Hōjōki ver. 2021
Situating Chōmei in a contemporary capitalist society (such as those of the US and Japan), what would he likely tell us? What might we find out in the new version of a hermit’s life—would we feel an even stronger bond with his story through a modern adaptation?
Money flows like the unceasing movement of water in a river. We earn; we spend. We ought not to deny or act against this constant fluctuation of monetary possessions, for what is the point of stopping the flow of capital in the world of business? Capitalism upholds the virtue of monetary circulation, cultivating the ground of social investment and capital accumulation.
It is spectacular indeed to see people acquire unprecedented wealth in their lifetimes. Yet, it is also they who lose their assets and reputations, going through bankruptcies and enormous debt—sometimes multiple times in just one life. On a larger scale, we can see that fortune can never be monopolized forever, but it turns to smile at someone new. In essence, we cannot receive its grace for long, and it can start to disappear without our notice.
It is precisely in this world of business which traps people with the momentary illusion of lavishness. Caught up in the game of business, people seek promotions and assets as if they are the only passage to attain happiness. But do they know that they have sold their hearts to careers, whose prospects are nothing but full of uncertainty? What would these people say were they to find out that they are only the subjects of delusions and exploitation? How pitiful!
Having grown up in New York City, one of the world’s renowned economic capitals, I have seen people moving in and out. I have seen them attaining their great ambitions, only to see them burned to ashes shortly thereafter.
I myself came to be disillusioned of this worldly trend of pursuing business. The professional dream with which I grew up shuttered unexpectedly and completely with the economic downturn in late 1990s. It caused a series of unfortunate events to my family and its business, tearing apart the career prospect that was promised to me as a child.[1] I was then in an apprenticeship with the family’s corporation, but the financial damage surpassed what we could endure. My uncle ended up signing the contract to sell the company.
At this point, fortune and happiness are slipping out of my hand due to the constant deterioration in our business affairs. The recession made it even more difficult for me to find an employment. The exhaustion and despair finally came to the point that I could not continue pursuing my old dream of becoming a successful businessman.
At the age of 35, I decided to return to the university to become a scholar, for there seemed to be no bright future for me in the world of finance.[2] Abandoned by my former wife and our children after the financial crisis, I no longer had family obligations or even the desire to start a new family. It was around this time that I gradually recalled my days as an undergraduate; I had enjoyed taking classes in English literature and had made goods friends with my classmates in the department. I remembered that in having discussions with my friends and professors, I had only cared about personal growth and intellectual exploration. The more I learned, the more keenly I could think. This world, at least, did not betray me; all the toil rewarded me with new perspectives and knowledge. In the capitalist society, academia seemed to me a shelter from the uncertain, transitory world.
Thus, when I received the invitation from an old friend from college, I joined a literary group in Boston without any hesitation. I was thrilled to be a part of this group, for it appeared to me as an ideal way to get away from the deadening world of finance. While the purpose of the group was to enhance our literary skills and explore the new and revised interpretations of classic literature, I came to notice that people were not engaged in this activity merely for their intellectual cultivation, but they were incentivized by the accrual of social acclaim. Oh, how disappointing it was to discover this pretentiousness?
Weary of the hypocrisy and the pursuit of fame on the East Coast, I chose to depart New England at last and to place myself in the Midwest where I could distance myself from the competitive life. For the following five years, I was thus a member of University of Chicago.[3] With firm determination to establish a new start in life, I intentionally looked for an old and cheap apartment which would not attract any of my old friends with a lavish lifestyle.
Despite the financial damage to my family for the past years, we still managed to pay the rent for my housing here. Tired of the superficiality of elaborate life, I borrowed a small studio near the university. It was not equipped with much but sufficient for daily living. As I moved into this vacant apartment, I realized that I did not need much to have a basic and simple existence. I found most of the furniture such as a desk, bedding, and kitchenware sold secondhand by other students. The biggest expenses turned out to be books and other forms of publications. Although I was determined to reduce my belongings, I could not throw these away but kept buying more and more, one after another.[4]
Being absent from the scramble of New York City, I could finally start cultivating my intellectual life at Chicago. The weather is especially nicer in the summer compared to the claustrophobic heat of Manhattan. Revitalized, I could concentrate on my papers in doing literary critique. I was in a fellowship and multiple literary groups on campus. I found myself fully immersed in the academic environment. I worked day and night, either thinking about my work or engaging in discussions with my peers.
In those self-nurturing years in Chicago, I was able to obtain a teaching position at the same university after finishing my graduate program. I kept reading various publications, and I also continued to write and talk about literary criticism with my colleagues and students.[5]
Months and years have passed, and I am about to reach 60. Reflecting upon my life, I thought at first that I became an academic in purest sense: I considered myself completely devoted to my work and students without seeking any social or monetary incentive. I continuously worked to improve my understanding and adapt to the new ideologies and theories among the younger generations.
My heart had been devoted purely to academia, or so I had thought, but now I cannot wipe out the self-doubt: had I completely detached myself from capitalist influence? A part of me questions if I have even profited from capitalism. It is painful to acknowledge, but I find it impossible to deny how the financial backup of my family in my education helped me to attain this life as an academic. Furthermore, I realized that my position at an elite, private university is questionable. My living has been sustained by the expensive tuition paid by the students. Without the affluence of their families, I could not have experienced the years of teaching at this institution: I was nothing but a part of the education business in this capitalist society. What arrogance I have maintained in myself! For all those years, I had believed I was acting against the system. Yet, in this clear-minded perception that I have now attained, I can see that I was still far from the state of detachment and purity I had thought I had attained.
[1] His family is from Japan, and their business in international trade came under attack when the economic bubble burst in the 1990s in Japan. Its headquarter was in Tokyo with his uncle running the business, and Chōmei’s father worked as the head of the US office in New York City. Thus Chōmei himself had never lived or worked in Japan. He had perceived the influence of the economic downturn in Japan as rather remote, and for that reason, he was shocked even more when his life in the US was affected.
[2] It is not mentioned here, but he had his undergraduate degree in economics and English from Harvard. Chōmei’s prestigious education, fully funded by his parents, emphasizes his family’s privilege and values. His double major was meant to straddle both the practical and the intellect, allowing him to accrue not only financial acumen, but cultural capital from literary erudition.
[3] Like the medieval Chōmei, this contemporary Chōmei believes he is abandoning the worldly life, but he cannot completely remove himself, and is actually still situated much closer to his former orbit than he himself may hae believed.
[4] Even after the financial catastrophe, his family still had enough wealth to support Chomei’s academic pursuits.
[5] During his time at Chicago, he published a number of literary critiques. He also wrote his own novels, one of which was nominated for Nobel Prize in Literature later in his life. Many high schools used it as a core reading in their English classes long after his demise. Both the original Chōmei and this modern-day Chōmei do not mention their accomplishments, but their contributions to the literature and art are significant. Millions of copies of his books are sold across the world.