I was there because I was Mishima’s translator at the time. Ōe was there because Mishima had invited everyone who mattered that year, from boxers to drag queens, and because Ōe’s vanity and maybe his country-cousin curiosity had drawn him to the lights. I spotted him right away and I watched him with awe, for I had just discovered his novel A Personal Matter and thought it the most passionate and original and funniest and saddest Japanese book I had ever read. Ōe was standing apart with his best friend in the world in those days, Kōbō Abé, drinking steadily and looking uncomfortable. His appearance surprised me. Like everything he has written, A Personal Matter was a vibrant, headlong book powered by gorgeous energy. The author was an owlish, pudgy man in a baggy dark suit and a skinny tie; parked in the corner with his round face and sloping shoulders and soft belly, he looked absolutely meek, a Japanese badger. Then something astonishing happened. Ōe drained his glass and handed it to Abé to hold, shuffled across the room to where Mishima’s wife, Yoko, was arranging dishes on her buffet table, and said clearly, in English, “Mrs.
What do You think about Teach Us To Outgrow Our Madness?
