Even by the standards of media-savvy Japan, A Lost Paradise rates as a genuine phenomenon — a sensation as an ongoing serial in the Nihon Keizai Shimbun newspaper, a literary bestseller in book format, a radio show, a movie, a controversial television series. A recent Publisher’s Weekly article ranked it as one of the country’s top three media products in 1997, alongside Hayao Miyazaki’s Princess Mononoke. Based on its reputation and premise — an adulterous affair between a fiftysomething company man and a thirtysomething death-obsessed woman spins out of control — one would expect something perverted, bracing, shocking from Jun’ichi Watanabe’s novel.
But wait: the jacket notes helpfully inform us that in addition to being a winner of various literary prizes, Mr. Watanabe “practiced as a doctor before becoming a full-time — and highly successful — writer.” After a reading of the book, this small detail stands out. How else to explain this howler as a man reflects after a Herculean lovemaking session: It made perfect sense that a rich sex life improved the circulation, stimulating hormones and softening skin.
Each sex act — there is a generous average of two per chapter — contains a fair helping of this stuff: hot passion presented as a how-to manual for randy middle-aged men. The marathon of clinical details is almost hypnotic, much like Tom Clancy fondling his high-tech military gear, or Ian Fleming happily ticking off the brand names of James Bond’s toiletries. But Watanabe also knows how to go purplish if the occasion calls for it: “My womb feels as big and hot as the sun, and pleasure floods through me…” Or: “The subtlety of her firm and succulent flesh was a delicacy among delicacies.” Should it even be mentioned that Kuki, our embattled male protagonist, sees the face of his beloved Rinko in every amber cup of sake and passing white cloud, or compares her body to a blooming, gorgeous flower?
Amazingly, Watanabe maintains this balance between the garish and the endearingly square for the book’s duration. Those looking for risqué and racy will have to make do with female multi-climaxes, debates on male technique, hickies, a light bondage session, a full-length mirror, and the scandalous mention of a dildo. Those desiring a bit of class in the proceedings will be pleased to hear that scrumptious kimonos, calligraphy shows, Chateau Margaux wines, furtive calls by cellular phone, dissertations on cherry blossom symbolism, Erik Satie music — are in plentiful supply. Incidentally, we are reminded that “love is a frightening thing.”
Narratively speaking, the novel circles around itself, regurgitating dialogue and epiphanies at will. Yet the book cannot be dismissed out of hand. Like good serialized fiction, it gains a decent head of steam, and although the conclusion is never in doubt — suicide, anyone? — its dogged adherence to old-fashioned romance paradigms lends it a doomy languor. It was oddly satisfying to be so debauched and unproductive, Kuki notes, and at its best, the book presents torpor as turn-on, intercourse as masturbation, fucking around as a decent alternative to the office.
Even more arresting is the midpoint of the novel, in which everything grinds to a reflective halt and Watanabe hits us with outright references to Kawabata’s Snow Country, The Tale of Genji, and finally the gory particulars of the infamous Sada Abe case, which was the basis for the film In the Realm of the Senses. The latter account, in all its twisted, castrating glory, all but overwhelms Watanabe’s putative plot, and one is awed at his supreme confidence (or folly) in seeking legitimacy through these historical and artistic antecedents of love gone nutty.
Artless and naïve as it may be, the novel is undeniably canny about its placement in Japan’s cultural universe. More than once, Kuki equates his situation with a television drama while rejecting the “smooth and superficial plotlines” of the latter, but it is clear that A Lost Paradise is the stuff that bestseller dreams and controversial TV shows are made of. Covering all the bases, it presents itself as the intersection between highbrow literature and cinematic trash. I recently saw the film based on the book, which proved to be rapturously shot but soulless; I have not had the opportunity to watch the television series, but its sex scenes reportedly test the bounds of Japan’s National Association of Commercial Broadcasters’ standards. That’s more like it.