Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

One day, as was his custom, Eurus wandered with a cheerful gait from forest to forest and mountain to mountain, letting his pale green outer robe flutter lightly behind him.
Whenever he appeared in his perfectly serene manner—wearing silver sandals, his charmingly beautiful curly hair adorned with laurel leaves—the nymphs wherever he went never failed to take notice.
Eurus, with his serene disposition, was treasured and cherished by all more than any of his four brothers.

Having finally extricated himself from the lively dancing circle of nymphs—who seemed utterly unacquainted with weariness—he descended a hill thick with olive trees in search of coolness, steadily crossed the field, and entered a valley.
It was truly cool and quiet there.
Between rocks and stones bloomed dream-like mosses and orchid flowers; from the thread-like flowing water drifted a refreshing fragrance; around the swaying watergrass roots, small fish with needle-like glints danced along joyfully.

Coral from the sea built a magnificent palace in the azure seabed, and at its center sat a tiny mermaid—her purple hair swaying softly—protected by countless pearl-like bubbles.

What beauty this was!
Eurus was completely astonished.
He who had never witnessed such a sight before walked unsteadily toward the water's surface, feeling as though he beheld a vision.

The valley that widened with every step had before one knew it become a basin where poplars, oaks, and cypresses grew thick as a sea at high tide, their canopies crowned with snow-white almond blossoms spilling forth like the spray of towering waves.

And when he discovered within the depths of those trees a being of such beauty that even Jupiter himself could not possibly have known of it, Eurus felt as though he could no longer breathe.

Upon blue grass grown like velvet stood an opal dais where sat a solitary maiden, encircled by roses and tulips leaning against each other in delight, while clever-looking deer, doves, and canaries waited quietly.

And on either side of the dais stood two old men with bodies so small they could perch upon a palm, wearing robes of crimson ground embroidered with gold thread and each holding a lotus flower in hand.
The air hung heavy with fragrance as though a million boxes of ambergris had been unsealed; upon the riverbed paved with agate and cat's eye stones grew thickets of silver reeds—and when water leaping over rocks cast up sprays of five colors, oh, what resonant music those reeds produced!

The Maiden—wearing a robe that appeared in every color depending on the sunlight's angle, as though embroidered solely with that beautiful powder adorning butterfly wings, her coiled hair bearing a bright red ladybug—eventually took up a lyre unlike any Eurus had ever seen.

As soon as the seven blue spiders spanning the strings began to pluck them, the two old men quietly swayed their lotus flowers left and right, and from the stamens of flowers blooming in profusion emerged incomparably adorable flower spirits, dancing as they appeared.

As the Maiden sang with full throat—her invisible downy hair aglow with gold—the leaves of all the trees and grasses throughout the forest added their undulations like small waves to her song.
The flowers danced.
The plants sang.
The invigorated flowing water leaped and bounded in time with the melody, enveloping the space between heaven and earth in seven hues with ceaseless mist.

All things existing within magically beautiful states—the Maiden’s voice rose clear with a power and charm that made bodies tremble.

Eurus became half-entranced.
And just as he abruptly tried to step into the dance's very center, the oak tree spirits—who until now had been peacefully humming—all at once began chanting: "Giwatsuku, giwatsuku, kattunro, kattunro-rowararara...", while from the depths of distant mist drifted faint

“Ha ha ha!”
“Hoh hoh hoh!”
As the voices intensified, the leaves of every tree in the forest surged toward him like waves, their pale undersides fluttering.

“Giwatsuku, giwatsuku, kattunro, kattunro…”

“Ha ha ha!”
“Hoh hoh hoh!”

Eurus, having completely forgotten he was a god, fled in great haste.
And yet, no matter how diligently he searched the next day in what should have been that very valley, he could not even find that beautiful stream again...

The boundless fantastical imaginations that had fermented through nearly every kind of legend and fairy tale to overflow into every corner of her life now gradually lost their whimsical vitality and strange radiance. The crowned kings and queens clutching miniature scepters, the hook-nosed magicians who once flew to the moon on broomsticks—all vanished without a footfall to some distant land.

And so she, having lost both the honor and pride of being an incomparably skilled teller of fascinating tales, was left behind in the complex entanglement of dreams and reality—a twelve-year-old child with a chaotic mind vaguely sensing some discord.

The dim light of dawn veiled in purple mist gradually brightened from unseen fringes until, just as the earth regained its earthy hues and grass its grassy tones, every object around her began appearing through "before one knew it." They began appearing before her with their own colors and shapes, just as they were.

The adult world that had once seemed to shine from a place far, far above was now right there before us—so close that try as we might not to look, we couldn’t help but see it.

Yet even among friends who had played together like frolicking kittens, various things she hadn't noticed before now caused their figures to flicker in and out of view with strange unfamiliarity.

She, who had been happily cherished, encouraged in righteousness, and raised amidst beautiful tales—utterly unacquainted with hesitation or anxiety—charged forth like a courageous explorer toward the endlessly unfurling world before her: a realm teeming with motley colors, shapes, and sounds, driven by insatiable curiosity and fervor.

Though she lacked any substance rich enough to merit detailed explanation, the very act of such contemplation itself brought supreme delight and yearning. Inspired by her vision of becoming one of those "Respectable adults," she could not help but direct her attention to every trivial matter arising around her.

And each of these matters was carefully compared and contrasted within her heart against a single moral standard summarized by the words "good and right things," thereby assigning their respective values.

That value was, in other words, whether it should be incorporated as an element of what she considered a "Respectable person" or rejected as such.

However, as she continued on, she began encountering various things that left her utterly astonished and unable to avoid confusion.

For one who believed that red would remain red regardless of who saw it or where it was placed, this very same red being called purple here and black there—and worse yet, having people look at and show what was unmistakably red while declaring,

“This is blue.”

“Yes, since you say it’s blue, then it must be blue.”
“It is undoubtedly blue.”

To learn that people would say such things—how unexpected it was, and how unpleasant!

She, who had opened her heart with trust and hopeful anticipation of respecting all things, now had to discover utterly unexpected unpleasantness—things she could perceive as nothing but wrong—lurking behind every matter and thing.

What disturbed her heart even more was this: even those things she thought were so terribly bad never came in their raw, unadorned form.

While bearing kind-sounding voices and charming smiles, they came disguised in gentle, refined forms.

She saw the people she believed in—those she had always thought were purely good and righteous—doing things completely contrary to their words with perfect composure.

She learned that while being told they should be pitied, pitiable people had to suffer unbearable humiliation.

How many "sensations" did she harbor toward all those things?
With a heart that clearly recognized contradictions, the agony of authenticity being betrayed—lacking suitable words and not possessing a mind complex enough to arrange them in orderly sequence—she could do nothing but feel everything.

Ah—one shouldn't do such things—she was struck by a feeling that she could not remain silent.
Her face grew hot; she felt her breath quicken.
Yet she could not tell you what exactly was wrong that you should stop.
The sensation surged so intensely that her heart groaned—this violent, blind feeling—she found it utterly impossible to calmly dissect and analyze it, to seek its causes or critique them.

Every time she encountered such things, her heart was torn between an inescapable wretchedness and infuriating frustration.
Just as a small child on evenings of unsettled weather might suddenly burst into tears—driven by inexplicable restlessness and anxiety—she too, tormented by formless discomfort and gloom, could not help but feel wretched and dark-hearted even without crying aloud.
The beautiful, noble ideals of the adult world she had depicted with such intense longing were all shattered; before her appeared a "floating world" filled with dreadful, detestable things.

Even among friends with whom she had previously interacted unreservedly, speaking her mind freely, she now found things that "required caution," whereas those she had sought to worship had diminished in worth.

And so these many pent-up "sensations" gradually increased in both variety and number, entwining and tangling together into utter chaos that imperceptibly poisoned her vitality and innocence.

She was struck by intense disappointment.

In her surroundings, there seemed to be not a single friend who could become close, nor a single person worthy of respect.

With a childlike obstinacy that had lost reason's benevolent control, she plunged headlong into her thoughts until finally she could not help but feel a dissatisfaction and desolation so profound that she no longer wished to live.

During sunlit hours she remained distracted, but at night—especially on evenings when the moon shone with exceptional beauty—sitting in that room awash with liquid light, with what longing must she have recalled "those days" that had continued until just recently.

Myself from that time—so blissfully happy—when I would sit surrounded by many friends, telling sparklingly beautiful and fascinating stories one after another like unwinding thread.

While gazing at beautiful paintings, flower beds, and bead ornaments—communing with nymphs and tree spirits and insects that had slipped unnoticed into my heart—that dreamlike state when I lost myself in endless fantasies.

In the realm of that phantom kingdom that had persisted since my earliest memories—where I sometimes transformed into an ancient cedar or became a babbling brook, I who once wielded the freedom to weave dewy ceremonial robes from invisible crimson brocade—there I now sat alone, bearing these bitter sorrows.

All my happiness and joys must slumber within memories of that time which will never come again.

She could find no connection between her feelings then and now.

Why must I endure such harsh experiences?

Even though all the adults and friends are carefreely laughing, chatting, and playing tag, why must I, all alone, endure such loneliness and face such sorrow...?

Happiness and joy—all, every last bit—have already passed away to an unreachable beyond with that queen and king.
That time has passed...
It can't be helped.
Having reached the peak of her sentimental feelings, she sobbed convulsively from the depths of her soul and contemplated death with a heart of earnest seriousness.

Stubbornness and rebellion had completely transformed into melancholy; she, having forgotten all pride and obstinacy, thought of her own death as a pitiful child who felt the discord in her heart—wanting to change yet knowing no way to do so.

Last night, having fallen asleep, I who would never speak again nor open my eyes would be discovered in a cold, cold bed.

She thought in all the beautiful words she knew.

Her parents' shock and lament.
Those who inflicted unjust suffering and abuse upon me—how stricken with remorse they would bow their heads before the corpse of one who remained righteous to the end! The vision rose vividly before me: myself encoffined in white robes adorned with beautiful flowers, being tenderly buried through a final act of love—and tears spilled forth with renewed violence.

Unbearably sad.

But the sadness and tears of that time were neither tears shed from weariness with life nor grief.

They were tears mourning my own unfortunate early death and sorrow for those around me left bereft.

The charm that had seemed like a soul's sanctuary—a beautiful paradise—vanished without a trace, and now death was clearly rejected and banished.

The fear that "dying is frightening" awakened; she hastily wiped her tears and immersed herself in weary tranquility after her passions had subsided—in a lingering melancholy not yet painful—wrapped in an elegant pale light while pursuing shadows of vanished dreams toward the mystery of all things trembling with infinite rhythm.

Two

If we assume that throughout hundreds of years in the distant past—just as our ancestors believed—all emotions were perceived and activated solely through the heart, then her entire life in this era unfolded within boundaries that never once ventured beyond that palace of emotions.

“Thinking” and “feeling” had become utterly conflated; even what she herself believed to be earnest thoughts from her mind were, upon closer examination, merely what her heart felt to be so.

Therefore, whether what that person did was called bad or good was determined by the type of emotion their actions first instilled in her.

Once—ah! That person would do such a base thing!
No sooner had she thought this than that person would find themselves rejected by her.

And so she who maintained a disposition of utter indifference toward that person's subsequent actions—no matter how beautiful or kind—would inevitably find herself narrowing the scope of her social interactions.

The loneliness of having to say farewell whenever she reached a crossroads where she simply couldn't find common ground with those very people she had gone to such lengths to consider her friends.
The feeling of rebelling against her own vulnerable self—stricken by that loneliness—combined with various other disharmonies, gradually drove her toward an unnatural misanthropic tendency.

And so, while talking and laughing with others, all manner of emotions that had imperceptibly loosened—particularly fantasies, vague melancholies, and resentments—sank deeper and deeper within her, until their irrepressible momentum began flowing toward the realm of 'death,' that unknown world most distant from her present life.

All her physiological states, filled with forces striving to grow and extend, were quite distant from the phenomenon of natural death.

The latent leeway and security in death not being immediately imminent, coupled with the very concept of death—mystified by her fantasies and imbued with some enchanting hue—drew forth an astonishing drama through the power of sentimental melancholy that was sure to visit every fortunate young heart at least once.

In that world of fantasy, she had before one knows it surely become two.

Before herself—now lying cold and rigid as a breathless corpse—there was another self that was undeniably still her: this self had resolutely endured every loathsome hardship to the end, concluded a heroic life, and now stood awestruck, praising and mourning this departed version of herself while shedding copious tears...

Despite such irrationality, she herself could submerge her entire being into those tears without sensing any contradiction.

Indeed, frequently pierced through by intoxications of emotion scarcely different from this, her life—devoid of any unifying thread—gradually sank deeper into a gloom implausible for her age and circumstances.

Scrawling in clumsy, crooked characters the groundless fury that surged until her heart groaned and griefs only she could comprehend, she felt herself to be "the world's sole sufferer."

Thus, the struggle of forces—reason and emotion having lost their balance—that had been nurtured somewhere in her heart before one knew it produced many vague torments; during the final year of her elementary school days, all childlike innocence, vitality, and courage seemed to have vanished from every part of her.

However, fortunately, her still unacquainted-with-weariness vibrant physiological activities, within that resilient developmental force, had managed to warmly and carefully preserve only the roots of those precious emotions.

If but a single turning point were to bring new stimuli and emotions upon her, the possibility that even those once-frost-withered blossoms might bloom in vibrant hues lay nestled deep within every cell.

And as this long-awaited turning point, her enrollment in girls' school exerted an almost unexpected effect.

However gloomy she became, the simplicity inherent to her age evoked astonishing curiosity and inquisitiveness toward her new surroundings, while fresh habits and rules—each fulfilling and each imparting measured tension—provided boundless encouragement and solace.

If one were to take the child—who was feeling vague anxiety and restlessness while fussily crying—just one step beyond the gate, all those emotions that had filled her heart until now would be swept away entirely by new stimuli.

Of course, there was no doubt that it had been a deeper, more complex pain than this, but now she was granted sufficient interest to make her forget that pain.

She let out her first sigh of relief.

And letting out a satisfied sigh, she rubbed her seemingly unfocused eyes with both hands and looked around at the unfamiliar surroundings.

The beautiful school building and the forest...
Well-groomed friends and fascinating classes...

Within the decrepit, warped, dark, dust-choked building, she felt how every emotion—starved and parched emotions, truly all emotions along with countless other indescribable varieties of emotional yearning that had been gnashing their teeth—were being simultaneously satisfied and quenched.

To such an extent that she could not explain how or why, she was struck by the richness of life and the glory of activity.

Having thoroughly savored every corner, she closed her eyes gently and, in an indescribably generous atmosphere brought about by differences in taste so trivial compared to her previous surroundings as to be hardly worth mentioning, bowed her head and immersed herself.

Her innocence and absolute obedience—finally freed from unnatural constraints—began to surge upward with a vigor that seemed ready to soar to the heavens, leaping and bounding as they rushed forth.

During the longest recess of the day, she would often enter the small elevated forest that embraced the back of the school building—a place always lushly verdant and thick with growth.

Looking out over the slightly lower area beyond, past the narrow path paved with white pebbles lay rows of flower beds bordered by thick clover clusters and well-tended fruit trees.

Beside the building whose damp-resistant bricks glowed in soft russet hues, a citrus tree in bloom cast fragrant shadows, while flower beds at their farthest end—where pansies, anemones, and hyacinths continued blooming in mutual reflection of beautiful colors—stretched out to reveal a square that echoed the sound of a round kemari ball toward distant skies whenever laughter spilled over, its edges hazing the surrounding air with a pleasantly thin veil.

Against the warmly clear sky, the long schoolhouse roof stood out distinctly; above it hung clouds that seemed to drowse, their soft smoke-like contours tracing the air.

All noises and melodies, fragrances and stenches rising from the earth's crust appeared to gather faintly between those clouds and sky; tumbling merrily round and round as they orbited the spring sun, they seemed to perpetually envelop their dwelling.

Sitting between two old oak trees and breathing deeply of the gentle, warm tranquility that filled the air, she could not help but feel the preciousness of life down to the very tips of her hair.

Truly this much happiness...

When she recalled her recent self—disappointed as if she had lost her way in darkness, devoid of hope—she pitied herself and involuntarily shed tears, yet beneath the weeping over her present happiness where all joys and hopes had returned in an even better form, she could not suppress a smile.

Truly, she had revived.

The physical condition that indeed had not been progressing smoothly completely improved—no longer tormented by nightly nightmares nor pallid-faced, her complexion now flushed with healthy blood.

And she whose strength had grown so remarkably it astonished even herself would dance her way to school when in peak health, brimming with that vigor where limbs spring into motion unbidden as anyone might recognize, returning home with undiminished energy from when she departed.

Fatigue and weariness could not so much as lay a finger on her during this time.

While sleeping well and staying active, she studied diligently.

Until just recently, books that had seemed utterly incomprehensible and terribly difficult could now be understood to some degree if she simply made the effort to read them.

It was as if she couldn't help but feel her brain had become an excellent sponge.
That sensation when reading and thinking extensively—the head pleasantly full, the area around the forehead growing taut.
The awareness that something had indeed been left behind in her heart.

Meanwhile, as reason was steadily being subjected to necessary training, her fantasies gradually built his unique kingdom upon the foundation of reality.

Her now extremely acute hearing and vision discovered within all natural phenomena—once an inexhaustible source of fairytale-like fascination—various mysteries grounded in reality, while her habit of thinking about herself in the third person steadily grew.

"She was now gazing at the glinting Japanese plum yew leaves—thick as knitting needles—while pondering something…"

While gazing at the beautifully glinting Japanese plum yew leaves, there existed a self that contemplated the self currently engaged in thought.

"What force could cause so many leaves to attach unerringly to their branches," she wondered, gazing at the ephemeral heat shimmer rising from the delicate white base, "or draw forth such vibrant, beautiful sprouts from mere scattered wheat grains?"

As her thoughts progressed, she wrote into her own mind.

However, this second self was not a shadow of herself that would weep in unison as before when her true self cried.
It would always write on.
Even when she was crying or raging, it would write: "She is now weeping from an inexplicable sorrow—or perhaps not sorrow at all, but some indescribable emotion…"

This made her vaguely sense the value of an ideal human character, stirring both admiration and the desire to attain it within her, while causing the germ of faith to faintly swell at its core.

What was that?
Even when reconsidering it afterward, she couldn't fully comprehend it—perhaps a faintly awakened rationality, enveloped by greater quantities of fantasy and emotion, had manifested as this singular phenomenon that could be called neither pure fantasy nor pure reason.

In this way, as liberation came and opportunities to gradually engage with the broader world increased, her individuality took shape with considerable rapidity.
Or rather, it would be more accurate to say that the miscellaneous fragments which would eventually form her individuality had begun arriving naturally from here and there, or being gathered from various quarters.
At any rate, she had come to think clearly about this concept of "self".

What kind of person must I become? And what kind of person is truly admirable?

“Do you know, Mother?!”
“Do you know, Teacher?!”

She wrote words conveying this meaning.
And spreading them out on her desk, she began to ponder and seek the "great person" whom she surely must have heard of before now.

As for great people, she had often heard their mention.
Become a great person.
I must become a respectable person.

But now, when she tried asking her own head what exactly this meant, her brain floundered yet still replied in a small voice:

"What on earth does it mean…"

was all she could murmur in response.

Of course she remembered and knew that Masayuki’s mother, Princess Tachibana, and others had often been spoken of as women worthy of admiration since her elementary school days.

However, she could not consider the "time" separating her era from theirs as something removable.

In this present moment where hundreds of years had passed since that era—between this now where everything changed and progressed, and the coming decades sure to differ even more profoundly from today—the notion that "that incident from that time" might recur and place her in similar circumstances was unthinkable.

Therefore, her theory had to discover the "true power of character" that should permeate her entire life—remaining unshaken by all circumstantial changes throughout her lifetime and undeterred by time's progression.

The power she must still possess now and continue to hold even after leaving school until the moment of her death—this power was demanded.

The foundation of a lifetime—what truly makes herself great—what could that be?

No matter how much she thought, the answer remained the same—it was always “What could it be?”

She now collided with doubts even more terrifying and utterly boundless than any before.
The misfortunate sorrow, pain, and terror that had been driven away began slowly creeping back.
What am I to do?

As she wrote the date—October __—on the Western-ruled notebook, she felt a dark, cold shadow begin to creep over her being that had been dazzlingly bright just moments before.

Swiftly prosper, magnificently!

Our Maiden...

As the soloist's voice rose resoundingly, they unconsciously aligned their mouths and raised their voices in unison.

Swiftly prosper, magnificently!

"Our Maiden..."

Amidst the repeated chants, she suddenly found herself unable to clearly grasp what the words "suguyoka" and "imijiki" truly meant.
I thought I knew, yet nothing surfaced.
I don't understand a thing.

Startled and feeling anxiety and confusion in her heart, she looked around at the faces of her companions before her, beside her, and behind her—companions who continued singing joyfully with beautiful voices raised.
The exact same feeling she had felt then now filled her heart.

III

A great person is……,

A voice could be heard somewhere.
She strained her ears and hurried toward the source.

And though she strained to listen, only that first phrase came through loud and clear; the parts that seemed important afterward were somehow too quiet or too jumbled, and no matter how carefully she focused, she couldn’t grasp their proper meaning.

Thinking this wouldn’t do, she began moving her body and closing her eyes to concentrate on listening—but just as she did so, the speaker resumed with the same vigorous, boisterous voice as at the very beginning.

“Therefore, you all must cultivate yourselves and become owners of noble character.”

As soon as he said this, applause erupted as if they had been waiting for it.
He bowed.
And with that, the lecture came to an end.

Having strained her nerves and rushed there with such high expectations, she couldn’t help but be disappointed.

When she listened, she found to her astonishment that everywhere around her, the words "power of character," "cultivation of character," and "completion" were being shouted.
Truly large, angry-sounding voices and sharp, piercing voices were not speaking but shouting.

However, for some reason, she could not find a single word or voice she wished to hear.

Because the voices were too harsh, the true "power of character" that should have always dwelled within words seemed frightened and awkward, appearing to have all fled somewhere.

She no longer felt inclined to lend an ear to the voices being shouted.
She did nothing but read.
She who knew that only through reading could truth be imparted to her—and that his voice, his words would teach her kindly without hesitation or digression—endeavored to seek out the forms of truly great people from every book within her reach, for as long as her mental capacity endured.

There were narrated through non-coercive attitudes and beautiful words the lives of truly numerous noble people.

Saints who, no matter how much persecution they received, felt only divine grace—who saw God through unimaginable endurance and love, and spoke with God.

Or as a tragic pioneer—one of the chosen who cast his life into every inevitability of natural law—who came to know all things of heaven and earth and could love them.

The people who radiantly illuminate even today with their sublime, powerful, utterly unshakable power of character—so profound it compelled tears—first astonished her and filled her with admiration through their having desired no promises for their future.

Even among great people—from the very moment they first became able to walk—what will I become!
Even if there were those who became exactly that, the type of great people she wished to emulate all remained silent.

They had no image ahead of their own path.
They were neither people who tried to make later generations believe they were great saints, nor those who declared they would become humanity’s glory.

They did nothing but thoroughly carry forward their unquenchable courage and ceaseless efforts of inquiry in every moment called "now."

They always humbly knew to praise and revere beautiful things, yet at the same time were not the sort to recklessly rush toward wherever crowds gathered—losing themselves in the act of praising or revering.

They were not people who would suddenly puff themselves up before those who were small, only to shrink to the size of a needle's tip and fall silent in the presence of those who were not truly great but had only grand appearances.

Yet with an exquisitely subtle sensibility that could perceive even the most trivial things as wondrous, they never failed to notice a single tear or even the faintest smile.

She came to know countless splendid "points"—so numerous that enumerating them one by one would prove endless.
She was able to feel those "points" of noble heart that compelled her head to bow of its own accord.

However, she felt that the vague mental construct of what constituted a noble character was instead breaking apart and dissolving into the infinitesimal particles of boundless light.

Boundless light….

She had truly become unable to think or search using phrases like “what constituted a great person.”

The continuous radiance emitted when the truly countless virtues upon virtues of great people combined and fused through inexhaustible freedom and power now instilled within her this profound emotion.
She had noticed that they were neither merely honest humans nor simply those called strong-willed.

To capture the power of great people, dismantle it in one’s palm, then reassemble and release it—such things could never be done.

Yet she realized that only those who could perceive—those who remained humble and earnest, possessing the capacity to accept—were able to perceive it.

Thus, though the great people she drew near to observe had instead soared into infinite vastness and distance, something miraculous remained with her—a capacity to perceive traces of their noble souls.

She couldn’t tell whether this capacity belonged to some fragment of emotion or an aspect of reason, but regardless, through this sensibility, she came to judge—to some extent—what ought to be and what ought not to be for authentic human life.

And she, having unconsciously come to possess a considerable command of language, found herself rescued—if only slightly—from the trepidation with which she had once written "What should I do?" about her future.

The hope that if she continued striving earnestly and progressing from what was right to what was righter still gradually gained momentum within her heart.

"I was given a key.
How to use it and how much treasure to discover have been entrusted to me.
That is certain."

On her usual Western-style ruled paper, she added red marks and wrote once more:

"Behold those beautiful layered clouds.
Contemplate the flowers blooming in profusion across the earth, the glistening pebbles, and the abundance of ripening grain.
The Spirit of Hope blows the pearl horn that quivers in unison with the atmosphere…"

However, before she could even finish writing that, the first pang of pain arrived.
Instead of being gently embraced by happiness, she found herself facing a terrifyingly cold, prickly discord that would become her companion on an endless journey.

Having grown more courageous than before in what she believed right, she honestly answered "This is what I think" when asked "What do you think?"
Consulting her heart, she boldly pursued matters that held no cause for shame.
Yet these very things she considered trivial—to her utter astonishment—each carried elements that clashed with her at every turn.

Briskly and full of hope, she walked on—only to be unexpectedly blocked by a wall.

At first once or twice, thinking "Oh my, perhaps I shouldn't go this way," she did not find it particularly strange. But when she noticed these obstructions pursuing her everywhere she went—in every direction—she could not help but gasp.

"Why must my path always, always be obstructed like this?"

With a heart confused by awe and disappointment, she began observing this unbroken wall that stretched endlessly before her.

Despite having this explanation—that it was kindly created both to spare you from misfortune and to properly nurture you—repeatedly impressed upon her sometimes with gentle caresses and other times with fierce threats, she discovered within those words, those attitudes, and those reasons many irreconcilable contradictions that defied compliance.

No matter how she considered it, she could not help but feel it was rooted in cowardly compromise and flattery toward those around her with vested interests—or in her own words, various ambiguities that ought not to exist.
At the same time—how could I allow myself to be obstructed by such things and abandon where I must go? Press onward relentlessly; from there, my path will open.
I'll definitely show I can open it again!
This spirit of rebellion surged up vehemently within her chest.

She rallied in some kind of intense tension that replaced disappointment.

Advance! Bravely go your way.
Her heart roared with a battle cry.
And against all that blocked her path and barred her way, a battle was declared.

From then on, days of terrible conflict continued for her—the incomprehensible disharmony between herself and her surroundings, the clash between forces welling up from within and those trying to constrain from without.

The clash between personal tendencies and general principles.
This disharmony that everyone must feel was particularly pronounced in her case—she who had shut herself away in a world of pure subjectivity, letting her soul burn unrestrained while lacking any objective validity, following both merits and flaws wherever her inclinations led.

But how could a newborn infant be aware that he himself was an infant?
In the same manner, she—incapable of perceiving all internal causes—simply witnessed those around her colliding and sensed only those forces attempting to compulsively bend the hand she strove to extend.

IV

—Month— —Day—

"I am told to be earnest.
Yet why is true earnestness crushed, and why am I pulled back even as I'm told to advance with confidence?"

Her notebook from that time was filled with these kinds of words.

"My earnest questions were met with feigned refusals—pretense rooted in their reluctance to show weakness or lose respect—while certain people skillfully deflected them through glib, witty banter. Did they think this would satisfy me? Did they believe I'd soon forget and accept such temporary distractions? An intensely, intensely unpleasant feeling arose.

The value of experience is often discussed.
Experience is truly valuable.
Yet why must this valuable experience always be limited to that of elders? Why aren't we told to take all our experiences as reference points and make your own experiences deeper and more meaningful?"

―Month― ―Day―

I detest them all—these excessively, excessively euphemistic phrases, these expedient little ploys, this protective shield of respect exchanged through tacit pacts.

I want to go to a wide, wide open plain.
I want to run around shouting at the top of my voice until I collapse.
"Grant me the great eagle's twin wings!"

However, more than these fragmented phrases, a certain unsent letter addressed to someone seemed to express most clearly what she had been trying to say.

On a small blue sheet of paper: "Mr. A, I have just thought up this story."

With this opening phrase, small characters densely filled seven pages of paper.
It was probably written during the winter between her fifteenth and sixteenth years.

"Once upon a time, in a certain place, there was a king. From birth, he had somehow been without both ear auricles. Around the splendid crown, there gaped open nothing but black holes as hairy and tangled as an insect’s nest. Because this appearance was so comical, the children and honest young people all—'The King is splendid, but those ears of his are rather odd,'—said things like that and laughed. Of course, the king himself was beside himself with anxiety. But since he could do nothing about it, he would constantly think only of his unfortunate ears."

However, one night, as the king slept soundly, someone came and kept trying to wake him.
As the startled king placed his hand on his sword and sat up, there, at the hem of his bedding, stood Issun-boushi in checkered-striped robes, rubbing his hands together with an ingratiating smile.

“Who are you, and what business do you have coming here in the middle of the night?”

The King asked with some relief.

“Yes, my supremely esteemed King, this humble servant has come regarding the matter of Your Majesty’s ears.”

Issun-boushi said while bowing even lower.

“What? You’ve come about my ears? If that’s the case, why didn’t you say so from the start? Come now, come closer. You’re not cold, are you…”

“Thank you very much, Your Majesty. In truth, a truly excellent idea has occurred to me, so I thought I must bring it to Your Majesty’s ears. If I may beg your pardon...”

Issun-boushi leaped onto the shoulder of the King’s ermine nightgown.
And as he listened to something being whispered into the pitch-black hole, the King’s face gradually brightened.

“Ah! This is a brilliant plan. Hmm, truly clever!”

“How does that sound, Your Majesty?”

“Truly a brilliant plan! I suppose once that happens, it won’t be noisy and will be a relief! Ha ha ha ha ha!”

“Heeheeheehee!”

Issun-boushi had disappeared somewhere.

The next day, when the Prime Minister arrived, His Majesty promptly took from his desk the new decree splendidly written on parchment,

“Carry this out immediately.”

he said.
When opened and read, it commanded that every last person in the land must have their ear auricles cut off.
For the reason that the divinely appointed King had not been granted ear auricles stood as irrefutable proof that they were superfluous appendages.
The merciful King could not bear to let his beloved citizens continue bearing such superfluous appendages.
It was written.

Since he disliked cutting his own ears, the Prime Minister also earnestly advised against it.
However, since the King would not listen, declaring it a divine command, finally from that day onward, all the people throughout the land had their ears cut off while weeping.

About ten days later, when the King patrolled the country and found that everywhere was filled only with those like himself, with not a single word of criticism to be heard, he was made utterly satisfied and, raising his scepter on impulse, shouted, "Banzai!"
"Banzai!" he shouted.
And he forgot all misfortunes in the world.

However, at the end of that year, soldiers from a neighboring country suddenly came attacking.
The King promptly dispatched appropriate troops and, as was his custom, awaited their swift victory from within the warm bedchamber of his palace.

However, for some reason, the soldiers found themselves driven back by those of the neighboring country and scattered in disarray, making a second dispatch of troops necessary.
Yet this second attempt also ended in defeat, and though forces were sent out a third and fourth time in great numbers, they simply could not prevail.
At last, there remained no one in all the land save infant boys crawling on hands and knees.

“What in blazes is the meaning of this?!”
“What?
“Is your political skill good for nothing but destroying the country, you fool? What am I supposed to do now?!”

Before the King, who cried while shouting, the Prime Minister also shed tears as he said:

“Your Majesty, if I may speak boldly—during the time when ear auricles existed, our pitiable citizens had never once lost a battle.”

With that, he bowed.

What do you think of this story?
Of course, there can be no doubt it is an absurdly ridiculous affair.
Yet I cannot help but sympathize with those citizens who had their ears severed and were ultimately slain.
And I believe you will immediately perceive that this sympathy is precisely sympathy for myself in an equivalent position.

That I could conceive such a tale speaks to how these days I find myself tormented by anxieties and rebellions and oppressions.

Some time ago, in "that book" we bought together (probably concerning wisdom and destiny).

"Life has been given to us—we know not why—but it is certain this was done neither to weaken us nor that we might thoughtlessly cast it aside."

Do you remember this passage existing?

Why was I granted life? This feeble mind of mine could never fathom it.
Yet when I feel all these subtle functions of existence—operations so delicate they sometimes frighten me with their silent precision as they calmly perform their intricate work within, growing ever more distinct—how could I possibly consider my being alive a mistake?

I, who can no longer entertain thoughts of death as playfully as before, keenly feel that I must live resolutely.

I must live—no matter what.

And if I am to live, is it not only natural that I must live as rightly, as well, and as earnestly as possible?

It is certain that there is not a single person who would deny this statement.
Everyone says to become better and to become righteous.
But the sad thing is—don’t you think that both I and likely you as well are placed in circumstances not much different from those citizens who had to silently have their ears cut off and be killed by the King?

The King wanted to be absolutely peerless—dignified, great, and perfect—but his unfortunate ears became a source of torment, so he eradicated slander and criticism by making everyone’s ears like his own and finally breathed with relief.
He must have truly thought that with this measure, things would first and foremost be secure.

The citizens may have detested having their ears taken, but since they were dealing with the King, there was nothing to be done.
Though they harbored discontent in their hearts and sought divine salvation, the commands issuing from the King’s mouth would mercilessly and promptly take their ears.

And then, after having the single treasure granted from birth taken away for living convenience, they were even compelled to sacrifice their very lives in war. Though the King himself created the causes that forced them to discard their lives in such fashion and fall into such ruin, could he ever end his days as one of their comrades—those who had to be rebuked as weaklings lacking resolve?

Could I possibly remain untroubled, entrusting my entirety—this vital present of my life, lived by none but this self that is myself—to those who assume responsibility only when it suits their hands; who know naught but dispensing transient, shallow admonishments; who cannot truly nurture "that person"?

I absolutely do not want to become someone who slips smoothly through all matters and navigates society with ease.
Even after being buffeted by the world for thirty or forty years—even if I could become what most people become: those "seasoned and clever individuals versed in worldly ways"—I have no desire to become such a person.
I simply want to live a genuine life.
If only I can think what must be thought however painful, see what must be seen however terrifying—if only I can draw even one step closer, step by step, toward an authentic life.

Even if someone is not a vocalist, it is truth that having a beautiful voice is preferable.
Is it not clear that having ears is better than not having them?

And knowing this to be truth—even if my own voice grows so hoarse and muddled it could scarcely be worse—should I not praise those with beautiful voices and wish ever more fervently for such people to emerge?

I want to become someone who can feel such things in their heart without any masks or pretenses.

I want to become someone who insists that bad things remain bad through and through—who won’t flinch no matter what comes for the sake of good.
Yet I cannot help but feel that the environment meant to cultivate me in this way is far too alien.
There may be those who consider me a fool—this self who must scrutinize every trifle that others might pass through with an effortless smile, rationalize each one, distinguish good from bad, then selfishly weep or rage.

The worldly pleasures and flattery bestowed upon honest, docile people—yes, even words of praise—will all depart from me.
But even so, I don't mind.
Even were I to care, my heart cannot be restrained nor myself afflicted.
There must surely be a path I must tread, a way of life I must live.

Do you not think so?

It is certain that "my life" must unfold precisely as I write these words with my own hand and think them through my own mind.
Yet still I do not understand how to live this life of mine.
How acutely I feel I must prepare my heart—that I may come to understand in time, that I might someday grasp it in a flash!
There exist those who know only the me given to frivolity at times, or the me prone to fits of rage.

But I have come to realize lately that when burning with the desire to cultivate myself, the one gently watching over this self—who constantly suffers and laments for that very purpose—is none other than this very self.
As is common in this world, when something dares to raise its head even slightly above a certain line, they—startled and flustered—hastily cast it down without a moment to consider its value; but fearing being cast down myself, I cannot bend my path or cower.

As I reach a certain level, it becomes clearly foretold that this self—possessor of an ignorant, constricted soul—must encounter abundant pain, tears, and remorse.
I brace myself for labors akin to seeking each grain of adamantine sand across a boundless plain, and for harvests' stark disparities.
Yet truly—yet even should it prove ever so slight and inconspicuous—

Does not truth, being truth itself, hold its own merit?
Such precious words will not disappoint me.

Does not truth, being truth itself, hold its own merit?

That is so.
That is truly so.
Must I not strive and strain to discover as many truths as possible—truths whose value cannot be diminished by anything?

I can no longer dwell on each and every trivial matter—what that person said or this person remarked—nor can I make excuses by saying "Please don’t mention such things" or "This is what I think."

People may think as they wish—that is perfectly fine.

My true value does not lie within the words of those who think variously, nor do I place my trust in them.

I am I.
Therefore, could it be wrong to think that whether my life is ruined or given value all depends on me?

In front of what I myself deem precious, I always kneel, possessing the humility to worship.
For things that are greater, better, and more beautiful, I harbor an almost greedy thirst.

But before what I deem unjust, I will never bow my head no matter what may come.
I will never become cowardly.

But to have my one and only life tainted by injustice—is this not far too wasteful by any measure? I lack the courage to cast what might yet become good into the realm of bad.
I live solely for the purpose of becoming better.
I am thinking.
And I am suffering indeed.

Having come this far, I noticed I was becoming rather overwrought.
Speaking only of myself like this left me feeling rather ill at ease.

But since I may speak all I wish to speak and write all I wish to write for you—to me whom none but you would deign to regard—pray allow me to voice what lies in my heart.

And please entreat that this ardor not fade fruitlessly. I long to meet with you.

The letter ends there.

In such a state of mind, she was attempting to tread her path in a direction utterly different from the collective movement surrounding her.

Therefore, she who naturally lacked any power to alter that collective course inevitably had to find herself—willing or not—within the impending solitude.

V

For a person, there exists no territory greater than that of the self.

And if thou art solitary, thou shalt be entirely thine own.

Leonardo da Vinci.

That must be the truth.

But must I alone endure all these discordant strains—possessing such an impoverished mind, tormented by the awareness of this unrefined soul—just to fulfill and illuminate it?

She was truly struck by profound sorrow.

However, she felt this sorrow was not a grief that stripped courage from her heart or brought weariness; rather, it was something that granted inner fortitude and imbued her with valor.

And so, toward the infinite disharmonies and conflicts sure to arise—since they were inevitable and unavoidable—the resolve to charge ahead regardless and carve out her own path took root unshakably in her heart.

No matter what might come, her resolve to never turn her face away was strong.

Her effort to somehow ascend even a single step along this pathless mountain trail was indeed brave.

However, the unceasing tension of that persistent force eventually manifested as extraordinary pain.

She would spread both hands wide several times each day.
Yet the torment of maintaining that outstretched position for five minutes held an intensity that defied dismissal as mere simple exertion.

Even when striving to keep them aloft as when first raised—inevitably threatening to sag under a weight verging on irresistible force—her unrelenting heart, her rest-deprived heart, would sink at times with a gloom so dense it choked her breath.

Seeking a hermitage sheltered from all stimuli—devoid of sound, devoid of color—she gazed sorrowfully about her, and at times her withered, paralyzed head threatened to droop with dreadful resignation.

But at such moments when one more step was needed, there was something that gave her new courage and inspiration, turning her back toward the manifold stimuli—something that from beyond the various emotions she perceived would always send forth fresh air, filled with a serene power as invigorating as the break of dawn.

What that thing itself was, she did not understand.

She did not know why, but having been granted this 'capacity' to perceive great souls—this feeling she could only describe as a certain 'state'—it persisted despite how she exhaustively poured out unreplenishable yearning for absolute submission and love toward what she herself called god and guardian spirit within human interactions.

And this 'state' was clearly not earthly.
It was what insightfully perceived all her affairs; what added precisely measured oil to her life's weakening flame at critical moments; what through her lifetime watched over her, chastised her, and bestowed encouragement.
Her guardian spirit—dwelling in moonlit undulations, within the sun's blazing glory, even among trees and grasses and solitary moss—transcended all laws of time and space to caress her weeping self onward, quietly calming her when she quaked with fury.

Whenever her heart grew dark and gloomy, she would sit within the grove of beautiful trees—her sole refuge and place of worship—and must have felt the guardian spirit’s radiant encouragement countless times.

The trees—adorned with splendid symmetry of trunks and branches, soft contours, and tranquil green foliage whose density created variations throughout—revealed through the play of light their intricate bark textures appearing almost like an active crowd, while within the interweaving of shadows and shade, the delicate entanglement of straight lines and curves demonstrated that solemn yet potent harmony containing every rhythm which they alone possessed.

Leaning against the base of an enormous zelkova tree where parasitic plants grew in cavities high above, she contemplated the depths of this land that continued with gentle undulations, blanketed by soft grass.

In the crisscrossing network of thick and thin tree roots, countless insects were either warmly hibernating or gradually beginning to shed their shells, while deep within the thick layers of fallen leaves, their pale phantom-like offspring must have been dozing in soundless cradle-like dreams.

Water murmured as it washed over the countless unexcavated gems and fossils lying at the depths.

A mysterious flame continuously burned fiercely, emitting a low roar.

Nourished by that heat and water, a moist, gentle fragrance rose from the earth's lush skin, and the elegant shoots sprouting tenderly from the old tree's stump danced an imperceptible dance in time with the faintest air currents and her own heartbeat's modest duet.

When she felt the slowly pulsing force of life enveloped by this flawless harmony of sounds and the intimate union where objects and shadows never parted, she was struck by an emotion she could not help but pray to.

A spark of emotion—not far from inspiration—beautifully illuminated within her breast.

And in silence, the guardian spirit breathed into her soul the beauty of living and the glory of effort.

O God, grant me unceasing strength...

The day called tomorrow once again swelled with hope.

She quietly immersed herself in solitude that was no longer painful, feeling within it a humble, love-filled service to the diverse manifestations of her own given life’s forces and to the heart gradually growing within her.

And so, her life—now completely withdrawn into her isolated self—passed by in a manner reminiscent of an overcast summer night.
Even though sharp flashes of lightning would occasionally split the dark void, momentarily enveloping the surroundings in a bluish-white radiance, the moment the light vanished, that dark void would once again claim dominion over all.

In the same way, however intensely illuminated by the blaze of fervent emotion at times, her life remained inherently dark.
And just as a summer night does—though it be darkness, a faintly hazy dim light where only the shapes and forms of things floated visible—groping her way, she directed her steps toward greater brightness, toward greater radiance.
And, without her noticing, the rhythm of her life—gathering the influences of reading materials, a moral consciousness cultivated to some degree, and the reactive force against the lifestyle forms that had persisted until now—was gradually moving her toward a certain next point.

Her eyes, which had been fixated solely on herself, now began gradually turning toward those more unfortunate and wretched—an aspect where she could not help feeling ashamed of her former indifference toward them.

How profoundly she must have been struck by sympathy when she—who had constantly felt discontent toward unjust oppression and enforced submission—noticed those who had to endure far more unbearable things than she, resigning themselves to positions of inferiority both materially and spiritually.

And how much regret she must have felt upon realizing she herself had unknowingly applied oppression and coercion to those pitiable people, as if completely unaware.

I am fortunate to have been granted the strength to oppose whatever I perceive as unjust, no matter how far it takes me.
If there are those who take offense at this resistance—no matter how many—I can remain utterly unafraid.
However...
She truly could not help but be stirred up.

As for the right to life itself—even if legally protected and established to be fully assertable—in actual living, were there not people everywhere being trampled almost unconditionally by those materially and spiritually richer and more powerful, forced into submission?

When the bullying of weaklings—cowardly, despicable—was being conducted openly, how could I have calmly joined in?

They are human beings, and I am a human being—so how can it be called just for one to oppress another?

She recalled the figure of a certain laborer who had left an unforgettable impression on her heart before vanishing without a trace.
While thinking him pitiable, she recalled a boy who had faded from her memory.

All of them—the weeping people; the people who, themselves stricken with grief, had stifled even their tears and wept in secret.

She could not help but feel their unconsoled pain and the sighs of lives held cheap lapping relentlessly closer amid infinite sorrow.

The torn, filthy coat hanging over the shoulder; that blue face convulsing violently, the deep sigh.

She, turning toward that person in her memory,

"Stop crying.
Be strong.
Let’s find a way through this together!"

She couldn't help but call out.

And that feeling she had thought—"If only I had been an adult back then, I could have gently asked why he was crying"—now accompanied by clearer understanding of both the reason he wept and its consequences, stirred within her an even greater sympathy.

"He is a human being.
I am a human being.
Is it right for me to belittle his life in order to live?"

Is it right for those who dress lapdogs in crepe-silk kimonos and keep human attendants by their side to abandon those collapsing at death's door before their very gates?

Is it right to flatter such people, to feign true sympathy or pretend ignorance?

Gentle encouragement and assistance are longed for.
Lend ear to their sighs.

As she wrote, her heart felt as though it were booming and reverberating.

"If it is wrong for the weak and pitiable to be oppressed, then why should there be any hesitation in trying as much as possible to prevent it?"

Should not all things be attempted toward what is better and more right?

"No matter what hardships I face, I will devote myself to them. Blessings upon true, human mutual compassion!"

She was struck by hope and could not help but cry. And,

“Ah, it’s finally come! I’ve finally found my true life! Heaven. My God. I am happy. I’m truly, truly happy.” With that, she threw down the pencil with which she had written in dancing characters and spilled tears so copiously that all the carefully written letters became utterly ruined. Her true life—submerged in demon-like anguish and torment—along with the righteous path of existence she had ceaselessly sought and yearned for, now, at this very moment, seemed to reveal his beautiful, noble form before her.

She devoted herself to achieving her desires.

Envisioning themselves growing close and supporting one another through tolerant and humble love—depicting a peacefully happy group joyfully devoting themselves to their true “own work”—she earnestly did everything she could within the scope permitted to her.

Toward this work that seemed to be absolutely the only path, even if the quantity was small and the scope narrow, her earnestness was immense.
She was thoroughly earnest from start to finish.

And she held onto hope that never faltered in the face of minor missteps or setbacks.

However, as time passed, events that proved how fragile her ideals were and how her methods and motives stood upon unstable foundations began occurring one after another.
And thus, it had to be clearly demonstrated that her material assistance and the advice she had earnestly intended to give had ended in failure.

From an objective standpoint, it was something that should have naturally occurred.
On the contrary, it was a meaningful, "precious failure"—so much so that had it not occurred, she would have inevitably fallen into terrible misfortune.

Yet how much pain it made her feel—how it made her blush—that she had to leave behind, utterly unable to move from their original positions, the many "souls of theirs" which ought first to have been raised and elevated in response to that initial joy and hope.

While veiling her face before the words she had once written—"Ah, it’s finally come!"—she

Stay well and work hard!
O my sorrowful dear friend!

she had no choice but to give these words of parting.

VI

Honestly.

O my sorrowful friend!

"I will surely grasp something before long.
I will find something—no matter how small—that we can both rejoice in.
Please wait."

She had to wave farewell to them, whether willing or not.

But what lay in the direction where she had extended a hand trying to grasp something?

Following behind the failed plans that trailed dejectedly away, the conviction that this was precisely the work she ought to devote her life to—now revealing only his lonely figure—could be seen gradually submerging into a sea of fog deeper and more chaotic than ever before.

And before her eyes, the various remaining issues—true love, the permissibility of good versus evil conflicts—stood darkly silent, casting a cold shadow over her confused heart.

"I have failed in every aspect of myself."
"I am terribly sad."
"I am assailed by shame."
"And moreover, I cannot help but feel a helplessness and anxiety that have not progressed a single step beyond my failed ideology."
"However,"

O God, grant me strong power...

"I will never despair.
I cannot afford to despair.
'A serious scientist possesses the courage, fervor, and devotion to analyze—with his remaining eye—the very explosive that blinded him in one eye.'

She was indeed disappointed, and her heart was filled with mortifying shame.

However, now that the emotions that had blazed with extreme joy had been quelled and subdued by this failure—though immense heat remained banked beneath—and the dangerous flames that would scorch anything they touched were restrained, something entirely unexpected had emerged: a calm, composed presence wearing a sad yet mysterious smile,"

"Now, now, calm down."
"There, there, calm down."

She felt a whispering presence—within her own heart.
That was neither the guardian spirit nor the deity.
Nor was it even a fantasy conjured by emotion in playfulness.

Through the narrow gap left where layer upon layer of thickly accumulated emotions had burned themselves out, true reason now revealed his quiet and unmoving form for the first time.

"Now, now, calm down, and then think it through carefully..."

She felt the blood being cooled to a suitable degree from her flushed head. And having attained a very refreshing, new sensation—one that brought a coolness to her eyes—she no longer faltered. She was saved from the frantic scrambling that had her rushing about in all directions. Though reason's birth may have been belated, his emergence now marked for her a more fortunate and truly beneficial occasion than at any other time.

She faintly noticed that her character was undergoing a fundamental change.

As for herself—having found an extremely slight hope in what seemed a direction that would never have opened without this failure and accompanying awakening of reason—she moved toward the cover of her second notebook while even feeling a certain sense of gratitude.

Seek, and you shall receive.

she carefully wrote this down.
And within the calm and humility purified by burning away the miasma—rebellion, impatience, all that hindered the true heart's pace—the important problem left behind began to be considered.

"I did love them.
"That is certain."

However, it was precisely because that love was impure, ignorant, and shortsighted that such failure was brought about.
That cannot be denied.

“Then, what are the stages to reach true love—true love?”

Facing the words written on the first page, she could not help but remain silent.

True love... true love...

"There is not a single thing visible to our eyes that is too small to deserve our love."

Maeterlinck

She drew red lines under these words and was deeply moved—now, that emotion was precisely akin to a small child applauding while gazing at fireworks' beautifully spreading lights overhead.

How beautiful, how beautiful.

When she praised them, she couldn't help but think that in a mental state not so different in degree—one where red lines had been drawn and admiration expressed—this very act of veneration had occurred.

There were words that possessed an uncanny power to profoundly unsettle people's hearts without reason.

Love embracing humanity.
The liberation of humanity.

These words brought a vaguely sublime, grand "feeling" to the hearts of those who merely knew the resonance of each syllable and comprehended their meaning.
She didn’t understand what this "feeling" was, but there was something she wanted to declare time and again.
Moved by that something, only the resonance—having long since shaken off its precious, precious substance—now clamored noisily within a terrifyingly vast space.
The fact that her own heart might have unsteadily resonated with that resonance was for her an intense shame—a source of anxiety.

Did I not get swept up by words like tolerance and humility?

In myself—who knew how to love others—had I not become intoxicated by my own self?

To the first interrogation, she could resolutely declare "That is not so," but when confronted by the next, she found herself hesitating.
At the very least, she could not help but recall that something lingered deep within her heart which she could not definitively deny as being otherwise.

Just as I had come to understand that filial piety meant more than meekly obeying parental commands—had I, in my own affection and sympathy toward them—infused the reflection of reason?

She had known—had she not?—that an elderly person who tosses a single coin to a wretched beggar possesses more ignorant love than one who secures him steady employment through years of effort; yet what she had failed to consider regarding the love radiating from herself was this: that for humans, the love holding the greatest potential for multifaceted expression bears an inherent tendency—the stronger it grows—to incline toward ignorance, and that this very failure had been the root of various missteps. Now at last—truly now at last—she came to grasp this, if only faintly.
In the same way as all the talents she possessed—no, even before all talents—love must undergo the highest tempering; this she had now barely come to realize.

"Complete knowledge of the universe and complete love for God are one and the same."

She read the words.
That was indeed so.
That must be so—she felt this conviction grow even stronger—

It should be so—but I do not understand.
What will become mine still lies far off,

It was the feeling that what would become hers still lay far off.
What is divine love?

What is divine love? What does love for humanity signify,

"A very deep river flows underground."

As per the same person’s maxim, the answer lay in the deep, deep recesses of her hazy vision—so deep as to seem pitiable to nearsighted eyes.

She became dimly aware of it.
She no longer desired the charm or perfection of words.
She need only feel it in her breast, know it in her soul, and let it overflow unconsciously from within herself when necessary and appropriate—just as one unknowingly takes a deep yawn to rest one’s brain in a moment of nothingness when exhausted.

Love for humanity, love for God.
It is the fundamental understanding that I must feel—that we all must feel—as the basis of our shared existence; it is the essential comprehension we should hold toward the force that governs the life and death of all things and controls the subtle movements and changes of this planet.

"It is not a dream.
Nor is it a story's illusion."

"Open your unclouded eyes!"

Before her mind stood the statue of Aphrodite—awakened from its thousand-year slumber beneath the earth, blazing with "Resplendent Beauty"—to which she applied a compass and ruler with serene composure.

“……I earnestly want to know……”

The figure of the person who had spoken rose up nobly. Truly, anyone with a tongue knows the words "I want to know." She burned with the desire to know. And through the best means she knew, even that was being fulfilled little by little. That "underground river"—of course, even its echoes never reached her—but the guardian spirit she had long believed was encouraging and protecting her now demanded different interpretation.

First, the guardian spirit should not have been burdened with the duty its name suggests.

She had come to understand—if only slightly—that it was not something as narrow as personally standing guard over one’s own spirit. If a name were to be given, then the broad sense of the word 'god' would be appropriate. As long as I made efforts and, through my own strength, continued permeating into its power, it would allow me to enter without refusal anywhere. Yet when the time came for her to die, this same power would let her perish without error or discarding; no matter how wretched a downfall she might suffer, she felt that this same power was so immense and vast—quietly welcoming what would come next—that it could calmly receive whatever followed.

And faintly—ever so faintly—
"The Lord gave; the Lord hath taken away; blessed be His name"—
the sentiment Job had uttered,

"O Lord, thy beloved one is sick."

she felt as if she could perceive the sentiment contained within those phrases.

"O Lord, thy beloved one is sick..."