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Snow Country Paperback – International Edition, January 30, 1996
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At an isolated mountain hot spring, with snow blanketing every surface, Shimamura, a wealthy dilettante meets Komako, a lowly geisha. She gives herself to him fully and without remorse, despite knowing that their passion cannot last and that the affair can have only one outcome. In chronicling the course of this doomed romance, Kawabata has created a story for the ages—a stunning novel dense in implication and exalting in its sadness.
- Print length175 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- Publication dateJanuary 30, 1996
- Dimensions5.2 x 0.5 x 7.99 inches
- ISBN-100679761047
- ISBN-13978-0679761044
- Lexile measure820L
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Editorial Reviews
Review
—The Time Literary Supplement (London)
“Kawabata’s novels are among the most affecting and original works of our time.”
—The New York Times Book Review
From the Inside Flap
From the Back Cover
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
THE TRAIN came out of the long tunnel into the snow country. The earth lay white under the night sky. The train pulled up at a signal stop.
A girl who had been sitting on the other side of the car came over and opened the window in front of Shimamura. The snowy cold poured in. Leaning far out the window, the girl called to the station master as though he were a great distance away.
The station master walked slowly over the snow, a lantern in his hand. His face was buried to the nose in a muffler, and the flaps of his cap were turned down over his ears.
It’s that cold, is it, thought Shimamura. Low, barracklike buildings that might have been railway dormitories were scattered here and there up the frozen slope of the mountain. The white of the snow fell away into the darkness some distance before it reached them.
“How are you?” the girl called out. “It’s Yoko.”
“Yoko, is it. On your way back? It’s gotten cold again.”
“I understand my brother has come to work here. Thank you for all you’ve done.”
“It will be lonely, though. This is no place for a young boy.”
“He’s really no more than a child. You’ll teach him what he needs to know, won’t you.”
“Oh, but he’s doing very well. We’ll be busier from now on, with the snow and all. Last year we had so much that the trains were always being stopped by avalanches, and the whole town was kept busy cooking for them.”
“But look at the warm clothes, would you. My brother said in his letter that he wasn’t even wearing a sweater yet.”
“I’m not warm unless I have on four layers, myself. The young ones start drinking when it gets cold, and the first thing you know they’re over there in bed with colds.” He waved his lantern toward the dormitories.
“Does my brother drink?”
“Not that I know of.”
“You’re on your way home now, are you?”
“I had a little accident. I’ve been going to the doctor.”
“You must be more careful.”
The station master, who had an overcoat on over his kimono, turned as if to cut the freezing conversation short. “Take care of yourself,” he called over his shoulder.
“Is my brother here now?” Yoko looked out over the snow-covered platform. “See that he behaves himself.” It was such a beautiful voice that it struck one as sad. In all its high resonance it seemed to come echoing back across the snowy night.
The girl was still leaning out the window when the train pulled away from the station. “Tell my brother to come home when he has a holiday,” she called out to the station master, who was walking along the tracks.
“I’ll tell him,” the man called back.
Yoko closed the window and pressed her hands to her red cheeks.
Three snowplows were waiting for the heavy snows here on the Border Range. There was an electric avalanche-warning system at the north and south entrances to the tunnel. Five thousand workers were ready to clear away the snow, and two thousand young men from the volunteer fire-departments could be mobilized if they were needed.
Yoko’s brother would be working at this signal stop, so soon to be buried under the snow—somehow that fact made the girl more interesting to Shimamura.
“The girl”—something in her manner suggested the unmarried girl. Shimamura of course had no way of being sure what her relationship was to the man with her. They acted rather like a married couple. The man was clearly ill, however, and illness shortens the distance between a man and a woman. The more earnest the ministrations, the more the two come to seem like husband and wife. A girl taking care of a man far older than she, for all the world like a young mother, can from a distance be taken for his wife.
But Shimamura in his mind had cut the girl off from the man with her and decided from her general appearance and manner that she was unmarried. And then, because he had been looking at her from a strange angle for so long, emotions peculiarly his own had perhaps colored his judgment.
It had been three hours earlier. In his boredom, Shimamura stared at his left hand as the forefinger bent and unbent. Only this hand seemed to have a vital and immediate memory of the woman he was going to see. The more he tried to call up a clear picture of her, the more his memory failed him, the farther she faded away, leaving him nothing to catch and hold. In the midst of this uncertainty only the one hand, and in particular the forefinger, even now seemed damp from her touch, seemed to be pulling him back to her from afar. Taken with the strangeness of it, he brought the hand to his face, then quickly drew a line across the misted-over window. A woman’s eye floated up before him. He almost called out in his astonishment. But he had been dreaming, and when he came to himself he saw that it was only the reflection in the window of the girl opposite. Outside it was growing dark, and the lights had been turned on in the train, transforming the window into a mirror. The mirror had been clouded over with steam until he drew that line across it.
The one eye by itself was strangely beautiful, but, feigning a traveler’s weariness and putting his face to the window as if to look at the scenery outside, he cleared the steam from the rest of the glass.
The girl leaned attentively forward, looking down at the man before her. Shimamura could see from the way her strength was gathered in her shoulders that the suggestion of fierceness in her eyes was but a sign of an intentness that did not permit her to blink. The man lay with his head pillowed at the window and his legs bent so that his feet were on the seat facing, beside the girl. It was a third-class coach. The pair were not directly opposite Shimamura but rather one seat forward, and the man’s head showed in the window-mirror only as far as the ear.
Since the girl was thus diagonally opposite him, Shimamura could as well have looked directly at her. When the two of them came on the train, however, something coolly piercing about her beauty had startled Shimamura, and as he hastily lowered his eyes he had seen the man’s ashen fingers clutching at the girl’s. Somehow it seemed wrong to look their way again.
The man’s face in the mirror suggested the feeling of security and repose it gave him to be able to rest his eyes on the girl’s breast. His very weakness lent a certain soft balance and harmony to the two figures. One end of his scarf served as a pillow, and the other end, pulled up tight over his mouth like a mask, rested on his cheek. Now and then it fell loose or slipped down over his nose, and almost before he had time to signal his annoyance the girl gently rearranged it. The process was repeated over and over, automatically, so often that Shimamura, watching them, almost found himself growing impatient. Occasionally the bottom of the overcoat in which the man’s feet were wrapped would slip open and fall to the floor, and the girl would quickly pull it back together. It was all completely natural, as if the two of them, quite insensitive to space, meant to go on forever, farther and farther into the distance. For Shimamura there was none of the pain that the sight of something truly sad can bring. Rather it was as if he were watching a tableau in a dream—and that was no doubt the working of his strange mirror.
In the depths of the mirror the evening landscape moved by, the mirror and the reflected figures like motion pictures superimposed one on the other. The figures and the background were unrelated, and yet the figures, transparent and intangible, and the background, dim in the gathering darkness, melted together into a sort of symbolic world not of this world. Particularly when a light out in the mountains shone in the center of the girl’s face, Shimamura felt his chest rise at the inexpressible beauty of it.
The mountain sky still carried traces of evening red. Individual shapes were clear far into the distance, but the monotonous mountain landscape, undistinguished for mile after mile, seemed all the more undistinguished for having lost its last traces of color. There was nothing in it to catch the eye, and it seemed to flow along in a wide, unformed emotion. That was of course because the girl’s face was floating over it. Cut off by the face, the evening landscape moved steadily by around its outlines. The face too seemed transparent—but was it really transparent? Shimamura had the illusion that the evening landscape was actually passing over the face, and the flow did not stop to let him be sure it was not.
The light inside the train was not particularly strong, and the reflection was not as clear as it would have been in a mirror. Since there was no glare, Shimamura came to forget that it was a mirror he was looking at. The girl’s face seemed to be out in the flow of the evening mountains.
It was then that a light shone in the face. The reflection in the mirror was not strong enough to blot out the light outside, nor was the light strong enough to dim the reflection. The light moved across the face, though not to light it up. It was a distant, cold light. As it sent its small ray through the pupil of the girl’s eye, as the eye and the light were superimposed one on the other, the eye became a weirdly beautiful bit of phosphorescence on the sea of evening mountains.
There was no way for Yoko to know that she was being stared at. Her attention was concentrated on the sick man, and even had she looked toward Shimamura, she would probably not have seen her reflection, and she would have paid no attention to the man looking out the window.
It did not occur to Shimamura that it was improper to stare at the girl so long and stealthily. That too was no doubt because he was taken by the unreal, otherworldly power of his mirror in the evening landscape.
When, therefore, the girl called out to the station master, her manner again suggesting overearnestness, Shimamura perhaps saw her first of all as rather like a character out of an old, romantic tale.
The window was dark by the time they came to the signal stop. The charm of the mirror faded with the fading landscape. Yoko’s face was still there, but for all the warmth of her ministrations, Shimamura had found in her a transparent coldness. He did not clear the window as it clouded over again.
He was startled, then, when a half-hour later Yoko and the man got off the train at the same station as he. He looked around as though he were about to be drawn into something, but the cold air on the platform made him suddenly ashamed of his rudeness on the train. He crossed the tracks in front of the locomotive without looking back again.
The man, clinging to Yoko’s shoulder, was about to climb down to the tracks from the platform opposite when from this side a station attendant raised a hand to stop them.
A long freight train came out of the darkness to block them from sight.
Product details
- Publisher : Vintage; Trade Paperback Edition (January 30, 1996)
- Language : English
- Paperback : 175 pages
- ISBN-10 : 0679761047
- ISBN-13 : 978-0679761044
- Lexile measure : 820L
- Item Weight : 6.2 ounces
- Dimensions : 5.2 x 0.5 x 7.99 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #39,177 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #148 in Teen & Young Adult Classic Literature
- #1,362 in Classic Literature & Fiction
- #3,280 in Literary Fiction (Books)
- Customer Reviews:
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Taking place on the very snowy west coast of the main island of Japan, this is the story of Shimamura, a wealthy, privileged man of idleness who lives in Tokyo with his wife and children. At least once a year he escapes to what is essentially a winter resort with hot springs where he is entertained by geisha girls. One of them, Komako, has fallen in love with him, which is obviously against the rules; however, he is not in love with her. Komako, who is indentured and must work as a geisha to pay off her enforced servitude, is an outcast of society. While Shimamura is aloof and clueless about others' feelings, Komako feels so much that she has become a lost and tortured soul, trying to emotionally handle what she is doing physically with her body. Added to this small cast is Yoko, a teenage girl who works in the inn at the resort. Shimamura thinks he may love her.
The succinct writing of this dark, tragic novel is almost poetic, and it is awash in symbolism and imagery. Some critics have noted that the book is a lot like haiku in its study of opposites—tongues of fire and shards of ice or the inky black of a starry night and the red-streaked sky at sunrise. (Here is one line from the book that shows the haiku nature: "The brightness of the snow was more intense, it seemed to be burning icily.")
The ending is confusing at best, and disheartening at worst. While this is not an easy book to read, it is beautiful and lyrical literature.
Note: Do read the introduction that was written by Edward G. Seidensticker, who translated the novel into English. Much important background information is offered here that will give you a far greater understanding of some of nuances and cultural references in the story.
The theme of empowered male/vulnerable female goes right back to ancient Greece and remains as popular as ever but aren't we supposed to think about it a bit more? It feels anachronistic to me to see romance in exploitation.
Shimamura is a wealthy married man traveling alone to a country hot spring. He regularly ditches his wife and there is no mention of children. He takes for granted his inherited wealth to vacation in his own self indulgent means where hotels regularly supplied the entertainment along with the room. As explained in the forward a hot spring geisha is not what we've come to understand as a Kyoto Geisha. She may have talents but her role is to drink with clients and likely end up giving them "comfort". The story centers around Shimamura's relationship with Komako, one of the lower ranked geisha. There is romance but it feels contrived to me as it's based on the false premise of equality that clearly does not exist. One chooses and the other must accept. There is some song and dance to save face but it's facade only.
Where some see a bit of cat and mouse developing and interesting dynamic relationship I see more of a young, immature girl caught up trying to pay the bills in a very unkind world with no opportunity and lots of exploitation. The failed relationship is neither tragic or tragedy because there is no foundation other than money. I admit it's through a modern lens that I look at this but had Kawabata been able to lift himself out of his age and explored his characters with more perspective than this would be a timeless classic. Instead it's a well written but slowly decaying time piece which has not aged well.
A married man getting away from family life goes to snow country and has a relationship with a geisha (somehow acceptable at the time)
Over the course of three or four years he goes four or five times. He also manages to pine for another woman in the village. To some interesting circles of jealousy.
A small slice of Japanese life on a mountainside in the 1950s well written and easy to read (one day) but only a mood piece not a fully realized novel.
Classics are classics for reasons and you have to accept that when you engage with them, they in no way shape manner or form need to live up to what a novel would consist of today. I highly enjoyed it but would only recommend it to someone who understood that.
Top reviews from other countries
O protagonista não é relacionável, ele possui diversos traços que revelam uma pessoa extremamente fechada e controversa por trás da aparência que galanteia ambas as mulheres que se tornam peças (quase no sentido literal) centrais durante a trama.
É um livro que eu desejaria ter um pouco mais de instrução cultural e aproximação com a realidade da época para ler uma primeira vez.
Dito isso, com certeza será um livro que irei revisitar no futuro com outros olhos e com uma idade mais avançada.
Para quem se interessa por literatura japonesa, antes de ler essa linda obra de Kawabata, indico outros como Yukio Mishima, Osamu Dazai e Haruki Murakami, cada um com suas peculiaridades e escritas encantadoras.
Es una edición que vale cada peso invertido, la pasta es cómoda para leer y las páginas de calidad.
Shimamura travels from the city to a village in the snowy mountains, and while in the company of a young rural geisha called Komako a strange love blossoms, but bound to the rules of the geisha Komako struggles with her emotions towards him and there is always a sense that sadness lingers. The snowy setting really captures the imagination especially at night where there are moments described so heavenly it goes beyond words.
Shimamura is the character around which everything happens. His heart is cold. He sees surfaces, he admires beauty, but he lets nothing in.
It is written in a very delicate lyrical style and the best thing about it is that it feels so light and gentle when you read it. A very different form of Japanese Literature. It is a very short read but it hits so differently and hard.
The story is impressionistic, revealed through glimpses and reflections.
“his head fell back, and
the Milky Way flowed down
inside him with a roar”
タイトルは、そのまま、『Snow Country』 。
『雪国』は冒頭の部分があまりにも有名である。
日本語は、主語を省くことができるが、英語では、主語を省くことは、ほぼ、できない。
日本人であれば、主人公とともに汽車に乗っているはず。
国境の長いトンネルを、読者は主人公とともに抜けると、眼の前に白銀の世界がぱっと広がる。
日本人なら、その光景を想像できるが、果たして、外国人は日本人と同じような光景を想像できるだろうか。
実は、日本人でも、戸惑う言葉がある。
『国境』と言う言葉は、『こっきょう』なのか、『くにざかい』なのか。
『くにざかい』と読む方が情趣があるような気がするが、作者の川端康成は、『こっきょう』と読むことをイメージしているようだ。
『国境の長いトンネルを抜けると雪国であった』は、何とか、訳すことはできるが、英訳では、風情も情趣もない。
では、『夜の底が白くなった』を英訳するのは、ほぼ、不可能。
日本人ですら、この分の意味はあまりよく理解できないかもしれない。
雪国の夜のしーんと、静まりかえった静寂さと、寒々とした情景と、雪の白さを表現したものと解釈してはどうだろうか。
日本語と英語は、両極端の位置にある言語で、決して、交わる部分はない。
そもそも、日本語を英語に翻訳することはできない。
日本語の単語の意味に近い意味あいのある単語を英語の単語の中から選んで、なんとなく、意味的には理解できる文にするのが翻訳である。
英語の文を日本語に翻訳する場合も、同じことが言える。
英語の単語の意味を英和辞典で調べると、いくつもの意味が出てくる。
5個から10個程度の意味が出てくるが、1番目の意味と、10番目の意味が、全く逆の場合がある。
日本語の文章の中のある単語の意味が10個もあったら、文章として理解不能になる。
完璧な翻訳など存在しない。
なんとなく、文章の意味が分かる程度にしか翻訳はできない。
英訳の雪国は、辞書なしで読んでも、辞書で調べながら読んでも、決して容易ではない。
日本語の、『雪国』は長編とはいっても、比較的短いが、心底、理解するのは難しいのではないか。
川端の文章は、朴訥としていて、文章と文章のつながりがなめらかではない。
文章と文章の間に欠落した文章あって、読者はその文章を補いながら読む必要がある。
つまり、行間を付け加えて、読んでこそ、川端を理解できる。
英語圏の人々は、『SNOW COUNTRY』の書かれた時代背景とか、日本の文化を理解したうえで、読んでいるのだろうか。
主人公と芸者の耽美的な世界を、日本の雪景色とからめて描いているから、英語圏では高く評価されたのだろうか。
『雪国』を分かりやすく言うと、世間では、数年後には対米戦争が始まろうとしている時期に、妻子ある裕福な、西洋舞踏の評論家が、温泉町の馴染みの芸者のところに通う話と言えばいいのだろうか。
都会から訪れたよそ者にとってみれば、雪国の雪景色を情趣的で審美的な目でみるが、雪で閉ざされた、冷たく、閉鎖的で厳しい現実の中で生きていくしかない雪国の人々の悲哀さは、この物語の終焉の雪中火事に象徴されているように思う。
不思議に思ったのは、日本語の原書では、主人公の馴染みの芸者にしても、他の登場人物の女性たちにしても、良家の令嬢のような美しい標準日本語を話していること。
物語の雪国がどこなのかは分からないが、温泉芸者は、その地方の方言で話すはずだと思う。
彼女たちが方言で話せば、雪国の情感を、身に沁みて感じられたと思う。
しかし、方言は、英語では表現できないから、英語の場合は、情感の無い無機的な英訳にならざるを得ない。







