Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Dazai Osamu ——Love takes without hesitation. Dazai remained fixated solely on the sensations of illness—had he forgotten his lofty spirit?—like tiny fish in an aquarium, these katakana characters unreadable and futile. "Master Sato," someone chided, words laced with anger yet inner delight, adjusting his glasses with a "Well now, what's this?"—At the seafloor, you see, a schoolgirl in blue hakama sat pondering among kelp forests upon a rock, yes, truly. A roundtable discussion by divers that appeared in a women's magazine. There were other drowned people too, imagined in various forms—an uncle in a white yukata who had stuffed his pockets full of stones sat cross-legged imposingly on the sandy seabed, as one would expect of the ocean depths. When they opened the door to the sunken steamship’s cabin, five dead people supposedly came gliding out from deep within. Yet the drowned people in the river stood upright—the men rigidly bowing their heads forward, the women likewise rigidly puffing their chests and tilting their faces upward, their feet barely grazing the gravel below as they stood on tiptoes. Supposedly they walked with mincing steps against the river’s current. One woman whose chignon remained intact moved like a rubber doll, but upon closer inspection, she was a human infant suckling at a breast in sleep.

I wrote this far and could write no more. This was my thinking. I thought even more quietly than that schoolgirl in the kelp forest. I thought for about forty days. Day after day, this hand came flooding in—no matter what I wrote, no matter how poorly I comported myself in writing, no matter how indulgently I wrote—it somehow coalesced into not-bad writing, took shape coherently, and assumed the form of a novel, a fine work. This was dangerous. Slump. If I could just swing, it would be a sure hit. If I could just run, I'd clock 10.4 seconds every time. If I couldn't even clock 10.3 seconds, then I wasn't even at five. A slump is this: weariness beneath passionless white daylight, feathers stripped of weight within vacuum tubes—something one can never quite overcome. My every passing moment—laughed, raged, cheeks burning with shame, munching corn, lying facedown sniveling—all recorded for those tender yet weak young people, never doubting these words should be sacred. That itself was the root of my slump.

"That's enough." "Dazai, why don't you stop this already?" Hypergoodness Syndrome.

Fiercely comes the morning I want to write. Wait until that day. Ten years. Never deem it too late.

He does not lose.

At six this morning, having read Mr. Hayashi Fusao's essay, I resolved I must write. A measure of grief and resolve had scoured through that essay's line breaks, leaving them immaculate. The literary world—these past four or five years had contained none of it. To good writing—hey! Young truthful readers—rise up! For your sake—a true toast—ouch! A handshake so fervent it could launch one airborne.

Mr. Ishizaka is a no-good writer. Master Kasai Zenzo had been deeply troubled by what he called "patron's art." Since then—through ten years of tossing day and night, lashed by the whip's shadow to subdue you, through ascetic devotion of nine parts madness to one part reverence—if Master had been laboring to sweep away his noble concerns, what could I say? Nothing but a bright-voiced, solemn "Thank you," clear and reverent. Yet these days you have been writing novels most disrespectful. Exiled from home; in blizzards, embracing wife and child—we three clinging tight—no path ahead, staggering lost; sincere timid souls burning with shame, targets of public scorn, unable to voice even one of their hundred beauties; wandering Koenji, drinking coffee while measuring lives ignorant of tomorrow's end, sighing with no recourse—think of these ten thousand youths. They do not advocate poverty. These ten thousand honest—no, foolish—weak yet kind souls who cannot even conceive doubt revere you, startle at your five-hundred-page asceticism as at sorcery, leap up to dash bookstores while trailing loose military sashes, steal from wives' savings to buy pistols in fervor's moment, read once and choke back tears while thrice lamenting—thinking how my own filthy worthless self wants to bash its head against walls—Ah! Only your figure shines radiant, flowers encircling sun—Mr. Ishizaka, you cannot laugh at Saito Yusuke. Understanding alone.

There is no life.

Slinking out only to be swatted down like a fly without uttering a word. Five hundred pages. Conscience. Behold now—this shabby pretense of vengeful asceticism with dagger thrusts! Idiot, cast it away. Shimazaki Tōson. Shimaki Kensaku. Quit the migrant worker mentality. With bag splendidly shouldered, returned home. O defendant of cruel self-consciousness, do not deceive. I myself am the tormented one. The holy monk who hid his tattoos. I want to make Mr. Principal bow. “Story” Editor-in-Chief. A victory-craving monster. My efforts are ridiculed. Writer Doushi: Fragmented utterances concluded. Regarding your esteemed work, we humbly request that you yourself re-examine it. The surefire method to discern truth from falsehood lies in measuring the depth of what was lost in a single work. “There are even parents who’ve killed two people.”

Or something.

Do you know—you—when fasting grows unbearable, put on a sorrowful face like that hypocrite's. This was the word of God's child. The timorous child of man who preached superhuman ideals while trembling—laughing even as he uttered solemn words—and that philosopher crowned with matchless pearls: shouting self-recriminations, he died a madman's death. Though honest self-reflection might let one address ten million souls—no, handshakes remain inadequate—it's precisely those words behind the shield that proclaimed: "Without honest self-reflection, even encountering beggars brings blushing disarray—defendant! sinner!—diving headlong into liquor shops."

And I was the philosopher of love—Hegel's child. Philosophy must be established not as love of knowledge but as systematic knowledge embodying truth—this dictum of Master Hegel's had been imparted to me by a senior disciple. Rather than targeting some mark, my system for expounding thought stood fully structured, devoid of apparent contradictions; once deemed worthy of provisional approval, my task concluded—with a snap of the white fan, I drove mosquitoes from my shins. "Indeed—that too constitutes logic." Japan—the everyday language of this ancient land narrates everything. Coherence throughout; orderly system. That this morning's hastily scribbled text too falls short of pure subjective confession is known to all. You must sympathize with Punkt's sentiments and the like. Suddenly, I no longer wished to write.

All words are true; all words are lies. In the end, it's but a haphazard raft's patchwork—swaying, swaying—you too, I too, and then again Mr. Hayashi as well, all being violently and uniformly swept along even in sleep. Flows, stagnates into deep pools; rages into boiling rapids; plunges as waterfalls—in the end, all become one. It is a turbid sea.

It was the death of flesh. Your work's flaws—my work's flaws. The Immortal Truth smiled and taught: "Every strength bears weakness." Kesa—clear skies—leapt up; Makoto—Spartan love struck your right cheek twice, thrice more, with force. I held no hidden intent.

Enticed by the cooling gust bearing Hayashi Fusao’s name, my drifting endeavors did not surpass his craft. Trick torrents—in truth gentle ripples—all this being my life: the ulterior motive of wanting to live and stretch out just a while longer; wanting to die after seeing Tokyo’s Olympics; lightly nodding to readers while yearning to plunge into depths—yet this must not be done. That is all.

Whispers on the mountain.

“I found it interesting to read.” “And then—and then—can you take responsibility?”

“Yes.” “I did not write it to overthrow anyone.” “Are you familiar with this?” “Anger is indeed the pinnacle of love.”

“How about it? There’s no one who’s solved it—the old ones’ saying holds true.” A decade floundering, twenty years thrashing—caught in the net of ancient simplicity. Hahaha. “And then—you added the phonetic guides?”

“Yes.” “Because the text was slightly too refined, I intentionally blemished it.” “Showily—insisting on a child’s armor of gold and silver threads.” The garish striped pattern that startles like long-legged bees waking—this was the insect’s kindness. “Since it’s a thorned creature, never lower your guard.” “Aim for this abdominal pattern—shoot, shoot. That is zoological warning coloration.” “Senpai—you must at least maintain courtesy and conviction toward Mr. Ishizaka.”

To myself and my works—a single word of explanation or half a phrase of excuse would be fatal disgrace for a writer. Though my writing fell short and my humanity lacked fullness, I had severely censured this without ulterior motive—bearing no grudge against others, alone in harsh ascetic discipline. This golden rule governing my decade-long writerly conduct had, even on nights in the depths of suffering, secretly comforted me and drawn quiet smiles more than once. However, one night—tossing and turning—I cast them all away with sudden clarity and laughter: that sorrowful self-respect I’d barely managed to preserve deep within my breast; the oath sworn to Lord Byron to defend to the last that lonely fortress even should it shatter my young life; those painful manacles, those heavy iron chains. Pearls before swine, pearls before swine—for all eternity. Oh? So they were pearls after all—I mocked—shameful!—but far from humbly acknowledging my errors in apology. I’d known all along—this person wasn’t some mere student, I’d judged—last summer I went and gave them seven measly ears of corn from my field. Truth is two stalks. Moreover, the spectacle of heartless appraisals born of widespread ignorance—clearer than holding it in my hand, more vivid than beholding a white waterfall before my eyes—yet knowing this full well, I—this rain of pearls—in days to come, my own Master Brandes will likely, after my death—no!

A rain of pearls. The sea’s silent embrace. Know that all these mercies—warped perverse affections, unconscious effeminate vengeance—stem from such origins. The Madam—arrogant since time immemorial, boasting aristocratic lineage—and her lover’s shameless single-minded avarice: no sooner did one glimpse her round face than “Gimme money! Gimme money!” spilled forth—one phrase shrill, the next a growl—their daily nocturnal incantations. That very pride in the depth of my affection became my ruin—throwing armlets, hurling necklaces, five rings scattering like buckshot—take it all, I don’t care what becomes of me—tears finally overflowing as I pleaded: If you’ll deceive me, do it skillfully—perfectly—I want to be deceived more and more—to suffer more and more—I’m the champion of anguish for all the world’s frail women—even blurting such bizarre declarations while maintaining a motherly merciful smile—the tiny tip of my nose pinched like a confectionery doll’s, tears mingling to burn chili-red—crawling slow across the carpet to gather the heap of gold-and-silver trinkets Madam had tossed aside, smirking faintly all the while—this eighteen-year-old Tiger-year-born Adonis—suddenly stealing a glance at Madam’s face—Oh! The youth exclaimed—Why, Madam’s nose is a pig’s cock!

Poor Madam. Which are pearls, which are swine? Utterly inverting subject and object—now in reckless abandon—the hair ornament from her wedding day; even the locket concealing a photograph of that near-idiotic lover; down to the very metal fittings of its band. Bone-dry. When there is nothing left to give, I write only "An"—then suddenly think of other things—though it shouldn't take sixty seconds—snapping back from my dazed dream to the manuscript paper, trying to resume writing only to halt abruptly—this single character "An"—what had I meant to write?—the girl who died at barely three years old in early spring; her face beautiful and heart kind; the catfish that bit through the fishing line and escaped now appearing like a fish large enough to swallow boats; five or six lines of words dragged into oblivion’s abyss; a terribly crucial key sound. I can't bear the loss. Float up! Float up! If it's true, float up! (No good.)

This relentless pouring of merciful pearls upon swine—again and again—is no concrete embodiment of that Son of God's words about offering your left cheek when your right is struck. The filthy hellscape of the Son of Man's monopolized lust—clearly born of unjust hearts—henceforth I shall not carelessly bestow even a single pearl; you—this is a pearl, different from stones or roof tiles—with painstaking care I'll make you understand through this miserly enlightenment, this tutelary attitude; naturally a thorny path, yet here precisely lies visible sprouting—the squirming signs of creation—this conviction remains unshaken.

From this day forth, I shall boldly present Self-Commentary, Part One.

In the unwritten text lay pages scattered with katakana—myself as the accused before this court of judgment—a single pure white crane chick shrouded in thickly falling snow, surely cold too with neck drawn in like a child’s, its pleading tone and round clear eyes unafraid even of God; driven by a heart that uttered not one falsehood, I labored undaunted through each unfamiliar troublesome character’s painstaking spelling—know this was how it must be employed.

“This is red blood, this is black blood.” The slaughtered mosquitoes—one by one—their swollen-bellied corpses arranged on the cover of *The Final Years* at his bedside—Family Member chanted. In the flood of night sweats, he woke and scowled at Family Member’s theatrics. “Cut out that fancy-pants evening paper peddler act.” “Evening paper peddler.” “The Filial Daughter Shirakiku.” “A clam seller on a snowy day—knocked down by a rushing rickshaw!”

The sound of wind chimes. The other mocking words had lately ceased too. If the bedside lamp glowed dimly, it meant before five; extinguished meant success—half past five. Without a word he slipped from the mosquito net, dragged his military sash behind him, and made straight for the doctor’s. The doctor’s. At 5:30 AM a lone nurse would rise—sprinkling water on the yatsude by the entrance, sweeping the gravel path, dozing with one eye open—then creak open the heavy gate precisely then. None of it felt human. Lie. Your sleepiness, your laughter, those apron thread scraps in broad daylight—I took them all raw, and that’s why I can’t write novels. It’s not just you—write, write, you claim to understand the pain—really! When I shouted involuntarily and twisted my knees—you sneered and withdrew—do you comprehend this agony?

“Red blood, black blood.” “Do you understand this?”

The mosquito that bit Family Member had a belly red and translucent; the one that bit me had a belly black and stagnant, oozed onto white paper, giving off the smell of that poison. Red blood, black blood—containing the humorous implication that "Even mosquitoes get dizzy after drinking poison blood." I read no typefaces other than those in my first short story collection, *The Final Years*, though lately even these I dismissed as “boring, boring,” never glancing at their contents—yet still placed the book by my pillow each night without fail. One night, a man visiting my sickbed stood weeping outside the mosquito net at this sight until the sound of his nose-blowing betrayed him to me inside.

“1. Regarding the Oath.” “Probably—in my entire life—a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence.” “Tonight, for this one night, stay silent—(without laughing)—truly stay silent, go to the doctor, and make one more request for me.” “I ask this of you.” “In my lifetime, such a thing shall never occur again.” “Trust me—and since I am no demon—if only for the sake of your magnanimity tonight, I must abandon my vices.” “The above contains not a single word or phrase in error.”

Please preserve this oath document without tearing it. In ten or twenty years, this will become a treasure for our household—no, for Japanese literary history. Year, Month, Day. Furthermore, please inform the doctor that we will exchange the check for cash tomorrow and make payment. I intend to truly procure the funds somehow tomorrow. As shame prevents me from remaining at home, I shall take a walk to the seaside and return. "If you consent, please leave the entrance light illuminated."

Family Member was jealous of the medicine. If one were to ask Family Member's true feelings, she could state with certainty that she had been caressed some twenty years prior. At times that possibility would suddenly manifest before her eyes—a thousand-league Idaten, a flight of ten thousand miles—and in an instant draw unbearably close. A black swallowtail of ominously large proportions, or perhaps a warm furry bat, would come fluttering wildly right before her nose. Her face would turn deathly pale, her body trembling violently until finally she was overcome by such violent sobs she nearly lost consciousness. The old woman, her desires gradually swelling, became convinced that all would be well without that medicine. One night, she earnestly approached her master to discuss her hidden intentions—careful not to betray her true motives—whereupon the master sprang up from his sickbed and sat rigidly upright. Oblivious to all but himself, he spat rude remarks: “If this were Dazai’s doing, he’d straighten his collar here, close both eyes, and solemnly start spouting Tsugaru dialect.” Meanwhile, somewhere among the hundreds of cafés, sake bars, oden stalls, Chinese soba joints—descending further to yakitori stands, eel-head shops, roasted pork vendors, awamori dives—in that vain quarter of town, someone was surely laughing. This—as ten eyes see, a hundred hearings, ten thousand dogs' truth—that night too, he pursed his lips tightly into a straight line, arms crossed in deep contemplation, then solemnly presented his dissenting opinion: “You must not forget that a shield has two sides.” “Gold and silver—it has two sides.” “You, while using the false English ‘Golden’ for this shield, nonetheless managed to accurately express the true form you witnessed.” “When it comes to the harm of medicine, I know better than you.” “However, you must know that this shield has yet another side.” “That shield is both gold and silver.” “Similarly, it is neither gold nor silver.” “A shield with two sides—gold and silver—and you may assert the golden aspect of its single face as strongly as you like.” “However, you must properly acknowledge the existence of the silver side underlying that assertion and base your claim upon that recognition.” “It might seem like cunning stratagem, but pay it no mind—that is the correct way.” “It is neither a falsehood-laden assertion nor an attitude of deception.” “That’s how the world works.” “It is precisely those who have experienced such objective recognition and the timidity born of self-interrogation that can be called truly educated.” “Foreign language conversations—to Yokohama’s rickshaw pullers, Imperial Hotel waiters, sailors, stokers—Hey!” “Are you listening?” “Yes, I found your sudden shift to formality so comical that I burrowed under the futon trying to stifle my laughter.”

Ah, this was agony. Family Member’s modest flame, her cleanliness at high tide, the way she coolly receded—I too found myself inwardly relieved. “That’s a shame. I could repeat the lesson for you again, but—” Family Member held her right palm upright before the tip of her nose in a one-handed prayer gesture. “I get it already.” “Since it’s always the same material, I’ve mostly memorized it by now.” “If I drink alcohol, I bleed, and on days without this medicine, I would have killed myself long ago. Right?” I answered—hmm—even if my argument was crude, it held half a shield’s truth.

There were times when I delivered such clever conclusions, and others when—how utterly ashamed I felt standing dumbfounded before this closet! If this visceral urge to crawl into a hole grew more intense than it already was—this absurd notion of casually entering the closet—no, no, that was part of it too—but there was something else besides. Hmm—perhaps because there were letters in this closet I didn’t want you to see? If I had such splendid secrets to hide, why would I choose to lounge around all day in this cramped house? That wasn’t it at all. My vision went completely black—I had become one fated to plunge silently into hell. By my own will, I couldn’t move an inch. Heheh—a corpse now. Do you know bottomless falling—the endless abyss of Avīci? Acceleration upon acceleration—at meteor speeds—falling yet the boy grew taller—dark caverns—tumbling endlessly while groping through fumbling love—giving birth mid-fall—breastmilk—sickness—senility—life at death’s door—all falling—death—a strange sorrowful sob—faintly—had that once been a seagull’s cry? Falling—falling—the corpse decayed—maggots falling alongside—bones weathering to nothing—only wind—only clouds—falling—falling— Carried away like this—I began chattering like a thousand-league horse unleashing an unstoppable flood of words—this frivolous soul who by nature reveled in the gaudy lantern festivals of the wealthy—all to no avail—tapping my dinner bowl with lacquered chopsticks—accompanying my own verbosity with what might be called raccoon-dog festival music—adding inexplicable clang-clang sounds to this bizarre revelry—This won’t end well—even I grew anxious—gradually pulling at the reins—just as this thought formed—the stranger in my own home: “Oh how bashful we are. “What a heroic effort, huh? “You could’ve just said ‘(Please go to the doctor)’ and been done with it.”

“Hey, hey. “You—”

“Forgive me, forgive me.” A demon I couldn’t subdue with my own strength; worse yet, a crybaby I couldn’t silence. Chaos chaos chaos. “Please forgive me, okay? At least keep your voice down, okay?”

“It’s not my fault.” “It’s all God’s will.” “I’m not the one to blame.” “But because in my previous life I was something terribly vile—a woman who scolded her husband or the like—now I am being punished for it.” If one listens quietly, I can almost hear the screams of that woman from my previous life rising all the way here from the deepest depths beneath the earth. Love is words. Since we are weak and incompetent, let’s at least make our words shine. What else do we have that could bring people joy? Though I cannot put it into words—am I truly sincere? “Did you hear it from Mr. Makino?” At the absolute rock bottom of dead ends—never doubting my own sincerity, proclaiming life-risking sincerity everywhere—even as I pleaded, I simply kept plummeting all the way down to a vagrant’s life in drainage pipes. Blinking my eyes, after three days and nights of sleepless deliberation, I finally understood. Never doubting my own sincerity—my subjective, blind pride drove that good person into the depths of the drainage pipe. In myself—not a single thing worthy of regard—the day-and-night frenzied rigor of self-reflection alone constitutes true sincerity. Ah, after all—love is words. I—single-mindedly obsessed with comforting my friend’s disgraceful illness—voluntarily fell ill myself. But all of that was useless. No one believes me.

Around the same time, I suddenly sent a considerable sum of money to a friend, telling him to use it for drink or travel. I had surely written in earnest that this month’s pocket money had ended up surplus, but again came failure. The friend seemed to suspect Dazai of some wrongdoing—anticipating he would soon come begging for assistance—a speculation later verified when I asked the friend directly. Though they drank and caroused together, an undercurrent of unease robbed the outing of true enjoyment. One way or another, this incident became a long-running subject of mockery among their circle. Even that very sick friend failed to comprehend my fiery affection. Has silent love’s expression not yet been proven to exist in this world? Five years after that glorious failure, another friend lay hospitalized with the same illness. At that time I still believed in clever words and charming facades—for an hour I rubbed his back, tended his bedpan, even lit a faint glimmer for his future. Without moving a single limb, using only words to make him sip gruel spoonful by silver spoonful, to lift mitsuba leaves from his soup—all this clever artifice performed as I lay sprawled ceiling-gazing—the friend offered heartfelt thanks that instantly circulated among our group as edifying gossip, breeding nothing but endless vexation. That you should know. It mortifies. It grieves. I’ll make you hear it. “Listen.” “You can’t perfectly articulate truth exactly as it is.” “Learn deliberate failure’s pleasure.” “YOU CELEBRATE BEAUTIFUL FAILURES.” “Really now.”

Alone in shame, day and night in anguish—this guilt-ridden emaciated dog that could not even glimpse the sun, this life uncertain of tomorrow—was dragged out into the open-air theater where the sun blazed gloriously by the Almighty who feared no God—without hesitation, without shame—who with the cane of his own whims charted the course of young lives. Punishing some and rewarding others—lawless clouds—this monster of mere pose! Even theft paled beside this great man's wickedness; in today's world where even murder was permitted! Yet worst of all—this daylight robber with no prospect of reform—when hundreds of thousands, millions of evidentiary banknotes were thrust right before his nose: "My, what abundance! Temple offerings perhaps?" Funds for contributions to the Party, perhaps? Leaving behind a ghastly specter’s “Wahahaha!” cackle, someone—likely that decrepit old man who since birth had practiced nothing but grand poses at the Prosecutor’s Office, that Kiyomizu Fujūgyo—wrote on silk parchment: Alas this purity! Banzai! While conical-hatted underlings mindlessly shook hands, wandered about, finally embraced one another with tears welling up—Ba, banzai! This was no laughing matter—you could not mock these conical hats. This conical hat was splendid. In reason, calculation, and strategy—truly, not even a single fish of love could dwell there. I'll tell you. Love is words. I do not desire Mr. Yamauchi Kazutoyo’s ten ryo. I say again: love that cannot be expressed in words is not true, profound love. There was nothing difficult anywhere. What was difficult was not love. It was within blindness, battle, and frenzy that more pearls were found. “I—nothing at all—” Then, with a graceful bow—even that alone could convey considerable feeling. “People of today’s world are starving for a single gentle word.” “Especially for a single gentle word from the opposite sex.” “I want to be honestly deceived just once by bright and perfect lies.” “This quiet prayer is none other than that of the emperor of great compassion and mercy.” He was already asleep. Wearing nothing but stiff black trousers of coarse fabric, legs swaying like seaweed—suddenly striking the pose of that seaside-dancing girl choreographed by Mr. Ishii Baku: fist raised, legs spread wide in mid-leap—he seemed to dream such visions, there inside the mosquito net, free from swarming insects' menace, performing grand feats at will.

The writer’s wife, trying to demonstrate her sharp wit, had blurted out a single remark—the root of her blunder. By the time she realized with a start, it was too late. A merciless beating. Her low, small face—the upper lip swollen a centimeter or two above the nose—showed no concern for Oiwa-san as she slept soundly like the night before. Staring at that sleeping countenance revealed an unmistakable good-natured soul; by day, clamorous yet here too was one of those foolish wives endowed with Buddha-nature.

Mountain Correspondence

Dazai Osamu

This morning, in the newspaper, I read two articles—one about a marathon victory and the other about the Akutagawa Prize—and tears welled up. Looking at the face of the person called Magoh—his white teeth bared and straining—I viscerally comprehended this man's efforts exactly as they were. Then, after reading the Akutagawa Prize article, I spent a long time thinking about that too, but somehow nothing became clear, so lying face down on my sickbed, I wrote this letter.

The other day, I received a telegram from Master Sato saying, “There’s something to discuss—come at once,” so I went to inquire. He told me that everyone was recommending your short story collection Late Years for the Akutagawa Prize. Feeling somewhat embarrassed, I thought it wouldn’t be bad to reward Mr. Oda and others for their long-suffering dedication, so I tentatively declined—but then he asked, “Do you want it?” I thought for five or six minutes, then replied. “If it’s been brought up, Master Sato, if it wouldn’t seem unnatural, please accept it.” For this past year, I had suffered unseen damages because of the Akutagawa Prize. Even when I wrote manuscripts and took them to publishers, everyone would calculate that obtaining them after I won the Akutagawa Prize would multiply their market value severalfold; they waited two or three months biding their time—only for the Akutagawa Prize to pass me by and my clumsy drafts to be returned—a vexation that occurred not just once or twice.

Gentlemen of the press. Whenever people mentioned the Akutagawa Prize, they would invariably think of me; conversely, whenever they spoke of Dazai, they would invariably recall the Akutagawa Prize—a wretched recurrence that happened time and again. This was something my family member understood better than I did. When it came to me, Mr. Kawabata too would grow cautious as if searching for hidden meanings behind my words rather than accepting them at face value. Though I carried no dagger and never doubted his passion, it pained me that I could only smile at him from afar. I had pleaded, "Please don't trouble yourself over this—just accept it if offered," to which Master Sato responded with gracious words: "Very well. If it wouldn't appear unnatural, I shall propose it. With so many others strongly recommending you, there should be nothing unnatural about it." As I walked home, emotion welled up in my chest. Afterward, receiving no particular communication from Master Sato, I assumed matters were progressing naturally through discussion alone. To close acquaintances I prefaced my news with "this stays between us," sharing my joy while chafing at my elder brother's obstinacy back home—that stern brother who'd never believe me no matter how I implored "please trust me this time." On the seventh day, I came to this mountain hot spring with borrowed money, began living half-self-sufficiently in shabby conditions—a veritable threadbare sparrow—vowing not to descend until curing my stubborn illness, swearing to write my true Creation Story (though initially too abashed, I'd written it as "sōsei-ki" in hiragana until this morning when Kenkoku-kai's spirit compelled me to boldly write "創生記" in kanji) after enduring humanity's supreme sufferings. To Master Sato I wrote: "Should I become an Akutagawa laureate, I'll dutifully transform into a common respectable man of letters—understood?" while painfully requesting him to edit it into an award acceptance essay. All this would become future comedy—but now it meant life or death: paying my inn fees, wanting to retrieve at least one summer kimono change for my family member (Ah—how different from receiving five hundred yen!), rent payments, various bills, loan interests, wondering how my wife fared at the Funabashi house—hahaha! Odōcha hadn't a single sen—no, thirty-nine sen of pocket money lay on my desk. No. No. I imagined such a wretch would become this filthy creature—writing dreary manuscripts like "Akutagawa Prize Backstage Tales," dragging them to true story magazines and Kikuchi Kan's office, getting beaten and thrown out yet still wearing that greasy smirk that said he'd seen through everything. From now on—again and again—apology letters to over twenty benefactors I'd troubled; on the other hand, a lengthy sincere letter begging for new loans—no more. I couldn't bear it. Do as you please. Anyone will do—send money here. I want to cure my lung disease. (Gunma Prefecture, Tanigawa Onsen, Kanemorikan.) Last night, I drank sake from a cup. No one knew.

August 11.

Blinding white downpour.

Furthermore, I humbly request that these four pages of my humble manuscript receive appropriate consideration from Asahi Shimbun journalist Mr. Sugiyama Heisuke.

He mailed those aforementioned reflections; three days later they came fluttering back up into these mountains. For three days he writhed in agony until this morning's clear skies saw all pain depart. The sunlight dazzled as he soaked in an outdoor bath overlooking four or five houses in the valley below. This time Mr. Sugiyama Heisuke had promptly returned his manuscript—he straightforwardly thanked the man for this proper consideration. Furthermore, regarding personal matters: just before dawn today, his family member had brought rare good news. She came climbing up the mountain. When commanded by Chugai Koron to "write over a hundred pages of fiction," I considered my excessively generous expressions of gratitude toward that good reader Mr. Sugiyama, showed sincere wishes for health with a faint smile, silently shook the writer's hand, and deemed it perfectly frank and appropriate that this mere citizen's Creation Story—granted the slightly greater honor of literary work—should faintly revive itself.

Several days passed. Mr. Sugiyama Heisuke, half-remembering the contents of the "Mountain Correspondence" he had skimmed the day before, informed everyone in Tokyo—starting with Mr. Nakajima Chihiro until it reached even Mr. Ibuse’s ears. The literary circle grew deeply concerned that Dazai’s letter might have caused Master Sato some trouble. They all converged to discuss it, settling on "Summon Dazai regardless" before adjourning—later—on an Ogikubo night marking their first meeting in two years at Mr. Ibuse’s residence, where summer grasses grew as thickly as ever in the garden, a conversation taking place over chess on the study’s veranda.

"If by any chance this has inconvenienced Master Sato... you know, I—" "Well, that—" "Still, Master Sato—even if someone tried tarnishing his reputation, there'd be no way to manage it." As for Mountain Correspondence—it sought to express my frenzied state and ordinary people's reverence for convention; there existed no other purpose. Regarding Master Sato's affection—no matter what might occur—I didn't doubt it. "The Chugai Koron novel and all the rest—" "Yeah, well—" "Even if everyone stays silent—it's still properly Master Sato's influence at work."

“That’s right, that’s right.” “Try as I might to forget, I can’t—” “Yeah, yeah—”

The conversation gradually became solely about chess.