Pathway to Japanese Literature

There was a brief period when I secretly became obsessed.
I became obsessed with clothing.
It was during my first year at Hirosaki High School.
I would walk around wearing a striped kimono with a stiff obi.
And I commuted to study Gidayū puppet theater under a female instructor.
However, that was but a mere year of madcap antics.
I cast off those clothes in a fury.
It wasn’t out of any particularly noble motive.
During my first-year winter break, when I came to Tokyo for leisure, I one night flung open the rope noren of an oden shop with a snap while wearing that dandy's attire.
"Miss, might I trouble you for one of your hot specialties?"
I maintained a composed facade, attempting to mimic the unbearably smug tone of what one might call a dandy when requesting "something hot."
After enduring the scalding broth, lashing my clumsy tongue to fully deploy those carefully rehearsed rakish phrases, and finishing with a muttered "What the hell am I even saying?"—it was then that the oden shop worker cheerfully observed, "You're from Tohoku, aren't you?" with artless candor.
She may have meant it as a compliment, but I found myself thoroughly disillusioned.
"I'm not a complete fool at heart."
That very night, I discarded the dandy's attire in a fury.
From then on, I endeavored to dress like an ordinary person.
However, my height being five shaku six sun five bu (approximately 172 cm; though some measurements claim over five shaku seven sun [about 173 cm], which I don’t trust), even when walking normally through town, I apparently stood out somewhat.
Even during my university days, when I thought I was dressing normally, my friends still felt compelled to offer advice.

They insisted my rubber boots looked utterly bizarre. Rubber boots are convenient. They required no socks. Whether worn with tabi or barefoot, there was no fear of detection. I typically went barefoot inside them. The interior stays warm. When leaving home, unlike lace-up boots that demand prolonged squatting in the entryway, I could simply thrust my feet in with two quick slips and be off. To remove them, hands buried in trouser pockets, a light kick into empty air sent them sliding free. Puddles and muddy paths became effortless terrain. An invaluable invention. Why shouldn't I wear them? Yet that well-meaning friend kept insisting they were absurd—"You parade them on sunny days too," he'd say, "making it seem like some affected eccentricity." As if I wore rubber boots for fashion! A gross misunderstanding. Since first year high school when I abandoned all hope of becoming a stylish man-about-town, I've conscientiously pursued only simple, economical solutions for clothing and shelter. But my stature—five shaku six sun five bu in height—my face, even my nose being undeniably larger than others' makes me perpetually conspicuous. Don a hunting cap without second thought, and friends descend with advice: "A hunting cap? What inspired that?" "Doesn't suit you." "Looks odd." "Best quit it." Leaving me paralyzed with indecision. A large-framed man apparently needs twice others' cultivation. Though convinced I'm humbly occupying life's margins, the world refuses compliance. In desperation I've contemplated growing a statesman's beard like His Excellency Hayashi Senjūrō's—until imagining this hulking figure with only facial hair for distinction pacing through my six-, four-and-a-half-, and three-tatami rooms forced me to abandon the notion.

One day my friend adopted an earnest expression and remarked that had Bernard Shaw been born in Japan, he could never have made a living as a writer—so I too grew solemn, pondering the profundity of Japanese realism and observing that it ultimately came down to a matter of spiritual disposition. Just as I steeled myself to present two or three additional arguments, my friend erupted in laughter: "No, no! They say Shaw measured seven shaku tall! A seven-shaku novelist couldn't survive here!"—then resumed his carefree demeanor.
I'd been completely hoodwinked, yet couldn't bring myself to laugh sincerely at this artless joke.
An inexplicable chill ran through me.
If only I'd been one shaku taller!
I felt certain I'd narrowly escaped catastrophe.

In my first year of high school, having already perceived the transience of stylishness, I thereafter wore whatever came to hand in reckless abandon and walked about believing myself dressed ordinarily—yet somehow I became the constant target of my friends' criticisms, and thus timidly, gradually, I seemed to have secretly grown fixated on my attire once more.
To say I'm fixated would be misleading—through every recurring incident, I've been made sickeningly aware of my own uncouthness. Not once has a single refined desire arisen in me, whether to wear that garment or have a haori tailored from this ancient fabric.
I simply wear whatever is given to me without complaint.
Moreover, I—for some reason—am extremely stingy when it comes to my own clothes, shirts, and geta.
When spending money on such things, I literally feel a pain as if my body were being cut.
Even when I go out with five yen in my pocket to buy geta, pacing back and forth in agitation before the geta shop until my thoughts become hopelessly tangled, I ultimately resolve myself to dart into the beer hall next door and spend all five yen.
I seem to have convinced myself that clothes and geta are not things one buys with one's own money.
Moreover, until three or four years ago, I had in fact been receiving clothes and other items sent by my mother from my hometown with each changing season.
My mother and I haven't met in over ten years, and seemingly unaware that I've become such a serious-looking bearded man, the patterns on the clothes she sends remain truly flamboyant.
When I wear that large kasuri-patterned unlined kimono, I look like a sumo wrestler's attendant.
Or when I wear a nightwear yukata dyed full of peach blossoms, I resemble a shinpa theater troupe's old actor trembling in some calamitous backstage.
It doesn't become me at all.
However, being a man of principle who silently wears whatever is given to me, even when considerably discomfited internally, I sit cross-legged in the center of the room smoking my pipe while wearing these garments—only for visiting friends to catch sight of me in this state and visibly struggle to suppress their laughter.
I grew despondent and found no joy, until finally I rose to take that kimono to a certain storage facility.
Now, I can no longer receive even a single kimono from my mother.
I must use my manuscript fees to purchase proper clothing.
However, when it comes to purchasing my own clothes, I am extremely stingy—in these past three or four years, I have only newly made a single white kasuri garment for summer and a single Kurume kasuri unlined kimono.
All the rest consists of items sent long ago by my mother that I had entrusted to a certain storage facility, which I retrieve and wear as needed.
To give a current example regarding my transitional summer-to-autumn wardrobe: in midsummer I wear a single white kasuri garment; then as the weather cools, I alternate between a Kurume kasuri unlined kimono and a meisen kasuri unlined kimono when going out.
When at home, I wear nothing but the yukata meant to be worn under a padded kimono.

The meisen kasuri unlined kimono was a keepsake from my wife's late father.
When I wore it and walked about, the hem would swish pleasantly against my ankles.
Strangely enough, whenever I donned this kimono to go out for leisure, rain would inevitably fall.
Perhaps it was the late father's admonition.
I was even visited by floods.
Once in Minami-Izu.
Another time in Fuji Yoshida, where I encountered a deluge that brought me considerable hardship.
The Minami-Izu incident occurred in early July—the small hot-spring inn where I lodged had been engulfed by muddy torrents and nearly swept away.

Fuji Yoshida was the day of the fire festival at the end of August.
When a local friend invited me to visit, I replied that I didn't want to come now because it was hot and would visit when it cooled down. The friend then sent another letter insisting, "The Yoshida Fire Festival only happens once a year," adding that Yoshida was already cool and would turn cold next month—appearing quite angry—so I hurried off to Fuji Yoshida.
When leaving home, my wife cast a gloomy warning: "If you wear that kimono out, you'll end up in another flood."
I felt an ominous premonition.
Up through Hachioji it had been clear weather, but after transferring to the Fuji Yoshida-bound train at Ōtsuki, we were met with torrential rain.
The mountaineers and sightseers packed shoulder-to-shoulder voiced their complaints—"Good grief," "This is awful," "What a disaster!"
Wearing my late father-in-law's cursed rain kimono, I felt like this deluge's instigator—such dreadful guilt overwhelmed me that I couldn't raise my head.
Even after arriving in Yoshida, the driving rain intensified further until I practically tumbled into a nearby ryotei with the friend who'd met me at the station.
My friend pitied me while I secretly knew this downpour stemmed from my meisen kimono—making me feel apologetic toward him instead—yet too terrified of my sin to confess.
The fire festival lay in complete ruins.
They say every year on Mount Fuji's Closing Day they pile ten-foot firewood stacks at doorways to honor Konohanasakuya-hime with blazing rivalry—but I'd never witnessed it.
I came this year thinking I'd finally see it only for this deluge to wash everything away.
We waited out the storm at that ryotei drinking sake idly.
Night fell and winds rose.
The ryotei maid cracked open storm shutters,

“Ah, dimly red,” she murmured.
We stood up and peered outside to find the southern sky faintly aglow.
Even amidst this great storm, someone must have been laboring to raise a signal fire in offering to Konohanasakuya-hime.
I was unbearably desolate.
This detestable tempest too, when traced to its origin, existed because of my rain-inducing kimono.
Were I to confess even slightly to this maid that here stood the rain-bringing man who had clomped all the way from Tokyo at the worst possible time and utterly ruined this joyous night that every soul in Yoshida—young and old alike—had been counting down on their fingers, I would have immediately been beaten to a pulp by the townspeople.
In the end, I remained black-hearted and did not confess my sin to either that friend or the maid.
Late that night when the rain had lightened, we left the ryotei and stayed together at a large inn by the pond. The next morning dawned crisply clear, so I parted from my friend and boarded a bus intending to cross Misaka Pass to Kōfu. But when the bus began ascending the pass about twenty minutes past Kawaguchiko, we already encountered a terrifying landslide site. The fifteen passengers each resolved to hike up their clothes and cross the pass on foot, scattering into small groups as they began climbing—yet no matter how far they trudged, no meeting bus came from the Kōfu direction.
Having given up, we turned back and futilely boarded the same bus to return to Yoshida Town—but all of this had been due to my cursed meisen kimono.
Next time I hear rumors of a drought-stricken region, I intend to don this kimono, venture there, and wander about aimlessly to see what happens.
Should torrential rains pour down, even someone as powerless as I might unexpectedly find a way to be of service.
As for me, besides this rain-inducing kimono among my unlined garments, I had one Kurume kasuri piece.
This was the first kimono I ever purchased with my manuscript fees.
I treasured this.
I had made it a rule to wear this only on my most important outings indeed.
In my own mind, I considered this to be first-rate formal wear, but people never paid it much attention.
When I went out wearing this, even my business discussions never went very well.
Generally, I was looked down upon.
It may have looked like everyday clothes.
And on each homeward journey without fail, I would stroke my rebellious spirit with a muttered “Damn it all,” find myself inexplicably recalling Kasai Zenzō with startling clarity, and deepen my stubborn resolve never to relinquish this kimono.

The transition period from unlined to lined kimonos was difficult for me. From late September through early October—a span of about ten days—I found myself shut away in a melancholy unseen by others. I had two lined kimonos. One was Kurume kasuri, and the other was some sort of silk. These had all been sent by my mother in the past; however, as these two alone had subtle patterns and subdued colors, I had preserved them without entrusting them to a storage warehouse in some corner of the city. Being incapable of swaggering about in full silk attire with felt sandals and brandishing a cane, I consequently avoided wearing that silk garment as well—over the past year or two, I had only donned it twice: once when attending a friend’s arranged marriage meeting, and another time when visiting my wife’s family home in Kōfu for New Year’s. Nor was I ever in such attire as felt sandals paired with a cane. I wore hakama trousers and new komageta clogs. My aversion to felt sandals wasn’t some affectation of barbaric style. Felt sandals are elegant to look at and have the advantage of not troubling shoe clerks when entering theaters, libraries, or other buildings—unlike when wearing geta—so I did actually try wearing them once. However, my feet kept slipping on the woven rush surface of the sandals, which simply wouldn’t do. I felt an intensely uneasy impatience. They seemed five times more exhausting than geta. I tried them just once and gave up. Moreover, canes—when you swung one around as you walked—gave off an air of discernment and weren’t bad accessories—but since I was slightly taller than most people, any cane ended up being too short for me. If I tried to forcefully plant my cane against the ground while walking, I had to bend my waist slightly. If I stooped over each time I planted my cane while walking, I must have looked like a grave-visiting old woman. Five or six years ago, I found a slender alpine pickaxe meant for mountain climbing and used it as a cane while walking around town—only to have a friend angrily declare it was in poor taste—forcing me to hastily abandon the practice. It wasn’t as though I’d brought out that pickaxe out of some stylistic affectation. Ordinary canes were simply too short for me to walk while planting them firmly. Immediately, irritation welled up within me. Sturdy and slender—that pickaxe had been physically necessary for me.

I was taught that canes aren't meant to be planted while walking but rather carried around, but I absolutely detest carrying luggage. Even when traveling, I devise all sorts of schemes to board trains empty-handed whenever possible. Not just in travel but in all of life, carrying numerous burdens strikes me as the very source of gloom. The less luggage, the better. Having carried nothing but heavy burdens through thirty-two years of life—why should I willingly trouble myself with cumbersome luggage even on strolls now? When going out, I make it a rule to stuff most belongings into my pockets however awkwardly—though a cane naturally defies such treatment. It must be shouldered or dangled from one hand—nothing but a nuisance made worse by dogs potentially mistaking it for a weapon and raising hell. However I consider it, that full silk ensemble with felt sandals, cane, and white tabi socks remains beyond my capabilities—perhaps due to my miserly nature.

Since it's come up—I haven't worn Western clothes once in seven or eight years since leaving school. Not from dislike—quite the opposite—I perpetually yearn for their supposed convenience and lightness, but owning none prevents their use. Even my provincial mother sends no Western garments. At five shaku six sun five bu (172cm), ready-made suits prove useless anyway—custom tailoring would require shoes, shirts and sundries costing over a hundred yen altogether.

Being frugal in matters of food, clothing and shelter—I'd sooner hurl myself from cliffs into raging waves than invest such sums in Western attire.

Once at Mr.N's publication party—possessing nothing but my padded tanzen robe—I borrowed full Western regalia from Friend Y: suit, shirt, tie, shoes and socks, attending with servile grins only to face universal disdain—"Western clothes? Novel... but ill-fitting," "Why wear such things?" etc.

Ultimately Friend Y cornered me whispering: "Thanks to you my own suit's reputation's ruined—I can't bear wearing it now either."

Thus ended my sole Western-clad venture.

When would I ever wear Western clothes again? At present I had no intention of spending a hundred yen on new attire, and suspected that day remained far off indeed. For now, I supposed I had no choice but to keep wearing whatever Japanese garments came to hand. As I'd mentioned before, I owned two lined kimonos—though I particularly disliked the silk one. There was a full Kurume kasuri set that I cherished instead. Those unfashionable student-style clothes felt somehow liberating to me. I even wished I could spend my whole life maintaining that scholarly simplicity. On nights before social gatherings, I would fold this kimono and sleep with it spread beneath my futon. Then I'd feel a faint thrill reminiscent of exam eve anticipation. This garment was for me what ceremonial raid attire must be for warriors. When autumn deepened enough that I could swagger about boldly in this kimono, profound relief would wash over me. This stemmed from having no suitable clothes during the transitional period between unlined and lined kimonos. Such transitions always left powerless souls like me floundering—the summer-to-autumn shift plunged me into particular disarray. Lined kimonos remained premature. Though I longed to don my beloved Kurume kasuri lined robe, daytime heat made this unbearable. Clinging to unlined kimonos only emphasized my shabbiness. Given my inherent seediness, hunching trembling through autumn winds might seem fitting—yet people would surely denounce me as a "poverty billboard" or "intimidating beggar." Appearing too extraordinary like Hanshan and Shide to overwhelm others' sensibilities seemed equally ill-advised. Thus I preferred ordinary attire whenever possible. To put it bluntly: I lacked serge. Desperately needed one good serge garment. Truth was I did possess one piece—secretly bought during my fashionable high school days—with pale red stripes crisscrossing vertically and horizontally. When I awoke from my delusions of style, this proved unmistakably unfit for male wear. Clearly women's clothing.

That period was undoubtedly one where I had become completely carried away.
When I consider how I used to wear this indescribably garish kimono for no reason at all, twisting my body as I walked, I can only cover my face and groan.
It’s utterly unwearable.
Even looking at it fills me with disgust.
I had left this stored away in that warehouse for a long time.
However, last autumn, I organized the clothes, blankets, books, and other items in that warehouse a bit, sold off what was unnecessary, and brought home only what seemed essential.
When I brought it home and untied that large furoshiki bundle before my wife, even I couldn’t remain composed.
I found myself blushing slightly.
My pre-marital slovenliness was now laid bare before my eyes in all its starkness.
The soiled yukata had been thrown into the warehouse still soiled; the padded tanzen robe with its torn seat had been rolled up as-is and brought to the warehouse; not a single satisfactory item existed.
Soiled, musty, and all bearing bizarrely gaudy patterns—nothing but articles that could never be mistaken for relics of a proper human being.
As I untied the furoshiki bundle, I engaged in vigorous self-mockery.

“It’s decadent.”
“Might as well sell them to the junk dealer, though.”

“What a waste.”
My wife examined each one without discarding them, saying, “This one’s pure wool, you know.
“Let’s have it remade.”

When I looked, it was that serge kimono.
I was so flustered I wanted to bolt outside.
I was certain I’d left it in the warehouse—to this day I can’t fathom how that serge kimono ended up in the furoshiki bundle.
There must have been a mix-up somewhere.
A complete fiasco.

“That’s something I wore when I was very young.”
“Seems rather flashy, doesn’t it?”
Concealing my inner panic, I said in a casual tone.

“It’s wearable.”
“There’s not a single piece of serge left, you know.”
“The timing couldn’t be better.”

It was utterly unwearable. After ten years of being left stored in the warehouse, the fabric had undergone a bizarre discoloration—so to speak, the color of spoiled yōkan confectionery. The pale red vertical and horizontal stripes now showed a dirty persimmon-brown hue resembling an old woman’s kimono. Appalled anew by the garment’s grotesqueness, I turned my face away.

This autumn there was work I absolutely had to complete that day, so I sprang up early and found an unfamiliar kimono neatly folded by my pillow—that same serge. The autumn chill was setting in. Though it appeared somewhat tidier from being washed and resewn, the fabric’s sickly yōkan-brown hue and stripes’ dirty persimmon tint remained unmistakable. But preoccupied with work that morning and finding clothes too bothersome, I wordlessly threw it on without breakfast and began working. A little past noon when I’d finally finished writing, just as I relaxed—a friend I hadn’t seen in ages dropped by unexpectedly. Perfect timing. We ate together, exchanged small talk, then went out walking. Only upon entering Inokashira Park’s woods near my house did I finally notice my dreadful appearance.

“Ah, this won’t do,” I groaned involuntarily.
“This is bad.”
I came to a complete halt.

“What’s wrong? Is your stomach—” My friend furrowed his brows with concern and stared at my face.

“No, that’s not it.” I forced a bitter smile. “Isn’t this kimono strange?”

“I suppose so,” Friend said seriously. “It does seem a bit flashy.”

“I bought this ten years ago.” I started walking again, “It’s apparently women’s clothing. Plus, the color’s changed, so it’s even more—” I lost all energy to walk.

“It’s fine. It doesn’t stand out that much.”

“I see.” Feeling somewhat reinvigorated, I passed through the woods, descended the stone steps, and walked along the pond’s edge.

It weighed on me relentlessly.
Here I stood at thirty-two—this hulking, unkempt bear of a man who fancied himself somewhat weathered by life’s trials—yet still shuffling through the park in tasteless clown’s garb and battered geta sandals with no earthly purpose.
Strangers would take me for one of those grubby layabouts haunting public spaces.
Even acquaintances would mutter “There he goes again” with deepening contempt, willing me to vanish from their sight.
All my days I’d been branded an oddity.

“How about we head out around Shinjuku?” Friend pressed.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”
I shook my head.
“If someone sees me walking around Shinjuku like this, my reputation will only sink lower.”

“It’s not that bad.”

“No way.”
I stubbornly refused.
“Why don’t we rest at one of the tea shops nearby?”

“I want a proper drink. Let’s go into town.”

“They’ve got beer at that tea shop over there.”
I didn’t want to go into town.
There was the kimono situation, and moreover, the novel I’d finished today was so wretchedly poor that I felt thoroughly irritated.

“Let’s skip the tea shop.”
“It’s too cold for that.”
“I want to find somewhere settled to drink.”
I knew from what I had heard that nothing but unpleasantness had lately been happening to my friend as well.

“Then how about we try Asagaya?”
“As for Shinjuku... let's not.”

“Do you know a decent spot?”

It wasn't particularly a good place—but since I'd frequented there before—I figured even in this bizarre getup I wouldn't arouse suspicion; that even if I underpaid slightly this time there'd be next time; moreover being a no-hostess bar serving only alcohol I probably wouldn't need to worry about appearances either.

At dusk, having disembarked at Asagaya Station and walked through the town with that friend, I felt unbearable. My figure—resembling one of those Kanzan and Jittoku eccentrics—was reflected in the glass of shop display windows. My kimono appeared glaringly red. I recalled an old man forced into a scarlet undergarment for his eighty-eighth birthday celebration. In this harsh modern world where I could contribute nothing positive to society—my literary reputation never improving—I wandered Asagaya in worn-down geta, ten years as unvarying as a single day. Today I had again meticulously donned this red kimono. I might be an eternal failure.

"No matter how old I get, it's always the same," I muttered while walking. "Though I do believe I've been making considerable efforts." A complaint escaped unbidden. "Is this what literature amounts to? I suppose I'm hopeless after all. Still trudging about in this state..."

"One really must maintain proper attire after all," I reflected.

"My friend said with a consoling expression, 'Even someone like me suffers considerable losses at the company.' My friend worked at a company in Fukagawa, but he too seemed disinclined to spend money on clothing."

"No—it wasn't just about clothing. It was something more fundamental—the root mentality itself. I must have received poor upbringing. But still—Verlaine remains good." What connection could possibly exist between Verlaine and this red kimono? Though even I found the association terribly abrupt and embarrassingly forced, whenever I felt myself sinking into degradation and recognized my status as a defeated man, I invariably recalled Verlaine's tear-streaked face—and through this recollection always found salvation. I resolved to keep living. That man's weakness conversely gave me hope to persist. I stubbornly maintain that unless born from timid introspection's extremity, no truly sublime light can emerge. At any rate—I wanted to live longer still. To phrase it differently—with supreme pride and rock-bottom existence—I determined to endure regardless.

“Was Verlaine too grandiose? No matter what I say while wearing this kimono, I won’t find salvation.” I felt utterly defeated.

“No, you’re fine,” my friend replied, merely chuckling under his breath. The streetlights flickered to life.

That night, I made a terrible blunder at the bar.
I had struck that kind friend.
The guilt lay unquestionably with the kimono.
Though I had recently been training myself to endure everything with a smile—so that not a hint of violence remained—that night I went and did it.
I believe everything was due to this red kimono.
The influence clothing exerts on people's hearts and minds is dreadful.
That night, I drank with an abject heart.
Gloomily, I took no pleasure in it.
Showing servile deference even toward the shop owner, I sat drinking in a dimly lit corner.
Yet my friend that night was inexplicably full of vigor—denouncing artists past and present from every corner of the world, his momentum carrying him so far that he turned on the shop owner himself.
I knew this owner's dreadful aspect.
Once before at this establishment, when an unknown youth—much like my friend—had grown rowdy with drink and confronted other patrons, the owner had suddenly assumed a solemn expression as if transformed, declaring: "Do you not know what times these are? You will leave now, and never return."
I thought him a fearsome man.
Now, as my friend railed wildly against the owner, I watched anxiously, certain we would soon suffer expulsion's humiliation.
Under normal circumstances, I would have scorned such disgrace and undoubtedly joined my friend in defiant posturing—but that night, cowed by my bizarre attire, I could only monitor the owner's countenance while whispering repeated admonishments of "Now, now" to my companion.
Yet my friend's words grew ever sharper, until circumstances teetered on expulsion's brink.
At this critical juncture, as a last resort, I recalled the ancient stratagem of Ataka Barrier.
Benkei's merciful beating.
Resolving myself, I struck my friend's cheeks twice—as painlessly as possible yet as loudly as I could manage—with two sharp slaps: whack, whack.

“Pull yourself together,” I said loud enough for the owner to hear. “You’re not usually like this, are you? What’s gotten into you tonight?” Just as I felt relief that we’d avoided expulsion—in that very moment—Yoshitsune rose and charged at Benkei.

“Hey, you went and hit me. I won’t let this stand!” he bellowed. This was no act. The feeble Benkei scrambled up in panic, dodging left and right—until finally came what he’d been awaiting. The owner marched straight to me and declared, “Please leave. You’re disturbing the other customers,” thus pronouncing my expulsion.

Upon reflection, I had indeed been the first to resort to violence. That this constituted Benkei’s desperate disciplinary stratagem was beyond others’ comprehension. Objectively speaking, I remained the clear instigator. Leaving my still-drunk friend shouting behind me, I was driven from the establishment by the owner.

Bitter resentment filled my heart. The fault lay entirely with my clothes. “If only I’d worn proper attire,” mused Benkei in his red kimono as he trudged hunched through Asagaya’s night streets, “the owner might have acknowledged some shred of dignity—spared me expulsion’s shame.”

What I want now is one decent serge suit. Clothes I can wear without self-consciousness. Yet being pathologically stingy about garments, I suspect sartorial tribulations shall plague me still.

An unresolved matter.
What of the national uniform?