House Of The Sleeping Beauties And Other Stories (2004) - Plot & Excerpts
I read House of the Sleeping Beauties with a knife in back. It freaking betrayed to me too much feelings. And... yeah! I didn't read in order. The book jacket flap said: "The protagonist of Birds and Beasts prefers the company of his pet birds and dogs to people, yet for him all living beings are beautiful objects which, though they give him pleasure, he treats with casual cruelty." For me! Skip to story #3. Birds and Beasts Casual cruelty isn't precisely right. Playing god is more like it. They make him happy in that stop and smell the flowers way. Treasure the moment, seize the day... but only the day. And seizing is definitely right. It was disturbing how he killed those birds in their bath and then took that effort to bring them back, only to run the same murderous bath on another set of birds. The loneliness, what comfort he gets from the animals or his past mistresses, felt to me like an already dead kinda life with others. I keep coming back to the playing god idea trying to describe it. I'd picture him taking apart anything that matters to see what it looked on the inside. I felt like that reading it. The suicide with a woman pact is in this story like it was in Kawabata's The Sound of the Mountain. The idea of a woman having to kill herself with a man is really disturbing me. She's not even killing herself this time. He was going to kill her before he backs out. His regard for the dancer's savage beauty (that fades after he's inspected it, taken it apart, too much) almost made me think of making something without doing shit for the whole rest of that life. Revering doesn't do much good... Let's pray! Damn. The lonely/stop and smell the flowers shit is getting to me (now there's not a knife. It's a thorn in my paw! I'm feeling metaphorical 'cause this is feelings shit). I was gonna segue into the first story until I realized I didn't mention the dogs. The dogs who eat their dead young... How he had no use for mongrels once he started breeding the dogs for show. And how the mother had the same creators lack of nurture into the life. (I've long time found it interesting that people are the only species that need to take care of their young for so long.) I was reminded of a lot of stuff... Like the story in J.D. Salinger's Nine Stories (the Eskimo one) with the girl who doesn't dispose of the dead chick for weeks. This guy forgets he even kills a puppy, just like the puppies moms. (This is upsetting! I have two puppies, one a baby baby.) So yeah, the keeping of the dead puppy reminded me of that. It's a kind of lack of reality holding onto shit feel... This is the segway. No way! House of the Sleeping Beauties A friend recommended this book to me because I was fascinated by the prostitutes who just sleep beside their clients in Murakami's The Wind-up Bird Chronicle. (I'm going to TRY to say something about what a story is actually about to make a nice change in my reviewing style.) Sixty-seven year old man, Eguchi, visits the house of the sleeping beauties where senile old men pay enormous sums of money to sleep beside drugged up young women (some very young). He's not as senile as the men he imagines the other clients to be. He imagines a lot as he lies beside the women (a different one for each visit). The ugly things he has felt and done in his life. What time he may have ahead of him. The women don't know what could be happening and will not wake up. Eguchi is certain they are also virgins. That they are virgins says to him that he men are so sad and beyond even doing anything to the girls. He's also certain that they are prostitutes. I wasn't so sure that they knew what was going on, whatever the proprietress spoke about "experience". There were rules about what they couldn't do: no sex, no seeing the girls awake. To not break the "magic" of the house? The spell was the moment not connected to what came before or after. Well, what came before would be lost youth. Maybe I'm wrong about that last part. Definitely not the past. It's the not being able to hold onto the past or future feeling of being with girls so very young. There's a forward by Yukio Mishima. He wrote something about Kawabata's fixation on virgins. The feeling I have about this is that it's that what hasn't happened yet moment. Like the no consequences passion moment of crime. Once it's over it really doesn't mean anything anymore. The girls could wake up. If he had sex with them, breaking the rules and thus banned from the house, he would not get his youth back. He wouldn't bring anything back to the other senile old men who had lost anything apart from their sadness. Yukio Mishima also said their virginity was "impossibility of attainment" and that also put death and eroticism forever at the same point. I agree with the timeless part. They are already dead, since they aren't going to do anything... But there were girls... They weren't dreaming the same dream, were they? Kawabata is freaking great. There are all of these wonderings going on about everybody. I feel like those old men with my books, trying to get shit back (shit I never had too) and trying to dream same dreams. The lawless loneliness of those dreams... One Arm This is my metaphorical segue... Arm had a chip on its shoulder! A girl gives her right arm to the dude in this story. Other women have given themselves to them. He hears their voices. He hears the arm talking to him as he takes it home. The arm urges him to replace his own arm with it, the girl's arm of love. With the new girl arm he sleeps the sweetest dream he had ever had. Upon awaking he is attacked by the most repulsive arm of his own. He has to rip it out and then the girl arm no longer moves or talks. Shit. I don't like the "giving themselves" idea like women GIVE them whole selves. It's like the other stories, right? The timeless moment. It's not the past or future. The repulsive arm takes it back. I really wanted to express why Kawabata is amazing in my review of The Sound of the Mountain. It's hard because these are translations. The imagery is playing god smell the flowers and the world around you what Yoda says binds us FORCE. It's also translated and diluted like there was some priest and we gotta talk to god through him. I'm not gonna be able to read Japanese, though (why couldn't I have been one of those language freaks? English kills me enough). But damn if I'm not sleeping beside all those dreams that are gonna make me think about the past, present, future, what could be for me and other people, some dark thoughts, definitely some playing god, wait maybe I shouldn't be an asshole and assume and not playing god, empathy... Kawabata is amazing. I wish I could say all of this to anyone who may be reading this. It's easier to see what's missing than to know what you have. This time? It's both. This is a four star rating because it is both and I'm too sad that I feel it (what?) missing when I'm done. I'm going straight to another Kawabata read. P.s. This is the most bizarrely lusty book I've ever read and it isn't lust for sex.
I value the books whose plot has managed to stay etched in my mind. Some of the novels I've read are pleasant, but they are soon forgotten. The ones that shape me and teach me are the most valued, of course; but I keep a special place for those that I remember. Kawabata's story is one of those. And incidentally, it talks about memory, among other things. It also speaks about the fear of death and the desire to prolong one's life through the elixir of youth; about regrets and unfulfilled desires wept at the feet of high priestesses; about the wish for peace and reconciliation with one's life. In a peculiar house, which can't really be called a brothel, beautiful virgins lie in deep slumber, naked, innocent and unconscious. Old men come to lie down beside them, awake, troubled, full of desire. They can't harm the virgins, they are not allowed to wake them. They can only touch their bodies and sleep beside them. Such defenseless bodies and oblivious minds, at the whims and mercy of old men. If you look at the picture this way, the story might make you feel contempt; and yet, it has a beautiful and poetic vein, despite its grain of ugliness. From ancient times, old men had sought to use the scent given off by girls as an elixir of youth.Eguchi comes to the house lured by this strange kind of pleasure. On a couple of nights, in the enclosed space of a room, he contemplates the obedient, exposed bodies of the young girls. Deep slumber is reminiscent of death in a way; in their sleep, some of the girls seemed more alive than others. Life was there, most definitely, in her scent, in her touch, in the way she moved. Eguchi experiences an array of feelings and memories awaken by the sounds, the smells and the sights. He remembers his youth, his children, the women he had affairs with. He fights with melancholy, with unhappiness, but also with the urge to do harm. In their hearts, as they lay against the flesh of naked young girls put to sleep, would be more than fear of approaching death and regret for their lost youth. There might also be remorse, and the turmoil so common in the families of the successful. They would have no Buddha before whom to kneel. The naked girl would know nothing, would not open her eyes, if one of the old men were to hold her tight in his arms, shed cold tears, even sob and wail. The old man need feel no shame, no damage to his pride. The regrets and the sadness could flow quite freely. And might not the 'sleeping beauty' herself be a Buddha of sorts? And she was flesh and blood. Her young skin and scent might be forgiveness for the sad old men. The story impressed me to such an extent that it entered the realm of my dreams. I have one short but weird story to tell, and I write it here because I want to remember it over the years. One night, after reading the story, I woke up with the feeling that somebody was lying awake behind me, watching me in the dark, keeping a hand on my breast. I felt slightly frightened but then I fell asleep again, or maybe I was never awake in the first place. In the morning I woke up confused, because I wasn't sure if what I remembered had been a dream or reality. When I asked my boyfriend about it, he said he had been sound asleep the whole night. Weird. And yet it felt so vivid, like a lucid dream... The strange thing about all this is that the scene I experienced is also happening in the novel. It felt like I was projected inside the sleeping girl's mind. Like I was perceiving through her skin, through her senses, even though they seemed to be asleep. Maybe they weren't, maybe she could sense what was happening to her. An unconscious yet alert consciousness. Well, I couldn't write this review without confessing the connection I had with the story.My review is only for House of the Sleeping Beauties. If you read this, then you should also consider Memories of My Melancholy Whores and see how Márquez made use of the idea behind Kawabata's story.
What do You think about House Of The Sleeping Beauties And Other Stories (2004)?
Не зная защо имах погрешна представа, че някой наблюдава някого без знанието на наблюдавания. И въпреки че в съзнанието ми останаха още тревожни въпроси („Момичето беше лишено от всякаква защита.“), има значение, че момичетата сами са отишли в къщата (то и старецът се чуди защо, ама като има такива като него…). Явно критерият ми за „лошо“ е наличието или липсата на насилие/несъгласие. Така „смекчена“, в тази необикновена новела установих неразделимо преплитане на:1. Красота, чистота, удоволствие – сякаш имат друго измерение за японците.2. Тъга, копнеж, есен на живота – почти еднакви навсякъде.Примери за 1.„Потресен от чистотата им, дъхът му секна и той усети как очите му се наливат със сълзи. Никога след това, през всичките десетилетия, не видя такава чистота у жена. И стигна до убеждението, че разбира още по-добре чистотата, че чистотата на интимните части на онова момиче говореше за чистотата на душата ѝ.“ „Спейки, тя изричаше с пръстите на краката си думи на любов. Но старецът долови в тях детска, неуверена и въпреки това чувствена музика и за известно време се заслуша в нея.“„Онова, което течеше от ръката на момичето към дълбините под клепачите на Егучи, беше самият поток на живота, мелодията на живота, изкушенията му, а за един стар човек – и възвръщането му.“Примери за 2.„Колкото стар и грохнал да е един мъж, той може да целува.“„При тази мисъл Егучи изпадна в самота, примесена с печал. Не толкова печал или самота, колкото залепналата сякаш от студ за него пустота на старостта. В следващия миг тя се превърна в състрадание и нежност към момичето, излъчващо топла младост.“„Подмамен от лицето на изкусната съблазнителка, Егучи пое по забранената пътека и за пореден път си даде сметка, че старите мъже, гости на тази къща, идват тук с много по-тъжно щастие, с далеч по-силен копнеж и с много по-дълбока печал, отколкото си е представял.“Едва ли не се изненадах, като видях думата секс – толкова западна изглеждаше на фона на всичко в книгата. Сякаш трябва да има специална японска дума за това. И ако на моменти изглеждаше, че за мъжа спящите красавици са като коне, като стока (преглежда зъбите, кожата им), това пак е различно – сякаш всичко е обект-красота, плод на живота.Липсваха ми обаче мислите на жената във всичко това: 1) жената = всички различни момичета в къщата; 2) жената – съпругата на стареца; 3) „стопанката“ на къщата – всъщност тя е по-ясна и ми беше най-неприятна от всички „герои“ в новелата. Всичко, което дори с някои уговорки бих нарекла красиво и чисто, с нейното присъствие придобиваше повече смисъл на бизнес, игра, опасност.(view spoiler)[Като установих, че почти нищо не ми се струва извратено (предимно лекарствата ме притесняваха; но все пак имам едно наум, че друго бих мислила, ако имах дъщеря), си спомних как по погрешка резервирах хотел-публичен дом в Осака. Не обърнах внимание, че пише adult-only hotel, след това в отзиви на туристи прочетох, че част от стаите са „нормални“, друга част– love hotel. Представата ми за сигурност в Япония и за различното измерение на секса ме накара спокойно да приема хотела (но ни намериха друг с по-удобно местоположение). След прочита на книгата не зная дали да мисля същото… (hide spoiler)]
—Кремена Михайлова
This is a strange story indeed. A man named Eguichi begins visiting a brothel to "sleep" with young prostitutes who are, in fact, already sleeping. Yasunari Kawabata—a Japanese writer who was so good that they had to give him the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1968—explores the twin specters of sexuality and death through this haunting tale of an old man coming to terms with loneliness in his twilight years. Kawabata's minimalist aesthetic is cutting ("It was the body of a woman that invited men into the lower circles of hell"), lyrical ("He heard the first drops of night rain falling on the quiet sea") and often poetic ("The aged have death, and the young have love, and death comes once, and love comes over and over again"). There is a great sadness which hangs like a pall over HOUSE OF THE SLEEPING BEAUTIES. It could also be argued—perhaps justly—that the story amounts of nothing more than a sordid male fantasy...man's obsession with a woman's body. But this is after all Kawabata; and he occasionally reminds skeptical readers of the real intent behind the lurid words—man's bumbling, esoteric journey through life, as he tries to make sense of what gives him the purest pleasure. "Around the old men, new flesh, young flesh, beautiful flesh was forever being born".
—Adnan
I adored House of the Sleeping Beauties, the novella is bizarre and disturbing and infinitely lovely. It did make me melancholy, all the talk of death and being at the end of one's life. I'm not certain the young are meant to think of these things. The story is beautiful and haunting, I found it difficult to put down.The next story, One Arm, was strange to say the least. A girl removes her arm and lends it to the protagonist for one night. There is a lot of feminist discussion regarding the use of women's bodies in advertisements, women are frequently dismembered in print campaigns, just legs, an arm, a torso, a shoulder - this leaves the impression that the most important parts of a woman reside between her neck and knees. So here we have first a story with sleeping girls who are quite literally blank slates on which men may impose their will and desire; followed by a woman's dismembered arm given to a man to use and maneuver as he wishes. Curious then, how he contemplates replacing his own arm with the girl's. I keep debating with myself, do I want to call these men misogynistic? The effect is unsettling and I'm left wondering why these man cannot find their revelations with a whole woman.The final story, Of Birds and Beasts is more of a character study than a story. The protagonist is wretched and cruel but he is certainly evocative. It's sad to see him fall so in love with the latest creature brought to his home, only to watch him lose interest and neglect the creature just as quickly. It's sadder then to see the woman he loves, discarded just as easily as songbirds that can't sing and halfbred mutts.
—Jill Collins
