Runaway Horses

I read this novel decades ago. Mishima committed seppuku on Nov. 25th, 1970, after failing to exhort military cadets to action. His ritual suicide offered a tragic and frightening parallel to his novels, especially this one, Runaway Horses. Mishima was a craftsman of language, but also briliantly connected reified objects to reincarnation. A peeled orange in the ocean electrified the spine today no less than years ago when I first read him. Today, older, wiser, I found the philosophy behind Mishima's work disturbing. I understand a different value system in Japan, but the glorificaltion of honor to the extent of ritual suicide cannot help but disturb anyone who reflects on it. Though I admire Mishima as a writer, I offer a lower rating show more than I would have earlier. A rigid code of honor accompanied by seppuku seems a dangerous zeitgeist which could destroy individuals, countries and our planet. Isao worries how aging could attentuate youthful purity. In his view, it is better to die young than face such attenuated purity. Let us reverse it and a better world for all of us. show less

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, show more 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. show less

A creepy book for sure. Isao is just crazy to commit suicide in a blaze of glory, to purify the world somehow. It is so far from any mode of thought that I can find in myself... but this whole book just wallows in it. I trust that this is not an utter fabrication of Mishima, but reflective of some facet of Japanese culture. So the book is a way to learn a bit about Japan. But surely Japan is a part of the world, and this mode of thought is not exclusive to Japan. Actually, this book seems horribly relevant to the USA in 2020. There is definitely a current of violent loyalty to authoritarian purity in order to return to some past greatness. I still can't say that I understand this mode of thought, despite having wallowed in it for 400 show more pages. But maybe I have got a bit more familiarity. That's something. show less

After finishing Yukio Mishima's Spring Snow I knew that I was going to be continuing with the rest of his books in The Sea of Fertility tetralogy and would most likely pursue his other works as well. Runaway Horses is the second volume in the sequence and like Spring Snow was translated into English by Michael Gallagher who has once again done a great job of it. Runaway Horses captures the early years of the Shōwa period in Japan (1926-1989), particularly the rise of ultra-nationalism. The Westernization and modernization first begun during the Meiji era (1868-1912)--also important to the story of Runaway Horses--has dramatically increased and there are those who demand Japan return to itself and who are willing to resort to violence show more to make this happen.

In 1932, nearly twenty years after the death of his beloved friend Kiyoaki, Shigekuni Honda is now an established and respected judge at the Osaka Court of Appeals. While attending a kendo tournament he meets an intense young man by the name of Isao Iinuma, a promising and skilled athlete who also happens to be the son of Kiyoaki's former tutor Shigeyuki Iinuma. As the book progresses, Honda becomes more and more convinced that Isao is actually the reincarnation of his friend Kiyoaki. But Isao is definitely his own man. A student at his father's Academy of Patriotism, his ideals and fervor extend far beyond his indoctrination at school. Inspired by The League of the Divine Wind (a pamphlet recounting the Shimpūren Rebellion), Isao is determined to initiate the return of honor and purity to Japan and in doing so sacrifice his own life.

It is not absolutely necessary to have read Spring Snow before reading Runaway Horses although it will certainly enhance the experience. The books, just like Kiyoaki and Isao, are very different while somehow still retaining a sense of commonality at their core. Each book's style captures the personalities of their respective protagonists remarkably well; where Spring Snow is rather romantic, Runaway Horses is much more aggressive in its approach. The portrayal of Isao, a passionate young man who is also a violent extremist, is exceptional--terrifying and even inspiring despite his naïveté. I certainly don't necessarily agree with him or his methods, but the devotion to his ideals and his charismatic nature shines through and makes for quite an impact.

Runaway Horses was somewhat slow to start, but by the end of the book I was completely invested. The emotional intensity and its buildup is tremendous. Like Spring Snow the book feels ominous from the very beginning; something tragic is going to happen and there is nothing to do but watch how the story plays out. Even expecting this, Mishima is able to throw in some painful twists as peoples' motivations and actions are made clear. Runaway Horses stands pretty well on its own although certain scenes, particularly the dream sequences, serve mostly to lead into the next book, The Temple of Dawn. It is interesting to note that while reincarnation is important to the tetralogy overall, and to Honda in particular, it isn't central to Isao's story who is mostly unaware of it. I was unaccountably thrilled that the son of Kiyoaki's tutor Iinuma was the character chosen as his reincarnation--it just seems so perfectly appropriate to me. And I won't hesitate to admit that I am very much looking forward to reading The Temple of Dawn.

Experiments in Reading show less

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 show more 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. show less

Another beautifully written book, but depressing. Reading about ultra rightwing teenagers in 1930s Japan who are obsessed with their own brand of moral purity to the extent that they would commit suicide against a backdrop of current affairs that include Islamic fundamentalism, Russian imperialism, political nationalism in the UK, and the right to bear arms gone mad in the US was hard.

I think I know where David Mitchell got his reincarnation idea from for the Ghostwritten/number9dream/Cloud Atlas story arcs, though.

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 show more 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. show less