Mishima—A Life in Four Chapters

Mishima: A Life in Four Chapters is a film about the life of the great Japanese author, Yukio Mishima. Mishima was a superstar of Japanese literature, writing many novels, plays and short stories—he even dabbled in modelling and acting. However, Mishima was a traditionalist and nationalist, who lamented and fought against the westernisation of Japanese culture—he actively called for a return to traditional Japanese values and the samurai spirit.

His masterpiece is the Proustian tetralogy, The Sea of Fertility. On the very morning he finished writing the final volume, The Decay of the Angel, he went to an army barracks with members of his far right-wing militia and tried to start a coup. His speech to all the troops from the roof of the barracks was an embarrassment however; realising he was not going to get the support he needed, he barricaded himself inside the barracks and committed Seppukus—a samurai form of suicide by which the victim uses a special knife to cut into and across the abdomen.

Mishima: A Life in Four Chapters tackles his life by interweaving scenes from 3 of his books – The Temple of the Golden Pavilion, Kyoko’s House and Runaway Horses (volume 2 of The Sea of Fertility) with biographical episodes from his own life. The film was never given a general release in Japan due to pressure from far-right groups who were unhappy with the film’s portrayal of Mishima, particularly as a homosexual. Most surprisingly about this film is who was behind it – it was produced by George Lucas and Francis Ford Coppola and its soundtrack was written by Philip Glass—yet it is an almost unheard of curiosity.


Epictetus – ‘Discourses’ and ‘Handbook’

Stoicism is in vogue – this 2000-year-old philosophy has been popularised in recent years as a kind of ‘lifehack’ – it’s an extremely seductive idea in a world where people feel like they have so little control over events both in their own lives and in the world around them, because it helps people get over their feelings of impotence – to ignore those ‘impressions’ which one has no means of influencing or changing.

When learning about Stoicism there are 3 people you need to know – Roman statesman and advisor to the Emperor Nero, Seneca; the so-called ‘Philosopher King’, Marcus Aurelius (Joaquin Phoenix’s Dad in Gladiator) and Epictetus, a former slave who taught Stoicism in Rome. All three of these wrote and spoke about Stoicism more than 300 years after the Stoic philosophy was founded at the end of the 4th century BC.
I highly recommend reading both Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations and Seneca’s Letters but this post is about Epictetus and his Discourses.

Epictetus didn’t actually write anything, and the Discourses are essentially lecture notes written up by one of his pupils, Arrian, who also helpfully summarised the 7 books of Discourses into a short book called the Enchiridion, or Handbook. Of the 7 books written for the Discourses, only 4 actually survive. Each book is split into short explanations about how to live a good life through constant reflection and the forming of good habits with chapters such as ‘What is the essence of the good?’, ‘On contentment’ and ‘That we should approach everything with circumspection’. What the Stoic philosophy boils down to is:

‘Some things are within our power, while others are not.’

This is our ‘Sphere of choice’ – a split between the internal phenomena which are within our control and external things which are not. Internal circumstances such as our feelings and opinions are well within our power to control, which means that no matter how terrible something that happens to us is, it is only our internal reactions to these events which makes them bad: external events therefore, cannot be intrinsically ‘bad’:

‘It isn’t the things themselves that disturb people, but the judgements that they form about them.’

This makes a lot of sense and has been put to great effect by people in the worst possible circumstances; a modern example is Admiral James Stockdale, who was a POW in Vietnam for 7 years – physically and psychologically tortured, he put his survival down to putting his knowledge of Stoicsim into practice.

So, according to Stoicism, there is no point is worrying about things which are beyond our control (IE Externals) – why be distressed, anxious, frightened about something you have absolutely no control over? Epictetus and the Stoics say you shouldn’t – and that if we can train ourselves to think like that then we will live much happier lives.

Here’s an example of putting Stoicism into practice in our modern lives: You are stuck in a traffic jam, trying to get home but you are barely moving; the clock is ticking; you’re starting to get frustrated – huffing and puffing and swearing under your breath; you can feel your heart rate increasing and you’re starting to sweat. Beep the horn, punch the steering wheel – you’re extremely p!ssed off… but why? You can’t control the traffic – it is what it is and no amount of frustration will get you home sooner – in fact it may cause you to do something rash and cause an accident or even a fight. So accept it – it’s an external – you can’t control that but you can control your reaction to that. Stay calm, make the most of the time you think is being wasted by training your patience or listening to an audio version of the ‘Discourses’.

In Epictetus’ Stoicism it is not enough to read about it and to tell others about it (he frequently castigates those ‘philosophers’ he sees as talking the talk but not walking the walk) – one must put what one has learned into practice every hour of every day and act in accordance with Stoic principles – perhaps a straightforward proposition until you realise the extremes this goes to.

I think Stoicism is a wonderfully attractive method for living in the modern world but it has been the victim of cherrypicking. First of all, Stoics believe in God and Fate – everything happens for a good reason, which is not entirely palatable to a lot of people. Secondly, when considering the tenet above that one should not concern oneself with ‘Externals’, it begs the questions about what, if any, limits can be applied to this.

Epictetus though, is quite specific about this – it doesn’t matter how horrendous something is – if it’s an external then it’s an external and should not be fretted over. Here’s an excerpt from the Handbook, chapters 14 and 11:

‘If you want your children and wife and friends to live for ever, you’re a fool, because you’re wanting things that aren’t within your power to be within your power, and things that aren’t your own to be your own.’

It’s an entirely logical statement but surely a stretch for most people to be able to accept the death of their loved ones, and I doubt most people who follow Stoicism today can truly be that consistent.

So Stoicism may not be something that most people can take on entirely, but in the Discourses and Handbook we can find tips for living a ‘good’ life and for cutting down on the stress and anxiety of living in our modern society.

A brief look at… ‘Gate of Lilacs—A Verse Commentary on Proust’ by Clive James


When I got to the end of the seventh and final volume of In Search of Lost Time, Time Regained, I felt utterly lost. I had lived and breathed Proust’s masterpiece for almost a year and the realisation that it was over was a shock to my system—no more Baron de Charlus, Robert de Saint Loup, Madame Verdurin or Gilberte. Where could I possibly go next?

So I devoured everything Proust-related that I could find to try and keep his book alive inside me—biographies, films, documentaries, critiques. And here, a collection of poems, a commentary.

Clive James, the famous Australian poet, essayist, novelist and (in the UK) TV presenter, has brought his wit and smarts to tackling Proust. In the introduction James writes that he took the ‘long way round’ to Proust because he read it first in the original French and over the course of fifteen years learnt the language in this way. This in itself is remarkable—learning French simply (although not simple) by reading a book that is 1.3 million words long. One day I hope I can read it in the original French, but what a gigantic undertaking when you know little more than merci, pommes frites and Zinedine Zidane. 

Why poems? In his introduction, James says: ‘If I wanted to talk about his poetry beyond the basic level of talking about his language—if I wanted to talk about the poetry of his thought—then the best way to do it might be to write a poem.’

But these poems are a surprising departure from James’ usual strict adherence to form. There are no stanzas, each poem is one long chunk of text, reminiscent of Proust’s own thick-set paragraphs and famously long sentences. And these slabs of line atop line are in blank verse, more prose than poem.

In his notes at the end of the collection, James claims that ‘the poem is meant to explain itself.’ I can only think that is with the proviso that you have actually read Proust and will get the references; I’m sure a lot of these poems would be incomprehensible without having read Proust first, even with the explanations in the addenda, for example of relevant people like the composer Reynaldo Hahn, or the fictional artists Bergotte and Elstir. But James is well aware of this and even includes references to people (a French-speaking friend, his own daughters) who have never had the slightest impulse to read Proust: it’s not for everyone, and that’s all fine.

Sometimes it feels like we are reading James’ notes, scribbled down in the margins as he read the book over 15 years. He zips from subject to subject within single poems as though streaming his own consciousness through the lens of what he had just happened to read in the novel, taking in his own continuous present with references to Maria Callas, the Bay of Pigs, The West Wing. In You saw nothing in Hiroshima he focuses on the book’s tone and disagrees that it can be summarised or has ‘sound-bites to take away’. (Though many would certainly disagree with this conclusion—remember the Monty Python sketch?!).

The poems here, despite the exterior motive, are personal; they follow James’ life of reading Proust as much as the stories contained within In Search of Lost Time. The simple physics of reading Proust means it does take a long time, encompassing life changing events in our own lives that become anchored in the very act of reading it. In the final poem, I’ll drown my books, James writes ‘As the face of Oriane is not described / But only conjured from your memories’—In Search of Lost Time is as much a part of the reader’s life as of Proust’s himself.

Finally, to hammer home this point, the terminally ill James delivers the most poignant line of all right at the end: ‘And soon / All that I love will leave me, as I go / First into silence, then the fire, and then / The harbour water, in which there will be / At last no room to breathe, no time to think: No time to think even of you, Marcel.’

A brief look at… ‘Aubade’ by Philip Larkin

An ‘Aubade’ is a morning song. It’s the AM equivalent of a serenade and traditionally contains the serenade’s communication of love.

Philip Larkin’s famous Aubade is anything but a serenade transplanted to dawn. This is a poem about death, and being overwhelmed by the realisation that your days are running out. Romantic it is not.

From the very first line the reader gets the impression that he’s already half given up on life with his daily ritual of work and getting ‘half-drunk at night’ to dull the senses. He wakes up at four – wide awake and with the realisation of his mortality making any further rest impossible.

Larkin continues by explaining that this isn’t a moan about regretting his life until now, nor is he jaded with the struggle of his life so far; the fear and trembling that Larkin is experiencing is purely existential – he is petrified of one day not ‘existing’ anymore.

For such a dark topic, it’s interesting how tight the metre in this poem is – Larkin doesn’t veer from his 10-line stanzas and rhyme scheme; it’s not disjointed like one might expect such a despairing poem to be. The form from stanza to stanza is predictable and unavoidable like the subject matter itself.

By the third stanza Larkin is looking for solace; Religion is useless now and logic can’t convince him that death and its ‘anaesthetic’is nothing to fear. Larkin seems like he’s wrestling with the inevitable, and the darkness of early morning amplifies his dread before the light ‘strengthens’ and another day begins. His poem seems to me to be ending with a slight note of positivity, or at least, a strategy for getting through the day – by working, by pushing forward as this is the only way we, as humans, know how – ‘Work has to be done.’But then, in the very last line, he reminds us that death is always there –  following us around – with the startling line: ‘Postmen like doctors go from house to house.’

Listen to ‘Aubade’ in Philip Larkin’s own words:

Chekhov’s letter

I come back to these words again and again. From a letter Anton Chekhov sent to his brother…


MOSCOW, 1886.

… You have often complained to me that people “don’t understand you”! Goethe and Newton did not complain of that…. Only Christ complained of it, but He was speaking of His doctrine and not of Himself…. People understand you perfectly well. And if you do not understand yourself, it is not their fault.

I assure you as a brother and as a friend I understand you and feel for you with all my heart. I know your good qualities as I know my five fingers; I value and deeply respect them. If you like, to prove that I understand you, I can enumerate those qualities. I think you are kind to the point of softness, magnanimous, unselfish, ready to share your last farthing; you have no envy nor hatred; you are simple-hearted, you pity men and beasts; you are trustful, without spite or guile, and do not remember evil…. You have a gift from above such as other people have not: you have talent. This talent places you above millions of men, for on earth only one out of two millions is an artist. Your talent sets you apart: if you were a toad or a tarantula, even then, people would respect you, for to talent all things are forgiven.

You have only one failing, and the falseness of your position, and your unhappiness and your catarrh of the bowels are all due to it. That is your utter lack of culture. Forgive me, please, but veritas magis amicitiae…. You see, life has its conditions. In order to feel comfortable among educated people, to be at home and happy with them, one must be cultured to a certain extent. Talent has brought you into such a circle, you belong to it, but … you are drawn away from it, and you vacillate between cultured people and the lodgers vis-a-vis.

Cultured people must, in my opinion, satisfy the following conditions:

1. They respect human personality, and therefore they are always kind, gentle, polite, and ready to give in to others. They do not make a row because of a hammer or a lost piece of india-rubber; if they live with anyone they do not regard it as a favour and, going away, they do not say “nobody can live with you.” They forgive noise and cold and dried-up meat and witticisms and the presence of strangers in their homes.

2. They have sympathy not for beggars and cats alone. Their heart aches for what the eye does not see…. They sit up at night in order to help P…., to pay for brothers at the University, and to buy clothes for their mother.

3. They respect the property of others, and therefor pay their debts.

4. They are sincere, and dread lying like fire. They don’t lie even in small things. A lie is insulting to the listener and puts him in a lower position in the eyes of the speaker. They do not pose, they behave in the street as they do at home, they do not show off before their humbler comrades. They are not given to babbling and forcing their uninvited confidences on others. Out of respect for other people’s ears they more often keep silent than talk.

5. They do not disparage themselves to rouse compassion. They do not play on the strings of other people’s hearts so that they may sigh and make much of them. They do not say “I am misunderstood,” or “I have become second-rate,” because all this is striving after cheap effect, is vulgar, stale, false….

6. They have no shallow vanity. They do not care for such false diamonds as knowing celebrities, shaking hands with the drunken P., [Translator’s Note: Probably Palmin, a minor poet.] listening to the raptures of a stray spectator in a picture show, being renowned in the taverns…. If they do a pennyworth they do not strut about as though they had done a hundred roubles’ worth, and do not brag of having the entry where others are not admitted…. The truly talented always keep in obscurity among the crowd, as far as possible from advertisement…. Even Krylov has said that an empty barrel echoes more loudly than a full one.

7. If they have a talent they respect it. They sacrifice to it rest, women, wine, vanity…. They are proud of their talent…. Besides, they are fastidious.

8. They develop the aesthetic feeling in themselves. They cannot go to sleep in their clothes, see cracks full of bugs on the walls, breathe bad air, walk on a floor that has been spat upon, cook their meals over an oil stove. They seek as far as possible to restrain and ennoble the sexual instinct…. What they want in a woman is not a bed-fellow … They do not ask for the cleverness which shows itself in continual lying. They want especially, if they are artists, freshness, elegance, humanity, the capacity for motherhood…. They do not swill vodka at all hours of the day and night, do not sniff at cupboards, for they are not pigs and know they are not. They drink only when they are free, on occasion…. For they want mens sana in corpore sano [a healthy mind in a healthy body].
And so on. This is what cultured people are like. In order to be cultured and not to stand below the level of your surroundings it is not enough to have read “The Pickwick Papers” and learnt a monologue from “Faust.” …

What is needed is constant work, day and night, constant reading, study, will…. Every hour is precious for it…. Come to us, smash the vodka bottle, lie down and read…. Turgenev, if you like, whom you have not read.

You must drop your vanity, you are not a child … you will soon be thirty.
It is time!
I expect you…. We all expect you.