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2020/05/15

Amazon.com: Tolstoy: A Russian Life (9780151014385): Bartlett, Rosamund: Books



Amazon.com: Tolstoy: A Russian Life (9780151014385): Bartlett, Rosamund: Books




Tolstoy: A Russian Life First Edition
by Rosamund Bartlett (Author)
4.2 out of 5 stars 81 ratings






ISBN-13: 978-0151014385
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“Magisterial sweep and scale.”—The Independent (UK)

In November 1910, Count Lev Tolstoy died at a remote Russian railway station. At the time of his death, he was the most famous man in Russia, with a growing international following, and more revered than the tsar. Born into an aristocratic family, Tolstoy had spent his life rebelling against not only conventional ideas about literature and art but also traditional education, family life, organized religion, and the state.

In this, the first biography of Tolstoy in more than twenty years, Rosamund Bartlett draws extensively on key Russian sources, including much fascinating material made available since the collapse of the Soviet Union. She sheds light on Tolstoy’s remarkable journey from callow youth to writer to prophet; discusses his troubled relationship with his wife, Sonya; and vividly evokes the Russian landscapes Tolstoy so loved and the turbulent times in which he lived. Above all, Bartett gives us an eloquent portrait of the brilliant, maddening, and contrary man who has once again been discovered by a new generation of readers.


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Bonus Content: Images from Tolstoy
(Click on Images to Enlarge)







Tolstoy and his Starley Rover Bicycle, 1895. Credit: Tolstoi: Dokumenty. Rukopisi. Fotografi, Moscow, 1995 The fourth draft of the opening of Anna Karenina, 1873 • Credit: Tolstoi: Dokumenty. Rukopisi. Fotografi, Moscow, 1995



Amazon Exclusive: A Q&A with Author Rosamund Bartlett



Q: What drew you to Tolstoy?

A: Apart from a lifetime fascination with the great Russian writers at the personal and professional level, my interest was spurred by having previously written a biography of Chekhov and translated his stories and letters. One cannot avoid noticing Chekhov’s reverence for Tolstoy as a writer, thinker, and social activist—it crops up in numerous remarkable letters he wrote both before and after he became friends with the great writer. For Chekhov, Tolstoy was the most important person in Russia, and not just as an artist and father figure, but as a moral authority. I wanted to gain a deeper understanding of what it was that made Chekhov, and indeed the majority of the Russian population, look up to Tolstoy as a spiritual leader at the end of the nineteenth century, when his stature was greater than that of the tsar.

Q: Why write a new biography of Tolstoy now?


A: There are three main reasons. First, the centenary of Tolstoy’s death in November 2010 provided a great opportunity to assess his legacy, and second, there are surprisingly few other English-language biographies of Tolstoy. Third, and most important, the arrival of perestroika and glasnost, followed by the collapse of the Soviet Union in 1991, changed fundamentally and irrevocably how we write about Russia, including its great writers. Despite his worldwide fame as a novelist, Tolstoy was, like all other Russian writers, posthumously subject to ideological control, and the suppression of his monumental spiritual legacy after 1917 resulted in a skewed picture of his life. The relaxation of censorship introduced by Gorbachev, however, opened the floodgates to a mass of new material, upon which this biography draws extensively.

Q: What is different about your biography?

A: Today we have much more objective information about Tolstoy himself and about his family, his many followers, the activities of the Russian Orthodox Church (which excommunicated him in 1901), and the tsarist government. We can construct a much fuller and more accurate picture of Tolstoy’s life and, just as important, place it in a detailed cultural context. Moreover, this biography is written from Tolstoy’s own point of view, rather than that of the typical Anglophone reader. So instead of focusing most attention on the seventeen-year-period in which War and Peace and Anna Karenina were written, it places a great deal of emphasis on the last thirty years of Tolstoy’s life, when he became a social and religious crusader.

Q: Why did you choose the subtitle "A Russian Life"?

A: I see Tolstoy as a genius who embodied much of the Russian experience in all its intense and passionate extremes. Using the particular structure of my biography, I wanted to show that Tolstoy, in the course of his eighty-two years, actually lived many lives, most of which were deeply Russian archetypes: the reckless gambler, the repentant nobleman, the holy fool, the admired elder, the nihilist, and others.

Q: How did translating Tolstoy’s work inform the biography?

A: When I wrote my biography of Chekhov, I found it very fruitful to translate some of his greatest short stories at the same time. In fact, most of my inspiration for writing Chekhov’s biography came from the experience of engaging closely with the rhythms and cadences of his prose. I wanted to have the same experience with Tolstoy, and indeed I found that whatever insights I have of Tolstoy’s personality probably came from having completed half of my translation of Anna Karenina before embarking on my biography of its author. Translating Tolstoy means getting to know him from the inside.

Q:What were you most surprised to learn in your research?

A: I had not expected to discover how much love and devotion Tolstoy poured into his educational work, both as a founder of schools for illiterate peasantry in which he himself taught, and as the author of a pioneering primer designed to help all Russian children learn to read and write. Tolstoy’s educational ideas were rather unorthodox and anarchic, like all his thinking, but deeply original, and conceived with the Russian culture and the Russian language in mind. It is extraordinary to consider that after finishing the Homeric epic of War and Peace, Tolstoy literally went back to the letters of the alphabet.

Q:You write extensively about Tolstoy as a political figure in his time, but what is important to note about his legacy?

A: I was greatly surprised to discover the extent of Tolstoy’s importance as a political figure in Russia, beginning in the 1860s, before he wrote War and Peace, and culminating with the international media event of his death in 1910. But the story does not end there. In my epilogue, I discuss what happened to Tolstoy and his artistic and religious 
legacy after 1917—a story that has much to do with Russia’s signal failure to mark the centenary of his death in 2010 in any serious way, and which is crucial to our understanding of the man. In addition, Tolstoy’s enormous body of spiritual writings was only published once, in the complete collected works, with a tiny print run, so generations of Russians grew up in the twentieth century without any knowledge of them. Today Tolstoy remains a threat to the Russian establishment because of his anarchic ideas and his never-ending quest for truth.

Q:What’s the one thing you want everyone to know about Tolstoy?

A: Tolstoy may not have been as endearing a man as Chekhov, nor as compassionate and open as an artist, but he deserves our admiration for his fearless courage in standing up to a corrupt regime and refusing to be silent about its moral failures. He also fully deserves his reputation as one of the world’s great novelists for creating all those unforgettable characters with such closely observed psychological detail. As in all great works of art, their experiences transcend time and place, and articulate what it is to be human. A novel like War and Peace is universal and timeless, and offers rich rewards on a second, third, and fourth reading.


Review
Longlisted for the UK's BBC Samuel Johnson Prize

"[Bartlett's] deep and easy familiarity with her subject and the period permits Bartlett to touch on both the thinkers and writers who engaged Tolstoy...while getting to the essence of the spiritual power that informs his work. Bartlett is particularly adept at assessing Tolstoy's impact..."
-Publishers Weekly, starred

"A rich, complex life told in rich, complex prose."
-Kirkus, starred

"Bartlett’s book is an exemplary literary biography."
-Library Journal, starred

"[Bartlett's]Tolstoy biography should become the first resort for everyone drawn to its titanic subject."
-Booklist, starred

"Rosamund Bartlett's new life of Tolstoy is a splendid book -- immensely readable, full of fresh details, and often quite brilliant in its perceptiveness about the greatest of Russian writers, and one of the stars in the western firmament. This biography has the sweep and vividness of literature itself, and I strongly recommend it."
-Jay Parini, author of The Last Station

"It is difficult as a reader to take in the sheer scale and extent of Tolstoy’s interest and achievement. For the biographer to put all this into less than 500 pages is an achievement in itself. But Bartlett never seems hurried and she gives herself time to paint the scene for us, bringing the scent of Russian earth and grass to the nostrils."
-Financial Times (UK)

"The extraordinary character of the giant is captured better by Bartlett than by any previous biographer, and this is partly because she knows Russia so well... Superbly well written."
-Spectator (UK)

From the Inside Flap
“Magisterial sweep and scale.”—The Independent (UK)

In November 1910, Count Lev Tolstoy died at a remote Russian railway station. At the time of his death, he was the most famous man in Russia, with a growing international following, and more revered than the tsar. Born into an aristocratic family, Tolstoy had spent his life rebelling against not only conventional ideas about literature and art but also traditional education, family life, organized religion, and the state.

In this, the first biography of Tolstoy in twenty years, Rosamund Bartlett draws extensively on key Russian sources, including much fascinating material made available since the collapse of the Soviet Union. She sheds light on Tolstoy’s remarkable journey from callow youth to writer to prophet; discusses his troubled relationship with his wife, Sonya; and vividly evokes the Russian landscapes Tolstoy so loved and the turbulent times in which he lived. Above all, Bartett gives us an eloquent portrait of the brilliant, maddening, and contrary man who has once again been discovered by a new generation of readers.


From the Back Cover
Praise for TOLSTOY

"Rosamund Bartlett's new biography conveys Tolstoy to me more vividly than any biography I have read."—A. N. Wilson, Financial Times

"A splendid book—immensely readable, full of fresh details, and often quite brilliant in its perceptiveness about the greatest of Russian writers, and one of the stars in the Western firmament. This biography has the sweep and vividness of literature itself, and I strongly recommend it."—Jay Parini, author of The Last Station

"Bartlett reminds us not only that the great man is not so very long dead, but also that his myth is being made and remade even now."—Claire Messud, The Telegraph (UK)

"Worth the wait . . . Her deep and easy familiarity with her subject and the period permits Bartlett to touch on both the thinkers and writers who engaged Tolstoy, while getting to the essence of the spiritual power that informs his work.”—Publishers Weekly (starred)

"An epic biography that does justice to an epic figure."—Library Journal (starred)

"Should become the first resort for everyone drawn to its titanic subject."—Booklist (starred)

"A rich, complex life told in rich, complex prose."—Kirkus (starred)

About the Author

Rosamund Bartlett's previous books include Wagner and Russia and the acclaimed Chekhov: Scenes from a Life. An authority on Russian cultural history, she has also achieved renown as a translator of Chekhov.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.


INTRODUCTION

In January 1895, deep in the heart of the Russian winter, Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy left Moscow to go and spend a few days with some old friends at their country estate. He had just experienced another fracas with his wife over the publication of a new story, he felt suffocated in the city, and he wanted to clear his head by putting on his old leather coat and fur hat and going for some long walks in the clear, frosty air, far away from people and buildings. His hosts had taken care to clear the paths on their property, but Tolstoy did not like walking on well-ordered paths. Even in his late sixties he preferred tramping in the wilds, so he invariably ventured out past the garden fence and strode off into the deep snow, in whichever direction his gaze took him. Some of the younger members of the household had the idea of following in his footsteps one evening, but they soon had to give up when they saw how great was the distance between the holes left in the soft snow by his felt boots.1
The sensation of not being able to keep up was one commonly felt by Tolstoy’s contemporaries, as he left giant footprints in every area of his life. After racking up enormous gambling debts as a young man, during which time he conceived and failed to live up to wildly ambitious ideals, he turned to writing extremely long novels and fathering a large number of children. When he went out riding with his sons, he habitually went at such a fast pace they could barely keep up with him. Then he became moral leader to the nation, and one of the world’s most famous and influential men. A tendency towards the grand scale has been a markedly Russian characteristic ever since the times of Ivan the Terrible, who created an enormous multi-ethnic empire by conquering three Mongol Khanates in the sixteenth century. Peter the Great cemented the tradition by making space the defining feature of his new capital of St Petersburg which arose in record time out of the Finnish marshes. By the time Catherine the Great died at the end of the eighteenth century, Russia had also become immensely wealthy. Its aristocrats were able to build lavish palaces and assemble extravagant art collections far grander than their Western counterparts, with lifestyles to match. But Russia’s poverty was also on a grand scale, perpetuated by an inhumane caste system in which a tiny minority of Westernised nobility ruled over a fettered serf population made to live in degrading conditions. Tolstoy was both a product of this culture and perhaps its most vivid expression.
Many people who knew Tolstoy noticed his hyper-sensitivity. He was like litmus paper in his acute receptivity to minute gradations of physical and emotional experience, and it was his unparalleled ability to observe and articulate these ever-changing details of human behaviour in his creative works that makes his prose so thrilling to read. The consciousness of his characters is at once particular and universal. Tolstoy was also hyper-sensitive in another way, for he embodied at different times of his life a myriad Russian archetypes, from the ‘repentant nobleman’ to the ‘holy fool’. Only Russia could have produced a writer like Tolstoy, but only Tolstoy could be likened in almost the same breath to both a tsar and a peasant. From the time that he was born into the aristocratic Tolstoy family in the idyllic surroundings of his ancestral home at Yasnaya Polyana to the day that he left it for the last time at the age of eighty-two, Tolstoy lived a profoundly Russian life. He began to be identified with his country soon after he published his national epic War and Peace when he was in still his thirties. Later on, he was equated with Ilya Muromets, the most famous Russian bogatyr – a semi-mythical medieval warrior who lay at home on the brick stove until he was thirty-three – then went on to perform great feats defending the realm. Ilya Muromets is Russia’s traditional symbol of physical and spiritual strength. Tolstoy was also synonymous with Russia in the eyes of many of his foreign admirers. ‘He is as much part of Russia, as significant of Russian character, as prophetic of Russian development, as the Kremlin itself,’ wrote the liberal British politician Sir Henry Norman soon after visiting Tolstoy in 1901.2 For the Austrian writer Stefan Zweig, meanwhile, Tolstoy had ‘no face of his own; he possesses the face of the Russian people, because in him the whole of Russia lives and breathes’.3
Tolstoy lived a Russian life, and he lived many more lives than most other Russians, exhibiting both the ‘natural dionysism’ and ‘Christian asceticism’ which the philosopher Nikolay Berdyaev defines as characteristic of the Russian people.4 First of all he lived the life of his privileged class, educated by private foreign tutors and waited on by serfs. He became a wealthy landowner at the age of nineteen, and immediately began exhibiting Russian ‘maximalist’ tendencies by squandering his inheritance on gypsy singers and gambling. Whole villages were sold off to pay his debts, followed by his house. Tolstoy also lived up to the reputation of the depraved Russian landowner by taking advantage of his serf girls, then assumed another classic identity of the Russian noble: he became an army officer. For most of his comrades-in-arms the next step was retirement to the country estate, but Tolstoy became a writer – the most promising young writer of his generation. It was at this point that he started showing signs of latent anarchism: he did not want to belong to any particular literary fraternity, and soon alienated most of his fellow writers with his eccentric views and combative nature. Turgenev disappointed him by failing to take writing as seriously as he did, and for being too enslaved to western Europe. Turgenev’s creative work was as deeply bound up with Russia as Tolstoy’s was, but he lived in Paris. Tolstoy made two visits abroad during his lifetime, but he was tied to Russia body and soul.
As he matured under the influence of the writers and philosophers who shaped his ideas, Tolstoy inevitably became a member of the intelligentsia, the peculiarly Russian class of people united by their education and usually critical stance towards their government. The deep guilt he now felt before the Russian peasantry, furthermore, made him a repentant nobleman, ashamed at his complicity in the immoral institution of serfdom. Like the Populists, Tolstoy began to see the peasants as Russia’s best class, and her future, and around the time that serfdom was finally abolished he threw himself into teaching village children how to read and write. But he was mercurial, and a year later abandoned his growing network of unconventional schools to get married and start a family. The emotional stability provided by his devoted wife Sofya (‘Sonya’) Bers enabled him next to become Russia’s Homer: War and Peace was written at the happiest time in his life.
Tolstoy’s overactive conscience would not allow him to continue along the path of great novelist, and in the first half of the 1870s he went back to education. This time he devised his own system for teaching Russian children from all backgrounds how to read and write, by putting together an ABC and several reading primers. He taught himself Greek, then produced his own simplified translations of Aesop’s fables, as well as stories of his own, a compilation of tales about Russian bogatyrs and extracts from sacred readings. The Yasnaya Polyana school was reopened, with some of the elder Tolstoy children as teachers. Tolstoy was more of a father during these years than at any other time, and he took his family off to his newly acquired estate on the Samaran steppe for an unorthodox summer holiday amongst Bashkirs and horses. He revelled in the raw, primitive lifestyle, even if his wife did not.
In the second half of the 1870s everything began to unravel. In 1873, the year in which he began Anna Karenina, Tolstoy first spoke out on behalf of the impoverished peasantry by appealing nationwide for help in the face of impending famine. Anna Karenina, set in contemporary Russia, reflects Tolstoy’s own search for meaning in the face of depression and thoughts of death. Initially, he found meaning in religious faith and became one of the millions of pilgrims criss-crossing the Russian land on their way to visit its hallowed monasteries. Like many fellow intellectuals, Tolstoy was drawn to the Elders of the Optina Pustyn Monastery – monks who had distanced themselves from the official ecclesiastical hierarchy by resurrecting the ascetic traditions of the early Church Fathers, and who were revered for their spiritual wisdom. He found it was the peasants who had more wisdom to impart, however, and the next time he went to Optina Pustyn, he walked there, dressed in peasant clothes and bast shoes like a Strannik (‘wanderer’). The Stranniks were a sect who spent their lives walking in pilgrimage from one monastery to another, living on alms. The nomadic spirit runs deep in Russia, and Tolstoy increasingly hankered as time went on to join their ranks. He had long ago started dressing like a peasant, but he soon wanted to dispense with money and private property altogether.
From extreme piety Tolstoy went to extreme nihilism. At the end of the 1870s he began to see the light, and he set down his spiritual journey in a work which came to be known as his Confession. He also undertook a critical investigation of Russian Orthodox theology, and produced a ‘new, improved’ translation of the Gospels. Over the course of the 1880s he became an apostle for the Christian teaching which emerged from his root-and-branch review of the original sources, and at the same time his newfound faith compelled him to speak out against the immorality he now saw in all state institutions, from the monarchy downwards. Home life now became very strained, particularly after Tolstoy renounced the copyright on all his new writings and gave away all his property to his family. He discovered kindred spirits amongst the unofficial sectarian faiths which proliferated across Russia, whose followers were mostly peasants, and gradually became the leader of a new sectarian faith, although his followers were mostly conscience-stricken gentry like himself. These ‘Tolstoyans’ sometimes vied with each other to lead the most morally pure life, giving up money and property, living by the sweat of their brow and treating everyone as their ‘brother’. Thus one zealous Tolstoyan even gave up his kaftan, hat and bast shoes one summer, glad to be no longer a slave to his personal possessions.5
By the 1890s Tolstoy had become the most famous man in Russia, celebrated for a number of compellingly written and explosive tracts setting out his views on Christianity, the Orthodox Church and the Russian government, which were read all the more avidly for having been banned: they circulated very successfully in samizdat. It was when Tolstoy spearheaded the relief effort during the widespread famine of 1892 that his position as Russia’s greatest moral authority became unassailable. The result was a constant stream of visitors at his front door in Moscow, many of whom simply wanted to shake his hand. One of them was the twenty-three-year-old Sergey Diaghilev, who with characteristic chutzpah turned up one day with his cousin, and immediately noticed the incongruity of Tolstoy’s peasant dress and ‘gentlemanly way of behaving and speaking’. Tolstoy had come for a rest from the famine-relief work he had been doing in Ryazan province, and talked to the sophisticated young aesthetes from St Petersburg about soup kitchens. Diaghilev shared his impressions with his stepmother:

When we got out into the street, our first words were exclamations: ‘But he’s a saint, he’s really a saint!’ We were so moved we almost wept. There was something inexpressibly sincere, touching and holy in the whole person of the great man. It’s funny that we could smell his beard for a long time, which we had touched as we embraced him …6

Tolstoy received thousands of visitors in the last decades of his life, and he had a reputation for rarely turning anyone away. Before long, he became known as the ‘Elder of Yasnaya Polyana’.
Tolstoy received over 50,000 letters during his lifetime, 9,000 of which came from abroad. With the help of the eminence grise of the Tolstoyan movement, Vladimir Chertkov, who found him secretaries, he did his best to answer as many as he could (there are 8,500 letters printed in his Collected Works, and there must have been many more).7 Chertkov was the scion of a distinguished noble family who became Tolstoy’s trusted friend, and the chief publisher of his late writings. Tolstoy’s family often felt neglected. It was his wife Sonya who bore the brunt of domestic duties, almost as a single parent of their eight children, some of whom were very unruly. She also had the demanding job of publishing her husband’s old writings, which guaranteed the family some income, even if her profitable enterprise caused him pain. It was not easy being a member of Tolstoy’s family. Sonya wrote to her husband in 1892: ‘Tanya told someone in Moscow, “I’m so tired of being the daughter of a famous father”. And I’m tired of being the wife of a famous husband, I can tell you!’8
Tolstoy’s fame increased further when he published his last novel Resurrection in order to aid the members of the Dukhobor sect to emigrate to Canada, where they could practise their beliefs freely and without persecution. Finally exasperated by Tolstoy’s blistering satire of a mass in one of its chapters, the Russian Orthodox Church excommunicated him, and so Tolstoy joined the illustrious ranks of Russian apostates – rebels like Stenka Razin and Emelyan Pugachev. Because of his fame, Tolstoy was able to do what few others in Russia could: speak out. The government was powerless to stop him, as it knew there would be international outrage if he was either arrested or exiled. Tolstoy took advantage of the situation by behaving like a ‘holy fool’ so that he could speak frankly to the Tsar about his failure as a national leader. There was a widespread feeling in Russia in the last decade of Tolstoy’s life that he was the ‘real’ Tsar.


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Product details

Hardcover: 544 pages
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt; First edition (November 8, 2011)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 9780151014385
ISBN-13: 978-0151014385
ASIN: 0151014388
Product Dimensions: 2 x 6.8 x 10 inches
Shipping Weight: 1.8 pounds
Customer Reviews: 4.2 out of 5 stars81 customer ratings
Amazon Best Sellers Rank: #1,012,480 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)



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Top international reviews

Mr. D. James
5.0 out of 5 stars The People's TsarReviewed in the United Kingdom on June 15, 2015
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Bartlett, Rosamund. Tolstoy: A Russian Life

This book is not an exegesis of War and Peace or Anna Karenina, but a meticulously detailed life of Pyotr Andreyevich Tolstoy, the man. A glance at Bartlett’s Select Bibliography runs to 9 pages of small print, embracing Tolstoy’s correspondence, diaries and family memoirs. The novels themselves are overshadowed by the sheer volume of letters and political and moral treatises to which the author devoted the majority of his latter years. Tolstoy was not just a writer of novels, although for most of his readers it is by them that he is remembered today, but a social and moral reformer. From his aristocratic background he gradually renounced all worldly pleasures and saw his masterpieces as trivial and worthless. He wanted to make the world a better place and by doing this peacefully though his own example he gained the respect of thousands in many lands, especially in the West, but also aroused the anger of the Russian Orthodox church and the ruling class. From his native Yasnaya Polyana, a relatively small estate some 300 miles south-east of Moscow, he reached out to hundreds of thousands, becoming intimate with Englishmen, Europeans, Americans and Japanese, many of whom travelled miles just to shake him by the hand.

Although packed with detailed analyses of Tolstoy’s clashes with authority, resulting finally in his excommunication from the Church, and his being dubbed a devil incarnate by the influential Father Ioann for teaching that Christ was not divine. As Rosamund Bartlett explains, ‘Father Ioann was seen as the pastor of the people, whereas Tolstoy was worshipped more by the intelligentsia.’ Both aspired to an ascetic ideal, both were strict vegetarians and puritans, setting the example by their own lives. When Tolstoy fell seriously ill in 1902 the Holy Synod, the Ministry of Internal Affairs and the Censorship Committee feared that his death would spark a revolution. Many of Tolstoy’s works were too much for government and clergy, but he pressed on and had them published abroad. Thus he harangued the clergy in the Free Word Press in 1903: ‘You know that what you teach about the creation of the world, about the inspiration of the Bible by God, and much else is not true. How then can you teach it to little children and to ignorant adults who look to you for true enlightenment?’

Bartlett’s comprehensive study is both highly readable and informative, replete with illustrations of the family and friends of a man whose life became as close as possible to that of Christ in following the Jesuitical path of poverty, service and humility, but sheered of any doctrinal trimmings.
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Knowlton
3.0 out of 5 stars A useful modern biography of a towering figure in European cultural history.Reviewed in the United Kingdom on February 15, 2019
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Many years ago I read Henri Troyat's acclaimed biography of Tolstoy and I enjoyed this modern addition to Tolstoy scholarship. Rosamund Bartlett has also written an interesting biography of Tolstoy's friend Chekhov and she has made a good new translation of Anna Karenina. But be warned: the Kindle edition of Tolstoy: A Russian Life has masses of misprints, often several on a single page. I don't think I had previously realised that misprints (they are not just "typos"), if sufficiently frequent can mar one's reading pleasure.

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King Brosby
4.0 out of 5 stars VERY SOLID LIFE OF COUNT LEO TOLSTOYReviewed in the United Kingdom on April 19, 2011
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This is a life (450 pages) of Count Leo Tolstoy (1828-1910 - aristocrat, soldier, novelist, farmer, thinker, social campaigner) with an epilogue about his influence in Russia since 1910 (and the Soviet attitude to Tolstoyanism). It's by Rosamund Bartlett, an expert on Russian cultural history and Fellow of King's College (London).

It's about the development of key books e.g., "Anna Karenina" and "ABC" (an educational text) but also about Tolstoy as educationalist and thinker. The boldness and range of his religious/philosophical thinking about how to live was tremendous. A centrepiece was "The Gospel in Brief" (based on the Sermon on The Mount) which - a radical re-examination of Christianity - drew conclusions he lived by. He became a non-violent pacifist, but also anti-state, anti-militarist and arguably anarchist, which explains why the Soviets and Orthodox church were so hostile.

Dr Bartlett's thorough book is well-researched , but I'd have liked more opinions (in addition to chronology) about the literature and philosophy; e.g., why is Anna Karenina so highly regarded and writers e.g., Chekhov in awe, ... what are the merits/demerits of Tolstoy's "anarchistic" ideas? Was he right? Perhaps such discussion could have been in footnotes? Perhaps Dr Bartlett felt such judgements were provided by others in the literature.

The portrayal of (Tolstoy's wife) Sophia - central but in shadow - seemed understated; perhaps the marriage was a drama (tensions of a woman married to a radical genius) Dr Bartlett didn`t want to major on. Tolstoy and Sophia married in 1862 when she was 18 (he 34), she bore 13 children (8 survived childhood), and died 1919 at Yasnaya Polyana (the Tolstoy estate south of Moscow). She attempted suicide when told (at the end of his life) Tolstoy had left Yasnaya Polyana.
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Tony W
5.0 out of 5 stars In 19th Century Russia, was anyone more influential than Tolstoy?Reviewed in the United Kingdom on March 23, 2016
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Before reading this book I read Rosamund Bartlett's translation of Tolstoy's Anna Karenina - first read many years ago in Russian. It was just excellent and a joy to read - not least with all its amplifying notes. This book, which precedes the translation of Anna Karenina, shows the same meticulous attention and deep understanding of all things Russian and especially 19th century Russia. What a gifted man Tolstoy was. Imagine a modern writer taking 6 years to write War and Peace! Rosamund describes his opposition to serfdom and the way he took a lead in giving them freedom and some access to education. Nothing is omitted - his long period of "wild oats", his search for the "right" wife .......just a week engaged before the wedding and then 13 children ........ his spiritual journey, including his excommunication from the Russian Orthodox Church. Altogether a remarkable man and a biography worthy of him.

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Drejem
4.0 out of 5 stars An incredible story-well toldReviewed in the United Kingdom on January 30, 2013
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I found this biography very well researched and especially interesting as it devotes a great deal of space to Tolstoy's writings on religion, spirituality and pacifism. I have read other biographies of this great soul- Ernest Simmons's for example- but they focussed nearly exclusively on Tolstoy's literary output. The fact that the last third of Tolstoy's life was devoted mainly to living out his own philosophy of life cannot be dismissed as an uninteresting aberration and faintly embarrassing deviation by a literary giant. Bartlett has met this challenge directly, and treats Tolstoy's philosophy with the respect and seriousness it deserves. With that said, my only point of criticism with the biography is the rather turgid prose, which does not quite match up to the grandeur of the subject and his prodigious life and remarkable achievements- both literary and in inventing a new way of life that should have special resonance for us in these times.

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Tolstoy: A Russian Life

Rosamund Bartlett


“Magisterial sweep and scale.”—The Independent (UK)In November 1910, Count Lev Tolstoy died at a remote Russian railway station. At the time of his death, he was the most famous man in Russia, with a growing international following, and more revered than the tsar. Born into an aristocratic family, Tolstoy had spent his life rebelling against not only conventional ideas about literature and art but also traditional education, family life, organized religion, and the state.In this, the first biography of Tolstoy in more than twenty years, Rosamund Bartlett draws extensively on key Russian sources, including much fascinating material made available since the collapse of the Soviet Union. She sheds light on Tolstoy’s remarkable journey from callow youth to writer to prophet; discusses his troubled relationship with his wife, Sonya; and vividly evokes the Russian landscapes Tolstoy so loved and the turbulent times in which he lived. Above all, Bartett gives us an eloquent portrait of the brilliant, maddening, and contrary man who has once again been discovered by a new generation of readers.
$6.66 (USD)
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
Release date: 2011
Format: EPUB
Size: 6.15 MB
Language: English
Pages: 560







Future Perfect: Tolstoy and the Structures of Agrarian-Buddhist Utopianism in Taishō Japan | HTML

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Future Perfect: Tolstoy and the Structures of Agrarian-Buddhist Utopianism in Taishō Japan

Comparative Humanities Program, Bucknell University, Lewisburg, PA 17837, USA
Religions 20189(5), 161; https://doi.org/10.3390/rel9050161
Received: 22 April 2018 / Revised: 11 May 2018 / Accepted: 13 May 2018 / Published: 16 May 2018

Abstract

This study focuses on the role played by the work of Leo Tolstoy (1828–1910) in shaping socialism and agrarian-Buddhist utopianism in Japan. As Japanese translations of Tolstoy’s fiction and philosophy, and accounts of his life became more available at the end of the 19th century, his ideas on the individual, religion, society, and politics had a tremendous impact on the generation coming of age in the 1900s and his popularity grew among young intellectuals. One important legacy of Tolstoy in Japan is his particular concern with the peasantry and agricultural reform. Among those inspired by Tolstoy and the narodniki lifestyle, three individuals, Tokutomi Roka, Eto Tekirei, and Mushakōji Saneatsu illustrate how prominent writers and thinkers adopted the master’s lifestyle and attempted to put his ideas into practice. In the spirit of the New Buddhists of late Meiji, they envisioned a comprehensive lifestyle structure. As Eto Tekirei moved to the village of Takaido with the assistance of Tokutomi Roka, he called his new home Hyakushō Aidōjō (literally, Farmers Love Training Ground). He and his family endeavored to follow a Tolstoyan life, which included labor, philosophy, art, religion, society, and politics, a grand project that he saw as a “non-religious religion.” As such, Tekirei’s utopian vision might be conceived as an experiment in “alter-modernity.”

1. Introduction

The primary foreign influence on early Japanese socialism—including the two main forms of religious socialism, Christian and Buddhist—was the work of Leo Tolstoy (1828–1910), Russian essayist, pacifist, Christian socialist and, of course, author of some of the most significant works of 19th century world literature.1 Although portions of War and Peace had been published in Japan as early as 1886, it was in 1889 and 1890—coinciding with the proclamation of both the Imperial Constitution and the Rescript on Education—that Japanese translations of Tolstoy’s fiction and philosophy, and accounts of his life, began to appear in journals such as Kokumin no tomoShinriTetsugaku zasshi, and Rikugō zasshi. The year 1890 also saw the publication in Nihon hyōron of a report on Tolstoyan humanism by the Christian theologian and critic Uemura Masahisa (1857–1925). Over the next decade, many of Tolstoy’s shorter works became available in Japan, including The Cossacks (1893) and Kreutzer Sonata (1894), both of which had a significant influence. (See Nobori 1981, pp. 34–37Shifman 1966, pp. 59–64).
No doubt part of the attraction of Tolstoy as a writer of fiction was his blend of naturalism and humanism, two significant literary trends that were just emerging in late Meiji and early Taishō Japan. (See Sibley 1968, p. 162, n.15). Tolstoy’s ideas on the individual, religion, society, and politics were of immense influence on the “young men of Meiji,” the generation coming of age in the last decade of the Meiji period.2 As the historian Steven Marks puts it: “His writings encapsulated in highly readable form the Russian philosophical stress on the illusory nature of Western progress, and the virtues of either backwardness or delaying the onset of Western modernization, ideas that reverberated throughout the non-Western world.” (Marks 2003, p. 123). This resonance was particularly strong in Japan, a nation struggling with many of the same issues regarding modernization, industrialization, and its relationship to the West as Tolstoy’s Russia.
Tolstoy held a deep respect and appreciation for Asian culture, dabbled in Buddhism, and denounced Western imperialism and colonialism, urging non-Western peoples to resist (nonviolently) becoming slaves or puppets to the West and its ideals.3 His outspoken opposition to the Russo-Japanese War (1904–1905) won him many adherents among students, progressive intellectuals, and the Japanese left (including many Christians and Buddhists), while rendering him a pernicious influence in the eyes of the late-Meiji and early-Taishō administrations. Prominent leftists such as Abe Iso’o (1865–1949), Kōtoku Shūsui (1871–1911), Kitamura Tokoku (1868–1894), and Ōsugi Sakae (1885–1923) acknowledged Tolstoy as an influence and inspiration. As a result, combined with a more general fear of the growth of radical thought among the young, in the decade between 1905 and 1915 Tolstoy was among those authors whose works were targeted as being detrimental to public morals. To the chagrin of government officials and associated ideologues, however, the Russian writer’s influence continued to grow throughout the Taishō era, so much so that a new term was coined—Torusutoishugi—to describe the popular phenomenon of adopting a “Tolstoyan lifestyle.”
One important legacy of Tolstoy in Japan is his particular concern with the peasantry and agricultural reform. The so-called “rediscovery” of the Japanese countryside in late Meiji is sometimes attributed to his influence. Many if not most agrarian reform movements of the early century were directly inspired by Tolstoy’s work, often mixed with the writings of the Russian anarchist Peter Kropotkin (1842–1921). That is not to say that there were no indigenous roots to this turn to the countryside: Zen Buddhism (influenced by the primitivist stream within Chinese Daoism) has long held to the ideal of a simple, rustic existence, while the practices of folk Shinto are rooted in visits to rural shrines. Yet the contrast one finds in Tolstoy—filtered through Rousseau and the European romantics—between the “countryside” as the locus for true humanity and the “city” as the emblem of strife, unease, and suffering, was new to Japan, though it grafted readily onto 19th century nativist appeals to agricultural productivity and peasant life as a solution to Japan’s problems. (See Harootunian 1988, pp. 49–50, 251Tamamoi 1998Konishi 2013, p. 23).
Tolstoy and his followers have frequently been labeled “antimodern,” based on a simplistic conflation of modernity and urban culture. Indeed, while Japanese leftists (and some rightists) were attracted to Tolstoy’s agrarian romanticism as a response to Western (bourgeois, urban) civilization, his work contains elements that are distinctly “modern(ist),” including his rationalist interpretation of religion and proto-existentialist focus on the individual. And despite official disapproval, by the early Taishō there was a feeling that Japan’s adoption of Tolstoy (along with the more obviously modernist Henrik Ibsen) was a sure sign that the country had emerged into the “modern world” and the early Meiji impulse had paid off (Marks 2003, p. 125).

2. The Narodniki: Farmer’s Institutes and New Villages

In short, the impact of Tolstoy among young intellectuals in late Meiji and Taishō Japan can hardly be overstated. Yet Tolstoy was not simply a religious reformer or social critic; he was also recognized as one the great writers of the late 19th century—and as such, his influence extended to the world of letters. Among the earliest Japanese writers influenced by Tolstoy, several of the most prominent were Tokutomi Roka (1868–1927), Eto Tekirei (1880–1944), and Mushakōji Saneatsu (1885–1976). All three men identified strongly with Tolstoy, not only as writers and thinkers but also in terms of adopting the master’s lifestyle and attempting to put his ideas into practice. In particular, they were attracted to what Akamatsu Katsumaro (1894–1955) called “the practical effectiveness of Tolstoy’s doctrines of love, labor, nonresistance, and reverence for the agrarian way of life.” (Akamatsu 1981, p. 98).
On the way back from a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, Roka—younger brother of the well-known historian and critic Tokutomi Sohō (1863–1957)—visited Tolstoy’s villa in Yasnaya Polyana in 1906, and soon began to inject his literary works with Tolstoyan qualities of introspection and a resistance to authoritarianism.4 In 1908, as leftist activism grew in the wake of the Russo-Japanese War, he gave a controversial address to the Debating Society of the First Higher School of Tokyo entitled “The Sadness of Victory,” in which he evoked the emptiness felt by even the greatest generals upon their so-called victories in battle, concluding, in words that evoke the Buddhist conversion of the legendary King Ashoka (304–232 BCE) after the battle of Kalinga: “Of what value is man’s victory? The people search after ‘success’ or ‘distinction,’ offering their very lives in payment. But what is success, what is distinction? These are nothing more than pretty reflections shining forth from the dream of man’s aspirations” (cited in Akamatsu 1981, p. 99). Apparently, this speech hit a chord with a number of students in the audience, some of who promptly quit school to return to their native village as narodniki.5 Roka himself would spend his final two decades ensconced with his wife in a Musashino forest retreat called Kōshun-en, living the life of a “natural man” (shizenjin).
Eto Tekirei was another budding intellectual and writer who got caught up in the Tolstoyan currents of the early 20th century. Around 1906, inspired by Tolstoy and the narodniki lifestyle, he abandoned his studies at Tokyo Imperial University and took up the life of a farmer. Yet even this was not enough, so in 1910, with the assistance of Tokutomi Roka, Tekirei took up residence in the village of Takaido in the Musashino area just outside of Tokyo.6 Giving his new home the grandiose title Hyakushō Aidōjō (literally, Farmers Love Training Ground), he and his family attempted to follow a Tolstoyan life to the fullest, while incorporating—like so many other Japanese narodniki—Buddhist and Christian elements into his thought, including the work of Christian socialist Uchimura Kanzō (1861–1930). An eclectic thinker, Tekirei also borrowed heavily from the work of Russian anarchist Kropotkin, whose Fields, Factories, and Workshops “really taught [him] how to live a life of labor,” (Akamatsu 1981, p. 100; see also Eto 1925Nishimura 1992, p. 170Nakao 1996, p. 174). He was among the first Japanese scholars to “rediscover” the work of Andō Shōeki (1703–1762), the Edo-period agrarian thinker and proto-communist visionary.7 In 1922, Tekirei published his Aru hyakushō no ie (The household of a certain farmer), which, together with Tsuchi to kokoro o tagayashi tsutsu (Tilling the soil and the heart, 1924), serves as both memoir and justification for his agrarian socio-religious vision. Eto’s agrarian-Buddhist vision is encapsulated in his “wheel of household grain farming” (Figure 1).
Figure 1. Eto Tekirei’s “Wheel of household grain farming” (Wada 2012, p. 78).
Citing Maruyama Masao’s remarks on the tendency towards ideological polarization during this period, Nishimura Shun’ichi argues that this tendency extended to late Meiji and Taishō denenshugi (agrarianism) as well, such that there emerged a “right wing” faction of thinkers dedicated to nōhonshugi (literally, agriculture-essence-ism) and a “left wing” or progressive faction espousing nōminjichishugi (farmer-autonomy-ism) (Nishimura 1992, p. 88; also see Nakao 1996). Nishimura places Tekirei in the latter group, along with Ishikawa Sanshirō (1876–1956), Shimonaka Yasaburō (1878–1961), and Ōnishi Goichi (1898–1992), as opposed to “rightists” such as Gondō Seikyō (1868–1937), Tachibana Kōzaburō (1893–1974), Yamazaki Nobuyoshi (1873–1954), and Katō Kanji (1884–1967).8 Given Tekirei’s primary inspirations—Tolstoy, Kropotkin, and Shōeki—his radically “horizontal” focus and concomitant rejection of hierarchy, this is not a difficult case to make. And yet it is worth asking: just how reliant was Tekirei on Buddhist ideas and principles for his progressive, naturalist vision?
After a few years of life as a farmer, Tekirei began to have serious doubts about Tolstoy’s idealized views of peasant life, and resolved to establish a new system for living with nature, which he called kashoku nōjō (Wheel of household grain farming). In fact, the first half of this four-character set, kashoku, is borrowed directly—and effectively set in ironic contrast to—the traditional term shashoku, used to refer to the state as a tutelary deity of grain. Here, in Tekirei’s reformulation, it is the household (ie) that becomes the locus of livelihood, rather than the state. In addition, the final character  is clearly borrowed from Buddhist tradition, where it refers to a particular “vehicle” or branch of the Dharma, one that leads effectively to nirvana—as in the Great Vehicle (Mahayana; Daijō). Tekirei goes on to divide this general concept into eight categories: (1) agrarian methods (nōhō); (2) agrarian organization (nōsei), (3) agrarian association (nōso), (4) agrarian “path,” including social and economic standpoints (nōdō), (5) agrarian thought, including philosophy and art (nōsō), (6) agrarian doctrine, including culture (nōkyō), (7) agrarian spirit, including spirituality and religion (nōkon), (8) agrarian practice (nōgyō) (Nishimura 1992, p. 171).
Clearly, in the spirit of the New Buddhists of late Meiji, Tekirei is aiming for a comprehensive lifestyle structure—one that stretches (or better, softens) the boundaries between labor, philosophy, art, religion, society, and politics. Indeed, due to its application to all facets of ordinary life, he would go on to call his vision a “non-religious religion” (mushūkyō no shūkyō).9 Moreover, Tekirei seems to have followed Shōeki’s understanding of the intrinsic relation of nature, labor, and knowledge. While nature cannot be known in its entirety, it can (and should) be “practiced” through agricultural labor. Labor also brings knowledge—including knowledge of the limits of practice itself, and out of this emerges “a natural community [resting]…on overflowing surplus energies and interactive natural practices.”10
We find a remarkably similar vision in the following declaration of principles in the journal Aozora (Blue sky), founded in 1925 by Ōnishi Goichi and Ikeda Taneo (1897–1974):

1
As children born with the great earth as our mother and the vast sky as our father, we believe that we must find the foundation for our daily lives in the spirit of the pure farmer, and that moreover this is the very root of human existence.
2
We repudiate the urban-based civilization, which continues to oppress and trample down the people both spiritually and economically, and pledge instead to establish an agriculturally based civilization that conforms to the land.
3
This creed is not meant to give birth to yet another fixed doctrine; rather, we simply look to reconnect with our innate disposition to till the great earth and lead the natural life of the farmer.11
While the soil-peasant fixation is stronger here than with the mainly urban New Buddhists of late Meiji, there are palpable affinities to some earlier Buddhist progressives with regard to the emphasis on reaching beyond “civilization” toward some deeper foundation for human existence and the desire to be “nonpartisan” and “post-ideological”—without thereby losing the capacity to engage in forthright criticism. And while we might find parallels with right-leaning evocations of a “return to the soil” in the work of Katō Kanji and other advocates of nōhonshugi, here—as with the New Buddhist Fellowship (Shin Bukkyō Dōshikai)—there is a noticeable lack of mention of the state or kokutai (national polity). In short, at issue is the individual’s relations with (a) nature, (b) themselves, and (c) their society or community. In similar fashion, Eto Tekirei was fiercely resistant to the notion—promoted by, for instance, nōhonshugi activist Yamazaki Nobuyoshi (1873–1954), that “going back to the land” must become codified as a matter of “national policy” (see Nishimura 1992, p. 171).
Tekirei also borrowed heavily from the work of Dōgen (1200–1253), taking particular note of the Soto Zen master’s emphasis on the bodily basis of awakening. As Wada Kōsaku explains, this became the basis of Tekirei’s idea of “practice” (gyō) (Wada 2012, pp. 12–14). Elsewhere he writes that while he never practiced shikantaza in a meditation hall, he did so in the “heaven and earth meditation hall” (tenchi zendō)—while engaged in the “practice” of farming (see Saitō et al. 2001, p. 232). And with regard to the matter of work and nature, he relied upon the following passage from the Devadatta chapter of the Lotus Sutra, describing the Buddha’s reminiscences of his past life as a king who has renounced his throne to follow a teacher of the “wonderful law”: “Picking fruit, drawing water, gathering firewood, and preparing food, even offering my own body as a couch for him, feeling no weariness in body or mind. I served him for a thousand years, for the sake of the Dharma, diligently waiting upon him so he lacked nothing.”12
While the trope of the “suffering” or “self-sacrificial” servant was also put to good use by kokutai ideologues, Tekirei resisted the self-denying emphasis of nōhonshugi in favor of what can only be called an “individualist” quest for existential truth. In this respect, his critique of Marx is worth noting, in that—again like his New Buddhist predecessors—he accepts the basic premises of the Marxist (as well as the Darwinian) critique of traditional “idealist” philosophies and religions while resisting the harder-edged implications of a kind of materialism (and determinism) that treats human beings simply as “matter” or as “animals” (see Wada 2012, pp. 59–64). In many respects, Tekirei’s eclectic philosophy is rooted in principles similar to the seishinshugi of Kiyozawa Manshi (1863–1903), so it comes as no surprise to learn that in early 1902 the young Tekirei visited the Kōkōdō to hear Kiyozawa lecture on Shinran (1173–1263) and was favorably impressed by the older man. Two decades later he would write that it was due to Kiyozawa (in particular his reading of Shinran), that Tekirei first truly discovered the “self” (shi).13 He would later have contact with two of Kiyozawa’s chief students: Akegarasu Haya (1877–1954) and Chikazumi Jōkan (1870–1941).
Finally, we turn to the third and most influential of our Tolstoyan narodniki: Mushakōji Saneatsu. As the son of a viscount descended from the highest ranks of nobility (kuge), Mushakōji received an elite—and cosmopolitan—education at Gakushūin (Peers’ School) in Tokyo, coming into early contact with the work of Tolstoy as well as the Bible.14 From his school years, he would later recount, his “utmost desire was to become a champion of humanitarianism, a great man of letters and a great thinker … a just man, and to lead a life so holy that he might pass for a paragon of virtue in the eyes of God… ”15 Though initially enrolled in the Department of Philosophy at Tokyo Imperial University, his interests soon turned toward literature, and, like Eto Tekirei, he dropped out prior to graduation. By this time, Mushakōji had come into contact with a number of talented and like-minded young writers, with whom he would found the Shirakaba-ha (White Birch School) in 1910 (see Mortimer 2000, pp. ix–x).
Along with the other members of the White Birch School, through the pages of their publication Shirakaba, Mushakōji promoted a form of idealist humanism that went against the popular literary trend of naturalism, which tended toward a fatalistic and pessimistic view of human life caught up in forces beyond its control. In contrast, Mushakōji and the other writers of the White Birch School embraced an optimistic view of human potential, in which the individual was largely in control of his own destiny via the power of the will.16 Yet Mushakōji—like Tolstoy and the narodniki discussed above—was not content to be simply a writer; he longed to put his ideas into practice, an opportunity that presented itself in 1918, with the founding of the utopian community Atarashikimura (New Village) at Kijōmura, an isolated spot in the mountains of Miyazaki prefecture, Kyushu. Despite the inevitable troubles (both financial and personal), Atarashikimura seems to have flourished for its first decade—reaching a peak around 1929. The site was condemned in 1938 to allow for the construction of an electrical power plant. A second New Village was then established in Saitama prefecture, and several branches arose elsewhere, a few of which continue to this day.
To some extent, Musahakōji struggled with the same problem as the New Buddhists and the other narodniki: how to reconcile self-discovery and individual freedom with social responsibilities and political obligations (see, e.g., Epp 1996, p. 17). In the immediate aftermath of the High Treason Incident (Taigyaku jiken) of 1910–11, and with more focus on the “self” in Taishō intellectual and literary circles, the problem had become even more acute—and significantly more politically sensitive. Given this context, it is hardly surprising that, taken as a whole, what we might call Taishō “humanism”—whether fortuitously or as a form of self-censorship in the wake of the High Treason Incident—was not overly concerned with social problems. Indeed, it has become something of a scholarly consensus that Taishō literature, in particular, represents an “inward turning” away from the social consciousness expressed in the works of late Meiji “naturalism (see, e.g., Kohl 1990, p. 9). “[I]f one characteristic of this early phase of the Taishō discovery of the self lies in confession, another seems to be a blocking out of social concern, at least in an analytic sense” (Rimer 1990, p. 35Mortimer 2000, p. 146).
In this regard, the Shirakaba writers—and Mushakōji in particular—appear to have a mixed record. Maya Mortimer argues that, despite their “reverence for Tolstoy”—which would seem to gain them a certain progressive credibility—the “Shirakaba concern for the visual arts… and the emphasis, through Mushanokōji, on self-fulfillment, seemed designed to reassure the authorities that the group had effectively withdrawn from the political arena,” and that even the founding of Atarashikimura in 1918 was not a “return to politics” but rather a form of escapism: “based on pastoral nostalgia and exploiting the ethical and quietist aspects of Tolstoyanism as a defense against those who reproached the group’s lack of political involvement.”17 On the other hand, Stephen Kohl contrasts the work of Mushakōji and fellow Shirakaba member Arishima Takeo (1878–1923) with that of Abe Jirō (1883–1959), author of the hugely popular Santarō no nikki (Diary of Santarō, 1914): “When Mushanokōji spoke of the self, he was calling for the improvement of both the self and society at large. Abe’s concern for the self is so inward-looking that his vision rarely goes beyond the identification and edification of the individual self” (Kohl 1990, p. 9). If we assume that Kohl is correct to emphasize a “social” aspect to Mushakōji’s focus on the self—distinct from many Taishō “humanists”—then what, if anything, precludes this from being “political”?
The founding of Atarashikimura in the summer and fall of 1918 was the culmination of Mushakōji’s long-standing utopian dream—and represents the concrete embodiment of his deepest personal values and ideals. The commune was born in the midst of two events of both global and local resonance: the Russian Revolution of October 1917 and the end of the Great War the following autumn. A surge in social unrest within the country—exemplified by the Rice Riots in Tokyo, Osaka, and Kobe—compounded the fears of the Taishō administration, showing that the Meiji experiments with nation building and the attempt to create a harmonious social order had not yet achieved resolution (see Smith 1970, p. 91Ohnuki-Tierney 1994, pp. 38–39). Very much in the Tolstoyan anti-authoritarian spirit, Mushakōji’s intentional community pledged itself to an ideal of “harmony without hierarchy.”18 Years earlier, Mushakōji had written of an ideal future society, in which: “no temptation whatsoever will disturb the peace, and people will love one another untroubled by anger, deceit, rivalry, coercion, moral obligations, or censorship. Sincerity, joy, and solidarity will suffice to dispel all anxiety about clothing, food, and shelter.”19 In what sounds ironic but is in fact a serious attempt to bring about such an ideal community, the first and only “commandment” in Atarashikimura is a prohibition against making or following “commandments”: Hito ni meirei suru nakare; mata hito ni meirei sareru nakare (cited in Mortimer 2000, p. 29). Indeed, the statutes of the community were remarkably “liberal” in emphasis: individual liberty over authority, personal initiative over compulsion, and “work” as a natural, pleasurable activity rather than an obligation (these features also align with some anarchist and syndicalist visions of the ideal society). In short, the village was more of a “co-operative” than a “commune.”
Of all the narodniki and utopians discussed in this chapter, Mushakōji appears to be the one least influenced by Buddhist ideas or practices. In this passage of his autobiographical novel Aru otoko (A certain man, 1923) he recounts the dreams of his early school years:
Why not become a bonze?—he even went so far to think; but then, to picture himself busy at chanting sutras was just too ridiculous. A beggar, then? But he did not believe that a beggar’s job would help to revive his selfhood. Whatever he chose to do, he would never settle for half-way solutions. He had to become a fully mature independent man of nothing at all. But again, even if he succeeded in bringing to life one side of the self, he thought he would not be able to revive the whole.
(cited in and translated in Mortimer 2000, p. 20)
These reminiscences are interesting in several respects. First, though Mushakōji is reflecting from the age of forty back upon a period thirty years previous (around the time of the Russo-Japanese War), these dreams and doubts would stay with him throughout his life. Second, while he clearly rejects the traditional, stereotypical life of the Buddhist “bonze,” his aspirations for an “independent” and comprehensive “revival” of the self coincides perfectly with several streams of Buddhist modernism emerging in late Meiji, including New Buddhism and, perhaps even more so, the seishinshugi of Kiyozawa Manshi. Moreover, there are Zen inflections to Mushakōji’s conviction that: “One endeavors to work not simply to gain a livelihood, but as a way of enriching one’s life” (Shigoto ni hagemu no wa, seikatsu no tame dake de naku, jibun no jinsei jūjitsu suru koto desu) (cited in Matsubara 1994, p. 58). Indeed, more than one scholar has noted the “Daoist Zen” aspects of his poetry.20
Finally, even while Mushakōji’s youthful ardor for Christianity—stoked by reading Tolstoy and hearing lectures by Christian socialists Uchimura Kanzō and Kinoshita Naoe (1869–1937)—would cool under the influence of Belgian playwright Maurice Maeterlinck (1862–1949), he would confess in 1911 that he retained something like a “religious vocation.” Indeed, this passage from his essay “Jiko no tame no geijutsu” (Art for the self) bears quoting in full, as it points to a conception of self and society that was widespread among Taishō intellectuals, especially those under Tolstoy’s influence:
If I happened to be carried away by my social instinct, I might even be ready to die for my society. But if I am not and am pushed by society to expose myself against my will, I will hate to do so right away. Before I know whether it is good or bad to follow my social instinct, I must first listen to my individual, human, animal, terrestrial, Ding an Sich and all other instincts within me (I also perceive in myself something like a religious vocation; Tolstoy calls it “reason,” but I think it corresponds to something deeper than that).21
In this respect, it is useful to briefly examine Mushakōji’s Life of Shakyamuni Buddha, a 1934 publication that, due to positive critical reception and brisk sales, helped him to recover from the serious financial straits to which he had fallen by the late 1920s. In an afterword in which he explains his reasons for writing this work, Mushakoji notes that, while not intending to bring forth a “new Shakyamuni,” he wants to emphasize the “human” Sakyamuni, an ideal figure lauded for his combination of insight and compassion, yet one who possessed a natural innocence: “the heart of a child” (akago no kokoro).
In short, like Christ—also “a man with a pure, pure heart”22—Sakyamuni Buddha represents one of the great sages of the past; that is, his story is useful as a reference for ideal human behavior, but bereft of any transcendental or mystical gloss (see Mortimer 2000, p. 93, n. 4). As with many progressive Buddhists from late Meiji, including the New Buddhist Fellowship, Mushakōji created a pantheon of “masters,” including religious figures, philosophers, and writers (and even literary characters), who serve as models of human “liberation.”23 Thus “the Buddha” functions as a representative of a complex of humanist ideals, including a religious understanding rooted in common sense and compatible with modern science, one that rejects social discrimination and institutional hypocrisy, and looks to nature itself as a source for liberation.24 In his much earlier play Washi mo shiranai (I don’t know, either, 1910), Mushakōji presents a conversation between God, Jesus, and Sakyamuni in which they all admit their inability to save mankind—indicating, once again, a modernist perspective on spiritual liberation rooted in the individual as well as nature, but not “the gods.”25

3. Ideology and Utopia in the Taishō Period

In order to theorize further about the various Tolstoyan-Buddhistic utopias described in this chapter, I turn now to a brief discussion of the distinction between “ideology” and “utopia” in the work of 20th century German social theorist Karl Mannheim (1893–1947). In his classic 1929 work, Ideologie und Utopia (Ideology and utopia), Mannheim first delineates the “utopian mentality” as that which is always incongruent with the world—that is, “oriented toward objects which do not exist in the actual situation.” He then proceeds to distinguish utopian incongruity from ideological incongruity. Whereas the latter may also “depart from reality” in thought, it does not go so far as to effect change on society; rather, ideologies are eventually adopted or assimilated in support of the status quo. Thus, “[o]nly those orientations transcending reality will be referred to by us as utopian which, when they pass over into conduct, tend to shatter, either partially or wholly, the order of things prevailing at the time” (Mannheim 1936, p. 192) In short, for Mannheim, true utopias are always critical in the most fundamental sense of the term.
Mannheim goes on to contrast chiliastic forms of utopia—and the associated “mentality”—with liberal-humanitarian ones, which are rooted less in “ecstatic-orgiastic energies” than in “ideas.” In the liberal conception, a “formal goal projected into the infinite future” functions as a “regulative device in mundane affairs.” In other words, utopia is quite literally an idealized “other realm” that inspires us by working on or transforming our moral conscience. This general understanding underlies much of what we now call “modern philosophy,” and as such, was deeply intertwined with the political ideas of a particular class: the bourgeoisie, who consciously employed it against the “clerical-theological” view of the world.26 “This outlook, in accordance with the structural relationship of the groups representing it, pursued a dynamic middle course between the vitality, ecstasy, and vindictiveness of oppressed strata, and the immediate concreteness of a feudal ruling class whose aspirations were in complete congruence with the then existing reality.”27
Significantly, however, this liberal-bourgeois drive toward the “middle way” is pursued through a privileging of ideas above the vulgar materiality of “existing reality.” As a result, according to Mannheim: “Elevated and detached, and at the same time sublime, it lost all sense for material things, as well as every real relationship with nature.”28 In short, however utopian, a “moderate” path that ultimately privileges ideas over material reality contains a real danger of falling into a form of idealism that conforms to, rather than challenges, the material—and thus ideological—status quo. Again, a strong case could be made that modern Buddhism, along with most major religious traditions, has generally taken this path, either by design or, I would suggest, out of certain ideological tendencies inherent in interpretations of specific Buddhist teachings. In fact, this is precisely the central argument of the Critical Buddhist (hihan bukkyō) movement of the 1990s led by Hakayama Noriaki and Matsumoto Shirō, scholars affiliated with Soto Zen, though the Critical Buddhists did not extend their critique to a pervasive “liberal” mentality rooted in a discourse of modernity.29
As we have seen in the above discussion of various utopian experiments in the late Meiji and Taishō period, despite real differences, they are tied together by an overwhelming focus on self-discovery or self-awakening—understood less in relation to the role of the individual in society and politics than with respect to a broader and “aesthetic” concept of culture. This is not to say that all of these figures did not, to some degree, struggle with the “problem” of the self in relation to others and the larger community—indeed, the attempt to create sustainable intentional communities implies some degree of social concern. And yet, ultimately, resistance to the dangers of “vulgar materialism”—no doubt enhanced by legitimate fear of reprisal from authorities in the wake of the High Treason Incident—led to the search for, in Mushakōji’s phrase, “safe havens” (nigeba) in art, literature, and utopian communities, from the storms of politics and social conflict. Indeed, for Mushakōji, at least, the self becomes a sort of nigeba; as he explains in “Jiko no tame no geijitsu” (Art for the self, 1911):
Our present generation can no longer be satisfied with what is called “objectivism” in naturalist ideology. We are too individualistic for that… I have, therefore, taught myself to place entire trust in the Self. To me, nothing has more authority than the Self. If a thing appears white to me, white it is. If one day I see it as black, black is what it will be. If someone tries to convince me that what I see as white is black, I will just think that person is wrong. Accordingly, if the “self” is white to me, nobody will make me say it is black.30
Granted, Mushakōji is here expressing an extreme standpoint, a hyper-subjectivism that has no regard whatsoever for “objective truth”—or even, for that matter, reasoned discussion or debate. And yet, it speaks to a more general issue or problem with Taishō “progressivism,” and is precisely the reason that, after his initial excitement, progressive writer and economist Kawakami Hajime (1879–1946) left Itō Shōshin’s (1876–1963) utopian Muga-en (Garden of Selflessness) in 1906. Although neither Shōshin nor Nishida Tenkō (1872–1968) were artists or literary figures, both of their Tolstoyan-inspired intentional communities, Muga-en and Ittōen, can be classified as “liberal-humanist” in Mannheim’s schema. Extending this to contemporary criticism, the bulk of these Taishō progressive can be justly accused as relying on what Karatani (2005) Kōjin calls an “aesthetic” perspective, in which “actual contradictions” are surmounted and unified “at an imaginary level.” In Karatani’s sense, aesthetics is much more than simply a way of speaking about art and beauty; it is a mode of discourse that seeks to establish a reformed existence or “sensibility”—an understanding that dates back to Romantic writers such as Schiller, and finds expression within German Idealism following Hegel.31 For Karatani, the attempt by Japanese thinkers and utopians to “overcome modernity” inevitably ended in failure, since it is impossible to overcome the large-scale social contradictions and tensions of modernity by appealing to an abstract ideal of “culture.” With the hindsight of history, it becomes less surprising to note that many of these “progressive” experiments were easily co-opted by the emerging ultra-nationalism of the Shōwa period. The “resistance” that Mannheim sees as crucial to true utopian thought and practice thus slides into “ideology”—a justification and perpetuation of the status quo.

4. Conclusions

In this article, I have outlined several of the most notable experiments in utopian thought and practice in late Meiji and Taishō-era Japan, highlighting the eclectic nature of these experiments, as well as the near-universal debt to the work of Russian novelist and essayist Leo Tolstoy. In choosing to focus my analysis on two relatively understudied cases, those of Eto Tekirei and Mushakōji Saneatsu (rather than, say, Itō Shōshin or Nishida Tenkō), I have shown the diversity of thought that went into these “intentional communities,” despite the fact that both had Buddhist, socialist, and even Christian roots. Indeed, these two cases might be said to represent two poles on a spectrum of Taishō utopian thought. Whereas Mushakoji’s Atarashikimura falls squarely within the “liberal-humanist” utopia outlined by Mannheim, Eto Tekirei’s Hyakushō Aidōjō pushes against such residual idealism, in part by utilizing (Zen) Buddhist conceptions of practice to reaffirm the value of labor and, by extension, the material world. Here we see, I suggest, a lost opportunity for forging a critical utopia rooted in Tolstoyan, socialist and Buddhist ideals, one that may not have been able to “overcome” modernity but can be nonetheless read as an incipient non-western “altermodernity” along lines discussed by Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri.32

Conflicts of Interest

The authors declare no conflict of interest.

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1
Several sections of this article have been adapted, with modifications and elisions, from (Shields 2017); see esp. pp. 170–72; 183–88.
2
For a comprehensive study of Tolstoy’s impact in both Japan and China, see (Shifman 1966).
3
Indeed, as Marks notes, Japanese readers of Tolstoy tended to see him as familiar rather than exotic or mystical—the way he was usually seen in the West—and for various reasons treated him as “one of their own” (ibid., p. 124).
4
See Shizen to jinsei (Nature and human life, 1900) for Roka’s reflections on nature, and Mimizu no tawagoto (Gibberish of an earthworm, 1913) for his adoption of the Tolstoyan peasant lifestyle. See (Shifman 1996, pp. 68–76), for the correspondence between Roka and Tolstoy.
5
Ibid.; see also Moiwa 1981. The Russian word narodniki refers to a person associated with a loosely defined progressive social movement that first arose in Russia in the 1860s and 1870s, in response to the poverty and social problems unleashed by of Tsar Alexander II’s “emancipation” of the serfs. The ideology developed and promoted by the narodniki was a form of populism, focused especially on addressing the grievances of rural peasants—still the vast majority of ordinary Russians—rather than urban workers. For more on the Russian narodniki, see (Kołakowski 2008, pp. 609–12).
6
Musashino would become the center of the Japanese narodniki movement, with Tokutomi Roka, Ikeda Taneo (1897–1974), and Ōnishi Goichi (1898–1992) all spending some time in the Kamitakaido area during the Taishō period. See (Nishimura 1992, p. 151).
7
See (Nishimura 1992, pp. 173–74). Tekirei referred to his utopian experiment as Tenshinkei, which is borrowed from Shōeki’s trope of the natural order as “movement,” “truthfulness,” and “reverence”; see (Tetsuo 2002, “Andō Shōeki,” pp. 75–76).
8
(Nishimura 1992, pp. 88–89); for an analysis of the life and work of Katō Kanji vis-à-vis the emergence of nōhonshugi, see (Havens 1970).
9
Tekirei writes about this in his correspondence with Akegarasu Haya in the Buddhist journal Chugai Nippō (March–April 1916); see (Wada 2012, pp. 293–94).
10
(Tetsuo 2002, p. 70). For more on Tekirei’s use of Shoeki, see (Kinji 1974).
11
Cited in (Nishimura 1992, p. 150); my translation.
12
Cited in (Wada 2012, p. 20); Lotus Sutra, chap. 12 “Devadatta.”
13
Ibid., pp. 285–86.
14
Attending Gakushūin through virtually the entire fourth decade of Meiji (1898–1906), Mushakōji and his Shirakaba peers were exposed to an impressive array of lecturers, including Natsume Sōseki (1867–1916), Uchimura Kanzō, Miyake Setsurei (1860–1945), Shimazaki Tōson (1872–1943), and Tokutomi Roka.
15
From Mushakōji’s autobiographical novel Aru otoko (1921–1923); translated in (Mortimer 2000, p. 19).
16
This relentless optimism can be seen in the titles of a number of Mushakōji’s works from this period: the novels Kōfukumono (A happy man, 1919) and Yūjō (Friendship, 1920), and the play Ningen banzai (Three cheers for mankind, 1922); also see his autobiographical novel Aru otoko (A certain man, 1923).
17
(Mortimer 2000, pp. x–xi). Admittedly, it is unclear whether these points represent Mortimer’s own scholarly opinion or are meant to reflect the “standard reading” of the Shirakaba writers by postwar (Marxist-inclined) critics such as Honda Shūgo. While at Gakushūin, Mushakōji notes that he and his peers were exposed to the early writings of Kotoku Shūsui and Sakai Toshihiko (1871–1933), and that he himself felt a particular affinity to Shūsui’s ideas, “never miss[ing] a single issue of the Heimin Shimbun” (MSZ (1987–1991) 15: 545).
18
In Aru otoko, Mushakōji notes his distrust of charismatic revolutionary leaders such as Lenin and Trotsky, who had become “cult-figures” and “idols” (MSZ (1987–1991) 5: 281).
19
Mushakōji, “Gendai no bunmei”; cited and translated in (Mortimer 2000, p. 29).
20
See, e.g., (Epp 1996, pp. 18–22). According to Epp, “Taoist equanimity lies at the heart of Mushakōji’s poetic” (18).
21
“Jiko no tame no geijutsu,” Shirakaba 1911 (MSZ (1987–1991) 1: 429); translated in Mortimer 2000, 91. Mortimer notes the Kantian and especially Freudian ring of these “instincts” (honnō).
22
MSZ (1987–1991) 9: 334–35. In his Kofuku mono (1919), published soon after the birth of Atarashikimura, Mushakōji would employ the term magokoro—literally, pure, open mind/heart—to refer to this characteristic shared by all true “masters.” Mortimer 2000, p. 180, 184, connects magokoro to a concept of “divine nakedness,” as well as to an “immanentist and pantheistic” energy that exists within nature.
23
For the Shirakaba writers, these included Christ, Śākyamuni Buddha, Confucius, St. Francis, Rousseau, Carlyle, Whitman, and William James; see (Mortimer 2000, p. 119).
24
See ibid., p. 120. Mortimer argues that because the Shirakaba “master” ultimately rejects all “isms,” the method of the master involves a (Zen?) “way of unlearning.”
25
Here again we see a parallel with Andō Shōeki’s radically “horizontal” perspective on liberation; i.e., one that rejects “authority” in any vertical form, relying rather on the “movement” of the individual within nature and community.
26
Ibid., p. 221.
27
Ibid., my emphasis.
28
Ibid., p. 222.
29
For an extended treatment of Critical Buddhism, see (Shields 2011).
30
Shirakaba, July 1911 (MSZ (1987–1991) 1: 428).
31
This is not to say that Karatani’s definition is equivalent to that of Schiller or Hegel, but rather that, like theirs, it looks to the original meaning of the Greek root aisthesis (aisthēsis), i.e., “perception.” See (Calichman 2005, p. 27).
32
According to Hardt and Negri, “altermodernity” marks conflict with modernity’s hierarchies as much as does antimodernity but orients the force of resistance more clearly towards an autonomous terrain” (Hardt and Negri 2009, p. 102). In an earlier work, Hardt and Negri developed a similar idea in the context of a discussion of the role of materialism in western thought: “[M]aterialism persisted through the development of modernity as an alternative … The vis viva of the materialist alternative to the domination of capitalist idealism and spiritualism was never completely extinguished” (Hardt and Negri 1994, p. 21). See also (Konishi 2013, pp. 3–4).