Pathway to Japanese Literature

I I had been weakened by the gloomy weather lately and couldn’t bring myself to write letters. Back when I lived in Kyoto, I would have trouble with my pleura every year around this season, but since coming here, that had not happened anymore. One reason may have been that I had stopped drinking alcoholic beverages. But still, my spirit remained unhealthy. You may laugh if I call this admirable, but going to school was truly a chore. I rode the train. The train took forty minutes. Perhaps because my state of mind had become passive, I constantly felt as though the person sitting in front was looking at my face. I was aware that that was my solitary sumo. To put it another way, though I had not noticed it at first, it was that I myself was seeking out such gazes. The very act of trying to make my gaze appear casual became the source of my torment in holding back.

Even if it didn’t reach hostility, I harbored prickly feelings toward the people in the train. This too would sometimes make me strangely start searching for flaws in people. The wide trousers that seemed to be in vogue among students, those gaudy red shoes that lay flat. And others. And others. What my weakened body couldn’t endure was that vulgar taste. If they’d done it thoughtlessly, I wouldn’t have been angry. If necessity had compelled them, I might even have felt goodwill. But I could never believe that was true. It all seemed so shallow.

The number of women’s hairstyles I found unbearable had gradually increased. —Are you aware there was such an illustration in the book of monsters I lent you? That was a female monster. The face was normal, but the back of the head—that part was the monster. It had a greedy mouth. And the ends of her loosened hair transformed into tentacle-like shapes, seized sweets from a pot placed nearby, and attempted to carry them toward that mouth. But whether the woman knew it or not, she faced forward with an ordinary expression.—When I saw that, I felt an unpleasant sensation. However, among recent hairstyles there were those that reminded one of that. The hairstyle formed the shape of that mouth. My aversion to that illustration suddenly grew stronger after seeing this hairstyle.

If I kept paying attention to every little thing like this, it became unbearably stifling. Yet even when I thought that way, there were times I couldn't escape. That was one "pattern" of discomfort. The more I reflected, the more that discomfort turned awkward. One day, such a thing happened. Once again, the clothing of the woman sitting before me evoked my disgust. I hated it. I felt like dealing a fatal blow. And I searched for words that could effectively inflict shame. After some time, I succeeded. But those words had been too effective. Not only would they defeat her—they seemed certain to plunge that rustling woman into dark misery. When I found such words, I would immediately imagine hurling them at her face—yet in this instance, I couldn't do it. That woman. Those words. Just contemplating their opposition felt cruel enough already. My irritation gradually cooled. I thought criticizing women's features was unmanly. I thought I ought to look with warmer eyes. Yet this harmonious mood didn't last long. My solitary sumo had passed.

When my eyes grazed past that woman once more, I suddenly sensed within that ugliness a health that likely surpassed my own. There exists an expression - "unwholesome vigor." In that sense, it was a morbidly healthy quality. There grows a weed called railway grass of irrepressible nature. Could this resemble that very health? —Through contrast with this, my solitary sumo gradually laid bare its nervous fragility.

Having harbored a terrible aversion to vulgarity had long been my habit. This had always been a sign that my own mind was slackening. Yet that marked the first time I myself had sunk into such wretchedness. I came to understand how the rainy season was weakening me.

Another problem when riding trains was how their clatter sounded like music. (You once mentioned having experienced something similar yourself) I had once tried to use those sounds to listen to good music. This was how I'd unwittingly created adversaries that tormented me. Whenever I thought, "I'll try that again," I'd immediately start picking out melodies from the train's rattle and the city's din. But when I was thoroughly exhausted, it wouldn't register at the proper pitch—which was fine. The real trouble was how it had escaped my control entirely. That wasn't all. Before I knew it, it began playing things I found utterly unbearable. Music that woman from earlier would likely dance to. At times mockingly and deliberately crude. And when it sounded like their victory chant—though phrasing it that way turns it into fiction—it was intensely disagreeable regardless.

When I grew melancholy on the train, my face must surely have been ugly. I thought that if someone discerning saw it, they would never approve. I felt a vague "evil" layered upon my melancholy. I wanted to escape that "evil." Yet I couldn’t very well refuse to ride the train. If both poison and dish were preordained, there was no need to flinch. My solitary sumo ended here. I told myself I must grasp the reality of that sea.

One day I was riding the train with my younger friend. He was a friend who had come to Tokyo a year after us that April. My friend disliked Tokyo. And he kept talking about all that had been good in Kyoto. I too had experienced something akin to that sentiment. People who arrive and immediately take to Tokyo are insufferable. Yet I found myself unable to agree with my friend’s words. I said Tokyo too had its own particular merits. Even those who say such things are insufferable. One could detect such sentiments even in my friend’s tone. Then we both fell silent. It was an oddly painful silence. That day my friend told me how back in Kyoto, when train windows passed each other, he would fix in his mind which numbered window held the girl destined to enter his life—“That girl in whatever window over there will bring some connection into my life now”—and wait for them to pass by as if hearing an oracle. And that story left me utterly numb. I myself had developed a fixation even on such matters.

II

One day, O came to visit me. O had a healthy-looking face. And he went on talking about all sorts of lively topics— O noticed the paper on my desk. On many sheets of paper, the word Waste was written in rows.

“What’s this? Did you get yourself a girlfriend or something?” O teased. By those words—“something like a lover”—coming from O’s mouth of all people, I suddenly remembered myself from five or six years ago. It had been a childish yet intense passion of mine directed at a certain girl. That it ended in utter futility is something you must know at least a little about.

—My father’s bitter voice declared the outcome of that disgraceful incident. The air around me suddenly felt suffocating. Uttering a sound I myself didn’t understand, I jumped out of bed. From behind, my older brother had followed me. I ran to in front of my mother’s vanity. And then I saw my own pale face reflected. It was hideously contorted. Why had I run that far—that much even I myself cannot clearly say. I may have tried to see that anguish with my own eyes. Looking in the mirror, there are times when the tumult of my heart subsides. —My parents, brother, O, and another friend were the ones who had trouble dealing with me at that time. And even now at home, they do not speak that girl’s name in my presence. I had once tried writing her name in extremely abbreviated characters on the edges of scraps of paper. And there were times when I couldn’t help but erase it and tear it to pieces. —However, on the paper that O had teased me about, the word Waste was indeed lined up all over.

“No, that’s completely wrong,” I said. And I explained the reason. The previous evening, I had been tormented by melancholy again. The rain was falling in heavy sheets. And that sound was playing that familiar music. Since I didn’t feel like reading, I had been doodling. Is “Waste” an easy character to write—there are characters one idly scribbles with a brush—it’s one of those. I had been writing it endlessly in great quantities. Before long, my ear began discerning within it a steady rhythm like that of a loom. This was because my hand had settled into its motion. It should have been audible, of course. From when I first pricked up my ears at some faint sound to when I recognized it as a delicate rhythm, what I felt was too modest to be called tension or joy. But it was no longer the same weariness from an hour before. I became engrossed in that delicate rhythm—like rustling silk or a tiny train from Lilliput. When even that grew tiresome, this time I felt a desire to mimic that sound with words. As if asking whether I’d captured the peak of a lesser cuckoo’s call. —Yet in the end, I couldn’t discover it. Hindered by my preconception that there must be many sa-row sounds. However, I heard small fragmented words. And realized the language they suggested belonged neither to Tokyo nor anywhere else—it was indeed my family’s unique accent from home.

—I must have been striving with all my might. I think it was that purity of heart which finally compelled me to leave my hometown. It felt like pressing my knees tightly against the hometown that had grown distant from my heart—and yet, in such an unexpectedly late hour. I didn’t understand exactly what was real, but I felt something genuine within it. I was somewhat agitated.

But I told O that perhaps this was suggesting truth in art—particularly truth in poetry. O listened to all this with a calm smile. Sharpening the pencil lead, I had O listen to that sound too. O narrowed his eyes and said, “I can hear it, I can hear it.” “And if I tried changing the characters and paper quality myself, that might be interesting,” he said. “When your handling gets too stiff, the sound changes.” He laughed, calling it “voice cracking.” This related to his remark that since it sounded like someone’s voice within the family, it must be his youngest brother’s. There are times when imagining my younger brother’s voice breaking feels somehow cruel. The next story also comes from my conversation with O that day. And these are things I want to set down in a letter.

O said that on the previous Sunday he had taken a relative’s child to a place called Hanazonoen in Tsurumi. And he recounted the details of it with evident amusement. Hanazonoen appeared to be something like what they called “Paradise” back in Kyoto. He said that among all the amusing things there, what had been most delightful was the large slide they had installed. And he passionately elaborated on the thrill of sliding down it. He truly did seem to have found it enjoyable. He spoke in such a way that you could tell that delight still lingered somewhere within him even now. In the end I found myself saying, “I’d like to go see it too.” It’s an odd way to phrase it, but that trailing “naa” and “aa” harmonized perfectly with the sound of O’s “The slide’s really fun!” And this harmony arose from the very charm of O himself. O was an honest man incapable of lying—the sort whose words you couldn’t help believing with equal honesty. For someone like me who lacked such guilelessness, this fact was at least a comforting thing.

And the conversation turned to the story of the donkeys at that amusement park. It was a donkey that carried children around a fence; being well-trained, it would make a full circuit by itself when a child rode it and then return, or so he said. I found that animal endearing. However, one of them stopped midway, he recounted. O had been watching. Then the halted creature began urinating right there. The child riding it—a little girl, apparently—started fidgeting, her face growing redder until she seemed ready to cry.—We laughed heartily. The scene floated vividly before my eyes: the good-natured donkey’s childish vulgarity, and the adorable perplexity of the child who fell victim to it. That was truly an adorable perplexity. But even as I kept laughing, I found myself oddly unable to continue. From that scene so perfectly poised for laughter, only the little girl’s emotions came rushing in all at once.

Doing something so ill-mannered. I’m so ashamed.

I became unable to laugh. Due to the previous night's lack of sleep, my mind had grown strangely susceptible to distraction and prone to fixating on things. I felt this. And for a while, the discomfort lingered. I should have simply told O about it casually. Had I just spoken up, I could have laughed it off again as something adorably absurd. But somehow I couldn't bring myself to say it. And I envied O, who never lost that healthy equilibrium of emotions.

III

My room was a good room. If I were to point out a flaw, it would be that its construction was thin and sensitive to things like humidity. One window was close to trees and a cliff, and another window commanded a view of Iigura’s tramway across lowlands such as Okutanizume. Within that view stood an old shii tree from the former Tokugawa residence. The tree, whose age was anyone’s guess, was by far the largest and most splendid sight in the view. I wondered—did the shii tree turn red during the rainy season? At first, I suspected it might be catching some reflection of the sunset. It was that kind of redness. However, even on rainy days, it remained the same. It was always so. It was, after all, a phenomenon of the tree itself. I recalled, though some days had passed, the ancient poet’s verse: “the rains lingering still at Hikaridō.” And I felt pleased to have coined the term *Shiigane* and substituted it into the fifth line below. It was not that the middle seven had left it behind; I felt I had perceived with fresh eyes that it was indeed that which had lingered.

Near the window facing the cliff, at a distance close enough to reach out and touch, there was a tree called kana hide. It was said to be a type of hō tree. I thought that this flower, too, was not entirely out of place in the May darkness. But no matter how you put it, what was truly unbearable was the rainy season. When the rain continued, humidity filled my room. When I saw how soaked the areas around the windows had become, I grew utterly melancholy. I found myself growing strangely irritated. The sky simply hung heavy and oppressive.

“Tch. The bottom of a rotting ship.”

One day I tried cursing my room with those words. And as I cursed, the act itself had already become amusing—my mood shifted. There are times when Mother scolds me harshly. And times when I end up laughing at some absurdly outlandish curse. I felt somewhat like that. My imagination took those words and made me picture myself laying tatami mats on a rotting ship’s hull to journey down a great river. I thought it was precisely in such moments that the rainy season’s oppressive gloom lent an intriguing quality.

IV

That too was an afternoon on a rainy day. I went to A’s house in Akasaka. Our gatherings in Kyoto—you attended one of those meetings once, if you recall—the A who was present then is the same A here. In April of this year, after our departure, three people who had been maintaining those gatherings had emerged and arrived here. And since there had already been prior discussions, together with the five who had come to Tokyo earlier, the gatherings in Tokyo had begun anew. It was decided that we would start publishing a coterie magazine from January of the following year and that we would save up both the funds and manuscripts for it each month. The reason I went to A’s house was to deliver those accumulated savings.

Recently, A had become involved in a certain dispute with his family. That was the marriage issue. If A pursued the path he desired, it would mean having abandoned his parents. At least, that was how it was for his parents. A’s problem demanded an attitude from me, his own friend. At first, I even thought to treat him coldly. At the very least, I endeavored to avoid becoming a presence that would stir fervor in his heart. The more the problem grew in that manner, the more I felt compelled to do so. However—whichever position that might be—he had gradually been demonstrating that he was not one to be swayed by any stance others had taken. I now came to understand that it was precisely in such moments that human character—which in ordinary times could only be vaguely grasped—revealed its contours clearly. He too would likely deepen this through his trial. I found it beautiful.

When I arrived at A's house, by chance the group of newcomers to Tokyo were already there and discussing the mediator's letter that had intervened between A and his family regarding his issue. A had left them behind and gone out shopping. That day too, I felt utterly stifled. As I listened to their discussion, I remained silent with a lonely heart. Then at some point triggered by something, I heard the remark: "If they claim to understand A's feelings so well, why don't they make an effort for our side?" It was a harshly worded remark. It went without saying these words concerned the mediator.

My heart twanged sharply. The strength of a lifestyle that left no gap between knowing and acting oppressed me. But it wasn’t merely that. In my heart, I had tacitly approved of the mediator’s attitude. To put it plainly, it was because I’d thought, “I understand that person’s feelings too.” I couldn’t help but reflect that claiming to understand both sides meant I truly knew neither. It was an indescribably unpleasant feeling—the things I’d relied on were crumbling away. I thought even A’s parents would turn their backs on me. Yet my heart—driven to one extreme—began struggling against an instinctive counterforce. By the time I left A’s house, I had finally returned to a harmonious state of relaxation. After A returned from his errand, everyone’s conversation shifted entirely to next year’s plans. They took delight in repeating the magazine name R had devised, laughing at their comical struggles before settling on it. What I find intriguing is how our spirit—which found expression through that name—now draws fresh inspiration and order from the name itself.

We were treated to dinner with things sent from A’s hometown.

When I returned to my room，the flowers of the oak tree near the window filled the entire space with their heavy scent. A pointed out to me through that window the linden tree，where the name and the thing had been separate entities in my knowledge. I also informed everyone that the tree on Iikura-dori was a horse chestnut tree. A few days prior，R，A，and two or three others had seen those beautiful flowers and were saying things like，“Isn’t this a horse chestnut?” I had read that name on a sign that had been attached to one of them，which said，“Let’s take good care of the street trees.”

While discussing the savings fund, I learned that one of them was earning the money for it entirely through his own work. He said he didn’t want to contribute money from his parents.—Now, more than ever, I realized that I was setting out with good companions. Since my state of mind had become fairly harmonious, I did not overly blame myself for this friend’s actions.

After a while, we left A’s house. Outside was refreshing after the rain. Through the town still early in the evening, I returned home with one of my friends via Reinanzaka. He said he would stop by my place to borrow a book on his way back. He said he’d also see the horse chestnut blossoms. This was because this one friend had missed seeing them. Along the way, I loudly sang difficult-to-sing melodies and made that friend listen to them. The ability to sing those comes only when my spirits are good. When we came near Gazenbo, we encountered an interesting incident. That was a man who had caught a firefly. Abruptly saying “Is this a firefly?”, he thrust the gap between his cupped hands right under our noses. The firefly was glowing with a beautiful light within them. “I caught it over there,” he explained without being asked. My friend and I exchanged glances and formed strange smiles. After putting some distance between us, we laughed together. “He must have caught it and taken off,” I said. I thought I had been unable to keep from saying something.

Iidabashi-dori shone with post-storm beauty. On the horse chestnut tree we gazed up at together bloomed flowers resembling ornamental lanterns. I found myself compelled to revisit who I had been five or six years prior. It struck me then that my eyes had first awakened to nature’s splendor precisely during those days. The hue glowing through electric-lit leaves—that same tint graced foliage in the tiny park near her house where nightly temptations once stirred. By then I’d established my ritual: circling her home before settling on its shadowed bench.

(Now that I can firmly believe my passion for beauty and my passion for that girl were twins sharing the same womb, I think there will be no trouble in confessing to you—these acts akin to theft and equivalent to fraud that my younger self ultimately committed. (Those have truly been the clouds darkening my memories until today.))

The trains running through the town appeared before my eyes with their own inherent beauty that evening. With windows thrown open to the rain-freshened air, the train interior—moderately filled with passengers—was bathed in a light that made us, who had come through dark streets, feel as though happiness itself were being carried along and dwelling there. The women aboard too seemed instantly beautiful when glimpsed from the street. We watched train after train pass by. Among them we could see beautiful Westerners. My friend must have found that evening pleasant too.

“In the train, faces are hard to see, but from the street or when passing by, you can watch them for quite a long time,” he said. At my friend’s casually spoken words, I reconsidered with a beautiful vividness how insensible I had been the previous day.

V

This is an account of the day I resolved to write this letter to you.

I went to the public bath, carrying a hand towel for the first time in a while. It was still after the rain. The hedge plants were emitting a pungently pleasant fragrance.

In the public bathhouse, I occasionally encountered an old man and a little girl who appeared to be his granddaughter. She was such an adorable child that I wanted to take her to Hanazonoen. That day, as I looked at the painted landscape hanging above the bathtub, I made a small discovery—Ah, they're trying to make it feel like a hot spring—and couldn't help but smile. The water was from a hot spring, and moreover, there was a setup called an "electric bath" system. In the hushed daytime bathtub, two young men were soaking. When I had blended into them and warmed up a bit, the device began buzzing to life.

“Hey, the power’s come on,” said one of the young men. “It ain’t power,” the other answered. Having left the bath, I moved my seat near the little girl. While washing my body, I occasionally looked at the little girl’s face. She had a sweet face. When the old man finished washing himself, he turned to attend to the child. The soapy hand towel she had been using with childish hands was taken by the old man. As his face turned away, I stared fixedly at the girl’s face, anticipating her eyes would be drawn to me. When she finally turned toward me, I smiled. But the little girl did not smile back. When her neck was being washed, she strained to look at me using the whites of her eyes despite the difficulty. In the end, even while making a “Uuuh” sound, she kept trying to meet my forced smile with those strained eyes. That “Uuuh” looked rather adorable.

“There!” Suddenly, the old man’s oblivious hands forced the child’s head downward. After a while, the little girl’s neck was relieved. I had been waiting for it. And this time, I made a comical contrived face. And gradually I distorted it more and more.

“Grandpa.” The little girl finally spoke. She said it while looking at my face. “Where’s this person from?” “That’s just some stranger uncle.” Without turning around, the old man kept diligently washing the child as before.

After an unusually long bath, I emerged feeling thoroughly refreshed. In the bathwater’s embrace, I had worked through a certain problem until my mind felt weightless and clear. The problem went like this. There had been an occasion when, while comparing arm thickness with a friend, I pointed out how his forearm skin bore unhealthy wrinkles. Then he declared fiercely: “There are times I think about dying.” He explained he couldn’t tolerate even the slightest trace of ugliness in himself. It was merely a wrinkle. But what I’d noticed was that this wasn’t some transient crease. In any case, it was trivial. Yet even then, I felt something within me had been drained away. I thought there must have been moments when I too had harbored such thoughts. I’m certain they existed—though now I can’t recall them. And at those times, loneliness would descend. This was what suddenly came back to me in the bath. When I retraced my memories, such instances indeed existed. I don’t remember my exact age—it was around when I first became aware of my own unsightly face. Another time came when bedbugs infested my house. I wanted to burn the whole place down. Then there was when I botched my first attempt at writing in a new notebook. I wanted to hurl it away.

After recalling such things, I thought that if the opportunity arose, I would like to tell my younger friend—for his reflection—about the quiet dignity of old tools that had been carefully used and well-tended. There had indeed been an instance where two people praised tea utensils with lacquer filled into their cracks.

On my flushed body, even the fine blood vessels swelled faintly. I flexed both arms and tried working my upper arms and shoulders with circular motions. The me in the mirror was healthier than I was. I twisted my face into that comical expression again - just as I'd done before.

"Hysterica Passio"—so saying, I finally burst out laughing.

The most detested time of my year was finally passing. When I looked back, even among those many days when my heart remained utterly still, there were moments like when I came to know honeysuckle's intense fragrance in Minami Aoi Bunko's garden. There were also evenings at Reinanzaka when, from railway grass's scent, I thought autumn that had outlasted summer was already drawing near.

It was with this desire—to avoid debasing myself with delusions, to fight only those opponents I should fight, and to find peace in the harmony that follows—that I took up my pen.

――October 1925――