Chapter 1 of Bunshō Tokuhon is a kind of preface that tells what the book was written for. A short chapter of a few pages, but the idea that determines the character of the book is packed into it. (Page numbers follow the edition described in the overview article.)
A fruit for appreciation
The chapter begins with an unexpected comparison: “fruit for appreciation.” Mishima cites the Buddha’s-hand citron, which one looks at and enjoys the scent of, but does not eat (p. 7).
Is there, then, prose “for appreciation”? There was, Mishima says. Ornate prose (bibun), and the special writing for appreciation such as Chinese four-six parallel prose. Now that anyone can write, occasions for that have decreased. Even so, even in what looks like very plain prose, professional refinement is applied, he says. Even advertising catch-phrases are not amateur prose (p. 7–8).
An experience at the Ministry of Finance
Mishima tells of his own experience. When he worked at the Ministry of Finance, he was made to write a draft speech for the minister. He wrote a literary draft, but was told it would damage the minister’s dignity, and his superior revised it from the ground up. The resulting prose, Mishima writes, was so good he was impressed. Feeling and individuality had been stripped out, and it had become “a peculiar style in which a person of a certain position speaks to an unspecified public” (p. 8–9).
What this story shows is that prose demands entirely different techniques according to purpose. Even in the same spoken-language prose, there are differences of method by use.
Are there “rules” for prose?
Mishima brings up how women’s magazines teach the rules of married life, and says: there is nothing like that for prose. One learns composition from elementary school and learns certain rules, but beyond that lies specialist training. And practical prose and appreciative prose, he says, part into different genres somewhere (p. 9).
So Mishima feels bitter about the “how-to-write-anyone-can” kind of reader that panders to so-called “amateur literature.” He therefore limits the aim of this book as follows.
私はここでこの「文章読本」の目的を、読む側からの「文章読本」という点だけに限定した方が、目的も明確になり、素人文学に対する迷いを覚ますことにもなると思うのです。（p.10）
(I think that if I limit the purpose of this “Bunshō Tokuhon” here to being a “Bunshō Tokuhon” from the reading side, the purpose becomes clearer, and it will also dispel confusion about amateur literature.)
Lecteur and liseur
Here Mishima introduces the way Thibaudet (the French critic) divided readers of fiction into two kinds.
- The lecteur (ordinary reader) — one who reads fiction of any kind that comes to hand, not guided by any internal or external element included in the word “taste.” Most readers of newspaper serials are of this kind, Mishima says.
- The liseur (attentive reader) — “the person for whom the world of fiction is real.” An inhabitant of a world where literature exists not as a temporary entertainment but as an essential aim. (All this is as Mishima presents it. p. 10)
And Mishima declares the aim of this book.
私はこの「文章読本」を、いままでレクトゥールであったことに満足していた人を、リズールに導きたいと思ってはじめるのであります。（p.10）
(I begin this “Bunshō Tokuhon” wishing to lead those who have until now been content to be lecteurs toward becoming liseurs.)
Mishima, apologizing that this is “presumptuous for a mere writer,” says that to become a writer, too, one starts from being an attentive reader. But between being an attentive reader and being a writer, he also writes, there is “the mysterious matter of talent” (p. 10–11).
Not making one type supreme
Mishima shows, with two examples, that even attentive readers can be lopsided. Sainte-Beuve was the best of liseurs, but the novels he wrote all failed. Shiga Naoya is a supreme novelist, but on reading Stendhal’s La Chartreuse de Parme he dismissed the hero as “why, just a gang punk.” Mishima calls Shiga a writer of the kind who, as “a sort of hygiene,” rejects literature that does not suit his own nature (p. 11).
Then Mishima says he still holds doubts about the composition education he received in middle school. There, direct narration, unadorned prose, prose that describes things plainly as they are, was taught as good prose. But that, Mishima says, is the ideal state that many writers reach at the end, after removing much that is superfluous; it is not something a middle-school student, full of surplus energy, can be expected to understand. He also gives the example that Proust’s prose was at first regarded as bad prose, but is now called an original style (p. 12).
From this Mishima states the stance of this book.
私はなるたけ自分の好みや偏見を去って、あらゆる様式の文章の面白さを認め、あらゆる様式の文章の美しさに敏感でありたいと思います。（p.13）
(I want, as far as possible, to set aside my own tastes and prejudices, to recognize the interest of every style of prose, and to be sensitive to the beauty of every style.)
What to keep in mind when reading
First, we read Thibaudet’s distinction through Mishima’s presentation. Whether Thibaudet said it as Mishima presents it, we have not checked in Thibaudet’s original. Here we confirmed only that Mishima set this distinction as the aim of his own book.
Second, Mishima’s attitude to “amateur literature” is the view of one writer in 1959. Seen from today, the relation between readers and writers differs from then. Still, the idea in this chapter — that cultivating the power to read is the starting point of writing — can still be read today.
Summary
| Point | Detail |
|---|---|
| Aim | A “reader” from the reading side. Lead the lecteur (ordinary reader) to the liseur (attentive reader) |
| Practical and appreciative | Even plain prose has professional refinement. The experience of the speech draft at the Ministry of Finance |
| Attentive reader and writer | One starts from the attentive reader, but whether one becomes a writer is a matter of talent and fate |
| Stance | Do not make one type supreme. Be sensitive to the beauty of every style |
In a nutshell — In Chapter 1, Mishima declared this book not a guide to how to write but a guide to lead readers to be attentive readers.