A masterpiece composed by the renowned writer Higuchi Ichiyō, “Child’s Play” is like a delicately folded paper narcissus that buds in front of its readers. It weaves a sentimental tale about the friendship and reserved romance between teenage boys and girls, while revealing the civil lifestyle of that epoch. As it gently touches readers, it also evokes the profound existential paradox that underlies its nuanced beauty.

Written in 1895, “Child’s Play” is situated on the edge of Yoshiwara, a pleasure quarter of Edo. The novella mainly revolves around three adolescents: Midori, the younger sister of a popular courtesan, Shota, the son of the pawnbroker, and Nobu, the son of the priest. Vividly describing the children’s jovial preparation for the upcoming festival, Ichiyō depicts the dynamic small society they form, which consists of “gangs” led by outstanding figures—either powerful kids like Chokchi, or children from wealthy or upper-class families, like Shota and Midori. Ichiyō also focuses on the romantic sentiments Midori grows toward Nobu, who tries to ignore her appreciation and, in the end of the story, leaves for the seminary; meanwhile, as Midori realizes her and Shota’s growth into adulthood, the latter’s admiration of the former also gradually alienates the two innocent playmates. With the characters’ coming to age and diverting into distinct future, things will never return to the pure past.

Unlike simple adolescent romances, the story captivates readers with a sense of poetic tragedy as it weaves an exquisite web of tension regarding existence. Readers are invited to watch the seemingly cheerful interactions between children, yet underlying the bright surface are the ineffaceable and irreversible signs of social constructs of the adult world. For instance, the amusing character Sangorō often finds himself in the dilemma of following Shota or Chōkichi, for “the pawnshop Shota’s people ran was a lifeline for Sangorō and his family”, while “Chōkichi’s father owned their house.” In addition to the tension between their supposed innocence and the adult-like sophistication, the story also captures the ephemeral nature of pure adolescence as it’s juxtaposed with the children’s predetermined destinies fixed by their family backgrounds. Despite their genuine teenage affections between one another, they can never break free from their written paths, for “the diversification of their origin [is] irreversible.” Just as literary scholar Millet proposes: “The child Midori has died and has been ‘reborn’ as the courtesan Midori.”—Yet as she resents growing up and realizes that “things have to change”, “child as he was, Shota had no idea.” Hearing the prelude of estrangement as the characters growing up, readers are stunned by the brutal paradox where time brings about their destined transformation, while the previous sincerity and innocence all fades into distant mirage.

Ichiyō also embroiders the text with exquisite literary brushstrokes. Within the delicate décor she sets up, she artistically polishes symbols that possess in the meantime classical beauty and profundity. One especially impressive scene takes place on the drizzling morning where Nobu stops by Midori’s door, and the latter tries to help the former by passing him a scrap of silk, which is then deliberately ignored. “The scarlet scarp of Yūzen silk lay in the rain, its pattern of red maple leaves near enough…The silk shred lay abandoned by the gate. Its red maple leaves shimmered in the rain.” –The stark scarlet makes an underscored appearance in the rain, connoting the complex notion of amour: a romantic impulse intertwined with perplexity and reservedness. It thus becomes melancholically poignant that such surgent emotions lay but “abandoned” and unechoed. Such mild, tragic beauty lingers around the end of the novella, where an unnamed paper narcissus, “crisp, solitary,” is received at Midori’s gate. This delicate object not only mirrors Midori’s metamorphosis, but the blurriness of its origin also leaves ,reader a chance for imagination—that it might be a gift from Nobu before he leaves, and that there is, ultimately, still a trace of genuine emotion to be preserved from the irretrievable innocent years.

Finally, beyond the story itself, Ichiyō’s identity as a representative keishū writer intrigues the readers to evaluate the significance of the novella in the broader context of Japanese literature. Unmarried and coming from a lower-class status, Ichiyō is honored by many critics as the prominent Meiji woman writer. Indeed, such talent and resolution mark her outstanding success as she and her work represent the struggle of women in the canon of a male dominated society. However, as some critics point out, the “idolization [of Ichiyō] became a burden rather than birthright for successors,” readers may also come to critically re-examine the position of women writers, who could have been overly demanded. Ultimately, the extraordinariness of “Child’s Play” lead readers to ponder a just way to appreciate women writers’ work, which neither “establish[es] a separate Japanese feminist canon”, nor “enfold[s] [them] wholly into the male-dominated tradition,” so that Ichiyō’s success could reborn in various forms in new generations of female writers.

In a word, “Child’s Play” is a beautifully written work—like a paper narcissus, it possesses a form with such delicacy and melancholic aesthetics, while its content buds from the elusive adolescence, blooming into a tragedy of irreversible destiny; overall, its presence reiterates the value of female writing, and evokes a general reflection. Its graceful blossom will constantly startle its spectators, and leave a perpetual mark in their sight as they whisper in awe.

Rate the book: 5/5

A perfect read for anyone who would like to spend a nice afternoon to travel across time and culture and experience the intricate mentality of a Japanese girl who stands in melancholy in front of the watershed point of her life.