100 books like The Book of Yokai

I am generally not a big fan of hardcore academic theory, but this collection of essays edited by Jeffrey Jerome Cohen gave me a steady stream of "aha!" moments when I first read it about twenty years ago.

I struggled a bit with some of the jargon here, not to mention the fact that it only deals with monsters in the Western tradition, but I know of no better book for helping readers understand why humans create (and need) monsters, what roles monsters play in affirming (and undermining) social norms, and what the study of monsters can reveal about the anxieties and fault-lines in the cultures that spawn them. “Monsters are our children,” Cohen writes at one point: that still blows my mind after two decades of chewing on it.

Who cannot love a serious but accessible book that obsesses about things like Pokémon, the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers, and Tamagotchi (those annoying and addictive “digital pets” that were a millennial fad)?

Anne Allison’s volume was a real eye-opener for me on the place of monsters in youth culture, as a form of play, and how monsters have been commercialized and globalized over the past half century. It is incredible that, in the early twenty-first century, American kids were more likely to embrace Pikachu and Godzilla than the archetypal monsters of Western culture like Dracula and Frankenstein. Allison helped me understand why Japanese monsters are now conquering the globe.

Dinosaurs are the gateway drug to kaiju: most Godzilla fans began as kids fascinated by T-rexes and brontosauruses. I was blown away when I discovered W.J.T. Mitchell’s wonky, geeky, and wonderfully eccentric exploration of why we love dinosaurs, actual monsters (albeit prehistoric ones we can only experience today as skeletons in museums) rather than monsters conjured from our darkest imaginations.

Mitchell’s book is lots of fun to dip into, like a jarful of monstrous candy, but reveals in wonderful detail how dinosaurs (just like the creatures of folklore or fiction) are blank slates onto which a culture’s anxieties and aspirations can be inscribed.

I have never been that interested in cryptids, although few words bring a smile to my face as quickly as “Bigfoot” or “Yeti.”  I found Eric Cheezum’s Chessie a great read because it takes cryptids seriously, not (of course) as actual, yet-to-be-documented creatures, but as media manifestations of more profound cultural and social transformations, ruptures and yearnings.

Cheezum’s insight into cryptids impressed upon me that the folkloric creation of monsters occurred not just in some distant European past but even in Virginia retirement homes in the 1970s. The book also reminded me that monsters can be as “real” as one imagines. The next time I drive by the Chesapeake Bay, I’ll be looking for Chessie!

Shigeru Mizuki is the late, great god of alternative manga (or gekiga). Suffused with personal experience and reflections, his work by turns playfully and powerfully explores pre-war childhood, near-death war-time experiences, politics, and – most importantly – the world of Japanese yōkai monsters. Nononba tells the story of his childhood education by his grandmother into the world of supernatural Japan, leading the way to his great yōkai series GeGeGe Kitaro. A memoir of love and loss, childhood innocence and imagination, Nononba was, in turn, a great education for me. Funny, strange, tender, and wise. And in places it freaks you out too!

This is the first in a three-volume set which I regard as one book. All are a total joy as they offer the reader the chance to read stories mostly not previously available in English. Having read the available famous stories of yurei and yokai to death, I felt like a little kid at Christmas when presented with the whole set (actually at Christmas!). Because the stories were written in many styles from the 1700s to the 2000s, and cover the whole range of Japanese ghost stories, I got a genuine insight into how tales of the Japanese supernatural have developed through the centuries and how the past influences the present. It was also interesting to see how contemporary events, such as World War II, influenced the stories. Just writing this makes me want to dive back into the stories.

I came across Ugetsu Monogatari in a used bookshop at a time when I was voraciously reading everything I could lay my hands on about the Japanese supernatural. First published in 1776, it is rightly regarded as one of the most important collections of Japanese ghostly fiction. Ugetsu Monogatari gave me a greater and deeper insight into this fascinating world. Almost as Interesting as the book itself is the life story of the author. The son of a prostitute and an unknown father Ueda Akinari was born in a period when the Japanese were deeply interested in yokai and yurei. He himself was a firm believer in the supernatural. It is that belief and the influence of the period which makes this book such an essential read for anyone interested in the subject. It is a book that I often return to.

Whether a fan of anime and video games, or an admirer of ancient Noh drama and Kabuki dances, one can’t really know the heart of Japan without reading Lafcadio Hearn’s translations of ghostly tales, all contained in this amazing volume. There are demons and goblins that exist way-y-y beyond the average Westerner’s mind. There are legends that send chills up and down the spine, creatures without faces, a man who marries the love of his life only to lose her after just five years because she is really the soul of a tree… Enjoy these stories of the bewitched and karmically affected characters.

This book has a special place in my heart because the author was recommended to me by my son, also a confirmed fan of horror and the supernatural. Growing up in Japan, like most school children, he had read some of Edogawa Rampo’s many books of child detectives before graduating to his much darker adult stories of horror. While my son had read the original Japanese, at that time Japanese Tales of Mystery and Imagination was the only volume of English translations of Edogawa Rampo’s stories that I could find. It is, however, a masterly introduction to the dark, and at times perverse, world of the author. Whereas Edgar Allan Poe, from whom the writer Hirai Tarō derived the pen name, had fueled my teenage fancy for shadow-filled gothic tales, Edogawa Rampo made me view my adopted homeland with a more wary eye.

I first saw the film adaptation of Ring at a film festival in 1998 and was blown away by it. The English translation of the novel wasn’t published in the UK until 2004, but it was worth the wait. It’s difficult now that Sadako has become such a cliched and parodied character to appreciate the impact the character had. The book is much bigger in scope than the film, also providing the inspiration for the film Rasen. I slightly regretted not having read it before seeing the film so that I could have felt the impact Japanese readers must have felt. Ring was the first modern Japanese novel that I read. Reading it coincided with me getting to know Japan for real and was more of a point of reference than any guidebook. Long after I leave Japan, Ringu will remind me of the country I left behind.