"I will live on as the spirit of Japan's mountains and rivers in your stead"—these resolute words spoken by the teacher were fulfilled in both awareness and will. He lived exactly as he said he would.
July 26, 2018
The following is an excerpt from a piece I originally published on June 5, 2011, titled "Unmatched Vision: The Dark Passion of the Final Paintings Seen by Kawabata"—a feature from Nikkei Shimbun, page 17, in the "Beauty of Beauty" section.
Because it was trending at the top of Ameba’s search rankings yesterday, I re-read it and now share it again for all of you.
The shocking news that Yasunari Kawabata had died by gas suicide in his study at Zushi Marina reached newspaper offices late on the night of April 16, 1972—just before the deadline for the final edition.
I had just joined the company that April and was a trainee in the editorial layout department. I remember vividly how the entire newsroom stirred and erupted into commotion.
The suicide of Japan’s first Nobel Prize-winning author was a bolt from the blue.
A flood of manuscripts and photos poured in.
The cause of death was carbon monoxide poisoning. Time of death was estimated at around 6 p.m. There were no signs of disturbance on the body. A gas hose had been placed in the mouth. No suicide note was found.
The next morning’s newspapers carried bold headlines:
“Tragic Death of a Glorious Author,” “A Great Star Fades into the Subtle Realm,” “Why, ‘The Japan, the Beautiful, and Myself’?” and “The Soul of Japan Lost.”
On the same page were images of paintings: Flamboyant Tree by Gemmanic, a painter from New Caledonia, and Canal Grande by Hideo Murakami.
These two works were hanging in the room where Kawabata died.
They were discovered by Mr. Sonhiro Mizuhara, who served as producer for the exhibition of Kawabata’s collection.
In February 2005, while entering the unused room with his TV crew for a program shoot, he found them:
“It was a cold, rainy day, and the room was filled with a stagnant atmosphere. The glass of Flamboyant Tree was covered in mold, and the paint was cracked. Canal Grande was so thickly painted that the canvas had begun to sag under the strain. Both paintings differed from the usual style of Kawabata’s collection. I wondered why he had chosen unknown painters to hang in his room.”
Kawabata had purchased the two paintings just six months before his death.
Murakami, who painted Canal Grande, was born in 1933 in Gifu Prefecture.
Admiring Van Gogh from childhood, he taught himself oil painting.
He lived a vagabond’s life, doing day labor jobs while displaying his works on the streets of Ginza. In 1961, the sculptor Shin Hongo happened to pass by and took notice, which led to Murakami’s connection with Kabuya Gallery and support. He became known as “Japan’s Van Gogh.”
According to Kawabata’s diary, he saw Murakami’s first solo exhibition in 1963 and became a devoted fan.
Murakami later went to Europe to continue painting.
One year before Kawabata’s death, he contributed a piece to the exhibition catalog of Murakami’s new works shown at Matsuzakaya in Ginza:
“Mr. Murakami’s Mt. Fuji is not that of Mr. Takeshi Hayashi—it bears its own strong individuality. I have already reserved his Venetian and Neapolitan works, and I also own a dark, sunset seascape and brilliant daffodils. Visitors are irresistibly drawn to his seascapes, though few know who Murakami is, so I always end up explaining.”
Canal Grande, the painting of Venice, was dark and impassioned like a Van Gogh, sharply contrasting with the glittering ocean outside the Shonan window.
It felt as though life and death, this world and the next, were quietly side by side in that room.
Some questioned whether Kawabata’s death was truly a suicide.
Many, including then PEN Club Japan president Kojiro Serizawa, speculated it may have been an accidental overdose of sleeping pills.
In this series, I’ve previously pointed out Kawabata’s longing for death.
In his final years, he was reportedly overwhelmed with work and utterly exhausted.
And a year and a half earlier, his closest friend and mentor Yukio Mishima had died by ritual disembowelment—an event believed to have triggered Kawabata’s own end.
If it was a death by resolve, then it was befitting of a writer.
Author Fusao Hayashi said shortly afterward:
“As people grow older, they usually lose the courage to take their own life. Kawabata-san’s suicide at 72 was an act of courage. He really was strong.”
Kaii Higashiyama paid tribute in the June 1972 special issue of Shincho magazine (Kawabata Yasunari Reader), writing:
“In the wake of the war, the teacher solidified his awareness and desire to carry on the tradition of Japanese beauty.
When his beloved friend and kindred spirit Riichi Yokomitsu died, he resolutely said: ‘I will live on as the spirit of Japan's mountains and rivers in your stead.’
He fulfilled that wish and walked that path to the very end.
What a life of fulfillment it was. I wish to believe his death was but a peaceful rest.” (From “Departing Star”)
Look at this page’s image of Haniwa Female Head alongside Kawabata’s writing:
“Soft and serenely charming. In its proportions and graceful elegance, it stands out among all haniwa. Looking at the neck of this haniwa, I feel as though I’m breathing the soul of Japanese womanhood. I sense the origin, the essence, of Japanese femininity. It moves me.
Truly, this is the primal image of the Japanese woman’s soul. With no logic or knowledge, I simply gaze.”
What magnificent Japanese prose this is.
The words shine—one can’t help but murmur them aloud.
Kawabata, with his extraordinary gift, pursued “the beauty of Japan” with all his strength, embracing both the avant-garde and tradition.
His life was a richly lived one.
—Written by Kenji Urata
In my view, this series published from last week into this one contains some of the most outstanding journalism in today’s media landscape.
2025/4/9の平安神社、哲学の道、醍醐寺、岡崎疎水を、リアン・ラ・ハヴァス、ジョージ・ハリスン、ドン・マクリーンの歌と共に。
