Tuesday 3 November 2020

dandelions (w yasunari kawabata, tr michael emmerich)

It’s rare to come across such an enigmatic text. This short novel recounts less than 24 hours, as Ineko’s mother drops her off at a sanatoriam for the mentally ill. Accompanying the mother is Ineko’s fiancé, Kuno, who doesn’t approve of what’s happening but goes along all the same. Ineko suffers from somagnosia, which means she occasionally goes partially blind, unable to see specific things. (A table tennis ball whilst playing, for example.) The odd couple drop off her off and then walk to a small nearby seaside town. They talk as they walk. This is a highly conversational text. Their dialogue is roundabout, debating Ineko’s fate, recounting incidents from her past, including the strange event of her father’s death, who rode off a cliff whilst on horseback, a traumatic event which Ineko witnessed. The description of the horse falling through the air, alongside the father, who loses his prosthetic leg in the process, is vivid. The novel ends inconclusively. Kuno has plans to break Ineko out of the sanatorium, but we never learn whether these will be realised or not. All in all, Dandelions feels like an enigma wrapped up in a riddle. It’s a short, but remarkably dense read, which leaves the reader mystified, staring into an opaque blind spot, more conscious of what he or she doesn’t know (or see) than what they do know (or see). 

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