Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

I had mistakenly believed that cowards were only those who lacked courage. The stronger humans’ desire for safety grows, the more cowardly they become by that same measure. There exists no human being who does not wish for safety; yet those burdened with many dependents—particularly ones encumbered by young children clinging to them—harbor an even keener longing for security. When disaster strikes, those bearing numerous dependents suffer calamities made all the more grievous—this must be why.

Even the calamities of natural disasters—if they merely result in losing property and dwellings or end with one’s own life being extinguished—their tragedy would not necessarily reach the utmost depths of misery. If one has few dependents to consider, then upon resolving early that calamity is unavoidable, the courage to rouse oneself may allow facing natural disasters with a smile—yet when burdened with inescapable dependents, no matter how one deliberates, decisions regarding the matter cannot be simple. It does not stem from reasoned judgment; rather, one is crushed by an utterly natural and overpowering emotion that leaves no room for courage to arise.

The heavy rain that began at dusk continued falling through the entire night. A downpour—the ferocious roar of that deluge, the clamor of water crashing down from every direction, as if threatening with every possible sound the hearts of those praying for calamity to spare them—the downpour resounded relentlessly through the night. It felt as though I hadn’t slept at all—yet since even in the briefest slumber I was startled awake by the deluge’s roar, there remained no distinction between dream and reality.

Though outside had brightened and night had given way to dawn, the rain continued falling as if wholly indifferent to daylight’s arrival. The rain that had poured through the night now showed every sign of persisting through the day as well. Those who had been thoroughly assailed through their ears now found themselves assailed through their eyes once dawn broke. Across the entire garden, water had risen to form a submerged plain; upon its surface rose sprays of mist as the rain drove down in relentless torrents. The water stood so high that not a single one of the garden’s stepping stones remained visible. It now measured just five or six inches below the floorboards.

"My wife and older children clamored, saying we should take up the tatami mats now." "The young workers also came to report that water had gotten into the cowshed too." "Even I, who had been most cowardly and inwardly fearful, found a strange rebelliousness welling up within me when those around me clamored." "I put on an air of deliberate composure, thinking that no matter how much it rose, it was just stagnant water and could only reach a certain height." "I snapped that there was no need to panic so much." "And even in that rebuking voice of mine, in truth, fear was stirring." "The rain fell harder." "The water was rising by about four or five bu each hour."

Even so, this ardent seeker of peace—driven by the desperate hope that the rain might cease at any moment—did not for a single second neglect to monitor the rising and falling cadence of the rainfall. Anxiety—fear—to distract myself even slightly from this unbearable torment of anguish, there was nothing for it but to move my body. I found myself rising to go see how much the Yokogawa Tenjingawa River had swollen. As I was about to leave, I also ordered my wife and children to prepare for emergencies. More than out of any genuine consideration for necessary preparations, I had mostly thought to assign them manual tasks and thereby alleviate their futile brooding.

Perhaps because it was low tide, the river’s water remained surprisingly low. Water was gushing vigorously from the water outlets. "If only the rain would stop here—there’d be nothing to worry about, ah…" I couldn’t help but sigh. Despite the vast area where water had pooled—spanning five or six city blocks—there were only three drainage outlets, each with narrow openings and ditches winding through seven sharp bends. Because water drains only during low tide’s brief window, during heavy rains high tide arrives before even half the fallen water can drain away. Where at high tide the river water surges back through the outlets, if rain intensifies further, this entire district becomes submerged in moments. Every time I worried about the water, I grew appalled at how absurdly negligent those behind this construction work had been in their practical duties.

Apart from a major flood, if the drainage system had actually been adequate, there would have been no such thing as submerging the entire town in water after just a day or two of rain. When I considered how hundreds upon thousands of people suffered extraordinary hardships due to mere marginal shortcomings in administrative execution, I couldn’t help but sigh at the heartlessness of those who had performed only perfunctory work in such practical matters while remaining utterly unperturbed. I inspected the three water outlets and returned home. Despite water draining through all three places, the water level in my garden had slightly risen. Each time my family members asked in chorus about the river’s condition, I found myself sighing repeatedly: “If only the rain would let up here—then there’d be nothing to worry about.”

Since it was rising by about five bu each hour, according to this calculation, there were still ten hours until it reached the floor. As long as preparations were made to raise the tatami mats at any time, the residence might not be an immediate concern—but what could no longer be neglected was the cowshed. Water had reached behind the urine boards, so not a single cow remained lying down. And on all their hind legs, the water had risen about one sun each. The downpour roared against the cowshed roof with such violence that even brief exchanges became inaudible. At last, my hope for peace was on the verge of being extinguished.

When people try to imagine the pain of those who have taken their own lives, they likely feel most strongly the tragedy of suicide itself. However, if one were to become the suicide victim themselves, would not the anguish preceding the resolve to take one’s own life prove far more agonizing than the actual act of self-destruction? When the instrument of suicide lies before one’s eyes, is it not that even the trembling fear of self-destruction has already subsided?

The voice of the downpour was one that compelled me to suicide. I remained unable to resolve myself to it, thrashing about in futile struggle.

Even a patient resolved to die, if several days yet remain before death, must consider how to conduct themselves in that interim. How much more must one who clings to even a glimmer of hope ensure that such resolve contains preparation within it.

No matter how much I was tormented by feelings of terror and despair, my final resolve had to await its proper moment. Whether the downpour would continue through the day and persist into tonight, or perhaps cease around dusk, or even stop at any moment—none of this could be known for certain. Yet upon the hour of its cessation would hinge the fates of those who feared the water. In any case, what tomorrow held could not be known. When matters remained unclear, I could form no resolve nor devise any plans. Unwilling though I was, I found myself drawn into this intermediate existence of anxiety.

However, the undeniable fact before my eyes—that water had reached the cows' hind legs—no longer left any room for contemplation. Urged by this, I resolved to devise a plan to weather through tonight at least, leaving tomorrow's concerns for tomorrow itself.

I braved the heavy rain and ran to the lumberyard. Hearing that several others in my trade were rushing to procure large quantities of materials for the same purpose, my terror grew even keener. Dozens of five-inch square foundation timbers and dozens of one-inch-thick pine planks were promptly transported to the cowshed. Of course, there was no time to call a carpenter. Commanding three men, I worked for several hours with such intensity that the roar of the downpour faded from awareness until we had constructed a temporary platform five sun above the floor in the cowshed. And thus, the twenty cows scrambled to settle and rest upon this elevated platform five sun above the water’s surface. Handling firewood, tidying feed supplies—the tasks needing doing stretched endlessly before us.

Preparations for the humans involved first raising the tatami mats, then dealing with the sliding doors, screens, and all belongings—processing everything according to the standard set by the previous major flood. In one room where the floor had been raised more than a foot above normal level and in a single chamber of the detached tea room, the ten family members split into two groups to sleep. The young ones were delighted to sleep in the tea room. And before long, they fell soundly asleep. The two sisters and their mother, saying that sleeping separately on this eerie rainy night would leave them feeling uneasy, braved the rain and waded through the water to come to the tea room.

Even so，if matters could be settled with this much，it would be a relief—but what will tomorrow bring?... Once more，we repeated those same words we had exchanged time and again since beginning our preparations. Summoned by the remaining children，the mother and daughter vanished into the night rain like lonely shadows.

In the end, the heavy rain persisted through that night as well. What consequences would two nights and a day—thirty-six hours—of heavy rain bring?

The next day, the sun blazed down. The water rose gradually, but it still had not reached the cows’ feet. In both evacuation platforms, a margin of five or six sun still remained. The newspapers featured prominent reports on flooding in various regions and warnings for future vigilance, but the fact that the weather had cleared made us feel tremendously reassured. Even if the river water were to rise further, there would surely be some way to manage it—or so I told myself as my anguished mind grew considerably lighter.

A mind parched for peace will attempt to settle itself even where it can never truly find rest.

Two

It was around five in the afternoon on the second day after the heavy rain had cleared. The world was filled with a commotion tinged with the hue of terror. The usual urban sounds heard in ordinary times scarcely reached the ear—a profoundly harsh commotion arose and filled the air all around, one that could not be discerned if one listened idly, as though emanating from the very depths of existence, a clamor that would not rest until it dragged people into unease.

Tenjingawa overflowed, Tatekawa overflowed, and Yokokawa burst forth.

Peace was shattered from its very foundations; battle had commenced. There remained neither fear nor hesitation. Nothing existed beyond advancing where one must advance—no space left for deliberation. I commanded my family to take refuge at an acquaintance’s two-story house before rebuking three young workers and commencing the cattle evacuation. Our predetermined strategy involved leading the cows toward elevated terrain tracing the elevated railway tracks. As floodwaters still fell short of waist height at this stage, proceeding posed no extraordinary challenge.

I first led out two cows—the black-and-white spotted one and the red one. These simple-minded creatures seemed to sense something too, for both the remaining cattle and those being taken out all began bellowing at full volume. Their uproar naturally stirred the handlers’ spirits. I guided two cows through the gate. The dairy cow submerged up to its belly as we pulled it out must have thought itself doomed, veering frantically left and right. With ditches indistinguishable from roads now, one immediately plunged into a trench and thrashed about madder still while another bolted straight ahead. Gripping both sets of reins, I nearly lost all control—then found myself dragged into the ditch by the cows’ momentum until water soaked me completely. The young workers kept hauling them out two or three at a time.

Even those cowards who had feared getting wet when faced with evacuating both people and livestock—once they had fallen into ditches and been fully submerged, it was as if they were warriors wounded and seeing blood; here, for the first time, their spirits reached the peak of excitement, and a fierce courage vibrated through every joint of their limbs. Holding two dairy cows firmly under my arms, I kicked through the raging current and pressed onward toward the destination. In this manner, after two or three attempts over several hours, we had completely evacuated all dairy cows and even managed to prepare feed for one day’s worth for the following day.

The water level grew ever higher; the fifteen-ken-wide road stretching from Yotsume to Taiheicho reached a depth nearing five shaku, such that even crossing by boat through the raging torrent felt arduous. Standing atop the elevated railway, when I looked 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 it had been terrifying. Braving the muddy torrent to lead out the dairy cows, once my own body became submerged in that murky flow, there remained nothing but struggle against the water itself. The struggle achieved its purpose—the cows had been evacuated as intended. It felt like victory in the first battle.

Having been assaulted by the flood, this was a time not for lamenting what had been lost in great measure, but rather for savoring the courage of struggle that had broken through an encirclement. The exhilaration following the incision of a festering abscess came closest to describing my present state. Though the blow had been undeniably severe, there was exhilaration in having briskly resolved the problems and swept away all anguish altogether. Seeing my home with only its roof barely visible above the water—could it be that this absence of bitter regret arose from that very exhilaration still holding momentary dominion over me?

The day was drawing to a close, and the sky again threatened rain. The sound of water echoing in all directions now came to sound exhilarating to me. While surveying my surroundings, I found myself crossing Tenjingawa’s iron bridge.

Tenjingawa River piled water into towering swells, violently sending muddy torrents cascading over both banks. In the depths of the dimly clouded dusk, white foam from overflowing muddy currents could be hazily glimpsed as if in a dream. I was struck by an intense stimulation—terrifying yet fascinating, utterly beyond description.

When I looked out toward Kameido in the distance, black water spread boundlessly like a great lake. In all directions, the floating house roofs were mostly submerged past their eaves. Indeed, it was a flood—I couldn’t help but lament. Kameido had many fellow dairy farmers. It seemed many cows still could not be evacuated, and the cries of cows could be heard here and there. Traversing the dark water, their drawn-out cries lingered. Whether it was due to how I listened, it was an unbearably unpleasant sound.

The three or four scattered lights occasionally visible clung close to the water's surface, as if floating upon the horizon, leaking their lonely glow.

When I strained to listen to what seemed like distant human voices, they were shouting, “Isn’t there a rescue boat?… Isn’t there a rescue boat?…” That too ceased after about three calls. Perhaps because the raging water had suppressed human commotion, the surroundings were relatively quiet. Though I thought it was still early evening, beyond the sound of water and cows’ cries, little human noise reached my ears. The desolate, cold-looking water swelled thickly around me. Whether those who had called for rescue boats were saved remained unknown. When I turned back across the iron bridge, the cows’ cries grew faint. The exhilarating roar of water dominated nearly the entire night. I had become so caught up in immediate concerns that I unwittingly lost track of time. When I arrived to check, the young workers were no longer near the dairy cows, and most of my cattle lay calmly chewing their cud.

Thinking any tasks could wait until tomorrow and that tonight was done with, but wanting to see the state of my now-ownerless house, I once again plunged fiercely into the water. When I entered the gate of my home, which sat slightly lower than the road, my feet found no purchase on the ground. I made my way toward the kitchen eaves as if swimming. Fortunately, it seemed my family had forgotten to extinguish it when fleeing; a lamp was lit and hanging there. The lamp suspended high from the ceiling had water nearly reaching its base. When I climbed onto the floorboards, the water rose to my chest. Soy sauce barrels, charcoal bales, geta boxes, loose floorboards, firewood, and assorted wood scraps—everything that had been there floated about. Thick, filthy foul water lay utterly still, relentlessly filling every corner of the house. Intending to survey further into the back rooms, I reached for the lamp—but in that instant, somehow the flame went out. After that came utter darkness; whenever I moved, all manner of floating debris brushed against my body. Even so, I pressed onward into the depths, feeling my way with hands and feet. Floating objects struck my chest; they grazed my face. Tatami mats floated, dressers floated, bedding floated too. All our preparations had been utterly rendered futile by water surpassing anything we had imagined.

I beheld these traces of total devastation yet felt no remorse, remaining strangely calm. There was no sense that this was my home, nor any feeling that these were my possessions. Rather, I felt a perverse satisfaction in how nature’s violence had briskly and cruelly destroyed objects and tormented people. Eventually, I abandoned the scene of devastation and left, as if parting from a roadside stranger. I gave no thought to why such a difference existed between the self that had been unable to sleep night after night out of fear of water and the current self now undisturbed.

The second floor to which the family had fled was a single room of about seven tatami mats in size. In addition to the people of that house, four or five others had fled there from elsewhere. In a seven-tatami room with over twenty people, once they had laid about three young children to sleep among them, the others could only sit knee to knee.

While those who have committed crimes live in hiding, fearing arrest, their minds find no moment’s rest, nor can they sleep peacefully at night—yet I hear that once finally captured and imprisoned, their spirits ease, their hearts unburden, and they sleep soundly with contentment. My state tonight mirrored this: though I still lacked capacity to consider the future, having resolved a problem that had tormented me with indecision for days, I achieved a tranquil sleep unlike any in recent nights. Curling my head and shrinking my limbs, lying prostrate in a shrimp-like state, yet I slept comfortably and refreshingly. The anguish of recent days had vanished without a trace. It seemed as though I had gained new vitality within me.

When considering the actual situation, we had barely managed to preserve the lives of humans and livestock—yet since the enemy’s assault persisted with utmost severity, my defiant spirit had no choice but to become intensely agitated. The resolve to fight on endlessly had naturally grown stronger—there was simply no time left to lament the great disaster. I was safe, the cows were safe—as if to say “All is well”—and in that refreshed state of mind, I slept soundly through the morning.

The voices of children saying, “The house’s chicken is crowing, the house’s chicken is crowing,” reached my ears and woke me. When I rose and looked out the window, dawn had dimly broken over the area surrounding my home, now filled to bursting with muddy water. The forgotten chicken left behind in that ownerless, waterlogged house continued announcing the hour with its unchangingly peaceful cry drawn out long.

III

The evacuation that had escaped immediate peril found both people and livestock barely managing a single night’s lodging. I visited an acquaintance, a certain Mr. X, in Ryōgoku to plan the second evacuation. Mr. X, a man of great chivalry and compassion, spared no effort in working tirelessly on our behalf. The family was taken in entirely on my second floor, and the cows were permitted to be placed in Ekōin Temple’s garden.

The weather remained merciless as rain fell once more that day. We rowed a boat to the elevated railway embankment, aiming to cross its bridge toward Ryogoku. Refugees like ourselves—men and women, old and young, many lacking rain gear—formed an unbroken procession across some twenty chō. Among them marched a family led by an eighteen-year-old, nine children in total including the infant Moriko. Adults naturally carried belongings, as did the older children. The five- and seven-year-olds crossing that interminable elevated bridge through weeping rain—moving uncertain bare feet without complaint or tears—left an indelible impression on their parents.

I no longer needed to worry about my family. Now that it concerned the cows, I set about making arrangements. Leading them in multiple trips with few people was no easy task. To move twenty dairy cows in two trips would require ten people. Since this meant leading them through heavy rain and floodwaters, securing help proved difficult. Through Mr. X’s strenuous efforts, we finally managed to secure laborers around three in the afternoon. We had to select routes where the water remained shallowest. Accordingly, I mapped our course: from Tenjingawa’s vicinity along the elevated railway to Honjo Station, then westward beside Yokogawa via Tategawa’s riverside road toward Ryogoku—and commenced our journey. The rain had started abating. We needed to complete all movements before nightfall during this lull. The workers rallied eagerly at the cows’ location.

The preparations were ready. Now all that remained was to obtain permission from the railway staff and get them to let us pass along the tracks briefly. I went to where the station workers had gathered and begged them to permit passage along the rails from there to Honjo Station so we could retrieve the dairy cows evacuated earlier. The station staff seemed deep in discussion; not one acknowledged my urgent request or even offered a greeting.

“How about this? I don’t think it will even take ten minutes, so I earnestly beg your permission—and besides, the water right below here is so deep we can’t possibly lead the cows through,” I pleaded exhaustively.

“That’s out of the question.” “You shouldn’t have left the cows there in the first place!” “That’s exactly why we’re trying to move them now.” “Even so—isn’t it improper to leave your cows there without even reporting it?” Heartless and cruel... Moreover, it was the overbearing attitude of the station staff. Mentally agitated, I found it unbearably grating.

“Whose officials are you?! Can’t you see this flood before your very eyes? How can you stand watching while so many of our people weep in this great deluge?!”

It had nearly reached the tip of my tongue, but I barely restrained myself and pleaded once more. In the end, they decided we had to wait until returning because a train was coming to carry evacuees. If that’s how it was, they should have said so sooner. And as for when it would come, they claimed not to know. In truth, they knew. A subordinate member kindly cautioned that it would arrive within less than an hour. Due to all this time spent idly, what had been intended as two cattle drives before sunset ended up not even completing one before darkness began to fall.

For the unaccustomed workers, I assigned them calmer cows to lead, while I myself took charge of guiding a large red-and-white spotted cow at the front. Having ten people follow in succession proved unworkable. Despite lacking anyone behind me, I proceeded straight toward the station. The sun had fully set, leaving only the pale glimmer of water's surface visible. Beneath the iron bridge lay unexpected depths—torrents reaching chest-level sent spray flying; whenever we pushed upstream even briefly against the current, the cows would panic and strain to rush ahead. Since I couldn’t move freely through the chest-high water, I found myself unable to face forward while choking on spray that drenched my entire body. When we finally emerged beyond the barricades, we could follow the current’s flow—but stones and sandbags piled days earlier for flood defenses now lay scattered along the path, making both cattle and people stumble through the murky water.

Even though my property consisted of cows, when I considered that this hardship was no easy matter, I grew concerned about the people who had been asked to help temporarily and were unaccustomed to such work. I held back the cows for a while and observed the state of those coming from behind. Still, since these were people who had come out of sympathy, things were not as dire as I had feared. Seeing them follow along, I felt reassured and took up my position at the front. By the time we had gathered half of the ten cows at Ekōin Temple’s garden, it was exactly nine o’clock. Some people sustained injuries. There were also those who fled out of fear after one trip. This next attempt truly became a difficult task. Mr. X’s encouragement left nothing wanting, and thus we were finally able to fill the vacancies. For the second trip, I positioned myself last. After sending all the people ahead and surveying what remained behind, there were two eight-shō milk cans and three buckets left. These were items needed for tomorrow. Perhaps the young workers had dropped them—but finding a single lower belt by good fortune, I shouldered the milk cans with it, cradled three buckets in my left arm, and gripping a cow’s nose rope in my right hand, brought up the rear. The man walking one step ahead of me was leading a cow for the first time, so he let go of it several times. Each time, I would catch the cow while also taking on the role of protector, and we walked along what was called Ishikawa—the banks of Tategawa River—as the soil washed away beneath us. If I thought this would finally end, my mind gained some composure.

Walking along the road without truly thinking, each time I reflected on how today’s struggles had been unexpected even to myself—though at this midnight hour there was no one to witness it—what a state I was in. Strapped to a rotten belt were two milk cans; three buckets cradled in one hand, a cow’s lead gripped in the other. My navel and shins lay exposed without concealment—though “struggle” might bear a noble name, what wretchedness was this?

Why must I do such things? Why must I stoop to this merely to survive? To cling to a life as fleeting as dew in this endless existence—what poverty of spirit makes me unashamed of such disgrace? What a base heart I possess. The preceding cows and the one I was leading now walked calmly and quietly. West of the second outlet, there was no water either. Care for my hands and feet had vanished, and my thoughts raced ahead.

I who had deeply prided myself as a transcendent poet—who lectured constantly on the *Man’yōshū*, seeking to comprehend and inherit the true traditions within our nation’s thoughts and emotions, thereby aspiring to contribute however modestly to modern civilization—this wretched state of mine was pitiful beyond measure. Even if there were no shame in being seen by others, even if compelled by the force of unavoidable circumstances—it was too stark a display of brutishness. If this is what constitutes struggle, then struggle’s worth must be called base. But if we ask which is more contemptible—degrading the mind or degrading the body—there can be no doubt that degrading the mind is by far the greater shame. Considering this, might it not be said that my wretched state tonight has merely degraded my body, without degrading my mind? However, even if I do not degrade my mind, the shame of having degraded my body does not diminish in the least.

The leading companion cows kept calling out to their fellows. The cow I was leading answered with one loud cry. I felt as though awakening from a dream and unconsciously tightened the nose rope in my hand.

IV

The water receded by no more than an inch or two each day. Even after five or six days, it had not receded by seven inches. Everything submerged in water still remained beyond reach. After that, it rained several more times.

The dairy cows stood exposed, pummeled by the rain. News of fellow dairy farmers gradually came to light. A certain farmer in Kameido killed sixteen head. A certain farmer in Taiheicho killed fourteen head, and one in Oshimacho slaughtered ten calves. Even when examining my family's circumstances from every angle, the sense of catastrophic loss only grew more profound.

When fatigue exceeded its limits, I found myself unable to attain deep sleep. He woke repeatedly through the night. Even in scant sleep, he invariably saw dreams. The dreams were all of rain's clamor and water's chaos. What tormented him most were actual nights when rain fell and its sounds reached his ears. The unbearable agony lay in seeing my dairy cows—the very core of my livelihood—standing drenched in rain beneath open skies. It was an indescribable sense of desolation. I did not find running through rainstorms particularly painful myself, but whenever I saw those cows standing mud-bound as they endured the downpour, I felt an anguish beyond words.

The young workers fell ill one after another. The objects submerged in water could not be left abandoned forever, and the tasks I needed to accomplish were endless. Every morning I rose wearing straw sandals and had no time to take them off until night. On the fifth day of evacuation, we finally managed to erect a rain shelter for the cows.

With the immediate persecution gone, I found myself thinking more about the future. The amount of milk produced by the twenty cows halved and was on the verge of decreasing further. Once diminished, such quantities never fully recover as a rule. If the milk yield does not recover and [they] miss the breeding period, then even dairy cows cannot retain their value as such. When the extent of the damage came to be somewhat considered, I could not help but lament that even my struggle against the natural disaster was an action of very little significance.

A life revolution... When I come to consider this life revolution of mine, bearing eight children on both shoulders, my heart becomes clogged with a sense of misery.

I considered gathering my remaining assets and entrusting my family’s survival to pen and ink. I asked myself: Can you carry out that decision with peace of mind? My heart answered that it could not find immediate peace. When finally forced into an unavoidable situation, I pressed myself to consider—what would I do if there were no other path but to do so? I could do nothing but envision the bleak state of my own future.

One of the young workers couldn't get up. Another had gone out to play and not returned. I had to rouse myself and apply my hands again to milking. When weather permitted, my wife and the others were so busy managing the sodden belongings we'd carried over that their heads spun. Even thoughts about the future—that matter of the household's survival—were left unresolved, chased away by unavoidable immediate tasks. Responding individually to each condolence letter and visitor became yet another chore. There were days I made multiple rounds to inspect the flooded house. Come nightfall, exhaustion made sitting unbearable. Each morning I'd wake feeling aches and weariness throughout my body, convinced I couldn't endure the work—yet after eating a heartier-than-usual meal and lacing on my straw sandals to begin, my limbs would thrum with vitality.

When courage filled my body, it was strange how the pessimistic notions of contemplating the future eventually fell silent, allowing me to struggle cheerfully. Was it the acute awareness of having eight children that constantly stirred my flesh and made me forget its pain? Or could it be that the savage nature of Kanto samurai, inherited from Kamakura warriors of old, still coursed through my very marrow?

In the aftermath of destruction, every aspect of life was in chaos. Deliberation and analysis were both in disarray. The tightening and slackening of the spirit could not, of course, escape disarray.

As I strolled along the main road all day, it suddenly occurred to me: If the energy of my rebellious struggle was this robust, there would be no need for hesitation whatsoever. Were I to reduce the three young workers by one and take on the labor of two myself, no hardship or worry would remain necessary. As one who had until then been dabbling in literary arts, I asked myself—Could I truly manage this? My heart answered plainly that it could be done without compunction. To cast aside literature for three or four years required not the slightest doubt.

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

Five As the water receded, the cleanup progressed accordingly. Since numerous belongings remained unretrieved, the notion of keeping night watch emerged. Discovering a space smaller than one tsubo in the storage shed’s ceiling, I spread a futon there and lay down to test it. I thought sleeping here at night might be feasible, but realizing that dozing off would render night watch impossible, I resolved not to stay overnight—though it served well for resting my body wearied by laboring in the water.

It is said that people are governed by their circumstances, but as I lay in a cramped space barely large enough to accommodate my body, I suddenly began to think dreamlike thoughts.

Long ago, when two people who had pledged themselves to each other found their passions so heightened one night that they could scarcely sleep, he lamented: "That we might never again experience such mutual contentment, harmony, and joy even once in all our days to come—if only the two of us were to die in our sleep tonight, there could be no greater happiness than this." That was indeed true. "If only I could die this way without suffering—that would satisfy me. But the Lord 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 idle fancy—yet why was it that today, twenty years later, I recalled it with such utmost seriousness? When I thought about it, I realized I had indeed never once experienced emotions like those of that night again. With each passing year, the hardships grew more numerous, and children kept coming. Year after year, I toiled away, governed by the turning of time, with no notable accomplishments to speak of. Preventing the small disasters that came one after another, mourning others and lamenting myself—these passive endeavors never ceased year after year. Flood disaster after flood disaster. And thus, I had finally come to struggle through this great flood disaster.

Twenty years had passed since those two embraced and spoke of death—had there truly been any meaning at all? That suffering constitutes life itself—what philosophy or religion would ever teach such a thing? And yet why must actual existence remain in constant torment? In my present circumstances—nearing fifty years of age while earnestly recalling a boy and girl’s evening of idle fancy—how might I contemplate this to uncover even a glimmer of happiness here? If no such glimmer exists within my condition, then I must declare that a girl’s idle fancy amounts to grand philosophy. The notion that humans cannot die until they have suffered all they must—this was a thought I detested entertaining.

The helpers came without my noticing and were working below. The one who stuck his face out from the attic and called "Teacher" was the friend who had been coming daily to help since the flood disaster.

(Meiji 43 [November 1910])