There is something rather amusing about a book that spends so much time praising darkness in a world that seems hell-bent on illuminating absolutely everything. We light up our homes, our streets, our screens, our advertisements, and practically every other corner of existence. We want everything brighter, cleaner, newer, shinier, and more visible. Apparently, even the shadows need to be shown the door.

Japanese author Jun’ichirō Tanizaki had a few things to say about that back in 1933, and his little essay, In Praise of Shadows, remains a fascinating meditation on beauty, culture, tradition, and our seemingly endless desire to improve things that might not need improving in the first place.

In Praise of Shadows by Jun’ichirō Tanizaki

The premise is simple enough: traditional Japanese aesthetics find beauty in darkness, subtlety, imperfection, and the spaces between things. Western modernity, at least as Tanizaki perceived it, tends to favor brightness, efficiency, cleanliness, and technological progress. Where one might see an inadequately illuminated room, Tanizaki sees atmosphere. Where someone else might see tarnished metal, he sees the accumulated character of time. Where we might install another light fixture, he wonders whether the room was better off without it.

And honestly, there is something to that.

Tanizaki takes the reader on a wandering tour through Japanese architecture, interior design, lacquerware, food, theater, and even the humble toilet. Yes, the toilet. Leave it to a literary essay to make a person reconsider the aesthetics of a bathroom. He discusses the way light falls across a room, the subdued glow of traditional materials, and the beauty that emerges when things aren’t presented in their entirety. His descriptions of lacquerware and food illuminated by dim light are particularly effective, demonstrating how the atmosphere surrounding an object can fundamentally change the way we experience it.

One of the most interesting ideas in the book is that beauty doesn’t necessarily require clarity. Sometimes, revealing everything diminishes the experience. Shadows create mystery. Imperfect surfaces acquire character. Silence gives sound meaning. And darkness, rather than being merely the absence of light, becomes something with its own aesthetic value.

As someone who enjoys philosophy, I found this idea particularly appealing. There is an existential quality to Tanizaki’s observations, even if this isn’t an existentialist manifesto. He encourages us to reconsider the assumptions we’ve inherited about what constitutes improvement, progress, and beauty. Why must everything be optimized? Why must every inconvenience be eliminated? Why do we assume that making something more efficient automatically makes it better?

These are worthwhile questions, especially in a society where convenience has become practically a religion. We carry around devices capable of delivering an endless stream of information, entertainment, and distractions, yet somehow still struggle to sit quietly in a room with our own thoughts. We have more ways to fill silence than ever before, and fewer reasons to appreciate it.

Tanizaki’s essay offers a gentle counterargument. Perhaps there is value in leaving a little room for uncertainty. Perhaps not everything needs to be explained, exposed, or perfected. Perhaps some experiences become more meaningful precisely because they resist our attempts to make them completely accessible.

Of course, Tanizaki is hardly an impartial observer. His preference for traditional Japanese aesthetics sometimes comes across as romantic nostalgia, and his comparisons between Japanese and Western culture can be overly broad. Japan was modernizing rapidly when he wrote this essay, and his concerns about that transformation are unmistakable. At times, he seems so enamored with the old ways that he risks treating tradition as inherently superior to modernity.

I don’t entirely buy that argument. Modern conveniences have their place, and there is no particular virtue in romanticizing every inconvenience simply because it belongs to the past. Electricity is useful. Indoor plumbing is wonderful. I have no desire to return to an era when basic household tasks required considerably more effort.

But I don’t think that misses Tanizaki’s point. His argument is less persuasive when read as a universal declaration that the old is better than the new, and considerably more persuasive when understood as a reminder that progress comes with aesthetic and cultural trade-offs. We can gain convenience while losing atmosphere. We can improve functionality while sacrificing character. We can make everything brighter without necessarily making anything more beautiful.

That distinction is what gives this relatively short book its staying power.

There is also something refreshing about Tanizaki’s approach. He isn’t trying to construct an elaborate philosophical system or bury the reader beneath technical terminology. He observes ordinary things and asks us to look at them differently. His prose is contemplative, occasionally humorous, and sometimes wonderfully peculiar in its attention to details most of us would never think to examine. The result is a book that feels less like a conventional argument and more like a conversation with someone who has spent a lifetime noticing things the rest of us walk past.

And that, ultimately, is one of the book’s greatest strengths. It changes the way you look at the world around you, even if only temporarily. After reading it, a dimly lit room might seem a little more inviting. An old wooden surface might possess a little more character. A quiet evening without the television might feel less like an absence of entertainment and more like an opportunity to experience something different.

Does In Praise of Shadows occasionally wander into excessive nostalgia? Absolutely. Is Tanizaki’s East-versus-West framing sometimes too simplistic? Yes. But neither criticism diminishes the central insight that our pursuit of perfection can make us overlook the beauty of things that are imperfect, understated, or simply allowed to exist without interference.

I wouldn’t call this a life-changing book, and I don’t think every observation deserves to be treated as a profound revelation. Some of Tanizaki’s arguments are more convincing than others. Nevertheless, this is precisely the kind of slim philosophical work that rewards readers willing to slow down and consider its ideas rather than race through it looking for a conclusion.

In a culture obsessed with visibility, productivity, and constant stimulation, there is something quietly rebellious about appreciating what remains unseen.

Sometimes, the answer isn’t more light. Sometimes, it isn’t another upgrade, another convenience, or another attempt to improve something that was perfectly adequate to begin with.

Sometimes, you just need to turn off the damn light.

Rating: 4/5 stars

GoodReads Back of Book Blurb

A fully illustrated, beautifully produced edition of Junichiro Tanizaki’s wise and evocative essay on Japanese culture.

‘We find beauty not in the thing itself but in the patterns of shadows, the light and the darkness, that one thing against another creates… Were it not for shadows, there would be no beauty.’

The slim book you are holding is in fact a portal. Opening it, you will be led by Junichiro Tanizaki’s light touch into a mysterious and tranquil world of darkness and shadows, where gold flashes in the gloom and a deep stillness reigns. If you are accustomed to equate light with clarity, the faded with the worthless and the dim with the dreary, prepare for a courteous but powerful realignment of your ideas.

In Praise of Shadows is a poetic paean to traditional Japanese aesthetics – in a free-ranging style that moves from architecture to No theatre, and from cookery to lighting, Tanizaki teaches us to see the beauty in tarnished metal, the sombre dignity in unglazed pottery, the primacy of organic materials that bear witness to the regular touch of human hands. It is also astonishingly prescient, offering a gentle warning against the quest for airbrushed perfection, and reminding us that too much light can pollute and obscure our natural world.

In this special edition, the text is accompanied by images, carefully chosen by Vintage Creative Director Suzanne Dean, to complement Tanizaki’s reflections and further illustrate the pattern and beauty of shadows.

–In Praise of Shadows (GoodReads)

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