Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Ito Sachio

I It was a mistake to have believed that cowards were limited to those without courage. The stronger one's longing for safety, the more cowardly one becomes. While there is no human being who does not long for safety, those with many dependents—particularly those burdened with encumbrances like young children—harbor an all the more keen longing for safety. When disaster strikes, those with many dependents must suffer calamities all the more severely—such is likely the case.

Even the calamities of natural disasters—if they merely resulted in losing property and shelter or ended with one’s own life being extinguished—their tragedy would not necessarily reach the utmost depths of misery. If one had few dependents to consider, then once resolved to the inevitability of calamity, one might have mustered the courage to face natural disasters with a smile; yet when confronted with dependents too numerous to abandon, no matter how one deliberated, the decisions demanded by circumstance allowed no simplicity. It did not arise from conscious prudence, but rather from being overwhelmed by a natural, immensely powerful, and inescapable emotion that left no room for courage to take root.

The heavy rain that began at dusk fell throughout the night. A deluge... The ferocious roar of the downpour, the crashing of water from every direction—as though marshaling every possible sound to menace those praying for calamity to pass—the torrent raged on through the night. It felt as though they hadn’t slept at all, yet even during what little sleep they snatched, they remained startled by the deluge’s roar, leaving them unable to distinguish dream from waking. Outside had brightened with the coming dawn, but the rain kept falling as though the break of day meant nothing. The rain that had fallen through the night showed every sign of continuing unabated into the day.

Those who had been relentlessly assailed through their ears now found themselves assailed through their eyes with the coming of dawn. The water that had flooded the entire garden sent up mist as the rain lashed down in torrents. The water was so high that not a single one of the garden’s stepping stones remained visible. It was now just five or six sun shy of reaching the floor. “We should raise the tatami mats now,” my wife and older children urged anxiously. The young workers also came hurrying to report that water had entered the cowshed as well.

Even I—who had been most cowardly and fearful at heart—found myself strangely defiant when those around me began to panic. Putting on an air of deliberate calm, I reasoned that since this was merely accumulated water, it could only rise so much no matter how much it increased. I snapped that there was no need for such frantic panic. And even in that voice with which I had snapped, in truth, fear stirred. The rain fell harder. The water rose by about four or five bu each hour. The intense seeker of peace did not neglect for a single moment to monitor the rising and falling cadence of the rain—his heart clinging to the hope that stillness might come at any instant.

Anxiety—fear—to distract oneself even slightly from the unbearable torment of such anguish in this moment, there was no other way but to move one’s body. I found myself rising to go check the state of the rising waters at Yokokawa Tenjingawa River. As he was about to leave, he instructed his wife and children to prepare for emergencies. More than out of consideration for the necessity of preparation, it was largely that he thought assigning them manual tasks would alleviate their needless anguish.

Perhaps because it was low tide, the river water remained surprisingly low. From the drainage outlets, water cascaded down with considerable force. I could not help but sigh, thinking if only the rain would stop there, we'd have nothing to worry about... Ah. The flooded area spanned five or six neighborhoods in breadth, yet there were only three drainage outlets—all narrow-mouthed, their ditches snaking sevenfold through tortuous bends. Because water drained only during low tide's brief window, heavy rainfall brought high tide before half the water could escape. Were the rain to intensify further while high tide drove river water back through the outlets, this entire district would be submerged in moments. Every time I worried over the water, I grew appalled at how absurdly negligent in their duties the construction workers had been.

Apart from a major flood, if the drainage system were actually adequate, there would be no such thing as water inundating the entire town due to a mere day or two of rain. When one considers how hundreds of thousands suffer extraordinary hardships due to human affairs falling just short of adequacy, one cannot help but lament the callousness of those who perform mere token work on such practical matters. I inspected the three drainage outlets and returned home. Despite the water draining through three places, the water level in my garden had slightly increased. Each time my family asked in chorus, “How is the river?”, I found myself sighing again despite myself—if only the rain would let up here, we’d have nothing to worry about… Ah.

Since it was rising by about five bu per hour, judging by this rate, it would still take ten more hours to reach the floor. As long as preparations were made to raise the tatami mats at any time, the residence might not be an immediate concern—yet it was the cowshed that could no longer be neglected. Because water had reached behind the urine boards, not a single cow remained lying down. And then, on their hind legs, each had about an inch of water clinging to them. The heavy rain resounded fiercely against the cowshed roof, making even brief conversations inaudible. At last, hope for peace was on the verge of being extinguished.

When people try to imagine the suffering of those who have committed suicide, they likely feel most strongly the tragedy of the act itself. However, if one were in the position of the suicide, would not the anguish prior to resolving to commit suicide be far more agonizing than the actual drama of killing oneself? When the instrument of suicide lies before one’s eyes, has the trembling fear of self-destruction not already subsided?

The voice of the heavy rain was a voice compelling me to commit suicide. I still could not resolve to commit suicide, and so I struggled desperately. Even a patient resolved to die, if they still had several days before death arrived, had to consider how to conduct themselves during that time. If one clung even to a thread of hope, then all the more must they have readiness within that resolve. No matter how much one might be tormented by fear and despair, the final resolve had inevitably to await its proper moment.

Whether the downpour would persist through today and continue into tonight, or perhaps cease around nightfall, or even stop at any moment—all remained utterly uncertain. Yet the hour when it finally ceased would determine the fate of those dreading the floodwaters. In any case, what tomorrow would bring remained unknown. When things remained unclear, there was no way for me to steel my resolve nor any means to formulate a plan. Unwillingly drawn into this limbo between life and death, I had no choice but to remain in a state of anxiety.

However, the fact before my eyes of water reaching the cows' hind legs gave no room for contemplation. Spurred by this, I resolved to devise a plan to endure tonight at any cost, leaving tomorrow's matters for tomorrow.

I braved the torrential rain and ran to the lumberyard. Upon hearing that several fellow dairy farmers had run about seeking large quantities of materials for the same purpose, I felt my terror heighten further. Dozens of six-inch-square foundation logs and dozens of one-inch-thick pine planks were promptly transported to the cowshed. Of course, there was no time to call carpenters. By commanding the three men and working for several hours to the point of forgetting the sound of the heavy rain, we succeeded in constructing a temporary floor six inches above the existing one in the cowshed. Thus, the twenty cows were able to lie down peacefully upon the temporary floor six inches above the water’s surface, jostling for space. Handling the firewood, organizing the feed supplies—the work that needed doing was endless.

Preparations for the humans first involved raising the tatami mats and dealing with the fusuma sliding doors, shoji partitions, and all belongings—handled according to the standards set by the previous major flood. The ten family members split into two groups to sleep—one in a room with its floor raised over a foot above normal level, and the other in the single chamber of the detached tea room. The young children were delighted to sleep in the tea room. And before long, they fell into an innocent sleep. The two older sisters and their mother—saying it was too unnerving to sleep apart on this eerie rainy night—braved the downpour and waded through floodwaters to reach the tea room.

Even so, if only things could end with this much, it would be a relief—but what would tomorrow bring?… Once more, they repeated what they had said to each other countless times since beginning the cleanup. Called out by the children left behind, the mother and daughters vanished into the night rain as lonely shadows.

The heavy rain finally persisted through that night as well. What consequences would this truly bring—two nights and a day, thirty-six hours of heavy rain?

The next day blazed with sunlight. The water kept rising gradually, yet hadn't reached the cows' feet. The two evacuation spaces still maintained five or six sun of clearance. Though newspapers ran special reports on flood damage across regions and future warnings, the cleared weather itself heartened us tremendously. Even if the river swelled further, I reasoned we'd manage somehow—and with this thought, my tormented mind grew significantly lighter.

A mind parched for peace strives to forcibly settle itself even in a place where it can never truly find ease.

II

It was around five o’clock in the afternoon on the second day after the heavy rain had cleared. The world was engulfed in a terror-tinged commotion. The usual urban clamor had grown nearly inaudible, replaced by a profound disturbance—so faint one might miss it if not straining to hear, yet emanating from the very depths of existence: a powerful tumult that dragged people into unease, an intense commotion now agitating the air across the entire area.

The Tenjin River overflowed, the Tate River overflowed, and the Yoko River burst forth. Peace had been shattered at its root, and the battle had commenced. Neither fear nor hesitation remained. There was nothing left but to press forward where they must; no room remained to look back. I ordered my family to evacuate to a nearby acquaintance’s two-story house and then, scolding three young workers, began evacuating the dairy cows. The plan was to lead the cattle toward the high ground along the elevated railway tracks we had previously identified. The water depth still did not reach waist level, so it was not yet so difficult.

I first led out two cows—the black-and-white spotted one and the red one. It seemed even these simple-minded furred creatures sensed something amiss, for both the remaining cattle and those being led out began bellowing at full volume. The cacophony in turn electrified us handlers. I guided two cows through the gate. The dairy cattle—submerged up to their bellies—must have wondered what fresh torment awaited them as they thrashed wildly in every direction. Of course, neither ditches nor roads remained visible. One immediately plunged into a ditch and redoubled its frenzy. Another charged blindly ahead. Gripping two sets of reins, I nearly lost all control. Then I too went sprawling into a ditch, dragged by the panicked beasts' momentum. Water engulfed me completely. The young workers kept hauling out two or three cattle at a time.

Even that coward who had feared getting soaked when confronting the evacuation of both people and livestock—once he fell into a ditch and submerged his entire body in water—it became equivalent to a warrior seeing blood from his wounds; there for the first time his spirit reached its peak of excitement, and ferocious courage thrummed through every joint of his limbs. Clutching two dairy cows beneath both arms, he kicked through the raging current toward their destination. Through repeating this process two or three times over several hours like so, they completed evacuating all dairy cows and even succeeded in preparing feed sufficient for the following day.

The water level grew ever higher, and the twenty-seven-meter-wide road from Yotsume to Taiheichō reached a depth of nearly five feet, the muddy current raging so unchecked that even crossing by boat felt arduous. Standing on the elevated tracks and looking at my abandoned home, I could see nothing but its roof above the water. When I had feared the water and tormented myself over the rain, I had not yet directly touched it. That was why the water had been terrifying. Braving the muddy water to lead out the dairy cows, submerging myself in that turbid current—it became a struggle against the water itself. The struggle achieved its purpose, and the cows were able to evacuate as desired. It felt like claiming victory in the first battle.

Having been assaulted by the flood, rather than lamenting the magnitude of what was lost, this was a time to find satisfaction in the courageous struggle that had broken through one encirclement. The relief after lancing a festering abscess bore some resemblance to my present state. The blow was undoubtedly severe, but it became the satisfaction of having briskly resolved problems and swept away all anguish. Seeing my house—only its roof barely visible above water—without feeling the slightest bitterness: was this not because that satisfaction still held sway over me?

The day was drawing to a close, and the sky once again threatened rain. The sound of water coming from all directions now rang out exhilaratingly to me. While surveying my surroundings, I found myself crossing the iron bridge over the Tenjin River.

The Tenjin River, heaping water into towering swells, fiercely spewed muddy currents across both banks. In the dim, clouded depths of twilight, the white foam of overflowing turbid water could be seen hazily, as if in a dream. I was struck by an indescribable sensation—terrifying yet fascinating, a kind of intense stimulus beyond words. When I looked out over the Kameido area in the distance, black water spread boundlessly like a great lake. In all directions, the floating house roofs were mostly submerged past their eaves. I could not help but sigh in lamentation: This was indeed a flood.

Kameido had many fellow dairy farmers. It appeared many cows still couldn’t be evacuated, and their bellowing cries echoed here and there. Traveling over the dark water, they trailed off in drawn-out cries. Whether it was due to how he was listening, the sound was unbearably unpleasant.

The few scattered lamps visible here and there clung close to the water’s surface, leaking a lonely light as if floating on the horizon.

When I pricked up my ears at what sounded like distant human voices, someone was shouting, “Isn’t there a rescue boat? Ah... Isn’t there a rescue boat? Ah...” That too ceased after about three shouts. Perhaps because the water raged so fiercely that human commotion was overwhelmed, the surroundings remained relatively quiet. Though it still felt like early evening, beyond the water’s roar and cows’ cries, scarcely any human stir could be heard. Desolate, chill-inducing water swelled in all directions. It remained unclear whether the person who had called for a rescue boat had been saved or not. When I turned back from the iron bridge, the cows’ cries grew faint. The vigorous sound of water dominated almost the entire night, resounding without cease. I had become so caught up in immediate problems that time slipped away unnoticed. When I came to check, the young workers were no longer near the dairy cows, and most of my herd lay calmly chewing their cud.

Thinking any tasks could wait until tomorrow and that tonight was settled, yet wanting to see the state of the ownerless house, I once again hurled myself fiercely into the water. When I entered through my house's gate—positioned slightly lower than the road—my feet found no purchase on solid ground. I moved toward the kitchen eaves with a swimming-like motion.

Fortunately, it seemed the family members had forgotten to extinguish it when fleeing, and a lamp remained lit and hanging. The bottom of the lamp hung high from the ceiling was almost touching the water. I climbed onto the floor, and the water was up to my chest. Soy sauce barrels, charcoal bales, geta boxes, raised floor planks, firewood, miscellaneous wood scraps—everything that was there floated. The viscid, filthy water, without so much as a ripple, relentlessly filled the house to bursting. I tried to take another look around further inside and reached for the lamp, but with some inadvertent movement, the flame went out. After that, there was only pitch-black darkness; any movement brought the touch of miscellaneous floating debris against my body. Even so, I groped my way forward with hands and feet into the depths. Floating objects struck my chest; they touched my face. Tatami mats floated; the chest of drawers floated; even the bedding floated. All their preparations, too, had been rendered futile by water beyond their imagining.

I beheld this scene of total devastation yet felt no remorse, remaining strangely composed. There was no sense of it being my home, nor any feeling that these were my possessions. Rather, I found it perversely exhilarating how nature's violence had destroyed objects and tormented people with such ruthless efficiency. Before long, I abandoned the scene of devastation and left, as one might part ways with a stranger by the roadside. The self that had lain awake night after night fearing the water, and this now calm self—I did not even consider why this was so.

The second floor to which the family had fled was a single room of about seven tatami mats. Besides the people of that house, four or five others had escaped there as well. In a seven-tatami mat room with over twenty people—once they laid about three young children to sleep among them—the others could only sit with their knees pressed together. While those who have committed crimes hide in fear of arrest—finding no moment of mental respite, unable to sleep peacefully at night—it is said that once finally captured and imprisoned, their minds grow calm, their hearts unburdened, allowing them to slumber soundly with ease. My state tonight was akin to this; though I still lacked the capacity to consider the future, having resolved the tormenting problem that had defied all attempts at resolution, I achieved a peace of mind I had not known these past few days and drifted into untroubled sleep. With my head bent and limbs curled into a shrimp-like posture, I nevertheless managed to sleep comfortably and refreshingly. The days of suffering vanished without a trace. Because of this, I felt as though I gained new vitality within my body.

Looking at our actual situation, we had barely managed to preserve the lives of people and livestock; yet because the enemy’s onslaught persisted with utmost severity, my spirit of defiance could not help becoming intensely agitated. The resolve that one must struggle endlessly had become naturally fortified—likely because there was no time left to lament the great disaster. With everyone safe and the cows unharmed—in a mood so refreshing it felt like declaring “All is well”—I slept soundly until morning.

"The house rooster crows, the house rooster crows"—a child’s voice pierced my ears and roused me from sleep. When I rose and peered through the window, dawn’s faint light had begun to seep over the flooded expanse encircling my house, its every hollow brimming with turbid water. In that ownerless drowned dwelling, the forgotten rooster—left behind in the evacuation—persisted in marking the hours with its customary languid cry, drawing each note out as though time itself had stagnated.

III

The evacuation that had escaped immediate crisis left both people and livestock barely managing to secure a night’s lodging. I visited an acquaintance—a certain gentleman—in Ryogoku to plan the second evacuation. This chivalrous and compassionate man spared no effort in rushing about on our behalf. The family was taken in entirely on his second floor, while permission was granted to place the cows in Ekōin’s garden. The weather showed no mercy—this day too turned to rain.

They would row by boat to the embankment of the elevated railway and make their way across the bridge of the elevated line toward Ryogoku. Evacuees such as ourselves—men and women, old and young, many without rain gear—streamed ceaselessly across a span of approximately twenty chō. A family leading nine children—with an eighteen-year-old at the head and including the infant Mamori—formed one such group among them. The adults naturally carried belongings, as did the older children. The pitiful sight of five- and seven-year-olds—uttering no complaints, shedding no tears, shuffling unsteady bare feet through weeping rain—nonetheless crossing that seemingly endless elevated bridge left an indelible impression on their parents.

There was no longer any need to worry about the family. Now that it came to the cows， he set about making arrangements. With few people available， multiple trips would not be easy. Leading twenty dairy cows in two trips would require ten people. Finding help proved difficult when guiding them through floodwaters in pouring rain. Through his acquaintance’s efforts， he finally secured personnel by three in the afternoon. They had to choose paths with shallow water. Therefore， I determined our route： departing near Tenjingawa along elevated railway tracks toward Honjo Station， then following Yokogawa alongside Tatekawa’s riverside road westward toward Ryogoku， and set out accordingly. The rain had begun letting up. We needed complete evacuation before nightfall during this window. People gathered eagerly at the cattle’s location.

Preparations were complete. Now we had to obtain permission from the railway staff and secure passage along the tracks for a brief period. I arrived where the station workers were gathered and begged them to permit us use of the railway line from here to Honjo Station to retrieve our evacuated dairy cows. The staff appeared engrossed in some discussion among themselves; they neither acknowledged my urgent request nor offered any courtesy. “It shouldn’t take more than ten minutes at most,” I implored exhaustively, “and besides, the water directly beneath here runs too deep—there’s absolutely no way we can lead the cattle through it.”

“That’s impossible.” “What on earth were you thinking putting cows there in the first place?” “Which is exactly why we’re moving them now.”

“Even so, isn’t it improper to leave cows in such a place without even notifying anyone?” Heartless and cruel… Moreover, it was the station staff’s arrogant attitude. Mentally agitated, I found it unbearably galling.

“What country’s officials are you? Can’t you see this flood?” “How can you stand there watching as so many of our compatriots weep in this deluge?” The words had nearly escaped him, but he restrained himself and pleaded further. In the end, they insisted evacuation trains were coming, so they had to wait until after their arrival. If that were the case, they should have said so plainly from the start. When asked what time it would come, they claimed not to know. Yet in truth, they knew. One subordinate kindly warned it would arrive within less than an hour.

Having squandered time in futile efforts, what was meant to be two trips before sunset ended with dusk already approaching before even one trip could be completed.

For those unaccustomed to handling cattle, I assigned them calmer cows unlikely to act up while taking charge of leading a large red-and-white spotted cow at the forefront. Having ten people follow consecutively proved unworkable. Despite lacking trailing companions, I pressed straight toward Honjo Station. Complete darkness had fallen save for faint glimmers upon water surfaces. Beneath iron bridges lay unexpectedly deep currents reaching chest-level - whenever we advanced briefly against rapids spraying foam,the cows panicked madly striving to bolt ahead. Unable to move freely through chest-high water,I found myself incapable of facing forward while choking on spray-drenched torrents. Upon finally escaping beyond embankments,the current carried us onward,yet stones and sandbags piled days prior for flood defenses now lay scattered across our path,causing both cattle and handlers alike to stumble through murky depths.

Even if my property consisted of cows, when I considered that this hardship was no easy matter, I grew concerned about those who had been temporarily recruited and were unaccustomed to such work. I held back the cows for a while and observed the state of the people coming from behind. Still, these were people who had come out of sympathy, so things weren’t as dire as I’d feared, and seeing them follow steadily behind, I felt reassured enough to take the lead. When we had gathered half of the ten cows in Ekōin’s garden, it was exactly nine o’clock. There were also those who had sustained injuries. There were also those who, daunted by the first attempt, had fled. This time’s attempt proved to be a truly difficult task. The acquaintance’s encouragement proved thorough, and thus we could finally replenish the missing personnel. In the second attempt, I took up the rear. After sending everyone ahead and surveying the rear, I found two 8-shō milk cans and three buckets remaining. These were items needed for tomorrow. Perhaps the young workers had dropped them, but fortunately, there was a single underbelt with which I shouldered the milk cans, held three buckets in my left hand, and gripped the cow’s lead rope in my right hand as I brought up the rear. The man walking one step ahead of me, being one attempting to lead a cow for the first time, repeatedly let go of the cow. Each time, I would catch the cow while also taking on the role of protector, and we made our way along Tatekawa’s riverside—what they called Ishikawa—as the soil was washed away. If I thought this would finally end, my mind found room for composure.

As I walked with thoughts drifting aimlessly, each time I reflected on how today's struggles had exceeded even my own expectations, and though midnight approached with no one to witness it—what must this wretched state of mine look like? Carrying two milk cans on a rotten underbelt, holding three buckets in one hand while leading a cow with the other. My navel and shins remained exposed without concealment; though they call it "struggle"—a noble name—what manner of wretched spectacle was this?

Why must I do such things? Why must I stoop to this merely to survive? To devour this dewdrop-like life in an endless existence, to feel no shame in such wretchedness—what a base heart I possess! Both the preceding cow and the one I was leading now walked calmly and steadily. West of Futatsume, there was no water anymore. I stopped paying attention to hands and feet, and my thoughts raced ahead.

I, who had deeply considered myself a transcendent poet—one who lectured constantly on the Man'yōshū while striving to comprehend and inherit the proper traditions within Japanese thought and emotion, thereby aspiring to contribute in some small way to modern civilization—found this wretched state of mine pitiable. Even if spared the shame of being seen, even if driven by unavoidable circumstances—this was an exposure of all too savage rawness. If such actions constituted struggle, then struggle's value must be called base. Yet when weighing whether degrading the mind or body is baser, there can be no question that degrading the mind deserves greatest contempt. Viewed thus, might tonight's wretchedness have degraded only my body without tainting my mind? But even so, the shame of bodily degradation loses none of its sting.

The leading cow kept calling out to its companions. The cow I was leading also responded with a loud cry. I felt as if waking from a dream and unconsciously tightened the lead rope in my hand.

IV The water receded by only three to six centimeters each day. Even after five or six days, it had not withdrawn more than twenty-one centimeters. Everything submerged remained beyond salvage. Rain fell several more times afterward. The dairy cows stood exposed to the elements, battered by downpours. News of fellow dairy farmers gradually reached us. Someone in Kameido had slaughtered sixteen head. Another in Taiheicho killed fourteen cattle; one in Oshimacho disposed of ten calves. As I contemplated my family’s plight from every angle, the devastation only grew more profound.

When fatigue passed a certain point, I found myself unable to achieve deep sleep. I woke repeatedly through the night. Even during what little sleep I managed, I always dreamed. Every dream was filled with the sound of rain and the tumult of water. What tormented me most unbearably were the nights when rain actually fell and its sound could be heard. The sight of my dairy cows—the core of my property—standing exposed to the rain was a torment almost too unbearable to contemplate. It was an indescribable desolation. I did not consider rushing about in the rain to be particularly painful, but whenever I saw the cows standing in the mud while being drenched, I felt an indescribable anguish.

The young workers fell ill one after another. The submerged items couldn’t be left abandoned forever, and the tasks he needed to accomplish were endless. I rose day after day at dawn with straw sandals on my feet, with no time to take them off until night. On the fifth day of evacuation, we finally managed to build a rain shelter for the cows. With the immediate threats gone, I found myself thinking more about the future. The amount of milk secreted by the twenty cows had halved and was poised to decrease further. A quantity once diminished never recovers to its original state—this was a constant truth. If the milk yield did not recover and they missed the fertility period, even dairy cows could not maintain their value as dairy cows. When the extent of the damage came to be somewhat considered, I could not help but lament that even our struggle against the natural disaster had been an action of little significance.

A revolution of life... When considering revolutionizing my own life while bearing eight children upon both shoulders, my heart became choked with a sense of wretchedness. I considered gathering what remained of our assets and entrusting my family's livelihood to brush and inkstone. I asked myself: “Can you proceed with that decision in peace?” My heart answered that it could not find immediate peace. When finally forced into unavoidable circumstances, I pressed further: What would I do if there were truly no other path but to proceed? I could do nothing but envision the wretched state that lay before me.

One of the young workers could not get up. Another had gone out to play and hadn’t returned. I had to rouse myself and devote my hands to milking. If the weather was good, my wife and the others were swamped with dealing with the soaked items they had brought over. Even considerations of the future—the question of the family’s rise or fall—remained suspended when overtaken by unavoidable immediate tasks. Letters of condolence and visiting well-wishers—responding to each one became yet another duty. There were days when I made several rounds to the flooded house. By nightfall, I was too exhausted to remain seated. Each morning upon waking, I would feel pain and weariness permeating every part of my body, thoughts of being unable to endure the work ahead rising within me. Yet after eating a meal more satisfying than usual and once I had firmly tied my straw sandals to set out, my limbs would thrum with resolute energy.

When courage filled my body, the pessimistic notions contemplating the future eventually subsided, and it was strange how I could engage in the struggle so cheerfully. Was it the acute awareness of having eight children that constantly stirred my body and made me forget the pain?

Could it be that the barbaric nature of Kanto samurai since the Kamakura period still courses through my very marrow?

Life after destruction was in complete chaos. Reasoning and analysis were in disarray. The tension and relaxation of the mind were naturally in disarray.

As I wandered the main street all day, it suddenly struck me. If the energy driving my defiant struggle remained this unyielding, I needn't hesitate over anything. Were I to dismiss one of the three young workers and labor alongside just two myself, all hardship and worry would vanish. Having indulged in literary diversions until now, I posed myself the question: Could I truly manage this? My heart answered plainly that it could be done without fuss. To cast aside literary pursuits for three or four years demanded not a shred of doubt.

Was it better to comfort the body and torment the mind? Was it better to torment the body and ease the mind? Having thought this through, I became unbearably delighted. Unconsciously, I muttered to myself that the problem had been resolved.

V As the water receded, the cleanup progressed accordingly. Since there were quite a few belongings left untransported, the idea of keeping watch at night also arose. Discovering a space less than three square meters in the storage shed’s ceiling, I spread out a futon here and lay down to test it. I thought I could certainly sleep here at night, but realizing that sleeping here would provide no nighttime vigilance whatsoever, I decided against staying overnight—though it proved convenient for laying my body, weary from working in the water, down to rest.

It is said that people are governed by their circumstances, but as I lay in a space barely large enough to contain my body, I suddenly thought of something like a dream.

When the two who had pledged themselves to each other long ago, feeling their passions particularly heightened one night, found themselves nearly unable to sleep, he lamented and said: “This kind of mutual joy—harmonious and pleasant—we may never experience again even once in the future. If the two of us were to die in our sleep tonight, there could be no greater happiness than this.” It truly was just as we said. “If I could die like this without hardship, I would be satisfied; but God may not grant us such happiness,” I sighed from the depths of my heart.

At the time, it had remained in my memory as nothing more than a dreamlike episode of foolish talk; yet why was it that today, twenty years later, I recalled it with utmost seriousness?

Upon reflection, I realized I had never experienced emotions like those of that night again. Year after year brought more hardships, and children kept coming one after another. Toiling year-round, dominated by the turning of the years—there was no other accomplishment. Warding off successive minor disasters; the passive activities of mourning others and lamenting oneself never ceased year after year. Flood after flood. And thus, I finally found myself struggling against this great flood.

Twenty years since we embraced and spoke of death—has any of it held meaning? No philosophy or religion, I should think, claims that suffering constitutes life itself. Yet why must actual existence remain a perpetual state of torment? Here I stand nearing fifty years, earnestly recalling youths' foolish talk from one evening—how might I discover even a glimmer of happiness in these circumstances? If no such glimmer exists within my present condition, then I must declare that young girl's idle chatter to be profound philosophy. To think humans cannot die until they've suffered to their limit—the mere contemplation sickens me.

The helpers had come unbeknownst to me and were working below. The one who called "Sensei" with his face peering out from the attic was a friend who had been coming to help every day since the flood. (November 1910)