Pathway to Japanese Literature

Part One

After boarding a small steamship bound for Onomichi from Imabari in Iyo, when about an hour had passed—or so it seemed—the ship called at a small island named Iwagijima.
The harbor—if one could even call it that—was modest in scale for the island, yet three or five sailing ships rested within it.
And on the stone wall ascended from the lighter, there was also a small crowd.
Struggling with a somewhat heavy willow suitcase, I asked a nearby person,
“Where might the house of M―― be?”

When I asked, before that person could answer,

“Are you going to Mr. M?”

another person asked in return.
It was a middle-aged man who appeared to be a postal delivery worker, attempting to pick up a travel bag bound for the post office that had been unloaded from the same ship.

“That’s correct.”

When I answered, he silently picked up the travel bag with one hand, then lifted my willow suitcase with the other and took the lead.
Flustered, I followed behind him.

After following the man at a hurried pace for two or three blocks, he stopped at a house bearing a sign that read "Iwagijima Post Office" and looked back at me,

“Here it is,” he said.

The still-young post office director there, Mr. M, had long been a member of our poetry society and composed poems. Around that time, for over a year, I had returned from Tokyo to my hometown in Hyuga due to my father’s illness. Then my father passed away, and around the end of June—with a lonely, oppressive feeling weighing on me—I set out on the journey back to Tokyo. Along the way, since I had previously received letters to that effect, I crossed from Kyushu to Shikoku and boarded a steamship bound for this island where Mr. M lived. We had exchanged letters multiple times, but I had not yet met him in person and did not even know what his profession was.

Mr. M was overjoyed and kindly urged me that if I wasn’t in a hurry, I should take my time staying there.
Since both my body and mind were utterly exhausted at the time, taking advantage of his invitation, I decided to stay there for a while.
Mr. M opened the storm shutters of the villa situated across the road from his main residence,
“Since this one is quieter...”
He thoughtfully ensured I could move about freely.

The M―― family appeared to be one of the island’s prominent households; their villa among other properties was quite splendid. The detached house designated as my living quarters was built in a position as if jutting out into the sea, with three sides facing the water. Leaning against the bay window and gazing out, an island came into view directly ahead. The island was formed from a single mountain with a rather steep gradient, and even along the seashore there were no signs of human habitation. On the mountain, lush black-green leaves grew thickly. From behind that island stretching further out, two or three more distant islands could be seen. The summer haze grew thicker with distance. Through the strait between the nearby pointed island and my own island once or twice daily, tidal currents would rush westward at visible speed then flow back east. The sight of ships riding with and against the tide was novel to me.

From one side of the veranda could be seen a corner that had grown into something like a cape of my island. Terraced fields had been carved from the foothills up to considerable heights; in every field wheat had ripened to yellow hues, and during my stay it was all conspicuously harvested away.

At that time, five or six years had already passed since I graduated from a private university, yet I still did not have what could be called a proper occupation.
"You make nothing but waka that don't earn a penny—what exactly do you intend to do with this Wakayama family?" Back in my hometown home where I had stayed until recently—at my sick father's bedside—I was berated by my elderly mother and relatives.
When I considered their circumstances—having scraped together tuition money through hardship only to see me graduate yet go five or six years without sending them even a single yen—their complaints seemed only natural.
Only my father, perhaps due to his disposition, did not worry so much and instead comforted them by saying, "Wait a little longer; he'll do something eventually."
When my father died, my position grew even more precarious.
Even if I went to Tokyo now and worked at a newspaper company or such, I wouldn't be able to send much money home; I even considered staying by my mother's side and making a living at an elementary school or village office, but ironically my university graduate credentials proved an obstacle rather than an advantage.
At my wit's end, I received some travel funds from my mother and sister and resolved to head for Tokyo regardless—which was how I came to stop at this small island in the Seto Inland Sea along the way.

Leaning habitually against the protruding bay window and gazing absently at the area below, I noticed something squirming in the tidal flat that had formed there. When I looked closely, they were octopuses. One, two, and before long five or six came into view. While gazing at them, I was listlessly pondering a certain matter. A few days before being called back by the telegram informing me of my father’s critical condition, I had gotten married. Since I hadn't been living in a proper house but merely renting a single room, when it became apparent that my stay in my hometown would be prolonged, my wife too had left Tokyo and returned to our hometown in Shinshu. And there she had given birth to our first son. If I were to go to Tokyo this time, I would have to immediately summon them. What I needed was money. While thinking about that money, what I found were octopuses. And while watching them play so adorably, I suddenly thought of one method. The entire year and more I spent in my hometown was nothing but unbearably difficult from start to finish. To somehow distract myself from that, I had become engrossed in composing poems. Those poems must have grown quite substantial by now. I should compile that into a single book and make some money from it, I thought.

Untying the willow trunk that had been left still tied up at the villa’s entrance, I took out two or three notebooks from its bottom.
Then, after receiving manuscript paper from Mr. M, I eagerly sat down at the desk.
The imposing Chinese blackwood desk was positioned so that my left elbow could rest immediately against the window, and where light would stream in from both the left and front.

But my expectations were miserably betrayed.
Even before that, from around the time my poems were included in the collection *Death or Art*, they had been entering a transitional phase. But once I returned to my homeland and found myself placed within such abnormal surroundings, they began rushing toward new tendencies with the acceleration of a stone tumbling down a slope.
Not only had the content I poured into them changed, but I had also begun to shatter even my own rhythm—let alone the 5-7-5-7-7 rhythm that had been poetry's standard path for two thousand years—as I composed.
Absentmindedly spreading out the manuscript paper and attempting to simply transcribe them one by one, I found those bizarre poems filling the notebook to overflowing.
The truth was, from the moment I left my hometown—though the time had been brief—I had completely forgotten about that place and my poetry in my sense of “finally!” relief.
And now, opening the notebook for an entirely different purpose and seeing the grotesque forms of the poems contained there, I was utterly appalled by them myself.

There lay these kinds of poems written in succession.

In the storeroom's corner there chanced to be a great sickle, as though proclaiming: "Twist not thy will."

When I and mine own self uttered, "Anew it shall be born," tears streamed forth.

the heart that seeks to reconsider things as they are and the heart that strives to make them utterly new

If all act thus alike, cease; then I exist as I am.

All being one and the same—may the sun's rays swiftly pierce through these eye-sockets of mine.

Sensations and thoughts, once severed, cannot be reconnected; there exists no way to reattach them.

Bathing in sunlight while pondering night brings heartache—like touching new mysteries.

May there be truth in words—in words that drip from the silence of my life.

Yes—the area where I had been thinking too much about myself was dark as a cave.

To truly make my heart my own, I come time and again to sit at my desk, yet—

To seek myself by digging holes—if only holes were to remain

From whence does it come—this heart striving to believe in my life? Even that heart remains elusive.

When I try to open my eyes, I think again of the loneliness of sunlight in my life.

O heart that seeks to pursue my poor life like the movement of a dead person’s fingers!

Just when I thought there were such things as these—

When touched, they sway drenched, casting shadows—O crimson roses! O winter night’s roses!

Roses trying to open, roses trying to scatter—the torment of winter night’s branches!

Quietly now, upon the rose petals has come a fragile life; the night’s light shines.

O arrogant roar of river shallows! O me before the fiercely-breathing lamp! O roses like blood!

Walk with sorrow, perhaps? O roses, do not disturb the sound of sorrow’s boots!

In the stillness of my inhaling and exhaling breath, the crimson of roses too appears ailing.

Reflecting in life's void like a jet-black pearl glows the winter rose.

That I might tread barefoot on blue-branched roses—to destroy all sorrowful things.

Eyes gazing at roses: pupils touching life’s pain—the melancholy of a winter day’s afternoon.

As if discarding an aged heart, coldly I direct my gaze to the crimson of winter roses.

Gazing at insects devouring beloved roses—as if my impoverished emotions pierce through.

When I blow out the lamp to extinguish it, the roses scatter—at that time of sad awakening when I finally think of sleep.

In this winter night, things worthy of love: there are roses; there are cold crimson postage stamps.

When I heave a somewhat deep sigh, on the desk the deep blue roses' leaves stir—winter night

Holding a lamp, when I opened the narrow entrance—first into a deep-dark room where no roses could be seen.

I had been startled by the roses' sudden proximity; clinging to the desk, I had been reading.

Winter roses on the desk of a man who kept forgetting things and found no peace.

By day they were roses, but at night they grew colder still—after all, my own heart found no peace.

Just as I thought this—on a morning when the roses scattered with a rustle—I leaned against the dark desk after so long.

A heart steadfastly gazing at roses—a heart steadfastly trying to grow close to myself.

Even as I steadfastly gazed at the night roses in this way, my heart remained not as tranquil as they.

The roses seemed to have stopped absorbing water—the winter night's roses in a small glass bottle.

Just when I thought this, I found myself wandering along the rugged shores of a certain coast,

Ah, in sorrow I long to cast off my clothes; the sea undulates and glows like a blue fish.

And so, upon me who had climbed the gigantic rock like a mountain, the sea was blue.

From the rocky edge peeks a sorrowful sea's corner; alas, a boatman raises a small sail.

Joy, joy—the sea clouds over; now at last oil would flow from my body too.

My body had become a single eye: the sea shining blue, the flat sun.

Crawling and walking barefoot between the rocks, laughing—waves and I.

A cormorant suddenly took flight from the swelling indigo waves in the shadow of the rocks.

I came to where I had left my geta; now I would return to town again.

Upon this sail too lies sunlight's chiaroscuro—ah, the sorrow over blue seas!

The horizon shows saw-toothed waves—pitiful swells beneath the sun!

Maiden, pluck not that mandarin orange—in leaves' sorrowful shade

Waste not your vigor—nurture it! Through tears I think by waveswept windows

The mournful moon has risen—on a sea-night yearning endlessly toward darkness.

I had been composing poems in such a style.

Tsk—though I myself had desperately composed them just a short while before, now when I tried to review them anew, I was shocked almost beyond composure.
Now that I think about why I was so shocked back then, I myself find it laughable, but shocked I was nonetheless.
Though it had been only a few days, perhaps because I had removed myself from my hometown to such an especially quiet place on the island, a profound distance had suddenly formed within my heart between what came before and what followed.

The astonishment turned into terror.
Somehow terrified, I lost all courage to calmly transcribe those poems. Yet deep within my heart, a certain confidence from when I had composed them still took root somewhere.
And while that confidence tried to make me write, and the baseless terror tried to prevent me from writing, their entanglement severely weakened my heart.
After two or three days of being locked in a staring contest with my notebook, I finally began to eat less.
In an attempt to distract myself, when I tried to recite aloud a poem or two from the familiar verses of the Man'yōshū I had borrowed from Mr. M, my voice caught in my throat and refused to emerge; when I forced myself to read them aloud, it turned into an eerie sob-like sound.
It was only at this time that I clasped my hands in prayer and presented the Man'yōshū poems in their authentic form.

Finally, my friend began to worry.
And then, saying, "I will transcribe them for you instead," he proceeded to write them down one after another.
I simply stared vacantly at it.
Once that happened, before many days had passed, the poems from two or three notebooks were neatly copied onto a set of manuscript paper.

No sooner had my heart finally settled after so long than it was once again plunged into intense turmoil and agitation from the moment I tried to begin transcribing them.
And no sooner had the clean copy been completed by my friend’s hand than I packed it into my trunk and hastily bid farewell to that quiet island.

It was about ten years prior.
Now, as I reflect on those several days spent on this island, the young oak leaves in the garden of a friend’s house there, the octopuses beneath the window, and the cuckoo voices calling across from island to island still come vividly to mind.

Part Two

Once again, I crossed over to an island in the Seto Inland Sea—to Naoshima Island, located several miles offshore from Uno Port in Bizen.

It was early summer; though the season had already somewhat passed its peak, the famous sea bream were still being caught in abundance in the nearby waters of the Seto Inland Sea.
To see the sea bream fishing nets, I was invited by my friend Mr. I from Okayama, and the two of us set out.
The vicinity of Naoshima was said to be where sea bream fishing was most abundant.

Like the several islands lining the vicinity, Naoshima too was a small island.
I had forgotten the name, but in a certain village that served as the island's main town stood a village shrine whose priest—Mr.M—was known to Mr.I.
And so we went to visit Mr.M at his aged residence beneath a densely wooded shrine.

Mr. M was a short-statured, ruddy-faced elderly man with half-gray hair and a vigorous air. Through Mr. M, I heard that this island was an old site of Emperor Sutoku's exile, that it had been settled longer than any of the nearby islands, and that the M family themselves had continued their priesthood here for over a dozen generations. Even among the islands clustered closely together within the Seto Inland Sea, I found it deeply interesting that there existed this distinction between old islands and new islands.

“Well then, let us proceed.”
“The nets are cast at a place called Kotohiki Beach, but let us take a slight detour along the way and visit the historic sites of Emperor Sutoku as we go.”
“But wouldn’t that be too much trouble?”
“Not at all! Going all around the island wouldn’t even take half a day, ha ha.”
I also laughed.
I found it fascinating that such history remained on that small island.
I also thought it was likely due to factors like the quality of the ship landing areas and tidal currents.

After walking about fifty or sixty *ken* from the front of the residence through the fishermen’s houses, we immediately came upon the mountain. The slope was a gradual incline, but sweat had already begun to seep out. Though it was clear, the sky had many clouds.

“What you can see over there…”

The old man who had been walking ahead with a cane came to a halt. It was when we were climbing a mountainside where young pine trees grew sparsely; where low shrubs in the undergrowth bore green leaves; and where here and there those growths had thinned to expose patches of red earth. The place indicated by the old man lay in a valley slightly to our right, where over ten aged pine trees stood clustered.

“A high-ranking court lady who had served at His Majesty’s side followed him into exile to this island, and soon found herself with child.”
“It is said she built a hermitage in yonder valley and secluded herself there until the birth.”

In the pine woods where sweltering sunlight pressed down, a furious din of cicadas surged.

“And what became of the child born in such circumstances?”

“Ah, what indeed... There was also His Majesty’s daughter who followed her father into exile, yet for reasons unknown chose not to dwell with him. They say she too built a hermitage in another valley, much like that court lady.”

Before long, they crossed the pass that lay along the island's ridge.
A short distance downhill stood a shrine enshrining Emperor Sutoku.
The surrounding pine forest stretched wide—neither sparse nor dense—imparting a bright cheerfulness at first glance.
The shrine itself was small yet sturdily built, its garden and hall both carpeted in pristine pine needles.
What struck most was the distant view from that place.
Below lay a small inlet with waters of crystalline clarity; slightly offshore clustered numerous islands; further still rose Shikoku's towering mountain range—all blending into a scene of such luminous beauty it might have been lifted from a painting.

From there, two or three chō downhill lay the remains of the so-called imperial villa.
This place too, like the previous hermitage site of the high-ranking court lady, was a small valley—though to call it that, it was merely one of the tiniest mountain folds, devoid of even water or anything else.
Pine trees stood sparsely, and miscellaneous trees were mixed among them.
Even calling it flat ground, it was barely wide enough to scoop up in one’s hands. Following Mr. M’s instructions and looking closely, they noticed this level area was divided into three small tiers.
Each tier stood about three to four shaku high, and when they pushed aside the thick grass, faint traces of what might have been a stone wall or similar structure could be discerned there.
At the lowest level of the tiered area was the guard station for the samurai, the second tier was where the attendants had resided, and the narrow uppermost tier was likely where Emperor Sutoku himself had his seat—so explained the elderly Mr. M.
If that were the case, then the area of the imperial seat’s chamber must have been barely sufficient to cover what would now amount to less than four-and-a-half tatami mats.
And some ten ken below the lowest guard station, black rocks lay exposed where waves lapped faintly.
Looking around, there were only steep mountain slopes; apart from this spot, not a single patch of flat land suitable for building even one house could be found.
Even within the same island, one can imagine that they chose such a place—utterly removed from houses and villages—to construct the imperial seat.
It is said that after being exiled for many years to such a cramped and desolate place, he was later transferred to Shikoku, where Emperor Sutoku passed away.

From there, they walked along the rocky shore where there was no path and came out to a village along the inlet. It was called Tamatsumi Cove. Turning right at that spot and cutting through the rice fields, they came upon another inlet—calm and curved like a bow. Along the edge of a wide white sand beach stood a row of large pine trees, and in their shade were four or five fishermen’s huts. That place was indeed called Kotohiki Beach, a name that suited it well.

They had just hauled up the net around noon but had not caught a single sea bream. The next net would be cast around three or four in the afternoon. At a loss, they sat for a while in the shade of the pine trees, but soon Mr.M (Elder) suddenly stood up and headed toward the hut where the fishermen had gathered. And he returned with a gentle smile.

“I’ve got something splendid—you’ll see an abundance of sea bream any moment now.”

After hearing the explanation whispered by the old man, Mr.I leaped up in delight. He pulled out his pocket watch and kept glancing at it,

“Wish they’d hurry up already!”

repeating this over and over while alternating his gaze between my face and the open sea with laughter. Meanwhile, the old man sent a fisherman running to procure sake and vinegar soy sauce.

Before long, off the tip of the cape jutting out to our right, the shape of a motorboat flying a large flag came into view.

“They’re here!”

Shouting those words, the fishermen hurriedly lowered small boats from the beach.
Without understanding what was happening, I too was urged on and boarded one.
Two rowed while one diligently waved a small red flag.

When we came to the middle of the inlet, the motorboat slowly stopped.
Our small boat had been waiting for it, and as soon as we rowed alongside, we all transferred over.
I too was made to do the same.
Then, being pulled along to a certain spot, when I saw where they had so vigorously pointed, I couldn’t help but cry out.

The bottom of this large motorboat had become a single fish pen.
And there they had gathered—countless sea bream were swimming in layered schools.
Mr.I asked the motorboat crew.

"How many are there?"

"There's about 1,200 to 1,300 of them."

Oh, those 1,200 to 1,300 large sea bream—though some among them had grown somewhat weak—most were still swimming vigorously, their beautiful tail fins rippling.

From among them, we had two set aside for us.
Between the fishermen in the small boats and the motorboat crew, boisterous laughter arose, but soon the fishermen bowed their heads repeatedly and returned to their small boats.
The motorboat immediately sounded its whistle and started moving.
I heard she would go around various fishing grounds in the Seto Inland Sea to buy and gather sea bream, keep them alive in the ship’s hold, and head toward Osaka.

Under the pine trees on the beach, a lively drinking party promptly commenced.
Boiled in seawater, simmered in soy sauce, served as sashimi, salt-grilled—the two sea breams were swiftly prepared.

Before we knew it, the drinking continued until the evening net.
And then—whether through luck or drunken skill—three sea bream were caught in the fishermen’s nets.
Entangled and stumbling, we three each shouldered a sea bream and walked some two ri along the mountain ridge path that formed the island’s spine.
As we walked, the moon rose.
It was the full moon of the fifteenth night.
From the pass, seas stretched left and right—everywhere shadows fell floated countless islands.
Thus we reached another port different from where we’d arrived by motorboat at dawn; from there we hired a small boat and rowed strenuously back to Uno Port until deep night.
Pitifully, Mr.M (Elder)—who had accompanied us all that way—now had to return alone from there to his island.
If only we had curbed our daytime drinking and returned to his village in time for the afternoon motorboat—then he needn’t have suffered such hardship.

Part III

Boatmen! Boatmen! You who set sails in the gale and cry out as if dying!
When great swells tilt and crash down, my boat too becomes a fish slanting.
The next swell towers high above my sail and rolls in blackly.
The wet sails flap noisily; large droplets of spray come flying—helpless against their onslaught.

Startled by boatmen's cries—the sea darkens as wind arrives.

At the bow, a small sail swells near to tearing with wind, stitching through waves.

Crimson emerges only to vanish in surf; seeing offshore rocks, we dash onward.

Upon crimson rocks once hidden, now revealed—waves gathered like living things.
The lighthouse my friend guarded stood white on a truly bare rock in the midst of the sea.
Leaping over clustered crimson crags and rushing toward my friend—first my chest tightened.
Ah, how lonely his face had become—though he was no longer the friend of days past from the start.
As though our long years apart lay visible between us, I gazed at my friend’s lonely face.
The flame-colored dahlias—the gift I brought—had yet to wither.
After the dahlias came what the boatmen hauled out—sake! Oh friend, spill not a drop!

When, unable to walk, I removed my geta, my friend eagerly made me wear zori.

Friend, do not first blame my few words—for my heart harbors a certain loneliness.

Having reunited—friends of few words—we climb side by side up the steep cliff.

In the stone-built corner room with but a single window dwelled my friend and his wife.

In that window, arranging the flowers I had brought—that young wife delighted her guest.
Having been parted so long that conversation eluded us—such had we become—let us first pour wine.
My friend does not get drunk, nor do I; ceaselessly exchanging cups to warm our hearts.

In the small window of the stone chamber, ah—the blue sky of day was reflected too vividly.

These poems are ones I composed seven or eight years ago when I visited an old friend working as a lighthouse keeper at Mikomotojima Island's lighthouse offshore from Shimoda Port in Izu.

Mikomotojima was called an island, but truly it was merely the largest among rocky reefs scattered through that sea area.
A single mass of red-rusted rock had simply thrust up sharply from the waves.
Not even a handful of soil existed on the island; neither grass nor trees grew there.
At its highest point stood a white stone lighthouse, while just below it, hollowed out from the rock itself, stood the lighthouse keepers' stone-built residence.
During storms, great swells would often engulf the entire island, so they had constructed everything purely for sturdiness—to withstand submersion in raging waves without breaking.
This dwelling was essentially a rock cave divided into four or five rooms inside.
Classified as a first-class lighthouse with a standard staff of four keepers, one position remained vacant during my visit.
The Lighthouse Chief was already advanced in years and lived there with his wife and two small children.
My friend had recently taken a wife in his hometown and brought her there.
Apart from them was one unmarried man aged twenty-six or twenty-seven.

I first met that friend six or seven years prior to that, when I was a preparatory student at Waseda University. At that time, I was engrossed in reading the Tōkoku Zenshū, bringing it even into the classroom and hiding it under my desk to read during lessons. One time, by chance, that friend ended up sitting next to me at the same desk; he too was an avid reader of the same book. That became the thread by which we began to interact occasionally, though we were never particularly close. Before half a year had passed, his figure suddenly disappeared from the classroom. As one year passed, then two, I caught snippets of rumors about him here and there from classmates who were his fellow countrymen. He was the son of a wealthy family in Saga Prefecture who, upon suddenly growing tired of school, returned to his hometown. Under a promise to sever all ties thereafter, he received tens of thousands of yen from his household, used it to purchase outright a small island off Hirado in Hizen, moved there alone, and enjoyed letting cattle and chickens roam freely. But even that soon grew tiresome, and with the pittance he got from selling everything off, he continued his lavish sprees until the money ran out, whereupon he became a miner at some coal pit. That too lasted only briefly; he wheedled some money out of relatives and crossed over to America, and lately, it seemed he was working as a laborer in a cannery over there—or so the story went. But that too was during his school days, and upon graduating, he completely parted ways with his classmates from the same hometown as well, so I had no opportunities to hear any subsequent rumors about him.

About a year after graduating from school, I had become a reporter for a certain newspaper.
It was he who suddenly came visiting there in shabby attire.
Suddenly, he threw five or six yen in front of me and said:

“This time I came back from America after running a business fanning passengers on board ships.”
“This is what’s left of that money.”
“Let’s get drunk with this.”

After that, he spent several days loafing around my boarding house, but with some knowledge of painting, he went around on his own seeking work, joined a paint shop, and went about painting signs while carrying a kyatatsu.
That too lasted only a few days, and one day he casually showed up again.

“I just punched the old man at the paint shop and ran out.”

After some time had passed, he became a city tram driver.
This lasted relatively long, but he was dismissed over some incident.
Afterward, he unexpectedly took something like an entrance exam and enrolled in what was called the Navigation Marking Office in Yokohama—in other words, the lighthouse keeper school.
After successfully completing the six-month term, the first position he was appointed to and began working at was this Mikomotojima Lighthouse.
And after about a year or so had passed, he had finally come to keenly feel the error of his former wandering life and resolved to spend his remaining days earnestly within the quiet mornings and evenings of this lighthouse keeper’s existence; simultaneous with this resolution, he returned to his hometown and took a wife, and it was then that he sent me two or three letters urging me in such terms to visit the island once to witness this transformation in his state of mind.

Though not as thorough as he was, I too had been one who led a wandering life. After graduating from school, I tried working at one or two newspaper companies, but I couldn’t last even six months anywhere. I switched to becoming a magazine reporter, but this too I ended up quitting within three or four months. I tried publishing a magazine of our school’s tanka with my own hands, but though I found it engaging at first, I soon grew weary of it. In the midst of all this, before I knew it, I had become a husband and a parent. And so, for years now, I had been continuing such mornings and evenings when even that day's rice and salt were insufficient. Given such circumstances, the letter from my friend on this island—whose very existence I hadn’t even known until then—sank rather deeply into my heart. And then, I finally resolved to go there.

It was autumn, when the dahlias were in full bloom.
Thinking they would make suitable gifts for an island where not even a single plant grew, I bought a great many to take along.
First I took a steamship from Reiganjima to Shimoda, where both he and I bought our favorite sake to serve as the second gift.
From Shimoda departed a weekly lighthouse supply ship that transported everything from water and rice to other necessities for the keepers.
Since the friend had kept me well-informed of schedules beforehand, I could conveniently board that vessel.
The moment we left Shimoda, the ship plunged into raging waves.
Though cape tips always have rough waters, those off Izu Peninsula's extremity proved exceptionally fierce.
This stemmed not merely from being a cape's end - countless rocky reefs lay scattered through those seas.
Some rocks stood exposed while others revealed themselves only through whirlpools swirling above them.
Waves churning between these rocks appeared both magnificent and dreadful.
A great many boatmen had boarded the ship.

Probably thinking I would arrive on today’s ship, my friend had apparently been standing at the summit of the rock since morning with binoculars in hand.
The ship reached the island around ten o'clock in the morning.
Then, being led into his study within the rock cavern, I found myself sitting face-to-face with him for the first time in about two years.
It was my first meeting with his wife.
She appeared still young, having the air of a country girl who knew nothing of the world.

Whether it was my imagination or not, he seemed composed in a way characteristic of his former self.
Or rather than composed, he suddenly looked aged.
Perhaps due to those unfamiliar surroundings, or my own exhaustion from the waves and ship journey, or perhaps because his wife—whom I was meeting for the first time—sat beside us, even though we were reuniting after so long, our conversation didn't flow as smoothly as it once had.
He too seemed to sense this and loudly instructed his wife to bring out sake first.

The young wife, just as one might expect, saw the large dahlias and gasped in delight. Rather than attending to her unexpected guest first, she arranged the flowers in whatever vessels were at hand, then carried them to the room's single glass window and set them down. Beyond the window lay the hollowed-out rock's fault surface glowing faintly red. Above that rock, through a gap barely a foot wide, stretched a patch of sky. What an intense color it held. Even now, whenever I remember this moment, that sky's hue materializes before my eyes. Though it was a crisp autumn noon of crystalline clarity, there appeared in that space an indigo blue of truly uncanny depth. This profound azure seemed to press my heart deeper into something leaden and earthbound. Before that overwhelming color, even all the dahlias looked like utterly faded things.

The drinking that began immediately continued for one hour, then two.
But try as I might, the state of mind that had initiated it could not return to its usual lively cheerfulness.
My friend too was also the same.
And I clearly understood that we were both striving by some means to dispel that discordant state.

There, one of the boatmen who had unloaded the cargo, eaten lunch, and taken a rest appeared and said to my friend.

“We’ll be departing now, but have you any forgotten business?”

Hearing that, I made up my mind in an instant.

“Mr. K, I’ll return on this ship as well. Just meeting face-to-face is enough—I think that settles everything...”

While saying this, I tried to straighten my posture.
Suddenly he stood up.
Before I could even think “This is it—”, his fierce fist came at my head.
In my panic as I dodged, two or three more came flying.
The stunned boatmen finally lunged forward and restrained him from behind.
From the adjacent room, the lighthouse chief and his wife came rushing in.

“What the—...leaving? You make me wait endlessly, and now you come only to leave? What is this?”
“Go home, go home, get out right now, you idiot…”

He remained standing there glaring at me, gasping for breath.
In the end, I offered a humble apology and resolved once more to remain on the island until the next ship arrived.

The lighthouse stood at the highest point on the island.
The lighthouse measured sixteen *jō* in height; from its base rose an immediate cliff dropping some twenty *jō* to where waves battered below.
To look straight down from the lamp room at the lighthouse's pinnacle—where the beacon burned—proved utterly impossible for one of my nervous disposition.
Yet the distant view from that height was magnificent.
The Izu Peninsula appeared deceptively near.
Mount Amagi, forming the peninsula's core, loomed thickly black and immovable before my eyes.
Between peninsula and island stretched narrow seas churning with familiar white whirlpools; on all other sides spread endless desolate waters.
On clear days one could discern the Kuroshio Current's flow.
Or rather sense than see it.
That massive tide shifting imperceptibly gradually permeated my being as I gazed seaward.
Two or three of the Izu Islands floated distinct upon that current.
It being early west wind season, countless tiny waves rippled across that vast indigo expanse—darkened somehow—in beauty tinged with loneliness.
At night came birds drawn to the beacon's light.
They would strike their beaks against the lighthouse's thick glass panes and tumble down.
Come morning at the lighthouse's base I could gather several.
Most were seabirds though mountain birds likely from Amagi in Izu mingled among them.

The lamp room’s floor, like its four walls, was thickly paneled with glass, with the duty room situated directly below.
This duty room beneath the glass ceiling had two small windows each about one shaku square, though most light came from above.
Within that narrow circular space following the lighthouse’s contours stood a single-legged desk and chair, while a small hexagonal clock hung on the curved stone wall.
The stillness of this chamber, suspended thirty-odd jō above sea level in midair, held an extraordinary quality.
I would secretly climb the pitch-dark spiral staircase to lean against the chair in this peculiarly shaped little room, finding peculiar comfort in the act.
Even the prevailing winds could not penetrate this dim interior through the four-shaku-thick stone walls unless blowing with exceptional force.

If I wasn’t in that aerial duty room, I was often in the office.
It was constructed slightly more spacious than the other rooms in a corner of the rock cavern housing the lighthouse keepers' residence.
On the walls were posted items such as a map of Japan, a world map, and a chart of national flags, while on one side’s cupboard, along with a few books and documents, several types of medicines were stored.
These weathered, antiquated bottles and boxes of medicine always concerned me.
It was indeed during calm weather that ships came weekly, but when storms struck, cutting off all contact with the outside world for ten days or more on this remote island, it was these scant medical supplies alone that safeguarded the lives of its few inhabitants.
While brushing off dust from part of the large table and leaning against it, I looked at the equally dust-stained large map, gazed at the medicine bottles on the shelf, or looked up at the blue sky visible through the window—spending in that room a time that seemed quiet yet somehow unsettled.

Otherwise, I fished.
The waters surrounding this reef—which seemed to rise from the seabed at a steep angle—were deep everywhere.
If there were no waves, as soon as I lowered the bait, fish of all sizes would immediately bite.
The bait consisted of crabs that lived among those rocks.

One day, I was sitting alone at a certain corner of a rock, fishing.
There, a friend came.
He sat down beside me with an air of purpose, and before long,

“Mr. Wakayama…”
he called out,

“How about it—why don’t you quit dawdling around Tokyo forever and just resign yourself to becoming a lighthouse keeper here?” he proposed.

He himself had grown weary of life’s complexities—all those winding paths he’d walked—and began wondering if there wasn’t some tranquil state where one could live undisturbed like this," he whispered urgently yet incongruously gentle for his usual brusque manner, eyes fixed on my face as he pressed on. "So I took the lighthouse service exams too! But when I actually came here? What struck me first wasn’t the quiet life I’d imagined—it was livelihood security! Sure—I’ve done all sorts myself over the years—but deep down? There was always my hometown—family money—things propping me up! Once you lose those? You start thinking about daily survival—not abstractly! Being here made me realize that! And age—health—they force you to consider things! Nothing beats lighthouse keeping for safety! The pay? Far better than most! Take you—four or five years slogging through university only to earn less at some newspaper than I do here after six months’ training! And what do I spend it on? Rice and miso—that’s all! Not just here—most lighthouses are remote! Our chief? Worked several posts—saved a fortune! Now owns land in Izu—built a house—kids in middle school! Why keep starving over poems and novels? Switch tracks! Join us! You can still study poetry later! Look—four of us here—work takes thirty minutes daily! Sweep mornings—light lamps evenings—jot logs! Rest of the time? Yours! No greed—just decide happiness lies here!"

And while eyeing my body,

“And first of all—coming all this way looking so disheveled? Your wife ought to have minded better! That first day, when the chief came out to greet us in full haori and hakama, I nearly burned with shame—then you go declaring you’ll leave right off? No wonder that whole commotion broke out!”

he said with a bitter smile.

I had at some point raised my rod and been listening.
Since coming to the island—without consciously looking—I had observed how simple and quiet their lives there were; a certain envy toward them had begun stirring within me—which made my friend’s proposal now strike all the deeper.
With a similarly bitter smile,

“Hmm… Thank you… Well… I’ll think about it.”

With that said, the day came to a close.
Yet from that day onward—whether in that aerial duty room or shadowed office among rocks or dangling fishing lines—my mind lost all composure.
The thought of whether or not to become a lighthouse keeper clung persistently to my very being.
After becoming one—how I might live better there… buying books… reading… closing eyes unhesitatingly to think and create… such pleasant fantasies came countless times taking root in my heart.

But no matter what, shutting myself away there—cutting all ties with everything until now—was lonely. Even if I considered that as a temporary period of avoidance or preparation, I could not endure that loneliness at all. If enduring that loneliness were possible—what stability of life could there even be in such a place?—such thoughts crossed my mind. And then one day, as I gazed at the old rusted medicines in the office’s medicine cabinet without truly seeing them, I began to laugh alone. And I told myself: To entrust myself to such a place, there’s still too much sap left in this body of mine.

Once I resolved myself to this, Tokyo suddenly became achingly dear to me. I missed my wife and friends waiting there. When the appointed day arrived, I stood atop a rocky promontory from daybreak with binoculars in hand, just as my friend had done when welcoming me, scanning the horizon for the ship that would emerge from beyond.

As I finally prepared to board, I felt with strange certainty that this marked my last meeting with this friend. Gripping his hand tightly,

“How about we ask the Chief to go to Shimoda together now? Let’s have a drink there and say our goodbyes,” he said.
“If you go a whole year without setting foot on land, you’ll likely get something like beriberi—that’s why they take turns going ashore for two or three weeks at a time now and then,” he added, recalling what he’d heard.

“Hmph.”

He laughed.

“Well then—if I go, I’ll look you up in Tokyo. You come see me again too—next time I won’t throw punches, ha ha ha!”

“Ha ha ha!”

I laughed too.
The people from the lighthouse who had come to see me off, and the boatmen as well, all laughed in unison.