This Month's New Reading

Adam In a Kimono

ANOTHER Christmas brings with it another Colin Simpson, lavishly-produced, travel book.

This time, The Country Upstairs— not as one might suppose, about the highest Highlands of New Guinea, but about Japan, the author’s first literary excursion away from Aus tralia and its adjacent islands.

The fact that the book is about Japan appears to be something of a surprise even to the author him self—if one is to take seriously the introductory chapter. Simpson readers are predominantly Aus tralian; the Australian prejudice against the Japanese is too well known to need elaborating. Simp son himself was not without prejudice, at the outset: he was a correspondent with a military mission to Borneo immediately after the war, and had his reasons.

But to this reviewer’s mind, whether or not one “hates the Japs” (stupid expression and worse sentiment) is small reason for re fraining from writing a book about them. Dozens of books have been written by Americans on this sub ject since the end of the war—some by Michener and Willard Price have been reviewed here. And Aus tralian readers would have been the poorer had Simpson not decided that “the Japanese are there and we have to live with them” —and had got on with it by writing his book.

As with many other writers who have begun with prejudice, he has ended by presenting a country and a people of singular charm—with

most of the barbarities supplied not by the Japanese but by the West.

Colin Simpson made two trips to Japan to collect his material. The first in the Autumn of 1955 when the “whole month of November was filled with the maple’s reds and golds.” And again in the Spring of 1956, when the “cherry-blossom it self prints the landscape with a fresh and delicate charm.”

The discerning Simpson eye and the inquiring Simpson mind per mit the writer to do the touristy things in an untouristy manner, and the six lean feet of the Simp son frame amongst the tiny Jap anese and their delicate domestic arrangements and the more strictly formal of their customs created suf ficient diversion to %ive the book a lightsome touch although the writer probes deeply into Japan’s problems.

Not the least of these, of course, are the problems attendant upon the necessity of getting the rest of the world to acknowledge that Japan has some place in it This is Colin Simpson at a formal tea ceremony, in which it was necessary to sit, not cross-legged in the male fashion, but as Japanese women sit, down on the knees, sitting on one’s feet: “This is going to be hellishly uncomfortable,” he thought at the outset—and found that he was right; “Twice I had to move my feet to the side and rest them when the feeling that the stretched back muscles were going to burn through or break got past bearing. I was told beforehand that allowances would be made for me; nobody was so impolite as to stare, of course.”

He continues; “The tea-master, a very refined-looking young man came in and bowed, and everyone bowed to him. . . He proceeded with conventionalised graceful movements to make tea for two young ladies at the head of the line, the ‘primary guests.’ ... I had come to this tea ceremony without any briefing on procedure, but Minoru, who was seated next to me, said while we were settling down that I should drink the tea in three sips, no more and no less, and from the portion of the bowl which was near the main part of the design. And he told me about saying ‘Osakini!’

As for the rest: ‘Just watch what others do.’ I saw that the small cakes were not eaten: they were wrapped up in fine white paper, produced from kimonos and pockets, to be taken away. All Japanese carry kaishi (pocket paper). I had none. Minoru slipped me some to wrap up my cakes.

“At first I thought my turn for tea would arrive before I had had time to learn the etiquette of what to do with it: then, as my legs

ached, I thought my turn w< never come. Eventually it did admired the bowl, handled it took the tea in three sips, se down. I thought I was doing ra well.

“The bamboo ‘tea spoon’ passed around for its workmans shape, patina and I don’t k what else, to be appreciated admired. . . To do the right tl was simple enough. Then the caddy—that isn’t the word at aT a tea-container as beautiful as one was, of dull black lacquer 1 a really glorious pattern of \ This I was really keen about was one of the loveliest thin* had ever held in my hand, order to see the whole desig tilted it forward.

“I felt Minoru’s nudge. ‘Doi tip—it,’ he whispered.

“I passed it on to him, wil side-of-the-mouth ‘What ha\ done wrong?’

“Minoru took the conta turned it, removed the lid, passed it on before he answi very quietly, ‘The tea-master r a little scene in it.’

“Before sending the conts round, the tea-master had ere in the powdered tea a mink landscape. And what had gaijin done, by tilting the bowl caused earthquake havoc, ms little mountains fall into rivers, and wrecking the wor artistry.”

It will be a very prejudiced A\ indeed, who does not get pies and considerable instruction this book —and for the inter visitor to Japan, and that n many leave-takers in the S( West Pacific territories, it wou an ideal companion (although haps it would have been even ideal if Author Simpson hac eluded a reference index at end).

As usual with a Simpson bot takes top marks for productio is lavishly decorated with c and black-and-white photog] and with drawings by Claire £ son, the author’s wife. (Published by Angus and Robertsor Australian price, 25/6.)