Pathway to Japanese Literature

The Bridegroom

There was no other way but to live each day to the fullest.
I did not worry about tomorrow.
Tomorrow would worry about itself.
I wanted to spend that day rejoicing, striving, and being kind to others.
The blue sky those days was foolishly beautiful.
It was so beautiful it made me want to set a boat afloat.
The camellia petals were cherry shells.
They rustled down.
I found myself astonished for the first time that year—had the petals always been that magnificent?
Everything felt nostalgic.
Even when smoking a single cigarette, I smoked it with such gratitude that I felt like weeping.
Of course I never actually cried.
It simply meant I couldn't help but smile.

I had grown remarkably kinder toward my family members as well.
Even when the child cried in the next room, I would pretend not to notice, but lately there were times when I stood up, went to the next room, and clumsily picked them up to gently rock them.
There were nights when I secretly watched the child's sleeping face so as not to forget it.
One last look—no, it couldn’t be—and yet I seemed to harbor similar sentiments.
This child would certainly grow up sturdy.
I believed that.
Somehow feeling that way, I had no regrets.
Even when I went out, I made sure to return as early as possible and have dinner at home.
On the dining table, there was nothing.
For me, that was a pleasure.
That there was nothing was itself a pleasure.
I savored it deeply.
The family member wore an apologetic expression.
She apologized, saying “I’m sorry.”
But I lavishly praised the side dishes.
“It’s delicious,” I declared.
The family member smiled sadly.

“Tsukudani.
Not bad at all.
It’s shrimp tsukudani!
You managed to get them, huh?”

“They’ve all shriveled up.”
The family member lacked confidence.

“Even shriveled, shrimp are still shrimp.”
“It’s my favorite.”
“Shrimp whiskers contain calcium.”
That was nonsense.

On the dining table were tsukudani, pickled napa cabbage, simmered squid, and nothing else.
I simply lavished praise.

“The pickles are delicious.”
“They’re just right to eat now.”
“Ever since I was little, pickled napa cabbage has been my favorite.”
“As long as there was pickled napa cabbage, I didn’t want any other side dishes.”
“Crispy—this texture is irresistible.”

“Lately there hasn’t been any salt in the stores either,”
The family member still lacked confidence.
She wore a sullen expression.
“I can’t even use salt freely when making pickles anymore.
If I used more salt, they’d taste better, though.”

“No—this is just right.”
“Actually, I dislike salty things.”
He stubbornly insisted.
Praising meager things felt rewarding.

But sometimes I failed.

“What about tonight?”
“I see. There’s nothing then.”
Evenings like these had their own charm.
Let’s improvise.
That’s it—I’ll make nori chazuke.
It’s quite refined.
“Bring out the nori.”
I had requested nori with the intention of making the simplest side dish possible, but I messed up.

“There isn’t any.”
The family member wore an awkward expression.
“Lately, nori isn’t available at any store.
“It’s strange, isn’t it.
“I wasn’t exactly bad at shopping, but lately I can’t buy any meat or fish at all, so sometimes I just stand there in the market with my basket and end up on the verge of tears.”
She was thoroughly dejected.

I was ashamed of my own thoughtlessness.
I hadn’t known there was no nori.
Hesitantly,

“Do we have any pickled plums?”

“We do.”

Both of them let out a sigh of relief.

“We must endure.”
“It’s nothing at all.”
“As long as there’s rice and vegetables, people can manage to live quite well.”
“Japan is going to improve from now on.”
“It’ll steadily improve.”
“If we just keep enduring steadfastly now, Japan will surely succeed.”
“I believe this.”
“I believe every single word the ministers say in the newspapers exactly as they are.”
“Let’s have them go all out, shall we?”
“Now is the crucial time, they say.”
“We must endure.”
As I stuffed my cheeks with pickled plums and earnestly lectured myself on these utterly obvious things, for some reason, it felt intensely satisfying.

One night, I ate dinner elsewhere and was surprised to find an abundance of delicacies from land and sea.
I felt something strange.
Enduring the shame, I secretly asked the maid to wrap up a beefsteak for me.
"It’s fine if you eat it here, but taking it out is against the law," the maid said with a troubled expression.
I returned home carrying the faintly warm package of beefsteak.
This was a pleasure I came to know for the first time that year.
I had never once returned home carrying such a package until now.
I had always considered it truly unclean and slovenly.

“I bowed three times to the maid. I struggled like hell to bring this over. You haven’t had this in ages, right? It’s beef.” I proclaimed with naive pride.

“It feels like medicine or something,”
The family member timidly picked up the chopsticks.
“I don’t have any appetite at all.”

“Well, go on—try some.”
“Isn’t it delicious? Everyone should eat.”
“I’ve already had my fill.”

“It’ll reflect badly on you.”
The family member said unexpectedly in a hushed tone.
“I don’t even want that much anyway, so please stop bowing to the maid from now on.”

Being told this left me somewhat uncomfortable, but my sense of relief was greater.
I was greatly relieved indeed.
It’s fine.
I resolved to stop worrying about the family’s food altogether.
To say something like “It’s beef!”—how vulgar.
Not just regarding food, but even when it came to the family members’ future, I would remain completely at ease.
This would surely grow strong along with the child.
I thought it was a blessing.

As for my family members, I now have not a single worry about them, so every day I feel light.
I enjoy gazing at the blue sky, smoke cigarettes, and then make an effort to be kind to others as well.

Many university students came to visit my home in Mitaka.
There were smart ones and not-so-smart ones.
Yet they were uniformly advocates of justice.
Not a single student had ever said to me, "Lend me money," or anything of the sort.
There were even students who showed gestures of trying to lend me money.
They came to visit without any ulterior motives, solely to converse with me.
I had never once refused to meet with these young friends.
No matter how busy I was with work, I would say, "Do come in."
However, it could not be denied that until then, my "Do come in" had been a largely passive invitation.
In other words, out of timidity, I reluctantly said, "Do come in.
There certainly were times when I would say, “My work doesn’t matter at all,” with a lonely smile.
My work was not so splendid that I could resolutely turn away visitors.
Whether the visitor’s anguish or my own ran deeper—that I did not know.
My situation might actually have been somewhat easier.
“What’s that all about? Indulging in Christ playacting as some hobby—spouting nothing but insufferably pretentious drivel while really being just a slightly affected egoist.”
Out of shame at potentially being criticized as such, I found that no matter how pressing my own work might be, I wasn’t entirely disinclined to rise and welcome the students.
My welcome didn’t seem to have been all that sincere.
It was despicable self-preservation.
I had no sense of responsibility whatsoever.
As long as I didn’t anger the students, that was good enough.

As I listened to the students talk, I found myself thinking only of other matters.
I would give brief, non-committal replies and smile vaguely.
I had been calculating nothing but my own position.
The students might have thought me a bashful, overly accommodating fool.
But lately I had grown remarkably kinder and come to strictly say exactly what I thought.
It was a bit different from ordinary kindness.
My kindness consisted of showing students my full self without restraint.
I now felt responsible.
I was resolved that not even a single person who came to me would be led astray.
When I stand upon the platform of the Last Judgment, how happy I would be if I could declare just one thing: “Yet I did not let a single person who associated with me fall into corruption.”
Lately I had made it my practice to offer students harsh admonishments without restraint.
There were times when I shouted.
That was my kindness.
At such times I thought it would be fine if I were killed by this student.
The student who kills is an eternal fool.

—I must apologize for my rudeness, but could you limit our discussion to about thirty minutes?
This month, I have some serious work to attend to.
Forgive me.
Dazai Osamu.
——

There was also a time when I posted such a notice on the shoji in the entrance.
Because I thought meeting them with half-baked false kindness was wrong.
Because I had begun wanting to value my own work.
For my own sake.
For the students’ sake.
Each day's life is important.

The students gradually stopped coming to my house.
I considered this preferable.
They had likely withdrawn from me and were striving earnestly.

I begrudged every single day’s time.
I wanted to live that day as fully as possible.
I began interacting not only with students but with everyone in the world through wholehearted honesty.

A message came by return postcard.

——Women’s duels, petitions of desperation.
In the end, I can only digest Master’s works as altered novels.
I wish to receive some revelation from you, Master.
I would request one explanation.
State it plainly.
What does Dadaism ultimately signify?
I earnestly entreat.
From the national school teacher in the rural countryside.

——

I sent a reply.

——In reply.
I have read your esteemed letter.
When making inquiries of others, one ought to compose somewhat more courteous prose.
I thought it would not do for someone charged with educating young nationals to conduct themselves thus.

To your questions, I shall respond earnestly.
I have never once called myself a Dadaist.
I consider myself an unskilled writer.
In my desperation to have others understand what lies in my heart, I have attempted various styles—though I cannot claim any success.
It is an awkward endeavor.
I am not being facetious.
Inconsistent.—

I had written it prepared for that national school teacher to come storming into my house shouting if he wished, but four or five days later, a somewhat lengthy letter of the following sort arrived.

——November 28.
Due to last night’s fatigue, I couldn’t manage to get up this morning even when I heard the seven o’clock time signal.
As I gazed at the bamboo ink painting I had created as model teaching material, I began vaguely pondering my military enlistment (××/××), literature, flower baskets, and other matters.
The map of ×× Prefecture and bamboo painting clinging desolately to the white night duty room wall struck me as somehow hinting at myself.
At times like this, something always goes wrong.
The memory of being scolded for making a bonfire at the teacher’s dormitory suddenly came to mind; I frowned, slipped into my slippers, and went out to the well at the back door.
I’m sluggish.
My head feels heavy.
I slapped the back of my neck with my palm.
Outdoors, it was a tremendous downpour.
I put on a sedge hat and went to the bathhouse to get a washbasin.

“Good morning, Teacher.”

Two children from the hamlet near the school were washing their feet at the well.

After finishing my second-period class and drinking hot water in the staff room, I happened to glance out the window and saw a postman in a black raincoat struggling to pedal his bicycle through the fierce storm.
I immediately went out to receive it.
What I received was a reply letter from an unexpected person.
Master, at that moment—though it may be a rather trite phrase—(...)

“Thank you very much.
I am constantly filled with regret.
My attitude of groundless arrogance.
I always make a bad first impression because of this.
This is inexcusable.
Even knowing this, I carelessly repeat it again.

I showed the postcard to the principal as well.
The principal said:
‘This truly calls for thorough reflection on your part.’
I thought so too.

(...)

I make my request to you, Master.”

Please believe that I am feeling ashamed.
I am not a bad man.

(...)

I now wish to set down my pen and sing "Do Not Let That Fire Die Out" on the only small organ in this school.
Sincerely——

Though I took liberties with omissions here and there, the above constituted the contents of that National School Teacher’s letter.
I was happy.

This time, I took the initiative to write a letter of thanks.
I appended that whether you enlist or not, you must devote yourself to each day's duties.

Truly nowadays, you must solemnly strive while considering each day's obligations as lifelong ones.
You must not dissemble.
To those dear to you, lay bare your unfeigned sentiments without delay.
Abandon such sordid scheming.
In candid deeds lies no remorse.
All that remains is to resign matters to Heaven's will.

Just the other day, I received a long letter from my aunt and sent the following reply in response.
The text was published verbatim in a certain newspaper's literary section.

——Aunt.
This morning I received your long letter.
Thank you for your kind concerns about my health and future livelihood.
But lately I’ve completely stopped making plans about my future life.
It isn’t nihilism.
Nor is it resignation.
If one were to apply crude foresight and carefully weigh on a scale whether to turn right or left, it would only lead to a wretched stumble.

That person also says, 'Don’t think about tomorrow.'
Upon waking each morning, I make it my sole endeavor these days to live this one day to the fullest.
I have stopped telling lies.
I have gradually become able to engage in study not motivated by vanity or calculation.
Things like relying on tomorrow and covering up the situation have now disappeared.
Each day alone has become of utmost importance.

It is by no means nihilism.
For me now, each day's effort is the effort of my entire life.
People in the warzone probably feel the same way, I think.
Aunt, you should stop hoarding things from now on.
There is no uglier way of living than failing through suspicion.
We do believe.
Even an inch-long worm had its measure of sincere heart.
You must not give that wry smile.
Only those who innocently believe are carefree.
I will not abandon literature.
I will succeed through belief.
Please rest assured.

Lately, I made sure to shave every morning.
I brushed my teeth cleanly.
I trimmed both my toenails and fingernails neatly.
Every day, I took a bath, washed my hair, and thoroughly cleaned my ears.
I didn’t let my nose hairs grow even a single minute.
When my eyes grew slightly tired, I dropped a single drop of eye medicine into them to maintain their moisture.

I wrapped a bolt of pure white bleached cotton neatly around myself from abdomen to chest.
I remained pure white at all times.
My underpants too were pure white calico.
This too remained pure white at all times.
And then at night, I slept alone in pure white sheets.

In the study, seasonal flowers were always blooming vibrantly.
This morning, I threw narcissus into the alcove's vase.
Ah, Japan is a splendid country.
Even if the bread runs out and the sake runs short, flowers alone—flowers alone—no matter which florist's storefront you look at—overflow with crimson, yellow, white, and purple hues competing in glorious bloom.
This splendor—O Japan, proclaim it to the world!

I no longer wore any tattered padded robes those days.
From the moment I woke in the morning，I donned a spotless kimono with vivid stripe patterns and fastened my stiff sash with precision.
Even when merely visiting a friend’s house in the neighborhood，I always donned my finest formal attire.
In my breast pocket lay a freshly washed handkerchief，neatly folded into four.

In those days，I found myself unbearably compelled to walk about in crested formal attire.

This morning, on my way back from buying flowers, I saw an old-fashioned carriage waiting for passengers in Mitaka Station Square.
It exuded the scent of Meiji, of the Rokumeikan.
Overwhelmed by nostalgia, I asked the coachman.

“Where is this carriage headed?”

“Well, anywhere you like.”
The elderly coachman answered amiably.
“It’s a taxi.”

“Can you take me to Ginza?”

“Ginza’s too far,” he laughed.
“Just take the train.”

I had wanted to ride this carriage and parade through Ginza Hacchō.
I want to ride leisurely in this carriage through Ginza Hacchō dressed in my Tsuru no Maru (my family crest is Tsuru no Maru) crested formal attire, Sendai-hira hakama trousers, and white tabi socks.
Ah, lately I have been living each day with the heart of a bridegroom.

┌December 8, 1941: This was set down.┐

└This morning I heard news of war breaking out with Britain and America.┘
(“Shinchō,” January 1942 issue)