Pathway to Japanese Literature

(1)

It was a clear night in early May.
Around eleven o'clock, as I was gazing at the deep blue sky in the garden, a voice suddenly called out from beyond the gate: "Telegram."
Upon receiving it and looking, I found the following few phrases written: "Kudanzaka 301 Kaneshiro." What does this mean?
What does "301" mean? I felt it was truly strange.
The name Kaneshiro was that of a friend—and not just any friend, but the most peculiar individual among all my acquaintances.
Since that guy's a poet, this must be some sort of riddle, I thought as I held this mysterious telegram and began to ponder.
The time of transmission was 10:45, and the originating office was Otsuka.
No matter how I thought about it, I couldn't figure it out.
But in any case, I decided to go to Kudanzaka to see for myself, changed into clothes, and left through the gate.

From my residence to the streetcar tracks was quite some distance.
Along the way, I pondered deeply about Kaneshiro.
It had been exactly two years prior in autumn when I was invited to a banquet comprised entirely of eccentrics that I first became acquainted with him—Kaneshiro Eikichi.
He was now twenty-seven, meaning he had been a twenty-five-year-old young poet at that time; yet his appearance looked remarkably aged, with several deep, decadent wrinkles running across his abnormally reddish face, his eyes large and gleaming blue, his nose prominent and thick.
The particular reason I came to know him lay in his lips.
The banquet had been organized exclusively by morbid individuals—every attendee gave off such an uncanny impression that to an unknowing observer it might have appeared a demonic assembly—but among them all, it was this young poet’s lips that caught my eye.

Since he was sitting directly across from me, I could observe him freely. Those lips were truly magnificent—like two copper rods corroded by verdigris. They twitched incessantly. When he ate, it became even more spectacular. As crimson blood-color flashed across those copper rods, they would split open like lightning bolts to devour food. Having never seen such thick, opulent lips before, I unwittingly lost myself staring at his eating spectacle.

Suddenly his terrifying eyes glared in my direction. He sprang up and barked: “Hey you! Why keep staring at my face?” “Ah… my apologies,” I replied, regaining my composure as he sat back down.

“Being stared at feels rotten—you’d hate it too, right?” He drained his beer stein in one gulp, brilliant eyes fixed on me.

“True enough. But your features intrigued me.” “Not flattering—my face is none of your damn business.” His displeasure showed clearly.

“Now don’t sulk—let’s drink to peace.” Thus did I come to know Kaneshiro Eikichi.

The more one associated with him, the more peculiar he became.
He had considerable assets, no parents or siblings, and lived alone.
He attended various schools, but not even one ended satisfactorily.
Though the details of his background remained unclear as he disliked speaking of such matters, in the end, he became a poet.
He was utterly secretive and greatly disliked people coming to his house, so what he was actually doing remained completely unknown, but he was always walking the streets.
He was constantly seen at bars and restaurants.
Just when one thought that was the case, he would vanish for two or three months.
His true nature was unknowable.
I was closest to him and he trusted me in turn, but even so, in the end, he remained nothing more than an eccentric whose true nature eluded me.

(2)

Thinking of such things, before I knew it, I found myself standing atop Kudanzaka slope.
Gazing down, the nocturnal city spread out beneath my feet.
The lights of Jinbocho overflowed and shone from the darkness, as though diamonds had been exposed within ore.
I surveyed up and down the slope.
I thought that Kaneshiro was probably waiting here for me.
But there was no one who fit that description in sight.
I even searched around the Ōmura Statue, but not a single person was there.
I had been on Kudanzaka slope for about thirty minutes but finally decided to go to his house.
His house was near Tomizaka.
It was a small but beautiful residence.
When I came to the front of the house, police officers were coming and going.
When I asked in surprise, they said that Kaneshiro had committed suicide.
When I immediately rushed in and looked, Kaneshiro lay surrounded by a few friends and police officers in a six-mat room.
He had died by stabbing his heart with fire tongs.
There were traces of it having been stabbed two or three times.
His face was tinged a purplish-white, yet it appeared as though sleeping.
The doctor concluded that it was likely the result of mental derangement brought on by extreme drunkenness.
The suicide’s body bore a strong alcoholic odor.
The incident had occurred just moments earlier when passersby heard a pained groan, leading to the commotion.

There was no suicide note. But to me, the earlier telegram had become even more mysterious. Considering the time, it seemed Kaneshiro had died immediately after sending that telegram and returning home. I quietly retraced my steps back to the top of Kudanzaka and thought. What could the number 301 in the telegram mean? Where on Kudanzaka could such a number exist? I looked around but found nothing. I suddenly noticed. Within the entire expanse of Kudanzaka slope, there was only one thing bearing a number over three hundred. That was the stone covers of the gutters lining both sides of the slope from top to bottom. And then, starting from the top on the right-hand side, I began counting them downward. And upon thoroughly examining the 301st stone cover, there was nothing particularly unusual. Perhaps this was counted from below. The stone covers totaled three hundred and ten in all. Therefore, the tenth cover from the top corresponded to the three hundred and first from the bottom. When I ran up and closely examined them, between the tenth and eleventh covers from the top, something black could be seen. When I pulled it out, there was a single black oilpaper bundle. “This is it!” I exclaimed, and the moment I seized it, I flew through the air back home.

When he unwrapped the package，a single document bound in black covers appeared inside．As I read on，I saw before my eyes for the first time Kaneshiro Eikichi’s true form．That true nature was something truly horrific．“He wasn’t human．He was a demon！”I shouted．

Reader, as I now present this document before you, I still feel the tremors lingering in my body.

What follows is the full text of that document.

(3)

My friend, I have resolved to die.
I had sharpened the fire tongs into needle-like points to pierce my own heart.
By the time you read this document, my life will have already ended.
Through what precedes, you will discover that the poet you chose as your friend was in fact a criminal of unparalleled horror.
And you will feel ashamed and enraged at having been friends with me. But I beg you—before despising my corpse, first take pity on this account, for I am truly a man deserving of pity.
Farewell—I shall now proceed to describe my tainted history without concealment.
I was not originally from Tokyo.
I was born and raised in a mountainous region of Hida Province.
My family had been timber merchants for generations, and by my father’s time, we had become one of the most prominent wealthy households renowned throughout the vicinity.
My father was an extremely simple and respectable man, but in his prime, he took a renowned Nagoya courtesan as his concubine, who bore him a child.
That child was I.
When I was born, the legal wife—my stepmother—already had a child.
It was an immoral arrangement, but Father made his legal wife and concubine live together.
Consequently, we children were raised together.
When I turned twelve, my stepmother had four children.
And in April of that year, another was born.
That younger brother became such a peculiar infant that he became the talk of the entire village.
This was because a golden crescent-shaped birthmark had appeared on the sole of his right foot.

One day, a traveling fortune-teller who saw the infant reportedly said, “This child will die a bad death.”
Now that I think back, it’s uncanny how this prophecy came true.
Even I, in my childish mind, found the crescent moon on the baby’s foot truly strange.
That time, too, was truly an unforgettable year for me.
That was when my father suddenly died in October.
Father had prepared a will before dying.
My mother and I received ten thousand yen and were cast out.
The household was to be inherited by the eldest son, three years my senior.
Father was a kind man—that’s why he made this will to secure our happiness as mother and child.
In truth, there had been an unbearable covert struggle between my mother and stepmother.
Had my stepmother seized control of the household, my mother’s persecution would have been as plain as day.
Thus, immediately after Father’s funeral ended, we two came to Tokyo.
Since then, I’ve never returned to my hometown nor had any contact with the family estate there.
We were able to live on the interest from ten thousand yen.
My mother was an intelligent, modest woman without a trace of geisha-like temperament.

When I was eighteen, she died.
After that, living completely alone, I finally came to lead the dissolute life of a poet.
This is the general outline of my history.
Behind this history clung the following terrifying existence.
From early childhood, I was truly a strange child.
Unlike other children, I was never innocent.
I always preferred to remain silent and alone, never even attempting to play.
I would go to the mountains and stand vacantly in places like the shade of rocks, gazing at clouds drifting across the sky.
This romantic habit grew increasingly pathological with each passing year—until about two years before we left Hida.
For half a year, I suffered from a strange illness.
My spine became unbearably itchy and sluggish.
I could no longer walk straight, my body constantly lurching forward.
My complexion worsened and my body gradually withered.
My mother grew deeply worried and tried various treatments, but before long it healed completely.
During that illness, I developed a peculiar compulsion.
I began craving strangely altered, abnormal things to eat.
At first, I couldn’t resist my desire for wall plaster—hiding from others to devour it wherever I found it.
The taste was truly delicious.
I particularly favored the white walls of my family’s storehouse.
Horrifyingly, as I kept eating away at them, a large hole opened in the thick wall.

From then on, I developed a deep interest in quietly trying to eat things that would never occur to others. My reputation as a misanthrope had been convenient for carrying out such acts. I swallowed slugs countless times, gulping them down messily. I naturally ate frogs and salamanders constantly. These things were not particularly unusual in the Hida region. Then I would drag out earthworms and grubs from the mud in the backyard and eat them. In spring, too, the bizarre forms of caterpillars and larvae—glaring gold, purple, and green in their poisonous hues, emitting violent odors—ceaselessly filled my appetite. There was even an instance where my lips, stung by a caterpillar, swelled bright red and were noticed by my family. I devoured all manner of other things. And yet I was never poisoned. This strange habit seemed to grow even more pronounced, but after moving to Tokyo with my mother and becoming accustomed to city life, such depravities naturally ceased.

(4)

However, during that very winter when I turned eighteen—the season Mother died—I found myself unable to bear the grief.
Overcome by sorrow, I wept incessantly.
My naturally frail constitution soon succumbed to severe neurasthenia.
I withered away like a specter.
Then the spinal ailment from my childhood resurfaced.
Resolving I could not continue thus, at twenty years of age I withdrew from middle school and moved to Kamakura.
There I lingered—sometimes in Kamakura itself, sometimes in Shichirigahama or Enoshima—passing days in idle diversion.
My life became walks along the shore and sea bathing.
Slowly, my body began undergoing changes.
Having long dwelled amidst urban clamor only to suddenly find myself roaming these fair coasts, both body and mind steadily regained vigor.
I had returned to my essential self.
The spirit of that boy who once reveled in solitude amid Hida's mountains was mine again.
One evening, I pondered deeply how food had grown utterly flavorless these past months.
For one returning ravenous from sea bathing, there could be no reason the finest inn fare should taste so vile.
I confronted the mirror.
My once-pallid visage now burned crimson.
Eyes that had stared vacantly now blazed with vitality.
Why—possessing such robust health—did nothing satisfy my palate?
On impulse, I thrust out my tongue toward the glass.

At that moment, I involuntarily dropped the mirror.
My tongue was truly long.
It was probably about three sun and five bu long.
When on earth did it grow this long? And what a terrifying shape this tongue had taken.
Was my tongue really like this?
No, no! This was absolutely not my tongue.
But when I picked up the mirror and looked closely—there it was—a large lump of flesh studded thickly with sharp purple-and-brocade-hued warts slick with saliva sliding out from between my lips.
Moreover upon looking even closer—astonishingly—what I had taken for warts were needles.
My entire tongue was covered in needles like a cat’s.
When I touched them with my finger they were nothing but hard stinging needles.
Could such a strange fact exist in this world?
What shocked me even more was that a crimson demon’s face had clearly appeared in the center of the mirror.
It was a terrifying face.
The large eyes glared blindingly bright.
I momentarily lost consciousness from the shock.
At that very moment I heard the demon in the mirror let out a scream:
“Your tongue is the Devil’s Tongue.”
“The Devil’s Tongue cannot be satisfied unless it’s fed the Devil’s food!”
“Eat! Eat everything and find the Devil’s food!”
“Otherwise.”

“You’ll never satisfy your taste for all eternity!” For a while I thought, then suddenly understood. “No more half-measures! I’ll sample every manner of demonic food with this tongue—I’ll discover what they call the Devil’s food!” I threw down the mirror and leapt up. “That’s right! In this past month my tongue had been transformed into this Devil’s Tongue! That’s why everything tasted foul.” A new world—an entirely new world—now lay before me.

Immediately I left the inn where I had been staying.
Then departing Kamakura, I rented an empty house in a desolate village at Izu Peninsula’s farthest tip.
There I commenced an aberrant existence of grotesque sustenance.
For in truth, ordinary fare could no longer stimulate this needle-studded tongue.
I became compelled to seek nourishment unique to my condition.
During those two months dwelling there, my diet consisted of earth, paper, rats, lizards, toads, leeches, newts, snakes, jellyfish and blowfish.
All vegetables I consumed only after letting them thoroughly putrefy.
The sensation of holding that thick sludge of decay – its hue and stench – within my mouth proved unbearably exquisite.
These substances afforded me considerable satisfaction.
After two months, my complexion took on an uncanny vermilion-green cast.
Gradually I felt my entire body transforming into some divine entity.
Amidst this metamorphosis, a sudden thought struck me: “What of human flesh?”
Even I shuddered at this notion, yet from that moment my desire raged violently toward one phrase.
“I want to eat human flesh.” This occurred around January of last year.

(V)

From then on, I could not sleep at all.
Even in dreams, I dreamt of human flesh.
My lips quivered violently; my thick crimson tongue slickly slithered about my mouth like a snake.
I myself felt terror at the ferocious intensity with which this desire surged up.
And I tried to forcibly suppress it.
But the demon in my tongue shouted: “Now you’ve reached the supreme delicacy in all the world.
“Show courage! Eat humans! Eat humans!” it screamed.
When I looked in the mirror, the demon’s face wore a dreadful smile.
The tongue grew ever larger, its needles gleaming ever more sharply.
I closed my eyes.
“No—I will absolutely not eat human flesh.
“I am not a Congo savage.
“I am one of the good Japanese.” But within my mouth, that demon was sneering.
To dispel such unbearable terror, I had to stay perpetually intoxicated.
I constantly haunted drinking establishments, trying by any means to free myself from this desire even momentarily.
But fate never took pity on this wretched self of mine.

It was a night I will never forget—February 5th of last year.
I got drunk, completely plastered, and was about to head back from Asakusa.
That night was overcast, with an impenetrable darkness shrouding everything beyond an inch ahead.
Guided by faint lamplight through this darkness, I unwittingly took a wrong turn.
When I suddenly noticed the roaring train, I found myself standing on the railroad tracks beside Nippori Station.
I crossed the railroad crossing.
I climbed the slope.
Upon entering Nippori Cemetery, I collapsed right there.
When I opened my eyes abruptly, it was still the depths of midnight.
Striking a match and checking my watch—1 AM.
I wandered through the cemetery in a half-sobered drunken haze.
Suddenly, one foot sank into the ground with a heavy thud.
Startled, I struck a match and saw—this was a communal cemetery, my foot plunged into a mound of fresh earth.
At that moment, a single terrifying thought crystallized my consciousness.
Without thinking, I immediately used a broken stick to dig out that earthen mound.
I dug recklessly.
I dug like a madman.
Finally, I dug with my nails.
After about an hour, my hand touched something wooden.
“It’s a coffin.” I swept away the soil and smashed the coffin lid.

And then I struck a match and peered into the coffin.

At that moment—that instant alone—the terror I felt surpassed anything before or since.
In the match’s faint glow lay illuminated a corpse’s livid face.
Eyes shut tight with teeth clenched.
A beautiful girl of nineteen summers.
Hair glistening black.
Observing now—black blood caked thick about the neck.
Head wrenched clean from shoulders.
Limbs torn asunder yet crammed within.
A convulsion seized my whole frame.
Yet understanding came—this must be some rail suicide’s temporary interment—and trembling eased somewhat.
From my pocket I drew the jackknife.
Plunged hand into death’s bosom.
Beloved rot assailed my nostrils.
First labored severance—the breasts.
Viscid fluid oozed along my fingers.
Next excised a portion of cheek.
Completion brought abrupt revulsion.
“What mean you to do?” conscience shrieked.
Still I wrapped flesh-pieces tight in kerchief.
Closed coffin’s lid once more.

After covering the soil back as it was, I hurriedly left the cemetery.
I hired a rickshaw and returned to the house in Tomisaka.

When I entered the house, I securely locked all the doors and then took out the meat from the handkerchief.
First, I roasted the meat from the cheek over the fire.
A kind of truly good fragrance began to emanate.
I was ecstatic.
The meat sizzled as it burned away.
The Devil’s Tongue leaped.
Saliva flooded thickly into my mouth; unable to endure it, I stuffed the half-burnt piece of meat into my mouth in one bite.
In that instant, I sank into a trance as if intoxicated by opium.
The fact that something this delicious existed in the real world was nothing short of a miracle.
How could I possibly go on without eating this?
“The Devil’s food has finally been found.”
My tongue had truly been demanding this for so long.
It had been demanding human flesh.
Ah, I finally discovered it.
Next, I bit into the breast.
As if struck by electricity, I leaped around the room.
When I had completely devoured it, my stomach became full.
For the first time since being born, I was satisfied by a meal.

(6)

The next day, I spent the entire day digging a large hole beneath the floor of my room.
Then I lined it with planks.
Thus, I created a human storage room.
Ah, I will bring my precious food here.
Thereafter, my eyes began to gleam.
Even when walking through town, drool would flow ceaselessly.
Every person I met, every person I met stimulated my appetite.
In particular, boys and girls around fourteen or fifteen appeared most delectable.
Whenever I encountered such children, I felt an overwhelming urge to devour them immediately—there was no resisting it.
But by what method should I bring in the food? First, I prepared anesthetic and a handkerchief in my pocket.
With this, I resolved to put them to sleep and drag them here at once.

April 25th—this was about ten days ago now.

I took the train from Tabata to Ueno.
When I suddenly looked, there was a boy sitting facing my knees.
When I looked closer, he had a rustic appearance but was truly a beautiful boy.
My mouth grew damp.
Saliva overflowed.
He appeared to be traveling alone.
Before long, the train arrived at Ueno.
Upon exiting the station, the boy stood vacantly for a while, then began walking toward Ueno Park.
And then, sitting down on a bench, he stared intently at the surface of Shinobazu Pond reflected in the lights along the edge of the water, looking forlorn.

When I looked around, there was not a single person nearby.
I quietly took out the bottle of anesthetic from my pocket and pressed it against a handkerchief.
The handkerchief became soaked.

The boy was vacantly looking toward the pond.
I suddenly grabbed him and pressed the handkerchief against his nose.
He flailed his legs two or three times, but as the anesthetic took effect, he thudded down into my arms.
I immediately carried the boy down to the stone steps and hailed a rickshaw.
Then I had it driven to Tomisaka.
When I returned home, I closed all the doors securely.
Under the electric light, when I looked closely, he was truly a beautiful boy.
I took out the sharp large knife I had prepared and stabbed it into the back of his head with all my strength.
The eyes of the boy, who had been sleeping until now, suddenly opened wide.
Soon the light vanished from his black pupils, and his face turned ashen in an instant.
I picked up the deathly pale boy and carried him into the underground storage room.

(7)

I resolved to devour this boy as thoroughly as possible.
Thereupon, I established a plan.
I then thoroughly devoured the brains, cheeks, tongue, and nose while roasting each piece of meat in turn.
The deliciousness of it drove me to madness.
The taste of the brains, in particular, was utterly mysterious.
Then, when I woke around nine o’clock the next morning after a sleep of satiety, I stuffed my stomach full again.

Ah, that next night was indeed a night of terror.
The motive that decided my death arose that very night.
It was truly the cruelest night this world has ever seen.
That night, I descended beneath the floorboards with eyes gleaming like a beast's, thinking it was time for the hands and feet.
Gripping a saw, I stood there awhile pondering where to begin cutting.
Suddenly I tugged at the boy's left leg.
With that motion, his body flipped face-down.
When I gazed at his right sole, I leapt up as though struck in the ribs by an iron rod.
Look—wasn't there a crimson crescent moon shape imprinted on his right foot?
You must remember how this document began with an account of my brother's birth.
Considering this, that infant should have reached fifteen or sixteen years by now.
Is this not a tale of utmost horror?
I had devoured my own flesh and blood.
Coming to my senses, I unwrapped the bundle the boy carried.
Inside lay four or five notebooks.
They bore the clear inscription: Kaneshiro Gorou.
This was my brother's name.
Through these notebooks it became evident—my brother had yearned for Tokyo and, hearing rumors of me, fled Hida to seek me out.
Ah! I could no longer endure living.
My friend, these are all matters I wished to set down in writing.

“Please have pity on me.”

The document ended here.

Even considering the handwriting and content, I could not help but doubt Kaneshiro’s sanity.
When I examined Kaneshiro’s corpse, its tongue indeed bore needles as described, but the so-called demonic face was likely nothing more than the poet’s delusion.