsetsu shôron” (A Short Essay on Tantei shôsetsu).

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For him, there was nothing about tantei shosetsu threatening to contemporary

mainstream literature, which was dominated by Ken’yûsha School. Contrary to Ruikô’s

perhaps shrewd deprecation of detective fiction, Satô – and other contributors of essays

to the Shinseinen special issue – shares the view that tantei shôsetsu is worthy of

development. But they note that such development should be undertaken through a

skillful balancing of aesthetic and intellectual aspects. In such a balancing act, Satô’s

essay is highly neo-romantic in its heavy emphasis in a neo-Romanticist way on the

significance of the romantic, mysterious, and almost horrific beauty. What we see here

in his “diabolism” is an argument for a new literature that departs from the dominant

naturalist-influenced I-novel or the katei shôsetsu.171

These essays provide us with the examples of mystery/detective fiction that were

produced in those days. Moreover, we see – arguably more importantly – the image of

the “new and modern genre” that Shinseinen editors were attempting to create by

providing the venue for a variety of debates on it. Amid this variety, however, a sort of

consensus emerges among the contributors that tantei shôsetsu has not reached any

satisfactory stage and still is worth exploring because it has the potentialities of

departing from the bundan mainstream and creating a new literary style. Realizing the

full potential of such a new genre, the various essays almost unanimously agree,

requires balancing exploration into extreme literary aesthetics and the more scientific

171
Those essays inspired Rampo, who had been frustrated by the dominance of the naturalist bundan
literary world, to leave a job with Osaka Mainichi Newspaper Company in order to become a full-time
writer. See Rampo’s Tantei shôsetsu shijûnen, volume 1, Edogawa Rampo zenshû vol. 20, 37 and 42-44.
Incidentally, Yumeno Kyûsaku also expressed a similar dissatisfaction against the mainstream
bundan literature of the inter-war period. See pp. 30-33, vol. 2 of Yumeno kyusaku zenshu. Chikuma
Shobo, 1991. It was originally published in the February 1931 issue of Shinseinen.

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and technological information that provide the epistemological foundations for action of

the narrative.

3.8 Tantei Shôsetsu: Examination of the Genre Vis-a-vis Proletarian Literature

On the one hand Shinseinen developed a discourse that situated tantei shôsetsu

as a representative of modern ways of transcending conventional bundan literature. At

the same time, however, the magazine also questioned the values and strategies of

another literary movement that developed around this time. The hard-core proletarian

movement, which regarded literature primarily as means for disseminating socialist

ideas and perspectives, also sought to challenge the dominance of bundan literary

culture. Shinseinen critics and writers did not necessarily reject the political and

ideological commitment of proletarian literature outright. Rather, as we shall see in the

discussion in Chapter Four of the essays and original tantei shôsetsu stories by socialist

leader Hirabayashi Hatsunosuke, they advocated and sought to preserve the aesthetic

dimensions of literary expression as a necessary component in the advancement of

progressive political ideals.172 Rampo and the proletarian leader, Maedakô Hiroichirô,

also conducted their own debate in issues six and seven of Shinseinen in 1925 over the

relationship between tantei shosetsu and proletarian literature. This chain of debates

began when Maedakô criticized tantei shôsetsu in the December 1924 issue of Shinchô

Magazine.173 In this essay, he asserts that, with the rise in popularity of tantei shôsetsu,

the Japanese literary world had descended to the same lowbrow level of American

172
Chapter four discusses the role of Hirabayshi in examining and analyzing this balance.
173
“Psychology of Detective Fiction” (Tantei-mono shinri).

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literature. He explains that the popularity of tantei shôsetsu is a manifestation of the

bourgeoisie’s psychological terror in response to a society dominated by their own

capitalist values. In other words, after examining the situation from his proletarian

perspective, he concludes that the oppression of the working class by the dominant

bourgeoisie’s legal system informs every single tantei shôsetsu piece, as if such

oppression were an a priori condition for the genre.174

In a subsequent essay, we learn that Rampo had expressed his disagreement with

Maidakô in a private conversation with another leading proletarian/socialist leader and

brain trust member of Shinseinen, Hirabayashi Hatsunosuke. Rampo’s argument was

that tantei shôsetsu should be treated as an intellectual game. Having heard these

remarks second-hand, Maedakô wrote in the March issue of Shinchô that no intellectual

activity, even of the sort at work in detective fiction, was completely isolated from

society. He went on to argue that even tantei shôsetsu needed to be written from the

perspective of the masses, instead of simply reinforcing the values of the bourgeois

social order by solving a crime. In response to this second essay by Maedakô, Rampo

brought forth his counterargument in the number six issue of Shinseinen in 1925. It

would be an unsatisfactory situation were literature to be reduced solely to the

utilitarian function of promoting social progress, he argued. Moreover, he pointed out

that Maedakô only mentioned The Scarlet Pimpernel as his basis for concluding that all

tantei shôsetsu represent authority’s perspective on those who violate the peaceful

174
As discussed earlier in this chapter, Cawelti holds this view about early stage of detective fiction.

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order. Arguing that such a view is much too simplistic, he notes that many tantei

shôsetsu depict criminals and amateur detectives outwitting the police authorities.

Maedakô responded to Rampo in the next issue of Shinseinen. His refutation

starts out with the sarcastic remark that the genre name, “tantei shôsetsu,” sounds

cheap. He goes on to characterize the genre as the kind of literature that “we all become

fascinated with during our adolescence, but only until our intelligence comes into use

for real social action.” He admits that he too had spent his youth reading a variety of

detective fiction during his stay in the United States, and that, as with an old shirt, he

still feels nostalgic about the genre. However, any literary genre needs to be produced

with “social values” and “social benefits” in mind. Once again he points out that the

existing tantei shôsetsu are based on the premise of catching a destructive force in order

to restore social order and peace. In addition, he asserts that the value judgments that

underwrite the distinction between good and evil and the simplistic hatred of evil are far

from objective or absolute. Instead they actually express the values of a given political

and economic system. Basing his argument on a Marxist materialist view, he points

out that the analysis of so-called “vice” will lead us to the realization of the social

defects that are the source of evil deeds. In conclusion, he states he looks forward to the

development of a tantei shôsetsu that does not merely find pleasure in tricking its

readers, but rather examines the social environment and probes into what societal issues

actually lead people to commit crimes in the first place.

All in all, Shinseinen took advantage of criticism of tantei shôsetsu appearing in

a more prestigious literary magazine Shinchô that catered to highbrow audiences to

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further its discussion of the important formal and thematic characteristics of the genre.

It had used the same strategy in publishing Sato Haruo’s critical essay and borrowing

the aura of the renowned omnibus magazine Chuo koron. This time, because the

opponent in the discussion was an influential proletarian leader, and because his

counterargument recognized the ultimately positive value of tantei shôsetsu,

Shinseinen’s strategy arguably served to present a picture of tantei shôsetsu as a genre

drawing attention from even the proletarian camp.175

3.9 “Seinen” (Youth): Negotiating Modernity Through Economic Activity

Whereas proletarian writers conceived of and practiced literary expression as a

didactic means for promoting socialist ideals and values, Shinseinen took a different

approach to the task of providing readers with tools to negotiate the advent of modernity

and the social and economic changes that the transformation brought. One particularly

important aspect of Shinseinen as a commercial magazine lay in its sharply defined

target audience. In contrast to other commercial publications that sought to appeal

across generations, Shinseinen employed visual designs and featured articles intended to

be of interest specifically to urban youths between their late teens through their

twenties.176 The editors and staff of the magazine fell into this age bracket. They

175
As well as such proletarian writers as Hirabayashi Taiko, Hayama Yoshiki, and Hirabayashi
Hatsunosuke, Maedakô himself wrote tantei shôstesu for Shinseinen. See, for example, “Jô Oburaien no
shi” (The Death of Joe O’brien) in the number 11, 1931.
176
Shinseinen differentiated itself from other commercial magazines that targeted mass readership across
a wide range of population brackets. Its circulation rates never exceeded 40,000 even during the late
1920s to mid-1930s and stayed around 30,000. On the other hand, we see that some commercial
magazines sold ten to thirty times more than Shinseinen. For example, Kôdansha Company’s Kingu
(King) sold 740,000 copies of its inaugural issue in 1925. During the late 1920s to early 1930s, it sold

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themselves shared many of the economic and generational concerns of their readers.

Consequently, the magazine was not produced simply as an attempt to profit through

exploiting the anxieties of a different social, economic or generational set of readers.

Rather, the editors sought to address problems and issues they themselves confronted as

“new youth,” or the generation of young Japanese men and women who were born

around the turn of the century and who came of age during the economic upheavals of

the interwar period.

The generational similarity between the magazine’s editors and its target

audience emphasizes the significance of tantei shosetsu in Shinseinen as a means to

address the problems accompanying the modernization of Japan. Moreover, oftentimes,

the roles of editors, writers and readers overlapped as many editorial staff members also

translated and wrote their original tantei shôsetsu, reportage and critical essays that

dealt with the latest socio-cultural phenomena. Also, even though not officially hired

by Hakubunkan Publishing Company as editors, a group of youngsters gathered

together to form what they called an ingaidan or “brain trust.”177 Edogawa Rampo was

approximately a million copies of its monthly issues and 1,300,000 to 1,500,000 copies of special issues.
(Kingu published monthly regular issues and occasional special issues like New Year’s Issue” and
“Celebration of [Showa Emperor’s] Enthronement Issue.)” Its incredible sales were achieved by targeting
a wide range of age brackets. An advertisement for the inauguration of the magazine is symbolic of its
target audience. It had a large picture of a family reading the magazine together. Apparently in their
thirties to forties, the father and mother are sitting down with two sons and a daughter who appear to be
of pre-school to elementary school age. Everyone is smiling and looking at the pages of the Kingu
magazine in the father’s hands. The catch phrases over the picture say: “[Among the magazines] In
Japan, [Kingu is] the most interesting! The most beneficial! And the least expensive!” (Nihon-ichi
omoshiroi! tame ni naru! yasui!). Kiingu carried the average of 400 pages of stories that could be
enjoyed by a wide age range of readers and articles of practical information in each issue for only 50-sen
per issue. Contrary to such a popular approach of Kingu, Shinseinen’s target audience was always “new
youth.”
177
. It should be noted that the majority of the youngsters involved with Shinseinen were male,
although the magazine did attempt to attract female readers as well and was increasingly successful in

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originally an enthusiastic reader of Shinseinen in the early 1920s, and his writing career

began with Shinseinen in 1924 when Morishita recognized his talent as a writer. As an

amateur, Yokomizo Seishi contributed translations and original stories, as well as

providing ideas, before he officially became the second editor-in-chief in 1927.178

Hirabayashi Hatsunosuke was also actively involved in the creation of the magazine,

offering advice about social science. Those unofficial brain trust members regularly

brought attention to works that they read and found in imported Western popular

magazines, whether they were mystery stories, reportage, critical essays, short-shorts, or

cartoons. In other words, Shinseinen had the strong ties of a coterie group or dôjin

zasshi focused on tantei shôsetsu; but it operated as a commercial popular magazine and

so explicitly undertook an engagement with capitalist strategies of production and

consumption. During the 1920s to the early 1930s, Shinseinen was also open to

introducing miscellaneous information through a media mix of cartoons, photographs,

puzzles and non-traditional literary genres such as tantei shôsetsu, satirical pieces,

short-short stories, and “nansensu” (nonsensical) essays that were as short as half a page

in length. In the roundtable discussion hosted by the magazine Hôseki in 1957,179

Morishita pointed out that Shinseinen’s sales went up under the editorship of Yokomizo

and Mizutani because of the magazine’s sharp sensitivity to the times. This was

expressed not only by the appearance of tantei shôsetsu stories (which were the

doing so in the late 1920s. The issue of gender in “new youth” cultural production is a topic for future
research.
178
Yokomizo contributed translations and original works starting in 1921 and became involved in
editorial work in October 1926. He was twenty-four when he became editor-in-chief.
179
See the footnote 11.

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trendiest and modern feature of the magazine) but also in the “’Merican-Jap” stories and

other light, satirical and humorous “short-shorts” by Tani Jôji.180 This comment

supports Nakai’s argument that, for youngsters in the 1920s, tantei shôsetsu had the

image of being a form of literature that was at the forefront of modern trends.

Consequently, the thematic concerns of the stories, as well as the content of the

magazine as a whole, can be usefully understood as responses to such issues as the

commodification of society in general and individual identity in particular. In his

critique written in 1965 or some forty years later, the Marxist critic Ernst Bloch

discusses detective fiction in the West in much the same terms. In “A Philosophical

View of the Detective Novel,” he writes that

Brecht, for good reasons a student of this type [i.e., detective or mystery
novel] of literature, closely approximated the interchangeability of all
people who have become faceless; and it is not always the bad guys who
wear masks. This increasingly alienated world of masks spells good
times for the detective pursuit as such, as well as for a micrology that
smacks of criminalistic provenance. . . . Therefore, even better
literature deals more than ever with the process of unmasking.” 181

But rather than simply lament or critique the commodification and alienation of

identity that accompanied modernity, the editors of Shinseinen cagily employed

capitalist strategies to involve readers in the development of tantei shôsetsu as a genre,

thereby promoting their active engagement with negotiating the process of

modernization.

180
“‘Shinseinen’ rekidai henshûchô zadankai,” 117.
I will discuss Tani’s works in Chapter six.
181
“A Philosophical View of the Detective Novel,” The Utopian Function of Art and Literature: Selected
Essays (Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1988) 254.

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 Hence, in addition to the critical essays and articles designed to educate readers

for critical and analytical thinking, Shinseinen employed a variety of strategies to elicit

reader participation in ways that mirrored the conceptual operation inscribed within

tantei shôsetsu itself.182 Calling for original tantei shôsetsu pieces from readers was the

most notable and frequently employed method to involve consumers as producers.183

As various critics from both Japan and the West have long noted, tantei shôsetsu (as

well as detective fiction more generally) operates through a structure that inherently

promotes reader participation via vicarious identification with the detective in the story

as the detective engages in the puzzle-solving process. Shinseinen featured various

contests for readers to guess the criminal in a given story, to complete the dialogue in

various cartoons, to provide endings to relay stories, and most importantly, to submit

their own tantei shosetu. Contests for original tantei shôsetsu offered cash prizes

ranging from 500 to 1000 yen, thereby emphasizing that what a young reader learned

was directly tied to participation in commodity society. The point here is that

Shinseinen not only provided literary work and articles for entertainment purposes, but

182
Shinseinen published a variety of educational articles on tantei shôsetsu such as: “Detective and
Modern Science” (Number 13, 1923), “Detective Method using Psychology” (2, 1924), “Detectives in
Edo Literature” (2, 1924), “Interesting Crimes from the Perspective of Legal Medicine” (2, 1924),
“Factual Accounts of Crimes” (5 and12, 1924), “Anti-Japan Law [in the U.S.] and Japan’s Political
Situation” (9, 1924), “The Main Characters of Tantei Shôsetsu” (2, 1924), “The Thought System of
Tantei Stories” (7, 1924), “The Limitation of Tantei Shôsetsu” (7, 1924), “Women and Crime” (7,
1924),“Radio and Detective [Fiction]” (11, 1925) and “The Detective Fiction and Fantastic Fiction
Translated in the Early Meiji Period” (10, 1928).
As a general magazine, Shinseinen also published a variety of educational articles of a general
nature as well. For example, “Shinseinen shumi kôza” (The Lecture Series: New Youth’s Interests)
published twelve articles by experts in various fields. The topics ranged across social science,
evolutionary theory, astronomy, theater, art, music, archaeology, physics, aesthetics, literature,
architecture and forensic medicine (7, 1927 through 4, 1928).
183
As well as calling for original stories, Shinseinen also published a “relay” tantei shôsetsu in which
several writers (e.g., Rampo, Hirabayashi Hatsunosuke, Kozakai, etc.) participated in contributing one
installment of a serialization tantei shôsetsu respectively and called for the ending from the readers.

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it connected the activity of reading and writing to the commercialist enterprise. In light

of this use of expressly capitalist strategies, the critical essays on tantei shosetsu and

educational articles on different aspects of science and technology functioned as a kind

of conceptual infrastructure for readers as they participated in the development of the

genre. Such strategies proved quite successful, as many prizewinners became regular

Shinseinen contributors. Some became unofficial and even professional editorial staff

members.

3.10 Probing Literature: Pushing the Limits of Genre into Parody

From the earliest stage of the formation of the tantei shôsetsu genre, various

debates took place in the pages of Shinseinen over the question and extent to which

aesthetical elements should be weighed against logical or analytical. The issues of art

and science, as well as of art and social significance, were closely connected to the issue

of how formulaic the new genre should be. As writer/critic Carolyn Wells mapped out

as early as 1913, and a number of critics have since discussed, it was commonly held

that detective fiction, in the early twentieth century at least, had the following narrative

structure: first, the story begins with the presentation of a mystery; second, it presents

descriptions of puzzle-solving with clues encoded within the story; and third, the truth is

revealed when the mystery is resolved through logical conjecture.184 Considering that

Western writers such as Doyle and Christie were frequently mentioned as creators of

“orthodox” (honkaku) detective fiction, many Shinseinen writers in the 1920s-30s

184
Carolyn Wells, The Technique of the Mystery Story.

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seemed to have a very similar notion of the prototypical tantei shosetsu. But, in the

case of tantei shôsetsu, its early development took place hand in hand with the

processes of modernization and urbanization, the rise of socialist movements, and the

introduction of scientific and technological knowledge. As seen in the double-identity

and double-voicedness contained within its definition, “to tantei” was an act of probing

into mysteries and secrets, whether conducted by public authorities or private

detectives. Thus, the inherent posture of probing, examining and analyzing one’s

surroundings was directed simultaneously toward both individual works and the entire

genre. During the famous “honkaku” (orthodox) versus “henkaku” (variant) debate that

began in1935, Kôga Saburô advocated the “purist” position in Hôseki Magazine that

only “honkaku tantei shôsetsu” (orthodox detective fiction) qualified.185 However, Kigi

Takatarô186 refuted Kôga’s assertion, claiming that the neo-romanticist aesthetics of

tantei shôsetsu (i.e., the search for beauty within abnormal psychology and supernatural

phenomena in the urban space) should be as important as the ratiocinative element.

Whatever the case, as discussions from as early as the 1920s clearly show, the attitude

of rejecting stable identity and continuing to examine and analyze the self had been an

important, inherent staple in the development of the tantei shosetsu genre from the very

beginnings of its discursive history.

Moreover, as the discourse of tantei shôsetsu advanced and flourished

throughout the 1920s and into the 1930s, other articles, stories and cartoons that

185
Honkaku ( ) versus henkaku ( )
186
. Scientist and professor of cerebral physiology. He made his debut as a tantei shôsetsu
writer in 1934 in Shinseinen.

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Shinseinen published in the same issues for its modern youth187 audience assured an

increasingly self-reflexive attitude toward the terms of their own creation. The types of

works that Shinseinen published became increasingly satirical and parodic, as if its

writers were probing the limits of the genre of tantei shôsetsu, both deconstructing and

reconstructing stories in a self-consciously critical and dissonant fashion.188 One of the

most revealing indicators of this new self-reflexivity and satirical sensibility is to be

found in the appearance and ensuing popularity of Tani Jôji’s “’Merican-Jap” short

stories that started appearing in 1925 and which I will discuss in greater detail in

Chapters Five and Six. Before turning to Tani, however, it is worthwhile to consider

the importance of Hirabayashi Hatsunosuke (1892-1931). Because in many ways

Hirabayashi laid the groundwork for Tani’s satirical and humorous stories, he stands out

as the most important theorist and practitioner of “orthodox” tantei shôsetu in the 1920s

and thereafter. It is to his work that I now turn in Chapter Four.

187
While Morishita regarded the title, Shinseinen, as a term emerged out of shûyô didacticism and loathed
it, Yokomizo re-interpreted it as “modern boys,” or mobo, a term in vogue during the mid-1920s to the
early 1930s. This comment, which appeared in his editorial note to the first issue he presided over as
editor-in-chief, signifies the increasingly cool eye and analytical attitude adopted by Shinseinen.
188
One good example is Tokugawa Musei’s “Obetai buruburu jiken” (The Case of Obetai-buruburu)
published in number five, 1927 of Shinseinen. In this story, Tokugawa parodies the orthodox detective a
represented by Sherlock Holmes the “unfavorable” influence of popular literature and film on youngsters,
and highbrow literature.

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 CHAPTER 4

HIRABAYASHI HATSUNOSUKE

4.1 Hirabayashi and His Theory of Tantei Shôsetsu

In the previous chapter, I provided an historical account of the emergence of

tantei shôsetsu as a distinct literary genre in the pages of Shinseinen Magazine during

the 1920s and 1930s. In this one, I focus on the theorization of the genre by

Hirabayashi Hatsunosuke (1892-1931), a leading socialist thinker, literary and social

critic. He was also a translator and author of tantei shôsetsu. He wrote essays for the

young adult readers of Shinseinen during the second half of the 1920s in which he

argued tantei shôsetsu was the narrative form most appropriate to the conditions of

modernity. 189

189
Edogawa Rampo describes Hirabayashi as “the most authoritative and most enthusiastic critic of the
thirty years [from the 1920s to the 50s, since Rampo wrote this passage in the 1950s] of tantei shôsetsu
history” (vol. 21 of Edogawa Rampo zenshû, 102) and “there was no one who guided me, encouraged me,
pleased me, and made me fear more than Mr. Hirabayashi.” Edogawa Rampo, Tantei shôsetsu shijûnen
Part 1, Edogawa Rampo zenshû, Volume 20 (Tokyo: Kôdansha, 1979) 132-133.
Hirabayashi’s untimely death at the age of thirty-eight interrupted his attempts to promote
detective/mystery fiction as having both aesthetic and logical qualities capable of reaching a wide range
of audiences and enabling them to participate in social and philosophical advancement.

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 A committed Marxist, Hirabayashi first directed his efforts as a literary critic

from 1920-23 in support of proletarian literature.190 He wrote criticism for newspapers

and magazines such as Yomiuri Newspaper, Shinchô and Waseda bungaku, in which he

eloquently expressed his hopes for the birth of proletarian literature, passionately calling

it a “literature of battle” (sentô bungaku), or a literature produced by “a force in which

the spirit of rebellion is active, and is rich in destructive power [directed] toward the

status quo” (hankô-teki seishin ga kappatsu de, genjô hakai-ryoku ga ousei na chikara).

In those early years, moreover, he refers to tantei shôsetsu as a potentially

transformative, or revolutionary, literary development. Although he only mentions the

fact briefly, he argues in “Tantei shôetsu ryûkô” (The Ubiquity of Tantei shôsetsu

1922)191 that Western detective fiction has begun to appear in Japan through translation

as “quick entertainment reading.” He goes on to assert that, by comparison, the

dominant literary approaches, such as I-novel naturalism and conventional realism,

were simply boring because writers were either producing “old-fashioned novels of

trivial matters” or were lacking in the skills to depict “the historical drama unfolding

before their very eyes.”192 In other words, this essay shows Hirabayashi’s weariness

190
It is generally regarded that Hirabayashi was the first seminal figure in the introduction and
development of proletarian literary theory in Japan. See scholarly works by Hirano Ken and Ôwada
Shigeru. He became interested in socialism and Marxism in 1920 when he studied Socialist and
Communist writings together with Aono Suekichi and Ichikawa Shôichi. See Aono’s essay, “Hirabayashi
Hatsunosuke-ron” in the August 1931 issue of Shinchô.
191
Originally appeared in the December 1922 issue of Kaihô (Emancipation). HHBHZ. Vol. 3, 549-550.
192
Originally published in December 1922 issue of a radical magazine, Kaihô. Volume 3 of HHBHZ. He
concludes by warning that many of those works reflect the Western nations’ patriotism, international
hatred and class conflicts. For himself, he personally favors the kind of detective fiction that makes the
scientific aspects the main theme.

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with mainstream literary genres, and it anticipates his belief that tantei shôsetsu

represents a new means to address contemporary social issues.

Soon thereafter, Hirabayashi came to have increasing doubts about the hard-core

proletarian view that literature should serve merely as a means for disseminating

socialist ideology and enlightening the masses. He was not convinced that literature

could exist solely for its political function, and on the basis of his belief in historical

materialism, he continuously questioned where literature stood in relation to society

during the 1920s. Eventually, he shifted his approach and sought a new form of

expression in which literature’s artistic elements and ideological functions could merge.

As part of this search, he began writing criticism on a wider range of topics. In 1924 he

came to actively advocate and help to develop a new genre, tantei shôsetsu (detective

fiction), as the literary form most appropriate for modernity, on the grounds that it

employed “scientific” (kagakuteki) means to examine the reality of modern society. His

new interest also led him to translate Western detective fiction and even to produce his

own original stories.193

Aono Suekichi and other of his contemporaries in the proletarian literature

movement considered Hirabayashi’s changes during this period as representing an

abandonment of his commitment to proletarian ideology,194 and that view has continued

to maintain credibility even among recent scholars such as Asukai Masamichi.195 The

193
For Shinseinen, Hirabayashi wrote fourteen tantei shôsetsu, seventeen critical essays on the genre, and
translated four Western mystery stories.
194
For more details, see Aono’s “Hirabayashi Hatsunosuke-ron” which he wrote in memory of his old
friend.
195
See Asukai’s “Puroretaria bungaku undô no jidai kubun,” Nihon puroretaria bungakushi-ron (Tokyo:
Yagi Shoten, 1982)

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movement started in the late 1910s and it held the goals of transforming society, but

government suppression of it dramatically worsened after the Great Kantô Earthquake

in 1923.196 In fact, however, Hirabayashi came to view tantei shôsetsu as the ideal

vehicle through which to appeal to a specifically modern audience and thereby effect

positive changes in society. This attitude helps to explain the apparent split between the

two major aspects of Hirabayashi’s career, which have been treated as completely

distinct from each other until now. For example, such scholars as Hirano Ken, Ôwada

Shigeru, Ban Etsu, Maeda Kakuzô, Sofue Shôji, Minami Hiroshi, Barbara Hamill and

Harry Harootunian have all discussed Hirabayashi’s significance as a socialist thinker.

In this capacity, he addressed such topics as women’s lives and everyday living for the

general public from a socialist perspective. On the other hand, Suzuki Sadami and

Ikeda Hiroshi have focused on Hirabayashi’s work for Shinseinen, especially his critical

essays that advocate placing tantei shôsetsu in the context of new popular literary

forms. For Hirabayashi, however, these two areas of concern remained fundamentally

interconnected, and his promotion of detective fiction reflects his strategic attempt to

develop a mode of literary production that would facilitate social change within an

expressly modern context. Among scholars, the intellectual historian Watanabe

Kazuyasu has gone the furthest in recognizing Hirabayashi’s unified approach to social

and aesthetic issues. As Kazuyasu aptly notes, Hirabayashi not only wrote for the mass

196
His fellow proletarians of the pioneering proletarian magazine, The Sower, thought he abandoned the
movement when he argued that they should adopt a more moderate approach close to that of liberalist
bourgeois democracy. This occurred at their meeting following the government’s increased suppression
on socialists in the aftermath of the earthquake.

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media, but he actively promoted a modern literature that sought to advance aesthetic

and ideological concerns at the same time. 197

For example, in the 1929 essay “Tantei shôsetsu no sekai-teki ryûkô” (The

World-Wide Popularity of Detective Fiction), Hirabayashi presents tantei shôsetsu not

only as a genre fundamentally connected to the condition of modernity, but also one

that cultivates in its readers the ability to examine and negotiate the changes taking

place in Japanese society:

. . . detective fiction responds to the demands of modern life.

First, detective fiction provides strong stimuli to readers. The tempo of
modern people’s lives is much faster than the lives of people before the World
War. Elevators, taxis, radios, planes, and other similar elements that comprise
machine civilization have been firmly inscribed into the life of modern man.
The old romances with slow plot development, the edifying novel that
preaches obvious morals, and the historical novel whose subject matter is
taken from events that happened when there were no trains or telephones are
all detached from the life of modern people;198 they are no longer
enough/efficient to provide stimuli to modern people. In this respect, detective
fiction best meets the tastes of modern people.
Second, detective fiction is extremely intellectual in comparison with other
novels. Because the structure of the plot is complicated and elaborate, readers
cannot read through it casually. In [reading] every single episode, on every
single page, and in every single line, they have to think and sleuth along with
the characters. Therefore, in general, there are many intellectual, highly
educated people among the readers of mystery fiction. Also, in order for the
desire for detective fiction to be born among the general public, the intellectual
level of the people needs to be raised to a certain point. This explains why
detective fiction did not become popular in Japan until ten to twenty years
after it became popular in America and Europe.
Third, mystery fiction is extremely unyielding to authority. It completely
defies sycophancy and moderationism. There is no boring preaching. There
are no long and wordy descriptions of commonplace life, psychology, or

197
Watanabe Kazuyasu, Jiritsu to kyôdô (Tokyol: Perikansha, 1987). See the chapter, “Bungaku no
konkyo o motomete: Hirabayashi Hatsunosuke” 135-266.
198
gendaijin.

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 events. Everything is unusual, non-edifying, adventurous, and rebellious. It
can be said that mystery fiction is a challenge against common practices and
principles.199

For Hirabayshi, then, tantei shôsetsu not only arises from and reflects the

mechanization and scientification of society attendant upon modernity, but even more

importantly, its aesthetic/narrative structure promotes in its readers the capacity to view

the process of modernization in critical ways. In other words, tantei shôsetsu’s complex

plot and information, achieved by the employment of various scientific methods,

encourage the development of readers’ rational faculties through the act of reading.

And this, in turn, facilitates participation in the larger social sphere. Moreover, the very

conventions of the new genre themselves embody a resistance or challenge to

established social and cultural codes, including those of moral and civil authority.

Because Hirabayashi believed that Japan had yet to enter into the phase of bourgeois

capitalism, he did not view didactic socialist realism as the best means for achieving

proletarian ideals. Instead, he saw tantei shôsetsu as a way to cultivate directly the

critical engagement of a broad population in the very process of modernity shaping

Japan at the time. Such engagement, he believed, would at least help to prevent or

challenge domination of society by the interests of the bourgeoisie. In this regard, the

significance of Hirabayashi’s construction and deployment of tantei shôsetsu differs

from that described by Cawelti (see discussion in Chapter Two) in his ruminations on

199
Hirabayashi, HHBHZ, vol. 3, 652-654. Originally appeared in Osaka Asahi Newspaper on May 17,
1929. Although he wrote a similar essay titled “Nihon no kindaiteki tantei shôsetsu” (Japan’s Modern
Detective Fiction) for the April 1925 issue of Shinseinen, I quote from the later publication for this
discussion because “The World-Wide…” essay shows his argument in a more organized way.

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the global meaning of detective fiction as a product of an individualistic bourgeois

ideology. Instead, Hirabayshi saw tantei shôsetsu not just as a reflection, but as an

instrument in the critical negotiation of modernity precisely through its potential effects

on readers.

This view of tantei shôsetsu as a means for promoting the ability of readers to

examine modern society critically and thereby participate in its improvement or positive

development underlies his discussion of the six points essential to good detective

fiction:200

1) the story should be realistic and not involve supernatural events or

superhuman abilities;
2) the method of sleuthing should be scientific and reasonable to the extent that
readers can follow the act of ratiocination, although it can involve sleuthing
using number, time, distance. Also, it can explain the case by using a
knowledge of medicine, pharmaceutics, physics, chemistry, etc.;
3) it is preferable that the story take place in the capital or a major city of the
country because unfamiliar place names will only confuse the readers.
Writers should use lesser known places only when they have abundant
knowledge so that the stories will not give incorrect information about the
place;
4) the competition between the criminal and the detective should be a close
game to make it interesting;
5) the story should be scientific and realistic, and neither should the characters
be superhuman, nor should the work be commonplace or ordinary. It should
be a showcase for the character(s)’ prodigious intelligence;
6) although it is fine that the story involves current topics or international issues
as the backdrop for the crime, it should not lead to a cheap moral or a
hyperbolic infusion of patriotism into the hearts of the readers.

200
“Watashi no yôkyû suru tantei shôsetsu” (The Tantei shôsetsu that I Request). Originally appeared in
the August 1924 issue of Shinseinen. Hirabayashi also lists eleven abilities that he expects tantei shôsetsu
writers to possess in his essay, “Tantei shôsetsu-ka ni nozomu: akumade genshuku na,” which originally
appeared in the February issue of Shinseinen. Vol. 3 of HHBHZ. 401-404.

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 Hirabayashi’s six points help to clarify how he envisioned the genre as a means

to promote positive engagement with modernity. First, his insistence on a realistic, as

opposed to supernatural, plot underscores his commitment to the representation of

existing circumstances as a matter of pressing cultural concern. Second, in emphasizing

the need for a scientific and rational solution that readers can follow, he not only

assimilates specifically modern advancements in knowledge to the domain of tantei

shôsetsu, but he also seeks to transmit that knowledge into readers themselves. This

goal of conveying knowledge, or modeling a critical investigation, to a broad audience

helps to explain his preference for urban settings, as well as his assertion of the need for

factual accuracy in the depiction of place. Finally, his injunction against the use of “a

cheap moral” or the “hyperbolic infusion of patriotism” reflects both his desire to

achieve effects through participatory, rather than didactic, means, as well as his goal of

promoting a critical examination of ongoing developments within Japan. In short,

Hirabayashi saw advancements in science as having the additional benefit of providing

readers with more precise tools to examine phenomena. Moreover, he believed that

these tools could be deployed within the arena of literature as a way to cultivate readers’

capacity for positive engagement with social change. Unlike other leading social critics

such as Ôya Sôichi, Hirabayashi welcomed modern changes.201 In other words, his keen

interest in tantei shôsetsu was part of his attempt to negotiate the advent of modernity in

Japan in a systematic and logical way, instead of sentimentally resenting the changes

201
For example, in “Modanizumu no shakai-teki konkyo” (The Social Ground of Modernism) published
in the March issue of the Shinchô magazine, Hirabayashi suggests that modernity is bringing new speed,
action and perspectives. HHBHZ, vol. 3. 836-849.

114
overtaking the country and longing for the good old days.202 This progressive attitude

coincides with his advocacy of equal rights for women who were moving from the

countryside to urban spaces in order to work and gain independence. Therefore,

Hirabayahi’s promotion of tantei shôsetsu reflects much more than either merely an

idiosyncratic contradiction or a completely separate interest from his more renowned

political efforts. Instead, he considered the two issues fundamentally interconnected

and mutually reinforcing. His cultural and political writings must be seen as two sides

of the same coin.

As discussed in the last chapter, Shinseinen served as a venue for writers and

critics to explore the raison d’être of tantei shôsetsu and to help the concept of tantei

shôsetsu evolve as a genre particularly suited to modern times. It did so by not only

publishing translations of Western detective tales but also by introducing critical essays

both from inside and outside Japan. Those by Japanese writers and critics have been

discussed in the previous chapter. Here, I will focus on two critical essays by Western

writers, namely G.K. Chesterton and S.S. Van Dine, and specify their connection to

Hirabayashi’s arguments.

The British writer, journalist, critic and poet G.K. Chesterton (1874-1936) was

especially known for his “Father Brown” series of stories and novels. Among Japanese

readers in the first half of the twentieth century, he was one of the most famous Western

detective fiction writers. A total of twenty-six of his stories were translated and

202
His critique for Shinseinen extended from literature to cover a more general, introductory guide to
social science. In other words, he not only argued for the importance of the scientific examination
inscribed in tantei shôsetsu but also attempted to educate the Shinseinen readers, i.e., potential tantei
shôsetsu writers, with specific information.

115
published in Shinseinen203. In addition, the editors of Shinseinen decided to benefit

from the famous writer’s theory about detective fiction in their efforts to develop and

establish the new genre of tantei shôsetsu and to disseminate that theory to its

readership. The Japanese translation of Chesterton’s essay, titled Tantei shôsetsu yôgo-

ron (“Argument in Support of Detective Fiction”), was published in the special “New

Year’s” edition for 1929.204 In this essay, Chesterton defends the genre, arguing that it

is a mistake to flatly consider tantei shôsetsu as “bad” on the grounds that it is favored

by the masses (taishû). From the context of the opening paragraph, it is clear that the

term “bad” (warui in Japanese) refers to both inferior quality and vice or evil. He notes

sarcastically that many people believe detective fiction to be “bad” simply because its

chief subject is crime, calling them “dull” (kanji no nibui hitobito). In other words, he

sees such critics as not keen enough to recognize the constant and rapid changes

occurring in modern times. Moreover, by arguing that just an in other genres there are

both well and poorly written detective tales, he implicitly establishes “detective fiction”

as a new and valid genre. He discusses the “substantial value (honshitsuteki na kachi)

of detective fiction”205 and argues that it is, “among popular literature, the first and only

203
While Kuriyagawa Hakuson (1880-1923), a scholar of English literature, mentions Chesterton as early
as 1909 in his essay, “Gendai eikoku bundan no kisai” (Geniuses in Contemporary British Literary
Circles), his works had not yet been translated into Japanese. The first appeared in 1917. A translation of
his work first appeared in Shinseinen in the January 1921 issue. Edogawa Rampo, famous for collecting
various kinds of data and information on tantei shôsetsu, made a “top ten” list of the most frequently
translated Western writers in the first half of the twentieth century. According to it, thirty-one of
Chesterton’s works were translated. Twenty-six of them appeared in Shinseinen. Edogawa Rampo,
“Hon’yaku tanpen tantei shôsetsu mokuroku,” Tantei shôsetsu nenkan. Reference in Hasebe Fumichika,
Ôbei suiri shôsetsu hon’yaku-shi. 42-43 and 142-143.
204
Shinseinen, no 3 issue (Shinnen zôdai) 1929. This essay was translated by Ôta Michio. Biographical
background of the translator is unknown..
205
Chesterton, “Tantei shôsetsu yôgo-ron.” 97.

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[literary] form that expresses the poetic [elements] of “modern life” (written in the

translation as in katakana).206

His discussion here is remarkably similar to what Hirabayashi argues in his

essay “Japan’s Modern Detective Fiction” published in Shinseinen in April 1925, or

almost four years before Chesterton’s.207 Hirabayashi had argued that tantei shôsetsu

should not be separated from other forms of literature as a form lacking in artistic

quality merely because it deals with crime.208 To illustrate his point that the subject or

theme of a literary work does not correlate directly with its artistic and literary values,

Hirabayashi argued that, even if Conan Doyle was arguably a “second-tier” writer, this

does not necessarily mean that all detective fiction possesses only “second-class”

artistic/aesthetic values. The quality of tantei shôsetsu, just as in the other genres,

varies among individual works. He then cites Edgar Alan Poe as an example of a writer

of detective fiction with tremendous artistic/aesthetic talents. He goes on to discuss the

significance of tantei shôsetsu in early twentieth-century Japan:

. . . In order for mystery fiction to exist, it goes without saying that

certain social conditions are essential . . . [They] are, in the broader
sense, the advancements in scientific civilization, intellect, analytical
thinking, and methodology. In a narrower sense, they are the
scientification of both crime and its investigation, arrest and trial based
on physical evidence, and establishment of statute law for maintaining
national order . . . In the West, mystery fiction appeared in the nineteenth

206
Chesterton, “Tantei shôsetsu yôgo-ron.” 97.
207
It is not clear if Chesterton’s essay was published before 1924 and if Hirbayashi read it prior to writing
his essay in 1924. However, there is no reference to it in Hirabayashi’s writing.
208
“Nihon no kindai-teki tantei shôsetsu: toku ni Edogawa Rampo shi ni tsuite” (Japan’s Modern
Detective Fiction: Especially Regarding Mr. Edogawa Rampo), April 1925 issue of Shinseinen.

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 century and has gained popularity in recent years. In Japan, mystery
fiction appeared only recently.209

The argument advanced here relates to that put forth in the other two essays that

he wrote in later years, as discussed earlier in the chapter. He sees science, law, and

technology, or what he considers “modern” elements, as differing from what has been

conventionally considered artistic or aesthetic, and he sees them as becoming

normalized within the picture of daily life. Thus he concludes that tantei shôsetsu is the

most appropriate form of literature to depict modernity. In fact, it actively addresses

new issues arising from the “modern” condition, in the sense that it depicts such modern

elements.

It should be pointed out that it is not clear where Chesterton’s original essay first

appeared because there is no mention in the translation about the source text.

Curiously enough, The Collected Works of G.K. Chesterton210 does not include any

essay either with a similar title or content. More extensive research on Chesterton’s

essays published in periodicals and newspapers will be required to identify its possible

source. Indeed, it is even possible that this essay is a bit of “detective fiction” itself that

was “ghost-written” or “ventriloquized” by a Shinseinen writer, given the fact that the

editors of Shinseinen were known to manipulate on various occasions the credentials of

209
The essay, “Nihon no kindaiteki tantei shôsetsu: toku ni Edogawa Rampo-shi ni tsuite” (Japan’s
Modern Mystery Fiction: Especially Regarding Mr. Edogawa Rampo) appeared in the April 1925 issue of
Shinseinen. Another essay, “Watashi no yôkyû suru tantei shôsetsu (The Tantei Mystery Fiction that I
Seek)” in August, 1924 issue asserts that mystery fiction should take place in domestic space – whether it
is metropolis or any other large cities – rather than a far-away foreign lands such as India or the South
Seas.
210
This set was not complete in its publication as of March 2003. According to the publisher of the
Collected Works (Ignatius Press), among the thirty-five volumes, volumes 7, 9, 12, 13, 17, 19, and 22-26
are yet to be published, and there is no definite date for their publication.

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some works, claiming, for example, that Japanese writers’ stories were translations of

Western works, presumably on the grounds that such an authoritative cultural

provenance would legitimize the pieces. Or Hirabayashi may have had the opportunity

to read the essay in the original before he wrote in 1925 because Chesterton wrote

essays on detective fiction as early as 1902.211 Whatever the case, this “Tantei shôsetsu

yôgo-ron” reached Japanese readers as words from an authority among British detective

novelists, and it attempted to set young readers’ conceptual formation of the new genre

in a perspective larger than mere enjoyment or entertainment.

Arguing for the place of the “poetic” (shiteki) in detective fiction, Chesterton

first states that what is considered poetic is in constant flux. More specifically, he

argues that, just as people of pre-modern times came to recognize poetic elements in

nature by being surrounded by mountains and trees across the centuries, people in

modern times will begin to see urban objects, be they even chimneys and lampposts, as

natural. Thus they will come to recognize poetic elements even in what are

conventionally seen as non-poetic objects. It can be argued, according to Chesterton,

that urban space is even more poetic than the countryside because the former consists of

a chaotic mixture of “conscious forces” (ishiki seru chikara), while nature consists of

“involuntary ones.” Thus, it is arbitrary to see meaning in what nature creates. On the

other hand, what is man-made is always a sign that subtly implies human intention.

Sherlock Holmes’ innovative way of probin, he goes on to say, is the most appropriate

211
See, for example, “Detectives, Detective Fictions” in The Collected Works, vol. 27. 49-54. The essay
originally appeared in November 4, 1905 issues of the American edition of Illustrated London News. The
date for the essay’s appearance in the English edition is unclear, but it probably appeared two weeks
earlier, as that was the normal practice.

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basis for depicting romance (i.e., poetic elements) in today’s civilization. Moreover, he

extends this idea to the act of probing into others on urban streets. He believes it is

good for ordinary people to have the “habit of observing strangers in the street with

fanciful eyes” (i.e., imagining their characteristics and thinking of them from what one

can see as a third-party observer). Hence, romance can be found everywhere in an

urban space such as London. He looks upon investigations into not only objects but

also the psche of human beings as extremely stimulating. Or, extrapolating from this,

we can say Chesterton believes that the interpretation of signs in nature is no longer

central to modern daily activity because modern man is now surrounded with signifiers

imbued with human intentions and also by so many human beings. Thus a person

inevitably begins his or her attempt to fathom strangers’ inner worlds by using the

logical and scientific methods available in contemporary life.

In summary, then, we see considerable similarities between Hirabayashi’s and

Chesterton’s essays, in the way they marshal arguments for the new genre of detective

fiction as something indispensable to modern life, even though the genre was widely

considered of inherently low quality, insignificant to the intellectual development of

readers, or even morally injurious. Their essays make the counterargument that it is

indispensable both as literature that depicts the poetic and the romantic, and also as a

tool to help modern people learn about others’ psychology and even the man-made rules

of law, which are intended to order society in certain ways and make survival possible

in a time of modernization. Or, to look at the same phenomenon in a different light,

their arguments share the belief that literature, as a reflection of life, needs to change in

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accordance with developments in daily living, and that the tantei shôsetsu, which deals

with the products of modern advancements, is the form of art most suitable to such a

shifting era. In other words, their arguments share a fundamental view of modernity as

composed of and reflecting human intentions. As the authoritative pronouncements of a

Western “expert,” Chesterton’s essay serves to vindicate and underscore the points

made in the essay by Hirabayashi four years earlier.

A second critical essay that appeared in translation in Shinseinen is by the

popular American detective fiction writer, S. S. Van Dine. A member of the literary

circle to which H.L. Mencken and Theodore Dreiser also belonged, Van Dine was

interested in modern, avant-garde art as a means to revolutionize the American art and

literary world. It was under his birth name, Willard Huntington Wright, that he first

established his fame as a critic. However, his second career began in 1926 as a creator

of the popular “Philo Vance” detective novels. According to John Loughery, “the result

was a publishing phenomenon,” his books selling more than a million copies by 1930.212

Although the general perception of American detective fiction in interwar Japan was

that it was inferior in quality to its British counterpart213 – and that was the opinion of

Van Dine himself too214 – Van Dine nonetheless succeeded in capturing the enthusiastic

attention of Shinseinen readers, and he was the only American writer to do so. Former

editor-in-chief Morishita Uson wrote an essay titled “Shin sakka arawaru” (“A New

Writer Appears”) in January 1929 introducing Van Dine as the most exciting new

212
John Loughery, “Van Dine, S.S.,” The Oxford Companion to Crime and Mystery Writing. 477.
213
See, for example, Edogawa Rampo’s Tantei shôsetsu shijûnen. Edogawa Rampo zenshû, vol. 20.
204-207.
214
Hasebe Fumichika, Ôbei suiri shôsetsu hon’yaku-shi (Tokyo: Hon no zasshisha, 1992) 26-28.

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detective fiction writer to emerge on the scene. Although he was writing three years

after Van Dine’s maiden work, The Benson Murder Case, had appeared in Scribner’s,

Morishita wrote the essay in Shinseinen to praise Van Dine. Thereafter, Shinseinen

published Van Dine’s works as soon as they appeared in Scribner’s. The translator was

none other than Hirabayashi Hatsunosuke, who undertook the very first Japanese

rendering of Van Dine’s work. Originally titled n English The Greene Murder Case

(1928), Hirabayashi’s translation was titled “Gurîn-ke no sangeki,” and it was serialized

in five installments in the June through September 1929 issues of Shinseinen.215 Van

Dine’s works were also gaining in popularity among Japanese through the movies. For

example, the film version of Canary Murder Case (1927), produced by Paramount in

1929, was brought to Japanese audiences in April of the same year, or shortly before

Hirabayashi’s translation of The Greene Murder Case was serialized in Shinseinen.216

As a well-known practitioner of detective fiction from the United States, Van

Dine spoke with authority when his essay appeared in translation in Shinseinen in the

June 1930 issue under the title, “Tantei sakka kokoroe 20-kajô” (lit., “Twenty Credos

for Writers of Detective Fiction”).217 Shinseinen explains that Van Dine wrote this

essay exclusively for the magazine. To emphasize the point, a passage is quoted from

215
June, July, August, Summer Special and September issues.
216
Hasebe Fumichika. 31.
217
It should be noted that S.S. Van Dine’s critiques of detective fiction had been introduced in Shinseinen
as early as the number 2 issue of 1927, under the title “Tantei shôsetsu to genjitsu-mi” (Detective Fiction
and the Sense of Reality) 211-217. A second essay appeared in the number 7 (i.e., June) in 1930.
However, the first essay was attributed to W.H. Wright, and Shinseinen makes no comment on the fact
that Wright was the same figure as Van Dine.

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Van Dine’s letter that accompanied the manuscript when he submitted it to the

magazine:218

I heard that my works were translated [into Japanese], but I did not
realize how widely they have been read in Japan. I remember having
seen Shinseinen before. I am pleased to hear that serious
(honkakuteki) detective fiction has been developing in Japan, although
I am not familiar [with the details of the situation]. The fact that
“pseudo-” detective fiction is becoming extinct, and the number of real
writers is growing, indicate that the level of critical [discourse] in
[your] country is reaching new heights. I send my sincere
compliments (translated as kompurimento in katakana) to the editors
and readers of Shinseinen.219

At the end of Van Dine’s comment, the translator of the essay adds: “This is an

excerpt from a letter that Van Dine sent to the translator of the essay. I shall be happy if

[our] readers find it of interest (sankô tomo nareba kôjin).”220 This issue of Shinseinen

also includes a frontispiece with Van Dine’s autographed portrait photograph. The

caption reads: “Our (warera no) Van Dine specially contributed the autographed

portrait and the manuscript of “Tantei sakka no kokoroeoku beki 20-kajô.” Shinseinen

flies across the Pacific!” The magazine proudly declares that “our Van Dine”

recognizes Shinseinen, its editorial staff and readers, and that he sent the essay as an

“exclusive” for the magazine. It expresses its excitement over recognition from one of

218
Among the essays that Van Dine wrote on detective fiction, perhaps the most famous one is the
introduction to a book entitled The Great Detective Stories: An Anthology which he edited under his
official name, Willard Huntington Wright, in 1909.
219
Van Dine, “Tantei sakka kokoroe 20-kajô,” Shinseinen, June 1930 issue, trans. by Ogawara Yukio, 49.
220
Van Dine, “Tantei sakka kokoroe 20-kajô,” 49.

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the most authoritative writers and critics on detective fiction, describing it as

“Shinseinen flies across the Pacific.”

It should be noted, however, that the very same essay (in English) actually appeared in

The Writer’s 1930 Yearbook. Although the publisher of The Writer’s Yearbook series

could not provide information concerning the specific month when the 1930 edition was

published, 221 given that the Yearbook is currently published every January of its

eponymous year, there is considerable possibility that the Shinseinen translator may

have worked from the book to render the essay, while making it look like Van Dine

wrote the essay exclusively for Shinseinen.222 Whatever the case, what remains

significant here is that Shinseinen deploys the authority of an American writer of

detective fiction, as well as that of Chesterton as the British authority, to educate its

readers not only to be sophisticated recipients of the expressly modern genre but also,

by presenting “twenty credos,” to become writers themselves. Moreover, Shinseinen

used Van Dine’s essay to paint a picture of an American authority recognizing the

people involved in the promotion of detective fiction. In this essay Van Dine lists the

twenty “credos” that detective fiction writers should keep in mind as both “dos and

don’ts.” The original word is “credos,” which Hirabayashi translates as “shinkô kajô,”

adding the furigana/katakana gloss of “kurêdo,”223 In the Introduction, Van Dine

argues that detective fiction is “an intellectual game or a sort of sport,” and he

221
Telephone inquiry with Ms. Melanie Rigney, an editor of The Writer’s Digest at Writers Digest Books.
March 7, 2002.
222
Shinseinen especially in the early decades has manipulated the credentials of some works, e.g.,
claiming Japanese writers’ stories as translation form Western works, etc.
223
The original essay entitled “How to Write Mystery Stories” is republished in The Writer’s Digest
Guide to Good Writing. 34-37.

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emphasizes the importance of “fairness” on the part of the writer (introduction). More

specifically he argues that a writer “can no more resort to trickeries and deceptions and

still retain his honesty than if he cheated at bridge.” Instead, he needs to construct

logical, reasonable and clear structure for the mystery, and the mystery needs to be

solved by logical deductive reasoning based on scientific and rational methods used by

the detective-- and not by the powers of occultism such as “slate-writing, Ouija boards,

mind-reading, spiritualistic séances, crystal-gazing and the like” or as a result of

coincidence or suicide (See Rules 5, 8, 14, 15 and 18).224 All the “keys” or clues need

to be completely described and explained in order to provide readers with opportunities

for sleuthing equal to those available to the detective. In short, Van Dine underscores

the need for a particular relationship or kind of contract between a mystery writer and

his reader. The writer must never forget the existence of his or her readers and make

sure that everything is described and explained as fairly as possible, so that the reader

can participate in the process of logical sleuthing step by step. He also argues, in Rule

16 for example, that “a detective novel should contain no long descriptive passage, no

literary dallying with side issues, no subtly worked-out-character analysis, no

‘atmospheric’ preoccupations” because “such matters have no vital place in a record of

crime and deduction.” It is not surprising that Van Dine also recommends against

inclusion of a romantic plot in the story (See Rule 3). He believes that everything in the

story should have a connection with the crime, thus becoming clues to solving the case.

224
Van Dine, “Tantei sakka kokoroe 20-kajô,” 48-51. Since the translation is very faithful to the original,
I am quoting from Van Dine’s original text, instead of translating the Japanese translation back into
English.

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Instead of such everyday topics as a love interest, he believes that a murder is essential

for satisfying the reader (See Rule 7). In other words, there has to be an incident that

demands satisfaction or resolution, calling for the action of investigation and

ratiocination.

Hirabayashi published his comments on the essay in Shinchô magazine in the

same month that his translation appeared in Shinseinen.225 Here he discusses Van

Dine’s essay as not only interesting as a list of principles, or a practical guide for

detective fiction writers, but also, and even more importantly, as Van Dine’s indication

that detective fiction departs from a general category of novels (shôsetsu) and attempts

to establish a new one. In other words, he points out Van Dine’s keen critical sense in

seeing a certain set of formulae as constituting a new genre that liberates literary works

from the conventions of writing in the past. He adds:

We have to note that tantei shôsetsu is gradually bringing revolutionary

changes to the conventional concepts of novels. [Tantei shôsetsu] is, to
say the least, a type of avant garde (vanguard) [i.e., sentan-teki; note that
the term was itself one of the trendiest in the 1920s] and modern [gendai-
teki] novel. At the same time, I do not mean to say that tantei shôsetsu is
the finest [kind of] novel. I am only pointing out that it is becoming
difficult nowadays to regulate all novels under a uniform conceptual
frame and to view them from a singule angle. Therein lies the problem
with arguments for the absolute importance of art [in literature].

Hirabayashi is criticizing the “art-for-art’s-sake” line advanced by many

Japanese writers at the time. He is particularly intrigued by the fact that romance,

225
“Van Dine no tantei shôsetsu-ron” (Theory on Detective Fiction by Van Dine), HHBHZ. Volume 3,
377-379.

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which has been considered “a subject of essential interest in novel,” is rejected by Van

Dine as an unnecessary subject in detective novels.226

Hirabayashi’s “Theory on Detective Fiction by Van Dine” is in fact part of a

longer essay composed of six parts, entitled respectively, (1) Does Literary Art Evolve?;

(2) Literary Work and Advertisement; (3) Editorially Assigned Novels [Kadai

shôsetsu]; (4) The Crisis of Novel; (5) Theory of Detective Fiction by Van Dine; and

(6) An Era That Produces A Vast Number of New Writers. Although this essay was not

published in Shinseinen, it is germane to our discussion here because it reveals that

Hirabayshi’s interest in tantei shôsetsu was set withinin a larger context of literature.

Moreover, it was written at time during which various groups of writers and critics

argued for their own literary ideologies. More specifically, it was only two months after

the first meeting of the Shinkô geijutsu-ha kurabu (Rising Art School Club) on April 13,

1930, whose participants included “modernist” writers from a cross-section of coterie

magazines. Kawabata Yasunari, Kobayashi Hideo, Nakamura Murao, Ibuse Masuji,

Abe Tomoji and Yoshiyuki Eisuke are but a few of the names of the participants. And a

lecture meeting held on April 18 called “Shinkô geijutsu-ha sengen narabi ni hihan

kôen-kai” (Rising Art School’s Manifesto and Critical Lecture Meeting) was

sensationally advertised and featured lectures by Yokomitsu Riichi, Kobayashi Hideo

and Kawabata Yasunari, in order to make a display of unity among the self-acclaimed

modanizumu movement, which argued in favor of “art for art’s sake” in opposition to

226
Hirabayashi did not agree to all the points that Van Dine made. For example, he once disagreed that
detective fiction ought to have a murder case as a central topic. “Tantei shôsetsu-ka ni nozomu:
Akumade genshuku na,” HHBHZ, vol. 3, 401-404. Originally appeared in the Shunki zôkan (Spring
Special) issue of Shinseinen in 1931.

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the Marxist and proletarian writers. In “Does Literary Art Evolve?,” Hirabayashi

discusses Abe Tomoji’s essay, which appeared in the May 6 1930 issue of Yomiuri

Shinbun. In this article, Abe expresses his doubts about the tendency to regard all

literary works as contributing to a larger process of literary evolution. Abe says that

what is currently happening may be merely fashion (ryûkô), whether in the form of the

works of the Rising Art School or those by Proletarian writers. Hirabayashi rejects this

argument about temporary fashion versus permanent evolution. Citing an example from

Emile Durkheim’s Rules de la methode sociologique, Hirabayashi discusses the

“driving power of society” (shakai no kyôseiryoku). We cannot live like cavemen

today, for example, although there is no law to prohibit us from living in a cave or

wearing fur skins. This social restriction, he says, was formed through progress in other

aspects of society, and such developments are intimately tied to one another. Thus, it is

impossible to regress in one aspect of life because of progress in others. “Those

changes are inevitable, and we call such inevitable changes evolution. This also applies

to literature, . . . literary techniques/skills that our ancestors acquired are all succeeded

by the next era/generation.” Thus “as long as human creativity is not exhausted, the

newer literature will have richer skills of expression, and that can be sufficiently

considered as evolution. In addition, because the content of a literary work completely

obeys the evolution of social life, there can be no doubt that there is evolution in that

aspect of literature.” 227 He also mentions that everything in literature is variable,

arguing against the “art-for-art’s-sake” ideology of the Shinkô geijutsu school. In other

227
Hirabayashi, “Bungei wa shinka suru ka,” HHBHZ, vol. 3, 373.

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essays, he also argued against the White Birch School’s belief that there were eternal

elements in the literary arts. I will turn to this point presently in my discussion of

Hirabayashi’s views regarding I-Novels.

The fact that Shinseinen chose to publish these essays for its young readers in

the 1920s and 30s indicates that it sought ways to show the legitimacy of the new genre

as both artistically and ideologically significant at a time when, because detective

fiction was conceived as popular, lowbrow, and deficient in quality, it was disposable

and not even a category of literature with its own significance. Shinseinen’s publication

of essays by leading critics and writers such as Morishita Uson, Hasegawa Tenkei,

Kosakai Fuboku, Satô Haruo, Baba Kochô, Hagiwara Sakutarô, along with Hirabayashi

shows that it was not only promoting tantei shôsetsu as a window to learn about the

West, but also as a new development within Japan’s own socio-cultural and political

environment.

Thus, in the global context of the ubiquity and legitimacy of detective fiction in

the interwar period, Shinseinen attempted to benefit from the critical discourse of

domestic writers and critics, while at the same time drawing upon a large portion of

authoritative power from Western critics. In particular, it used the authority carried by

G.K. Chesterton to support Hirabayashi’s theory, which was published prior to

Chesterton’s esay. It also used S.S. Van Dine’s essay to show that the West, the

authority of detective fiction as a modern literary genre, was paying attention to the

development of Japan’s own expression of the genre, tantei shôsetsu.

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4.2 Tantei Shôsetsu and Bundan Literature

In addition to his expressly political conception of the genre as a means for

promoting a critically aware social engagement, Hirabayashi’s theorization and

promotion of tantei shôsetsu also includes a critique of the dominant cultural ideologies

of the period, one that challenged both the bundan literary establishment as well as

other newly emergent and competing movements. In his efforts, he challenged both the

bundan literary establishment as well as other newly emergent and competing

movements. Most notably, he attacked the Shirakaba-ha (White Birch School) writers,

who dominated the literary world and advanced their works the repository of

transcendent, universal values. Hirabayashi also challenged the I-novelists’ narcissistic

focus on the “self,” which he criticized for focusing on individual psychological, rather

than social concerns. The tantei shosetsu was not opposed per se to issues of

psychology, especially in its more abnormal aspects. As a matter of fact, abnormal

psychology is one of its most frequent themes. On the whole, however, its focus

differed from the bundan writers’ preoccupation with their characters’ psyches,

primarily by examining psychology within the larger context of society through the

critical eyes of others. By contrast, the I-novel clung to the rhetoric of offering

“unmediated” and faithful descriptions of the authors’ own sinful, miserable and ugly

lives. Similarly, in the 1910s and 1920s, the writers of Shirakaba-ha were another

group that focused on depicting the trivia of their private lives, although they differed

slightly from the Naturalist I-novelists in that they approached the self in a more

affirmative way. The use of the self as a suitable subject for literature was a view

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supported by the majority of Japanese critics and writers at the time as the foundation of

“real” literature. Consequently, tantei shôsetsu was not taken seriously because it was

considered merely “popular,” and being popular meant, by definition, less significant.

Against this dominant conception of literature, Hirabayashi situated himself as a

believer in historical materialism and rejected the mainstream writers’ so-called

“metaphysical thinking” in which they conceived of literature as possessing some sort

of abstract, everlasting values. He argued that any ideological movement was grounded

in a particular time and place. Asserting the importance of journalistic or documentary

expression because it depicts current social circumstances, especially in times of rapid

change, he thus begins one of his essays by quoting the socialist playwright and critic,

George Bernard Shaw, “journalism is the best literature.” Hirabaryashi then goes on in

this essay to say, “the literature that tries to appeal to all eras and all humanity will, in

the end, appeal to no eras and no one.” Later in the same essay, his criticism of

Shirakaba-ha ideology is even more explicit: “the kind of literature that they call eternal

literature, which is claimed to be rooted in the recently popular concept of ‘humanity,’

is a good example [of just such literature of no appeal to anyone].”

At the same time, Hirabayashi also differentiated tantei shôsetsu from other

competing literary forces that were emerging as anti-bundan voices. The New

Sensationalist writers such as Yokomitsu Riichi and Kawabata Yasunari produced

experimental pieces by employing Western high-art Modernist techniques such as

Futurism and stream-of-consciousness. Influenced by Dadaism, Takahashi Kenkichi

and other avant-garde poets produced their modanizumu poetry. It was also the time

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when Shirai Kyôji, influenced by socialist ideology, argued for a literature for the

masses, or taishû shôsetsu, based on an adaptation of the indigenous kôdan tradition of

oral narrative. While many of these new genre grew out of people’s increased interests

in the realization of an individualistic and democratic society during the time of what is

called “Taisho Democracy,” Hirabayashi saw tantei shôsetsu as the best medium for

achieving that goal because it unified the political and artistic aspects of literary

production through the cultivation of an expressly modern critical, rational intelligence

among readers.

Even though he argued for the superiority of tantei shôsetsu over other genres,

Hirabayashi did not entirely discount the importance of Naturalism within the

development of modern Japanese culture. Moreover, his recognition of its significance

as a literary tradition helps to explain the nature of his dispute with more hard-core

proletarian thinkers and their efforts to limit progressive expression strictly to the

category of taishu shôsetsu, or the literature of the masses. Hirabayashi’s 1926 essay

“Puroretaria no bungaku undô” (Proletarian Literary Movements) showcases his

complex thought about the relationship between politics and literature. The essay offers

his reflections on what narrative form is needed in a time when democratic thought was

spreading among the people and socialist movements were beginning to emerge, as

Japan increasingly shows the signs of a high capitalist society.228 Building on the

thought of Jean Gabriel Tarde and Hippolyte Taine, Hirabayashi asserts that “the

‘species’ [note that he is using a biological term here] of literature are closely related to

228
Hirabayashi, “Puroretaria no bungaku undo” originally appeared in the January 1926 issue of Taiyô.
HHBHZ. 241-251.

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changes in the social class system.” He goes on to say that Naturalism came about as a

bourgeois revolution in literature because of the rise of none other than petite bourgeois

society. Yet when that society experiences disruption in the future, its literature will

decline. With the advent of proletarian society, a new breed of literature [more

appropriate to the society] will emerge out of the new social order.229

Unlike radical proletarian thinkers, he acknowledges the significance of

bourgeois literature, but now that it has served its cultural purpose, a new social

organization is beginning to assert itself. Hence, later in the same year, at the end of

1926, he describes the contribution of bourgeois literary expression to Japanese culture

in the following way:

. . . In terms of introducing analytical method to art, credit indeed goes to

Naturalism. However, it is a mistake to think one can see the truth of
things by mere analyses. One has to grasp the relations that tie each
analyzed part to the whole. It is incorrect to think that one can grasp the
true aspects of a human being only by analyzing a person’s appearance,
actions, psychology and so forth. Although analysis is an indispensable
process in art as well, it is only half of the entire process. At the same
time, without analysis, nothing will be found. Either in science or art, it
is not allowed to omit analysis in the name of [a belief in] “instinct.” The
conventional artistic view that only art is allowed to [follow the instinct]
is incorrect. Therefore, what one needs to do with Naturalism is not
ignore it but to go one step beyond it.230

Because he viewed the current state of Japanese society as an era of class

conflict between the bourgeoisie and the proletariat rather than one in which the

229
Hirabayashi, “Puroretaria no bungaku undo,” 245.
230
“Atarashiki ruikei no sôzô: geijutsu-kan danpen” (“Creation of a New Type: Fragments of [My]
Views on Art”) HHBHZ 254-256. Originally appeared in the December 1926 issue of Bungei sensen.
(Literary Front)

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proletariat had emerged as dominant, Hirabayashi considered tantei shôsetsu, with its

combination of both social and artistic concerns, as that next step in the evolution of

Japanese letters. Recognizing the 1920s to be an age of transition, he believed in the

importance of tantei shôsetsu for both marking and helping to bring about the transition

from bourgeois Naturalist literature to a more strictly proletarian mode of expression.

As an indication of his underlying belief in Marxist thought, as well as his

commitment to the value of literary production, however, Hirabayashi repeatedly

argued for the importance of recognizing writers as “workers” within modern

commodity society. In the essays entitled “On the Occupationalization of Art” (1924)

and “On the Vocationalization of Literature and the Issue of the Minimum Wage for

Manuscripts” (1929), for example, he points out that the act of writing constitutes a

form of labor for which wages are paid as remuneration. Consequently, literary

production embodies an expressly economic act, one that both obeys the laws of the

marketplace and allows for direct social engagement. This view represented an

iconoclastic stance adopted vis-a-vis the existing Naturalist bundan ideology, which had

constructed the image of the writer as an entity completely isolated from economic and

public concerns. Hirabayashi’s conception of the writer as an economic being connects

with his promotion of tantei shôsetsu as an effective form of social engagement. In

addition, it reflects a pervasive concern of the times, one that other figures such as Tani

Joji would later take up and pursue in their own efforts to configure the dimensions of

the genre.

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4.3 Hirabayashi’s Literary Practice: His Tantei Shôsetsu

In contrast to hard-core proletarian writers such as Maedakô Hiroichirô and

Aono Suekichi, who claimed that literature ought to function as a vehicle to disseminate

political ideology, as a writer of tantei shôsetsu Hirabayashi took care not to feature

overt ideological propaganda as the central theme of his stories when he practiced his

theories. Among his seventeen tantei shôsetsu,231 fourteen of them were published in

Shinseinen. The first appeared in the January 1926 issue, or seven months after his first

critical essay on tantei shôsetsu for Shinseinen,232 and he continued to write an average

of two to three stories a year until his untimely death due to acute pancreatitis during his

stay in France in 1931. While the themes vary, we can still observe the consistency

with which Hirabayashi practiced his own ideas in the production of fiction.233

Since none of these tales are available in translation, a summary of each story

follows:

(1) “Yoshin chôsho” (The Minutes of the Preliminary Examination), January

1926.

The story begins with questions and answers at a preliminary hearing conducted by a

judge with an old professor whose son is being tried for a murder that took place in an

231
They are all short stories of less than twenty pages.
232
“Nihon no kindaiteki tantei shôsetsu: toku ni Edogawa Rampo-shi ni tsuite.” I discussed this essay
earlier in this chapter.
233
Incidentally, I will exclude his third work from this discussion because it was part of a story made up
by six writers working on it in turn in six installments. Shinseinen chose six most popular and influential
tantei shôsetsu writers at the time and requested them to relay the story to compose one piece of mystery
fiction. Edogawa Rampo wrote the first installment in May of 1926, and Hirabayashi, Morishita Uson,
Kôga Saburô, Kunieda Shirô and Kosakai Fuboku followed in successive issues. For the reason that he
had to work within the outline set by Rampo, the story does not necessarily reflect Hirabayashi’s
particular interests, although it still shows some common characteristics that is shared in his other works.

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empty house owned by the professor. In order to save his son from having to face a

trial, the professor lies to the judge, saying that he, and not his son, committed the

crime. Meanwhile, it turns out that the son has confessed to the murder because he

believes his father was the real killer. On the basis of other evidence, however, the

judge suspects that neither father nor son is the murderer. He asks questions in such a

skillful manner that, although the professor thinks he is fooling the judge, the father is

actually manipulated to provide important clues to the truth. In the end, it turns that the

judge conducted the hearing to prove the innocence of the father and the son, and to

prove his hypothesis that a third party actually committed the crime.

(2) “Giseisha” (Victim), May 1926.

The protagonist, Imamura, is a company employee. He makes very little money, but he

works hard and lives economically with his wife because he has a humble dream of

purchasing a small house for his wife and their baby, who will be born in several

months. One night, he is mistakenly arrested for murdering the janitor at the company,

and the wrongful arrest destroys his entire life and the only dream that he had. It

appears he will be in prison for the rest of his life. His wife suffers a miscarriage due to

the shock of her husband’s arrest; and she is taken back to her old hometown by her

family, which believes she should never return to Tokyo. In short, the “victim” in this

story is not the murdered janitor, but ironically, Imamura because his life is jeopardized

by coincidental factors: he happened to drop his glove at work in the spot where the

janitor was dead; he had to walk home from work that night because heavy snow

stopped the train service; as he was walking home, he was hit over the head by

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something—perhaps a tree branch breaking under the heavy weight of the snow—and

he lay unconscious on the ground for a couple of hours. All of this circumstantial

evidence seems to point to him as the killer. Working under the preconception that

Imamura is the criminal, the detective assigned to the case misinterprets every single

answer that Imamura gives him. In other words, the detective reads all the information

that Imamura provides as signs of guilt. Although detective strictly follows legal

procedure in collecting evidence and asking questions to the suspect in order to perform

its duty, and the police are honor-bound to “produce [seizô suru] a criminal” under the

law, ironically enough they are victimizing an innocent man and his family. The story

is narrated by Imamura’s attorney, who believes and has been hired to prove the

innocence of Imamura, and he believes in Imamura’s innocence. His comment,

however, is interesting: “[the fact that Imamura is innocent] and whether he will be

proven not guilty from a legal point of view are two separate issues.” Hence, he does

not think he can guarantee a fair trial because “the judicial system of our country – no,

not only our country but any others in this world – insists on the formalities [keishiki-

shugi].” Moreover, although Imamura might well deny what he was made to “confess”

during his first interrogation, he will never do so because he believes that a man should

stand by his word. The attorney fears Imamura will never have a chance to prove his

innocence.

Shortly before the trial date, the narrator chats with his close friend and co-

worker, Segawa, who tells him the president of the company where Imamura worked

has just committed suicide. Drawing connections between the suicide and the murder

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case, the attorney concludes that the president of the company is the actual killer and

that he framed Imamura. To this theory, Segawa replies; “For someone like you who is

engaged in law, all the phenomena in the human world may appear to be occurring

within the realm of law, and everything may seem to be interconnected, and all those

interconnected things may appear to be manipulated by human will to unfold as

planned.” Is it possible that the janitor had a heart attack and then hit his head as he fell

on the floor, instead of having a heart attack after being hit on the head? Meanwhile,

the injury to Imamura’s head looks like it may have been caused by a fallen branch,

because Segawa finds one at the spot the following morning. Finally, the fact that

Imamura’s glove was found beside the janitor does not categorically connect him to the

case. While the attorney speculates that the president may have committed suicide

because of guilt over killing the janitor, it also comes to light that his company recently

went bankrupt. The attorney feels helpless in the face of the fact that almost any

explanation is possible in this case but, under the current law, he cannot prove

Imamura’s innocence. He resigns himself to defending his client only because it is his

job, and he dispels his doubts about the unfairness of the law by having a good time

with Segawa over sake that evening.

(3) “Himitsu” (Secret), September 1926.

The protagonist/narrator is a translator at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. One day, he

meets a woman with exactly the same koseki (family register record) as his wife. Their

names, permanent addresses and alma maters are all identical. It turns out that his

wife’s father was imprisoned after accidentally killing his colleague. He subsequently

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escaped from prison during the chaos of the Great Kantô Earthquake of 1923. In order

to protect his daughter from the stigma of having a criminal for a father, he falsely

entered her name in his old employer’s family register because he heard the entire

family was killed in the earthquake. No one, he thought, would ever suspect his

daughter’s real identity. It was easy to perpetrate such a trick because the fires caused

by the earthquake destroyed all of the family registers at the prefecture office. “The

Secret” is a relatively simple story whose only dramatic part comes when the

protagonist meets the woman of exactly the same record as his wife’s as he goes

secretly to see his old lover.

(4) “Yamabuki-chô no satsujin” (Murder in Yamabuki Town), January 1927.

The protagonist is Ôya Sanshirô, a college graduate who works for a government office

in Tokyo. While still a law student, he met a woman named Mitsuko, a waitress at a

café in Asakusa. They were never lovers, but as a “self-proclaimed feminist,” he

decides to support her financially for “humanitarian reasons” so that he can save her

from the “slavery” of working under poor conditions in a café. Meanwhile, Sanshirô’s

fiancée, Yoshiko, grows suspicious of the relationship between Sanshiô and Mitsuko.

One day, Mitsuko is found murdered, and Sanshirô believes Yoshiko is the killer. He

worries over how to save her from being arrested. Yoshiko believes, on the other hand,

that Sanshirô may be the culprit. A private eye named Ueno Yôtarô becomes involved

in the case, and just as the police are ready to arrest Sanshirô, Ueno reaches the

conclusion that one of Mitsuko’s old clients, a man named Kimi, is the criminal. Kimi

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sent phony telegraphs to Mitsuko to create his alibi, but Ueno checks the timing of a

train schedule, and sees through Kimi’s deception.

(5) “Dare ga naze kare o koroshita ka” (Who Killed Him for What Reason?),

April 1927.

A murder case goes into a blind alley. The narrator/protagonist is a layperson who

ratiocinates on the case by using mathematic skills to determine who is the real killer.

Hirabayashi formulates the story in such a way that the narrator sends his conclusions

to Shinseinen and asks its readers to give their responses.

(6) “Jinzô ningen” (A Man-made Man), April 1928.

This is a tale of a scientist who claims to be engaged in an experiment to create a “man-

made man,” which the mass media sensationally report as “a human being born in a test

tube.” A feminist writes that “this will liberate women from pregnancy and childbirth.”

A eugenicist exclaims, “it provides eugenics with a rational foundation!” A jurist

comments, “It will upset current laws entirely.” The trick of the story, however, proves

relatively crude. The experiment was a scheme devised by the married scientist who

made his female lab assistant pregnant. He attempted to make her baby look like a

“man-made baby.”

(7) “Dôbutsuen no ichiya” (A Night at the Zoo), October 1928.

This piece does not involve puzzle solving, but it is a well written tale about a young

man who spends a night at Ueno Zoo in Tokyo. The protagonist lost his job six months

earlier, and unable to find new work, has only a 10-sen coin remaining. His landlady’s

attitude toward him changed drastically once she realized that he was penniless.

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Because he has no family, relatives or close friends in town, he has nowhere to go. That

day, he spends his last cent on visiting the zoo. He envies the animals because they live

in a safe place and they never have to worry about food. Reluctant to return to his

apartment where the landlady is ready to kick him out, he decides to stay at the zoo after

closing hours. There, he contemplates his life. He is a college graduate, and he was

regarded as an able worker at the company—a clear indication that he was fired only

because of the long-term recession in Japan at the time. He understands there are

thousands of unemployed people in Tokyo, yet he cannot understand why he must be

one of them. He has no idea how to survive. Terribly depressed, he is about to lie

down in the bushes of kumazasa plants when he unexpectedly hears a low but sharp

voice behind his back. Suddenly, he realizes a man is pointing a gun at him. The

stranger says, “Give me the bag.” But when the man with the gun realizes his victim is

not the man he was looking for, he stops acting hostile to him. It turns out the stranger

is a leader of a famous secret society, and the police are after him. A few days ago, he

had put a “secret document” in a bag and hid it in the zoo, which he asked another

member of the society to retrieve. However, he came back that night to get it because

he found out that the other member was a spy. The “secret document” is a notebook,

which contains a confidential list of the members of the secret society. The leader

needed to protect the information from the spy so that his fellow members will not be

arrested. When the spy comes to the place where the bag is hidden, the leader and the

protagonist hide. The leader switches the notebook with a fake one without the spy

having noticed it. But later, the spy realizes that the notebook was switched, and he

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returns with the police. The leader and the protagonist escape by running in a waterway

and through a long tunnel that leads them outside. At one point, the protagonist thinks

about snatching the notebook and taking it to the police because he remembers that

newspapers had described the leader as the prime suspect of a recent “serious case.”

However, as he learns that the leader is a friendly, bright, and heroic person, the

negative image fed to the newspapers by the police is transformed into a positive one.

Meanwhile, the police are presented as totally incompetent. They do not even know

there is the tunnel that connects the zoo to the outside.

(8) “Kamen no otoko” (Man with a Mask), March 1929.

The protagonist is a newspaper reporter who also has a secret identity as a “Man with a

Mask.” He is a chivalrous robber who robs the rich and disseminates money to the

poor. His robberies are motivated by his past experience. When he graduated from

school, he could not find a job due to the recession. As a result, his fiancée’s family

opposed his marrying their daughter. The target of the man’s grudge is the judicial

authority. He feels the current laws are unfair, and in order to challenge the judicial

authority, he commits crimes but is never caught. The outline of the story is a typical

“chivalrous robber” story like England’s Robin Hood, France’s Arsene Lupin, or

Japan’s Nezumi-kozô. However, the striking difference is that the protagonist is

constantly embroiled in a dilemma over whether his crime will ever fundamentally

solve the problems of social injustice in any fundamental way. In addition, de does not

possess the emotional detachment of a super-hero. He agonizes whenever he commits a

crime to help the poor.

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 (9) “Watashi wa kôshite shinda!” (This is How I Died!), June 1929.

The story is narrated from the perspective of a factory hand. A year ago, he became a

candidate in the first general election since universal male suffrage was enacted in 1925.

He ran as a candidate of a proletarian party, and the other two proletarian parties

decided to support him. However, he suddenly withdrew his candidacy without any

explanation. After maintaining silence for a year, he now explains in this note that it

was because he “died a year ago.” During the campaign, he requested a copy of his

family register record from his hometown office as a document necessary for filing his

candidacy, only to discover that someone had reported him as dead a few days before.

After some private investigation, he discovers that a rival conservative party tried to

abort his election campaign. The protagonist does not correct the family register,

however, imagining that he can now live freely without being controlled by the

government. The issue of universal suffrage in the story is very timely, but the reason

for the protagonist’s withdrawal from candidacy is weak, considering that he was in a

crucial position to win the election as the sole candidate from the proletarian parties.

(10) “Aru tanpô kisha no hanashi” (The Tale of a Newspaper Reporter),

December 1929.

Because of a scandalous report that he wrote, a newspaper reporter gets a bonus.

Because of the article, however, an innocent woman commits suicide. The story’s main

theme is how merciless journalism can be in probing into people’s secrets. At the same

time, the story also takes on as a secondary topic of contemporary interest, namely

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“prenatal care of an unborn child” or “prenatal education” (taikyô). A gynecologist

announces a highly questionable theory on prenatal education, claiming that a newborn

baby will resemble whomever the mother has in mind during pregnancy. He advances

it as a new theory that emphasizing the effects of psychology on physical traits. It turns

out, however, that the doctor was using the theory to hide his rape of a patient. The

newspaper reporter writes an exposé, and produces another scoop: the suicide of the

woman who gave birth to the gynecologist’s baby.

(11) “Apâto no satsujin” (A Murder in an Apartment), July 1930.

A famous movie actress is murdered in her apartment, and visitors to her room the day

of the murder are in court. The story follows the basic structure of a locked-room

murder case, presenting the testimony of each suspect. The killer, it turns out, is none

of the victim’s boyfriends but a girl involved in a same-sex relationship with her. Since

no clue or foreshadowing of this relationship is presented earlier in the story, this

ending is particularly forced and abrupt. As seen from the title, Hirabayashi was

obviously attracted to the idea of using the modern space of an apâto (apartment) as the

place that allowed the crime to be committed out without notice. While the first

apartment building in Japan was built in Ueno in 1910, the concept of living in an apâto

became increasingly popular as a symbol of modern life after many apartment buildings

started appearing in Tokyo especially after the Great Kantô Earthquake in 1923. The

Dôjunkai apartments (some of which are still standing as seen in the stylish

neighborhood of Harajuku, Tokyo) were the most stylish and modern concrete

apartment buildings, and many newly constructed residential buildings were named as

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“Den’en apâto” and so forth, although the quality of the buildings were something more

akin to tenement houses.234 In this short story, the residence of the actress is an

apartment because of her modern living style. The apartment is an ideal place for the

flirtatious actress. She can meet with several men on the same day without being

caught because of the telephone in her room and the privacy afforded her by the

concrete apartment. Ironically, however, that privacy also leads to her death.

(12) “Tetsu no kiritsu” (Iron Rules), August 1931.

This piece was published in Shinseinen two months after Hirabayashi’s untimely death.

At the end of the story, the editorial staff writes: “The greatest authority in Japan’s

critical world, and our fondly-remembered tantei shôsetsu writer, Hirabayashi

Hatsunosuke, has passed away,” very briefly acknowledging Hirabayashi’s

accomplishments both as a writer and critic.

This story concerns the dilemma facing a member of a highly radical secret

society called Dai Nippon seigi-tô (Great Nippon Justice Party) faces. Rumor has it that

membership in the party has reached 100,00, and members have secretly blended into

every corner of society, working even as government officials. Meanwhile, the police

have sent spies to infiltrate the party. One evening, two members are called upon to

assassinate an official in charge of Tôa-kyoku, the government bureau that deals with

East Asia. The top official has taken an aggressive stance on Japan’s diplomacy with

nation X, even to the point of risking war. When the party saw no change in diplomatic

234
See Sone Hiroyoshi, “’Apâto’ no ‘kodoku’” for more details of what “apartment” signified to Japanese
in the late 1920s. Sone Hiroyoshi. “‘Apâto’ no kodoku: shingo kara mita kindai Nihonjin no seikatsu to
kannen,” Shingo jiten no kenkyû to kaidai (Tokyo: Ôzorasha, 1996) 111-133

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policy, and after “advising” this top official to change his position, it decided to deliver

the “punishment from Heaven” (tenchû). The two assassins are never allowed to know

each other’s identity. They wear masks during their meetings, and they use only an

identification number to address each other. Everything about the party is to be kept a

secret, even if they are arrested. Such are the “iron rules” of the party. Later it is

discovered that one of the assassins was the top official’s son. The son was committed

to obeying all the orders from the party, but he could not kill his own father. In the end,

he sacrifices himself for his father and dies in a fake car accident set up by the party.

(13) “Nazo no onna” (A Mysterious Woman), New Year’s Special, 1932.

This piece was begun just before Hirabayashi’s death and left unfinished. Shinseinen

published it six months after his death and asked readers to provide a sequel.

Shinseinen received fifty contributions, and in the March 1932 issue, Fuyuki

Kônosuke’s piece was selected for publication. “Fuyuki Kônosuke” was actually a pen

name for Inoue Yasushi who would become famous for his historical novels following

World War II. But in 1932, he was an amateur.235 Considering that Shinseinen

requested collaboration series (gassaku) and relay works (rensaku) from its leading

writers, as pointed out in Rampo’s memoir,236 and also that it Shinseinen held regular

prize contests to elicit original works from readers, it can be said the sequel of “Nazo no

onna” was as yet another example of the magazine highlighting the act of writing as an

intellectual activity open to anyone involved with the magazine. The prize winner, an

235
See the caption for a photograph of the Fuyuki piece on page 126 of Yokomizo Seishi to “Shinseinen”
no sakka-tachi, Tokyo: Setagaya Bungakukan, 1995.
236
ERZ, vol 20. 108-109. Also see Nakajima’s “Rensaku, gassaku tantei shôsetsu-shi,” NSS, vol. 3.
236-243.

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amateur writer, picks up the setting as Hirabayashi had left it: A newspaper reporter

meets a mysterious, beautiful woman at a resort hotel where he is staying to finish some

writing; she asks the reporter to “act as a husband to her” for ten days without

explaining why. However, the tone and plot that Fuyuki develops differs considerably

from Hirabayashi’s other works. “Nazo no onna” develops into the story of a

sadomasochistic relationship between the beautiful woman and her rich but ugly

husband (whom she calls a “slug”). It is far more reminiscent of Edogawa Rampo’s

Imomushi (Caterpillar), which appeared in Shinseinen in 1929.

While Hirabayashi did not oppose to Van Dine’s credo of “no love interest

plots,” he did not consider romance the principal concern of tantei shôsetsu, either. As

seen in stories six, ten and thirteen, love-hate relationships are used as necessary

elements in emplotting crimes or some sort of wrong doing, but they never function as

the main subject. The difference between Fuyuki’s sequel to Hirabayashi’s “Nazo no

onna” reminds us of the distinction that Hirabayashi’s made in coining the term “kenzen

na tantei shôsetsu (healthy detective fiction)” 237 to describe such stories as those of as

Masaki Fujokyû versus “fu-kenzen na tantei shôsetsu (unhealthy detective fiction)” such

as those by Edogawa Rampo that deal with the themes of abnormal psychology in a

sensationalistic manner, i.e., what has come to be called “ero-guro-nansensu” (the

erotic, the grotesque and the nonsensical). As he discussed in his critique, tantei

shôsetsu for Hirabayashi is what clear and rationally minded people read. It is also

237
Hirabayashi, “Tantei shôsetsu no shokeikô,” HHBHZ, vol. 2. 340-347. Originally appeared in the
March 1926 Shinseinen. I have already discussed the dispute among critics and writers over “healthy”
and “unhealthy” kinds of tantei shôsetsu in the previous chapter..

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what helps people to be more rational. Consequently, it should never end with

inexplicable abnormal behaviors or a conclusion in which some monster commits a

crime. For that reason, even when Hirabayashi takes up a rather sensational topic such

as the “man-made human being,” the ending discloses that the baby was used to cover

up the scientist’s secret.

While Hirabayashi’s stories emphasize the rational faculties of human being and

the process of ratiocination, of the thirteen stories, only in numbers one and eleven does

an individual connected with the police or judicial authorities solve the mystery. In

story number five, it is a layperson, whose motivation for finding the murderer appears

to arise purely out of personal curiosity, explains his version of the murder scenario and

even invites the participation of the readers in the sleuthing process by asking for their

feedback. Although not a professional detective, his reasoning is supported by

statistical data and the theory of probability applied to the facts presented by the police.

As a matter of fact, not only are the police frequently presented as incompetent, but they

also often constitute a threat to, rather than protecting, the rights, freedom and peaceful

lives of the general public.

In more extreme situations, Hirabayashi depicts the situation from the

perspective of anti-government or proletarian activists who attempt to gain power in the

political world (See summaries 7, 9, and 12). He also depicts the importance of unity

among the members of the activist organizations (12), and the possibility of spies

among the members (7). In short, the activists need to trust each other to realize their

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ideological goals of unity, but they must also be careful not to get spied on or betrayed.

More particularly, truth and justice are not singular, indisputable states, but they exists

in as wide a variety as the number of different ideologies. This seems to reflect

Hirabayashi’s own experience of being active in proletarian and communist

organizations, and also as a literary critic of both highbrow and lowbrow literary genres.

Hirabayashi repeatedly criticizes the judicial system. In the October 1928 issue

in which “A Night at the Zoo” appeared, he wrote an essay titled “Haja kenshô,” a

Buddhist term that means “Defeating the Wrong View and Presenting the Right One”.

The first section of the essay is entitled “keimusho shukushô-an” (A Proposal for

Reducing the Number of Prisons), and it discusses the incompetence and unfairness of

the (criminal) law. He sarcastically points out that the authorities are “producing” or

“manufacturing” (seizô) criminals by arresting many more than they can properly

convict, and therefore the prisons are filled with the people awaiting trial. He refers

here to the Maintenance of the Public Order Act which went into effect in 1925

primarily to suppress Communist and fellow travelers by giving them the maximum

sentences and repressing freedom of speech and thought. He criticizes the government

for rounding up nearly 400 people under the new Act and incarcerating as long as

possible, while not arresting politicians who received bribes or committed election

offenses. As Hirano Ken has argued, “A Night at the Zoo” may have been inspired by

the spy scandal within the Japan Communist Party that led to the infamous “3-15

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Incident of March 15, 1928, only a few months before the publication of this story.238

Hirabayashi himself became a member of the Communist Party shortly after its

founding in 1922. Although he was not one of the executive members arrested in June

1923, the police put him under surveillance and had him followed everywhere. He was

also experiencing a gap between his moderate way of promoting leftist thought and

more radical methods for disseminating the communist ideology.

Also relevant to our discussion here is knowledge of the relation that people had

with the conservative concept of family, especially in the days when there was large

influx population into large cities, the growth of the new middle class, and a breaking

away from the traditional ties of the extended family. The importance of the family

register system loomed much larger in people’s minds during Hirabayashi’s time. “This

is How I Died!” is too short a piece to dig into the issue of the relation of the pre-

modern and feudalistic family (ie) system to laws in modern Japan, but it is one

example of Hirabayashi’s interest in depicting the legal problems that, ironically

enough, does not protect law-abiding citizens. Instead, by the manipulation of

information in official papers, one can free him/herself from human ties. At the same

time, handling people’s lives merely as pieces of information and its attendant problems

are highlighted in stories two, three, and nine. Story number ten can also be included in

the sense that the information that a newspaper reporter desires as a source of extra

income destroys the lives of several people.

238
In the incident, 1600 people were arrested and tortured as Communists. This incident went unreported
by the mass media for a month because of a government order to suppress it.

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4.4 Conclusion

Hirabayashi Hatsunosuke’s theorization and promotion of tantei shôsetsu as the

ideal narrative form for negotiating the advent of modernity in Japan argues that the

genre was not disposable entertainment but a means to engage in the political and

cultural debates of the period. He theorized the significance of the new form as

“intellectual” literature that cultivated a reader’s logical and critical thought about the

current social situation. He believed that tanteishôsetsu combined both ideological

utility and artistic expression into a single literary mode. It should be stressed that his

message about the need to cultivate critical minds was targeted at the newly emerging

middle-class, a basically petit bourgeois group. It was educated, but it suffered from

poor working conditions due to the serious economic depression that followed after

WWI and the centralization of the workforce in large cities because of advancements in

the system of production in urban spaces. In essence, he was calling upon this new

middle class to use cool rationality in examining both radical socialist movements and

the nationalist government’s oppression of socialists and anarchists in the 1920s. The

readers of Shinseinen were an exact fit for this group in that they were educated young

adults, many of whom experiencing directly or indirectly the insecurities of being either

out of work or suffering from depressed labor conditions.

Despite Hirabayashi’s clarion call for highly rational mode of detective fiction,

in actual fact the tantei shôsetsu that appeared in the pages of Shinseinen became

steadily less so, moving instead in the direction of the sensationalism of abnormal

psychology or even parody of every aspect of the formulae typical of the genre. For all

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of Hirabayashi’s good intentions and critical insights, the evolution of detective fiction

lay in the hands of the writers themselves. His own works indicate that his critical

powers notwithstanding his stories pale in comparison with those of other writers. The

effects of such writers as Tani Joji and Hisao Jûran who operated along side

Hirabayashi, and those who followed in the wake of his death, attest to both the

flexibility and the diverse meaning of the new genre in the context of interwar Japanese

culture.

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 CHAPTER 5

HASEGAWA KAITARÔ: TWISTS OF SUBJECTIVITY

Introduction

As discussed in the previous chapter, Shinseinen constituted the primary venue

for a variety of debates on tantei shôsetsu from 1920 to 1950. The magazine developed

the discourse on detective fiction in Japan by welcoming heated discussions among

various participants, ranging from high profile critics and literary figures to newly

emerging, popular writers. Thus, while the genre name, tantei shôsetsu, remained in

use from the 1890s through the 1950s, the definition of the genre continued to be

multivalent and in flux.

Among those involved in the discursive formation of the genre, the proletarian

leader and social/literary critic Hirabayashi Hatsunosuke stands out as the prominent

and persistent advocate of a ratiocinative approach to tantei shôsetsu, or one that

employed the structure of (1) the presentation of a mystery or crime; (2) the process of

attempting to discover the source of the mystery (i.e., the culprit); and (3) a dénouement

in which the mystery is resolved. As discussed in Chapters Three and Four, the

magazine’s editorial staff and its advisors promoted tantei shôsetsu on the basis that the

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ratiocination formula was perfect for cultivating the capacity to be critical of

contemporary society in young minds. In broader terms, those involved with

Shinseinen and the development of tantei shôsetsu sought to redefine the meaning of

“seinen” within the context of the socio-political changes commonly referred to as

modernity. Where Meiji and early Taisho conceptions of “seinen” generally involved a

sincere commitment to self-cultivation as a reflection of national devotion informed by

the ideology of shûyô, writers and critics involved with Shinseinen worked to recast the

term to mean, in the words of the magazine’s second editor-in-chief Yokomizo Seishi,

“modan bôi (“modern boys” or mobo).239 In other words, they attempted to situate the

idea of “youth” specifically within the development of modern commodity society.

Of the various features of this modern identity promoted by Shinseinen writers

and critics, the most important was an attitude of critical investigation rather than any

fixed or definitive set of traits or behaviors. It comes as no surprise, moreover, that this

attitude of critical investigation came to be directed at the tantei shôsetsu itself. This

led, in turn, to various interrogations of the genre. Although Hirabayashi remained

influential enough to lead Shinseinen’s editorial decisions throughout the 1920s and

until his premature death in 1931, by the mid-1920s, the highly logical, puzzle-solving

type of detective fiction was being replaced increasingly by short-shorts that directed

their critical and analytical attention to the formulaic aspects of tantei shôsetsu and

adopted a satirical and parodic approach to the genre. Writers began to deconstruct

239
In the editorial notes for the Number 4 (March) 1926 issue of Shinseinen, Yokomizo writes: “The
English translation of the title, Shinseinen, is Modern Boy. Modern Boy may sound too modern to be a
magazine title, but in any case, no other name sounds newer than this. In the same spirit, we will act
modern.”

154
detective fiction by self-consciously, if never systematically on a large scale,

challenging its governing rules. This process of deconstruction yielded a variety of new

modes of expression that included, for example, single or multi-panel cartoons that

incorporated dialogue humorously out of sync with the depicted scene, as well as

extremely short, ironic narratives called “konto” (after the French word “conte”).

As part of its commercial sales and marketing practice, Shinseinen solicited and

published stories from readers of the magazine, and many of these consumer-producers

were responsible for expanding against the established boundaries of tantei shosetsu as

a literary genre. The most important and popular of the writers who challenged the

established orthodoxy of tantei shôsetsu during the 1920s was Hasegawa Kaitarô, who

wrote under three separate pen names: Tani Jôji, Maki Itsuma, and Hayashi Fubô.

Interestingly enough, by subverting the governing assumptions and practices of the

tantei shôsetsu, Kaitarô not only earned for himself a devoted following among his

readers, as well as financial success, but he also improved the fortunes of Shinseinen as

a commercial publication. During a roundtable discussion on Shinseinen hosted by

Edogawa Rampo in 1957 and published in the magazine, Hôseki, Morishita Uson,

Mizutani Jun and Jô Masayuki – all former editors of the magazine – pointed out that

Tani played a critical role in the changes that led to an increase in sales during the

second half of the 1920s.240 Morishita cited specifically three innovations – Tani’s

’Merican-Jap short-shorts, his translations of Western comic stories, and his original

pieces that were less than a page, or what Morishita called hitokuchi-banashi – as

240
“Shinseinen rekidai henshûchô zadankai,” Hôseki (December 1982) 98-119. Also see the section titled
“Publications about Shinseinen and Its Writers: the 1960s to the Present” in Chapter 3 of this dissertation.

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having given Shinseinen a “contemporary feeling” (jidai kankaku) that it lacked when it

had focused on tantei shôsetsu of a more serious nature prior to 1925. An examination

of back numbers of Shinseinen from 1924 and 1925 helps us understand Morishita’s

point. In comparison with the magazine’s earlier, heavy emphasis on the mystery

fiction of ratiocination in translations or original works, Kaitarô’s short-shorts are much

more concerned with satirically describing the socio-cultural aspects of news incidents

from a journalistic perspective. They introduced new customs, fashions, technology,

and ideology in everyday American life through the perspective of the Japanese living

abroad. It was this “feel for the age” that caught the attention of Shimanaka Yûsaku,

the editor at Chûô Kôron Company and legendary figure in the publishing world.241

Even when these stories appeared in the magazine’s special issues devoted to tantei

shôsetsu, they focused on petty crimes, primarily swindling. The main theme was not

the resolution of a puzzle but the depiction of how people of no stable social position,

and hence no fixed identity, survived by using their wits. Kaitarô made his debut in

Shinseinen in January 1925, contributing regularly until 1927. During those three years,

his modernist style of writing speedy and snappy narratives and journalistic, tongue-in-

cheek satires caught the attention of major newspapers and magazines. Subsequently he

drifted away from Shinseinen.

Nevertheless, as the above comment makes clear, Kaitarô played a crucial role

both in the success of Shinseinen as a commercial publication and in the development of

new approaches and conceptions of tantei shosetsu as a distinct literary genre.

241
Shimanaka dispatched Kaitarô to Europe to serve as the magazine’s European correspondent from
March 1928 to June 1929.

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Accordingly, in the following two chapters I shall examine the life and work of

Hasegawa Kaitarô, as well as the significance of his contributions to Shinseinen. This

chapter focuses on the principal events of his life; the next examines his stories. We

will consider examples of his more orthodox tantei shôsetsu narratives, such as “The

Shanghaied Man,” which departs in important ways from established formulae. We

will also discuss his more popular ’Merican-Jap stories. Through their constant

undermining of the idea of a stable personal identity, they reveal not only his

increasingly ironic approach to the genre, but also his growing disenchantment with the

values that had informed the discursive articulation of tantei shôsetsu since its

inception. In this way I shall seek to illuminate the significance of these two different

types of stories.

5.2 Hasegawa Kaitarô and His Father

Hasegawa Kaitarô was born January 16, 1900 on Sado Island in Niigata

Prefecture, the first son of Hasegawa Yoshio (1871–1942) and his wife, Yuki (1882-

1971)242. The Hasegawa family had worked as government officials in the kinza, or

mint, operated on Sado Island by the Tokugawa government, but they lost their

hereditary position when the office was closed after the Meiji Restoration. The

restoration also led to closing of the Bakufu-run school in Sado. In its place, Maruyama

242
The kanji for Hasegawa Kaitarô is . Kaitarô’s father’s given name was Kiyoshi, but in
1907 he changed it to Yoshio . Yoshio also used the pen names Rakuten ( ) and Seimin ( )
as journalist for the newspapers Hakodate shinbun and Hokkai shinbun. The dates for Yuki ( ) are
from Kawasaki Kenko, Karera no Shôwa, Tokyo: Hakusuisha, 1994. But Kawasaki and Eguchi
Yûsuke’s Tani Jôji, Sôsho Shinseinen series, Tokyo: Hakubunkan shinsha, 1995 gives Yuki’s year of
birth as 1880.

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Meihoku (dates unknown), a former teacher at the Bakufu-school and Confucian

scholar, opened a private school, which became a center for anti-Meiji sentiment. Some

students such as Hanyû Ikujirô became advocates of the Movement for Liberty and

Popular Rights (jiyû minken undô), which called for the establishment of a national

assembly.243 Hasegawa Yoshio (then Kiyoshi) graduated from a local elementary

school, completed his education at Meihoku’s school in the early1880s. He moved to

Tokyo and eventually studied law at Tokyo Imperial University. It was an era when

social reforms were the topic of heated debate, and political novels flourished. Yoshio

never finished his university degree due to financial hardships which forced him to

return to Sado Island at the time of his father’s death in 1891. After teaching at the

local higher elementary school (kôtô shôgakkô) for several years, he became a teacher at

the newly-founded, first middle school in Sado. He taught English using novels by

Dickens, Marx’s theory of surplus value, and Benjamin Kidd’s writings on Social

Darwinism. Yoshio also taught natural history following Oka Asajirô’s work on

evolutionary theory. He was said to have influenced the ideological development of his

students, including Kita Ikki who was later to become a prominent national socialist and

major leader in the February 26 Incident of 1936.244 He also joined a local waka group,

composing poetry under the pen name of Rakuten and publishing in the coterie’s

magazine and in a local newspaper, Sado shinbun.

243
Matsumoto Ken’ichi, Sado Konmyûn josetsu and Kotô konmyûn-ron. Discussed in Kawasaki Kenko,
Karera no Shôwa: Hasegawa Kaitarô, Rinjirô, Shun, Shirô (Tokyo: Hakusuisha, 1994) 14-15.
244
See Matsumoto Ken’ichi’s Wakaki Kita Ikki and Kotô konmyûn-ron. Discussed in Karera no Shôwa,
15.

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 Yoshio married in 1899. Yuki had an abiding interest in waka and was from a

family that produced Confucian scholar/medical doctors (jui) for generation after

generation on Sado Island. The family had been closely connected with Maruyama

Meihoku since before the Meiji Restoration.

In 1900, Yoshio began to write a series of essays for Sado shinbun, which

argued for a new education system. He wrote in support of a democratic society. His

principal argument was the importance of popular education in each local district and

the promotion of decentralization of government power (chihô bunken). He believed in

the necessity of educating not only the privileged classes in urban areas but also the

general public and rural population.245 In 1901, he became a founding member of the

political periodical, Ôdô, contributed articles on political and economic issues.246 He

identified his political position as ichigen-shugi, or “monism,” a term suggesting the

unity and integration of ideas. It appears, however, that his approach was eclectic and

random. He absorbed ideas, old or new, and in the process, adopted different concepts

in fragments. It was as though he preferred to be up-to-date with the current trends

rather than stick to one ideology. For example, he learned the philosophy and politics

of the ancient Chinese sages when he studied with Maruyama Meihoku; at Tokyo

Imperial University, he was exposed to the ideas of constitutionalism, party politics and

the decentralization of government power. His openness to new ideas made him an

245
See Kawasaki Kenko, Karera no Shôwa, 17.
246
Ôdô ( ). A socialist monthly periodical. The first issue was published in November 1901, and
Yoshio was the one who came up with the name of the magazine. The term ôdô, “kingly way” or
“statesmanship,” is an ideal political ideology of virtue in the ancient Chinese Confucian thought, and it
is the opposite of hadô ( ), the way of governing a state with military power and wiles.

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active journalist with romantic ambitions about social revolution. As a matter of fact,

he left the Ôdô group after the appearance of only the first three issues -- an indication

perhaps of the constantly shifting and evolving nature of his progressive ideas. In 1902,

he became actively interested in the universal male suffrage movement after reading the

writings of Inukai Tsuyoshi (1855-1932). When he was given a chance to become

shuhitsu or chief columnist and editor for Hokkai shinbun, he moved to Hakodate with

his wife and two-year-old son, Kaitarô, with the goal of spreading new ideas to the

people of Hakodate. The position of shuhitsu was an important and prominent one in

any newspaper, and as if to signal his emergence as a journalist, he changed his first

name from Kiyoshi to Yoshio, and began using the new pen name, Seimin. While

enthusiastically supporting the idea of an egalitarian society, he was also a strong

believer in the concept that the Emperor was the core of the Japanese state. He argued

for the idea of national polity (kokutai) by using the arguments of Social Darwinism and

defining himself as a state socialist; he did not agree with leftwing reformists who

contended that the entire structure of the nation needed to be altered and the emperor

eliminated. He argued that the “natural evolution” was the best way to improve

Japanese society.

Within hours of Kaitarô’s birth in 1900, Yoshio composed a tanka, using the

image of the Japan Sea off of Sado Island as a metaphor. He was tying his first born

son to the Hasegawa family roots in Sado; and the alliteration of the “ta” and “tada” in

taotao (lapping), tadayoeru (floating), tadanaka (the very center) captures not only the

sound of the sea but also the tarô of Kaitarô. The name also carries overtones of the

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folk tale about the Peach Boy, Momotarô, a hero and slayer of demons, who was born

from the lapping waters of a river.

Taotao to / nami tadayoeru / tadanaka ni / umareshi onoko / na wa

Kaitarô.
Out of the lapping ocean waves, my baby child is born, his name is
Kaitarô, Ocean Boy247

Yoshio and Yuki had three more boys. The second son, Rinjirô, studied art in

France and became a painter in the western-style. The third, Shun, worked for The

Manchuria Film Association (Manshû eiga kyôkai) under Amakasu Masahiko248 in the

1930s-40s.249 He was also involved in the publishing industry in Manchuria as a

novelist, poet and translator of Russian to Japanese; he continued to write in the postwar

years. The fourth, Shirô, worked for South Manchuria Railways (Minami Manshû

tetsudô) and spent five years after the war as a detainee in Soviet camps in Siberia. He

became a novelist, poet and translator of Rainer Maria Rilke, Federico García Lorca and

Bertolt Brecht, and he was involved in the development of the major literary

247
Hasegawa Yoshio’s passage, “Tsuioku,” as part of “Maki Itsuma-shi tsuioku,” Chûô kôron, August
1935 issue.
248
Shun worked closely with his boss, Amakasu Masahiko (1891-1945), who was notorious for the Ôsugi
Sakae Incident. At the end of WWII, Amakasu committed suicide although Shun tried to prevent it.
249
Okawa Shûmei (1868-1957: ), national socialist and advocate of Japan’s mission to liberate
Asia. He founded Yûzonsha with Kita Ikki in 1919, but they parted ways in 1925. In 1932, he was
arrested for being involved in the May Fifteenth Incident. After being released, he was active as an
ideologue for the Great Far East Co-prosperity, and was arrested as an A-class war criminal in the post-
WWII trials. He was eventually released on grounds of insanity. In the 1920s, Okawa helped Shun and
Shirô get positions in Manchuria because he had worked for Mantetsu (South Manchurian Railway) since
1918. As mentioned later in this chapter, Yoshio and Okawa became close in the early 1920s.

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periodicals, Kindai bungaku and Shin Nihon bungaku after World War II. Tamae, the

youngest, was the only daughter.250

In Hakodate, Yoshio sought to change society in two ways. The first was by

being directly involved in politics: he successfully ran for the political office of ku-kai

giin, a representative in the Hakodate Ward Assembly, in 1905. The second was by the

power of his pen: he wrote essays and articles as editor-in-chief and chief columnist of

Hokkai shinbun to inspire and enlighten the public. As a journalist, his writing resulted

in two instances of imprisonment. Although it is impossible to fully reconstruct the

details of the two court cases, a brief review of the available materials does provide

insight into Hasegawa Yoshio’s liberal stance as a journalist and teacher. The first

incident occurred as a result of the series “Mukashi no onna to ima no onna” (Women

of Old, Women of Today) that he serialized in the newspaper from July 24 to August 20

of 1910. Because the relevant issues of the newspaper are no longer available, only the

barest outline of the original essays can be gleaned from a report of the incident

appeared in the September 7, 1910 issue of HakodateMainichi Shinbun.

The judgment in the trial of Hokkai Shinbun regarding their violation

of the Press Law [on two counts] was delivered yesterday in Hakodate
Local Court. Mr. Yoshio Hasegawa, publisher and editor, was
sentenced to four months’ imprisonment and fined fifty yen on each
count, or imprisonment for eight months and a fine of a hundred yen
in total. Mr. Utarô Satô, printer, was sentenced to imprisonment for
three months and fined forty yen. These verdicts of guilty were
delivered on the grounds that the newspaper serialization, “Women of
Old, Women of Today,” used vulgar letters and blasphemous terms,
although it discussed the [historical] facts drawn from Kojiki and

250
She did not had a public life like her brothers, but her interview in memory of Kaitarô is seen in
Kikigaki-shô (Selected Interviews) in the “Shinseinen Sôsho” Series.

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 Nihon shoki. The sentence conforms to Article 42 of the Press Law.
Furthermore, the court sentenced Mr. Hasegawa to fifty days of work
service in prison and Mr. Satô to twenty days in the event they are
unable to pay their fines in full. It is likely both men will appeal the
verdict.

As the article indicates, Hasegawa Yoshio was charged with violation of The

Press Law (Shinbunshi hô) for writing about the practice of polygamy in the Imperial

household, a custom that continued even in the reign of Emperor Meiji. The Press Law

had gone into effect on May 6 of the previous year, replacing the more liberal Press

Regulations (shinbunshi jôrei) of 1887. Publications were so severely censored that

“not even the most serious and patriotic publications were safe from the government. . .

. The censors’ pace [picked] up considerably since the new Press Law [went] into

effect, perhaps in part because it did make things more convenient for the police.”251

Yoshio’s timing of the serialization may have been unfortunate, but it appears that he

did not fully anticipate the larger historical implications of a newer, more stringent

system of censorship. It did not make sense why he had been charged and imprisoned.

He appealed his case. Not only was his appeal dismissed, however, but the courts

imposed an additional charge: a complete ban on publishing the Hokkai shinbun. His

appeal to a higher court was turned down a second time. A kindred spirit since Sado

Island days, Hayashi Gisaku, supported Yoshio and started another newspaper (called

simply the Hokkai) in which Hayashi attacked the authorities for their treatment of

251
Jay Rubin, Injurious to Public Morals (Seattle and London: University of Washington Press, 1984)
117.

163
Yoshio.252 These well-intended efforts, however, put Yoshio in dire straits: the

authorities added four additional months of imprisonment to the previous sentence.

They also confiscated the printing facilities of the Hokkai, stating that the paper was

virtually identical with Hokkai Shinbun. To make matters worse, Yoshio was removed

from his position as a representative to the Hakodate Ward Assembly.

It is impossible to assess what “blasphemous terms” (fukei no go o mochiitaru)

“Women of Old, Women of Today” contained.253 Yet, considering the fact that Yoshio

was a self-proclaimed “state socialist” in other writings, it is reasonable to speculate that

he did not intend to desecrate the Imperial family or question the legitimacy of the

reigning Emperor by referring to the polygamous practices of the Imperial family, or to

question indirectly the myth of an unbroken imperial bloodline. Instead, Yoshio’s

emphasis was, as Kawasaki argues in Karera no Shôwa, on the status of women during

the period of democratic movements. As we see in other essays by Yoshio, he

attempted to inspire women to move forward and improve their social status.254

The lese majesty incident speaks of government attempts to rein in the media

and bring it forcibly under control. It also speaks of the confusion and resistance of

writers and journalists. In his writing on criminal court cases that include famous

examples of government prosecution, the scholar Morinaga Eizaburô lists Yoshio’s

incident as typical of attempts by the authorities to deify the Emperor and fortify the

252
One interpretation of Hasegawa Kaitarô’s pseudonym, Hayashi Fubô, is that it means “do not forget
Hayashi (Gisaku).”
253
The term, fukei means specifically lese majesty or blasphemous to the Imperial family, i.e., the divine
existence. The charge was that the serialization contained fukei no go ( ), or blasphemous terms.
254
However, in the matter of universal suffrage, Yoshio’s idea was conservative. He argued for the male
suffrage first.

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notion of national polity – with The High Treason Incident involving Kôtoku Shûsui

representing the apex of such efforts.255 The presiding judge, Tsuru Jôichirô, and the

prosecutor, Itakura Matsutarô, in Yoshio’s trial also presided in the case of High

Treason Incident that sentenced twenty-four “socialists and anarchists” to death and

executed twelve of them, on the grounds that the rebels planned to assassinate the

Emperor.256

After being released from prison, Yoshio was hired in June 1912 as editor-in-

chief of Hakodate shinbun, a newspaper newly founded by his friend, Hiraide Kisaburô.

He wrote for the newspaper on topics ranging from poetry to editorial comments. In

1917, he was imprisoned once again. This time the sentence of two months was for

commission of electoral irregularities during the April campaign for the House of

Representatives, in which he supported Hiraide Kisaburô’s candidacy for reelection.

Hiraide lost in spite of Yoshio’s aggressive support. Yoshio’s interpretation of the

arrest was that it was due to the excessively slanderous articles that he wrote about a

candidate associated with the Seiyû-kai, which endorsed the incumbent government.

Meanwhile, Hiraide, a member of the Constitutionalist Party (Kensei-tô), had promoted

constitutionalism and party government.257 Yoshio’s article for Hakodate shinbun of

March 22, 1917 shows us how he used the media as a venue to promote his own

political beliefs and support his political ally. He appealed to his readers claiming he

was arrested because of his passion for justice. However, it is also clear his arguments

255
Morinaga Eizaburô ( : 1906-1983), Shidan saiban ( ).
256
Of the twenty-four, only twelve including Kôtoku Shûsui, were sent to the scaffold in January 1911.
257
Seiyû-kai ( : Constitutional Society of Political Friends), Kensei-tô ( : Constitutional
Government Party)

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once again infringed upon the Imperial system. The fact that he couched his appeal in

terms of the Russian Revolution as a “model of constitutionalist government” was seen

as incendiary. Doubtless it was viewed as an example of a “dangerous idea” (kiken

shisô) in which Communist liberalism was contrasted with hidebound and bureaucratic

Czarism. Little wonder the Japanese censors were sensitive to possible inference

directed toward the Japanese Imperial system.

The image that emerges from these two incidents is of a writer who was not

particularly careful or analytic in his pronouncements. In addition to failing to see the

contradiction inherent in aligning his support for the Emperor system with his notions

of an ideal society, he is often too eclectic: for example, his quoting ideas such as

Bergson’s élan vital in support of Constitutionalist Party. He appears to have been an

uncritical sampler of new ideas – a penchant that he would bequeath to his son – and he

wrote at the break-neck speed typical of many journalists of the period. Moreover, this

was an era when the government was especially sensitive about “dangerous ideas”

designed to weaken Imperial authority. Many writers and journalists were swept up in

governmental measures to control and censor the press.258

In the 1920s, Hakodate Shinbun expanded, and as a member of a larger

organization, Yoshio wrote fewer articles that were an expression of his personal beliefs

and opinions.259 In 1929, he became the newspaper’s president while retaining his title

258
See Rubin’s Injurious to Public Morals, especially Part Three (145-224).
259
Nihon shinbun hattatsu-shi, published in 1922 by Osaka Mainichi and Tokyo Nichinichi Newspaper
Companies, lists Hakodate shinbun as the third largest newspaper in Hokkaido after The Hokkai Times
and Otaru shinbun.

166
as editor-in-chief. Still, he was charged again for violation of the Press Law. This time

it was his review of works by Trotsky.

By the mid-1920s, however, Yoshio had begun to support the nationalistic

rhetoric advanced by Okawa Shûmei and the members of Kôchisha, which called for

Japan’s political and economic domination of Manchuria.260 In the 1930s, he

envisioned Manchuria as a socialist utopia to be set up along Confucian notions of

statesmanship, or ôdô (lit., the kingly way) as part of Japan’s domination of Asia.261

This utopia could be achieved only through the rule of the Imperial Army. Indeed his

ideas reflect those of politicians and leaders who pragmatically applied the abstract and

idealized concept of ôdô to the construction of Manchuria.

With the rise of militarism after 1938, and the Pacific War in 1941, the

government ordered the merger of magazines and newspapers. Hakodate shinbun was

forced to merge with two other local newspapers in Hakodate. Although Yoshio

became Chair of the Board of the new company, Shin-Hakodate, he found that the

organization was too large to permit him to express his personal opinions freely. He

died in 1942 at the age of seventy-two. Shin-Hakodate newspaper held a company-

sponsored funeral, eulogizing his life as “free speech in service to the nation” (genron

260
Kôchisha ( ).
261
To quote from Louise Young’s book which explains the development of the term’s usage in the early
twentieth century when the Japanese government took the expansionistic pan-Asian attitude towards
China: Ôdô shugi was “legitimated imperial rule by positing the ruler as the mediator between heaven
and earth – an intermediary between god and the people.” “In the teens and twenties, Japanese began to
play with the idea of ôdô as an alternative to European models of political leadership in China.” “The
idea of ôdô had a long currency in Japanese political tradition but was appealing in this context because
of its origins in Chinese philosophy.” Young, Japan’s Total Empire (Berkeley: University of California
Press, 1998) 285.

167
hôkoku no isshô).262 The combination of “free speech” (genron) in tandem with

“service to the nation” or “patriotism” (hôkoku) strikes us today as ironic and

contradictory not only in the usage of the terms but also in light of Yoshio’s early

iconoclasm.

Hasegawa Kaitarô grew up witnessing his father’s enthusiasm for politics and

attempts to bring about social change with his pen. At the time of Yoshio’s

imprisonment in 1910, Kaitarô was proud of his father and was never embarrassed to

appear at school as “the son of a criminal.” Although a quiet child in elementary

school, he became well known during his middle school years at Hakodate Middle

School (1912-1917) for making his classmates laugh with his impersonations of their

teachers. While most of the faculty were annoyed by Kaitarô’s parodies, a British

teacher named Langman praised the boy for his skill at impersonating him.263 Kaitarô’s

classmate Watanabe Shi’ichirô (also known under the pseudonym, Ire Jigoro) recalls

that Kaitarô began to study English passionately around this time, although he was not

interested in other subjects.264 He became well known for his performance of English

recitations at the school festivals. He also fell in love with Tokutomi Roka’s Junrei

262
Genron hôkoku no isshô ( )
263
The episode suggests he was interested in extracting people’s salient characteristics and representing
them through his interpretation, mainly with its focus on linguistic elements. Yoshio mentions in a
memoir that Kaitarô had a “talent for putting [various] things [from different contexts] together,” like
producing a pastiche.
264
Watanabe Shin’ichirô ( ). He worked for Tokyo Asahi Shinbunsha. In the post World
War era, he became well known on such radio shows as “Hanashi no izumi” and “Watashi no himitsu.”
This reference is from an article he wrote under the pen name, Ire Jigoro ( : “Il est gigolo”),
“Shônen-jidai no Maki Itsuma-shi,” Chûô kôrôn August 1935. Ire (also known by his real name,
Watanabe Shin’ichirô) was Kaitarô’s classmate from elementary through higher schools in Hakodate.

168
kikô (Account of My Pilgrimage).265 He admired the main prose part written in bungo

literary style as well as interpolated tanka poetry. He carried the book everywhere,

reading it over and over until he had ruined the binding on several copies. As he

watched foreign steamships traveling the waters off Hakodate, his dream was to wander

the world. Ire describes the atmosphere in Hakodate this way:

[Kaitarô] composed waka poetry based on most of the poetic parts in

An Account of My Pilgrimage. In those days, Hakodate was full of
things that lent reality to the imaginary details in the book. [For
example,] on the way to the high school, there was a Polish baker,
Vladimir Shuritz, who had sought refuge in Japan, it was said, via
Siberia. He was a very big fellow, and his face was covered with a
beard. In addition, he only had one leg. There were Greek Orthodox
and Roman Catholic churches right next to his place, and every
morning and evening, we would hear the bells play “Ave Maria.” In
the suburbs, there was a Trappist Church; and the hills were covered
in lily of the valley and white birches. Around the high school, there
were large-scale agricultural and dairy farms. Away in Tsugaru Strait,
which Kaitarô preferred to call “the Blakiston Line,”266 foreign line
steam ships would vanish into the distance. On the street signboards
were a lot of Russian characters that looked like L’s and R’s reversed
or flipped on their backs. Once he finished reading An Account of My
Pilgrimage, he wrote one poem after another about all the exotic
things around him. They were in the form of the thirty-one syllables
of tanka poetry.267

Or Kôtoku Shûsui described it as follows:

265
Tokutomi Roka ( ). Novelist (1868-1927). Junrei kikô (1906) was a travelogue about
Tokutomi’s trip to Jerusalem and his visit to Yasyana-Poliana to see Tolstoi. Roka was an avid fan of the
Russian writer. In 1927, Kaitarô wrote his own version of a travelogue when he was sent to Europe for
sixteen months by Chûô kôron. It was initially serialized under the title “Shin sekai junrei,” but was later
published in book form as Odoru chiheisen (Dancing Horizon).
266
From the line on a biological distribution map named after its discoverer, Thomas Wright Blakiston.
267
“Shônen-jidai no Maki Itsuma-shi” (Mr. Itsuma Maki in His Boyhood), Chûô kôron, August issue
(1935): 335.
It is notable that even in childhood, Kaitarô was already interacting with the people who became
refugees and broke away with their national origins. This apparently affected the development of his idea
on the fluidity of identity and the relation between an individual and his/her nation.

169
 While it felt like it was getting darker and darker as [I] approached the
Tôhoku Region, once [I] crossed the Tsugaru Strait it looked like
daybreak. The language, customs, and material developments such as
electric lighting and the telephone – they were all so advanced as to put
even Tokyo to shame.268

Ire Jigorô recollects that Kaitarô’s other favorite book was a translation of Tom

Brown at Rugby (1888). 269 Influenced by the book, he began to play pranks on his

teachers and fellow students. Combining a love for rebelliousness and literature, he

started to share his writings in an extroverted way. Making the most of his writing

skills, he wrote and circulated, for example, a booklet of accusations against one

teacher. The teacher scolded him, remarking, “You needn’t follow your father’s

example.” By his fourth year in middle school, Kaitarô had grown to be six feet tall, an

atypical height for a Japanese of the period. He started writing original essays and

poetry, joined a local poetry coterie group, became involved in the school student

council, and was known for his public speaking skills in both Japanese and English.270

Everyday he penned “nonsense songs” (zare-uta) and had his friends sing them. He

also wrote stories under such pen names as Kate Hassy, his variation on “Kaitarô

Hase”; “Hitomi” or “Pupil of the Eye;” and Oka Kusatarô, or “Grass-Boy Hill.” In his

final year in middle school, he became the leader of the male cheerleading group for the

school baseball team. Baseball games were the occasions for students to show their

268
Kôtoku Shûsui, “Hokuyû manroku” (Travelogue from the North). Cited in Muro Kenji, Odoru
chiheisen: Hasegawa Kaitarô den (Tokyo: Shôbunsha, 1985) 38.
269
Tom Brown at Rugby was written by British writer, Thomas Hughes (1822-1896), and published in
1888.
270
Kaitarô was a regular participant in Hakodate Middle School’s speech contests. Examples of titles
were, “Good for Evil (the original title was in English),” “A Man of Religion is the Greatest Politician,”
“On Discussing Ambitions,” and “From My Leader.”

170
love for their school, and cheerleading was a suitable forum for displaying manliness.

Kaitarô wrote fight songs, and even when there were no games, he included himself in

fistfights with the students of his school’s rival, Hakodate Shôgyô (Hakodate

Commercial School). When the baseball team lost a game, he blamed the teachers and

the school authorities, criticizing them for not supporting athletics. When, at a school-

wide speech contest, he waxed large on teachers’ lack of enthusiasm for student

activities, the school authorities put a stop to his speech-making. He then wrote a

petition calling for firing the head of the sports department, which many other fifth

graders signed. He went on strike, leading a group of students to the site of a famous

battleground, Goryôkaku.271 At a symbolic site for resistance, and a perfect place for a

dramatic gesture, they confined themselves there for eleven days. The local newspapers

reported the incident in a sensational manner. They took the students’ side and blamed

the school, including even exposés of some teachers’ scandals. Eventually the school

and the students were reconciled through the mediation of the school alumni, and

everything seemed to return to normal. However, weeks before his graduation in 1917,

271
The Battle of Goryôkaku ( ): In October, 1868, Enomoto Takeaki, vice commander-in-chief of
the naval forces of the recently overthrown Tokugawa shogunate, assembled more than 2,000 troops still
loyal to the shogunate, sailed in eight warships to Ezo (now Hokkaidô). In December he established his
headquarters in a Western-style fortress called Goryôkaku at the port city of Hakodate. In January 1869,
he declared Ezo a republic. But late in May 1869 imperial forces under Kuroda Kiyotaka arrived in Ezo,
quickly gained control of the hinterland of Hakodate and entered the harbor. They began their assault on
the city on June 20, 1869. Seven days later, they forced the surrender of Goryôkaku. It was the last
armed conflict between imperial forces and intransigent supporters of the Tokugawa regime. (See the
entry for “the battle of Goryôkaku” in Kodansha Encyclopedia of Japan.)
Just as the father’s iconoclasm vis-à-vis the Meiji authorities has its roots in the Hasegawa
family’s historical loyalties to the bakufu, Kaitarô appears to have taken a similar iconoclastic stance.
Although it assumes diverse forms – anti-Meiji, or more particularly anti-Satchô – is a fairly common and
identifiable streak in many Meiji journalists and writers such as Shiba Shirô, author of Kajin no kigû, or
Nagai Kafû. Indeed, journalism and the literature would become a haven for those who felt
disenfranchised by the Meiji Restoration.

171
Kaitarô realized his name had been excluded from the list of graduating students.

Although the school attributed his failure to poor academic performance, his record did

not show unsatisfactory grades. He was given the choice of staying for another year to

finish his degree. Instead, he quit Hakodate Middle School and moved to Tokyo to

enter the senmon-bu of Meiji University.272 This was the same year that his father was

arrested for the election offenses. Kaitarô studied law at Meiji University from 1917 to

1920 and graduated in March 1920.273 It was during these three years in Tokyo that he

attended meetings held by the famous anarchist leader, Ôsugi Sakae (1885-1923). He

also initiated his plan to study abroad in the United States by going to a church to take

English lessons. It was around this time he heard about Oberlin College in Ohio. His

letter to Yoshio in 1919 mentions he is waiting for “a bulletin from Denver,” suggesting

that he was investigating various schools in the U.S. They were not the typical ones in

California, or the élite schools on the East Coast, generally favored by Japanese of the

period.

After his graduation in 1920, and prior to his departure for America, Kaitarô

returned to Hakodate to help his father with the campaign speeches for Hiraide

Kisaburô, whom Yoshio was supporting again for the National Diet. Three years

272
Meiji University had hon-ka [the principal], yo-ka [preparatory], and senmon-bu [specialty] courses.
In those days, “specialty” was a euphemism for the third tier, and less desirable, level of admission.
Since Kaitarô never received a middle school degree, he could not enter a high school. Without a high
school degree, it was impossible to enter a university. Therefore, admittance to the senmon-bu was the
only way to receive higher education. Muro Kenji speculates that Yoshio used his network of friends and
contacts in political circles in Tokyo to enroll Kaitarô.
273
According to Muro Kenji, Kaitarô finished the degree, but according to Yuasa Atsushi’s interview
with his sister, Tamae, Kaitarô does not seem to have graduated from the senmon-bu. Details are
unknown. Interview by Yuasa Atsushi, “Teikô no hito, jidai no sakka: Tani Jôji,” Yuasa Atsushi and
Ôyama Satoshi, ed., Kikigaki-shô: Mada minu monogatari no tame ni (Tokyo: Hakubunkan Shinsha,
1993) 38.

172
earlier, the results had been disastrous, resulting in Yoshio’s arrest and Hiraide’s loss of

the election. This time, however, due to the influence of Yoshino Sakuzô and the

results of the rice riots in 1918, the general public’s desire for universal male suffrage

had unprecedented support, and the situation was considerably more favorable for

Hiraide. Kaitarô helped because Hiraide was his father’s close friend and a patron of

Hakodate shinbun; moreover, it is said Hiraide financially supported Kaitarô’s plan to

study abroad. On the campaign trail, Kaitarô’s enthusiastic speech on behalf of

universal male suffrage, and Hiraide as the candidate who supported it, was interrupted

by jeers such as “Hey you, young’n, we’ve heard enough out of you (owakee no,

oyamenasei).” Kaitarô replied that “heckling is also one form of debate (yaji mo

genron de arimasu).” In addition to Kaitarô’s tolerance for free expression, Muro Kenji

sees the influence of the anarchist Ôsugi Sakae at work here.274 Ôsugi went to others’

rallies and did what he called enzetsukai morai, or “stealing their speeches.”

Specifically, he would attend as a member of the audience and then hoot the speaker

down to get an opportunity to start his own speech. One of Ôsugi’s victims, the famous

Christian Socialist leader Kagawa Toyohiko, put it this way. “Speech ought to be

dialectic. It is despotic to have one speaker go on for hours. The genuinely democratic

way is for the audience and the speaker to talk in the form of a consultation.”

Hiraide won the election, although his victory did not constitute a total loss for

the conservatives. The Seiyûkai retained its majority in the Diet. As a result, no

advancement was made toward the enactment of manhood suffrage. Meanwhile, that

274
Muro Kenji, Odoru Chiheisen: Meriken jappu Hasegawa Kaitarô den (Tokyo: Shôbunsha, 1985) 61-
66.

173
summer, Kaitarô sailed from Yokohama to the United States on the Katori-maru. He

traveled with several American women, probably all missionaries.275 On August 5,

1920, he landed in Seattle. In a letter to his family dated the previous day, he states that

his purpose in going to the United States is to study at Oberlin College:276 “A little after

10 o’clock tonight, the boat entered the Port of Seattle. I will land tomorrow morning.

After staying [in the town of Seattle] overnight, I shall leave for Oberlin.”

About 9,000 Japanese immigrants were living in Seattle in 1920, and they had

formed into associations such as the Nihonjin-kai (the Japanese Society of Japanese)

and kenjin-kai (associations of immigrants from particular prefectures). Likewise, in

larger cities on the West Coast like San Francisco and Los Angeles, they worked as

unskilled laborers or ran businesses catering to Japanese customers.277 The businesses

ranged from inns, grocery stores, souvenir shops, newspaper companies, employment

agencies (kuchiire-ya), to those of a shady nature.278 It was common practice for

275
Tamae remembers the name of one of the women, a kindergarten teacher from Hakodate named Laura
Goodwin. Kikigakishô, Yuasa, “Teikô no hito, jidai no sakka: Tani Jôji,” 35.
276
Oberlin College was founded in 1833 and was known as a pioneer in egalitarian education. It was the
first college in the United States to admit women to higher education, and one of the first to admit
African-Americans. A nearby underground railroad station supported the emancipation of slaves.
Fukuzawa Yukichi sent his two sons to the Department of Preparatory Instruction, English School,
Oberlin College in 1883 to study English. The following year, the elder son entered Cornell, and the
younger went to the Boston Institute of Technology (now MIT). In a letter of 1883 to a missionary and
friend, Dr. Duane B. Simmons, Fukuzawa writes that Oberlin was the best choice for his sons because “it
is in the countryside and will provide them with a simple life with no unhealthy temptations. The
expenses are also affordable for me to send two boys at the same time.”
277
After the first immigration wave to Hawaii in the 1880s-90s, there was a constant flow of Japanese to
the U.S., especially to California, until the Immigration Exclusion Act of 1924 prohibited Japanese
immigration. A large number of Japanese immigrants also lived in New York City. However, as Mitziko
Sawada discusses, Japanese in New York Japanese differed from those on the West Coast in that there
were very few of whom the Japanese government defined as “imin” (unskilled laborers). Most were “hi-
imin” (non-immigrants; educated people who moved for educational or commercial purposes).
278
A ’Merican-Jap series titled “Meriken Jappu shôbai ôrai” (’Merican-Jap’s Business Guide, or
’Merican-Jap, Business Is All right) was serialized from July to December of 1927 in six installments,
introducing the variety of blue-collar work in which ’Merican-Jap were typically engaged and how local

174
Japanese students studying abroad to study English in a major city on the West Coast

for several months before moving to a college or university on the East Coast.279

Kaitarô, however, stayed in Seattle only one night before heading for Ohio by way of

Chicago the following day.

Kaitarô traveled from Seattle to Chicago, and from Chicago to Toledo, by train.

He arrived in the small mid-western town of Oberlin and was admitted to the college as

a sophomore possibly because of his degree from Meiji University senmon-bu.280

However, within less than three months, he dropped out, leaving no trace of his

performance in the five courses for which he was registered.

This was when his life on the road as a free-spirited vagabond began. He took

odd jobs here and there, moving from town to town in Ohio, Michigan, Indiana, Illinois,

and possibly even Kentucky and North Dakota if we read his fictional stories as actual

accounts of his experiences. During these years, he was an unskilled laborer living in

American society, and he interacted with other immigrants arriving in the United States

mostly from East Europe. He also encountered other wandering Japanese for whom he

coined the term, “’Merican-Jap.” 281 During his hobo days, he enjoyed reading

oyabun (bosses, with the nuance of “gangster leaders”) played the role of a mediator between the
wandering Japanese and employers in small towns where there were no nihonjin-kai.
279
David J. O’Brien and Stephen S. Fugita, The Japanese American Experience (Bloomington and
Indianapolis: Indiana University Press, 1991). Murayama Yûzô, Amerika ni ikita Nihonjin imin (Tokyo:
Toyo keizai shinpôsha, 1989)
280
At the time of his admission, Oberlin College had four components: college, theology, music and
academy.
281
The Japanese term, “meriken,” was commonly used to refer to Americans. Shôgakkan’s Nihon
kokugo dai-jiten, for example, quotes the following passage from Shinbun zasshi in May 1912 for the
entry, meriken: “Washinton no shisuru ya, ‘meriken’ sono na o motte shufu ni meizu” (When Washington
died, Meriken ( ) designated a national capitol and named it after [him].) However, it is not clear if
this was the first use of the term. The term that Kaitarô uses, “meriken-jappu,” can be found in a variety

175
newspapers and periodicals, including pulp fiction, and he participated in the labor

union meetings of the Industrial Workers of the World.282 IWW was already in decline

by this time, and it was no longer considered as aggressive or dangerous as it had been.

Still, Kaitarô’s letters to his family suggest his excitement at being a blue-collar worker

participating in the socialist movement. Shirô, the youngest brother, recalls:283

Under Tani Jôji, [my brother wrote] a piece titled “IWW and X and Me.”
I no longer remember whether it was ever published. The “X” was
“Agnes,” or some female name. Although I do not remember the specific
details, it was about a girl Kaitarô met at some point when he was a
member of the Industrial Workers of the World. He once sent home a
photo of a girl and his letter referred to her as his “sweetheart.” That
caused quite a stir at home. . . . I think it was perhaps during the same
IWW days that he wrote and asked us to mail all the socialist books in
English that he had left at home. He told us there should be no problem
[in sending such political books] because the Japanese customs house was
not strict about censoring the items that leave Japan, and there should be
no trouble in the United States, either. He added, “I am going to read
them until they make my head spin.”284

of dictionaries categorized as shingo jiten (dictionary of neologisms). Those dictionaries of neologisms

proliferated from the early 1910s through the early 1930s, and meriken-jappu first appears in these
dictionaries in the late 1920s. More than a hundred such shingo jiten were published, and they refer to
neologisms as shin-go (new terms), modan-go (modern terms), sentan-go (ultramodern terms), gendai-go
(contemporary terms), ryûkô-go (fashionable terms), shinbun-go (newspaper terms) or shakai-go (social
terms). Although they were titled “jiten” ( or ; dictionary or compendium), many of them were
simple booklets. Kaitarô published a booklet titled Modan-dokuhon (Modern Reader) in 1930. For
details concerning the neologism dictionaries, see Shingo jiten no kenkyû to kaidai.
282
As James P. Cannon points out on 27-30 in The I.W.W.: The Great Anticipation, the majority of the
IWW members were hobos, or so-called floating workers. Cited in Frederick Feied, No Pies in the Sky:
The Hobo as American Cultural Hero in the Works of Jack London, John Dos Passos, and Jack Kerouac
(New York: The Citadel Press, 1964) 42.
283
Hasegawa Shirô, “Kaitarô nîsan,” Taishû bungaku taikei geppô 18 (Tokyo: Kôdansha, 1972) 2.
284
“Kaitarô nîsan” (My Brother Kaitarô), the monthly insert (geppô) number 18 of Taishû bungaku taikei
(Tokyo: Kôdansha, October 1972).

176
 After spending three years or so as a hobo in the Mid-West, Kaitarô moved to

New York City.285 Once again, he tried his hand at various jobs but decided to return to

Japan in 1924. He worked illegally as a boiler man on an American freighter operating

out of New York. The ship sailed to the Pacific, traveling first to Oceania and then to

Asia. When it arrived in Dalien, China, he jumped ship, and traveling down the Korean

Peninsula by train, he returned to Japan via the ferry from Pusan. It was his plan to

return to the United States shortly after getting back to Japan, but as a result of

enactment of Immigration Exclusion Act of 1924, entering the U.S. a second time

became extremely difficult. This was especially true in his case because he had come

home as an illegal sailor. Moreover, he did not have specific reasons for returning to

the U.S. on a non-immigrant, or “hi-imin” passport – a type of passport granted only to

Japanese whom the Japanese government defined as belonging to the “intellectual

class.” The idea of treading American soil again came to look more and more like a

dream.286

5.3 One Man as Three: Kaitarô’s Writing Career Begins

In July 1924, while he was seeking avenues for returning to the U.S., he began

to write essays and poems for Hakodate Shinbun, where his father was the president.287

285
It is unclear when he moved to New York. His letters, which are currently in the possession of the
Hasegawa family, may provide more specific dates.
286
For details about immigration laws in the 1920s and imin / hi-imin distinctions, see pp. 44-48 of
Mitziko Sawada’s Tokyo Life, New York Dreams (Berkley, Los Angeles, London: University of
California Press, 1996). As Sawada explains, a literal translation of “immigrant” versus “non-immigrant”
visa is misleading.
287
It is not clear if Yoshio suggested his son write for the paper. Yoshio, who sent his son to the United
States for education, was not pleased that Kaitarô had lived as a hobo for four years and wanted to return

177
That summer he traveled frequently between Hakodate and Tokyo where his brother,

Rinjirô, lived. From the fall to the following year, he rented a house in Tokyo owned

by Matsumoto Tai, wrote stories and assisted Matsumoto in editorial work for

Matsumoto’s coterie magazine Tantei bungei (Detective Literature).288 He also showed

his short-short stories to Morishita Uson, editor in chief of Shinseinen magazine. As a

result, his first work appeared in the January 1925 issue of Shinseinen. This was at the

time when Morishita was enthusiastically promoting the genre of tantei shôsetsu.

Kaitarô was introduced as a new, multi-faceted talent. For example, in the January

1925 issue, he contributed six pieces. Four of them were written under the name of

Tani Jôji, and two others were translations of Western detective stories under another

pseudonym, Maki Itsuma. As Tani Jôji, he wrote a poem titled “Kaigai inshô-shi:

tokoro-dokoro” (Impressionist Poem of Overseas: Here and There) and three short-

shorts based on his experiences in the United States titled “Yangu Tôgô” (Young Tôgô),

“Danna to sara” (Master and Plates) and “Jôji Washinton” (George Washington). They

were not examples of the detective fiction called for by Hirabayashi Hatsunosuke, but

the stories served to inform young readers about the latest happenings in the United

States. Anti-Japanese sentiment was rising in the United States, but many young people

in Japan were still highly interested in the American culture that they experienced

to the U.S. with no constructive purpose. Essays and interviews of family members suggest that Yoshio
and Kaitarô often argued over the question of Kaitarô’s future. Abe Masao, a friend of Kaitarô’s brother
Rinjirô, had worked for the Hakodate shinbun since 1920, and some sources say Abe provided Kaitarô
with the opportunity to publish in the paper. Incidentally, Abe worked for the paper as a reporter until
1928, when he moved to Tokyo and started a career as a writer writing under the pen name of Hisao Jûran
( ).
288
Matsumoto Tai, “Mayu o yaburu mae” (Before Emerging from the Cocoon), August 1935 issue of
Fujin kôron, 318-326. Matsumoto Tai (1887-1939) was a mystery novelist and translator of English
mystery fiction.

178
through movies, music and fashion. Because emigration fever was still prevalent,

people had to start looking for other countries than the United States.289 In addition,

Kaitarô also translated two pieces of Western mystery fiction for the same issue:

“Hakuyôki,” or “Beautiful White Devil” by the Australian writer Guy Newell Boothby,

and “Nazo no kizoku” (original title unknown) by a British writer Baroness Orczy.

Historically, it has been common practice for Japanese writers to use pen names

or pseudonyms. Some are conferred by their teachers; others are chosen by the author

to describe a personal idiosyncrasy. In the case of Natsume Sôseki (1867-1914), for

example, his pen name, “Sôseki” or “Gargle Stone,” is taken from an old Chinese

expression referring to a stubborn nature. Some writers have used pseudonyms as a

form of disguise. A recent example is the critic, Yamamoto Shichihei (1921-1991),

who published Nihonjin to Yudaya-jin (The Japanese and the Jews, 1970). He claimed

to be merely the publisher of a book written by Isaiah BenDasan, a fictitious Jewish

writer, when he was, in fact, the author. It is said that his aim was to make the book

look like an objective analysis by a non-Japanese on the subject of Japanese national

characteristics and ethno-psychology – hence his ruse and use of a pseudonym.290 In the

early stages of mystery fiction in Japan, several writers invented pen names modeled

after mystery writers whom they respected, e.g., S. S. Van Dyne and Sir Conan Doyle.

289
In the same issues that promoted Kaitarô’s ’Merican-Jap stories, we see also various essays, reportage,
and advice columns provided by a Christian association called Nihon Rikikôkai (The Strenuous Action
Club), which answered youngsters’ questions concerning emigration. For information about Nihon
Rikkôkai ( ), see Tokyo Life, New York Dreams, 121-124.
290
Yamamoto Shichihei, Nihonjin to Yudaya-jin (Tokyo: Yamamoto Shoten, 1970). One of many
“Nihonjin-ron” (theories of Japanese national character). In 1971, the book won the Ôya Sôichi Award
for Non Fiction. Based upon his army experience during the World War II, and his knowledge of the
Hebrew and Oriental classics, Yamamoto developed his own Nihonjin-ron. For further remarks on
Yamamoto, see Asami Sadao’s Nise Yudaya-jin to Nihon-jin (Tokyo: Asahi Shinbun-sha, 1983).

179
Poe was so popular a choice that there were two “Edogawa Rampos.” In the end it was

Hirai Tarô, or the Rampo whom we now know as the “father of full-fledged detective

novel (honkakuha tantei shôsetsu no soshi), who overshadowed his competitor.”291

Hasegawa Kaitarô was one of many writers to use pseudonyms. He used

multiple names, and historically speaking, such usage was not uncommon. 292

Nonetheless, what sets Kaitarô apart is his systematic use of three pseudonyms

simultaneously while writing in three respectively different genres– as well as his

success in writing under all three names. As mentioned previously, he first

experimented with pseudonyms in his middle school days. He also used another set of

three pen names when he wrote for Hakodate shinbun in 1924.293 However, by the time

he started using Maki, Hayashi and Tani, the intentionality of the multiple pseudonyms

becomes systematic and clear. The three last names have parallelism in appearance and

meaning, and they are unlike the random use of pen names in the earlier stages of his

writing career. With regard to the unity among the last names, they are all single-

291
As is discussed in Chapter Three, critics and writers argued over the question of how to define the
genre. For example, Kôga Saburô categorizes it into two major types, which he calls honkaku-ha (main-
stream) and henkaku-ha (alternative or variant). These refer, respectively, to works, one, that involve
ratiocination, and two, mystery in daily life.
292
Among the Edo gesaku writers, it was the practice to have multiple gagô,” or “elegant names,” which
functioned like nicknames and had a social function. Takizawa Bakin is said to have had thirty-four.
This practice became less common in so-called pure literature circles as writers became famous for their
“I-novels.” Since Kaitarô actively defended commercial aspects of writing and claimed that his work was
yomimono (light and entertaining reading), it is arguably the case that he advertised his commercialist
attitude, like gesaku writers, as something worthy of pursuit. For use of pseudonyms in the Edo Period,
see Tanaka Yûko, Edo wa nettowâku (Tokyo: Heibonsha, 1993).
293
For example, Atara Shoji ( ), Den’ya Rô ( ) or Umeki Maigo ( ). The
readings of those names are not clear because Kaitarô did not supply furigana. Whether they all belong
to Kaitarô is not completely confirmed. While Eguchi Yûsuke and Kawasaki Kenko speculate that is the
case, Kudô Eitarô argues Umeki Maigo is a pseudonym used by the journalist, Taketomi Yasuo
( ). For Kudô’s argument, see Kudô, “Tange Sazen” o yomu: Hasegawa Kaitarô no shigoto
(Tokyo: Nishida Shoten, 1998).

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charactered, and they refer to scenic features: Maki as Meadow, Hayashi as Woods, and

Tani as Valley. 294 The salient points on each pen name are as follows:

5.4 Maki Itsuma

The “Itsuma” in Maki Itsuma means “Swift/Superb Horse” on a Meadow

(maki), and this stylish moniker was used primarily for translations of Western mystery

fiction and a large group of chic and witty contés that he wrote for Shinseinen. Later,

he would use the name’s flashy-sounding image for the type of narrative which “Maki”

called “authentic accounts of bizarre criminal cases” (kaiki jitsuwa) from the West295

and his extremely popular romance novels serialized in The Tokyo Nichinichi and

Osaka Mainichi newspapers and magazines such as Asahi and Shufu no tomo. Because

of the immense popularity of his romance novels, Kaitarô became most widely known

as Maki Itsuma in the 1930s. Movies were made based on his novels,296 and they made

his works even more popular. This name stuck, and at the time of his death in 1935, he

was referred to as “Maki Itsuma” in all the memorial writings in magazines and

newspapers.

294
Maki ( ), Hayashi ( ) and Tani ( ).
295
Maki Itsuma ( )
296
For example, “Kono taiyô”(published in 1930 and made into a movie that same year) and “Chijô no
seiza” (serialized and filmed in 1932) made Maki one of the most popular writers among the female
audience.

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5.5 Hayashi Fubô

“Hayashi Fubô” combines the family name of “Hayashi/Woods” with a first

name meaning “Do not forget.”297 Because the tone of Fubô is archaic and Sinified, and

it sounds like the pen name of a gesaku writer from the Edo period, it was suitable for

the period fiction or jidai shôsetsu. Kaitarô started writing period fiction with the

appearance of the Kuginuki Tôkichi (“Nail Puller” Tôkichi) series for Matsumoto Tai’s

coterie magazine, Tantei bungei (Detective Literature) in 1925. Hayashi Fubô became

known to a larger audience when Kaitarô began to write for the newly published

magazine, Tantei shumi (Taste for Detective Stories), a magazine that was started by

Edogawa Rampo and several other tantei shôsetsu writers, critics and journalists.298

When Kaitarô produced another period series in 1927 titled Shinpan Ooka seidan (New

Version of Cases Handled by Magistrate Ôoka Echizen) for Tokyo Nichinichi and

Ôsaka Mainichi newspapers, its one-armed, one-eyed wandering samurai hero named

Tange Sazen299 became extremely popular as an “anti-hero.”300 Movies were made

297
Hayashi Fubô ( ). One theory holds that Kaitarô created “Hayashi Fubô” in honor of his
father’s close friend/political comrade, Hayashi Gisaku, who supported Yoshio in the lése majesty
incident of 1910. According to this interpretation, the name means, “do not forget Hayashi,” but no
evidence has been produced to support this view. See also footnote 13 in this chapter.
298
Tantei shumi was started in August 1925 as a coterie magazine for Tantei Shumi no Kai (Association
of a Taste of Detective Stories), which was founded in April of the same year. The first three numbers
were published by Deirî nyûsu sha (Daily News Company). Number 4 and after were published by
Shun’yôdô. Kaitarô became a coterie member and was in charge of editorial work for its Number 9.
Since he limited the use of “Hayashi Fubô” to jidai shôsetsu, it never appeared in Shinseinen, a journal
largely of modern mystery ficiton.
299
300
Although Tange Sazen appeared as a supporting character in the first installment of the series, his
kaleidoscopic and absurd personality was received more favorably by readers than the main character,
Magistrate Ôoka. It is often said that, in the late twenties, the general public turned to anti-heroic
entertainment after being frustrated by the dismal economy and the oppressive atmosphere of the pre-war
period,. Kaitarô adroitly reflected such reactions from his readers in following installments. In no time,
Tange Sazen became the principal character of the series.

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based on this series by various film companies starting in 1928, but the ones directed by

Ito Daisuke became the most popular. They brought success to the actor, Ôkôchi

Denjirô. After Kaitarô’s death, the Tange Sazen stories were adapted many times to the

stage, movies, and in the year following World War II, television.301

5.6 Tani Jôji

The last name “Tani” possibly derives from the second of the three characters in

his real last name, Hasegawa ( ). Starting in 1925, he used “Tani Jôji” primarily

for what were later categorized as the “’Merican-Jap” (American-Japanese) stories.302

During his wandering days in America, Kaitarô had an English nickname. In a letter to

his family during his vagabond years in the United States, he wrote that he was selling

hotdogs on a street corner and was called “Billy.” While his father was upset that his

son took pride in such work instead of going to school, Kaitarô was happy to be able to

blend in with the common lot of people, and the English name had a symbolic meaning

for him as a sign of his assimilation into society. However, the pseudonym he chose

when he began writing the ’Merican-Jap stories for Shinseinen was “Jôji.” It is not

uncommon as a Japanese first name, yet the sound also evokes the name George in

301
To name but a few, the following actors have played the role of Tange Sazen: Arashi Kanjurô [then
Chôzaburô], Dan Tokumaro, Okôchi Denjirô, Tsukigata Ryûnosuke, Bandô Tsumasaburô, Mizushima
Michitarô, Otomo Ryûtarô, Tanba Tetsurô, and Yorozuya [then Nakamura] Kinnosuke.
302
He wrote over fifty stories that described the life of ’Merican-Japs, most of which were written for
Shinseinen in 1925-1927. Under the same pen name, he also translated popular Western novels and
novellas such as Lion Feichtwanger’s Jud Süsz [The Jew Suss] (translated from its English translation)
and Upton Sinclair’s They Call Me Carpenter. He also translated, under the name Maki Itsuma, Vicki
Baum’s Grand Hotel and V. Delmar’s Bad Girl. During his trip to Europe mentioned in footnote #3, he
visited bookstores, new and used, and libraries (both commercial and non-commercial) to update himself
on the current best sellers such as the ones listed above.

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English.303 Kaitarô never used the overtly English-sounding name “Billy” as a pen

name, and though he never discussed the meaning of his pen names, his use of

“Jôji/George Tani” suggests a fluid ethnic identity in which he is neither Japanese nor

American. Instead he occupies the in-between or stateless status of being ’Merican-Jap.

5.7 Kaitarô’s Simultaneous Use of the Three Pen Names

Kaitarô’s three names seem more pregnant with meaning when we consider how

he used them intentionally and simultaneously. The use of three similar yet different

names is surely linked to the modernist orientation of his stories with their never-ending

desire for redefinition of self-identity, as well as the pragmatic spirit of using an

unstable identity as a means to economic success. The most straightforward example of

such pragmatic success in Kaitarô’s every-day life stories is the case of the “confidence

man” or “trickster.” These sharks look like everyone else in the crowd on the streets,

but by assuming different identities, they trick people and make money. Kaitarô wrote

several stories about such smart confidence men, in which he applauded them for using

their wits as their sole means of survival in a highly competitive modern world.

Through these stories, he not only challenged the notion of a stable identity, but in

doing so he extended the established boundaries of orthodox tantei shôsetsu. As we

shall see in the following chapter, the fiction that Kaitarô produced for Shinseinen not

only reveals his individual development as a writer, but also the ways in which the

303
Tani Jôji ( ). In the short-short, “Kutsu,” the narrator says: “It’s my name, whether you spell it
in katakana, kanji or English.”

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genre itself continued to offer a means of interrogating the assumptions and values of

the literary establishment.

185
 CHAPTER 6

TANI JÔJI’S TANTEI SHÔSETSU AND ’MERICAN-JAP STORIES

6.1 “The Shanghaied Man”

Among the fictional works that Kaitarô published in the pages of Shinseinen,

“The Shanghaied Man” stands out as the most interesting in its use of the conventions

of orthodox tantei shôsetsu to explore issues of identity and fluid subjectivity. First

appearing as a work of “original detective fiction” (sôsaku tantei shôsetsu) in the

Number 5 issue of April 1925, which was titled “Collection of Original Tantei

Shôsetsu” (sôsaku tantei shôsetsu-shû), the story not only takes place in a contemporary

setting, but it also explicitly utilizes the structure of mystery fiction as a means to

negotiate the condition of modernity. Following the conventional structure of orthodox

mystery fiction that proceeds from a murder, to the search for the killer and finally to

the resolution of its case, this piece is consciously conceived of as a tantei sôsetsu. By

this time Kaitarô had already contributed several translations of Western mystery fiction

to Shinseinen under the pen name of Maki Itsuma. In addition, his “Kuginuki Tôkichi”

(“Nail Puller” Tôkichi) series, which appeared in Tantei bungei magazine under

Hayashi Fubô, was a mystery of the type known as torimono-chô or a tantei shôsetsu set

in pre-modern Japan.

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 In this story, the protagonist, Mori Tamekichi, is a young Japanese who wanders

around the world as a sailor whenever he gets the opportunity. He has been a sailor for

twenty-some years, or since he was nine, and he has traveled the world on the ships

sailing under different flags. Kaitarô never categorizes Tamekichi as ’Merican-Jap

because Tamekichi does not belong to any specific country, although legally speaking

he is a Japanese citizen. After two decades of mingling with the diverse peoples of the

world, we can say that he has moved beyond a fixed identity or nationality.

Currently in the liminal state of being out of work, he checks all the seamen’s

lodging houses in the cosmopolitan port town of Kobe to see if there are any jobs on

long-distance lines.304 At the end of a long, fruitless day, he finds himself sharing a

room with another unemployed sailor. The sailor’s name is Sakamoto Shintarô, and he

and Tamekichi are staying at a lodging house run by an old woman named O-kin.

Although sailors, the two men have little in common because Shintarô has just gotten

off a transport ship that plies local waters, while Tamekichi specializes in international

lines. Because of this lack of common interests, Tamekichi does not worry about

Shintarô’s whereabouts when he wakes up the following morning and finds Shintarô’s

bedding left empty. He goes to the assembly room where jobs are posted and the

jobless “regulars” are gambling with dice. The sailors are known by the names of the

boats that they once worked for. It is as though their identities are best described by

their ships. Tamekichi gazes blankly at the gamblers, feeling strangely distant even

from his own self. O-kin whispers to him that someone is waiting for him in the office

304
The story explains that the seamen’s lodging houses, “in addition to being places to sleep, served as
employment agencies for jobless sailors.” See p.1 of translation manuscript (appendix 1).

187
of the inn; it is a detective from the local police station. In a deep, booming voice, the

detective declares that Tamekichi is the prime suspect in the disappearance and murder

of Sakamoto Shintarô.305 The only evidence needed to clinch the case is the most

important of all, the physical object of Shintarô’s body. The authorities have sent divers

to the bottom of the bay in vain. Another extensive search is planned for later in the

day.

The story is narrated in the third-person, but Takemichi provides the guiding

consciousness of the narrative. From the very beginning, the story repeatedly describes

Tamekichi as being uncertain about his own identity or actions. He is not sure what he

did in his sleep the previous night, or why he feels so calm as he is about to be arrested.

As the detective walks him to the police station, he remains unperturbed, and he

watches events unfold with a detached, cold and objective eye. There is even a smile

playing about his lips, and he feels as if the man being led down the street is someone

other than himself. However, he hears and smells the sea – his home – calling to him

when he sees the old stone building of the police station looming at the end of the street.

Being at sea is more important to him than proving his innocence, as “his long life as a

vagabond taught him to adopt an devil-may-care attitude toward himself.” He sees a

nearby Norwegian freighter hoisting its anchor and its sailors hurrying to get aboard.

Driven by a strong desire for the sea and foreign ports, and knowing that the police are

305
The string of evidence that the detective follows is a large pool of blood found in front of the inn;
Shintarô’s belongings scattered at the end of a fifty-meter row of drops of blood that continues from the
inn to the nearby wharf; the fact that Shintarô has been missing since last night and that Tamekichi was
Shintarô’s roommate; a fresh cut on Tamekichi’s finger; Shintarô’s knife discovered in Tamekichi’s
pocket; and Tamekichi’s placidness, if not the smirk on his face that makes him look “like a real villain.”

188
about to prevent him from enjoying such a life again, he grabs the detective by the leg

and knocks him over. He runs to the Norwegian ship, and shouts to the foreign sailors

for help in “the brand of English understood the world over only by men who sail the

sea.” They let him on board after learning he is an experienced sailor. Nothing else

about him or his history matters. This communication between Tamekichi and the

sailors is done smoothly and quickly because they speak a language that does not

belong to any particular nation. Instead it belongs only to the world of international

sailors. The ship is already under sail by the time when the detective gets to his feet and

arrives at the wharf. He shouts that Tamekichi is a killer, and he repeats the Japanese

word, “hitogoroshi” (killer), in an attempt to communicate with the sailors. The word is

meaningless to the foreign sailors, who hear it merely as a string of funny sounds. The

scene portrays the powerlessness of language outside of its own culture.

Language is used effectively in this story to depict the isolation, conflict and/or

commingling of different cultures which all lead to Tamekichi’s multivalent identity

and his being as a product and reflection of such a phenomenon. For example, in the

scene where he first meets the detective, he does not answer questions verbally.

Instead, he only nods because he senses something ominous. The two men share

Japanese as their mother tongue, but when it is used as the language of interrogation

between policeman and suspect, it is potentially incriminating, and it can frame the

young sailor as a murderer. However, when the detective grabs Tamekichi by the arm

to lead him away, suddenly Tamekichi shouts in English, “Damn you!” to express his

resistance. As mentioned earlier, Tamekichi no longer feels that he belongs to Japan

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after spending most of his life at sea. A culture can develop and be established even on

a vessel that does not have any physically fixed location, so long as there is interaction

among its participants. Individuals become connected to one another, and they form a

sense of solidarity through the communal life of being on the ship together, even if they

soon become separated and disconnected once the trip ends. English – or more

specifically the hybrid English used among the sailors whose “identities have become

unknown” during such a nomadic life – has become the best language for Tamekichi to

express himself as a person without a singular identity. This invented or hybrid

language is emphasized by the story’s constant reference to the special vocabulary of

seamen, and to the multivalence of the terms by their being glossed with rubi or

furigana.306

The ship leaves Kobe with the young fugitive on board. When Tamekichi signs

a fake contract in front of the captain, he not only signs his name in English but also as

Shintaro Sakamoto (written in in the text to indicate the

foreignized pronunciation of the name) for “no particular reason.” He works happily on

the ship all day long, and the other sailors find him to be helpful as an experienced

deckhand. He repeats his new name and rank to himself: “Shin Saki [his nickname is a

shortened version of Shintarô Sakamoto, given to him by his fellow sailors], second-

class mate on the Victor Karenina,” and he cannot help grinning to himself. All other

crewmembers are referred to only by their rank or position – the chief mate, boatswain,

306
For example, the title of the story contains the verbalized place name, shanhai-suru (to shanghai),
which is slang among seamen. It is written as “shanghai ” and “ .”

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cook, officers’ cabin boy and the “cockroaches,” a term for the engine boiler workers –

or with a racial nickname such as Midnight Boston for a black worker. Such fluidity in

nomenclature, therefore, reveals how little significance the identity of personal name

such as Shintaro Sakamoto carries for Tamekichi and the community on the boat. It

appears extremely easy for Tamekichi to assume a new identity as Shintaro. Only when

he goes to bed that night does he contemplate the significance of the day’s events. He

thinks of the crime that he was accused of committing, and he falls into “a perverse

state of mind in which he truly believes he did commit the crime of which he was

accused.” Still, he does not care, because by now he is completely cut off from Japan.

He tells himself he will lead a new life under the assumed name of Sakamoto Shintarô.

He will switch from one ship to another, and his “nationality will become more and

more ambiguous. No one will know what it is.” This suggests Kaitarô’s belief that

identity can be wiped clean like a tabula rasa and that it undergoes constant

reassessment.

However, Tamekichi wakes up the next morning only to discover the ship is

back in Kobe and the police are after him. The ship was called back to port; while he

might have been physically cut off from Japan the previous night, his fate actually

remained under the control of Japan because of the power of short wave radio – one of

the new, popular technologies that fascinated youngsters of the time. The chief mate

and the boatswain say the Japanese authorities will arrive soon to arrest Tamekichi. At

the same time, they suggest he hide in the boiler room. They continue to be indifferent

to the murder he has allegedly committed, so long as he contributes to the boat as a

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skilled laborer. In other words, laws, which may be absolute on land, are suspended at

sea. Guided by the black man named Midnight Boston, Tamekichi descends to the hold

of the ship and hides in a narrow space by an unfired donkey boiler surrounded by water

pipes. It is at that point that he hears a strange noise coming from the inside the boiler:

“tap, tap, tap, scraaatch.” Eventually he realizes the sound is tapping out the telegraphic

code of the wireless, “universal ABC code by which every nation communicated.” All

sailors know it, because they often practice tapping out messages on a tabletop with

their fingers. Tamekichi decodes the message as “S.O.S.” Using the penknife that he

borrowed from Shintarô the previous night, he taps on a water pipe to send a reply.

“What’s the matter?” The answer is “have been shanghaied.” On behalf of (the

majority of?) the Japanese readers who were not familiar with the English term “to

shanghai,”307 the writer decodes it for the reader as “kidnapping a man on the street by

force and making him work on a boat until death.” Tamekichi hurriedly opens the door

to the cold boiler, and out crawls Shintarô. Although the two men had little in common,

and they did not communicate when they stayed at the inn, it is the sailors’ universal

code language that saves Shintarô’s life. He explains how he left the inn late at night

because his tooth was bleeding and aching from the poor treatment he received at an

unlicensed dentist the previous day. As he was walking to the dentist office, he was

shanghaied by the sailors of Victor Karenina. The people who saved Tamekichi’s life

are, ironically enough, the actual criminals and the source of Tamekichi’s trouble with

307
I have not found any other literary works or articles from the same era or earlier that introduce the term
in Japanese literature. Tani Jôji may well have been the first to employ the term in Japanese literary
context. Oxford English Dictionary (online version) cites an 1871 article from the New York Tribute as
the earliest usage of the term in English.

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the police. It is now Tamekichi’s turn to explain why he is on this ship. He explains

how Shintarô’s penknife caused him no end of trouble – and on top of that, he cut his

finger while pealing a pear with it. The narrative describes Tamekichi holding the

knife in a backhand grip and starting to grin like a lunatic. At this point, the guiding

consciousness of the narrative shifts to Shintarô. Tamekichi smiles not because

Shintarô is alive and will prove his innocence, but because he hears the sea calling him.

The auditory hallucination comes from his deep desire to stay on ship and remain at sea

at any cost. The story states once more that Tamekichi would rather choose a life at

sea than be given a chance to prove his innocence. The police will arrive on board at

any moment and descend to the boiler room. He asks himself:

“Isn’t [Sakamoto] supposed to be dead, having been murdered by

none other than myself? . . . That’s right. I killed him just like the
detective said. How dare this pale ghost suddenly wander out of
nowhere and ruin everything for me! . . . According to the
evidence, I’m the lowly bastard who murdered him. . . . Yes, it was
the detective’s idea. He’s the one who suggested it all. Everything is
going to be just like he said it was.”

The detective’s bluffing has seeped into Tamekichi’s brain. It now has the

power to influence him to commit the murder foretold at the beginning of the story.

Finally, “The Shanghaied Man” ends on an expressly vague note:

Everything was just as the police said. Sakamoto Shintarô was dead.
At the same time, a man named Mori Tamekichi had disappeared from
the face of the earth. Gone. Lost forever. Shortly after the Norwegian
ship Victor Karenina weighed anchor at Kobe and set out for the high
seas, a big bundle wrapped in sailcloth, with a heavy weight attached,
was thrown overboard into the surging waves. On deck, whistling and

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 smiling, Sakamoto Shintarô bid his final adieu to Japan. Following the
time-honored custom that is the unwritten code among seamen the world
over, neither Sakamoto Shintarô, who was the ‘shanghaied man,’ nor
Sakamoto Shintarô, who was ‘the man who shanghaied himself,’ ever
stepped on land again.

While it is true this story incorporates many of the distinctive formulaic features

of tantei shôsetsu in comparison with Kaitarô’s ’Merican-Jap stories, which focus on

journalistic reportage of the jobs and lives of the Japanese hobos in American society,

nonetheless it is similarly focused on the issue of identity. The narrative subverts the

typical progression of a whodunit several times over the course of the story,

undermining the activity of the formulaic puzzle-solving in favor of the issue of the

facelessness of individuals in a modern space (e.g., the urban city of Kobe, the

international fleet). For example, Tamekichi is accused of a murder even before

Shintarô’s body is found, simply because he is atypically cool when in the face of a

detective who tells him Shintarô was killed. Secondly, the process in which both

Tamekichi and Shintarô “die” twice – first, when Tamekichi gets on board, and second,

when a large bundle is thrown from the ship at the end of the story – subverts the

common setting of ratiocination in which a murder takes place early in a story which

then concludes with the revelation of the killer. The actual killing in “The Shanghaied

Man” takes place only at the very end, and it is catalyzed by suggestions deriving from

the language of the detective. This theme of the suggestive power of language is

explored through the communication, or lack thereof, between individuals of various

backgrounds. In the encounters of different languages, such as Japanese versus English,

the language of the police versus the sailors, national languages versus a universal code,

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and the slang belonging to the sailors on international lines versus domestic lines, the

variety of languages embedded in different cultures forces the generation of a distinct

identity articulated in opposition to the fact of other language systems. The

psychological transformation that Tamekichi undergoes is also expressed in the

descriptions of his use of, or relationship to, language. As seen in the detective’s

opening question to Tamekichi, names are the first distinctive demarcation of identity of

any individual in society although the sound itself has no substance: “Are you the one

they call Tamé?” Moreover, instinctively aware of both the power and fluidity of

names, Tamekichi chooses subsequently to call himself Shintarô Sakamoto when

signing the dummy contract. In signing the contract, he assumes an entirely different

identity, even the name of his nemesis Shintarô Sakamoto. To assume a new identity is

easy in the world on board ship where everyone has fluid and multivalent identity, but

Tamekichi’s adoption of Sakamoto’s name as an alias leads ironically to a murderous

conclusion. Tamekichi becomes the victim of the power of language which

manipulates subjectivity in two senses. First, he is accused falsely of a crime he never

committed. Second, he falls victim to auto-suggestion. Long before he actually kills

Sakamoto, he comes to believe he is the killer because the authoritative language of the

detective creates the illusion that detective’s accusations are factual. Because he is

psychologically manipulated by the detective into believing he is responsible for a

crime he did not commit, Tamekichi reaches the conclusion that there cannot be two

Sakamoto Shintarôs when he discovers Shintarô in the boiler.

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 A second important feature that we find in this story is the emphasis on survival

skills. As a result of his life as a sailor sailing on international waters, Tamekichi is

accustomed to assuming different identities depending on the person or situation.

However, when he is out of work and off a ship, he has difficulty defining what identity

he should assume, as indicated by the scene at the inn where he experiences feelings of

depersonalization. In order to resolve such a schizophrenic state, Tamekichi is prepared

to seize any opportunity to get back on ship. Viewed in this light, the detective’s

incorrect ratiocination can be interpreted as the catalyst for Tamekichi’s deconstructing

and reconstructing a new identity. After Tamekichi assumes a new identity as

Sakamoto Shintarô on board the Victor Karenina, he goes as far as to conclude that he

has to kill Shintarô. Killing “Shintarô” also means killing “Tamekichi” in a figurative

sense because he is now “Shintarô.” – Or at least he is Shintarô insofar as the name Shin

Saki enables him to stay on ship. The narrative concludes by saying that the “Shintarô”

who shanghaied himself obeys the time-honored custom among the seamen and will

never “step on land again.” Although highly ironic, the passage suggests he will not be

able to go ashore anywhere. Yet he is happy because, according to the text, the sea is

his home, or his mother. Identifying the ocean with the maternal is a commonly used

psychological metaphor. However, in considering how Tamekichi repeatedly feels the

urge to board ship, the sea functions as a metonymy for a world made up of people of

different ethnic and national backgrounds. Finally, it is presented in the last scene as

the symbol of death and silence for Shintarô and Tamekichi, as well as the birthplace of

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a new Shintarô, because it swallows in Shintarô’s body and buries secret Tamekichi’s

crime forever.

Because Tamekichi is a victim of the false police investigation, we can interpret

the tale as a success story of a young man with no stable identity who nevertheless takes

advantage of others’ stereotypical notions about him to gain freedom. Tamekichi is an

easy target for the detective because he does not belong to any group in Japan. As a

jobless and family-less young man, he is a primary suspect with no one to one to defend

him. The people closest to him are also jobless hobos whose identities are defined by

the previous jobs they held (i.e., the names of the ships on which they previously

worked). However, in falling victim to the groundless accusations of the detective,

Tamekichi does not submit tamely. Rather, he takes advantage of the situation to

finally get a job on board a ship, which was the only important thing for him in life.

Another interpretation is possible about the ending, although it is less

convincing. Shintarô is described as frail, or almost dead, but we can assume he was

not as sick as Tamekichi thinks. It was only for a day that Shintarô had been confined

to the donkey boiler. If Shintarô had wrested the knife from Tamekichi, the story would

have a different ending, and the passage, “Sakamoto Shintarô was dead and at the same

time, a man named Mori Tamekichi disappeared from the face of the earth” would

come to have an entirely different meaning. Considering his interest in socialist

movements, yet combined with his distrust in the hardcore approach of proletarian

literature, this story exemplifies Kaitarô’s use of the formulaic characteristic of tantei

shôsetsu in order to express his social critique in the form of allegory.

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 “The Shanghaied Man” is an excellent example of the new kind of tantei

shôsetsu promoted by Shinseinen in the mid- to late-1920s. As discussed in Chapter 3

on the historical development of the genre, the word, tantei, was used as a verb (tantei

suru) as well as a noun. In other words, the right to perform tantei is not limited to

professional detectives, but it also refers to the acts of critical observation, interrogation,

investigation, and ratiocination by anyone who found aspects of daily life strange and

inexplicable. In other words, tantei suru is the action taken by those who attempt to

clarify any mystery or manipulation of information, learn of other’s identities and bring

order and logic to life. On the other hand, the act of tantei-ing can be used to save

oneself from disintegration. In the case of Tamekichi, he regains his identity by making

up a new one with the name of Shintarô. Rather than being protagonists like Sherlock

Holmes, the main characters in these stories question, investigate and at times utilize the

trick of identity to assume different masks are marginalized individuals whose

marginality enables them to see the contradictions in society.

The thematic concern with wandering and the concomitant possibility, as well as

need, of establishing a contingent identity arguably resonated with youths during the

1920s in Japan and helps to explain its broad popularity. Like the protagonist of the

story, many of the readers of these stories were youths who, in leaving their native

villages, wandered into the modern urban space of Tokyo, and even drifted to places

outside Japan.

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6.2 The Contrast Between Maedakô Hiro’ichirô and Hasegawa Kaitarô

To gain a better sense of the significance or distinctiveness of Kaitaro’s

“Shanghaied Man,” it is useful to consider, for purposes of contrast, a representative

example of a story by a proletarian writer that represents the lives of working-class

people on a boat sailing between countries. In “Santô senkyaku” (The Third-Class

Passengers; 1922) published in Tane maku hito (The Sower), the early proletarian

writer, Maedakô Hiro’ichirô, depicts the languid atmosphere among the third-class

passengers who once emigrated to the United States but are now returning to Japan on a

ship sailing from San Francisco to Yokohama via Honolulu. For these emigrant

returnees, “Japan has become something much more than what it meant to the people

who spend their entire lives living in Japan.”308 As was the case with many Japanese

emigrants in the early twentieth century, they left their homeland for the opportunities

of “launching abroad” (kaigai yûhi), yet their final destination was not life in a foreign

country, but Japan. After returning home, they would live comfortable lives with the

money they made abroad. Japan was “the final place for repose after a lonely life and

physical labor,” or the place that “they longed for with their eyes filled with tears of

homesickness” while residing in a “foreign country where they had nothing to rely on

and were often persecuted [for their home country’s nationalism and militarism]” by

“progressive foreign free thinkers.” They put their hearts and souls into playing the role

of complete losers and enduring mental and physical abuse by Americans without

thinking about the meaning of international conflict in a larger context. Maedakô writes

308
Maedakô Hiro’ichirô, “Santô senkyaku,” Puroretaria bungaku-shû, Nihon gendai bungaku zenshû
vol.. 69 (Tokyo: Kôdansha, 1969) 21.

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that “all because they wanted to go home richer, more powerful and famous,” the

emigrants “took on all sorts of challenges, endured harsh labor, and bore every

indignity.” They recklessly stuck to Japan’s imperialism because “their love for the

abstracted symbol called Japan was stronger than anything else.” Japan was the utopian

place where all their wishes would be granted. Maedakô focuses on depicting the

people’s diasporic desire for the idealized or utopianized homeland of their imagination.

For example, in the scene where a naniwa-bushi ballad performer recites a traditional

samurai tale of revenge filled with traditional Japanese sentiments, the passengers

become spellbound by their own imaginings of their perfect homeland. Also, in the last

scene where the passengers finally see Japan in the distance from the ship’s deck, the

subdued tone of the story dramatically lightens and is filled with hope.

This short story is one of the earliest proletarian literary works produced in

Japan. The author portrays the social situation of the nameless emigrants, e.g., A One-

eyed Man, Mother, Student, Red Face, Fat Man, etc., by describing their behavior and

conversations. They feel bored on ship because what they did on the farms was work

and more work and do not know anything else. The passengers’ attention is directed

toward basic cravings like food and sleep, and in the case of the male passengers,

women. Maedakô repeatedly uses the expression, “animal-like,” to depict these third-

class passengers, who are packed into a small, dirty, and poorly ventilated cabin.

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 The story is based on the writer’s own experience in the United States from

1907 to 1920, where he first worked as a day laborer in extreme poverty.309 He acquired

knowledge of anti-capitalist and socialist ideas through acquaintance with writers such

as Theodore Dreiser310 and Kaneko Kiichi.311 Maedakô, who was nicknamed “the

Japanese Jack London,” or “the Japanese Upton Sinclair,” was one of the writers to

whom Kaitarô paid attention. (Maedakô was also a pupil of Tokutomi Roka, whom

Kaitarô idolized in his higher school days.) For example, soon after his return from the

United States in July 1924, Kaitarô wrote an essay for Hakodate Shinbun titled

“Nôyôdai” (Summer Evening Veranda), in which he refers to Maedakô’s content of

kokkyô no higeki, “the tragedy of borders”, or the tragic fact that borders between two

countries prevented people from traveling and interacting freely. He also translated

Upton Sinclair’s They Call Me Carpenter in1930, following the appearance of

Maedakô’s translation of Sinclair’s The Jungle in 1924.

Both “The Third-Class Passengers” and Kaitarô’s “Shanhai sareta otoko” (The

Shanghaied Man) use a ship as a significant space to portray the lives of Japanese

working-class people who have spent many years outside of Japan. However, when it

comes to the symbolic function of the ships, there are crucial differences between the

two stories. In “The Third-Class Passengers,” the space symbolized by the third-class

309
Maedakô became a pupil of Tokutomi Roka’s in 1905, and Roka financially supported Maedakô in
going to the United States to experience of the American society firsthand.
310
Theodore Dreiser (1871-1945). Sister Carrie and An American Tragedy critically portray common
people’s lives in capitalist society.
311
Kaneko Kiichi (1875-1909) became a journalist with Saitama Keizai Shinpô through the help of
Tokutomi Sohô (Ino’ichirô) and was sent to the United States where he received a graduate degree from
Harvard. He was strongly influenced by socialism and became a member of the Social Democratic Party
in the U.S., but died at the age of thirty-three. He befriended Arishima Takeo in Cambridge and greatly
influenced the development of Arishima’s liberalism.

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cabin of the ship is an extension of American society where the emigrants have been

treated inhumanely as a group (and not as individuals) as the lowest-class. They

aimlessly sit, chat, play poker, or lie about in the cabin until the crew feeds them.

Simultaneously, the ship is a means of transportation that enables them to return to a

comfortable life in their home country, according to their idealized view. In “The

Shanghaied Man,” on the other hand, the ship assumes a different function. To a

wanderer like Mori Tamekichi, it is the means of escaping from the closed world of

Japan. Because he is willing to live in a world in perpetual flux, it is also the venue for

free interaction with the people from different national, cultural and ethnic

backgrounds, whether the crew on the ship or the people from ports of call. In such a

space, people assess their identities in terms of those whom they encounter. As

indicated by the end of the story in which Tamekichi decides to stay on the ship for life,

the ship is not a cage or a prison. Nor is it merely a means of transportation. Instead, it

is a life of endless interaction and possibilities.

6.3 ’Merican-Jap Stories

Among other things, “The Shanghaied Man” illustrates Kaitarô’s critical

engagement with and deployment of the conventions of tantei shôsetsu as a strategy for

exploring the complexities of an expressly modern and fluid subjectivity. In addition,

the story argues for the discursive, rather than psychological, foundations of individual

identity. In this way it functions as an allegory for the challenges and opportunities

confronting Japanese youth moving into the modern urban space of metropolitan

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locations such as Tokyo and Kobe. In the same year that “The Shanghaied Man” was

published (1925), Kaitarô also began a journalistic series of reportage works known as

his ’Merican-Jap stories. Though not classified as tantei shôsetsu within the pages of

Shinseinen, nevertheless these stories employ what Cawelti calls a “double plot”

structure characteristic of the genre, as well as depict the power of a fluid identity as a

strategy for negotiating the challenges of the modern world.312 Furthermore, in

celebrating the ability of disempowered and marginalized figures to exploit the

capitalist system through deception, Kaitarô also advances a more radical claim that the

writer himself amounts to a trickster or con man who makes a living by means of his

wits. As a result, he asserts the fundamental imbrication of literary production with the

processes of modern capitalist society. Particularly within the context of Shinseinen’s

efforts to promote reader involvement in the actual creation of its contents, Kaitarô’s

’Merican-Jap stories attain greater significance as works that promote literary

production as the most “modern” way to participate in commodity society.

Like Maedakô’s story, Kaitarô’s ’Merican-Jap stories attempt to give voice to

the Japanese emigrant laborers who easily fall into oblivion as voiceless and faceless

members of a crowd. The ’Merican-Jap stories run to no more than seven to ten

312
In regards to the “double-plot,” John G. Cawelti argues as follows: “The unique formal pattern of the
detective story genre lies in its double and dublicitous plot. The plot is double because the story is first
narrated as it appears to the bewildered bystanders who observe the crime and are to some extent
frightened by it, but who cannot arrive at its solution. Finally, through the detective’s reconstruction of
the crime, the true story of the events is given along with their explanation. This doubling is duplicitous
because, in the first presentation of the story, the writer tries to tantalize and deceive the reader while, at
the same time, inconspicuously planting the clues that will eventually make the detective’s solution
plausible.” Cawelti, “Canonization, Modern Literature, and the Detective Story.” Theory and Practice of
Classic Detective Fiction. Jerome H. Delamater and Ruth Prigozy, ed. (Westport: Greenwood Press,
1997) 10-11.
See, also, Cawelti, Adventure, Mystery, and Romance: Formula Stories as Art and Popular Culture
(Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press, 1976) 87-91.

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pages,313 and they are narrated from the perspective of a ’Merican-Jap, who is,

apparently, none other than the writer himself. Kaitarô coined the term, ’Merican-Jap,

by combining the Japanese phonetic transliteration of American as “meriken” and the

English term, “Jap,”314 in order to designate a type of Japanese migrant or sojourner,

“the cheerful and brazen yellow men for whom [the term] ‘Jap’ sounds appropriate.”315

He explains that “’Merican-Jap possesses a more specific meaning than a “Japanese in

America.” The term specifically excludes, for example, the small population of elite

Japanese expatriates and diplomats, as well as Japanese settlers in California.

According to Tani, ’Merican-Japs are mostly dropouts from American schools, or “the

hobos who had dropped out of the highly established and exclusionist Japanese societies

[on the West Coast].”316 While originally they may have traveled to America to study or

get a job, they lost their stable backing as a result of some little twist in their lives.

313
The size of a page in Shinseinen is roughly six by nine inches, and each page contains roughly 1,000
to1,200 characters.
314
Nihon kokugo daijiten (Tokyo: Shôgakkan, 1976) lists an earlier example of the use of the term,
“meriken” ( ) from 1872. A passage from the Number 45 issue of Shinbun zasshi in May 1872
says: “Washinton no shisuru ya, “Meriken” (with the kanji ) sono na o motte shuto ni meizu.”
(“When Washington died, America designated a capital, naming it after him.”)
According to The Routledge Dictionary of Historical Slang compiled by Eric Partridge and
abridged by Jacqueline Simpson, the first use of “Jap” as a derogatory term goes back to 1904, although
the term itself had been used since the late nineteenth century. In Kaitarô’s stories like “Jappu” (Jap),
“Henpô” (Requital) and “AMMA” (Amma Masseur), the term is used in scenes in which Americans refer
to Japanese contemptuously or with hostility. Among many other examples, one sees that the poet
Takamura Kôtarô (1883-1956) having a similar experience. He recollected to Sarashina Genzô, an Ainu
culture researcher and poet, that a passer-by would hiss at him, saying “Jap!” (See geppô monthly insert
in Volume 8 of Takamura Kôtarô zenshû.) “Jap” was used in official contexts such as newspapers and
was not considered overtly disparaging as it is now. Still, by the 1920s, the context in which the term was
used appears to be almost always with an anti-Japanese sentiment.
Among the large number of neologism handbooks published in the publishing boom of the inter-
war period, those published after 1925 listed ‘Merican-Jap as a trendy word. Uno Chiyo uses the term in
her novella, Iro zange (Confessions of Love: 1935) to refer to Japanese hobos in America.
315
Tani Jôji, “Kutsu” (Shoes), volume 3, Hitori sannin zenshû (Tokyo: Kawade Shobô, 1969) 21-27.
The piece originally appeared in the 4 (i.e., March) 1925 issue of Shinseinen.
316
“Kyozetsu-hyô shûshû mania” (The Maniac Who Collects Rejection Slips), vol. 3 of HSZ, 159. It first
appeared in the August 1927 Shinseinen.

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They either were unable or simply chose not to return to their homeland. At the same

time they did not belong to the society that consisted of the Anglo-Saxon ruling class or

the second wave of impoverished immigrants primarily from Eastern Europe, who felt

inferior to first-wave immigrants but superior to Asians. Protection and help were given

to these dropouts by their own kind – namely, other ’Merican-Japs. In medium-sized

cities across the U.S., where there were no established and official associations of

Japanese, some ’Merican-Japs became managers or owners of employment agencies

that helped ‘Merican-Japs to find work.317 Even when they were not in the employment

agency business themselves, these ostracized Japanese would assist each other. Kaitarô

explains that the most common greeting among them was “Have you eaten?”318 because

Japanese hobos’ primary concern was how to get food for the next day. Out of that

mundane urge, a sense of solidarity was formed among these loners who had dropped

out of, first, Japan and now the Japanese communities in the United States. The ties

among ’Merican-Japs were temporary, however, and the hobos felt free to leave

anytime they wished.

Kaitarô considered these hobos more cosmopolitan than the settlers in California

because the hobos actively attempted to assimilate into American society,319 at the same

time they maintained a critical perspective on it. The snappy sound of “Jap,” as well as

its derogatory socio-political connotation, was directly connected with the lowbrow,

317
The assembly places that Kaitarô depicts are all run by Japanese and exclusively for helping Japanese
hobos.
318
“AMMA” (Amma Masseuse), vol. 3 of HSZ, 28-38.
319
For example, see “Kuni no nai hitobito no kuni” (A Country of Countryless People) in the series of ten
episodes called “Modan Dekameron (Modern Decameron),” vol. 3 of HSZ, originally published in Chûô
kôron in 1927.

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“devil-may-care”320 attitude of the Japanese hobos and sojourners321 who survived in

America without any establishment backing and who were seen as increasingly

unwelcome guests by the 1920s. The term also evokes a Japanese perspective on

Americans because it uses a Japanized version of the word, namely, meriken rather than

“American.” Therefore, Kaitarô’s hyphenated and slangy neologism signifies a middle

ground between native origin and adopted home, from which the ’Merican-Jap remains

capable of criticizing both American and Japanese society by revealing what is

concealed by mainstream cultural systems conceal. In other words, the ’Merican-Jap

has a perpetual outsider or marginalized person’s perspective at the same time that he

remains close enough to both societies to have an insider’s keen insight. Through his

constant travel between the poles of Japaneseness and Americanness, he acquires a

double consciousness or double-voicedness. Such multivalent consciousness or identity

not only marks Tani’s protagonists as expressly “modern” figures, but it also constitutes

one of the strategies by which they negotiate the complex challenges of global

modernity as a social, political and economic phenomenon.

Most of the ’Merican-Jap stories were regularly published in the pages of

Shinseinen from 1925 to 1927. The subjects of the stories were taken from Tani’s own

experience of living in the United States between 1920 and 1924.322 They often

320
“Jii hoizu” (Gee Whiz), vol. 3 of HSZ, 184.
321
I am using the term “sojourners” because these ’Merican-Japs did not settle in one place even after
they immigrated to the United States. Instead, they continued to move to new places, wandering from
one state to another, and not just immigrating but migrating in search of jobs.
322
The number of Japanese immigrants to the U.S. mainland in 1920 was as many as twelve thousand
(Michael David Albert, “Japanese American Communities in Chicago and the Twin Cities,” Ph.D.
dissertation, University of Minnesota, 1980), and the number of Japanese residents there amounted to
111,010 (Asian American Geneological Source Book, 13). Yet, as the trial and execution of the Italian

206
exaggerate the heroic acts of ’Merican-Japs, but seen in comparison with other

contemporary materials on the topic, they appear to be accurate in depicting the living

conditions of Japanese in the Mid-Western and Eastern parts of the United States in the

1920s. Some of the stories are written from the perspective of a young Japanese who is

in the U.S. to study and who works in the home of Anglo-Saxon Americans. Others

describe the challenging but jovial life of hobos who have dropped out of school or a

stable job. Although the lives of these “wandering Japanese” have yet to be researched

to create a fuller picture of Japanese sojourners in the U.S., Kaitarô’s writings do

provide insight into the lives of Japanese who wandered around, taking advantage of the

advanced railroad system and living on the “open road.”323

6.4 The Multivalent Voices in ’Merican-Jap Stories

In the ’Merican-Jap stories, skill at dissembling, or the presentation or

misrepresentation of oneself as someone else, is used by the central characters as a

multivalent strategy for economic gain and survival.

6.4.1. Play on Names in “ ‘The Master’ and the Plates”

Kaitarô played with his own pseudonyms, as well as the names of his characters

in “The Shanghaied Man,” in order to present the image of an individual with

immigrants Nicola Sacco and Bartolomeo Vanzetti on robbery and murder charges clearly show, anti-
communist and anti-immigrant movements were intensifying.
323
People of various ethnic backgrounds became hobos and tramps because of the mobility created by the
trains. Many people were out of work once there was no longer a frontier to conquer and society was
controlled by industrial capital. They stole rides on trains to migrate to wherever there was work, and they
formed assembly places at cities to help each other. In general, hobos in America became a social issue
and object of journalistic and literary attention in the 1890s. For example, they inspired such writers as
Jack London and John Dos Passos. See Frederick Feied, No Pie in the Sky – The Hobo as American
Cultural Hero in the Works of Jack London, John Dos Passos, and Jack Kerouac (New York: The
Citadel Press, 1964).

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multivalent identity. This theme of multivalence applies to the ’Merican-Jap series as

well. Let us turn to a short-short story from the Number 1, January 1925 issue of

Shinseinen titled “Danna to sara” (“The Master” and the Plates), one of Kaitarô’s debut

pieces. It is narrated from the perspective of a young Japanese looking for domestic

work in an upper-class American household. The story begins with the “situation-

wanted” ad that he places in a local newspaper: “Young, neat Japanese. College

graduate. Seeking position as butler in upper-class household. Experienced. Not

asking for high salary. No laundry work or automobile washing. Prefer small family in

the suburbs. To contact, dial Cherry 7029. Or write Democratic Daily P.O.B. #13.”

Needless to say, self-descriptions in advertisements are not always accurate or honest,

and this one serves to remind us that we cannot always believe everything in print or

what people write about themselves. Mrs. Barnum, wife of the General Manager of

Federal Ventilation, hires the young Japanese in the belief that he is an experienced

butler. The narrator, speaking in the first person, tells the family that his name is

Danna, which means “Master” in Japanese. The role reversal of “a master going to

work for a master” creates an ironic and humorous situation for both narrator and

reader. Although contrary to all of their intentions and unbeknownst to them, the family

members call the new butler “Master” even as they treat him like a servant. The

narrator clearly enjoys the confusion. He does not feel humbled by his subservient

position because he is called “Master.” That is why, when Mrs. Barrnum shouts at him

for breaking a plate given to her as wedding gift – “How could you break my precious

china!?” – Danna coolly replies that he can do it “just like this” and drops the entire set

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on the floor. What we see in this story is an example of a false – albeit innocent and

prankish – presentation of self, used by a person without stable social status in order to

survive in a society dominated by middle- to upper-class Anglo-Saxons. The name

serves, first of all, to release the protagonist’s pent-up frustration over the fact that he

works as a servant even though he is a college graduate. Although it is merely a name,

the word “Danna” empowers him to secretly take revenge on his employers. In the end,

the power of the name even gives him the courage to overtly disobey the employer by

breaking the plates in front of her and quitting the job before he is fired.

6.4.2. “Marû Ship” – Writing is Telling Lies

The deception is trifling and used for comic effect in the case of “Danna to

sara.” It basically functions as a means of ridding stress and frustration. In many other

of Kaitarô’s ’Merican-Jap stories, however, tricking others becomes the chief and

recurring subject in describing how Japanese find work and survive in America. As a

survival strategy, the ’Merican-Japs lie to make themselves appear to be what they are

not. They are like chameleons that change their appearance to avoid any danger. In

“Maruu shippu” (Marû Ship), the narrator even describes his job as a writer as the art of

“bluffing;” thereby drawing a connection between the strategies of a jobless Japanese

hobo with the work of a man of literature:324

For a Japanese who has no work, there was one, and only one, job to
cure him of such joblessness. It was the occupation of “excellent
culinary artist.” There have been times when I have used this bluff
and passed myself off in this way. It’s all a charade. A mere tooting

324
“Marû shippu,” vol. 3 of HSZ, 70-75. It originally appeared in the Number 5 (i.e., April) 1926 issue of
Shinseinen.

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 of my own horn. In order to survive in American society, I had to
bluff my way through. That’s just like [my] life as a writer in Japan –
I beg yer puddin’325 – to be able to bluff is absolutely essential. So,
wait, don’t hush me.326 (The Italicized parts appear in English in the
original.)

The narrator/protagonist of “Marû Ship” is a ’Merican-Jap working as a railway

worker in Indiana. After the passage quoted above, the narrator begins to tell his

experience of “bluffing” in Indiana one summer. One day, he hears a restaurant is

looking for “an excellent culinary artist.” He has no experience at cooking, but he is

determined to pretend because he wants to get away from railroad construction and

return to a more urban atmosphere. He succeeds in getting himself hired, and he joins

two other fully qualified cooks in the kitchen. On the first day, he avoids any difficult

orders and keeps himself occupied with simple tasks like cooking eggs. When the

waitress shouts, “Veal à la Holstein!,” he refuses to fill the order and shouts back at the

waitress to not be so pushy. The manager thinks the protagonist is a true chef – one of

those who are cranky and perfectionist. The manager then turns to the waitress, scolds

her and asks another cook to fill the order. By losing his temper whenever he is asked

to cook a dish that is unknown to him, the protagonist uses the opportunity to observe

what the other cooks do. By the time he leaves the restaurant a couple of months later,

he has learned enough to masquerade as an experienced cook. The story becomes a

case of a lie coming true. By repeating the same tactic, the narrator becomes, quite

literally, an “excellent culinary artist.” In the second half of the story, he is searching

325
Apparently a ’Merican-Jap version of “I beg your pardon.” Kaitarô often uses broken English and
misspellings in both dialogue ad narrative passages.
326
“Marû shippu,” HSZ, 72.

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for a new job. A ’Merican-Jap friend tells him about a job as a steward aboard a rich

man’s private yacht. Although he has no previous experience, the narrator still goes for

the interview. The rich man approves of him and introduces him to his wife. The wife

asks if he has been in the Japanese navy. He lies. Of course, he has. Then she asks

why Japanese add the suffix “marû” to the names of ships. Being good at coming up

with trumped-up stories for any occasion, the protagonist offers a convincing

explanation. All the while, he is thinking to himself, “she must be surprised how well-

educated Japanese are, and how eloquent we are. Even a waiter [is no exception].”

6.4.3. Alienation and Assimilation: “Pitiable Tuxedoes”

’Merican-Japs do not hesitate to assume false identities in order to get better

jobs. However, they realize there is a limit to how far they can rise in social position.

Kaitarô refers to various jobs typically held by Japanese college students and/or hobos:

servant or handy man in the household of a middle to upper-middle class family;

dishwasher, bus boy, or manager at a restaurant or college cafeteria; hotel bellboy;

attendant at a game called “Japanese Rolling Ball” (tama-korogashi), or circus magician

at state fairs and amusement parks; bouncer at a “blind pig” (i.e., illegal bars that

emerged at the time of Prohibition); clerk selling oriental silk goods in a department

store; hotdog vendor; professional gambler; professional confidence man; cook, butler,

exotic amma masseur, or other jobs that ’Merican-Japs obtain via false identity,

qualifications, or career. No matter how hard they work and use their wits, the kinds of

work available are all physical. There are no intellectual opportunities, due perhaps to

their ethnic background, the culture gap, or language barrier. The closest that Japanese

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hobos come to “intellectual work” is their role in society as what Kaitarô calls

“character actors” (seikaku haiyû). The narrator of “The Mania of Collecting Rejection

Slips” explains it this way.

I was neither merely a traveler nor a member of the established and

exclusionist Japanese societies in America. Indeed, I acted a variety
of roles as if I were a character actor. Until I became bored with each
job – it was usually the case that I became tired of it before it was
tired of me – I expended great efforts at each of them. Or should I
rather say that I exerted myself to make these jobs become my job.”327

This restlessness, sense of alienation, misplacement and resignation at the upper

limits to social advancement is the subject of “Kanashiki takishîdo” (Pitiable Tuxedoes)

from the July 1927 issue of Shinseinen. The narrator is a Japanese young man who has

just arrived in the United States and is travelling from Seattle to Chicago by train. In

the dining car, he observes a black headwaiter in a tuxedo who very politely, if too

stiffly, greets his customers. The waiter tilts his head and “tugs at the collar of his tux

in a prim way – in the manner of a pointer or a setter rubbing its nose [against its

master].”328 He is like a dog obeying his master, and the narrator feels there is

something sad about this scene. A couple of pages later, the narrator juxtaposes the sad

image of the black waiter with a ’Merican-Jap waiter in Chicago. When he gets off the

train at Chicago, he goes downtown before taking the next train to Cleveland.

I had no particular place in mind when I headed for town. I just

followed the flow of people. On the right-hand side, I noticed signboards

327
“Kyozetsu-hyô shûshû kanja,” vol. 3 of HSZ, 159. Originally appeared in the Number 9 (i.e., August)
1927 issue of Shinseinen.
328
“Kanashiki Takishîdo,” vol. 3 of HSZ, 157.

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 with Chinese characters; it was a corner of Chinatown. . . . The gold
letters, “FUJI,” in a show window to my right drew my attention. When I
looked in, I saw a man, who looked Japanese, with a dark-complexion
and a mustache. He was wearing a tuxedo and was slicing bread next to
the cash register. I pushed open the door.

In the following conversation, he speaks a mixture of English and Japanese.

The italicized lines that appear here are in English in Tani’s original text. They are

reproduced as they are in the original, including the ungrammatical phrases and

misspellings.

“Hello, hello, hello!”

The man was shouting, but there was a nice rhythm to his voice.
“Rain, eh? O, my – what do you know about that? You’re wet. Oh,
You’re soaking wet. Come over here, and I’ll give you coffee. Fix you
good. Well, you must be a new face. New York? Frisco? Denver?
What!? Japan? You mean, THAT Japan? Gosh, you don’t say so, boy.”
The tux continues his soliloquy.
“You do say so, but your plan must be to trick some ‘green’ ones [i.e.,
greenhorns]. No way, no way. You can’t make a big killing [i.e.,
gambling] at this time of year. Wait till the Alaskan boys come from the
West in the Fall. They’ll be sitting ducks for you. Wait till then. Look.
You work for me – dish wash. I was just looking for a boy about your
size. You suit me. What say? Pay you good. Swell job. Wauna take it?”

He continued:
“A Chinese does some business in Tokyo. He works. However far
he goes, he can melt into Japanese society only to a certain degree.
Japanese society holds out its arms [and blocks him from going any
further].”
He held out his arms.
“It’s the same here. In this country, Japs can’t go any further than
this.”
He looked a little sad. At that very moment, a few female customers
came in. Looking like a criminal caught in the act, he stopped his speech
and went over to the women. Glowing with a sly-looking smile, just like
the friendly black headwaiter, he said: “What would you like, Ma’am.”

213
 As he said so, he tilted his head and pulled the collar of his tux in a
prim way as if a pointer – or a setter or whatever – were rubbing its nose
[against its master].
The first ’Merican-Jap that I met was wearing a sad tux like that.
Believe me, yes, that faded tux.329

Kaitarô equates the Japanese with the black headwaiter he met on the train. To

him, they are both pitiable beings not only because they will never be able to ascend to

more prestigious jobs thereby improve their social status, but they also seem to accept

as inevitable their inequality based on the color of their skin. Kaitarô’s other ’Merican-

Jap characters believe Japanese can never become “Americans.” According to Kaitarô,

the Japanese hobos had their own places to gather. They usually assembled at the

YMCA, the seinen-kai (young men’s associations) exclusively for Japanese, job

agencies, and the houses of oyabun (bosses) or motojime (bosses/promoters). Since

sources on the Japanese-American experience rarely include information on these

Japanese hobos, the fifty pieces by Kaitarô are one of the few sources by which we can

learn about their lives.330 American literature concerning Japanese characters and

Japanese immigrant literature (including work by Japanese who settled in the U.S. or by

Japanese who eventually returned to Japan) also provide fragments of similar lives.331

329
“Kanashiki takishîdo” (Pitiable Tuxedoes), Number 8 (i.e., July) 1927 issue of Shinseinen.
330
Maedakô Hiro’ichirô and Taketomi Yasuo also wrote of their experiences working as laborers.
331
I have not been able to find writings by Japanese who led a hobo life and did not return to Japan. The
list of works of literature illustrating the life of Japanese hobos includes those by people who came to the
U.S. as students. A partial list includes: Nagai Kafû’s Amerika monogatari (Tales of America) written in
1903-1907; Maedakô Hiro’ichirô’s “Santô senkyaku” (Third Class Boat Passengers) in 1922; Kawaguchi
Ichirô’s 26-bankan (Hall Number Twenty-six); Taketomi Yasuo’s essays and reportage; and Wallace
Irwin’s Letters of A Japanese Schoolboy.
Maedakô exerted a considerable influence on Kaitarô. He refers to Maedakô (although only
briefly) in his writings, and he published a collection of short satirical stories under the title of Ji de kaita
manga (Cartoon Drawn in Letters) named after Maedakô’s similar type of writing. Maedakô was a pupil
of Tokutomi Roka.

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For purposes of comparison, I will discuss one work by a Caucasian writer concerning a

Japanese domestic servant and two by Japanese writers, before returning to a discussion

of Kaitarô’s work.

6.5 Stories of Japanese Schoolboys

6.5.1. American Writer Uses a Japanese Perspective for Light Social Critique

The American writer Wallace Irwin (1876-1959) 332 wrote three books titled

Letters of a Japanese Schoolboy (1909), Mr. Nogi Maid of All Work (1913), and More

Letters of a Japanese Schoolboy (1923). They consist of short stories narrated from the

perspective of a Japanese young man named Hashimura Togo, a Japanese student who

works as a domestic servant,333 and written in the form of his letter to an editor of an

American magazine. In the letters, Togo tells the editor what he finds strange, exciting,

or shocking about American society. For example, a partial list of titles include: “What

Is Etiquette?,” “Golf Champings [sic]”, “The Radio Age,” “Sigh-Kick [sic],”

“Phenomena,” “Presidential Umpossibilities [sic],” and “The Hon. Vacuum Who

332
Wallace Irwin is a novelist, poet and writer of comic librettos.
333
As for the use of the term, “schoolboy,” there is a discrepancy between the definition in English
dictionaries and the usage among Japanese in the early twentieth century. The only definition that I have
located in English dictionaries from the 1920s and 1930s is “schoolboy: A boy attending a school (New
Century Dictionary, 1927). On the other hand, among the Japanese who studied and worked in the
United States, the term meant specifically “a student who also worked as domestic servant.” For
example, on page 206 of Shinseinen January, 1925 issue, in the Q & A corner about immigration, the
counselor from Nihon Rikkôkai says: “ It is only on the West Coast of North America that you can study
while doing a ‘schoolboy’ (sukûrubôi o suru). In the East, there is no such thing as a ‘schoolboy.’ In
Columbia [in Sough America] where you want to immigrate, there is no way [of being a ‘schoolboy’].”
Kaitatrô uses the term in a story titled “Kîroi mefisutoferesu” (Yellow Mephistopheles), but in other
stories, he calls such a work “butler” (shitsuji) or “domestic laborer”(kanai rôdô) work. It is possible that
“schoolboy” and “domestic servant” became synonyms for Japanese because many Japanese who came to
the U.S. to study also worked as servants. Scholar Saeki Shôichi mentions that Takamura Kôtarô uses the
term, “schoolboy” to refer to his work at his teacher sculptor’s house in New York. See Saeki’s article,
“Jappu no ikidôri” (The Anger of a Jap) in Number 6, 1983 issue of Bungakukai. Incidentally, the use of
the term “houseboy” for a live-in Asian male servant continues to have currency in American English.

215
Cleans Things.” Togo has a cousin whom he calls Cousin Nogi, and the names, Togo

and Nogi, are clearly taken from the recent Russo-Japan War heroes, Togo Heihachirô

and Nogi Maresuke.334 In the second book’s frontispiece illustration of Togo and his

employer, Mrs. Quackmire, the protagonist is presented as a stereotypical Japanese

male who is short, buck-toothed, slant-eyed, and wearing glasses, while Mrs.

Quackmire is a towering figure who assumes the posture of training an inexperienced

servant. In spite of the fact that the stories are narrated completely from the perspective

of the Japanese, the reader is never provided any glimpse of serious distress or

frustration in Togo’s inner world. The elements that come from Togo’s unfamiliarity

with the American culture and society – the use of ungrammatical English,

misspellings, Japanese-sounding usage of words such as the frequent repetition of

“Honorable” – all contribute to the creation of a humorous and comical tone. For

example, a short story titled “What The Well Dressed Man Will Wear” begins with the

following passage:

To the Editor who keeps so stylish because he can use his Printing
Press to creese Hon. Pants.

Dear Sir: –

When printing list of Axidents for Satdy night would you please to
mention that my heart is broken? Thank you. I shall tell how that
was.
A few days of yore I thought I would get married to Miss Kiku-
san, Japanese menicure, so I took her to an actual Theater where I
sipposed that she would learn to love me by watching Hon. Actors

334
“Hashimura Togo” sounds like two family names combined together. This fact, and his imitation of
ungrammatical English used by Japanese, indicates that Irwin was probably not very familiar with the
Japanese names or Japanese language.

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 doing so. By every rule of education this should be so, Mr. Editor.
But ladies are so vice-versa.
Name of that play were Romeo & Juliet by a famus bookmaker
who is now dead. It was filled with moons, kiss-kiss ceremony,
poison, murder and everything that persons should know about before
getting married.335

In another story, “Off With the Dance,” Togo and his girlfriend, Kiku-san, are

arrested for non-stop dancing of the trot-fox for six days. They keep dancing as they

are taken to the court. In the court, the judge orders a guard be brought in who can play

music for them during the trial.

“Do you mean say” he ask frownishly, “that these 2 poor are
compelled to dance without the least music? We should not be cruel to
prisoners. Send for Patrollman Shine & his Sacks O’ Phone!”
So Hon. Shine play tune to resemble Philadelphia Blues while Hon.
Judge took extended look with his high-powered face. I faint twice, but
Miss Kiku-san hold me by hair so I will not die before she does.
“Where did you find Those?” require Hon. Judge with Landis
expression.
“In a fowl room where they been stoggering around to music for six
(6) days, Yonna,” report Hon. Police.
“Which is the man and which is the woman?” narrate His Courtship.
“The one with rubber boots are Female, they say,” renig Hon.
Bluepants.
“Have she danced cantinuously for 6 days?”
“She only stopp once to pick up 2 teeth,” narrate Hon. Constibble.336

What Togo talks about are his encounters with the latest cultural phenomena of

early twentieth-century America such as dance, music, theater, movies, sports and even

335
“What The Well Dressed Man Will Wear,” More Letters of A Japanese Schoolboy” (New York and
London: G.P. Putnam’s Sons, 1923) 53-54.
336
Irwin, “Off With the Dance,” More Letters of A Japanese Schoolboy (New York and London: C.P.
Putnam’s Sons, 1923) 68-69.

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“moonshine,” as well as more traditional American customs, such as how to dress in the

Western style, which are unfamiliar to him. The cultural gap that he experiences

between everyday American culture and the newest fashions or technology (e.g.,

dishwasher, automobile and gramophone) provides him with an opportunity to talk

about society from the fresh perspective of an outsider who never completely

assimilates or establishes a permanent residence. Irwin utilizes this gap between the

Japanese man and his American readers to create a highly comical social satire of

Americans. Togo’s intention is not to write something funny, but because of the gaps

between his understanding of the society and his broken English, the outcome is very

humorous. Also, as the books’ illustrations show, the Japanese characters are depicted

as coming from a backward nation of strange customs and having less than appealing

looks.337 In short, the three books were not written to depict the inner life and growth of

a Japanese man as an individual in a foreign culture. Rather it is the image of the

Japanese as outsider, or as an unsophisticated man, that provides a convenient and

unthreatening means for Irwin to write social satire about his and his readers’ country.

Kaitarô refers to Irwin’s books more than once in his ’Merican-Jap stories,338 but

the references are too brief to indicate his opinion of them. However, the fact that one

337
An comparison of the illustrations in the three books clearly reveals us that the image of Japanese is
depicted in increasingly negative fasion in the last book (1923), reflecting the rise of anti-Japanese
sentiment especially among Californians.
338
Kaitarô may have been introduced to the book while in Ohio. In “Renbo yatsure” [Worn Out from
Romance] he briefly introduces The Letters of a Schoolboy and explains that Cousin Nogi, considers
himself to be a poet because he is enrolled in a correspondence course in poetics offered by a school “in
Akron or some other town in Ohio.” (The town actually referred to by Irwin is Marion, Ohio.)
Incidentally, another Ohio-related book, Winesburg, Ohio by Sherwood Anderson, was published in
1919, one year prior to Kaitarô’s arrival in Ohio. Anderson wrote the book with the small town Clyde,
Ohio in mind. Clyde is less than fifty miles from Oberlin. The narrative style of Winesburg, Ohio

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of his debut stories for Shinseinen is titled “Yangu Tôgô” (Young Togo), and it is

episode about a heroic, middle-weight Japanese boxer who disciplines a racist middle-

aged Caucasian man shows that he consciously chose the name in order to present a

heroic, witty and physically attractive version of “Hashimura Togo.” “Young Togo”

begins with the scene in which the ’Merican-Jap narrator is sitting on a train in

downtown Cleveland, when a gallant and stylish young Asian man with a composed

expression on his face gets on board. A Caucasian middle-aged gentleman looks

displeased when the mysterious Asian sits next him. When a young lady gets on the

train at the next stop, he tells the Asian to give his seat to her. The young man is

reading a newspaper, and he ignores the man. When the gentleman becomes upset, the

Asian answers in perfectly fluent English that the fare he paid for the ride as equal to

what the gentleman paid. If anything, he should stand up instead of telling someone

else. The gentleman gets up and starts a fight by grabbing the visor of the fashionable

hunting cap worn by the Asian, who is coolly reading his newspaper. After ignoring the

gentleman for a while, the Asian finally hits him with an uppercut (which he later

describes as “a light touch”), which leaves the man lying unconscious on the floor. The

police arrive, and they take the Asian and the Caucasian, as well as the young lady and

the narrator, into custody as witnesses. The police finally conclude the gentleman is to

blame because the lady testified in favor of the Asian. The incident appears in the next

appears to share similarities with Kaitarô’s ’Merican-Jap stories. For example, Anderson “claimed
himself to be essentially a story-teller, and his narrative style gives us an impression that it belongs rather
to an oral rather than a written tradition. (See Malcolm Cowley’s “Introduction” to Winesburg, Ohio,
Middlesex, England: Penguin Books Ltd, 1985.) Considering that Winesburg, Ohio became popular and
the story was set in a town near Oberlin, it is likely that Kaitarô knew of it. I have been unable to locate
evidence demonstrating that Kaitarô read the novel, however.

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day’s newspaper, introducing the Asian man as a famous professional boxer, Mr.

“Young Togo.”

6.5.2. Takamura Kôtarô’s Sense of Alienation and Victimization

The cultural gap in the experience of a Japanese schoolboy is described

comically in Irwin’s work. On the other hand, the same gap was a source of frustration

for a Japanese “schoolboy” named Takamura Kôtarô. In poems such as “Zô no ginkô”

(An Elephant’s Bank) and “Shirokuma” (Polar Bear), Takamura expresses the feeling of

alienation that he experienced during his life in New York from 1906 to 1908.339 In “Zô

no ginkô,” he is at Central Park, watching as an elephant receives a coin from the

spectators and puts it into a bank. Then he says the elephant also asks for a nickel from

him, “whom they [karera] call a Jap.” He does not specify who at the zoo “they” are.

It may be the Anglo-Saxon ruling class, or a more general “them” that includes the

recent immigrants to New York such as Italians, Russians and Jews from East European

countries. Still, it is clear he considers himself as the only outsider. The poem

continues: “A dumb-looking elephant from India / A lonely young man from Japan /

‘They’ [karera], the crowd, ought to see / Why the two of us are so intimate.”

Takamura sees himself as outside the world “they” share, and he feels close only to the

Indian elephant because the elephant is looked at by “them” as a silly animal that

performs a trick for a mere pittance. Takamura often experienced conflicts with

339
“Zô no ginkô” (An Elephant’s Bank), “Môjû-hen” (the Canto of Savage Beasts), Takamura Kôtarô
Shishû. Tokyo: Shinchôsha, 1968.
Saeki Shôichi discusses Japanese writers in American society of the early twentieth century in
his serialized articles for Bungakkai titled “Nichibei kankei no naka no bungaku.” See the 8th installment
in the Number 6 issue of Bungakkai in 1983 for his discussion of Takamura Kôkatarô and Nagai Kafû.
He also discusses Tani Jôji in the nineth installment in the Number 7 issue of Bungakkai in 1983.

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Americans who noticed him as a stranger and make fun of him by calling him “Jap.”340

Letters to his family in Japan show that, in addition to frustration over cultural

differences, he was embarrassed about the gap between what he expected of America

and the reality of life there; he worked as a servant and not as an official pupil at his

teacher sculptor’s house.341 “Zô no ginkô” tells us that, like the elephant, he felt he had

been transplanted to a completely foreign soil and given a false identity. According to

Sarashina Genzô, Takamura even resorted to fighting back with his fists when he felt

verbally abused. The fact that the poem was composed nearly twenty years later342 may

indicate that the rise of anti-Japanese sentiment in the United States in the 1920s was

the motive for his decision to compose a poem based on his own experiences from the

1900s. At least it tells us that the sense of alienation and frustration over the identity he

assumed in American society still smoldered deep within him. Nonetheless, contrary to

the real Takamura who physically fought back, the image of the Jap he creates in his

poem never expresses his frustration to the crowd verbally or physically. He maintains

a sober tone in which we detect only the flickering of deep-seated grudge. Irrespective

of the fact that he spent a year and a half in New York, there is little in his published

works that tells us of his experiences there, let alone stories about his interactions with

individual Americans. In the “Elephant” poem, he simply sees the picture as a matter of

340
See also footnote #11. As Takamura himself recollects, the anti-Japanese sentiment was not yet
running high when he lived in New York. He remembers that people would shout “Jap!” at him, but it
was generally innocent ridicule. Moreover, because of Japan’s victories in the Russo-Japan War the
previous year, people did not have a negative impression of Japanese, although California issued a law to
shut out Japanese children from local schools in the same year.
341
He was by no means a beginner at sculpture. His father was the leading sculptor and professor at
Tokyo Institution of Art, Takamura Kôun. Kôtarô himself had graduated from the prestigeous art school
by the time he came to the United States.
342
Written February, 1926.

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the “Jap” (or Asia) versus “them,” and the poem ends with the grudge of an oppressed

man. We cannot extract from it complex sense of ethnicity and class issues that existed

in American society.

6.5.3. Schoolboys at “Japanese Rolling Ball” – The case of Nagai Kafû’s

“Daybreak”
Among the variety of temporary jobs mentioned earlier, “rolling ball,” or tama-

korogashi, is a typical game run by hucksters at local festivals in Japan. Nagai Kafû

refers to it in an episode written in 1907 titled “Akatsuki” (Daybreak), which is

included in his Amerika monogatari (American Stories).343 The narrator says he was

once numbered among the helpers in this gambling game at a summer resort. As a

student, he worked as a scorer and lived with the other workers during the season. He

describes one typical night at work by describing his co-workers. Some are middle-

aged men who have done this work for quite sometime; others are college students who

343
Nagai Kafû, “Daybreak” (Akatsuki), American Stories, trans. Mitsuko Iriye. Cambridge: Harvard
University Press, 2000. To quote from the opening lines:
“Among the many games in this vast Coney Island is tamakorogashi, Japanese Rolling Ball, one of
the most popular. It is nothing fancy, just like shooting or rolling games at Okuyama, where you
win one of the prizes that adorn the whole store by rolling a number of balls. But because it is run
by Japanese, and hence exotic, and also because it is like gambling, where you may win a valuable
prize if you are lucky, it has become quite popular. No one knows since when; certainly it has been
thriving even more since the Russo-Japanese war, and every summer there are more and more such
rolling ball shops.
You can tell that most Japanese owners of these shops are over forty years of age, determined
to make a killing from this popular enterprise. Their appearance and manners somehow suggest
their situation in life as labor bosses, desperados, or hooligans. They have come to the United
States after experiencing many hardships in their native Japan and, having tried just about
everything in America, have reached the stage where they say it’s no big deal to live in this world,
you won’t die even if you eat dirt. On the other hand, those working for them who, every day,
count the number of balls rolled by customers and hand them their prizes, are either unemployed
people who have not yet been hardened by failures in life but somehow hope to succeed their bosses
or young men who have impetuously come to the United States to work their way through college.”

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are trying to make living expenses. The men usually work from 5 p.m. to 2 a.m.; after

work, the younger workers direct their attention to the girls in the street. After the

group disperses, the narrator and another young Japanese worker start talking. The

narrator learns the young man is from a prestigious family, and that he came to the

United States five years ago to attend school in Massachusetts. He has never needed to

work because of the financial support that he received from his father. However, after

studying hard for two years, he quit school. He placed an ad in a newspaper and found

work. An opportunity to work as a “live-in servant at a Westerner’s home” presented

itself, and he began to feel how carefree such a life was. To free himself from the

pressure of having to become as successful and noble as his father, he decided never to

open another book. Indeed, he planned to hang around places like Coney Island for the

rest of his life. The narrator, who listens to this story, is also a student who has been

studying in the U.S. for two years. His father has been financially supporting his son’s

education, but the young man is working and saving money out of a personal desire to

go to Europe. In terms of the thematic structure of the story, we see that Kafû starts out

to explain aspects of the manners and customs of American society, but his interest

soon shifts to the traditional father-and-son relationship of the Japanese young man.

The narrator is empathetic because he is in similar circumstances. In other words, the

main concern of the story is not about the life of Japanese and their relation and

interaction with American society, or about the way Japanese survive by adjusting to

the new culture. Hence, the Americans at the fair are merely a backdrop for those

Japanese who have come so far yet cannot be free from home. Although the

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prominence given to the dialogue between the Japanese workers gives the work a

vulgar, casual yet lively tone, nonetheless the narrative still remains descriptively sober,

focusing on the inner world shared by the two young men.

6.5.4. Schoolboys at “Japanese Rolling Ball” – In the Case of Hasegawa Kaitarô’s

“The Town in the Sleet”

In contrast to other works published in Japan by Japanese about their

experiences in the West, Tani’s stories do not depict an elite brooding over its

existential dilemma of being transplanted to locations outside of Japan. Instead, the

’Merican-Jap stories represent the viewpoint of drifting, working-class men in spaces

where they must act/react on the spot in order to survive in what was seen as the most

advanced capitalist society in the world. In other words, the Japanese hobos

continuously strive to figure out what is best for them “here” and “now;” and sketchy as

their character development and interior descriptions may be, they present themselves

with the identity best fitted to each situation within a society of multiple layers of races

and economic classes. These stories also differ from the travel accounts seen in

Shinseinen or other magazines that describe foreign countries from the perspectives of

visitors or onlookers.344 Each narrative tells its story in a speedy and garrulous mix of

colloquial Japanese and American street lingo. Kaitarô addresses his audience directly

on occasion, and he constantly digresses from the main storyline into descriptions of

new political, economic, ethnic or cultural aspects of the American urban space and his

344
Shinseinen was known for introducing Western culture to youngsters through their Western mystery
fiction, travel accounts, critical essays, satirical cartoons and Q & A page by Rikkôkai . In the
early twenties, Rikkôkai gave advice to youngsters who had questions about working abroad in pursuit of
the dream of kaigai yûhi (“launching abroad”).

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critical comments about them. It is worth noting, moreover, that Kaitarô’s writing has

been described as a “modernist style that traveled across modern customs and brought

great innovation to Showa prose expressions.”345 Linguistic analysis of the

transgressive use of language in Kaitarô’s stories goes beyond the scope of this chapter,

however. Instead, I wish to focus on the cultural function served by the descriptions of

’Merican-Japs as possessing or performing a flexible, multivalent identity in the harsh

reality of capitalist America.

In “Mizore no machi” (The Town in the Sleet) in the December 1927 issue of

Shinseinen, Kaitarô tells a story about Japanese Rolling Ball that reads more like a

journalistic report of the Japanese and their jobs in America:

Among the ’Merican-Japs, the voluble ones are in great demand at

the summer resorts. They get hired as barkers for the shops like
“Rolling Ball” or “The Thread-pulling Game.” [At work,] they take
off their collars and jackets, roll up their sleeves, and lean toward the
audience. Shaking their hair loose over their yellowish faces, and
opening their mouths as wide as their eyes, they shout in broken
English. These are the former schoolboys from the West [Coast] who
strayed from the right path and became the wandering ’Merican-Japs,
the barkers at Japanese Rolling Ball.
“Aoo!” A barker bellows in order to startle passersby streaming
past him.
Then he continues:
“Japanese rolling ball! -- Rolling all here, Gents – Step over and
try your luck – Nobody knows how lucky your are – Don’t you want a
nice Japanese teaser? -- Girls, come here and get your dolls!
Japanese rolling ball! You get something everytime, and no blanks at
all! –“

345
Hamada Yusuke, “Taishû bungaku no kindai.” 177. Chiba Kameo (1878-1935), influential critic on
literary developments in the Taisho period, asserts that the “free-spirited, fresh . . . brilliant and sprightly
writing style” that Tani employed in the ’Merican-Jap stories “will likely be recorded in the history of
modern Japanese literature.” “Taishû sakka to shite no Maki-shi,” Chûô kôron, August 1935: 328-333.

225
 He shouts like this in a voice loud enough to give you a splitting
headache. In most cases, the barkers are merely loud, and what they
shout may not be understandable to the American passers-by because
it is so monotonous. But maybe it’s because the passersby cannot
make out what the barkers say, that the crowd gathers so quickly.
“What’s this?” “What happens when you roll the ball?”
The novices in the crowd ask all kinds of questions. In order to
answer their questions, the ’Merican-Japs who go to universities in
this country are hired while they are out of school during the summer
break, and they explain things pretty fluently. . . . The clacking of the
balls, the laughter of the women, the loud voice of the barker, the silk
shirt of the owner, the brown eyes of the ’Merican-Japs – swirls of all
kinds of garish colors cover them and move in lively, active ways.
Imagine them all. Imagine the sounds of all the different foreign
languages that fly about like arrows in every direction in the middle of
this din. Another ’Merican-Jap is collecting the balls quietly, without
moving his slit eyes in his yellow face. The barker shouts off and on:
“Japanese rolling ball, here!”
. . . An amusement district in America. 346

Throughout the story, Kaitarô’s narrative jumps and twists, constantly

digressing even in the opening of the story. Preceding the passage quoted above, he

depicts the scene on a train headed to an amusement park at a summer resort where the

Japanese Rolling Ball game is one of the attractions. He explains how to pay for the

train-ride, portrays the typical appearance of the conductors, and describes a scene

where passengers are scrambling to get off the train at the resort stop. He tells his

readers about the city streets and the summer resort with the repeated use of the

command, “sôzô shitamae (‘Imagine that for yourself!’)” to visualize every possible

garish color and hear the pronunciations and accents of all kinds of foreign languages.

346
To be more specific, “Mizore” is divided into four shorter stories, each depicting four typical kinds of
’Merican-Jap workers, namely, “Japanese Rolling Ball” workers, bellboys, dishwashers and jobless
gamblers. Furthermore, it is one of six stories that Kaitarô serialized as “’Merican-Jap shôbai ôrai” (The
’Merican-Jap Business Guide). The main theme of this guide was to introduce the variety of jobs that
Japanese hobos engaged in.

226
Using his unique mixture of Japanese and American slang, Kaitarô describes the

cheerfulness of ordinary folks in a typical a summer resort in the United States.

Although the scenes and topics constantly shift, Kaitarô continues to emphasize the

high-spirits of the ’Merican-Japs who make the best use of their talents as barkers to

talk people into trying the phony game:347 After the rolling ball scene, the story shifts

abruptly to another in which an ’Merican-Jap is being interviewed for a position as a

hotel bellboy. He gets the job but is soon fired because he naively reports to the

manager that there is a prostitute in the hotel. The young man goes back to the local

’Merican-Jap head (oyabun)’s house where other jobless and homeless ’Merican-Japs

are always gathered and gambling. Listening to his story, the oyabun grins and says,

“You are green. . . . Well, now that you’ve been fired, you can hang around here in the

meantime.” Typical of Kaitarô’s ’Merican-Jap stories, “The Town in the Sleet” has the

structure of a practical job guide. Kaitarô explains practical things that Japanese need

to know in finding a job in the United States. For example, he talks about the function

of a letter of recommendation, what to do in job interviews, the need to ignore social

vices such as prostitution to keep one’s job, and the existence of shelters for Japanese

hobos when they are fired and have no place to stay.

347
“Mizore no machi” (The Town in the Sleet) in the section titled “Meriken jappu shôbai ôrai” (The Job
Guide of/for ’Merican-Japs”), vol. 3 of HSZ, 213-227.
In “Mizore no machi,” Kaitarô does not specify the name of the town. In another story where he
refers to Japanese Rolling Ball, he says he is in Jackson, Michigan. He says he worked with the hucksters
in Jackson, Michigan and Cedar Point, Ohio one summer.

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6.6 Japanese Hobos and American Society
We have already seen how Kaitarô enjoyed producing stories, speeches and

poetry in his middle school days. He wrote muckraking booklets about his teachers,

petitions, songs and poetry as a student leader protesting against school officials; he

enjoyed the role of dissident and buffoon. He was excited to learn how his command of

language had the power to make changes in others’ lives. Second to his “salad days” in

Hokkaido, his life in the United States was crucial for developing the idea of the

centrality of language for switching identity as a strategy survival. In the previously

mentioned “Danna to sara,” dissembling, or representing oneself as someone else is

used by the central character to rid himself of the frustration that comes from being

treated like a servant, when he is much better educated than his master – or more

educated than the master imagines. The frustration that Danna felt was common to the

many Japanese immigrants who had received an education in Japan and were

financially able to travel abroad. The 1920s was a time when the Japanese government

was searching for ways to expand its power outside Japan. For example, Kaitarô writes

about these employees at a restaurant:

“The young men who are hanging around at this restaurant [run by an Irish
man] from summer to autumn are almost all either college graduates,
students, or graduate students of either Japan or this country. One of them
was racking his brains last night over problems in analytical geometry.
Even at this moment [of working in the restaurant], another is imagining
the life of the French masses during the Reformation. Meanwhile,
someone is trying to boil down Marx and Enrico Fermi in the same pot or
oiling a pan to rework the [meaning] of love for mankind. If only I could

228
 let these careless, darling and romantic American observers know all this,
how surprised they’d be!”348

The cultural gap between Japanese sojourners and American society is the

theme, or at least a tool, in all of the stories by Irwin, Takamura, Kafû and Kaitarô

discussed previously. Nevertheless, Kaitarô’s stories are unique in that they have

endings where the ’Merican-Japs take action to improve their situation. We also see

that Kaitarô’s portrayal of American society grow more complex as his characters

become more aware of ethnic diversity in the United States. They learn that the gap is

not simply between Japanese and others. American society is composed of a far more

complicated mosaic. We can see this development in the perspective expressed by the

’Merican-Jap in the following stories, “Dassô” (Running Away), “Mekishiko onna” (A

Mexican Woman), “Sam Kagoshima” and “Kuni no nai hitobito no kuni,” (A Country

of People Without a Comtry).

6.6.1. “Dassô” (Running Away) – Frustration over the Gap Between the Two
Discrepant Images of Himself

In a piece called “Dassô” (Running Away) of June 1925, Kaitarô writes of the

first occasion when he perceived the tangible gap between his own self image and the

one being imposed on him. This is, namely, the disparity between the self-image of a

man who has excellent literary skills in his own language, and that of an Asian with

little ability to communicate in English – an image imposed by many Americans. In the

opening two paragraphs, the narrator explains he does not like people who try to be

348
“Tekisasu mushuku” (Texan Wanderer), vol. 3 of HSZ, 40. Originally published in the Number 12,
October 1926 issue of Shinseinen.

229
excessively nice. The scene is on an express train from Toledo to Cleveland, Ohio.

The train stops, and the conductor asks the young Asian male passenger if the young

man intends to get off at the next stop in the countryside. The young man responds only

with a strange smile. Kaitarô describes the smile is “as though [the young man] were

doing his best to move his ears by moving his facial muscles in order to bare his teeth.”

(The original Japanese sentence employs uncommon, even strange, diction, as if to

convey the artificiality of the expression). The other passengers look at the youth as

though he were a rare and unusual beast. The conductor steps back. He is disturbed by

the way the strange young Asian has looked at him. As soon as the young man gets off,

the passengers burst into laughter as if they had been watching a comedy show. Up to

this point, the story has been told in the third person, but in the third paragraph the

narrative voice abruptly switches to the first-person of “watashi,” or I, who has traveled

all the way from Japan to a rural college town in Ohio. Watashi explains that he has

come to this small Mid-western town to go to college. He then goes on to say how he

made his way to the house of Professor Sheridan. Sheridan welcomes him, and he

arranges a place for the student to stay at the house of a dentist named Hughes. In

return for lodging, the student begins to work as an assistant in Dr. Hughes’ dental

office. Meanwhile, Professor Sheridan finds another household, the Wilsons, who are

looking for a part-time “live-out” servant.349 Halfway into the story, we learn watashi’s

349
After the first immigration wave to Hawaii in the 1880s-90s, there was a constant flow of Japanese
immigrants to the U.S., especially to California. The majority of those immigrants became unskilled
laborers at farms, but there was also a smaller population of students. They often worked as servants or
handy men for American families in order to support themselves during their study, often called “school
boys.” This pattern continued until the Immigration Exclusion Act of 1924 which prohibited further
Japanese immigration to the U.S.

230
name for the first time when the dentist addresses him as “Jôji (or George).” When Jôji

lists the names of the members of the Wilson family, however, another strange switch

occurs. This time he introduces himself as though he were someone else. The text

refers to him, following the order of names in English, and with (mis)pronunciation and

a foreign accent, as “George Tany,350 a live-out Japanese waiter/student (kayoi kyûji-nin

no Nihonjin gakusei, Jôji Tenî-san).” The narrative perspective is switched again, just

as in the opening, and the reader can only guess from the context that “George Tany” is

watashi. In any event, Jôji begins work at both places. But he is unable to get along

with the female cook at the Wilsons, and he ends up quitting after a big fight with her.

He even decides to quit school despite the kindness that Professor Sheridan extends to

him. According to Jôji, the professor is a kind man, “being in cahoots with the college,

God and the holy apostles,” but he tries to turn him into “a lamb [of God].” Unwilling

to be proselytized to by Sheridan et.al., Jôji decides to leave town. In the final

paragraph, the professor and the Wilsons’ daughter have gone to the train station to see

him off. As they bid farewell, Jôji announces he plans to go to Alaska and Mexico.

Meanwhile, to Jôji’s distress, Professor Sheridan starts praying. Throughout the story,

he is frustrated by the kindness that he receives from religious-minded people. When

Professor Sheridan tries to include him in church activities, the narrator comments, “I

got baptized once in my adolescence. I did it on a whim, but neither blessings nor light

have come to me. By now, I’m about ready to step on a fumie.”

350
Although Kaitarô spells the last name as “Tany” in English in the Japanese text, from the fact that he
sometimes adds the rubi phonetic transcription “ ,’ it is possible that he had the Western name,
“Taney,” in mind.

231
 This story appears to reflect Kaitarô’s actual experiences at Oberlin College,

Ohio.351 Moreover, it claims that it was the proselytizing attitudes of the local people

that became the reason for his departure. By contrast, archival records at Oberlin report

only that Kaitarô left school because of “not enough English.” Kaitarô’s wife, Kazuko

(1895-1984), also remembered Kaitarô telling her he did not understand a word of

colloquial English when he arrived in the United States. To feel inept must have been a

serious blow to his self-confidence because he had studied English at school and

church, and he was famous at middle school for his speeches in English.352 Perhaps

more shocking was the fact that an educated man like himself could not use his wit, and

he found himself treated like a helpless youngster in need of guidance. From the

perspective of the Americans on the train, he is a strange Asian with an “inscrutable”

smile. He is an object of curiosity, humor and novelty. In addition, for Professor

Sheridan, he is a foreign soul who needs Christianity as much as he needs a place to

stay. The sentence, “I’m about ready to step on a fumie,” clearly shows Kaitarô’s

irritation toward the charitable but persistent Christian, Professor Sheridan. School

records such as newspapers, letters, and essays by faculty, students and alumni stored in

the College Archives, tell us that Oberlin emphasized Christian belief in the early

351
His three months at Oberlin were probably his only experience as a college student in the U.S. With
regard to the names of the people who appear in the story, the Archives at Oberlin College do not list any
professor by the name of Sheridan teaching at the college during the early 1920s. The Oberlin City
Directories of 1916 and 1929 also do not list any “Wilsons,” although there is an architect named
“Williams.” Nor is there any dentist by the name of Hughes, only a H.G. Husted. My attempts to
ascertain factual validity for Kaitarô’s story were unsuccessful. The college archives do list Kaitarô as a
student from September to November 16, 1920. Oberlin College Archives. Information courtesy of Mr.
Roland M. Baumann at the Archives Department.
352
The Hakodate Middle School intramural publication includes favorable comments on Kaitarô’s
performance in the speech contests. See, for example, Kawasaki’s Karera no Shôwa, 50-51 and 54-55.

232
twentieth century, and it adopted measures to provide equal education to students of

different ethnic backgrounds even when racial discrimination prevailed.353 Considering

the fact that the majority of the Japanese students who studied at Oberlin College in the

early twentieth century were theology students, we can speculate that Kaitarô possibly

felt either inferior to, or repelled by, these scholarship students most of whom had

already graduated from Dôshisha University.354 Also, interaction both inside and

outside college through his two jobs may have given Kaitarô the opportunity to see how

Christian philanthropy was or was not put into practice.355

In comparison with other stories where Kaitarô talks about his days after he

became fluent in English, and especially his experiences interacting with what he calls

the “second petit bourgeois” (dai-ni shôshimin kaikyû; the second-class citizen – both

with regards to their late arrival in the U.S. at the turn of the twentieth-century or their

353
In the 1930s, and during the World War II as well, the college declared that it would not discriminate
against students of Japanese heritage. In 1944, when the college received information that the Navy was
about to include it on a list of colleges that would be allowed to admit only the students who met certain
conditions, e.g., certain ethnic backgrounds, the President of the College raised a strong opposition.
354
Oberlin College was historically Congregationalist. Although it was open to the students of all
denominations, it had special ties with Dôshisha University, which is also Congregationalist. Doshisha
sent the largest number of Japanese students to Oberlin. According to the research of Tsutsumi Toshiko
at Ôbirin University in Tokyo, of 32 students who studied at Oberlin in the 1910s, 21 were theology
students. Of 153 Japanese students who matriculated before WWII, 84 studied theology. Tsutsumi
argues that, especially in the 1910s, many theology students at Dôshisha University wished to study at the
Oberlin seminary when the College Dean was active in assisting Japanese to come to Oberlin. Tsutsumi
also adds that theology majors were exempt from tuition; in addition, the school had a scholarship
program that gave students $100-200 in return for work assisting at neighboring churches. The
Reischauer brothers (Robert, from 1924; and Edwin, from 1926) studied at Oberlin because of their
missionary connection to the school. In the Autumn of 1920, there were at least 15 Japanese students
studying at Oberlin. Five were in the Theology Department, one double-majored in theology and music,
one majored in music, and the rest were in the College of Humanities and Sciences.
355
Old “Japan hand” and U.S. ambassador, Edwin Reischauer notes that the student body at Oberlin in his
day (1926-30) was predominantly white, Anglo-Saxon and Protestant. Moreover, in terms of racial
issues, he did not feel the college was as liberal as it claimed to be. For example, he recalls that, when
sport teams traveled to away game, the African-American teammates had to stay at separate lodging
facilities. Edwin O. Reischauer, My Life Between Japan and America (New York: Harper & Row,
Publishers, 1986) 34.

233
low-class status as workers), the object of his frustration in “Dassô” is quite limited: i.e.,

well-educated and overly kind Christians. His understanding of the dynamics of

religion, race and politics is unsophisticated. Nor has he developed tactfulness in taking

advantage of “The Others’” conception of him. He is still inexperienced, and he is

annoyed by the guiding hand he receives. In this early stage of his American life, he

has no choice but to “run away” from the situation.

6.6.2. “Mekishiko onna” (The Mexican Woman) – Story-telling by Taking

Advantage of “The Other’s” Preconception of a Bellboy

A recurring theme in ’Merican-Jap stories is the story of Japanese who may not

be able to speak English fluently yet are witty enough to take advantage of the

“dumbness” – to borrow Kaitarô’s word – of the majority in American society.

Kaitarô’s characters are constantly exposed to situations that make them keenly aware

of the instability and precariousness of their identity. Through those awkward

situations, however, they become aware that they can take advantage of their dubious

identity. In a sense, they become actors who improvise and create the stage effects

most likely to set themselves off to good advantage. Through his stories, Kaitarô argues

that the performers should be entitled to monetary compensation from their

audience/customers for their great performances. Depending upon the occasion and the

audience, the theatrical image may shift from “a poor but hard working student” to “a

young man who supports his blind mother,” as Kaitarô’s story, “Mekishiko onna”

indicates:

I had brought myself up to the status of a real bellboy who could

easily come up with such lies like “I want to save money for college

234
 tuition” whenever hotel guests asked me why I was working there. “Why
are you doing this kind of job?” In order to answer this question, each
bellboy had his own romantic bluff or so-called “sub-stuff” or tearjerker:
“So that I can feed my blind mother,” Or “to let my little sister go to
music school” . . . If they found out I was a bellboy for no particular
reason, they would have thought I was a helpless juvenile delinquent.
That meant I was unfit to serve gentlemen, and that would lead to a
smaller tip. . . . “Are you Chinese, Filipino, or Japanese? Maybe
Jewish?” These questions were cast upon my fellow Japanese bellboys
and myself several times a day. I hated to let people think that Japanese
were working in such a rural place. So I said, “It doesn’t matter where I
was born. I just happened to be born there. I’m American while I’m in
this country, but in Mexico, I’ll be Mexican. . . ” 356

6.6.3. “Sam Kagoshima” – Switching Identities by Using the Other’s Prejudice

Concerning Ethnicity

Identity switches in the earlier ’Merican-Jap stories were not always intentional.

Sometimes they were the result of ironic misunderstandings that arise from others’

ignorance or racial prejudice. However, in later ’Merican-Jap stories, it is increasingly

the case that the skill at dissembling is used by the central characters as a multivalent

strategy for economic gain and survival. Take, for example, the story of “Sam

Kagoshima.” The narrator of the story is a Japanese man working as a waiter in an all-

night restaurant managed by other Japanese. He is mistaken for Chinese by three

Caucasian customers, who make fun of him, asking if he can serve Chinese food, if he

has a pigtail, etc. Finally he declares he is Japanese, and calls for help from the cook,

Sam Kagoshima, who is waiting in the kitchen. Sam is also a ‘Merican-Jap. A former

acrobat in the circus, his muscular physique makes him look very imposing. When the

narrator announces that Sam will demonstrate “the difference between Chinese and

356
“Mekishiko onna” (The Mexican Woman), vol. 3 of HSZ, 104. Originally appeared in the Number 11
(i.e., September) 1926 issue of Shinseinen.

235
Japanese,” the customers fall silent at the prospect of having to defend themselves in a

fight and soon change their tune. At this point, the narrator steps to their table and asks

very courteously, “And what would you, sirs, like to order?”

Although “Sam Kagoshima” is a fairly simple story, the narrator and Sam can be

interpreted as the writer’s attempt to depict Japanese intellectual and physical strength

in two respective individuals. Perhaps even more important, however, Tani creates a

scenario in which the suggestion of physical strength by a Japanese hobo is as effective

as the actual use of force, thereby taking advantage of the simplistic image of Japanese

ethnicity held by the Americans. As the three customers sit in cowed silence, the

narrator imagines their thoughts.

“Mexicans, American Indians, and Japanese – one never knows

what they are going to do.”
“Especially this one. He’s strange.”
“He might jump on our throats.”
“No – He’s going to snap at [our] noses before that.”
“Jujutsu!”
“That’s right. He will do something strange with his legs first,
make us lick the floor, and insert his hand into our ears to injure our
pinky toes so that they’ll be useless for the rest of our lives!”
“Jujutsu!”
“Although he looks like a stone, he is Japanese. So, he is going to
use that sorcery called jujutsu . . . ”

The narrator depicts the customers beginning to fear Sam as a “jujutsu sorcerer”

because they combine their perception of the ethnic signifier, “Japanese,” with his

appearance. In actuality, however, Sam has lived in the U.S. since he was nine, and

knows absolutely nothing about Japanese martial arts. Moreover, the narrator does not

characterize him as a prototypical hero. Sam enters the scene by scurrying out of the

236
kitchen (chokochoko to dete kita) in a decidedly “unheroic” manner, and when he stands

in front of the customers, the narrator describes him as so short that the customers may

mistake him for sitting down. On one level, Tani is clearly making fun of the ignorance

of Americans about Japanese. On another level, however, through an ironic tone, he

depicts how ’Merican-Jap’s self-image is created through contact with the foreign. The

’Merican-Jap narrator in “Sam Kagoshima” desires to present an inflated image of

Japanese as masculine and heroic when pitted against a majority. In fact, however, the

Japanese cannot live up to such an image in the story. The naïve judgment made by the

Caucasian customers about Sam being a frightening jujutsu sorcerer is nothing more

than an interior dialogue imagined by the ’Merican-Jap narrator/protagonist. In this

way, Tani challenges the traditional notion of authentic Japaneseness through his

satirical depiction of the ’Merican-Japs’ self-imposed ethnic image. Consequently, Tani

makes the point that while stereotypical conceptions of ethnic identity stemming from

others’ ignorance are sources of annoyance or pain, at the same time they can also be

manipulated, even for financial gain. Once the narrator introduces Sam’s Houdini-like

powers and teaches the customers that they should not belittle Japanese, he takes their

order – now that he had made them obey and stay to eat.

“Sam Kagoshima” draws a fairly simplistic picture of Japanese pitted against

whites. But we also find that Tani’s portrayals of American society become more

complex as his characters gain greater awareness of the ethnic diversity and complexity

of the United States. Because Japanese hobos interact with the wanderers of various

other ethnic backgrounds, their identities as “Japanese male” (Nippon danji), or their

237
notions of pure Japaneseness, are constantly challenged by the foreignness that they

encounter.357 They learn that the gap is not simply between Japanese and all other

peoples, but that American society is composed of a complicated mosaic of various

ethnic and economic hierarchies.358

6.6.4. “Kuni no nai hitobito no kuni” (Country of People Without a Country) –

American Society as Mosaic of Ethnicity and Classes

Kaitarô also extends his depictions of strategic identity construction to people

other than the Japanese hobos. One ’Merican-Jap in “Kuni no nai hitobito no kuni”

(The Country of People Without a Country; 1927), has an almost schizophrenic habit of

talking to himself out of deep loneliness. He takes advantage of this idiosyncratic habit

and becomes a professional ventriloquist. Eventually he becomes rich, as well as

happily married to a gypsy woman, who also uses multiple identities.

Throughout 1925, most of Kaitarô’s works were written for Shinseinen under

the two pen names, Tani Jôji and Maki Itsuma. The following year, he branched out

and began writing for several magazines and newspapers including Tantei shumi, Chûô

kôron, Bungei shunjû, Yomiuri shinbun and Tokyo Nichinichi shinbun (later renamed

Mainichi). The editor-in-chief of Chûô kôron, Shimanaka Yûsaku (1887-1949) 359

357
According to his family, Tani was once a member of Industrial Workers of the World (IWW). The
majority of the IWW members were hobos and so-called floating workers. Tani seems to have been
influenced by Jack London as seen from the fact that in the ’Merican-Jap stories he mentions London and
his book on hobos, presumably, The Road.
358
The ’Merican-Jap main characters interact with Anglo-Saxons, African Americans, nisei Japanese,
fellow ’Merican Japs, and what Tani calls the “petit bourgeois second immigrants,” referring to the
second wave of immigrants such as Jews and Greeks.
359
Shimanaka Yûsaku became a reporter for Chûô kôron in 1912. He took notice of women’s issues
when the Seitô [Blue-Stocking] Group was gaining popularity, and he started Fujin kôron in 1916. In

238
thought highly of Kaitarô’s talent after reading the ’Merican-Jap stories. In 1927,

Shimanaka had Kaitarô serialize ten stories as a series titled the “Modan Dekameron”

(The Modern Decameron),360 in which Kaitarô spins stories about people’s lives in an

urban space, although the time and place are no longer the medieval Rome of the

Decameron but twentieth-century New York. The main characters are ’Merican-Japs

whose background and reasons of immigration and migration vary, but what is common

to them is that they live in a poor, dark neighborhood in Manhattan. Living like hobos,

they work as gamblers, acrobats, bootleggers, owners of illegal bars, poets, or assistants

to tipsters. Of these stories of not only lonely Japanese but other low-class people of

varying ethnicity struggling to survive in a very tough neighborhood, the last story

exemplifies best what can be called the multivalent voices that emerge from the

splitting of identity or personality. Moreover, the dichotomy is turned into something

economically useful.

The story takes place in a neighborhood on Third Avenue, which Kaitarô calls

“a country of people without a country.” Through his three-years in the Midwest and

life in New York, Kaitarô’s horizons have broadened. Now he sees the struggles in

urban settings as not limited to Japanese but as universal. The neighborhood is filled

with people who had to leave their homelands: Bulgarians, Chinese, Jews, Greeks,

Hawaiians, Spanish, Irish, French, and German. Regardless of their diversity in the

1925, he became shukan (editor-in-chief) of Chûô kôron, and in July 1928, the president of Chûô kôron
Corporation.
360
Kaitarô borrowed the structure and topics from Boccaccio’s Decameron.

239
ethnic and national background, they are one because they share the same “somehow

sad [or lonely] look in their eyes.” Kaitarô describes them this way:

It may be said they happily established a country – a country that

exists even if it does not appear on a map of the world. They did this
via a contract of shared sentiment generated from the fact that they all
abandoned their countries somewhere on the globe. A Bulgarian
marries a Turk and has an American baby girl. The American baby
girl grows up and falls in love with a Chinese, and they have a family.
An Armenian lodges at their house. This Armenian works at a store
owned by Jews, dines at a Greek restaurant where he listens to Jazz
played by Hawaiian musicians. He has Spanish polish on his shoes,
says hello to an Irish policeman, buys meat at a German butcher and
bread from a French bakery. And from an Armenian shop . . . At any
rate, the best that I can say is that, before they knew it, these people of
various nations have shaken themselves free from their original
nationalities, and they created a strange trans-nation on their corner of
the world in the neighborhood of Third Avenue in New York City.361

The protagonist of this story is a ’Merican-Jap named Sir Willard Ota, who

works as a handyman and does everything from scenery painting and carpentry to

catering at a stage theater in this poor and lowly Third Avenue neighborhood. Ota has a

strange habit of talking to himself. One night, after having returned late to his small

apartment and crawling into bed, he begins his lonely monologue. He sighs and feels so

lonely at having to sleep by himself. He fantasizes about marrying his next-door

neighbor, a plump cleaning woman named Roxanne. He asks himself how he will

propose to her. He gives full rein to his fantasy and imagines different scenes and

phrases of his marriage proposal. He utters the phrases aloud and asks himself which

361
“Kuni no nai hitobito no kuni” (Country of the People Without a Country), The tenth story in a series
of ten titled “Modan Dekameron” (Modern Decameron), vol. 3 of HSZ, 368.

240
one will work best. It is as though he were still on stage even after returning home from

work.

That night, Roxanne happened to have entered Ota’s room by mistake. It was

dark, and all the rooms in the apartment building look exactly the same. They look

exactly like “changing rooms at a swimming beach.” Roxanne does not realize she is

sleeping in Ota’s bed until she hears him come home. She quickly hides under the bed.

As a result, she hears his monologue with its variety of scenarios for proposing to a

woman who is none other than herself. Excited by the discovery that he thinks of her as

attractive, she smiles to herself. The next day, she sneaks back to her room. Thereafter,

she begins to be nice to Sir Willard Ota, giving him opportunities to propose to her.

When she grows impatient with his shyness, finally she takes the initiative and proposes

to him. They marry, but they divorced within a week. They move back to their old

rooms and return to being lonely neighbors in the lowly apartment building.

Kaitarô explains in the introductory passages how lonely people are in the

“country for the countryless” and how their monologues derive from their loneliness, as

though their spiritual hunger, and their creation of what he calls an “imaginary Other.”

Loneliness is a hunger of the soul. Both loneliness and hunger

make people feel their mouths lack something. And loneliness drives
sad monologues out of their mouths. As long as they [realize that they
are talking to themselves and] are surprised by their own voices, it is
curable. [But] if you assume there are many people [in the room],
and, you are surprised to see only one person talking to him/herself,
that is the end of it. Many of the Japanese in America are, especially
on the days when it rains in the streets [parody of Paul Verlaine’s
poem, “Il pleur donç mon coeur”], acting as though they were hosting
a guest, asking questions, answering them, and laughing to

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 themselves. I would say what is even sadder is that they speak in
heavily accented English [even when they are not talking to other
English speakers].
They would use two different voices quite well: “Huh, where are
my cigarettes? – What? Cigarettes? Here they are. – Oh, that’s
right. Thanks. – By the way, what we were talking about. What on
earth do you think I should do? – Me? I would say you should keep
silent and wait for their [response] . . . – I agree with you, but . . . “
How tear-jerking it is, and what a typical story of urbanity!
Completely shattered by long periods of loneliness, they now end
up talking joyfully to their own shadows on the wall of their rooms in
the lodging house. However, the soliloquy is not a habit limited to the
Japanese in America. The crowd of the sad-eyed prophets of the
“Country of the People Without a Country” who surround Third
Avenue, or the travelers who have abandoned their homelands, start
talking aloud when they are left alone. Even when they are in a
crowd, they imagine there are two conversants in their heads
exchanging words. That is probably why they have such sad eyes.
Like prisoners kept in solitary cells, they talk to the foot of their
beds, their hats, their pencils, their plants. – [It looks like] these
people may be planning to carry their solitary confinement even to the
grave.
– Whoever wants to be sentimental like that, they may do so. But
in this commercialized world, every skill can become as a profession,
if someone is good at it. Even a soliloquy can be a profession. If one
can talk to himself and still make it sound like two people talking to
each other, then it is a publicly recognized art, and it will have a
tremendous exchange value in the market.
Soliloquy can be a profession by which one makes money.

This passage first employs a sentimental tone. In the last paragraph, however, it

dramatically shifts to one of detachment and irony. In a commodity society, even

idiosyncratic behavior can be a skill by which a person can make money. “Take

ventriloquism, for example.” Kaitarô continues to explain in a journalistic manner how

ventriloquism works, or when it can be used in comedy shows, the circus, or even

channeling.

242
 The protagonist Ota becomes a skilled and popular ventriloquist. One day he is

asked by a gypsy actor to meet a young woman. The gypsy says he started dating the

woman because she inherited a fortune from her mother, Rebecca, a fortune-teller

famous for her use of the “smart or talking goldfish.” The mother tells customers’

fortunes by looking at the shape of their physiognomy. Then she ventriloquizes the

answer by projecting it onto a goldfish swimming in a bowl by her side. The gypsy has

just learned that the young Rebecca is not the rich fortune-teller’s daughter after all, and

he no longer wishes to see her. He says that, because he and Ota look alike, Rebecca

will mistake Ota for him, especially at night when they go out for a date. Out of

curiosity, Ota agrees to play the role of the substitute. He and Rebecca date, and shortly

thereafter they marry. It turns out the young Rebecca is, in fact, the daughter of the

famous fortune-teller, except that her skills at projecting her voice are not good enough

to use in the fortune-telling trick. Ota and Rebecca resume the mother’s famous

fortune-telling business together. She lied to the actor and told him she was not the

fortune-teller’s heiress because she knew the gypsy was after her money. Instead she

dated Ota, even though she knew he was not the actor. In the end, Rebecca and Ota

decide to combine her fortune-telling skills with his expertise as a ventriloquist. She

whispers the customer’s fortune to him, and he throws his voice to make it look as if the

“intellectual goldfish” is talking. The story is a long chain of switched and changing

identities. One, Ota gets the nickname of “Sir Ota” because he once lied to his landlady

that he was a fallen Japanese nobleman, so that he would be treated better. Two, due to

his lonely life, Ota has the habit of talking to himself as if he had a split personality.

243
Eventually he turns the habit into a business as a ventriloquist. Three, out of curiosity,

Ota becomes the gypsy actor to trick Rebecca. Four, Rebecca pretends she is not the

rich daughter in order to protect her fortune. Five, Rebecca’s mother was a

ventriloquist fortune-teller, who made fish look like they talked. And, six, Rebecca and

Ota split her mother’s business into two roles, fortune-telling and ventriloquism.

In the end, Ota and Rebecca live and work happily together. Because the story

constantly evolves and shifts direction, we cannot anticipate the ending. The scholar

Eguchi Yûsuke points out how the theme of unpredictability is enunciated at the very

beginning of the story in an episode that has no direct bearing on Ota’s story. The scene

is of a cabaret located on the back streets of Manhattan. A dancer of unidentified ethnic

background wears the heavy makeup of a seductive, young vamp. While dancing, she

casts flirtatious glances at the pianist in the lounge, a man with a Russian last name

from Indiana. Witnessing this flirtatious scene, a jealous Chinese man jumps in,

wielding a knife. The customers are thrown into a panic and flee the room. In the end,

we learn that the entire affair is a skit that has been staged as part of the entertainment

provided by the cabaret. More importantly, however, we realize that the opening scene

foreshadows the message of the entire story: what looks real may be actually fake; at

the same time, even the most unrealistic and unpredictable events can happen on Third

Avenue.362 Eguchi argues that, in Kaitarô’s discourse on the lives of people in an urban

space, people are described as having no solid identity. Ironically, without a knowledge

of their social positions or their job titles, they barely exist.

362
For a insightful discussion of the “Modern Decameron” series, see Eguchi Yûsuke, “Kokyû suru toshi:
‘Modan Dekameron’ no Nyû’yôku,” Et Puis 23 (September, 1991) 110-114.

244
 In addition to being a story about characters who play various roles like actors,

“Kuni no nai hitobito no kuni” contains a second level of theatrical structure. The story

can be seen as a stage production set up by the author to give the impression that it is

not a documentary but a play. This theatricality is evident from the way that Kaitarô

inserts lines that read like stage directions. Hence, the work can be performed like a

play or told like a story.363

6.6.5 “The Maniac Who Collects Rejection Slips” – the Writer as Commercial
Producer

Throughout his ’Merican-Jap stories, Kaitarô emphasizes the importance of

storytelling and other forms of verbal bluff as strategies for negotiating modernity and

even gaining economic advantage from a position of being disempowered. Implicit in

this concept is a radical notion of the writer himself as a participant in commodity

society, a view that directly contradicted the dominant bundan ideology, which

regarded the writer as an almost spiritual figure who existed beyond or outside the

constraints of economic necessity. In his 1927 ’Merican-Jap story “Kyozetsuhyô

shûshû kanja” (The Maniac Who Collects Rejections Slips), Kaitaro offers a humorous

narrative that explicitly mocks bundan conceptions of the author by valorizing a writer

who focuses on the monetary reward received in exchange for a literary work.

363
It is evident in the terminology and language style common in screenplays.

245
 The ’Merican-Jap narrator explains that in America every ordinary individual is

trying to be a writer because of “success fever.”364 He works in the kitchen of a

cafeteria at “ON University” in Ohio. 365 While working there, he also began to attend a

course on English literature and became interested in writing movie scenarios after

hearing about success stories. Inspired by the commercial success achieved by ordinary

people, the ’Merican-Jap narrator writes scenarios and sends them to several movie

studios, but they are all returned with rejection slips. “Please try other markets,” they

say. By going commercial, Kaitarô dissociates himself from bundan366 and attempts to

reveal how deeply the system of literary production is tied to capitalism.

Everybody was talking about success stories: even a housewife in

Arizona – a good-natured and law-abiding one – wrote a 5-volume
novel and won 30,000 dollars; a train conductor in Florida sold a
wonderful idea for a comedy for 2,500 dollars, etc. “For the sake of
the movie industry”: amateur writers would put it that way, although
the industry probably may feel annoyed [with such fantasies]. To
supply a scenario has become as much a part of each individual’s life
as Colgate toothpaste or Palmolive soap. A policeman imagines a
scenario while chasing a robber; the robber imagines a scenario while
shooting a gun to kill a passer-by; the passer-by imagines a scenario
while being killed; a nursemaid imagines a scenario while taking a
nap on a bench in a park; a bum imagines a scenario while waiting for
the opportunity to talk to the nurse; a baby imagines a scenario while
lying in the baby carriage; a clergyman imagines a scenario while
reciting Chapter 3, Verse 5 of the Book of Matthew, or Chapter 9,
Verse 12 of the Book of Luke, or whatever; a banker imagines a

364
“Kyozetsuhyô shûshû kanja” (The Maniac Who Collects Rejections Slips), vol. 3 of HSZ, 213-227.
Originally published in the Number 9, August 1927 issue of Shinseinen.
365
This is probably Ohio Northern University in Ida, Ohio. Some sources say Kaitarô told family and
friends that he also studied there and/or worked at the school cafeteria when he was wandering through
Ohio after leaving Oberlin.
366
Tani criticizes the bundan as follows: “[In Japan,] there is a group of so-called literary young men.
They turn the merely private associations of writers into what is called the bundan [circle], and [by that]
each writer strengthens his/her fortresses for self-defense.” “Sojô Amerika mandan” (A Rambling
Critique on America), vol. 3 of HSZ. 86-87.

246
 scenario while tracing his ball on the golf course; the President
imagines a scenario while signing a message; and I imagined a
scenario while chopping cabbage for coleslaw or listening to [a lecture
on] Emerson’s Self Reliance. There was a young grammar teacher
named W.W.W. at the high school on the university campus, and he
held a study group on scenarios every Wednesday at his house. About
ten students – both male and female, wearing round glasses that
looked like Harold Lloyd’s – would gather. I joined them a few
times. But soon I quit because I thought self-education was
essentially the best means to devote myself to literature. . . . I sent
out the first few of my weird and strange scenarios to all the different
movie companies and studios. . . . Because the people where I rented
a room said they were annoyed by the noise of my typewriter, I typed
my stories by shutting myself in the bathroom of my room. . . . I
would send out the scenarios, and they would be rejected. I heard that
patience was crucial, so I sent out my first two stories titled “For
Instance” and “The Mirror” to seven different places. But they were
all returned. Each time, they sent the scenarios back to me with a card
on red, yellow or blue paper printed with the words, “Rejection Slip.”
The slips began with . . . “It was an honor to have the opportunity to
read your precious scenario,” and ended with “please try other
markets.”367

Kaitarô emphasizes that everyone, professional or amateur, is thinking about

producing stories, driven by the desire for money. Even an ordinary person has a

chance to hit the jackpot, as the narrator refers to the housewife in Arizona who

received $30,000 for her five-volumes, or the train conductor who sold his fabulous

comedy idea for $2,500. This seductive use of language is an extension of what

’Merican-Jap bellboys do in order to receive larger tips by making up hardship stories in

the episode from “Mekishiko onna.” In a letter to his family, Kaitarô tells us that he

actually attempted to sell his scenarios to film companies but none was accepted.

Although his attempts were not successful, the experience taught him that everyday life

367
“Kyozetsuhyô shûshû kanja” (The Maniac Who Collects Rejection Slips), vol. 3 of HSZ,170.

247
was a good source of interesting stories that might bring financial success. More

importantly, to write for the movie industry is to realize that writing is merely a part of

the production line for the final product. Once an idea for a comedy is bought from an

amateur writer, it will be adjusted and changed to such an extent that the final product

may resemble the original only in its basic framework. In addition, Kaitarô’s interest in

Henry Ford’s success may also be a reflection of his belief that writing is part of a

production line and a writer no different from any other types of workers. The

Shinseinen editorship also backed up Kaitarô’s belief in the significance of writing as a

means for youths to negotiate modernity by involving themselves in commercial

activities. In the next issue (Number 10), Shinseinen called for readers’ original

scenarios, and it published the best three in the Number 11, September issue titled

“Special Issue on Film and Play.”

From the 1920s until his untimely death in 1935, Kaitaro would pursue the

commercialist logic implicit in “The Maniac.” In an essay from 1926, “Rankyô

gidan”368 (Capricious Talk on a Broken Bridge), he criticizes writers who attempt to set

their works on a pedestal as geijutsu or “Art.” Likewise, he critiques people who draw

a line between the “artistic” and “non-artistic.” Even tantei shôsetsu writers are no

exception in this, and he laments that the recent production of tantei shôsetsu is directed

solely toward winning approval among writers and critics, rather than among common

readers. In other words, he is concerned that even a popular literary genre is following

the path that the bundan of pure literature has taken. For example, many mystery

368
“Rankyô kidan,” Tantei shumi, April 1926. Kaitarô was a dôjin member of the magazine and at one
point was involved in editorial work.

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writers were interested in incorporating pathological and scientific findings into their

stories, whether or not the material interested the general readership. This tendency

reflected the attempt to differentiate tantei shôsetsu from other genres and establish it as

a genre of significance in its own right. In the same essay, he also praises an essay in

Yomiuri shinbun by the poet/critic Hashizume Ken (1900-1964), who argued for the

significance of popular literature and importance of the general audience’s opinion of

literary works. Kaitarô claims it is proper to judge the quality of a work of literature by

taking into consideration both the opinion of the public (taishû) and the writer’s attitude

toward writing.369

In another essay in 1932, Kaitarô declared a similar belief in asking his readers

to see him as a fellow worker. For him, his readers were his peers. The masses, or the

taishû, are not a faceless crowd to be enlightened; they are individuals who have their

own will and beliefs. He speaks of his literary labor in terms of being a bunkô,370 “a

worker in the factory of literature” 371 – a neologism he created to convey his recognition

that writers comprise merely part of a mass production line which produces literary

works. In doing so, he put himself on a par with other workers such as type pickers and

setters. He emphasizes that he does not want to be called a bunshi (lit., a literary

gentleman) because it sounds “too pompous.”372 The term also reminds him of a “pale,

369
Hashizume Ken was first influenced by anarchism and the Dadaist movement. He wrote critical
essays that bitterly attacked the bundan for its old-fashionedness. He also practiced his philosophy and
wrote tsûzoku shôsetsu ( ) low brow literature.
370
. “Nentô kan nashi,” Bungaku jidai (Tokyo: Shinchôsha, January 1932 issue).
371
“Nentô kan nashi” (No Special Thoughts on the New Year), Tani Jôji: meriken jappu ichidai-ki (Tani
Jôji: Life of a ’Merican-Jap), 152. The essay first appeared in the January 1932 issue of Bungaku jidai.
372

249
skinny writer.” He does not pretend that writing is an ascetic practice in which all

aspects of the self are revealed and one becomes enlightened. Writing is a profession or

a means to make a living.

Kaitarô established himself as a popular writer with Shinseinen and then

branched out to other magazines and newspapers. When he was working on a new plot,

he derived ideas from his first-hand experiences, as well as printed matter such as other

writers’ works or reportage of actual news incidents. He outlined his works according

to formulae used in kôdan story-telling, mystery fiction and social satire from both

Japan and the West.373 Chiba Kameo, chief editor of the arts and literature section of

Tokyo Nichinichi shinbun, reports seeing the charts that Kaitarô, as Maki Itsuma, drew

for his new stories. Sôshi, or illustrated stories for the general public in pre-modern

times, were a good source for ideas for criminal and adventure stories. In the case of

his romance novels (katei shôsetsu), it is said he adapted the key elements and settings

from popular works by his predecessors such as Yanagawa Shun’yô’s Ikasanu naka

(“Intimate Antagonism” ;serialized 1912-1913), Tokutomi Roka’s Hototogisu (The

Cuckoo; 1898-1899), and Ozaki Kôyô’s Konjiki yasha (The Golden Demon; 1897-

1902). Also his Shin gankutsuô (New Count of Monte Cristo) was an adventure and

mystery story adapted from Dumas’ Comte de Monte-Cristo (The Count of Monte-

Cristo). Matsumoto Tai, the editor-in-chief of the coterie mystery periodical, Tantei

bungei, remembers how Kaitarô showed him a work of Western mystery fiction.

Kaitarô told him that he was making it into a Tokugawa-period jidai shôsetsu,

373
Chiba Kameo (1878-1935), critic and advocate of taishû bungakui.

250
“Kuginuki Tôkichi.” In order to glean a variety of sources – from newspapers and

criminal trial records to other writers’ works both inside and outside of Japan – and also

to advertise and sell his works, Kaitarô needed an assembly line in more than a merely

figurative sense. He had his wife, Kazuko, help him look for popular stories in English

and study their structures, character development and events.374 Utilizing her English

abilities, he had her collect materials in English and summarize them as a source of

ideas for his writing.375 His literary production system involved an even clearer division

of labor when he moved to his new, extravagant mansion in Kamakura. Kazuko took

notes, summarized stories in English, and put them in his office for him to pick and

choose. Kazuko’s brother, Katori Ninpei, worked as Kaitarô’s manager. The

mansion’s main gate was always closed, and the editors were let in from the side

entrance. Ninpei’s office was located the closest to the entrance. He had a large office

desk with a calendar for filling in Kaitarô’s writing deadlines. In the right desk drawer,

Ninpei stored envelopes sorted according to publisher and pre-stamped for delivery to

Tokyo Station. Every morning, he commuted to this office to pick up the finished

manuscripts, put them in their proper envelopes, and give them to Kaitarô’s chauffeur to

deliver to Kamakura Station. After checking the arrival time in Tokyo, Ninpei

telephoned the publishers so that they could send deliverymen to the station. Editors

did not have to commute to Kamakura to receive the manuscripts directly from the

374
Kaitarô and Katori Kazuko met through the mediation of Matsumoto Tai in 1924 and married in
January 1925. Kazuko had graduated from Aoyama Gakuin Women’s College with degree in English.
375
Wada Yoshie, “Hitotsu no bundan-shi” (A History of Bundan Literary Circle), Wada Yoshie zenshû,
vol. 5 (Tokyo: Kawade shobô shinsha, 1979) 28.
Wada Yoshie was editor for Hinode in the 1934. One of his tasks was to visit Kaitarô to request
and receive stories for the magazine.

251
writer as in the traditional way. Even when they visited the mansion, they never met

with Kaitarô in person because Ninpei took care of all negotiations. In this way,

Kaitarô’s work was not interrupted. Wada recalls editors were happy with “this method

of management based on modern rationalization” (kindai-teki gôri-sei ni rikkyaku shita

un’ei).376

More than simply exposing the processes of modern capitalist society, however,

Kaitarô went one step further to actively promote his own commodification through the

use of three pen names for different genres, namely his ’Merican-Jap stories, his

translation of Western mystery fiction, and his samurai “period” fiction. It was in this

way that he simultaneously created multiple images of himself out of a single person.

Indeed, one might go so far as to see his interest in the flexibility or multivalance of

identity as part of a modernist attack on the I-Novel approach to realism, which

advanced a single, unmediated view of reality and identity. In depicting identity as a

series of ephemeral masks to be worn in accordance with various situations, he departs

from the bundan Japanese writers of the early twentieth century.

Moreover, Kaitarô’s arguments on “the writer as a worker” correspond with

what Hirabayashi Hatsunosuke had to say in his essays titled “Geijutsu no shokugyô-ka

ni tsuite” (On Putting Art on a Commercial Basis; 1924) and “Bungaku no shokugyô-ka

to saitei genkôryô mondai” (Putting Literature on a Commercial Basis and the Issue of

the Minimum Wage for Manuscript Fees; 1929).377 As discussed in Chapter Four,

376
Wada, “Hitorsu no bundan-shi,” 24.
377
Hirabayashi Hatsunosuke bungei hyôron zenshû (Hirabayashi Hatsunosuke Literary Critique:
Complete Works; Tokyo: Bunsendô shoten, 1975). “Geijutsu no shokugyô-ka ni tsuite” originally

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Hirabayashi became the ideological pillar of the magazine in its support of the

ratiocinating aspects of literature. There is a strong resonance between the ideas of

these two men in this respect. Moreover, switching from Tani to Maki to Hayashi like a

worker retooling, and moving down the assembly line, Kaitarô produced period to

romance novels. At the same time, the mass media often used Kaitarô’s “three names”

as a symbol of a mass production, “monster writer” (monsutâ sakka) who spit out an

incredible volume of work. There was, for example, a rumor that he had three desks in

his study, each designated by a different pseudonym. As he worked, it was said he

moved from one desk to the next. His zenshû (complete works) contributed to the

formation of this legend as the “monster writer with three names.” Published by

Shinchôsha from 1933 to 1935 in sixteen volumes, it was titled Hitori sannin zenshû

(Complete Works: One Man as Three) and subtitled “Complete Works of the Author

Who has Three Names in One Person” to emphasize the writer’s multi-faceted talent.

On the front cover of the zenshû, atop Kaitarô’s photograph, his three names are printed

side by side in different typefaces, as if each typeface were the embodiment of

respective authors.

Kaitarô’s modern way of dealing with modernity brought him fortune. He built

a 100,000-yen mansion in Kamakura in 1935, and Shufu no tomo published an eleven-

page article reporting its astonishing architectural detail.378 It was a three-story

appeared in the September 1924 issue of Zuihitsu, and “Bungaku no shokugyô-ka to saitei genkôryô
mondai” appeared in the January 1929 issue of Shinchô.
378
Kaitarô had just finished his serialization of a romance novel titled “Chijô no seiza” (Constellations on
Earth) for Shufu no tomo under the name of Maki Itsuma.

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residence with 200 tsubo of floor space on 1,000 tsubo of land,379 and it was equipped

with modern facilities like a boiler room, basement bar, and electric refrigerator.

Kaitarô and Kazuko hired the best carpenters and artisans among the Ise Shrine

carpenters to build the main gate and from Kyoto to do the roof. They also hired maids,

a chauffeur, and even a cook from the Imperial Hotel in Tokyo. Kaitarô played golf – a

new sport in Japan, and he enjoyed driving one of the only two privately owned

automobiles in Kanagawa prefecture. He told Wada Yoshie that he was planning to

tunnel through a hill beside the house to make the drive to Tokyo easier.380 As this

chapter discussed earlier, Shinseinen published six pieces of Kaitarô’s works in the

January 1925 issue alone. While it was a rather minor periodical,381 major newspapers

such as Tokyo Nichinichi and Ôsaka Mainichi, simultaneously serialized a Maki Itsuma

romance in the morning edition and a Hayashi Fubô period novel in the evening edition.

Thus, Kaitarô used multiple names to simultaneously and effectively create

multiple images of a single author. In short, a man might possess more than one

identity because he understands identity as shifting and non-essentialist. Indeed the

meaning of a name often resides in what others make of it. For Kaitarô, a name was

like a hat to be exchanged and replaced depending upon the situation or the person with

whom he was interacting.

379
Originally he planned to have it three times as large as the final plan, but his father made him decrease
the size, being furious with his son’s overreaching vanity.
380
See Shufu no tomo, 1935, and Wada Yoshie, Hitotsu no bundan-shi, 21.
381
Even at its peak in the late 1920s, sources say that its greatest circulation was 400,000 copies.
Youngsters in Tokyo were the primary customers.

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6.7 The Ending
As a result of his success, Kaitarô ended up having to write many hours a day to

satisfy publishers’ deadlines. Before he realized it, he was caught in the trap of the

commercialism of a commodity society, and he met an untimely death at age thirty-five

from a heart attack.382 Although his career was brief, and it was overshadowed later by

writers who lived longer and produced more, nonetheless he played a significant role in

challenging established conceptions about the dichotomy of high versus low-brow

literature. When he died on June 29, 1935, the Japanese mass media reported the news

sensationally.383 It was shocking news, not only because Kaitarô was young, but

because his name had become a household word among the readers of major popular

magazines and newspapers such as Chûô kôron, Yomiuri shinbun, Fujin kôron, Bungei

shunjû and Kaizô.

At the time of his death, he was writing – under three pen names – for

magazines with the biggest circulations in Japan. As Tani Jôji, he wrote for the popular

magazine, Hinode; as Maki Itsuma, for Kôdan kurabu, Kingu, Shufu no tomo, and the

newspaper, Hôchi shinbun; and as Hayashi Fubô, for Kingu, Fuji, and Shufu no tomo.384

His annual income reflects the fact that he was in high demand in the mass media. He

had income from the sale of articles, short stories, serialized novels, and translations.

382
His Hitori sannin zenshû (Complete Works of One Man as Three) was completed by Shinchôsha only
twelve days before his death.
383
In addition to the reports of his death, several memorials appeared in such newspapers as Hôchi,
Yomiuri, Chûgoku and periodicals such as Chûô kôron, Fujin kôron, Bungei, Shakai oyobi kokka, and
Kôdan kurabu.
384
In a memorial in the Yomiuri shinbun, an unsigned columnist addresses Kaitarô as shijô bungaku-sha
( ) (A Literary Man on the Market). Edogawa Ranpo also named him shôsetsu jitsugyô-ka
( ) (Entrepreneur of the Novel) in Tantei shôsetsu shijûnen (Forty Years of Tantei shôsetsu).

255
There was also income from the republication of these works as monographs or as

volumes of anthology sets such as Nihon tantei shôsetsu zenshû and Sekai taishû

bungaku zenshû. According to the 1936 issue of Asahi nenkan (Asahi Almanac),

Kaitarô’s annual income was 78,000 yen, an “unparalleled” amount for a writer.385 In

addition to the mansion in Kamakura, he also rebuilt the headquarters of Hakodate

shinbun owned by his father, after the building burned in a fire in 1934. A story is also

told that he financially supported the young military officers who later launched the

February 26, 1936 Incident under the influence of Kita Ikki.386 Kita, it was said,

regularly visited his mentor Yoshio after his graduation from Sado High School and

was a fan of Kaitarô’s Tange Sazen series.

Kaitarô said he wrote the ’Merican-Jap stories in order to portray American

society from the critical perspective of outsiders who exist on its edge. This marginality

extends to Kaitarô’s presentation of his position in the literary world as well. He

criticized the bundan establishment and kept his distance from, on the one hand, the

artistic approach to literature of the Shin-kankaku-ha writers and, on the other, the

political agenda of hard-core proletarian literature, which treated literature as a tool for

385
For purposes of comparison, note that he was earning approximately 100 times the starting annual
salary for bank clerks. See Nedanshi nenpyô: Meiji, Taisho, Showa and Bukka no sesô 100nen for
comparisons of prices and salaries. Tani’s sister recalls him holding a manuscript paper and declaring
that he would surpass what Kikuchi Kan, his archrival, was making – namely, ten yen per page – to earn
twelve yen per page. The issue of whether to regard writers as moneymakers began drawing the attention
of writers and critics by the 1920s in the general context of a heightened interest in Marxist thought. See
Satomi Ton’s “Bungei no shokugyô-ka ni tsuite” (On the Professionalization of Literary Art; 1924), as
well as Hirabayashi Hatsunosuke’s “Geijutsu no shokugyô-ka ni tsuite” (On the Professionalization of
Art; 1924) and “Bungaku no shokugyô-ka to saitei genkôryô mondai” (On the Professionalization of
Literature and the Issue of the Minimum Wage for Manuscripts; 1929).
386
Muro Kenji argues this story is a legend concocted by Kaitarô’s brother Shirô. Also, concerning
Kaitarô’s wife’s account of Kita Ikki visiting her to offer incense to Kaitarô’s mortuary tablet, Muro
thinks it was not February 25, 1936, or the day before the 2.26 Incident, as she claimed. See Muro Kenji,
Odoru chiheisen: meriken jappu Hasegawa Kaitarô-den. 287-288.

256
exposé and propaganda. Moreover, his presentation of his position as marginalized also

resonated with his young readers, who often saw themselves as marginal in the new

urban space of Japan. The position that Kaitarô took is a good example of what “the

marginality that people choose as a venue of resistance.387 When we stand in the midst

of social issues, we do not have an eye to examine society critically. By staying at the

periphery and inviting readers to experience marginality, we have the power to criticize

the mainstream. The target readers of Shinseinen were youngsters in their late teens or

twenties, who lived in the cities. For those who migrated from the countryside, their

lives bore striking similarity to the life of immigrants going abroad with the hope of

being successful yet who experienced loneliness and sense of alienation as marginalized

persons.

Kaitarô believed that narrating stories from the perspective of ’Merican-Japs

provided a convenient modus operandi for critiquing society because this new and

atypical or abnormal human group (hentai jinshu) is not assimilated completely into the

“core of American life.” The resultant gap enables him to tell stories from a fresh

perspective. This gap is evident in not only the content of the stories but also the

language he uses. Frequently he uses dialogue, whether between two ’Merican-Japs,

’Merican-Japs and Anglo-Saxons, ‘Merican-Japs and lower-class European immigrants,

or even an interior monologue between a man and himself, as in the case of the

’Merican-Jap Sir Willard Ota. His narratives are also highly dialectic. In them the

387
bell hooks,

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narrator often talks directly to his readers, asking for their opinions or agreement, and

he replies as though he heard back. His language is not refined and elegant. Instead it

is raw, colloquial, active and cheerful. His contemporaries compared his style to the

new genre of popular music, Jazz. The noisy, garrulous image projected by his stories

comes not only from the proliferation of words but also from the use of different

languages in a sentence or a paragraph.

Conversations reflecting different cultural backgrounds produce a dissonance

and a gap, but instead of smoothing over the differences by using one language, the

author lets his different voices communicate by mixing languages whether English or

Japanese, formal or vulgar, coded or decoded. This invented or hybrid language is

emphasized by the constant reference to the special vocabularies of Japanese hobos (in

the case of the ’Merican-Jap stories) and sailors (in “The Shanghaied Man”), as well by

the pervasive use of rubi or furigana for glossing “foreign” terms or phrases.388

Speakers need to improvise on the spot when interacting with people of such

different backgrounds on a daily basis. This was Kaitarô’s experience in America. Yet

he also recognized this pattern emerging in urban space in Japan. The mixing of

388
For example, “The Shanghaied Man” contains the verbalized place name, shanhai-suru (to shanghai),
a slang term among seamen. In the ’Merican-Jap story titled “Bonsâ Jimî” (The Bouncer Jimmy), we can
find such use of rubi as (with the rubi in katanaka, : referring to “hot dog”),
(with the rubi, : “bouncer”), (with the rubi, : “hoodlum”) in HSZ, 16-
17). “Kutsu” (Shoes) uses (with the rubi, ; “Won’t do”) in HSZ, 22, and “Henpô”
(Revenge) has such phrases as : mule :
dumb (HSZ, 27), You don’t tell me, now in Hell should I
know? (HSZ, 30), (HSZ, 32).

258
different languages – or of connecting dissimilar elements -- creates the “shock effect”

that Walter Benjamin discusses as a character of popular literature.389

389
Benjamin, “One-Way Street”

259
 CONCLUSION

The dominant narrative concerning modernism in Japan focuses on “high”

literary expression, most notably poetry, fiction and drama by such writers as

Yokomitsu Riichi, Kawabata Yasunari, Itô Sei, Ryûtanji Yû, Abe Tomoji and Hori

Tasuo in the 1920s and early 1930s.390 Moreover, many critics adopt a conception of

modernism as defined by Western precedents. Or to state the matter more precisely,

perhaps, they approach Japanese texts through a hermeneutic of conformity to Western

achievement. This approach has excluded considerable areas of Japanese literary

production dating from the early part of the twentieth century and left them

unexamined. As I have shown, the writers involved in the production of tantei

shôsetsu, as well as the critical, commercial and cultural discourse about mystery

fiction, saw themselves as deeply engaged with the forces of modernity. They

championed the genre as a fundamentally superior means for addressing the complex of

challenges facing young people in Japan during the 1920s and 30s, many of whom

found themselves out of work upon graduating from higher education. In doing so, they

demonstrated an awareness of, and a spirited disagreement with, the mainstream

bundan figures of the naturalist lineage, the avant-garde high-art writers who are

390
Of course, this does not mean these writers did not write vernacular literature. For example,
Yokomitsu sought new expressions in popular literary style in the novel, Shanghai.

260
traditionally associated with modernism by the critical establishment, and the

ideological orientation of proletarian literature. As this dissertation argues, the writers

of Shinseinen were equally engaged in the same cultural processes as their fellow

canonized modern writers were.

I have sought to reveal both the logic and the special orientation of the

Shinseinen writers and critics as the means to advancing a larger argument about

understanding the contours of “modanizumu” in Japanese literature and culture. More

specifically, my attempt has been to challenge and complicate the established

assumption of the unidirectional influence of Western practices on Japanese literature. I

have done this by showing how the idea of “modernism” as a cultural notion is deeply

rooted in the everyday life of youths in urban spaces in Japan. In other words, Japanese

modernism should no longer be understood merely as an imitation or migration of

Western literary inventions, but rather as a process of negotiation of historical and

cultural concepts and circumstances specific to Japan. Indeed Japan held an intriguing

status in world politics at the time: it was imperialist and industrialized, but not in the

same way as Western powers because of its historical and cultural past. Examining

vernacular expressions enables us to consider modanizumu, or Japanese modernism, as

a process of negotiation with socio-historical forces. It asks us to examine how

Japanese writers employed various strategies, both indigenous and foreign, to address

social and political phenomena in their cultural specificity.

As a step toward that larger goal, Chapter One established the theoretical

foundation for a conception of “vernacular modernism.” Through a discussion of the

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popular film, Madamu to nyôbô (The Neighbor’s Wife and Mine: 1930), it illuminated

ways in which popular literary production were engaged with the forces of

commercialism and Westernization that had also shaped the development of canonical

Japanese literature earlier in the twentieth century. While it is safe to say that all works

by Japanese writers since the Meiji Restoration have been influenced by ideas, styles

and techniques from the West, the relationship between writers and the phenomena of

modernity in the 1920s-1930s clearly differed from the earlier period of 1860 to 1910,

which featured a strong state-led and politically oriented approach to the process of

Westernization/modernization. 391 For the writers of the interwar years, modernity had

begun to prevail in many aspects of everyday life. It was not merely the result of a

unidirectional Western influence, but a consequence of changes wrought by the

hastening pace of urbanization and the development of mass commodity society. Thus,

the desire to move beyond the status quo of literary traditions and norms was driven less

by artistic demands of following the West, but more importantly, by the need to find

ways to survive as participants in a capitalist, commodity-oriented and consumerist

society. Modernists felt the need to negotiate modernity not only in literature but also

as individuals in modern times. Modern life put young writers in a situation where they

were dealing with the capitalist world both as consumers and producers of literary art.

391
By this, I do not mean that the early reaction to modernity was unreflective. Scholarship in the last
two decades reveals that modernization during the Meiji Era was not so much a blind acceptance and
imitation of Western achievements as presented in past scholarship. However, modernization was
promoted by the government, and it had yet to mature to the point where it reached the level of everyday
life.

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 The established picture of the interwar Japanese literary world has centered on

the struggle between three contending literary camps – bundan pure literature, avant-

garde literature and proletarian literature. However, when we consider the influence of

capitalist society on people at large, together with the fact that writers were no

exception to this influence, we cannot ignore “popular” and “commercial” literary

works without seriously limiting our understanding of Japanese literary expression.

Moreover, the revolutionary changes in the media such as the development of mass-

printed and mass-distributed newspapers, books (enpon), magazines, records and radio

plays, also vastly affected the processes of literary production.

After discussing the limitations of existing critical approaches to Japanese

literature of the interwar years in Chapter Two, Chapter Three elaborated Shinseinen’s

process of promoting and developing tantei shôsetsu as the most appropriate literary

genre for negotiating modern urban living. In 1893, Kuroiwa Ruikô had made a modest

claim for the genre as a kind of entertaining tale or low-brow literature that focused on

reporting a crime rather than the aesthetics of depicting the human psyche.

Consequently, he did not consider it a threat to the status quo of mainstream literary

genres. By contrast, the Shinseinen critics and editors asserted the fundamental need

and importance for the new and more modern genre. It should be emphasized once

more that the magazine developed tantei shôsetsu as a modern genre not only through

literary expressions (i.e., detective stories), but also by means of various other forms or

cultural avenues such as critiques, printed discussions, informational articles on the

most up-to-date science and technology, illustrations and photographs. Such a

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multifaceted approach soon changed Shinseinen from a didactic shûyô magazine into a

venue where the urban youth cult(ure) was invited to participate in the development of

the genre itself both as readers and even as creators of the magazine.

Chapter Four examined the work of Hirabayashi Hatsunosuke, a seminal

intellectual leader of Shinseinen magazine who sought to provide information and

guidance in cultivating critical and analytical thinking. Hirabayashi argued for the

significance of the genre because it not only arose from and reflected the mechanization

and scientification of society attendant upon modernity; even more importantly for

Hirabayashi, its aesthetic/narrative structure promoted and cultivated readers’ capacity

to view the process of modernization in critical ways. He even went so far as to claim

that the high literature of the bundan of 1920 should be “completely exploded, rather

than [merely] changed.”392 While he occasionally quoted from Western critics on

detective fiction in his critical essays, he did so to advance his conviction that Japanese

were now experiencing similar issues brought about by modernization. For that reason,

he believed the formulae and styles argued for and supported by Western predecessors

would be useful for the future generations of Japanese writers. At the same time, his

own tantei shôsetsu stories embraced a socialist tone. For example, he was interested in

depicting the ironic fate of ordinary citizens whose lives were manipulated by the

judicial system or unfair police investigations.393 Nonetheless, he repeatedly expressed

392
“Taishô 9-nen no bundan o hyôsu,” HHBHZ, vol. 3, 482. Originally appeared in December 1920 issue
of Shinchô. In 1920, Hirabayashi became the primary contributor to Shinchô’s column on literary
criticism.
393
Consequently, Hirabayashi also disapproved of the prevalence of the light, satirical contés in the late
1920s to early 1930s that appeared in the pages of Shinseinen. See “Tantei shôsetsuka ni nozomu:

264
his doubt about a hard-core proletarian approach to literary expression. His attempt to

find an ideal balance between art and politics was cut short due to his premature death.

While having started as a commercial magazine attempting to give didactic

advice to youngsters (seinen), Shinseinen quickly transformed itself to a sleek magazine

for modern boys (mobo) in search of increasingly individualistic pleasures, whether in

the latest urban fashion, music or ideology. Interestingly enough, the critical and

analytical young minds that Shinseinen sought to cultivate soon turned its attention back

upon the tantei shôsetsu genre itself. As a result, the dominant approach shifted from a

highly logical, puzzle-solving type of detective fiction to the deconstruction of formulae

associated with the genre. Among those variants, Tokugawa Musei’s “Obetai buruburu

jiken” (The Case of Obetai-buruburu; No. 5, 1927) stands as a successful example of

such parody, wherein the story cleverly subverts what was claimed to be the essential

structure, style and storyline of good detective fiction. The most commercially

successful writer of the time, Hasegawa Kaitarô – who was discussed in Chapters 5 and

6 under his separate pseudonyms: Tani Jôji, Maki Itsuma and Hayashi Fubô – played a

vital role in the shift from a classically orthodox approach to the more reflexive

subversion of the tantei shôsetsu genre, and this led to an increase in the magazine’s

sales during the latter half of the 1920s. Kaitarô contributed to Shinseinen three types

of work: translations of Western mystery fiction (under the pen name, Maki Itsuma),

short stories on ’Merican-Japs (under the name, Tani Jôji), and contés (also as Tani

Jôji). He grew up in Hokkaidô, witnessing his journalist father, Yoshio get involved in

akumade genshuku na” (What I Demand of Tantei Shôsetsu Writers: Maintaining the Seriousness),
HHBHZ, vol. 3, 404.

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the politics, first with his pen and then by successfully running for local political office.

Eventually Kaitarô crossed the Pacific to study at an American college. He soon quit

school, however. He wandered around different parts of the United States for four

years, when he returned to Japan and began writing for commercial media. His

experience in America taught him that a writer was deeply embedded in the era of high-

speed, mass production and consumption, both as a producer and consumer of

commodities. Chapter Five focused on his life as emblematic of the generation of

readers targeted by Shinseinen.

Chapter Six examined selected popular literary works by Kaitarô written under

the pen name, Tani Jôji. It traced his development from a more orthodox approach to

tantei shôsetsu, as exemplified in his short story, “The Shanghaied Man,” to a highly

parodic use of the genre, as seen in his famous “’Merican-Jap” stories. Although the

’Merican-Jap stories were never categorized as tantei shôsetsu and were organized

under the section name, “yomimono” (light, entertaining reading) in the pages of

Shinseinen, the stories can also be read as subverting the conventions of orthodox

detective fiction. To adapt what Tony Hilfer has said of the “crime novel” to my own

particular area of interest, the’Merican-Jap stories and other “nansensu” crime tales that

dominated the pages of Shinseinen in the late 1920s to early 1930s “extend[ed],

invert[ed], and generally play[ed] off against the conventions of its better-known

parental genre.”394

394
For extensive arguments on “crime novels” which Tony Hilfer argues to differ from detective fiction
in many significant aspects, see Hilfer’s The Crime Novel: A Deviant Genre (Austin: University of Texas
Press, 1990).

266
 Over the course of this dissertation, I have sought to characterize a form of

Japanese vernacular modernism through Shinseinen’s development and promotion of

tantei shôsetsu. Such a focus entails a reappraisal of the dominant critical modes of

understanding the phenomenon of modanizumu in Japan. Equally important, it opens

up avenues of possible future research. For example, detailed analyses of Hirabayashi’s

works, as well as study of tantei shôsetsu pieces contributed by proletarian writers, will

be helpful in dissecting the interrelations between proletarian and commercial literary

venues. Such considerations will enlarge our understanding of literary production

during the interwar period by bringing attention to proletarian works published outside

canonical venues and their coterie periodicals. Similarly, further discussion of both

orthodox and variant/inverted tantei shôsetsu by other writers will demonstrate the

range of approaches employed by the genre as strategies for negotiating modernity.

Such writers include Edogawa Rampo (1894-1965) and Kôga Saburô (1893-1945),

whose debut works from the early to mid-1920s were praised as orthodox tantei

shôsetsu of the elaborate puzzle-solving type. Likewise, Tokugawa Musei (1894-

1971)’s “Obetai buruburu jiken” (1927) constitutes an example of a nansensu piece.

Finally, the mesmerizing play with the formulae of mystery fiction by Hisao Jûran

(1902-1957) in Mato (Evil Metropolis: 1937-38), as well as his short psychological

piece, “Hamuretto” (Hamlet: 1946), demonstrate the continued significance of tantei

shôsetsu as a popular literary genre up to and during World War II.

Further analysis of Kaitaro’s ’Merican-Jap stories will also help delineate the

importance of “borderline” fictions within the larger sphere of modern Japanese

267
literature. These texts, written from the perspective of the edge of (but not outside)

Japanese society constitute a unique body of work that opens up new vistas for the

study of modern Japanese cultural production. As Roger Bromley has argued with

regard to “migrant” writing,

This is not just a matter of finding a voice or articulating new

models of cultural literacy in a counter-hegemonic fashion, but of
understanding the specific social and historical conditions within
which narrative forms are both produced and consumed. “Migrant”
writing, a product of flux, moving identities and sometimes conditions
of near illegibility, works with what might be called ‘an archaeology
of identity’ – culturally, temporally, and spatially multi-layered.395

Finally, let me note that Shinseinen’s significance also lies in introduction of

Modernist Western cultural practices and ideals into Japan. This issue has been

addressed in the scholarship of Minami Hiroshi, Honma Nagayo, Takita Yoshiko,

Shinseinen Kenkyûkai (Shinseinen Research Group) and others.396 In my view,

however, the significance of those stories, essays and journalistic articles stems not

merely from their role in creating an awareness of the latest fads in Western countries.

Consequently, it remains to consider the function of such writings as a means of

providing young urbanites with the knowledge and analytical methods of thinking

essential to assessing and accommodating the rapid social, political and cultural changes

occurring in Japan during the interwar years. Only in this way can we gain a fuller

395
Roger Bromley, Narratives for a New Belonging (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2000) 120.
396
See Bibliography.

268
sense of both the contours and the larger meaning of modern Japanese literary

production.

269
 APPENDIX A

THE SHANGHAIED MAN

1925

Tani Jôji (1900-1935)

I.

Hadn’t he gotten himself out of bed at least once in the middle of the night?

Tossing and turning because of the moaning sounds made by the roommate sleeping

next to him, he had stepped briefly into the back garden from the edge of the veranda,

hadn’t he? “I’m sure I did,” Tamekichi told himself. It could not have been for long,

however. Exhausted from a whole day’s search for work, he crawled back in bed almost

immediately. Or so it seemed. He could not be sure. But he knew he heard the moans of

the man with whom he shared the room. From the minute that Tamekichi met him, the

man had been in misery. That was on account of a bad tooth, he said. He let an

unlicensed dentist pull it the previous day.

270
 Tamekichi drifted into the seamen’s inn nearest the wharf after looking at other

lodging houses in Kobe. These inns, in addition to being places to sleep, served as

employment agencies for jobless sailors. Rooms were shared, but when Tamekichi met

his roommate for the first time, the man had nothing to say. He stared at Tamekichi.

“You’re bothering me.” That was the look on his face.

Tamekichi heard the man was a third-rank engine oiler who was back in port

after working on the S.S. Toyo’oka, a transport ship that plied local waters. The two

men had nothing in common because Tamekichi was a deckhand who specialized in

long distance voyages. Perhaps that explained why he decided not to worry when the

man continued to groan through the night.

When Tamekichi woke up after the long, restless night, he found his futon

reeked of oil and sweat. As he looked about the room, he saw the man’s bedding was

still spread out, but it was empty. So what? Why should he care? For a man of the sea,

he had been on land far too long. What mattered to him –- indeed what he longed for

more than anything in the world –- was the deep, low roar of the vibration of a ship’s

engines. That was what occupied his mind. It was always in the mornings, in the

moments after he woke up, that he missed the sound most.

He was prepared to do anything, even if it meant apprenticing himself as a sailor

on a boat headed for Australian waters or being a “gofer” on a ship bound for the

United States. Anything would be okay, so long as he could get on board the ship today.

After a hasty breakfast, he rushed to the room where jobs were posted. Alas, there was

only one listing on the blackboard, and it was for a second-class cook on the Sakhalin

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ferryboat named the Blagoev. The gang of “regulars” was already up. There was a huge

table placed in front of the blackboard. They always sat on top of it, sitting barefoot and

crosslegged in a circle. It was still early in the day, but a dice box was at the center of

the table. The dice had been shaken, and the box turned over. The men were ready to

gamble.

“Place your bets. Everybody, place your bets.” Sawaguchi appeared to have

appointed himself as banker. Not very long ago he was fired for being a troublemaker

aboard the S.S. Chin’yô.

“Place your bets, but don’t break your old man’s heart!” rambled one of them.

“How true!” echoed another. “A lantern maker doesn’t make any money ’til he

goes to work, pulls out his ‘paper’ and slaps it on the frame….”

Tamekichi stood there, absent-mindedly watching the men gamble their money

away. One sailor, nicknamed “the S.S. Kenpuku” after the name of his previous ship,

was winning every hand.

“All right now, young fellows. Don’t let yourselves get carried away.” It was O-

kin, the old woman who owned the lodging house. “We have a ‘visitor’,” she said,

pointing her chin knowingly over her shoulder. “Don’t you boys have anything better to

do in the morning? …. Anyway, Tamekichi, I want you to come with me.”

As they walked across the dirt floor toward the main entrance where she had an

office, the old proprietress lowered her voice and whispered in Tamekichi’s ear. She

kept repeating herself.

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 “Now, look honest. That’s the best. Anybody can do something silly on the spur

of the moment. I’m sure it’s not serious. As I say, just be your honest self."

Tamekichi had cut his finger. How had that happened? He felt glum without

knowing why. He seemed to know what was going on; at the same time, he understood

nothing at all. It was an odd feeling. The morning sunlight shining into O-kin’s office

was so bright it almost made his eyes hurt.

“Are you the one they call Tamé?” The man spoke in a deep, booming voice.

Tamekichi did not reply. He blinked and looked up. The man was in his forties.

He was dressed in western-style clothes.

“You know a fellow named Sakamoto Shintarô, don’t you?”

The man fired one question after another. Sakamoto Shintarô was Tamekichi’s

roommate last night. Tamekichi nodded in silent agreement. Something deep inside him

told him there was something ominous about the man’s attitude. He thought it best to

say as little as possible.

“I can see I’ve got a stubborn one,” said the man. He grabbed Tamekichi by the

arm. The gamblers got up from the table. The door to the blackboard room was partially

open. They looked terribly surprised as they vied to peek through the opening at the

doorway.

“I’m with the Kannonzaki Police Station. I think you’d better come along with

me.”

Tamekichi was cool, preternaturally cool. While the others were on their feet

and making a great fuss, it all seemed curiously unrelated to him. He watched

273
everything with a cold, objective eye. A smile played about his lips. It was almost funny

to watch them. But the smirk on his face made him look like a real pro of a villain. The

detective, who liked to talk tough and use leading questions to intimidate his suspects,

felt more confident that he had found the right man.

“Let’s get moving.”

Excited by his success, the detective was eager to get back to the police station.

By now he was practically pulling Tamekichi to the door.

“Okay, I’ll go. All I have to do is go with you, right? You’ll have the answers to

your questions soon enough.”

“Get a move on it!” The detective gave Tamekichi a shove.

Tamekichi brushed the detective’s hand aside. “What the hell do you think

you’re doing! Damn you!” When he swore, he used English instead of Japanese.

The detective’s hand flew up and hit Tamekichi on the face. “Resist, and you’ll

regret it.”

“Now, now, officer, let’s not get excited . . . .” The boss of the crew from the

S.S. Africa saw what was happening. He rushed over to O-kin’s office. “The young

fellow said he had no objections. He’s prepared to go along quietly. So what’s the

problem?”

“Look, numbskull, what do you know?” By now the detective was breathing

hard. He was almost out of breath. “Haven’t you boys figured it out? Sakamoto Shintarô

was murdered last night.”

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 Everyone gasped. But most surprised of all --- or at least it seemed that way ---

was Tamekichi.

“NO!?! That can’t be.”

“Don’t feign innocence with me!” the detective stormed at Tamekichi.

“Regulations require that I search you before I take you in. Step over here!”

With that he reached into the pocket of Tamekichi’s work pants and pulled out a

penknife. The name “Sakamoto” was carved into it in roman letters.

“It doesn’t mean what you think it does!” Tamekichi’s face turned white.

“Keep your mouth shut!”

The place on Tamekichi’s finger suddenly caught the detective’s eye. “What’s

the bandage for? It’s stained with blood, isn’t it? Never mind. Don’t explain it now,

because you’re coming with me. Anything you have to say, you can tell to the detective

in the duty room. Get moving!”

As he was led from the lodging house, Tamekichi turned and looked over his

shoulder at the sailors standing behind him. They were in an uproar.

It was a gloriously warm autumn day. Little waves of heat rippled in the air.

Along the waterfront, gangs of stevedores were shouting back and forth. Foreign

sailors, in groups of two or three, were walking down the street that ran along the water.

Tamekichi himself was surprised at how cool and unperturbed he felt at being escorted

in public by the detective, who stuck close to his side. He was past caring now. The

faces of the passersby struck him as silly. He felt as if the man being led down the street

was someone other than himself. No, it was not Tamekichi that he knew who was

275
experiencing all this. His sole regret –- and it was a strong one –- was that, for the

foreseeable future, it was clear that he would not be shipping out to sea.

A detective from the Kannonzaki Police Station patrolling the street along the

waterfront at dawn this morning had been startled to find a large pool of blood on the

sidewalk in front of the seamen’s lodging house run by O-Kin. The drops of blood ran

in an unbroken line for another fifty meters to the south. There he found footprints in

the mud. Pieces of torn clothing were scattered in the vicinity. One could easily surmise

there had been a fight. No question about it. An oil tanker had been anchored at the

wharf. It had set sail, leaving behind an empty dock --- and the dark, oily waters that

stretched from the foot of the quay all the way out to sea. On top of the stone wall of the

quay, the detective found a sailor’s passbook and a pawn ticket that belonged to

Sakamoto. Sakamoto must have dropped them.

The authorities immediately launched an investigation. Because the motive for

the crime was unclear, it was perfectly natural --- albeit too bad for Tamekichi --- that

they considered Sakamoto’s roommate of the previous night as the prime suspect. Mori

Tamekichi. He must be the murderer. But even after dropping nets over the side of the

quay and sending down divers, they were unable to find any further trace of Sakamoto,

let alone a body. They were waiting for high tide, when they would extend their search

to the bottom of the bay by dragging it in cooperation with the harbor police.

When Tamekichi contemplated the fact that the police had the penknife as

evidence against him, and there was the cut on his finger, he was sure he was fighting a

276
lost cause. He could see it all now. There he was, mounting the scaffold and standing

before a hangman’s noose. His feet ground to a halt. He found it was impossible to

make them move. More than anything else, he was loath to abandon the call of the sea.

At the end of the street was the old stone building of the police station. It was waiting

for him. A breeze carrying the exotic odors of life at sea grazed past his nose. The blue

waters of the ocean spread to the left of him; clouds, swelling into great peaks, floated

above them.

The sea was calling him. Tamekichi had left Naoetsu Bay in Niigata at the age

of nine. He had sailed under flags from all over the world for twenty-some years. The

sea was his home. It was like the bosom of a loving mother.

He heard an anchor being hoisted. He saw a black flag with a white rectangle in

the center flutter as it was raised on a foreign ship along the quay. It meant the ship was

about to sail. It only took one glance at the ship for him to recognize the freighter

belonged to the Norwegian company PN. Three sailors with purchases tucked under

their arms passed hurriedly by him. They did not want to miss getting back on board.

The strong smell of pipe tobacco stung his nose. Images of harbors in foreign lands rose

before his eyes. They floated in the air like phantoms that appear and then disappear.

That was when he made up his mind.

“This shoe is pinching my foot.”

Dropping to the ground and pretending to untie his laces, Tamekichi seized the

opportunity to grab the detective by the leg and knock him over.

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 Tamekichi was desperate. He thought he heard angry voices behind him. He

must have bumped into people walking down the street. Summoning every ounce of

strength in his body, he raced toward the foreign sailors who were about to climb the

rope ladder to the Norwegian ship.

“Let me on!” he shouted. Dumbfounded, the sailors let him through.

“Get me aboard your ship! Somebody’s after me. I’ll go anywhere. I’ll do

anything. I’ve sailed Norwegian ships before.”

It was Tamekichi’s fluent English that saved him. Moreover, he spoke the brand

of English understood the world over only by men who sail the seas. He knew all the

slang that sailors used.

“Aye, mate, you must be a sailor without a home!” The chief mate called to him

from the ship’s side.

“I’m a second-class deckhand,” replied Tamekichi.

The chief mate thought for a moment. “All right, we’ll let you on.”

Tamekichi climbed the steep side of the ship like a monkey. Using the hatchway

to the front of the galley, he ducked into the side bunker.

Seconds later, the detective was alongside the ship. He was shouting in

Japanese. “He’s a killer! Don’t you understand? These damn Westerners! What do they

think they’re doing? He’s killed someone!” he shouted. But he arrived a minute too late.

He was out of breath.

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 “Don’t you understand, you idiots. He’s a KILLER! Hand him over! Bring him

down here this instant!”

The sailors standing at the gunwale of the ship burst into laughter. They could

not understand him, but they found his agitation hilarious.

“Ler-ler-ler!” shouted one of them, mimicking the detective.

The rope ladder --- the “jacob” --- was hoisted up.

“All aboard!” shouted the chief helmsman from the bridge.

“All’s in,” came the reply from the boatswain.

The signal bell to the engine-room was sounded. The “screw,” or propeller, of

the ship began to rotate and churn the waters of the bay.

More bells sounded. “Scatter ’round!” The crew split up and moved in every

direction, casting off “ropes” and pulling out “bitts.” The second mate was at the stern.

“All right. Here we go.”

The Victor Karenina, flying the flag of Norway, pulled from the quay as a winch

cranked in the heavy chains of the anchor.

“Sah-yo-nah-ra!” one of the sailors shouted to the detective, who was left

standing on the pier, furious because he was unable to reclaim his prisoner. Just then, a

blast on the ship’s whistle rent the air. It drowned out the laughter of the sailors on the

deck.

II.

279
 The chief mate drew up a dummy contract. When it was time for Tamekichi to

sign it in front of the captain, he wrote “Shintarô Sakamoto.” He really did not know

why he had signed Sakamoto’s name instead of his own.

“Sakamoto” was assigned to cleaning the officer’s saloon once a day and to

carrying meals to the sailors and stokers working below deck. He also was to help tar

the steel plates, mend the covers on the lifeboats, and use wire to lash down bundles

stored on deck.

Kobe began to fade into the mist. By now it looked more like a mirage than a

city. Tamekichi felt free at last. He quickly settled into a routine that was familiar to

him. He could not have been happier fitting a wrench to bolts. Or being under the

beautiful sun and hearing the sea whisper to him from the broadsides of the boat.

Moreover, he was happy to have escaped the clutches of the Japanese police with all of

their ridiculous and unfounded accusations. But far, far more important was the joy that

he experienced at finding himself in a place where he truly belonged.

Perhaps he was being irresponsible by not doing what was best for his own

future --- and clearing his name --- but his long life as a vagabond had taught him to

adopt an devil-may-care attitude toward himself.

The sailors called him “Saki,” and they found him to be helpful mate.

In the afternoon, the sky began to look threatening. Tamekichi joined the sailors

in making the rounds of the ship to secure the seven hatches to the storage area below

by inserting wedges between the door and the door bar. Tamekichi was the only one

who could drive in a wedge with a single blow. The sailors were impressed, and they

280
asked where he worked before. He was only too happy to answer their questions in crisp

“cockney” English. And nobody asked why he sought refuge on the ship. For sailors,

whose nationality is very often unknown, the issue was immaterial. It was no problem at

all. Only that once, when Tamekichi was called to the captain’s office to sign the

contract, did he have to lie and explain that he “had run away from his uncle’s house for

personal reasons.”

“Shin Saki, second-class mate on the Victor Karenina.” Tamekichi repeated his

new name and rank to himself. He could not hide the grin that spread across his face

from ear to ear.

It was arranged that the cook, the officers’ cabin boy, and Tamekichi would

share a room facing the starboard passageway. Tamekichi was assigned to take meals to

the lower-ranking sailors in the mess room at the stern of the ship before they came off

duty. Because clearing the tables was the apprentice’s job, the only crewmembers that

he had contact with were those with whom he worked on the deck. In other words, he

had not seen any of the engine-room workers. It was the custom among deckhands to

look down on these men who, their bodies smeared with coal, ashes and grease, writhed

like insects “down below” in the hold of the ship. Ever since he started sailing as a lad,

he too came to believe “the cockroaches” in the engine room belonged to a completely

different class of sailor. They were never smartly dressed the way sailors ought to be.

That was why he never gave them any special attention. But he did ask his roommate,

the cabin boy, for details about the ship and its crew. There were seventeen deckhands

and twenty-one engine-room workers. The ship was heading straight south to take on a

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load of guano at Thursday Island. It would sail round to Hawaii, then head to Grace

Harbor on the West Coast of North America to take on a supply of lumber; there, it

would wait for the ice to thaw and then sail up the Yukon River to the Klondike. Kobe

was the first stop in a long overseas voyage; after that, the ship’s destination would be

decided by whomever chartered it next. The Victor Karenina was a tramp steamer. It

was ready to go anywhere in the world –- at the behest of even one telegram.

It was typical of men who worked on long distance runs to be deeply moved

each time their ship entered or left port. On the surface, they looked coarse and tough,

but underneath they were sentimental. Strange as it may seem, Tamekichi felt nothing

but relief and joy as the ship sailed away from land. As his sighs of relief grew stronger,

his mind became increasingly vulnerable to the powers of autosuggestion --- even if he

himself did not understand what was happening.

It was not until he finally climbed into his box-like berth, wrapped himself in a

blanket, and closed his eyes, that Mori Tamekichi had his first moment in which to stop

and shudder in horror at the crime he was suspected of committing. He reached for

Sakamoto’s penknife in his pocket. It was cold to the touch, and it unnerved him. He

felt utterly powerless. Before he knew it, he found he was the victim of a perverse state

of mind in which he truly believed he did commit the crime of which he was accused.

How many people in the world with “clean hands” have confessed in a moment of

weakness to groundless charges that were no more than the figment of someone else’s

imagination? He was sure there were many. And once they confessed, what was done

was done. As a result, they were cast into oblivion –- all in the name of the Law! It was

282
in fainthearted moments such as the one that he experienced now that people allowed

themselves to get carried away, and they were never heard from again.

In his case, he had neither the will nor the stubbornness to insist upon his

innocence –- if in fact he really was innocent. He felt there was no evidence to prove his

lack of guilt. Still, he was filled with happiness at being back at sea. He tried to fathom

the facts behind the murder case, but the effort was all in vain. The more he thought

about the facts, the murkier they became. Did he really kill Sakamoto?

In any event, what did it matter now? He was completely cut off from Japan.

Sakamoto was dead. And Mori Tamekichi, who was wanted by the Japanese Police as

the murderer, also ceased to exist.

Tamekichi told himself he would lead a new life under the assumed name of

Sakamoto Shintarô. “I won’t leave this ship for the time being. And then, as I switch

from one ship to another, my nationality will become more and more ambiguous. No

one will know what it is.”

As the youngest son he had no family responsibilities, and as a single man who

lived a “bohemian” life, he had no abiding attachments in Japan. And look at a map ---

Japan was just a string of islands scattered across the ocean. Running at a speed of

eleven and a quarter knots, the ship would reach the open seas off the shoals of Tosa on

Shikoku Island very soon. It was already dark, but he could see the foam of the waves

break at eighteen degrees. They broke into a white spray that slashed against his

porthole window. The low rotation noise of the engine was like a lullaby to his ears.

283
Mori Tamekichi, a.k.a. Sakamoto Shintarô, snored gently as he drifted into a peaceful

sleep.

He did not know how long he slept.

When he woke up, the waters were calm, and dawn was breaking. The ship was

anchored in port. He looked out the porthole. They must have put into Karatsu or some

other harbor to escape the typhoon. But, wait, what were those towers in the morning

mist? No, they weren’t waves --- they were the smokestacks of the Kawasaki Shipyards

in Kobe.

“We’re back in Kobe!?! We must have turned around on account of the storm!”

Experience told him, however, that a huge 6,000-ton ship like the Victor

Karenina never returned to the port it departed from --- even when there was a storm

that made a barometer needle stand on end.

The chief mate and the boatswain entered the cabin.

“Saki, they say you are a murderer!” The boatswain barked.

“Keep your voice down,” said Tamekichi. As he reached for the knife in his

pocket, he started to shake all over. Above all else he wanted to stay at sea. The desire

was making a coward of him.

“Ha, ha, ha!” the chief mate laughed.

“We were told to return to Kobe in a wireless received from our agent and the

maritime police. They say you were being escorted to the police station when you

jumped aboard our ship. Is that right? Ha, ha, ha!”

284
 Tamekichi was at a loss to know what to think. Suddenly he saw the hangman’s

noose sway before his eyes. Images of his injured finger and Sakamoto’s penknife

whirled round and round him as he stood on the scaffold. At the same time, he saw a

free life at sea opening its arms to embrace him.

“The maritime police launch just left the pier. The police officers will be here

any minute.”

Tamekichi’s face turned white. Collapsing across the bed, he buried it in the

covers.

The chief mate and the boatswain were discussing something in a low voice.

They turned to him. The boatswain wanted to know what he wanted to do.

“You wanna hide?” the chief mate asked him.

Tamekichi was wound as tight as a spring as he reached up and grabbed the

chief mate’s shirt. He was so desperate that he could hardly talk.

“All right, then. We’ll hide you as best as we can. Somehow or other, I think it’s

gonna be okay,” said the chief mate with a smile. Then he let out a roar. It was a big

belly laugh.

“Shall we hand him over to one of the boys in the engine-room to help him

out?” asked the boatswain.

“That’s a good idea. Get ‘Boston.’”

The boatswain was out of the room in a flash. He shouted down the “cylinder”

to the engine room.

“Boston? Where’s ‘Midnight Bos-to-on’?”

285
 Pretty soon a black man, who was nearly seven feet tall, came lumbering into

the room with an oily rag in his hand.

“Hide this fellow. Get him out of here.” The chief mate motioned with his chin.

Boston took a quick glance at Tamekichi. He started to lead him out of the

room. Just then, the cabin boy rushed in.

“Chief mate, sir, the police are here.”

They were voices coming from the starboard deck, and they were speaking in

Japanese. Tamekichi ducked under Boston’s arm and flew as fast as he could down the

steel stairway to the engine room. Since there was trouble on board, nobody was in the

engine room stoking the furnaces. Tamekichi tried to hide by climbing into water filter,

but he slipped on the greasy floor. Lying on his side, he tried to slide behind the Wier

evaporator.

“That’s no good. They’ll find you right away!” cried the black man. “Get up on

the donkey boiler and crawl down ’to the space by the watertight bulkhead. There’s no

time to lose!”

Tamekichi climbed from the low tunnel to the top of the donkey boiler. It was

covered in ashes that were an inch thick. Then, he climbed into a hole so small that he

had to stick in one leg at a time. He squeezed into the space alongside the boiler, which

was surrounded by water pipes. The sides of the unfired boiler were ice cold. He heard

Boston shut the tunnel door and walk away. The air inside the boiler was so close it was

as if it had solidified. He had to force his body into a very unnatural position, but as

long as he continued to focus on the eerie but tranquil silence that emanated from below

286
the ship’s water level, he found he could forget the pain. No, he refused to even think

about it. How in hell had he managed to end up like this? He no longer knew. What’s

more, he had ceased to ask the question.

Tap, tap, tap, scraaatch.

From out of nowhere, there came a sound. It was like someone scratching a

piece of metal. It took him by surprise.

There it was again.

Tap, tap, tap, scraaatch.

The sound seemed to come from inside the boiler. Or was it from the ventilator

in the furnace down below?

Tap, tap, tap, scraaatch, scratch.

All of a sudden, Tamekichi understood what he was hearing. It had to be the

telegraphic code of the wireless, universal ABC code by which every nation

communicated. All sailors knew it, and they often tapped out messages on a tabletop

with their fingers. No question about it! The tapping was coming from inside the

donkey boiler!

Suddenly, there was the sound of feet in the boiler room. He could hear the chief

mate say, “See, nobody’s here. Aha, ha, ha!”

After several verbal exchanges between the police and the chief mate, everyone

left. Tamekichi pressed his ear to a water pipe and tried to be as still as he could. He

might as well have been dead he was so quiet.

Tap, tap, scraaatch ….

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 The message was louder than before. Without even having to think, he decoded

it.

“S.O.S!”

Wasn’t that the signal used by all ships in distress?!

He was startled. He took the penknife out of his pocket and tapped on the

pipe.

“W.H.A.T. I.S. T.H.E. M.A.T.T.E.R.. . . ? ”

Tap, scraaatch, tap, tap, tap, scraaatch.

“S.H.A.N.G.H.A.I . . . .” came the reply.

Shanghai?

“W.H.A.T. I. S. T.H.A.T?” He tapped on the pipe again.

“H.A.V.E. B.E.E.N S.H.A.N.G.H.I.E.D.”

Shanghaied?! To kidnap a man on the street by force. To cart him off to a ship.

And once the ship left port, and there was no more contact with land, to make him work

at hard labor. That was what was meant by the phrase “to shanghai.” It was a secret

practice, but it was known to tramp steamers all over the world. As the kidnappers

feared revelation of their crime, they never let shanghaied men back on land again. For

the shanghaied, it meant a life in the hold of a ship. It meant a life forever without

sunlight. It meant twenty-four hours a day of labor “down below.” It meant bad food

and all manner of maltreatment. It was rare for anyone to survive more than six months.

Only a very few did.

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 Tamekichi was almost crazy with fear as he slid along the walls of the boiler and

reached the door where the noise came from. There was a handle on the outside. It made

it easy to open the door.

The putrid smell of human excrement and piss and sweat assailed him. It was

enough to make him sick. Deep within the darkness, Tamekichi heard a voice. It

emanated from an old, frayed blanket. The blanket was covered in crumbs left from

eating pieces of stale bread.

“Is that you, Tamé?”

“Keep your eyes covered! Don’t look at the light, whatever you do!” Tamekichi

shouted at the figure.

More dead than alive, the man crawled into a place where Tamekichi could see

him. He kept his eyes closed tightly, but Tamekichi knew who he was --- it was

Sakamoto Shintarô! --- the man that he was supposed to have murdered.

“I can’t believe it. You’re alive?!”

“That’s right. I left the inn that night because my tooth was bleeding and my jaw

hurt like hell. I was going to see if I could get that quack doctor out of bed. That’s when

they caught me. They shanghaied me. Hey, the ship has stopped. Where are we? Port

Arthur? Vladivostok? Where are we?”

“Kobe.”

“Kobe? How can that be? I thought the engines were running for four or five

days at least . . . . ”

“This is what happened . . . .”

289
 Tamekichi began to explain. “I escaped to the ship because the police said I

killed you. See? Then they sent a radio message from land, telling the ship to return to

port. That penknife of yours --- you know, the one I borrowed to slice a pear --- it’s

caused me no end of trouble. On top of everything else, I cut my finger with it.”

Holding the knife in a backhand grip as he sat on the steel steps in front of the

closed bunker, Tamekichi started to grin like a lunatic. He had heard the call of the sea

all right. In fact, it was almost as if he had boarded the ship and set sail in order to save

Sakamoto, who had managed to stay alive, if only just barely. He was also happy he

could prove his innocence at last. But it also meant they had no choice but to disembark

and deal with the authorities. Here he had finally gotten out to sea, but he would have to

take this golden opportunity and throw it away. He would have to abandon what would

never come his way again no matter how hard he searched for it. He hated Sakamoto.

Why was he obliged to help the bastard, especially after all the trouble he caused him?

Wasn’t he supposed to be dead, having been murdered by none other than himself?

Tamekichi’s mind kept turning the idea over and over. “That’s right. I killed him just

like the detective said. How dare this pale ghost suddenly wander out of nowhere and

ruin everything for me! Tamekichi was furious.

“What if he were to go and die just like he was supposed to? Wouldn’t it be a

whole lot better? I’d be able to sail away to all the distant lands that I long for. --- Wait

a second! It may not be too late. No, it’s not too late at all. There’s no problem. He’s as

good as dead already. If not, he might as well be. –- As a matter of fact, he is dead.

According to the evidence, I’m the lowly bastard who murdered him. –- And here we

290
are, standing in front of the furnace of this freighter, in a place where the arm of the law

can never reach. –- That’s right, now is my perfect chance. –- But what kind of chance

is it? –- Mori Tamekichi is supposed to be the author of his own life. It was precisely

because of the ‘murder’ that I was able to get aboard this ship. That’s right. To go

abroad. To go to foreign lands. And, yes, even to wield this cursed penknife! ---Yes,

everything has worked out like they told me it would. ---Yes, it was the detective’s idea.

He’s the one who suggested it all. Everything is going to be just like he said it would.”

Tamekichi stood up.

“Before we try to get outa here, can you get me a drink of water? Water . . . I

need a drink of water.” Sakamoto was groaning.

III.

Everything was just as the police said. Sakamoto Shintarô was dead. At the

same time, a man named Mori Tamekichi had disappeared from the face of the earth.

Gone. Lost forever.

Shortly after the Norwegian ship, Victor Karenina weighed anchor at Kobe and

set out for the high seas, a big bundle wrapped in sailcloth, with a heavy weight

attached, was thrown overboard into the surging waves.

On deck, whistling and smiling, Sakamoto Shintarô bid his final adieu to Japan.

Following the time-honored custom that is the unwritten code among seamen

the world over, neither Sakamoto Shintarô, who was the “shanghaied man,” nor

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Sakamoto Shintarô, who was “the man who shanghaied himself,” ever stepped on land

again.

– Translated by Kyoko Omori

292
 APPENDIX B

The Cover Illustration from Hitori sannin zenshû (One Man as Three),
Hasegawa Kaitarô’s 16-Volume Complete Works
published in 1934-1935 by Shinchôsha.

293
 BIBLIOGRAPHY

Complete Works or Selected Works

of Which Titles Are Abbreviated in Footnotes and the Body of the Text

Hirabayashi Hatsunosuke. Hirabayashi Hatsunosuke bungei hyôron zenshû. 3

volumes. Tokyo: Bunsendô Shoten, 1975. Abbreviated in footnotes and the
body of the text as HHBHZ.

Hirano Ken. Hirano Ken zenshû. Vol. 3. Tokyo: Shinchôsha, 1975. Abbreviated in
footnotes and the body of the text as HKZ.

Nakajima Kawatarô. Nihon suiri shôsetsu-shi. 3 volumes. Tokyo: Tokyo Sôgensha,

1993-1996. Abbreviated in footnotes and the body of the text as NSS.

Tani Jôji (also as Maki Itsuma and Hayashi Fubô). Hitori sannin zenshû. 6 volumes.
Tokyo: Kawade Shobô, 1969-1970. Abbreviated in footnotes and the body of
the text as HSZ.
(There are two versions of Hitori sannin zenshû: The first was published by Shinchôsha
in 1934-1935 in sixteen volumes; and the second was published by Kawade
Shobô in 1969-1970 in 6 volumes. This dissertation uses the Kawade Shobô
version, and more specifically volume 3 which contains ’Merican-Jap stories.)

Others

Aono Suekichi. “Hirabayashi Hatsunosuke-ron.” Shinchô August 1931: 26-35.

Asukai Masamichi. “Puroretaria bungaku undô no jidai kubun.” Nihon puroretaria

bungakushi-ron. Tokyo: Yagi Shoten, 1982.

Benjamin, Walter. “One-Way Street.” Reflections. Ed. Peter Demetz. New York:
Schocken Books, 1986. 61-94.

294
Bloch, Ernst. “A philosophical View of the Detective Novel.” The Utopian Function
of Art and Literature: Selected Essays. Trans. Jack Zipes and Frank
Mecklenburg. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press, 1988. 245-64.

Calinescu, Matei. Five Faces of Modernity. Durham: Duke University, 1987.

Cawelti, John G. Adventure, Mystery, and Romance: Formula Stories as Art and
Popular Culture. Chicago and London: The University of Chicago Press, 1976.

---. “Canonization, Modern Literature, and the Detective Story.” Theory and Practice
of Classic Detective Fiction. Ed. Jerome H. Delamater and Ruth Prigozy.
Westport: Greenwood Press, 1997. 5-15.

Chesterton, G.K. “Tantei shôsetsu yôgo ron.” Translated from English into Japanese by
Ôta Michio. Shinseinen Shinshun zôkan-gô (New Year Special Issue). 1929,
No. 3. Tokyo: Hakubunkan, 1929.

---. The Collected Works of G.K. Chesterton. 35 volumes. San Francisco: Ignatius
Press, 1896-.

Chiba Kameo. “Shin Kankau-ha no tanjô.” Shin kankaku-ha bungaku shû.” Vol. 67.
Nihon gendai bungaku zenshû. Tokyo: Kôdansha, 1968. 357-360.

---. “Iki mo hakenu kinchôsa de yonda ‘Hito ware o daiku to yobu.” Dai 2-ki Sekai
bungaku geppô. Tokyo: Shinchôsha, 1930.

Chiba Sen’ichi. “Geijutsu-teki kindai-ha.” Nihon bungaku shin-shi. Ed. Hasegawa

Izumi. Tokyo: Shibundo, 1991. 27-59.

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gendai-hen. Tokyo: Tokyodo Shuppan, 1997.

Childers, Joseph and Gary Hentzi, ed. The Columbia Dictionary of Modern Literary
and Cultural Criticism. New York: Columbia University Press, 1995.

Christian, Ed, ed. The Post-Colonial Detective. New York: Palgrave, 2001.

Delamater, Jerome H. and Ruth Prigozy, ed. Theory and Practice of Classic Detective
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Doi, Takeo. The Psychological World of Natsume Sôseki. Trans. by William J. Tyler.
Cambridge: Harvard University East Asian Series, 1976.

295
Eagleton, Terry. Marxism and Literary Criticism. Berkeley: University of California
Press, 1976.

Edogawa Rampo. Tantei shôsetsu shijûnen Parts 1 and 2. Edogawa Rampo zenshû.
Volumes 20 and 21. Tokyo: Kôdansha, 1979.

Eguchi Yûsuke and Kawasaki Kenko. Tani Jôji: Meriken-Jappu ichidai-ki. Tokyo:
Hakubunkan Shinsha, 1995.

Feied, Frederick. No Pie in the Sky: The Hobo as American Cultural Hero in the Works
of Jack London, John Dos Passos, and Jack Kerouac. New York: The Citadel
Press, 1964.

Gonda Manji. Nihon tantei sakka-ron. Tokyo: Yûshisha, 1992.

Gosselin, Adrienne Johnson, ed. Multicultural Detective Fiction: Murder from the
“Other” Side. New York: Garland Publishing, Inc, 1999.

Hamada Yûsuke. “Taishû bungaku no kindai.” Nihon bungaku-shi. Vol. 13. Iwanami
Kôza series. Tokyo: Iwanami Shoten, 1996.

Harootunian, Harry. Overcome by Modernity: History, Culture, and Community in

Interwar Japan. Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2000.

Hasebe Fumichika. Ôbei suiri shôsetsu honyaku-shi. Tokyo: Hon no zasshisha, 1992.

Hasegawa Shirô. “Kaitarô nîsan.” The insert (geppô) 18 in Taishû bungaku taikei.
Tokyo: Kôdansha, 1972.

Hashimoto Motome. Nihon shuppan hanbai-shi. Tokyo: Kôdansha, 1964.

Hilfer, Tony. The Crime Novel: A Deviant Genre. Austin: University of Texas Press,
1990.

Honma Nagayo. Amerika-shizô no tankyû. Tokyo: Tokyo Daigaku Shuppankai, 1991.

Hoshô Masao. “Taisho bungaku kara Showa bungaku e: Kanto daishinsai kara ‘bungei
fukkô’ made.” Showa bungaku zenshû. Vol. 36 (Bekkan). Tokyo: Shôgakkan,
1990. 261-324.

Hosoya Chihiro and Honma Nagayo. Nichibei kankei-shi. Tokyo: Yûhikaku, 1991.

Ikeda Hiroshi. Taishû shôsetsu no sekai to han-sekai. Tokyo: Gendai Shokan, 1983.

296
---. Fassho fasshon (Fascho Fashion). Tokyo: Shakai Hyôron-sha, 1983.

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