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  • Ambiguous Bodies: Reading the Grotesque in Japanese Setsuwa Tales
  • Janet R. Goodwin (bio)
Ambiguous Bodies: Reading the Grotesque in Japanese Setsuwa Tales. By Michelle Osterfeld Li. Stanford University Press, Stanford, 2009. xiii, 319 pages. $60.00.

Setsuwa—short anecdotal tales with a frequent didactic aim—have long intrigued historians of premodern Japan. Scholars have used setsuwa to analyze relations between men and women, forms of marriage, attitudes toward the body, social customs, the creation and dissemination of social norms, and the physical layout of the Heian capital. Since the stories often concern those below the highest aristocratic echelons, it is frequently assumed—perhaps erroneously—that they offer a window into the lives of less exalted people, maybe even commoners. The vast number of tales—the largest collection, the late Heian Konjaku monogatarishū, contains over 1,000—make setsuwa a treasure trove for scholars, and since the tales speak with many voices concerning social, moral, and religious issues, they encourage competing analyses. Themes introduced in setsuwa often reappear in later forms, such as the play Dōjōji, the short stories of Akutagawa Ryūnosuke, and Kurosawa Akira's film Rashōmon, enhancing setsuwa's importance to literary history as well.

Nevertheless, setsuwa have invited very few book-length analyses in English. We have a number of translations of selected tales and even of entire collections, and several fine articles; but such a historically interesting genre has engendered far less attention than it deserves. Michelle Osterfeld Li's fascinating treatment helps to overcome this lack.

Li focuses on tales of the grotesque in a number of late Heian and early Kamakura period setsuwa collections. Initially, she defines "grotesque" as [End Page 128] a "mode of representation [that] centers on exaggerated or fantastic depictions of the body or bodily realities" (p. 2). Li's examples embrace elements such as detached body parts, demons and other supernatural creatures, and animals that are not quite what they seem. Often manifestations of the grotesque are fearsome (demons called oni do in fact eat people in these tales), but they can be a source of humor as well. Li's central argument is that tales of the grotesque are often tales of subversion, showing those in positions of authority being bested or tricked, or giving voice to the powerless. She points out, however, that they are rarely tales of successful rebellion, in which underdogs defeat and dethrone their masters. Instead, the powerless remain so, able to poke fun at their superiors or imagine bizarre fates for them but unable to change the basic structures of society. In some tales, of course, authority is supported, as Li rightly points out.

The author bases her analysis of the grotesque on theories advanced by Mikhail Bakhtin and others but wisely does not adopt these theories wholesale, using only portions appropriate for Japanese society in the classical and early medieval periods. The contribution of Bakhtin's theory to Li's treatment of the grotesque is two-fold. First, Bakhtin focuses on the body, or, more specifically, the parts of the body "open to the outside world" (p. 43, quoting Bakhtin). Many of the tales Li uses to illustrate her arguments have to do with bodily functions such as consumption and sexual activity. Second, Bakhtin sees the grotesque as a challenge to hierarchy and authority, albeit temporary, as in the European carnival that briefly puts everyone on an equal footing. This characterization informs Li's argument that the grotesque in setsuwa has a subversive quality, although she is careful to point out that, in this case, it destabilizes rather than suspends hierarchy.

Central questions in the minds of many who have studied setsuwa are authorship and audience, both of which have implications for understanding the intent of the tales. We know the authors of some of the collections—a monk, Kyōkai, compiled the early tenth-century Nihon ryōiki, and a courtier, Tachibana Narisue, compiled the thirteenth-century Kokon chomonjū—but the authorship of Konjaku is unknown, and in fact we do not even know if it was compiled by one person or by more. Li favors the theory of multiple compilers, and based on the marked...

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