Pathway to Japanese Literature

I: Now Is the Ideal Time to Enter Prison Samukawa Sokkotsu-kun had authored *The New Prisoner*. Taoka Reiumon-kun had authored *Prison Memoirs*. When a literary person entered prison, it was customary for them to write an essay as a memento. I too could not refrain from writing something.

On April 21st at 1 PM—a time deemed ideal for entering prison—I was escorted by comrades and reported to the Tokyo Court of Appeals Prosecutor’s Office. A clerk guided me to the lowest floor of that large building. At the entrance of a dimly lit narrow corridor, I parted from the comrades seeing me off and was placed alone into a back room. This back room had an iron-barred door, with two small buckets for bodily waste inside—already offering a taste of prison life. Later I learned this was called temporary detention. After waiting there an hour or two, I was put into a carriage with narrow, obscured windows alongside Thief-san, Fraud-san, Gambler-san, Arsonist-san, and others. Rather than being seated, we were crammed in like pigs. The sole consolation was being handcuffed.

Before long, the carriage entered the gate of the Metropolitan Police Department. “Welcome back!” “Welcome back, sir!” someone called out. “Your wife will come to pick you up soon,” someone else added cheerfully. At the Metropolitan Police Department, I was made to wait another two hours or so, then ate a dinner box meal at my own expense. There, the police officers grew informal—some asking, “Why didn’t you prepare a separate signatory?” while others remarked, “That’s exactly why you’re Socialists—you don’t do such things.” From such exchanges, a socialist study group was convened there for a time, and we engaged in lively question-and-answer sessions—a most enjoyable affair.

II: Tokyo Prison Then, once again loaded into the same carriage (this time granted a slightly more comfortable seat through the officers’ kindness), I arrived at Tokyo Prison just as evening fell, whereupon I underwent various unsettling body searches and inspections of personal belongings before being handed bedding and a rice bowl set and placed into a cell. The prison cell was a single room of four-and-a-half tatami mats, with tatami properly laid out. An electric light glowed in the high ceiling. In one corner of the room stood a toilet that resembled a hearth cut into the wall. In another corner was a small triangular wooden platform where an earthenware teapot, small buckets, and other items were placed. This is rather clever, I thought. That night, I slept fully dressed in my frock coat.

On the morning of the twenty-first, having barely managed two or three mouthfuls of crushed barley rice like military rations, I was again hauled to the interrogation room. Around ten o'clock perhaps, along with fifteen or sixteen others, we were packed into two carriages and sent off this time to Sugamo Prison.

At this juncture, I had to briefly outline the classifications of prisons. First, Tokyo Prison housed untried prisoners; Ichigaya Prison held first-time and repeat offenders; and Sugamo Prison was for third-time offenders and beyond—those deemed habitual criminals—as well as felons. Then those like myself sentenced to light imprisonment, along with any receiving special treatment, were all sent to Sugamo. Incidentally, female prisoners were placed in Hachiōji, and juvenile prisoners were placed in Kawagoe.

III: Sugamo Prison

When I arrived at Sugamo Prison and realized I had truly fallen into the abyss, I felt an intense unease. First, in a room like an entranceway, we were made to strip naked; then in the next room came the order: “Open your mouth!” “Raise both hands!” After undergoing a body inspection under commands like “Get on all fours!”, we were handed a garment, sash, hand towel, and loincloth there. All were persimmon-dyed, but the hand towels and loincloths had vertical gradations of color that created an oddly aesthetic detail. The garment was a cotton-padded tube-sleeved one, with a white cloth sewn onto the collar bearing a number. This white cloth had later been replaced with a metal tag. Sakai Toshihiko was now nothing more than Number 1990.

Around this time came an interrogation process of truly extreme complexity regarding names, ages, domiciles, criminal charges, and other matters. Guards with Satsuma accents, Tōhoku accents, Ibaraki dialects, and countless others took turns coming and going, repeatedly asking the same questions and jotting them down in their notebooks. The scene of this commotion struck me as both fascinating and absurd. Among them were guards who would ask, "When were you arrested?" only to receive the reply, "I have never been arrested," leaving them looking puzzled and unable to comprehend. The fact that everything treated us as thieves proved unbearable.

Loincloths, socks, wrapping cloths, handkerchiefs, a small bag containing silver coins, tattered underpants—they handled these with such meticulous detail. Yet though they would casually bash in a person’s head once or twice without hesitation, when it came to matters of property, not the slightest particle or speck was ever—ever—neglected. The notion of the sanctity of property had truly sunk in deep. To them, a single postcard or a hand towel seemed far more significant than a couple of lumps or a few drops of blood.

Then, made to wear persimmon-colored garden clogs with cloth thongs, we were taken outside, where the order “Wait there at attention!” was issued. After waiting a while, the commands “Stand!” and “Advance!” followed. When we took two or three steps, they scolded us: “Wait! The sash is tied wrong!” We were instructed that the sash required a dragonfly knot with its loop facing left. After adjusting it and beginning to move again, they barked: “Don’t swing your arms!” Gentlemen, try walking without the slightest arm movement—it proves remarkably arduous.

After walking about fifty meters, we came to the front entrance of a long red-brick building. The iron-barred door had a lock set upon it. "Well, here we go—this is really it," I thought, when the outer guard called out "Fifteen new inmates!" and handed our group over to the inner guard. We went barefoot and entered through the iron door. Inside stretched a long stone-paved corridor, where a coldly eerie wind wafted through. When told, “Sit there,” I immediately looked ahead and saw several thin chopping block-like objects lined along one side of the corridor, upon which sat metal bowls, wooden troughs, and such. Looking closely, there were ladles and bowls as well. Needless to say, this was indeed the meal service area. And in the places where people sat, mat-like objects fashioned from tattered cloth were laid out end to end. When the fifteen of us lined up and sat before the meal trays, the guard standing there barked, “Bow!” We bowed and took up our chopsticks. I merely took two or three bites and could hardly eat anything at all. Then, upon bowing once more at the command “Bow!” and standing up, this time the iron door of the room on the right was opened, and we were let in seven or eight at a time.

IV: The Structure of Sugamo Prison

At this juncture, I had to briefly outline the general structure of Sugamo Prison. First, straight ahead at the far end stood the office, with the South Block and North Block located to its left and right. Both blocks were divided into five sections each, spread out like fingers on a hand. Thus there were ten blocks in total, with each block divided into around twenty cells. Far in the back stood seven factories lined up in a row. In addition, infirmaries, kitchens (with attached bathhouses), laundry factories, and such stood scattered here and there. Between those buildings lay beautiful lawns, exercise grounds, and various vegetable fields. Now, it went without saying that this prison was Japan’s foremost—indeed said to rank among the world’s most perfected institutions. Japan was truly remarkable—even its prisons thrived as vigorously as those in Europe and America. Be that as it may, the current warden Masakami Shōjō was said to be steadily implementing reforms at this foremost prison of Japan through so-called civilized methods.

V: First Day, Second Day, The Chaplain I was placed in the Sixth Ward of the North Block, and on that first day found myself in a cell with six or seven terrifying men serving seven or eight years of penal servitude.

Having passed a profoundly restless night, on the second day I was first summoned to receive the chaplain’s lecture. The chaplain was a priest from Honganji Temple who said: “The Heimin Shimbun was, if I recall correctly, an anti-war paper. Of course, from our standpoint as religious figures, pro-war arguments should have absolutely no place in this world.” “However,” he continued, “there are considerations of the times—various arguments may exist on that matter. Perhaps you might give some thought to these circumstances as well.” This constituted his instruction to me. He’s quite the tactful speaker. In the afternoon, my head was summarily buzzed all around. Now at last I had become a full-fledged prisoner.

VI: Prison Cells, Futon Bedding, Food

The prison cell was a wooden-floored space of about eight tatami mats, with a well curb-like structure in one corner whose sunken interior served as a toilet. In one corner was a water pipe, and beneath it was installed a small washbasin. The ceiling was exceedingly high, with one window facing outward and another facing the corridor, both positioned out of reach. In the early morning, the slender rays of light slanting in through that window filled me with an indescribable joy.

The futon bedding consisted of one fairly wide piece; prisoners would roll it into a cylindrical bundle and sleep using a wooden pillow. The kimono was worn day and night without change; instructions dictated wearing only undergarments during sleep while draping the kimono over oneself. Those assigned duties received separate short jackets and underpants.

The food was quite terrible. The rice, unlike that in Tokyo Prison, was white in color. Tokyo Prison used crushed barley, but here it was Nanjing rice. Lately, the price of wheat had risen, and Nanjing rice had apparently become cheaper. In any case, the taste was unparalleled in its awfulness; I could barely swallow it at first. As for vegetables in the morning meals, there should have been no shortage with miso soup—but that miso soup might as well have been ditch sludge scooped from a nearby gutter, served in a wooden trough resembling a handleless old ladle, its rim crusted with kelp scraps and wilted vegetable leaves clinging to it. At first, I found this utterly filthy. The next dinner’s side dish of takuan pickles with sesame salt proved refreshingly light and quite good. Occasionally there was miso-flavored greens. Chili peppers were ground into it, and this too turned out surprisingly well-prepared. Lunch remained the most substantial meal, with the menu changing daily. Sundays brought tofu soup first, followed by fried tofu with greens, dried daikon radish, fava beans, quail beans, horse meat, pork—the standard rotation of dishes. When they mentioned pork, it sounded grand enough, but reality offered merely three small meat slices atop greens or dried vegetables. Even so, everyone rejoiced, chanting “Pork! Pork!” throughout the cellblock. Among the midday dishes, what troubled me most were the days of round-cut daikon and vegetable leaves; I would habitually sigh, “Ugh—round daikon again today?” The only drink available was lukewarm water.

According to what I had heard, the cost of these three daily vegetable portions had averaged 1 sen and 7 rin until the beginning of this year but was reduced by 5 rin to 1 sen and 2 rin after the war began. War reaches even into the most wretched corners.

VII: Special Treatment After being in the Sixth Ward for about ten days, I was transferred to the Eleventh Ward. This Eleventh Ward stood apart from the ten main wards—an old-fashioned wooden structure faintly reminiscent of Kyoto’s Sanjūsangen-dō Temple. The cells lined only one side, separated from the corridor by fixed-pane windows. Each cell measured roughly twelve tatami mats, with crude lattices front and back that evoked stage-prop prison cells. At the rear lattice stood a shoji screen partitioning a tiled drain and toilet. Beside the toilet rose a small board partition resembling a folding screen. The space felt airy and open; when windows and shoji were slid aside, sky became visible. Trees came into view—sparrows flitting past, cats prowling nearby. Compared to the brick-and-iron main blocks, this comfort proved immeasurable.

I had been informed that this Eleventh Ward was a place of special treatment, housing those serving light imprisonment, educated individuals under heavy imprisonment (persons of status in society), the elderly and infirm, and others. In addition, those who had completed their principal sentences and had their additional fines converted to light imprisonment—the so-called converted-sentence individuals—were also accommodated there.

I should note that in society, it is often said prisons use "shaba shaba" as their common term for the outside world. However, in reality, such terms are no longer used these days. They all say "society" now. After arriving at this ward, I was first placed with converted-sentence inmates for a day or two, then kept in solitary confinement for about a week, and finally housed with two other light-imprisonment inmates. The two cellmates were soldiers who had come from Garrison Prison. Among others in this ward were a lawyer convicted of attempted extortion, an Army colonel guilty of fraud, a *26th Newspaper* signatory charged with insulting officials, a *Yorozu Chōhō* signatory implicated in a bestiality case, a *Hinode Shimbun* reporter arrested for extortion, a youth convicted of assisting suicide (in a failed love suicide pact), a middle school clerk who forged official documents, a normal school principal involved in a textbook scandal, a girls’ high school principal from the same scandal, a certain former police inspector, and individuals from the Horse Hoof Silver Incident. For those of us serving two months of light imprisonment like myself, the latitude allowed was nonexistent—the restrictions were beyond count.

VIII: Daily Life

Now, to set about describing the daily life here: first, at five o'clock in the morning (four-thirty from June onward), the bell rang. At that signal, they leapt up. They folded the mosquito net, folded the futon bedding, swept the wooden floor, and wiped with rags. In the midst of this activity, the guard barked, “Bow!” Everyone sat formally and bowed their heads. They barked out numbers—“1990,” “1853,” and so on. They responded “Yes” while sharply raising their faces. Once that was done, they brushed their teeth with salt and washed their faces. Salt was something the prison guards would go around placing in each cell every morning while we slept. In the main blocks, water was supposed to come from pipes, but there, it was the duty person’s role to draw it from a nearby well and distribute it.

After a while came mealtime. In the main block, we had to go out into the corridor and sit before the guards' rigidly planted boots to eat, which felt exceedingly unpleasant, but here, since they brought trays into our cells—and particularly because the cell floors stood much higher than the corridor—none of that discomfort remained.

After finishing the meal, we would sit formally while using toothpicks. Toothpicks were distributed one or two per month. Seiza—the formal sitting posture requiring unbent knees—meant we had to remain rigidly upright for one hour after meals. We had to sit formally on a single straw mat spread over the wooden floorboards, so our legs would hurt quite a lot. After one hour had passed since the meal, we would all sit cross-legged; this was called “relaxed sitting.” Then those sentenced to heavy imprisonment would begin their work, while we serving light imprisonment would read books. However, books aren’t something you can force yourself to read from dawn till dusk—you grow bored; yawns escape unbidden. We would whisper secrets, talk nonsense, play pranks, go to the toilet, fart, hum tunes, do handstands—passing our days with all manner of such diversions. Of course, we did this while avoiding the guards’ notice, so we were occasionally discovered and scolded. Of course, this applied to those of us serving light imprisonment or converted sentences; those assigned duties found their days passing more easily. Thus, even among those of us serving light imprisonment, there were not a few who volunteered to take on duties. In a postcard from Nagashima Eishū-kun, there was a verse: “Those who sit in lotus posture through long days find their endurance insufficient.” But we ordinary mortals could hardly manage such a feat. Thus, through various delusions and fantasies, we could barely console ourselves.

“Hey there, hey there! Come on in, sir.” “Mr. Shinagawa, Mr. Ōmori, Mr. Kawasaki! Do come right in.” (This was their playful banter—sitting before the bars in red garments—where they jokingly cast themselves as courtesans.) “Hoy! Welcome to Gyogen! Today’s specials are sea bream, flounder, and sliced tuna.” “Ah well then, I’ll take the sea bream.” “Fillet one side for sashimi, if you would.” “But tell me—is it fresh today, Mr. Fishmonger?” (This wordplay arose because the rear shoji screen and drain area resembled the kitchen entrance at Samo’s.)

“Ah, what fine weather. Where should we go out to today?” “Well... why don’t we head out from Ueno to Asakusa or something?” “But going somewhere far would be too much trouble.” “Instead of that, why don’t we just take a stroll under that paulownia tree after all?” “That’s right, that sounds good too.” “Well then, let’s not go out today.” (This referred to the afternoon exercise period, as would become clear later.) “What shall we have for tonight’s side dish?” “I’d like something light and refreshing.” “Well then, let’s just go with the usual takuan pickled radish and sesame salt.”

“Ah, tempura’s what I want.” “Me? Just one rice cake sweet’d do me fine.” “Not asking for luxury—just wanna down a few bowls of yudofu or somethin’.”

“If we had even a go board here, we wouldn’t get bored at all.” “And if a bottle of beer just showed up too...” “And if there were apples or biscuits or something then...” “And if a beauty were to appear saying something like ‘Please have one,’ then there’d be nothing left to desire.” “Ha ha ha ha ha! It’s no wonder how far they’ll go with their extravagant wishes!”

While saying such foolish things, lunchtime arrived. They would guess what side dishes they might get for noon or compile lists of them—such activities too became a strategy for alleviating boredom. Lunch came at eleven o'clock, and if the weather was fine, there would be exercise from half past eleven until noon. This was restricted to those without fixed duties and those performing tasks in their cells; it wasn't permitted for those assigned to factory work. For exercise, they would walk around places like beneath the paulownia trees surrounding the prison or over Komatsubara's grassy patches—still moving single-file under strict supervision in an endless loop—yet even so, conversation wasn't impossible, and sometimes they'd stop to watch battles between ants. In any case, exercise remained the day's greatest pleasure—especially after three straight days of rain.

After exercise, they would pass the time with foolish talk and dozing off until evening came. “What time do you think it is now?” “The guard shift change must be at four-thirty.” Exchanges like “Then just thirty more minutes until chow” would be repeated nearly every day in the same manner. “I’ve only got 103 days left. No trouble at all.” “Today’s my absolute peak—tomorrow I start heading downhill.” “No big deal.” “You’ll be out in just a week now,” they would calculate their remaining sentences nearly every day.

After dinner there would be another inspection, and the relaxed sitting bell would ring. A dim electric light flickered. After enduring another two hours or so of boredom, the eight o'clock bedtime bell would ring. “Here it comes!” they would shout with great commotion as kashiwa mochi lined up in heaps.

Well, this was more or less a day in the life.

One night, I woke in the dark hours and composed these verses that came like sleep-talk.

The snores from neighboring cells harmonized with croaking frogs. Beneath purple paulownia blooms—people in crimson robes. Paulownia flowers—prisoners and guards—a sight never before witnessed. Departing spring—mourned through prison windows. Long days endured standing by the Honorable Guards. Whether sitting formally or at ease—how the days stretched long. Long days spent in whispered conversations while sitting relaxed. As evening fell—farts echoed through each cell. Sitting formally, they proudly unleashed volleys of farts. In their loneliness, some would taunt the guards. The Honorable Guards scolded to relieve their boredom. "The 'Honorable Profession' had only received his appointment yesterday." When they said "Honorable Profession," they twisted their mustaches.

The chief guard often aspired to become an Iwanaga. Here was yet another chief guard playing at being Shigetada. The chaplain conducted himself in hell with Buddha’s dignity. The chaplain’s venerable figure wore kasaya robe and top hat.

The chaplain gets addressed as "you there"— The guard's Hitachi dialect barks "you"— Through endless days Prisoner 1990 sits dozing.

9. Bathing, Haircuts, Visitation, Letters

Bathing was another pleasure of prison life, permitted approximately once a week or once every four to five days. When word spread that today was bath day, everyone grew excited and fidgety. When the time came, they would all tuck towels into their sashes, slip on garden clogs, gather before their cells, line up in groups of five, and squat. At the commands “Line up! Forward march!”, they advanced toward the bathhouse. The bathhouse was roughly a couple hundred meters away. Constantly being scolded with “Don’t break formation!”, “No gawking around!”, “No talking!”, “No waving hands!”, they nevertheless reached the bathhouse entrance. Again they lined up and squatted. Then they formed a single line and entered the bathhouse in two groups of about twenty each. The bathhouse was brick-built; the bathtub, made of packed earth, was quite large. The water was heated with steam, and a thermometer had even been installed. Since we were always allowed to enter first, there was nothing to complain about in terms of cleanliness. “Undress!” Under strange commands like “Bathing!”, they formed lines of five or six each and entered in groups labeled first, second, third, fourth—over twenty people altogether. Then they went to the pipes fixed in a long line along one wall and each washed their heads and faces. However, the water was extremely scarce, making it more of a ritual than anything, but whatever the case, compared to the baths around Tsunohazu where we lived, it was quite splendid.

Haircuts also served as a bit of a pleasant diversion. This seemed to occur roughly once every two weeks. The barber was of course also a prisoner. The bathhouse attendants, the doctor’s assistants (nurses)—all were prisoners too, which made the whole situation absurd. When the barber came around and set up in the corridor, the prisoners from Cells 1 through 10 would go out one by one to have their hair cut. Since they just went around and around with clippers, there was no fuss. Of course, they would shave our faces as well. Those who particularly wished to grow beards were permitted to do so. A dandruff comb and scissors were also kept there. So while trimming their nails and chatting with the guard on watch, they found prison life unexpectedly engaging.

Visitation was a true pleasure for prisoners, though when visitors came too frequently, not every request could be granted. Most letters were permitted to be seen. Only a single one of Momo-kun’s picture postcards was ever shown. Then Mr. Nakamura Yajirou sent me a postcard filled with old stories meant to ease my boredom, but it arrived bearing a label that read “Prohibited due to irrelevance” and was only delivered upon my release. In prison life—where one endured uneventful (or monotonous) suffering—any slight variation in routine, whether letters, visitations, baths, haircuts, or exercise, was experienced as an extraordinary pleasure.

10. Meal Duty

Another diversion was having meal duty once every four or five days. In other cells there were assigned orderlies who handled meal duties and cleaning, but in our cell, since we had many prisoners without fixed duties, instead of appointing dedicated orderlies, it was decided that meal duty would rotate among these prisoners.

The meal duty was handled by two or three people, who would first portion out the rice and side dishes brought from the kitchen and set the meals. When the bell rang, they distributed them to each cell. Once the meal was finished, they cleaned up. They would fetch water and wash the meal bowls. Once the washing was done, they swept the corridor. Repeating this routine three times a day possessed a quaint charm all its own. Beyond meal duties, they were sometimes made to clean drainage areas, weed the backyard, and perform similar tasks—unexpectedly engaging work. In more extreme cases, they would take sandals from the sandal box and line them up before each cell to manage everyone’s release for exercise; once exercise ended, they would gather those sandals and return them to the box. These tasks carried a certain rustic elegance about them.

11. Glasses, Books

The first thing that troubled me most was having my glasses taken away. While it wasn't as though I couldn't see anything without them, being nearsighted at about -1.1 diopters and having worn these most cherished spectacles for over ten years—never removing them except when sleeping—the sudden separation now brought extraordinary discomfort. I had been clinging to their promise that my glasses would be returned shortly, but two or three days passed before I could finally complete the "Request for Spectacles Issuance" procedure. Just as I was delighting in having finally secured them, another two or three days passed before there was finally a doctor’s vision test. Just when I thought it was finally about to happen, after another two or three days, they were at last handed down.

With the emotional fervor of a parent-child reunion, I was vaguely happy yet restless-hearted—putting them on and taking them off, blowing on the lenses to wipe them—until growing thoroughly displeased at how slightly warped the right lens seemed. I showed them to the neighbor and, while timidly trying to bend this part as he suggested—"Just curve it here"—snap! The metal bridge snapped clean through. Oh no, I'd done it! Never had I been in such a fix. "Did I glimpse it, or was it but fleeting—the midnight moon veiled by clouds?" "Though we met by chance, a heartless gale tore us apart." My despair truly defied comparison. It's human nature to mend even a broken bowl, so I tried various fixes, but a snapped bridge where metal meets metal proved impossible to manage with fingertips alone. Still thinking there must be some way, as I fiddled endlessly, the idea came: why not bind them with thread? Then I pulled basting thread from my kimono's hem, twisted it double, and bound them together. When placed on my nose, the fit felt odd, but didn't hinder my sight. Ah—truly saved by this!

Even more than the eagerly awaited glasses, it was books that I longed for. The first day, the second day, the third day—no sooner had I finally settled in than boredom set in. All I wanted, all I craved was books. The books had been dutifully accepted by Chaplain Takeda, yet he showed no haste in delivering them. After over a week had passed, only two volumes were finally handed over. It was apparently a rule that they didn’t show more than two volumes at a time. For those with duties, who only had an hour or two for reading each day aside from Sundays, limiting them to two volumes might be reasonable—but for someone who read from morning till night, a mere two volumes seemed downright heartless.

Still, even if only two volumes, the books came; even if broken, I had my glasses. I felt as though I had the strength of a thousand men.

The two books were: Hyndman: Economics of Socialism. Instructions for Practical Living (Volume 1) First I read Mr. Hyndman’s Economics of Socialism, and when weariness set in, would dip into the Instructions for Practical Living—this saw me through two or three pleasant days, but by the fourth I had finished both. With no alternative, I began reading them again from the beginning. As I did so, one day there appeared Chaplain Takeda, the Education Director, who entered my cell and engaged me in idle talk for some time.

And so when I complained about the books—precisely when I had been placed in solitary confinement—they determined that "those in solitary cells aren't subject to volume restrictions," and early the next morning, all the books I'd brought were finally delivered to me. I felt such joy I nearly danced. This surpassed even having a thousand men's strength. Truly, it felt like gaining a million allies.

The books I had brought, aside from the previous two volumes, were the following seven. Encyclopedia of Social Reforms (Bliss). Nuttall's English Dictionary. Progress and Poverty (Henry George).

Truth (Zola). The Twentieth Century New Testament. Instructions for Practical Living (Volume 2, Volume 3) I first read Zola’s Truth. This work—alongside *Labor Issues* and *The Tale of Prosperous Descendants*, which I had previously abridged and translated—constitutes Zola’s final three major works, primarily structuring the Dreyfus Affair, vehemently denouncing the pernicious influence of the French Roman Catholic Church, and advocating for the necessity of reforming the elementary education system. Lately, Reuters telegrams had been reporting frequently on matters such as France’s religious education law, and it was through this book that I finally came to fully grasp their significance. I spent five or six days comforted by this book, but during that time, I was made to weep deeply about once each day on average.

Next, I read Henry George's *Progress and Poverty*. Until now I had only skimmed through it, but this time I read it through properly for the first time. As for the excellence of his prose, I hardly knew the words to evaluate it. On one level it was literary, on another scientific, and yet another aspect was religious. With its vigorous prose, startling phrases, and thorough dismantling of Malthusian population theory, it reached the pinnacle of exhilaration and sharpness. Next, I read the Four Gospels of the New Testament and a small portion from the beginning of Acts of the Apostles. The Twentieth Century New Testament, with its modernized prose, was truly excellent for us amateurs in its readability. The vestiges of communist systems manifested in Christianity particularly caught my attention.

I don't think I gained much from the Instructions for Practical Living. Bliss's Encyclopedia of Social Reforms, through its multitude of topics and breadth of interests, provided immeasurable comfort during my prison life. In particular, I must profoundly thank this book for enabling me, as a prisoner, to acquire some knowledge of criminology, penology, and related fields while incarcerated. The merits of Nuttall's dictionary need hardly be elaborated now. There was an instance when, driven by utter boredom, I meticulously examined every single illustration in this dictionary from beginning to end.

12. Work Assignments, Working Hours, Labor Wages Since I never took on any work assignments myself, I didn't fully understand their actual conditions, but in any case, they performed various kinds of labor across seven factories. There were blacksmiths as well as shoemakers. There were those making beds and those making canvas shoes. There were those weaving tabi soles and those twisting hemp rope. There were those cultivating potatoes and broad beans, and there were those doing laundry. There were those assigned to dirty tasks like toilet cleaning, and there were those given roles like kitchen duty where pilfering food became possible. All were assigned according to their talents and dispositions, and it remained absolutely impossible to raise objections. The hours stretched longest to ten and a half hours, while the shortest—if I recall correctly—lasted eight and a half hours. Each prisoner had an assigned workload they were compelled to complete exactly. During work hours, they could neither speak nor rest, needing to raise hands for toilet permissions; each assignment carried set wages from which workers received two or three-tenths as income. Thus there were long-term prisoners said to have saved one hundred or even two hundred yen.

13. Rewards and Punishments

If prisoners violated the rules, they were immediately subjected to punishment. The first punishment was reduced rations. With reduced rations, the food quantity was decreased to about one-third, and they were made to sit upright in formal seiza posture for several days. The severity of this hardship drove some to occasionally hang themselves. Even those who appeared composed would see their body weight decrease by around one kan (approximately 3.75 kg) in no time. Those who remained unaffected by reduced rations were put into dark cells. For serious criminals who proved unmanageable, they applied leg irons. Leg irons were none other than shackles for the legs. Those who still remained unyielding were then made to carry an iron ball weighing twelve kan (approximately 45 kilograms).

As a reward, once or twice a week, a side dish was added to the meals. Other special privileges included being allowed to enter the bath first, being lent new clothing, and being permitted to send two letters per month instead of the usual one.

14. "Ideal Society"

Now, having thus described the harshness of prison life, allow me to observe the entirety of this so-called prison.

The prison was first and foremost sturdy in its architecture. It was grand. It was clean. From the perspective of those living in tenement row houses, it had to indeed be called a mansion or high-rise residence. Even clothing and bedding were kept nearly in order. In winter, there was no doubt that they suffered from extreme cold, yet when viewed from the perspective of those perpetually clad in rags—or even those unable to obtain such rags—it had to indeed be called a most grateful shelter against the cold. The food was undoubtedly poor, but considering those who scavenged through garbage dumps, complaints could not necessarily be made. In any case, in terms of equality and safety in clothing, food, and shelter, the prison far surpassed society.

The residents of the prison, amidst this equal and secure provision of clothing, food, and shelter, utilized various civilized conveniences such as electric lights, railways, steam power, and so forth—each engaging in specialized labor according to their talents and dispositions—leading lives of nearly communal self-governance. Moreover, for physical and mental ailments, there were hospitals and there were churches. It had to be called a nearly self-sufficient separate society.

When viewed in this way, the prison was indeed a kind of utopia. That I entered this utopia for rest was by no means a lie. However, when viewing this utopia from another angle, an entirely different kind of scene appeared before my eyes.

15. Prison Guards

The residents of the prison were not solely prisoners. There were also prison guards. Prison guards were public servants who supervised prisoners, but their pitiable circumstances were in no way inferior to those of the prisoners. An old guard once told me: "I wake up at 3 AM, leave home by 3:30, arrive at the prison by 4, start my shift at 4:30, take thirty-minute breaks every hour and a half, work until lockdown at 6:30 PM, finish up tasks afterward, and get home around 7:30." "When I sit on the veranda without even taking off my shoes, I can glimpse my home garden’s scenery in the dim light for just a brief moment." "I rarely have time to go to the baths or such—on my once-every-two-weeks day off, I usually end up sleeping through it." And their salaries amounted to no more than a mere twelve or fifteen yen.

Viewed separately, prison guards and prisoners were both people in pitiable circumstances—yet when one considered the relationship between these two groups, whether to call it comical, absurd, or even tragic, I found myself at a loss for words to describe it.

16. The Day Before Release

On the day before release, prisoners were transferred to what was called the full-term cellblock. There gathered those who would become free men the next day—Mister Theft, Mister Fraud, Mister Pickpocket, Mister Extortion, and Mister Embezzler. Barely enduring their final day and night, they indulged in wild fantasies while immersing themselves in foolish talk.

First, each one was summoned individually and received admonishment from the chaplain. The chaplain, in a thoroughly disinterested tone, merely went through the motions of his duty. The prisoners would bow with a "Yes, sir," return to their cells, and stick out their tongues. And if one were to listen to what they talked about, it was mostly just wanting to eat, wanting to drink, wanting to go have fun—that was generally the extent of it. The most conscience-sensitive among them would sigh, "I can never become a decent human being again." There were those who laughed alone, muttering, "What a cursed fate this man has—unable to stop no matter what he does." If you were to listen to the words of the most seemingly prudent fellow among them: "If I'm going to do it at all, I'll go big—otherwise I'll quit outright." Most of them never even faced the dilemma of whether to quit or not.

There was one story I found particularly intriguing. A Pickpocket Boss once declared: “You keep two boys stashed at home, and you’ll never want for nothin’ day to day. Run outta bonito flakes? They’ll swipe more. Run outta charcoal? They’ll pinch that too. Damn handy, I tell ya.” “Plus those brats got honor—even if they get collared, they won’t spill nothin’.” “One time when Brother kept badgerin’ me to tag along, I followed him to some shrine grounds. He says, ‘Since I’m partial to sake, I’ll fetch us some now—wait right here.’” After a bit, he comes back luggin’ two beer bottles. “When I said we had no cups, he scampers off and nabs one from a glass shop.” “It’s so damn convenient it’s laughable, I swear.”

17. Music in Prison

Prisoners go half a month without seeing the sky. Prisoners go half a month without treading the earth. Yet nature's music flows freely through these walls. Morning sparrows sing in the sunrise: "My wife, come! Chirp chirp chirp. Where are my children? Tweet tweet tweet. Here lies food—peck peck peck." Evening cows low beneath the setting sun: "The endless day won't darken—mooooo. Our labor's done—moo-moo. Let us rest now—moo, moo, moo." Night frogs croak till dawn breaks: "All people sleep—rumbling, The world ours—creak creak creak. Sing! Sing! Clatter-clatter-clink."

The world is my world—rattle-rattle-rattle. "Sing, sing! Clatter-clatter-clatter." On clear days, the cry of kites in the sky— One might think it a flute being played. Fluttering wide sleeves of feathered robes, Dancing through the void of three thousand leagues. Dancing gracefully, blowing clear— "Scree-ee, scree-ee." In the rain, the jeweled water from the eaves— One might think it a drum being struck. Tightening the cord with focused intent, Striking with practiced frenzy. Beating faster, driving harder— "Ratta-tatta-tat, pom-pom-pom." Ah, how wondrous is nature!

Ah, how wondrous is heaven and earth!

18. Miscellaneous Notes on Release from Prison

June 20th at 5 AM—through what Shūsui had called "the castle gates of Demon Island"—Sugamo Prison's great iron gate solemnly swung open its iron doors and ceremoniously expelled me, this meager five-foot-one-inch frame, into society.

The unfamiliar feel of wearing Western clothes after so long, a heavy bundle of books hung from my left hand, leaning my body to the right while looking about restlessly as I stood there—in the cool air of this early morning, faced with lush greenery that seemed to float and sway before my eyes, I felt boundless delight.

When I had managed to move a few steps forward, I encountered one of my friends, Mr. Kawamura, coming from the distance. Exchanging smiles, I was led by Mr. Kawamura into a teahouse.

Ahhh—now at last I could speak openly after so long. Before long came Sugimura Jūō-kun pedaling over on his bicycle. Following him crowded over twenty people—beginning with tube-sleeved Kinoshita-kun and shaven-headed Saitō-kun—comrades from Heiminsha and members of the Socialist Association. Last came my daughter Magara at one year and five months old with unsteady steps, both hands held by our neighbor Ms. Fukuda Hideko—whom she called Auntie—and relative Mr. Kobayashi Sukeichi—addressed as Uncle. I saw her walk on solid ground for the first time. And she had already completely forgotten me.

When I saw these familiar faces gathered, the absence of Shūsui among them filled me with profound loneliness. From his sickbed, he had entrusted someone to send me a letter. "Come back soon and laugh at my spinelessness," he wrote. Should I laugh? Should I weep? One of us had been worn down by idleness, the other worn ragged by busyness—and this was what two months had wrought. Escorted by my friends from there, we made our way through fields and farmlands bathed in green, arriving at Ikebukuro Station as the morning wind swept over us. Standing on the platform and looking back at the prison while gesturing to my companions, I felt a profound sense of victory welling up within me without quite knowing why.

When I disembarked at Shinjuku Station, Mrs. Kōtoku came running up to greet me. From the station to my home was a mere four or five blocks, but that path felt strangely unfamiliar. It was precisely that feeling captured in the haiku Katō Minryū-kun had sent me in prison: "Have you noticed? The young leaves have already turned verdant." When I entered my home, my home again felt strangely unfamiliar. When I entered through the gate and stood in the garden, the green of the trees appeared so thick it seemed to drip.

My ill wife had cooked my favorite bean rice and was waiting. After seeing how emaciated she had become, I visited Shūsui immediately without removing my shoes. Shūsui, half-rising from his sickbed, grasped my hand. He had grown as emaciated as my wife. A poem-like piece had come into being. Unnoticed, paulownia flowers bloomed and scattered; in the cool shade of leaves, I left prison. In prison, the only tree with any elegance was the paulownia.

19. Diary Immediately After Release from Prison

June 20th: Released from prison. I stayed home all day, talking and eating with guests.

21st: Went to work. While my colleagues were extremely busy, I alone remained dazed and couldn't get any work done. 22nd: Same as above. 23rd: Editing completed. I developed a slight stomachache. 24th: My stomach felt extremely off. 25th: Finally came down with diarrhea, even though I'd been quite careful. In the afternoon I took a laxative, and upon nightfall had over a dozen bouts of diarrhea.

June 26th: I attended the much-anticipated welcome garden party for my release, but given my extreme fatigue, I returned home immediately after taking a photograph. June 27th: As Shūsui’s house had good airflow, I spent half the afternoon there. Two sick patients laid out bedding side by side and gazed at each other despondently—I felt as though I wanted Mr. Hyakuhō or Mr. Imosen to sketch this scene.

28th: My diarrhea finally stopped. I ate porridge, ate sashimi, took a bath—utterly delightful.

(Appendix) Account of the Garden Party

From 9 AM on June 26th, a garden party was held to welcome Sakai-shō’s release from prison. ……The location was Ōrin-tei Pavilion by the pond in Jūnisō, Tsunohazu. ……Fortunately, it was cloudy……the number of attendees, both men and women combined, reached over 150. ...Mr. Abe Isoo, as chief organizer, stated the gathering's purpose: "While today's meeting naturally combines welcoming Sakai-shō's release from prison, to speak truthfully—since entering jail is commonplace for socialists—if we were to hold welcome parties every time someone from our party leaves prison, we might have to host hundreds of such gatherings there in the future. "...and I would like to regard today’s gathering—timed to coincide with Sakai-shō’s release—as a daylong garden party that we comrades have held here," he said.……

(One of the organizers) (Mr. Abe's opinion at the time was a shrewdly insightful and appropriate warning. —Sakai-shō)

(From "The Optimistic Prisoner," March 1911)