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Jun Eto, a literary scholar, argues in Bungei Shunju that the Americans imposed a false image of the Emperor on the postwar Japanese. The Japanese, he writes, were deliberately locked up in ''the playground of postwar democracy and a merely symbolic emperor system.'' But when Hirohito became very ill, grief poured out of the Japanese people ''as though it concerned a personal matter.'' As Eto sees it, the national press, still brainwashed by American occupation propaganda, tried to hide this phenomenon, but it is clear that the ''sacred and solemn nature of our imperial family'' has been preserved, and will last forever ''as the highest jewel of our nation, which no one will ever dare to change.'' Three men working in Motoshima's city hall tried to explain why he should not have spoken out. The oldest one took off the official badge from his lapel. ''Now I can speak as a private individual,'' he said. ''I cannot understand why the Mayor made that statement. I just can't understand.'' Yes, said my American companion, who had not yet spent much time in Japan, but was his statement correct? The man sucked his teeth, thought deeply, closed his eyes and said: ''Well, yes . . . but I can't understand why he said it.'' My friend, still playing the naive American, then asked whether he should have lied. ''In Japan,'' said the civil servant, ''we all know the truth, but we remain silent. You must understand our culture. . . .'' Still, I said, there must be others who feel as he does. ''Yes,'' he said, ''there are intellectuals on opposite sides of the emperor question, only one side remains silent.'' But why? ''There is no opportunity for debate.'' Why? ''The rightists - they use weapons. It doesn't stop at verbal debate. The risk of escalation is always there. There are so many threats aimed at us. You see, ever since right-wing terrorism began in the 1920's, we have been scared. Debates on the Emperor smell of blood.''

\"A classic memoir of self-invention in a strange land : Ian Buruma's unflinching account of his amazing journey into the heart of Tokyo's underground culture as a young man in the 1970's When Ian Buruma arrived in Tokyo in 1975, Japan was little more than an idea in his mind, a fantasy of a distant land. A sensitive misfit in the world of his upper middleclass youth, what he longed for wasn't so much the exotic as the raw, unfiltered humanity he had experienced in Japanese theater performances and films, witnessed in Amsterdam and Paris. One particular theater troupe, directed by a poet of runaways, outsiders, and eccentrics, was especially alluring, more than a little frightening, and completely unforgettable. If Tokyo was anything like his plays, Buruma knew that he had to join the circus as soon as possible\"-- Provided by publisher.

''Think about it,'' said a university professor, gripping my arm, ''why did they choose Kwangju for the massacre, why not Seoul, Taegu or Pusan? Why here? Think it over, and over and over.'' His meaning was clear: the massacre was deliberately engineered by people from Kyongsang, backed by the Americans, just as last year's presidential election was rigged by Kyongsang rulers, supported by the American press. Han dominated the judgment even of this intelligent political scientist, who had spent years studying in the West. ''You will never know how we feel,'' he said as we parted. ''We will never forget. Cholla people led the student revolts, we led the workers and we shall rise again.'' The Kwangju massacre and the fate of [Kim Dae Jung] are very much linked in the minds of Cholla people. Both are matters not of sober analysis, but of faith, patriotism, morality. Kim Dae Jung simply could not have lost an honest election. Those that say he did, according to a man running the Kwangju Young Men's Christian Association, ''do not love their country.'' Kim loves his country, he suffered for democracy. ''[Roh Tae Woo] does not love his country, only himself.'' What about [Kim Young Sam], does he love his country? ''No, he is just the same as the Government,'' said the professor, who had joined us at the Y.M.C.A. ''His politics are the same, and, remember, he is from Kyongsang.'' On the day after the names of Roh's ministers were announced, I had lunch in Seoul with a businessman and a writer. ''The new Government stinks,'' said the writer, and proceeded to comment on some of the appointments. ''He's not a sincere man,'' said the businessman. ''No, not sincere, a very sly character,'' said the writer. ''And as for him,'' said the businessman, ''he is not straightforward.'' Indeed not, said the writer; ''he has an impure heart.'' Even these two conservative men took a moral rather than an analytical view of politics.

This is not to say that his view of contemporary China is neutral. But his personal reactions tend to be emotional rather than intellectual. Sitting in his Japanese taxi, after having breakfast at his ultramodern hotel, he has ''a sense of growing unease about the rapidity of change.'' In another hotel room, contemplating the Scotch in his minibar and the mixed nuts from Singapore and the coffee urn from Italy, he feels ''a sense of irritation.'' Listening to Westernized pop music, some of it imported from Hong Kong and Taiwan, he feels ''something like nostalgia'' for Maoist propaganda songs belonging to ''that era when political idealism, innocence, and collectivism rather than cynicism, skepticism, and individualism were the animating principles of Chinese life.'' It is true that most Chinese pop music, or disco dancing, or hotel interiors, are in dubious taste, but why should we get so exercised about it? After all, only a minute number of Chinese have ever been anywhere near such hotels or discos. Well, maybe, but, says Mr. [Orville Schell], apart from the deplorable lack of exoticism, these things show the bankruptcy of Chinese traditional culture, a lack of national pride, a loss of idealism, in sum a threat to the national identity that Mao, his attacks on traditional culture notwithstanding, tried to preserve. The traumas of the last 100 years or so, largely inflicted on China by aggressive foreign imperialists, have so ravaged China's immune system that a strong foreign virus (Mr. Schell himself puts it in these biological terms) can cause untold damage. In a chapter titled ''The Limo-ization of Beijing'' (how many Chinese have ever seen, let alone been driven around in, a limo?), he compares the Cadillac emblem to the ''figureheads carved on the bows of the great sailing ships that once fueled the opium trade between China and the West.'' Mr. Schell, it appears to me, is a cultural Maoist. I don't mean to say he is a hard-line Communist. On the contrary, he appears to be a decent American liberal. By ''cultural Maoism,'' I mean zeal for native values that are too often used to justify authoritarian policies. MR. SCHELL does not say so, but implies as much. His adjectives are revealing. The ruling reformists, especially the present party chief, Zhao Ziyang, are ''pragmatic,'' ''committed liberals,'' ''reasonable.'' They are praised for fighting valiant battles against the hard-liners and for allowing dissident intellectuals, in Mr. Zhao's ''reassuring'' words, ''to play their own roles in their own [ professional ] capacities.'' Mr. [Fang Lizhi], on the other hand, is uncompromising, radical, Westernized. Well, maybe, but does this mean that Mr. Fang is wrong?

''Fair and firm,'' is how the Islamic Democratic Alliance candidate, retired Lieut. Gen. Fazle Haq, former Governor and Chief Minister of the North West Frontier Province bordering Afghanistan, described his tenure. Fazle Haq, who looks a bit like Burt Lancaster, was so close to Zia, he told us at a news conference in Peshawer, that he ''could get away with blue murder'' - not the happiest choice of words for a man accused of using his position to enrich himself with drugs and arms money. He denies this, of course. On the contrary, he had always been fair and firm; he knew where to ''draw the line''; he would ''come down like a ton of bricks'' on wrongdoers, unlike ''those politicians, who cry crocodile tears, sit down with people, give them what they want, and get cheered for being good chaps.'' ''We have the street power (Continued on Page 40) now,'' a young man called Saeed said as he drove me around Karachi, pointing out landmarks where recent battles had been fought. ''In this area, all mohajir,'' he said. Mohajir flags flew from every building. ''Here, Sindis and Baluchis,'' he said of another street, festooned with Pakistan People's Party flags. He pointed down an alley. ''Mafia,'' he whispered, ''Pathans.'' I thought of all the guns stashed away in these communities; and even the architecture reminds one of Beirut. ''Who are in the south?'' shouted [Altaf Hussain]. ''Mohajir!'' answered 300,000 voices. ''And in the north?'' ''Mohajir!'' ''And in the east . . . and the west . . .?'' ''Mohajir!'' He had conjured up a country with nothing but mohajir. His gift to his followers was a sense of pride, a sense of identity in a nation still looking for one.

He explained that ''because of biased textbooks'' many people of his generation felt guilty about the Japanese role in World War II, ''and people who did better than I did at school all joined the left-wing student movement.'' He concluded that there was something wrong with Japanese education. He also worries about the spiritual state of most Japanese, ''who spend their time reading comics and watching TV,'' but he conceded they were probably quite content. A young member of the group, who had been engrossed in a book on terrorism, suddenly broke his silence to exclaim that it was all America's doing: ''They want us to be weak. That is why they rigged our education system. To stop Japan from being a major power.'' This is what Jun Eto, a professor of English literature, means when he says that the American Occupation destroyed the continuity of Japanese culture. It is what former Education Minister [Masayuki Fujio] means when he calls the occupation period an act of ''racial revenge.'' It is the point of Takeshi Muramatsu, a professor of French literature, when he claims that ''spiritually, the postwar identity crisis is much more serious than the anti-Western allergy of the 1930's and 40's, because our postwar identity was created by foreigners.'' And it is why [Yasuhiro Nakasone] appropriated 20 million yen (about $140,000 at current rates) to build a new Japanology Institute - for now, he said, ''is the time to establish the Japanese identity once again.'' Nakasone feels strongly about the Japanology Institute, however. It is led by Prof. Takeshi Umehara, whose peregrinations through European philosophy have led him to conclude that Western civilization is like a disease threatening the modern world. The only cure, he contends, ''is to be found in Oriental culture, especially Japanese culture'' - in short, the Japanese soul. This he traces back to its pristine state, in the Jomon earthenware culture which began about 12,000 years ago, long before Chinese civilization changed the face of Japan. The pristine Jomon spirit, according to Umehara, still exists in its purest state among such minorities as Ainus and Okinawans. (To their intense annoyance, these minorities are often scrutinized by Yamatoist scholars seeking the primitive roots of the Japanese.) ''A re-evaluation of Jomon culture,'' says Umehara, ''is vital, not only for Japan, but for the rest of the world, indeed for the sake of mankind.'' In fact, more mundane reasons also lie behind this ''re-evaluation.'' In a reference to foreign criticism of Japanese trade surpluses, Umehara said that it is ''hard for foreigners to get to the heart of the Japanese identity. . . . Unless we explain to foreigners about our way of thinking, they might get the impression that we keep making gimmicks for profit only.''

[Mori Ogai]'s story has another thing in common with [Yasujiro Ozu]'s films, which does shine through in Mr. [Edwin McClellan]'s version - it chronicles the melancholy process of a social class's dying out. In the case of Ozu's later films, it is the traditional way of life of the old bourgeoisie that is dying; in Ogai's case, it is that of the samurai. Io was born into a merchant family, but the [Shibue Tamotsu] family were middle-ranking retainers of a respected daimio (lord) and thus regarded as of the samurai class. Because the Edo period (1603-1867) was a time of uninterrupted peace, samurai had become redundant as warriors. As they were not much good at anything else and despised the art of making money, they went into decline from the 18th century onward. D URING her lifetime Io was to see the privileges of samurai life disappear forever. Until Chusai's death she lived in a splendid mansion with servants and permanent houseguests. Lavish banquets were still held at the shogun's castle, after which the men would usually repair to elegant brothels. After Chusai's death, and especially after the shogunate fell in 1867, Io lived a life of genteel poverty in a succession of boardinghouses and small provincial homes. Her daughter became an entertainer, something unheard of in better days; her son became a lowly newspaper reporter; her stepson even worked as a tout for a brothel. By the time Ogai wrote his book, all that was left of the samurai were memories. He documented them and in doing so, according to Mr. McClellan, ''found his own identity as a writer, perhaps even as a modern Japanese who has come to terms with the past and therefore himself.'' And so, together with the people she knew, Io lives on in this literary album of old family pictures. It is well worth looking at. ALL HER DEPENDENTS ''Immediately after Chusai's death Hirano Sadakata tried to persuade Io to give up her house and move with her family into his. . . . She would be able to save money, and with her mind at ease watch her children grow. ''In making such a proposal to Io, Hirano Sadakata showed he did not really know her. . . . Of course she knew that with her husband dead . . . she would not be able to keep so many servants, or go on feeding all those semi-permanent 'guests' who had collected in their house while Chusai was alive. But there were hereditary menservants and aging women servants whom she could not bear to dismiss. And of the 'guests,' there were some who, if thrown out, would have nowhere to go. There were her sister and nieces, too, who would no doubt be rather helpless if forced to fend for themselves. How then could she, on whom so many others depended, suddenly become herself a dependent? Confident of her own powers . . . she resolved to meet the challenge that faced her on her own. And so Sadakata's invitation was declined.'' - Mori Ogai, from ''Woman in the Crested Kimono.''