Preface to "The Complete Works of Kan Kikuchi"

When Stendhal and Merimee are compared, one says that Stendhal is greater than Merimee, yet less of an artist. What is meant, presumably, is that, compared with Merimee, he did not give each individual work the sense of perfect finish and completeness, or else lacked the talent to do so. In this sense as well, if Kan Kikuchi is compared with one or two figures of our literary world, he is not necessarily a supremely distinguished artist. For example, in his works, passages of description that ought to achieve a pictorial effect often seem to collapse into failure. So long as this tendency exists, even his masterpieces, whatever they may be, will not give complete satisfaction to connoisseurs of delicate effects.

When Shaw and Galsworthy are compared, one says that Shaw is greater than Galsworthy, yet less of an artist. Much of what this means, no doubt, is that besides seeking purely artistic impression, Shaw is too eager to express a view of life, a view of the world, in short, some kind of thought. To that extent too, if Kan Kikuchi is compared with one or two figures of the literary world, he is not what is called an artist through and through. For example, the very fact that since his appearance the term “theme novel” has come into use tells something of the situation. So long as this tendency exists, the artistic monotheists who would banish ideas from literature just as legend was banished from painting will not find most of Kikuchi’s works wholly satisfying.

From either of these two standpoints, it is not difficult to say that whether Kan Kikuchi is an artist at all may be open to doubt. But in both cases the word “artist” rests on a particular limitation. The qualifications required for being an “artist” in the first sense were already lacking, for example, even in Stendhal when he is compared with Merimee. The qualifications required for being an “artist” in the second sense involve an even narrower position. If so, then when discussing the works of Kan Kikuchi, to rely only on these standards would surely expose one to the charge of unfair criticism. After applying these deductions, then, is there still some striking characteristic left in his work? To judge his value, that is the point to which we must first attend.

Some striking characteristic? The world, I am sure, can count many such traits along with me. His power of conception, his analysis of character, his pathos—these, of course, undoubtedly lend brilliance to his works. Yet behind them I should like to point out one further trait—no, one far deeper and more interesting than those. What is it? It is a realism rooted in moral consciousness, a realism that shows mercy to nothing.

In Bungei Shunju, which gathered Kikuchi Kan’s impressions and reflections, there is a passage that says, in effect, “Every contemporary writer possesses a humanistic spirit. At the same time, there is no writer who is not a realist.” As he says, most modern writers certainly do tend in that direction. But among modern writers, the one in whom this tendency is most conspicuous is in fact Kikuchi Kan himself. When he began his literary career, he was tagged as a writer of egoism. The fact that he saw egoism everywhere surely testifies to this realism. Yet what made him a realist was clearly the force of his moral consciousness: the inner demand to destroy the old morality built on sand and to build a new morality upon rock. Once, when I was discussing goodness and beauty with him, I still vividly remember the look on his face as he said: “Why, my friend, goodness is more important than beauty. To me, whatever else one may say, it is more important.” Goodness, for him, was indeed more important than beauty. It would not be wrong to say that his literary life thereafter was a labor of seeking that goodness. In realistic novels and plays rooted in this moral consciousness, the modern age found, perhaps found only there, its spokesman. That he so quickly won great fame must be called only natural.

While he was a student at the First Higher School, he wrote an essay on Bernard Shaw under the title “The Laughing Ibsen.” People point out the influence of Irish drama in his plays. But even before that, I would point rather to the influence of Shaw, who gave direction to his way of observing, not only in drama but in fiction as well. In Shaw’s words, “All literature is journalism.” Whether Kikuchi consciously held such a belief need not concern us. But like Shaw, Kikuchi chose to draw in bold lines rather than fine ones. Even if those drawings were poor in delicate effects, it is a fact not easily denied, even among us his friends, that they overflowed with great passion. (Where in the world can one find harsher critics than a writer’s fellow writers who are also his friends?) So long as this fact remains, Kikuchi’s power cannot be disputed, however many deductions one may make. Kikuchi may not be one of the gods who dwell on Parnassus. Yet his power, like his very appearance, is unmistakably that of a giant dwelling on Pelion.

But after exhausting the uses of a merciless realism, where in the human heart will Kikuchi build the cornerstone of a new morality? He has already cast aside beauty. Yet the peaks of truth and goodness may still stand snow-covered, divided by deep valleys. In this sense too, Kikuchi’s road ahead seems likely to be full of hardships and peril. Kikuchi, who has seen Paris and London—that is a man I may meet or may not meet; it matters little. The Kikuchi I most wish to meet is the one who has gazed up at the mysterious rainbow that spans those peaks, the one illuminated everywhere by a light of wisdom unknown to us.