Winter has come and gone here in Tokyo, as fleeting as the frost columns depicted above. Here one morning, gone by noon. If Western philosophy since Plato looks toward the permanent and eternal (forms), the Japanese aesthetic revels in impermanence, evanescence, the fleeting (無情, mujou). Even in the Japanese attitude toward buildings (which in the West aspire toward eternal life) impermanence reigns: tear-downs are the norm, and maintenance often wanting. Everything here is seasonal, even the school uniforms.
Given this seasonal obsession, one might expect this to be Vivaldi country. “The Four Seasons” are loved here as everywhere, of course; but in Japan there’s a hint of melancholy even in the flower-filled Spring. For, we must remember, it is not the spring explosion of life that so obsessed the Japanese poets, but the fleeting nature of that peak beauty. This is also captured by the term ukiyo (浮世), which in referring to the famous “floating world” of pleasure-seeking bourgeois Edo, evokes its homophone, the buddhist concept of “sorrowful” (憂き世). The lovely cherry blossoms, which will arrive soon, are quintessentially appreciated not as sign of life’s reawakening, but rather the fleetingness of that brief exuberance. Glorious life comes quickly to an end. In the West’s own conceptual library, it’s what carpe diem might be if held always in contrast to momento mori.
Since January I’ve been listening my way through Bach’s church cantatas according to the church year, for both study and personal devotion. I’ve never done this systematically before, and one element jumped out right away: the centrality of death in all its frightening gore. We sweat cold sweats in our deathbed, tongue too dried out to speak (BWV 127); we stand with one foot in the grave (BWV 156); we feel the shovelfuls of earth landing atop our dead body (BWV 127); worms devour our corpse (BWV 161).
In a way that modern people find hard to access, insulated as we are from decay by medicine and morticians, Bach and his churchgoing public could not shy away from death. Bach himself buried half his children; funerals seem to have been such a steady supplement to his base salary that he complained one Winter that Leipzig’s unusually “good air” had drastically reduced his income. Preparing spiritually for death, arriving at one’s deathbed at peace, ready for the assaults of the devil: these are ubiquitous themes in Bach’s works.
The story of Christ’s crucifixion and resurrection is, of course, the dramatic center of Christianity. And faith is nothing if it cannot face inevitable death. Usually falling at the tail end of the cherry blossom season, performances of the Passions make a great deal of sense here, for the fleeting seasonality of Christ’s life plugs into existing categories. Resurrection hope is another matter. But one of the reasons for Bach’s popularity in Japan may be the frankness with which he treats death. It’s working hypothesis, anyway.
See also…
For a great introduction to the theme of death in Bach’s life and works, listen to the excellent interview with Emory professor Stephen A. Crist, “Death and J.S. Bach,” done by Carrie Allen Tipton of the Notes on Bach podcast (Nov. 9, 2016).