Pathway to Japanese Literature

I had meant to title it "Honorable Suicide" and wrote those characters on my manuscript paper, but it seemed too beautiful a phrase for my inept novel's title—too precious somehow—so I erased "Honorable Suicide" and revised it to "Scattered Blossoms."

This year, I parted with two friends.

In early spring, Mitsui died.
Then in May, Mita Junji shattered like jade on a northern isolated island.
Both Mitsui and Mita Junji must have been around twenty-six or twenty-seven years old.

Mitsui was writing novels.
Every time he finished one, he would bring it over to my place in high spirits.
Clatter-clatter-clatter—he would throw open the front door noisily and come rushing in.
Only when bringing his work would he throw open the door with that clatter-clatter-clatter and come rushing in.
When not carrying a manuscript, he would quietly open the front door and enter.
Therefore, whenever Mitsui threw open my front door with that clatter-clatter-clatter and came rushing in, I immediately knew: Ah, Mitsui has finished another novel.
Mitsui’s novels contained passages of crystalline beauty here and there, but the whole structure tottered unsteadily—it simply didn’t hold together.
They were novels that had forgotten their spines.
Even as they gradually improved, I always found fault, never praising them once before his death.
His lungs must have been failing.
Yet he seldom spoke to me about this illness.

“Doesn’t it smell?” he suddenly said one day.
“My body stinks, doesn’t it?”

That day, from the moment Mitsui entered my room, it stank.

“No, not at all.”

“Is that so?”
“Doesn’t it smell?”

No—you stink. But I couldn't say that.

"I've been eating garlic for the past two or three days."
"If it's too foul, I'll leave."

"No, nothing at all."
It was then I realized his body had grown quite frail.

Mitsui needs to take care of his health—he can't write anything decent right now anyway. Once he builds up his strength, then he can start on novels or whatever else he likes. How about you give him a firm talking-to? That's what I once asked Mitsui's close friend.
And then, Mitsui's close friend seemed to have conveyed those words of mine to Mitsui, and since then, Mitsui stopped coming to my place.

Three or four months after he stopped coming to my place, Mitsui died.
I received notice of his passing via postcard from Mitsui’s close friend.
In times like these, young people who—in poor health and unable to become soldiers—breathe their last on sickbeds are truly pitiable.
Later, I heard from Mitsui’s close friend that Mitsui had shown no intention of curing his illness.
It seems theirs was a lonely household with just Mitsui and his mother, but even after his condition had worsened considerably, Mitsui would often slip past his mother’s watchful eye, escape his sickbed, wander the streets, eat things like sweet red bean soup, and return home late at night.
Mitsui’s Mother watched with anxious heart, yet in some corner of her mind seemed to take reassurance from how calmly he ventured out—as if convinced he still had time.
Mitsui had apparently been attempting such casual strolls until two or three days before he was to die.

The beauty of Mitsui’s final moments was beyond compare.
I detest using irresponsible, perfunctory flattery like “beauty”—but there’s no help for it, for in truth, it was beautiful.
Mitsui lay there quietly making small talk with his mother as she worked on her needlework by his pillow.
He suddenly fell silent.
That was all.
On serene spring days when not a breath of wind stirs—days so clear and bright—cherry blossoms might scatter all at once of their own accord, unable perhaps to bear their own weight, creating a blizzard of petals.
There are times when fully bloomed roses placed in a glass on one’s desk shatter and cascade down at midnight.
Not from any wind.
They scatter of their own accord.
They scatter with heaven and earth’s sigh.
They scatter upon touching the hem of sacred white silk robes worn by gods soaring through the skies.
I came to think Mitsui must have been a child extraordinarily favored by the gods.
I wondered whether he might have possessed a nobility of character beyond my comprehension.
I became convinced humanity’s highest honor lies in nothing but a beautiful death.
I concluded that judging novels as good or bad matters not at all.

Another one—my younger friend Mita Junji—shattered like jade this May in an exceptionally beautiful honorable suicide. In Mita-kun’s case, even the expression “scattering of flowers” felt faded. He met a splendid jade-shattering death on a solitary northern island and was enshrined as a nation-protecting deity.

Wasn’t it in late autumn of Showa 15 (1940) that Mita-kun first came to my place? I have a feeling their first visit was at night when Mita and Toishi came together to my humble abode in Mitaka. If I were to check with Toishi, it would become clearer, but Toishi had already become a fine soldier, and just the other day—

“I learned about Mita-san at the encampment and felt something beyond description.”
“In a field blanketed with balloon flowers and golden lace, I felt loneliness deepen all the more.”
“It was so quintessentially Mita-san’s manner of dying.”
“I too intend that ere long, as Mita-san’s sworn friend, I shall demonstrate efforts worthy of presenting before you.”

Given that he has been sending me letters of this sort, I cannot very well make inquiries immediately.

When they first began visiting my place, both were students in the Department of Japanese Literature at Tokyo Imperial University.
Mita-kun was born in Hanamaki Town, Iwate Prefecture, and Toishi-kun in Sendai—both being graduates of the Second Higher School.
As this occurred four years ago, my memory remains unclear, but I recall that on a late autumn (or perhaps early winter) night, the two came together to visit my modest home in Mitaka: Toishi-kun wearing a kasuri-patterned kimono with serge hakama trousers, Mita-kun in his student uniform; we gathered around the table with Toishi-kun seated against the tokonoma alcove and Mita-kun sitting to my left.

What was discussed that night? Hadn’t Toishi-kun artlessly raised topics like Romanticism and the New Order? That evening unfolded mainly as a conversation between Toishi-kun and myself, while Mita-kun sat nearby listening with a faint smile—though his occasional nods seemed to keenly apprehend precisely those parts of my discourse that mattered most, so even as I addressed Toishi-kun, my attention kept drifting toward Mita-kun at my left.

Neither approach was superior—it simply appeared there existed two such human types.

When pairs visited my home, one would invariably shower me with florid inanities while affecting rapt delight at my teasing, all while barely registering my replies as he strained to maintain social ease; meanwhile his companion would sit half-shadowed in silence, attending closely to every word.

Yet this barrage of foolishness didn’t denote stupidity—the questioner knew full well his queries were trite and graceless.

For what are questions if not inherently foolish? And what greater fool exists than he who storms into an elder’s home intending to fluster them with shrewd interrogations?

Such affectation turns stomachs.

No—those posing vapid queries resolved themselves to become sacrificial offerings for their company’s sake, martyrs brandishing their gauche inquiries like votive candles.

A noble self-abnegation: when two call together, one always volunteers as tribute.

Strangely enough, this victim invariably claims the seat of honor.

By immutable law, he’s also handsome.

By that same law, impeccably dressed.

Some even arrive with folding fans tucked into their hakama waistbands—though Toishi-kun never stooped to such flourishes, his status as a winsome charmer proved no exception to type.

Once Toishi-kun confided in me earnestly:

“Having a pretty face is a kind of misfortune, isn’t it.”

I burst out laughing.
I thought he was utterly preposterous.
Toishi-kun was a third dan in kendo and stood nearly six feet tall.
I had secretly sympathized with Toishi-kun’s excessively large frame.
I had worried that even after enlisting, he might face undue hardships—ill-fitting uniforms, standing out conspicuously, being ridiculed, enduring struggles beyond others—but according to Toishi-kun’s letter,

“In my unit, there are two or three soldiers taller than me.”
“However, I have discovered that true svelteness is limited to eight and a half inches.”

In this way, he remained utterly convinced that he himself was none other than the very embodiment of that eight-and-a-half-inch svelteness—a state of being one could only describe as akin to a carefree spring breeze—

“Even my face has its flaws, you know—though perhaps no one has noticed them yet,” he even went so far as to say, and in any case, he never failed to enliven our gatherings with laughter.

It remained unclear whether Toishi-kun was truly vain at heart.
Though not conceited in the slightest, he may have played the fool's role out of self-sacrifice to enliven our gatherings.
The humor of Tohoku natives tends toward eccentricity.

Compared to the cheerful and amiable Toishi-kun, Mita-kun appeared unassuming.
While literature students of that era typically wore their hair long, Mita-kun had kept his head shaved clean from the beginning.
He wore glasses—steel-rimmed ones, if I recall correctly.
With his large head, prominent forehead, and piercing gaze, he bore what people commonly called a "philosopher's countenance."
He seldom spoke unprompted yet grasped others' words with remarkable speed.
There were times he visited with Toishi-kun, others when he arrived alone soaked by rain.
Occasionally he came accompanied by other Second Higher School alumni attending Tokyo Imperial University.
We frequently drank at oden stalls and sushi counters near Mitaka Station.
Mita-kun remained subdued even when drinking.
At these drinking sessions, Toishi-kun invariably made the most boisterous display.

However, Mita-kun seems to have been somewhat difficult for Toishi-kun to handle. When alone with Toishi-kun, Mita-kun would point out his mental laxity in a halting tone and press him to approach matters more seriously—so much so that even Toishi-kun, a third-dan kendo practitioner, found himself deeply troubled and brought these complaints to me.

“Since Mita-san is such a serious person, I can’t keep up.”
“Everything Mita-san says makes perfect sense, and I just don’t know what to do anymore.”

The nearly six-foot-tall stalwart man verged on tears.
Whatever the reason might be, I possessed an inherent disposition that compelled me to side with those whose prospects looked bleak.

One day, I said to Mita-kun:

“People must be serious, but it’s also a mistake to dismiss someone as unserious merely because they smirk.”

Perceptive Mita-kun appeared to grasp everything implied.
After that, he rarely came to visit me.
Before long, Mita-kun’s health deteriorated until he was hospitalized.

“It’s so… painful. Please send me some words of encouragement.” I received postcards from him again and again bearing messages that essentially said, “Please send me some words of encouragement.” However, when directly entreated with requests like “words of encouragement,” I—being the type to flush and grow flustered—could not send a single “impressive phrase” even then, instead writing out nothing but exceedingly tepid replies. After his body had grown robust, Mita-kun appeared to have begun earnestly studying poetry at Yamagishi-san’s residence near his lodging. Yamagishi-san was a diligent literary scholar senior to us, and it appeared he was earnestly guiding not only Mita-kun but also four or five other students in their study of novels and poetry. Taught by Yamagishi-san, they eventually published splendid poetry collections and have already gained acclaim from discerning critics—there seem to be two or three such young poets now.

“How is Mita-kun doing?” I once asked Yamagishi-san around that time.

Yamagishi-san paused briefly before replying.

"He’s among the better ones.
He might even be the best."

Huh? I thought.
Then I flushed crimson.
I realized I’d lacked the perception to truly see Mita-kun.
Being a vulgar soul who couldn’t properly comprehend poetry’s realm, I felt acutely awkward.
It struck me how fortunate it was that Mita-kun had left my circle to study under Yamagishi-san.

Even during the time when Mita-kun used to come to my place, he had shown me two or three of his works, but I hadn’t been particularly impressed. Toishi-kun was greatly impressed,

"This latest poem by Mita-san is a masterpiece. Please take your time to read it carefully."

He carried on as if he himself had written a masterpiece, but to me, it didn't seem like such a remarkable work. It was by no means a vulgar poem. As for any vulgar taint—there was not a trace. But for me, it was unsatisfactory.

I did not praise.

However, I might not understand the very nature of poetry. Upon hearing Yamagishi-san's assessment that he was "among the better ones," I thought I wanted to read Mita-kun's subsequent poetry at least once. I thought that Mita-kun, having been taught by Yamagishi-san, might have rapidly improved as well.

But before I could encounter Mita-kun’s new works, he had graduated from university and was immediately deployed.

I now have four letters from Mita-kun sent after his deployment.
I feel certain I must have received two or three more letters, but given my habit of not keeping correspondence from others—even these four surfacing from my desk drawer seems miraculous—I must resign myself to the rest being lost forever.

Dazai-san, how are you?
Nothing comes to mind.
Flowing mindlessly,
And then,

First-year soldier.

For the time being,

"As for 'poetry,'

In my head,

It doesn't seem to stir.

How is Tokyo’s sky?"

This appeared to be the first of the four letters; around that time, Mita-kun was still undergoing training in his original unit.
This was an awkward, almost childishly dependent sort of letter.
The naked vulnerability of its guilelessly tender sentiment made me uneasy.
Wasn't this the very one Yamagishi-san had declared "the best"? I felt dissatisfied—couldn't he have shown some growth?
I had always interacted with younger friends without regard for age distinctions. Precisely because they were junior, I found myself incapable of coddling or showing affection to those friends.
I possessed no capacity for indulgence.
I had wanted to respect every friend equally, regardless of seniority.
I had wished to engage with them through reverence.
Thus even toward younger friends, I would voice criticisms without restraint.
Perhaps it revealed the petty narrowness of an uncouth provincial.
I couldn't bring myself to cherish Mita-kun's artless letters like these.
Then after some interval came another letter.
This too originated from his original unit.

Respected,

I have been neglecting to write for a long time.

How is your health?

To tell the truth—

I have nothing.

There are moments when I want to cry,

yet

I keep believing and striving.

Compared to his earlier letters, the anguish had deepened into something more substantial.
I sent words of encouragement to Mita-kun.
Still, I could not yet regard him as a first-class Japanese man.
Soon after, I received another letter from Hakodate.

Dazai-san, how are you?

I am well.

Even more,

I must do my best.

Take good care of your health,

I pray for your continued efforts.

The rest is blank.

As I transcribed these words, even I could not help but let out a sigh. It was a lovely letter. The words "I must strive even harder" were likely meant to refer to Mita-kun himself, yet I could not help feeling they were also directed at me—a sensation that left me uncomfortably ticklish. The rest was blank—he himself had written so. How are you? I am well—beyond these words, he likely had nothing else he wished to say. The so-called "poetic temperament"—where one cannot write even a single line without pure impulse—comes through clearly.

However, it was by no means out of a desire to introduce these three letters that I began this novel titled *Scattered Blossoms*. From the very beginning, I had only one intention—to write about the emotion I felt when receiving that final letter. It had been sent from the Northern Seas Dispatch ×× Unit, though at the time I received it, I knew nothing of how this ×× Unit constituted Attu Island’s noble garrison force; nor could I have foreseen their subsequent honorable suicide even had I recognized the island’s name. Thus, encountering that ×× Unit designation stirred no particular surprise in me. What moved me was the text of Mita-kun’s postcard itself.

How is your health?

From distant skies, I inquire after you.

I have safely reached my assigned post.

For the sake of great literature,

Please die.

I too will die,

For this war.

That single phrase of Mita-kun's—"Please die"—struck me as something so noble, so profoundly gratifying, so joyous that I was utterly overwhelmed.
I thought these were words only Japan’s foremost man could utter.

“Mita-kun really is a good fellow, isn’t he? He truly has his merits,” I once remarked to Yamagishi-san in an offhand tone around that time. At this moment, I felt from the depths of my heart that I wanted to apologize to Yamagishi-san for my lack of understanding. Renewing my resolve, I wanted to shake Yamagishi-san’s hand.

Even if I say I do not understand poetry, I am still a man who spends his days seeking truthful writing. It differs entirely from being illiterate. I mean to understand at least to some extent. When Yamagishi-san told me, “It shows promise,” and even when he added “It might be his best work,” I felt ashamed of my own incomprehension while simultaneously—in the deepest recesses of my heart—stubbornly resisting with an unvoiced “Is that so?” and tilting my head skeptically, though I cannot claim this reaction was wholly absent. It seems I possess a streak of obstinacy like Den’gosaku’s—this tendency to distrust others unless they lay irrefutable evidence before my eyes. There is something of Thomas about me, that apostle who refused to believe in Christ’s resurrection until the very end. A wretched trait indeed. “Unless I see the nail marks in His hands, put my finger where the nails were, and thrust my hand into His side, I will not believe”—such mulishness defies all remedy. Though I do have an amiable, guileless side as well—surely I’m no thoroughgoing curmudgeon like Thomas—yet carelessness in my advancing years might well foster latent tendencies toward becoming some peculiar, intractable old man. I found myself unable to accept Yamagishi-san’s judgments with wholehearted faith. A murmuring doubt—“Can this truly be?”—lingered in some corner of my heart.

But when I encountered that letter saying "Please die," the shoji screens in my chest were flung open all at once, and I felt a gust of cool wind come rushing through.

I was glad.
I thought he said it well.
I thought they were magnificent words.
From the many friends who had gone to the front, I received various precious letters; but Mita-kun alone was the one who could say to me without hesitation, in such a natural tone, "Please die."
They are words not easily spoken.
The fact that he could say those words in such a natural tone made me think that Mita-kun finally earned his place as a first-class poet.
I respect poets.
I believe that pure poets are indeed angels—beings beyond human.
That is why I hold such great expectations for the poets of this world—and so, I am often disappointed.
There are many strange people who, though not angels, call themselves poets and put on airs.
But Mita-kun was not like that.
Indeed, just as Yamagishi-san had said, I came to believe he was one of "the best poets".
What compelled Mita-kun to write such a beautiful letter? It was not until much later that I came to understand this clearly.
In any case, that I could wholeheartedly accept Yamagishi-san’s view made me unbearably happy.

“Mita-kun is good.
“Indeed, he is good,” I said to Yamagishi-san, and though it was a subtle overture of reconciliation known only to myself—
But in this world, there ought not be so many joys surpassing reconciliation.
I, like Yamagishi-san, believed Mita-kun to be “the finest” and held great expectations for his future poetic endeavors; yet Mita-kun’s works were magnificently completed in an entirely different form.
It was honorable suicide at Attu Island.

How is your health?

From the distant skies, I inquire after you.

I have safely arrived at my assigned post.

For the sake of great literature,

Please die.

I too will die,

For the sake of this war.

Once again, I will attempt to transcribe Mita-kun’s letter here.
From the moment he first set foot at his assigned post, it seems he had already prepared himself to die.
He was not dying for himself.
It was a resolve of sublime devotion.
Those who possess such solemn resolve do not resort to convoluted logic.
They do not resort to impassioned speech.
They always speak in such a bright, simple manner.
And thus they write sentences that convey an extraordinary solemn resolve beneath the surface.
As I read it over and over again, even I began to feel that this short letter from Mita-kun was in fact something like supreme poetry.
Even without hearing the news of Attu Island’s honorable suicide, I could wholeheartedly respect this young friend through this letter alone.
In striving to yearn for pure devotion as the most beautiful thing in the human world, soldiers, poets, and even writers like myself are no different.

At the end of May this year, I heard about Attu Island's gyokusai on the radio, but it never occurred to me that Mita-kun would be one of the pillar gods enshrined through that honorable suicide.
We hadn't even known where Mita-kun had been fighting.

It was around the end of August, I believe—the newspaper had published the names of over two thousand deified souls from Attu Island’s honorable suicide. I examined each of those listed names one by one with excruciating care, until eventually I found the full name Mita Junji.
By no means had I been searching for Mita-kun’s name.
For some reason, I was simply poring over that newspaper page with meticulous attention.
And upon finding the name Mita Junji, I started—yet simultaneously felt it struck me as entirely natural.
I even came to feel as though I had been searching for this full name from the very beginning.
When I informed my household, they turned pale with shock, but within me, a sense of resigned acknowledgment—"So it was true after all"—proved stronger.

But even so, I couldn't remain calm that day.
I sent a postcard to Mr. Yamagishi.

"I have just learned from the newspaper that Mita-kun was one of the gods of the honorable suicide at Attu."
"I seem to recall writing something to the effect of, 'If you have any good plans to honor Mita-kun’s memory, please let me know.'"

Two or three days later, a reply came from Yamagishi-san.
Yamagishi-san, too, appeared to have first learned of Mita-kun’s honorable suicide at Attu through that day’s newspaper; his gracious reply stated that he himself had plans to organize and publish Mita-kun’s literary remains, and that he wished to consult with me in detail about this at a later date.
“I wish to title the collection of literary remains *North Star*,” the postcard also stated. “I feel compelled to write something about that night when Mita and I discussed the North Star.”

Not long after that, Yamagishi-san came to my modest house in Mitaka, bringing along a tall young man with large eyes.

“This is Mita’s younger brother.”
Having been introduced by Yamagishi-san, we exchanged greetings.

Indeed, he resembled him.
I thought his timid-looking smile was exactly like his older brother’s.

I received a gift from his younger brother.
I received paulownia wood clogs with horse-shaped straps and a basket of apples.
Yamagishi-san added an explanation,

“At my house too, I received apples and clogs.
“The apples still seem a bit sour, so it might be good to let them sit for two or three days before eating them.”
“The paulownia clogs are matching pairs for you and me—one pair each.”
“A thoughtful gift, isn’t it?”

The younger brother had come up to Tokyo from Hanamaki the previous day, both to consult about the collection of literary remains and because he wished to spend an evening discussing his brother with us.

At my house, the three of us discussed matters concerning the collection of literary remains.

“Shall we include all the poems?” I asked Mr. Yamagishi.

“Well, I suppose that’s how it would turn out.”

“The early ones didn’t seem very good,” I persisted, still somewhat fixated.
It was Tagosaku’s obstinacy incarnate.
It was the spawn of that obstinate old man.

“Even if you say that,” Mr. Yamagishi said with a bitter smile, then immediately seemed to perceive wisely. “It appears I cannot die before you, Dazai.”
“There’s no telling what you might say.”

I had wanted that letter from Mita-kun set in large type on the very first page of the book.
The remaining poems could be in small type for all I cared.
I loved every word and phrase of that letter so intensely.

How are you?

From distant skies, I pay my respects.

I have safely reached my post.

For great literature,

please die.

I too shall perish,

for this war.