(Toward the wind-down of the Second World War, an American flyer parachuted from his burning plane to land in an isolated village near Japan's Inland Sea. The villagers, devout Buddhists far removed from the hot arena of events and the Shinto/fascistic/industrial philosophies that had spawned the events, took in the broken pilot and nursed him. They kept him concealed and alive for several months, but eventually he died.There is the suggestion that this might be true, coming as it does in an interlude from the actual story. But there it is.
(Since Buddhists have reverence for all life, they also respect the proprieties of death. The villagers wished to award the dead foreigner his entitled burial, but the only funereal customs with which they were familiar were Buddhist, and those, of course, would have been inappropriate.
(Having packed the corpse in pond ice, they set out to make inquiries about Christian burial procedures, all very discreetly so as not to arouse the suspicion of the authorities. Their luck was small.
(At last, someone smuggled into the village a Japanese translation of an English language book that provided the information they sought. The book was called Finnegans Wake.
(Of you can picture those remote 1945 Japanese peasants earnestly trying to hold a drunken Irish wake, complicated by the experimental wordplay of James Joyce, you can picture the relationship between an author, his typewriter, and that reality to whose recreation he's obliged to apply the southpaw touch, even though he knows only too well the function Arabs and Hindus assign the left hand.)
posted by OmieWise at 12:28 PM on November 20, 2006