The Lady and the Monk: Four Seasons in Kyoto

Subtitled "Four Seasons in Kyoto", this 1992 book by the British travel writer, Pico Iyer, is more than just a book about a place. Mr. Iyer spent a year in Kyoto to learn about Zen as well as Japan. Along the way he met a very special woman, Sachiko, and learned more about the essence of being Japanese than he ever expected. I was particularly interested in this book because I have a wonderful Japanese daughter-in-law and have been to Japan myself. I remember the few days we spent in Kyoto with fond recollections and smiled at the author's vivid descriptions. I also found myself nodding in agreement at some of the discoveries he made about Sachiko and her way of thinking as I, too, have had my eyes opened in similar ways.
Mr. Iyer has the ability to paint a complex portrait in words. I found myself sharing his discoveries, from his experiences in the temples to the very modern music clubs. The center of the book, however, is Sachiko. She's 30 years old, the mother of two children and married to a Japanese businessman who spends 18 or more hours a day at work. She speaks English with difficulty but has read a lot of classic literature and is also an aficionado of a wide variety of pop music icons. In spite of her traditional upbringing, she yearns for a larger life, beyond the confines of her home.
Mr. Iyer becomes her friend and they do a lot of sightseeing together. She's free all day and so is he, which makes their friendship easy. Some of the most interesting scenes are when he tries to speak Japanese and she tries to speak English and misunderstandings follow, both because of the language itself and also because of different ways of thinking.
I'm a romantic and fully expected their relationship to blossom into an intimate one, but Mr. Iyer is so evasive that even though they do become very close, he avoids those kinds of topics. Instead, he focuses on what he perceives to be her feelings and his growing understanding of her. It seems a little strange to me that only in the later part of the book did he drop a gentle hint that their relationship was a bit more than that of just friends. But even then, I never was sure.
This is a great travelogue. I not only learned a lot but also recognized things I have come to understand about the Japanese character. There are long sections about literature, both Japanese and Western, which I found to be boring. And the relationship between Iyer and Sachiko left me annoyed. But for a unique picture of Kyoto and a deeper understanding of the cross-cultural differences between Japanese and Westerners, I do give it a definite recommendation.

I have two responses to this well-written travel narrative. First, I greatly enjoyed Iyer's observations and thoughts about contemporary Japan. Even though the book was published in 1991, much of it still seems accurate to me, someone who has traveled to Japan three times. Iyer, is a very good travel writer, one who is neither acerbic in the manner of, say, Paul Theroux, nor prone to the gauzy romanticism one sometimes encounters in western responses to Japan (like Cathy Davidson's "Thirty-six Views of Mount Fuji"). He is alert to subtleties of culture and behavior that most travelers would never notice. So that's what I liked about "The Lady and the Monk."

On the other hand, the account of his relationship with Sachiko, the Japanese woman who longs to break free from her constrained life by cultivating relationships with foreigners, does not wear as well over the almost two decades that divide his experiences from the present. It seems dated and (since it is interwoven throughout the text) ultimately a little tiresome. Iyer's decision to render Sachiko's awkward English as he heard it (as opposed to conveying what she was saying in standard English) works at first, but eventually has the effect of making her seem much less thoughtful than she probably was. Iyer's graceful prose and Sachiko's stumbles as she tries to express herself in English are set side by side, even though he probably, to her ear, sounded even worse in Japanese. This flaw makes it hard to see their relationship as one of equals; there is a teacher-student quality to their conversations that becomes irksome. (I think it is this rendering of language inequality that makes some readers see Iyer as condescending, even though I don't think he means to be.) Do read this book for its many good parts, which almost make up for too much Sachiko.

The title of this book is a bit misleading. Yes, Pico Iyer does live in a monastery for a few days but his main emphasis is an exploration of Kyoto, one of the holiest cities in Japan.
The title comes from a Buddhist story about a beautiful woman who tempted a monk, much as Buddha was tempted by an evil god as he sat under the Bodhi tree searching for enlightenment.
Pico is an essayist for Time magazine and he is far more interested in the somewhat schizophrenic nature of the Japanese people than he is in Buddhism. His main subject is a housewife named Sachiko who is married to a Japanese "salary man," who works from six in the morning until eleven at night. His family life is an afterthought. Sachiko loves everything foreign from the Beatles to Mickey Mouse. She calls Pico a "bird" because he is free to wander all over the globe while she is a slave to her husband and two young children.
According to Iyer, Japan is close to a utopian society and Kyoto is the cleanest city he's ever seen. Sachiko is a fascinating character. When she introduces Pico to her children she apologizes for their misbehavior although they are much more well-behaved than western children Pico has known.
Pico and Sachiko's relationship is perplexing at first. She hints that she might want something more than a platonic relationship. He's wise enough to know that it's the dream of a romance, the romance she's seen in the movies, that she's after.
There are some wonderful moments in THE LADY AND THE MONK: Sachiko's mangled English with the occasional Japanese word thrown in and the lack of articles; Iyer's description of cherry blossom time; the albino monk Pico meets when he stays at the temple; the Hanchu Tigers last game of the year when Randy Bass, their American homerun hitter, bows to the fans fifteen times. The fans are just as enthusiastic as they would be if this were a World Series team and not a team thirty-some games out of first.
The main emphasis of the book, though, is Sachiko's story arc; we see her beginning to grow away from her salaryman husband, we see her trying to make her dreams become a reality, despite the censure of her mother and friends. We get the impression that the more Japanese women are exposed to the West the more Sachikos there will be.

Any reviewer can find something wrong with a book, if s/he tries hard enough. And many have been quick to do so here. I suppose I could as well (e.g., by picking on Iyer for not going into the implications of the faux-Utopian society Japan has created). But I have absolutely no desire to do so. The book is so beautifully and deftly written, the romance so touching and piquant without falling into bathos, that it would, to me be similar to picking at the lovely haikus interspersed herein, stylistically complementing the lyrical writing.

Yes, as one reviewer has pointed out, it is more memoir than what is called "Travel Literature"-though the boundaries between the two have always seemed blurry to me at best.

This book will be enjoyed most by lovers of poetry, lyrical poetry - such as that of Yeats and Shelley, than by readers of the "hard-boiled" school of travel writing epitomized in V.S. Naipaul's works. If you believe that poetry is the deepest sort of writing, that one can get to "know" a society or people better through a Romantic relationship with a member of that society than by doing a Sociological study of it, if your dream life is as important to you as waking life, in short, if you have a poetic nature: This is the book for you!

"Everyone falls in love with what he cannot begin to understand."--Or, as Pico finds out, thinks he cannot, but through patience and love finds that he can...begin.

PS-Pico and Sachiko are still together, according to wikipedia at any event.

This beautiful book sold me on both Iyer and Japan. In this thoughtful volume, Iyer details his perplexing and wonderful experiences as he attempted to understand another culture. The process is not so easy! But I love Iyer's narrative. He set out to Japan to clear his head, to think, to be alone. Then reality hit, and his year turned into something completely different.

People who chose to study or live abroad are either quite brave or quite naive. Their experiences can send them to heights of pleasure and back to their own drawing boards. Iyer's frank explanation of both successes and failures in his new culture make this book a special treasure. I was enthralled while reading every page.

Although I had already been to Japan when I found this book, now I can't wait to return, not to mimic Iyer's adventure, which would be impossible, but to appreciate even more of his observations and difficulties.

There is no doubt that Pico Iyer is a masterful writer: his descriptions of Kyoto and Japan are breathtakingly gorgeous. He does have a tendency to ramble at times, but the passages that are good are worth slogging through the ones that drag.

However, there are parts of this book that do not seem plausible. Never once does he get frustrated by the language barrier or long for a cheeseburger. (I lived in Japan for three years and can attest its only natural to feel homesick or lonely.) He spends his year in Japan in perfect harmony with everything around him, has no troubles with the shabby guesthouse he lives in or the woman that (he admits) uses him to fulfill her warped idea of romance. He is guilty of his own criticism of how the Japanese seem so innocent, so willing to look at the bright side all of the time.

Furthermore his relationship with "Sachiko" seems almost unbelievable. (PS - why does he even bother to change the name when he dedicated the book to Hiroko on the first page?) How does this Eton, Oxford, and Harvard-educated world traveller (who loves dropping names about all the great authors he reads) manage to fall in love with a woman who hardly speaks his language and who's never been outside of Kyoto? He goes on and on about all the deep conversations they had, when really I don't see how it's possible. He paints Sachiko like the kind of girl people go to Japan for all the time: always agreeing, never arguing, always dressing up and buying presents. He looks down on all the guys who come to Japan to find a girl and yet never admits he did the same thing. Furthermore, their relationship is so painfully selfish and childish that I can't help but hate the guy at times; he talks about his "great" romance but never discusses the subsequent divorce, financial difficulty, toll on the children, etc. As far as I remember, he only played with the kids a handful of times, instead stealing away with his "lady" at all hours of the night. I'm asking myself the whole time I read this book, "Who's watching the children?!" I'm sure these two love each other and all (as they are still living together. Are they married?) but I just think his recollection of their relationship is a bit too melodramatic, too "magical" to be believed. It's too innocent, too, by Iyer's definition, "Japanese".

As a work of fiction this book is stunning, but as a memoir, I feel it's a bit too farfetched. But regardless his prose really is a work of art.

Save your money by not purchasing this book.
Iyer strikes me as one of the most conceited writers I've ever come across, and I usually have a thick skin to that sort of thing.
His florid writing and puffery frequently turned me off as I waded into this book.
I'm an enthusiastic reader about Japan, and I've lived there and I can say that Iyer is writing for the folks back home (who may never visit Japan) and not reporting it straight. If you want a fancy-pants fairy tale, buy this book.
I'd even rate Dave Barry's book about Japan as better quality journalism.
If you want to read some first-rate books from an author who traveled in Japan and wrote about during roughly the same time, I wholeheartedly recommend Alan Booth.
His books, _The Roads to Sata_ and _Looking for the Lost_ have a well deserved place on my bookshelf.
Buy those instead.

I was fortunate enough to visit Kyoto for a week during a three-month internship in Japan two years ago and instantly fell in love with the city. The harmony between the ancient and the modern in Kyoto and Japan in general is both astounding and captivating, and it was with great sadness that I had to tear myself away and head back to my job.
After returning to America, I bought this book and read it twice, without putting it down, it so brought me back to Kyoto and Japan. I've not read any of Iyer's other books, but this one was excellent. He conveys a definite emotion in his writing, and one that is quite suited to discussion of Japan I think. A sort of tragic interpretation of the events he experienced, which fits in very well with the Japanese psyche, where the greatest heros are the ones who come to tragic ends.
The reviews here which note that Iyer paints with too broad a brush, so to speak, I feel are unfounded. I don't think it was ever meant to be an encompassing guide to Japan or any sort of critique of its dichotomy-filled society, though he does note with care all of them he encounters. Instead, it is simply one man's experience in Japan, take it or leave it. Sachiko is a real person he met, with real problems, and she went about solving them in a real way. I know Japanese women in similar situations, so to say they either don't exist is silly.
I don't want to say too much about what happens, so I'll just finish by saying that I personally found this book very moving. I miss Japan a lot and I hope I can go back soon. Five stars easily.

I found msyelf somewhat interested in the story-line, but the ill feeling in my stomach took away most of the enjoyment. Iyer does not hesitate to pass judgement on just about EVERYONE in this sad, boastful book. He attempts to elevate himself by making semi-obscure literary references and speaking above the majority of his readership by using Japanese words and not adequately explaining all of them, as well as frequently referring to how much Zen literature he was reading, which is particularly ironic due to the fact that someone who truely understands Zen does not look down on everyone (or anyone, in fact) he meets. He also uses metaphors and similes that are overly complicated and often do not make sense, apparently constructed to show his great literary prowess. The overall impression I've derived from this book is that of a conceited individual walking around laughing to himself about everything and everyone he sees at the same time he professes his great love for it all. Please.
That having been said, if you want to read a book with some insight on Kyoto and Japan, although it is somewhat inaccurate in places, and can handle the above-mentioned writing style, then by all means read the book. In my opinion, however, you'd be doing yourself a favor by reading something else.

I just finished reading "The Lady and the Monk" for the second time. While I enjoyed the book, especially the accounts of his romance with Sachiko, I do agree to some of the criticisms leveled by reviewers her.

First, there are parts that get really tedious, sometimes redundant. Sometimes I end up skimming pages because he goes into some long rant about a Zen poet or about the way Japanese are.

Secondly, it kind of bothers me that he can pretend to know the "way the Japanese are" by knowing one Japanese lady very deeply, and knowing a handful of Japanese acquaintances on a surface level. I wish he had made the effort to befriend more Japanese people - he spends most of his time either with Sachiko or with other foreigners. He talked to one Japanese businessman the whole time, and the only reason for that was because the businessman was trying to recruit him to come to his Zen retreat. Because of these facts, I tend to distrust that he can truly pretend to understand how the Japanese are, as he seems to overgeneralize about the Japanese by stretching the experiences of a few people, mostly foreigners, over the whole country.

For a "travel book" he does not do a lot of travelling, even within Kyoto, it seems. In fact, he never seems to wonder very far from one section of town. It should more accurately be categorized as a memoir, not a travel book - just because it is set in a foreign country does not necessarily make it travel literature. In fact, the book has trouble finding a center - once the romance with Sachiko evolves, the Zen and cultural soulseeking almost become distractions - sometimes I would find myself skipping parts that I felt were extraneous so I could continue the story of their romance.

Regarding Iyer's attitude, I definitely feel that the condescension others have noted is present, mainly in the perpetual referencing of how well read and well educated he is, and how surprised he was that he could actually hold intellegent conversations about things that interest him with the "average" people of Japan. Although I have read many of the books and heard most of the music he constantly talks about, I felt like there was an unfair expectation that the reader can always follow whatever books or ideas he's talking about. Naturally, many won't be able to - perhaps he was pushing the reader to be more literarily knowledgeable or perhaps he didn't even think about this fact, but at times it comes off as condescension.

I can relate to Iyer's criticism of many of the "gaijin" (foreigners) however - although I don't know if that too is an overgeneralization (I'm going to live in Japan in the fall, so I'll find out). What distinguishes Iyer's approach (at least, literarily) to women and Sachiko from many of the other foreign men in his book is that Iyer does not expect to be treated like a god and does not seem desperate to find a Japanese girlfriend (his relationship with Sachiko develops over time). It does seem incredibly pathetic that lonely, lost foreigners go there, desperately seeking either an exotic Japanese woman or an exotic foray into Buddhism. Iyer's accounts of Southeast Asia in "Video Night in Kathmandu" demonstrate the same there. While Iyer himself sometimes lapses into exoticism, he successfully avoids falling into the out-and-out crudeness of other foreigners (according to his account).

These criticisms aside, if you take the book for what it is - a story of a romance across cultural and linguistic barriers (with sometimes distracting, sometimes enlightening forays into Japanese religion and arts), it's enjoyable, at times touching and definitely memorable. One reviewer noted that in helping Sachiko break free from her cultural bindings, Iyer assisted in the collapse of her family and, thus, the shunning of her by the Japanese. I definitely sympathize with Sachiko's husband, and Iyer seems to, as well (although there is a mention of "another woman" at one point). The problem was that Sachiko felt constrained and was never able to live her dreams, even before taking on the duties as wife and mother. If Iyer had not come along, perhaps she never would have, and, while the children certainly seem like they have the most to lose by this decision, realistically Iyer probably would make a better dad that her Japanese husband, as he actually would be around to see them and spend time with them sometimes. I heard that Iyer and Sachiko are still together, but I have been unable to confirm it. I would be interested in finding out what happened afterwards. All in all, I enjoyed it, but pay attention when you read it to some of the assumptions he makes.