When Japanese audiences encountered Puccini’s “Madama Butterfly”—a sumptuous Italianate treatment of a geisha’s doomed love for an American naval officer—they found it implausible, insulting, and riotously funny. In 1925, two decades after the opera’s première, the Japan Times reported “screams of hearty laughter” as spectators took in the posturings of a touring foreign troupe. Puccini’s habit of citing popular Japanese songs did not help matters. As Arthur Groos points out in “Madama Butterfly/ Madamu Batafurai,” a new book about the opera’s Japanese sources and reception, the composer ignored advice about how to use his material appropriately. When Suzuki, Butterfly’s maid, prays at an alleged Buddhist shrine, she sings to the tune of “Takai Yama,” a song that extols cucumbers and eggplants. Furthermore, she garbles the names of Shinto gods, who don’t belong in a Buddhist setting to begin with. It’s similar, Groos writes, to “having a Catholic pray to Adam and Eve in front of a menorah.”
Diese Geschichte stammt aus der October 30, 2023-Ausgabe von The New Yorker.
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Diese Geschichte stammt aus der October 30, 2023-Ausgabe von The New Yorker.
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YULE RULES
“Christmas Eve in Miller’s Point.”
COLLISION COURSE
In Devika Rege’ first novel, India enters a troubling new era.
NEW CHAPTER
Is the twentieth-century novel a genre unto itself?
STUCK ON YOU
Pain and pleasure at a tattoo convention.
HEAVY SNOW HAN KANG
Kyungha-ya. That was the entirety of Inseon’s message: my name.
REPRISE
Reckoning with Donald Trump's return to power.
WHAT'S YOUR PARENTING-FAILURE STYLE?
Whether you’re horrifying your teen with nauseating sex-ed analogies or watching TikToks while your toddler eats a bagel from the subway floor, face it: you’re flailing in the vast chasm of your child’s relentless needs.
COLOR INSTINCT
Jadé Fadojutimi, a British painter, sees the world through a prism.
THE FAMILY PLAN
The pro-life movement’ new playbook.
President for Sale - A survey of today's political ads.
On a mid-October Sunday not long ago sun high, wind cool-I was in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, for a book festival, and I took a stroll. There were few people on the streets-like the population of a lot of capital cities, Harrisburg's swells on weekdays with lawyers and lobbyists and legislative staffers, and dwindles on the weekends. But, on the façades of small businesses and in the doorways of private homes, I could see evidence of political activity. Across from the sparkling Susquehanna River, there was a row of Democratic lawn signs: Malcolm Kenyatta for auditor general, Bob Casey for U.S. Senate, and, most important, in white letters atop a periwinkle not unlike that of the sky, Kamala Harris for President.
