Pathway to Japanese Literature

Among my many vices, the most prominent was indolence.
This admitted no doubt.
It was truly exceptional.
When it came to laziness alone, I was the genuine article.
Not that I took pride in this.
I found myself utterly appalled.
This—this was my greatest flaw.
Truly, it was a shameful defect.

Few vices permit as many rationalizations as laziness.
Crouching dragon.
I am engaged in thinking.
A lantern at noon.
Nine years facing a wall.
Refining ideas and formulating plans.
Biding time.
When a sage is about to act, there must be a foolish guise.
Deliberation.
Fastidiousness.
Obsessiveness.
Don't you understand my suffering?
Ascetic detachment.
Desirelessness.
If the world were as it should be… Ah.
Silence is golden.
Worldly affairs are bothersome.
Corner parent stone.
The time is not yet ripe.
The nail that sticks out gets hammered down.

No fear of falling when lying down.
A seamless celestial garment.
Though peaches and plums do not speak.
Despair.
Casting pearls before swine.
If ever a crisis arises...
A land without reproach.
It's all so absurd.
Great talents mature slowly.
Self-respect. Self-love.
Fortune comes to what remains.
How thoughtless they are.
Posthumous fame.
In other words, it's high-class, isn't it.
I'm a top-billing actor, you see.
Farming in sunshine, reading in rain.
I firmly declined three times and did not budge.
Seagulls—they are mute birds.
Take on heaven itself.
Is Gide wealthy?

All are excuses of an idler.
I am, in truth, ashamed.
There’s no suffering or nonsense to it.
Why don’t I write?
The truth is, I desperately make these pitiful confessions—head bowed, eyes downcast—about feeling slightly unwell, yet I smoke through over fifty cigarettes a day, casually drink a liter and a half of sake when I do drink, then gulp down three bowls of ochazuke afterward. What kind of invalid does that?

In short—it’s laziness.
If I keep going on like this indefinitely, I am ultimately a hopeless case.
Concluding that—conclusively—is painful for me too, but I must no longer indulge myself any further.

I don't want to hear any more of this—suffering, loftiness, purity, obedience.
Write.
A rakugo comic monologue or a hitokuchi short tale—either would do.
Not writing is invariably laziness.
Foolish—utterly foolish—it's blind faith.
People can neither do work beyond their capacity nor beneath it.
Those who don't work have no rights.
Human disqualification—a matter of course.

Thinking this, I sat down before my desk scowling—and then did nothing.

He propped his cheek on his hand and stared vacantly.
He wasn’t pondering anything particularly profound.
There was nothing as absurdly endless as an idler’s daydreams.
They say bad news travels a thousand miles, but an idler’s daydreams also trickled and flowed ceaselessly.
What was he thinking about?
This man was now thinking about travel.
Train travel was boring.
Planes were better.
The turbulence would be terrible.
He wondered if one could smoke on a plane.
Wearing golf pants and eating grapes while riding on a plane—that would have looked cool.
He wondered whether one should spit out grape seeds or swallow them whole.
He wanted to know the proper way to eat grapes. The fact that he was even thinking such things was utterly absurd and aimless.
He hurriedly flung open the desk drawer, rummaged messily through its contents, slowly produced an ear pick, exaggeratedly grimaced, and began cleaning his ears.
At one end of the bamboo ear pick was attached a tuft of fluffy white rabbit fur, and the man used that fur to tickle the inside of his own ear, narrowing his eyes.
The ear cleaning ended.
There was nothing to it.
Then, once again, he messily rummaged through the desk drawer.
He found a black mask for preventing colds.
He swiftly put it over his face, sharply raised his eyebrows, made his eyes gleam fiercely, and looked around left and right.

There was nothing to it.
He removed the mask, placed it back in the drawer, and snapped it shut.
He propped his cheek on his hand again.
Corn—that was a vulgar food.
What exactly was the proper way to eat that, I wondered.
The sight of him gnawing on an ear of corn resembled someone blowing a harmonica with all his might.
I suddenly found myself thinking such foolish things.
No matter how extreme a nihilist one might be, it seemed food was what clung to them until the end.
Moreover, this man had no sense of taste.
Rather than taste, the method seemed his concern.
He didn't even glance at troublesome foods.
Sanma might be delicious if tried, but this man disliked it.
It was because they had small bones.
He seemed to generally dislike fish.
It wasn't due to taste—removing bones was simply too much trouble.
They said salt-grilled ayu was expensive, yet he showed no fondness for such things.
As if making excuses, he'd poke at it with chopsticks before ignoring it completely.
He liked rolled omelettes.
They had no bones.
He liked tofu.

Again, it is because they require no effort to eat.
He likes drinks.
Milk.
Soup.
Kudzu gruel.
There is no deliciousness, no unpleasantness.
It is simply because they require no effort to consume.
Speaking of which, this man seems not to know hot or cold.
In summer, no matter how hot it gets, he doesn't use things like fans.
Because it's too much trouble.
When someone remarks, "My, it's quite hot today," and hands him a fan, he first realizes—Ah, so today is hot?—then hurriedly seizes the fan and flaps it about with an air of practiced coolness, only to grow bored moments later. His hands still as he ends up idly twirling the fan atop his lap.
He probably doesn't know cold either.
Unless someone else replenishes the charcoal in the brazier for him, he will sit all day holding a fireless brazier, remaining perfectly still.
He does not move.

Unless someone pointed it out to him， he kept silently wearing a summer white shirt through late autumn， early winter， or even the depths of winter， maintaining a perfectly calm expression.

I stretched out my arm, took out a short story collection by a certain Japanese writer from the bookshelf beside the desk, and pursed my mouth into a ヘ shape.
As if embarking on some microscopic study, I ostentatiously turned the pages one by one with exaggerated care.
This writer is now called a master.
It may have been odd prose, but because it was easy to read, I would take it out and read it during those times when my mind felt hollow.
I must have liked it.
I read with a straight face and suddenly burst into guffaws.

This man’s laughter had a distinctive quality.
It resembled a horse’s braying.
I was appalled.
The protagonist—who might as well have been the author himself—had been written setting off from his lakeside villa with an air of self-importance, cloth bundle in hand, to buy side dishes for dinner in town; but seeing how eagerly that protagonist bustled about, I found it so pathetic I burst out laughing.
For a man of his years—a respectable man at that—to be ordered by his wife to take up a cloth bundle and scurry off to town just to buy leeks... this was beyond pitiful.
He must be lazy.
This sort of life wouldn’t do.
He did nothing but wander aimlessly until even his wife could bear it no longer and asked him to shop for dinner.
A common enough occurrence.
When requested, he’d nod—“Right, five sen for leeks”—mutter *what a fool*, tighten his obi, then bustle out with the cloth bundle, pleased to be of some slight use.
Pathetic. Pathetic.
Thick eyebrows, the blue shadow of a freshly shaven beard—wasn’t he a fine specimen?
Somewhat flustered, I closed the book, quietly returned it to the shelf, and once again found myself with nothing to say.
He propped his cheek on his hand and sat idle.
Were one to liken the lazy to land creatures, they would first be an old sick dog.
Unconcerned with appearances, it would sprawl all four legs akimbo, pale red belly twitching as it lay motionless in the sun all day.
Even when people passed by its side, far from barking, it would half-open its eyes to gaze dreamily after them before closing them again.
An unsightly thing.
Filthy.
Were one to compare them to sea creatures, perhaps a sea cucumber?

The sea cucumber was unbearable.
Disgusting.
A starfish perhaps?
Clinging sloppily to the rock while occasionally twitching its fingers—the starfish wasn't thinking anything at all.
Ah! I couldn't bear it! Couldn't bear it!
I surged to my feet.

There was nothing to be surprised about.
I had gone to relieve myself.
The instances of failing to meet expectations were countless.
Remaining standing, I pondered for a moment before shuffling into the adjacent room,

“Hey, don’t you have anything for me to do?”

In the adjacent room, the household member was sewing.

“Yes, there is.”
Without looking up, they answered, “Please heat this spatula.”

“Ah, right.”

Receiving the spatula, the large man sat down once more before the desk and thrust it forcefully into the ashes of the nearby hibachi.

Having thrust it in， he sat composedly as though having accomplished some grand task， smoking a cigarette.
In this state， I was no different from that figure holding a cloth bundle and going to buy leeks.
Even worse.

Thoroughly disgusted with myself， hating myself， even wanting to kill myself—ugh!
And then， in reckless desperation， I started writing—and the characters， to my surprise，

Indolence Karuta.

He appeared intent on writing haltingly, bit by bit, all while thinking and rethinking.

Im—impatient even in living, he hastened even in feeling.

Venus was born from the foam of the sea, guided by the West Wind, and drifted with the waves to the shores of Cyprus Island.
Her limbs were slender and elegant, moist yet weighty; her milky-white skin—here at the earlobes, there at the cheeks, there at the palms—bore a uniform tinge of pale rose, while her small face held a purity akin to incense.
From her entire body emanated a lofty fragrance akin to the scent of lemon.
Captivated by Venus’s beauty, the gods proclaimed her to be none other than the goddess of love and beauty, all while secretly harboring improper desires of their own.

As Venus rode her swan-drawn chariot dashing through forests and orchards at play, dozens of gods harboring improper desires chased after her through billowing wheel dust while wiping sweat from their brows.
When play-exhausted Venus furtively washed her sweat-dampened limbs in a chill spring deep within the forest's heart, lecherous eyes gleamed from distant tree gaps and nearby thicket shadows alike.

Venus thought.
Rather than enduring this daily nuisance—should I just hurl this body to someone?
Shall I hurl this body to the man I’ve decided upon?

Venus resolved.
On New Year’s morning before dawn broke—on my way to pay homage at Lord Jupiter’s palace—the third man I would encounter would become my husband for life.

Ah, Lord Jupiter—I beseech you, please grant me a good husband.

New Year’s Day.
Pulling a pure white hooded cloak over her head, she flew out of the house.
On a forest path, she encountered the first man.
He was a god who, at a glance, appeared unkempt and shaggy-haired.
At the edge of the forest under a white birch, she met the second man.
Venus’s legs came to an abrupt halt and would not move.
The man was indeed a figure of striking, vigorous handsomeness.
In the morning mist, he walked leisurely with arms crossed, not even glancing at Venus’s face.
“Ah! This one!”
“The third one is this person.”
“The second one—the second one is this birch tree!” she cried out and threw herself against the stalwart hero’s broad chest.

She entrusted herself to the winds of given fate and, at the crucial moment, nimbly dodged to create a higher destiny.
Destiny and the artifice of a single decisive point.
Venus’s marriage was a happy one.
The stalwart hero was none other than Lord Jupiter’s own scion—Vulcan himself, the conqueror of thunder and lightning.
And she even bore an adorable child named Cupid.

When you attempt such divination along twentieth-century city streets while evading the evening haze’s gaze, there’s no need to scrupulously choose a third person.
Depending on circumstances, you may count telephone poles, postboxes, or street trees—each as one individual.
Though Cupid’s birth remains unguaranteed, securing Mr. Vulcan proves certain.
Believe me.

Ro*, the prison is dark.

Not only was it dark—in winter freezing, in summer sweltering, reeking and swarming with millions of mosquitoes.
It was unbearable.
Prisons were something one had absolutely to avoid.

However, I sometimes think there is no need to rigidly adhere to the sequence of Self-Cultivation, Family Regulation, State Governance, and Pacifying the Realm.
There are cases where one must consider governing the state and pacifying the realm even when one has yet to cultivate oneself and one’s family remains unregulated.
In fact, reversing the order feels refreshing.
Pacifying the Realm, State Governance, Family Regulation, Self-Cultivation.
It feels good.

I like Dr. Kawakami Hajime’s character.

“O Mother, be angry for your child’s sake.”

“No, I can’t believe it.”
“The one at fault is you.”
“This child was deeply compassionate.”
“This child always stood up for those weaker.”
“This child is my child.”
“There, there.”
“Don’t cry.”
“Now that Mommy’s come, I won’t let them lay a finger on you!”

By being hated and hated upon, one grows strong.

Write a proper novel once in a while, will you? You—just when your reputation in society had finally started to improve, wasn't it troublesome that you'd reverted to this indolent Iroha Karuta nonsense again? People might begin suspecting your illness hadn't truly abated.

My good friends might fret over such matters, but they needn't trouble themselves any longer. I wasn't yet an old man—this truth had recently dawned on me. What nonsense—everything still lay ahead. Immature. Writing each sentence through laborious deliberation. Still wholly consumed by myself. Spending days seething, grieving, laughing, writhing—such was my condition. Thirty-one years old could only mean what thirty-one years old was—this too I'd realized. Though self-evident, I cherished this discovery as precious. War and Peace and The Brothers Karamazov remained beyond my capacity—this I could now declare plainly. Absolutely unwritable. Even with my spirit reaching forth, strength to sustain it proved wanting. Yet I wasn't drowning in sorrow. I resolved to live long.

I intend to try.
This resolve too I've only recently managed to solidify.
I love literature.
In that regard it's no small thing.
Do not make light of this.
If you don't love it you can't do it.
Faith—bit by bit I'm coming to understand it.
The sight of a grown man putting on solemn airs to compose Iroha Karuta must appear as rare a spectacle as Benkei playing temari ball the Nio deity folding chiyogami paper or Moses aiming a slingshot at sparrows—or so I imagine.
I know that.
But I'm fine with that.
Art is such a thing.
It is utterly sincere.
Let those who can see see.

Of course, I am not satisfied with only writing such formats.
This convoluted format is something even I myself find exhausting and detest.
I should have properly mastered the established techniques of novel writing without omission.
In fact, I have craftily incorporated them throughout this novel.
Since I too am a merchant, I am well-versed in such matters.
So-called respectable novels too I will write from now on.
Truly, even as I write this, my face burns with such shame I can hardly bear it.
But this too I must write down to reassure my good friends.
Rather than chase purity and suffocate, I would rather grow large even in murkiness.
At present, that is what I believe.
What nonsense—it can be said in a single word.
I do not want to lose.

Whether this work is healthy or unhealthy will be for readers to judge, but it is by no means lazy.
Far from lazy—I am exerting myself utterly.
Publishing such a novel now may prove disadvantageous for me.
Yet I truly believe a thirty-one-year-old must attempt ventures befitting thirty-one.
War and Peace remains beyond my capacity.
I shall continue losing my way in manifold fashions.
I shall suffer.
The waves run fierce.
On this point, I harbor no illusions.
I mean to be cautious—cautious to the point of timidity.
This work’s form and sentiment doubtless never transcend those of thirty-one.
Still, I must find faith in them.
A thirty-one-year-old can only write as thirty-one does.
I deem this best.
As I wrote, an odd sorrow welled up.
Perhaps I should not have written such things.
Yet my heart quickened—I could not refrain from writing.
Lately I’ve lived with ceaseless vigilance—treading thin ice with every step.
For I had been savagely battered down.

But enough.
I will try.
I’m still a bit unsteady, but I’ll grow sturdy in time.
A life without lies will never collapse—this I must first believe.

Now then, let me tell an old tale.

Unhappy, I thought. People all judged me as still being on the happier side. I timidly agreed, murmuring “Yes, yes.” What deficiency drove this struggle? I who willingly purchased suffering—a dabbler in life’s affairs, too fortunate for my own comfort—there were women of that sort who called me a chronic worrier, yet I only minded their whispered criticisms. Or perhaps there even emerged tricksters who would say things like “beauty’s life is often brief” or “bearing jade becomes a crime,” making me blush furiously and squirm in embarrassment until they drove me to drink myself into a stupor.

But the one who, on a certain night, calmly said “You’re an unfortunate man” in a normal voice was Sato Haruo.
Struck by the sudden realization that the path ahead had opened up, I pressed him: “Do you truly think so?”
I think I was faintly smiling.
“Yeah, unfortunate,” he readily agreed again.

Another was Mr. M.S., in the dimly lit reception room of Bungeishunju Ltd.
"Unless an editor comes along who’s devoted enough to die for you—someone who truly adores you—you’ll remain an unfortunate writer," he said clearly, pausing after each word.
I found something noble in how Mr. S’s gaunt frame filled with resolve as he confided these words to me so plainly.

In many cases, I was met with nothing but wry smiles.
To many people, I was a noisy, merely impertinent presence.
Yet I stood in awe of everyone, and then wished only to make them enjoy themselves even a little—even an hour longer—to instill confidence in them, to make them laugh heartily.
I pretended to be a thief.
I even put on an act of pretending to be a beggar.
I believed that the weak, poor children of man—those who harbored a true thief in some corner of their hearts, carried within them the visceral reality of beggary, and spent their days and nights writhing in anguish—would surely discover a sinful elder brother lurking behind my affected gestures, feel secret relief, and take pride in living.
I had been thinking foolish things.
In an instant, I was kicked down.
Autumn of Judgment.
I had become the object of hatred.
At a certain crucial boundary, I had been clearly negligent.
I was lazy.
A line breached, a bursting river’s force—I was declared a born archvillain.
The flames of resentment and derision from the children of the weak and poor burned the earlobes of the once-sinful elder brother.
Yowch! he cried in a comical shriek, darting right and left—when he neared the hearth’s edge, acorns exploded; when he tried to drink from the water jar, crab’s pincers snapped; startled beyond measure, he plopped down only to find a hornet’s nest beneath his rear; fleeing desperately to the garden, mortars came rumbling down from the roof—exactly like the Crab and Monkey fable’s punishment for the simian offender, trapped on all fronts until gasping for breath, he finally tumbled into a room of the den of demons.

That night—I will not forget it.
I was thinking of dying.
There was no helping it.
Drunk, I collapsed without even taking off my coat,

“Hey now, those famous courtesans of old—”
The woman was laughing nearby.
“They’d surrender themselves to any man without a second thought.”
“Like water, like a curtain—they’d surrender themselves just like that.”
“And when they twist their lips slightly like Mona Lisa and stay quiet like that, the customers go mad—selling off every last field and paddy they own.”
“Listen—that’s the crucial part.”
“All those celebrated as great courtesans since ancient times were like that.”
“They mustn’t greedily beg for things like rings.”
“They stay silent forever, looking unsatisfied.”
“A woman who stubbornly clings to virtue—selling her arts but not her body—will find that once she surrenders herself, clients stop coming altogether; no matter what she does, she’ll never become a famous courtesan.”
It’s a terrible story.
Is this what you’d call Satan’s aesthetics—a fragment of courtesan theory?
She spouted utter nonsense and fell fast asleep.

When I suddenly opened my eyes, the room was pitch black.
When I raised my head, there was a single pure white square envelope neatly placed by the pillow.
For some reason, my heart leaped.
It was a pure white envelope, so white it seemed to glow.
It had been placed neatly.
When I reached out to pick it up, I clawed futilely at the tatami mats.
Ah! I thought.
It was moonlight.
From a gap in the curtains of that den of demons' room, moonlight crept in and cast a perfect square of light by my pillow.
I froze.
I received a letter from the moon.
It was an unspeakable terror.

Unable to bear it, I leapt up with a start, flung open the curtains, threw open the window, and looked at the moon.
The moon wore a stranger’s face.
Trying to say something, I caught my breath in surprise.
The moon, even so, pretended not to notice.
Cruel coldness, rigorous severity—fundamentally, it didn’t regard humankind as a concern.
It was on an entirely different plane.
I stood there ugly—it wasn’t a wry smile, nor bashfulness; nothing so superficial.
I growled.
Just like that, I wanted to become a small grasshopper.

I was being such a spoiled brat.
In nature, I came to know the loneliness and severity of living small.
A house burned by lightning—a gourd flower.
That single gourd flower on the dunghill—I resolved to nurture it fiercely, tenderly.

Ah—the glow of fireflies, the snow at the window.

A clean window, a spotless desk—here sits a scholar—or so I proclaim—even as I open my book and sit upright—Ah! Outside that very window, the newsboy’s bell clangs past.
Even so, we must keep studying.
Listen—even goldfish won’t last a month if left unattended, they say.

To send soldiers off—how sorrowful.

Is it wrong to cry when seeing off soldiers headed to the battlefield? No matter what I do, the tears keep flowing—it’s no good—please forgive me. And so—this whole world is hell.

Shinobazu Pond—one night, the name escaped my lips, and then—huh?
"What a strange name," I thought.
There must have been some origin story behind this.
There could be no doubt.

The exact era was not known.
In the household of an Edo-period direct retainer of the shogun, there lived a seventeen-year-old boy named Kanmuri Wakataro.
He was as beautiful as cherry blossom petals.
His childhood companion was an eighteen-year-old samurai youth called Yura Kojiro.
This boy resembled a crescent moon in his beauty.
On a cloudy winter day, a disagreement arose between them over how to grip their beloved horses’ reins and the proper etiquette involved. After much debate, one boy’s derisive smirk—twisting just one corner of his lips—sent the other into fury.

“Cut.”

“Very well.”
“I won’t yield.”
They made a duel pact.

On the day of the promised duel, as Mr.Yura tried to leave his house, the chilling rain soaked him.
He retreated back inside, then went out holding an umbrella.
The agreed-upon meeting place was Ueno Hill.
On the way, he spotted Mr.Kanmuri taking shelter from the rain under the eaves of a townhouse without an umbrella.
Mr.Kanmuri, like a pale red camellia looking cold, drew his shoulders in slightly and appeared utterly perplexed.

“Hey,” called out Mr. Yura.

Mr. Kanmuri glanced around, spotted Mr. Yura, and grinned sharply.
Mr. Yura’s cheeks also flushed slightly.

“Let’s go.”

“Aye.”
The two walked side by side through the cold rain.

Under one umbrella, they pressed their heads together as they walked.
And so, they arrived at the appointed location.

“Are you ready?”

“I’m ready.”

They drew their swords, faced each other, and simultaneously burst out laughing.
They crossed blades, and Mr. Kanmuri lost.
Mr. Yura finished off Mr. Kanmuri.

He washed and purified the sword’s blood in Ueno Pond.

“A grudge is a grudge.”
“A samurai’s pride.”
“A promise cannot be broken.”

From that day forth, people came to call it Shinobazu Pond.
It’s such a dreary world.

D-damn—the sorrow of beasts.

The master castle builders of old took utmost care when designing castles to consider how they would appear as ruins.
They designed them from inception to look dramatically better after becoming ruins.
The master fireworks makers of old devoted their greatest efforts to perfecting that pop when shells burst midair after launch.
Fireworks exist to be heard.
With ceramics—the weight felt when resting on one’s palm matters above all.
Since ancient times, those recognized as master craftsmen agonized most over this weight.

When I lectured them with a convincing look on such matters, the members of the household listened in admiration.
Ah—it was all nonsense.
None of those absurd things were written in any book.

I say again.

If you long for me, come seek and see—the spring-fed leaves of resentment in Shinoda Forest.
This is something everyone knows.
It is a song made by a female fox.
As for the part about “leaves of resentment,” it’s still filled with the base passions of beasts—ephemeral and sorrowful.
In the deepest depths, something tremendous—a terror not of this world—is felt.
Long ago, the wife of a hatamoto in Edo’s Fukagawa district died young.
She left behind a single daughter.
One night, she appeared by her husband’s pillow and recited a poem.
In the dark night, along the stinking mountain path I wandered, vanishing into the sound of Kana’s weeping.
The stinking mountain path might be the name of a mountain in the realm of the dead.
Kana is probably the girl’s name.
Vanishing and wandering away—how like a young female ghost, is it not pitiful?

Here is another one—this too was a song made by an apparition, though the circumstances remained unclear.
The meaning stayed obscure, yet one could still perceive a ghastliness not of this world.
That was a song such as this:
If one gazes lovingly at Wagimoko—a blue heron—they would not resent the absence of words.

To make a clean breast of it, they were all my fictions.
The motive of fiction: that was the author’s love.
I believed that.
It was not Satanism.

The Lord of the Dragon Palace is at the bottom of the sea.

Embraced by aged bodies, chasing unfulfilled dreams, wandering desolate shores—white-haired Urashima Taros still teemed in this world.
Putting a longhorn beetle into a wooden crate, listening to its scrambling footsteps—that rustling sound—while squinting my eyes and thinking, *This is my organ*—what a pitiful state of affairs.

In olden times, the deposed German Emperor.
Or the Ethiopian Emperor.
According to yesterday’s evening paper, Spain’s President, Mr. Azaña finally resigned.
However, these people may be living more carefree and contented lives than one might expect.
Even if they sold off their cherry orchard—well, there are plenty of famous cherry blossom spots in the mountains and fields. ‘They could just claim them all as their own and enjoy the view,’ those heroic figures might be refreshingly unperturbed.

But I sometimes think.
I wonder what on earth Soong May-ling will do.

Hmm—the marsh’s fox-fire.

In the northern country’s summer nights, wearing just a single yukata left one feeling chilly.

At the time, I was eighteen years old, a first-year high school student.
During summer vacation, I returned to my hometown and heard rumors that five or six fox-fires burned every night in the Inari marsh on the outskirts of town.

On a moonless night, I attached a lantern to my bicycle and set out to see the fox-fire.
I rode unsteadily along a narrow path no wider than one shaku or five sun, avoiding dew on summer grass as I went.
All along the way, crickets chirped clamorously while fireflies glowed in abundance like scattered seeds.
Passing through Inari’s torii gate and speeding down the lacquer tree-lined path, I rang my bicycle bell incessantly without reason.

Reaching the marsh’s edge, the bicycle’s front wheel sank squelchingly into the mud.
I got off the bicycle and let out a small sigh.
I saw fox-fires.

On the opposite shore of the marsh, one, two, three red round fires floated in a row, swaying gently. I dragged my bicycle along as I walked by the edge of the marsh. It was a small marsh with a circumference of about ten chō. When I approached, five old men were spreading out a straw mat and having a drinking party. The fox-fire turned out to be three lanterns hung from willow branches on the marsh's edge—Hinomaru lanterns from a sports festival. The old men remembered my face; they all clapped their hands, laughed, and welcomed me. I knew two of those five old men. One had gone bankrupt as a rice merchant; the other had grown senile after taking up with a disreputable woman—both had become laughingstocks in their hometown. The wind coming across the marsh water stank fiercely.

The five of them gathered there every night to hold poetry meetings, or so it was said.
When they saw the light from my bicycle lantern—"A fox-fire!" they cried out in alarm—they turned to look at one another and burst into uproarious laughter again.
I was forced to drink two or three cups of chilled unfiltered sake, after which they thrust several of their so-called poems at me.
Every last one was utterly inept.
There was even a verse that went something like: "A skull lies hidden in the pampas grass shadows."
I climbed onto my bicycle just as I was and rode home.

“Bright moon—yet in this gathering, no beautiful faces.”
Bashō was harsh indeed.

Ru—transmigration and samsara.

I had thought to write about the circumstances of a certain imperial university professor here, but it proved exceedingly difficult. That professor had been indicted just two or three days prior. It was being labeled as leftist ideology. However, this professor should have taken it upon himself five or six years ago, when we were students, to guide students’ leftist ideologies. Moreover, his past guidance-oriented statements from that time were also being cited as one of the reasons for today’s indictment. That was precisely where the difficulty lay.

If only I had four or five more days—then I could ponder deeply over every detail and somehow shape this into a proper story worthy of presentation—but today already marked March second.
Given this magazine’s scheduled release around March tenth today must surely represent our absolute deadline.
No matter what transpired today required delivering this manuscript directly to print.
Such was my sworn promise.
This very torment stemmed from my chronic indolence.
Such conduct proved utterly unacceptable.
Even granting resolve’s inherent difficulty—persisting idly as before meant forfeiting any claim to novelist legitimacy.

Wo—the pine winds at Mount Obasute’s peak.

Let this serve as self-admonishment.
If I repeat such disgraceful conduct again, then it truly will be Mount Obasute.
Indolence Karuta.
Literally—this has become Indolence Karuta.
Wasn’t that the plan from the beginning?
No—I’ll tell no more such lies.

I—I raise my eyes toward the mountain.

Ka—oppressing commoners comes easy; deceiving heaven proves hard.

Yo—after night comes morning.