The Confessing "I" : Strategy and Subject
in Uno Chiyo's Confessions of Love (1935)
Jane Sellwood
[C] onfession is not simply a matter of concealing one's sins, it is a system. It is
the existence of the system that gives rise to the need to conceal, but we do not perceive this. (Karatani Kojin 77)
Uno Chiyo (1897-1996) is Japan's first "infamous" woman writer. Her stories and
novels are drawn from representations ofher life, which was unconventional in the Japanese context--even today. Her three husbands, acquaintances and friends were associated with bundan--the literary, intellectual and socialist circle in Japan in the first decades of the twentieth century (Fowler xxv). 1l Most of Uno Chiyo's works fall under the
category of the confessional shishosetsu, or !-novel, "a distinctly Japanese form that is
not fiction, but not strictly autobiography either."2 l
Japanese narrative texts such as the confessional shishosetsu, or (I-novel)3 l are productions that feature the "I" as not a single authoritative narrating centre, but a strategy
to narrativize a sabject that represents a network of often competing discourses :
The resulting strategies of narrativizing subjects reveal in turn resistance and capitulation to, uneasiness and complicity with, the discourses of national consolidation
and modernity, which ... mediated the relationship of writer to state in early Japanese twentieth-century literature. (Fujii 10)
In this view, textual subjects, like human subjects, are agents of the discourses that inscribe them. In terms of Uno Chiyo's subject in Confessions of Love, the confessing "I" is
an agent of the multitudinous discourses which produce this narrative figure, and as
such represents not a central, unmediated authoritative stance, but a site of mediation
inscribing the "resistance and capitulation," "uneasiness and complicity'' comprising all
narrative strategies, including Japanese shishosetsu and Western confession. 4 l
Like all texts, the confessional shishosetsu is mediated by discourses of culture and
language which include gender constructions of roles positioning both women and men.
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This essay attempts to show that the confessing "I" used by Japanese writer Uno Chiyo
in Confessions of Love is in effect a narrative strategy of concealment to "confess" gender
constructions in the discourses of Japanese society and literature of the time.
The confessional literary form, according to Karatani Kojin, signalled the inception of
modem Japanese literature by providing a vehicle for representing the "interiority" of
the subject5 >. Karatani links the "discovery of interiority" to the late Meiji literary movement of genbun itchi which sought to privilege the voice of the "I," and thus self-expression, over the figurative language of Chinese characters (69-70).
With genbun itchi,
"[i]nteriority is brought into being through a sense of the presence of one's own voice, to
which one listens" (69). However, Karatani is careful to scrutinize the assumption of the
existence of a "self' which may be expressed as pure content, that is, unmediated by the
literary form in which it is represented. On the contrary, it "was the literary form of the
confession--confession as a system--that produced the interiority that confessed the
"true self' (77). Karatani's rejection of the humanist notion of a pre-existent self touches
on the post-modern line of Western thought which stresses that the "self' is in no way
an autonomous unit but is indeed a "subject" constructed historically and psychologically
by the unstable discourses of culture and language within which it seeks to represent itself.
Like Karatani's examination of the origins of modem Japanese literature, James Fujii's post-modem approach challenges the adoption of humanist assumptions in Japanese
literature and criticism. His study argues for a consideration of the subject as a site of
multiple discourses constructed by both external and internal, that is, historical and psychological conditions. The post-modern subject is not an authoritative centre but a position inscribed by and inscribing a network of cultural differences.
Similarly, literary
texts are productions representing discourses of "sites of many often competing voices inscribed with particular interests and desires" (Fujii 23).
Karatani's examination of the confession form of the modem Japanese I-novel may
be contiguous to the French theorist Michel Foucault's History of Sexuality, which charts
human sexual attitudes and behaviours as institutionalized by the discursive systems in
which they participate. By historicizing sexuality in the context of Catholicism's system
of confession, Foucault demonstrates that sexuality thus participates in the discourse of
the confession system and vice versa. As Karatani insists, "[it] is the existence of the
system that gives rise to the need to conceal, but we do not perceive this" (77).
Karatani's emphasis on confession as a formal system also speaks to Julia Kristeva's
psycholinguistic theory of the subject. Following on the psychoanalytic theories of Freud
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as extended by Jacques Lacan, Kristeva insists that both texts and subjects, like language, consist of a symbolic order of discursive signs and the asymbolic disruption by
what she terms the "semiotic" which eludes that order. In other words, what is deemed
"unlawful" by the symbolic order of language and culture has no existence without the
law that forbids it. If there is no law, there is nothing to forbid. By extension, if there is
no system of confession, there is nothing to confess, and hence to conceal. Further, according to Kristeva's emphasis on the subversive and creative influence of the semiotic,
what is "against the law" in culture and language operates to pressure the symbolic order so that the discursive constructs of the text and the subject are never fixed but always in flux. In effect, subjects, like texts and language itself, are always works in progress6).
As a rhetorical device, the confession form in the hands of women writers may use
prevailing social and literary conventions to challenge and subvert the assumptions on
which they are based (Felski 86-114).
For example, in the confessional form of Uno
Chiyo's text, The Sound of the Wind (Kaze No Oto 1969) the voice of Osen, the female!narrator, uses traditional social and literary conventions to disrupt the assumptions
which govern them. Early in this narrative of her marriage to the inconstant Seikichi,
the "I" comments on spring cherry blossoms while she and her son accompany her husband to an occasion of his extravagant horse racing which will eventually dominate her
marriage, her family and herself:
It was a clear, sunny day.
The cherry trees stretched a far as the castle ruins.
Branches heavy with blooms spread out over our seat like a parasol. Pretty as they
were, I must confess, I found the blossoms something of a nuisance, drooping down
all over us as they did. And then there were the flower-viewers drinking and singing and making such a fuss I was afraid they'd pull the red and white curtains
down. (Uno Sound of the Wind 142)
The cherry blossoms are first represented in traditional images inscribed by the social
conventions of the annual spring rite of sakura no hana and the language describing it.
However, the conventional images of this landscape--cherry trees, castle ruins, branches
heavy with blooms, parasol--are interceded by the narrator's of interiority. Osen "must
confess" that the blossoms were a "nuisance," even oppressive in their "drooping." The
drinking flower-viewers further disrupt the conventional figuration of the landscape, and
signal both the discord to come and the subversive pressure of Osen's retrospective narrative on the forms and conventions which governed her position in the marriage to
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Seikichi.
Uno's shishosetsu Confessions of Love also conceals an interiority that goes against
the discursive grains of and social and literary convention 7 >.
This text is the author's
narrativization, in the confession form, of her husband's account of a series of relationships which ended in his failed double suicide with the most elusive of the women with
which he was involved8 >. Using the first-person male narrator, Yuasa Joji, Uno's text
mediates her husband's account through her own narration of it, and thus draws attention to itself as a site fraught with the tension of conflicting multiple discourses, not the
least of which is generated by the reader's identification of the "I" narrator as Uno's second husband, the artist Togo Seiji. The character Joji's confessional "I" is thus a figure
narrating Uno's mediation of the conventional male quest which comprises Confessions of
Love. And Uno's use of the confessional form is a rhetorical device by which a discursive
network of interests and desires involving gender roles and the modernization of Japanese society is put into circulation.
The "I" narrator has recently returned from a lengthy interval abroad. He and his
wife share the same house, but are preparing to divorce and so live separate lives within
the common edifice. The narrator goes out every night and finds one woman after another. A famous artist, he finally responds to the persistent notes a woman sycophant
sends him asking him to meet her in front of a train station. Takao's aggressive pursuit
of Joji culminates finally in the room of a hotel to which she takes him:
The car stopped and a man wearing a white uniform came running out from behind a dark strand of trees to offer an umbrella. We had arrived at the hotel. I was
under the impression that we might be having dinner there and I followed Takao as
she quite calmly made her way through a lobby lined with politely nodding bellboys.
We turned down a dark hall and one of the bellboys ran up from behind to hand her
a key.
She opened the door to one of the rooms and after I followed her in she
locked it firmly.
This is shocking," I said to her. ''You're doing what the man is supposed to do.
I'm supposed to be doing this for you."
''You're quite right." She stood by the locked door with a hostile glint in her eyes,
breathing hard. "But today I'm going to do everything.
I'm going to do what the
man is supposed to do." (CL 12)
With the figure of Takao, Uno's text signals that in the narrative that follows the con-74-
vention of the male lead in romantic affairs is put into question.
The text thus uses Joji's confession to undermine social and literary convention by
putting into narrative discourse the interiority of the modern female subject. This effect
is achieved by the strategy of embedding the listener's point of view :
"I wonder where I should start? he said, reflecting for some time before slowly starting to speak: (CL 3)
The listener here, of course, is the actual narrator, reiterating in her embedded voice
the telling of the confession. This narrative strategy, which has been compared to that of
Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights 9 >, achieves a critical dimension which subverts the
surface conventions of Joji's romantic quest, easing the way for the semiotic's disruption
of the social and literary "laws" which frame this narrative. The women in Joji's quest-Takao, Tomoko and Tsuyuko--may be read as figures of female roles. Moreover, their
names represent these gender designations: "Takao" connotes the so-called masculine
qualities of forwardness and stridence, unconventional in a female object of romantic
love ; "Tomoko" on the other hand signifies companionship, implying the support of female nurturing ; and "Tsuyuko" resonates with the melancholy romantic attitude associated with the image of ame and Japan's brief but intense rainy season.
Accordingly, Tomoko becomes the temporary refuge Joji tums to when his search for
Tsuyuko becomes too desperate for him to sustain. Tomoko's family home, in fact, draws
him like a weary traveller to a warm hearth on a rainy night :
Perhaps it isn't absolutely correct to say I went to visit Tomoko, for I was stirred
more by the desire to wrap myself in a chair in that comfortable house. Nor was it
Tomoko's gentle eyes and face that welled up in my heart first, but rather her
mother's affectionate voice, the warm coffee, the bright flickering light. When I sat
down before the fire in that house, I felt at peace, as if I had finally come home from
a long joumey. After the intense pressure of my love for Tsuyuko, my relationship
with a woman like Tomoko was so serene that the word "love" didn't even occur to
me. (CL 78)
When their marriage takes place, Joji accustoms himself to his "role as urbane husband" (CL 93) in the house that Tomoko's mother had helped to make warm:
I, as the urbane husband, did not forget to show my fondness for my young wife.
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This will do fine, I began thinking. If we can continue in this manner I'll become
quite contented and perhaps gradually return to my work. For the first time in my
life I had the kind of house where I could sit at peace by the stove and drink hot coffee. (CL 94)
However, Tsuyuko's reappearance coincides with Tomoko's decision to leave Joji for
her previous lover. What follows is a series of events that culminate in Tsuyuko's agreement to die with Joji.
Previously, she had resisted his passionate pursuit, writing to
him:
I am afraid for you. . . . I know what a person like you will do. You will gradually
descend further and further into the pit. Even though it isn't what I want, I would
be the one to send you rushing to the bottom. I don't exactly know why it happens
but the more we think that we want to be together, the more impossible it is for the
two of us. We are digging our own holes. Do you understand?. . . . Please don't
come searching for me anymore. (CL 67)
However, in the resumption of their relationship, her resistance to Joji has apparently fled ; she even augments his obsession with her own determination, telling him :
I want to be sure you know that once I leave my house I refuse to go back. I absolutely refuse. That's going to be my attitude when I walk out. But I'm afraid you'll
change your mind. As for myself, I'm convinced there's no way we will be able to
live together. Without you, I would have to die by myself and I don't want to die
alone. (CL 144)
Interestingly, Tsuyuko becomes the most complex of the female figures in Joji's quest, developing her own motives for transgressing society's rules. But, paradoxically, there is
for her no path of existence outside the gender boundaries of traditional society. To walk
out "absolutely" apparently leads to no alternative but death, both figuratively and literally.
But their double suicide fails because of Joji's lack of expertise with the scalpel he
bought for that purpose. He comments afterwards :
I was under the impression that I knew precisely where the artery was, but since I
had been drinking to stir up my circulation I assumed that I only had to thrust the
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scalpel in where the blood flow was strong.... The real artery, I was dumbfounded
to discover later, was about an inch further in. Because of that, both Tsuyuko and I
were saved. (CL 156)
In this confession's strategy of concealment, realism intercedes to undermine the romantic female figures that superficially construct Joji's quest. In fact, Takao dominates their
brief sexual encounter, and leads him to Tomoko and Tsuyuko; Tomoko's own agenda
negates her arranged marriage to Joji; Tsuyuko's seeming capitulation as the object in
the male romantic quest occurs because of her own motives, which counter this convention. And Joji's mishandling of the practical detail of the artery's location foils the suicide and thus subverts it as a social and literary convention.
At the point in the narrative where his marriage to Tomoko has ended and he is
again with Tsuyuko, Joji gives a retrospective summary of the motives which have led
him away from his first marriage to the point of suicide :
... .I realized that after so many years away my work had lost its intimate connections to Japanese society. Left behind by events, I could not find a new way to go
about my work and great anxiety resulted. Japan had become more unknown to me
than a foreign country. . . . I had sought Tsuyuko's love the way a baby searches for
a mother's breast, but no matter how long I journeyed I still found no refuge where
my heart could come to rest. It was as if I were walking in the dead of night along a
windy street while the rest of the world basked in the warmth of their homes. (CL
143)
Joji's quest for refuge may also be read as a form of mourning for the passing of
rituals and conventions no longer meaningful in twentieth-century post-Meiji Japan.
From the hotel room scene dominated by the masculine Takao on through his unrequited
relationship with Tsuyuko and his unsuccessful marriage of convenience with Tomoko,
Joji's "I" narrates his desire in the form of a quest through a psychological landscape
marked by ostensibly conventional female figures. The elusive figure of Tsuyuko is tantalizingly at remove from him by her family's intervention. And it is not unconventional
that he is impeded in his quest by the traditional order this family represents. Figuratively, the double love suicide thwarts the imposition of law on the lovers, and provides
for their complete withdrawal from the social order that impedes them. But in Confes-
sions of Love, the double suicide fails inevitably, it seems, because this convention of es-77-
cape from the restrictions of an older order of culture--social and literary--no longer is
valid in the Japan of Uno's modern context. Joji's desire shapes his confession. But it is
thwarted, restricted, repetitive, and thus the convention of the romantic male quest conceals the modern's doomed obsession.
The image of the "mother's breast" stands out as a metonymy for the irrevocably lost
object of Joji's desire. Psychoanalytically speaking, desire for the lost object resembles a
condition of perpetual mourning. 10 l As a literary convention, Joji's quest may be read as
a figure of this condition. According to Susan Napier, the theme of the lost mother is
prevalent in the genre of fantasy in Japanese pre-war modern literature, and is "a
theme which is also played out in The Tale of Genji, as Genji restlessly seeks to replace
his dead mother in a series of new lovers" (Napier 43). Genji Monogatari, or The Tale of
Genji, was written by Lady Murasaki "born 978, in the Heian period of Japanese history.
. . . The early death of her husband and her dissatisfaction with court life gave Lady
Murasaki cause to turn to the truths of Buddhism and to watch the floating world about
her with dispassionate yet observant eyes. In private she devoted herself to bringing up
her fatherless daughter and to writing the Genji Monogatari" (Murasaki 7). The Genji
Mongatari, concerning the prince Hikaru Genji, who embodied all the elegance and talent expected of an aristocratic courtier, and, like, all gallant courtiers of medieval times,
he was a philanderer who lived for the quest of love" (Murasaki 8).
Genji's narrative
takes him through a number of romantic adventures with young women who are inscribed with iconographic designations such as "Beautiful Cicada," Evening Glory,"
''Young Violet," and "Saffron Flower" and who remain as passive figures in the landscape
across which Genji carries out his quest.
In a coda at the end of Joji's narration, Tomoko's mother appears like a ghost from
the past, smiling, friendly, surprisingly conveying nothing of the disastrous events that
surrounded them earlier. Six years after the failed attempt at double suicide, Joji unexpectedly meets Tomoko's mother in front of a food market at the same station where he
used to meet Tsuyuko. She greets him "with such cordiality, as if nothing unusual had
occurred" (156), that her fond manner precipates in Joji a rush of emotional memory :
What filled my heart at that moment was only the memory of the warm atmosphere
of the house in Senzoku and the flickering fires that often burned in the stoves
there. (156)
He learns, "with relief," that Tomoko has married "an American doctor of Indian origin"
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(157). Joji then realizes, as Tomoko's mother takes her leave, that "the entire episode
had taken a quiet place in [his] thoughts: 'Well, I'll see you again. You'll come to visit
us, won't you? The mother spoke brightly as she departed, soon disappearing into the
crowd" (157).
She stands out as the unexpected final note in Uno's text, and thus stands for the
lost object that is the true object of Joji's quest. Hitherto, Tomoko's mother has had arealistic and intermediary role as helper in Joji's quest.
Her evocation at the very end
raises her to the status of a figure which evokes the "maternality" posited in Napier's
analysis of the fantastic and its subversion of modernity in Japanese literature. According to Napier, the feminine in the works of many modern Japanese writers represents
the "site of a specifically Japanese past that has both personal and suprapersonal resonances"(37). The evocation of "maternality" in the unexpected appearance of Tomoko's
mother is a coda to Uno's narration of this "confession," one that reverts the preceding
narrative to a subversive text which both attempts to abandon the idea of the maternal
in the achieved stasis of married home life with Tomoko, while paradoxically embracing
maternality as the lost origin that shapes the desire Joji's quest inscribes.
Confessions of Love, in its subversion of the double love suicide convention, puts into
effect the semiotic pressure of a feminist discourse that criticizes the convention of the
male romantic hero. Uno Chiyo signals this criticism in a move which marks her narrative intention to write within the conventions of the shishosetsu, but to feminize the "I"
narrator by positioning him as passive receptor of forces which impinge on him in his
quest for the lost object of the Japanese past which is figuralized in the illusory Tsuyuko,
and reiterated at the text's inconclusive ending in the luminous maternality of Tomoko's
mother.
In Uno's Confessions of Love, the confessing "I" is a strategy for concealing what it
questions -- social and literary conventions which position both female and male subjects. Joji's quest represents the shape of male desire in negotiation with the modernity
confronting Uno Chiyo and her contemporaries. The failed suicide is Uno's point of departure for her insight into both the impotence of that convention in the modern context.
Hence her text problematizes the assumptions that have privileged male desire and its
inscription in social and literary conventions. Confessions of Love, I suggest, problematizes any link between the modernity of Jijo's context and "an avenue back to a traditional, more elegant past" (Napier 39) which is symbolized in Jijo's quest for Tsuyuko.
The autobiographical fact that the suicide fails becomes, in Uno's treatment of it, symbolic of the inaccessibility of escape from the modern present to that avenue.
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I further suggest that Confessions of Love may be read as a feminist text. It not
only negates the conventions of the traditional male quest in the context of Japanese
modernity, but also implicitly posits a shape of the desire of female subjects. Because it
is shishosetsu, it signals the identification of narrator, protagonist and author. The confession of the failed male quest has a female author, whose text criticizes the convention
of the male romantic hero and the figuralization of the female objects of his adventures.
While not actually conveying what the shape of female desire may be, the text hints at
its existence by the subversion of Joji's quest. Thus, paradoxically, Confessions of Love
may be read as opening an avenue for female desire, that is, for a consideration of the
female as a subject, an agent of her own desire, rather than as a figuration of male
desire mediated by traditional Japanese social and literary conventions of Uno Chiyo's
time and place.
Notes
1 ) See Rebecca Copeland's biographical introduction to The Sound of the Wind (1993), especially "The Magome Literati Village" 27-39. This edition of three works by Uno Chiyo includes English translations of "The Puppet Maker," "The Sound of the Wind," and "The
Powder Box."
2) See Rebecca Copeland's introduction to her translation of Uno Chiyo's shishosetsu, Aru hi-
tori no anna no hanashi (1971), The Story of a Single Woman {1992).
3) See Karatani Kojin, "The Discovery of Interiority" 45-75, and "Confession As a System" 7696 in Origins of Modern Japanese Literature.
4 ) According to Fujii, that the "individual has achieved privileged status in modern Japanese
literature" is illustrated by the fact that it is a form that "saw only a brief flowering in the
Taisho era (1912-26) but that continues to occupy a central place in Japanese letters" (1).
5 ) Fujii refers to the dialogism of early twentieth -century Russian theorist Mikhail Bahktin
as antecedent of his own approach to the discourse analysis of modern Japanese prose narrative:
Opening the way to what we call discourse analysis, Bakhtin presents a way of understanding texts as socially engaged participants in a contestatory social field. Literature is for him a site of ideological content in which readings can reveal the often tense
relations between dominant and dominated subject positions. (Fujii 30)
6) See Kristeva, Desire in Language.
7) An interesting contrast to Fujii's emphasis on the adulteration of Japanese subjectivity by
the Western humanist concept of self, Fowler's study of early twentieth-century shishosetsu
foregrounds the ''very protean notion of self' evidenced in Japanese language, a notion that
"depends for its existence more on the person or situation with whom or with which one is
associated at a given moment than on one's own unilaterally initiated thoughts and acts" (5
-6).
According to Fowler, English has only one category of pronoun, which makes the
boundary between self and other "all the more inviolable." He continues
The abundance of first-, second-, and third-person prenominals in Japanese, however,
each used in accordance with the speaker's social relationship with a specific hearer
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and referent, tends to undermine that sense of separate, autonomous presence and blur
the boundary between self and other. In short, self-expression in Japanese is forever a
contingent activity, dependent on the relationship between speaker and hearer and, by
extension, between writer and audience. Shi I watakushi shosetsu becomes in this way
a metonymy for what is in Japanese a continually variable communicative act.
The
narrator cannot even utter the word watakushi or boku or ore until he has posited a
The shishosetsu, then, is as much "we-novel"
specific relationship with the narratee.
as "I-novel" (6).
8) Interestingly, Uno Chiyo's contribution to the Japanese shishosetsu is mentioned in neither
Fowler nor Fujii's study of the genre. According to Rebecca Copeland, Uno's use of a male
"I" in Confessions of Love was a "revolutionary" achievement (Sound of the Wind 48). Critic
Saeki Shoichi comments on Uno's use of a male "I" narrator, as opening "the road to an
Uno-style narration, a style separate from her personal 'I'" (qtd. in Copeland SW 48).
9 ) See Copeland ed. The Sound of the Wind 52.
10) See Freud, "Mourning and Melancholia."
According to Freud, whose innovations in the
field of psychoanalytic theory and therapy are still regarded as the foundations of much of
today's work in clinical psychology and psychoanalytic theory and therapy, in "pathological
mourning" or "melancholia," there is an "identification of the ego with the abandoned object." Joji's obsession with Tsuyuko may be read as having some features of what Freud describes as melancholia, in which there is " a reaction to the real loss of a loved object ; but
over and above this, it is marked by a determinant which is absent in normal mourning or
which, if it is present, transforms the latter into pathological mourning. The loss of a love
object is an excellent opportunity for the ambivalence in love-relationships to make itself
effective and come into the open. Where there is a disposition to obsessional neurosis the
conflict due to ambivalence gives a pathological cast to mourning and forces it to express itself in the form of self-reproaches to the effect that the mourner himself is to blame for the
loss of the loved object, i. e., that he has willed it" (586-588).
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