カテゴリ:文学( 281 )

 

良書『街場の天皇論』


タイトルとか装丁とか著者とか版元などの表面的データから良書かどうかはほぼ見分けられるスキルがすでに身についてゐるので、ましてや目次やレビューなどを見た日には買ひかどうかは100%判明する。
しかしさうした吟味を怠り、あるひはさうしたスキルへの過信から一瞥の雰囲気で判断してしまふことがあり、それでも大抵当たるのだけれど、久々にハズレを掴んでしまつた。そのクソつまらなさといつたらなく、著者と版元を恨み、何よりてめえのジャッジミスにガッデムの感を強くした。

しかしその翌日、内田樹の新刊『街場の天皇論』が到着。その素晴らしい内容に心踊り、内田樹の安定感にその信頼をまた新たにした。さすが小林秀雄賞受賞思想家だけに小林秀雄と同じことを言つてゐる。具体的には「中庸」。
この中庸とは、穏便とか何かと何かの間といつた意味ではない。いつか「中庸といふこと」をまとめざるを得ない。

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by ichiro_ishikawa | 2017-10-09 22:52 | 文学 | Comments(0)  

最近見知つた言葉、考へのメモ



平田オリザ
「文化の振興」から「文化の活用」へと方針を変へた政府について、アーティストや作品等を、役に立つか否か、来場者数などの数値のみで評価するやうになるとヤバい。(骨子要約)

磯崎健一郎
モーツァルトの音楽やだれそれの絵画に対して、作者の意図するところを答えよとは問はれないが、小説に関してはさうした問いが試験問題などでも平気でなされる。これはおかしい。音楽を聴いたり絵画を観るやうに、小説も読みたい。(骨子要約)

明石家さんま
(ネットフリックスなどネット動画での番組において放送コードが緩いのは演者にとつて魅力か、的なことを吉田豪に問はれ)、サッカーとかスポーツをやつて来たから、ルールがある中でやる方が楽しいと思ふタチ。(骨子要約)


by ichiro_ishikawa | 2017-09-03 01:12 | 文学 | Comments(0)  

縦書き横書きの新事実発覚


先日、とあるイベントにて翻訳家の金原瑞人が石川九楊の言を経由してか忘れたが、かつて日本語に横書きはなかつた、と言つてゐて衝撃だつた。

といふのもこれまで古書や石碑の類で、右から左に読む右横書きを多く目にしてゐたから。
だから勝手に、〈昔から日本語は右から左へ読み進める縦書きが基本で主流ではあるものの、近世に西洋の言語が入つて来てからは縦書きも横書きもレイアウトに応じて自在に。ただし横書きの際は右から左にへといふ慣習であつた。それが戦後、欧米のやうに横書きの際は左から右へ、となつたものだ〉と思つてゐた。

ところがあの「右横書き」は、「一行一文字の縦書き」なのだといふのである。知らなんだ。

そこでいろいろ縦書き横書きについて調べてみると、普通にウイキペディアなどにも載つてゐて、言はば常識である事が判明。
(ピタリの参考文献: 戦後日本で右書きの横文字が左書きに変わった瞬間をさぐってみた

とはいへ無知を恥ぢるより、「一行一文字の縦書き」に、どこか美を感じる方が先立ち、爾来、色紙へ揮毫などを頼まれると嬉々として「一行一文字の縦書き」で認めてるやうになつてゐる。

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by ichiro_ishikawa | 2017-08-16 14:06 | 文学 | Comments(0)  

サム・シェパード インタビュー 1986(転載)


1986年の「Rolling Stone」に掲載されたサム・シェパードへのインタビュー記事が、Rolling Stone webに再録されていたので、保存の意味もあり、ここに転載。

転載元
http://www.rollingstone.com/culture/features/sam-shepard-the-rolling-stone-interview


Sam Shepard on Working With Dylan, Why Jim Morrison Has No Sense of Humor

Known for such groundbreaking plays as 'Buried Child,' for which he won a Pulitzer, playwright and actor has helped shape American aesthetic

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Bruce Weber for Rolling Stone


By Jonathan Cott
December 18, 1986

Theater critic Michael Feingold once remarked that the paradox of Sam Shepard consisted in his having "the mind of a Kafka trapped in the body of a Jimmy Stewart."

It was Franz Kafka who wrote that "a book must be the ax for the frozen sea in us." And in the more than 40 plays that Sam Shepard has written since 1964, this American playwright has been breaking open that frozen sea with an originality of vision, a jolting intermingling of humor and grief, a profound examination of the hopes and failures of the American family and an astonishing ear for the cadences of the American idiom. With plays like The Unseen Hand, Curse of the Starving Class, Buried Child (for which he won the 1979 Pulitzer Prize), True West, Fool for Love and the recent A Lie of the Mind, Shepard has cloaked himself in the mantle once worn by Eugene O'Neill and Tennessee Williams.

This Franz Kafka with a lariat, this desert-haunted cowboy-stranger, has also, as an actor, attained the popularity of matinee idols such as Jimmy Stewart and Gary Cooper. With his lean, Sam Shepard lanky, cleft-chinned, high-cheekboned, snaggletoothed, blue-eyed good looks, Sam Shepard has been a magnetic presence in films such as Days of Heaven, Resurrection, Frances, The Right Stuff, Country and Fool for Love. In the words of The Right Stuff's director, Phil Kaufman, "[Shepard] has a quality that is so rare now – you don't see it in the streets much, let alone in the movies – a kind of bygone quality of the Forties, when guys could wear leather jackets and be laconic and still say a lot without verbally saying anything."

Born Samuel Shepard Rogers III on November 5th, 1943, in Fort Sheridan, Illinois, Shepard was an Army brat whose family was stationed for various periods in South Dakota, Utah, Florida and Guam and finally settled down on an avocado ranch in Duarte, California – an end-of-the-road valley town east of Los Angeles. At 19, he left his family and came to New York City as an aspiring actor and musician, started writing his superenergized, music-driven early plays, eventually moved to London with his actress-wife, O-Lan, and son, Jesse, then returned to northern California. He now lives on a farm in Virginia with actress Jessica Lange (with whom he appears in the film version of Beth Henley's play Crimes of the Heart, directed by Bruce Beresford) and their daughter, Hannah, and Jessica's daughter, Alexandra. Like Bob Dylan, whom he resembles in many ways, Sam Shepard is an intensely private person who shies away from journalists, preferring to allow transformed glimpses of himself to appear in his plays and in books like Hawk Moonand the wonderful Motel Chronicles – collections of poems-meditations-dreams-journals-visions. (Don Shewey's recent biography, Sam Shepard, gives an insightful view of the playwright's life and particularly of his complicated, shattered relationship with his alcoholic father.)

In conversation, Sam Shepard is happy to speak directly about things that concern him and indirectly about issues of superficial or only "personal" importance. With an undeniably engaging blue-eyed squint and a kind of Western-swing twang to his voice, he continually displays an unnerving, surprising and charmingly boyish sense of humor. But most disarming of all is the way he unhesitatingly confronts, explores and clarifies the most painful and sorrowful of matters – loss, separation, disillusionment, powerlessness, weakness, fear, lies.

In his most recent play, A Lie of the Mind, Sam Shepard has made his most fearless, controlled and deep penetration into the realm of the American psyche. For in this story of two American families – with its revelations and reconciliations of the relationships between and among a violent son, his battered wife and his angelic brother – the playwright shows how personal and social dreams and lies are one and the same, creating, as he once said Bob Dylan created, "a mythic atmosphere out of the land around us. The land we walk on every day and never see until someone shows it to us."

It was in an old-fashioned, unassuming drugstore on Carton Drive in Beverly Hills, California – one of Shepard's favorite "reading" haunts – and in the tearoom of the Chateau Marmont Hotel, in Hollywood, that the following interview took place earlier this year.

In many of your plays, your characters often perform music onstage, and the feel of your plays is often that of a jazz improvisation or of extended country, blues or rock & roll songs. When did your preoccupation with music begin?
Sam Shepard:
My dad was a kind of semiprofessional Dixieland-type drummer, and I learned the drums from him. When I was about twelve, we bought our first Ludwig drum set from a pawnshop – a marching-band bass drum, great big tom-toms and big, deep snare drums. We stripped the paint off of them, varnished them and then set them out in the orchard to dry.

I was in high school then in Duarte and started playing in a band called Nat's Cats. We performed old swing music, kind of Dixieland stuff, and gradually moved into rock & roll. Trumpet, clarinet, drums – that was the trio. In this same high school that I went to, there was a student named Mike Romero, who also played the drums. So this competition started – a kind of drum wars! – and I once went over to his place and stayed up all night and listened to jazz records for the first time. Then we played for hours, and I discovered what the left hand could do – letting the drum hand ride – because a rock 8 roll drummer would turn the hand over and smash the snare drum, while the jazz drummer would hold the stick in his open palm so that he could get this snap out of it. Mike Romero was the guy who turned me on to that, and all of a sudden the drums opened up for me. And when I moved to New York City in 1963, I started playing drums for the Holy Modal Rounders.


"I've always felt a great affinity with music. Writing seems to me to be a musical experience – rhythmically and in many other ways. But I don't think that that's so unusual. Most of the old guys had the same sense – Christopher Marlowe thought of himself as a musician. Just another musician killed at a bar."


I've always felt a great affinity with music. I've felt myself to be more of a musician than anything else, though I'm not proficient in any one instrument. But I think I have a musical sense of things … and writing seems to me to be a musical experience – rhythmically and in many other ways. But I don't think that that's so unusual. Most of the old guys had the same sense – Christopher Marlowe thought of himself as a musician. Just another musician killed at a bar [laughs] … and there's that theory that he was Shakespeare.

One of your fans told me that you were Shakespeare. And like you, Shakespeare didn't go around promoting himself in the media.
I think that's because he didn't exist. I think there was a whole cover-up for him.

You do?
Yeah. I think there's a big mystery about Shakespeare, but it's too late to confirm it [laughs]. I mean, look at the plays, the way they suddenly shift gears – from the earlier period to those later tragedies. Something happened that nobody knows about. I think he was involved in something deeply mysterious and esoteric, and at the time they had to keep it under wraps. There's an awful lot of amazing insight in his plays that doesn't come from an ordinary mind. And there was a tremendous monastic movement at that time. Who knows what he was into?

Shakespeare didn't mince words either. "To be, or not to be" is right to the point [laughs]. You can't get much more to the point than that. That is the question. Are you going to be here or not? What's the deal? Are you going to be or not be?

When did you make that decision?
Well, you decide that every day.

Do you sometimes wake up and wonder about it?
For me, it's been a process of overcoming a tremendous morning despair. It's been diminishing over the years. But I still feel this trace of this thing that I can't really track down.

Some people are just "up and at 'em!"
I've tried desperately to be like that – 6:00 a.m. and bang! Feed the horses and milk the goats. I used to work a lot on ranches where I grew up, and I had to rise at 5:30 in the morning. In fact, there's something healthy about going against the grain of the laziness of the body.

In a prose poem you once wrote called "Rhythm," you make It sound as if everything is rhythm: "Oilcan rhythms, ratchet wrench rhythms. Playing cards in bicycle spokes…. Water slapping rocks. Flesh slapping flesh. Boxing rhythms. Racing rhythms. Rushing brooks…."
Well, it is, pretty much. But there's that distinction between tempo and rhythm, where tempo is a man-made invention…. In San Francisco, I once studied with an African drummer named Kwaku Dadey, who had been playing since he was seven years old in Ghana. I'd always thought that polyrhythm was an invention of contemporary jazz, but it turns out that it's an ancient African concept. And I remember that one day about eight of us got together to play congas: we played in rhythms of 5s and 6s and in 6/8, 3/4 and 4/4 time simultaneously. Everything stacked and piled up, and you had to carry some of the lines three or four measures to catch up, but eventually it all worked out. It was hard to believe!

There was no connecting principle?
Of course there was. Like the ocean. If you're playing an individual part and I'm playing an individual part and we can't figure out how these two are going to merge – assuming you're sticking to your part and I to mine – they just eventually merge. I don't know how. But the rhythmic structures underneath each one of these parts all somehow map out. And what's the principle of that? It's way beyond music…. That man was an amazing teacher, with an understanding of the crossroads and of how everything fits together. I learned a lot from him.

When I see your plays, I'm sometimes reminded of songs written by the Band.
I love Levon Helm – he's one of my favorite guys. You know, Levon once shot himself in the leg while practicing his quick draw! [Laughs.] And there's another guy Levon once told me about who shot his nuts off – another drummer, by the way – and Levon said that he's never played the same since [laughs]. Oh, boy! Carrying a.45 in your crotch when you're playing the drums is really asking for trouble!

Do you remember the Band's song called "Daniel and the Sacred Harp"? It tells the story of a guy who buys a magical instrument that he has no rights to, and while he's playing his heart out on it in a meadow, he notices that he's lost his shadow, perhaps his soul.
A bad sign. You know Dr. Faustus, by Christopher Marlowe? I'd love to make a film of that sometime. I even prefer it to Goethe's version because of Marlowe's incredible language.

You seem to like Marlowe a lot. When did you first read him?
I'll tell you – aside from assigned reading in high school, I didn't read any plays except for a couple of Brecht things when I was living in New York City. I avoided reading out of arrogance, really. But when I went to England in the early Seventies, I suddenly found myself having a kind of dry spell. It was difficult for me to write, so I started to read. And I read most of the Greek guys – Aeschylus, Sophocles. … I studied up on those guys, and I'm glad I did. I was just amazed by the simplicity of the ancient Greek plays, for instance – they were dead simple. Nothing complex or tricky … which surprised the hell out of me, because I'd assumed they were beyond me. But now I began to comprehend what they were talking about, and they turned out to be accessible.

They're a lot about the family romance, aren't they?
They're all about destiny! That's the most powerful thing. Everything is foreseen, and we just play it out.

You don't think a person can shape his own destiny?
Oh, maybe. But first you have to know what your destiny is.

When did you think you knew your own?
I'm not so sure I do. I'm not saying I know my destiny; I'm saying that it exists. It exists, and it can become a duty to discover it. Or it can be shirked. But if you take it on as your duty, then it becomes a different thing from dismissing it altogether and just imagining that it'll work itself out anyway. I mean, it will. But it's more interesting to try to find it and know it.

What was the first thing you ever wrote?
I remember that when I was a kid, I wrote a story about a Coke bottle. You know that in the old days Coke bottles had the name of the city where they were manufactured inscribed on the bottom – St Paul, Dubuque, wherever. So I wrote this story about this bottle and its travels. It would get filled up in one town, some-one would drink it and throw it out the window, and then it would get on a truck and go somewhere else.

You seem to have found your own voice, on the outskirts of Duarte, all on your own.
You know, Duarte was a weird accumulation of things, a strange kind of melting pot – Spanish, Okie, black, Midwestern elements all jumbled together. People on the move who couldn't move anymore, who wound up in trailer camps. And my grandmother, my father's mother, was part something … maybe American Indian, I'm not sure what. She was real dark, with black eyes, and I don't know what that was all about – there was a cover-up somewhere back there.

But as far as my "voice" goes, I'm not so sure it's "mine." I had a sense that a voice existed that needed expression, that there was a voice that wasn't being voiced, if you want to put it like that. But is it "mine"?


"The shock of violence brings something. I'm not suggesting violence is a way of catharsis. But an accidental confrontation can bring about an awakening. A man can believe himself to be in control of his emotions, yet in the flash of an eye he can lose it totally and be shocked into seeing what he's really made of."


Your most recent play, A Lie of the Mind, seems like a real bringing together and transformation of many of your oldest and deepest "voices."
That's 21 years of work there. It was a tough play to write, because I had the first act very clearly in mind, then went off on a tangent and had to throw away two acts and start again. And then it began to tell itself. Like a story you've heard a long time ago that's now come back.

A writer once stated, "Insight only occurs as a lightning-bolt. The text is the thunder-peal rolling long behind."
Did I write that? [Laughs.]

No, the critic Walter Benjamin did. What was the lightning bolt for A Lie of the Mind?
The incredible schism between a man and a woman, in which something is broken in a way that almost kills the thing that was causing them to be together. The devastating break – that was the lightning bolt.

But isn't it this lightning bolt that woke them up? It seems as if Beth, the battered, brain-damaged wife, who appears to be crazy and living in a dream world, is in fact the clearest-seeing person in the play.
Yes, she's the most sensitive. I've had a couple of experiences of people very close to me who suffered brain damage and who underwent surgery. And the most startling thing in both of these cases was the sense of one's own helplessness in relation to what these two people were going through because of the innocence of their states. We use words all the time – we take them for granted – and suddenly you're faced with people who have no language…. It's gone. And you become aware that language is a learned function – it's an obvious fact – but at that moment you truly become aware of it, when you realize that it can be lost. Those people are on the open end of the stick. They're vulnerable and alive to the fact of language … while we're dead to it. We usually don't understand how it affects people and what kind of luxury it is to have language. So it shakes you up.

It's extraordinarily moving when Beth, pointing to her head, says, "This is me. This is me now. The way I am. Now. This. All. Different. I – I live inside this. Remember. Remembering."
It's interesting how you can be lost in an area like memory – memory is very easy to get lost in. Some things can't get lost, though, because they're based on emotional memory, which is a different thing from just trying to remember the name of a person or some fact. But to remember where you were touched has more of a reverberation. It remembers itself to you.

At the beginning of A Lie of the Mind, Jake's talking to his brother, Frankie, on the phone, and the latter says, "Jake! Don't do that! You're gonna disconnect us again." And you notice how the word disconnect and later a word like remember almost act as ritualistic and key words in the play. Yet the words also pass by unnoticed because they're so well rooted in intense but simple colloquial speech.
I think you have to start in that colloquial territory, and from there move on and arrive in poetic country … but not the other way around. I've noticed that even with the Greek guys, especially with Sophocles, there's a very simple, rawboned language. The choruses are poetic, but the speech of the characters themselves is terse, cut to the bone and pointed to the heart of the problem. It's like Merle Haggard tunes like "My Own Kind of Hat" – I do this, that and some other thing, but I wear my own kind of hat… Real simple.

A wisdom teacher once said that the most difficult barrier in one's life is the conquest of lying – lies of the mind.
But how do you come to see that? It's a hard pill to swallow that everything is a lie. Everything … even the truth! But if you even begin to approach that awareness, then something new takes place, because you start to see that there's another dimension of a relationship between yourself and the truth – the real truth as opposed to the real lies. Because everything, in a way, is suggestion: I suggest to myself that I'm brave, though it turns out that I'm a coward. But the suggestion is so powerful that I believe it, even in the face of my cowardice. The truth is that we can't face the truth…. And it seems to me that the first step is to find out which is which. Because if you go off believing that one part is strong and it's actually weak, you're going to be in for a shock!

As when Jake beats his wife up?
The shock of that kind of violence bringssomething. I'm not in any way suggesting that violence is a way of catharsis – I don't believe that at all. Nor do I believe that acting out one's anger is necessarily going to clean you of it; if anything, it may just provoke more anger. But that kind of accidental confrontation, especially between men and women, can bring about – even if only temporarily – a kind of awakening. Because a man can believe himself to be in control of his emotions, yet in the flash of an eye he can lose it totally and be shocked into seeing what he's really made of…. But to get into that kind of thing with a woman is a cowardly act. And if he's a man at all and doesn't see that, there's no way he can be truthful with himself.

Doesn't Jake, by wounding Beth, make both him and her wake up?
But they wake up into a lostness. They're not found in that state – it's not like, "Oh, now I realize my situation and I know where to turn." It's a lost-ness. Lostness can be profoundly rejuvenating in a way – it's a desperate time and full of despair and all that – but being really lost can start something that's brand-new. Now, there are different kinds of lost-ness – you can be lost and not know what street you're on; you can be lost emotionally; you can be lost with other people; you can be lost in yourself. I think you continually turn around that circle – finding yourself lost and then getting relatively found.

To me, writing is a way of bringing things back together a little bit. If I can at least write something, I start to feel that I'm gathering out of that lostness something that has some kind of structure and form and something that, one hopes, can be translated to others. I don't know if you can ever get totally found – I've met people who are convinced that they know what direction they're going in, and they seem to be very together. But maybe they're believing in a lie. ... A belief in a lie can be very powerful. And then again maybe some of it's true…. Who's to say?

Some of your characters do seem to have staked a legitimate claim in the realm of truth. Beth, for instance.
And they're the hardest ones to say anything about It's much easier to define something that's bent and go with the way it's misshapen. But to define or give an impression of something or someone that's clean is very difficult.

You know, there's a great yearning to get back to that state, and there are all sorts of methods that have been developed for that purpose. I was just talking to an old friend of mine who's having a nervous breakdown – the last person in the world I ever thought would be in that state. And he told me that he was thinking of going on a vision quest. There's apparently a vision-quest cult based on the American Indian practice of going off for three days by yourself. And I said that that was great if it could serve the purpose of confronting the essentials. But I think it's incredibly difficult to do that today. If it happens accidentally, as it apparently did to Werner Erhard … well, then, he's a lucky man. But is that an excuse for starting an entire organization based on his personal breakthrough? I don't know…. And I think that the question of death – of trying to take a truthful look at it – is missing in a lot of people's activities today. The health movement and jogging movement sometimes seem to me to reflect an incredible yearning to escape death – this fanatical thing of running to build up the body!

In his recent biography of you, the critic Don Shewey, who obviously greatly admires your work, makes several comments about your supposed macho image.
Just because machismo exists doesn't mean that it shouldn't exist. There's this attitude today that certain antagonistic forces have to be ignored or completely shut out rather than entered into in order to explore and get to the heart of them. All you have to do is enter one rodeo event to find out what that's all about… and you find out fast – in about eight seconds! So rather than avoid the issue, why not take a dive into it? I'm not saying whether it's good or bad – I think that the moralistic approach to these notions is stupid. It's not a moral issue, it's an issue of existence. Machismo may be an evil force … but what in fact is it?

I knew this guy down in the Yucatán who was so macho he decided to demonstrate to this princess he saw on the beach how powerfully he could swim. So he swam out into the ocean, got caught in the current and drowned himself. Now, he found out fast. What was that moment like when he suddenly realized that because of his vanity he was going to die? I know what this thing is about because I was a victim of it, it was part of my life, my old man tried to force on me a notion of what it was to be a ''man.'' And it destroyed my dad. But you can't avoid facing it.


"Music and humor are both very healing. That's the trouble with modern rock & roll: It's lost its sense of humor. ... I don't think there's hardly anybody worth shaking a stick at anymore…. Take all those Lou Reed imitators, for example. Reed could really write a lyric. He's been ripped off left, right and center."


At the end of your play The Unseen Hand, an old Wild West gunfighter, who's been brought back to life by Willie the Space Freak, reflects, ''A man's gotta be still long enough to figure out his next move…. That's the great thing about this country, ya know. The fact that you can make yer own moves in yer own time without some guy behind the scenes pullin' the switches on ya.'' It's interesting that the American-pioneer myth and the spiritual mission and yearning you were talking about are often spoken of in exactly the same way. There seems to be a connection between these two things, such that true West equals true East.
It's very strong, the connection between physical territory and inner territory. In America, we've run out of the former, and even though they talk about going to the moon and the planets as being an extension of that, it's going to wind up at the same borderline. Now, the spiritual notion talks about something that's more hopeful in a way, because the inner search doesn't come to some Pacific Ocean, where it just builds Los Angeles – it's a never-ending process. But it seems to me that there could be a real meeting between a true Western – meaning Western Hemisphere – spirit and the inner one … and it doesn't have to remain on the level of being courageous with the land anymore. The land's been discovered. There's a different kind of courage that's being called for now.

The poet William Carlos Williams once wrote, "The pure products of America/Go crazy." And some critics have seen your plays to be about these kinds of "real," indigenous, almost overly interbred Americans – now fragmented and deracinated.
I don't know. Insanity is something you're up against all the time. You always have to grapple with that. It's much easier to go crazy than to stay sane. Much easier. Insanity's the easy way out.

In your early writings, one finds a lot of harrowing depictions of demonic states and possession trances.
In those days, I had a lot of emotional earthquakes that I didn't understand because I was in the grips of them. I didn't realize even that much…. I was just running wild with them and didn't know where they were taking me.

In your recent work – Fool for Love, A Lie of the Mind – however, you've been clearly and consciously entering right into the earthquake zone.
I had no choice. At a certain point, you've got to do that, otherwise you end up writing diddley-bop plays. Now, the ear of the typical psychological play doesn't have any reverberation anymore. Plays have to go beyond just ''working out problems'' – that's not the thing I'm talking about. What makes O'Neill's Long Day's Journey into Night such a great work, for instance, is that O'Neill moves past his own personal family situation into a much wider dimension. I read that play in high school, and I've always thought that that was truly the great American play. It's so overwhelmingly honest – O'Neill just doesn't pull any punches. You can't confront that play without being moved.

It's been said, in regard to that work, that children often live out the unconscious and fantasy lives of their parents.
Yes, but certain things that occur inside the family often leave marks on the emotional life that are far stronger than fantasy. What might be seen as the fantasy is, to me, just a kind of rumination on those deep marks, a manifestation of the emotional and psychological elements. Sometimes in someone's gesture you can notice how a parent is somehow inhabiting that person without there being any awareness of that. How often are you aware that a gesture is coming from your old man? Sometimes you can look at your hand and see your rather. But it's a complex scheme – it's not that easy to pinpoint. Again, the thing is not to avoid the issue but to see that it exists.

Thinking of your brain-damaged character, Beth, in A Lie of the Mind and of the deeply musical way she has of expressing herself, I recall a statement by the German poet Novalis that goes, "Every disease is a musical problem, every cure a musical solution."
To me, music and humor are both very healing. ... That's the trouble with modern rock & roll, by the way: it's lost its sense of humor. It's become so morbidly stylistic and sour – there's no joy in it. And I think it's disastrous that a genuine sense of humor has been smothered.

When do you think the smothering began?
It began with the Doors! [Laughs.] The Doors had no sense of humor – they were grim. Now, I knew Jim Morrison for a little while, and in fact he did have a sense of humor – a bizarre one – but he never really exhibited it onstage.

So what musicians do you like to listen to right now?
Billy Joe Royal, Ricky Skaggs, Stevie Ray Vaughan, Lou Ann Barton, the Blasters. I guess what I like is mostly country & western or else stuff that has a real blues feel to it. As far as straight-up-and-down rock & roll goes, I don't think there's hardly anybody worth shaking a stick at anymore. Guys like Clyde McPhatter used to sing their tail ends off! Today I only have a little hope for Texas bands [laughs] … Delbert McClinton's still doing some stuff … but melodically and rhythmically, it's not what it was. Take all those imitators of Lou Reed, for example: if they went back and listened to his early stuff, they'd see that he had a whole different feel … plus he was a helluva writer. He could really write a lyric. He's been ripped off left, right and center.

Coming back to Jim Morrison – you know, he felt he had a curse on his head. Because when he was a kid, he was driving with his family outside Albuquerque. And there was an Indian on the side of the road. His family stopped, and Morrison went over to the Indian, and this guy – Morrison thought he was some kind of shaman – threw a whammy on him. That's probably when Jim Morrison lost his sense of humor [laughs].


"I don't feel the same urgency about acting as about writing."


Spells can be effective.
Their power lies in your believing them.

So how do you avoid the so-called powers of relentless and overintrusive fans?
Carry a gun! [Laughs.]

Just don't carry it in your pocket! I can hear people saying, "His plays haven't been the same since."
Thanks for the warning [laughs].

I've noticed that the funniest moments in your plays are often intermixed with a sense of weirdness and sadness.
It's a double-edged thing. If you look at Buster Keaton and Harry Langdon and Stan Laurel, there's something tragic about them. The humor lies in their incredible innocence in the face of life, which doesn't make sense.

Someone once commented that life is tragic to those who feel and comic to those who think.
I think that to a certain extent that's true. One of the things I look for in actors is a genuine sense of humor. And if they have that, I immediately know that there's a kind of intelligence working there that you won't find in an actor who takes himself so seriously and who's so wrapped up in the Method that he can't see how ridiculous it is.

One of the characters in your play Curse of the Starving Class says something like, "What's there to envy but an outlook?" One might envy your outlook.
Well, I've seen people with better ones [laughs] … you know, people who never find fault with anybody, for whom everything's great, people who are positive all the time.

Not everyone, I gather, was totally positive about your first play-writing efforts in New York City.
Actually, there was only one guy who liked me [laughs] – Michael Smith of The Village Voice. Those first reviews were devastating. In fact, I was vulnerable then and was ready to pack it in and come back to California and get work as a hand on a ranch. But writing has been such a salvation for me for so long that it would be impossible for me to give it up now.

Too late to stop now.
Yeah, it's too late to stop now … Otis Redding. There was a great singer!

Has acting also been a salvation?
No, not at all. I don't have the same connection to it. With acting, I feel that I'm just struggling to get by. An actor is right on the edge, because all he has is the body…. Actually, I should say that acting and writing are related; I just don't feel the same sense of urgency about acting as I do about writing. I've never been able to write a play while I've been acting in a film. It's difficult to split your participation. You have to be very focused and fully occupied to write.

And then, of course, you've been directing your recent plays, too. Theoretically, you could actually be someone who directs himself acting in a play that you yourself have written.
Right. And I'm in the process of finishing a screenplay that I'm going to direct, but I'm not going to act in it.

Someone like Woody Allen does it all the time.
He can do it because in his roles he stands outside the character – he comments on the character rather than plays it … except in Broadway Danny Rose, where he does play a real character. And he's probably the best one around who can write, direct and act. But I don't think I could direct myself acting, because, for me, the two things are diametrically opposed. I don't see how you can be inside and outside at the same time. Acting involves such a deep kind of penetration in, and directing demands an observation from the outside.

In Rolling Thunder Logbook, you describe your first meeting with Dylan, commenting that the first thing he said to you was, "We don't have to make any connections," … and you didn't know whether he was talking about you and him personally or about the movie you were supposed to be working on with him.
Bob gets off the hook a lot with that approach [laughs]. He's great, and I love working with him … but he would rather not commit than commit [laughs]. I wish you could hear the tune he and I wrote together in the spring of 1985. It's at least 20 minutes long – it's like a saga! – and it has to do with a guy standing on line and waiting to see an old Gregory Peck movie that he can't quite remember – only pieces of it, and then this whole memory thing happens, unfolding before his very eyes. He starts speaking internally to a woman he'd been hanging out with, recalling their meetings and reliving the whole journey they'd gone on – and then it returns to the guy, who's still standing on line in the rain. The film the song was about was a Gregory Peck western that Bob had once seen, but he couldn't remember the title. We decided that the title didn't matter, and we spent two days writing the lyrics – Bob had previously composed the melody line, which was already down on tape. He's already gone through different phases with the song. At one point, he talked about making a video out of it.

I told him that it should be an opera, that we should extend it – make it an hour and a half or so – and perform it like an opera…. [An e11-minute version of the song, ''Brownsville Girl,'' appears on Knocked Out Loaded, Dylan's most recent album.] He's a lot of fun to work with, because he's so off the wall sometimes. We'd come up with a line, and I'd think that we were heading down one trail over here, and then suddenly he'd just throw in this other line, and we'd wind up following it off in some different direction. Sometimes it's frustrating to do that when you're trying to make a wholeness out of something, but it turned out OK.

You've actually done exactly that in many of your plays.
Yeah, but I'm trying to do it less than I used to [laughs].

Writing plays, playing music, acting, directing …
It's just been one step at a time. I don't deny that I've had some good luck. My dad had a lot of bad luck. I've had good luck. Luck is a part of it But I don't know exactly how that works.

When critics say, "Well, Sam Shepard has now said everything he has to say In A Lie of the Mind – where can he possibly go from here?'' that is, in a way, sort of casting a little doubt spell, isn't it?
Yeah, it's trying to do something to you, but you can't pay any attention to that, because you've got other things to do. Being surrounded by parasitic people who feed off of your work – well, I guess you've just got to accept it And I suppose some parasites are okay, because they take things off of you. Once, in New Mexico, I observed these incredibly beautiful red-tailed hawks – with a wingspan of five feet – which start out gliding in these arroyos way down low. And these crows come and bother them – they're after fleas and peck at the hawks and drive them nuts, because they're looking for something else. And I watched a crow diving at and bothering this one hawk, which just flew higher and higher until it was so far up that the crow couldn't follow it anymore and had to come back down.

So the answer is to outfly them.
Yeah, outfly them. Avoid situations that are going to take pieces of you. And hide out.

This interview originally appeared in the December 18th, 1986 issue of Rolling Stone.



by ichiro_ishikawa | 2017-08-04 18:59 | 文学 | Comments(0)  

My Buddy by Patti Smith(転載)


「The NEW YORKER」にパティ・スミスがサム・シェパードの追悼文を寄稿。以下、転載。
https://www.newyorker.com/culture/culture-desk/my-buddy-sam-shepard

My Buddy
Patti Smith August 1, 2017 2:53 PM

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Sam Shepard and Patti Smith at the Hotel Chelsea in 1971.
Photograph by David Gahr/Getty


He would call me late in the night from somewhere on the road, a ghost town in Texas, a rest stop near Pittsburgh, or from Santa Fe, where he was parked in the desert, listening to the coyotes howling. But most often he would call from his place in Kentucky, on a cold, still night, when one could hear the stars breathing. Just a late-night phone call out of a blue, as startling as a canvas by Yves Klein; a blue to get lost in, a blue that might lead anywhere. I’d happily awake, stir up some Nescafé and we’d talk about anything. About the emeralds of Cortez, or the white crosses in Flanders Fields, about our kids, or the history of the Kentucky Derby. But mostly we talked about writers and their books. Latin writers. Rudy Wurlitzer. Nabokov. Bruno Schulz.

“Gogol was Ukrainian,” he once said, seemingly out of nowhere. Only not just any nowhere, but a sliver of a many-faceted nowhere that, when lifted in a certain light, became a somewhere. I’d pick up the thread, and we’d improvise into dawn, like two beat-up tenor saxophones, exchanging riffs.

He sent a message from the mountains of Bolivia, where Mateo Gil was shooting “Blackthorn.” The air was thin up there in the Andes, but he navigated it fine, outlasting, and surely outriding, the younger fellows, saddling up no fewer than five different horses. He said that he would bring me back a serape, a black one with rust-colored stripes. He sang in those mountains by a bonfire, old songs written by broken men in love with their own vanishing nature. Wrapped in blankets, he slept under the stars, adrift on Magellanic Clouds.

Sam liked being on the move. He’d throw a fishing rod or an old acoustic guitar in the back seat of his truck, maybe take a dog, but for sure a notebook, and a pen, and a pile of books. He liked packing up and leaving just like that, going west. He liked getting a role that would take him somewhere he really didn’t want to be, but where he would wind up taking in its strangeness; lonely fodder for future work.

In the winter of 2012, we met up in Dublin, where he received an Honorary Doctorate of Letters from Trinity College. He was often embarrassed by accolades but embraced this one, coming from the same institution where Samuel Beckett walked and studied. He loved Beckett, and had a few pieces of writing, in Beckett’s own hand, framed in the kitchen, along with pictures of his kids. That day, we saw the typewriter of John Millington Synge and James Joyce’s spectacles, and, in the night, we joined musicians at Sam’s favorite local pub, the Cobblestone, on the other side of the river. As we playfully staggered across the bridge, he recited reams of Beckett off the top of his head.

Sam promised me that one day he’d show me the landscape of the Southwest, for though well-travelled, I’d not seen much of our own country. But Sam was dealt a whole other hand, stricken with a debilitating affliction. He eventually stopped picking up and leaving. From then on, I visited him, and we read and talked, but mostly we worked. Laboring over his last manuscript, he courageously summoned a reservoir of mental stamina, facing each challenge that fate apportioned him. His hand, with a crescent moon tattooed between his thumb and forefinger, rested on the table before him. The tattoo was a souvenir from our younger days, mine a lightning bolt on the left knee.

Going over a passage describing the Western landscape, he suddenly looked up and said, “I’m sorry I can’t take you there.” I just smiled, for somehow he had already done just that. Without a word, eyes closed, we tramped through the American desert that rolled out a carpet of many colors—saffron dust, then russet, even the color of green glass, golden greens, and then, suddenly, an almost inhuman blue. Blue sand, I said, filled with wonder. Blue everything, he said, and the songs we sang had a color of their own.

We had our routine: Awake. Prepare for the day. Have coffee, a little grub. Set to work, writing. Then a break, outside, to sit in the Adirondack chairs and look at the land. We didn’t have to talk then, and that is real friendship. Never uncomfortable with silence, which, in its welcome form, is yet an extension of conversation. We knew each other for such a long time. Our ways could not be defined or dismissed with a few words describing a careless youth. We were friends; good or bad, we were just ourselves. The passing of time did nothing but strengthen that. Challenges escalated, but we kept going and he finished his work on the manuscript. It was sitting on the table. Nothing was left unsaid. When I departed, Sam was reading Proust.

Long, slow days passed. It was a Kentucky evening filled with the darting light of fireflies, and the sound of the crickets and choruses of bullfrogs. Sam walked to his bed and lay down and went to sleep, a stoic, noble sleep. A sleep that led to an unwitnessed moment, as love surrounded him and breathed the same air. The rain fell when he took his last breath, quietly, just as he would have wished. Sam was a private man. I know something of such men. You have to let them dictate how things go, even to the end. The rain fell, obscuring tears. His children, Jesse, Walker, and Hannah, said goodbye to their father. His sisters Roxanne and Sandy said goodbye to their brother.

I was far away, standing in the rain before the sleeping lion of Lucerne, a colossal, noble, stoic lion carved from the rock of a low cliff. The rain fell, obscuring tears. I knew that I would see Sam again somewhere in the landscape of dream, but at that moment I imagined I was back in Kentucky, with the rolling fields and the creek that widens into a small river. I pictured Sam’s books lining the shelves, his boots lined against the wall, beneath the window where he would watch the horses grazing by the wooden fence. I pictured myself sitting at the kitchen table, reaching for that tattooed hand.

A long time ago, Sam sent me a letter. A long one, where he told me of a dream that he had hoped would never end. “He dreams of horses,” I told the lion. “Fix it for him, will you? Have Big Red waiting for him, a true champion. He won’t need a saddle, he won’t need anything.” I headed to the French border, a crescent moon rising in the black sky. I said goodbye to my buddy, calling to him, in the dead of night.

by ichiro_ishikawa | 2017-08-04 18:44 | 文学 | Comments(0)  

Ryu's Bar 気ままにいい夜


1991年4月以降テレビを観なくなつた俺が、最後に観たテレビ番組は「Ryu's Bar 気ままにいい夜」(TBS)だ。
司会の村上龍の朴訥としたベシャリやゲストと交わされる地味な内容は、ポップな80年代が終焉に向かひ、絶望の90年代に入つて行く時代の空気を象徴してゐる。

この番組は1987年10月〜1991年3月、日曜23.00からの放送で、その期間はちょうど俺が高校1年〜大学入学直前の3年半にあたる。
一般的に昭和の終はりとは、ボウイの解散(1987年12月)と長渕剛の『昭和』(1989年3月)および紅白歌合戦初出場(1990年12月)を指すが、この「Ryu's Bar」もその流れと軌を一にする。

1991年4月、俺は絶望の時代の空気の中、大学に入学し本格的に社会と交わつて行くことになるのだが、状況はこの時から変はつてゐない。俺がいまだ19歳であるのはかのやうな事由による。

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最終回は村上龍(当時39)の人選で、70年代の著作が当時続々文庫入りしカリスマ化してゐた柄谷行人(49)と、講談社を2年で退社しヒップホップと小説でストリートのリアルな知性を爆発させてゐた、いとうせいこう(30)。柄谷行人は喋り方が井上陽水に似てゐる。



村上龍×忌野清志郎
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村上龍×シティボーイズ
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by ichiro_ishikawa | 2017-06-26 11:36 | 文学 | Comments(0)  

小林秀雄のジャンル


小林秀雄は研究者や高い教養のある読書家、インテリ層にとても評判が悪いやうで、実証的にそのダメさが多く指摘されてもゐる。
エピゴーネンの俺は、なるべく謙虚に無私の精神を持つてそれらを読むやうにしてゐるが、それでもやはり的外れなものが多いと思はれる。
要するに、それらは「研究論文」「評論文」として小林の著作は瑕疵だらけといふ批判なのだ。
しかし小林の文章はロックンロールであり、つまりポップであり、「常識」を基盤とした個人の情熱であつて、「研究論文」や「評論文」ではない。さういふ意味で的外れなわけだ。「近代批評の確立者」といふレッテルが微妙なのだ。正確には「孤高のロック文士」(でもこれだとアカデミックに残らない、正史に記録されないので俗称にとどめん)。

小林の愛読者がまさしく眺めるものは無私なる(ゆゑに極めて個性的な)小林の情熱であり、その情熱に動かされるのであつて、その「客観的な妥当性」にではない。かつ、小林に認める凄さとは、その情熱の方が客観的な妥当性よりも大事だといふ事に気づかせてくれるところだ。研究や評論に価値がないといふ事では勿論ない。それとは別次元の、原始的な、人間にとつて大事なもの、といふジャンルがあるといふ事で、小林秀雄はそこに属する。そのジャンルにはほかに池田晶子がゐる。その二人しかゐない。

by ichiro_ishikawa | 2017-03-10 12:49 | 文学 | Comments(1)  

真珠湾

真珠湾を思うとき常に頭をよぎる言葉がこれだ。

 空は美しく晴れ、眼の下には広々と海が輝いていた。漁船が行く、藍色の海の面に白い水脈を曵いて。さうだ、漁船の代りに魚雷が走れば、あれは雷跡だ、といふ事になるのだ。海水は同じ様に運動し、同じ様に美しく見えるであらう。さういふふとした思ひ付きが、まるで藍色の僕の頭に眞つ白な水脈を曵く様に鮮やかに浮かんだ。真珠湾に輝いていたのもあの同じ太陽なのだし、あの同じ冷たい青い塩辛い水が、魚雷の命中により、嘗て物理学者が子細に観察したそのままの波紋を作つて拡がつたのだ。そしふさういふ光景は、爆撃機上の勇士達の眼にも美しいと映らなかつた筈はあるまい。いや、雑念邪念を拭い去つた彼等の心には、あるが儘の光や海の姿は、沁み付く様に美しく映つたに違ひない。彼等は生涯それを忘れる事が出来まい。そんな風に想像する事が、何故だか僕には楽しかつた。太陽は輝き、海は青い、いつもさうだ、戰の時も平和の時も、さう念ずる様に思ひ、それが強く思索している事の様に思はれた。
 僕は冩眞を見乍ら考へつづけた。冩眞は、次第に本当の意味を僕に打ち明ける様に見えた。何もかもはつきりしているのではないか。はつきりと当たり前ではないか。戰に關する理論も文學も、戰ふ者の眼を曇らせる事は出来まい。これは、トルストイが、「戰争と平和」を書いた時に彼の剛毅な心が洞察したぎりぎりのものではなかつたか。戰争と平和とは同じものだ、といふ恐ろしい思想ではなかつたか。近代人は、犯罪心理學といふ様なものを思い付いた伝で、戰争心理學といふ様なものを拵へ上げてしまつた。戰は好戰派といふ様な人間が居るから起こるのではない。人生がもともと戰だから起こるのである。
(小林秀雄「戦争と平和」より)

by ichiro_ishikawa | 2016-12-29 10:33 | 文学 | Comments(0)  

【資料】小林秀雄著作の整理


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小林秀雄はその著作名が「感想」「文學」など、ぶつきらぼうで、また「ドストエフスキイ」「ゴッホ」「本居宣長」のやうに対象名そのままだつたり、かつそれらがいろいろな版元から様々なる仕様で再販されてゐるものだから、蔵書整理に悩まされる。
そこで今回は、同タイトルで複数版元・仕様で出てゐるものを以下にまとめん。
 (★)=現刊行(それ以外は絶版)



様々なる意匠・Xへの手紙・私小説論

『様々なる意匠』
・改造社 昭和9年5月20日

『私小説論』
・作品社 昭和10年11月8日 ※装幀:青山二郎。函入。古書価格31,320円〜(2014.8.15)
・作品社 昭和11年10月29日 ※菊半截判
・作品社(上製版)昭和13年6月30日
・作品社(普及版)昭和13年6月30日
・創元文庫 昭和26年10月25日 ※「私小説論」を全編にわたり加筆修正

『Xへの手紙』
・野田書房 昭和11年1月20日 ※限定360部/函入。古書価格26,250円〜(2014.8.15)
・芝書店 昭和24年7月30日
・角川文庫 昭和29年5月10日

『Xへの手紙・私小説論』
・新潮文庫 昭和37年4月12日(★)

『様々なる意匠・Xへの手紙』
・角川文庫(改版) 昭和43年11月10日



ドストエフスキイ

『ドストエフスキイ』
・アテネ文庫(弘文堂)昭和23年9月15日講談社 昭和41年6月10日特製300部
・講談社(名著シリーズ) 昭和41年6月10日

『ドストエフスキイの生活』
・創元社 昭和14年5月20日 装幀:青山二郎
・創元文庫 昭和26年9月25日 解説:河上徹太郎
・角川文庫 昭和31年8月20日
・新潮文庫 昭和39年12月20日 解説:江藤淳(★)
・角川文庫(改版) 昭和43年10月28日 解説:吉田生
・創元選書 昭和50年12月10日
・東京創元社 昭和50年12月25日 純白総皮上製/限定600部

『ドストエフスキイ全論考』
・講談社 昭和56年11月25日

『ドストエフスキイの文学 「白痴」について他』
・角川選書 昭和43年10月20日



無常といふ事・モオツァルト

『無常といふ事』
・創元選書 昭和21年2月25日
・花文庫(創元社) 昭和21年9月15日
・創元社 昭和24年1月30日 ※装幀:青山二郎<
・創元文庫 昭和27年8月5日 ※解説:河盛好蔵
・角川文庫 昭和29年9月20日 ※解説:河盛好蔵
・槐書房 昭和48年11月15日 ※限定版

『無常という事』
・角川文庫改版 昭和43年5月20日 ※解説:佐古純一郎

『モオツァルト』
・百花文庫(創元社) 昭和22年7月15日 ※初出誌にある母への献詞を省く
・日産書房 昭和24年4月15日 ※初出誌にある母への献詞を復活
・角川文庫 昭和34年8月10日 ※解説:河上徹太郎
・角川文庫(第11刷改版) 昭和44年8月10日 ※解説:河上徹太郎/座談「小林秀雄とのとある午後」は12刷以降省かれる
・槐書房 昭和50年11月30日 ※限定A版155部
・槐書房 昭和50年11月30日 ※限定B版212部
・槐書房 昭和50年11月30日 ※限定著者版26部

『モオツァルト・他』
・創元文庫 昭和28年1月15日 ※解説:河上徹太郎

『モオツァルト・無常といふ事』
・新潮文庫 昭和36年5月15日(★)

『モーツァルト』
・集英社文庫 平成3年4月25日




ゴッホ、近代絵画

『ゴッホの手紙 書簡による伝記』 
・新潮社 昭和27年6月15日
・角川文庫 昭和32年10月30日
・角川文庫(改版) 昭和43年8月26日

『芸術随想』 
・新潮社 昭和41年12月10日
・新潮社 昭和42年1月18日 ※限定1000部

『近代絵画』
・人文書院 昭和33年4月15日 ※豪華版 ジャケット附B5上製函入
・新潮社 昭和33年12月5日
・新潮文庫 昭和43年11月30日(★)





文芸評論

『文芸評論』
・白水社 昭和6年7月10日 ※装幀:青山二郎。古書価格30,000円〜(2014.8.15)
・日産書房 昭和23年6月15日
・日本近代文学館 昭和44年9月10日 ※白水社版の完全復刻

『続文芸評論』
・白水社 昭和7年11月1日装幀青山二郎
・日産書房 昭和23年11月15日

『続々文芸評論』
・芝書店 昭和9年4月15日 装幀青山二郎
・日産書房 昭和24年6月10日

『文芸評論集』
・改造社 昭和11年7月10日

『文学』
・創元選書 昭和13年12月15日

『文学2』
・創元選書 昭和15年5月20日

『文学・芸術論集』
・白凰社 昭和45年12月10日

『文芸評論 上巻』
・筑摩叢書 昭和49年5月25日

『文芸評論 下巻』
・筑摩叢書 昭和49年9月5日

『小林秀雄初期文芸論集』
・岩波文庫 昭和55年4月16日
・岩波クラシックス 昭和58年3月28日

『小林秀雄全文芸時評集 上』
講談社文芸文庫 2011年7月9日

『小林秀雄全文芸時評集 下』
講談社文芸文庫 2011年8月11日



対談

『文壇よもやま話 上巻』日本放送協会
・青蛙房 昭和36年4月15日
・中公文庫 平成22年10月25日 ※全集に未収録

『歴史よもやま話 日本篇 下』 池島 信平
・文藝春秋 昭和41年8月1日
・文春文庫 昭和57年3月25日

『対話 人間の建設』 岡潔・小林秀雄
・新潮社 昭和40年10月20日
・新潮社 昭和53年3月20日

『人間の建設』 岡潔・小林秀雄
・新潮文庫平成22年3月1日(★)

『小林秀雄対話集』
・講談社 昭和41年1月20日
・講談社(名著シリーズ) 昭和41年8月10日
・講談社文芸文庫 平成17年9月10日(★)

『小林秀雄対談集 歴史について』
・文藝春秋 昭和47年4月20日
・文春文庫 昭和53年12月25日

『文学と人生について 小林秀雄対談集Ⅲ』
・文春文庫 昭和57年12月25日



ヴァレリイ、ジイド、アラン、サント・ブウヴ (翻訳)

『テスト氏Ⅰ』 ポオル・ヴァレリイ
日本放送協会江川書房 昭和7年4月20日装幀小林秀雄。限定400部。

『テスト氏』 ポオル・ヴァレリイ
・野田書房 昭和9年10月15日 装幀青山二郎
・野田書房(普及版) 昭和11年9月17日

『パリュウド』 アンドレ・ジイド
・岩波文庫 昭和10年9月30日

『パリュウド 鎖を離れプロメテ』 アンドレ・ジイド
・新潮文庫 昭和27年8月15日

『精神と情熱とに関する八十一章』 アラン
・創元社 昭和11年12月14日
・創元選書 昭和15年9月25日 ※時局下の理由で第五部中の「暴力」の章を省く旨の新「後記」を添えた。
・角川文庫 昭和33年1月30日 ※訳・後記ともに創元文庫に同じ。
・東京創元社 昭和35年5月30日 ※訳・後記ともに創元文庫に同じ。上製函入
・創元選書 昭和53年12月20日 ※訳は創元文庫に同じ。後記は新稿。あとがきが加えられた。
・創元ライブラリー 平成9年4月25日(★)

『わが毒』 サント・ブウヴ
・青木書店 昭和14年5月25日
・養徳叢書 昭和22年2月15日
・創元文庫 昭和27年2月20日
・角川文庫 昭和30年8月15日




その他

『私の人生観』
・創元社 昭和24年10月20日 ※特製200部・上製函入・上製(創元選書)の三種同時刊行
・創元文庫 昭和26年11月30日
・創元社 昭和29年4月30日 ※普及版
・角川文庫 昭和29年9月15日
・角川文庫(第23刷改版) 昭和42年2月20日
・大和出版 昭和58年10月10日

『真贋』
・新潮社 昭和26年4月5日
・創元文庫 昭和27年4月30日
・世界文化社 平成12年10月25日 ※備前徳利が全集未収録

『作家の顔』
・角川文庫 昭和33年11月10日
・新潮文庫 昭和36年8月20日(★)
・角川文庫(改版) 昭和44年6月10日

『感想』
東京創元社 昭和34年7月30日
新潮社 昭和54年4月11日

『無私の精神』
・文治堂書店 昭和38年4月30日 ※同年6月30日に限定版特製40部/総革上製
・文藝春秋 昭和42年7月1日
・文藝春秋 昭和60年3月1日 ※新装版

『常識について 小林秀雄講演集』
・筑摩叢書 昭和41年7月20日

『常識について』
・角川文庫 昭和43年11月30日

『古典と伝統について』
・講談社(名著シリーズ) 昭和43年12月20日 ※普及版
・講談社文庫 昭和46年7月1日(★)

『信ずることと知ること』
・槐書房 昭和53年3月30日 ※限定著者版26部・限定市販版179部 ※4万円台
・彌生書房 平成3年6月30日

『栗の樹 現代日本のエッセイ』 
・毎日新聞社 昭和49年9月25日
・講談社文芸文庫 平成2年3月10日




考へるヒント

『考へるヒント』
・文藝春秋新社 昭和39年5月10日

『考えるヒント』
・文春文庫 2004年8月(★) ※「言葉」「花見」を増補

『考へるヒント2』
・文藝春秋 昭和49年12月10日

『考えるヒント2』
・文春文庫 2007年9月4日(★)

『考えるヒント3』
・文春文庫 2012年9月20日

『考えるヒント3〈新装版〉』
・文春文庫 2013年5月10日(★)

『考えるヒント4 ランボオ・中原中也』
・文春文庫 2012年9月20日

『合本 考えるヒント(1)~(4)』

・文春e-Books(Kindle版) 2015年3月27日 (★) 




本居宣長

『本居宣長―「物のあはれ」の説について』
・新潮社 昭和35年7月10日 ※日本文化研究第八巻中の一分冊

『本居宣長』
・新潮社 昭和52年10月30日
・新潮社 昭和54年4月11日 ※限定著者版26部/著者の喜寿記念寿版

『本居宣長補記』
・新潮社 昭和57年4月11日

『本居宣長 上巻』
・新潮文庫 平成4年5月25日(★)

『本居宣長 下巻』
・新潮文庫 平成4年5月25日(★) ※「本居宣長」をめぐって(対談 江藤淳)が全集未収録?

by ichiro_ishikawa | 2016-11-24 00:04 | 文学 | Comments(0)  

鹿島茂『ドーダの人、小林秀雄』の衝撃


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鹿島茂『ドーダの人、小林秀雄』(朝日新聞出版)は、小林秀雄ファンにとって極めてショッキングな本である。
「ドーダ」といふ概念を軸に、彼を読んだ人も、読んでない人でさへも、日本の知性の最高峰、偉い、凄い人と認知してゐる小林秀雄といふ大批評家が、いかに大したことないかを、極めて緻密に高等な知性でもって証明してゐるのである。

ドーダといふのは、簡単に云へば、いわゆる「クワッ」であり、ドヤ顔の「ドヤ」である、と俺は理解した(あとで詳しく引用して、正確に書いておきたい)。

大抵小林秀雄批判と云ふのは、印象批評に過ぎないとか、緻密な考証抜きに感覚でモノを言つてゐるだけとか、ことに研究者筋からの、本質を読めてゐないものが殆どで、取るに足らないものだが、本書は違う。小林秀雄の本質、方法、表現の核をキチンと捉えた上で、それこそが大したことない所以であることを見事に証明しきつているのである。

本書を読んで、似非小林秀雄ファンはムキーッとなるだらうが、俺は小林秀雄全集を少なくとも3回は精読し、文庫に至つてはそれぞれ100回、いや200回は読んでをり、かつ全文書き取りをライフワークとしてゐるばかりでなく、詳細な年譜、全著作の初出、掲載書籍、文庫、全集巻などをエクセルでデータベース化してをり、さらに全単行本を蒐集してゐる、筋金入りのエピゴーネンであり、誰よりも小林秀雄を理解し、愛してゐる男であるからして、ムキーッとはならない。
本書の著者は、小林秀雄の正鵠を射てゐるからである。小林秀雄の本質を読めてゐる。

とはいへ、てめえの神あるいは親がバカにされてゐるといふのに、なぜムキーッとならないか。

その前に、著者、鹿島茂が本書で小林秀雄を、どうバカにしてゐるかを説明する。
この本はきわめて知性的なため、二、三度の精読を要するものだが、一読した段階で掴んだ骨子を、換骨奪胎、我田引水の誹りを免れない事を承知で、俺流にグワッと要約すると以下のやうになる。

小林秀雄は日本の知性の最高峰、大批評家なぞではない。単なるロックの人、ロックンローラーである。

そう。つまり俺と同じ考へなのである。
俺が小林秀雄を愛しているのは、彼が日本の知性の最高峰、大批評家だからではなく、ロックだからである。だから、小林秀雄をバカにしている本書を読んでも、バカにされている感じは受けず、むしろ、よくぞ本質をきわめて知性的に分析してくれた、そうそう、そうなんだよと、いちいち納得しながら読了したのである。

つまりバカにしている、といふのは、日本の知性の最高峰、大批評家なんかではない、といふ点に於いてなのであり、「小林秀雄はロックの人に過ぎない」と、要はロック性を知性より下に見ているだけの話である。

俺は知性よりロックを上に見てゐる、といふか大事にしてゐるものだから、それは価値観の違ひであつて、どうかういふ類のものでない。

而して本書は、小林秀雄はロックである、
といふことを分析的な言語で証明してくれた、
超良書である。




















by ichiro_ishikawa | 2016-11-05 02:50 | 文学 | Comments(0)