The Samurai's Garden

Tsukiyama, the novel’s author, was born in San Francisco to a Japanese father and a Chinese mother. Her understanding of these two cultures is not only theoretical, but also personal. Her own life is informed by her parents’ ancestry; we cannot know her mind, but it is not outlandish to imagine that her subjects explore cultural conflicts and convergences related to those she herself may have experienced.

Japanese nationalism stormed through China during the Second Sino-Japanese War; the imperialist Japanese government saw conquering China as its divine right. The Chinese during this period also held fast to their sense of national identity, clinging to tradition even as some Chinese fetishized the Western world. It is no wonder, considering, that individuals like Stephen in the novel feel swept along by forces larger than themselves. From young Japanese men feeling bound to join the army to the protagonist, Chinese and assimilating in the country he resents for attacking his own, the individual is both drawn to and wounded by the collective.

This theme intersects with the theme of isolation and connection, for the collective is not always evil; groups of people can work for good, as Pie does with her fellow Red Cross volunteers. Ultimately, Stephen returns to his homeland, embracing another duality: he returns to his nation, his roots, but he does so with the knowledge that the Japanese are people, not monsters; he knows some of them better than he knows his own family.

The novel’s third duality-based theme, present and past, overarches the other two duality-based themes. When he comes to the beach house, Stephen is tied to his past and unsure about his present. Through his growing friendships with Matsu and Sachi and the revelations about his father (the affair), Stephen learns that history is always present, that the present is not separate from but predicated on the past, and that in fact, sometimes the past is more present than the present. As Sachi and Matsu share their history and Stephen faces what has been hidden in his own, he is able to encounter others more fully, to hold on to what is important, and to let go what is not. He is then ready to step into his future.

The theme of suicide in The Samurai’s Garden is both culturally specific and psychologically general. Ritual seppuku, honor suicide in the face of shame, is a Japanese concept going back centuries. But the larger idea of suicide as a response to shame and other dark emotions is broadly human. Stephen does not carry a great deal of shame, but he is certainly uncomfortable with his father’s valuation of his painting as mere hobby. And at times, he feels guilt that – unlike friends back home or the young Japanese men from the village – he is unable to fight in the war. He has dark moments when he considers his isolation and the state of the world.

Stephen is not suicidal, but suicide seems interested in him: the shock of others’ suicides becomes personal for Stephen in Tarumi. Tomoko and Kenzo (by hanging, not seppuku) sacrifice themselves to unhappiness and duty. Sachi narrowly avoids this fate. Against this backdrop, Tarumi’s daily thrills and pleasures – friendship, romantic love, artistic creation, even just good food or a bracing swim – make life seem precious and worth living. By absorbing the wisdom of those around him who make peace with their darkness and learning from those who could not, Stephen comes into his own as a man confident about his ability to have transparent relationships with others and thrive in the world.