Cover image for The strangeness of beauty
The strangeness of beauty
Minatoya, Lydia Y. (Lydia Yuriko), 1950-
Publication Information:
New York : Simon & Schuster, [1999]

Physical Description:
382 pages ; 21 cm
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From the multiple-award-winning author of Talking to High Monks in the Snow comes a searing tale of three daughters of Japan whose strained reunion on the brink of World War II challenges each in her identity, spirit, and capacity to love.

Reviews 2

Booklist Review

Written in the form of a diary from 1922 to 1939, this I-story (the Japanese word for novel) has none of the ponderousness that format sometimes implies. Etsuko lives in Japantown in Seattle, suffused with joy in the husband who loves her, delighted that her sister Naomi is emigrating. But Naomi dies in childbirth, Etsuko is widowed, and she takes the child, Hanae, back to Japan to live in her mother's centuries-old house. The diary skips months and sometimes years, as Hanae goes through childhood and adolescence. Etsuko describes herself, her life, and her love for Hanae with such feathery lightness, such winsome humor, and such a delicate sense of irony that her voice sounds almost contemporary with us rather than with the rape of Nanking. What separates this full-hearted novel from others--like Gail Tsukiyama's Night of Many Dreams [BKL F 15 98] or Linda Watanabe McFerrin's Namako [BKL Jl 98]--is how very funny Minatoya can be, even in the most emotional of moments, and her gift for fabulously apt description. --GraceAnne A. DeCandido

Publisher's Weekly Review

The autobiography, or "I-story," of Etsuko Sone is the basis of this lyrical first novel by Minatoya, herself author of the memoir Talking to Monks in the Snow. Etsuko emigrates from Kobe to Seattle in 1918 with her husband, Tadoa, a kite maker who dreams of a career with Boeing; instead, he settles for a job on a fishing boat, and soon drowns. Several years later, Etsuko's sister dies in childbirth, and Etsuko helps raise the baby, Hanae, whose dentist father is a gambler and an ace on the Japanese three-cushion pool circuit. When Hanae is six and anti-Japanese sentiment is on the increase in the U. S., Etsuko is persuaded to take her back to Japan for a traditional upbringing in the house of Fuji. Etsuko has never herself lived in her family's home, having been cast out as an infant by a mother still reeling from the death of her firstborn son. Although she initially feels that she belongs in neither country, Etsuko comes to terms with her past and present, finally finding her purpose as Hanae prepares for upper-school graduation and the country prepares for war with China. Minatoya's unadorned prose has the evocative suggestibility of a Japanese print, and Etsuko's incisive, often wry observations resemble resonant lines of haiku. Ironically, the problems Etsuko identifies as inherent to the "I-story"(self-absorption, narrowness, oblique indirection, dullness) are not entirely avoided here, however artful Etsuko's looping narrative. But they are present in the novel only occasionally and are more than offset by the richly detailed multigenerational and multicultural story. With candor, Minatoya analyzes the qualities ("eloquent silence, poetic hindsight, conversation crafted with the masked formality of actors performing ancient Noh theater") that make life possible in crowded Japan, but seem "ridiculous" in America. While sometimes weighted down by bald passages of history, this highly unusual story offers valuable insights into Japanese culture. Agent, Sally Woford-Girand. (June) (c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved



Chapter One NOVEMBER 25, 1922 It has been said that at any given moment, sixty percent of Japanese are involved in writing a novel. And all of them autobiographical. This phenomenon, though not new in form (the autobiographical novel is an ancient art), is certainly new in frenzy. There's even a word for it, shi-shosetsu, the "I-story." Critics have questioned the motivation behind the amateur I-story. Often it seems so futile. Why would so many work so long to create novels meant for their eyes alone? The answer involves social upheaval -- in which a sudden infusion of excessive education (the progressive arts and sciences of the last two imperial reigns) has clashed with limits in opportunity, to turn a nation of habitual haiku writers half mad. The theory is that in Japan, the self-consciousness of modernism has collided with the tradition of reticence -- of not burdening others with one's subjective experience -- to create a people just roiling with confessional angst. It's true, I think. There seem to be few people as concerned with being understood as the Japanese. Unless you consider the Americans. But I'm delaying. This, of course, is my I-story. Etsuko Sone Seattle, Washington Hanae's Birth I can't imagine that Hanae enjoyed being born. To be squeezed through a convulsing corridor is, at best, an experience one would call unsettling. And to hear her mother's breath -- for months so rhythmic and reassuring -- ripping jaggedly, to feel her heart staggering. No, my niece wouldn't have liked it. Maybe that's why she grew distant and drowsy, why she drifted toward failure. She had no interest in this thing called life. But her mother was fierce. She forced her child forward. She tore herself open and Hanae slid into my cold, shaking hands. Clean, salty scents of blood and birth tickled Hanae's nostrils. She drew breath and sneezed. "My baby!" cried Naomi. I glanced at Naomi with reverence and fear. Who was this new creature called Mother? Sweating and savage, she bore no similarity to my little sister. But Hanae twitched with immediate recognition. Here was the voice that had sung and whispered, that had confided its secret hopes. Here was the voice that had prodded her toward moral goodness, with nightly readings of Buddhist sutras, A Tale of Two Cities, King Lear. Still I failed to give baby to mother, hurriedly bundling Hanae in soft cloth, rushing her to the other side of the room. "My baby, my baby!" Hanae seemed to watch Naomi's hands, waving thin and pale. Were these the hands that had calmed her in the womb? That had stroked her when she hiccuped? That when she kicked too hard and lodged a bony heel beneath her mother's rib cage, had smoothed it back into place? Now those hands clawed the air with maternal hunger, that mouth opened with greedy need. And Hanae wanted to be devoured, to return to the safety of that body. Like a wolf drawn by the moon, she was pulled by her mother's voice. She filled her lungs and wailed. The Heavenly Sign Akira Shinoda was twenty-four years old, a handsome, earnest young dentist and the father of that baby. After the turmoil subsided, after Hanae was holding her little neck steady and sleeping through the night, I approached him. I wanted to talk about the birth. I asked, "What do you remember?" "A competent midwife, a rapid delivery, the outcome a healthy child." But I stood there -- my arms empty, my body absentmindedly swaying in a manner that would soothe a fretful infant -- and Akira felt an obligation. He couldn't brush me aside. So he put down the dental text he was studying and said what he knew I wanted. "What do you recall?" Later, at night when the house was quiet, he answered the question I'd forgotten in my relief to share my tale. What he remembered. It was Sunday, October 23, 1921. Naomi slept until noon. Akira poked through the kitchen like an amateur, singeing a dish towel as he lit the stove. Naomi laughed when she saw the scorched rice and watery miso soup he'd prepared. A breakfast already grown cold. She pulled at his sleeve until he sank to the bed. She unwound the eyeglass stems from his ears. Later, brushing her hair by the window, she saw Mount Rainier. Free from its usual cloud cover, the mountain rose close and startling. "Rainier-san is out." Akira glanced past her shoulder. Three-story frame tenements scrabbled toward the crest of Jackson Street. A cluster of leaves, dead and dried, bounced along the buckling sidewalk. Like a facetious Fujiyama, Rainier was floating over Oki's We Never Close Cafe. Akira frowned. This was Nihonmachi, Seattle's Japantown. A strange, in-between place where, by day, the streets were filled with American-style industry -- with shrieking trains snorting in and out of the King Street Station and delivery carts from Uchida's Uncle Sam Laundry or Kato's Straight-To-Your-Home Ice clattering on cobbled streets. Where truant Japanese American boys in knickers and golf caps flipped milk tops and shot marbles. Yet at dusk Nihonmachi became suffused with Japan -- with lantern light, the aromas of soy sauce and Japanese soba noodles wafting from upstairs windows, and the restful sight of neighbors heading home from public baths. Laughing softly, the bathers scuffed in split-toed straw sandals and cotton kimonos across improbably wide American-named streets (Main, Jackson, King) or more intimately scaled numbered avenues (Sixth through Twelfth). Still later, as midnight approached the southern edge of Nihonmachi -- the only time and place whites came into our part of town -- the mood shifted to things faster and darker: secret-door gambling clubs with knifings at blackjack and mahjong tables; hurried transactions of prostitution. Thinking of these things, Akira knitted his brow. Though Naomi was happy in Nihonmachi, the idea that he'd brought his bride to so shabby a place always made him feel guilty. "Look at those scurrying outlaws." Chuckling, Naomi was pursuing the leaves, watching as they evaded a broom being wielded by Kozawa, the barber. "I know!" She turned to her husband. "Let's go leaf viewing." Akira looked at his nineteen-year-old wife, beyond the beauty of her tranquil oval face to the hard work of carrying a child. Naomi's legs were swollen. Her blood pressure was high. Her pregnancy hadn't been easy. "No," he said, "you're too close to your time." But she smiled at his stern manner. "Just to the university," she coaxed. "Soon we'll be too busy." Akira knotted a tie under the starched high collar of his white shirt. (Indeed, back in Japan the word used to denote a progressive young intellectual was hakara, an altered form of the English words "high collar"). He slipped on the vest and jacket to his three-piece gray suit. Naomi dressed in a dove blue long-skirted suit (to accommodate her pregnancy, the usually fitted jacket fell from a yoke into soft gathers), high black shoes, and a broad-brimmed hat. As Akira walked sideways beside her -- lending his arm and solicitously watching Naomi's every quite confident step -- they negotiated the narrow stairway down from their second-floor flat. They boarded a streetcar on the corner of Main Street and Occidental Avenue. Akira dropped two dimes into the glass box at the top of the stairs, watching as the motorman flipped a lever that made the money disappear, listening to the coins' clinka-clinka noise as he wound the crank that sorted the change. The streetcar was already half full with Japanese American passengers out for a Sunday excursion. Most rode as if in Japan: in orderly anonymity, nodding whenever someone they knew boarded but not speaking, respecting one another's need for some distance in a too-crowded society. After a few minutes, Akira felt Naomi nudge his shoulder. "Listen to that old couple," she whispered. It didn't take long to find the pair. The couple -- perhaps in their late fifties, dressed in worn go-to-city clothes -- were bickering loudly in Japanese. Yet even after locating them, Akira had trouble following Naomi's instruction. A stray thought popped into his mind -- the old fellow needed a partial bridge -- and he couldn't track their conversation. "Aren't they charming?" Wanting to be a good husband, Akira shook himself back to the moment. "Stay on the trolley, north to Pike Street," the sturdy wife was exclaiming. "Then take Pike east. That's the best way to the public market." "No, no!" said the husband. He waved his skinny arms in disgust. "Too much traffic. Get off at Yessler; go north on First, along the waterfront. Then, zoo-to!" -- the husband had made a zippy sound ending briskly with his tongue just behind his incisors -- "you're right there!" "Your way is fast, all right," grumbled the wife, "but passes all the fishing fleets." She folded her weathered hands in her broad lap and gave a triumphant snort. "Your way stinks!" "What's so charming about them?" Akira whispered in complaint to Naomi. "It's stupid, really. We've already passed both Yessler and Pike; it's clear they've no intention of going to market. And besides, look at their clothes. They're farmers. Probably in from Bainbridge Island. I bet they've been going to the public market twice a week for at least fifteen years!" "And each time having the same argument." Naomi chuckled. "They should hear themselves," Akira muttered. "So discordant. It's a disgrace." "No." Naomi's voice turned firm. "It's no disgrace." She looked at the couple with tenderness. "Listen, Akira," she said softly, like a mother sharing life's secrets with a child. "In their argument is the melody of marriage." Akira paused. Now the couple was squabbling over whether or not the husband should put on his sweater. "That? Melody?" "Yes," said Naomi. She listened awhile and smiled. "It's a blending, not always smooth, of attachment and independence." "But in public? They sound so foolish!" "To a couple it's background music, a little scratchy, perhaps, but something they play over and over, like a much loved, well-worn gramophone record." Akira looked at Naomi with appreciation. Among the earthbound pioneers of Japantown, this type of insight, along with her beauty and high birth in a samurai family, had earned Naomi a reputation as being a bit too ethereal. Yet he found her radiantly wise. He gestured toward the old couple. "Do you think we'll end up like that?" he teased. Warm laughter poured from Naomi's lovely throat. "Oh, Akira! We already are!" The trolley turned east, passing big houses facing the lake. At Madison Park, Japanese houseboys -- old men with glinting eyeglasses -- raked long, sloping, shadowy lawns. The sky was increasingly overcast. Warm light came and went, streaming like sudden sun showers. By the time they reached the university, Akira could tell that Naomi was tired. Yet when she saw the leaves she seemed to revive. She crunched her feet through the splendid carpet. Too big to bend over, she made him pick a bouquet of the brightest colors. She arranged them in a fan and studied them like an exceedingly good hand of cards. The air smelled of chestnuts roasting. In a gesture of sharing -- similar to times when she drew his hand to her kicking belly -- Naomi pushed Akira's cheek toward the grassy quadrangle. "There." She smiled. Amid Gothic stone buildings, the first few Japanese American college boys -- wearing flannel pants and white varsity-style sweaters -- were joking in accentless English and kicking a football around. "That's the future," she promised. But his eyes were too full with Naomi. The sky had shifted. Sun slanted through branches, anointing her shoulders and hair. Silent and satisfied, filled with mysteries and blessings, she was as luminous as a Renaissance painting. That night, well after midnight, Akira awoke with a start. Naomi was rigid and shuddering. She clutched at the edge of the bed. "No worry, we have hours to wait," she said with a nervous laugh. Akira placed a cool towel on her brow and ran down the street to get me. He knew I came as fast as I could: thrusting my feet in my shoes, grabbing my coat, not caring that he saw me in my nightdress. Yet when we arrived, the baby already was crowning. As he paced the parlor, Akira noticed many things. The scarcity of furniture. A tear in the carpet. The endearing way that the pattern of dust around the spines of books on the bookshelf revealed Naomi's haphazard housekeeping. Near dawn, when the quiet finally came, Akira noticed his relief. He rested his head on the cool windowpane, then drew back -- amazed and laughing -- to see the delicate lace of frost. It was so unexpected for Seattle in autumn that he thought it was a heavenly sign. A miracle, just like birth. It was a sign, the early frost. It meant that his young wife had died. Copyright © 1999 Lydia Y Minatoya. All rights reserved.