by Jun'ichiro Tanizaki
We Orientals tend to seek our satisfactions in whatever surroundings we happen to find ourselves, to content ourselves with things as they are, and so darkness causes us no discontent, we resign ourselves to it as inevitable. If light is scarce then light is scarce; we will immerse oursleves in the darkness and there discover its own particular beauty. But, the progressive Westerner is determined always to better his lot. From candle to oil lamp, oil lamp to gas light, gas light to electric light - his quest for a brighter light never ceases; he spares no pains to eradicate even the minutest shadow
I would call back, at least, for literature, this world of shadows we are losing. In the mansion called literature I would have the eaves deep and the walls dark, I would push back into the shadows the things that come forward too clearly, I would strip away useless decoration.
Whenever I see the alcove of a tastefully built Japanese room, I marvel at our comprehension of the secret of shadows, our sensitive use of shadow and light. The "mysterious Orient" of which westerners speak probably refers to the uncanny silence of these dark places. And even we as children would feel an inexpressible chill as we peered into the depths of an alcove to which the sunlight had never penetrated. Where lies the key to this mystery? Ultimately it is the magic of shadows.
In conversation, too, we prefer the soft voice, the understatement. Most important of all are the pauses.
We Orientals tend to seek our satisfactions in whatever surroundings we happen to find ourselves, to content ourselves with things as they are, and so darkness causes us no discontent, we resign ourselves to it as inevitable. If light is scarce then light is scarce; we will immerse oursleves in the darkness and there discover its own particular beauty. But, the progressive Westerner is determined always to better his lot. From candle to oil lamp, oil lamp to gas light, gas light to electric light - his quest for a brighter light never ceases; he spares no pains to eradicate even the minutest shadow
I would call back, at least, for literature, this world of shadows we are losing. In the mansion called literature I would have the eaves deep and the walls dark, I would push back into the shadows the things that come forward too clearly, I would strip away useless decoration.
Whenever I see the alcove of a tastefully built Japanese room, I marvel at our comprehension of the secret of shadows, our sensitive use of shadow and light. The "mysterious Orient" of which westerners speak probably refers to the uncanny silence of these dark places. And even we as children would feel an inexpressible chill as we peered into the depths of an alcove to which the sunlight had never penetrated. Where lies the key to this mystery? Ultimately it is the magic of shadows.
In conversation, too, we prefer the soft voice, the understatement. Most important of all are the pauses.
