"The Little Prince" - In Defense of Being Grown-up

I first read “The Little Prince” when I was seven, and Dad was impressed that I could understand such a difficult book. I was baffled by his reaction – I had read many longer and more difficult books, like “The Six Bullerby Children”, and there was nothing particularly difficult about “The Little Prince”. There were no words I couldn’t understand, the plot was weird but I could follow it, and the morals were pretty transparent. When I reread the book in school at 14, I took my teacher’s word for it being a book for children at least my age, or maybe even grownups, and acknowledged that there was a lot of metaphor and moral guidance in it that young children wouldn’t get. But at some level I wasn’t convinced – I didn’t think I found any messages in it at 14 that I had missed at 7. Friendship and love are important, one should be a child at heart, look with your heart, not your eyes – these are the trite wisdoms a child is fed almost from the moment it learns to speak. At 7 my reaction was “of course”, at 14 it was “this is waaay oversimplified”. At 21 fragments made me cry.

It is difficult to explain what caused my change of attitude towards the book after those final seven years. It wasn’t that I found any hidden meaning in it that I hadn’t noticed before – not any particularly important meaning, anyway. I did become aware of how the Rose symbolized women in general and the author’s wife in particular – and was angered by the unflattering and stereotypical picture this gave. But noticing a few extra – often annoying! – metaphors could hardly have made me enjoy the book more. What happened instead, I think, is that I had in the meantime developed more of an aesthetic sense. My change in attitude towards “The Little Prince” was in some ways analogous to my change in attitude towards paintings, from a literal approach to a more colour- and composition-based one. Or, for a better analogy, it was similar to the way Mozart’s Jupiter Symphony, which had been one of my earliest favourite pieces, became different, and in some ways fuller, over the years.

For a clearer picture of how my view of the book had evolved, take the oft-quoted wisdom passed to the Little Prince by the Fox: “One sees well only with the heart. What is most important is invisible to the eyes.” As a seven-year-old, I thought “Well, obviously. Mom and Dad always said so, doesn’t everyone know this?” As a fourteen-year-old semi-empiricist: “Obviously not. At best this is a meaningless metaphor. At worst it suggests that there are things we do not have any evidence for which are actually incredibly important, which is silly.” As a 21-year-old, I read the Fox’s wisdom in the context of the chapter I have taken it out of [1]. The Fox had been talking about how even though those close to us are objectively no different from thousands, millions of other people, because we have “tamed” them – and they us – to us they are endlessly different from everyone else. Thus the thought expressed in those two sentences is that oftentimes what is important is not people in themselves, but their relationships to others. The sentences can also be seen as stressing the importance of subjectivity – perhaps even the objectivity of subjectivity – the fact, perhaps forgotten by some adults, that the emotional impact and the memories brought back by certain objects, places, people, and the way particular individuals see these objects, places and people, is for humans a tremendously important feature of the world.

Everyone knows “The Little Prince” is not really a book for children. Despite the dedication, it is also not a book for the children the adults reading it once were – it is, instead, a book for the adults that the children reading it grow up to be. But because it is a book to grow up to, it teaches us something which, in one of its many oversimplifications, it explicitly denies – that it is better to be an adult than a child. No child, no matter how sensitive, really understands “The Little Prince”. No child sees the beauty of a sunset like an adult does – when she bothers to look. Saint-Exupéry tells us to look around us, like a child does – but to use our grown-up eyes for it. Something is lost when we grow up, of course, but if that something is the price we have to pay to appreciate “The Little Prince”, I’m willing to pay it.

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[1] It’s a pity that this fragment is quoted so often without any context – the reason the Little Prince repeats and memorizes it is not, I think, because it’s a wisdom in its own right, but because it is a summary of everything the Fox had previously said to him. But it’s a summary which only makes sense if one had previously read the Fox’s words.

Japan Tour report

I strongly believe that Japan Tour had benefited me in every way I could have hoped for (and asked for in my application) – and in many ways more, which I could not have foretold before arriving in Tokyo. As I had predicted in my application, the benefits of the trip can be categorized into roughly two groups: the artistic and the personal, with the cultural serving as a bridge between the two.

I had come to Tokyo with the hope of discovering a whole new world of art, different from any I had known before and yet so similar in its humanity, and with visible mutual ties between it and the Western art I had grown up with. I discovered just that, in ways which would not have been possible had I come to Japan on my own. Some of my favorite parts of Japan Tour had to do with art: the evening at the kabuki theater, the outdoor architectural museum, Tokyo National Museum, the various temples of Tokyo and Kamakura... As an ukiyo-e enthusiast, I was enthralled by our time at the kabuki theatre (a visit which would not have been possible for me if not for Japan Tour), which was described by the audio guide we were given as “moving ukiyo-e”. Indeed, kabuki, like much of Japanese art, seems to me to be the quintessence of everything I love about artistic endeavors – it concentrates on the individual actor and on the aesthetics of the scenery rather than on complicated story. I found the carefully choreographed movements of the actors, symbolizing fights with only a metaphorical indication of physical contact extremely powerful. I found kabuki, for all its novelty, fully and beautifully human.

When we visited the open-air architectural museum and various Buddhist temples, I fell in love with Japanese architecture and gardens. I cannot fully describe the effect the minimalism of some of the houses in the architectural museum had on me. After the hustle and bustle of industrial Tokyo, the peace to be found in Japanese gardens was a blessing indeed. I shall never forget how gates, stone paths, streams and moss formed a composition full of perfect harmony.

I found the same peace and simplicity in the Buddhist ink drawings in Tokyo National Museum. Overall, I found in Japanese art the novelty I had been searching for, but at the same time I found it easier to understand, more natural and appealing than I had expected. The same could be said about my experiences with the Japanese people – I was intrigued and excited by cultural differences but also came to appreciate how slim these were in comparison with the traits we all share in virtue of being human.

We were treated with incredible hospitality, and I will forever see the Japanese as a hospitable, open and friendly people. One situation stands out in my memory particularly clearly – we were given some free time at Asakusa together with a few of the Technos students. I decided to take this opportunity to visit a kite museum I had read about in a guide book. I didn’t know the address or name of the museum, but the two students I was walking with immediately found it for me on their mobile internet. As if this wasn’t enough help, they offered to accompany me there – despite admitting to not being especially interested in the museum! It took a lot of persuasion to explain that I would really be perfectly fine with them spending their time in the Asakusa shops instead. When I finally managed to persuade them, they insisted on writing out very specific directions on getting to the museum for me and at least leading me all the way to the entrance to the right underground line. I have travelled much, but I do not know of a country full of such hospitality.

This was only one story in many. The welcoming ceremony Technos Week students receive is legendary; the never-ending enthusiasm and willingness to help of Technos students is incredible. I have told all my friends about my stay in Japan, and whenever I do, my story is full of the warmest reminiscences about its people. Thanks to Japan Week, I have become a lifelong fan of the Japanese.

In my application I mentioned that when I first moved to the US, I had heard many stereotypes about its people and it was only when I returned that I found what nonsense they had been. The same had happened to me in Japan; never again will I listen to any negative stereotypes concerning the Japanese without speaking up in an angry voice. Thanks to Japan Tour, Japan has found in me an avid fan and defender – of its incredible, millennia-old culture as well as of its hospitable, wonderful people.

Tokyo: Red Carpets, Jetlag, and Beautiful Murders

The crowd is going wild. The air – filled with waving rectangles of red, white and blue, patterned in American, New Zealand, Taiwanese and British ways. The walls – adorned with other, more exotic and colorful flags – the flags of the various colleges of the day’s celebrities. The ground – occupied by two empires of students separated by a river of red – a real, real red carpet. The screen proudly proclaims “Japan Tour” – and now! – now the names and photos of the first group of professors float onto it. The tutors step onto the carpet, cheered on by the crowd. And after a while – Ewa Bigaj, Pembroke College, Oxford. She walks onto the carpet with two other student-celebrities. The Technos students closest to the carpet wave and grab her by the hands. She is handed a slender rose, and her photo is on a big, big screen, probably for the only time in her life.

This is how we were welcomed to Japan Tour. I was told by the students who came to Technos last year that there was a red carpet and a large screen involved – but nothing could have prepared me for this hour of stardom.

After the welcome ceremony, we were treated to an all-you-can-eat buffet of Japanese delicacies. Over lunch, conversations with the students and obligatory photo shots ensued.

One particular exchange repeated itself over and over throughout my visit.

Technos student: “What’s your major?”

Me: “Math and philosophy.”

“Oh my God! Math? Really? I’ve always hated math! And how long is your course?”

“Four years.”

“Four years of math?! How could you do this to yourself?!”

If I was less predisposed to try and find something interesting in everything under the sun, though, I probably would have exclaimed much the same upon hearing the majors of my Japanese interlocutors. Hotels and Hospitality, Tourism, Civil Aviation – though learning how to make different cocktails sounded like fun, I couldn’t imagine wanting to do this for two or three years – let alone saying, with perfect honesty, that it is one’s greatest dream to work as an airport clerk. But then they couldn’t imagine wanting to be a professor.

There was something slightly Huxleyesque about all these students so happy to do jobs which in the West would not be considered especially attractive, but on the whole I think it was more impressive than frightening. Japanese employees did seem to always do their jobs with an honest smile, and I think (tentatively) that their choices to do their particular jobs were no less their own than my choice to study math and philosophy.

The attraction for that evening was a visit to the kabuki theater. And an attraction indeed it was. The audio guide we were given (which, apart from a translation of most dialogues, gave an informative commentary to the plays) told us that kabuki is sometimes called “moving ukiyo-e” (woodblock prints) – and for an enthusiast of ukiyo-e like me, this meant internally squealing in excitement for half of the play. For the half that I didn’t nearly sleep through, I hurry to add... We were severely jetlagged, the whole group of visiting students and professors, and there comes a point when sleep is much more attractive than beauty...

Kabuki started out in the seventeenth century as a collection of dances performed by a Shinto priestess’s troupe of female dancers. The subsequent kabuki shows were deemed inappropriate and vulgar, and so in 1629 women were banned from the practice. And so originated kabuki as we know it today, with its onnagata – male actors specializing in female roles. But why are female roles still performed by men, even today? The audio guide claimed that women would not be able to play female roles the way onnagata do – a kabuki female cannot be too natural, and besides, the roles often require extremely heavy costumes. Whether this sounds convincing or not, the female-mimicking abilities of the onnagata we saw that day were highly impressive. I found myself thinking “what a beautiful woman!” an embarrassing number of times, and I saw nothing “unnatural” in the onnagata’s acting. I don’t know how they do it, but the audio guide also informed us that young boys could be played by old men in kabuki and it would look perfectly natural...

The series of plays we went to lasted a total of five hours (now you can forgive us our sleepiness, I think) – the first one was about a woman who had left her husband for his brother, and after a year ended up hiding from a snowstorm inside an abandoned hut – only to find the husband-brother seeking shelter in the very same hut. The storm raged outside with a flurry of delicate snowflakes harmonizing with the white make-up of the actors, and the scenes float in front of our eyes with the gracefulness of a winter sketch.

The repentant couple kneels in front of the husband, begging for forgiveness. They yell at him and at each other, he forgives them, blames them, blames himself, wants to kill them, wants to kill himself. The characters are a bit insane, their rapid changes of mind are a little unbelievable, but their gestures and mimicry are utterly sincere. Kabuki, we are assured by the audio guide, is all about the individual actor, his story and his facial expressions. Which are always beautiful, even when they are bizarre.

And when it comes to bizarreness, the second play far surpasses the first. The protagonist chases after his father-in-law with a sword – and he chases, and he chases, and he chases, and as his victim runs and fights back, he tries and tries to stab him. But, as ever, kabuki is beautiful, even in its dark insanity. The fight is not a fight, but a dance – the sword never touches its opponent, hands hit without hitting – and yet hit without any doubt, in the most hitting way possible. Every single movement of the figures, even as seen from under drooping eyelids, emanates fear for one’s life on the one side, and on uncontrollable anger instilled by years of injustice the other.

After long, exquisitely long minutes, the body of the father-in-law is thrown into the lake – it is obviously thrown in, though it walks into the water – which opens up for it, revealing stairs – on its own.

The last play is sheer perfection. Not in the storyline – a man kills his lover’s father, then when she learns the truth he kills her – but in the movement of the actors. It is more a dance than a play – a slow, elegant dance. I had never seen anything like it, and am at a loss for comparisons.

But throughout our evening at the kabuki theater, a comparison sprung to mind every minute. The theater was not as alien as I had expected it to be – the storylines, though bizarre, were not dissimilar to the ones I had seen in Western plays. Love and death and even the more traditionally Japanese honor are intercultural, human themes. The artistry of the scenes and the emphasis on the actor were, up to a point, uniquely Japanese elements – and ones that the West could learn from! But only up to a point. Is kabuki theater unique? Certainly. Is it, with a little help from an audio guide, comprehensible and beautiful to Westerners? Without doubt.

Tokyo: warm-up, or Airport Terminals, Power Lines, Toilet Seats and Helpful Students

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There was no one waiting for me. Here I was, alone at Narita airport – alone in foreign Tokyo, alone in foreign Japan. I’d say I couldn’t believe this was happening to me, but then I’m the sort of person this sort of thing regularly happens to. There I was, on a train somewhere in Barcelona, without a ticket and without the members of my scout troop I’d gone on the trip with. There I was, locked in a toilet with a jammed door in a train somewhere in Romania. There I was, somewhere in the mountains in Norway, realising that I’d just left my wallet – and passport – on the train that we could still make out in the distance. It always worked out somehow in the end, and if I never learned how to avoid such misfortunes, at least I learned how to face them without desperation. (I also learned to always feel a little uncomfortable in the vicinity of trains.)

My first thought was to find an internet cafe and write to our organiser – perhaps he had mobile internet and would be able to receive my message (my phone didn’t work in Japan, and even if it had, I didn’t have his number). Having successfully done that, I began to think a bit more clearly and concluded that that step had probably been unnecessary and that the replacement flight (for the full story, see my previous post) must have landed at a different terminal. I asked the lady in the information booth about the British Airways terminal, and she confirmed that it was Terminal Two rather than One – and that there was a free coach going there. I was saved.

Out the window of the train heading towards our hotel, Japan’s novelty beckoned me to look in all directions at once. There was a thickness, a depth, a lushness to the vegetation here, an exotic elegance to the shapes of trees and the shapes and shades of their leaves.

As we neared more central Tokyo, the vegetation gave way to mazes of streets, houses, skyscrapers, power lines, people. All I’d heard about a city of many faces effortlessly combining the traditional with the contemporary now stared me in the eye. The skyscrapers were not afraid to grow straight into the future – or rather to slalom their way into the future along fantastic, colourful paths. But neither were the little houses with their curved oriental roofs worried that they would not reach the future by staying right where they were, resting their backs comfortably against these young, eager skyscrapers. And the power lines knew that they would always be needed to tie the view together with their myriad ruffled tangles.

After about an hour’s drive, we arrived at our hotel. For Japanese standards, I suppose, the room (which I was to share with a student from New Zealand) was large. For the standards of someone who knows no non-zero lower bound for the time it takes to make a mess, it was minuscule. There was no closet except for a space with a couple of hangers near the entrance; a sign informed you to put your bags under your bed. The one round table standing near the window was not much larger than my laptop. Still, the room was rather elegant, and we were given clean pyjamas (that custom came as a surprise) and Japanese green tea (and this custom made me pretty happy).

Our hotel on the inside

Those easily offended are advised to skip the following paragraph.

You might have heard of crazy Japanese toilet seats, with more functions than a computer. Indeed, our hotel bathroom was equipped with one which, on request, heated up, washed your bottom and had a “strongly deodorizing” function. There were also ones which played back a recorded flushing sound to drown out other toilet noises. Now before I came to Japan, my thoughts were the same as the ones some of you might now be entertaining: What nonsense! Why invest so much technology into toilet seats? But now – and it only took a week in Japan to change my mind – my opinion is more like: Why not? Frankly, these toilet seats are pretty darn useful, and the only reason they haven’t caught on here is because Westerners are too narrow-minded to admit it.

The squeamish can now resume their reading.

After we (two students from Trinity College, New York, and I) dropped our things off at the hotel, one of the students and I were showed around the neighbourhood by a couple of students from Technos College. I was struck – and would be many more times on this trip – by how incredibly nice they were. I had grown up to a stereotypical and outdated view of the Japanese as a somewhat reserved nation – but there was absolutely nothing reserved about the students I was to meet during Japan Tour. They were more smiling, talkative and enthusiastic than Americans, always trying to please and help. During our stay, we were to be treated like royalty, given presents, made to pose for countless photographs, showered with attention and appreciation. But more on that in my next post. For now let us leave me to my exploring the neighbourhood of the hotel, eating a wonderful dinner in a Chinese restaurant (all the meals were paid for, of course), and catching up on much-needed sleep.