A particular book would conjure certain images. Take Yukio Mishima's Spring Snow (the first book in the Sea of Fertility Tetralogy), for example. It evokes images of tranquil Japanese garden, flowy silk kimono, picturesque view from a summer villa overlooking the sea, palanquin crossing snow-covered roads. Mishima portrayed his setting in great detail that you can see everything vividly in your head. No wonder many Goodreads reviewers use the word "beauty" or "beautiful" in describing the book. The emotional effect it produces, however, is something else.
Maybe it's just me. But not far off through chapter 1, one encounters this: "Kiyoaki was . . . so sensitive, so prone to melancholy. One would have been hard pressed to find, in that rambling house . . . anyone who in any way shared his sensibilities." Reading those sentences, I felt a sense of foreboding. That feeling would stay with me right through the end.
Mishima's chief protagonist is Kiyoaki Matsugae, a young man so beautiful everyone took it for granted that he should have the sensibilities of a courtier despite his samurai extraction. (Yes, the class system had been abolished in the Meiji Era, while the story takes place in the early Taisho Era--1912 AD--but as far as I can tell, even today, Japanese are still referring to one's samurai origin, especially when they're talking about politicians, capitalists, etc.) Capricious and given to brooding, this was a guy whose consideration of the agreeable-distasteful took precedence over that of good-bad or right-wrong.
When we first met Kiyoaki, we found someone who languidly led an innocuous existence: going to school, moping around like your typical teenager and talking about life in general with his schoolmate, the sober Shigekuni Honda (the Nick Carraway of this story, sort of). But it is through his interaction with childhood friend (and later, lover) Satoko Ayakura that we got to understand Kiyoaki's "true self". It's obvious he was attracted to Satoko, but he seemed to be ignorant of (or chose to ignore) the fact, too busy nursing his wounded pride, because he suspected that she secretly laughed at his immaturity. Not until their situation became impossible--for Satoko was betrothed to another, an imperial prince to boot--that Kiyoaki sought to pursue a relationship with her. This, despite previous subtle prodding from multiple fronts--his parents, Satoko herself--to admit his feelings for her.
There's more to it than just the desire to hurt a person who loved him dearly, though. (And yes, he was being deliberately cruel.) Rather, it is Kiyoaki's fascination with the aesthetic aspect of things that drove him into action. Put it this way: when there's no impediment to his being together with Satoko, he did nothing; and yet, the prospect of engaging in a secret affair--which would be difficult to maintain--didn't deter him whatsoever. Why is that? Because for him, there's nothing more beautiful than forbidden romance between two young people who loved each other.
In the end, my apprehension--the oh-shit-something-bad-is-surely-going-to-happen feeling--was vindicated. But heck, Mishima wasn't aiming for it to be good or happy; it's supposed to be beautiful instead. And it is. Beautiful, but disturbing.
----The Sea of Fertility #2: Runaway Horses----
----The Sea of Fertility #3: The Temple of Dawn----
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