It was pure impulse that led me to a copy of Ian Buruma's The Missionary and the Libertine in a Palookaville second-hand shop this week--more precisely, that I wanted to read his piece on Edward Seidensticker, the translator of Tale of Genji (and a lot else). But, serendipidity: the book is a mind-stretcher that gives me a whole new appreciation of some of its subject matter and, not least, its author.
I knew who Buruma was, of course (although I admit I have probably mixed him up at times with Neil Ascherson). I knew he had something to do with Japan. What I didn't know was how broad and deep his understanding runs--and how it extends outside Japan across a broad swath of South and East Asia.
It is, I concede, in a way a somewhat unpromising. It is, for one thing, a collection, and not a recent one: the original copyright date is 1996 and some of the pieces go back to the late 80s. More irritating, it is perversely edited: we get years but not precise dates of original publication (apparently there is only one source: The New York Review of Books). Much more interesting--most or all of these appear originally to have been presented as book reviews. Yet some dingbat, for no conceivable reason, has chosen to exclude he names of the books reviewed--you have to infer them from the contents of the essay. There is a "bibliography" at the end, but it only compounds the problem: it appears to include at least some of the books under review, but it also includes at least some of the other stuff to which Buruma adverts in the text and perhaps also some stuff he doesn't even mention. Consistent with the practice in far too many collections, there is no index.
And yet, what a collection! Buruma is obviously a good journalist: a careful observer with a strong background. But he is a good deal more: though you may have to infer it from the substance, he obviously comes equipped with a well-developed world-view--sympathetic yet skeptical, non-ideological, rooted in the particulars that he observes.
Not surprisingly, most of the substance draws on Japan--Seidenstecker, but also a sampling of writers and movie makers. There are also some general essays on Japan, including one, perhaps the best in the batch, perhaps the best I ever read on the topic, on Hiroshima.
But Buruma fills out his picture with material from Korea, the Philippines, India, Pakistan, Singapore. and Hong Kong. Some of this dates, of course: I have a tough time working up enthusiasm for the 1988 Seoul olympics, for example, and Buruma himself admits he may have guessed wrong on Cory Aquino. Still, the remarkable fact is how much of this survives. The essay on Hiroshima, for example, is at once a sardonic reflection on the Japanese response to World War II, and sobersided meditation on the modern response to nukes. Puzzling over the contradictions of the Philippines, he throws off an extraordinary insight into the history of imperialism. There are instructive parallels, he argues, between the imperialism of "old Europe" (not his phrase) and that of Japan, and of the United States. Both the US and Japan, he argues,
Suitable for one who appears suspicious of ideology, it is not easy to articulate just what it is that Buruma stands for. He's obviously unimpressed by the fraud that passes for democracy in oligarchic Japan; in the presence of those who speak of an "Asian way," he starts to chew the furniture. He makes it explicit that he has no use for a totalitarian dictator like Ho Chi Minh. He shows a perhaps surprising tolerance for the plutocrats who have dominated the Philippines--a plutocarcy it may be, but it's a loose-jointed plutocracy, which may be the best you can do. Perhaps the best index of his tastes is his enthusiasm for two men who have written about India--V. S. Naipaul and Nirad C. Chaudhuri. They're both prickly and abrasive, proud of the enemies they make. But as Buruma perceives them (correctly, in my view) they are both compassionate observers with deep roots in the best of the Enlightenment tradition. It's a good description of Buruma himself, and you could do a lot worse.
Update: I open my current New York Review of Books and what do I find but a review of the new "authorized" biography of Naipaul--the review by guess who. Turns out he was asked to write the bio, but declined. I skimmed parts of the book at Borders yesterday and it certainly would reward a full reading. The review, as (seemingly) is interesting in its own right.
I knew who Buruma was, of course (although I admit I have probably mixed him up at times with Neil Ascherson). I knew he had something to do with Japan. What I didn't know was how broad and deep his understanding runs--and how it extends outside Japan across a broad swath of South and East Asia.
It is, I concede, in a way a somewhat unpromising. It is, for one thing, a collection, and not a recent one: the original copyright date is 1996 and some of the pieces go back to the late 80s. More irritating, it is perversely edited: we get years but not precise dates of original publication (apparently there is only one source: The New York Review of Books). Much more interesting--most or all of these appear originally to have been presented as book reviews. Yet some dingbat, for no conceivable reason, has chosen to exclude he names of the books reviewed--you have to infer them from the contents of the essay. There is a "bibliography" at the end, but it only compounds the problem: it appears to include at least some of the books under review, but it also includes at least some of the other stuff to which Buruma adverts in the text and perhaps also some stuff he doesn't even mention. Consistent with the practice in far too many collections, there is no index.
And yet, what a collection! Buruma is obviously a good journalist: a careful observer with a strong background. But he is a good deal more: though you may have to infer it from the substance, he obviously comes equipped with a well-developed world-view--sympathetic yet skeptical, non-ideological, rooted in the particulars that he observes.
Not surprisingly, most of the substance draws on Japan--Seidenstecker, but also a sampling of writers and movie makers. There are also some general essays on Japan, including one, perhaps the best in the batch, perhaps the best I ever read on the topic, on Hiroshima.
But Buruma fills out his picture with material from Korea, the Philippines, India, Pakistan, Singapore. and Hong Kong. Some of this dates, of course: I have a tough time working up enthusiasm for the 1988 Seoul olympics, for example, and Buruma himself admits he may have guessed wrong on Cory Aquino. Still, the remarkable fact is how much of this survives. The essay on Hiroshima, for example, is at once a sardonic reflection on the Japanese response to World War II, and sobersided meditation on the modern response to nukes. Puzzling over the contradictions of the Philippines, he throws off an extraordinary insight into the history of imperialism. There are instructive parallels, he argues, between the imperialism of "old Europe" (not his phrase) and that of Japan, and of the United States. Both the US and Japan, he argues,
were opposed to European imperialism, yuet at the sme time emulated many of its trappings, down to the white topis and classicist architecturl bombast. Their colonial conquests came tin the guise of anticolonialism: they were, in a sense, the first modern 'liberation' movements, and, like so many such subsequent movements they wer marked by a peculiar savagery.It is hard to imagine how you could cram more insight into just a couple of paragraphs.
This might be explained by a racist element which did not yet exist in earlier European adventures. The British, the Dutch and the French did not arrive in their respective colonies to liberate anybody, nor were they burdened with racgtil or even nationalist zeal. They simply wanted to trade. Their empires grew out of that, though not always peacefully of course. By the late nineteenth century it was too late for empires to grow: they had to be conquered.
Suitable for one who appears suspicious of ideology, it is not easy to articulate just what it is that Buruma stands for. He's obviously unimpressed by the fraud that passes for democracy in oligarchic Japan; in the presence of those who speak of an "Asian way," he starts to chew the furniture. He makes it explicit that he has no use for a totalitarian dictator like Ho Chi Minh. He shows a perhaps surprising tolerance for the plutocrats who have dominated the Philippines--a plutocarcy it may be, but it's a loose-jointed plutocracy, which may be the best you can do. Perhaps the best index of his tastes is his enthusiasm for two men who have written about India--V. S. Naipaul and Nirad C. Chaudhuri. They're both prickly and abrasive, proud of the enemies they make. But as Buruma perceives them (correctly, in my view) they are both compassionate observers with deep roots in the best of the Enlightenment tradition. It's a good description of Buruma himself, and you could do a lot worse.
Update: I open my current New York Review of Books and what do I find but a review of the new "authorized" biography of Naipaul--the review by guess who. Turns out he was asked to write the bio, but declined. I skimmed parts of the book at Borders yesterday and it certainly would reward a full reading. The review, as (seemingly) is interesting in its own right.
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