“And here I was, decades later, on the outpost island of Taiwan, reliving this old reverie. […] the sights and sounds coursing before me were just like those of Tenkatsu’s Magic Troupe.”

Upon her arrival in the Taichū market, narrator Aoyama Chizuko processes the scene through a nostalgic, romanticized lens. The simile comparing the vibrant market to a Japanese magic show reveals her tendency to frame Taiwanese reality as an exotic performance staged for her amusement. This initial description establishes the theme of The Paternalism of the Colonizer’s Gaze, wherein Aoyama’s genuine curiosity is filtered through a perspective that aestheticizes rather than engages with the culture before her.

“Aoyama-sensei need not worry. We have arranged a first-rate dinner to welcome you.”

Mishima, Aoyama’s official government guide, delivers this line after she requests a local herbal tea. His response exemplifies the colonial administration’s strategy of controlling the narrative of Taiwan by presenting a curated, Mainlander-approved experience. By substituting “first-rate” Japanese-catered cuisine for the authentic street food Aoyama desires, Mishima’s dialogue reveals how the Empire asserts its cultural dominance over the Islander culture it seeks to erase.

“I took Chi-chan by the arm and tugged her close to me. She stumbled a step and looked up at me with the same curious smile that I’d spotted before we entered.”

After Aoyama publicly defends Chi-chan from a demeaning request at a girls’ school, this moment highlights the vast difference in their reactions to the colonial power structure. Aoyama’s outrage is a privilege afforded by her status as a respected Mainlander, allowing her to act on her principles without fear of consequence. In contrast, Chi-chan’s “curious smile” is an ambiguous, practiced response, hinting at the emotional self-regulation required of a colonized subject who cannot afford to show anger.

“When I’d expressed the desire to be friends, she had neither consented nor refused. She had simply looked at me for a while, then smiled, then said, ‘I see.’ That smile was like a Noh mask. Inscrutable.”

Aoyama’s description of Chi-chan’s smile introduces the symbol of the Noh mask. This simile captures the protective, emotionless facade Chi-chan adopts to navigate her subordinate position. The mask symbolizes the insurmountable barrier created by their unequal status, directly illustrating The Fragility of Friendship Across Power Divides by showing that Chi-chan cannot afford to offer Aoyama the vulnerability required for a genuine connection.

“My father and sister arranged the marriage for me despite objections from others. […] That was my father and sister’s way of showing their love for me, I believe.”

Here, Chi-chan explains her arranged marriage, revealing her pragmatic acceptance of a fate dictated by family and social standing. Her carefully worded justification reframes a transaction of patriarchal and economic convenience as an act of familial “love.” This demonstrates her complex understanding of survival within a restrictive society, where the optimal path is one of calculated compliance, rather than outright resistance.

“I am unwilling to dine at the same table with you as an inferior. People should eat at the same table only if they are of equal rank. […] but cannot eat one-on-one with you.”

In this passage, Chi-chan explicitly articulates the invisible colonial hierarchy that governs her relationship with Aoyama. Using the recurring motif of food, she explains that sharing a meal is a social act freighted with political meaning; she refuses to perform inferiority in an intimate setting. This statement is a quiet act of resistance, clarifying that the barrier between them is structural, a result of a power imbalance she is unwilling to ignore to appease her employer, subtly highlighting the theme of The Fragility of Friendship Across Power Divides.

“The noise she made was something like a sigh. ‘Aoyama-san is exaggerating still.’ But the Noh mask had melted like warmed ice. Behind it, her face was neither joyful nor sad. The hint of something unreadable lifted the corners of her mouth. ‘But,’ she said, ‘I’m very glad to hear you say so.’”

When Aoyama shares a story from her childhood, her vulnerability elicits a rare, genuine reaction from Chi-chan. The simile “melted like warmed ice” marks a key moment of characterization, signaling a temporary lowering of the Noh mask expression Chi-chan uses for self-protection. This subtle shift suggests that Aoyama’s confession has created a brief, authentic connection that breaks through the rigid social roles governing their relationship.

“The Empire’s Southern Expansion Movement and so-called National Spirit Mobilization Movement had taken shape as imperial assimilation movements here in the colonies. Were they not, in essence, brute acts of erasing the distinctions of individual cultures? I couldn’t help but feel resistance and disgust whenever I considered the matter seriously.”

In an internal monologue, Aoyama articulates her private critique of Japanese imperialism, revealing a political consciousness at odds with her public role. This passage directly addresses the novel’s central political conflict, framing colonial policy as a destructive act of cultural erasure. The author uses this interiority to establish Aoyama’s sympathetic viewpoint while simultaneously setting the stage for the exposure of the limitations of her colonial perspective.

“But you did notice, did you not, that it was because of my Islander chōsan that Madame K asked such a pointed question? […] If the occasion hadn’t called for extreme decorum, Madame K would no doubt have said, ‘Please ask your interpreter to stop dressing like a Qing slave!’”

Chi-chan identifies her traditional Taiwanese chōsan as a source of tension within the colonial spaces that her travels with Aoyama bring her into. This dialogue makes the symbolic weight of clothing explicit, showing how it functions as a marker of cultural identity and a target for colonial prejudice. By voicing the unspoken insult, Chi-chan exposes the aggressive subtext of assimilationist pressure and the personal cost of navigating colonial society.

“Li-ya! A deep, gruff voice. I turned and saw Chi-chan standing not far from the reception desk. Her profile was backlit and therefore obscured from me. Her silhouette was stiff and straight-backed—her shoulders rose and fell ever so slightly with each breath.”

In this moment, a hotel receptionist uses a slur to address Chi-chan. The author uses visual details, from backlighting that obscures Chi-chan’s face to her stiff posture, to convey her reaction without granting the reader access to her thoughts. This narrative choice emphasizes her practiced self-control in the face of bigotry and underscores the emotional armor required of the colonized.

“Perhaps I should put it this way, Chi-chan: lóo-bah and sashimi are both delicious, chōsan and kimono are both beautiful. To me, the essence of a thing is by far the most important.”

Aoyama offers a well-intentioned statement of cultural equivalency, asserting that Taiwanese and Japanese food and clothing are equally valid. This declaration, however, reveals her fatal ideological flaw, reflecting The Paternalism of the Colonizer’s Gaze. Her sentiment, while positive, simplifies a complex power dynamic by ignoring the political reality that one culture is actively suppressing the other, reducing cultural identity to an aesthetic preference.

“Indeed. Therefore, the slur of li-ya has also been reversed between them, becoming an endearment that Tân-san uses on Ōzawa-san. In this sense, ‘the li-ya incident’ between them may have been a total misunderstanding.”

Chi-chan resolves the central mystery of the chapter by deducing that two schoolgirls have reappropriated a derogatory term as a private sign of affection. This plot resolution serves a thematic purpose, demonstrating how the fixed meanings imposed by a colonial power structure can be subverted within personal relationships. The reversal of the slur complicates a simple oppressor-oppressed binary and foreshadows the novel’s final argument about the nuanced reality of feelings between unequal people.

“I’ve accepted my status as wild ginseng and have every plan to continue living my life as such. But Aoyama-san sees me as a pearl—and, if I’m understanding correctly, hopes that I can dress up as a more realistic ginseng.”

In this moment of dialogue, Chi-chan employs a metaphor to articulate her understanding of Aoyama’s colonial perspective. By equating herself to “wild ginseng,” a common plant sometimes passed off as a rare delicacy, she acknowledges her subordinate social standing as an Islander and a concubine’s daughter. Her observation that Aoyama wishes to make her a “more realistic ginseng” suggests she interprets Aoyama’s gestures as an effort to reshape her into a more refined and socially acceptable version of herself, directly challenging the paternalistic quality of Aoyama’s gaze.

“Liking or disliking kimonos isn’t the crux of the problem, Aoyama-san. I cannot explain it well, because even though you are kind and observant and well-meaning, you have a blind spot that you cannot possibly be aware of. That is all.”

During a heated argument, Chi-chan directly identifies the central conflict in their relationship, labeling Aoyama’s core limitation a “blind spot.” This phrase becomes representative of the colonizer’s inherent failure to perceive the full reality of the colonized subject’s experience. The author uses this dialogue to shift the conflict from a personal misunderstanding to a structural problem of perspective, highlighting how even Aoyama’s “well-meaning” intentions are filtered through a privileged, if oblivious, lens.

“Is there a difference between someone who’s special and someone who’s important?”

Aoyama poses this question after a temporary reconciliation, revealing her dawning awareness of the subtle but necessary distance Chi-chan maintains between them. The diction here is critical: “special” implies a unique quality bordering on exotic, while “important” suggests a deeper, more integral connection. Chi-chan’s subsequent refusal to answer reinforces this distinction, demonstrating her unwillingness to grant Aoyama the reciprocal status of an equal friend. This passage is key in exploring the theme of The Fragility of Friendship Across Power Divides.

“If your interpreter today had been Mishima-san from City Hall, would you have treated him the same way?”

With this sharp rhetorical question, Chi-chan exposes the unequal power dynamic that Aoyama consistently fails to recognize between them. By invoking Mishima, a male wansheng of official status, Chi-chan forces a comparison that highlights the fact that Aoyama’s affectionate gestures are a form of “differential treatment” rooted in their respective positions as colonizer and colonized. The question cuts through Aoyama’s self-perception of simple kindness to reveal the paternalism inherent in her actions.

“‘Why did you never agree to stay over before?’ […] She lifted her gaze from the page. ‘Because there is a servant’s room in this house.’”

This spare, direct exchange reveals the structural reality that has governed Chi-chan’s behavior. Her reason for refusing to stay in Aoyama’s cottage overnight is political, grounded in the physical architecture of colonial hierarchy, which includes the presence of a “servant’s room.” The starkness of her answer demonstrates the unbridgeable gap in their lived experiences, showing that while Aoyama sees a home, Chi-chan sees a space pre-defined by an unequal power structure she cannot ignore.

“The truth is that gentle Aoyama-san never once asked me: Do you want this protection?”

This statement serves as the climax of Chi-chan’s explanation for her resignation, finally articulating the nature of Aoyama’s “blind spot.” Referring back to the two schoolgirls as an allegory for their relationship, Chi-chan argues that Aoyama’s “protection” is a form of self-righteous goodwill that denies her agency and individuality. The line pinpoints the central failure in their relationship, showing how Aoyama’s paternalistic kindness, offered without consent, functions as an assertion of colonial power, rather than an act of equal friendship.

“There is nothing in the world more difficult to refuse than self-righteous goodwill.”

Spoken by Mishima during his confrontation with Aoyama, this aphorism precisely identifies the central flaw in Aoyama’s relationship with Chi-chan and her perspective on Taiwan. The statement articulates the core argument of the theme of The Paternalism of the Colonizer’s Gaze, positing that kindness rooted in a sense of superiority is a form of coercion. Because it masks arrogance as benevolence, such goodwill traps the recipient, who cannot reject the gesture without appearing ungrateful. This goodwill therefore reinforces the power imbalance it claims to alleviate.

“In the eight months during which she acted as my interpreter, Chi-chan walked this exact path two to three times a week […] As for me—I had never once made the trek to Chōkyōshitō.”

Aoyama’s realization that she never reciprocated the simple act of traveling to Chi-chan’s neighborhood symbolizes her broader failure to meet Chi-chan on equal terms. The literal, untraveled distance between their homes represents the figurative distance created by their colonial power dynamic, a gap Aoyama is only now beginning to comprehend and cross following the rupture in their relationship.

“I am sorry, Miss Ông Tshian-hòh. Aoyama Chizuko is a despicable brute who has no regard for others, who always thinks she knows best, who is arrogant and doltish.”

Delivering her apology, Aoyama uses Chi-chan’s Taiwanese name for the first time, an act of recognition that signals a fundamental shift in her perspective. This moment of direct address acknowledges Chi-chan’s identity outside the colonial framework in which Aoyama has primarily viewed her. The unsparing self-critique demonstrates that Aoyama has internalized Mishima’s and Chi-chan’s criticisms, moving beyond naive goodwill to a genuine reckoning with her own complicity in a colonial mindset.

“You are quite right. Even though I cannot open my heart, the feelings that I hold within this shuttered heart are, nonetheless, real.”

In her response to Aoyama, Chi-chan articulates the central paradox of their connection, affirming the novel’s theme of The Fragility of Friendship Across Power Divides. The image of a “shuttered heart” serves as a metaphor for the self-protective performance required of a colonized subject, for whom complete vulnerability is an unaffordable luxury. Chi-chan’s confession validates the authenticity of her affection for Aoyama while simultaneously confirming that the structural inequality between them makes a fully reciprocal, open friendship impossible.

“But, to my surprise, Mother said, ‘Yes, it’s a sad and true story.’ […] Mother did not respond straightaway. But, later, she added a twelfth chapter to Taiwan Travelogue.”

This passage from the fictional afterword by Aoyama’s adopted daughter drives a key element of the novel’s metafictional structure. It reframes the seemingly happy ending of the reconciliation in Chapter 12 as a potential fabrication, an authorial attempt to rewrite a painful “sad and true story” into one with resolution. This reveal complicates the narrative’s resolution, suggesting that fiction can be a tool for creating an idealized memory or longed-for closure, even though it only occurs on Aoyama’s end.