Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Vast sea of clouds—Sado's shore
Longing for my lord—a day apart feels like three autumns
Forty-nine ri of treacherous waves
Though I yearn to cross—this frail form finds no freedom

Ah—so when he said "Come," it was he who went to Sado after all, I thought.
When I looked at the title, it read: A Playful Rendition of Bamboo Branch Songs.

It was his uncle’s collection of poems and essays.
Uncle died in the summer of the year before last (Showa 5, 1930).
Those posthumous manuscripts were compiled and published this spring by Bunkyūdō.
The preface was written by Mr. Luo Zhenyu, a renowned scholar of the late Qing dynasty now residing in Manchukuo.
In the preface, he writes:

"In years past I resided in Hujiang (Shanghai)."
Over a span of ten years, there was not a single eminent figure from the Eastern lands who passed through Shanghai without forming bonds of friendship.
One day at dawn, as I was about to wash and comb my hair, I heard an urgent knocking at the gate. Leaning over the upstairs railing to look, there stood a visitor.
Like a gaunt crane.
Stood at the door.
I promptly overturned my shoes in haste to welcome him.
He then entered through the gate and presented his name card.
It read: 'Japanese man Nakajima Tan.'
He searched his pocket for writing implements and engaged in written conversation with me.
Expounding on the situation in East Asia, he filled over ten pages in mere moments.
I profoundly respected this.
As they were about to depart, they promised to meet again, and when I inquired about his lodging, it was said to be the Hōyōkan.
When I went to visit him the next day, he had already departed.
………”

This too was a frightfully anachronistic world.
Yet these descriptions—the name card declaring “Japanese man Nakajima Tan,” the “urgent knocking at the gate,” the comparison to “a gaunt crane,” the note that “when visited the next day, he had already vanished”—vividly evoked Uncle’s demeanor for those who had known him during his lifetime.
Sanzō couldn’t help but smile as he read this.
He had been asked by his family to take this book to the university and high school libraries.
Yet he could not help but feel a certain embarrassment about boldly bringing his uncle’s work—a collection of poems and essays by an uncle who had been nothing more than an utterly obscure Chinese poetry scholar—to the libraries.
Sanzō hesitated repeatedly and did not readily take them.
And every day, he would spread them out on his desk and gaze at them repeatedly.
As he read on, the figure of Uncle—unyielding in his stubborn integrity, quick to condemn and slow to forgive—emerged vividly before him.
The preface by Mr. Luo Zhenyu also states:

"It is heard that you possess fastidiousness."
He never permitted women near him throughout his life.
"In my final instructions: After I die, promptly perform cremation and scatter my ashes in the Pacific."
"Truly becoming a heroic spirit, should any dare assail my country with arms in days to come, I shall become a divine wind to repel them."
The family reverently complied with his words.
…………”

All of this was factual.
Uncle’s remains were thrown into the Kumano Nada from aboard a steamship by one of his relatives, in accordance with his final instructions.
Uncle had intended that by doing so, he would become a shachi or some such creature and devour American warships.

In others, such things—these testaments and other numerous eccentric words and deeds—might appear affected or ludicrous. Though upon later reflection they may seem comical, when face-to-face with Uncle, they appeared perfectly befitting of such an old man as he was.
And yet, during his high school years, Sanzō found this uncle’s anachronistic strictness to be thoroughly affected and unpleasant.
He simply couldn’t believe that Uncle was engaging in such words and deeds from the depths of his soul, believing them to be right without the slightest self-deception.
There existed an unbridgeable chasm between him and Uncle.
In fact, there existed precisely half a century’s difference in age between him and his uncle.
When Uncle died at seventy-two, Sanzō was twenty-two at the time.

Many relatives remarked that Sanzō’s temperament resembled his uncle’s. One of his older female cousins in particular would habitually say, like a mantra, “I just hope he doesn’t grow old to become like Uncle.” Sanzō couldn’t help but acknowledge that those words held some truth. And for that very reason, he found his uncle's uncompromising conduct—the part that seemed to have been most transmitted to himself—bitterly distasteful. The immediate younger brother of that uncle—who was equally an uncle to Sanzō—with his utterly undemanding, settled scholarly attitude, seemed far more preferable to him. This second uncle, while conducting research on ancient scripts and such in this manner, made no effort to present his findings to the world; residing in the heart of Tokyo yet tying his hair like Ushiwakamaru and cultivating a white beard nearly two feet long, he lived like a hermit. In contrast to the calmness of that “Bearded Uncle” (as the nephews called him), the elder uncle’s austere severity tinged with manic tendencies struck him as childish. Every time he was told they were similar, he would feel an unpleasant sensation. It is said that Uncle had been a prodigy since childhood. Since it is said he could read by age six and had mastered Chinese poetry and classical literature by thirteen, there can be no doubt he was a Confucian prodigy. Yet despite this, he died without ever accomplishing any coherent work or realizing his ambitions, all the while scorning the world and cursing people. As noted in the preface to his earlier posthumous manuscripts, Uncle never took a wife. Sanzō did not know what had caused it. Uncle also constantly repeated trips that seemed purposeless to Sanzō. He had spent a long time in China. During his high school years, Sanzō had thought that rather than being motivated by concern for national affairs as Uncle himself claimed, it would be more accurate to say he had simply been driven by romanticism and exoticism. This wanderer’s spirit seemed to cling to him throughout his life. As far as Sanzō knew, Uncle had always seemed to be constantly changing residences or traveling. Sanzō had to keenly feel at times that this predilection for wandering had been passed down to him in great measure. However, the economic aspect of Uncle’s life had long been a mystery to him.

Uncle had once published a book titled *The Fate of China’s Division*. But there was no way royalties would come from such an unpopular book. Much later—this being during Uncle’s final years—when Sanzō learned that Uncle had been economically dependent almost entirely on the aid of others (friends, younger brothers, and disciples), he first directed his condemnation toward this point in his heart. He thought it rather unimpressive that someone who couldn’t even manage a proper life on his own would idly criticize others. In retrospect, many of these criticisms seemed to have arisen from his own reflexive repulsion toward a type of spirit resembling himself. In any case, he was trying to direct a spiteful critical eye toward each and every one of these spiritual characteristics of his uncle—the very traits he was said to resemble. It was indeed a form of self-loathing. During a certain period in his high school years, his efforts were devoted to overcoming several detestable traits common to both his uncle’s spirit and his own. Despite the fact that his intention was not unjust, his view of his uncle at the time remained both inadequate and, it seems, mistaken. In other words, he could not fully comprehend that his uncle’s eccentric words and deeds—which were as comical and irritating to Sanzō in his youth—were, to the uncle himself, born half a century earlier, equally natural and pure. Uncle was, so to speak, a hybrid spirit of old-fashioned Confucian scholar temperament and fervent nationalist zeal—one of the last purest people of this type, as far as he knew, whose shadow was gradually fading even from the Orient. At that time, he could only grasp this conceptually—that is, only halfway.

II

In February of that year during his high school's memorial festival season，a postcard arrived from Uncle at Sanzō's boarding house in Hongō．It was sent from rural areas along the Tone River．“Since I'll be staying here awhile，why not come play shogi between Saturday and Sunday？I'll treat you to chicken or something，”it read．This was Sanzō's final year of high school．Just before this exchange，he had been playing association football at school when kicked in the face，leaving his entire head bandaged and requiring hospital visits．

The incident itself proved absurd—attempting to head an incoming ball，he'd lowered his head only for another player's foot targeting that same ball to violently strike his eye area from below．His glasses shattered completely．Behind eyelids that snapped shut instinctively，crimson-black vortices whirled furiously．Hit！he thought．Worrying eye movement might cause further injury，he cautiously tried opening one lid slit．Thick blood sealed it shut，a single drop plopping groundward when he shifted．

Supported by two friends，he rushed to university hospital．The glass had only cut around his eye—no fragments penetrated—requiring just stitches and fortnightly checkups．Seizing this opportunity，he replied，“Unfortunately injured—can't come．”

Facing Uncle always felt like confronting his own aged reflection．Each mannerism disgusted him；even familiar tantrums（earning Uncle the nickname “Rowdy” among nieces/nephews）still inspired residual dread．Worse remained their shogi matches—Uncle being one-and-a-half stones stronger yet delighting in bullying weaker opponents，never suggesting conclusion．

Uncle's return postcard advised，“Disaster strikes unpredictably—cultivate unshakable preparedness．”Thereafter Sanzō forgot about him for over a month．

Then mid-March brought another roughly scrawled postcard：“Wish visit soon—convenient？”

“The university entrance exams will end in four or five days,” he wrote in reply, “so it would be more convenient after that.” However, about three days later—on one of the exam days—after finishing that day’s test and sitting at his desk in his boarding house, Sanzō heard the maid slide open the fusuma door as Uncle entered behind her carrying an old-fashioned large basket.

“I’m going to the mountains now,” Uncle abruptly declared.

Sanzō couldn’t make sense of it at all. Likely, Uncle had mistakenly believed he’d already informed him via letter beforehand. Upon inquiry, it turned out he intended to seclude himself at Mount Ōyama in Sagami Province—to stay with a certain Shinto priest there and convalesce from his illness.

Uncle had suffered occasional intestinal hemorrhages for two or three years prior. Though over seventy, he’d endured this through sheer willpower alone, never consulting a doctor. The hemorrhaging had reportedly worsened recently.

It was clear that retreating to the inconvenient mountains would only aggravate his weakened condition, but given how unpredictably irritable Uncle had become by then, Sanzō could do nothing but remain silent.

“Besides,” Uncle added, “I’ve already sent my luggage ahead.”

As they discussed this, Uncle noticed the scar on Sanzō’s right eyelid and—seeming to finally recall his injury—asked about its condition.

Without properly listening to the response, he announced, “I’m going to the barber now.”

“I saw one on my way here,” he added, already moving toward the door.

Indeed, his beard—white strands yellowed with age—had grown wild. Though not thinning overall, his hair hung long and disheveled above both ears. Beneath eyebrows straight as arrows—those markers of longevity—sank large, sunken eyes.

Sanzō had always found those eyes beautiful.

This uncle and the next eldest—the hermit-like one with his warrior’s topknot and beard—possessed eyes that differed in character yet shared a virginal purity forever clear.

One pair belonged to a man perpetually envisioning unrealized dreams; the other to one who’d settled into being part of nature itself.

Whenever he saw these two uncles side by side, Sanzō would remember Balzac’s *Cousin Pons*.
Of course, the elder uncle had a more fiery temperament than Pons, and the younger uncle possessed even more Eastern resignation than Schmucke—though.

Uncle hurriedly scrambled down the stairs. When he followed him, Uncle had already slipped into the boarding house’s geta and gone out, and the landlady and maid at the front desk were laughing.

When Uncle returned about an hour later, he had been completely cleaned up. Although the front of his kimono was not properly closed, his hakama was neatly tied, and his straight nose bridge and clearly opened eyes made him appear as an elegant old man. The skin of his face, freshly washed, appeared to glow yellow without any blemishes typical of the elderly. The two sat back down beside the hibachi and talked for a while. Their relatives’ gossip. About the genius young shogi player who had come from China around that time. About newspaper shogi. About Japanese Chinese poetry scholars. About the political situation in China. During their discussion, when the topic of communism happened to come up, Uncle suddenly declared, “Have someone borrow the original text of *Das Kapital* for me.”

“Here we go again,” he thought. Such grandiose declarations of an Eastern stalwart, devoid of any concrete action, always infuriated him.

“What—if Marx had just written in proper German, even I could understand it,” Uncle added, perhaps having noticed his expression.

He could do nothing but silently write characters in the ashes with fire tongs, inwardly praying that Uncle would soon bring this conversation to an end.

In the midst of this, Uncle suddenly said with an air of abrupt realization, “Buy me an umbrella.”

“Is it raining?” he asked while sliding open the shoji to look outside. “It’s not raining now,” Uncle said, “but I need it regardless.”

Then, taking out a fifty-sen silver coin from his purse and declaring that since he’d seen a fifty-sen snake-eye umbrella somewhere and wanted one of those brought back, he handed it to Sanzō—who was making a strange face.

Sanzō called the maid and, taking two fifty-sen silver coins from his own wallet, quietly added them before asking her to go buy it.

The maid promptly went out to the front and soon returned with a slender blue snake-eye umbrella.
Uncle abruptly opened it in the narrow four-and-a-half-mat room and remarked, “Indeed, things in Tokyo have become cheap lately.”

Before long, Uncle declared he would be leaving for Mount Ōyama.
Just as he nearly asked, “What time is your train?” he suddenly remembered that Uncle was a man who never checked train schedules.
Uncle had never carried a watch, no matter what major journey he undertook.

He began changing into his uniform, intending to see Uncle off to Tokyo Station.
Uncle couldn’t wait. Grabbing that large basket, he stepped out of the room and hurried down the stairs.
Then, seeming to realize he had forgotten the snake-eye umbrella from earlier, a voice called up from downstairs: “Mr. Sanzō! The umbrella! The umbrella!”
“The umbrella! The umbrella!” he shouted.
He froze.
Uncle had never once used “-san”—
Uncle had never addressed him with “-san” before.
He had always called him bluntly as “Sanzō”—no honorifics, just the bare name.
He—startled less by perceiving Uncle’s waning vigor in this shift than by sensing an unease that Uncle’s mental state might be growing abnormal—descended the stairs with the umbrella.

When they stepped outside, Uncle hailed an en-taku. “I’m taking the luggage left at Bunkyūdō anyway,” he said in an explanatory tone. When the car stopped at Bunkyūdō’s back entrance with its Chinese-style door, a shop employee brought out one tightly bound trunk and loaded it into the vehicle.

As the car approached Tokyo Station, Uncle said something rapidly to him.
—Uncle spoke in an extremely rapid mumble that was hard to catch, and moreover detested being asked to repeat himself.
—At that moment too, Sanzō—unable to properly grasp his uncle’s words—pretended not to have heard and looked back at the old man’s face.
Uncle, appearing impatient, now held up his right hand with a single index finger and his left hand with index and middle fingers pressed together.
This Zen riddle-like gesture made even less sense to Sanzō, but he nodded meaninglessly all the same.
Uncle finally made a satisfied face and turned his eyes to the glass window outside.
At the station while having the porter carry the luggage, Sanzō suddenly noticed Uncle paying the driver one yen and twenty sen—indeed, it was one yen and twenty sen—without any inquiry.
Sanzō was shocked.
(At that time in Shōwa 5 [1930], en-taku fares within the city were fixed at fifty sen.) He finally understood what those fingers had meant earlier.
The single finger on the right was one yen—Uncle had reasoned that since it was called an en-taku (“round taxi”), one yen must be the base fare—and the two fingers on the left were twenty sen.
He could no longer intervene now, so he watched Uncle’s actions with a smile.
That face of Uncle’s—wearing an expression of utter satisfaction that seemed to declare he needed no input from Sanzō to understand this metropolis’s transportation customs—
Perhaps Uncle had seen somewhere a notice stating “twenty sen extra per person.”

About a month later, a letter arrived from Ōyama.
It noted that Uncle’s physical condition was worsening further and that he was experiencing intestinal hemorrhaging multiple times a day.
Yet phrases like “near death” or “approaching demise” left Sanzō with an abstract sense of unreality, while paradoxically making him optimistic about Uncle’s condition precisely because such claims were being voiced. Moreover, the letter’s tone—which relentlessly berated the inn staff’s poor treatment—suggested Uncle’s vigor remained undiminished, so Sanzō paid little heed to this report.
However, when another half-month passed and he received a postcard tersely stating that since his illness could not be nursed in the mountains, Uncle wished to go to Osaka—where Sanzō’s cousin (Uncle’s niece) lived—but now found his body nearly immobile and thus wanted escorting there as “an old man’s final request,” pleading for someone to fetch him from Ōyama immediately, Sanzō was utterly confounded.
Was it truly permissible to transport such an invalid all the way to Osaka?
And why would Uncle suddenly resolve to go there?
True, this Osaka cousin had been under Uncle’s care since childhood, and she herself had a nurturing disposition—but this was her husband’s household, after all.
What’s more, Uncle had persistently derided that niece’s husband as a fool (meaning, in this context, one unversed in Chinese classics).
For him to insist on going to that man’s home now—
“This is odd,” Sanzō thought.
Even he, unalarmed by the previous letter, now perceived in Uncle’s Osaka resolve an irrefutable sign of his critical state, leaving him thoroughly unsettled.
Yet even so, he concluded it was absolutely unthinkable to let Uncle travel that far.
If convalescence was needed, why not stay with his own brother—Sanzō’s other uncle—right here in Senzoku?
Sanzō promptly took the postcard to Senzoku.
Senzoku Uncle shared his view.
To persuade Uncle to come instead, Senzoku Uncle went to Mount Ōyama the next morning.
But by afternoon, he returned empty-handed.
Reportedly, Uncle absolutely insisted—without logic—on going to Osaka and would not be swayed.
Senzoku Uncle said, “Once he’s set on it, there’s no choice,” and provided Sanzō with travel funds for Osaka.

The next day, Sanzō went to Mount Ōyama via the Odakyu line.
The priest’s house was immediately found.
When he was shown up to the second floor, Uncle had risen on a futon in the center of the tatami room and was sitting there leaning against a worn-out armrest.
When Uncle saw Sanzō, he made an extremely—the kind he rarely showed—happy-looking face.
Somehow, that made Sanzō uneasy.
The luggage had been completely prepared.
When it came time to depart, he announced that a single banknote—along with the envelope containing it—had gone missing.
Uncle losing things was nothing out of the ordinary.
At that time too, the envelope immediately turned up under a stack of newspapers in the corner of the room.
But it was half-torn and coming apart, inside lay only half of a ten-yen banknote—also torn.
It was clear that Uncle himself had torn it up and discarded it, mistaking it for scrap paper.
The other half, however, did not turn up no matter how much they searched.
Uncle tried to abandon the search, but the priest’s family members—who had begun helping look upon hearing this—refused to consent.
The priest’s wife declared that if they found it and pieced it together, it would still be perfectly usable—then sent the children searching all the way to the garbage dump behind the house and the bamboo thicket beside it.
“As if it would be found.
“Nonsense.” Uncle sneered, making no effort to hide his displeasure as he criticized their frantic search like it was someone else’s affair.
Due to irritation at his own blunder, further exacerbated by their exaggerated commotion that seemed to magnify his mistake, and resentment toward their complete failure to comprehend his indifference toward money, Uncle left the house in thoroughly foul spirits.
The journey to the foothills marked Sanzō’s first experience with a mountain palanquin.
Two men around thirty, who didn’t look particularly strong—one in front and one behind—each holding a staff, descended the stone steps with difficulty, occasionally switching shoulders as they went.
Sanzō walked behind them.

Once they had finished descending, they rode a rickshaw this time. When they arrived at Matsuda Station, evening had already fallen.

While waiting for the next down train in Matsuda Station’s waiting room, Uncle began spouting various incomprehensible things that wore Sanzō down. At that moment—unusually—Uncle had a travel guide with him (likely placed in the luggage by the considerate shrine priest), and while calculating times with it, declared: “If we leave now, we’ll reach Osaka at ten tomorrow.” Yet when Sanzō checked, it was unmistakably seven o’clock. At this, Uncle grew furious and barked: “Look properly!” No matter how he looked, it remained unchanged—Uncle had been reading the wrong timetable line. Now somewhat irritated himself, Sanzō drew a clear red line explaining the error. Uncle then turned away sullenly without reply, like a petulant child. After a while, he next demanded summer oranges be bought. Those Sanzō brought back tasted sour. “Don’t even know how to pick summer oranges,” Uncle grumbled with uncharacteristic earnestness, yet kept munching them noisily anyway. He offered some to Sanzō too. When Sanzō—who disliked tartness—said they needed sugar, Uncle retorted: “Such extravagance! What’s to be done with—” before lapsing into his usual gripe: “Youth these days…” Normally he restrained such remarks knowing they’d invite mockery, but illness had stripped away such restraint. Sanzō too grew angry, maintaining stubborn silence with bitter clarity—the yellowish-white citrus segments resting uneaten on his palm throughout.

Yet when Sanzō saw Uncle—who had finally passed through the ticket gate and settled on an open-air platform bench, leaning against a trunk with a blanket spread beneath him—(the early summer sky, having just sunk below the horizon, held an eerily pale brightness)—he was made to feel with crystalline clarity that his uncle’s death drew near.
The well-shaped round skull could be clearly imagined beneath the yellowish thin skin, his sunken eyes quietly closed, the area below his cheekbones sharply sunken, the yellowed tips of his white beard having grown considerably.
And with his right hand neatly placed on his hakama-covered knee and his left hand thrust into his chest from the front—somewhere in the figure of Uncle sitting there as if asleep—Sanzō felt as though a quiet, dark aura clung about him.
Yet this premonition of death neither panicked Sanzō nor stirred any final attachment toward his uncle.
With a strangely calm and clear state of mind, he stared at his uncle’s face floating in the faintly white twilight—at the mysterious, quiet shadow lingering upon it, impossible to dispel.
Resisting that shadow was utterly impossible.
It was an unalterable fact that could not be changed—he felt this oppressive sensation bearing down on him, somehow.

Inside the train car, they had secured seats without much trouble, though unfortunately near the restroom.
Uncle was terribly bothered by this and would mercilessly berate other passengers whenever they left that door open.
Sanzō spread out a blanket and inflated an air pillow, arranging them so Uncle could rest comfortably.
Uncle leaned his back against the window glass, positioned the pillow, stretched out his legs, and closed his eyes.
Under the tea-colored light of the train lamps, that peculiar “aura” had been completely stripped from Uncle’s face.
Yet through the creasing patterns of wrinkles on his gaunt face and the occasional twitching of muscles, it became clear that even in this shallow sleep Uncle was suppressing pain—imparting a restless unease to Sanzō sitting across from him.
While gazing at his uncle’s pained sleeping face, however, he found himself instead recalling Tonan’s past absurd blunders and nonsensical missteps.
The story of how Uncle went to a public bathhouse, saw “Women’s Bath” written there, concluded there was no men’s bath, and returned home.
The story of how Uncle went to a cheap candy store and bought five yen worth of caramels for Sanzō’s sister.
He recalled these things as the train clattered and swayed around him.
That sister of Sanzō’s had died two years earlier at age four.
Greatly saddened by this loss, Uncle had composed the following poem at that time.

毎我出門挽吾衣 翁々此去復何時

Today Mutsu Child departs through the gate—For ten thousand years she shall never return.

Mutsumiko was the name of that younger sister.
Sanzō could not discern the quality of Chinese poetry.
Thus he could remember almost none of his uncle’s poems, but now he suddenly recalled one that went like this:
Had its joking, self-mocking tone caught his attention?

Bad poetry, poor penmanship—deceiving oneself and others;
Through countless kalpas one cannot escape a serpentine form.

While repeating the words under his breath, Sanzō found himself overcome by an unpleasant chill. For reasons unknown to him, only the phrase "cannot escape a serpentine form"—utterly divorced from the poem's overall meaning—peculiarly unsettled Sanzō. It was not from any premonition that he himself might also end up like this uncle—living a life without accomplishment, forced to conclude in self-derision. It was an even more unfathomable, uncanny unpleasantness. Gazing at Uncle—eyes still closed, being continuously jostled—under the dim train lights, he felt that what was said as a joke in this world would never remain a joke in another. (Despite this, he ordinarily never believed in the existence of other worlds.) Yet now, even the phrase "serpentine form" from Uncle's poem—the very characters of those words—seemed to come alive, twisting and writhing as they crawled through the air of the train compartment until he could almost feel them.

The next morning, inside the taxi they had taken from Osaka Station—his cousin’s house was in Yao—Sanzō quietly peered into his own pouch.
The previous evening at Matsuda Station, when buying tickets, Uncle had told him, "Cover it for me for now," but clearly having completely forgotten about the money Sanzō had advanced, he still hadn’t said a word about it.
As the taxi rocked through the cluttered streets of Osaka, he resigned himself to having to pay this fare too.
In that case, the money received from Senzoku Uncle would no longer cover the return train fare.
It was something that could be settled by borrowing from his cousin anyway, but he couldn’t help being appalled by how forgetful Uncle had become lately.
Moreover, if he were to even jokingly mention anything that sounded like pressing for repayment, it would cause a huge uproar—so Sanzō thought he’d truly be in for it.

As the car gradually entered what seemed like the outskirts, Uncle suddenly took out his wallet and pulled out a five-yen bill.
Clearly, he intended to pay himself this time.
Sanzō felt somewhat relieved, but found it strange that his uncle still hadn’t recalled the previous evening’s train fare despite having taken out his wallet.
Before long, the car entered Yao Town, and after a short while, Uncle had it stopped there, saying, “This seems to be the place—I’ll get out and check.”
Sanzō was here for the first time, and as it was only Uncle’s second visit too, they couldn’t be certain.
Leaving Sanzō in the car, Uncle got out alone and, with a bill still pinched between his right index and middle fingers, walked with unsteady steps into a side street about eighteen meters back from the main road.
Upon reading the nameplate on the lattice door at the end of the path, he called out in a surprisingly loud voice for someone in his condition: “Ah, here it is.”
“Here,” he said, turning toward him and waving him over.
Then just like that—with the bill still pinched between his fingers—he opened the lattice door and slipped inside.
There was nothing to be done.
With a wry smile, Sanzō paid yet another taxi fare of something over four yen.

When he had delivered Uncle, Sanzō felt as if he had set down a burden and immediately set off alone to Kyoto for leisure.
In Kyoto was a high school friend who had entered Kyoto University that spring.
After staying at this friend’s boarding house for two days of amusement and returning to his cousin’s home in Yao, the cousin who came to the entrance informed him in hushed tones.
"He’s furious you slipped away without a word—go make proper apologies at once," she whispered.
She added that though Uncle had been energetic enough yesterday to devour three portions of sea bream sashimi alone, this had led to repeated bouts of vomiting and what seemed like intestinal bleeding through the evening.
"The worst part is he won’t let any doctor near him—I’ve been at my wit’s end," she said.

When he ascended to the second floor，there indeed was Uncle—turning his face from within the large pillow to fix him with a silent，piercing glare．Then suddenly，he ordered，“Clean up！” When he moved to take the room broom hanging in the corner of the tatami room，Tonan declared that first he must sweep starting from the bed where he lay．With a small palm-fiber hand broom for the futon，then with the room broom for that room and the next，Sanzō was ultimately made to thoroughly clean the entire second floor．When this was done，Uncle seemed considerably satisfied，but even so，he still said things like，“I can’t tell whether you came to escort a patient or just for your own amusement．” That evening，Sanzō hurriedly returned to Tokyo．

III

After about two weeks, Uncle returned to Tokyo, sent by his niece’s husband from Yao.
It was almost incomprehensible why he had gone to Osaka.
Uncle had likely already become aware of his approaching death.
And if he was to die regardless, he must have still wanted to die in Tokyo, where he was born.
When Sanzō received the notice by telephone and immediately went to the Red Cross Hospital in Takagimachi, Uncle appeared to have been waiting impatiently for him.
Uncle, who had never married or started a family in his lifetime, appeared to love Sanzō most particularly among all his many nieces and nephews.
In particular, he seemed to trust his relatively good school grades.
When Sanzō was still in his second year of middle school, he and his cousin Keikichi—also a second-year student at the time—once discussed the schools they would attend in the future in front of their Uncle.
The two of them were talking about how they planned to advance from the fourth year of middle school to high school when Uncle, who had been listening, interjected from the side, “Sanzō might make it in from the fourth year, but someone like Keikichi? Absolutely hopeless.”
Even as a child, Sanzō found Uncle’s callous flippancy unforgivable. He felt such “awkwardness” and “shame”—as though he himself had humiliated Keikichi—that for a time, he could scarcely lift his face.
Over two years later, when Keikichi—who had been told he was hopeless—entered high school from the fourth year alongside Sanzō, Sanzō still stubbornly remembered his uncle’s past rudeness and felt a joy akin to having exacted revenge against it.

In the Red Cross Hospital room were Senzoku Uncle and Shibuya Uncle (the latter being positioned between the aforementioned Bearded Uncle and Senzoku Uncle; at that time, Sanzō’s father—the seventh of ten siblings—was in distant Dalian). Of course, there were also attendants and nurses. When Sanzō entered, Uncle turned his sleeping face toward him and immediately asked about the Far Eastern Championship Games being held at Jingu Gaien around that time. When confirming through Sanzō’s own words that China remained scoreless in track and field events, he muttered with self-satisfied conviction, “Even in matters like this, the Chinese must be thoroughly disciplined.” Then he made Sanzō read aloud the section of that day’s newspaper about the Chinese political situation and listened intently. Uncle harbored such extreme preferences toward people that he wouldn’t even permit those he disliked to read newspapers.

The next report Sanzō received concerning his uncle was that they had finally informed Tonan Sensei himself of his stomach cancer being beyond hope of recovery—though this had been known for some time. When doctors consulted the relatives about whether to disclose this at the patient’s insistence, they had unanimously answered that given Tonan’s usual temperament, plainly stating the truth would allow him to achieve a composed and dignified passing. Since there was no saving him regardless, they had moved him from the hospital to Senzoku Uncle’s house.
Moreover, a letter from one relative added: “When told there was no hope of recovery, Uncle remained utterly composed, not a flicker of change in his expression.”
Sanzō felt somewhat exasperated by this heroic epitaph-like phrasing, but he nevertheless went immediately to Senzoku Uncle’s house.
There, he resolved to stay and keep vigil until the end.

As the illness progressed, his likes and dislikes toward people grew increasingly severe, and only four or five people besides Sanzō were permitted to remain by his side.
Even to those four or five people, Uncle continued to constantly voice his complaints.
Sanzō’s aunt—Tonan Sensei’s sister—who had come all the way from the countryside to visit him, was not even permitted into the sickroom due to some displeasing matter.
What Sanzō found most unbearable was his Uncle’s berating of the nurses.
The nurses could not make out Uncle’s low, rapid speech.
Uncle berated them as women who would not listen at all.
At times, facing Sanzō in front of the nurses, he would shout, “Hit the nurses!
“It’s fine if you hit them!” he shouted with a look of barely contained fury, forcing out a hoarse, cracked voice.

The sight of Uncle—his unresponsive body straining to rise slightly from the pillow, eyes blazing as he wrenched curses from his dwindling strength—stood utterly pitiful. At such moments, the first nurse—she who had endured two days before retreating—would turn away weeping, while the second nurse sulked and fixed her gaze beyond the window. Overcome by helpless anguish, Sanzō could find no means to intervene.

The patient’s pain appeared to be excruciatingly severe. Not a single morsel of food would pass through his throat. “I want to eat tempura,” Uncle said. “Where should we get it?” When asked, he said, “Hashizen.” One of the relatives hurried to Shimbashi and bought it. However, after eating just a morsel the size of a fingertip, he immediately vomited it up. For nearly three full weeks, he could consume nothing but water—it was as though he had been cast alive into the realm of hungry ghosts. In his usual state, Uncle tried to endure it by closing his eyes and staying still. At times, from the gaps in his barely sustained endurance, a faint moan would escape. Deep, pained wrinkles gathered around his tightly shut eyes, his mouth clamped shut, unable to keep still as his head shifted restlessly within the large pillow. Not even a trace of flesh remained on his body. Because his consciousness remained clear, his pain was all the more intense. He stiffened the sinew-covered fingers of both hands and, with those fingertips, pressed against the knobby throat bone and sternum protruding from his nightclothes’ collar, trembling minutely all the while. As he watched that chest area rise and fall weakly with each breath, Sanzō felt as though his uncle’s physical pain were enveloping him too. In the end, Uncle said to kill him with medicine. The doctor said he couldn’t do that. However, he added that it would be permissible to keep him in a medicated sleep until death to alleviate the pain. In the end, that method was adopted.

Just before he was finally to take that medicine, Sanzō was summoned by his uncle.
By his side were a man who was Uncle’s cousin and an elderly man who had been both his friend and disciple for fifty years.
Supported by others, Uncle finally managed to sit up on the futon. He had them pile the bedding high on three sides and leaned against it, barely propping up his body.
Uncle called each of the three people beside him by name, had them come to the bedside, and while grasping their hands, bid them farewell.
It was somewhat strange that Uncle would shake hands, but likely this was simply the most natural way for him to express affection in that moment.
Sanzō watched the other two exchange handshakes with surprise tinged by bewilderment.
Finally he was called.
As he approached, Uncle placed his pale slender hand into Sanzō’s grasp and said in a voice that broke intermittently, “I caused you much trouble.”
Sanzō raised his eyes to look at his uncle’s face.
There he met Uncle’s gaze quietly fixed upon him.
Struck by the quiet beauty in those eyes, he unconsciously tightened his grip on Uncle’s hand.
A strange emotion shuddered through his body.

After that, Uncle drank the medicine and soon fell asleep.
Sanzō stayed by his uncle’s side all that night, keeping watch over him as he continued to sleep.
When the momentary emotion passed, he began to recall his earlier actions—and felt somewhat embarrassingly self-conscious at having been moved by them.
He resented this, and as a reaction, now resolved to steel himself to maintain an utterly dispassionate observation of Uncle’s death.
They had covered the lamp with a blue cloth, so the room sank into light like that of the ocean floor.
In the midst of that faint gloom, Uncle’s well-composed sleeping face loomed dimly, no longer showing any trace of the violent agony that had gripped him moments before.
While gazing sideways at his sleeping face, he recalled and examined various things—his uncle’s life, their interactions, and the circumstances surrounding his illness.
Suddenly, a strange thought arose within him.
While Uncle sleeps here beside me, I’ll go through each of his traits one by one and spitefully scrutinize them.
To test how objective a perspective he could maintain amidst such emotionally volatile surroundings—this was the thought that arose within him.
In certain periods of youth, one adopts a completely immature mental mimicry that later brings nothing but mortification.
This too was clearly one such instance. For that childish attempt, he took out a portable pocket diary and, under the dim light, haltingly began writing something like the following memorandum.
As he continued documenting, it became less an account of Uncle’s traits and more a desultory analysis of their spiritual similarities.

IV

(I) His will—(Sanzō wrote first.)

When it came to directions commanded by the discipline under which he had been trained and cultivated, he could exert absolute, blind effort.
Toward anything else, he made no volitional effort whatsoever.
At first glance, his will appeared remarkably steadfast; however, its application remained thoroughly conservative, never being directed toward the exploration of unknown mental frontiers.

(II) His Emotions

Logical reasoning was only somewhat demonstrated in the process of academic understanding (though in truth even that proved quite a leap), and remained entirely absent from his daily life. Motives for action all originated from emotion. He was not at all rational. The intensity of his irrational emotions would at times present a stubbornly grotesque visage—a case of putting the cart before the horse. His stubbornness was the source of this. Yet at times, it could also display a pure, "disinterested" beauty akin to that of a child.

Despite his firm conviction in himself and his own cultivation, precisely because he knew there existed many scholarly worlds beyond his own, he would often attempt—particularly when before young people—to demonstrate an understanding of those realms.
In many cases, this proved a futile effort—at times verging on the comical. Moreover, these efforts to comprehend other worlds remained confined solely to intellectual, conceptual, and academic spheres, never extending to emotionally distinct realms or human domains of differing character.
This striving to exhibit understanding—this anxiety about not being left behind by the new era—stood as the most glaring weakness manifesting on his surface.

(Having written this far, Sanzō began to realize how the emotions perpetually clinging to him—his hatred for what lay within himself and his yearning for what he lacked—profoundly colored his perception of his uncle.)
He felt there was some kind of "lack" within him.
Detesting this intensely, he yearned powerfully for all things that exuded richness (sharpness being better absent in such cases).
This yearning for richness must have recoiled violently when encountering the vulture-like "sharp lack" found within Uncle himself—in that man’s very being, in each word and deed.
He continued writing while thinking such things.)

(III) Capriciousness

His emotions and will—though it couldn’t be said they were entirely Confucian ethics (—a blend of that Confucian morality and his own intensely self-centered emotions, which slightly overstepped their bounds—) were remarkably intense in quality yet utterly lacking in temporal endurance. They were capricious.

This owed much to the scholarly nimbleness he had cultivated since childhood.
The reason he ultimately failed to leave behind any substantial work throughout his life lay in this.
By no means was he unfortunate or anything of the sort.
His unreasoning overconfidence in his own talent verged on the comical.
At times, it could even be taken as a pretense born of a loser’s stubborn pride.
Before young people, while striving to demonstrate an understanding of the new era, yet in the utter obstinacy of his perspectives, he became the very image of Don Quixote—a tragic figure indeed.
Moreover, the fact that he excelled abnormally in memory and interpretative thinking—that is, Eastern intuition—while maintaining until the end a temperament of self-willed yet disinterested purity, and that the ferocity of his spirit far surpassed ordinary people, rendered him all the more tragic.
It was a museum specimen of an excellent spiritual archetype from before the Orient had yet suffered modernity’s encroachments.…………

(While repeating such criticisms in his mind, Sanzō could not help but realize that his own perspective—the very way he was thinking—was far too tepidly old-fashioned.)
To pity (or perhaps envy) Uncle’s blind faith in a single path would simultaneously amount to confessing his own vacillating way of life—wouldn’t it?
When he considered it, he himself—like Uncle—while harboring a premonition of the new era’s spirit, would ultimately become a comical existence unable to take a single step beyond old-era ideologies—wouldn’t he?
(However, compared to Uncle, it was merely a half-century shift in eras.) Wouldn’t this mean that his cousin’s prophecy—that he would become like Uncle—was coming true?…………)

He grew somewhat annoyed and lost the will to continue writing; intending now to create something like a table, he drew a horizontal line across the middle of his diary notebook, wrote “Inherited from Uncle” above it, and “Points Contrary to Uncle” below.
And then, he attempted to write down there the similarities and differences between Uncle and himself.

As for what he had inherited from Uncle, Sanzō thought, first and foremost could be listed: those non-logical tendencies, capriciousness, and an idealistic temperament detached from reality. The fact that he seemed to adopt a penetrating perspective yet was in truth an overly trusting soft touch would likely be another such trait. Sanzō was sometimes told by others that he had a good memory; this too might have been something inherited from Uncle. Physically speaking, he regretted not resembling Uncle’s clearly masculine features; however, the crown of his head—perfectly rounded (though everyone’s head is generally round, they often surprisingly have bumps, flat tops, or sheer drops at the back)—was indeed similar. But what temperament did he share most with Uncle? Perhaps the fact that both of them loved small animals—particularly cats—was it, Sanzō realized. A single scene now floated before Sanzō’s eyes. It was a summer evening, and he was about a third grader in elementary school. In the gradually darkening corner of the garden, he dug at the earth with a small shovel while Uncle whittled white wood with a knife beside him. The calico cat they both dearly loved had apparently eaten something like rodent poison somewhere; that morning, when it returned from outside, it vomited a yellow mass and soon died. The two of them were making that grave. When the soil was dug, they buried the cat’s corpse, carefully covered it with earth, and Uncle erected a white wooden marker atop it. Listening to the whirring sound of a mosquito swarm in the sky yellow with lingering dusk, Sanzō squatted before it and pressed his hands together in prayer. Uncle stood behind him, silently watching while brushing the dirt from his hands.

(V)

Uncle continued sleeping through the entire night.
Around noon the next day, he abruptly opened his eyes but appeared unable to recognize anything.
After rolling his eyes—which had been staring fixedly at the sky—in a full circle, he immediately closed his eyelids again.
And remaining as he was, breathing faintly, he continued to sleep.

Around eight o'clock that evening, as Sanzō bathed, the clattering sound of four or five pairs of hurried slippers echoed from the dining room—Senzoku Uncle's house being half-Western in style—through the hallway outside toward Uncle's sickroom.
He thought “Hah!” but reasoned Uncle would remain asleep regardless; after washing himself, he stepped into the hallway.
Entering the sickroom where Uncle lay centered in his daytime posture, Sanzō found the four relatives who had crowded the house since morning and its family members mostly silent with bowed heads.
Though he slid open the shoji screen and entered, none turned.
He joined their circle, took a seat, and gazed at Uncle’s face.
The faint breathing had ceased.
He watched awhile.
Yet no emotion stirred.
Suddenly from beside him came a short high-pitched cry like laughter—leaving him isolated.
It came from this household’s daughter who had graduated girls’ school two or three years prior.
She remained deeply bowed behind her handkerchief-muffled face, shoulders quivering in minute tremors.
Sanzō remembered how three days earlier this cousin had wept after being harshly scolded by Uncle over improper water administration.

The coffin arrived the next morning.
By then, Uncle's body had been fully changed into white burial robes.
Though naturally small in stature, Uncle lying there in his death garments looked exactly like a child.
When Senzoku Uncle lifted the upper half of that diminutive form while the nurse supported its lower portion to place it in the plain wooden coffin, Sanzō felt an acutely painful pang at the thought of this withered little uncle now having to enter the coffin utterly alone.
It was a feeling that could only be called pitiful.
As he watched Uncle lying small and still among the tiny pillows, that emaciated white body gradually seemed to grow transparent before his eyes—muscles and viscera vanishing entirely, replaced by an inexpressible loneliness and sorrow swelling to fill the hollow space within.
Though perhaps respected, this uncle who had lived a life of solitary wandering without ever being truly loved by anyone now seemed to pour all his lifetime's loneliness and desolation into that coffin until it pressed urgently against Sanzō's very being.
The figure of Uncle burying the cat with him long ago and last night's hoarse voice saying "I caused you much trouble" before taking medicine flashed through Sanzō's mind like fleeting shadows.
Suddenly something hot surged upward; before he could raise his hands in haste, a single large teardrop fell.
Startled at himself and ashamed of being seen by others, he scrubbed vigorously at his face with his knuckles.
Yet despite all wiping, the tears refused to stop.
Furious at his own weakness, he kept his head lowered as he left through the corridor and stepped down into the garden wearing his geta.
It was mid-June, and in one corner tall clusters of red and white sweet peas bloomed beautifully.
Standing before the flowers, Sanzō waited for his tears to dry.

VI

According to the postscript by Bearded Uncle appended to the end of Uncle’s posthumous manuscripts, the deceased Uncle was “of stubborn integrity, skilled in reproach, and unable to get along with others. Nor could others endure him because of this. Most viewed him as a madman. Finally took to calling himself Tonan Kyōfu (Madman of Tonan),” it states. Therefore, that collection of posthumous manuscripts was titled *Tonan Sango*. Faced with *Tonan Sango*, Sanzō kept hesitating over whether to take it to the library. (Bearded Uncle had instructed him to deposit these at the libraries of Imperial University and First Higher School.) When taking it to the library to offer the donation, would they ask about his relationship to the author? At that moment, would he be able to proudly declare, “This was written by my uncle”? It wasn’t about the book’s content having value or the author being famous or obscure—simply the act of “proudly carrying something my uncle wrote” felt somehow pushy and brazen, unbearable to Sanzō’s sensitive nature. Yet on the other hand, he also considered that if his uncle had been a renowned literary figure, he himself might have turned out to be the sort of shallow braggart who would proudly carry the manuscripts there. Sanzō was deeply torn. At any rate, he himself had noticed that these concerns were somewhat pathological. However, he did not consider these self-centered, vain feelings as something requiring apology toward his deceased uncle. However, he thought that the relatives and family members who had entrusted him with donating this book would harshly reproach him if they knew of these feelings.

But in the end, he decided to deposit it in the library. A feeling of atonement for having harbored almost no affection toward Uncle during his lifetime also played a small part. In truth, even now when he recalled matters concerning his uncle, they were mostly things that had been unkind to the old man. About a month before his death, Uncle had written something resembling a will in advance. “Do not hold a funeral. Do not erect a grave. Do not raise a monument.” (Do not hold a funeral. Do not bury in a grave. Do not erect a monument.) When this was published in the death notice after his death, “Do not bury” had been misprinted as “Do not be angry.” The will of Uncle—who had spent his life steeped in anxiety and resentment—had ironically ended up declaring, “Do not be angry.” What Sanzō recalled were mostly such spiteful things. What had changed slightly from one or two years prior was that only recently had he come to perceive within his own spiteful attitude toward Uncle at that time both “excessively childish and hasty self-reflection” and “the very paucity he had most detested.”

He decided to deposit *Tonan Sango* in university and high school libraries with a feeling of slight atonement. However, to prevent the waste of nerves, he thought of sending it via postal parcel. While thinking things like whether depositing it in libraries would bring any merit was highly doubtful, he began searching for kraft paper to prepare the parcel.

*

The aforementioned passage was written around the seventh year of Shōwa (1932), not as a work of fiction but as a personal record.
With the passage of ten years, however, the times changed and individuals matured.
To present-day Sanzō, the psychological reasons that had once made him hesitate to donate his uncle’s posthumous works to libraries now appeared as nothing but absurdly comical shame.
Ten years ago, he had genuinely believed he felt not the slightest love for his uncle.
How little humans know their own hearts—now he could only stand astonished at this truth.

Seven years after Uncle’s death, when the China Incident broke out, Sanzō first perused his uncle’s work *The Fate of China’s Division*.
This work begins with character assessments of Yuan Shikai and Sun Yat-sen, proceeds from insights into the Chinese national character to mock our nation’s misguided sympathy toward them—this book having been published in October 1912—then abruptly shifts to delineating the global situation of that time, particularly the momentum of Western powers’ aggression in East Asia: “Now the momentum for China’s partition has already formed and cannot be reversed.”
“How should our Japan respond to this?
Should we not participate in the partition at all?
Or should we advance to partake in it?” he posed. If accepting partition signified our nation’s developmental stagnation, then it would seem we must inevitably march alongside Western nations to contend for influence in the Central Plains.
“However,” he continued, “when viewed ultimately, this matter amounts to nothing but ‘Yellow races devouring and battling one another.’ Even were our Japan to follow subserviently behind White races, carving out two or three provinces to gain twenty or thirty thousand square ri of land and forty or fifty million people—how would this stem the Yellow races’ decline? How would it check the White races’ rampant advance?”
“In future years,” it states, “should we find ourselves utterly isolated—surveying the five continents without a single nation of our kind nor allies sharing lips and teeth or supporting each other’s wheels—merely grasping at trivial gains while earning undying infamy for a millennium, would this not be an unparalleled disgrace for Great Eastern men?”
Thus whether participating or abstaining from partition proved disadvantageous—was there then no strategy?
He declared there was.
Only one:
The fortification of Japan’s national power—this alone.
“Were I granted supreme decisiveness, strength, and ambition,” he wrote, “I would advance to reverse China’s partitioned fate.”
“To save four hundred million souls from fire and water—this alone.”
“Does not the Yamato people’s divine mission commence precisely thus?”
Considering that “the twentieth century’s greatest problem may indeed be Yellow-White racial conflict,” he proclaimed: “I hold an immense ideal—to expel White races from East Asia hereafter.”
“And should my virtue and power suffice to execute this,”
then Japan would be saved, and with it all Yellow races.
Thus Uncle scrutinized whether contemporary Japan across all sectors had laid foundations to amass such future might; lamented that despite His Sacred Majesty’s reign above, there were rulers but no true ministers; hurled scathing sarcasm at politics, diplomacy, and education—his specialties—and exhorted the entire nation to rise up for East Asia’s coming century.

Recalling that this work had been written twenty-one years before the China Incident—during an era when our nation’s population stood at fifty million and annual expenditures totaled seven hundred million—Sanzō was astonished at how its arguments had largely struck true. He thought he should have read it sooner. Perhaps it was the recoil from having felt excessive defiance toward his uncle in life that now led him to admire the man posthumously beyond his actual merits.

When the Greater East Asia War began and reports arrived of the Hawaii Naval Battle and Malay Offshore Naval Battle, what first rose in Sanzō’s mind was his uncle. Over a decade prior—concerning those remains now sunk deep beneath Kumano Nada where his uncle had become a vengeful spirit sworn to repel invaders. He recalled there being a posthumous waka expressing intent to transform into some shachi-like creature that would devour enemy warships; after ransacking the house he finally found it. On two sheets of damp-warped paper colored like pale birch bark lay inscribed—in brushstrokes too vigorous for a dying man’s hand—the following poems:

Do not bury my corpse in fields—cast it to the seafloor where Kuroshio’s waves churn.

What foes approach Kumano Bay? As a sea beast, I shall rise to subdue them!