Memoirs of a Geisha by Arthur Golden
You see, when a geisha wakes up in the morning she is just like any other woman. Her face may be greasy from sleep, and her breath unpleasant. It may be true that she wears a startling hairstyle even as she struggles to open her eyes; but in every other respect she's a woman like any other, and not a geisha at all. Only when she sits before her mirror to apply her makeup with care does she become a geisha. And I don't mean that this is when she begins to look like one. This is when she begins to think like one too.
The story of the geisha Nitta Sayuri is a colorful one--from her dreary childhood in a gray fishing village to the black years when she is sold into virtual slavery and tortured by an unscrupulous geisha to her pink blossoming under a kind mentor and finally to the vibrant reds and golds of her own career.
Indeed, Golden makes constructive use of color through almost vertigo-inducing descriptions of everything from kimonos to makeup to the landscape to tell Sayuri's story of friendship, revenge and, most importantly, destiny.
Destiny isn't always like a party at the end of the evening. Sometimes it's nothing more than struggling through life from day to day.And Sayuri definitely has to struggle to determine her destiny. When she is not yet 10 years old, her grieving, hopeless father sells her and her sister into a life of indentured servitude. She mourns her stolen childhood but comes to the realization that she has to embrace her new life in order to survive in this twisted sorority.
I thought Sayuri was a lovely name, but it felt strange not to be known as Chiyo any longer...It was as if the little girl named Chiyo, running barefoot from the pond to her tipsy house, no longer existed. I felt that this new girl, Sayuri, with her gleaming white face and her red lips, had destroyed her.For a flicker of a moment I imagined a world completely different from the one I'd always known, a world in which I was treated with fairness, even kindness--a world in which fathers didn't sell their daughters.She not only survives, but she also learns to succeed as a geisha--even throughout a national depression and World War II. These events could easily steal the scene, but the novel remains Sayuri's story and is stronger for it.
Adversity is like a strong wind. I don't mean just that it holds us back from places we might otherwise go. It also tears away from us all but the things that cannot be torn, so that afterward we see ourselves as we really are, and not merely as we might like to be.Sayuri continues through this adversity and through success to seek her destiny, even though she is never sure if she will obtain it. It was fascinating to read her thoughts and agonize with her over decisions.
The novel was told from Sayuri's point of view and even given an introduction by a fictional translator. This, compared with the richness of her emotions and the historical detail, made it difficult to believe it wasn't completely true.
You'll lose yourself in Sayuri's story. But it's worth the loss.
Favorite quotes...I think all she wanted was a yes or no answer. Probably it didn't matter to her what our destination was--so long as someone knew what was happening. But, of course, I didn't.It says a great deal about how civilized we human beings are, that a young girl can willingly sit and allow a grown man to comb wax through her hair without doing anything more than whimpering quietly to herself. If you tried such a thing with a dog, it would bite you so much you'd be able to see through your hands.The air wafting from the dank little tunnel of the steps felt as cool as water, so that it seemed to me I was entering a different world altogether. I heard a swishing sound that reminded me of the tide washing the beach, but it turned out to be a man with his back to us, sweeping water from the top step with a broom whose bristles were the color of chocolate.It goes without saying that men can be as distinct from each other as shrubs that bloom in different times of the year.Grief is a most peculiar thing; we're so helpless in the face of it. It's like a window that will simply open of its own accord. The room grows cold, and we can do nothing but shiver. But it opens a little less each time, and a little less; and one day we wonder what has become of it.Hopes are like hair ornaments. Girls want to wear too many of them. When they become old women they look silly wearing even one.He was a small man; but keep in mind that a stick of dynamite is small too.Now I know that our world is no more permanent than a wave rising on the ocean. Whatever our struggles and triumphs, however we may suffer them, all too soon they bleed into a wash, just like watery ink on paper.