This is the third installment of the SEA OF FERTILITY tetralogy.

Seeing the development of Honda's life throughout the "Sea of Fertility" series has been a fascinating journey that I'm sure will be taken to extreme in part IV (The Decay of the Angel.) Knowing a bit about Mishima's biography is particularly helpful in understanding his works (more so than with many other authors.)

As Honda (who is the link in all the books) gets older, he gets jaded and disenchanted with life, he get's wrapped up in sexual fantasy with a girl over 30 years younger, ignores his wife, and is still searching for some sort of religious truth in Buddhism, although his outlook becomes more nihilistic all the time.

This is a good story, although not as good as "Spring Snow" or "Runaway Horses." The writing is a bit more clouded than before...but its probably because there's a different translater in this volume. "Spring Snow" and "Runaway Horses" were both translated by Michael Gallagher who did a brilliant job. This volume uses two translators and the words just don't flow as well...its more awkward. (By the way I'm reading the series put out on Vintage International.)

In addition to just being a wonderful piece of fiction, its interesting to see how the characters reflect different aspects of 20th century Japanese society, and the conflicts that arise when a nation embraces aspects of different cultures and straddles two distinctly different ideaologies.

I strongly recommend reading the book if you've read the previous two, because Honda's character is ever evolving and Mishima is a grand storyteller, but I can't rate this one as high due to the sometimes dry translation.

"See just the trees, but not the forest" is an old Chinese saying, meaning to comprehend, and thus evaluate, things only from partial angles and views. To assess/critic, even compare any one of the 4 "Sea of Fertility" novels is to do just that. The 4 novels are all part of a grand design in a way very much like 4 movements from a symphony. Yes each novel stands on its own as a great literature accomplishment, but so does each movement of any symphony by Beethoven or Mahler. Now, I am not a write or a literature critic in any shape or form, but I have read the complete "Sea of Fertility" twice before, and am onto "Runaway Horses" for the third time now. Just want to remind every one that, these novels are not meant to be read individually.

Now here's one of those books which one tries to review, but can only come up with disembodied cries and wild gesticulations due to sheer awe when one sits down to do it. I'll admit, I was a bit skeptical when approaching this: Runaway Horses, the second novel in the Sea of Fertility cycle, seemed to me to be a kind of regression after the incredibly beautiful Spring Snow. But now it occurs to me that I very well may have treated it unfairly, since I've read The Temple of Dawn and was blown away all over again.

I'll grant you, this is a more difficult read than Spring Snow, which is probably why people don't talk about it as much. Why so? Well, first of all, it's split into parts. The first part isn't very heavy on plot - most of it is comprised of Mishima explaining various aspects of Buddhism. You might not be too keen on this; I wasn't, and frankly I don't think Mishima was either - it's a bit too dry to have been written by someone who was passionate about the subject. If this turns you off, however, I advise you to persevere - the ending will make it more than worth it.

Secondly, there's an abrupt shift in focus. The first two books centered around their young protagonists Kiyoaki and Isao; Shigekuni Honda was present in both as a sort of way to link the two, but was often out of the picture. Further, both of those books seemed to paint a broader picture of Japan, if the depictions of court intrigue in Spring Snow and conspiracy organization in Runaway Horses are any indication. Indeed, both of those books reflect just how well Mishima could understand the world when he had a mind to. The Temple of Dawn, however, takes a new course that is then followed all the way to the end of The Sea of Fertility - it takes place almost entirely in Honda's head. Other characters are still present, certainly, but now everything is filtered through his eyes. This explains why you never meet the new incarnation of Kiyoaki, Ying Chan, in person - all you know of her comes from Honda's obsessive thoughts.

In taking this course, Mishima has created just about the most poignant portrayal of loneliness and ennui I've ever seen. Reduced to Honda's perspective, the world of the novel becomes much more insular. This really culminates in the last novel (The Decay of the Angel), but it's more than evident here. Here we have Honda, a man whose life has been a brilliant success by all standards, and yet who can't say he has ever lived. Does that sound like a cliche? Well, now that I look over that sentence, it kind of does. But this will be soon forgotten when you read about his lonely dreams and his increasing burning desire to be someone he isn't. And in this light, it's no surprise that his quest for Ying Chan becomes the one and only quest of his life. It could have been no other way - it's one of those brilliant Mishima touches to have made the third incarnation a woman; not the first or the second, mind you, but the third, when Honda is already slipping into old age, which Mishima equated with the loss of one's soul. Only this way could the intense yearning that permeates the pages of this book have been created.

The writing itself shows Mishima to be in full mastery of his art. One of the reasons why I found Runaway Horses a bit underwhelming was the lack of the absolutely mindblowingly sensuous descriptions that filled Spring Snow. Well, in The Temple of Dawn, they're back with a vengeance. I won't tell you any of the plot or how this relates to it since I don't want to ruin it for you. I will, however, say that the ending is just about one of the most brilliant things I've ever read. For a time, I was wondering where Mishima was going with these new developments and puzzling over how they could end. And then came the ending. In hindsight, it was the most obvious conclusion ever, and yet, since Mishima is familiar with things such as "subtlety," I was taken completely off guard by it. It's quite possibly the apex of this author's literary career, and it took the wind right out of me; when trying to imagine how it was written, I can only envision a fevered Mishima furiously tossing off page after page with a sort of maniacal frantic gleam in his eyes. And to this day, I get the oddest sinking feeling whenever I recall it.

Why am I writing this incoherence? If you've started The Sea of Fertility, you'll certainly finish it, and if not, you should be reading Spring Snow. But I implore you not to forget to read The Temple of Dawn. Don't listen to anything anyone else says about it - the truth is that it's another unqualified masterpiece from a man whose career was blessed with them.

I'll give credit that at least Mishima tried to tackle the subject of homosexuality from a broader perspective. You can understand the world of gay men, where they go, and what's happening in the minds of these men during the early post-war era of Japan. The ending, however, was no surprise. However, I also give credit to Mishima for pushing the issue out there as best as he could. I'm not sure whether or not he understood his sexuality. During that time, I don't think a lot of men could have. But he tried, and I think through that he helped a lot of other gay men to try, too.

This book was the first of it's kind that I've read; Yukio Mishima came highly recommended by a friend, and I could not find the other books they had suggested, so I took up Forbidden Colors, and was slowly drawn into the book.

Every character was dangerous and flawed in some manner but poor Yasuko, who is a typical woman of her time period. And she gains the least out of all of these characters, as Yuichi is mentored into a tool for revenge againts women by his sponsor and mentor;a libido driven romantic who has been burned once to often and has turned hateful and cruel. Even as he encourages Yuichi to delve into his homosexual liasons, he forces him into a marriage and two affairs in which there is no love--Yuichi loves no one, in fact,but himself. He is a beautiful, vain creature, and not really likable. He has moments, where he almost seems human, gullible and almost likable, but they are few and far between.

However, this is not American literature, and so good is not required to triumph. Yuichi seems rewared for his uncaring demeanor and his beauty both, and it's fascinating to see this play of dark desires clashing againts once another. It's a good read--but it's not an easy one.

I found this book very interesting because the notion of a homosexual underbelly in Japan is something that had not really occurred to me before. The rather stereotypical view we usually get is that of a hardworking nation, dedicated to family and tradition. The presentation of gay Japanese cruising each other was thought-provoking, to say the least. As educated as I think that I may be, it is always an fascinating surprise when one of those vestigial presuppositions comes to light, and I am forced to alter my thoughts on the world around me. Mishima's well-crafted style and use of language provide a penetrating and valuable look into an intriguing, though somewhat obscured, example of humanity.

I'm not too sure what Mishima was trying to do with this one. Yes, it _is_ the story of a strike, technically speaking...except the strike really doesn't take up that many pages. In fact, it barely takes up any. Society's response to it is outlined sketchily at best, the details of it aren't shown much concern for, and for most of its duration it is located offscreen, out of the writer's focus. The summaries are misleading - the effects of the strike and of unions on Japanese culture are, in fact, never discussed at all. Don't expect a Japanese Germinal here.

The novel works much better as a character study of Komazawa Zenjiro, the owner of the company in which the strike occurs. I'm thinking that must have been Mishima's true purpose, seeing as every chapter title starts with Komazawa's name. Komazawa is a man who lives quite firmly in the past, and tries to adapt the ways of the past to this modern world. (This bears more than a slight parallel to Mishima himself.) His quasi-religious faith in those ways is poignant, and though he clearly has the author's sympathies, Mishima has admirably chosen not to whitewash his faults - Komazawa's hypocrisy, his occasional pointless cruelty and his refusal to even try to understand anything not in the scope of the old ways are all highlighted quite clearly.

However, a good character study does not a good novel make, and the other characters seem, to put it nicely, "unfinished." Otsuki, the strike leader, has precious few appearances to put in for such an important role, and his only motive for what he does, according to the author, is an almost childish chagrin at Komazawa's separation of him from his girlfriend. He seems like more of a plot device than a character. More frustrating, though, is the fact that this novel has many potentially fascinating characters that it simply chooses not to develop. Take the ex-geisha Kikuno, for instance, whose motives are never made anything approaching "clear" - does she love Komazawa? What is the source of her admiration of him? Why did she even want to quit being a geisha in the first place? Or what about the ominous intellectual Okano, who is depicted as a Machiavellian scheming sort of man, but is never given (and never gives) any rationalization for his actions? Did he do what he did solely out of mischief? Was he motivated by financial concerns? What about Komazawa's wife Fusae, who seems to have a (similarly unexplained) martyrdom complex? All these are things Mishima could really have taken some time to flesh out.

As it is, the novel's an often interesting portrait of a very specific type of person, but that's about it. It could have been more. If you're a fan of Mishima, you are of course going to read this, but if this is your first contact with his work, I doubt it will impress you enough to make you delve into the rest of his oeuvre.

While I had heard of Mishima for years, I had never actually sat down with one of his books. This book takes an intimate look at a silk production factory; in which the working conditions are so deplorable that the overworked employees finally go on strike.

What makes this book so interesting is Mishima's ability to flesh out all his characters. He does not fall into the simplistic "worker=good/boss=bad" trap, Mishima enjoys creating morally ambiguous characters. First, Komazawa-san, the company president, appears to be very hard working and inspiring to his employees. However, as I read about the horrible working conditions within the company, I found myself rooting for Otsuki-san, the strike leader. As Mishima continues to dig deeper into his characters' psyches, revealing their ethical blindspots, I discovered that no one is completely good or evil. How the protesters conscript other workers to join the strike, and how Komazawa-san's deteriorating self image reveals his pitiful humanity, make for very compelling reading.

The use of a strike situation is a wonderful crucible in which to combine all these differing emotions, motivations, and deceptions; resulting in characters on both sides of the picket line who are forever changed (scarred?) by the whole experience.

You may not be able to look at silk the same way again.

This book is of little value to both Mishima fans and novices. The novices will want biographical information, of which Yourcenar gives precious little - sure, all the really important stuff is there, but it's outlined in a very sketchy, couldn't-be-bothered way - and certainly far less than either John Nathan or Henry Scott-Stokes. The fans will want information that isn't available anywhere else, of which there is none whatsoever in this book. So what does Yourcenar talk about? The literature, primarily. That would be good, if not for one thing - Yourcenar is an author herself, and she seems to be out to prove her own literary worth. Thus, the book is made of torturedly "sophisticated" sentences, bizarre assertions of the nature of "those who love life love death the most" (not an exact quote, but a very accurate paraphrase), and of course, some namedropping. Yourcenar mentions D'Annunzio, Cocteau, Lautreamont, and others, with very little cause. She also knocks down a few straw men here and there (randomly, in one footnote, she spontaneously accuses nameless people of accusing Mishima of being a snob, and proceeds to prove them wrong), and once proudly proclaims that Mishima was a reader of her own literary work. Bully for her, I guess.

The literary analysis really isn't that good, either. Admittedly, a cursory read may have the effect of helping people see why they like or dislike Mishima's writing, even if Yourcenar's own musings on the matter aren't very inspiring, but it really doesn't say anything. Some of the man's works are barely given a mention - the "discussions" of After the Banquet and The Sailor Who Fell From Grace With the Sea take up about a page, combined. Others are given whole chapters, but even then, there is little serious attempt at character analysis - for instance, Ying Chan, the doomed beauty of The Temple of Dawn, is described as "careless" or "thoughtless" or something to that effect, with no justification for this whatsoever, and no further attempt is made to understand her. The part dealing with The Decay of the Angel is effective, but only because it makes the reader remember that incredible novel - it is Mishima who is responsible for the effectiveness, and not Yourcenar.

So what's Yourcenar's point? Apparently, that Mishima had a special vision of a "Buddhist Void" unique to him that inscrutably exhorted him to commit suicide. That's about it. To this end, she gives probably a lot more attention than is necessary to some of Mishima's lesser, later political works - but almost none, paradoxically, to his essay Sun and Steel. This is why she glosses over biographical details - because in her opinion, they have little to no bearing on Mishima's life. A few anecdotes, such as the "green snake" incident, are related with much self-conscious weightiness, as if they held some kind of magical key to Mishima's work. All of these anecdotes are also related by either Nathan or Scott-Stokes in their respective biographies with much less sophomoric interpretations. Yourcenar continues with a rhapsodic summary of the story "Patriotism," which has no value to any reader who has read the source material, and only ends up conveying the impression that Yourcenar is far more fond of blood and death than Mishima ever was. She ends with a poetization of Mishima's last day, in which she waxes eloquent and ecstatic on the subject of ritual disembowelment and decapitation. This culminates in the last paragraph of the book, a completely unnecessary and grotesque extended metaphor that says nothing and isn't even worth reading.

When the book doesn't make goofy conclusions from its superficial collection of facts, it resorts to just praising Mishima's work. On this there is no argument from me, as I am a big fan of Mishima and agree wholeheartedly with Yourcenar's praise. However, her book contributes nothing new to the exciting field of praise, either. Truth be told, I have a hard time understanding why this book was even written. At 150 pages, it's barely even a book; it fails as a biography and as literary criticism. Even at its best, it just isn't very good; you'd do much, much better with either of the two primary Mishima biographies.