Completed January 2022
MEMOIRS OF
A GEISHA
"Beauty exists only in struggle," claimed Marinetti, and my god, was Memoirs of a Geisha a struggle for me. I wasn't expecting conflicting opinions on reading this book... branded a literary sensation, it's on many a bucket list reading shelf and I can see why. It's unlike anything else, totally immersive and striking in its poetry. And yet, and yet.
Let's begin with exploring an aspect of the novel I loved – immediately, that was Chiyo. She was a deeply sympathetic protagonist I felt a connection with from the start. This wasn't surprising as a young girl thrown into unfortunate circumstances is hard not to root for, but she was so much more than that. Intuitive, perceptive, and often so strong, yet at the same time possessing a naivety that made her acutely vulnerable. It's testament to the characterisation that I knew plenty of what her future had in store yet found myself desperate for her to avoid it.
About a quarter of the way into the story Chiyo makes one of her only big decisions of the novel: to run away from the okiya and pursue a new life with her sister. Although this attempt quite quickly fails, I felt a shift in her personality from this point – she loses some of the spirit that drove her through the start of the story. Understandable, of course, and perhaps even for the best as she fades into the background in order to survive.
As the plot progresses, major changes arrive for Chiyo, most notably the mentorship of a legendary geisha and with it a new moniker – the apprentice name Sayuri. This development leads to one of my other favourite parts of the book, the deliciously complex tangle of scandals, betrayals and drama that enshrouds their district. Sayuri's mentor Mameha is sharp, strategic and at times cut-throat, taking whatever means necessary to further her own goals and in tandem, Sayuri's.
This ambition was the real driver of the plot. Despite obstacles, Memeha and Sayuri's fortunes soon grow beyond their wildest dreams. By all means, they are successful as it's possible for geisha to be. And yet, they aren't happy. At no point does Sayuri seem to tangibly benefit from her accomplishments – she at times expresses gratitude for surface-level comforts, but never appears to find joy or true satisfaction. Memeha takes this a step further, often lamenting to her apprentice the futility of it all.
Until this point, Sayuri's adulthood had been abscent of meaning making. Her only real motivation seemed to be winning the heart of a powerful man who showed kindness to her once as a child – hardly a worthwhile goal. For this reason I was hoping that something would break her from this monotony, and towards the last third of the book this arrived in the outbreak of war.
Straight away, all of the geisha's efforts appeared to be vanquished. The skills they'd developed suddenly useless, they found themselves at the mercy of their most high-standing connections. Sayuri narrowly escapes a life of factory work, instead escaping to a remote farm with friends of a businessman enamoured with her (despite her lack of interest in him).
This complete disruption of geisha society provided Sayuri with what, as a reader, I was desperate for her to find – time for reflection. I was sure that now, with distance, she would be able to realise what little happiness her life as a geisha had brought her. How those around her were only interested in either her beauty, or how easy she was to manipulate for their own ends. How utterly futile it was to pine after a man twenty years her senior, who may have pitied her once but otherwise showed no admirable traits. Surely, she would rediscover the spirit she possessed as a child, and try once again to escape this insidious culture, and live life on her own terms.
And yet, and yet. I couldn't have been more wrong. If anything, during this time she felt even further from her younger self – showing less introspection and even more fixation on the Chairman. Not long after the war, she made what felt like her first autonomous decision since attempting to flee all those years ago... an honestly gross act of manipulation, designed to disgust the man who'd protected her, and to free her to seduce the object of her desire.
Even though her plan failed, in a roundabout way she eventually got what she wanted. This was the most difficult part of the novel for me, as I felt my frustration rise with every passing page. How could she believe this was what would bring her contentment? And why was it being portrayed as a heartfelt, romantic decision when it was clear that it was nothing of the sort?
The final few chapters were a struggle, and I finished the book feeling deflated. I had so much hope for Sayuri, and it honestly hurt to see her fate intertwined with the embodiment of the patriarchy that had controlled and abused her.
For a while I resented the ending. But now, on reflection, I'm torn whether my cynicism is fair. Sure, the story isn't as rewarding as it could be to myself as a reader, but does this make the book any less impressive? Was it a conscious choice by the author to show how decades of oppression had crushed Sayuri's autonomy? Was the romantic tone delivered ironically, to highlight how her reclaiming her destiny in any other way would be unrealistic?
I'm not sure. But I still wanted so much more for her.
“The heart dies a slow death, shedding each hope like leaves until one day there are none. No hopes. Nothing remains.”
“Whatever our struggles and triumphs, however we may suffer them, all too soon they bleed into a wash, just like watery ink on paper.”