Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Osamu Dazai

――My Song of Confinement.

If you read this with too much expectation, I must warn you―it will only cause me trouble.
This might not prove to be such an interesting story.
While it is indeed a tale concerning a thief, I am not chronicling the life of some celebrated master criminal.
It amounts to nothing more than my own impoverished account of experience.
Let me be clear―this does not mean I myself have ever committed theft.
Five years ago I fell ill and sent questionable letters to friends far and wide to borrow money―this accumulated until it surpassed two hundred yen, and even now five years later I still find myself unable to repay it. Failing to return borrowed money constitutes magnificent fraudulence, yet my friends not only refrain from suing me but even when encountering me on the street go so far as to inquire after my health with concern.
I must repay!
Never have I forgotten this.
Please grant me a little more time.
I shall surely regain my footing with lucidity.
I have always been wretchedly inept at self-defense.
Moreover, to mount a defense regarding my private life within such a work strikes me as patently heretical.
It also seems to me that artworks must be treated as artworks―handled separately and with due care.
I may perhaps be evolving into that breed of narrative supremacist.
As for failings in one’s private life, there exists no recourse but to demonstrate them through that very private existence itself.
Bear witness.
In time I shall become a man capable of conversing with you gentlemen without a single shadow lurking behind.
This constitutes an unvarnished promise―so starkly earnest in its absence of falsehoods that it verges on disillusioning―but my reason for making such an unrefined confession now is solely to declare that while I may have committed this crime of outstanding debts, never once have I engaged in thievery.
As for thievery―I have never done it.

It may seem absurdly trivial to dwell on this, but there is a reason for that as well. Generally speaking, I am misunderstood. It's utter madness. Indeed, I have received as many as five or six terrible adjectives too unbearable to utter. This is my fault. The one who first devised those terrible adjectives, fashioned them into my crown, and wore them smugly was none other than myself. This very I. In the world of art, it is the transgressors who hold sway—who was it that taught me this adage? I truly believed it. In high school days, if a man had a brawler's scar on his cheek, unkempt hair and grimy face, wore tattered Western clothes, and staggered drunk through main streets bellowing verses—that man was hailed as a hero, as the Almighty, even as a paragon of success. I thought the world of art was much the same. It is mortifying.

My vices are all counterfeits.
I suppose I must confess.
They're mere gestures.
Makoto was timidly cautious, sweetly frail, somewhat dull-witted—a child so inferior that without drinking sake he couldn't properly face people; in short, a quivering defective.
To think this wretch—after reading Alexandre Dumas' grand romance and becoming enraptured, flushing crimson as he burst from his study shouting "Choose d'Artagnan as my comrade!" before plunging into taverns—it's unbearable.
Utter madness.
Truly an escape with his life barely intact.

The man who repeats the same failure twice is a fool.
Presumptuous arrogance beyond one's station.
This time I too took precautions.
I donned full armor.
I put on two or even three layers of armor.
I over-armored myself.
I became immobilized.
I didn’t take a single step out of my room.
When I heard a certain visitor carelessly let slip "waste of a person," even I felt unpleasant.

Now clad only in sandals, I hold one sturdy shield.
I now stand wary of Public Opinion.
"What crime have I ever committed against the people?"
Yet now they say I am no friend of the people at all.
I marvel at how easily men are misunderstood in the court of Public Opinion.
"Is it not astonishing," laments even a man of Goethe's stature to Mr. Eckermann?
Moreover, since childhood I have held an immense fondness for the writer Goldsmith—yet this writer revered but one person throughout his life:
The Vicar of Wakefield.
That is to say, a character appearing in Goldsmith's own novel.
He revered that man alone.
He revered him utterly.

That man was truly, thoroughly an accomplished vicar.
I too secretly revere him.
Even that splendid vicar—when he once went to sell his aged beloved horse at market, having it walk in different gaits to show merchants—found his cherished horse mercilessly disparaged through their harsh criticisms. He confessed: "I myself ultimately came to feel heartfelt contempt for this pitiful creature, growing ashamed whenever buyers approached." Though adding, "I didn't wholly believe their words, I couldn't help but think the witnesses' sheer number lent weight to their claims."
"It seems Saint Gregory held similar views about good deeds," he sighed with deep resignation.
Even one as virtuous as the Vicar of Wakefield proves no exception.
How then could someone like me—a talentless scholar lacking virtue—ever disregard Public Opinion?
Far from ignoring it, I'd lived entirely for Public Opinion.
Alas, my song—conceived in vanity, culminating in applause.
In youth, this took form through impatient striving.
Frankly, zealously berating my past failures makes poor spectacle.
Is this not repulsive?
A face cleansed of remorse now that deeds are done—Salvation Army zealot or such.
I do resemble that.
Again like some scolded servant scratching his head—"Ah yes... The more I ponder, the shallower my thoughts prove"—eheh heh heh—not thinking at all, just currying his master's favor.
Do I not resemble this? Do I not? It gnaws at me.

I did not resemble it. Not at all—I did not resemble it. They were entirely different things altogether. I actually went as far as I could go on my own until reaching an impasse, wandered about in utter confusion, groaned and grunted, then trudged back dejectedly. What proved more significant was this single fact: that my so-called impasse had been nothing more than an impasse in livelihood. It was absolutely not an impasse in my works. Regarding the dozens of novels I had continued publishing these past five or six years, I still felt no shame. Occasionally I would reread those novels of mine. There were times when even I myself thought they were well-written. However, I had to exclude two or three sickbed notes from those dozens of past novels. This was—and I say this with "absolutely" used twice—something I must absolutely exclude. Now upon rereading, even to myself, passages of unclear meaning were scattered throughout those works. The mere fact that passages of unclear meaning were scattered throughout was something I had to feel deeply ashamed of. This was certainly a dishonorable work for me.

However, just because I continue to support my previous dozens of novels, it is a mistake to assume I am naive.
Even according to my recent deep reconsideration, what might be called my critical eye for works is absolutely—and I say "absolutely" three times here—absolutely not a fraud.
I am a man with no redeeming qualities, but literature alone do I love.

The phrase "more than three meals a day" was not entirely a metaphor for me.
In truth, had there been a good work to read, I would have forgone three meals at once, immersing myself in it without feeling any pain whatsoever.
I was such a fool.
When I had gained this clarity about myself, I felt compelled to once again value Public Opinion.
In the past, Public Opinion had been the entirety of life to me; thus fearful of it, I deliberately feigned indifference, and in rebellion against it raged—when people said right, I meaninglessly strayed left, striving there to flaunt my own loftiness.
But now, it became one-on-one with anyone.
This was both my confidence and my humility.
I must not lose to anyone.
To concede victory—what arrogance! Nay—what baseness of spirit!
There was neither yielding nor refusing to yield.
Victory—that required considerable effort indeed.
If one were to truly empty oneself and be placed under the karmic fate of living burdened with responsibilities in livelihood—even for some trivial relative among one’s kin—how could one retain even a shred of leisure?
Regarding Public Opinion, Goethe still taught valuable lessons.
I had lately come to revere none other than Goethe as my teacher, devoting myself entirely to looking up to and learning from him.
Goethe had lived an exceptionally long life.
In that aspect alone, he seemed more reliable than Kleist or Tōkoku, offering far more to learn from.
A certain poor writer who had despaired of both his talent and erudition now appeared to have abandoned all hope, secretly devising health regimens in an attempt to compensate through longevity alone.

"But when all is said and done," Goethe pronounced with a sigh to Mr. Eckermann, delivering his conclusion.
"In the end, restricting and isolating oneself is the supreme art."

This conclusion of Goethe’s must indeed be a well-aimed needle to the crown—for someone like me, a writer of such mercurial temperament.
With far too many hunting dogs—this one and that one, perhaps every breed from across the globe—the young master set out triumphantly for the hunt; yet no sooner had he taken a few steps from his home than those hundreds of hounds scattered in all directions, leaving him—resplendent in his fine hunting attire—swiftly bewildered and tumbling head over heels.
It was only natural.
After that, I made efforts to part with each of these expensively acquired hunting dogs one by one.
Even the splendid purebred hunting dogs that never grew attached to me—I tearfully parted with them.
Who let them go?
Of course, it was I.
However, Public Opinion also forced me to relinquish two or three of those hunting dogs.

When introducing a character referred to as "I" in a novel, one requires an extremely cautious approach.
This tendency seems particularly pronounced in this country regarding fiction—yet people everywhere have since antiquity clung to the pernicious habit of interpreting it as the author's personal scandal, criticizing and sneering with affected refinement.
Truly, this is a pernicious habit.
I now realize.
Even a poet as free-spirited as Pushkin—when narrating his Onegin—had to insist: This protagonist isn't me; I'm another utterly insignificant man; Onegin isn't me.
Such disclaimers are tediously reiterated—moreover, even a man like Dostoevsky, who spent his life pursuing eternal love, bestowed names like Raskolnikov or Dmitri upon his protagonists, never presenting an "I."
On those rare occasions when they do include an "I," they describe it as a mediocre, mild-mannered bystander—so virtuous as to be exasperating—a character wholly relegated to the story's margins.
Even Doyle—had he published that great detective under the name "I" instead of Sherlock Holmes to heighten verisimilitude—it's doubtful he could have enjoyed such tranquil twilight years.

Even when writing I-novels, authors generally portray themselves as 'good children.'
"Has there ever been an autobiographical novel protagonist who wasn’t a 'good child'?"
I recall that Akutagawa Ryunosuke too had written down such reflections on some occasion.
In fact, I found myself caught by such doubts and attempted to portray the protagonist called "I" as the worst-natured, most demonic being.
I thought it more honorable to remain resolute than to awkwardly play the "good child" and court people's sympathy.
That was my mistake.
In this world, there seems to exist a limit inherent to this very world.
Even men of Mérimée and Gogol’s stature did not dare do such things during their lifetimes; it is posterity that evaluates the demon in those novels as being Gogol himself or Mérimée’s own cruelty—once a work becomes a classic, either interpretation becomes permissible.
However, whether Mérimée or Gogol—or, for that matter, as I now suddenly recall, even figures of Chateaubriand and Pascal’s stature—how they must have considered the public opinion of their times and persisted in unseen desperate struggles! I have come to realize this, and it even moves me to tears.

I ponder deeply.
Correcting Public Opinion—this is no simple task.
I have no position to exploit, no power, no money—nothing at all.
Yet here I am, with nothing but a pen, thinking and thinking as I write each character one by one, attempting to make corrections—truly a fragile effort.
Truly, destruction takes but an instant; construction a century.
I certainly was in the wrong.
I had been trying to become a living classic.
I had thought it was possible to become one.
I am shamelessly improper in my conduct.
From this day forth, I shall pay full heed to Public Opinion—embracing what merits acceptance, correcting what stands erroneous.

Yet again, isn't this a matter concerning my private life? Didn't you just explicitly state moments ago that adding excuses about private life to a story is heresy? Isn't this contradictory? It is not contradictory. As we are now entering the novel's world, readers must pay close attention.

Recovery, as I said earlier, is no easy matter.
The reason being that when I speak of the thief, such lengthy prefatory remarks were necessary.
Since I came closer to ruin through ill repute concerning my real life, my character, and my constitution than through my works, even now when narrating a fiction, this degree of caution was necessary.
Those who can love fiction as fiction are fortunate.
However, the world is not composed solely of such discerning individuals.

I had actually intended to confess this story with an air of authenticity—an account of my experience when financial desperation drove me to commit theft.
It would surely have made a realistically rendered, profoundly engaging tale.
My fictions are too meticulously crafted; whenever people—even someone extraordinary—or perhaps...
Such suspicions arise—"Even someone extraordinary might...?"—and I myself grow uneasy enough to think "Or perhaps...?" It's through such things that I've already shattered my close relatives' trust.
Even someone like me—if put on trial for an innocent crime—might be pressured by the prosecutor into helplessly confessing to charges dozens of times graver than the alleged offense, crimes deserving capital punishment.
Though fundamentally an intangible transgression, because my testimony then became excruciatingly detailed and unnervingly convincing, the prosecutor would declare the charges evident and evidence sufficient—leaving me looking the perfect fool.
This must be the result of having whiled away over twenty years doing nothing but lose myself in trivial storybooks.
I must somehow preserve—to some degree—the romanticism that has seeped into my very marrow.
I must learn the proper measure of all things.
I must transform myself into something of a mediocrity.
For the bitter truth is I now find myself in circumstances where I must survive into my sixties or seventies and become a man worthy of being called a venerated master.
I made that promise to many people.
I must not betray them.
Now I even bear obligations to care for several individuals.
Those few readers of noble taste must secretly lament this ossification of my bones.
For that—thank you.
You were ever kind.
May you stay well—stay well forever—please live on.
Yet I cannot linger like this, idle and dependent on you.
If I keep silent, I'll struggle even to secure tomorrow's bread.

Ah, if only I were a little wealthier!

For various reasons, I myself was forced to abandon the thrilling tale of vice about infiltrating a certain lakeside castle.
In that old castle there was also a beautiful, lonely young lady resembling Ophelia.
I shall not speak of any of it now.
If I grow complacent and—riding that momentum—start recounting a thief’s experiences with excruciating detail, people will whisper among themselves: “That one’s capable of thievery,” and I may yet again find myself saddled with outrageous slander beyond measure.
Therefore, when I have become somewhat more esteemed—when public opinion regarding my character has improved enough that my current real life can at least be conveyed as it is—then I too shall boldly employ “I” as my protagonist and show you every model of vice.
I mustn’t do it now.
It’s sad, but I mustn’t.

The next story I shall relate is also fiction.
Last night, I was visited by a thief.
And that is a lie.
All of it is a lie.

The absurdity of my having to make such disclaimers.
I ended up giggling to myself.

Last night, I was surprised.
It’s no laughing matter.
I was truly shocked.
For the first time since being born, I was visited by a thief.
Moreover, foolishly, I even attempted a question-and-answer exchange with that thief.
To put it grandly, the two of us sat facing each other and spent the night earnestly baring our hearts.
From the start, I had never been accustomed to the breed of humans known as thieves.
This is no joke.
Truly, it was the first time since being born that I had seen a thief.
I had clearly witnessed a fire from start to finish during my fourth year of middle school, but encountering a thief was a first.
Fire—that too remains a curious thing.
Though my neighbor’s house was burning, I found myself absentmindedly resting my cheek on my hand at the second-floor window, gazing entranced.
It was a morning at the end of autumn.
They say you could see it as clearly as if holding it in your hand—in truth, the burning eaves of my neighbor’s house and the windowsill where I leaned my cheek were no more than two ken apart. Soon flames spread even to the persimmon tree at their roof’s edge; its dead leaves burned with a crisp, cool sound, shriveling black and brittle until one flaming branch hung so near my second-floor window that I could have snapped it off by merely reaching out. There, within arm’s reach, I watched the fire unfold.
The sequence of flames before the eaves caught fire held a peculiar fascination.
First came bluish-white flames creeping along the eaves—flickering like mice—as small triangular flames lined up like saw teeth and flared up like gas lamps being lit along the edge before vanishing instantly.
Gas must have gushed from the timber of the eaves due to the heat and ignited there first.
Then the bluish flames would creep along again—no sooner had they stretched out than the line of fire shriveled back before extending once more.
Advancing and retreating—after repeating this five or six times—a rough whooshing sound erupted as the eaves burst into flames all at once.
This time, they truly burned.

Black smoke and the crackling sound of wood bursting.
The genuine malignant flames crept forth.
They had the color of clotted blood.
Tea-brown.
They carried the menace of thorned poison.
"Crimson lotus"—the term missed the mark.
This was more congealed, denser.
Truly ferocious in aspect.
Coiling yet fierce—ah, they resembled nothing so much as vipers.
I even felt stabbing heat upon my eyebrows.
Fire holds an uncanny stench.
The reek of burning herring.
Raw-fish pungency.
In the end, mere matter combusting—yet fire feels unscientific somehow.
Chairs burning, pillars burning—such things defy ordinary imagination.
Were I to douse a shoji in gasoline and strike a match, yes, it would blaze fiercely enough—but that’s the limit of what I can picture. A great pillar like that consumed by roaring flames? Utterly mystifying.
Fire is spiritual.
I find myself contemplating religion.
By karmic debt it ignites; by divine will it vanishes to void.
Human intention cannot sway it.

And yet theft—compared to fire, though equally a calamity—lacks such religious dimensions.
Far from being religious—it is thoroughly human-made from start to finish.
But even in this, there is something mysterious.
In the very extremity of human artifice, don’t you get the sense that some divine will comes fluttering down?
The Eiffel Tower undergoes a change in height of nearly seven shaku between night and day—this belongs to that category.
Iron does expand and contract somewhat with heat, but even so, a variation of nearly seven shaku seems excessively dramatic.
That is what’s mysterious.
Divine Will—one cannot help but consider it.
Even in my recent theft, there were indeed numerous mysteries.

Firstly, there was that dream of unsightly muddy boots.
I had dreamed truly unpleasant large muddy boots.
Now that I consider it, that had been an oracle from dreams.
This was certain.
I must raise an alarm to you gentlemen.
Should you dream of muddy boots, resolve yourselves—within a week’s time a thief shall surely visit.
You must believe me.
For indeed while I dreamed those enormous muddy boots—with none sounding warning for me—though unease gnawed at me yet I remained unable to decipher the dream’s true meaning, fumbling confusedly until at last I was visited by that thief—was I not?
There was more.
When utterly senseless absurd words slip unbidden from your lips—heed this warning.
Without fail shall a thief come calling ere long.
In my own case—the phrase “He who came was a Gascon soldier”—utterly meaningless yet uncannily absurd—had slipped wholly unexpected from my mouth.
Nor once or twice only.
Recklessly would I utter it anywhere without restraint.
“He who came was a Gascon soldier.”
A phrase devoid entirely of interest.
What meaning could it hold? Even through my own pondering no clarity came.
Even then disquiet gripped me.
Now reflecting upon it—truly there had been foreboding in my breast.
This must have been what they term an insect’s warning.

But I never dreamed this could be a precursor to a thief’s intrusion.
I had thought—how mortifying—that this was due to my own excessive erudition.
I remembered.
In Chekhov’s plays too, there’s a certain dull-witted good-natured man who says, “At the critical moment, the bear pinned down the woman.”
“At the critical moment, the bear pinned down the woman.”
“Hmm, what on earth is this about?”
That day, since morning, this phrase kept slipping out uncontrollably.
“At the critical moment, the bear pinned down the woman—or so it goes,” I would spout—this utterly lackluster, nonsensical phrase—nonetheless with some pride, still satisfied with my own excessive erudition, incessantly repeating it while pacing about the salon. I recalled that all the other salon patrons were equally at a loss with this, but if it were now, I would rise abruptly from the audience seats and shout a warning to that good-natured character in the play.
“Watch out!
You will be visited by a thief within a week.”

Unfortunately, I had no well-meaning soul to kindly warn me in that manner.
Blind to its nature as a manifestation of divine omen, I shamefully—yet with perverse pride—kept repeating that idiotic phrase over and over: this must be from Plutarch’s Lives, I told myself, attributing it to my overflowing literary education that I couldn’t quite sort out, all while trying to placate the anxiety welling up in my chest—ah, if only there were a hole to crawl into.

Now that I think about it, there were many other strange omens as well. I was seized by a violent fit of hiccups. I pinched my nose, spun around three times, then with one hand bowed twice over a glass of water and drank it in one gulp—this charm I tried over and over, persistently, but to no avail. My ears itched incessantly. This too was suspicious. They itched so much as to suggest some abnormality. There were various others. I suddenly wanted to drink sake. I thought about planting tomatoes in the garden. I felt the urge to write a letter to my mother in my hometown inquiring after her well-being. All these sudden impulses could undoubtedly be considered precursors to the thief’s intrusion. Readers, you had best be on your guard. The words of those with firsthand experience must be believed.

At last came April 17—yesterday. It was a bad day. From morning onward, I was plagued by hiccups. They say if hiccups persist for twenty-four hours, one dies. Yet they rarely last that long. Thus people hardly ever die from hiccups. My own continued from eight in the morning until dusk—ten full hours. A close call. I nearly died. When twilight fell at last and the hiccups subsided, I sat perfectly composed before my desk. Hiccups work this way—the moment they cease, you become perfectly composed. That tremendous pain from mere moments ago gets utterly—completely—rooted out and forgotten. Ah! Not even a wisp of memory remained of how dreadful those hiccups had been—my mind now clear as cloudless azure skies, settled as though since ancient times I'd never known such affliction. Seated at my desk, I suddenly felt an absurd impulse to write my mother in the countryside—my first letter inquiring after her health in ten years. Then—

A faint, crackling sound came from outside the window.
It was indeed the sound of an umbrella being stealthily opened.
From around sunset, the rain had begun to fall coldly.
Someone must be standing outside.
I opened the window without hesitation.
Twilight—what they call the hour when demons roam—hung thick and murky.
I could make out a faintly white, round shape atop the fence.
Looking closely, it was a human face.

“The one who came was a Gascon soldier.”
That meaningless, absurd phrase that had become a verbal tic.
That phrase had burst forth from my mouth as if by sudden compulsion.
Then, as if those words were some kind of ward against evil, the small face atop the fence—its features blurred, resembling a rice paddle—vanished in an instant.
In its place, white plum blossoms were blooming.

I felt more insult than fear.
"They're mocking me," I thought.
Had I been my usual self, here I would have reflected on that utterly unpleasant dream of muddy boots and all the subsequent bizarre phenomena occurring about my person—moreover, having now witnessed with these very eyes a strange demonic entity—there would be no time for hesitation; I would have sternly warned my family that some calamity was about to befall this house, rigorously secured the doors, maintained utmost vigilance against fire, and left no precaution neglected. Yet alas, in my present state, I lacked even that modicum of composure.
The moment I thought I had somehow managed to honestly express my own fury and despair, the world sneered and raised its hand to brand my forehead with the mark of “incurable idiot.”
No good!
I realized and struggled free.
It was a close call.
Like hell I’d take that brand.
I am now in a critical state.
Truth itself—I want to love it, to advocate for its sake. Even those weak yet precious things that hold such value—I feel as though I’ve found them now.
More than anything now, first and foremost, I want my own words to carry authority.
If everything I say is dismissed as madness and met with indifference, I might as well maintain my silence.
The blank visage at passion’s extremity.
Let me become that smiling Noh mask.
In this world, to have authority in one’s statements, first one must maintain a modest household of ordinary townspeople and in the form of their daily life, be desireless.

A stance where no one points a finger at you from behind—a shrewdness born of will. Strictly adhere through wisdom to society's ordinary precepts, and then—just watch—I'll churn out murder novels, then even more terrifying novels, treatises, whatever I please. Exhilarating! How clever Ōgai was. He properly carried it out while feigning ignorance. Even half of that would suffice—I want to try it. This isn't a return to the mundane. A sincere and overwhelming revenge against the mundane. Could the mummy hunter become a mummy? It's a common occurrence. Enough, enough. I can hear such voices, but nevertheless, I'm not embarking on any adventure. The mention of someone like Ōgai makes it all sound grandiose, but concretely speaking, it simply means: don't lean too heavily on society's goodwill. "But when all is said and done," Didn't Goethe solemnly teach us? "To restrict oneself and isolate oneself—that is the supreme art." It seems there's no danger of becoming a mummy.

Everything stems from my own weakness—though I grant myself such heavy, dull self-affirmation—everything from weakness and self-obsession, I myself destroyed my own home.
I've torn it all to pieces.
I’ve reached the point where I don’t even have decent clothes to wear outside.
This can't go on.
If I go around spouting maxims stripped down to a loincloth, I must look like some kind of fool.
Moreover, even those maxims feel unreliable to me.
Here I am, belatedly treasuring each mundane realization one by one, grieving over them, rejoicing in them, sighing at them—such is my state.
It’s my sluggishness.
Lately, I've grown noticeably sluggish again.
For now, I must first gradually rebuild my life and create a modest household of ordinary townspeople.
That comes first.
Dazai is clever too.
No matter what I say, if people won’t engage with me, there’s simply no recourse.
I'm not really such a liar to begin with.
I want authority.
Taking responsibility even five, ten years after my death—every single sentence I painstakingly write through relentless deliberation gets dismissed as counterfeit—“Ah, what genius!”—and made a laughingstock. Doesn’t that infuriate you?
To fight honorably, words alone aren’t enough.
Letters alone aren’t enough.
I have now come to understand the mechanism of this disillusioned world.
The art world was also, after all, the same struggle for survival.

Stop thinking!
I must not lose.
All equally mediocre, like acorns in a row.

Striving single-mindedly for the so-called improvement of my livelihood, I had even grown somewhat foolish of late.
Action always assumed the form of collapse.
Inevitably, in one aspect, I was an idiot.
Perfection was often discovered in the form of stillness.
Or else it ran at a speed imperceptible to the eye—it had to be one or the other.
The beauty and terror of a silent writer also resided there, but I could not afford such allure now.
If I kept dawdling, that cruel brand would be pressed firmly against my forehead.
If it were pressed upon me, that would be that.
Far from being able to care for the few people I had obligations to, I myself was an ailing wayfarer.
The situation was growing tense.
There was no other choice now but to become that obese, ugly-faced great Balzac.
I wanted to die while still young—ah, I wanted to die—but it would not come to pass.
Staggering, tripping, rising—lately, I cut a pitiful figure.
When existing in such obstinate—nay, blindly advancing—conditions, I, through God's special providence, had been bestowed with numerous warnings; yet alas, being unable to decipher their true intent, I carelessly neglected my vigilance until the very moment before the thief's invasion. Regarding this matter, I believed generous readers would deem it pitiable rather than worthy of censure.
I repeated—I was by no means neglecting my home.
I loved home.
I loved it next to literature.
But between rebuilding the old house and adjusting my presentable clothes—agonizing in such a frenzy—my very drive for improvement made me utterly forget to safeguard what mattered.
The limits of human ability were a thing beyond remedy.
Indeed, in one respect, I had been negligent.

It was indeed the very form of collapse.
Even when encountering those strange, faintly pale human faces that appeared and vanished, I simply felt humiliated and refrained from deeper inquiry.
There were too many other matters demanding consideration—those twilight faces scarcely registered.
They're mocking me.
Muttering this, I snapped the window shut and laboriously set about writing insipid sweet tales.
This is my vocation.
There is nothing I can do but write stories.
I possess absolutely no talent whatsoever.
I'm impressed with myself.

At times I envied those desperately seeking official posts; though I never imagined attempting to enter beyond the door of Butsuri Soshitsu’s inner chamber, I yearned for the stance of standing at a lectern to scold students, was enraptured by the figure of a stoker controlling a locomotive, felt purity in bank clerks examining ledgers with solemnity, was overwhelmed by the gravitas of doctors’ gold chains, once secretly climbed a hilltop and even practiced delivering impassioned patriotic speeches—but now I had abandoned all such aspirations.
No matter what I was made to do, I remained a hopeless man.
I had confirmed it.
And so I wrote trivial stories that even to myself seemed unremarkable.
I sat dutifully before my desk until past nine o'clock at night, continuing my work.
I had grown weary.
I had grown thoroughly sick of it.
I suddenly wanted to drink sake but thought of my household finances and restrained myself.
And so I decided to sleep.
Lately I had been strictly adhering to early bedtimes and early risings.
It stemmed from a desperate resolve to approximate—even slightly—the way of life of ordinary citizens.
Waking up early wasn't particularly painful.
Being prone to old man’s wakefulness, there were even times when I found myself eagerly awaiting dawn.
My hours of sleep were short.
Some part of my body might have turned old.
In the morning, when I dawdled in bed, nothing but tormenting matters vivid enough to make one writhe came swarming back—it became unbearable.
Moreover, since this room had frosted glass windows across its entire eastern side, light flooded the eight-tatami space at sunrise with such dazzling intensity that staying asleep proved impossible.
I took advantage of this situation—not out of poverty (though that played its part)—by deliberately keeping the windows curtainless, proudly declaring this direct morning sunlight my luxurious alarm clock while springing up the instant daylight poured in.
Waking early proved manageable through these means, but going to bed early left me utterly confounded.
Since this was the countryside, complete silence fell after eight o'clock.

Occasionally, dogs would howl at the moon in fear.
Because I leapt out of bed absurdly early in the morning, by the time night passed eight o'clock, I myself grew thoroughly sick of it.
I woke and grew tired of moving about.
I want to sleep.
I grew sick of thinking about things.
I want to sleep and see aimless dreams.
Dreaming is my only pleasure.
I got up early in the morning, though my efficiency didn’t improve in the slightest. Still, afraid to idle, I usually sat at my desk all day pretending to study.
Even just going through the motions, tying myself to my desk and fidgeting about, by nightfall my body had grown quite weary.
There were even times when I was utterly exhausted.
Since my body isn’t particularly robust, I must go to bed soon.
I slept.
But I couldn’t fall asleep right away.
I absolutely could not sleep.
My body felt uncomfortably flushed; the skin on my cheeks was taut and hot.
I tossed and turned.
It was agonizing.
I’d been completely at my wit’s end and even chanted “Namu Amida Butsu” at the top of my voice over a hundred times.
At such times, unable to bear it, I got up and drank two—no, three—bowls of cold sake.
Even model citizen life became somewhat dubious here.

But let there be no misunderstanding. In such situations, I did engage in a somewhat reckless manner of drinking, but that was all there was to it. I never resorted to improper words or deeds while intoxicated. I drank, remained silent as I was, and immediately went back to sleep. Even as the dizzying swirl of drunkenness came over me, I lay perfectly still beneath the futon. Eventually, I would grow sleepy.

A certain senior, concerned about my health, advised me not to drink too much.
In response, I spoke of the torment of sleepless nights.
At that moment, the senior encouraged me heartily,

“What are you talking about?!”
“Isn’t that precisely the ideal time to work out your novel’s plot?”
“Don’t you see what a waste this is?!”

I had nothing to say. I felt grateful. It seeped into my very innards. From then on, I made the effort. I beat down, beat down the cobra-like scream of my insomnia threatening to rear its head, uttered not a single prayer of mercy, gritted my teeth as I pondered my novel’s plot, and thus devoted myself solely to awaiting sleep’s arrival. It was sheer torment. To put it plainly, I was wrestling with sleep itself. I was locked in mortal combat with slumber. With long slender antennae groping through the void, should I chance upon even a wisp of sleep faint as smoke—let it escape? Never—I’d seize it tight, frantically tear open my own breastplate, force that smoke of oblivion deep into the wound’s recesses, then sway those antennae once more. Is there no sleep? No deeper, deeper sleep? Shamefully—shamefully—I crave unconsciousness’s embrace. Ah, I am sleep’s mendicant.

Last night too, I was doing just that.
Well, she—no, he—went out to Yokohama to go fishing.
There were no places in Yokohama suitable for fishing.
No—there might have been.
There might have been gobies.
There was a military ship.
It was dressed overall.
I had to make use of this.
Here, I added a touch of contemporary relevance.
If I did that, people might call me healthy.
Someone called out, “Hey!”
Someone answered, “Hey!”
White parasol.
A cherry blossom branch.
Farewell, hometown.
A splash of waves.
He broke the fishing rod.
A seagull stole the fish.
Merci, Madame.
Oh, a whistle sounded.

—I didn't know what any of this meant.
It was utter nonsense.
This was the plot of my novel.
Come morning, it would become one of hundreds of outlines I'd blithely forget.
Again and again I thought of plots—no—patterns.
They appeared and vanished, appeared and vanished—ah, if only sleep would come.
When I closed my eyes, flowers swirled behind my eyelids—plankton, bacteria, lightning bolts all burning in a whirl.
Maybe it was trachoma.
"If we speak of indiscriminate hair," Yoshisaburō grew mournful; when I said "I'm sixteen," Oshichi replied "I'm sixteen too"; when Yoshisaburō added "The elder priest terrifies me," I echoed "The elder priest terrifies me"; Saikaku back then—was he forty-five?
The prime age, it seemed.
"An onnagata comes to know maidens at forty."
This morning's paper had carried that Shinpa actor's reminiscences—forty? He could've endured longer.
—And so I drifted from plot outlines until finally tallying debts—how vulgar.
Sleep was impossible.
My eyes had grown razor-sharp.
Had I been at this two hours?
Beneath the futon's edge came the grating clamor of a rat gnawing wood.
Abandoning sleep at last, I snapped open my tightly shut eyes.
Infuriating—I made them pop audibly.
The room hung dimly green.

Even in darkness I couldn't sleep; if bright, of course I couldn't sleep—so I covered the electric lamp with a green cloth.
Green seemed good for sleep.
This cloth was something I'd picked up from the road.
I'd taken an eight-paneled black cloth to town to buy beef; walking while pondering various things, I suddenly noticed the cloth was gone.
Thinking I must have dropped it, I immediately turned back and was searching everywhere when a young wife from another house laughed and informed me, "A cloth? There it is."
Looking over, I saw a green merino cloth lying before the greengrocer's shop.
Though it seemed different from mine—or perhaps this was it? No, this must have been it—I thought. Not wanting to spurn her kindness, I thanked her and took the cloth. After finishing my shopping at the butcher's and returning home, still feeling odd, when I undid my obi the black cloth came fluttering down.
For a moment I stood confounded.
The green cloth I'd retrieved was merino fabric riddled with twenty or thirty small holes.
Thinly soiled, one might say.
I could've gone to discard it before the greengrocer's again, but had some other woman called out "You've dropped your cloth," I'd have had to thank her and bring this tattered thing home once more.
Futile indeed.
I resolved to keep the cloth temporarily at my house.
Any ordinary upstanding citizen placed in such circumstances would surely do the same.
I absolutely didn't steal it.
Having stuffed my own cloth too deep into my pocket and forgotten about it—assuming I'd dropped it—I'd been searching frantically when that woman kindly pointed it out; gratefully taking it home only to find it wasn't mine after all.
That's all there was to it.
Could this be criminal?
No—I certainly didn't consider this green cloth my own property.
Wanting to return it but having no means to do so, here it remained in my temporary custody.

I didn't know whose hands had used it before.
When I considered it properly, the thing was downright filthy.
Now regarding my rationale for using this green cloth as a lampshade—let me make clear it wasn't born from some underhanded scheme to sterilize its grimy bacteria with bulb heat before claiming permanent ownership.
Nothing of the sort.
Since I harbored absolutely no such wicked intentions, and since I fully intended to return it whenever possible—wanting instead to display it openly where all might see—it was precisely this upright mentality that led me to employ it as a lamp cover.
That must be the truth of it.
Moreover, green being famously conducive to sleep made this arrangement doubly fortuitous.
The electric lamp swathed in green cloth cast a dampened glow through the room. My desk, brazier, ink bottle and ashtray sat in mute repose. I surveyed them with spiteful detachment before deciding a cigarette might relieve this peculiar listlessness—but as I began rolling onto my stomach within the futon, that rasping sound resumed beneath me: rat teeth gnawing timber.
When I jerked my gaze toward the noise—
Behold.

A hand.

The edge of the shutter had been slightly broken, and from there emerged a white hand—a round, feminine hand—sliding out smoothly. Ah, attempting to remove the inner crossbar of the shutter, it waved loosely as if beckoning someone closer.

Thief!
It was a thief.
A thief.
There was now no room for doubt.
I confess.
I nearly lost consciousness.
My breath became so constricted I could barely draw air—remaining frozen in a posture of momentary shock, I solidified into complete immobility.
I couldn’t move a single finger.
Like palm leaves, my fingers remained splayed wide; like a puppet with glass-bead eyes stretched to their limits, I didn’t so much as twitch.
Extreme fear does indeed stir up gale-like carnal desire.
That must be it.
Fear and carnal desire seem to have always been sisters.
That does seem to be the case.
I was done in by that guy.
Staggering to my feet, I approached the shutters and suddenly enveloped that hand completely with both of mine, clasping it with all my heart.
No sooner had the frenzied impulse to press my cheek against that hand surged up than I managed to restrain it.
While I kept gripping it, outside the shutters came a faint, mosquito-like pitiful voice—

“Please forgive me.”

I suddenly became aware of my victory.
When I came to my senses, it was I who had emerged victorious.
I grabbed the thief by the hand.
The moment I thought this, a spinning vertigo began simultaneously, and an immense illusion arose—as if I myself had somehow transformed into a terrifyingly grand hero.
Do you readers not remember this?
I had indeed become carried away by my own unexpected success.

“There—I’ll let go of your hand. Now I’ll open these shutters for you.”

"What on earth had possessed me to utter such an odd remark? No matter how much I later pondered it, the reason never became clear."
At that moment, I thought I was keeping my composure.
I had been certain of myself—had spoken with what I believed to be a convincing expression and solemn tone—but now that I think about it, it was anything but ordinary.
In other words, I might have been the type to maintain an air of composure while being utterly dumbfounded.

I opened the shutters,

“There, come in.”
This had truly been disastrous.
Without question, I belonged to that breed who remain outwardly composed while inwardly unhinged.
There’s even an Edo-period jest about such people, isn’t there?
When a household won the lottery and erupted in celebration, the master scoffed at their frenzy—“What’s all the commotion? A mere thousand ryō. I believe I’ll visit the bathhouse for a soak”—and having declared this with perfect dignity, he settled into the steaming tub... only to suddenly discover he’d kept his tabi socks on.
Precisely—I was cut from that very cloth.
Truly, beyond any doubt.
Drunk on my own bravado, I’d gone and ushered the thief into my home myself.

“Hand over the money.”
The thief lumbered into the room and immediately spoke in an absurdly solemn voice that made him seem like a completely different person from the one who had just been tearfully begging for forgiveness.
He was a terribly small man.
He had sloping shoulders and seemed inwardly ashamed of them; though he conspicuously stuck out his elbows and squared his shoulders in an effort to disguise this, all that trouble proved futile—his slender, gently sloping shoulders, like those of a female impersonator, bathed in the lamp’s green light, remained unmistakably so.
His neck was long and spindly, plant-like in its delicacy; he wore a black cold-prevention mask and had pulled down a gray oversized hunting cap so tightly that his ears were completely hidden; yet even so, his face remained lowered.

“Hand over the money,” he said this time in a low voice, almost muttering the uninspired words with a brusqueness that suggested even he was thoroughly aware of how utterly lacking in wit they were.
He wore a dark blue work coat inside out.
Under that, he wore a reddish-brown, somewhat upscale knit shirt.
Whether due to my strange agitation, his chest appeared plumply rounded like that of a maiden in her prime.
Khaki-colored trousers.
Because he was wearing wooden sandals on his small bare red feet, I felt irritated.

“You’re being rather rude.”
“At least remove your sandals.”

The thief obediently removed his sandals and tossed them out beyond the shutters with a thud.
I seized that moment with a knowing look and switched off the light with a snap.
I believed I had shown immense consideration in doing so.

“There, I’ve turned off the lights. With this, you can be completely at ease—that’s how it stands. I haven’t seen your face or figure at all. I know nothing whatsoever. Even if I tried reporting this to the police, there’d be nothing I could tell them. After all, I haven’t seen your face or figure—not a thing. Reporting it would be pointless anyway. Since I don’t intend to report this, please rest assured—you can be perfectly secure in that understanding.”

However, beneath this honey-sweet surface of my words lay concealed a maliciously cunning ulterior motive. By saying this to put the thief at ease, I was calculating all the advantages I stood to gain. First of all, if I let the thief remain so thoroughly reassured, his fiercely agitated spirit would subside, and there would be absolutely no chance of him harming me. Then, even if this thief were to attempt further crimes in the future, be apprehended, and thrown into prison, he would bear me no grudge. Given that I was supposed to know nothing about this thief’s appearance, it was absolutely impossible that I could be one of his accusers. Moreover, I had clearly stated to him, "I do not intend to report this to the police." He had no reason to resent me. In truth, I was worried about what would happen when this thief was apprehended another day, imprisoned, and released two or three years later. If he were to emerge from prison seething with resentment—convinced *I* had been the cause of his imprisonment—he might tear through every blade of grass searching for me, then burn my hovel to ashes and plot the slaughter of our entire family. Such things happen often. I, concerned about that future possibility, feigned ignorance and drove in a nail by declaring, "I don’t know anything at all." Moreover, I had also taken into consideration the time when police officers would later interrogate me. Of course, I had no intention of reporting tonight’s incident to the police. Having my name appear in the newspaper and being worried over or scorned by relatives and friends was not something I desired. Not reporting this and keeping silent might itself be a crime punishable by law under the legal code. But no matter what, my spirits felt heavy. Because I was terrible at speaking, if I were to appear before such an imposing government office, I would surely become flustered and fumble about, blabbering nothing but nonsense, only to be scolded without reason. And then, somehow, a hint of suspicious behavior would manifest around me—I might even be falsely accused—and some unimaginable calamity could come crashing down upon this very body. It would surely be like that. I was, in every way, an ill-fated child.

I am an unlucky man. I simply didn’t have the courage to report this to the police. I wanted to maintain this thief’s assault as nothing more than a midnight visitor who had entered unexpectedly from some trivial pretext. If I did that, I could avoid reporting it to the authorities altogether. I resolved to persist in treating him as nothing but a guest. With such deep-laid schemes in mind, I deliberately invited the thief in using a coaxing voice, then snapped off the electric light the moment he entered. If someday this thief were to compound his crimes, get caught, and confess to raiding my house—and if the police, acting on that confession, finally came to question me—I would scratch my head and say, “Well now, it was pitch dark then, and I was half-asleep too, so my memory’s completely fogged up—terribly sorry I can’t help you,” then give a hearty laugh; I imagined the officers might take pity on my dotage and let it slide. To reiterate: my snapping off the light was a gesture born entirely from my own utterly base cunning, not in the slightest out of consideration for the thief. I feared the thief’s future retaliation and guarded against having my face remembered; even if one were to say I turned off the light not for his sake but to conceal my own visage, there would be no helping it. It was precisely that.

“Thank you.”
The thief—that fool—completely oblivious to my meticulously crafted ulterior motives, had the nerve to express heartfelt gratitude for my turning off the light.

“Is the rain still falling?”

“No, it seems to have stopped already.”
He became completely subdued.

“Come here.”
I sat before the brazier, stirring the embers with fire tongs. “Take a seat here.”
“There’s still fire.”

“Huh?”
The thief appeared to have neatly aligned his knees and sat formally.
“You might want to sit a bit further from the brazier.”

I felt splendid.
“If you linger too near the fire, its glow will reveal your face.”
“I still haven’t seen your face at all, you know.”
“Let’s refrain from smoking as well.”
“In the darkness, even a cigarette’s ember can be quite bright, you know.”

“Yes.”
The thief appeared slightly moved.

Overwhelmed by sheer delight, I grew increasingly frenzied, wanting more and more to demonstrate what an extraordinary individual I was until I ended up spouting unnecessary words.

“Ah, it’s twelve o’clock.”
The neighbor’s pillar clock began to chime—bong, bong.
“Clocks—those are living things, you know.
When they strike midnight in the deep of night, their sound differs from the very first note.
They strike solemnly, like a sigh.
Living beings, aren’t they?
When that first deep bong sounds, you can already tell it’s twelve without counting each chime on your fingers.
They say even plants sleep now, don’t they?
When house eaves smoothly slide down three inches, they say river water stops flowing.
Strange things indeed.”

“It was eleven o’clock.”
The Thief had been counting on his fingers.
He said in a low voice, composed.

Flustered, I changed the subject.

“You came a bit too early. Thieves generally come at two or three o’clock. That’s when people are sleeping most deeply. Medically speaking, you see.”
I had somewhat regained my dignity. Carried away, I ended up spouting nonsense again.
“Thieves require intuition first and foremost, you know. You can’t do without this. Do you think I have money? For example, how much money do you think is in this desk drawer?”
I abruptly clamped my mouth shut. He had realized he’d gone too far.
There was twenty yen in my desk drawer. This was all our living expenses until the end of April. If I were to lose this, I would be in dire straits.
When it came to eating meals—even if there was no money on hand now—after discussing matters with the rice merchant and liquor store—we could somehow manage and probably wouldn’t be in such dire straits. But tobacco, postage, various miscellaneous expenses, and then bath fees—it was these that left me utterly perplexed.
I was still not familiar with this area, and even if it had been a place I knew well, tobacco and stamps would still have required cash payment. That said, going around borrowing money from friends and acquaintances was something I absolutely detested.
I’d be better off dead.
The agony of debt had seeped into my very marrow.

Even if I die, I don’t want to take on debt.
Therefore these days, I lived very, very miserly.
Even when out with friends, I resolutely insisted on splitting the bill, secretly incurring their contempt.
Even when accompanying others on outings, I never went so far as to buy their tickets for them.
I promptly bought just my own ticket and left it at that.
Even when buying a single pair of clogs, I would begin researching a full month ahead—peering into shop windows all over town to compare prices, then closing my eyes to make a grand resolution before finally carrying out the purchase.
I also know exactly how to wear clogs to make them last longer.
When walking on roads, I proceeded extremely slowly.
This is a precautionary measure to prevent fraying of the hem lining of my kimono.
People may be astonished at my penny-pinching ways and let out pitying laughs, but I feel not the slightest shame.
I don’t want to push myself.
Lately, I never went begging to publishers for money even before my works were published.
I did my best to feign ignorance.
If they won’t give it, then let them not give it.
The rest was simply not writing.
The world taught me that.
Bowing one’s head to others and entreating them about money—this is truly, truly a terrifying experience.
It is a shuddering misery.
Now, at last, I have come to know it.
Earning a fortune through one’s works was an exceedingly difficult feat, so I hardly expected it.

If I had money, I intended to live within my means; if I didn’t, then without it—to avoid panicking—I’d been living miserly upon miserly from the very start. Living that way left nothing I wanted. The dreams I’d relied on had all crumbled away one after another, leaving gaping voids—that wretchedness, that agitation—I knew them all too well. I had lived those past ten years only within that hell. I couldn’t take it anymore. I didn’t believe in happiness. I didn’t even believe in glory. Truly, I wanted nothing. For me then, there was truly nothing I required. By writing in torment like that, wandering from place to place—if I could bring faint joy and be of some use to the two or three truths and those I loved—then I had to find satisfaction in that. I’d had enough of castles in the air. I was now a cold, stingy man. I had to defend to the death the twenty yen in that desk drawer. I lied without flinching.

“No—your thinking there might be money in this drawer only shows how dull your instincts are.”
“You must think that way.”
“I could show you, but there’s no money here.”
“To tell the truth, there’s barely five or six sen in this whole house today.”
That was a vile lie.

“There is.”
The Thief mumbled.

I was startled enough to leap out of my skin.

“Hey, you—”
I unintentionally raised my voice—“What grounds do you have to say such an impudent thing?”
“That’s just plain rude!”
“Whether there’s money in my house or not—you’ve no right to meddle in that!”
“Who the hell are you?!”

Extreme fear, it seems, can stir up something akin to a scream of rage.
The barking of frightened dogs falls into this same category.

The thief smoothly stood up,

“Hand over the money.”
This time, the voice was thoroughly, terribly eerie.

“I’ll give it. If there is any, I’ll give it.” Even I—a notorious miser—gave in to the ominous tension thickening in this pitch-dark room. My own stinginess had grown so wretched that I spat out, “Want it that badly? You’ve got a wife waiting, children too, don’t you? I know how it goes.”

“When your wife nags hysterically about your uselessness, you puff yourself up—put on a straight face and lie through your teeth about some surefire money scheme today. Make her happy, let her dote on you before heading out... only to find nothing’s coming. Tough break. Been there.”

“Can’t go home empty-handed now, can you?” Reckless now, I adopted a vulgar drawl: “That’s hell too. Feel any shame yet? What’s with lying so smooth to your wife? Pathetic.”

“Eager to see her happy face? Smitten, aren’t you? She’s too good for the likes of you. Eh? Right?”

My relentless badgering had a cause—the thief wordlessly lumbered to my desk, yanked open the drawer, rummaged through it, utterly ignoring my best harassment efforts. That swinish silence grated on me till I spewed whatever bile came to mind between abuse-laden openings.

I’d lose those twenty yen anyway.
Might as well get some insults in first.
The thief seemed to have found the wallet—

“Isn’t there more?”

“How dreary.”
“That’s why I can’t stand realists.”
“I’d like you to say something a bit more clever.”
“After all, that money is yours.”
“My defeat.”
“I must say, I can’t compete with deeds over words.”

I felt intensely empty.

“Hand over the money.”
The Thief said again.

I turned toward the voice,

“You idiot! Enough already! I’ll really lose my temper! I know everything. Because I don’t want lingering ties with someone like you, I’ve been playing the fool this whole time. I know perfectly well. You’re a woman. This evening, outside that window, you opened your umbrella with a crisp, muffled rustle. That suppressed sound is absolutely unique to women. However quietly men open umbrellas, they can’t make that noise. You came beforehand this evening to case my house. No doubt about it. You scouted every inch around my home. Given how the neighbor’s dog—that constant barker—hasn’t made a peep tonight, you must’ve fed it poisoned buns last night. How cruel. I saw your face clearly last night—peering over the fence. As if I’d forget! Since I’m a master painter, I could reproduce your face exactly anytime. Every detail of tonight’s outfit—even those sloping shoulders—I know it all. Before turning off the lights, I’d already ascertained everything. Shall I tell you?”

“You’ve gone to the trouble of wearing your workman’s coat inside out, but I even know exactly what characters are dyed into the collar lining.”
“Shall I tell you?”
“Ima Kane Sake Brewing Corporation.”
“Well? Surprised?”
“I am even holding your hand.”
“You can’t even tell whether someone’s a man or woman—with skills like that, you’ll never be called a great painter.”
“Listen, you’re thirty-one this year.”
“Your husband is younger than you—twenty-six.”
“A younger husband must be such a darling.”
“You must want to devour him.”
“Moreover, your timid husband goes out peddling those sham fountain pens on street corners with his shady sales pitch. But being the weak-willed mama’s boy he is—just the other day at Izumidera Temple festival, when he should’ve been rattling off ‘This fountain pen is specially offered free for company promotion! Limited quantities! First come first served! Just ten sen as a token!’—he instead blurted out ‘We’ll give them all away free!’ Then noticing some red-faced old man who looked like a detective smirking behind the crowd, he flushed crimson and babbled ‘We really will give them free! I never lie! Even in this business, I hate deceiving customers!’”
“We’ll give them all away free! Come on, take them! Anyone who doesn’t believe me is a fool.”
“We offer them free of charge.”
Even street vendors have their pride.
“I’ll give them all away for free.”
“Ah, miss! Do you want one?”
“That’s nice—you don’t suspect people.”
“From the very beginning—from the very start—you believed I’d give you this fountain pen for free.”
“Ah, those who don’t suspect come out ahead.”
“Here, I’ll give you three.”

“One for your father.”
“One for your mother.”
“Don’t forget me!”
“Now then—doesn’t anyone else want one?”
“Those who doubt suffer loss.”
“That’s how everything works in this world.”
“Smirk all you want playing clever—makes you the real fool.”
“Complete idiots! Utter morons!”
“The trusting ones come out ahead.”
“Even God favors them.”
“Here—one for you.”
“And one for you too.”
“Ah! So happy I could weep.”
“What’s six yen and change wholesale?”
“Dirt cheap.”
“Catch him bedding some tart—you’ll get over it quick.”
“Cheap as sin.”
“Never mind about me.”
“Now—anyone else? Anyone?”
“Fools—all who won’t believe!”

“Your husband got so carried away like this that he even broke into sobs and ended up giving away every last fountain pen—not a single one left.”
“The detective was appalled too, wasn’t he?”
“Your husband is that hopelessly inept.”
“So here you are—forced into this nighttime hustle to prop up your useless man.”
“How’s that? Dead accurate, aren’t I?”
“Right or wrong hardly matters now.”
The twenty yen theft gnawed at me unbearably; seething with restless irritation, I kept spouting whatever nonsense came to mind—just rattling off my fantasies, what you might call my novel’s plot outline, entirely of my own invention.
Exactly like some mangy cur barking after losing a fight—no question about it.

“I know far more than that.”
“Why did you target my house?”
“I know why.”
“My home—well—it’s just us two newlyweds living here. A fresh start, so to speak.”
“You zeroed in on that detail.”
“Young couples live carefree lives—lax in every way.”
“You spotted that weakness.”
“To put it delicately...but that’s not your real motive, is it?”
“There’s more to it than that.”
“Well?”
“You’re still thirty-one.”
“You might claim pure thieving intent for breaking in—but aren’t you secretly hoping for some...bonus entertainment?”
“If you’re risking arrest anyway, why not sneak into the newlyweds’ bedroom? You—ah! How depraved!”
“Disgusting!”
“No shame at all?”
“You chose my house precisely for those vile interests.”
“Absolutely correct.”
“Still thirty-one.”
“Prime of her womanhood.”
“You’re contemptible.”

“However, unfortunately for you, my household keeps our bedrooms properly separate like this.”
“It’s sacred.”
“There’s no trace of disarray anywhere.”
“It’s perfectly hushed and serene.”
“Here lies another of your failures.”
“What you must restrain are your lustful thoughts.”
“How could I endure having someone like you peeking in?”
“You occasionally sneak into upper-class households too—steal the lady’s purse, bring it home—and when there happens to be some strange gaudy picture inside that purse, you and your husband have a good laugh over it, looking quite pleased. But let me tell you—that picture isn’t there because of any lustful thoughts on the lady’s part.”
“Let me explain.”
“When such a picture is inside, one becomes careful not to lose the purse; it’s from a modestly solemn heart—to focus all attention on safeguarding it—that they place that single picture within.”
“It’s absolutely not from any flirtatious or lewd heart.”
“They say if you put that in a purse, your money won’t disappear—put it in a chest of drawers, you’ll never lack for clothes—and that’s actually true.”
“It’s to focus their attention there.”
“Because it’s so mortifying, they try not to touch those purses or chests unnecessarily—avoid opening them carelessly—handling them gently with great care.”
“Isn’t that heartrendingly sweet?”
“It’s quite a modest and refined practice.”
“You’ve even stolen a child’s purse before.”
“You certainly stole it.”
“And then you must have cried.”
“A girl’s purse contained things like a ring she’d made herself by twisting wire—in those clumsy bends of misshapen metal remained the very imprint of her soft strength as she’d groaned and strained red-faced to curve the wire—every dent in those crooked twists pooling with the faint warmth of her small efforts until you couldn’t bear it anymore and must have covered your face.”

"If you could remain unmoved, you'd be a demon."
"In a boy's wallet lay a complete set of menko."
"Each card bore images of sumo wrestlers—five from the Eastern ranks descending from yokozuna to maegashira, five from the Western doing the same—ten in total there should have been, yet one was missing."
"The East Yokozuna was absent."
"Why this was so even I couldn't say."
"Perhaps the menko shops had sold out."
How that boy must have ached with loneliness over it all this time.
How secretly ashamed he must have felt.
How desperately he must have craved that East Yokozuna card.
No doubt he'd have traded his entire collection of fairy tale books to obtain it.
The East Yokozuna card existed nowhere among menko shops.
Not even after asking every friend could it be found.
That's when you stole it.
You examined that menko, contemplated the boy's bitter frustration and solitude until it haunted your thoughts—thenceforth whenever passing a menko shop, you'd inevitably peer inside, desperately searching for that missing East Yokozuna card until this became your ingrained compulsion beyond doubt.
Were this untrue, you'd be a demon indeed.
"Thieving makes for poor tradecraft, eh?"
"Enough now—hey! Are you listening?"

The light in the adjacent room flashed on, casting a dim glow into this one—and when I looked, the thief was gone without a trace.
I felt uneasy.

Sliding open the door, my wife staggered into the room,

“Thief?”
Her tongue tangled so wretchedly that she simply plopped down where she stood.

“That’s right.
“He was indeed here.”
Seeing my wife’s terror, I immediately became infected by it.
My teeth began chattering uncontrollably.
Perhaps it was the first time I regained my human composure.
Until then, overwhelmed by sheer astonishment, I had been in such a state of agitation that I even forgot to tremble—consumed entirely by frenzy, spewing fiery words, perhaps existing in a kind of madness.
“He was indeed here.
“Indeed.
“He might still be here.”

My wife, seeing me begin to tremble so violently that the tatami mats creaked, conversely seemed to regain her own composure and started forcing a stifled laugh,

“He left.”
“I know.”
“You suddenly started loudly scolding the thief, didn’t you?”
“That’s when I woke up.”
“As I strained my ears listening to your story, it seemed the other person must’ve been a thief, right?”
“I thought I couldn’t do it.”
“I played dead and kept lying face down without moving—then when I heard the thief’s thudding footsteps leaving the room, I felt relieved.”
“What a strange thief.”
“He even properly closed the shutters on his way out, didn’t he?”
“With a clatter, he seemed to struggle closing those shutters.”

When I looked, sure enough, the shutters were properly closed.
Then it appeared I had been in a pitch-black room with no one else, smugly droning on with my lecture.
Absurd.
I must have been so absorbed in my solitary shouting that I never noticed either the thief immediately sneaking away or him even politely closing the shutters on his way out.

“What a dull thief.”
I laughed reluctantly.
“A thorough realist.”
“Hey, looks like he took all the money.”

“Money...”
My wife was always so indifferent to money that it made me nervous.
There existed an aspect where my wife—as one married to an artist—strived under the foolishly obstinate belief that she had to act this way.
“Rather than that, you being unhurt is what matters most.”
“Really—” she began, then let her shoulders slump with a sigh. Keeping her face lowered, she continued, “Why don’t you stop lecturing thieves about literature?”
“When I came to marry you, a relative who worked as a reporter for a women’s magazine sent a letter to my mother informing her of your terrible reputation. At that time—after we had already met—my mother still believed in you. That relative had never met you directly either; they simply trusted the rumors and advised us accordingly. I too thought that meeting you in person should come first, and even now, I don’t doubt you in the slightest. But speaking to a thief like that as if it were something out of a novel—”

“I see. So I’m a deviant after all?”
This was the first time since our marriage that I thought of clobbering my wife.
When visited by a thief, should I have imitated ordinary citizens—screaming “Thief! Thief!” while dashing outside in nothing but a loincloth, banging on metal basins and dashing about the neighborhood to stir up a commotion?
Is that what’s considered proper?
I’d had enough.

If that’s how it is, then reality—I detest it!
There remains something I love yet cannot sever.
Even that thief mired in vice—how utterly hollow and disenchanting this world’s affairs prove!
He barged in unannounced, snatched the money, vanished without ceremony—
Is that truly all?
This world holds no romance.
I alone am the deviant.
And so here I laboriously cultivate my petty bourgeois existence, embarking on this miserly path of survival—
No!
Alone suffices!
Let me plunge once more into that hellscape of ambition and devotion’s romance—let me perish there!
Is this beyond my capacity?
Is this prohibited?

This great turmoil—triggered by last night’s burglar intrusion—continued unabated through this morning; no, persists fiercely even now as I dash through these words, showing no sign of ceasing since dawn.