Pathway to Japanese Literature

September 13th.

I finally came to Kyoto. Yamano and Kuwata might think I came to Kyoto because I couldn’t endure their pressure. But let them think whatever they wanted—I wouldn’t let it bother me. I resolved to avoid thinking about them as much as possible.

Today, for the first time, I visited the literature department’s study room. There were unexpectedly good books. Like silkworms devouring mulberry leaves, I’ll read through every last one of them. When it comes to research, I’ll never lose to the Tokyo crowd—that’s what I felt completely confident about when I saw that study room.

On top of that, I came to like Kyoto itself. Especially today, as I passed by the university, I saw several bright red berries—likely having flowed down from the Shirakawa mountains—drifting along a small ditch where clear water gurgled and streamed downward. In the streets of Tokyo, such fresh scenes—unimaginable even in dreams—completely captured my heart here in Kyoto in early autumn. I came to like Kyoto. I will never regret coming to Kyoto.

But lately, I find myself increasingly assailed by a particular anxiety. It is none other than this: The anxiety of whether I have sufficient talent to succeed as a writer in the future. When I think about it without a shred of self-conceit, I can't even begin to imagine I possess such a thing. Back when I was in Tokyo, driven by competitive spirit toward Yamano, Kuwata, and Suginoya, even I managed to put on a face brimming with confidence. But when I now cast aside all preconceptions and consider myself impartially, I seem to possess no talent whatsoever as a creative writer.

I worried that I might have committed the miscalculation of talent—that fatal error young men aspiring to literature were all too prone to make. Thinking about this made me sick, but there was nothing lonelier than a man who in his youth had shared fervent literary ambitions and burned with aspirations for the literary world yet never emerged into public recognition, no matter how much time passed. I couldn't help but wonder—was I not one of them? Those who pursued other paths in life could somehow manage to cover it up, even if they somewhat miscalculated their own talent. The power of money or family connections could compensate for a lack of talent to some extent. But for those who aspired to art, a miscalculation of talent was a fatal mistake. Here, there existed no means whatsoever to compensate for a lack of talent. When I realized that the talent I had thought was gold had, with each passing day, turned out to be mere copper or lead, it was all over. A miscalculation of talent soon became a lifelong miscalculation, vividly throwing away the one life we were given to live. How many unknown artists throughout history had ruined their lives due to a miscalculation of their talent? Behind every Shakespeare who prospered, how many minor playwrights must have continued writing worthless plays destined to perish? Beneath the feet of a single Goethe basking in praise across all Germany, how many unknown poets must have occupied themselves with mediocre verse. There must have been composers too who ended in obscurity. There must have been countless actors too. For one genius to be chosen, many unknown artists had to become the mulch beneath their feet. Even unknown artists were by no means inferior to geniuses in their artistic aspirations or artistic conscience. Their flaw was but one. It was that their talent—no matter how much polished—remained lead or copper that would never shine.

As I dwelled on these thoughts, I became unbearably disgusted with myself. Why had I ever aspired to become a creative writer? Why had I ever set out to pursue literature? Whenever I thought about that, I always lost all patience with my own foolishness. The reason I had chosen the literature department was nothing more than being governed by a trivial boyhood sentiment—this worship of literary figures. Had there been another reason? That was the utterly trivial reason—that foolish notion—that I had been good at composition in middle school. Staring at this lifelong path chosen through a boyhood whim, this course I now had to carry out at all costs, I found myself utterly pitiful.

Even so, when I was in high school, I had some confidence. It wasn’t so much that I had confidence as that I was able to deceive myself into believing in my own true talent and circumstances. This might have been because some of Yamano and Kuwata’s blazing literary ambitions and nearly self-conceited confidence had rubbed off on me. Back when we were in high school, whenever 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 flourishing career often became a topic of our conversations. Mr. Kawasaki was our closest immediate goal. That person’s dazzlingly brilliant success must have stirred our hearts back then in ways beyond measure. Whenever such topics arose, Kuwata would fix us with blazing eyes,

“Oh, come on! Our group will be recognized soon enough. If just one of us becomes famous, we’re set! That person can pull up the rest in turn,” declared Kuwata with the confidence of one who fully expected to be that trailblazer. “Exactly. Everyone who served as a committee member in the Literary Club 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 seniors! Ah, the literary world’s not such a big deal after all,” the genius-like and haughty Yamano had chimed in to Kuwata. Every time I heard such conversations, some portion of Yamano and Kuwata’s intense hopes and strong confidence would transfer into my heart, making it feel vaguely reassuring—yet at the same time, I could not help being seized by the anxiety that in the future literary world, those who would truly make their names would be Kuwata and Yamano, while I might forever remain buried in their shadows as an unknown writer. Even back then, Yamano had already published a novel so profoundly ironic it astonished the entire school in the Literary Club’s magazine, and Kuwata, for his part, had released several scripts in the same publication. Moreover, they demonstrated utterly outstanding execution through refined technique and clever conceptualization. And both had been members of the Literary Club committee. Yamano’s statement that “Everyone who served as a committee member in the Literary Club has become famous in the literary world” was precisely the same as declaring that Yamano himself—currently serving on that very committee—would effortlessly make a name for himself in that world someday.

I had always found it unpleasant how Yamano would rely on his strong personality to adopt attitudes that needlessly wounded others. Yet despite this, I couldn't help acknowledging that guy's talent. Both Yamano and Kuwata had truly taken their first steps forward. Whereas I—back then of course, but even now—had accomplished nothing. To make matters worse, I alone had left our group and come to Kyoto—a place extremely disadvantageous for literary advancement. There were economic reasons for this. But it wouldn't be entirely incorrect to say another major cause was my inability to endure the constant oppressive discomfort from their superior talents while moving among Yamano and Kuwata's circle. With Yamano especially, he made conscious efforts to overwhelm me. That guy was ill-natured—the sort who cultivated his confidence by comparing his exceptional qualities to inferiors like myself, feeding on the resulting superiority. And in most cases, I suppose that inferior comparison target happened to be me. Once when I was admiring Yoshino Tatsuzō's Tide, that guy sneered, "What?! You actually find Tide interesting?! "That's rather pathetic," he'd scoffed. His mockery carried a scathing quality—the kind that pushes people away while denying them any chance to approach. Whenever I read anything even faintly sentimental, he'd inevitably harass me just as before. Yet simultaneously, when I tried tackling something more challenging like Ibsen's Brand,

“Oh ho! ‘*Brand*,’ eh? Do you even understand it?!” he sneered. In moments like these, I wanted to strike him down—but whenever I saw his pale forehead and those keen eyes, I sensed a certain dignity and found myself powerless to act against someone physically far weaker than myself.

That guy would often say such things when a group of aspiring writers like Kuwata, me, Sugino, and Kawase gathered.

“We’re all steadily gaining recognition in the literary world. But you know... looks like one of us might get left behind. When everyone else is being raucously celebrated as rising new writers, I alone am left behind. That’d be rather odd, wouldn’t it? But who knows—maybe I’ll end up drawing the short straw after all!” He said this and laughed uproariously, brimming with confidence. Then he shot me a deliberately meaningful glance. I felt thoroughly sickened. Among those of us who had embarked on this creative path together, the idea that one might remain perpetually left behind was bitterly ironic—and for whoever actually became that person, it would prove utterly unbearable. Yet such an outcome seemed all too plausible. I, who harbored the least faith in my own talent, strove desperately to avoid envisioning that scenario. But Yamano took perverse delight in imagining precisely such ironic situations to torment me and others like Sugino who shared this fragile self-assurance.

I alone would be left behind! Even considering that possibility, it remained undeniably a lonely prospect. I had grown unbearably uncomfortable with remaining in Tokyo and becoming competitive against Yamano and Kuwata. Just escaping the ceaseless, unpleasant pressure they exerted would bring me immeasurable relief—though I couldn’t fathom how much. If I came to Kyoto and found myself in circumstances entirely different from theirs, I’d have endless excuses prepared should they leave me behind. Moreover, there lingered a faint hope that relocating to Kyoto might unexpectedly hasten my entry into the literary world. This hinged on Professor Nakata serving as a literature professor there. The professor had long since drifted far from the literary world’s center. Yet he still maintained certain connections to its periphery. If I could but secure his patronage, I might swiftly gain introduction to that realm—and shocking someone like Yamano, who utterly scorned my talent, might not prove entirely impossible after all. This consideration formed part of my reason for coming to Kyoto.

October 1st.

I felt inexplicably restless. Especially when evening came. When the slopes of Mount Hiei - spread out like a blue carpet laid across the earth - began to fade into a gray, hazy twilight, I was seized by such unbearable loneliness that I could neither sit still nor stand idle. I had sought solitude of my own volition. But that very solitude immediately began to turn on me. Moreover, behind the loneliness of my solitude lurked a fierce impatience. When I thought about how much Yamano and Kuwata in Tokyo were growing day by day, I felt I couldn’t sit still for even a moment. While I was scouring through Bernard Shaw’s complete works in the research room, Kuwata might have already finished writing that three-act social drama he’d long been talking about. While I was making worthless notes in the classroom, Yamano might have already found a publisher for Hauptmann’s The Weavers, which he had translated more than halfway through. When I thought this, I felt increasingly unable to bear it. Within this year, Yamano and Kuwata might manage to establish a foothold in the literary world. I could no longer stay still for even a moment.

I am writing the play "Night’s Threat" to compete against them. But my mind has been utterly exhausted by the reckless lifestyle of my high school days. I have some confidence in this play’s theme. But the lines that emerge from my pen are nothing but clichéd phrases. The rich imagination I once prided myself on during my middle school days has vanished without a trace from my mind. But I will finish writing this script regardless. When I finish writing this script, I shall visit Professor Nakata. Through the Professor’s favor, my future might unexpectedly brighten after all.

Today, I happened to meet Mr. Yoshino Tatsuzō. In high school, he had been one year above me, and he too had come to Kyoto’s literature department. After talking with Mr. Yoshino, I felt somewhat relieved to learn that those struggling to break into the literary world were by no means limited to myself alone. Yoshino Tatsuzō! I cannot begin to describe how I had worshipped that man in the past. For readers of *Literary World* around 1907, how brightly had that man’s name shone—what allure had it possessed? I, who had submitted countless times to Tayama Katai’s prize novel contests without success, could scarcely fathom how much I had envied Mr. Yoshino’s dazzling triumphs.

But Mr. Yoshino—once praised even as a genius—had yet to make any mark in the literary world, though it might have been years since he ceased submitting to Literary World. If you were to ask whether he had abandoned his literary aspirations—that wasn’t exactly the case. He was indeed enrolled in the Faculty of Literature, awaiting his chance to break into the literary world. But that opportunity did not seem likely to be granted easily to him. When I spoke with him, Mr. Yoshino too was fiercely impatient. But when he said, “I’ve been called a rising writer before, you know,” I felt a pang of loneliness. Mr. Yoshino was greatly exaggerating his past dreams. Apparently, back then, a short story collection consisting solely of prize-winning stories from Literary World had been published. I seemed to recall that the title bore the label “rising writer.” Yet toward Mr. Yoshino, who seemed to delight in fantasizing that his success as a contributor had made him an established writer, I felt a strange mix of pity and loneliness. However, since meeting Mr. Yoshino, I had somehow started to feel somewhat reassured. The man who had shone with such abundant talent in his youth still remained unable to make his mark. Thinking of that, I felt somewhat relieved.

But why must every last person gathered in this university's literature department be beyond redemption? The guys in my class are particularly dreadful. There was one man—a graduate of Hiroshima Higher Normal School—who actually dared smugly pronounce Baudelaire's name as "Bauderear" using German phonetics when our teacher had written the French poet's name on the blackboard yesterday. Another classmate answered Professor Nakata's question by claiming Monna Vanna was a play by Maeterlinck. I resolved to despise them all. Back in high school, both classrooms and dormitories had been thoroughly permeated by art-for-art's-sake principles. In art's name, everything was permitted. In art's name, we could disregard coursework and lectures entirely. Yet here in this literature department classroom, the atmosphere proved utterly prosaic. Not one soul spoke of art. Those from regular high schools mostly consisted either of invalids who chose literature for their health or philosophy department failures who transferred after repeating a year. As for Higher Normal School graduates—qualified for admission through their credentials—they did nothing more than meticulously take notes to obtain bachelor's degrees. Nowhere in this classroom could one find that liberating freshness of academic spirit. Watching Professor Nakata expound on literature and art before such rabble struck me as pure pearl-casting before swine. I pitied the poor professor.

November 5th.

Today I happened to speak with a man named Sotake from my class. Until now I had thoroughly despised everyone in my class, but I realized this man alone did not deserve my contempt. The moment I broached the subject of creative work, he suddenly came out with this.

“I actually finished writing a short story of about a hundred and fifty pages yesterday, but I can’t say I’m particularly satisfied with how it turned out,” he said calmly. "A hundred and fifty-page short story!" That alone left me thoroughly intimidated. The three-act play I was working on, Night’s Threat, was only planned to be a mere seventy pages. And yet I considered it a rather lengthy work. Yet this man had called his hundred-and-fifty-page novel a short story—and then he went on to say such a thing.

“The truth is, I’m currently working on a lengthy novel of about six hundred pages and another of around 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, his demeanor utterly composed. He had full confidence in his own masterpieces and was never impatient like me. I was intimidated by this man while simultaneously feeling a strange reassurance. Kyoto too had its sincere writers. It’s likely this man’s name had never appeared in literary magazines—not even in 6-point type. But this man was silently and diligently engaged in the creation of novels. I had not read a single line this man had written, so I would say nothing about the quality of his creative work—but given the sheer volume of six hundred pages, fifteen hundred pages, this man must possess greatness of some kind. But then that man said the following.

“I know the novelist Hayashida Sōjin.” “He’s a senior from my home prefecture.” “When entering the literature faculty this time, I made a special trip to Tokyo to meet him.” “Not only did he receive me kindly, but we ended up talking at remarkable length.” “He’s a man who truly understands conversation.” “This hundred-and-fifty-page short story I’ve just finished—I plan to send it directly to him.” “He’ll probably recommend it to some publication.” I had begun feeling considerable respect for Mr. Sotake, but hearing this made me pity him slightly. There was something faintly tragic about his serene composure as he staked everything on Hayashida Sōjin—a fellow prefectural native with whom he shared nothing more than provincial ties. Could any magazine in the literary world truly accept a hundred-and-fifty-page work by an unknown like Mr. Sotake through Mr. Hayashida’s introduction? Would that man even bother recommending the work of someone who wasn’t his protégé? That writer must be thoroughly sick of receiving unsolicited manuscripts from amateurs. Mr. Sotake’s guilelessness—banking on such tenuous connections while imagining imminent literary glory—struck me as pathetically naive. To speak plainly, given Mr. Hayashida’s notorious indolence within literary circles, it seemed doubtful he’d even skim through a manuscript of that length. Could things possibly unfold as smoothly as Mr. Sotake envisioned?

December 29th.

I received an utterly loathsome letter today from Yamano in Tokyo. It was a letter brimming with malice—challenging me, insulting me, trying to cruelly shred my emotions. The letter read as follows.

(How about that! You’re keeping awfully quiet. Is there even anything resembling literature in Kyoto? We over here have already grown tired of idly fiddling with foreign literature books like we used to. When you think about it, even the "literary studies" we held sacred during high school were trivial nonsense, weren’t they? We must create our own works—otherwise it’s all a lie. Creation is gold. Everything else is silver. No—copper or lead at best. We can’t stay idle any longer. We can’t afford to remain as carefree as we were in high school. Our plans are completely settled. We’re launching a coterie magazine next March. The members are Kuwata, Okamoto, Sugino, Kawase, and myself, plus Mr. Inoue and Mr. Yoshishima—both a year ahead of us. The title will likely be "×××". We’ll publish the first issue on March 1st. Bunkodo in Nihonbashi is handling publication. Everyone’s already scrambling to draft pieces for the debut issue. The deadline’s January 30th. Well then—keep your eyes peeled and watch our moves. We truly feel the dawn has come.)

Having finished reading to the end, I felt intense jealousy and indignation while simultaneously experiencing a profound loneliness as though cast aside—a sensation I could not escape.

Nowhere in this letter was there even a fragment of phrases suggesting "Why don't you join us as a member?" or "Why don't you contribute something?" It was entirely a letter born from Yamano's sporting malice. A malicious prank of his—triumphantly announcing their coterie magazine's publication while resolved to wound me in my lonely suffering. For me—excluded from the coterie—that bastard's malice lay glaringly transparent: reporting inaugural issue deadlines utterly irrelevant to me, all to torment.

More than Yamano had anticipated, this letter wounded me. I could not help but grieve over how, in less than half a year since coming to Kyoto, a gap was already forming between me and the friends I had left behind in Tokyo.

The publication of a coterie magazine! How splendid that must have been. Even our seniors now prominent in the literary world—Kawasaki, Yabe, and Tsujida—had first gained recognition for their youthful names through membership in the coterie magazine "×××". The time when Yamano and Kuwata would be recognized was no longer some distant future. Yamano and Kuwata went without saying, but even Okamoto, Kawase, and Sugino—those I believed differed little from myself in innate talent—had already taken their first decisive steps into the literary world. And yet here I remained, clinging to "literary studies"—the very thing Yamano had so scorned in his letter—as my sole vocation, utterly alone and cast aside.

Even if Yamano and Kuwata had excluded me from the coterie, I could not help resenting that even Kawase and Sugino—with whom I was been fairly close—had shown me no kindness whatsoever. I tore Yamano’s letter to shreds as I mustered desperate courage. If they were making their move through the coterie magazine, then I would go solo and show them. I would astonish them—make them gasp in surprise. Yet even as I steeled myself with this resolve, a profound loneliness relentlessly closed in on me. Did I possess the strength to go it alone? Could I truly believe in my own talent to that extent? The more I harbored resentment toward Yamano and Kuwata and distanced myself from them, was I not simultaneously straying further from any opportunity to enter the literary world? Would it not be more advantageous for me to grovel before Sugino this time and have him include me in the coterie? But Yamano, who utterly looked down on me, would undoubtedly say something venomous like, “If someone like Tomii were to become a member, I might as well hold back.” If that were to happen, it would only amount to going out to humiliate myself. I would still try to go it alone. Once I finished writing Night’s Threat, I would have Professor Nakata review it right away. While they were over there struggling away with their coterie magazine, my work would make a sudden leap and get 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, Mr. Yoshino unexpectedly paid a visit. I immediately told him about the Tokyo group’s plan to publish a coterie magazine. My tone was utterly devoid of composure. But Mr. Yoshino, while leisurely smoking his Asahi as usual, said, “What’s this! “Writing for coterie magazines and the like is utterly pointless, no matter how much you do it.” “After all, you have to write for major magazines.” “Well, let the likes of Mr. Kuwata give it their all.” “It’s not like they’ll just take it off their hands for a song.” “I won’t make a fuss with coterie magazines—if I create something worthwhile, I’ll take it straight to Literary World.” “Thanks to old connections, they probably won’t refuse.”

I felt somewhat relieved to hear Mr. Yoshino disparage the coterie magazine. And in my heart, I prayed that Yamano and the others’ "×××" would cease publication as soon as possible. And I prayed that "×××" would receive as little attention as possible from the literary world. In truth, I was cursing the coterie magazine "×××" with my entire being.

January 30th.

Tonight, I visited Professor Nakata at his residence for the first time. I was filled with emotion. But upon reflection, I was the fool for being so moved. From Professor Nakata’s perspective, it had merely been the reception of a single student’s visit.

As soon as the greetings were over, I presented my script. “Please do take a look at this. The execution isn’t very good, but as it’s my debut work...” “I see,” said Professor Nakata without so much as moving a muscle in his face. Then, after flipping through two or three pages, he quietly added, “I’ll look at it eventually.” The work into which I had poured all my energy to counter Yamano and the others’ coterie magazine was received from my hands by Professor Nakata without any sign of emotion. I felt that rather lonesome.

“If you find it suitable, perhaps submit it to some magazine”—I lacked even the courage to voice such words. Finding myself at a loss, I prepared to leave. And as I was departing, “What reference books would you recommend for studying British modern drama?” I asked. Professor Nakata replied without pause, “Mariyo Borusa would suffice,” he said. Hearing this, I felt somewhat disheartened. Mariyo Borusa was a book I had read during my high school years—nothing more than an elementary primer.

I had lost count of how many times I’d heard rumors that Professor Nakata was passionate about poetry yet indifferent to plays. But I hadn’t imagined Professor Nakata could be this indifferent to plays. I became utterly disheartened regarding the treatment Night’s Threat was receiving from Professor Nakata.

February 20th.

I frequently crossed paths with Professor Nakata in the classroom, but he never mentioned my play. What’s more, during his lecture, Professor Nakata savagely criticized Ibsen’s Ghosts. To tell the truth, my play had drawn inspiration from Ghosts, so I felt deeply wounded by his denunciation of Ibsen. The professor likely hadn’t done this intentionally. But regardless, I found it profoundly unsettling.

I met Sotake, but that guy seemed rather upset because Hayashida Sōjin hadn’t said anything about the novel he’d sent him. But for him to think his novel would immediately receive some favorable recommendation from Hayashida—that was pure self-conceit born of ignorance.

March 5th.

At last, the coterie magazine “×××” was published. True to form, they sent me a copy as well. When I opened it, I felt an oppressive discomfort unlike anything I’d experienced before. It was an even more unpleasant—and moreover, tangible—discomfort than what I’d received from Yamano. When I saw the list of contributors, I thought I had finally been abandoned by them. How I burned with jealousy. Even Okamoto—who I believe is inferior to me in innate talent—seemed to have suddenly risen above me, and I couldn’t help but feel it.

I fearfully read Yamano's novel Face featured at the beginning of the magazine. I read it praying it would prove clumsy, hackneyed—a complete failure on his part. Yet from its very first flawlessly constructed paragraph alone, I found myself overwhelmed. Each sentence clung like spider silk—viscous yet luminous—relentlessly conveying Yamano's characteristically unconventional ideas through polished prose. This simultaneous surge of intensified resentment toward him and helpless captivation by his writing pressed down on my mind like a physical weight. The theme of Face particularly struck me—a bizarre yet profoundly philosophical concept never before seen in contemporary literary circles. Had this work belonged to anyone but Yamano—no, had it not been created by someone I knew personally—what astonished admiration I might have felt! But precisely because it came from my rival who sought to crush me underfoot, I strained every nerve to reject its impact. Yet I couldn't deny the work's inherent value. What chilled me more was realizing this might propel Yamano to sudden literary acclaim. The thought sickened me—once recognized, what contempt might he heap upon me? Their coterie magazine proved far more substantial than Yamano's casual descriptions had suggested. Contemplating this left me desolate. Yet Face wasn't my only tormentor—even Kuwata's following novel The Intruder stood as a perfectly cohesive vignette. Seeing his crisp, vigorous style made me admit I couldn't rival Kuwata either—though I fought desperately against this realization. Truthfully, when comparing my Night's Threat against Face and The Intruder, even my most biased appraisal couldn't deny their overwhelming superiority. This acknowledgment pushed me toward despair. Worse still—Sugino and Okamoto's works too showed unexpectedly polished craftsmanship.

I had finally found some reassurance by estimating that talents like Sugino and Okamoto were beneath me, but even that reassurance now appeared to be crumbling from its very foundations. I sat holding the coterie magazine “×××” from around three in the afternoon until about seven, lost in thought without even eating dinner. Just then, Mr. Yoshino showed up out of nowhere. There had never been a time when I found Mr. Yoshino as reliable as I did at that moment. This was because I wanted to badmouth “×××” together with Mr. Yoshino. Mr. Yoshino had likely come for the same purpose—though I couldn’t say for certain.

“Hey! You were reading ‘×××’ too? I bought it at the bookstore this morning myself. Nothing worthwhile here at all,” Mr. Yoshino said as he sat down, immediately picking up the discarded “×××” and flipping through its pages. I found myself gratified by his wholesale dismissal of the magazine. Yet I couldn’t muster an agreeing nod—the truth was, every piece had impressed me deeply. With hesitant deference, I ventured: “What did you think of Yamano’s ‘Face’?”

“Flippant.” “But anyone could write something like that, couldn’t they?” “At least any true Edokko could write that,” declared Mr. Yoshino, being a true Edokko himself, with evident pride.

My conscience vehemently opposed everything Mr. Yoshino was saying. But my emotions were in full agreement with what Mr. Yoshino had said. “Mr. Kuwata’s *The Intruder* isn’t very good either. “Outdated!” “It hasn’t budged an inch from naturalism.”

I gradually felt heartened. I had never respected Mr. Yoshino as much as I did that day. Mr. Yoshino added this final remark: “In short, it’s just a high school magazine that’s grown a few whiskers. Expecting to break into the literary world with that is pushing your luck a bit too far, don’t you think? After all, no matter how much you write for coterie magazines, it’s pointless. You have to publish in a magazine of considerable standing—that’s the only way,” Mr. Yoshino reiterated his longstanding argument in conclusion. Listening to Mr. Yoshino’s scathing criticism, I felt a sense of relief as if I had been saved.

But when Mr. Yoshino left, I was once again overcome by loneliness. Looking down, I saw the magazine “×××”—which Mr. Yoshino had so thoroughly disparaged—lying discarded in the dim lamplight. I remembered Yamano’s declaration that creative work was pure gold. And even if it were just some minor publication, anything set in type already constituted a fully realized form of expression. It held more than enough potential to gain recognition in the literary world. As a coterie magazine produced by literature students, who could say what fresh sensations it might have sparked in some corner of that realm? I could picture those unknown writers—venting their frustrations through endless disparagement of the literary world’s darlings, finding petty solace in their mutual lack of recognition. My exchanges with Mr. Yoshino had been scarcely different. This was undeniably the feeble rebellion of the weak. Dwelling on this thought brought another wave of hollow emptiness. Still—how much longer did Professor Nakata mean to leave my *Night’s Threat* languishing unread? Against my will, I felt a flicker of resentment toward the professor’s utter disregard.

March 10th.

When I met Mr. Sotake at school today, “Hey, what do you plan to do with your full-length novel?” I asked. Then, that man’s dark expression brightened slightly as he “I’ve written up to 450 pages. Just 150 pages left to write. Lately, my creative fervor has been utterly ablaze. I haven’t missed writing thirty pages a single night,” he declared with a triumphant air. “What do you plan to do! What about the novel you sent to Hayashida?”

When I asked this, that man’s face suddenly darkened. “He sent it back.” “He said it’s too long for the magazine.” “What’s the point of filling magazines with nothing but these trivial short stories?” “That’s why Japan never produces any substantial novels.”

But I had anticipated that Mr. Sotake’s novel would be sent back, so I wasn’t surprised at all. And I felt that a full-length novel of 150 pages by an unknown writer could hardly be so easily introduced. But I have always held deep respect for this man’s ardent creative passion. One day, when I visited that man’s room, he actually showed me a manuscript that was already three hundred pages long. Moreover, he piled up manuscripts nearly three feet high in front of me, manuscripts he claimed to have been accumulating since his boyhood.

“If we’re talking about works around a hundred pages, I have seven or eight of them. “Among these, the longest is a five-hundred-page novel dealing with my boyhood first love—it’s too juvenile for me to even consider publishing.” “Hahaha,” he laughed. I was impressed both by that man’s prolific output and his carefree attitude. He claims he has no intention of publishing, yet he’s thinking with such nonchalance that if he ever did decide to publish, he could find a bookstore willing to take it on right away. I found it rather strange how his psychological state—regarding matters like publication and breaking into the literary world—was completely free of struggle, just like that man’s. Could it be that he’s satisfied simply by the act of writing itself?

March 15th.

The reputation of the magazine "×××" was remarkably good. Yamano’s *Face* in particular was receiving excellent reviews. I tried my best to avoid looking at the newspapers’ literary columns—it irritated me that "×××" was being acclaimed. Yet somehow I couldn’t stop worrying about its reputation. To be honest, I had gone to the library for three days straight. It was to quietly read the reviews of "×××". The I Newspaper had been the first to celebrate the magazine’s launch, albeit in six-point type, and had lavished particular praise on Yamano’s *Face*. But that wasn’t all. About three days later, critic Mr. H in the T Newspaper’s literary column had showered accolades on Yamano’s *Face*. When I read it, I could do nothing about the jealousy welling up from the depths of my heart. I finally felt crushed under his heel. It seemed the fate I’d dreaded these past two or three years was now being precisely realized. That Yamano and Kuwata were being feted as literary stars while I became permanently buried as an unknown writer—this outcome had already reached its first stage of fulfillment through "×××"’s publication.

How could I ever hope to contend with Yamano's innate talent? The more inevitable it became that his genius would be acknowledged, the more meaningless—and desolate—my resistance grew. I could only shut my eyes and endure his brilliant ascendance—there was no alternative. Yet the sole means to oppose him lay in us making our literary debuts simultaneously. Thinking this, I recalled my own work *Night's Threat* once more. It was undeniably too precarious a foundation. Still, I couldn't bring myself to consider it beneath the literary establishment's standards.

I left the library tonight and immediately hurried to Professor Nakata's house. After hearing his critique of *Night's Threat*, I was fully determined to ask him to recommend it to some magazine. Professor Nakata happened to be at home.

As soon as I faced Professor Nakata,

“How is it? Have you had a chance to read the script I submitted some time ago?” I broached. “Ah!” The professor showed a fleeting look of bewilderment, but immediately followed with, “Oh, that one. I’ve simply been too busy—it’s still half-read—but I’ll give it a proper critique once I’ve gone through it thoroughly,” he replied with his usual unhurried calm. But I instinctively knew the professor hadn’t read a single page of it. I stared in blank astonishment at the professor who had left untouched for a full month and a half this work I had labored over with such impatience and anxiety, never once reading it. But to the professor, this did not seem particularly unnatural, and he promptly changed the subject and began talking.

“There are quite good works among modern French plays.” “When people think of modern drama, they treat it as Northern Europe’s exclusive domain—that’s quite problematic.” “After all, theater originated in France—even Ibsen clearly received influence from French drama in terms of playwriting technique.”

I was in a state of mind utterly removed from any inclination to hear about French drama. All I could worry about was when my *Night's Threat* in Professor Nakata's hands would ever see the light of day. I thought I might as well take it back. But without going through Professor Nakata, getting even a toehold in the literary world would prove impossible for me. After listening helplessly to an hour-long lecture on French drama, I left the professor's house. Despair had completely overtaken me. Pinning my literary hopes on Professor Nakata had been nearly my second fatal miscalculation. I might have no choice but to fold my arms and watch Yamano and Kuwata's spectacular rise. Returning home, I found myself unable to concentrate on anything. Unless some chance opportunity suddenly materialized, I felt no possibilities remained for me.

April 5th.

"×××" published its second issue. Yamano published a short story titled *Encounter*. I read it again as if pouncing on it. I thought this because there was no way such excellent works could keep coming one after another. But my relief was immediately betrayed. That guy’s solid yet deeply lustrous technique once again thoroughly crushed me. Its theme shone every bit as brilliantly as—if not more than—that of the previous *Face*. I even considered snapping off the horns of my defiance against Yamano. My rebellion against that guy was nothing but the meaningless resentment an ordinary person harbors toward a genius—perhaps it was entirely my own misunderstanding, I tried to convince myself. But when I recalled Yamano’s sarcastic smile, seething jealousy and resentment immediately assailed my entire body. I simply cannot bring myself to bow my head to that guy’s work.

April 16th. Yamano’s *Encounter* was being praised again. When I read in the newspaper that venerable K-shi of the literary world had lavished praise on that guy’s *Encounter*, I thought, “All is lost.” That guy’s reputation was now settled. Unless he suddenly died, his recognition by the literary world had become an established fact. I began resigning myself to the inevitable. Truthfully, setting aside my jealousy, it might indeed have been only fitting for him to be recognized. But whether it was justified or not didn’t matter. The sheer fact of his acknowledgment was unbearable. If Yamano was recognized, Kuwata’s turn would surely follow soon. Okamoto, Sugino, Kawase—they’d all inevitably rise too. “The one left behind alone”— However I considered it, that could only be me.

I sent a short manuscript today to *Gunshū*, a magazine set to launch soon. It was a mere seven-page vignette. I had met Mr. T, who edited *Gunshū*, just once. If my vignette were accepted, I would have achieved some measure of resistance against Yamano and the others.

May 3rd.

This morning, when I saw the newspaper advertisement—when I saw Yamano’s novel *Waste* listed in the fiction section of this month’s *△△△△* magazine—I gasped in shock and stared blankly for some time. I felt a blow like a hammer strike, yet still doubted my own eyes. No matter how well-received his work might be, I had complacently assumed there would be a considerable interval before he could break into the heart of the literary world—this had been my error. That guy had utterly betrayed my every expectation. That he was now a popular writer while I remained an unknown one had become an unshakable fact. I looked at that advertisement as if staring into something blinding. Yamano Toshio—the size-three typeface seemed to laugh mockingly at me. The title *Waste*—I even wondered if he’d modeled it after me, someone nearing wastrel status as a writer. Yet despite harboring such intense resentment toward him, I found it strange how desperately I wanted to read that guy’s work as soon as possible. The act of buying *△△△△* to read Yamano’s work—or in other words, contributing even slightly to that magazine’s sales for his sake—struck me as somewhat distasteful upon reflection. Yet despite this, I found myself unbearably desperate to read that guy’s work.

I read that guy’s work with the trepidation of someone gazing apprehensively at something they’d rather not see. When I read it, that guy’s work pushed aside my jealousy and competitive spirit, then bore down on me relentlessly. I was unbearably frustrated—my resentment toward him was shoved aside by the sheer force of his writing, leaving me involuntarily impressed despite myself. It stood to reason that critics without personal animosity would admire it. Thinking this made me feel utterly pathetic. Clutching *△△△△* in my hands, I clearly realized I’d been completely defeated by him.

I bought both *△△△△* and *Gunshū*, in which I had contributed a piece. My vignette was also published, albeit in a two-column format, thanks to the editor’s goodwill. But *△△△△* and *Gunshū*! In terms of their influence as magazines, there was an immeasurable gap between them. I could vividly envision even the expression on Yamano’s face—how he would snort with a mocking smile the moment he picked up *Gunshū* and noticed my work. I felt the contest was already decided. My defeat was clear even to myself. So what! It had never been a fair match from the start. As I stared at the first page of that guy’s novel in *△△△△*, tears of frustration and despair streamed down my cheeks.

As I was looking at *△△△△*, Mr. Sotake happened to come by. And then, as usual, he began talking about his creative work. "I finally finished writing the six-hundred-page one the day before yesterday. I’ve been so happy I can’t stand it these past two or three days because of that. After I rest a bit, I’ll finally start on the 1,500-page one. Once this one’s finished, it’ll be something else!" he continued with undiminished vigor, but when suddenly *△△△△* caught Mr. Sotake’s eye,

“Mr. Yamano’s *Waste* was published here.” “There’s nothing intimidating about that.” “It’s just a collection of whims.” “As art, it’s downright heresy,” he said.

But I no longer felt any solace from this man’s denunciations. Even if it was nothing but whims, even if it was artistic heresy—I couldn’t comprehend how much better it would be to be recognized by the literary world. Compared to Mr. Sotake—who had finished a six-hundred-page novel and was now tackling a fifteen-hundred-page masterpiece—Yamano, who wrote a mere thirty-page skillful short story and gained instant recognition, made me realize I couldn’t measure how envious I felt.

I then noticed something unexpected. I casually showed Mr. Sotake Gunshū and pointed out my mere seven-page vignette. When he saw it, his eyes took on an unusual gleam. “What! Just a short story like this?!” he spat out. “Who on earth is running this magazine?! Not a single one of them writes anything decent! Kusata Hanako!” “Ah!” “Her!” “Hey, you!” “No sooner had she exchanged mutual praise over their works with some man named Yamamoto than she clung to him like a beast—that’s her!” “This woman writes novels, does she?” said Mr. Sotake, proceeding to denounce every contributor to Gunshū. And he concluded that Gunshū was a lowbrow magazine and that everyone writing for it was an utterly worthless bunch.

I was astonished that my mere seven-page vignette had infuriated Mr. Sotake to such an extent. By denouncing the magazine Gunshū, this man was attempting to disregard my work. But that articulated the exact opposite truth. The fact that my short piece had been printed—even just seven pages—was anything but pleasant for Mr. Sotake. The antipathy and impatience I felt toward Yamano’s work—Mr. Sotake must have been feeling them too. It struck me as strange upon reflection—Mr. Sotake, who had completed a six-hundred-page novel and should have been striding confidently along fiction’s grand thoroughfare, now found himself oppressed by my meager seven-page work in print.

But I could never bring myself to hate Mr. Sotake, who had tried to ignore my vignette. I was fully aware that my innate talent fell short of Yamano’s, yet I still found myself cursing his success. After all—that Mr. Sotake, who had full confidence in his own works, would feel displeased at seeing my paltry piece published before his own works ever made it into print was perhaps only natural.

But I thought: If creative work were truly absolute as some people believe, why can't people find satisfaction in creation alone? Someone like Mr. Sotake should have been fully satisfied in his artistic desires simply by completing a six-hundred-page novel. Why then this anguish over publication? As for me, I found myself tormented more by publication than creative work itself. I was caught up in literary fame rather than true artistic desire. Yet even someone like Mr. Sotake—who had completed full-length novels—would fly into a frenzy upon seeing my seven-page piece in print. Given that, perhaps my obsession with Yamano's publications was only natural.

May 15.

I received a letter from Yamano today for the first time in ages. Since I assumed it was surely meant to mock and ridicule me, I couldn't muster the will to open it immediately. But when I finally tore it open at dusk, the wording proved relatively considerate.

“As you know, the coterie magazine 『×××』 has been drawing considerable public attention since its launch.” “If one simply perseveres patiently, I believe everyone can attain some measure of success.” “That’s why we’re all gaining momentum.” “As for your situation—we deeply sympathize with your solitary state in Kyoto.” “When launching 『×××』, we absolutely wanted you as a contributor, but your absence from Tokyo created unavoidable complications that forced us to exclude you.” “We’ve been profoundly regretful about this.” “However, I’ve recently been receiving manuscript requests from other magazines, and Kuwata will likely start writing for another publication soon—this will naturally free up space in 『×××』’s pages.” “So if you have any worthy pieces, don’t hold back—send them my way without hesitation.” “Of course, truly subpar works would pose difficulties, but anything above standard I’ll be delighted to introduce.”

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 in the world, he had not forgotten to extend considerate kindness toward me. Rather than stubbornly opposing them, I couldn’t fathom how much better it would be to approach them and publish my work in “×××”. When I saw Yamano’s letter, I felt as if warm rays that had long been blocked from me were finally enveloping my body. I immediately wrote a reply. I wrote a letter so brimming with excitement and emotion that I feared he might laugh at me for being overly enthusiastic. And I added that I would send my work right afterward. My letter was clearly laced with a base, pleading tone. I perceived within my own attitude something contemptible—like a conquered weakling groveling before his superior. Even toward his splendid debut—which until now I had cursed vehemently—I heaped words of praise. But I lacked the composure to recognize this as shameful and restrain myself. Clinging to Yamano’s goodwill might well have been called my sole remaining opportunity now.

I visited Professor Nakata immediately after sending the letter. I had gone to retrieve my script *Night’s Threat*. It had been over three months since I took it to the professor’s place. Professor Nakata appeared to have long forgotten about my script *Night’s Threat*, and even when he occasionally spoke to me, he never so much as mentioned it. Yet even if I were to send my work to Yamano this time, *Night’s Threat* remained my most complete piece. Reflecting now, I realized I had been entirely preoccupied with publication while remaining utterly carefree about the essence of creative work itself. Thinking of Mr. Sotake silently devoting himself to his fifteen-hundred-page magnum opus filled me with considerable shame.

Professor Nakata was at home as usual. When I stated my purpose,

“Ah, right – I was holding onto your script, wasn’t I?” he said while standing up and searching through a corner of the bookshelf for me. And then he pulled out 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 meeting an old acquaintance. While I had been layering anxiety upon anxiety over these three or four months, my work had been passing tranquil, uneventful days in a corner of Professor Nakata’s bookshelf. “Is it finally time for publication?” “That’s splendid.” “Once it’s in print, we’ll give it a proper critique,” he offered with polite courtesy. I rather respected Professor Nakata’s extremely indifferent attitude. After returning home and rereading it once, I immediately sent it by registered mail to Yamano.

May 25.

A letter came from Yamano. I thought I would transcribe it here in this diary, devoid of any emotion. The emotions I felt upon seeing this letter simply could not be expressed here. “We have all read your *Night’s Threat*. And as if by prior agreement, we felt profound disappointment. Let me speak without reserve. There’s no point in offering conventional compliments. First and foremost, I was disappointed in that work’s theme. It’s entirely derivative, isn’t it? This didn’t even come from your authentic self, did it? I could precisely identify what source you borrowed that theme from. But granting you borrowed the theme—what in blazes is that vulgar sentimentalism suffusing the entire work?! You haven’t advanced one step ideologically since your first year of high school. We’ve completely outgrown the philosophies of those days. I found no redeeming qualities in your script. However, thinking this might be my personal bias, I had Kuwata, Okamoto, Sugino and others read it too. But I’ve decided against sharing their evaluations with you. That’s because we’re too concerned it might wound you. Therefore, we regrettably decline to publish that work in ‘×××’. I’d count myself fortunate if these harsh words provoke you into sending us a masterpiece in retaliation.”

Trap! I had indeed fallen into the trap Yamano set! While basking in his own splendid success, he had wanted to hurt me to further intensify that consciousness.

He had likely said to Kuwata and the others, “What do you say! What do you suppose that Tomii guy’s up to in Kyoto? He must still be writing that same old saccharine script or something. How about it! How about we get his work by saying we’ll publish it in ‘×××’ or whatever, then all test it together?” he must have said. When the kind-hearted Sugino and Okamoto worriedly tried to stop him, that guy only found it more amusing and set about putting it into action. That uncharacteristically kind letter from that guy could never have been written unless it stemmed from such motives. A hatred for Yamano—an irreconcilable hatred that would never allow compromise—surged up within me with ten times more ferocity than before. But when I considered my own pathetic vulnerability—how I’d fallen for Yamano’s trick and so neatly presented *Night’s Threat* to him with such pride—I felt tears of self-pity moistening both my cheeks.

×Month ×Day

It had already been two and a half years since "×××" was published. "×××" had long since been discontinued. But Yamano, Kuwata, Okamoto, and Sugino had splendidly established themselves as writers through "×××" and strode through the literary world as coterie members. Above all, Yamano stirred up the literary world with each new work and had now secured an unshakable position.

The distance between me and them had now absolutely widened. On the contrary，now that it had come to this，neither competitive spirit nor jealousy arose within me.I could calmly observe the fact that they were celebrated as popular writers.For one genius to be born，a hundred mediocrities must suffer．Behind the acclaim showered upon Yamano and Kuwata，a sacrifice like mine might well have been inevitable．But those who would end up as unknown writers forever were not limited to me alone．Whether his 1，500-page novel had been completed or not，I couldn’t say without asking，but Mr．Sotake still wore a gloomy expression．And every time a new writer emerged in the literary world，he fiercely criticized them．Mr．Yoshino，who had disparaged coterie magazines，was still going strong as well．Yet that person’s creative works had yet to be published in a single reputable literary magazine．

Even in the literary world, luck plays an important role up to a certain point. Thinking that way, I've resigned myself. But I'll no longer think about the literary world.

That I believed there was no meaningful life outside of being a writer was my delusion.

The other day, while reading Verlaine's biography, I learned how that Decadent poet had desperately yearned for "a peaceful life as an ordinary person" in his later years—a fact that deeply moved me. For those like me with meager talent, "a peaceful life as an ordinary person" is the perfect refuge. When I graduate from school, I’ll become a rural teacher or something and enter a peaceful life.

Popular writers! New writers! I felt somewhat ashamed now of having aspired to such empty titles. How many works from the Meiji and Taishō literary world do you suppose had endured as masterpieces? Once, while reading Anatole France’s works, I came across a passage that said the following: "(As the sun's heat gradually cools, the Earth will consequently cool as well, until finally humankind perishes. But earthworms living underground might unexpectedly survive. Then Shakespeare’s plays and Michelangelo’s sculptures might be laughed at by earthworms.) What a delicious irony! The works of geniuses will after all be laughed at by earthworms someday. As for works like Yamano’s, in another ten years they won’t even be laughed at by earthworms."