On Beauty

In 1869, American writer Henry James wrote to his father describing his first meeting with the English novelist George Eliot (or Mary Ann Evans), who was 49 years old at the time:

“She is magnificently ugly,” James wrote. “She has a low forehead, a dull grey eye, a vast pendulous nose, a huge mouth, full of uneven teeth…Now in this vast ugliness resides a most powerful beauty which, in a very few minutes, steals forth and charms the mind, so that you end as I ended, in falling in love with her.”

James goes on to counter his judgement of ‘magnificent ugliness’ with praise of Eliot’s ‘delightful expression’, ‘a voice soft and rich as that of a counselling angel’, her inner store of knowledge, and ‘a great feminine dignity and character in these massively plain features’. Eliot herself might be said to be the opposite of her character Hetty Sorrel, from Adam Bede, whose attractive appearance does not correspond to inner beauty. The juxtaposition between internal and external beauty has long preoccupied writers and philosophers, but in an age that is so fixated on surfaces, has the boundary between inner and outer been gradually eroded?

Beauty, a once elusive concept, has been rendered straightforward in modern media, a beauty promising health, prosperity, and success, even love. Yet beauty is meant to be multifaceted, not fixed in the image of the decorated waif. As Umberto Eco’s tome, On Beauty, shows, the idea of the beautiful is transient and fluid, shifting iridescently from one era to the next (in spite of what sociobiologists claim), from one culture to the next, so that at one point what developed cultures in the 21st century might consider to be hideous was upheld as the paragon of beauty.

But is it perhaps the case that we fail to carve out a space for differences? Anxiety surrounding women’s body image indicates the failure to move beyond one totalizing idea of what constitutes beauty. The female body has long been the battle ground of ideologies surrounding beauty. Almost every woman I know has struggled with issues of insecurity, forever shadowed by the rhetoric of ‘not enough’ – not thin enough, not sexy enough, not curvy enough, not tall enough, not pale enough, not sweet enough, not feminine enough. And the list goes on. It is bewildering that in a finite lifetime we should be exposed to such an interminable list of demands to be everything other than we are.

The problem of beauty, like the problem of wealth, is a distributive one, though unlike wealth, it cannot be accumulated – at least not without financial backing, ironically. As the National Geographic article points out, we are continually frustrated and confused by the fact that in an age that strives towards equality all are not created equal. That inequality is heightened by the insistence on homogenization, as exemplified by the culture of cosmetic surgery. Why is it that we can applaud all manner of monstrosity in popular media, praise incongruous planks of concrete as great architecture, sloppily-written pornography as literature, yet we sometimes have difficulty seeing the good in someone (which might be ourselves) who does not conform to media-saturated standards of beauty? If a woman as extraordinary as Eleanor Roosevelt could name the lack of a pretty face as her one regret in life, then we need to ask what value our world places on all the accomplishments and contributions that stem from an entirely non-physical kind of beauty?

In the world of romance, the idea of the beautiful is even more problematic. Every bookish girl has perhaps dreamed of discovering her inner Jane Eyre, and delivering Jane’s impassioned speech to a Mr. Rochester:

“Do you think, because I am poor, obscure, plain and little, I am soulless and heartless? You think wrong! – I have as much soul as you, – and full as much heart! And if God had gifted me with some beauty and much wealth, I should have made it as hard for you to leave me, as it is now for me to leave you!”

That beauty, like wealth, is a form of capital in the market of love might make it difficult for many to see the value of a particular kind of ‘impoverishment’. And unlike Mr. Rochester, many would leave without hesitation. Beauty exists in the eye of the beholder – yes, but human affection is neither simple nor lasting. When the beholder ceases to behold our optimal selves, what are we left with aside from a husk stripped of its rose-tinted exterior? Endymion, in Keats’s revision of the myth, gives up the hunt for the goddess and embraces the Indian maid, only to discover that the maid was in fact the goddess herself; this is Keats’s attempt to reconcile internal and external beauty. But in the world outside poetry, the dangerous allure of the unattainable does not turn us into an Aeolian shepherd, but rather the dog in Aesop’s Tales, staring dreamily at its own reflection. Beauty remains that which enthralls and enchants us – we are done and undone by beauty. We can continue to tell ourselves that beauty is in the eye of the beholder, that it is only skin deep, but ‘the face that launched a thousand ships’ will continue to fracture families and precipitate conflict.

If beauty is truth, and truth beauty, then in our never-ending quest for perfect beauty (exemplified by the cosmetics industry and plastic surgery), we have lost sight of what is true. In the culture of superficial judgments, we are all judges and victims. Improving one’s appearance and polishing one’s self-image on social media at times comes at the cost of neglecting or even corroding one’s internal self, that which truly needs tending to. The entanglements of visual spectacle and desire have created ‘mind-forged manacles’ with which we have shackled our true selves. But to accept that perfection cannot exist in the self in the physical sense is also to see that perfection does not exist in the form of celebrities and models and ideal loves. The cult of the celebrity, a baggage left over from the Romantic era, has done us much harm, nowadays deepened by digital technology that easily disseminates these images of seeming perfection to all corners of the world, creating the illusion that perfection exists, that it is desirable and attainable.

In the world of love, such judgements are perhaps even more evident, as online dating and problematic apps such as Tinder capitalize on the ideal of external beauty, and make it so much easier to ‘walk away’ from that which fails to meet the illusory standard. Any value beneath the surface is no longer mined, but simply left buried. A show like Mad Men has gone some way towards debunking the myth that only a typically beautiful woman, admired by many, is worthy of love, for Don Draper’s marriages to the statuesque Betty and the alluring Megan (dancing provocatively to Bisou Bisou) have hardly presented pictures of enduring love. In interpersonal relationships, we need to stop treating one another as disposable consumerist goods – the invasion of market mentality into the domain of love is, as sociologist Zygmunt Bauman argues, what renders love so rare in our liquid modernity. To find that which endures, we must demand of ourselves patience and sympathy, instead of giving in to the impulse to press ‘delete’. Moreover, the pursuit of the non-existent ideal, while it is a very human pursuit, is a dream from which we ought to awaken. We need to move forward to a post-Romantic world – the intrinsically and tragically Romantic pursuit of the blue flower or the chimeric spirit that forever recedes from us is no longer a sustainable activity for the mind.

Positive media have encouraged the cultivating of self-respect to counter the insidious effects of the fashion and cosmetic industries and the culture of dating. Yes, it is true that everyone could benefit from the kind of self-respect described by Joan Didion, a sense of one’s intrinsic worth that ‘free[s] us from the expectations of others, [and] give[s] us back to ourselves’. But as a society, we need to do more than that. It is all very well to encourage therapeutic or spiritual processes of arriving at a more sustained sense of self-worth. But we cannot leave individuals to pine away, hoping therapy or the occasional positive media would help, while exulting those who just happened to win the genetic lottery. For one, cases of eating disorders, depression and even suicide comport us to act humanely in the face of inequality. We need to redefine the concept of beauty – it is not simply a matter of internal vs. external. We need to accept that perfection does not exist in an imperfect world.

Much of the resistance to accept differences, to move beyond superficiality, is simply a resistance against changing one’s mentality, arguably the hardest thing to do. But just as George Eliot gave Henry James a completely new meaning of the word ‘beauty’, so, too, might our culture encounter an idea, a movement, or a system that spurs us onward to a different world. Philosopher Cora Diamond, when discussing Wittgenstein, cites James’s encounter with Eliot as an example of ‘conceptual reorientation’:

“She, that magnificently ugly woman, gives a totally transformed meaning to ‘beauty’. Beauty itself becomes something entirely new for one, as one comes to see (to one’s own amazement, perhaps) a powerful beauty residing in this woman…In such a case, she is not judged by a norm available through the concept of beauty; she shows the concept up, she moves one to use the words ‘beauty’ and ‘beautiful’ almost as new words, or as renewed words. She gives one a new vocabulary, a new way of taking the world in one’s words, and speaking about it to others”.

So we need to ‘show the concept up’, the concept constructed by ourselves through generations. Perhaps education – or art, or popular culture – is a good starting point for change, for assessing the damage already done. In any case, it is possible to see the world anew and to speak about beauty in new ways.



The Gates of Time

Of all places I have visited during my travels, Fushimi Inari in Kyoto stands out as the most unforgettable. Rebecca Solnit – in an essay written for Granta’s special on Japan – encapsulates the singular experience of strolling up the hillside covered with vermilion gates:

‘Culminations are at least lifelong, and sometimes longer when you look at the natural and social forces that shape you, the acts of the ancestors, of illness or economics, immigration and education. We are constantly arriving; the innumerable circumstances are forever culminating in this glance, this meeting, this collision, this conversation, like the pieces in a kaleidoscopic forever coming into new focus, new flowerings. But to me the gates made visible not the complicated ingredients of the journey but the triumph of arrival.

[…] I had the impression midway through the hours I spent wandering, that time itself had become visible, that every moment of my life I was passing through orange gates, always had been, always would be passing through magnificent gates that only in this one place are visible. Their uneven pacing seemed to underscore this perception; sometimes time grows dense and seems to both slow down and speed up, when you fall in love, when you are in the thick of an emergency or a discovery; other times it flows by limpid as a stream across a meadow, each day calm and like the one before, not much to remember, or time runs dry and you’re stuck, hoping for change that finally arrives in a trickle or a rush. Though all these metaphors of flow can be traded in for solid ground: time is a stroll through orange gates.

[…] All you really need to know is that there is a hillside in Japan in which time is measured in irregular intervals and every moment is an orange gate, and foxes watch over it, and people wander it, and the whole is maintained by priests and by donors, so that gates crumble and gates are erected, time passes and does not, as elsewhere nuclear products decay and cultures change and people come and go, and that the place might be one at which you will arrive some day, to go through the flickering tunnels of orange, up the mountainside, into this elegant machine not for controlling or replicating time but maybe for realizing it, or blessing it. Or maybe you have your own means of being present, your own sense for seeing that at this very minute you are passing through an orange gate.’


A Home for All

The time of reconstruction is the time to see a place anew. The post-disaster reconstruction process is the nexus where politics and society meet to reshape and build a collective future, amidst the rubble of devastation. Following the Lisbon earthquake of 1755, the Marques of Pombal, with authority given by King Jose I, oversaw the complete transformation of Lisbon. In what could be regarded as the first instance of modern urban planning, Pombal redesigned Lisbon as a reflection of new commercial values, with a distinctive grid system that represents the triumph of human reason over cataclysmic nature. Streets were widened, and buildings were made shorter, in order to circumvent damage in future exogenous shocks. In an unprecedented manner, disaster gave birth to a new city – thanks largely to the unopposed power of Pombal, a power not possessed by Christopher Wren after the 1666 fire in London, nor by Goto Shinpei, who sought to rebuild Tokyo after the 1923 earthquake.

Pombaline_Baixa_Lisbon_map_1756Lisbon, 1756

The absence of a central figure and the inefficiency of the planning body have complicated the fraught – and highly politicized – reconstruction process following the 2011 Great East Japan earthquake and tsunami. Despite the three years that have elapsed, the rebuilding is still ongoing. While much has been accomplished by volunteer groups, non-profits and local governments, much remains to be done. A reconstruction project is always a series of interrelated processes that disclose the undercurrents of society and deepen existing fissures that plague the nation. Complications regarding land ownership, oppositions to planning projects, and continual delays mean that many survivors are still displaced and without a permanent home. As of April this year, there were 22,095 temporary housing units in the Miyagi Prefecture, and 13,984 provisional housing unites in Iwate; almost half of these are built on private land, which might be reclaimed over the next few years, thus placing more pressure on the municipal government to build permanent housing.

Yet amidst all the difficulties, something new emerges. Of particular interest is the ‘Home-for-All’ (Minna no Ie) project, headed by Japanese architect Toyo Ito, with contributions from Riken Yamamoto, Hiroshi Naito, Kengo Kuma, and Kazuyo Sejima. Unlike other building projects in the stricken area, ‘Home-for-All’ focuses on communal space, or the building of a kind of common hearth around which those afflicted by the disaster might gather to share their stories or support one another. In other words, the project is an attempt to embody in architectural form the ‘disaster utopia’. As of February 2014, nine structures have been completed, with more under way, the newest being a multi-purpose fishermen’s pavilion by Yang Zao. Subsisting on mainly private donations and charity organisations, the contributions made by the project are necessarily small and piecemeal, but the team is able to bypass the convoluted bureaucratic infrastructure, and reach out to the communities directly. A non-profit called Archi+Aid, based at the University of Tohoku, helps to mediate the interactions between the architects, the communities and the local government, and has gone some way towards facilitating the recovery process.

Home-for-All02_Worrall_lores-870x539Home-for-All in Rikuzentakata

The first structure built for the ‘Home-for-All’ project is a small timber building (showcased in the Japan Pavilion at the 13th Venice Biennale) in the city of Rikuzentakata, created using saltwater-soaked timber salvaged from the wreckage. The public space created as part of the Home-for-All project nurtures a sense of community, even as that community is united through loss. That something new can be made from detritus is significant, signalling the longed-for renewal that follows limpingly the heels of disaster. Rising above the wreckage, the structure is also a reminder of what endures catastrophe.

Crucially, the Home-for-All project is an expression of the architect’s social responsibility. For Ito, disaster calls into question the fundamental meaning of architecture. He explains:

‘In the modern period, architecture has been rated highest for its originality. As a result, the most primal themes—why a building is made and for whom—have been forgotten. A disaster zone, where everything is lost offers the opportunity for us to take a fresh look, from the ground up, at what architecture really is. ‘Home-for-all’ may consist of small buildings, but it calls to the fore the vital question of what form architecture should take in the modern era—even calling into question the most primal themes, the very meaning of architecture.’

Japanese architect Shigeru Ban, known for his humanitarian project, the Cardboard Cathedral, expressed a similar sentiment when he remarked that ‘Architects’ solutions can make a huge difference in society. One area in particular – which may seem unusual given the chaos they cause – is when natural disasters occur’. Through the work of ruination, of ‘un-building’, architecture ironically finds a new meaning, or a mode of renewal.

Much of the complication in the post-3.11 rebuilding process revolved around the problems of community – distrust between neighbors; rising levels of depression; and lack of both private and social space. Ito commented on the ‘grim living conditions’ of the temporary housing units, with crammed spaces and insufficient insulation. ‘Yet’, Ito points out, ‘even under such conditions, people try to smile and make do…. They gather to share and communicate in extreme circumstances – a moving vision of community at its most basic. Likewise, what we see here are very origins of architecture, the minimal shaping of communal spaces’ (Toyo Ito – Forces of Nature published by Princeton Architectural Press). The community, and not the architect’s ambition, is thus the driving force behind the project.

Children's Home for AllChildren’s Home-for-All, in Higashimatsushima, Miyagi Prefecture, designed by Ito, with Maki Onishi

The ‘Home-for-All’ project – like other similar projects such as the Tohoku Rebuilding Program of Architecture for Humanity – reiterates the humanistic claims of sociologist Lewis Mumford, whose writings on architecture and urban life deserve to be re-read, particularly in our era of disasters. Speaking of the idea of ‘architecture as a home for man’, Mumford repeatedly mentions the centrality of the human element in architecture, the primary purpose of which is to improve the human condition. Architecture has a social responsibility, above and beyond fleeting stylistic trends and the demands of the architect’s ego. In a 1968 essay, Mumford writes:

‘This, then, is the task for today and tomorrow: to restore and eventually to elevate even higher than ever before the organic and human components that are now missing in our compulsively dynamic and over-mechanized culture. The time has come for architecture to come back to earth and make a new home for man.’

19Home-for-All-TIA-6530Photos courtesy of Iwan Baan

Of course, the time of disaster is not only the time to reevaluate architecture, but also to reevaluate the community that the architecture houses. Perhaps it is only in the experience of shared loss following calamitous change that the isolated individuals of our world can gather by the hearth of humanity, to sow the seeds for an emergent, more resilient community composed of mutually-accepting selves. But let us not wait until it is too late – for loss has already occurred, and while our cities become populated by shards of glass and symbols of capitalistic prowess, somewhere in a desolate landscape by a wrecked shore, there is a reminder that rebuilding, with its infinite potential, needs to begin now.


On Rage and Grief

Judith Butler’s moving speech at the 2014 International PEN conference. Partial transcript below:

“Mourning has to do with yielding to an unwanted transformation, when neither the full shape nor the full import of that alteration can be known in advance. This transformative effect of losing always risks becoming a de-formative effect. Whatever it is, it cannot be willed; it is a kind of undoing. One is hit by waves in the middle of the day, in the midst of a task, and everything stops. One falters, even falls. What is that wave that suddenly withdraws your gravity and your forward motion? That something that takes hold of you and makes you stop and takes you down? Where does it come from? Does it have a name? What claims us at such moments when we are most emphatically not masters of ourselves and our motions, when we lose certain people, or when we are dispossessed from a place or a community? It may be that something about who we are suddenly flashes up, something that delineates the ties that we have to others, that shows us that we are bound to one another, and that the bonds that compose us also do strand us, leave us uncomposed. If I lose you under the conditions in which who I am is bound up with you, then I not only mourn the loss, but I become inscrutable to myself, and this life unbearable. Who am I without you? I was not just over here, and you over there, but the I was in the crossing there with you, but also here. So I was already de-centered, one might say, and that was precious. And yet when we lose, we lose our ground, we are suddenly at risk of taking our own lives or the lives of others. Perhaps what I have lost on those occasions is precisely that sense that I can live without you, even if it turns out that I can live without that specific you that you happened to be. Even if I was surprised to find that I survived when survival was unthinkable. If I can and do live without you, it is only because I have not, as it were, lost the place of the you, the one to whom I address myself, the generalized addressee with whom I am already bound up in language, in a scene of address that is the linguistic condition of our survivability.

[….] A loss might seem utterly personal, private, isolating, but it may also furnish an unexpected concept of political community, even a premonition of a source of non-violence. If the life that is mine is not originally or finally separable from yours, then the we who we are is not just a composite of you and me and all the others, but a set of relations of interdependency and passion. And these we cannot deny or destroy without refuting something fundamental about the social conditions of our living. What follows is an ethical injunction to preserve those bonds, even the wretched ones, which means precisely guarding against those forms of destructiveness that take away our lives and those of other living beings, and the ecological conditions of life. In other words, before ever losing, we are lost in the other, lost without the other, but we never knew it as well as we do when we do actually lose. This being in thrall is one way of describing the social relations that have the power to sustain and to break us. Way before we enter into contracts that confirm that our relations are a result of our choice, we are already in the hands of the other, a thrilling and terrifying way to begin. We are from the start both done and undone by the other, and if we refuse this, we refuse passion, life, and loss. The lived form of that refusal is destruction; the lived form of its affirmation is non-violence. Perhaps non-violence is the difficult practice of letting rage collapse into grief. Since then we stand the chance of knowing that we are bound up in others, such that who I am or who you are is this living relation that we sometimes lose. With great speed, we do sometimes drive away from the unbearable, or drive precisely into its clutches, or do both at once, not knowing how we move, or with what consequence. It seems unbearable to be patient with unbearable loss. Yet that slowness, that impediment, can be the condition of showing what we value, and even perhaps what steps to take to preserve what is left of what we love.”


Of Tsunamis and Sea-Change

‘We live tranquilly on a ground whose solid foundations are sometimes shaken. We build without care on vaults whose columns now and then waver and threaten to collapse.’ Kant, ‘On the Causes of the Tremors of the Earth’

‘Perhaps this is a place where belonging now takes place in and through a common sense of loss’ (Judith Butler, Afterword to Loss: The Politics of Mourning, 2003).

We all remember the images. The towering wall of menacing seawater crashing upon the shore; the fragile houses broken into bits or transported by the flood waters far into the land; the debris of cars, trees and broken walls piled up against the ruins; the thousand fragments that could never again be reassembled into a whole. 2011 was a year of great catastrophe, but the images of the Great East Japan earthquake and tsunami taught me the true meaning of devastation. In that instant when nature claimed tens of thousands of lives, Japan – and the world – became marked, seared, a mark that is ineffaceable, insuperable. That site of ruination is the point from which arise questions about survival and continuity, shadowed as they are by the irreversibility of loss and the fear of further desolation.


A new kind of thinking and being emerges from annihilation. Or at least we would like to believe so. In the aftermath of 3.11, western media was inundated with stories about Japanese stoicism and collective resilience, stories about heroism and sacrifice, much like those disseminated in the aftermath of the Great Kanto earthquake. The moment of loss was also to be a moment of great change, of rebirth. As in previous disaster narratives, society harbored hopes that from the ruins would spring a more resilient nation. The local community, established in preindustrial society, was strengthened once again in the face of shared suffering, and an image of a ‘disaster utopia’ was projected, superimposed upon the phrase ‘Ganbaro Nippon’ (‘Let’s do our best’), the ubiquitous expression that articulated fortitude and the will to regenerate the nation. As illustrated in the namazue prints produced after the Ansei earthquake, destruction was followed by the yearning for renewal.

But the history of disasters is also the history of fraught reconstruction processes, and socio-political maelstroms follow closely on the heels of natural catastrophe. In the words of scholar Noguchi Takehiko, ‘Natural disaster often serves as a catalyst, accelerating and bringing to the fore problems, contradictions, and tensions below the apparently calm surface of societies.’ 3.11 ignited debates in Japan about the political ineptitude of the central government, the failures of modern society and the dangers of unchecked technological progress. While the Self-Defense Forces were praised for their efficiency in disaster management, the central government was relentlessly denigrated by the press and the public. Even prior to the tsunami, a loss of faith in government was already detectable, exacerbated by ongoing problems such as public debt, low GDP growth, income inequality, unemployment and the rise of poverty (see Samuels). The rural community of Tohoku was further affected by depopulation and the advanced age of citizens. Faced with the catastrophic consequences of the earthquake and tsunami, the bureaucratic system revealed itself to be crippled by convolutedness and inefficiency. Different groups and factions sought to seize the opportunity to shift paradigms, to change the course of the nation, for disasters create moments of ‘punctuated equilibria’ (Samuels), when pre-existing constraints are relaxed temporarily in the face of exogenous factors such as war or natural disaster. The choices made at such a time are consequential and likely irreversible.

Fukushima stands at the centre of all the debates. TEPCO (Tokyo Electric Power Company), with its long history of falsifying safety reports and underestimating risk, became villainized in the public eye. Despite the fact that vulnerabilities were highlighted years before the disaster, not much has been done to address issues in the reactor designs and management system. Lack of transparency regarding these issues, and the prioritization of capital over security, has created a wide rift between the government and the people. The Kurokawa Commission Report, published in July 2012, critiqued the collusion between business and government, and identified 3.11 as a man-made disaster, not entirely unforeseeable (Samuels). As water and soil become contaminated, the ‘human-engineered calamity’ (Huet) has therefore superseded the natural disaster, and through human failings, the event has become destructive in the most totalizing sense.

While the nuclear situation imploded at Fukushima, elsewhere in Tohoku the survivors struggle with the work of rebuilding. Despite the passing of several laws after the 1995 Kobe earthquake to enable more effective disaster response, no national agency has been established. 7 months after March 2011, less than 2/3 of temporary housing had been constructed; nearly a full year later, most of the wreckage was still strewn across the land ravaged by the tsunami (Samuels). The funds allocated for rebuilding were stuck behind a seemingly impermeable barrier of bureaucratic procedures. In spite of the generous outpouring of the international community, the volunteerism and donations, much remains unfinished. Three years on, there is an incremental rise of stress-related deaths amongst the survivors, and escalating rates of suicide and depression. With the unrelenting housing crisis, it is hardly shocking that those who evaded death have found it difficult to live a life fraught with instability, homelessness and bereavement. As the major of Rikuzentakata noted, ‘Disaster victims are disaster victims 24 hours a day’. The persistence of catastrophe means that suffering bleeds beyond the temporal and physical boundaries of the actual seismic shocks and tsunami.


The ideal of community has also been undercut by reports of distrust among new neighbors in the temporary shelters, and amidst talks of tsunagu (‘connection’) political dissatisfaction continued unabated, shown when victim groups sued local authorities for misconduct during the crisis. Social solidarity is thus rent by deep fissures much like the land itself. In other words, not much has changed in the aftermath of 3.11.

Disasters raise questions about leadership, community and the potential for change. We cannot know how great a shock is needed in order to instigate structural and institutional transformation, but we hold onto hope that natural disasters, wars and other cataclysms, by puncturing the stability or stagnancy of normal operations, would be harbingers of a new order. But the state in Japan and the painful process of reconstruction have suggested that change is slow and unclear. According to scholars such as Richard J. Samuels and David Pilling, 3.11 was not a game-changer as many had hoped. Incremental change will occur as a result of myriad small steps and long drawn-out calculations, debates and revisions. Japanese culture, as Pilling argues, is one of evolution, not revolution.

Yet against the political backdrop, in the face of possible nuclear disaster, and amidst ruined hopes for change, groups of people are undertaking the immense work of survival. Theirs is the narrative that holds a politics of possibility, which suggests renewal and a coming-to-terms with what has been lost. People tend to gardens planted where their homes had once been; animals lost amidst the wreckage are being cared for; local monks founded a Café du Monk, to help survivors deal with the aftermath; a stream of volunteer groups still enter the region to assist with reconstruction; Japanese architects have designed new homes for those robbed of their former homes; arts exhibitions and music events are set up to rejuvenate public life; and spiritual guides provide support to thousands of souls lost upon the waves. Such acts exemplify kizuna (‘bond’; 2011 word of the year). If the Fukushima crisis can be controlled, then the reconstruction process can generate social renewal. Or else the only change we can expect is a catastrophic one. Ours is an age where threats of annihilation are omnipresent and disaster seems to be always just around the corner. As the debris from the tsunami travels across the Pacific and reach the shores of North America, we need to stand on the other side of the three-year span and reflect on the meaning of disaster and of community. Much remains to be changed – in Japan and elsewhere – and much can be made of the fragments that we shore against our collective ruin.



Further Readings

Parry, Richard Lloyd, ‘Ghosts of the Tsunami’, 6 February 2014, London Review of Books.

Pilling, David. Bending Adversity: Japan and the Art of Survival. Penguin Press, 2014.

Samuels, Richard J. 3.11: Disaster Response and Change in Japan. Cornell University Press, 2013.

Sand, Jordan, ‘In Tokyo’, 28 April 2011, London Review of Books.

Solnit, Rebecca, ‘In Fukushima’, 10 May 2012, London Review of Books.


On the Modern Bookshop


Tucked away in the affluent neighborhood of Daikanyama, in Tokyo, is Tsutaya Books, a design gem and book emporium that frequently features on lists of the best bookshops in the world. Large glass panels and white, woven facades distinguish the three-pavilion complex that houses a diverse range of books (in Japanese and English), plus an upscale restaurant, a Starbucks, and a travel concierge in the travel books section. There is no denying the pleasure of walking through the gleaming spaces, or of sitting at a large wooden desk with a view of the majestic trees outside the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. The space spelled perfection – no dust, no insects, no stray books displaced. Being a bibliophile, bookshops are my natural habitat, but there was something jarring about Tsutaya. From the cafe to the design section, Tsutaya was mainly frequented by the trendy and wealthy customers who reside in the neighborhood. With the exception of a few arts students, it was difficult to spot someone who did not carry a luxury bag. Setting aside the affluence of Daikanyama as a contributing factor, I wondered whether the glamorization of reading, coupled with the commercialization of the modern bookshop, does not ironically spell the end of the book.

I grew up in the vicinity of a modern bookshop, and it provided much-needed sanctuary during adolescent years of existential confusion. That branch of Chapter’s (a chain of bookstores in Canada) was the place where I collected cheap paperback copies of classics, discovered contemporary prize-winners, and honed the art of book collecting. It was not a luxurious place, though modern, and on most Friday evenings, it was mainly filled with  students, bookworms or those looking for a birthday card. The shop will be closed at the end of the month, and its demise – alongside the demise of numerous similar establishments – signals the end of an era in the history of the bookshop. North American chains, such as Barnes & Nobles, probably occupy a space between the cozy, ever so slightly dilapidated secondhand shops of Europe and the grand, luxurious bookshops like Tsutaya. Perhaps glamorization is an effective marketing scheme, and by rendering the act of reading chic and sexy, bookshops not only hope to sell more books but also to encourage reading. Perhaps. At Eslite, a grand bookstore in Taipei (with chains in other Asian countries), I once came across a book signing event, in which an author encouraged young people to become novelists because it is now fashionable; true to the spirit of his book, many readers in attendance carried Prada bags and scrawled notes on the newest iPads. In many cafes in Taipei, there are piles of English books sitting in corners, by the window, or used to enhance the look of certain products. Vintage books have become fetish objects, and the bookworm is no longer a denigrated character, but a persona that many willingly assume, while relaxing in a gorgeous space decorated with books.

The linking of literature with fashion can be damaging to the former, much like the rising practice of giving students monetary reward for every book read – the surface reward (whether it’s $5 or a glamorous public image) erodes the intrinsic value of reading. We need to not just read, but to be seen reading. The spectacle of the reader means that the act of reading, and not just the physical books themselves, has been completely consumed by the market, like all the other arts. While shops like Tsutaya were founded with the ideal of resisting the advent of digital media, I wonder if they’re not as detrimental to reading as Facebook and tablets, if not more so. British novelist Will Self recently published a verbose panegyric on the death of literary fiction, and he points out how ‘The hallmark of our contemporary culture is an active resistance to difficulty in all its aesthetic manifestation’. When the culture of reading (and concomitantly, writing) becomes saturated with glamor, ruled by trends, it will be purely a matter of easy, fast consumption, without difficulties or complications, much like fashion. This process has already begun, of course – no other cultural conditions could have allowed for the flourishing of Fifty Shades of Grey. In an age of intellectual laxity, it is no wonder that books (particularly difficult ones that will not be read) have been reduced to merely decorative objects or status symbols in so many places in the world. When I see vintage Penguin paperbacks and literary paraphernalia such as fountain pens – which are now extremely popular outside western culture – I feel a sense of sadness, despite my ardent love for these objects, because they are remnants of a time that is no more. In an era where solitary reading, deep thought and intellectual engagement are unfashionable, what could such objects be except consumerist trends and empty signifiers pointing to a vacuous beyond?

So, the luxury bookshops, for all their convenience and beauty, will never replace their precursors. Of course bookshops are necessarily commercial spaces, but they should also be spaces for thinking, for imaginary journeys, for serendipitous encounters with that perfect sentence. Perhaps there are some similarities between the luxury bookshop and virtual spaces that encourage bibliophilia and reading. The newly launched My Independent Bookshop, backed by Penguin, allows bookworms to create their own ‘gateway to brand new worlds’. While choosing books for one’s own shop and choosing the ‘wallpaper’ can be quite fun, it is also a bit unnerving, since this is a shop that one can never enter, pages that one can never touch. But for every book bought, a percentage of the sale goes to a local, independent bookshop, so the website is linked to the spaces of real bookshops.

There is something about luxury bookshops that, like the virtual one, feels slightly removed from the physical, humble, and highly subjective experience of reading. Perhaps that sense of the unreal stems from the shop’s seeming perfection, or from the fact that many books (in shops such as Eslite) are wrapped in plastic to protect them from dust and humidity, thus rendering browsing impossible. Jean-Luc Nancy provides superb descriptions of the bookshop experience in his On the Commerce of Thinking: On Books and Bookstores –

‘[The reader in a bookstore] doesn’t devour, but tastes, inhales, sniffs, or licks the substance. The bookstore is a perfumery, rotisserie, patisserie: a dispensary of scents and flavours through which something like a fragrance or bouquet of the book is divined, presumed, sensed. It is where one gives oneself or finds an idea of the book’s Idea, a sketch, an illusion, a suggestion. Perhaps it speaks of what one was looking for, what one was hoping for.’

Nancy recognises the full sensory, even sensual, experience of the bookshop. And the scent of books beckons the bibliophile forward. Nothing smells as intoxicating as a secondhand bookstore, the scent that floods the mind with memories and an ardent sense of curiosity.

‘Even touching books communicates to the reader particular impressions: the weight, grain, or suppleness through which one thinks one can discern the inflections of a voice or else the fluctuations of a heart.’

Wandering through narrow corridors lined with shelves or turning yellowed pages that carry the scent of ages – these are bookshop experiences that are rapidly becoming obsolete. I think of the old bookshops on Charing Cross Road; G. David in Cambridge; and Shakespeare & Co. in Paris – the places where we might ‘find anchorage in these thwarting currents of being […and] balance ourselves after the splendors and miseries of the streets’ (Virginia Woolf, ‘Street Haunting’). The complex spaces and shelves of these shops in a way mirror the Gutenberg mind, from the dust-covered corners of which something new or old always springs forth at the invitation of the familiar scent. I would gladly exchange designer armchairs and Starbucks coffee for such spaces again. It is not just the loss of beautiful vintage volumes that I mourn, but the loss of a solitary, internal life that is deeply entangled with reading, of life that leaps forth from words, of the infinitude of being and feeling suggested by the well-worn pile that accompanies the perpetual traveler.

Nancy says it best, and deserves to be quoted here in full:

‘For, in the end, the Idea of the book will always, from its very conception, have been the Idea of its reading, and through that reading, the Idea of another book, of another writing that continues on from the first […] In fact reading does not lead to more reading, but to everything else, to what is sometimes called action and sometimes experience, where we rub up against the illegible real.

All the same, it is only by always reading anew that one can discard books one by one. Throw them not on the pyre or into oblivion, but launch them further and more profoundly into what should, with just cause, be called the bookstore of the soul, the free space of a devouring of and by the pure Idea, the labyrinth of books that are read, jotted on, forgotten, and dust-covered, the books learned and forgotten by heart, the creasing of the edges of pages whose image always comes back because they contain certain precious words.’


Of Catfish and Catastrophe

Namazu-e-Earthquake-catfish-Japan6The defeated catfish outstretched on the table divides post-disaster Edo into two distinct groups – those in the upper half of the picture, including builders, who benefit from the disaster; and those in the lower half, including wealthy merchants, who suffered greater losses.

The long catalogue of disasters that have struck Japan’s capital has long daunted those unaccustomed to the tremors of the earth. On 11 November 1855, a 6.9-7.1-magnitude earthquake destroyed most of Edo (precursor to modern Tokyo). Estimates of death ranged from 7000 to 10,000. Eighty aftershocks per day continued to shake the city for nine days after the initial tremor.

Although there were no newspapers published in the city (since the shogunate forbade public comments on the regime), within a few weeks of the disaster, hundreds of earthquake-related woodblock prints appeared, many of which featured a giant catfish, namazu. These fascinating prints, called namazu-e, offer a window on the socio-political consciousness of Edo in the final decades of the Tokugawa period, and bring to the fore disaster’s capacity as an agent of social change.

Japanese folk explanations attributed earthquakes variously to the movement of a giant creature that supported the earth (usually a dragon/snake, ox or fish); the movement of a deity or giant supporting the earth; the shaking of a subterranean, load-bearing pillar; or the careless movement of human ancestors. There was also the notion, derived from Chinese philosophy, that earthquakes result from the temporary imbalance of the forces of yin and yang that are embedded in the earth. However, from the late seventeenth century onward, the notion that a giant subterranean catfish is the true cause of earthquakes gained more currency. While pre-Lisbon theodicy placed responsibility in God’s hands, the Japanese placed it in the hands of namazu, the catfish. It was said that the catfish lay under a stone at Kashima shrine, at the easternmost point of Honshu; when the god of the shrine neglected his duty of holding down the catfish, the creature would awaken, thus causing tremors.

Around the time of the Ansei earthquake, the god of Kashima might have been particularly negligent, for the earthquake hit at a time of seismic instability throughout Japan – in 1853, an earthquake destroyed a castle in 1853, another struck near the imperial shrine in Ise in 1854, and two tsunamis in 1854 caused thousands of deaths along the Pacific coast. Was all this the work of the giant catfish and of divine negligence? The people of Edo rejected the idea of pure contingency, and viewed the 1855 catastrophe in the context of drastic political change; in other words, human agency played a significant role in the coming of the disaster. For the Japanese, it was telling that the disaster followed so closely the visits of Commodore Matthew Perry in 1853 and 1854 (a period that had seen its fair share of natural disasters); the opening of the ports suddenly destabilized the shogunate system that had ruled in Japan for 250 years, and the expansion of foreign relations was resented by some. Social and political order was weakening (later to be replaced by the centralized state in 1868), and the Tokugawa shogunate was on the decline. Assigning blame to the divine authorities was in some ways a veiled criticism of the authorities governing the nation, who were increasingly unable to take care of the people, and as a result of the government’s negligence, cataclysmic events have occurred.

Namazu-e_-_Kashima_absent-mindedThis print interprets the disaster as resulting from the negligence of Ebisu (the god of fishing and commerce, asleep in the foreground), in whose care Kashima had left the city, seen burning in the upper half of the picture, as Kashima on a white horse rushes back in a panic. Namazu is depicted as a terrifying force of destruction, yet from its cavernous mouth falls golden coins, signaling the post-disaster redistribution of wealth.

Society was equally shaken by the other events that occurred in a period of great volatility, including crop failures; epidemics; the Tempo famine of 1833-1837; riots and popular revolts. The severe fractures in Japanese society were becoming more apparent. The namazue prints, which emerged in the aftermath of the Ansei earthquake, in part responded to the general atmosphere of instability. The catfish depicted in the prints were not punitive, but were more frequently sympathetic. One of the major themes portrayed by the namazue was the redistribution of wealth and the rebalancing of society. Common among the prints were depictions of the catfish forcing wealthy men to spew out coins, thus contributing to the charity funds that would help rebuild the city. According to Kitahara Itoko (Japanese historian on disasters), public registers listed the names of all donors, with the wealthy contributing more. While prosperous tycoons hoarded goods and wealth during the Tokugawa regime, society became imbalanced. Namazu restores the free circulation of money, so that the economy, like the vital forces of nature, would flow freely, thus avoiding stagnation and the festering of greed. In other words, disaster restored social health by correcting an imbalance. The subversiveness of this message meant that the shogunate soon banned the printing and distributing of namazue prints.

Namazu_01The merchants in the upper right-hand corner can be seen holding an abacus, and dividing their wealth to aid the impoverished masses, or to assist with the reconstruction project

The prints also showed how some social groups, such as builders, had benefited from the cataclysm, since their skills were rendered indispensable by the devastation. Thus destruction was followed by renewal, and in the collective sharing of loss and the communal efforts of reconstruction, a ‘disaster utopia’ (Kitahara) was created – akin to the rustic paradise depicted in von Kleist’s ‘Earthquake in Chile’. In stark contrast to the brutality that followed the Great Kanto Earthquake of 1923, the Ansei earthquake facilitated the utopian dream of restoration and restructuring. Namazu, as depicted in these prints, was not so much the cause of the earthquake as its visual manifestation of social change – a reminder that the question of community lies at the heart of disaster.


Further Readings

Bates, Alex, ‘Catfish, Super Frog and the End of the World: Earthquakes (and natural disasters) in the Japanese Cultural Imagination’, Education about Asia, vol. 12, no. 2, (Fall 2007).

Sand, Jordan, ‘Diary’, London Review of Books, 28 April 2011, <http://www.lrb.co.uk/v33/n09/jordan-sand/diary&gt;

Smits, Gregory, ‘Shaking Up Japan: Edo Society and the 1855 Catfish Picture Prints, Journal of Social History, vol. 39, no. 4 (summer 2006), 1045-1078.

Smits, Gregory, ‘Conduits of Power: What the Origins of Japan’s Earthquake Catfish Reveal about Religious Geography’, Japan Review 24 (2012), 41-65.


To be content with the world…is to find within oneself the strength to face up to everything that is abominable, to find within oneself the strength to resist the abominable when it happens. In other terms, self-enjoyment means: to be worthy of the event…be it a catastrophe or a great love…This is a theme that runs across philosophy. – Gilles Deleuze, Lecture on Leibniz, 1987


On 17 January 1995, an earthquake measuring 7.3 on the Richter scale hit the city of Kobe, the largest earthquake to have devastated the region since 1923. In merely 20 seconds, the disaster killed more than 5000 people, injured tens of thousands, and rendered more than 300,000 homeless. The house that belonged to the parents of writer Haruki Murakami were among those destroyed by the Kobe earthquake (also known as the Great Hanshin earthquake). At the time of the event, Murakami himself was not in Japan. But in the aftermath of the disaster, he returned to his homeland after years of self-imposed exile. After the Quake, a series of short stories, was the result of Murakami’s return and his attempt to come to terms with the catastrophe. Like the author, the characters in these poignant stories were absent from the scene of the disaster; the catastrophe exists on the periphery of their consciousness, even as it continually haunts them.


All six stories are set roughly one month after the Kobe earthquake, and the characters reflect on the disaster in their individual ways, mostly through their losses and the vacuity of their daily lives. As with his other works, Murakami seems fascinated by characters who experience existential emptiness. In ‘Landscape with Iron’, a runaway girl befriends a painter who had abandoned his wife and children in Kobe; next to the bonfire she experiences a sudden realization: ‘There’s really nothing at all in here […] I’m cleaned out. Empty’. The first story in the series, ‘UFO in Kushiro’, follows the journey of a man whose wife leaves him suddenly in the aftermath of the earthquake; she leaves a note reading ‘You have nothing inside you that you can give me. You are good and kind and handsome, but living with you is like living with a chunk of air’. The abandoned husband, Komura, then goes on a strange voyage to Hokkaido where, watching images of ‘tilted buildings, buckled streets, old women weeping, confusion and aimless anger’, he tries to figure out the state of his own life. In a conversation with a companion he met in Hokkaido, Komura denies that his wife’s departure had anything to do with the earthquake, to which his companion replies, ‘I wonder if things like that aren’t connected somehow’. That is precisely the idea that Murakami is suggesting subtly with these stories of loss, betrayal, confusion and regret – that all these things are connected somehow, and that the human heart is linked to seismic activity.

Beneath the complacent surface of life, tremendous subterranean forces are threating to disrupt the calm, to change the world irrevocably. In that sense, disaster is always just around the corner. As Murakami writes in ‘All God’s Children Can Dance’:

‘And then it struck him what lay buried far down under the earth on which his feet were so firmly planted: the ominous rumbling of the deepest darkness, secret rivers that transported desire, slimy creatures writhing, the lair of earthquakes ready to transform whole cities into mounds of rubble.’

Disasters are reminders not only of the physical fragility of our cities, but also the fragility of love, of human connections. Murakami’s characters are concerned about connections, even if they remain isolated and their lives are continually fraught by the difficulties associated with those connections. In the beautifully written ‘Honey Pie’, short-story writer Junpei is caught in a love triangle involving his two best friends. Like the painter in ‘Landscape with Iron’, Junpei has family in Kobe, whom he failed to contact after the earthquake; he tried to resume life as if nothing happened, and avoided news about Kobe. But denial does not work. Junpei is forced to admit that

‘Whenever anyone mentioned the earthquake, he would clam up […] He hadn’t set foot on those streets since his graduation, but still, the sight of the destruction laid bare raw wounds hidden somewhere deep inside him. The lethal, gigantic catastrophe seemed to change certain aspects of his life – quietly, but from the ground up. Junpei felt an entirely new sense of isolation. I have no roots, he thought, I am not connected to anything.’

Internal upheavals, not unlike earthquakes, cannot be averted, and require tremendous time and effort to recover from. In many ways, the emptiness and isolation experienced by Murakami’s characters are a result of their own frailties, their lack of social responsibility towards others, particularly those whom they love. As with Kleist’s ‘Earthquake in Chile’, there is much here about the possibility or impossibility of human community, about what people do to one another, and the emotional or social catastrophes that wreak havoc upon our mental lives. (It is of interest that a European story and one set in Asia should both ask questions about community and disaster.)

The connection between the heart and the earthquake is made even more explicit in ‘Thailand’, in which the main character, a pathologist, vacations in Thailand and through conversations with her driver, reflects on her past. When asked about the Kobe earthquake, she recalls how the man who had abandoned her lived in Kobe:

‘She had spent thirty years hating one man. She had hoped that he would die in agony. In order to bring that about, she had gone so far as to wish in the depths of her heart for an earthquake. In a sense, she told herself, I am the one who caused that earthquake. He turned my heart into a stone…’

The suggestion that a single thought could cause an earthquake is compelling, if not terrifying. The mind is responsible for much. And the psychological and the geological are inextricably intertwined. But if the mind can cause earthquakes then, theoretically, it can also avert disaster. This is one of the suggestions behind ‘Super-Frog Saves Tokyo’, the most surreal and fantastical story in the collection, featuring a giant frog who enlists the help of Katagiri to save Tokyo from a devastating earthquake by battling a giant worm that lives underground. Absurdity aside, the fact that Worm could be stopped suggests that disasters can always be averted, even if nature itself cannot be controlled. After Tokyo is saved, Frog tells Katagiri something that could be seen as the kernel of the collection: ‘The whole terrible fight occurred in the area of imagination. That is the precise location of our battlefield. It is there that we experience our victories and our defeats.’ The fight – and the disaster – is entirely internal, a psychomachia, and without defeating ‘the me inside me’ – what Frog calls the enemy – then there can be no hope for community, for the ‘intensive collectivity known as “city”’.

After the Quake ends with an affirmation of the possibility of change. Junpei, the writer, decides at the end that change is needed, that responsibility needs to be taken in the aftermath of catastrophe, and from the ruins something new can emerge. In Junpei’s words, ‘I want to write stories that are different from the ones I’ve written so far […] I want to write about people who dream and wait for the night to end, who long for the light so they can hold the ones they love.’ Of course, such change is never easy, and the problems of human community continue unabated, as Murakami discovered. Two months after the Kobe earthquake, Japan faced another catastrophe: the gas attacks on the Tokyo subway, which claimed the lives of fifteen people and injured thousands of others. In Underground, which resulted from interviews with survivors and members of the Aum cult, Murakami sought to analyse the Japanese psyche, and what he found were multiple fractures in Japanese society. The gas attacks, like the Kobe earthquake, are indications of the precariousness and violence that will continue to complicate processes of building communities and forging connections. Like the reconstruction work that takes places after earthquakes, such processes are always painstakingly drawn out. But at least we know that in these instances of difficulty, human beings – not God, and not the stars – are largely to blame.


The Seismicity of the Heart

In the novel Strong Motion, Jonathan Franzen uses earthquakes to describe love – the love that moves us, uproots us, that always carries with it the potential for destruction. As Franzen says in an interview, ‘the phenomenon of humanly induced seismicity’ is enticing literarily, and a novelist can make effective use of the elusiveness of earthquakes. Franzen had, in fact, worked in a seismology lab, so he understood that earthquakes are still relatively enigmatic phenomena – to this day, the ways in which earthquakes interact with other disturbances are shrouded in mystery, as are the exact causes of tremors. No one knows for certain what sets earthquakes off and why. Franzen, along with others, situates this mysterious cause inside the human heart. In the same interview, Franzen mentions the ‘bridges between the geologic scale and the human scale, between the large forces of nature and the small forces of the heart.’ While poor construction and ineffective management are socio-political instances of human responsibility for disasters, there are subtler, more incalculable ways in which human society is linked to seismic movement.


Such metaphoric readings of earthquakes, while not necessarily scientific, do provide fecund soil for literary invention. One of the most famous stories set in the aftermath of an earthquake makes precisely this nebulous link between the human heart and catastrophe. Heinrich von Kleist’s short narrative, ‘Earthquake in Chile’ (1807), is set against the background of the earthquake that devastated Santiago on 13 May 1647 (though Kleist most likely had in mind the Lisbon earthquake that challenged the optimistic theodicy of the Enlightenment). The story follows the fate of the lovers Jeronimo and Josefa, who were condemned for fornication and sacrilege (Josefa refused to give up her lover even after she was forced into a convent, and henceforth became pregnant). Prior to the earthquake, Josefa was on the verge of being executed, and Jeronimo was prepared to hang himself in prison. But the earthquake toppled church and prison, thus freeing the lovers, who reunited in the forest outside the city, along with their infant son. The disaster destroyed both the just and the unjust, and was initially seen to be a social leveler. Survivors who met in the forest showed each other great kindness regardless of social rank; great acts of compassion were witnessed, and the air was filled with the ‘spirit of reconciliation’. In the idyllic woods, the survivors experienced human sociality at its purest, freed from the institutional obstacles that were leveled by the earthquake. After the seismic activity subsided, some of the survivors decided to return to the city and pray in the only church left standing. Jeronimo and Josefa joined the congregation, only to be recognized by someone in the crowd, who condemned the lovers for having caused the disaster with their sin. The furious mob descended on Jeronimo and Josefa, and clubbed them to death; their son was, fortunately, saved by a companion.

Kleist, as always, maintains a neutral tone throughout the story, but to a certain extent he invites the readers to sympathize with the lovers. While the first part of the story deals with the destruction wrought by nature, the second part deals with the destructiveness of human society. Jeronimo and Josefa survive the earthquake only to perish in the social catastrophe of the church. Thus it is society, not nature, which is placed under scrutiny; or rather, it is the moral limits of society that are being examined. In the words of Isak Winkel Holm, ‘What is at stake is the weakness not of a society’s institutional but of its moral infrastructure. When vulnerable houses and institutions collapse, it is still up in the air whether the ties of the human community are fragile or robust.’ Although Kleist does not offer unambiguous answers, the tragic ending of the story suggests the moral frailty of a society unable to look beyond its need to condemn. The sociability established in the woods was only temporary, and physical devastation did not impart lasting lessons about right and wrong. It is perhaps not so much Jeronimo and Josefa’s affair that caused the earthquake as the cruelty of the Santiago society itself. Disasters thus have much to do with the possibility or impossibility of community. In the aftermath of the Lisbon earthquake, French Jansenist Laurent-Etienne Rondet rightly remarked that ‘Earthquakes are a symbol of disturbance among peoples’. The disharmony already inherent in Santiago society was writ large in the cataclysmic collapse of its buildings and institutions. If catastrophe is a wake-up call that jolts the survivors out of everyday complacency, it is also a challenge to human morality, and demands a reexamination of the limits of sociability.

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