[. . .] I wonder whether, in Japan, you escape Christmas? Christmas has a habit of finding one out in any refuge—as I remember from Christmases spent in eg Morocco, where Joyeux Noël could not be dodged. You speak of Dickens, and a few years ago I bravely did read “A Christmas Carol” at its very season, to find halfway through that my sleeve actually was wet with tears. Yes, as you say, he is outrageous—but doesn’t his genius consist in that? David Copperfield, Our Mutual Friend, Tale Of Two Cities, and above all Great Expectations seemed to me superhuman—and yet of course intensely human: wonderful. Hard Times has particular appeals for me. Oh, Mr Gradgrind! What presence, what courage. The names, as you say, are incorrigible—yet with this aspect of Dickens, as with names in Patrick White too, life seems to catch up. Some names are in real life staggeringly appropriate—and there is in fact a phenomenon called nomen et omen (de Gaulle, for instance, or Rupert Murdstone-Murdoch).

  [. . .]

  Yes, Edel has fulfilled himself with his work on James. I think he has also matured in many ways in his writing of the work, and that his other recent books—eg on Bloomsbury—have not been sufficiently appreciated. There is an academic prejudice against him—and, I suspect, a rage that he “took hold” of James nearly forty years ago, when few others were interested in understanding James at such length, and has presided over “the field” ever since, without coming through the usual academic strongholds, without the approval of Trilling etc, and with a fresh, non-unctuous attitude of his own. (For my part, a bit less reverence in the earlier vols would have been welcome, for I think some difficult and unpalatable aspects of James were soft-pedalled, and perhaps he has been exalted somewhat beyond his due; although I know that this opinion is a heresy at present.)

  Francis thanks you most warmly for the Maxim Ducamp postcard. How perfectly that Mutt-and-Jeff pair of Maxim and Gustave were contrasted on their Egyptian journey—the journalist versus the artist; and how their writings faithfully portray that.

  I look forward to your operatic Italian. Myself, I was first drawn to the Italian language through the poetry of Leopardi; and subsequently, through a multitude of other poets, treasured up a sense of Italian that remains the centre of my feeling for the language. Yet I confessed that a time came when a memorising of irregular verbs, a grappling with the terrible subjunctives, etc, dawned as an inevitable task, an entry fee to “communication” not to mention conversation. To you, all that will seem child’s play after mastering Japanese. But it does go on forever . . .

  Francis says, To think that Donald has been present in Japan throughout the “calvario” (calvario, though, is perhaps not a Shinto concept)—the capezzale, literally and correctly—of the Emperor. This imperial figure has been with us so long, it will be a parting from one’s experience. I don’t remember a time when he wasn’t there, and yet always unreal and almost invisible. Even Australian cartoonists during the war didn’t know quite what to do with Hirohito as an arch enemy; and had to settle for Tojo, whose teeth were infinitely magnified and whose eyes were intensely slitted in those days of unselfconscious racism. (Now we have self-conscious racism, I hardly know which to “prefer”.) In my childhood we had “elders” who were apparently immortal—Shaw, Einstein, Wells, Bertrand Russell, Churchill, Smuts, Ghandi, Beecham . . . It seemed these wd see us through our lifetimes. Well, Hirohito, unobtrusively, has just about managed it.

  [. . .]

  With our most affectionate & grateful appreciation of your truly named “Pleasures of Japanese Literature” and its precious dedication—with friendliest auguri from us both—Shirley

  Tokyo, November 22, 1988

  Dear Shirley and Francis,

  Thank you so much for your letters. I believe that this is the first time I have ever fallen so far behind in responding, but I think you will agree, when you hear the gory details, that there has been cause. For reasons which I cannot possibly explain I have been faced with the prospect of delivering four lectures on completely unrelated topics within a period of six days. The first of them went off well today, so I feel I can allow myself the pleasure of writing you, rather than confronting “women in Japanese literature” or “Japanese impressions of European art in the 1870s.”

  First of all, I am delighted that you like the book I dedicated to you. It fortunately does not look like a university press book; in fact, it is the most attractive book I have ever published. I wrote a somewhat similar book in 1953, while I was still at Cambridge. I hope that I have learned something about Japanese literature during the past 35 years! To my astonishment, that book, long since out of print in England, is still fulfilling its original function of introducing Japanese literature to people who know nothing about it. Earlier this year a translation into modern Greek appeared, and I have signed a contract for a Romanian translation. Japan has been slow in reaching the Balkans.

  [. . .]

  I have read “The Abbé Galiani” with much pleasure. After reading it I looked him up in the Encyclopaedia Britannica to see if he appeared. He does (or did, they keep dropping people), but in the two paragraphs they devote to the man they suggest nothing of the interest in Francis’s article. I look forward to reading the book.

  I am approaching the end of my long stay in Japan. It should come as no surprise to me, but I have not accomplished nearly as much as I had hoped. The lectures all over the place were one cause. Reading the old literature was also more time-consuming than I had anticipated. And there were the weeks spent with the manuscript of the diary book. But I have made progress, and for that I am grateful. I shall be returning to New York on January 12th.

  [. . .]

  After a summer that consisted entirely of rain, followed by a September that was more of the same, we have had wonderful weather. I have even bought a humidifier—unheard of in Japan, where the humidity is rarely omitted from conversations. It is getting cold. I hope it will get very cold, so that my return to New York will be painless. But even if the[re are] icy gales awaiting me at Kennedy Airport I know that we shall have a warm reunion.

  As ever, Donald

  Tokyo, August 4, 1989

  Dear Shirley,

  It seems an eternity since I last heard from you. I hope that this silence means that you and Francis have been too busy with your books to write, but I fear that it means no more than that another letter has been destroyed at the post office by some new machine. I once received a letter which had been torn open by one machine and sealed again by another. In the process, the original letter was augmented by a sheaf of Sears Roebuck receipts destined for someone in New Jersey. [. . .]

  I have been working hard on my history of Japanese literature. It is a good feeling to feel each day that I have added something to the manuscript, though I fear I may be getting rather garrulous in the excitement of being able to devote myself mainly to my work and not to writing trivial articles or delivering one more speech on Japan in the World. I am working now on early 13th century poetry. I have decided to try to translate the poems into the original forms, though I can’t manage anything like the original rhythms. Sometimes the English language seems resolved not to let me get away with this experiment, but after much coaxing I can generally come up with the line in seven syllables. I made a great discovery a few weeks ago. Many English nursery rhymes open with lines in seven syllables, though this is not usual in other poetry. Jack and Jill went up the hill. Jack be nimble, Jack be quick. Mary had a little lamb. I am not sure precisely what this proves.

  This has been an eventful summer. There was a fairly serious earthquake with its epicentre in the town on the coast where I have a little place. I suffered no damage, but some people lost almost of their chinaware. Worst of all, it has been ascertained that a new volcano has just been born in the sea, and people are freely predicting that it or another volcano will soon erupt nearby. All this reminds me of the letter of Pliny about Pompeii which you kindly copied for me. What a way to go! Somehow I can’t take volcanoes as seriously as wars. I was not actually there when the earthquake took place, but I was there the previous night when there were smaller but disquieting shocks. We have also had the usual typhoons. It is really perplexing why the Japanese are so pleased with their climate.

  The English version of the book on Japanese Diaries for which I received a prize here appeared in July. I naturally asked that a copy be sent to you and Francis. [. . .]

  I hope that New York is not as torrid as last year. This is the height of the summer heat, but I rather like it, at least in comparison to the torrential rains we had last week. I have not seen such rains since Bombay.

  When will your article on Waldheim appear?4 Perhaps it has already appeared but I almost never see the New Yorker when I am in Japan.

  Please send a postcard when you have a moment.

  Yours Donald

  Tokyo, October 23, 1989

  Dear Shirley,

  I was very glad to have your letter from New York, written just before your departure for Italy, and today I received the copy of the article which had appeared in Newsweek. I had in fact seen that article earlier. Someone in California whom I have never heard of before sent the article along with xerox copies of several Japanese documents he found in a foxhole somewhere in the Pacific during the war. In return for his great kindness in sending me the Newsweek article he wanted a complete translation of the Japanese documents. (They were a complete record of a motor pool, giving precise data on exactly when cars were borrowed and returned, and a savings bank passbook.) I am afraid that the age of the disinterested friendly gesture may be coming to an end!

  [. . .]

  I leave, as I have just said, on the 13th of November for Rome. I will take another plane for Milan a few hours after my arrival, and will stay in Milan with friends until the 20th of November when I go to Rome. The accommodations in Rome are not available until that day. I am not sure whether I shall be in Milan for the whole week. I really would like to go to Mantua at a time of day when the palace is open, and my friend Soichi Furuta is now staying at a castle owned by Mary de Rachewiltz, the daughter of Ezra Pound, and has invited me to the castle in Merano. There is also a faint possibility I may be asked to give a lecture at the University of Bologna.

  I am not really sure what is expected of me in Rome. I have been asked to give three lectures on subjects that are familiar to me, so I do not anticipate too much work. I should be able to visit you at a time that is convenient to you. I hope that there will be such a time, but I know how busy you are with your work.

  [. . .]

  My firm resolve to learn Italian this summer crumbled in the face of reality. I listened to the tapes one day. I had no trouble saying all the things the tapes ordered me to say, but I surely have forgotten them all by now.

  [. . .]

  All my best to you and Francis,

  As ever, Donald.

  New York, April 16, 1990

  Dear Shirley,

  I have meant to write you ever since reading the piece in the New York Times book review by Anatole Broyard. I had always supposed he was a heartless monster whose only pleasure consisted in sneering at defenseless authors. His review of my Dawn to the West opened with something like “This book is like an endless nightmare.” But lo! He has a heart, after all. Or perhaps he has been taught humility by being stricken in the manner he describes. In any case, it gave me great pleasure to read how much your book had meant to him as he lay in a hospital bed, fearful of death. He probably would have appreciated it just as much even under normal circumstances, but his pride might have kept him from saying so.

  [. . .]

  The Columbia spring term is almost over. It went by very quickly. I have made good progress on the final volume of my history of Japanese literature and, for the first time, feel I shall complete it in the foreseeable future. I may be too optimistic, but it is a pleasant sensation. At times I have thought the task Sisyphean, each chapter completed suggesting a new chapter I hadn’t planned on writing.

  I am looking forward to my forthcoming Italian journey. How strange that it all began with my sudden impulse to visit you in Capri—was it five years ago? And every year since then I have managed to return. This time I really won’t have to do anything except look solemn as the chairman of a meeting. If the stars are favorable, there may be an opera at La Fenice. The terrible Falstaff I saw in Rome last December hasn’t changed my desire to see operas in their native habitat.

  All my best to you and Francis.

  Yours, Donald

  Tokyo, July 16, 1990

  Dear Shirley,

  [. . .]

  Thank you for your letter with the usual grand display of Italian postage stamps. The Japanese also print beautiful stamps, but they tend to be available for one day only at the local post office. Perhaps you have a man at the post office in Capri who puts aside beautiful stamps for you. Or, more likely, you are more provident than I and do not miss opportunities to buy the stamps.

  Today is the first really hot day of summer. We have been having rather chilly rain and I was romanticizing about the glory of bright summer afternoons—but not this! It certainly must have been just as hot in the past as it is now, but I survived without air conditioning somehow. For about ten years I used to spend my summers in Japan, teaching the rest of the year, and I chose to spend them in Kyoto, the hottest place in the whole country. I evidently have become much less resilient than I once was.

  I am slowly but (I think) surely proceeding with my history. One alarming feature: the chapters keep getting longer and longer, even though the works of literature discussed are not necessarily as good as those in the earlier chapters. In fact, it is probably the case that the better the work the less I have said about it, if only because the best works are available in English translation, and the temptation is to say to the reader: Go read it for yourself. Second-rate books are also more likely to be of interest to the student of cultural history than the masterpieces, which stand in solitary grandeur, aloof from their times.

  [. . .]

  I am always rather embarrassed to mention any honor I receive in Japan because I do not know how seriously it should be taken—whether I received it for my solid scholarship or just because the Japanese, as a gesture towards internationalism, want to honor some foreigner, and they have chosen me because of my hoary locks. Anyway, I was surprised and very pleased to learn that I had been elected to the Japan Academy as an honorary (that is, foreign) member. I keep asking myself, “Do they really mean me?” The Japanese members of the Academy receive a fairly substantial annual grant and (I think) can ride on the trains free of charge, but I doubt this applies to foreigners as well. I imagine that I must be the only foreign member (I think there are 20 in all) who actually lives in Japan, at least part of the year.

  Today I leave for the island of Shikoku. It is famous for its 88 temples which pilgrims visit in succession in the hopes of securing relief from sickness and so on. The national television network has divided the temples among some twenty-five or thirty people, and has scheduled live television broadcasts of these people visiting the temples and making appropriate comments. I have been given three temples in a pleasant part of the island. I have been sent the videotapes of two previous broadcasts. The level of the comments is not unusually high. As the visitor approaches the temple he sees the great gate and comments, “Splendid gate!” A bit farther on is a pond, to which the visitor responds, “How clear the water is!” Still farther on is the main temple building, which elicits, “Simple but powerful architecture!” The inside of the temple draws forth a similar comment, “The product of simple faith!” And so on. Now that I know what is expected of me, I shall of course follow tradition.

  I shall be back in New York very briefly in October for a festive dinner in honor of a Japanese financier who gave a million dollars a couple of years ago to Colombia. I do not look forward to the long journey for such an occasion, but it would be wonderful if I could see you and Francis again. My best wishes to you both.

  Yours, Donald

  I forgot to congratulate Francis on the completion of his book. I look forward to reading it.

  Tokyo, September 23, 1990

  Dear Shirley,

  [. . .]

  The summer in Japan was the hottest I have ever experienced here. It broke all kinds of records. That is a consolation, but not enough to justify the experience. As of yesterday it has become considerably cooler and—who knows?—the summer may even have ended. Despite the heat, I was able to get quite a lot of work done. Or it may be that because of the heat I was kept indoors and away from exhibitions of art, Kabuki and the rest. I am now working on the last chapter of my history, begun over twenty-five years ago. No, that is not quite accurate. It is the last substantive chapter, but I shall have to write a long introductory chapter in which I expose the fruits of all that I have studied during these twenty-five years. Probably I shall not finish it until the spring, in New York. I fear that there will not be a display of fireworks over the Hudson River, but I shall be content if I can celebrate with a few friends.