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A review by fairchildone
Silence by Shūsaku Endō
4.0
This book was a slow burn. It didn't seem compelling, but it was an amazingly swift read, such that I may return to it again. Also, I didn't find particular depth in the first 80% of the book, but the last 20% was extremely rich and provided much more for meditation on faith, doubt, adaptation, and love. Well worth reading, especially given that you can finish in maybe 3 hours.
Favorite quotes (which contain spoilers):
P. 38 “As the water flowed over its forehead the baby wrinkled its face and yelled aloud. Its head was tiny; its eyes were narrow, this was already a peasant face that would in time come to resemble that of Mokichi and Ichizo. This child also would grow up like its parents and grandparents to eke out a miserable existence face to face with the black sea in this cramped and desolate land; it, too, would live like a beast, and like a beast it would die. But Christ did not die for the good and beautiful; the hard thing is to die for the miserable and corrupt--this is the realization that came home to me acutely at that time.”
P. 66 “How many missionaries had crossed over to this island on a tiny boat just as I had done? And yet how different were their circumstances from mine! When they came to Japan, fortune smiled gaily upon their every venture. Everywhere was safe for them; they found houses in which they could rest at ease and Christians who welcomed them with open arms. The feudal lords vied with one another to give them protection--not from any love of their faith but out of a desire for trade. And the missionaries did not fail to use this chance to extend their apostolic work. For some reason or other I called to mind the words of Valignano at Macao: ‘At one time we seriously discussed the question as to whether our religion habit should be made of silk or of cotton.’ As these words suddenly came into my mind, I looked out into the darkness and clasping my knees I laughed softly. Don’t misunderstand me. I have no intention of looking down on the missionaries of that time. The only thing is that it seems so ludicrous that this fellow, sitting in an insect-infested little ship, dressed in the peasant clothing of Mokichi from Tomogi--that this fellow should be a priest just like them.”
P. 128 “What he could not understand was the stillness of the courtyard, the voice of the cicadas, the whirling wings of the flies. A man had died. Yet the outside world went on as if nothing had happened. Could anything be more crazy? Was this martyrdom? Why are you silent? Here this one-eyed man has died--and for you. You ought to know. Why does this stillness continue? This noonday stillness. The sound of the flies--this crazy thing, this cruel business. And you avert your face as though indifferent. This . . . this I cannot bear. . . . On the day of my death, too, will the world go relentlessly on its way, indifferent just as now? After I am murdered, will the cicadas sing and the flies whirl their wings inducing sleep? Do I want to be as heroic as that? And yet, am I looking for the true, hidden martyrdom or just for a glorious death? Is it that I want to be honored, to be prayed to, to be called a saint? . . . This [speaking of Christ’s death] was the image of martyrdom he had long entertained; but the martyrdom of these peasants, enacted before his very eyes--how wretched it was, miserable like the huts they lived in, like the rags in which they were closed.”
P. 182-83 “‘Lord, since long, long ago, innumerable times I have thought of your face. Especially since coming to this country have I done so tens of times. When I was in hiding in the mountains of Tomogi; when I crossed over in the little ship; when I wandered in the mountains; when I lay in prison at night . . . Whenever I prayed your face appeared before me; when I was alone I thought of your face imparting a blessing; when I was captured your face as it appeared when you carried your cross gave me life. This face is deeply ingrained in my soul--the most beautiful, the most precious thing in the world has been living in my heart. And now with this foot I am going to trample on it.’
“The first rays of the dawn appear. The light shines on his long neck stretched out like a chicken and upon the bony shoulders. The priest grasps the fumie with both hands bringing it close to his eyes. He would like to press to his own face that face trampled on by so many feet. With saddened glance he stares intently at the man in the center of the fumie, worn down and hollow with the constant trampling. A tear is about to fall from his eye. ‘Ah,’ he says trembling, ‘the pain!’
“‘It is only a formality. What do formalities matter?’ The interpreter urges him on excitedly. ‘Only go through with the exterior form of trampling.’
“The priest raises his foot. In it he feels a dull, heavy pain. This is no mere formality. He will now trample on what he has considered the most beautiful thing in his life, on what he has believed most pure, on what is filled with the ideals and the dreams of man. How his foot aches! And then the Christ in bronze speaks to the priest: ‘Trample! Trample! I more than anyone know of the pain in your foot. Trample! It was to be trampled on by men that I was born into this world. It was to share men’s pain that I carried my cross.’
“The priest placed his foot on the fumie. Dawn broke. And far in the distance the cock crew.”
P. 186 “I fell. But, Lord, you alone know that I did not renounce my faith. The clergy will ask themselves why I fell. Was it because the torture of the pit was unendurable? Yes. I could not endure the moaning of those peasants suspended in the pit. As Ferreira spoke to me his tempting words, I thought that if I apostatized those miserable peasants would be saved. Yes, that was it. And yet, in the last analysis, I wonder if all this talk about love is not, after all, just an excuse to justify my own weakness.”
P. 188 “At the magistrate’s office he made a pretence of the utmost candor, but it was impossible to express in words his feelings toward Ferreira. Indeed, there was in his heart a complexity of emotions, such as reign in the hearts of two confronting men. Both of them felt hatred and contempt for one another. Yet for his part, if he hated Ferreira this was not because the man had led him to his fall (for this he felt no hatred and resentment) but because in Ferreira he could find his own deep wound just as it was. It was unbearable for him to see his own ugly face in the mirror that was Ferreira--Ferreira sitting in front of him, clad in the same Japanese clothes, using the same Japanese language, and like himself expelled from the Church.”
P. 189 “His feelings for Ferreira were not only of contempt and hatred; there was also a sense of pity, a common feeling of self-pity of two men who shared the same fate. Yes, they were just like two ugly twins, he suddenly reflected as once he looked at Ferreira’s back. They hated one another’s ugliness; they despised one another; but that’s what they were--two inseparable twins.
“When the work of the magistrate’s office was over, it was usually evening. The bats flitted across between the gateway and the trees; they flitted over the purple sky. The otona would wink knowingly at one another and depart to left and to right with these foreigners who had been entrusted to their care. As he walked away, he would furtively look back at Ferreira. Ferreira, too, would cast a glance back at him. Until next month they would not meet again. And when they did meet, neither would be able to plumb the depths of the other’s solitude.”
P. 203-04
“Lord I resented your silence.”
“I was not silent. I suffered beside you.”
“But you told Judas to go away: What thou dost do quickly. What happened to Judas?”
“I did not say that. Just as I told you to step on the plaque, so I told Judas to do what he was going to do. For Judas was in anguish as you are now.”
. . .
“‘There are neither the strong nor the weak. Can anyone say that the weak do not suffer more than the strong?’ The priest spoke rapidly, facing the entrance. ‘Since in this country there is now no one else to hear your confession, I will do it. . . . Say the prayers after confession. . . . Go in peace!’
“Kichijiro wept softly; then he left the house. The priest had administered that sacrament that only the priest can administer. No doubt his fellow priests would condemn his act as sacrilege; but even if he was betraying them, he was not betraying his Lord. He loved him now in a different way from before. Everything that had taken place until now had been necessary to bring him to this love. ‘Even now I am the last priest in this land. But Our Lord was not silent. Even if he had been silent, my life until this day would have spoken of him.’”
Favorite quotes (which contain spoilers):
P. 38 “As the water flowed over its forehead the baby wrinkled its face and yelled aloud. Its head was tiny; its eyes were narrow, this was already a peasant face that would in time come to resemble that of Mokichi and Ichizo. This child also would grow up like its parents and grandparents to eke out a miserable existence face to face with the black sea in this cramped and desolate land; it, too, would live like a beast, and like a beast it would die. But Christ did not die for the good and beautiful; the hard thing is to die for the miserable and corrupt--this is the realization that came home to me acutely at that time.”
P. 66 “How many missionaries had crossed over to this island on a tiny boat just as I had done? And yet how different were their circumstances from mine! When they came to Japan, fortune smiled gaily upon their every venture. Everywhere was safe for them; they found houses in which they could rest at ease and Christians who welcomed them with open arms. The feudal lords vied with one another to give them protection--not from any love of their faith but out of a desire for trade. And the missionaries did not fail to use this chance to extend their apostolic work. For some reason or other I called to mind the words of Valignano at Macao: ‘At one time we seriously discussed the question as to whether our religion habit should be made of silk or of cotton.’ As these words suddenly came into my mind, I looked out into the darkness and clasping my knees I laughed softly. Don’t misunderstand me. I have no intention of looking down on the missionaries of that time. The only thing is that it seems so ludicrous that this fellow, sitting in an insect-infested little ship, dressed in the peasant clothing of Mokichi from Tomogi--that this fellow should be a priest just like them.”
P. 128 “What he could not understand was the stillness of the courtyard, the voice of the cicadas, the whirling wings of the flies. A man had died. Yet the outside world went on as if nothing had happened. Could anything be more crazy? Was this martyrdom? Why are you silent? Here this one-eyed man has died--and for you. You ought to know. Why does this stillness continue? This noonday stillness. The sound of the flies--this crazy thing, this cruel business. And you avert your face as though indifferent. This . . . this I cannot bear. . . . On the day of my death, too, will the world go relentlessly on its way, indifferent just as now? After I am murdered, will the cicadas sing and the flies whirl their wings inducing sleep? Do I want to be as heroic as that? And yet, am I looking for the true, hidden martyrdom or just for a glorious death? Is it that I want to be honored, to be prayed to, to be called a saint? . . . This [speaking of Christ’s death] was the image of martyrdom he had long entertained; but the martyrdom of these peasants, enacted before his very eyes--how wretched it was, miserable like the huts they lived in, like the rags in which they were closed.”
P. 182-83 “‘Lord, since long, long ago, innumerable times I have thought of your face. Especially since coming to this country have I done so tens of times. When I was in hiding in the mountains of Tomogi; when I crossed over in the little ship; when I wandered in the mountains; when I lay in prison at night . . . Whenever I prayed your face appeared before me; when I was alone I thought of your face imparting a blessing; when I was captured your face as it appeared when you carried your cross gave me life. This face is deeply ingrained in my soul--the most beautiful, the most precious thing in the world has been living in my heart. And now with this foot I am going to trample on it.’
“The first rays of the dawn appear. The light shines on his long neck stretched out like a chicken and upon the bony shoulders. The priest grasps the fumie with both hands bringing it close to his eyes. He would like to press to his own face that face trampled on by so many feet. With saddened glance he stares intently at the man in the center of the fumie, worn down and hollow with the constant trampling. A tear is about to fall from his eye. ‘Ah,’ he says trembling, ‘the pain!’
“‘It is only a formality. What do formalities matter?’ The interpreter urges him on excitedly. ‘Only go through with the exterior form of trampling.’
“The priest raises his foot. In it he feels a dull, heavy pain. This is no mere formality. He will now trample on what he has considered the most beautiful thing in his life, on what he has believed most pure, on what is filled with the ideals and the dreams of man. How his foot aches! And then the Christ in bronze speaks to the priest: ‘Trample! Trample! I more than anyone know of the pain in your foot. Trample! It was to be trampled on by men that I was born into this world. It was to share men’s pain that I carried my cross.’
“The priest placed his foot on the fumie. Dawn broke. And far in the distance the cock crew.”
P. 186 “I fell. But, Lord, you alone know that I did not renounce my faith. The clergy will ask themselves why I fell. Was it because the torture of the pit was unendurable? Yes. I could not endure the moaning of those peasants suspended in the pit. As Ferreira spoke to me his tempting words, I thought that if I apostatized those miserable peasants would be saved. Yes, that was it. And yet, in the last analysis, I wonder if all this talk about love is not, after all, just an excuse to justify my own weakness.”
P. 188 “At the magistrate’s office he made a pretence of the utmost candor, but it was impossible to express in words his feelings toward Ferreira. Indeed, there was in his heart a complexity of emotions, such as reign in the hearts of two confronting men. Both of them felt hatred and contempt for one another. Yet for his part, if he hated Ferreira this was not because the man had led him to his fall (for this he felt no hatred and resentment) but because in Ferreira he could find his own deep wound just as it was. It was unbearable for him to see his own ugly face in the mirror that was Ferreira--Ferreira sitting in front of him, clad in the same Japanese clothes, using the same Japanese language, and like himself expelled from the Church.”
P. 189 “His feelings for Ferreira were not only of contempt and hatred; there was also a sense of pity, a common feeling of self-pity of two men who shared the same fate. Yes, they were just like two ugly twins, he suddenly reflected as once he looked at Ferreira’s back. They hated one another’s ugliness; they despised one another; but that’s what they were--two inseparable twins.
“When the work of the magistrate’s office was over, it was usually evening. The bats flitted across between the gateway and the trees; they flitted over the purple sky. The otona would wink knowingly at one another and depart to left and to right with these foreigners who had been entrusted to their care. As he walked away, he would furtively look back at Ferreira. Ferreira, too, would cast a glance back at him. Until next month they would not meet again. And when they did meet, neither would be able to plumb the depths of the other’s solitude.”
P. 203-04
“Lord I resented your silence.”
“I was not silent. I suffered beside you.”
“But you told Judas to go away: What thou dost do quickly. What happened to Judas?”
“I did not say that. Just as I told you to step on the plaque, so I told Judas to do what he was going to do. For Judas was in anguish as you are now.”
. . .
“‘There are neither the strong nor the weak. Can anyone say that the weak do not suffer more than the strong?’ The priest spoke rapidly, facing the entrance. ‘Since in this country there is now no one else to hear your confession, I will do it. . . . Say the prayers after confession. . . . Go in peace!’
“Kichijiro wept softly; then he left the house. The priest had administered that sacrament that only the priest can administer. No doubt his fellow priests would condemn his act as sacrilege; but even if he was betraying them, he was not betraying his Lord. He loved him now in a different way from before. Everything that had taken place until now had been necessary to bring him to this love. ‘Even now I am the last priest in this land. But Our Lord was not silent. Even if he had been silent, my life until this day would have spoken of him.’”