Memoirs of a Geisha

I rather enjoyed this book, although it began to drag severely towards the end. Astonishingly thorough in its research, I feel sure it’s the novel Arthur Golden was born to write, and as far as I know, the sophisticated evocation of early twentieth-century Japan is accurate in every detail – and seeing as Golden interviewed several real Geisha, I see no reason to doubt the veracity of the story. Whatever the challenges of its conception, it’s absolutely believable as a memoir, and Chiyo/Sayuri is not only a good narrator, but has a highly individual personality and ‘speaking’ style; she loves to use imagery every two or three sentences, and describes the people around her chiefly in terms of their habits or idiosyncrasies, which makes the prose an absolute pleasure to read – really delightful stuff, with almost every simile, every metaphor spot-on. It’s this sparkling style that makes the book interesting, because the story is a little long-winded, dull and contrived. Also, because Chiyo sees other people in such a flat way, it’s hard to make any real connection with them. I’d be surprised if Spielberg made a classic film from the story, because it really thrives on its rich language, and few films can be classics on sumptuous visuals (the celluloid equivalent) alone.

Japan is meticulously evoked, with a persuasive familiarity: it is exotic and bewildering to me, but mundane to Chiyo. Gion certainly wasn’t very exciting when we visited, but to one whose life revolves around the area, it becomes a whole miniature world – and a prison, too. Chiyo is endearingly naïve, her childishness likeable, her attempts at manipulation and coercion mostly backfiring to teach her a lesson, and while the ending is pure tripe, I certainly did feel for her as she grew up, struggling to fit in, despite being used as a pawn in two senior geishas’ rivalry. Culturally, it was fascinating – I think my reading experience was complemented by my knowledge of Japan, but I also think that I found the whole thing much more chilling than many would. More than anything, I was reminded of Pretty Baby, the movie in which a 12-year-old Brooke Shields plays a young prostitute whose virginity, like Chiyo’s, is sold to the highest bidder. But where Pretty Baby has grime, romanticised but useless struggling artists and a familial bond, Geisha has beauty, formality, high-society and a horrible parody of a family in Mother, Auntie and Granny. Geisha were high-class prostitutes, after all, and I find it disturbing for a girl to think so little of her body and her virginity – while at the same time accepting the reality of the portrait. Pretty Baby is perhaps sadder, more disturbing, more offensive to our sensibilities, but Geisha is more chilling in its absolute (rather Eastern) acceptance of the way life must be, and the importance of meekness.

I think the novel would have been much improved had the final 200 or so pages been cut or heavily condensed, since the soap operatics, the over-convenient coincidences and reunions, and the rather unlikely devotion to one man idealised in childhood, only add unnecessary and ugly brushstrokes to an otherwise beautiful and simple watercolour.