Japan and its own de-Westernization: Emmanuel Ruben

For Christoph.

The topographic lightning strike

Emmanuel Ruben's writings reveal a picture of Japan that transcends the usual clichés of cherry blossoms and neon lights. It is the vision of a geographer who not only travels through the country but interprets it as a "fractal archipelago" and a "trembling geography" where aesthetics, history, and topography are inextricably intertwined.

Even the approach to the archipelago from the air becomes an initiatory moment. The author describes Japan as a "cloud-spewing dragon," a gigantic, pulsating being, on whose scaly green back the plane lands. This first "topographical lightning strike" sets the tone for his entire perception: for him, Japan is not a static landmass, but a rugged, constantly eluding structure of mountains, islands, and inlets. He sees the country as a "fine tip" of the littoral, as an earth that frays and disintegrates into endless fragments.

This fragmentation corresponds to his geographical concept of "surinsularity"—Japan is not simply one island, but an immeasurable collection of over 14.000 islands, whose exact number is constantly changing due to tectonic movements and new volcanic eruptions. For Emmanuel, Japan is the realm of the fractal, where the form of the whole is repeated in the smallest detail. This image of infinity within limitation shapes his fascination with the "demon of miniaturization," which he sees in Japanese art, rock gardens, and even video games. SimCity or The Legend of Zelda finds.

While historical French Japonism was often an academic or purely aesthetic phenomenon, Emmanuel describes his encounter with Japan as a blend of globalized pop culture (Nintendo, Super Mario, Judo) and classical inspiration. He sees himself as the heir to a “sentimental and geographical upbringing” shaped by video games and manga, and refers to Japan as the “Zyntarie,” an imaginary homeland of his childhood.

A central point of his reflection is the connection between Japanese printmaking and European comic culture. He draws a direct line from Hokusai's woodblock prints to the "ligne claire" (clear line) of Belgian comic artists like Edgar P. Jacobs. For Emmanuel, the view of Japan is already filtered through this art; he describes the contours of the clouds as they approach the archipelago as just as schematic as in a Hokusai work. He travels to Japan to test whether the colors and forms he admired in the comics and prints of his youth—the deep green of the vegetation or the blue of the sea—actually exist in reality.

The author also explicitly engages with the legacy of the 19th century, yet distances himself from its purely theoretical nature. He mentions Edmond de Goncourt and the "zenith of Parisian Japonism," but emphasizes that he himself is a 21st-century author grappling with the "ruins of history." While classical Japonism was often a "geography of the cabinet" (study from afar), Emmanuel seeks a "geography of the plain-pied," which he explores physically through cycling and hiking. He wants to possess the land not merely as an aesthetic object, but to physically experience his role as an arpenteur (surveyor) in the tradition of Ino Tadataka.

His reflections are particularly evident in his engagement with the works of Claude Monet. Visiting the "Nymphéas" (Water Lilies) in an underground museum in Naoshima, he experiences it as a moment of return: the Impressionist masterpieces, once deeply inspired by the Japanese understanding of light and nature, are returning to their "true home." Emmanuel describes how the absence of smartphones and cameras in the museum compels visitors to look "for real" and to immerse themselves completely in the color—an experience that captures the essence of the Japonist yearning for aesthetic contemplation.

Ultimately, Emmanuel uses Japonism as a tool for a “permanent de-Westernization.” He reflects on the Japanese tendency toward the extreme stylization of nature—from Mount Fuji as a “mountain style” to the ginkgo leaf as a “leaf style”—and adopts this eye for detail, which he describes as “infra-ordinary.” His image of Japan is thus a conscious synthesis of nostalgic pop culture and a profound reflection on form, using the “clear line” of art to bring order to the often chaotic, Americanized reality of modern Japan.

Stylization of the world

One of the central themes in Emmanuel's view of Japan is the total aestheticization of reality. For him, "everything in Japan is drawing." His eye is trained by the color woodblock prints of Hokusai and Hiroshige, whose "clear line" he seeks and finds in the Japanese landscape. Nature often appears to him like an artificially created stylistic object: the mountain becomes the "mountain style," the cryptomeria the "tree style," and the ginkgo leaf the "leaf style." Even the weather, like the fog, takes on geometric, stylized forms for him, reminiscent of the cloud banks in ukiyo-e prints.

This perception leads to a kind of "geographical ecstasy" that compels him to experience the country with a pen in his hand. Since photography is strictly forbidden in many temples and gardens, drawing becomes the only way to preserve fleeting impressions. He describes how drawing helps him to truly understand the things he saw too quickly the day before—for example, when he reinterprets the furrows in the white gravel of a Zen garden as miniature volcanoes or oceans. Japan makes the viewer "shortsighted," drawing attention to the "infra-ordinary," to tiny details of everyday life that, in their perfection, unfold a poetry all their own.

Emmanuel Ruben describes Japan as a country whose urban structure is surprisingly Americanized, a phenomenon he attributes primarily to the consequences of the seven-year occupation following World War II. Outside of carefully preserved historical enclaves like Gion, he encounters an often "disordered" cityscape lacking any aesthetic cohesion, its sprawling urban landscape reminiscent of American suburbs and standing in stark contrast to the stylized purity of Zen gardens. This ultramodernity manifests itself in the vertical glass facades of Tokyo or the Osaka skyline, which for him constitute a "city-world" in which the individual becomes almost invisible, gliding silently through labyrinthine metro systems. Yet he does not perceive this modern frenzy as aggressive; rather, he admires the social peace and the absence of noise in these technologically advanced spaces.

For the author, Japanese ultramodernity also finds expression in the "infra-ordinary," the highly technological details of everyday life, such as heated, high-tech toilets, which he celebrates as part of an almost ritualistic perfection. In terms of transportation, this progress is exemplified by the Shinkansen, whose speed and aerodynamic design he compares to a Concorde, and which places the traveler in a state of constant vibration. Finally, it is modern satellite technology that completes the historical work of cartographer Ino Tadataka by digitally mapping the countless islands of the archipelago, constantly shifting due to tectonic activity. Thus, in Emmanuel's eyes, Japan remains a land where the digital and the fractal merge to describe a geography that, despite all its technological fixation, never truly comes to a standstill.

Kyoto: A moss-covered graveyard of the gods

Kyoto occupies a special place in Emmanuel Rubens' text, becoming the stage for an existential transformation. He describes the ancient capital as a "wooden Angkor Wat," a city more than a millennium old, haunted by the "silence of the gods." His image of Kyoto is characterized by a profound spiritual weight; he explicitly compares the city to Jerusalem, as he feels the oppressive weight of the sacred and the ghosts of the past in a way that almost leaves him breathless. The city appears to him like a "great, moss-covered cemetery," where the spirit of the ancestors is present in every stone lantern and every sotoba wooden plaque swaying in the wind on the graves. For him, these narrow memorial plaques symbolize the Japanese aesthetic of the intertwining of mineral stability and vegetative fragility.

At the same time, Kyoto offers him a radical experience of "de-Westernization" and inner peace. He revels in the profound harmony and social tranquility, manifested primarily in the absence of noise—no honking cars, no shouting, and no litter. Instead, he is enveloped by an extreme politeness that invites the traveler to forget their own ego and "dilute" themselves in their surroundings. The city thus becomes a place of permanent meditation, where the concept of "mono no aware," the awareness of the bittersweet transience of all things, becomes tangible in every nuance of the autumnal maple leaf coloration. Particularly on the Philosophy Trail or in the solitary temples of Yoshida, he experiences small "geographical ecstasies" and states of awakening triggered by attention to detail.

Nevertheless, a persistent feeling of exclusion lingers: the imperial gardens and palaces, such as the Gosho or Nijo-jo Castle, appear inaccessible and hermetically sealed off; Emmanuel describes them as a scene from a Noh play, which one can observe as a spectator but never truly penetrate. The emperor remains invisible, and the visitor is firmly bound to the surface along marked paths, never reaching the core. This distance is further intensified by the ubiquitous bans on photography in important Zen gardens like the Daisen-in, which, as already indicated, forces the author to painstakingly capture the fleeting beauty in his notebook, in order to at least mentally absorb it. Kyoto thus remains for him a city of sharp contrasts: a modern, Americanized grid of concrete in the center, which on the slopes of the Higashiyama mountains transitions into a mystical world of moss, light and ancient wooden buildings, where time seems to stand still under the "weight of the sacred".

The “tatamized” childhood and the pop cultural legacy

Emmanuel Ruben, born in 1980, describes himself as part of the first generation of French people who grew up completely "Tatamized." His image of Japan is therefore not primarily academic, but deeply rooted in the globalized pop culture of the 80s and 90s, which he characterizes as "psychedelic and outrageous." His initial encounter with the archipelago took place at the age of six on a green judo mat. There, wearing a white kimono, he learned his first words in the "language of the samurai"—terms such as... rei, matte or ippon seoi nage, which instilled in him a sense of inner discipline that he has retained to this day in his life as a writer. Later came the Nintendo consoles: in 1990 he held the first white Game Boy in his hands, and the small, mustachioed Mario strangely reminded him of his own father. Virtual worlds in games like SimCity, Street Fighter or The Legend of Zelda These experiences formed the foundation of a "sentimental and geographical upbringing" that, for decades, transformed Japan into an "imaginary homeland" for him. This place of longing, which he metaphorically calls "Zyntaria," served as a necessary escape from the burdensome European reality, particularly in light of the wars in Ukraine, Syria, and the Middle East. He sought in the East a form of "permanent de-Westernization" in order to escape the "dialectic of inside and outside."

This biographical background, however, leads to a constant, often fraught confrontation between the imagined Japan of his childhood and his actual experience on the ground. To his astonishment, Emmanuel finds that of all the countries he has lived in, contemporary Japan most closely resembles the United States. He attributes this surprising Americanization to the seven-year occupation, which left indelible marks on society. As soon as one leaves the protected historical districts like Gion, one encounters an urban panorama that often appears "inachevé" (incomplete): a disorderly cityscape lacking any aesthetic cohesion, whose sprawling character is reminiscent of American suburbs and stands in stark contrast to the meticulously composed purity of Zen gardens. But Emmanuel does not linger in this disappointment; instead, he discovers a unique poetry even within this technologically advanced modernity. He celebrates the "infra-ordinary"—the small, inconspicuous details of everyday life—such as high-tech toilets with their heated seats and musical accompaniment. He understands these elements not as mere curiosities, but as components of an almost ritualistic, "perfect" routine that—very much in the spirit of Wim Wenders' film— perfect days – offering him small geographical ecstasies and moments of inner awakening every day. Japan thus becomes for him a place where the nostalgia of his 8-bit childhood blends with the radical aesthetics of the present to create a new, vibrant feeling of life.

The Invention of Japan Through the Map: Ino Tadataka

A key pillar of Emmanuel Ruben's image of Japan is the legendary figure of the cartographer Ino Tadataka (1745–1818). For the author, this "autodidact in geography" is the "true inventor of Japan," as he gave the country its "true face" for the first time through his decades of physical surveying—the face by which we still know the archipelago today. Before Ino's work, depictions of Japan, particularly in Europe, were often fantastical or incomplete; Hokkaido (Ezo), for example, was frequently omitted entirely or portrayed as an undefined mass. Ino, a former sake brewer who only became a geographer at the age of fifty, spent 17 years walking over 40 million paces—equivalent to the circumference of the Earth—along the country's coastlines to map every bay and cape with "quasi-satellite precision."

Emmanuel sees a parallel between his own work as a writer and that of this "hero of the compasses": both attempt to capture the unfathomable nature of a landscape in lines and symbols. He describes himself as a "little surveyor" with a bicycle and GPS, following the "great surveyor" Ino to experience geography not just from the drawing board, but "at eye level" (de plain-pied). For him, writing, just like cartography, is an act of "wrapping" the land, an attempt to make the fractal complexity of coastlines comprehensible through the "clear line" of drawing and text.

In Emmanuel's reflection, Ino's maps become a "skin of paper" that simultaneously protects and reveals the land. He admires the unique combination of scientific precision and aesthetic mastery in these works: while coastlines are drawn from a bird's-eye view, mountains are often depicted in profile, from the perspective of a hiker on the ground. He is particularly fascinated by the "fine red band," Ino's trademark, which marks the marked trail and, like a blood-red thread, outlines the silhouette of the archipelago. For the author, these maps are not merely technical documents, but "true artistic marvels" that reflect the national passion for form and presentation.

This image of the "map as territory," however, leads Emmanuel to the realization that real Japan will always remain more interesting and mysterious than any representation, however perfect. He explicitly understands the archipelago as a "trembling, living geography," constantly in motion due to tectonic forces, earthquakes, and volcanic eruptions. Since the country proverbially rests on a giant, restless catfish (Namazu), its shape can never be definitively fixed; for example, volcanic activity suddenly creates new islands, rendering every map immediately "incomplete." Ultimately, for Emmanuel, literature—like Ino's work—remains a process that strives for the infinity of the world but can never fully grasp it, since the territory, in its constant metamorphosis, always remains one step ahead of human comprehension.

Contrasts: The Japan of the Middle and the Japan of the Reversal

In his writings, Emmanuel Ruben develops a fascinating geographical typology, distinguishing between the "Japon de l'endroit" (the sunny front side on the Pacific coast) and the "Japon de l'envers" (the rugged back side on the Sea of ​​Japan). For him, the "Japon de l'endroit" is particularly evident in the Seto Inland Sea, which he praises as a luminous "Nippon Mediterranean" or even the Japanese "Mare Nostrum." On islands like Shodoshima, he finds an exceptional microclimate where olive trees have thrived for over a century, an aesthetic that reminds him of the landscapes of Provence. This light-filled, almost Arcadian world contrasts sharply with the "Japon de l'envers"—a region often plagued by dark clouds and Siberian winds.

In this view, Hokkaido represents the ultimate "freeze of Japan," a subarctic world that geographically seems to lie somewhere between Siberia, Alaska, and Iceland. In the rugged, untouched nature of the north, for example in Noboribetsu, he encounters the "Vallée des Enfers" (Valley of Hells), where sulfurous springs boil beneath the snow, filling the air with a pungent odor. Here, he locates a deep, archaic layer of the archipelago: a primal animism and shamanism prevail where the earth trembles and steams beneath one's feet, something Emmanuel closely links to the history of the oppressed indigenous Ainu people.

This geographical duality is directly reflected in the human topography of society. With a keen eye for detail, Emmanuel observes the frail, often right-angled bodies of the "mémés" (grandmothers), who for him embody "eternal Japan." Their deformation is a silent testament to decades of hard labor, often performed on their knees on traditional tatami mats. He contrasts this image of vulnerability with the smooth, flawless faces of the children and the immaculate elegance of the "salarymen," who represent modern, heavily Americanized Japan.

While the ancient capital Kyoto or places like Nara strike him as a spectral, moss-covered "Angkor Vat made of wood," where the weight of the sacred is almost oppressive, modern metropolises like Osaka vibrate with a "joyful hectic" and an almost futuristic, neon-lit modernity. This creates a portrait of a country that exists in a permanent tension between archaic spirituality and a radical, technoid present.

Japan as an endless process

In Emmanuel Rubens' account, Japan offers a radical exercise in "de-Westernization," forcing the Western subject to fundamentally question its own supposed importance. Amidst everyday Japanese life, the traveler learns to "dilute" themselves and relinquish the "small, hysterical seed of the self" in favor of an almost invisible, inodoric presence. According to the sources, this process leads from a far-sighted fixation on grand panoramas to a productive "shortsightedness" that sharpens the eye for the "infra-ordinary"—those tiny, often overlooked details of daily life that, in their simple perfection, unfold a poetry all their own.

On a deeper level, the archipelago presents a cartographic challenge to the European understanding of unity and self-containedness. Ruben describes Japan, we said, as a “trembling geography” that, through its fractal nature and constant tectonic movement, defies any definitive fixation. For the Western subject, this means the necessary acceptance of the fragmentary and the incomplete; it is the realization that real territory will always surpass the theoretical map. Life here is experienced as a “literature in archipelagos,” based not on grand narratives but on the juxtaposition of moments and sketches.

Ultimately, Japan serves as an aesthetic discipline, introducing the Western mind to the art of the fleeting moment, the "Ima wa ima" (Now is now). Through the conscious repetition of everyday actions, routine is elevated to ritual, which, according to the author, leads to small "geographical ecstasies" and states of provisional awakening (kensho) can lead to. In this encounter with the “realm of signs” (Barthes), the subject learns that the stylization of the world – from calligraphy to the design of rock gardens – is an existential strategy for maintaining harmony and social peace in an unstable world.

Emmanuel Ruben thus conveys an image of Japan characterized by a profound respect for form and detail. For him, Japan is a country that teaches the traveler to forget themselves, to "dilute" themselves, and to be absorbed in the contemplation of the moment. It is a land of "trembling beauty," whose identity oscillates between the fragile tradition of wooden buildings and the ruthless efficiency of the Shinkansen bullet trains. Ultimately, Japan remains for him an open book, a "pont flottant des songes" (a floating bridge of dreams), whose exploration can never be complete because the country itself is an endless, fractal process.