In the Japanese of the past, rather than using the phonetic katakana alphabet to write the names of foreign places as is done now, each locale was assigned its own kanji exonym, which carried a specific meaning, but also conveyed the way it sounded to the ear. Berlin, for example, was 䟯ć: âchiefâ and âgroveâ; Cologne was ćĺŤ: âsongâ and âethics.â Dresden was ĺžłĺ: âvirtueâ and âstopâ; Munich was ć°éĄ: âcitizensâ and âappear.â These kanji, chosen because they most closely matched the sounds of the word, changed oneâs impression of a place in a peculiar wayâsometimes delightfully so. Thus for me, Berlinâs kanji painted a picture of forests owned by the Margrafâthe military governor of the border provincesâwhich would stage great hunts in fall, and the forests would be dotted by horses that galloped through at the sound of a whistle or the bark of a dogs. In the music festival in Cologne, its name indicated, the judging would be carried out on the basis of both musical talent and moral virtue. Then there was Dresden, where monks were plotting a mass escape, and Munich, where a popular movement had caught on and had turned revolutionary. My internal map was colored by the scraps of the narrative that these Japanese place names projected onto it.
In this old schema, GĂśttingen was written as moon, sink, plainâan open plain into which the moon was sinking. This beautiful, somehow melancholy combination of characters resonated with the Japanese fixations with the moon and with nature. Written in kanji, the nameâćć˛ĺâcarried within it the power to spirit one away to a far-off location. The row of three quiet letters seemed to me both like a mask that the city had worn, and another face of the city woven into the fabric of time.