Pathway to Japanese Literature

September 13th.

I finally came to Kyoto. Yamano and Kuwata might think I came here because I couldn’t endure their oppression. But who cares what they think? I’ll try as much as possible not to think about them.

Today, for the first time, I saw the literature department's research office. There were unexpectedly good books here. Like silkworms devouring mulberry leaves, I resolved to read through every last one of them. When it came to research, I felt completely reassured that I would absolutely not lose to the Tokyo crowd after seeing that office. Moreover, I had come to like Kyoto itself. Especially today, as I passed in front of the university, I saw several vivid red berries—likely having flowed down from Shirakawa Mountain—drifting along a small ditch where clear water gurgled as it streamed downward. That fresh scene—unimaginable even in dreams on Tokyo’s streets—completely anchored my heart to early autumn Kyoto. I came to like Kyoto. I would never regret coming to Kyoto.

But lately, I found myself assailed by a certain profound anxiety. It was none other than this: It was the anxiety of whether I possessed sufficient natural talent to stand as a writer in the future. When I stripped away all self-delusion and considered it plainly，it didn’t seem like I possessed even a shred of it. Back when I was in Tokyo，out of competitive spirit toward Yamano，Kuwata，and Sugino，I would put on a face of full confidence—as if even someone like me had it in abundance. But when I cast aside all preconceptions and considered myself impartially，I seemed to possess no talent whatsoever as a creative writer.

I worry that I may have committed the miscalculation of natural talent—a mistake all too prone to be made by young men aspiring to literature. Thinking about this fills me with disgust, but there is nothing lonelier than a man who in his youth passionately shared aspirations for literature and burned with ambition toward the literary world never emerging into prominence, no matter how much time passes. I can’t help but wonder if I’m not one of them. People who aspire to other paths in life can manage to cover it up even if they somewhat miscalculate their own natural talent. The power of money or family connections can compensate for a deficiency in natural talent to some extent. But for those who aspire to art, a miscalculation of natural talent is a fatal mistake. There, no resources exist to compensate for a deficiency in natural talent. When I realize that the talent I thought was gold turns out to be copper or lead with each passing day, it’s all over. A miscalculation of natural talent soon becomes a lifelong miscalculation, vividly squandering the one life we’re given. From ancient times to the present day, how many unknown artists have ruined themselves through miscalculations of their natural talent? Behind one Shakespeare who prospered, how many minor playwrights must have continued writing worthless plays destined for oblivion? Beneath the feet of one Goethe, who basked in the acclaim of all Germany, how many unknown poets must have immersed themselves in mediocre verse? There must have been artists who ended in obscurity among composers as well. There must have been countless among actors as well. For one genius to be chosen, many unknown artists must lie buried as weeds beneath their feet. Even unknown artists are in no way inferior to geniuses in terms of artistic ambition or artistic integrity. They have but one shortcoming. It is that their natural talent is lead or copper that will not shine, no matter how much it is polished.

Thinking this way, I find myself unbearably disgusted with who I am. Why did I ever aspire to become a creative writer? Why did I take up literature? When I think about that, I always grow sick of my own absurdity. The reason I chose literature was merely that I was governed by the trivial boyhood emotion of idolizing literary figures. Was there another reason? That cause was nothing but the foolish fact that I was good at composition during middle school. I am utterly disgusted with myself—now compelled to follow through at all costs with this lifelong path I chose on a boyhood whim.

Even so, during my high school days, I did have some confidence. It wasn’t so much that I had confidence as that I was able to deceive myself about my true natural talent and circumstances. In particular, it might have been because some of Yamano and Kuwata’s burning literary ambitions and confidence bordering on conceit had transferred to me. Back in high school, during those times when we all slept side by side in the dormitory, we did almost nothing but talk about the literary world. In particular, Mr. Kawasaki Jun’ichirō’s active endeavors often became a topic of our discussions. Mr. Kawasaki was our closest objective. How that person’s dazzlingly brilliant success must have stirred our hearts back then. When such topics arose, Kuwata would fix us with blazing eyes,

“Nonsense! “Our crowd will get recognized soon enough! If just one of us becomes famous, it’s a done deal—they can then pull up the rest in turn,” declared Kuwata with the confidence that he himself would be that first achiever of renown. “Exactly—every single person who served on the literary club’s committee has become famous in the literary world.” “Look at Mr. Yabe!” “Look at Mr. Koyama!” “Look at Mr. Wada!” “Look at Mr. Kondo!” “They’re all literary club alumni!” “Oh, the literary world’s not such a formidable place after all,” the arrogant genius Yamano had chimed in to Kuwata. Whenever I heard such conversations, some portion of Yamano and Kuwata’s fervent hopes and unshakable confidence would seep into me, lending a fleeting sense of reassurance—yet simultaneously, I couldn’t escape the dread that in the future literary world, it would be Kuwata and Yamano who truly made their names, while I remained forever buried in their shadow as an unknown writer. Even back then, Yamano had published a serious, sardonic novel in the literary club’s magazine—one that astonished the entire school—and Kuwata had contributed several scripts to the same publication. Moreover, they demonstrated utterly outstanding execution through refined technique and clever conception. And both had been members of the literary club’s committee. When Yamano declared that “everyone who served on the literary club’s committee has become famous in the literary world,” it amounted to proclaiming that he himself—currently a committee member—could easily make his name there in the future.

I always found it unbearable how Yamano would needlessly hurt others by leveraging his strong personality. Yet despite this, I couldn’t deny that bastard’s talent. Whether Yamano or Kuwata, they’d both truly taken their first steps. Meanwhile I—back then of course, but even now—had accomplished nothing. To make matters worse, I’d separated myself from the group and come to Kyoto—a place terribly disadvantageous for entering the literary world. There were economic reasons for this. But it might also be said that another major cause was my inability to endure the constant, oppressive discomfort of being surrounded by their exceptional talents while among Yamano, Kuwata and the others. Particularly with Yamano—he’d been consciously trying to overwhelm me. He was that vile sort of man who nurtured his confidence through superiority complexes gained by comparing his own outstanding qualities to lesser individuals. And in most cases, I was apparently that lesser individual. Once when I was admiring Yoshino Tatsuomi’s *Shio*, he sneered, “What?! You think *Shio*’s interesting?! “That’s rather problematic,” he scoffed. His sneer had that scathing quality—the kind that pushes people away while refusing to let them approach. That bastard would inevitably harass me like before whenever I read anything remotely sentimental. At the same time, when I tried reading something slightly challenging like Ibsen’s *Brand*,

“Oh ho! ‘Brand,’ is it?! Do you even understand it?!” he sneered. At times like these, I wanted to strike him down, but whenever I saw his pale forehead and keen eyes radiating an imposing dignity, I could do nothing against this man who was physically far weaker than me.

He often made such remarks when those of us aspiring to be writers—Kuwata, me, Sugino, Kawase, and the like—gathered together. “We’re all gradually being recognized in the literary world. But somehow, one of us might get left behind—when everyone’s being celebrated as rising writers clamoring about—I alone get left behind! It must seem strange... Yet that cursed fate might unexpectedly fall to me!”

He said this and burst into confident laughter. Then he glanced at me meaningfully. I felt deeply unpleasant. That one among fellow creators who set out together might be left behind forever struck me as bitterly ironic—for whoever remained stranded this way must find it utterly unbearable. Yet such outcomes could easily occur in reality. I—possessing least faith in my talent—strove to avoid envisioning this scenario. But Yamano reveled in imagining precisely this cruel irony to torment me and others of frail confidence like Sugino.

I am left behind, alone! Even when I thought about it, it remained undeniably a lonely prospect. I found it unbearably unpleasant being in Tokyo and growing competitive with Yamano, Kuwata, and the others. Just escaping their relentless oppressive presence—I couldn’t fathom how much relief that alone might bring. Were I to come to Kyoto and find myself in wholly different circumstances from theirs, I’d have endless excuses prepared should they leave me behind. Moreover, moving to Kyoto held a faint yet tangible prospect—that my chance to enter the literary world might instead arrive sooner. This hinged on Dr.Nakata being a literature professor in Kyoto. Dr.Nakata had long withdrawn from the literary world’s center. Yet he still maintained certain connections within its periphery. Were I but to secure his patronage,I might gain swift entry into that world—and making Yamano choke on his contempt for my talent would hardly prove impossible. Such considerations partly underpinned my decision for Kyoto.

October 1st.

I felt restless for no particular reason. It was especially true when evening fell. When the slopes of Mount Hiei, spread out like a blue carpet, began fading into hazy gray at dusk, I was seized by an unbearable loneliness that left me no peace whether sitting or standing. I had sought out loneliness of my own accord. But that very loneliness immediately began turning on me. Moreover, beneath the loneliness of my solitude lurked a heart of fierce impatience. When I thought about how Yamano, Kuwata and the others in Tokyo were growing day by day, I felt I couldn’t sit still for even a moment. While I had been rummaging through Bernard Shaw’s complete works in the research room, Kuwata might have already finished writing that three-act social play he’d long talked of creating. While I had been compiling trivial notes in the classroom, Yamano might have already found a publisher for Hauptmann’s *The Weavers*, which he’d translated more than half of. When I thought of that, I felt increasingly unable to bear it. By year’s end, Yamano and Kuwata might somehow establish a foothold in the literary world. I could no longer sit still.

I was writing the play *Night’s Threat* to counter them. But my mind had been completely exhausted by the reckless lifestyle of my high school days. Regarding the theme of this play, I retained some shred of confidence. Yet every line flowing from my pen emerged as stale platitudes. The abundant imagination I once proudly wielded during middle school had vanished without trace from my mind. Still I resolved to complete this script regardless. Once finished, I would visit Dr. Nakata. Through his goodwill, my future might yet unexpectedly brighten.

Today, I happened to meet Yoshino Tatsuomi-kun. In high school, he was a year above me, and it turns out he’s also come to Kyoto’s literature department. When I spoke with Yoshino-kun, I felt somewhat relieved to realize that those writhing to break into the literary world were not me alone. Yoshino Tatsuomi! I cannot begin to fathom how much I had worshipped him in the past. For readers of *Literary World* around Meiji 40 (1907), how brightly his name must have shone—what allure it must have held! I, who submitted entry after entry to Tayama Katai’s prize novels without success, could not fathom how much I envied Yoshino-kun’s brilliant success.

Yet Yoshino-kun—once even hailed as a genius—had yet to make a name for himself in the literary world. It must have been years since he last submitted to *Literary World*. To say he had abandoned his literary aspirations would be incorrect. He was actually in the literature department, waiting for an opportunity to break into the literary world. But such an opportunity seemed unlikely to be readily granted to him. When I spoke with him, Yoshino-kun too was fiercely impatient. Yet when he said, “Even I was once called a rising writer, you know,” I felt a pang of loneliness. Yoshino-kun was greatly exaggerating his past dreams. Back then, a short story collection consisting solely of winning works from *Literary World* had been published. I recalled its title bore the label “Rising Writer.” But toward Yoshino-kun—who fantasized about his past success as a submitting writer, delighting in the illusion that he had once been an author of note—I felt something between pity and desolation. However, since meeting Yoshino-kun, I had somehow begun to feel reassured. That man who had shone with such abundant talent in his youth still remained obscure. Thinking of this, I felt somewhat relieved.

But why was it that such an utterly hopeless crowd had gathered in this university’s literature department? The bastards in my class were particularly wretched.The man who supposedly graduated from Hiroshima’s higher normal school had smugly insisted on reading “Baudelaire”—the French poet’s name written on the blackboard by our teacher yesterday—as “Baudereā” with German pronunciation,much to my disgust.A fellow student answering Dr.Nakata’s question declared that *Monna Vanna* was Maeterlinck’s novel.I despised them all.Back in high school,both classrooms and dorms had been steeped in literary elitism.In art’s name，everything was permitted.In art’s name，we could disregard lectures and classrooms.Yet here,the literature department’s atmosphere reeked of banality.Not one soul spoke of art.The high school graduates mostly comprised invalids who’d chosen humanities or philosophy dropouts.Even normal school alumni merely compiled meticulous notes for their degrees.No whiff of intellectual freedom lingered here.Dr.Nakata lecturing these swine about literature and art amounted to casting pearls before swine.I pitied Dr.Nakata.

November 5th.

Today, by chance, I spoke with a man named Satake from the same class. Until now, I had thoroughly despised everyone in my class, but I realized that man alone was not worthy of my contempt. As soon as I brought up creative work, that man suddenly said this.

“I actually finished writing a short story of about 150 pages yesterday, but I can’t say I’m very satisfied with how it turned out,” he said with an utterly composed demeanor. A hundred and fifty pages for a short story! Just that alone left me thoroughly intimidated. The three-act play I’m currently writing, *Night’s Threat*, is planned to be a mere seventy pages. Moreover, I consider it quite a lengthy piece. Yet this man called a hundred-and-fifty-page novel a short story, and on top of that, he said such things.

“Actually, right now I’m working on a novel of about six hundred pages and another novel of about fifteen hundred pages.” “As for the six-hundred-page one, I’ve already written about two hundred pages.” “Once they’re completed, I intend to publish them in some form,” he declared grandly, with complete composure. He had full confidence in his masterpieces and was never impatient like me. I felt intimidated by this man, yet at the same time sensed a certain reassurance. Even in Kyoto, there existed such a sincere writer. The name of this man had likely never appeared in literary magazines, not even in six-point type. Yet this man was indeed silently devoted to crafting his lengthy novel. I had not read a single line this man had written, so I would not comment on the quality of his creative work—but given the sheer volume of six hundred pages, fifteen hundred pages, this man must possess some form of greatness. But next, that man said such a thing.

“I know the novelist Hayashida Kusabito.” “He’s a senior from my home prefecture.” “When entering the literature department this time, I made a special trip to Tokyo to meet him.” “Not only did he welcome me warmly, but our conversation really took off.” “He’s someone who truly understands.” “In fact, I plan to send this 150-page novel I’ve just finished to him.” “He’ll probably recommend it to some publisher.”

I had begun to respect Satake quite a bit, but upon hearing this, I couldn’t help feeling somewhat sorry for him. Yet there was something lonely about this man’s carefree composure, relying as he did on Hayashida Kusabito—a fellow prefectural native with whom he had only a passing acquaintance. Would there truly be a magazine in the central literary world that would readily accept Satake’s 150-page novel—written by a completely unknown writer like him—simply through Mr. Hayashida’s introduction? And would Mr. Hayashida, who had no formal ties to Satake whatsoever, seriously recommend his work? That person must have grown thoroughly tired of being made to read various manuscripts from submitting writers. Seeing Satake-kun’s naivete—staking everything on such unreliable prospects while imagining his grand debut was imminent—I couldn’t help feeling a pang of pity. In truth, to be honest, even the notion that Mr. Hayashida—notoriously lax even within literary circles—would bother reading a 150-page manuscript seemed dubious when one thought about it. I wondered if everything could possibly proceed as smoothly as Satake-kun seemed to believe.

December 29th.

Today, I received a disgustingly unpleasant letter from Yamano in Tokyo. It was a letter brimming with malice—one that challenged me, insulted me, and sought to utterly shatter my emotions. The message was as follows. (How about that! You’re keeping quiet like a fool. Does Kyoto have even a shred of anything resembling literature? We fellows over here have grown tired of idly flipping through foreign literature books as we used to. When you think about it, even the 'literary studies' we held sacred during our high school days are trivial nonsense, aren’t they? We must create our own works—anything less would be a sham. Creative work is gold. All else is silver. No, they’re copper or lead at best. We can no longer sit still. We can no longer afford to remain as carefree as we were in our high school days. Our plans have already been completely finalized. We will launch a coterie magazine starting in March of next year. The coterie members are Kuwata, Okamoto, Sugino, Kawase, and myself, with Inoue-kun and Yoshishima-kun—a year above us—joining as well. The magazine’s name will probably be “×××”. We will publish the first issue on March 1st. The publisher is Bunkyodo in Nihonbashi. Already, everyone is busy with manuscripts for the first issue.

The deadline is January 30th. Well then, keep your eyes peeled and behold our vigorous activities! (We truly feel that the dawn has come) Having finished reading to the end, I felt intense jealousy and fury, while at the same time, I could not help but feel a profound loneliness, as though brutally cast aside.

Nowhere in this letter was there even a fragment of phrases like “Why don’t you join as a member too?” or “Why don’t you contribute something?” This entire letter sprang from Yamano’s taunting malice. It was his vile prank—triumphantly reporting the coterie magazine’s publication—determined to wound me as I suffered in loneliness. The malice of that guy—brandishing the first issue’s deadline, utterly irrelevant to one excluded like me—lay glaringly transparent in its intent to torment.

This letter wounded me far more deeply than Yamano had anticipated. In less than six months since coming to Kyoto, I couldn’t help but grieve over how a gap was already forming between me and the friends I’d left behind in Tokyo.

The publication of a coterie magazine! How splendid that must be. Kawasaki, Yabe, and Tsujida—our now-flourishing seniors in the literary world—first had their youthful names recognized by that same world as coterie members of the magazine “×××”. The time when Yamano and Kuwata would be recognized was no longer some distant future. Yamano and Kuwata of course, but even Okamoto, Kawase, and Sugino—who seemed to differ little from me in natural talent—had already taken their precise first steps into the literary world. And yet I, with the very “literary studies” Yamano had so despised in his letter as my sole forte, remained abandoned and utterly alone.

Even if Yamano and Kuwata had excluded me from the coterie, I could not help resenting how even Kawase and Sugino—with whom I was fairly close—showed me not the slightest goodwill. I tore Yamano’s letter to shreds and mustered desperate courage. If they were going to launch a coterie magazine, then I would go solo and show them. And I would astonish them, make them gasp in surprise. But even as I steeled myself with this resolve, a profound loneliness began pressing in on me relentlessly. Did I have the strength to go it alone? Could I truly believe in my own natural talent to that extent? The more I harbored resentment toward Yamano and Kuwata and distanced myself from them, the further I might be straying from opportunities to break into the literary world. Wouldn’t it be more advantageous for me to go plead with Sugino or someone this time and have them include me in the coterie? But Yamano, who completely looked down on me, would undoubtedly say something venomous like, “If someone like Tomii becomes a member, perhaps I should withdraw.” If that happened, I’d just end up making a fool of myself. I should still try going it alone. Once I finished writing Night’s Threat, I would immediately have Dr. Nakata look at it. While they struggled away with their coterie magazine, my work would suddenly be featured in a proper literary journal. As I dwelled on this, the *irritation* I’d felt upon reading the letter seemed to ease ever so slightly.

Just then, Yoshino came visiting unexpectedly. I immediately told him about the Tokyo group starting a coterie magazine. My voice trembled with agitation. But Yoshino kept leisurely smoking his Asahi cigarette: “Really now— “Coterie magazines? Utterly worthless no matter how much you write. “You must aim for major publications. “Let someone like Kuwata have his fun with those trifles. “They don’t give credentials away cheaply. “If I create something decent without messing with coteries, I’ll take it straight to Literary World. “Old connections mean they can’t refuse.”

I felt somewhat relieved hearing Yoshino belittle the coterie magazine. And in my heart, I prayed that Yamano and his group’s “×××” would cease publication as soon as possible. And I prayed that “×××” would attract as little attention as possible from the literary world. In truth, I was cursing the coterie magazine “×××” with my entire being.

January 30th.

Tonight, for the first time, I visited Dr. Nakata at his residence. I was overflowing with emotion. But upon reflection, I realized I had been the fool for feeling so moved. From Dr. Nakata’s perspective, this was merely a routine visit from one student among many. Immediately after exchanging greetings, I presented my script. “Please do look at this. It may not be particularly good, but being my debut work...”

“I see,” said Dr. Nakata without moving a single facial muscle. And then, after flipping through two or three pages, he quietly added, “I’ll look it over properly at some point.” The script into which I had poured every ounce of my strength to rival Yamano’s coterie magazine was received from my hands by Dr. Nakata without a shred of enthusiasm. I was quite lonely because of that. “If you’d like…”—I didn’t even have the courage to voice such a suggestion. I found myself at a loss for what to do and prepared to leave. And as I was leaving,

“What reference books would be good for studying British modern drama?” I asked. Then Dr. Nakata replied without hesitation, “Mariyo Borusa would be good, I suppose.” When I heard that, I felt somewhat disheartened. Mariyo Borusa was a book I had read during my high school years. It was nothing more than a rudimentary guidebook. I had lost count of how many times I’d heard rumors that Dr. Nakata was passionate about poetry but indifferent to plays. However, I hadn’t imagined Dr. Nakata could be so indifferent to plays. I had become utterly disheartened about the treatment *Night’s Threat* was receiving from Dr. Nakata.

February 20th.

I often encountered Dr. Nakata in the classroom, but he said nothing about my play. Moreover, Dr. Nakata roundly denounced Ibsen’s *Ghosts* during lectures. To tell the truth, my play was inspired by *Ghosts*, so I was deeply wounded by Dr. Nakata’s denunciation of Ibsen. Dr. Nakata probably hadn’t done that intentionally. But I was disgusted regardless.

I met Satake, but that guy seemed quite put out because Hayashida Sōjin hadn’t said a word about the novel he’d sent him. Yet this notion that his own work might immediately receive Hayashida’s favorable recommendation was pure conceit born of ignorance.

March 5th.

At last, the coterie magazine “×××” was released. Even to me, they sent a copy. When I opened it, I felt an oppressive discomfort unlike anything before. That was even more unpleasant—and more real—than what I had felt from Yamano. When I saw the contributors’ names listed together, I realized I had finally been cast aside by them. How I must have burned with jealousy! Even Okamoto—who I thought was inferior to me in natural talent—had suddenly risen above me, and I couldn’t help but feel it.

I apprehensively read Yamano’s novel *Face*, which was featured at the front of the volume. I read it while praying that it was poorly crafted, an inferior work, a complete failure on his part. But from its flawless, coherent opening alone, I was immediately overwhelmed. Above all, each sentence—sticky like spider’s silk yet glossy—relentlessly expressed Yamano’s signature brand of unconventional ideas, and while my resentment toward that guy grew ever stronger, I found myself mentally pinned down by the sheer force of his captivating prose. What’s more, the theme of *Face* was a philosophy both novel and profound—unlike anything that had ever appeared in the current literary world. If *Face* had not been Yamano’s—no, if it hadn’t been my friend’s work—how utterly delighted I would have been. Because it was the work of Yamano—my rival who sought to trample me—I exerted all my strength to reject the impression I received from that work. But I could not help but recognize the value of Yamano’s work. But what this association brought to mind was the possibility that Yamano might suddenly gain recognition in the literary world. When I thought about that, it didn’t sit well with me. If Yamano were to gain recognition, there’s no telling what kind of contempt that guy might hurl my way. The coterie magazine they published was no half-hearted effort like Yamano had led me to believe. When I think of that, I feel a dark gloom. However, it wasn’t only this work that oppressed me. Even Kuwata’s story *The Intruder*, featured next, was a harmoniously cohesive vignette. When I saw that guy’s brisk prose, I realized I couldn’t measure up even to Kuwata. But I made every effort not to acknowledge that fact. But in reality, when comparing my *Night’s Threat* to *Face* and *The Intruder*, no matter how favorably I—the author—viewed it, theirs were incomparably better. When I think of that, I grow somewhat despairing. But it’s not just Yamano and Kuwata’s works that are good—even Sugino and Okamoto’s pieces are quite cohesive in their execution.

I had finally found reassurance by estimating the talents of Sugino and Okamoto as inferior to my own, but that reassurance now seemed to be crumbling at its very foundation. I sat holding the magazine “×××” from around three in the afternoon until about seven, blankly lost in thought without eating dinner. Then Mr. Yoshino suddenly showed up. I had never felt Mr. Yoshino to be as reassuring as I did at that moment. This was because I wanted to speak ill of “×××” together with Mr. Yoshino. Perhaps Mr. Yoshino had visited me with the same purpose in mind—though I couldn’t be certain.

“Hey! “You’ve been reading ‘×××’ too? “I bought it at the bookstore this morning too.” “Surprisingly there’s nothing good here.” Mr. Yoshino said as he sat down and immediately began fiddling with the copy of “×××” that lay there. I rather liked Mr. Yoshino’s sweeping disparagement. But I couldn’t even chime in with a “You’re right.” In truth I had been impressed by every single work so I timidly— “What about Yamano’s *Face*?” I asked.

“Light and witty.” “However, something like that—couldn’t anyone write it?” “At least any Edoite could write it,” declared Mr. Yoshino, who was an Edoite himself, with evident pride. My conscience was completely opposed to what Mr. Yoshino was saying. But my emotions expressed full agreement with what Mr. Yoshino had said. “Kuwata’s *The Intruder* isn’t very good either.” “Outdated!” “It hasn’t taken a single step beyond naturalism!”

I gradually grew more reassured. I had never respected Mr. Yoshino as much as I did today. Mr. Yoshino added this last.

“In short, it’s just a high school magazine that’s grown a few whiskers.” “To think they could enter the literary world with that—it’s downright presumptuous.” “After all, no matter how much you write for coterie magazines, it’s pointless.” “You must publish in a magazine of considerable standing,” Mr. Yoshino reiterated his own argument in conclusion. I listened to Mr. Yoshino’s scathing criticism and felt as if I had been saved. But when Mr. Yoshino left, I was once again assailed by a lonely feeling. When I looked, the magazine “×××”—which Mr. Yoshino had thoroughly criticized—lay discarded in the dim light of the oil lamp. I recalled Yamano’s words that creative work was gold. And even if it were a small magazine, once something was in print, it was already a splendidly completed form of expression. It had ample opportunity to be recognized by the literary world. Moreover, as a coterie magazine by liberal arts university students, I hadn’t even realized how much fresh sensation it was stirring in a corner of the literary world. I could imagine unknown writers venting their frustrations by badmouthing the literary world’s darlings to their hearts’ content. My conversations with Mr. Yoshino had been nearly identical to that. That was undoubtedly a feeble rebellion by the weak. As I thought about that, I was assailed by a hollow feeling. Even so, how long does Dr. Nakata intend to leave my *Night’s Threat* untouched? I couldn’t help but harbor a slight resentment toward Dr. Nakata’s indifference.

March 10th.

When I met Mr. Satake at school today, "Hey, what do you plan to do with your long novel?" I asked. Then that man's dark expression brightened slightly as he...

“I’ve written up to 450 pages. I just need to write 150 more pages—lately my creative fervor has been utterly thriving. I’ve never missed writing thirty pages a night,” he declared proudly. “What do you plan to do! What about the novel I sent to Hayashida?”

When I said this, that man’s face suddenly darkened. “They sent it back.” “They said it’s too long for the magazine.” “What do they think they’re accomplishing by filling their pages with nothing but trivial short stories?” “That’s why Japan never produces substantial novels.”

But I had expected Mr. Satake’s novel to be sent back, so I wasn’t surprised in the least. And I felt that a 150-page novel—moreover, one by an unknown writer—couldn’t possibly be so easily accepted. But I have always expressed respect for his boundless creative passion. One day, when I visited that man’s room, he actually showed me a manuscript he claimed already spanned three hundred pages. Moreover, he piled before me manuscripts nearly three shaku tall—ones he claimed to have accumulated since his boyhood.

“If we’re talking about hundred-page works, I have seven or eight of them.” “Among these, the longest one is a five-hundred-page novel dealing with my boyhood first love; it’s so childish I can’t bring myself to publish it.” “Ha ha ha ha,” he laughed. I was impressed both by that man’s prolific output and by his carefree attitude. He said he had no intention of publishing, yet harbored this carefree notion that if he ever did decide to publish, a bookstore willing to take it could be found immediately. I found it quite strange how that man maintained a mental state completely free of struggle regarding publication or breaking into the literary world. Was that man truly content simply to keep writing?

March 15th.

The reputation of the magazine "×××" was remarkably good. Yamano’s *Face* in particular was receiving excellent reviews. I tried as much as possible not to look at the literary sections of newspapers—it was because the acclaim for "×××" galled me. But somehow, I couldn’t stop worrying about its reputation. I must confess I had been going to the library for three days straight, all to quietly read the reviews of "×××". First, the I Newspaper—albeit in 6-point type—congratulated the magazine’s launch and lavished particular praise on Yamano’s *Face*. But that wasn’t all. Three days later, critic Mr. H in the T Newspaper’s literary section effusively praised *Face*. Reading this, I could do nothing about the jealousy welling up from my heart’s depths. At last, I felt trampled underfoot by him—the fate I had dreaded these past two or three years now seemed to be materializing with precision. Yamano and Kuwata being celebrated as literary luminaries while I was consigned to eternal obscurity as an unknown writer—this had already reached its first stage of realization through "×××"’s publication.

How could I ever hope to contend with Yamano’s natural talent? The more inevitable it seemed that his talent would be recognized, the more my resistance felt meaningless and desolate. I had no choice but to close my eyes and endure that bastard’s splendid rise. However, the only way to counter that bastard was for me to enter the literary world at the same time as him. When I thought that, I was reminded once again of my own creative work, *Night’s Threat*. It was undoubtedly something far too unsteady. But I couldn’t bring myself to think it was below the literary world’s standards. Tonight, upon leaving the library, I immediately hurried to Dr. Nakata’s house. After hearing the criticism of *Night’s Threat*, I fully intended to request that someone recommend it to a magazine.

Dr. Nakata was conveniently at home.

As soon as I faced Dr. Nakata, "How about it—have you had the chance to read the script I submitted earlier?" I began. "Ah!" Dr. Nakata showed a momentarily flustered expression but immediately said, "Ah, that one. I’ve been rather busy and haven’t finished reading it yet, but once I’ve read through it properly, I’ll give you a thorough critique," he replied with his usual composure, but I instinctively knew he hadn’t read a single page. I looked upon Dr. Nakata with some astonishment—he had left untouched for a month and a half this work I had labored over with such impatient effort, never once reading it. But to Dr. Nakata, this apparently didn’t seem particularly unnatural, and he immediately changed the subject and began talking.

“There are actually quite a few excellent works among modern French plays.” “The problem comes from treating modern drama as if it were some Nordic monopoly.” “After all, theater had its origins in France—even Ibsen clearly drew influence from French drama in his dramaturgical techniques.” I was in no state of mind to listen to talk of French theater. All I could do was worry about when my *Night’s Threat* sitting in Dr. Nakata’s hands would ever see publication. I considered simply retrieving it and leaving. But breaking into the literary world without Dr. Nakata’s mediation would prove nearly impossible for me.

I listened to the lecture on French drama for about an hour without objection and then left Dr. Nakata’s house. I was now utterly in despair. Pinning my hopes on the literary world through Dr. Nakata had proved to be nearly my second miscalculation. I might have no choice but to stand by with folded arms and watch Yamano and Kuwata’s splendid rise to prominence. After returning home, for a while I couldn’t focus on anything. Unless some chance opportunity suddenly arose, I felt as though no opportunities at all remained for me.

April 5th.

“×××” published its second issue. Yamano published a short story titled “Encounter.” I devoured it once again. It was because I thought such excellent works couldn’t possibly keep coming one after another. But my relief was immediately betrayed. That bastard’s solid yet profoundly luminous technique once again overwhelmed me completely. Particularly, its theme shone with a brilliance not only equal to but certainly no less than that of the previous *Face*. I even considered breaking off the horns of my resistance against Yamano. I tried to reconsider—that my resistance against that bastard was nothing but a mediocrity’s meaningless resentment toward genius, a complete delusion of my own making. But the moment I recalled Yamano’s sarcastic smile, seething jealousy and resentment immediately assailed my entire body. I simply could not bring myself to bow my head to that bastard’s work.

April 16th.

Yamano’s “Encounter” was receiving acclaim again. When I read in the newspaper that K-shi—the venerable elder statesman of the literary world—had lavished praise on that bastard’s “Encounter,” I thought, “It’s all over.” That bastard’s reputation was now cemented. Short of an untimely death, his recognition by the literary world had become a foregone conclusion. I had begun resigning myself to the inevitable. In truth, setting aside my jealousy, his recognition might have been most fitting. But whether fitting or not hardly mattered. The sheer fact of his success felt unbearable. If Yamano had been recognized, Kuwata’s turn would come soon enough. Okamoto, Sugino, Kawase—they would all undoubtedly rise to prominence. “The one left behind alone.” However I turned it over, that could only be me.

I sent a short manuscript to the soon-to-launch magazine *Crowd* today. It was a mere seven-page short piece. I had met Mr. T, who was editing this *Crowd*, just once. If my short piece were accepted, it would have meant achieving a small act of resistance against Yamano and the others.

May 3.

When I saw the newspaper advertisement this morning—when I saw Yamano’s novel *The Wastrel* published in this month’s *△△△△* magazine’s fiction section—I gasped and stood dazed for some time. Feeling a hammer blow of shock, I still doubted my own vision. No matter how well-received it was, I had underestimated how quickly he would break into the literary world’s center—this was my error. He had betrayed every expectation with brutal brilliance. By now, that he was a popular writer and I an unknown one had become an unassailable fact. I stared at that advertisement as if gazing into a blinding light. Yamano Toshio—the third-sized typeface seemed to jeer at me. I even wondered if I—a writer bordering on wastrel status—hadn’t been made the model for his “wastrel.” But what baffled me was how desperately I wanted to read that bastard’s work despite my loathing. Buying *△△△△* to read Yamano’s writing—or put another way, fattening that bastard’s sales—left a bitter taste. Yet I couldn’t endure not reading it.

I read that bastard’s work with the trepidation of someone reluctantly facing what they’d rather not see. Upon reading it, that bastard’s work shoved aside my jealousy and competitive spirit only to come thrusting relentlessly at me. My unbearable frustration—this resentment toward him—was overwhelmed by the sheer force of his work, leaving me helplessly impressed despite myself. Critics free of animosity toward him would naturally be moved—thinking this made me feel wretched. Clutching △△△△, I clearly perceived how absolutely I’d been vanquished by him.

I bought *△△▽▽* along with *Crowd*, which contained my own contribution. My short piece had also been published, thanks to the editor’s kindness, albeit in a two-column format. But *××××* and *Crowd*! There was an immeasurable gap in their influence as magazines. I could vividly picture even the derisive smirk Yamano would make—*Hmph*—when he happened to pick up *Crowd* and noticed my work. I feel as though “the contest was already over.” My defeat is clear even to myself. What of it! It was never a contest from the start. As I stared fixedly at the first page of that bastard’s novel in *××××*, tears of frustration and despair streamed down my cheeks. As I was looking at *××××*, Satake happened to come by. And then, as usual, he began talking about his creative work.

“I finally finished the six-hundred-page manuscript the day before yesterday.” “I’ve been delighted beyond measure these past few days because of it.” “After I rest a bit, I’ll finally start on the fifteen-hundred-page one.” “Once this one’s done, I’ll really have something!” he continued with undiminished vigor when suddenly his eyes fell upon △△△△.

“Yamano’s *The Wastrel* was published here.” “Nothing worth fearing.” “Just random ideas.” “Artistically unorthodox,” he said. But I no longer felt any solace from this man’s derision. Even random ideas would suffice—even artistic heresy—I hadn’t understood how glorious literary recognition could feel. Compared to Satake-kun—who had completed a six-hundred-page novel and now tackled fifteen hundred more—I couldn’t measure my envy for Yamano’s thirty-page trifle that brought instant acclaim.

Then, I noticed something unexpected. I casually showed Satake-kun *Crowd* and pointed out my meager seven-page piece, whereupon his eyes took on an unusual gleam as he looked at it.

“What! Such a short story?!” he spat out.

“Who on earth manages this magazine!” “Not a single one of them writes anything decent! Hanako Kusata!”

“Ah!” “This one?!” “You!” “Just the other day, she was exchanging mutual praise over their works with some man named Yamamoto, and now she’s the same woman who clung to him like an animal!” “A woman like this is writing novels, huh?” said Satake-kun, proceeding to denounce every single contributor to Crowd. And he concluded that Crowd was a lowbrow magazine and that everyone writing for it was utterly worthless. I was astonished that my mere seven-page short piece had provoked Satake-kun to such fury. This man had attempted to ignore my work by denigrating the magazine Crowd. But that stated the complete opposite of the truth. The fact that my short piece, even at seven pages, had been published was not at all a pleasant thing for Satake-kun. Satake too must be feeling the same resentment and impatience toward Yamano’s work that I do. It struck me as strange—when I thought about it—that Satake-kun, who had completed a six-hundred-page novel and should be striding confidently down fiction’s grand avenue, would feel pressured by my meager seven-page work now in print.

But I could not bring myself to hate Satake-kun, who had tried to ignore my short piece. While fully aware that my natural talent pales in comparison to Yamano’s, I still find myself cursing his success. Moreover, it might be only natural for Satake-kun—who has full confidence in his own work—to feel displeased that my meager piece was published before his own could see print.

But I thought. If creative work is indeed the absolute thing that some people believe it to be, then why can’t people find satisfaction in creation alone? Someone like Satake-kun should have sufficiently satisfied his artistic desires simply by completing a six-hundred-page novel. Why, then, did that kind of torment exist regarding publication? In my case, more than creative work, I was tormented even by publication itself. I was bound not by true artistic desire but by things like literary fame. But given that even someone like Satake-kun—who had completed a long novel—became agitated upon seeing my seven-page short piece in print, my frantic obsession with Yamano’s works being published might perhaps have been only natural.

May 15.

Today, I received a letter from Yamano for the first time in ages. Because I assumed it was a letter meant to mock and ridicule me, I didn’t feel like opening it right away. But when evening came and I finally opened it, the contents were considerably kind.

“As you know, our coterie magazine ‘×××’ has drawn considerable attention since its founding.” “If you just keep at it persistently, I believe anyone can achieve some measure of success.” “That’s why everyone’s hitting their stride now.” “As for you—we deeply sympathize with your solitary situation in Kyoto.” “When we first published ‘×××’, we absolutely wanted to include you as a member, but since you weren’t in Tokyo, certain complications arose that unfortunately made it impossible.” “We’ve been terribly regretful about it.” “But lately I’ve had requests from other magazines myself, and Kuwata will likely start writing for another publication soon—so ‘×××’ should naturally gain more available space. I imagine opportunities to feature your work will frequently arise.” “So if you have anything decent, don’t hold back—go ahead and send them in.” “Of course, anything truly awful would pose difficulties, but if it meets standard quality, I’ll be delighted to introduce it.”

When I read this letter, I even felt ashamed of the jealousy and resentment I had harbored toward Yamano until now. While I had been cursing Yamano’s rise to prominence, he had not forgotten to show considerate regard for my situation. I realized how much better it would have been to approach them and publish my work in “×××” rather than stubbornly maintaining my grudge against them. When I saw Yamano’s letter, I felt for the first time as if a warm light—one that had been blocked from me until now—was enveloping my body. I immediately wrote a reply—a letter so filled with excitement and gratitude that I feared he might laugh at me for being overly effusive. I added that I would send my work shortly afterward. My letter had clearly been tinged with a groveling, pleading tone. I detected within my own attitude a servile demeanor—that of a conquered weakling fawning over his superior. Even toward his dazzling debut—which I had been cursing vehemently until now—I lined up words of praise. But I lacked the composure to stop myself from such contemptible behavior. Clinging to Yamano’s goodwill might well have been my only remaining opportunity now.

After sending the letter, I immediately visited Dr. Nakata. I had gone to retrieve my script *Night's Threat*. Over three months had already passed since I had taken it to Dr. Nakata. Dr. Nakata appeared to have long forgotten about my script; even when he occasionally spoke to me, he never so much as mentioned it. But even if I were to send a work to Yamano this time, the most complete piece I had was *Night's Threat*. When I thought about it, I had been utterly complacent about essential creative work, preoccupied solely with getting published. When I considered Satake-kun silently devoting himself to his fifteen-hundred-page monumental work, I felt intensely ashamed.

Dr. Nakata was, as usual, at home. When I stated my purpose, “Ah, right—I was keeping your script for you, wasn’t I?” He stood up while saying this and began searching through a corner of the bookshelf. And then he retrieved my script, which appeared to be exactly as I had left it when I brought it to him. Even so, when I saw the title *Night’s Threat*, I felt a nostalgic warmth, as though reuniting with an old acquaintance. While I had been layering anxiety upon anxiety over these three or four months, my work had been passing its days in leisurely idleness in a corner of Dr. Nakata’s bookshelf. “Have you finally decided to publish it?” “That’s commendable.” “Once it’s in print, we’ll give it a proper critique,” he said as a courtesy. I rather respected Dr. Nakata’s extremely indifferent attitude. After returning home and reading it through once more, I immediately sent it by registered mail to Yamano.

May 25.

A letter came from Yamano. I will transcribe it into this diary without any emotion. The emotions I felt upon seeing this letter are something I simply cannot express here.

“We all read your *Night’s Threat*.” “And as if by prior agreement, we felt profound disappointment.” “I’ll speak bluntly.” “Because exchanging polite platitudes would serve no purpose.” “My primary disappointment lies with the work’s theme.” “It’s utterly derivative!” “That didn’t spring from your authentic self, did it?” “I could pinpoint exactly what you plagiarized that theme from.” “But even granting the borrowed premise—what in God’s name is this vulgar sentimentalism suffusing every page?!” “You’ve made zero ideological progress since first-year high school.” “We’ve long since outgrown such juvenile philosophies.” “I found not one redeeming quality in your script.” “However, assuming my assessment might be unfairly harsh, I had Kuwata, Okamoto, and Sugino read it too.” “But their actual critiques—those I’ll spare you.” “Too great a risk of crushing your fragile sensibilities.” “Thus, we regrettably decline to publish that work in ‘×××’.” “Though I’d be delighted if this harsh medicine provoked you to send us an actual masterpiece.”

Trap! I had indeed fallen into Yamano’s trap! While basking in his own brilliant success, he had wanted to wound me to further heighten that sensation. Yamano must have said to Kuwata and the others: “What do you say! That Tomii guy—what’s he even doing in Kyoto? He must still be writing that cloying script of his or something. How about it! Let’s get his work under some pretense like promising to publish it in ‘×××,’ then all of us put it to the test!” When the good-natured Sugino and Okamoto worriedly tried to stop him, that guy only grew more amused and set about putting it into action. That uncharacteristically kind letter from him could never have been written without such motives.

Hatred toward Yamano—eternal, uncompromising hatred—surged up within my heart with ten times more violent force than before. But when I considered my own weakness—how I had fallen for Yamano’s trick and so easily handed over *Night’s Threat* with such pride—I felt tears of self-pity dampening both my cheeks.

×月×日

It had already been two and a half years since “×××” was published. “×××” had long since ceased publication. Yet Yamano, Kuwata, Okamoto, and Sugino had splendidly established themselves as writers and now strode through the literary world as coterie members of “×××”. Above all, Yamano stirred up the literary world with each new work until he had secured an unshakable position. The distance between me and them had become absolutely irreparable. Now that things had reached this point, I no longer felt any competitive urge or jealousy whatsoever. I could calmly observe how they were being celebrated as popular writers. For one genius to be born, a hundred mediocrities must suffer—this I understood. Behind Yamano and Kuwata’s acclaim, perhaps the sacrifice of someone like me was only natural. Yet those destined to remain unknown writers forever would surely not be limited to me alone. I hadn’t inquired whether his fifteen-hundred-page novel was complete, but Mr. Satake still wore that gloomy expression of his. And whenever new writers emerged in the literary world, he would denounce them with ferocity. Yoshino too remained active as ever—the same Yoshino who disparaged coterie magazines—yet not once had his creative works appeared in any reputable literary journal.

In the literary world as well, luck plays an important role up to a certain point. By convincing myself of that, I have resigned myself. But I will refrain from thinking about the literary world any longer. That I believed there was no meaningful life outside of living as a writer was my delusion.

The other day, while reading Verlaine’s biography, I was deeply moved to learn that the Decadent poet had yearned so intensely for “a peaceful life as an ordinary person” in his later years. For those like me with meager talent, “a peaceful life as an ordinary person” is the perfect sanctuary. If I graduate from school, I’ll become something like a rural teacher and enter a peaceful life.

Popular writers! Up-and-coming writers! I felt somewhat ashamed nowadays that I had once longed for such empty titles. How many works from the Meiji and Taisho literary worlds did I suppose remained as masterpieces? While reading Anatole France’s works some time ago, I had come across a passage that said such things. (As the sun’s heat gradually cools, the Earth will consequently cool, and eventually humans will perish. But the earthworms living underground might just manage to survive. Then Shakespeare’s plays and Michelangelo’s sculptures might be laughed at by earthworms.) What a delicious irony this was! Even the works of genius would someday be laughed at by earthworms. As for the likes of Yamano’s works, in ten years or so, even earthworms wouldn’t bother laughing at them.