Introduction to Literary Analysis

How to Read (Nikkei Diaspora) Literature Like a Professor

Foster, Thomas C. How to read literature like a professor: A lively and entertaining guide to reading between the lines. New York: Quill, 2003.

Before we are able to dive deep into learning how to use literary criticism to analyse diaspora literature, we should begin by making sure that we can perform basic literary analysis. Thomas C. Foster's classic book How to Read Literature Like a Professor has given millions of people the keys to unlock a basic understanding of literary works. I recommend reading the original book in full, but below is a brief summary of the chapters from the shortened version "for kids" with examples taken from Nikkei diaspora literature and other works. 

The Introduction explores a play called A Raisin in the Sun, where a character called Mr. Lindner, who seems weak, is compared to the devil. He offers money to a black family, the Youngers, to stop them from moving into a white area. Initially, they say "no" because they think they have enough money. But when most of their money is stolen, Mr. Lindner's offer is tempting. The family's head, Walter Lee, nearly accepts the deal, which would mean giving up his self-respect. He nearly loses his 'soul' to Mr. Lindner but decides against it and keeps his pride.

Reading literature is like learning a language with its own grammar, patterns, and rules. Just like music or sports, understanding these comes with practice. Readers often get caught up in the emotions of a story, but professors look for patterns and ask deeper questions. This way of reading makes books more interesting and fun.

Chapter 1: Every Trip is a Quest (Except When It's Not) 

In stories, especially in diaspora literature, what might appear as a straightforward event, such as a character from a diaspora community going to buy groceries, can actually be an intricate 'quest'. A quest is an adventure where a character, who we call the 'quester', heads somewhere for a reason and faces hurdles. For example, in "A Day in Little Tokyo", the young girl's walk around Little Tokyo could symbolise a quest. She confronts difficulties, crosses paths with new people, and thinks deeply about her place in the world. The true aim of her quest isn't just to walk around Little Tokyo but to understand her identity as a person of Japanese descent living in America.

In these narratives, the actual reason for a quest is often more profound. It's not solely about accomplishing a task, like finding a lost heirloom or reuniting with family, but about what the character learns about themselves and their culture. The character gains insight into their heritage and personal growth. Not every trip in a story is a grand quest, but when a character sets out on a journey, even for something mundane, it's worth examining for a hidden significance. That's the key to grasping what these tales are really about. Once students embrace this concept, reading becomes more engaging because they begin to discover quests and lessons in a variety of diaspora narratives.

Chapter 2: Nice to Eat With You: Acts of Communion 

In stories, a meal is often more than just eating. It's a sign that characters are friends or becoming friends, called communion. Communion is when people eat together and feel like they belong to the same group. It's not just found in one religion; many faiths have shared meals as part of their traditions.

In books, sharing food can show that characters like each other or are making peace. If characters eat together, it's usually because they get on well. If they don't, it could mean there's a problem. Authors only write about meals if it's important for the story, like showing if characters are friends.

Take Hiromi Goto’s Chorus of Mushrooms as an example. Meals play a critical role in illustrating the cultural and generational tensions within a Canadian Nikkei family. The act of preparing and consuming traditional Japanese dishes becomes a site of both conflict and connection, as characters navigate their relationships with their heritage and each other. The sharing of food reflects the characters' struggles and their efforts to bridge the gaps between their inherited traditions and their present realities in Canada. Such scenes of communal eating in diaspora literature often reveal deeper layers of character dynamics and the intricate dance of assimilation and cultural preservation.

If characters don't eat together or a meal goes wrong, it can be a sign of trouble. So when reading, if characters share a meal, think about what that might mean for their relationships. It's not just about the food but also about what it represents.

Chapter 3: Nice to Eat You: Acts of Vampires

When we read stories and see characters sharing a meal, it's not just about food. It often means something deeper, like forming a bond or community. This is especially true in diaspora literature, where meals can represent the blending of cultures or the longing for home. On the other hand, when a story includes a creature like a vampire, the act of eating takes on a darker meaning. It's no longer about friendship or community, but about power and control. In literary analysis, we look beyond the surface to see what these actions say about the characters or the themes of the story. 

For example, if a character in a Nikkei diaspora novel felt like their identity was being consumed by another culture, it could be depicted through a vampire-like figure, symbolising the loss of culture. By paying attention to these metaphors, we can gain deeper insights into what the author is trying to convey about the diaspora experience.

Chapter 4: If it's a Square, It's a Sonnet

In literature, when we explore what kind of poem we are looking at, more often than not, it's a sonnet. This kind of poem is easy to recognise because it's shaped like a square, with fourteen lines and usually ten syllables per line. At first, you should simply enjoy reading the poem without thinking too much about its form.

However, once you've enjoyed it, it's beneficial to understand how the poem's structure contributes to its magic. For instance, Roy Miki, a poet of Japanese descent in Canada, crafts his poetry with a similar attention to form. His works might not be traditional sonnets, but they often have a precise structure that enhances their meaning, much like a sonnet's division into an eight-line section and a six-line section. Miki's poems resonate with the experience of the Canadian Nikkei diaspora, using the poem's form to deepen the impact of his themes of identity and displacement.

Chapter 5: Now Where Have I Seen Him Before

In the study of literature, recognising familiar elements in new writings is akin to spotting shapes in a cloud—repetition and themes echo through different works. The practice of reading sharpens this skill, as patterns emerge over time. For instance, Minae Mizumura's A True Novel, winner of Japan's prestigious Yomiuri Literature Prize, is a remaking of Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights set in postwar Japan. Also, take Julie Otsuka's When the Emperor Was Divine, which traces a Japanese American family's experience during World War II incarceration. Their story, while unique, shares a narrative thread with Joy Kogawa's Obasan, where a similar backdrop but in Canada is used to explore the impact of displacement and identity. Similarly, works such as Chorus of Mushrooms may not only share narrative echoes with literature from the past but even attempt retellings of them. 

The pleasure of reading is enhanced when we discover these narrative echoes. It's as though each book is in silent conversation with those that came before it, making our reading journey more textured. A story can stand alone on its merits, certainly, but recognising intertextual connections can elevate our comprehension and appreciation. Just as one learns to find mushrooms hidden in the woods, readers develop the acumen to find these literary links, enriching their exploration of texts, particularly within the Nikkei diaspora literature, unveiling the shared human experiences beneath the veneer of unique storylines.

Chapter 6: When in Doubt, It's from Shakespeare

When you look at books, you often see ideas from old stories pop up again. Take a look at any book from the last few years, and you might find bits that remind you of Shakespeare, the famous playwright. He's like a star that keeps showing up in different ways. For example, in films, we've seen Shakespeare's plays turned into new stories with modern twists. Some writers have taken his characters and given them whole new adventures.

Think about stories from writers with Japanese roots. They also take old ideas and make them new for us today. Julie Otsuka's book When the Emperor Was Divine talks about a family from Japan living in America during World War II. It feels a bit like Joy Kogawa's Obasan, which also looks at Japanese people's lives in Canada after the war. Both stories are new, but they share a common thread – they talk about the tough times Japanese families faced and how they tried to keep their identities.

Why do writers use old stories like Shakespeare's? It's not just to sound clever. They use them because these stories have great characters and sayings that stick in our minds. And when we, as readers, see these familiar bits in new books, we understand the stories better. We feel like we're part of the story too, because we already know some of what's going on. This is especially important to capture readers who might not otherwise know (or be sympathetic to) the Nikkei experience. 

Chapter 7: ...Or the Bible

The Bible's stories are often used in literature. For example, many famous books and movies, like East of Eden starring James Dean, take their names and stories from the Bible. East of Eden means a world that's not perfect, which suits a James Dean movie. Other writers like John Milton wrote poems like Paradise Lost that are all about Bible stories. Even in stories that aren't obviously religious, like The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis, there are hidden meanings linked to the Bible. Lewis's story has a lion named Aslan who is like Jesus because he sacrifices himself for others and comes back to life. 

When you read a story, you might find characters who are a lot like Jesus, even if they're not exactly the same. They might do kind things, help children, or share food, just like Jesus did. Ernest Hemingway's book The Old Man and the Sea has a main character, Santiago, who is a lot like Jesus too. He's an old fisherman who struggles and suffers but never gives up, which gives hope to those around him. Writers create these "Christ figures" to add deeper meaning to their stories, to talk about sacrifice, hope, or miracles. It's a way to connect with readers on a different level.

In addition to biblical themes, literature from the Nikkei diaspora often incorporates elements from Japan's cultural and religious traditions, such as Shinto and Buddhism. These stories can deeply reflect the experiences of those who have left Japan and settled elsewhere, exploring themes of identity, belonging, and the interplay between the past and the present. For example, in Julie Otsuka's When the Emperor Was Divine, the narrative explore the impact of World War II on a Japanese-American family, weaving in aspects of their traditional beliefs from Japan "when the emperor was divine" and the stark contrast to their new reality. Similarly, works by authors like Kazuo Ishiguro often touch on memories and the haunting quality of nostalgia, a sentiment that resonates with the Buddhist concept of impermanence. By incorporating these religious and cultural elements, Nikkei diaspora literature creates a rich tapestry that connects readers to the spiritual and historical dimensions of Japanese identity as it evolves beyond Japan in new environments.

Chapter 8: Hanseldee and Greteldum

All literature has roots in earlier works. For instance, in Chorus of Mushrooms by Hiromi Goto, the author draws from the collective narrative of Japanese heritage while presenting a unique story. Goto doesn't just rehash old tales; she crafts a fresh narrative that still echoes with the familiar. Similar to how Burnett reimagined Cinderella in A Little Princess, Goto repurposes elements of Japanese folklore and family sagas to explore the lives of three generations of women in Canada. The story doesn’t need the whole folklore to be effective – sometimes, a single, evocative detail from tradition is enough to bring the entire cultural context to the reader's mind.

These references make the novel relatable, allowing readers to connect with the story through shared cultural memories. Just as Burnett distilled the essence of Cinderella for her novel, Goto uses fragments of Japanese folktales such as Issun Boshi to give depth and familiarity to her work. When we encounter new literature, these threads of the past are what make the stories resonate with us, providing a harmony that blends the new with the old. Thus, when you dive into a novel like Chorus of Mushrooms, you're engaging with a tapestry woven from both modern threads and those of time-honoured tales from Japan.

Chapter 9: It's Greek to Me

When we talk about myths, we mean the stories that define our culture. Myths are not just old tales; they are important stories that help us understand ourselves. They're not about facts, like in science or maths, but about our values and beliefs. Every culture has its myths. In Europe, we often think of ancient Greece and Rome. Greek myths are still around, influencing names of places and even modern stories, like Percy Jackson's adventures where Greek gods are real, or Harry Potter with creatures like the three-headed dog from Greek legends. These myths are part of us. The story of Icarus, for example, isn't just an old myth; it tells us about risks, dreams, and the dangers of not listening to wisdom. Artists and poets have been inspired by such myths for centuries, showing how these ancient stories still affect us.

Myths from other cultures are important too. Like in Nikkei diaspora literature, where authors use stories from their heritage to talk about identity and belonging. These stories help us see the world in new ways. They're not just old tales; they're vital parts of who we are and how we think. Every time a writer uses a myth in a story, it connects us to these deep, old tales, making our own stories richer and more powerful. 

Chapter 10: It's More Than Just Rain or Snow or Springtime

Weather in stories is more than just rain or sunshine - it has a deeper meaning. For example, rain isn't just rain; it can change the story by forcing characters to take cover, or it can show a feeling like mystery or sadness. Rain can wash someone clean, or symbolise a fresh start, like in the story of Noah from the Bible. Weather like fog can mean confusion, as seen in Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol. Similarly, snow can be used in many ways by authors, not just for its coldness. Weather isn't just thrown into a story; it's there for a reason.

Even the seasons are symbolic in literature. Writers use them to represent stages of life or feelings, like youth in spring or old age in winter. Shakespeare's "Sonnet 73", for instance, uses the autumn season to talk about growing old. In literature, the meaning of seasons is a common concept, and authors play with this idea in their work. They might use the typical associations we have with seasons or flip them to surprise us. So, when reading, it's good to notice the weather and seasons because they're important to the story's deeper meaning.

In Nikkei diaspora literature, the environment often reflects the characters' inner journeys or the displacement they feel. For example, in Julie Otsuka's When the Emperor Was Divine, the dust and heat of the Utah desert where the Japanese-American family is interned during World War II mirror the desolation and the burning sense of injustice they experience. Similarly, in Minae Mizumura's A True Novel, the misty, serene landscapes of Japan contrast with the bustling, often disorienting life in New York, symbolising the protagonist’s struggle between two worlds and identities. These authors use weather and seasons as metaphors to express the complexities of identity, belonging, and change that characterise the experiences of the Nikkei diaspora. Just as in other literatures, the subtle use of natural elements in Nikkei diaspora stories deepens the narrative and connects the personal with the universal. 

Chapter 11: Is That a Symbol?

If you think something in a book is a symbol, it probably is. Symbols can mean different things, and they don't just stick to one interpretation. For example, in Kazuo Ishiguro's Klara and the Sun, the sun can be seen as a symbol. It could represent life and energy, as Klara, the Artificial Friend, believes it has special powers to heal and help people. Or, it might symbolise hope or the search for meaning in a world where technology has changed how we live and connect with each other. Just like the Mississippi in Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, the sun in Ishiguro’s novel is not limited to a single meaning. Each reader might see the sun differently based on their own thoughts and life experiences. When you read, what you feel a symbol like the sun represents becomes a personal part of the story's meaning to you.

Chapter 12: It's All Political

Stories often carry a political edge, and this is no less true for Nikkei diaspora literature. Consider, for example, Joy Kogawa's Obasan, which isn't just a tale of a Canadian Nikkei family told through the eyes of a young girl during and just after World War II; it's a critique of the incarceration policy and the prejudice that allowed it to happen. The story sheds light on the loss of identity and the struggle against unjust power—themes deeply political in nature. Kogawa's later novel, Itsuka, is much more overtly political in its depiction of the young girl from Obasan who is now an adult involved in the struggle for redress. In Kazuo Ishiguro’s Klara and the Sun, the political undertones are subtle yet impactful. Ishiguro uses the character of Klara, an Artificial Friend, to explore the class divide and the ethics of artificial intelligence, raising questions about the politics of technology and society’s future. 

Political narratives in literature aren't always straightforward. They often reflect on human conditions, societal norms, rights, and the dynamics of power. In the realm of Nikkei diaspora literature, the politics might revolve around themes of displacement, identity, and cultural heritage. Whether it's through the portrayal of incarceration in Kogawa's work or the futuristic society in Ishiguro's, the political dimensions are woven into the very fabric of these stories, challenging readers to look beyond the surface into the deeper implications of our shared history and potential future.

Chapter 13: Geography Matters

Think about when you plan a holiday – the first thing you want to know is 'where', right? This 'where' can make a big difference. It's just like that in books. The place where a story happens can tell us a lot. In Chorus of Mushrooms by Hiromi Goto, the setting is the Albertan prairie in Canada, a vast and open land that feels very different from Japan. The characters, Japanese immigrants, find themselves in this place that is so unlike their homeland. The wide, open spaces of the prairie and the cold, sometimes harsh climate are a stark contrast to the crowded, island nation of Japan with its humid summers and monsoon seasons. This new geography of Alberta shapes the characters’ lives in unexpected ways, influencing how they see the world and themselves. The contrast between the prairie and Japan highlights their feelings of being outsiders and the struggle to find a place where they belong. The setting isn't just a background; it's a key part of their story, affecting everything from their daily lives to their inner thoughts. It shows us that the places in stories aren't just there for no reason—they help us understand the characters and what they're going through.

Interlude

When you read, you notice certain patterns in stories. There's a concept that all stories are essentially one big story, which writers tap into. While each story has its unique details, like Harry Potter being about a young wizard, they all relate to being human. Every writer knows they can't be entirely unique; there's always something similar before. But this isn't bad. For example, when a story reminds us of older tales, it feels richer. Like in Nikkei diaspora literature, where tales of a new land can remind us of older stories about leaving home. This familiarity connects us to the story more. This idea is called “intertextuality”, meaning all stories are linked. Another term is “archetype”, which means original patterns in stories. These patterns, like quests or sacrifices, are always being reused because they resonate with us. Even if we don’t know the first-ever quest story, these patterns feel familiar. Writers keep using them, making stories feel connected. Everyone, from readers to writers, shares this connection because we're all part of this one big story.

Chapter 14: Marked for Greatness

In stories, when someone looks different, like having a scar or a limp, it often stands for something special about them. In real life, a scar means nothing about the person's heart, but in books, it usually does. For example, in diaspora stories about people moving from Japan to other places, if someone has a mark or wound, it might show how they are not just physically but also emotionally connected to their old and new homes. This mark tells us a lot about their life story. Take Oedipus from Greek stories; he was named for his hurt feet. These feet proved who he was and the sad things he did. Same with Harry Potter, his scar was from a bad man who hurt his family. These marks make them who they are. Sometimes in books, characters who look scary on the outside are actually good inside. This is what Victor Hugo did with Quasimodo in his book The Hunchback of Notre-Dame. He looks terrifying but is really kind. So, in books, if someone has a physical mark, it's probably there for a reason to show us something important about them or the story.

In diaspora literature, being physically different often symbolises a deeper sense of being 'other' or not fitting in. For instance, in Masako Fukui's novella When Blossoms Fall, the young Japanese protagonist observes that her appearance is unlike that of her Australian classmates. She notes the color of her hair, and the hue of her skin – subtle distinctions, yet enough to set her apart. It doesn't require a deformity to feel 'othered'; even these small differences can create a sense of separation or uniqueness. These characteristics don't have to be negative; they can also be a source of identity and pride. However, they are markers, much like scars in other stories, that signal a character's journey between cultures and the personal evolution that comes from living between the homeland and the host country.

Chapter 15: He's Blind for a Reason, You Know

The story of Oedipus is about man who can't see his own truth. He's respected, smart, and strong, but he's also quick to anger and unknowingly guilty of terrible crimes. He pledges to find the criminal, not realising he's looking for himself. Then an expert is called to help. This man sees the truth that the main character can't: that he's committed the worst crimes without knowing it. When Oedipus finally does see the horrible truth, he punishes himself through blindness. 

In stories, when a character is blind, it's not just about not being able to see with their eyes. Authors use blindness to show different kinds of understanding or lack of it. For example, in The Cay by Theodore Taylor, a young white boy, Phillip, becomes blind and has to rely on Timothy, an elderly black man he's been taught not to like. Phillip's blindness forces him to see Timothy's true character, moving beyond his taught racism. Back to our first man, Oedipus, who eventually blinds himself when he learns the truth about his crimes. Later in life, he gains a new wisdom that he didn't have before, even becoming a favourite of the gods. Blindness in stories is often more than it seems, making us look deeper into what characters, and maybe even we, can't see.

Chapter 16: It's Never Just Heart Disease...and Rarely Just Illness

When people in stories fall ill, there's often more to it than just the sickness. Heart disease, for example, can represent more than just a medical issue—it can symbolise love and emotion because the heart is traditionally thought of as the source of feelings. In literature, illnesses like heart disease can reflect a character's love life, their loneliness, or other personal struggles. 

Take Beth March in Little Women; she catches scarlet fever, which weakens her heart and eventually leads to her death. Her illness and death are not just about her; they say something about her sisters and the world's harsh realities. In the same way, diseases in books often carry deeper meanings. For example, tuberculosis was used as a symbol for wasted life in the 19th century, because it made sufferers look fragile and saintly, even though the disease was deadly. 

Illnesses in stories can mirror what's happening in characters' hearts and lives. Sometimes characters think they're ill, like Colin in The Secret Garden, but their sickness is more about their emotional state than their physical health. When a character gets sick or dies, it's not random—it reveals something important about them or their world.

In Kazuo Ishiguro's novel Klara and the Sun, we find another poignant example of illness in literature with the character of Josie. Josie's sickness is not merely a plot device but a catalyst for exploring complex themes such as artificial intelligence, love, and what it means to be human. Josie's frailty and her relationship with Klara, an artificial friend designed to provide companionship, raise questions about the role of technology in our lives and the nature of the soul. Her illness affects not just her own life, but also deeply impacts her family and Klara, revealing the interconnectedness of relationships and the fragility of human existence. The way Josie's condition is portrayed invites us to consider the societal implications of health and the emotional bonds that define us, reminding us that in literature, a character's sickness can be a profound window into the heart of the human condition.

Chapter 17: Don't Read with Your Eyes

We should endeavour to understand literature in its historical context. For instance, in The Secret Garden, the character Mary lives a carefree life, unlike her maid Martha, who accepts her hard life without complaint. The book, written by Frances Hodgson Burnett at a time when social class divisions were accepted as the norm, is not about class struggle, but about personal transformation through friendship and caring for a garden. Similarly, when reading Homer's The Iliad, we should try to see it through the eyes of the ancient Greeks, who didn't share our views on violence and slavery. It's okay to disagree with these outdated values, but to fully grasp the story's meaning, we need to read it within the context of the time it was written, acknowledging that what we find unacceptable was once considered normal. This approach allows us to appreciate the broader lessons in these stories.

In No-No Boy by John Okada, we are presented with the internal struggles of Ichiro Yamada, a Japanese American who faces discrimination and an identity crisis post-World War II. Okada's novel, set against the backdrop of a painful period in American history, explores the theme of loyalty. Ichiro, having refused to serve in the U.S. military during the war, is labelled a "No-No Boy" — a term used for Japanese Americans who answered 'no' to two critical loyalty questions on a government questionnaire. Upon his return from prison, Ichiro grapples with his choices and the community's disdain. He embodies the confusion and search for identity that many Japanese Americans felt, torn between two cultures and unwelcome in both. Okada doesn't shy away from the complex emotions of his characters, showing how their decisions during the war continue to haunt them. The novel challenges readers to understand the historical context of these characters' lives — their actions and feelings rooted in a specific, tumultuous era — rather than judge them by today's standards. This example underlines the importance of considering the time and societal norms when analysing literary works.

Chapter 18: Is He Serious? And Other Ironies

Irony occurs when something doesn't go as we expect in a story. For instance, in Waiting for Godot by Samuel Beckett, two characters wait on a road they never travel. This is unexpected and makes us think about their choices. Another example is in The Graveyard Book by Neil Gaiman. Normally, graveyards are seen as scary, but in this story, the graveyard is a safe place. This surprises the reader. Irony makes stories richer and more interesting. It challenges our usual thinking and makes us see things in a new way. To understand irony, readers need to pay close attention to the story and think about what the writer is trying to say.

In The Buddha in the Attic by Julie Otsuka, we find a different form of irony woven into the experiences of the Japanese "picture brides" who come to America with high hopes and expectations. They've been shown pictures and told stories of prosperous husbands and comfortable lives awaiting them in the United States, only to arrive and discover that the reality is far from what was promised. They are met with hard labor, poor living conditions, and husbands who are often strangers to the images and descriptions they fell in love with.

The irony in Otsuka's narrative lies in the stark contrast between the dreams these women are sold and the lives they are forced to live. They embark on their journeys filled with optimism, which is gradually chipped away by the hardships they encounter. Their idealised visions of America as a land of opportunity and their husbands as gallant suitors are dashed, replaced by a relentless struggle for survival and acceptance in a country that will soon regard them as the enemy during World War II. This ironic twist in their fate underscores the disillusionment that many immigrants face and challenges the myth of the American Dream that fails to hold true for everyone.

From Literary Analysis to Literary Criticism

In the realm of literary studies, literary analysis serves as the foundational approach through which we dissect and understand the intrinsic elements of a narrative, such as plot, character, and thematic content. Literary criticism, however, represents a more advanced scholarly pursuit, wherein one applies an array of interpretive theories—be it feminist, Marxist, or psychoanalytic—to excavate deeper meanings and assess a text's relevance within larger societal and cultural frameworks. For those transitioning from literary analysis to criticism, it is crucial to achieve a robust understanding of these theoretical lenses. This knowledge not only facilitates a more nuanced engagement with literature but also enables readers to contribute meaningfully to the ongoing critical conversation that shapes our understanding of literary art's role and function in the world.