I’m interested in the narrator’s separation of self. This keeps coming up. Separation of his physical self and mental self in the opening pages. Separation from his heart when he must go to bed without his mother’s goodnight kiss. Separation from his consciousness when viewing something beautiful. Separation of himself from reality while reading. He even speaks of trying to transcend his soul. How much more separation can you get?

I find this particularly interesting because in my training with traditional Japanese martial arts there is an emphasis on what we call coordination of mind, body, and spirit. Through our martial practice we strive to bring our whole self together and in the moment (another thing the narrator rarely does). Even the Japanese word for heart (kokoro/shin) speaks to this unity. It is used interchangeably to also mean mind. And within older Japanese culture, the heart and mind were seen as being located near the navel, literally within the physical center of a person. To leave your thoughts to wander in your head puts you physically off-balance.

So this concept of mind/body/spirit coordination found in traditional Japanese arts comes from the culture of Japan at the time these arts developed. I wonder then if the narrator’s quest to separate all parts of himself comes from the culture of France at the time. Is this an expression of feelings of alienation? What is to be gained by splitting oneself into so many pieces?