everyday existence of ordinary people and (b) draw a composite picture of the numerous factors which impinge on the life situation of contemporary man."2 Mita's effort, in short, is an examination of the postwar Japanese quest for identity. In a country profoundly influenced by the doctrine of "non-recognition of the ego," whose citizens are inclined to identify with or even dissolve into the group, the quest is striking.
Taking as material 304 cases printed in the Yomiuri during 1962, Mita analyzes the causes and backgrounds of a representative sampling. In one case, a nineteen-year-old high school graduate finds himself frustrated and depressed by his situation. He has failed to pass the entrance examination of the college he desires and so must pass an additional year as a ronin) or "floating student," studying in hopes of succeeding in the exams the following year. But the father's income is limited and the family budget frequently runs into the red. The result is friction between father and son; guilt, tension, and anxiety for the entire family; and what the young man describes as "dark days" for himself.3 Another case involves a twenty-eight-year-old white-collar worker who feels he has been "permanently shunted off the escalator to success" in the firm where he works. Somewhat passive in nature, he wonders if he can resolve his doubts by having a brother-in-law arrange a good marriage match for him. He feels miserable and gloomy.4 In still another example, a thirty-two-year-old housewife finds life has "no meaning at all" because her irritable husband, after achieving a stable life and considerable status as a government employee, spends more and more time with other women, leaving the wife to grieve at home.5
What Mita everywhere implies and occasionally suggests, but leaves primarily for the reader to ponder, is far more significant than the analysis itself, for the appeals to the life-counseling column represent an urgent and often poignant reexamination of the current Japanese value structure. Each case is the search of an individual for ways to satisfactorily identify himself as to his role in life, his relation to others, and his obligations to society. And behind the private questions of private persons lie larger questions about the assumptions and criteria of social behavior, though the depressed writers of the dark letters are often themselves victims of stereotyped notions about happiness and success. Behind the high school graduate's distress is the assumption of an entire system, namely, that graduation from a name university—the more prestigious in the hierarchy the better—is the indispensable ticket to a well-paying job and, presumably, happiness. Implicit in the white-collar worker's fear is the idea that success is an escalator process with the spatially nebulous "up" as its goal. The machine metaphor appropriately suggests the non-human character of the assumption. In the housewife's lament is a fairly direct challenge to notions that financial security and job prestige can begin to guarantee happiness.
One of the more colorful and dramatic challenges to what Mita calls "values unessential to one's humanity" comes not from the newspaper advice column but the current vogue of communal living.6 One can, of course, assume an attitude of amused disdain and say, "It's a passing thing." And indeed it may well be. Historically, many communes have been established and have collapsed, for any number of reasons. But such experiments are striking illustrations of their adherents' questioning of a value structure they regard as inadequate, non-essential, or even absurd. And what, one wonders, would result from a friendly pow-wow between a group of commune dwellers and a cross section of their more conventional city cousins where they vied to establish who was the "happiest"? Might not such a confrontation prove, in more ways than one, to be semantically embarrassing? The "free man of tomorrow," Mita says, "must participate in creating and practicing universal primary values."7 And so he must. But what are these values? What is success? What is happiness? The Japanese too are asking.
And behind such questions is the still larger one, for the current Japanese quest is but part of the never-ending attempt of man to define himself. "What is man?" asks the Psalmist in one of the oldest Western cultural sources. And the complementary admonition, "Know thyself," has from olden times teased men of both East and West, whether in Buddhist reflection or Greek humanism.. "Knowing" may mean rejecting the concept of self or, as in Shakespeare's testament, recognizing the awesome extent of ego-possibility. "What a piece of work is man," he has his tragic hero marvel, and in a brilliant literary embodiment spells out the conditions under which a man may soar to angelic heights or descend to demonic depths. But for the twentieth century the concern with identity is almost an obsession. A book of American short stories currently on the academic market suggests the emphasis. Designed for either text or collateral reading, the volume is entitled Identity: Stories for This Generation. There is little or no explicit connection between the stories and identity. The authors note in passing only that one of the ways the stories may be read is "for social documentation providing insight into who we are and what we value."8 But their title, they know, will sell; it is "relevant." And it is relevant, pointing up, even though superficially in this case, the contemporary focus on an age-old concern.
For postwar Japan, the problem of identity is critical. The loss of the emperor as a divine symbol and unifying force is but one of the countless alterations which have transformed the Japanese psychic identity. Nineteen seventy marked not only the year of Expo and the renewal of the controversial security treaty, but the twenty-fifth year since the beginning of the American occupation and the host of westernizing changes it effected. Defeated in war, its major cities devastated by fire bombs, Japan is the only nation to have suffered the atomic bomb. And the Japanese are conscious of the need to redefine themselves, to establish an acceptable self-image for themselves as individuals, as a nation, and as an emerging power in the world community. In many ways they are new, different, westernized, modernized; in many ways they are old, traditional, oriental. "This 'I,' what was it?" asks the protagonist of Haruo Umezaki's short story "Sakurajima." "For thirty whole years since my birth, I had been attempting, you might say, to discover what this 'I' was."9 The Japanese are asking the question, at times showing an almost painful self-awareness.
What then is a Japanese? A particular Tokyo tour guide regularly advises sightseers to look at the man-in-the-street. "See him smiling," he says. "Look at his happy face. Times are good. The Japanese are prosperous. They are happy." Or so they seem. And times are good, so good in fact that the Japanese, displaying that penchant which people the world over sometimes have for creating a sow's ear out of a silk purse, for turning their own assets into liabilities, now castigate themselves with the label "economic animal," as if to condemn the very prosperity which brings them smiles.10 But an animal, if not quite human, at least has life and vitality. Even more alarming is the threat of dehumanization or "thingification" which results from the bigness which creates the prosperity. "When an individual has been cut off from the means of production and made a fixed part in a gigantic system of specialization," explains Mita in his essay, "he inevitably loses any sense of identification with society."11 Thus even their spectacular rise to the status of a world leader in commerce has caused the Japanese to search with concern, for they now share with the other industrial giants all the identity-shaking features of bigness and complexity. In an article, "Running with a Purpose," newspaper columnist Masaru Ogawa criticizes his nation for lack of direction. "There is no doubt that Japan today is running like mad—at least in the pursuit of economic gains. It has increased its gross national product at a tremendous pace. But where are we heading? What are the goals? 'Ask my feet' would probably be the most honest Japanese answer," he says.12
The economic concern is directly related to the matter of Japan's world image. "The Ugly Japanese," laments political commentator Kazushige Hirasawa, is a worse epithet than "economic animal." He points out that Southeast Asian peoples (with whom some resentment over Japan's World War II militarism still lingers) often refer to Japanese as selfish, greedy, and arrogant. Distrust of the Japanese is growing, he claims, and cites as one of the reasons what he sees as a contradiction between Japanese criticism of the Viet Nam conflict and her willingness to profit from it financially. There is a "gap between Japan as seen by the world and the Japanese view of Japan," he says13 The image gap idea is sustained by numerous tourist-directed books which claim to disclose the real Japan. While many of them merely capitalize on the old stereotype of the "mysterious Orient," Ichiro Kawasaki's Japan Unmasked is a different matter. The former ambassador
