The honourable author of “Madame Butterfly” is Mr. Wrong. (Do you know that Japanese have no boundary between L and R?) Undoubtedly, he is qualified to be a Wrong.
Authorship is nothing at all, nowadays, since authors are thick as Chinese laundries.
Well, still, it can be honourable, if it is honourable.
Japanese fiction penned by the tojin!
It is a completely sad affair. I wonder why the author (God bless him) didn’t fit himself for brooming the streets instead of scrawling.
The characters in his book—I am grateful I see no lady writer of Japanese novels yet—remind me of the “devils of mixture” swarming in Yokohama or Kobe, whose Jap mother was a professional “hell.” It is lamentable to set the verdict on them that they have inherited the art of framing lies from their mamma.
Do I vex you, gentleman, when I say that your Japanese type could only be an unprincipled half-caste?
Your Nippon character eyed in blue, and hairy-skinned always. Isn’t it absurd when it puts a ’Merican shoe on one foot and a wooden clog on the other?
And if you insist on registering it as a Jap, I shall merely laugh loudly.
One heroine I have read of placed a light summer haori over her heavily padded mid-winter clothes.