Pathway to Japanese Literature

On the surface, he feigns pleasure; in his heart, he is plagued by worries.

——Dante Alighieri

On a late autumn night, the concert having ended, countless crows emerged from Hibiya Public Hall in a straggling procession—jostling and jostling in various shapes—before each burst forth in scattered directions toward their respective homeward paths.

“Isn’t this Mr. Yamana?”

The crow that had called out was a tall, lean young man—bareheaded with disheveled hair and clad in a jumper.

“That’s correct, but…”

The crow who had been addressed was a middle-aged, portly gentleman. Without responding to the young man, he walked briskly toward Yūrakuchō while uttering, "And you are?" "Who, me?"

The young man tousled the disheveled hair and laughed,

“Well… a mere dilettante, or something of the sort…”

“Do you have some business?”

“I’m a fan.”
“I’m a fan of Mr. Yamana’s music criticism.”
“You haven’t been writing much lately, I see.”

“I do write.”

Damn!
The young man grimaced in the darkness.
This young man was enrolled at a certain university in Tokyo but possessed neither a school cap nor a uniform.
He did possess a jumper and, moreover, a suit for layering—one complete set.
With no financial support from family—having at times shined shoes and at others sold lottery tickets—he now maintained the front of assisting at a publishing house (not entirely fictitious), while apparently dabbling in black-market dealings on the side, which left his pockets comparatively warm.

“When it comes to music, it’s Mozart alone, isn’t it?”

Attempting to recover from his failed flattery, he recalled a certain essay by Mr. Yamana extolling Mozart and muttered timidly—as if to himself—to ingratiate himself with the professor.

“I can’t say it’s entirely like that, but…”

Got him!
He seemed to be regaining his composure.
I’d wager—the professor’s cheek, hidden beneath his overcoat collar, had slackened.

The young man, emboldened,

“The decline of modern music, I believe, began around Beethoven.”
“For music to confront human life and demand a reckoning—that’s sheer perversion, I say.”
“The essence of music, I believe, should ultimately remain an accompaniment to life.”
“Tonight, I listened to Mozart for the first time in ages and came to truly realize what music should be—…”

“I’ll take the train from here.”

It was Yūrakuchō Station.

“Ah, I see. My apologies.”
“It was a pleasure speaking with you tonight, Mr. Yamana.”

With both hands thrust into his trouser pockets, the young man gave a light bow, parted from Mr. Yamana, then swung around sharply and headed toward Ginza.

Beethoven is Beethoven when you listen to him.
Mozart is Mozart when you listen to him.
What difference does it make?
That professor grows his damn mustache like some statement, but its aesthetic logic defies comprehension.
Maybe the bastard never had any real taste to begin with.
Right—critics lack personal taste, hence no capacity for true aversion.
Perhaps I'm no better.
Pathetic.
Yet that mustache...
They say mustaches strengthen teeth—not actually meant for biting people?
There was that prince.
Western suit with geta clogs, sporting an impeccable mustache.
Pitiful creature.
I truly agonized over understanding his psychology.
The mustache forces its wearer into life's confrontations—or am I overreaching?
His sleeping face must be terrifying.
Should I try growing one?
Might discover something new.
Marx's mustache—what even is that?
What structural principle governs that thing?

It gave the impression of a corn cob stuck under the nose.
Incomprehensible.
Descartes’ mustache was like cow’s drool—and that being skepticism itself—…
Hm?
Who was that again?
Ms. Tanabe. No mistake.
Forty—when a woman reaches forty,… but she always carries pocket money, so reliable.
To begin with, she’s petite and looks young—that helps.

“Ms. Tanabe.”

A hand tapped her shoulder from behind.
Ugh!
Green beret.
It didn’t suit her.
Should’ve known better.
Do ideologues scorn all aesthetic sense?
But really—consider your age, your age.

“Who might that be?”

“Nearsighted?”
I sighed.

“From Crayon Publishing...”

You want my full name now?

“Could it be sinusitis?”

“Oh, excuse me.”
“Mr. Yanagawa.”

That’s a pseudonym—I do have a real name, but I won’t tell you.

“That’s right.
Thank you for the other day.”

“Not at all—the thanks should be mine.”

“Where are you headed?”

“And you?”

She’s being guarded.

“A concert.”

“Ah, I see.”

She seemed relieved.
This is exactly why I need to go to these so-called concerts every now and then.

“I’m heading home via subway.”
“I had some business at the newspaper office, so…”

What kind of business?
A lie.
Didn’t you meet up with a man?
Business at the newspaper office? Quite the grand excuse.
Female socialists are just too vain—it’s a real problem.

“A lecture?”

Look, she doesn’t even blush.

“No, the union’s…”

Union?
The cliché-ridden dictionary states: it means flailing about until you wear yourself out and end up in tears.
A synonym of busyness.

I’d even shed a tear or two myself.

“Every day must be tough.”

“Yes, it is tiring.”

It had to come to this—otherwise it would be a lie.

“But now is the perfect opportunity for democratic revolution.”

“Yes, exactly.”
“A perfect opportunity.”

“If we miss this moment now, then forever…”

“No, but we shan’t despair.”

Another failed compliment?
What a pain.

“Let’s have some tea.”

Go on—mooch off her.

“Yes, but I must take my leave tonight.”

Sly opportunist.
But a husband with such a wife would live easy.
No doubt she handles finances well.
Still keeps some youthful bloom about her.

A forty-year-old woman is forty.
A thirty-year-old woman is thirty.
A sixteen-seventeen-year-old is sixteen-seventeen.
Beethoven.
Mozart.
Mr. Yamana.
Marx.
Descartes.
His Highness.
Ms. Tanabe.
Yet now—no one remains around me.

Only the wind.

Maybe I should grab a bite.
My stomach felt off... Perhaps music concerts didn't agree with me.
Suppressing that burp had been ill-advised.

“Hey, Yanagawa!”

Ah, what a fine name.
It’s Senryu backward.
Yanagawa hot pot.
Oh no—I’d better change my pen name starting tomorrow.
Now then, who was this guy again?
What a brute.
I remembered.
He’s the literary youth who brought his manuscript to our company.
What a dull fellow I’ve run into.
He’s drunk, damn him.
He might be trying to sponge off me.
I’ll keep my distance.

“Let me see, who might you be again?”
“Excuse me.”

Depending on how things go, I might get sponged off.

“I’m the man who once brought a manuscript to Crayon Publishing, was told by you that it was aping Nagai Kafū, and withdrew.”
“Have you forgotten?”

He’s not trying to threaten me, is he?
I don’t recall saying “aping.”
Epigone—no, imitation is what I said, perhaps?
Anyway, I hadn’t read a single page of that manuscript.
The title was bad—let me see, what was it again? “A Dancer’s Monologue.”
I was the one flustered and blushing.
What an absolute idiot.

“I’ve remembered.”

The only way was to handle him with polite formality. After all, the guy was an idiot. If he hit me, it’d be a drag. But he seemed weak. I thought I could take him down—though appearances could deceive—so caution prevailed.

“I changed the title.”

I jolted inwardly. He’d actually noticed that flaw? Maybe he wasn’t a total fool after all.

“Is that so.”
“That might indeed be better.”

No interest whatsoever. None at all.

“I changed it to *Battle of the Sexes*.”

“*Battle of the Sexes*…”

I was left speechless.
Bastard.
There’s a limit to everything.
What a louse-like bastard.
Don’t come near me—you’ll taint me.
This was why I couldn’t stand literary youths.

“It sold!”

“Huh?”

“That manuscript sold!”

It surpassed a miracle.
A new talent’s emergence?
An unease crept through me.
Even with that face—like a clogged-nosed hyottoko mask—he might be an accidental genius.
I shuddered.
The bastard’s trying to rattle me.
This is why I hate literary youths.
Time to pour on the flattery.

“The title’s rather catchy.”

“Yes, it matches the zeitgeist.”

“I’ll beat the shit out of you, damn bastard,” I thought. “Enough already, Your Highness. Fear God. We’re through.”

“Today,” he said, “I received my manuscript fee—and it’s an astonishing amount. Even though I’ve been drinking here and there since earlier, I still have more than half left.”

“It’s because you drink like a cheapskate,” I mentally retorted. What an unpleasant bastard. Just because he had money, he acted all high and mighty. Had I estimated three thousand yen left? Was I wrong? Wait—this guy checked his remaining money in the toilet on the sly. Otherwise, he couldn’t have asserted that more than half remained. He did it—he really did it. The typical sort.

In the toilet or perhaps drunk behind a utility pole in some alley, counting his bills one by one, sighing, weakly muttering something like “Do not worry—look at the birds in flight”—it was almost pitiable. Actually, I’d been there myself.

“I plan to spend every last yen I have left tonight—would you join me?”
“If you know any bars around here, please take me there.”

How rude—I take that back.
But does he really have the money?
Going Dutch is no fun at all.
To be safe, I’ll test him with questions.

“Well, there is one, but it’s a bit pricey, you see.”
“If I take you there and you end up resenting me later…”

“I don’t mind.”
“If there’s three thousand yen, we should be fine.”
“I’ll hand this over to you, so let’s spend it all tonight—just the two of us.”

“No, that won’t do.”
“When I take charge of someone else’s money, I end up feeling responsible and can’t get properly drunk.”

Despite his grotesque face, he was quite a conversationalist after all. A man committed enough to write novels had an unexpected simplicity about him. Dashing, huh? Listen to Mozart and you became Mozart; meet a literary youth and you turned literary yourself. What made it strange was how naturally it occurred.

“Well then, shall we have a grand literary discussion tonight? I’ve actually felt favorably about your work for some time now, but you see—the editor-in-chief’s rather conservative.”

I’ll take him to Takedaya.
There should still be about a thousand yen on my tab there—let’s have him settle it while we’re at it.

“Is this the place?”

“Yes, it’s a dirty place, but I like drinking in spots like this.”
“What about you?”

“Not bad at all.”

“Ah, our tastes align.”
“Let’s drink. Cheers.”
“Taste is such a difficult thing, you know.”
“True taste arises from a thousand aversions.”
“Therefore, those without taste have no aversion.”
“Let’s drink. Cheers.”
“Shall we have a grand discussion together tonight?”
“You’re surprisingly the quiet type, it seems.”
“Silence won’t do.”
“I can’t stand that.”
“That is our greatest enemy.”
“To engage in such chatter must be an act of tremendous self-sacrifice—one of humanity’s highest forms of service, no less.”
“And it’s service without expecting any reward whatsoever.”
“But we must also love our enemies.”
“I cannot help but love those who invigorate me.”
“Our enemies always invigorate us, you see.”
“Let’s drink.”
“Fools believe that joking around isn’t serious.”
“Moreover, they seem to think jokes aren’t a proper reply.”

“And then they demand this absurd thing called blunt honesty.”
“But bluntness means behaving like others have no nerves.”
“They ignore people’s sensitivities.”
“You see? Those with real sensitivity can’t be blunt—they feel others’ pain too acutely.”
“Blunt honesty is violence.”
“That’s why I hate those old masters.”
“Only their brute strength frightens me.”
(A wolf devouring sheep? Unacceptable.
Immoral.
Disgusting.
No—I should be devouring those sheep.) They’re exactly the sort to spout such violent nonsense with straight faces.
“Fundamentally, ‘good intuition’ means nothing.”
“Intuition without wisdom? Mere accident.”
“Pure fluke.”

“Let’s drink. Cheers.”
“Let’s converse.”
“Our true enemy is silence.”
The more I spoke, the more anxious I became.
Someone tugged at a sleeve.
A quiet urge to look back.
Ah, I’m no good after all.
The greatest people were those who trusted their own judgment completely—and the biggest fools were no different in that regard.
But perhaps I should stop now—the insults.
I must say, even I found myself rather crude.
After all, insults inherently contained the petty nature of those they targeted.
“Let’s drink. Let’s discuss literature.”
“Literary theory is fascinating, isn’t it?”
“Ah, when I meet newcomers I become a newcomer; when I meet old masters I become an old master—it’s fascinating how naturally my feelings shift.”
“Now then, let’s consider one thing.”
“You’re about to debut as a new writer—how on earth do you plan to win over three million readers?”
“This is a difficult matter.”
“However, you must not despair.”
“Now—do you follow?”
“It’s far easier than avoiding being liked by all readers except a specially chosen hundred.”

“By the way, a writer who pleases millions is always one who also likes themselves, but a writer who only pleases a minority usually doesn’t like themselves either.”
“This is miserable.”
“Fortunately, since your work seems to please you yourself, I believe it will also please three million readers, giving you every prospect of becoming a best-selling author.”
“You must not despair.”
“In today’s trendy parlance, you have potential.”
“Let’s drink. Cheers.”
“Sir Author, would you rather be read a thousand times by one reader or once by a hundred thousand?”
When I posed this question, the so-called literary gentleman answered that he wished to be read a thousand times by a hundred thousand readers, all while shifting his eyes restlessly.

“Go right ahead. Do it grandly.”
“You have potential.”
“I don’t care if they call it aping Kafū or whatever.”
“Fundamentally, originality is a stomach matter—whether you digest nutrients taken from others or excrete them unchanged as shit. That’s rather distasteful.”
“As long as you digest it, that’s all that matters.”
“Since ancient times, there’s never been such a thing as an original literary person.”
“Those truly worthy of the title remain not only unknown to the world but unknowable even to those who seek them.”
“So someone like you can rest perfectly assured.”
“However—occasionally—I myself am indeed the original literary person!”
“There exist people wandering about with that ‘I am the original literary person!’ look, but they’re mere fools—nothing fearsome.”
Ah, what a sigh escapes me.
“Your future is truly boundless indeed.”
“The path lies wide open.”
“Right—how about titling your next novel *The Wide Gate*?”
“The character for ‘gate’ supposedly carries zeitgeist resonance.”
“Excuse me—I’m going to vomit briefly.”
“It’s fine. Yes, perfectly fine now.”
“The sake here isn’t particularly good.”
“Ah, that’s refreshing.”
“I’ve been wanting to vomit this whole time without recourse.”

“Drinking while praising others makes me sick.”
“By the way, about that Valéry—oh, I’ve gone and said it—‘I am naturally defeated by your silence.’”
“Almost every word I’ve spoken here tonight is from Valéry’s literary theories—there’s no such thing as originality or any of that bullshit.”
“My stomach was acting up, you see—couldn’t digest properly, so I ended up vomiting solid matter.”
“If you’d like, I could go on and on—but rather than that, it’d save me the trouble to just give you this Valéry book.”
“Since it’s new knowledge I just bought from a used bookstore and read on the train, it’s still fresh in my memory—but by tomorrow, I’ll have forgotten it all.”
“Read Valéry, and it’s Valéry.”
“Read Montaigne, and it’s Montaigne.”
“Read Pascal, and it’s Pascal.”
“They say permission for suicide is granted only to the perfectly happy.”
“This too is Valéry.”
“Not bad, eh?”
“We can’t even commit suicide.”
“I’ll give you this book.”
“Hey, landlady—settle the bill here.”
“It’s the full bill.”
“All of it.”
“Well then, I’ll take my leave.”
“It says in that book you mustn’t be like feathers—you have to be light as a bird.”
“What the hell am I supposed to do?”

The bareheaded, disheveled young man in a jumper took flight like a waterbird.