Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

At the same time as the term "cherry blossom blizzard," what came to mind was the Nakoso Barrier.
The figure of Yoshiie Minamoto spurring his steed through a cherry blossom blizzard might well symbolize Japanese bushido.
However, the protagonist of my current tale—though somewhat resembling Yoshiie in battling beneath a cherry blossom blizzard—was an exceedingly weak individual.
While harboring identical aspirations, there are also those fated to spend their entire lives walking only shadowed paths, each in their own way.
Though intending precisely the same direction and advancing through efforts of equal merit, some succeeded while others failed.
Yet just as successful people are revered as society's exemplars—if I were to say failures too deserve to serve as our mirrors—would I be scolded?
Is there not even a proverb saying: "When you see others' faults, correct your own"?
In this world, no useless excess exists.
How much more true this must be for our good-natured Kimura-sensei, whose aspirations soared so nobly high!
Kimura-sensei was originally a retired city dweller who occasionally enacted grand failures—a man whose very name Kimura might make one suspect meant "great loss." Yet through his clumsy words and deeds invariably becoming our precious lessons, he remained an unforgettable teacher.
This past New Year, I had reported in a literary magazine titled *The Words and Deeds of Kimura-sensei* about when he became obsessed with salamanders and suffered great loss—only to be scorned by the world's wise men dismissing it as absurd nonsense, leaving me feeling I too had somehow incurred great loss. Now this recent cherry blossom blizzard combat incident involving the sensei might well invite their pitying laughter again.
Yet whether regarding that salamander failure or this recent episode—I couldn't help thinking they must have been profoundly painful for Kimura-sensei—which was precisely why, undeterred by last time's poor reception, I now intended to record his words and deeds once more.
I believe I previously stated that Kimura-sensei's failures seemed to serve as valuable lessons for us juniors; however, when pressed to specify exactly what lesson—to put it succinctly—I found myself at a loss.
It seemed like a lesson warning humans against exceeding their station—or rather, an exhortation to charge forward without hesitation where passion surges!
It seemed like encouragement to try anything—that even crashing fulfilled a man's true purpose—but ultimately I couldn't make sense of it.
Yet amidst these incomprehensible facts, that sudden pang of loneliness struck me as perhaps the true lesson.
Just as capturing the essence of a poem calling wind "Nakoso Barrier" in few words proves nearly impossible—so too does articulating well-meaning lessons succinctly seem difficult.
The other day when I visited Kimura-sensei's Asagaya residence after long absence, he was passionately lecturing four humanities students.
I promptly inserted myself among them and listened to his esteemed discourse. Since this particular lecture proved remarkably cogent—far surpassing his previous salamander lectures—I spontaneously pulled my notebook from pocket and began transcribing without awaiting his prompting.

What follows is the full transcript of that discussion, with parenthetical passages here and there containing my superfluous additions—as with the previous piece.

“Oh, there’s nothing complicated about it.
“You mustn’t let yourselves be led astray by trivial knowledge.
“Women are innocence itself.
“Nothing more is needed.
“Consider that common rural scene—a young farmer in a wheat field calls out ‘Sato-ooh!’ and from afar comes Sato-san’s ‘Haaai!’—a reply both delightfully bashful and brimming with joy.”
“That’s it.”
“That’s precisely it.”
“That is what’s right.
“If you gentlemen intend to write love stories, you should depict precisely that sort of wholesome romance.
“When men and women guzzle so-called ‘coffee’—that sugary bean broth—or sip dingy orange-flavored water flecked with mandarin peel scraps, then take turns excusing themselves to relieve their bladders—all such love scenes deserve to be called shallow.”
“The other day I visited Takasago-kan theater nearby—my first moving pictures show in ages—and found one rather fine scene in an old play...
“A young samurai returning from the dojo with his swordsmanship gear gets caught in an evening shower. He takes shelter under a house’s eaves where dwells a girl of sixteen or seventeen. Clutching an umbrella in her entryway, she paces wondering whether to offer it to him.”
“That was truly charming.”
“I envied that young samurai.”
“Women must be thus.
“When serving tea to young male guests, some girls grow so flustered—or in your modern parlance, suffer such excessive self-consciousness—they overturn the teacups. Such maidens may well serve as models of femininity.”
“As for men—this being a revelation I’ve only lately attained, and one I’m loath to divulge so readily—” (“Come now, Sensei,” interjected a student with an awkward chuckle).
(Disrespecting teachers has ever been humanities students’ congenital flaw.) “Though an unscheduled groan of entreaty seems to have escaped from our gathering’s corner—very well, I shall impart this knowledge:
“A man’s true worth resides in martial arts!”

(A stir ran through the assembly.)
(There was even a timid student preparing to flee.) "You must be strong."
"Whether fifth dan in judo, seventh dan in kendo—or archery, karate, bayonet techniques—anything suffices, but second or third dan still leaves one ill at ease."
"You must reach at least fifth dan."
"Some may deem this opinion foolish, but even in peacetime, men had no choice but to ceaselessly hone their martial skills."
"Those aspiring to become scientists, politicians, or religious figures—and even that artist-in-training over there" (he jerked his chin toward the stenographer) "should have first devoted themselves to martial discipline. Yet having carelessly neglected this, as evident before us, all of you without exception grovel."
"Do not take offense."
"I am no different from you all."
"I once engaged in political movements."
"I associated with theater troupes; managed a factory; invented stomach medicines; even dabbled in new-style poetry."
"Yet none bore fruit."
"I perpetually trembled, doubting my strength—finding no peace, frequenting temples for Zen teachings, sequestering myself to haphazardly read thousands—no, hundreds—of volumes, drinking heavily, feigning romantic entanglements, trying every contrivance. Still I found no confidence in my way of life."
"When I joined the new theater movement too—the moment I questioned its validity—within three days I grew disgusted."
"After deep contemplation over some fundamental flaw within myself—I struck my knee."
"Martial arts!"
"That was it."
"I had forgotten man's paramount discipline."
"Men require nothing but martial arts."
"A man's life is a battlefield."
"No matter what work you undertake—without martial prowess, it avails nothing."

“What’s so funny?”
“I’m being serious here.”
“Men with feeble arm strength are eternal losers in this world.”
Whether conversing with others, delivering impassioned patriotic speeches from podiums, or drinking alone at taverns—a man without martial prowess will inevitably grow restless, cast lecherous glances about, make people uncomfortable, and end up despised.
“The same holds true for literature.”
(He glared fiercely at the stenographer.) “Some may think literature and martial arts are utterly unrelated—that pale, slender faces alone befit literary men—but this is preposterous.”
“Try attaining seventh dan in judo.”
“Not a single soul will speak ill of your works.”
“It’s not that they refrain from criticism fearing subsequent beatings.”
“It’s because your works become truly splendid.”
“As for that teacher over there” (he jerked his chin again toward the stenographer), “his writings get mocked in newspaper literary columns as mere complaints and spite—pitiful indeed, but inevitable. Having neglected martial training for thirty-odd years, lacking spiritual conviction, staggering through life swaying left today and right tomorrow—what literature could possibly emerge from such existence? The answer’s plain.”
“You must begin attending judo or kendo dojos even now.”
“This is no trivial matter.”
“Who stands as the greatest literary figure across Meiji and Taisho eras?”
“Undoubtedly Ogai—Dr. Rintaro Mori.”
“That man, being versed in martial arts as one would expect, imbued his prose with dignified vigor.”
“Even when nearing fifty as Surgeon General—a position of highest honor—he would resolutely employ physical force against insolent fellows at banquets.”
(Someone muttered, “Impossible!”) “Nay—it’s duly recorded.”
“He engaged in a fierce grapple—limbs entangled in epic combat.”
“Ogai too was thus.”

“Needless to say, all great figures of antiquity were strong in physical strength. Even those regarded as mere scholars or politicians would demonstrate extraordinary martial prowess when the moment demanded it. Petty cleverness alone won’t suffice. Martial arts masters possess composure. Without this composure, men cannot accomplish any work. Even Hirobumi Ito was not merely a clever man. They have braved the sword’s edge countless times. Even Kaishū Katsu, hailed as a paragon of wisdom, is no exception. Unless one is highly trained in martial arts, one will absolutely lack composure. Reading ten thousand books alone isn’t enough. Even monks are no exception. Great religious figures are without exception strong in physical strength. Mongaku Shōnin’s physical strength is famous, but doesn’t Nichiren also seem strong? The same goes for actors. Actors of such renown as to be called masters invariably had knowledge of martial arts. While it’s ill-advised to wield physical strength recklessly in one’s daily life, wouldn’t it be splendid if one were to secretly hone their martial skills and attain the proficiency of, say, a seventh dan in kendo without anyone knowing?”

(Both the teacher and the students let out deep sighs.) “No—but we must not allow this to remain mere idle longing. You all must immediately begin attending the dojo from this very day onward. The power of thought can pierce even rock. I may already be elderly and perhaps too late, but no—even I—” (He fell silent.)

However, it was perceived that he seemed to have made some profound resolve within himself.)

Two

Kimura-sensei’s recent discussion on martial arts sank deep into my heart as well.

When it comes down to it, men ultimately have no choice but to rely on physical strength—or so it seemed.
For those who were glib and shameless, devoid of any capacity for reflection, one would not even wish to speak—instead, to imagine suddenly executing a brilliant shoulder throw that sent their body spinning through the air with a great flourish, then hearing behind you the thud and scream as you withdrew with composure; even picturing such a scene lifted the spirit.
Saigyō, the poet monk, also appeared to have been strong.
There was even a story passed down about how the wild monk Mongaku, who would constantly say things like “That pretentious fool Saigyō—next time I see him, I’ll beat him up,” yet when they actually met, finding Saigyō seemingly stronger than himself, ended up instead hosting a feast for him.
Truly, as Kimura-sensei’s teachings stated, even literary scholars might greatly require the tempering of martial arts.
The fact that I always seemed to be pursued by something—restless and unable to settle down morning, noon, or night—might it have been largely due to my weak physical strength?
I felt gloomy.
For five or six years now, my physical condition had been poor, to the extent that even playing ping-pong resulted in me developing a fever.
At this late hour, attending a dojo to hone martial skills seemed utterly impossible.
I might be a hopeless man for my entire life.
Even so, this was the first I’d heard that Ogai, being of a respectable age, had gotten into a scuffle at a banquet.
Was that really true?
Kimura-sensei had asserted that it was properly documented in the records, but could it be nonsense?
Half-convinced and half-doubting, I investigated Ogai’s Complete Works from cover to cover.
However, upon discovering that it was indeed recorded as an indisputable fact in the Complete Works, I grew even gloomier.
Even someone as refined and gentlemanly as Ogai had acted when the time came.
I was no good.
Two or three years ago, at the corner of Hongō 3-chōme, when a drunken college student had picked a fight with me, I had been wearing high geta at the time; even as I stood there silently, those geta clatter-clatter-clattered.
I had thought there was no choice but to confess honestly.

“Don’t you get it? I’m trembling this much! Can’t you hear your high geta clattering like this?”

The college student too seemed to lose his momentum at this. “You—sorry about this—lend me a light,” he said, transferring the flame from my cigarette to his own before walking away.
Even so, for two or three days after that, I was in poor spirits.
If I had been a fifth dan in judo or something, I would never have let such a rude person off—this I kept bitterly thinking.
But Ogai had resolutely done it.
In the third volume of the Complete Works, there is a short story titled “Konshinkai.”

(Omitted)

At this moment, turning the corner of the tatami room toward the right side, there were about two zabuton cushions available; onto the zabuton cushion at the far end came the dancing reporter from earlier, sitting cross-legged.
He pulled the nearby brazier directly in front of him, pressed both hands on its rim, and squared his shoulders.
And then, tilting his chin back, he looked obliquely in my direction.
When I saw that he had come close, his brown figure-eight-shaped mustache was twisted upward.
It was a face I saw for the first time now.

That man said this.

“Hmph. An unpleasant fellow.”
“Oonuma may be a fool, but he’s straightforward and had substance.”

As he said this, he lifted the brazier slightly and tapped its base against the tatami two or three times.
It appeared he meant to symbolize Oonuma’s substance.

“This time’s fellow is scheming against Namarī.”
“Just wait. I’ll report it to the minister.”
“(Pause.) When I went to inquire about that committee matter recently, they actually told me, ‘Go ask the secretary!’”
“Next time we meet, I’ll toss him out into the street.”
“If we meet on the main road, I’ll make him draw his sword whether he wants to or not.”

The Noh chant from the left neighbor had still not ended.
(Omitted) In my right ear, this threatening voice could be heard.
I was taken aback by the unexpected story and remained dumbfounded for a while.
(Omitted) And hearing him repeat “next time we meet” over and over, I said this without a moment to think.

“Why don’t you do it now?”

“Right. I’ll do it.”

he shouted and stood up.

The above is a transcription of Ogai’s writing, and this marks the beginning of the fight—escalating into a chaotic tussle of grappling and disentangling, a full-on scuffle,

(Omitted)

He tried to throw me into the garden.
I tried not to let go of his hand.
While pulling at each other’s hands, the two fell from the veranda.

As I fell and released my grip, I tumbled left side down and scraped the back of my left hand on granite.
When I stood up and looked, he was standing in front of me.

At this moment, for the first time, the thought of taking the offensive occurred to me.
But it was already too late.

The majority of the guests in the tatami room came down to the garden and separately surrounded him and me. The group that had surrounded him surged through the shrubbery toward the garden entrance.

A group of four or five people placated me and had me climb up from the veranda. Since the back of his left hand was covered in blood, someone told him to wash it with water. Someone told him to wash it with sake. Someone told him to go get carbolic acid solution from the neighborhood doctor's place. Someone told him to wrap the hand and produced paper. Someone produced a hand towel. (Omitted)

Ogai's depiction is vivid.
The commotion seems to leap off the page.
And then Ogai writes, “Since everyone urged me, I reluctantly drank five or six glasses of that awful sake.”
He must have scowled and gulped it down vigorously.
It resembles drinking out of pique.
The publication date of this work is recorded as May of Meiji 42 (1909).
It was a time before we were born.

When I checked Ogai’s chronology, Ogai was forty-eight years old at this time.
Already two years prior in Meiji 40 (1907), on November 15th, he had been appointed Surgeon General of the Army and assigned as Director of the Medical Bureau of the Army Ministry.
In the preceding year of Meiji 39 (1906), he had been decorated with Third Class Merit, awarded the Order of the Golden Kite, decorated with the Second Class Order, and granted the Order of the Rising Sun, Gold and Silver Star—it is noted.

Despite being someone who should have exercised restraint, he got into a fight with a delinquent-like reporter,

“Why don’t you do it now?”

“Right. I’ll do it.”

To think he'd start a fight over such trifles—Ogai must have possessed truly reckless courage. In this scuffle, Ogai's position seemed far from favorable, appearing wholly defensive throughout; yet after tumbling into the garden and injuring his left hand, he writes, "At this moment, for the first time, the thought of taking the offensive occurred to me"—a statement nothing short of astonishing. Had people not intervened, he surely would have seen it through. Only someone with genuine confidence in their abilities could produce such vigorous prose. Yet this remains Ogai's novel. Novels have been works of fancy since time immemorial—that much is certain. One cannot suddenly accept the commotion described here as factual truth. I examined the diary volume within his complete works. It was there after all.

February 2, 1909 (Tuesday).
Clouded, windless, not cold.
(Omitted) In the evening, [he] went to Akasaka’s Yaokan.
The so-called Hokuto-kai was a gathering of journalists who frequented the Army Ministry.
At the gathering, Murayama, a Tokyo Asahi Shimbun reporter, shouted, “Koike is honest to a fault, but you are frivolous!” and assaulted me.
I fell between Murayama and the garden stepping stones, injuring my left hand.

Judging from this, it would not be an overstatement to conclude that the novel *Konshinkai* was almost entirely factual.
Reflecting on my own spineless daily life, I felt thoroughly ashamed and lonely.
Even if you couldn't achieve it, why not give it a try?
Shouldn't you have had two or three hated enemies of your own?
Yet you always ended up swallowing your tears.
Why not take decisive action?
"If someone strikes your right cheek, offer the left"—this seemed to mean that even if you possessed the strength to prevail, you should endure and present your left cheek. But in your case, it was as if you were stammering, "Go ahead—right and left both, heh heh—pound them to your heart's content if it'll satisfy you," while clutching your wallet tight and letting them pummel both cheeks mercilessly. Wasn't that the picture?
And then, muttering to yourself, you ended up swallowing your tears.
Even Christ took action when it came down to it.
"Do not think that I have come to cast peace upon the earth; I have come not to cast peace, but a sword." Wasn't that what he even said?
He might have been someone versed in swordsmanship.
He was the kind of person who, when angered, swung a whip of cords and drove out the merchants from the Temple in Jerusalem.
He was by no means a fair-skinned, delicate man.
Far from being a delicate man—according to a certain theologian's theory—he was said to have been a robust, imposing stalwart of a man.
Even the Great Compassionate Shakyamuni—who wouldn't harm a fly—was said to have competed in martial trials against five hundred rival suitors solely to take Princess Yaśodharā as his consort; with a mighty bow none could draw, he had pierced seven tala trees and an iron boar.
He shot through seven tala trees and an iron boar—truly an astonishing display of divine power.
Indeed, that was precisely why even his disciples had been awed.
Those with strong physical strength possessed a certain composure.
Kimura-sensei also remarked.
That composure was what stirred feelings of admiration in people.

The reason the Genji clan remains popular even today is that its members were exceptionally strong in martial arts.
There is likely no one unaware of the military prowess of Yorimitsu, Chinsei Hachirō, Aku Genta Yoshihira, and others—but even Yoshiie Minamoto, renowned not only for his cultural refinement, moral virtue, and mastery of strategy, also possessed formidable martial skills as a warrior, which is why he is revered as a deity of archery and horsemanship.
In archery, he appears to have been a genius.
He was a master of rapid-fire archery, whizzing hundreds of arrows into enemy ranks like a machine gun in the blink of an eye—every shot hitting its mark—which makes it sound like a kōdan tale. Yet it remains true that the Genji clan produced an astonishing succession of geniuses in archery and horsemanship.
Lineage is a terrifying thing.
Children of drunkards are mostly drunkards themselves.
Yoritomo was not merely a man of strong suspicion and single-minded conquest.
After being defeated in the Heiji Rebellion and fleeing to the eastern provinces with his clan, Yoritomo—then thirteen years old—dozed off drowsily on horseback and became separated from the group.
According to Heiji Monogatari, “As it was late at night on December 27th, the darkness was profound; though he could not see ahead, entrusting himself to his horse, he fled in trepidation, alone.”
When he deigned to enter Moriyama’s inn, the people of the inn said, “The frequent clatter of hooves tonight must belong to a fugitive—let us apprehend him!” A great number of pursuers came forth, among whom was a man called Gennaibyōe Masahiro. Donning his armor and gripping a halberd, he rushed out; but upon seeing the lord, he seized the horse’s bridle and declared, “By order from Rokuhara, we shall detain this fugitive!” As he attempted to pull him down, he struck him with a sudden blow from the famed sword Higekiri—splitting Masahiro straight down the middle, who collapsed backward and died.
The next man who emerged cried, “You insolent fool!” and seized the horse’s bridle; he cut him down in the same manner, but the man, struck from his armored sleeve, was knocked back and retreated.
“After that,” it states, “as there were no others approaching...” Even though he was only thirteen years old, one can imagine his martial prowess.
When I was thirteen years old, after being told ghost stories by a housemaid, I couldn’t go to the toilet alone for two or three nights.
This is no joke.
The difference is truly too stark.
It is only natural for warriors to excel in martial arts, but even literary figures like Ogai could rise to the occasion with great vigor when they chose to act.
He did not blurt out anything as absurd as “Can’t you see I’m trembling?”
They grappled with each other and fell into the garden, then attempted to renew their offensive.
Even Soseki once grabbed an insolent laborer at a public bathhouse and yelled “You idiot!”
and bellowed, making the laborer apologize—or so the story goes.

Apparently, the laborer accidentally splashed Soseki with what might have been water or hot water, prompting Soseki to unleash a thunderous rebuke.
He bellowed while completely naked.
Fighting completely naked is not a feat that can be accomplished unless one is quite confident in their physical strength.
To conclude that Soseki had some knowledge of martial arts would not, it seems to me, be entirely guilty of rash judgment.
Soseki recounted his own public bathhouse anecdote to Ryunosuke, who, trembling in fear, seems to have published it to the world; however, since Ryunosuke was Soseki’s late-life disciple, this bathhouse incident appears to be an anecdote from when Soseki was already quite advanced in years.
He sported a splendid mustache.
Even Ogai Mori, while sporting a splendid mustache and holding the esteemed position of Surgeon General, found himself compelled to fight a rogue journalist, and together they tumbled off the veranda edge.
As for someone like me, I am nothing more than one of the minor writers who have just barely passed thirty.
Self-restraint? Don’t make me laugh.
Why aren’t you doing it?
In fact, trying to play the invalid with excuses like ‘my body’s a bit…’ won’t work.
The samurai of old would attend their dojos even while coughing up blood.
Even Miyamoto Musashi was in poor health.
To compensate for his own physical weakness, he devised the famed two-sword style—or so I have heard.
Have you read Musashi’s *The Path of Aloneness*?
A master of the sword is, by extension, a master of life.

1. Do not transgress against the way of all generations.
2. Harbor no partiality in anything.
3. Seek no bodily comforts.

4. Harbor no desire throughout life.
5. Do not regret your own affairs.
6. Do not envy others concerning good and evil.
7. Do not grieve parting from any path.
8. Harbor no resentment or complaints toward self or others.
9. Harbor no thoughts of romantic love.
10. Harbor no taste for the unconventional in all matters.
11. Harbor no desire for a residence.
12. Harbor no fondness for delicacies for the body alone.
13. Harbor no old implements.

14. Harbor no aversion to spoils for one’s own body.
15. As for military equipment—an exception—refrain from coveting other implements.

16. On the path, do not shun death.
17. Harbor no mind toward treasures or estates in old age.
18. Respect gods and buddhas, and rely not on gods and buddhas.

19. The mind never departs from the path of strategy.

A model of manhood must indeed refer to one who maintains such a state of mind.
Compared to that, what about me?
It’s not even worth mentioning.
Even I am appalled at myself; to avoid sinking back into my usual mire of moral corruption, with solemn resolve for self-admonishment, I shall now list my Nineteen Articles below.
It is a fool’s confession.
Gods and sages alike, please forgive me.

1. I know nothing of the way of successive generations.
Even when taught, I grow oddly shy and fail to act.

2. I harbor partiality in all matters.
I harbor an extreme aversion to arrogant young poets.
I only smile warmly at two or three shy,diligent students.

3.I think only of my own comfort.
There are times when,I go to bed earlier than my children yet rise later than anyone else.
When my wife falls ill,I get angry.
I blurt out threats like,"You'd better recover soon."
For when my wife takes sickbed rest,a husband's chores multiply.
Claiming deep contemplation,I lie wrapped in blankets snoring.

4. The depths of my greed: there were moments when it strayed beyond all bounds.
Standing before a toy store—rejecting this one, dismissing that one—when asked what I truly wanted, I found myself akin to a child pointing at the moon.
Great desire so closely resembled having no desires at all.

5. I regret everything.
Like one possessed by a demon.
Knowing full well I would regret it, I casually plunged in only to wallow in even greater remorse.
The taste of regret was something I simply couldn’t quit.

6. Though I did not envy them, for some reason, I had a tendency to speak ill of successful people.
7. There was a time when I drunkenly wept while humming a senior’s poetic line: “Life is nothing but farewells.”

8. Though I resent others, none can surpass me in resenting myself.

9. Whether waking or lying down, feelings of romantic longing in my heart never cease.
However, they all end in faint fantasies.
In matters of being unliked by women and children, none can surpass me.
Is it because my face is too large?
That is not the case.
Unwillingly, I attempt to feign being a stoic.

10. Though I desire to harbor no taste for the unconventional, I cannot achieve it.
I am fond of fine sake.
I do not refuse unrefined sake either.

11. My residence consists of three rooms: six-tatami, four-and-a-half-tatami, and three-tatami.
It’s not that I don’t desire one more room now.
Working in a room where children clamor about is exceedingly trying, and though I occasionally think of moving elsewhere, my future income seems precarious; moreover, being a man of unparalleled indolence, everything comes to naught.
There is indeed a desire for one more room.
Between the state of mind of those who desire no residence and my own lies a distance of ten thousand ri.

12. Though I do not particularly favor gourmet food—what’s for today’s side dish?
I confess there was an occasion when a man posed this question to the kitchen.
It was the height of vulgarity.
I could not bear the shame.

13. The absence of even a single old tool in my house stems from my pernicious habit of selling them off.
The sale of books happens most frequently.
Haggling for even a slightly better price—even I find such persistence wretched.
Though outwardly I resemble those free of material desires and detached from worldly possessions, the chasm between our states of mind spans a thousand fathoms.

14. There are many things I detest in myself.
Dogs, snakes, caterpillars—and lately even flies have become so bothersome.
Braggarts—I detest them most.

15. That there are absolutely no art or antique items in my house is due to the master’s stinginess.
The sentiment of those who would invest fifty yen, a hundred yen—no, even a fortune—in a single plate remains forever beyond the master’s comprehension; one day, this master visited a friend.
When the friend plucked several splendid roses from the garden and tried to present them as a gift, the master firmly declined, saying he’d accept vegetables, though.
From this, you may infer the whole.
It is evident that this differs from the single-minded devotion to ascetic practice of the Sword Saint, who rejected all tools other than arms.
Moreover, weapons are forbidden to this man for the time being.
There is also the proverb about giving a blade to a madman.
There’s no telling what he might do.
Weak dogs often bite people.

16. Death is not something I need deliberately avoid.
The surviving wife and children are pitiful, but there’s no helping it.
However, now deaths other than death in battle are not permitted.
Therefore I endure and go on living.
This life of mine—I now want to somehow make it of use to the country.
This one article—I thought I wouldn’t concede it even to the Sword Saint—but upon reflection, true nobility lies in sacrificing a life one doesn’t wish to lose; someone who wants to die at all costs and wanders about searching for a place to die acts through selfish caprice alone. Ah, this article too proves worthless after all.

17. Far from devoting myself to amassing wealth and estates for my old age, I was breaking my back just to get by day to day—a state that left me with nothing but a bitter smile. Yet secretly, I couldn’t help thinking it would be better if there were at least some property left after my death or old age to keep my family from hardship.
However, leaving behind property was something close to a miracle for me.
Even if there was no property, as long as work remained, maybe things would work out—indulging in such naive, childish fantasies meant this too was a failure.

18. In times of hardship, I turn to the gods.
Of course, since my entire life may be one of hardship, even if I never forget the gods and Buddha throughout my life, that still amounts to relying on them.
My state of mind utterly contradicts that of the Sword Saint.

19. Ashamedly, my enemy resides in the kitchen.
Deceiving it, not angering it, and thereby attempting to gloss over the meagerness of my efforts—this constitutes the entirety of my strategy.
Contending with it and finding the moment unfavorable to me, rolling up my banner and fleeing the house to wander alone by the pond in nearby Inokashira Park—the gloominess I felt in those moments was beyond compare.
Walking around with a face so grave it was as though I bore all the world’s suffering alone, all while devising ways to clean up after marital squabbles—it was beyond absurd.
In all things, there was nothing but sheer bewilderment.

"Please read and compare [my articles] one by one with *The Path of Aloneness* written by the Sword Saint."
Though it may resemble the tone of a frivolous drunkard, truth remains truth even when spoken with laughter.
It would be most fortunate if this fool’s unfeigned confession could serve as even the slightest material for reflection for you, my esteemed readers.
Is it not also found in the Iroha Karuta that children play with? Ah, "Look at others and correct your own conduct."

3.

In any case, I was utterly weary.
This simply wouldn’t do.
There was simply no hope at all.

A man’s worth lies in martial arts.
Having been taught by Kimura-sensei that “a man who neglects this training is eternally worthless,” I felt his words strike deep. Even after consulting several texts, it only grew clearer how right his teachings were—yet turning to examine my own present state left me aghast at its wretchedness.
Standing before a sheer cliff offering no handholds, I could do nothing but sigh uselessly.

Near my house stood a bone-setting clinic whose owner held a fifth-dan rank in judo or some such discipline, complete with a small training hall he had outfitted. In the evenings, industrial warriors returning from their workplaces would stop by this dojo to practice with thunderous clamor. During my walks, I would pause beneath the dojo’s window and crane my neck to steal furtive glances inside—a truly savage spectacle it was. For the first time in my life, I felt my breast sear with envy at the sight of those young, iron-hard physiques.

Hanging my head low, I made my way to nearby Zenrinji Temple. Behind this temple lay Ogai Mori’s grave—though why this literary titan should rest in humble Mitaka Town of Tokyo Prefecture remained beyond my comprehension. Still, this well-tended cemetery bore faint echoes of Ogai’s prose. There had been days when I secretly indulged in saccharine fantasies that even my wretched bones might find posthumous salvation in some tidy corner here, but now my spirit cowered inward, those daydreams scattered like morning mist before reality’s glare.

I possessed no such qualifications. That mustachioed hero who’d once grappled drunken foes and tumbled from verandas—what right had I to share his resting place? You’ve no standing to be picky about burial grounds—this much became clear. One must know one’s station.

That day I merely cast a sidelong glance at Ogai’s solemn black tombstone before scurrying homeward. Waiting there lay a letter—correspondence from Kimura-sensei himself. Ah! Here stood our vanguard—our glorious yet tragic pathfinder.

The following is the full text of the letter.

[Omitted.]
How have you been since then?
This old man has lately found himself in a state of mind where he engages in what Bai called “trivial matters” and laughs at himself.
When you last visited, though I expounded that “a man’s honor lies in martial arts” and received your earnest agreement, I realized that even the most brilliant discourse becomes as meaningless as rubble if its preacher fails to practice what he teaches; thus last evening—foolish though I may be—I roused these aging bones and visited an archery dojo.
Alas! These shriveled muscles and bones refused to stretch properly—the arrows I tremblingly drew fell short of their target, pathetically thudding upon the gravel before me. Imagine my desolation!
“Hail Hachiman!”
With closed eyes and fervent prayer did I release the bowstring—only for it to zing against my ear with such excruciating pain that I nearly ran about screaming! Yet still I cried, “Hail Hachiman!”
Through gritted teeth I endured with hoarse groans.
However—to hastily conclude from this that martial talent eludes me would be rash! Has any man ever mastered martial profundities through mere days of training?
The mind’s focus can pierce stone—history shows this! Like that ordinary man of Taiyuan who through ceaseless effort vowed to forge Hachiro-worthy sinews in his arms, I resolved then to end practice; stopped at Naruse Hospital on my return where they declared my eardrum intact; then steeled myself and marched straight into a stall by Asagaya Station’s railroad crossing.
In these times of scarce liquor, this old man now quenches his thirst with raw wine from said stall.
It was April.
A radiant spring of falling blossoms.
Three great mountain cherries stood behind the stall—petals swirling inside with every breeze till even this ardent archer grew helplessly intoxicated amidst their blizzard! Picture this scene!
Then appeared a detestable nuisance.
An elderly painter neighbor—thirty years submitting oils to state exhibitions only for rejection; thirty years groveling with pine mushroom gifts to judges; guarding ancestral wealth yet lacking any merit beyond failed pretension—Old Painter Sugita! With grandchildren yet sporting red neckerchiefs in absurd youthfulness! His daily provocations against me lay bare!
His finery stirred no envy—I resolved to ignore him—yet he stood six feet tall with bronze face and pine-trunk arms; rumors told of him kicking a pawnshop’s hound to death! Thus I greeted him only with artful smiles.
But now this oddity barged into the stall—“Ho there, old man! At it again?” he cried!
Though clearly tipsy himself—how rude to call me “old man”!
“You yourself are an old man too!” quoth I.

“Do you not know that warriors are bound by mutual recognition?”
“What heartless conduct!” this old man thought bitterly—when once again came mocking words: “You’ve fallen low these days, old man—I hadn’t realized you’d taken to coiling up in such a place.”
This old man is not a snake.
Though deeming this “coiling up” remark utterly insolent, my opponent stood six feet tall with arms thick as pine trees; thus I endured in silence, wearing an ambiguous smile while wholly employing avoidance tactics—quoth he.
Yet Old Painter Sugita escalated his antics: “What’s even in this stall? Raw wine? Hmph—drinking such swill? Old man, pour me a cup too. Hmph! This is raw wine? Ptui! Rotten vinegar! Owner—my bill! How much?” With these mocking words, he tossed over his shoulder: “Watch yourself! Gathering delinquents to puff your pride as ‘sensei’—you’re now a neighborhood association suspect! A word to the wise!” This machine-gun parting shot delivered, he pushed aside the curtain—whereupon I shouted: “Wait!”
and stopped him.
“I’ve never violated neighborhood resolutions! Monthly bonds purchased first! Hachiman Shrine prayers attended without fail! By what right brand me suspect? Defamation! ‘Well-meaning advice’ has ever been the vulgar’s last resort—as Uji River vanguard and Sasaki’s whispers attest! Verily you’re a cowardly crone! To call my students delinquents—this fury cannot be contained! Now strikes the hour! Though but one day trained, I’m no novice! Strike I shall! Though you slew pawnshop hounds, chanting ‘Hail Hachiman!’ will crumble you like pottery! Have at you!”
“Having steeled resolve—”
“Wait!”
Thus came my shout.
He—wearing a foolish expression—glanced back, laughed dismissively, and exited; at his retreating back I cried: “Old woman, wait!”
Having been thus addressed, I too leapt out—quoth he.
Outside swirled cherry blizzards.
An air of celebrating my maiden battle prevailed—quoth he.
I commenced preparations forthwith.
First removing my upper denture, enshrined roadside.
Though resembling a bitter smile, my upper jaw—as known—relies wholly on dentures costing two months and three hundred yen; thus rationally fearing damage from pine-like arms, I removed them. Then gazing up at the titan: “Your insolence grows! Neighborhoods demand harmony! Mocking others’ flaws reeks vulgarity! Tonight heaven’s proxy chastises you!” Yet toothless speech slurred—even self-disgusting—thinking *Enough*, I struck thrice: whack-whack-whack upon Old Painter’s bronze cheek. He stood dumbstruck, agape.
Anticlimaxes abounded post-conflict.
As he stayed silent, I withdrew wordlessly to retrieve denture—alas, whether heaven’s mischief or rebuke...
Blossoms fell ceaselessly, drifting roadside like snowdrifts burying my denture; flustered, I crawled groping through white expanse where certain it lay.
“What is it?” asked my stunned foe—awakened expression—while I muttered crawling: “No—my denture. Was here surely,” sheer awkwardness prevailing.

Considering that no martial artist throughout history—East or West—had likely ever encountered such a wretched experience, this old man’s sorrow grew all the more profound; and though it pained me to admit, even a vulgar old man’s grumbling—“That cost three hundred yen, you know!”—inadvertently slipped out. Confronted with the sight of me crawling alone through the darkness beneath a blizzard of falling blossoms, even my opponent seemed at last to stir with pity—quoth he.

Joining this old man on all fours, he said things like, “Is it really around here?” and “Three hundred yen is quite expensive, isn’t it?” while thrusting his hands into drifts of cherry blossom petals here and there, proceeding to search with earnestness—quoth he.

“Thank you,” quoth this old man in a voice akin to a beast’s groan, suffused with boundless sorrow—for should those dentures be lost, I would again spend two months visiting the dentist, during which time I could chew nothing at all, barely surviving on thin gruel; moreover, my countenance without teeth would alter so drastically as to age me twenty years further, my smile becoming a monstrosity unparalleled. Ah! From tomorrow onward, my life would be akin to hell—such was the anguish that gripped me, leaving me unable even to weep—quoth he.

Old Painter Sugita, being a man of quick wit, soon borrowed a small broom from the stall and—while muttering “Around here? Around here?”—briskly swept aside the still ceaselessly falling and piling cherry blossom petals left and right, when suddenly—“Ah!”

“Found iiiit!”

He cried out in jubilation—quoth he.

That the denture of the man who had just struck his own cheek three times with a whack-whack-whack had been found—and that Old Painter Sugita, without a trace of malice, wholeheartedly rejoiced in this discovery—filled this old man with gratitude surpassing all else, even stirring a sentiment that the denture itself mattered not at all. Yet since it had indeed been recovered without harm, this old man felt doubly and triply pleased; upon receiving the denture from Old Painter Sugita and promptly placing it in his mouth, he perceived that an abundance of cherry blossom petals had adhered to it, and when he bit down, a faintly bitter taste lingered—quoth he.

“Mr. Sugita, please strike this old man,” quoth he with a laugh, offering his cheek—whereupon the Old Painter, true to form, spat into his palm and declared “Very well!”, then with a mighty swing struck down this old man’s left cheek before departing triumphantly.

Contrary to my expectation that he might show some restraint, he struck with the full force of those monstrous pine-like arms, causing countless tiny stars to scatter from this old man’s eyes and leaving me in a momentary state akin to unconsciousness—quoth he.

He too is quite the fool—quoth he.

Such is the summary report of this old man’s martial exploits; yet upon earnest reflection today, I have come to realize that martial arts should not be practiced against one’s fellow countrymen, nor should bow and arrow be loosed save toward distant shores beyond the sea. This old man shall henceforth refine his spirit anew—neither hating nor scorning his neighbors—and through Bai’s so-called “hope that persists even as the last lamp dies,” strive ceaselessly to apprehend the mysteries of martial arts. Thus I implore you young disciples: let this recent folly of mine—this shallow-minded retracing of old ruts—serve as but a cautionary tale for your latter wheels, and redouble your efforts to temper body and mind so that you may never know defeat!

Prayer.