Runaway Horses (Vintage Classics) (edition 1999)

The tale of a young band of brave friends who just want to kill everybody possible, most of all themselves, and of the variously twisted grown-ups who want to make various kinds of metaphoric love to their beautiful, nihilistic leader. Any of you who’ve read Mishima’s Spring Snow and were trying to decide whether to continue with later volumes in the series (do—this one’s better) will recall the beautiful nihilist Kiyoaki, who comes back in this one in some surprising ways, but whose death at the end of the last volume was clearly necessary—if he’d hung around after the end of his little tragic love story, he’d have sucked all the air out of the room in this one, which is concerned with stupider but more consequential, grimmer and more fascinating matters (teenage assassins, the relation between purity and decadence, whether believing without acting is really believing at all). Kiyo had to die so that Runaway Horses could live, the craft and conventionality of that book give way to the apocalyptic stormclouds of this guy.

We begin with Shigekuni Honda, Kiyo’s best friend from last time, now all grown up, career in law, Apollonian yet desiccated, never had a real spontaneous feeling in his life (or so he thinks himself—I think the idea that passion has to burn burn burn you up is a holdover from when we died at thirty of tb and suchlike). “'Once again he (Honda) found himself believing that, just as he had never contracted venereal disease, neither had he ever experienced emotional arousal.”

Honda meets-by-chance Isao Iinuma, the son of Kiyo’s old teacher, and just as Iinuma senior (now a prominent uyoku or “right-wing personality,” a kind of Japanese protoversion of Glenn Beck or somebody who runs something called the “Academy of Patriotism” and is entirely corrupted) loved Kiyo, Honda sees young kendo stud Isao bathing under a waterfall and not only loses whatever papery thing passes for his heart but also, based on Kiyo’s ravings on his deathbed two decades before and a distinctive pattern of moles shared by the boys, decides that Isao is Kiyo reborn, with his degenerate tendencies burned away.

So the boy with murder in his heart, his dad the boss thug, the lawyer groping toward true life, a backing cast each eager to prove themselves pure too in this purity-obsessed time. A powderkeg! It feels like it could explode and the spirit world could burst in on us at any moment, which is kind of a cheap feeling when it actually is gonna burst in, but a hard one to maintain when it isn't, which I take to be the case here.

Isao gives Honda his favourite book, about the Shinpuuren rebellion of the Meiji era (reproduced in full), as a testament to his ethic. (He loves himself more than the Emperor, if only he realized it.) Honda enters into a kind of gay ghost marriage with the boy, but only in his heart, because telling people things is not H.’s style. It’s perverse. It’s especially perverse how rational he stays even as he descends into quiet, reasonable madness. Let me pause to quote one of the cadets in the Shield Society founded by Mishima: “Mishima-sensei climbed down the ladder of reason to be with us.” (He committed seppuku after failing to inspire a rising similar to the one that is the focus of Isao and his friends here. He wishes he was an Isao. He hates whatever part of him is a Honda, whatever part a Sawa.)

How bout some more? “by the time the work is completed I will have to resign myself to the eternal impossibility of a gorgeous, heroic end. To give up becoming a hero or to abandon a masterpiece—this decision is drawing near and the prospect fills me with anxiety. […]

“I can hear the people say: "But you are dwelling in the past. Attempts to become the kind of active hero you speak of are futile after thirty at the latest and you are forty-five. Why not stop playing the old maid who hides behind thick make-up, give up life and action and concentrate on literature?"

“Yet I am still as strong and energetic as a young man, at forty-two, still just young enough to become a hero. Takamori Saigo (a nineteenth century fanatic who committed seppuku) died a hero's death at fifty. ... If I act now I am still in time. On the other hand there is still important work. ...

Just want to give you a sense of what kind of psychosexual aesthetic sense we’re dealing with here. There are much cool scenes of Isao wrapping the other young devotees around his finger, and of this crafty, ugly middle-ager, Sawa, forcing himself in with the dishonourable yet effective tactics of the older man. I was glad Sawa got his way. He’s like the balding art space owner who goes to all the hipster parties and hits on the young girls. You're older and smarter and by most measures much more interesting and impressive, and yet somehow they have all the power. And he doesn't even have some death of the ego thing to fall back on, because that's way too Buddhist and he chose to be an extreme Shinto nationalist and obsessed with his beautiful parabola. I thought he’d be the one to make murder happen if any, but I underestimated Isao’s will to power. It’s weird reading a fascist book by a fascist writer with this kind of deep, subtle sense of human sentiment. You always get tricked into thinking he’s not ultimately on Isao’s side.

Like, here are some moments of crystalline rightness: "'We'll do it! We'll do it!' (Serikawa) shouted, kicking about and scattering the shells that littered the floor. He gripped Isao's hand firmly and shook it. As usual, he was on the verge of tears. This young man affected Isao like a match girl who uses blatant emotional appeal to force a sale. It was a manifestation he had little need for at the moment."

"Dreams somehow turn one into a slovenly figure. A soiled collar, the back of the shirt wrinkled as though slept in, trousers baggy--something similar overtakes the garment of the spirit." Isao starts dreaming soon after, of course.

"She did not grumble. She did not wear a sad expression. Nor did she punish him by putting on a brave cheerfulness."

"Since (Toin's) hatred had its root in fear, it kept growing."

Mishima's "purity thing" has its roots in fear too, and its compelling power keeps growing. ( )

Sure, the English translation has some punctuation mistakes on page 405 and one spelling mistake on page 404, and sure, I read the last 150-pgs in one continuous go from 8 to 11 at night, but this novel is interesting and evocative, nonetheless.

The novel starts off slow, and through intriguing twists and turns, we see the romanticism and purity that was in "Spring Snow," now embodied by Isao, an ultranationalist and kendo prodigy, betrayed by the cynicism and cruelties of adulthood.

I didn't like how it took Mishima hundreds of pages to build up steam in the novel. While I did appreciate Mishima's insights into individuals and social networks, but I didn't appreciate how intrusive he was as he interrupted dialogue to present them. Nor was I convinced of the spiritual fibre of Isao, whose doubts virtually litter all 40-chapters of this novel. However, the little things made up for these deficits.

There is a tremendous amount of seemingly meaningless detail in this novel. The inclusion of "The League of the Divine Wind," a 48-page novel-within-a-novel by Mishima that is referenced throughout the work, gives Runaway Horses a nice, realistic touch. Likewise, is the military's balancing act to avoid further scorn in the aftermath of the May 15 Incident when their younger officer corps still include sympathizers of that coup d'etat and Isao's group. Furthermore, the setting was, as with all Mishima novels, authentic. From the furniture, to the news reports, and to the class-restrained social relationships, Mishima realistically evoked Japan of the 1930s. I especially found interesting mentions of the famine and rural crises in Japan despite its supposed economic strength, relative to the Western powers, during the Great Depression. And talking about twist and turns, there is a traitor in Isao's midst; one who betrays Isao's dreams and hopes. Only a careful reader and with deep psychological insights will realize who it is.

I also liked the humorous descriptions of Kurahara. Kurahara is a rather strange character in the novel, for he's on one hand, the embodiment of all that Mishima thought was evil in the Japan of the 1930s, and on the other, he's a hapless, blundering victim who was at the wrong place and at the wrong time. The depiction Kurahara was undoubtedly Mishima's way of criticizing the greedy zaibatsu and the then military industrial complex for taking power away from the Emperor (and the people).

Regardless, this was a good novel and I can't wait to start reading the next novel of the tetrology, "The Temple of the Dawn."

With Mishima's second installment in his Sea of Fertility tetralogy, we see the protagonist of Spring Snow reincarnated in the character of Isao, whose passion embodies political ideology rather than romantic love. Isao's passion in a way seems even more vehement. It is so strong that it alienates him from humanity, and we realize that his commitment to 'purity' must inevitably resolve itself in death. The tenor of Isao's character, especially when described by Honda, reaches that note of tragic beauty that permeates Spring Snow, but it does not do so effectively enough for the novel to reach the same overall grandeur as its predecessor. What is most remarkable about this work is how closely it mirrors Mishima's own actions a few years later, and the insight it may give into his own internal character. The deafening resonance of this books final pages is altogether equal to the tragic pallor of the first novel's end, and the end of the author's own mythos. ( )

This book takes some time and patience but is ultimately worthwhile. First of all, no one can describe the natural beauty of Japan and all things Japanese like Mishima. The story itself is somewhat one dimensional and predictable, but the characters are well developed archetypes that slowly reveal something innately Japanese as the tale unfolds. This book is about gaining new understanding and appreciation for a culture, its history, and people. It's not about enjoying a nice story-- Mishima's stories are neither nice nor enjoyable.

I read Spring Snow some time ago and I see now that the tetralogy as a whole is going to be much more than the sum of its parts. I would highly recommend reading them all, and definitely in order. Not only do the characters and plot flow from one book to the next, but the shifts in the culture is what the books are really about-- and you have to read them all too see this. (I'm taking a break but will read the next in a couple of months).

An odd note: If you get a chance to see or read Patriotism (short story and short film by Mishima) I think it provides some good insights into seppuku which is essential to Runaway Horses. I still cannot understand this form of honor but I did walk away knowing that it's real. ( )

Combined review for Spring Snow, Runaway Horses, The Temple of Dawn and The decay of the Angel - which together make up the Sea of Fertility.
Spring Snow succeeds for me only for its painting of a lost period in Japan - of the privileged and their privileges. In other ways it fails - the obsession with 'elegance' and 'good movements' and 'beauty' leaves me no wiser as the causes and principles involved.
Runaway Horses moves forward 20 years, to a second incarnation of the principal of these stories. Again fails to to convince as the source and power of the obsessions (Japan-ness. ritual suicide etc). At the end, we know they exist, but not why.
The Temple of Dawn is the weakest of the four books with turgid page after turgid page of Buddhist and other religious exposition. Is this a cheap cure for writer's block? The reincarnation this time is as Thai princess. Remarkably, the main character, Honda, becomes a hardcore voyeur halfway through this volume. The voyeuristic writing is good - it is almost as if Mishima wanted to get this writing out, and Honda was the available character!
The Decay of the Angel is the shortest volume (running out of things to say?) and again fails to deliver. The latest incarnation is Angel-like(!). Spare me. The most remarkable aspect is Mishima's ritual suicide on the day he finished writing this last volume. If he was aiming for immortality, all he achieved was a quirky footnote to literary history. ( )