[Essay][Literature] Germanist Teiichi Oyama, Rilke, and Others (Part 3): "The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge," Poet Shizuo Ito, and the Snail's Shell

In 1939, before the war, the novel "The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge" (1910) by Rainer Maria Rilke (1875–1926) was translated into Japanese in its entirety for the first time by Teiichi Oyama (1904–1974), and it seems to have had a deeper and wider influence on the intellectuals of the time than one might imagine. This included the two giants of postwar literature, Takaaki Yoshimoto (1924–2012) and Haniya Yutaka (1909–1997). It is a strange book, like a prose poem composed of a lonely monologue and a collection of fragmentary reflections without a discernible plot. It is likely that many introspective young people of that "dark age," who could not fit into the rigid trends of the time, learned from it not a specific ideology, but a way of viewing things through the "dying eyes" of Malte, a descendant of a fallen aristocratic family.

“Upon translating 'The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge,' I deeply felt that Rilke, who had to write such a novel, was an unhappy writer.” I believe the afterword to Teiichi Oyama's translation of "The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge" is a passionate piece of writing that is in no way inferior to the masterful translation of the main text. In it, he quotes several pages of Rilke's letters directly, as if he had no other choice. The following is a portion of that.

I believe these words touch the core of "The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge," which delves to the very end into death, anxiety, and loneliness. The poet Shizuo Ito (1906–1953), who was gifted a copy of the translation by Teiichi Oyama, also seems to have been particularly struck by this passage. In a thank-you note to Oyama, he stated the following.

I would like to interpret this as a kind of ironic, modest declaration of resolve by Shizuo Ito. Indeed, perhaps all genuine poetry and sincere expression must pass through the detour from negative to positive—that is, from the stagnation of life to the leap of life—but I would dare to seek a shortcut from positive to positive. And that earnest wish resonated with Teiichi Oyama. "These words struck my heart the most strongly."

As for Shizuo Ito, his reputation as a representative lyric poet of the Showa era is likely firmly established today. If one were to compile an anthology of modern Japanese poetry, it is unlikely his poems would be excluded. If we consider Toson Shimazaki (1872–1943), Hakushu Kitahara (1885–1942), and Tatsuji Miyoshi (1900–1964) as the mainstream of modern lyric poetry, one might call his work a "bitter" lyric poetry. It is a Japanese language that is hard, clear, and of high purity and tension. "There is still one poet left in Japan." He appeared on the poetry scene after being highly praised by Sakutaro Hagiwara (1886–1942). He possessed a deep knowledge of both Japanese classical literature and Western poetry, centered on Hölderlin (1770–1843) and Rilke.
He is also known for not being a professional poet, but working his whole life as a Japanese language teacher at a middle school and high school under the old system in Osaka. Because of his unkempt appearance, thin frame, and disheveled hair, the sharp-tongued bad boys nicknamed him "the beggar." Junzo Shono (1921–2009) was one of his students at the time. He also had a relationship of mutual recognition through their work with Yukio Mishima (1925–1970), who was 19 years his junior, but it is half-legendary that when they later met in person, their chemistry did not match, and Ito dismissed Mishima with the single word "vulgar." It is difficult to gauge the true meaning from the context of the diary entry where this was written. Although I am not a fan of Mishima, I feel like I both understand and do not understand.

Teiichi Oyama first met Shizuo Ito in 1935, four years before the exchange of letters mentioned above, when he visited the Ito home accompanied by Juro Yasuda (1910–1981), who brought a bound sample of his debut poetry collection, "Elegies for My Beloved." It is said that Oyama was amazed to see an entire shelf filled with Hölderlin and his German-related literature, which was not yet well known even among researchers in Japan at the time. He hit it off with Shizuo Ito upon their first meeting, recommended that he translate Hölderlin, and there was even talk of a co-translation. Afterward, he repeatedly recommended that he translate Hölderlin, but that wish was never fulfilled. I suppose it was because he lacked time. Both in the sense that he died young at 47, and in the sense that he was a sparse writer to begin with. He only published about 100 poems in his lifetime, all of which were polished repeatedly in pursuit of perfection. Teiichi Oyama greatly respected the existence of poets, but among his contemporaries, Shizuo Ito seemed special. "In such a poor age, why do poets exist?" He must have heard the basso continuo of Hölderlin within Shizuo Ito as well.

Let us return to Rilke. While recording his exchanges with Shizuo Ito regarding "The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge," Teiichi Oyama quotes the poem above and states the following: "This single streak of sad dust seems to flow consistently at the bottom of Rilke." I feel like I both understand and do not understand where he sees something of the same quality as Rilke in this short poem.
This mere four-line poem takes the form of an "anti-song" to the 23-line poem "Returnee," which begins with "Nature was infinitely beautiful and the residents were forever impoverished," and sings of his love and hate for his hometown of Nagasaki and the beautiful scenery of the Ariake Sea. The first two lines likely express the sense of being a stranger and the alienation that clings to those who have lost their hometown. I understand why it is called an anti-song. The latter two lines are obscure. What is the "action" contrasted with "poetry"? Perhaps it reflects Shizuo Ito's way of life, which strictly separated literature from daily life. The public school teacher as a means of living versus the poet as a vocation, the heavy footsteps of those sand-chewing days, the sorrow and slight pride of a person living and working—.

The "single streak of sad dust" that underlies Rilke and Shizuo Ito—while I was thinking about that all day and struggling to write this, I came across a wonderful word: "Ah!" It was nothing other than in the aforementioned afterword to Teiichi Oyama's "The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge." It is said to be a quote from Lou Andreas-Salomé (1861–1937). I opened the collection of works at hand to check the context, and upon reading the passage that seemed to be the one in question, I thought, "Oh?" To begin with, Lou Andreas-Salomé's writing is very difficult, but I felt that Teiichi Oyama had not only translated it quite freely but also subtly shifted the intent. He must have done so intentionally. I think it can be called Teiichi Oyama's own words and unique thought, inspired by Lou Andreas-Salomé's brilliant poetic metaphor of the "snail's shell."

The reality of life, which is often nothing but ugly, its painful activities, the snail's shell as its awkward crystallization, a life spent walking while carrying a shell that grows heavier year by year, and the "sacred" that reverses and faintly shines in the dark depths of the snail's shell, which is "vulgarity" itself—those who cannot perceive such things, those without affinity, should indeed be cut off and discarded as "vulgar people." I think "Teacher Beggar's" eye for people was accurate.

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