A KOKORO (1914) Review

Why is it that, once in a blue moon, we are more compelled to pour out our secrets to strangers, other than our so-called closest one? Perhaps, it's the promise of having those secrets locked away indefinitely, while at the same time relieving the burden in our chest?

Soseki Natsume's KOKORO finds me pondering upon this simple premise. The storyline itself is fairly minimal: One day, a young university student meets an elderly stranger whom he's inexplicably attracted to get to know of. Although reluctant at first, the old man gradually welcomes the young man to his life and routine. Ever since the start, however, the old man warns the young man: you'll regret getting to know me, for I am a despicable human being.

There's a secret long kept by the old man—whom the student calls Sensei, that not even his wife knows about. As we follow the student's point of view for the first half of the novel, we only catch traces of these secrets. Through its seemingly mundane narrative, Soseki has a way of keeping us hooked. Moments that bubble behind closed doors and subtle changes of habit become things to heed, as we assume the role of eavesdropper through the student's point of view. In the second half, we will shift to Sensei's perspective as we delve into his letter of full-on confession.

In both parts, Soseki's writing is equally compelling in its simplicity, fluidity, and poetic quality. Both are told in first-person perspective, and they strike me as remarkably organic. Soseki captures well the twists and turns and doubts, mixed with observations and overthinking, that are native to inner thoughts and dialogues but largely invisible in behavior. At the moment you're reading it, it is as seamless as those thoughts start to feel like your own. I became aware of this elusive quality when I picked up the book for a second read. Compared to my first reading experience, I was now able to maintain distance and become more critical towards the character's thoughts. In its effortlessness, KOKORO is an easy read that you can finish in a sitting or two.

Soseki Natsume himself is a classic, lauded as the father of modern Japanese literature. I feel intrigued to look into his work for The Supper Book-Cult's July Edition, because I've heard his name once mentioned in Aoyama Gosho's Detective Conan as the face of a 1000 Yen bill. And I thought it's not just everywhere that you'll find a novelist commemorated as faces on money. KOKORO itself was written quite later in his career, when he was 47, merely two years before his death. It then became one of the best-selling novels of all time in Japan.

KOKORO closely translates into "matters of things" or "heart of the matter", though often translated simply as The Heart. By the end, I think it perfectly captures the dual tensions of this book: the central plot of this book, which revolves around matters of love; as well as the inquiry into what is essential in becoming a man of principles. The tension of holding to one's principles is presented in two folds. Firstly, we see the divide between old and new generations (as is the common theme of Soseki's works, I learned) through the developing relationship between the student and Sensei. Secondly, we will further see two men of principles having their beliefs challenged by their own human nature and external circumstances. It's too bad I cannot add much detail here, lest it will spoil the suspense. But if this is not convincing enough for you to pick up the book, let me just say this: Sensei's choice at the end sparks quite lively attempts at interpretation among the critics.

Lastly, KOKORO makes me revisit the idea of closeness. I used to think of confiding secrets and confessions as the epitome of closeness with someone. But the more I think about it, there are indeed moments when I felt opening up to friends in the same vicinity are trickier than with distant or worlds apart friends. I've often heard how people feel lonely or have no one to talk to, despite having a crowded life of people going in and out.

Sensei could not find anyone he trusted or felt compelled enough to talk to until our protagonist, the student, approached him. Their friendship is not outwardly warm, as Sensei maintains a certain distance from our protagonist before the very end. I giggled at the thought that perhaps my closest friends, to a certain degree, are still and will never cease to be strangers to me. However, that's also what enables me to trust them, as families and friends whom I share routines with are often fraught with demands. Perhaps, just like Sensei unknowingly needs our protagonist, sometimes all we need is simply to pick our favorite strangers to pour our hearts to. These strangers are not tethered to our lives. And yet, somewhere, someone knows you're less than a perfect human being. And that turns to feel like a sliver of acceptance.