My greatest literary weakness is for twisted characters – humans innately drawn to cruelty but free from circumstantial stimuli and narrative judgment. No group of writers does this better than Japanese authors. Reading Yoko Ogawa’s The Diving Pool has deeply satiated my need for raw human darkness. It renders her other more renowned (translated) work, Housekeeper and the Professor, positively tame. I can’t reconcile the fact that the two pieces once resided so intimately within the same mind.
Ogawa, in The Diving Pool, brings cruelty to its extreme – nonchalant, matter-of-fact, and entirely internally driven, the protagonist finds deep pleasure in her private torment of a young toddler.
I wanted to savor every one of Rie’s tears, to run my tongue over the damp, festering, vulnerable places in her heart and open the wounds even wider.
What fascinates me is how non-violent her cruelty was: hiding, leaving the child to find herself alone; lowering the child harmlessly into an urn. These acts are almost childish or innocent in its simplicity. No blood was shed, no pain inflicted, yet the motive to upset was so sparklingly clear. It is how real, how plausible these acts are to us that draws me in.
I refuse to believe that there isn’t a tiny but fully alive mass in us – cushioned and curtained between fear, between conscience – that strains to test the power we have over the vulnerable. There is something about how children fall into our trust so wholeheartedly and confidently that nudges our curiosity, our need to exploit it. It’s in everyone, regardless of whether or not it’s acted upon. Ogawa parcels it neatly in a single line:
The arrogance of Rie’s self-assurance restored my cruel thoughts.
I’ll never bear to intentionally hurt a child. I’m the kind of person who spirals into obsessive panic when a child (any child) bumps against something (usually the floor). But it doesn’t preclude me from understanding (or even having) such dark thoughts. It’s an unpopular opinion, sure, but darkness is in everyone. It can be overshadowed, or completely under the control of our conscience, but it’s a basal characteristic. What I love about Japanese fiction is their understanding, and complete acceptance, of this innate cruelty.
My desires seemed simple and terribly complicated at the same time: to gaze at Jun’s wet body and to make Rie cry.
Here lies a beautiful juxtaposition, the equally intense desire for the external, the aesthetic, the perfect, against the internal, the dark and the hidden hideousness. Ogawa crafts a protagonists without the fuss and fancy of societally constructed moral fear, choosing to present one whose needs are laid out bright as day before her.
The novella contains two other short stories. Both adequate, but if you’re not someone who can swallow blunt human cruelty and unresolved endings, steer clear of it. Personally very pleased with this read, though.
I suggest reading this at a go, on a sunny afternoon, listening to Orange Pekoe . The effect is stunning, if you like me have a thing for jarring contrasts.
Q 