In Praise of Shadows and Other Essays by Jun’ichirō Tanizaki. Translated by Michael P. Cronin. Tuttle Publishing. 2026.
Reviewed by David Heck
If, like me, you somehow made it nearly a century after its publication without reading Jun’ichirō Tanizaki’s In Praise of Shadows (1933), now is a great time to see what you’ve been missing. As a Japanese literature major more familiar with the ancient poems of the Kokinshū than Tanizaki, I’m almost embarrassed to admit this was my first encounter with his work. Going in with no real expectations beyond “famous Japanese essay about aesthetics,” I expected one thing and got something entirely different.
The version reviewed here includes several essays in addition to the title work, translated by Michael P. Cronin, whose smooth translation and extensive footnotes make a collection approaching its hundredth birthday feel surprisingly accessible. In fact, one of the biggest surprises is that the “other essays” are not a side dish. If anything, they could be the main course.
The collection opens with “Hanshin Observations” (1925), and if you’re expecting a gentle meditation on beauty, shadows, and tea ceremonies, prepare for yet another surprise. Tanizaki begins with an anecdote about a boy peeing on his leg during a train ride before proceeding to eviscerate the people of Osaka for their crassness. At one point he genuinely wonders whether all Osakans are “stupid … or shameless.” There are times that I laughed out loud. This juxtaposition is jarring. Here is one of Japan’s great literary figures, remembered for his subtle reflections on aesthetics, launching into a disgruntled dismantling of his fellow countrymen. Readers interested in the cultural nuances between Tokyo and Osaka will find plenty of material here.
As the modern-day meditation movement constantly reminds us, a key component of that ancient practice is paying attention. And Tanizaki seems to notice everything. In this way, this collection could be considered a practice in meditation. The same eyes that later find beauty in shadows also scrutinize every detail of Kansai life. Modern readers will likely raise an eyebrow at some of his sweeping generalizations, however, like “The Osaka voice is like a shamisen” and “Kyotoites are extremely reserved.” You will also get his candid opinion on which city’s women have sweeter voices, which schoolgirls wear their uniforms better, and who has the more likely disposition for pillow talk. The essays often drift into the distinctly male gaze of the 1930s, complete with lengthy observations about women’s appearances and comparisons between Japanese and Western women that could seem inappropriate today.
Yet that openness is also what makes the essays interesting. The inner workings of Tanizaki’s mind are laid bare, prejudices and biases included. Unlike someone such as Yukio Mishima, whose philosophical ideas can sometimes feel lofty and manufactured, Tanizaki often feels startlingly transparent. You don’t merely read his arguments, you watch him think. The most fascinating part of the collection may be watching his views change over time.
Tanizaki was born in Tokyo but relocated to the Kansai region after the Great Kantō Earthquake and views his adopted home “through the eyes of a migrant.” Unlike many modern travelers who arrive in Kyoto after visiting Tokyo and immediately declare Kyoto their favorite city, Tanizaki gradually became enchanted by western Japan. By the time we reach “Osaka and Osakans” (1932), his tone has transformed. He openly walks back some of his earlier criticisms and begins to see beauty in the traditions preserved there. At one point, he remarks how charming it is to think that if modern Osakans were dressed in Edo-period clothing, “a street scene from an ancient illustrated scroll would emerge.” Osaka hadn’t changed; Tanizaki did.
And that realization is the reason these newly included essays serve as practically required reading and a perfect segue into “In Praise of Shadows” itself. Now, if you’ve never read this essay, even more surprises are in store. Would you expect the most famous essay on Japanese aesthetics to spend time discussing the ideal place for a bowel movement? Because it does. Drawing on observations from Natsume Sōseki, Tanizaki offers a surprisingly detailed discussion of toilets. This is one of many moments where the book subverts expectations. Prepared for pages of abstract reflections on beauty, harmony, light, darkness, and maybe some Buddhist philosophy, instead, I got toilets, electric heaters, fans, and repeated complaints about modern conveniences.
At its core, the essay is a lament for what Tanizaki calls “the losses we have suffered from borrowing.” He worries that Japan’s rush toward modernization and Westernization has sacrificed subtle forms of beauty that once enriched everyday life. Electric lighting is too bright. Modern materials too gaudy. On the other hand, he argues that traditional Japanese spaces allow shadows to soften edges, deepen textures, and create mystery. Though he never explicitly uses the term wabi-sabi, he clearly describes this concept of beauty in the worn, imperfect, and subdued. In these moments, his prose becomes genuinely meditative, discussing candlelit lacquerware, tea ceremonies, tokonoma alcoves, and the way darkness interacts with objects. “We prefer deep shadow to superficial brilliance,” he writes. This is the Shadows we expect.
Then, just as suddenly, he drops the philosopher’s robe and goes back to complaining about electric lights like somebody’s grandfather ranting about kids these days. But the essay also traverses into places I never anticipated. At one point Tanizaki reflects on the “whiteness” of white people versus the skin tones of Japanese, or “we of the yellow race,” as he puts it. Elsewhere he touches on Western attitudes toward Black people during the Civil War. For an essay called “In Praise of Shadows,” there are plenty of fascinating excursions into other crevices of his mind.
Written nearly one hundred years ago, it serves as a portal into the sensibilities of its time. And yet, for all the historical distance, much of it feels fundamentally familiar. Tanizaki complains that his hometown has changed. He thinks people lack manners. He feels alienated by modernization. He worries that something valuable is being lost. Maybe that is why the collection still resonates. Beneath the discussions of aesthetics and architecture lies a deeply human concern: how do we preserve our appreciation for simplicity while the world rapidly changes around us? Tanizaki’s essays remind us that there is value in slowing down, paying attention, and noticing the subtle things that are lost in the bright lights.
David Heck is a public high school English teacher in Anaheim, California.