Pathway to Japanese Literature

In the morning, the feeling when I woke up was interesting.
During hide-and-seek, I crouched hidden in the pitch-dark closet—then suddenly Deko-chan flung open the sliding door, a flood of daylight rushed in, and Deko-chan shouted “Found you!” There was the dazzlement, then this awkward embarrassment, then my heart raced as I adjusted my kimono front. Feeling flustered as I crawled out of the closet before a sudden surge of irritation—that feeling? No—that wasn’t it—no, not even that feeling—something even more unbearable.
I opened a box to find another small box inside; opened that small box to find an even smaller one; opened that one and found yet another tiny box; opened that small box and another appeared—until after opening seven or eight boxes total, finally one as small as a die emerged. Gently opening it revealed nothing—empty—that feeling came closest.
The idea that my eyes snapped open when waking? A lie.
It grew murkier and murkier until gradually the starch settled to the bottom, a clear layer slowly forming on top—then finally exhausted, my eyes opened.
Mornings felt somehow hollow.
So many sad things welled up in my chest—unbearable.
I hated it.
I hated it.
In mornings I became ugliest.
Both legs turned utterly exhausted until I wanted nothing more.
Had I not slept deeply?
The notion mornings meant health? A lie.
Mornings were gray.
Always identical.
Sheer nothingness.
Lying in bed mornings made me misanthropic.
Disgusted.
All manner of ugly regrets piled up at once, blocking my chest until I writhed.

Mornings are spiteful.

“Father,” I called out in a small voice.
Strangely embarrassed yet oddly pleased, I got up and briskly folded the futon.
As I lifted it, I let out a “heave-ho” and froze.
I’d never imagined myself as the sort of woman who’d utter such a vulgar exclamation.
Heave-ho—it sounded like some old woman’s grunt, disgusting.
Why did I make that noise?
It felt like there was an old woman squatting somewhere inside my body—revolting.
I’ll be more careful from now on.
Just like when I’d frown at someone’s crude way of walking only to realize I was doing it myself—that same crushing dejection hit me.

In the morning, I always lacked confidence.
In my nightclothes, I sat in front of the dressing table.
When I peered into the mirror without my glasses on, my face appeared slightly blurred and dewy.
The thing I disliked most about my face was my glasses, but there were also merits to them that others didn’t understand.
I liked taking off my glasses and looking into the distance.
Everything blurred hazily, like a dream, like a peep show picture—it was wonderful.
I couldn’t see anything dirty at all.
Only large things—vivid, strong colors and light—entered my eyes.
I also liked taking off my glasses and looking at people.
Their faces all looked kind, beautiful, and smiling.
Moreover, when I took off my glasses, I never thought about quarreling with people, nor did I want to speak ill of them.
I just stayed silent and blank.
And then, when I thought that during such times I must appear good-natured to others as well, all the more I felt blankly relieved, wanted to be pampered, and my heart became exceedingly gentle.

But in the end, I hate my glasses.
When I put on my glasses, any sense of having a face vanishes.
All the various emotions born from the face—romanticism, beauty, intensity, weakness, childlike innocence, melancholy—the glasses block them all.
Moreover, I can’t even converse with my eyes—it’s absurd how impossible it is.

Glasses are monsters.

Perhaps because I myself always find my glasses detestable, I’ve come to think that having beautiful eyes is what matters most.
Even if there were no nose, even if the mouth were hidden—as long as the eyes make me feel I must live more beautifully when looking at them—I think it’s fine.
My eyes are just big and nothing more.
When I stare fixedly at my own eyes, I get disappointed.
Even Mother says they’re dull eyes.
These must be what they call eyes without light.
When I think they’re dull, I get disappointed.
This is why.
It’s terrible.
Each time I face the mirror, I profoundly wish for eyes with a dewy glow.
Eyes like an azure lake—eyes as though lying on a blue meadow gazing at the open sky—sometimes clouds drift across their surface.
Even the shadows of birds are clearly reflected there.
I want to meet many people with beautiful eyes.

From this morning—May—when I think that, somehow I began to feel a bit buoyant.
Still, I’m happy.

I thought summer was already near.
When I stepped into the garden, strawberry blossoms caught my eye.
The fact that Father had died seemed strange.
Dying and ceasing to exist—it was something hard to comprehend.
I couldn't make sense of it.
I missed my older sister, those I'd parted from, and those I hadn't seen in ages.
Mornings became unbearable—past things and people from long ago would surface distressingly close, as tasteless as the stale stench of cheap tobacco.

Japi and Kaa (I call her Kaa because she's such a pitiable dog) came running while tussling with each other.
I placed them both before me and lavished affection solely on Japi.
Japi's snow-white fur gleamed beautifully.
Kaa was filthy.
While doting on Japi, I knew perfectly well Kaa wore a tearful expression beside me.
I knew too that Kaa was crippled.
Kaa being sad made me hateful.
It was precisely because I felt unbearably sorry for her that I deliberately acted cruel.
Kaa looked like a stray—there was no telling when dogcatchers might get her.
With legs like hers, she'd surely be too slow to escape.
"Kaa, hurry and go hide in the mountains somewhere."
"Since nobody loves you anyway, you should just die quickly."
I'm the sort of child who does awful things not just to Kaa but to people too.
I go out of my way to trouble and provoke them.
I'm truly a despicable child.
Sitting on the veranda, stroking Japi's head while staring at the green leaves that stung my eyes, I grew so wretched I felt like sinking down onto the dirt.

I felt like crying.
I held my breath hard and made my eyes bloodshot, thinking maybe a few tears would come—tried it—but it was no use.
Maybe I’ve become a woman without tears.

I gave up and began cleaning my room.
While cleaning, I suddenly sang "Tōjin Okichi."
I glanced around self-consciously.
I found it amusing that I—who was usually supposed to be engrossed in Mozart and Bach—had unconsciously sung "Tōjin Okichi."
If I was going around saying “heave-ho” when lifting the futon or singing “Tōjin Okichi” while cleaning, I thought I must be beyond hope too.
If this kept up, I couldn’t help worrying what vulgar things I might blurt out even in my sleep.
But somehow finding it funny, I paused my sweeping and laughed alone.

I put on the new underwear I had sewn yesterday.
On the chest area, I had embroidered a small white rose.
Once I put on my outer garment, the embroidery would no longer be visible.
No one would know.
I felt smug.

Mother left early in the morning, bustling about for someone’s marriage arrangement.
Since I was little, Mother had devoted herself to others—I’d grown used to it—but she truly was ceaselessly active to an astonishing degree. I felt impressed.
Because Father had studied far too much, Mother did his share as well.
Father had been remote from socializing and such things, but Mother created genuinely pleasant gatherings.
Though different in their ways, they seemed to respect each other.
A beautiful, serene couple without a single ugly aspect—or so one might describe them.
Ah—arrogant! So arrogant!

Until the miso soup warmed up, I sat at the kitchen entrance and stared blankly at the grove ahead. Then—as I sat there in that exact posture, gazing at the grove while thinking identical thoughts—I felt as though I had watched it in the past, was watching it now, and would watch it in times to come. Past, present, future—all condensed into a single moment. It was a strange sensation. Things like this happened sometimes. I would be sitting in the room talking with someone when my eyes drifted to the corner of the table and settled there with a soft thud, unmoving. Only my mouth kept moving. It was during such moments that peculiar illusions arose. Once, in this very state—talking about the same things while staring at that table corner—I had come to believe this present moment would return to me unchanged even in days to come. No matter how far along some country path I walked, I’d inevitably think: *This is a road I once traveled.* Even if I plucked a bean leaf from the roadside as I walked, I’d still feel certain I’d plucked this very leaf here before. And so I believed I’d walk this path time and again hereafter, plucking bean leaves at this very spot.

There are other things like this too.
One time, while soaking in hot water, I suddenly looked at my hand.
Then I ended up thinking that years from now, when I soak in hot water again, I will surely recall this moment of casually looking at my hand and the feeling that struck me with a soft thud as I gazed at it.
When I thought that, I somehow felt gloomy.
Then, one evening, as I transferred rice into the wooden container—*inspiration* would be too grand a word, but I felt something whoosh through my body and vanish. What to call it? The tail end of philosophy, perhaps. Struck by this force, my head and chest turned utterly transparent, as if settling softly into life itself. With the quiet flexibility of konjac jelly being pressed out soundlessly, smoothly, I felt I could drift on like this forever—lightly, beautifully—at the mercy of the waves.
This was no time for philosophy.
The premonition of living like a thieving cat, without making a sound—it was nothing good; rather, it terrified me.
If that state of mind continues for long, might a person end up becoming like someone possessed by a god?
Christ.
But a female Christ is repulsive.

In the end, because I was idle—because I lacked life’s hardships—I became unable to process the hundreds, thousands of daily sights and sounds that assailed my senses. Then, while I sat there dazed, might it not be that they all floated up with ghostly faces, bobbing like buoys?

In the dining room, I ate my meal alone.
This year, I ate cucumber for the first time.
From the green of cucumbers came summer.
In the bluish hue of May cucumbers lay a sadness that hollowed the chest—a throbbing, ticklish ache.
As I ate alone in the dining room, I was overwhelmed by the desire to travel.
I wanted to get on a train.
I read the newspaper.
There was a photo of Mr. Konoe.
I wondered if Mr. Konoe was handsome.
I did not like this face.
The forehead was no good.
In the newspaper, the book advertisements were the most enjoyable.
Since they were charged a hundred yen, two hundred yen per character and line for advertisements, everyone worked frantically.
Each character and phrase strained to achieve maximum impact—these were masterpieces squeezed out through groans of effort.
In this world, there were likely few instances of writing that cost so much money.
It felt perversely satisfying.
Exhilarating.

I finished my meal，locked up the house，and left for school.
It was fine—I didn’t think it would rain—but even so，I absolutely wanted to carry the nice umbrella I’d received from Mother yesterday，so I took it along.
This umbrella was something Mother had used long ago，back when she was a girl.
Finding an interesting umbrella，I felt a little proud.
I wanted to walk through downtown Paris carrying this umbrella.
Surely，around the time this war ended，dreamlike old-fashioned umbrellas like this would come into fashion.
This umbrella would surely pair well with a bonnet-style hat.
In a pink kimono with a long hem and wide-open collar，wearing long gloves knitted from black silk lace，with a beautiful purple violet adorning my large-brimmed hat—
And then，in the deep green season，I would go have lunch at a Parisian restaurant.
Leaning listlessly on my hand as I watched people stream by outside，someone tapped me softly on the shoulder.
Suddenly，music—the Rose Waltz.
Ah，how strange，how strange.
Reality was this single old，bizarre umbrella with its long，spindly handle.
I felt miserable and pitiable.
The little match girl.
Well then，let me go pluck some weeds.

On my way out, I pulled up some weeds in front of our gate—a small act of voluntary labor for Mother. Today might bring something good. Even among identical weeds, why do some make me want to yank them out while others beg to stay untouched? Adorable grasses and unlovable ones share the same shape—yet why do pitiable sprouts and detestable stalks separate themselves so distinctly? There's no logic to it. Women's likes and dislikes seem utterly capricious. After ten minutes of voluntary labor, I hurried to the station. Walking through the farm path, I kept feeling urges to paint. Midway, I took the shrine grove's narrow path—a shortcut I alone had discovered and kept secret. While walking through the wooded trail, I glanced down and saw barley clusters growing two inches tall here and there. Staring at that vibrant green barley, I understood—ah, soldiers had come again this year. Last year too, many soldiers and horses had rested in this shrine grove before moving on. When I passed through again later, the barley had thrived just like today's growth. Yet it never grew beyond that. This year's spindly barley—sprouted from seeds spilled from soldiers' horses' feed buckets—would likely stretch only this much before dying pitifully in this sunless dark forest.

Exiting the path through the shrine grove, near the station I came upon four or five workers.
The workers, as usual, spewed unspeakably vile words at me.
I was at a loss over what to do.
I wanted to overtake those workers and press ahead, but to do so would have meant weaving through their group—slipping between them.
Terrifying.
Yet standing there dumbly to let them pass first, waiting until distance grew between us—that would have required even greater courage.
Since that would have been rude too, they might have taken offense.
My body burned hot; tears threatened to spill.
Ashamed of my near-tears, I forced a smile at them.
Then slowly trailed behind their group.
Though that ended matters in the moment, my frustration lingered even after boarding the train.
I wanted to become quick, strong, and pure—to face such trifles with calm.

Since there was an empty seat right near the train entrance, I gently placed my things there, adjusted the folds of my skirt a little, and was about to sit down when the bespectacled man neatly moved my things aside and took the seat.

“Excuse me, but I found that seat first,” I said, but the man just gave a wry smile and calmly started reading his newspaper.
When I thought about it carefully, I couldn’t tell which of us was being shameless.
Perhaps I was the shameless one here.

Resignedly, I placed the umbrella and my things on the luggage rack, hung onto the strap, and as I tried to read my magazine as usual—flipping through the pages with one hand—a strange thought occurred to me.

If I were to strip away my habit of reading books, this inexperienced self of mine would dissolve into tearful helplessness.
So utterly do I depend on what’s written in books.
Each time I read one, I plunge headlong into it—trusting it completely, merging with it, resonating in harmony—then try grafting my life onto its framework.
Yet when I pick up another book, I flip over entirely and adopt its posture as my own.
This knack for pilfering others’ words and reshaping them into something mine—this very slyness—is my sole true talent.
Honestly, I’m nauseated by this trickery, this fraudulence.
Day upon day of heaping failures upon humiliations might perhaps add some gravitas to me.
But no—even then I’d likely twist some specious logic to justify myself, artfully mend the cracks, spin a plausible theory, then perform my desperate pantomime with smug satisfaction.

(I’ve read words like these in some book before.)

I truly don’t know which one is the real me.
When I run out of books to read and can find no models left to imitate, what on earth will I do?
Helpless, in a cowering posture, I might just endlessly blow my nose for no reason.
After all, it’s no good to spend every day on the train just drifting in thought like this.
An unpleasant warmth lingers in my body, unbearable.
I think I must do something, I must find a way—but how can I grasp myself clearly?
I think all my self-criticism up until now has been completely meaningless.
When I attempt self-criticism and notice some unpleasant weakness, I immediately indulge it tenderly—concluding things like *“killing the cow to test its horns isn’t right”*—so my criticism amounts to nothing at all.
It’s more conscientious not to think at all.

In this magazine too, under the headline “Young Women’s Faults,” various people had written.
As I read, I began to feel as if they were talking about me and grew embarrassed.
What’s more, depending on the writer—those I usually considered fools said things that sounded foolish just as expected, while those who looked stylish in their photos used fashionable language—it was so absurd that I found myself giggling as I read on.
Religionists immediately dragged out faith, and educators wrote about gratitude over and over from beginning to end.
Politicians trotted out Chinese poetry.
Writers preened themselves with affected, stylish words.
They were putting on airs.

But they all write nothing but remarkably certain things.
Lack of individuality.
Lack of depth.
Being far removed from proper hope, proper ambition, and such things.
In other words, the lack of ideals.
Even if there is criticism, a lack of proactive efforts to directly connect it to one’s own life.
No self-reflection.
No true self-awareness, self-love, or self-respect.
Even if one takes courageous action, whether they can take responsibility for all its consequences.
They adapt to the surrounding lifestyle and are adept at managing it, but lack proper, strong affection for themselves and their own lives.
No true humility.
Lack of originality.
Nothing but imitation.
The innate human sense of “love” has become deficient.
Putting on airs of refinement, yet devoid of true grace.
Besides that, many other things are written.
Truly, while reading, there are many things that startle me.
They cannot be denied.

But all the words written here somehow felt optimistic, detached from these people’s usual sentiments—as if they had merely written them down for show. There were many adjectives like “true meaning” or “inherent nature,” but what constituted “true” love or “true” self-awareness wasn’t written with any concrete clarity. These people might have understood. If that were the case, how grateful I would have been if they could have pointed with authority and said one concrete thing—just one word: “Go right” or “Go left.” Since we’d lost our way in how to express love—if instead of just saying this was wrong or that was wrong—they’d forcefully told us to do this or that, we would all have followed their words exactly. Did no one have any confidence? The people expressing their opinions here might not always have held such views in every situation either. We were scolded for not having proper hope or proper ambition—but if we had acted in pursuit of proper ideals, would these people have continued watching over and guiding us all the way?

We dimly understood our own best place to go, the beautiful place we wished to go, the place where we should develop ourselves.
We wanted to have a good life.
We were indeed holding proper hope and ambition.
We grew frantic to possess an unshakable belief we could rely on.
But if one were to try embodying all these things in the life of a daughter as a daughter—how much effort would that require?
There were also the ways of thinking of Mother, Father, Sister, and Brothers.
(Even if they just paid lip service, saying things like “how old-fashioned” or whatnot, we never looked down on our seniors, the elderly, or married people.)
On the contrary—we likely held them in even higher regard) There were also relatives always connected to daily life.
We had acquaintances.
We had friends.
And then there was also this thing called ‘society,’ which kept sweeping us away with its great force.
When I thought about, observed, and considered all these things, nurturing my individuality wasn’t even the issue.
Well—I couldn’t help but think that quietly proceeding along the path taken by ordinary people, without standing out, must be the wisest course.
I couldn’t help but think applying education meant for the few to everyone was quite a cruel thing.
I had gradually come to understand as I grew older that school morals and societal rules were vastly different.
If one strictly adhered to school morals, that person ended up looking like a fool.
They were called eccentrics.
They didn’t advance in life and were always poor.
Was there really such a thing as a person who didn’t tell lies?
If such a person existed—they would be eternally defeated.

In my own family, there was one person who acted righteously, held firm beliefs, pursued ideals—truly living in the fullest sense—yet all my relatives spoke ill of this person. They treated them like a fool. As for someone like me, even knowing that being ridiculed would lead to defeat, I couldn’t bring myself to oppose Mother and everyone else to assert my own way of thinking. It was too daunting. When I was little, whenever my feelings diverged completely from others’, I would ask Mother—

“Why?” I used to ask.
At those times, Mother would dismiss it with a single word and then grow angry.
Saying things like “That’s bad—like a delinquent,” she would seem to grieve over it.
I told Father once too.
Father had simply stayed silent and laughed at the time.
Later, I heard he told Mother, “She’s a child who’s off-center.”
As I grew older, I became timid and fearful.
Even when making a single dress, I came to consider people’s hidden calculations.
Though I secretly love what feels like my individuality—though I want to keep loving it—embodying it clearly as my own terrifies me.
I always resolve to become the daughter people think good.
When many people gathered together—how utterly servile I would become!
I lie and prattle on about things I don’t even want to say, things utterly divorced from my feelings.
Because it’s advantageous—because I think it’s advantageous.
I find it repulsive.
I wish the time would soon come when morals transform entirely.
Then this servility—this living each day not for myself but for others’ hidden motives—would vanish too.

Oh, over there—a seat has opened up.
I hurriedly lowered my tools and umbrella from the luggage rack and quickly squeezed in.
To my right was a middle school student; to my left, a woman wearing a traditional baby carrier with a child on her back.
The woman, despite her age, wore heavy makeup and had her hair styled in a fashionable updo.
Her face was beautiful, but the wrinkles gathered darkly at her throat were so vulgar that I felt disgusted enough to want to slap her.
When people are standing and when they are sitting, their thoughts become entirely different.
When sitting, I somehow end up thinking only feeble, listless things.
In the seats facing me, four or five salarymen of similar age sat listlessly.
Around thirty, perhaps?
They’re all repulsive.
Their eyes are muddily clouded.
They lack vitality.
But if I were to smile sweetly at one of them right now, that alone might drag me down until I end up having to marry that person.
For women, a single smile is enough to decide their fate.
It’s terrifying.
It’s so strange.
I must be careful.
This morning, I can’t stop thinking such strange thoughts.
For the past two or three days, the face of the gardener who had been tending to our garden kept flickering in my mind, and I couldn’t help it.
He was a gardener through and through, but the look of his face was undeniably different.

To put it grandly, he had the face of a thinker.
His complexion appeared neatly composed precisely because it was dark.
His eyes were clear.
His eyebrows were narrow too.
Though his nose was extremely leonine, this matched his dark coloring and made him look strong-willed.
The shape of his lips was also quite well-formed.
His ears were slightly dirty.
As for his hands—they truly marked him as just a gardener—but his face in the shade of that deeply pulled-down black soft hat seemed too good to remain a gardener’s.
I asked Mother three or four times whether that gardener had been a gardener from the start, until she finally scolded me.
This wrapping cloth I’d used to bundle my tools that day was exactly what I’d received from Mother when the gardener first came.
That day had been our major cleaning—with kitchen repairers and tatami workers about—and Mother had been organizing the chest of drawers when this wrapping cloth emerged for me to take.
A beautiful, feminine-looking wrapping cloth.
It was so beautiful I hated to tie it up.
Sitting there like that, I laid it across my lap and kept gazing at it softly again and again.
I caressed it.
I wanted everyone on the train to see it, but no one looked.
If someone had just gazed at this lovely wrapping cloth even briefly, I might have resolved to marry them then and there.
When I encountered the word “instinct,” I felt like crying.
The enormity of instinct—that power our will cannot move—becoming clear through my various experiences made me feel like I was going mad.
What should I do? I grew dazedly still.

There was neither denial nor affirmation—it was simply as though something enormous came bearing down over my head with a heavy thud.
And it was dragging me around freely.
The feeling of being dragged along yet satisfied, and another emotion watching it with sadness.
Why can’t we be content by ourselves? Why can’t we love only ourselves for our entire lives?
It was pathetic to watch instinct consuming the emotions and reason I had cultivated until now.
After even momentarily forgetting myself, I was left utterly disappointed.
Realizing that even that version of myself—this version of myself—had instinct so clearly present made me want to cry.
Mother, Father—I wanted to call out to them.
But then again, truth might unexpectedly reside precisely where I found it most detestable, which made it all the more pathetic.

Already, Ochanomizu.
When I stepped down onto the platform, everything somehow cleared away completely.
I tried to hurriedly recall what had just passed, but nothing would come to mind.
Well, I frantically tried to think of the continuation, but nothing comes to mind.
It’s empty.

At those times, there must have been moments that struck my heart deeply and things that were painfully embarrassing, yet once they passed, it was exactly as if nothing had happened at all.
The moment called “now” was interesting.
Even as I pressed down with my finger, repeating “Now, now, now,” the “now” flew far away, and a new “now” arrived.
While clattering up the bridge stairs, I thought of *nanjarahoi*.
Ridiculous.
I might be a little too happy.

Ms.Kosugi looked beautiful this morning.
She was as beautiful as my wrapping cloth.
The beautiful blue suited her.
The bright red carnation at her chest stood out conspicuously.
I would have liked her so much more without all that affectation.
She overdid her posing.
There was something forced about it.
It must have been exhausting.
Her personality had an enigmatic quality too.
She contained so many unknowable aspects.
Though fundamentally dark-natured, you could see where she strained to appear bright.
But no matter what, she remained a fascinating woman.
It seemed such a waste keeping her as just a schoolteacher.
In class she'd lost much of her former popularity, but I alone stayed as captivated as ever.
She gave the air of a young mistress dwelling in some lakeside mountain castle.
How disgustingly I'd ended up praising her.
Why were Ms.Kosugi's lectures always so rigid?
Could she actually be dim-witted?
It made me sad.
She'd been droning on about patriotism forever now, but we all knew that already.

Anyone has feelings of love for where they were born.
How tedious.

Resting my cheek on the desk, I gazed blankly out the window.
Perhaps because the wind was strong, the clouds were beautiful.
In the corner of the garden, four rose blossoms were blooming.
One yellow, two white, one pink.
While blankly gazing at the flowers, I thought that humans also have truly good points.
It was humans who discovered the beauty of flowers and it is humans who love them.

At lunchtime, ghost stories came up.
At Yasubee-neechan’s "The Door That Won’t Open," one of First High’s Seven Mysteries, they were already shrieking "Eek! Eek!"
It wasn’t done in some flashy, dramatic style—it was psychological, which made it interesting.
Because they had made such a commotion, even though they’d just eaten, they were already starving.
From Mrs. Anpan, they were promptly treated to caramels.
Then again, everyone became engrossed in the horror stories for a spell.
Anyone and everyone seemed to take an interest in these ghost stories or whatever they were.
Perhaps it was a form of stimulation.
And then, though this wasn't a ghost story, the tale of "Kuhara Fusanosuke" was funny, so funny.

In the afternoon art class, everyone went out to the schoolyard for sketching practice.
Why did Mr. Ito always trouble me so pointlessly?
Today again, he ordered me to model for his own painting.
The old umbrella I brought that morning had been so enthusiastically welcomed by the class—with everyone making a fuss over it—that even Mr. Ito eventually noticed and instructed me to stand by the roses in the schoolyard’s corner holding it.
He was painting me like this to submit to an upcoming exhibition, he said.
I agreed to be his model for just thirty minutes.
Being of even slight use to others felt like a happy thing.
But facing Mr. Ito alone grew utterly exhausting.
His talk was tedious and over-logical; perhaps too conscious of me, everything he said while sketching circled back to me alone.
Responding felt tiresome and irritating.
He was such an indecisive person.
The way he laughed oddly, acted bashful despite being a teacher, and remained so irresolute made me want to gag.
I couldn’t bear it when he said things like, “You remind me of my dead sister.”
He was probably a good person, but his gestures were too exaggerated.

When it came to gestures, I had just as many as anyone else—no, even more. Mine slithered about slyly and cunningly on top of that. They were so unbearably affected it made me sick. “I’m a liar and a monstrous fraud who creates too many poses only to get dragged around by them,” I declared—and this very proclamation became yet another pose that left me frozen in place. There I stood, obediently modeling for Mr. Ito while desperately praying inside: “I want to be natural—I want to be honest!” I should quit reading books altogether. This life of empty concepts—this meaningless arrogance masquerading as wisdom—deserved nothing but contempt! You fret endlessly about lacking life goals or contradictions within yourself—but all you’re doing is wallowing in sentimentality! You’re just pampering and consoling yourself! And then you have the gall to overestimate your worth—ah! Using someone as foul-hearted as me for his painting? Mr. Ito’s work will surely get rejected from the exhibition! How could anything so ugly become beautiful? It’s shameful of me—but I can’t help seeing Mr. Ito as an utter fool! He doesn’t even know about the rose embroidered on my underwear.

As I stood motionless in the same pose, a wild craving for money surged through me uncontrollably. If only I had ten yen. What I wanted most was to read Madame Curie. Then abruptly came the thought—May Mother live long. Serving as Mr. Ito's model felt peculiarly agonizing. I was drained to the marrow.

After school, Kinko-san and I secretly went to Hollywood and had our hair done.
When I saw how it turned out—not at all like I'd asked for—I was disappointed.
However I looked at it, I wasn't even slightly cute.
I felt wretched.
Utterly dejected.
Coming to a place like this to secretly get my hair done made me feel like some filthy hen, and now I deeply regretted it.
I thought coming here meant we were showing contempt for ourselves.
The temple girl was in high spirits.

“Maybe I should just go to a matchmaking meeting like this.”
She began spouting such baffling, brazen remarks that soon she herself seemed convinced she’d genuinely decided to attend one.

“What color flower should go with this hairstyle?” or “Which obi suits a kimono best?”—she launched into these questions with deadly seriousness.

Truly, such a thoughtless yet endearing creature.

“And who exactly would you be meeting?” I inquired with a laugh.

“A mochi shop is just a mochi shop,” she answered with a straight face.
“What do you mean by that?” I asked in slight surprise, to which the temple girl replied, “Marrying into a temple is best—you’ll never go hungry your whole life,” leaving me newly astonished.
Kinko-san seemed utterly devoid of character, which paradoxically made her brim with feminine charm.
Though I’d never been particularly friendly—we merely sat next to each other at school—she told everyone, “I’m her best friend.”
She was a lovely girl.
Sending letters every other day and fussing over me in ways I appreciated, her excessive cheerfulness today finally wore me down.
I parted with the temple girl and boarded the bus.
How dreadfully gloomy I felt.
On the bus I saw a repulsive woman.
She wore a kimono with a grimy collar, her matted red hair coiled around a single comb.
Her hands and feet were filthy.
Her face—a sullen reddish-brown—made her gender ambiguous.
Then—ah—my stomach turned.
The woman had an enormous belly.
At intervals she smirked to herself.
Hen.
Even I, sneaking off to Hollywood for hairstyling, differed not one whit from this woman.

This morning, I recalled the heavily made-up woman who had sat next to me on the train.
Ah—dirty, dirty.
I hated being a woman.
Precisely because I was a woman, I understood all too well the impurity within women—so much so that it made me grit my teeth in disgust.
That unbearable fishy stench that lingered after handling goldfish seemed to have seeped into every part of my body. No matter how much I scrubbed and scrubbed, it wouldn’t come off—and as I went on day by day like this, emitting this female stench while new realizations struck me one after another, I wished I could just die now while still a girl.
Suddenly I wanted to fall ill.
If I were to contract a terribly severe illness—sweat streaming like a waterfall as I wasted away—then perhaps I too might become pure and clean.
Was there truly no escaping such things as long as one lived?
I felt I was beginning to grasp the true meaning of established religion.

When I got off the bus, I felt slightly relieved.
Vehicles really were unbearable.
The air was lukewarm, unbearable.
The ground was good.
When I walked on solid ground, I started to like myself.
I was a bit scatterbrained.
I was a carefree dragonfly.
I sang softly, “Froggy, froggy, what do you see? Onions in the field, see see! Frogs croak, so back they go,” then grew exasperated with myself—what a carefree girl I was—until I came to loathe this lanky, shaggy body of mine that only ever grew taller.
I resolved to become a proper young lady.

The country path back home had grown so familiar from daily walks that I could no longer perceive what sort of quiet countryside this was meant to be.
Just trees, paths, fields—that constituted everything.
Today I resolved to imitate someone visiting this rural area for the first time.
I would pretend to be—well—the daughter of a Kanda geta shop owner setting foot on suburban soil for the very first time.
How might this countryside appear through such eyes?
What brilliance.
What pathos.
Assuming solemn airs, I deliberately let my gaze wander theatrically.
When descending the tree-lined path, I threw back my head to admire the fresh greenery and gasped softly; while crossing the earthen bridge, I lingered over the stream to glimpse my face in its watery mirror before barking like a dog; viewing distant fields through narrowed eyes, I sighed dreamily and murmured “How exquisite.”
At the shrine came another pause.
The shrine woods hung darkly about me—I scrambled upright muttering “Oh-scary-scary,” hunched my shoulders and scurried through them—then feigned astonishment at emerging into sunlight before marching resolutely down country lanes while straining to find novelty everywhere—until unbearable loneliness overtook me.
At last I sank onto roadside grass.
Seated there, my earlier buoyancy vanished with an audible thud as gravity reclaimed me.
Then quietly—methodically—I examined my recent self.
Why had I grown so flawed?
Why this persistent unease?
Constant trepidation gripped me.
Someone had told me recently—
“You’re becoming rather vulgarized.”

That might be true.
I had indeed become no good.
I’d become so shallow.
I mustn’t, I mustn’t.
Weak, weak.
Suddenly, a loud voice nearly burst out—Wah!
Tch! Trying to hide my cowardice with just a shout like that—it’s no use!
Just fall apart completely.
I might be in love.
I lay down on my back in the blue grassy field.

“Father,” I called out.
Father, Father.
The sunset sky was beautiful.
And the evening haze glowed pink.
The setting sun’s light must have melted into the haze, blurring it into this soft pink hue.
The pink haze swayed and flowed—sliding between tree clusters, drifting along the path, brushing the grassland—then gently wrapped around my body.
The pink light faintly illuminated each strand of my hair before softly caressing them.
But more than anything, this sky was beautiful.
To this sky, I wanted to bow for the first time in my life.
I now believed in God.

What was this—what should I call the color of this sky? Rose. Fire. Rainbow. Angel wings. Cathedral. No, that wasn't it. More—more divinely majestic.

"I want to love everyone," I thought with such intensity tears nearly spilled over. When I stared fixedly at the sky, it gradually transformed before me. The blue deepened imperceptibly until all I could do was sigh with a sudden urge to shed my clothes entirely. Never had leaves and grass appeared so translucent, so achingly beautiful. I reached out and lightly brushed my fingers through the blades.

I want to live beautifully.

When I returned home, there was a guest.
Mother had already returned as well.
As usual, some sort of lively laughter lingered.
Mother never made a sound when it was just the two of us, no matter how much her face smiled.
But when talking with guests, her face wasn’t smiling at all—only her voice laughed shrilly.
I greeted them, immediately went around to the back, washed my hands at the well, took off my socks, and was washing my feet when the fish seller came. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said with a “Thank you as always,” then left a large fish by the well.
I didn’t know what kind of fish it was, but the fineness of its scales gave me the impression it was from the North Sea.
As I transferred the fish to a plate and washed my hands again, the smell of a Hokkaido summer came to me.
I recalled visiting my older sister’s house in Hokkaido during summer vacation two years ago.
My older sister’s house in Tomakomai—perhaps because it was near the coast—had always smelled of fish.
The image came clearly to mind of her skillfully preparing fish alone in that vast kitchen each evening, her white womanly hands moving deftly.
I remembered how I had inexplicably longed to cling to her with unbearable desperation back then—but Toshi-chan had already been born by that time, and my sister was no longer mine alone. The thought brought a whoosh of icy draft through my heart, leaving me unable to throw my arms around her slender shoulders no matter how I yearned. Instead, I stood frozen in that dim kitchen corner, dying of loneliness while staring endlessly at her pale fingertips moving with such grace until my vision blurred.
Everything that has passed feels nostalgic.
Family is such a mysterious thing.
With strangers, memories gradually fade and disappear when you grow distant—but with family, you end up recalling only the nostalgic, beautiful parts all the more.

The fruit of the Japanese cornel by the well was faintly reddening.
In another two weeks, they might become edible.
Last year had been funny.
When I was picking and eating Japanese cornel berries alone one evening, Japi watched in silence until I pitied him and gave him one.
Then Japi ate it right up.
When I gave him two more, he ate those too.
It was so amusing that when I shook the tree and they came plopping down, Japi started devouring them in a frenzy.
Silly thing.
A dog eating Japanese cornel—it was the first time I had seen such a thing.
I too would stretch up to pick berries and eat them.
Japi kept eating them down below.
It had been funny.
Remembering that made me so nostalgic for Japi,

“Japi!” I called out.

Japi came running from the entranceway with an affected air.
Suddenly overwhelmed by how unbearably cute he was—so much it made me grit my teeth—I grabbed his tail hard, whereupon Japi gently bit my hand. Feeling tears spring to my eyes, I thumped his head.
Japi remained unbothered, noisily lapping water from the well.

When I entered the room, the electric light was softly glowing.
It was silent.

Father wasn’t here.
Without Father here after all, I felt there remained a gaping void somewhere in the house that made me want to writhe in anguish.
After changing into a kimono and kissing the rose on my discarded undergarments, when I sat before the mirror stand—Mother and the guests’ laughter suddenly erupted from the parlor, filling me with inexplicable fury.
Mother was fine when we were alone, but whenever guests came she’d grow strangely distant from me, cold and aloof—it was in those moments I missed Father most painfully and felt such sorrow.

When I looked in the mirror, my face was startlingly lively.
This face belonged to someone else.
Completely separate from my own sadness and suffering, it lived freely on its own.
Today my cheeks flushed bright red without any rouge, and my small lips glowed crimson—so pretty.
I removed my glasses and attempted a soft smile.
My eyes looked wonderful.
Deep blue and crystal clear.
Had gazing at that beautiful evening sky for so long made them this lovely?
What a relief.

Feeling somewhat lighthearted, I went to the kitchen, but as I rinsed the rice, I grew sad again.
I missed our old house in Koganei.
My chest burned with longing.
In that wonderful house, Father had been there, and my older sister too.
Mother had been young then.
When I returned from school, Mother and older sister would be talking about something amusing in either the kitchen or family room.
I would receive snacks, act spoiled toward them for a while, pick fights with my sister, then inevitably get scolded and rush outside to ride my bicycle farther and farther away.
In the evening I would return home, and then we’d have our cheerful dinner.
Those were truly happy times.
I didn’t have to scrutinize myself or fumble awkwardly in self-disgust—all I had to do was act spoiled.
What an immense privilege I had enjoyed!
And I did so effortlessly.
I knew no worries, no loneliness, no suffering.
Father had been a splendid man.
My sister had been kindhearted—I was always clinging to her.
But as I gradually grew older—first becoming loathsome myself—my privilege vanished unnoticed until I stood exposed: naked and ugly.
I could no longer act spoiled toward anyone at all—always brooding alone—and painful things only multiplied.
My sister had married away; Father was gone.
Now only Mother and I remained.
Mother must have known nothing but loneliness too.

Just the other day, Mother said, “From now on, I have lost all joy in living. Even when I see you, I truly feel no pleasure. Forgive me. Without your father here, I’d rather happiness never come.”
When mosquitoes appeared, she would suddenly remember Father; when unraveling thread, she remembered Father; even while trimming her nails or savoring good tea—she surely remembered Father each time.
No matter how tenderly I comforted Mother or kept her company, I could never replace Father.
Conjugal love must be the strongest bond in this world—more precious than blood ties.
Blushing at my own presumptuous thoughts, I pushed back my hair with a damp hand.
Swishing rice in the washbowl, I found Mother pitiful yet endearing and resolved wholeheartedly to cherish her properly.
I should undo this perm immediately and grow my hair long again—Mother had always disliked my short crop, so she’d surely rejoice to see it neatly tied up.
Yet going to such lengths to please her felt tiresome too. Disgusting.
Reflecting on it now, my recent irritability stemmed largely from Mother herself—wanting to be the perfect daughter attuned to her feelings yet hating any hint of forced flattery.
If only she could understand my heart without words and rest assured—that would be best!
However selfish I might act, I’d never disgrace us publicly; however painful or lonely, I’d safeguard what mattered most while loving Mother and our home with all my being—so if only she’d trust me completely and relax carefree…
I would do it splendidly!
I’d strive until my bones turned to dust!
Yet despite believing this path my greatest joy and life’s purpose now, Mother still refused to trust me—still treated me like a child.

When I said something childish, Mother was delighted. Just the other day, when I did something foolish—deliberately took out the ukulele, strummed it noisily, and acted all excited—Mother looked genuinely pleased,

“Oh, could it be raining? I hear raindrops,” she said with feigned ignorance, teasing me—apparently thinking I was genuinely absorbed in something trivial like the ukulele—until I felt so wretched I wanted to cry.
Mother, I am an adult now.
I already know everything about the ways of the world.
Please feel at ease and consult me about anything.
If you would just confide in me completely about things like our household finances—if you would say to me, “Given our current circumstances, you too must—” then I would never beg for things like shoes.
I will become a reliable, frugal, frugal daughter.
Truly, that is certain.
And yet.
Ah, I remembered there was a song that went “And yet,” and ended up giggling to myself.
When I came to my senses, I found myself vaguely thrusting both hands into the pot and foolishly thinking about this and that.

I mustn't, I mustn't.
I needed to serve dinner to our guests promptly.
What should I do with that large fish from earlier?
At any rate, I decided to fillet it into three pieces and marinate them in miso.
Eaten that way, it would surely taste good.
Cooking had to rely entirely on intuition.
With some leftover cucumber, I could make sanbaizu.
Then there was my signature rolled omelet.
And then one more dish.

Oh, right.
I’ll make Rococo cuisine.
This is my own creation.
On each plate, I would beautifully arrange whatever remained in the kitchen—ham, eggs, parsley, cabbage, spinach—in a colorful array and serve them skillfully. It required little effort and was economical; though not tasty in the least, the dining table would become quite lively and splendid, looking somehow like an extravagant feast.
In the shadow of eggs lay parsley’s green; beside them, a red coral reef of ham peeked through. Cabbage’s yellow leaves were spread across the plate like peony petals, like a fan of bird feathers, while the spinach dripping green—was it a pasture or a lake?
When two or three of these plates were arranged and served at the table, the guests were unexpectedly reminded of the Louis dynasty.
Of course, it wasn’t quite that—but since I couldn’t make truly delicious feasts anyway, I would at least make the appearance beautiful, dazzling and deceiving the guests.
Cuisine was first and foremost about appearance.
Usually, I could get away with it.
However, this Rococo cuisine required considerable artistic sense.
When it came to color coordination, unless one was exceptionally sensitive, it would fail.
At least, if one didn’t have my level of sensitivity…
The other day, when I looked up “Rococo” in the dictionary and found it defined as “a decorative style characterized solely by splendor with no substance,” I laughed.
A brilliant answer.
How could beauty possibly have substance?
The beauty of purity was always meaningless and immoral.
It was only natural.
Therefore, I liked Rococo.

As always happened, while I cooked and tasted this and that, I was overcome by a terrible emptiness.
I became deathly exhausted and sank into gloom.
I sank into a state where all my efforts had reached saturation.
It was all, it was all—no matter what, no matter how—coming together.
Finally, ugh!
And then, in reckless desperation, I tossed both taste and presentation into disarray, scrambled through the work haphazardly, and presented it to the guests with a thoroughly sullen expression.

Today’s guests were especially dreary.
The Imaiida couple from Ōmori and their seven-year-old son Yoshio-san.
Though Mr. Imaiida was nearly forty, his fair complexion resembled that of a handsome youth—disgusting.
Why would he smoke Shikishima?
If they weren’t double-cut cigarettes, they somehow felt unclean.
Cigarettes had to be double-cut.
Smoking Shikishima made even one’s character suspect.
Each time he exhaled smoke toward the ceiling with puffs and pants, muttering things like “Ah yes, indeed.”
Now he was said to teach night classes.
Mrs. Imaiida was petite, fidgety, and vulgar.
Even over trifles, she would press her face to the tatami mats, contort her body, and choke on laughter.
How could anything be that amusing?
She seemed to mistake this exaggerated laughter and prostration for refinement.
In this world today—weren’t people of their class the most corrupt?
The filthiest.
Would they be called petit-bourgeois?
Petty officials?
Even their children acted oddly precocious, devoid of any guileless vigor.
Yet despite these thoughts, I suppressed them all—bowing, laughing chatting patting Yoshio-san’s head while cooing “how precious”—and since I deceived everyone through lies, even the Imaiidas might still be purer than me.
The guests ate my Rococo cuisine and praised my skill; though desolate and furious enough to weep, I forced a cheerful face and eventually joined their meal—but Mrs. Imaiida’s relentless witless flattery finally sickened me, and I stiffened with resolve: *No more lies.*

“This food isn’t delicious in the least. Since there’s nothing else, this is my last resort,” I said, intending to state the plain truth—yet Mr. and Mrs. Imaiida clapped their hands as if applauding, laughing heartily at how “cleverly” I’d phrased “last resort.” Vexed, I flung down my chopsticks and rice bowl and thought about bursting into loud sobs. Enduring it and forcing a strained smile, even Mother—

“This child is finally becoming useful,” said Mother—who fully understood my sorrow—yet spoke such trifles to humor the Imaiidas, laughing with a soft chuckle.
Mother, you needn’t go so far to please someone like Imaiida.
When facing guests, Mother ceases to be Mother.
She becomes merely a weak woman.
Must she debase herself so just because Father is gone?
I grew wretched and found myself unable to speak.
Please leave. Please leave.
My father was an admirable man.
Kind and noble of character.
If you’ll mock us so for Father’s absence, leave this instant.
I nearly said as much to Imaiida.
Yet still I remained weak—slicing ham for Yoshio-san, fetching pickles for Mrs. Imaiida, serving them all.

After finishing the meal, I immediately retreated to the kitchen and began cleaning up. I just wanted to be alone as soon as possible. It wasn’t that I was putting on airs, but I saw no need to force myself any further to humor those people or laugh along with them. There was absolutely no reason to show politeness—no, flattery—to such individuals. I couldn’t bear it. I’d had enough. I had done all that could be done. Even Mother had looked pleased to see me enduring and putting on a friendly attitude today—hadn’t she? Was even that much acceptable? Was it better to firmly separate social obligations from my true self—keeping them distinct—and respond cheerfully while managing things properly? Or was it better to never lose myself or obscure my nature, even if others spoke ill of me? I didn’t know which was better. How enviable were those who could spend their entire lives solely among people as weak, kind, and warm as themselves. If one could live without hardships, there was absolutely no need to seek them out deliberately. That was better.

Killing my own feelings to serve others must surely have been a good thing, but if from now on I had to force smiles or chime in with agreement every day for people like the Imaiida couple, I might have gone mad.
I suddenly had an absurd thought: someone like me could never have endured prison.
Far from enduring prison, I couldn’t even have become a maid.
I couldn’t even have become a wife.
No—the case of being a wife was different.
If I resolved myself—truly resolved—to devote my life to this person, then no matter how painful it got, even if I worked until I was black and blue, there would be a life worth living. There would be hope. And even I could have done it splendidly.
Of course.
From morning till night, I would have worked for him like a spinning dormouse.
I would have vigorously done the laundry.
There was nothing as unpleasant as when a large amount of laundry had piled up.
I grew restless and fidgety, as if driven to hysteria.
I felt like even dying wouldn’t have been enough to end this.
After washing all the laundry without leaving a single item and hanging it on the clothesline, I thought I could die at any time now.

Mr. Imaiida was preparing to leave. Claiming some errand or other, he took Mother and went out. That Mother would obediently follow him along—and this wasn’t the first time Imaiida had exploited her—filled me with such revulsion at their shamelessness that I wanted to beat them senseless. After seeing everyone off to the gate, I stood gazing blankly at the twilight-darkened road and found myself wanting to cry.

In the mailbox were an evening newspaper and two letters.
One was addressed to Mother—a summer sale announcement from Matsuzakaya.
The other was to me from my cousin Junji-san.
"I’ve been transferred to the Maebashi regiment this time."
It was a brief notice ending with: "Please give my regards to Mother."
Even officers couldn’t expect such splendid lifestyles, I supposed—yet how I envied that harsh discipline governing their every action without waste.
With their lives always so neatly ordered, it must bring emotional relief.
For someone like me—free to do nothing if I chose, able to study endlessly if I wished, feeling even grand desires might be granted—the mere thought of having defined limits imposed on my efforts made me dizzy with longing.
To be bound tightly would feel like salvation.
I’d read somewhere that soldiers at war had but one desire—to sleep soundly—and while pitying their hardship, I found myself fiercely envious.
How clean it seemed—to break clean from this vile carousel of empty thoughts and simply crave sleep! Pure. Simple. Merely imagining it refreshed me.
Perhaps if I endured military life—let them discipline me thoroughly—I might become something clearer. More beautiful.
Yet without such trials—when even someone like blind Shin remained so pure—what did that make me?
A bad girl.
Shin—Junji’s brother, my age—why did he shine so brightly?
Of all my relatives—no, in all this world—I loved Shin most.
Shin was blind.
To lose one’s sight so young—what cruelty!
On hushed evenings like this—what must he feel alone in his room?
We could read or gaze at scenery when lonely—distractions Shin couldn’t know.

He just remained silent.
He had studied harder than anyone until then and had been good at tennis and swimming—so how lonely and painful must his present state have been?
Last night too, thinking of Shin, I closed my eyes for five minutes after getting into bed.
Even when I lay down and closed my eyes, five minutes felt interminable and oppressive—yet Shin saw nothing, morning, noon, and night, days upon days, months upon months.
If he had complained or thrown tantrums or acted selfishly, I would have been glad—but Shin said nothing.
I had never heard Shin complain or speak ill of others.
Moreover, he always used cheerful language and maintained an unselfconscious expression.
That only made it strike my heart all the more.

While turning over various thoughts in my mind, I swept the drawing room and then heated the bath.
As I tended to the bathwater, I perched on a mandarin orange crate and finished all my school homework by the flickering light of a coal fire.
Even then, since the bath hadn't heated up yet, I tried rereading *Bokutō Kidan*.
The facts it describes are by no means unpleasant or sordid.
Yet here and there, the author's affectations catch my eye, making me feel an old-fashioned flimsiness lingering about them.
Is this because he's elderly?
But foreign writers, however aged they grow, love their subjects more boldly and tenderly.
In doing so, they avoid any hint of distastefulness.
Still, within Japan this work must count among the better sort—its foundation feels relatively free of falsehoods, with a quiet resignation that leaves one refreshed.
Among this author's works, this one feels most pared down to essentials, and I like it.
I sense this must be someone burdened with an excessive sense of responsibility.
Many of his works seem so fixated on Japanese morality that they rebel against it instead, becoming oddly garish.
That pseudo-vulgarity typical of those who love too deeply.
By deliberately donning gaudy demon masks, they end up weakening their own work.
Yet within this *Bokutō Kidan* lies a still strength suffused with loneliness.
I like it.

The bath had heated up.
I turned on the light in the bathroom, took off my kimono, opened the window wide, then quietly sank into the bath.
The blue leaves of the coral tree peeked in from the window, each leaf catching the electric light to shine intensely.
Stars twinkled in the sky.
No matter how many times I looked up again, they kept twinkling.
Lying on my back spellbound, I deliberately avoided looking at my body's faint pallor—yet still sensed it dimly lingering at the edge of my vision.
The longer I stayed silent, the more this whiteness seemed unlike that of my childhood.
Unbearable.
That my body grew independently of my will left me intolerably perplexed.
I pitied myself helplessly becoming an adult before my eyes.
Was there truly no alternative but to stay motionless and watch myself mature along this inevitable course?
I wanted to keep a doll-like body forever.
Even splashing water noisily while pretending childhood left my heart inexplicably heavy.
Now I began feeling there was no reason to keep living—the thought grew agonizing.
From the field beyond the garden came a cry: “Big sis!”
A neighborhood child’s voice—half-choked with tears—jolted my chest.
Though not calling me, I envied that “big sister” being so tearfully adored.
Had I even one younger brother who clung to me like that, I wouldn’t live each day in such graceless confusion.
Life might gain true purpose—I could resolve to devote myself wholly to such a brother’s care.
However painful, I vowed silently—truly—I would endure anything.

I tensed up alone, then pitied myself deeply.

After getting out of the bath, somehow tonight the stars weighed on my mind, and I went out into the garden.
The stars seemed to be falling.
Ah, summer was already near.
Frogs croaked here and there.
The wheat rustled.
No matter how many times I looked up, the stars shone brightly.
It was last year—no, not last year; it had already become the year before last.
When I would insist on going for walks, Father—even though he was ill—would go out for a stroll with me.
Father was always young.
Father—dear Father—who would teach me German ditties like that one meaning “You live to a hundred, I’ll live to ninety-nine,” talk about the stars, compose impromptu poems, lean on his cane while spitting little pfft-pffts and blinking rapidly as we walked together.
When I silently gazed at the stars, I remembered Father clearly.
Since then, one year, two years had passed, and I had gradually become a no-good girl.
I had come to hold so many, so many secrets all my own.

Returning to my room, I sat down in front of the desk and, resting my cheek in my hand, gazed at the lily flowers on the desk.
It smelled sweet.
When I smelled the lilies, even though I sat there bored and alone like that, no dirty feelings ever arose.
This lily—yesterday evening, I had gone for a walk toward the station and bought a single stem from the flower shop on my way back—but ever since, my room had become refreshingly clean, as if entirely transformed. When I slid open the sliding door smoothly, the scent of lilies already drifted in, and I couldn’t express how much it saved me.
As I gazed intently like this, I viscerally felt—in my very flesh—that they truly surpassed even Solomon’s splendor.
Suddenly, I recalled Yamagata last summer.
When I had gone to the mountains, I was astonished to see so many lilies blooming in such profusion on the cliff’s midslope that I became utterly captivated.
But knowing it was utterly impossible to climb such a steep cliff, no matter how captivated I was, there had been nothing to do but watch.
At that moment, an unknown miner who happened to be nearby wordlessly scrambled up the cliff. In the blink of an eye, he brought back lilies—so many that they overflowed my arms—and gave them to me.
Without smiling at all, he made me hold every last one.
They were countless—truly countless.
No one at any grand stage or wedding hall could have ever received so many flowers.
That was when I first understood what it meant to grow dizzy from flowers.
When I spread both arms and barely managed to hold that pure white, enormous bouquet, everything before me vanished from sight.
That kind young miner—so earnest and admirable—I wonder what he’s doing now.
He went to that dangerous place just to bring me flowers—that was all—yet whenever I see lilies, I inevitably remember him.

When I opened the desk drawer and rummaged through it, last summer’s fan came out.
On white paper, a woman from the Genroku era sat slumped in an improper posture, and beside her, two blue lantern plants were drawn.
From this fan, last summer wafted up like smoke.
Life in Yamagata, the train car, yukata, watermelon, the river, cicadas, wind chimes.
Suddenly, I found myself wanting to ride the train with this in hand.
There was something wonderful about the sensation of opening a fan.
The ribs clattered loose one by one, and suddenly it became light as air.

As I was twirling it idly, Mother returned home.
She seemed to be in a good mood.

“Oh, I’m tired, I’m tired,” she said, though her face didn’t look particularly unhappy.
Since she enjoys handling others’ affairs, there was nothing to be done about it.

“Well, it was such a tangled matter,” she said while changing into her kimono and entering the bath.

After getting out of the bath and drinking tea with me while smiling oddly all the while, I wondered what Mother was about to say—

“You’ve been saying over and over that you want to see ‘The Barefoot Girl,’ haven’t you?”
“Well, if you want to go that much, you may go.”
“In return, tonight, please give Mother a shoulder massage.”
“If you work at it, wouldn’t that make it all the more enjoyable?”

I was so happy I could hardly bear it.
Though I had wanted to see the movie *The Barefoot Girl*, I had been holding back because I’d done nothing but play lately.
Mother had noticed this and, by assigning me tasks, guided me so I could go see the movie without hesitation.
Truly happy and fond of Mother, I found myself smiling naturally.

It felt like it had been ages since Mother and I last spent evenings alone together like this. Mother had so many social obligations, after all. She must have been trying hard not to be ridiculed by society in various ways. As I massaged her shoulders, Mother’s exhaustion transmitted itself through my own body with such clarity. I must cherish her, I thought. I felt ashamed for secretly resenting Mother earlier when Imai had visited. “I’m sorry,” I whispered under my breath. I was always thinking only of myself, yet toward Mother I took a spoiled, rough attitude straight from my core. Each time she must have suffered terribly—and here I was brushing it all aside. Since Father’s passing, Mother had truly grown frail. Though I clung completely to her while lamenting my own pain and despair, whenever she leaned on me even slightly, I felt repulsed as if seeing something sordid—how utterly selfish of me. Both Mother and I were weak women after all. From now on, I wanted to find contentment in our life together—to always consider her feelings, reminisce about old times and Father, create even a single day centered around her. Then perhaps I could feel I was living purposefully and well. In my heart I worried about Mother and tried to be a good daughter, yet my words and actions revealed nothing but a selfish child. Worse still, lately I lacked even a child’s innocent charm—everything about me felt filthy and shameful. This pain, these worries, this loneliness and sorrow—what were they really? To speak them aloud would kill me. Though fully aware of them all, I couldn’t utter a single noun or adjective that came close.

I just grew flustered, ended up flaring up, as if I’d become something else entirely. Women of old were disparaged as slaves, insects that disregard themselves, or dolls—yet compared to someone like me now, they possessed far, far more true femininity in the best sense: mental composure, the wisdom to endure obedience gracefully, knowledge of pure self-sacrifice’s beauty, and an understanding of service’s joy—one that asked for nothing in return.

“Ah, what a good Amma-san you are—you’re such a genius.”

Mother teased me in her usual way.

“Right? Because I put my heart into it. But my merits aren’t limited to just Amma-style upper and lower, you know. If that were all I had, I’d feel so insecure, wouldn’t I? There are better qualities too.”

When I honestly spoke my thoughts, they sounded refreshing even to my own ears—these past two or three years, I’d never uttered anything so innocently clear. I felt happy thinking that by clearly knowing and accepting my portion, a calm new self might finally emerge.

Tonight, for various reasons, I wanted to thank Mother, so after finishing the Amma-style massage, I read her a little from Cuore as a bonus.
When Mother learned I was reading this sort of book, she made a relieved face—but the other day when I was reading Kessel’s Morning Glory, she quietly took it from me, glanced at the cover, made an intensely somber expression, then wordlessly returned it immediately; somehow I too grew disgusted and lost all desire to continue reading.
Mother hadn’t read Morning Glory, yet even so she seemed to understand through intuition.
At night in the quiet, when I read Cuore aloud by myself, my voice sounded so loud and clumsy that while reading I sometimes felt foolish and ended up embarrassed before Mother.
Because everything was so quiet, the absurdity stood out starkly.
Whenever I read Cuore, I receive exactly the same profound emotion I felt when reading it as a child; I think it truly is wonderful how my heart seems to grow honest and pure. But I was astonished and dismayed at how vastly different it felt to read it aloud versus silently.
Yet Mother would bow her head and cry during Enrico’s parts and Garrone’s parts.
My mother too is a splendid and beautiful mother like Enrico’s.

Mother went to bed first.
Due to having gone out early that morning, she must have been quite tired.
I fixed Mother’s futon and patted down the edges with brisk little taps.
Mother always closed her eyes immediately upon getting into bed.

After that, I did laundry in the bathroom.
Lately I’ve developed a strange habit of starting laundry around midnight.
I feel it’s wasteful to spend daytime splashing about doing laundry—though perhaps the opposite is true.
The moon was visible through the window.
Crouching down and scrubbing with rhythmic splashes, I tried smiling softly at the dear moon.
The dear moon feigned ignorance.
Suddenly I became certain that in this same instant, somewhere, a pitiful lonely girl was doing laundry just like this and had smiled—had surely smiled—at this dear moon. There must be a suffering girl right now in a solitary house atop a distant rural peak, silently washing clothes by the back door at midnight; and in some grimy Parisian apartment corridor too, a girl my age stealthily doing laundry alone while smiling at this moon—without any doubt, I envisioned it all as vividly as if I’d truly observed it through a telescope, every hue sharply defined.
No one truly knows all our suffering.
When we finally become adults, our present anguish and loneliness might be effortlessly recalled as something quaint—but how are we to endure this long, wretched interim until we fully mature?
No one teaches us.
Is it some measles-like illness where nothing can be done but wait?
Yet people die from measles—some even go blind.
Leaving it untreated is wrong.
We mope or rage like this every day until some stumble into irreversible corruption, ruining their entire lives.
Others take their own lives in despair.
Afterward, when people lament—“If only they’d lived longer they’d have understood,” or “It would’ve come naturally with age”—for those who suffered, it was pure agony. Even when they endured desperately, straining to hear guidance from the world, people only repeated empty platitudes and soothed them with “There, there,” leaving us perpetually exposed in our shame.
We’re by no means hedonists, yet they keep pointing to distant mountains—“The view will be splendid once you reach that summit”—and while we know this truth contains not a grain of falsehood, here we writhe with violent stomach pains they ignore, teaching us only to endure—“Just persevere till that mountaintop”—repeating nothing else.
Surely someone is mistaken.
The fault lies with you.

After finishing the laundry and cleaning the bathroom, I stealthily opened the sliding door to my room—and there was the scent of lilies.
I felt suddenly clear.
I became transparent to the very core, and it felt like what you might call "sublime nihil."
While I was quietly changing into my nightclothes, Mother—whom I had assumed until now was peacefully asleep—suddenly spoke with her eyes still closed, making me jump.
Mother startles me by doing things like this sometimes.

“Since you said you wanted summer shoes, I took the opportunity to look at some when I went to Shibuya today.”
“Shoes have gotten so expensive too.”

“It’s fine—I don’t want them that much anymore.”

“But if you don’t have any, it’ll be a problem.”

“Yeah.”

Tomorrow too would bring the same day, I supposed.
Happiness would never come in this lifetime.
This I understood.
Yet it must be best to believe it would surely come—tomorrow it would come—and go to sleep.
I deliberately collapsed onto the futon with a loud thud.
Ah, what bliss.
The futon's chill cooled my back just enough to make me grow entranced.
Happiness comes one night late.
Those words floated vaguely through my mind.
After waiting and waiting for happiness until they could bear no more and fled their homes—on the very next day, glorious tidings of happiness would visit those abandoned dwellings, only to find it too late.
Happiness comes one night late.
Happiness was—

The sound of Kaa walking in the garden.
Pit-a-pat, pit-a-pat—Kaa’s footsteps had a distinctive quality.
Her right front leg was slightly shorter, and with her front legs being O-shaped and splayed outward like a crab’s, her footsteps carried a lonely peculiarity.
She often walked around the garden at midnight like this, but I wondered what she was doing.
Poor Kaa.
This morning I was mean to you, but tomorrow I’ll be kind.

Due to a sad habit, I can’t fall asleep unless I press both hands tightly over my face.
Covering my face, I lie perfectly still.

The feeling of falling asleep was such a strange thing.
The heavy, lead-like force tugged at my head with its line as if reeling in a crucian carp or an eel—yanking insistently—and just as I began to drift off, it slackened the line slightly.
Then I snapped back to attention.
It yanked again.
I drifted off to sleep.
It released the line slightly again.
Repeating this three or four times, then finally giving one strong tug that lasted until morning.

Good night.

I am a prince-less Cinderella princess.
Do you know where in Tokyo I am?
We'll never meet again.