Pathway to Japanese Literature

I. Prison Enters Its Season Now Mr. Samukawa Sokkotsu has authored *The New Prisoner*. Mr. Taoka Reium has authored *Notes from Incarceration*. When a literary person enters prison, it seems to be a tradition that they will inevitably write an article as a memento. I too cannot help but write something.

On April 21st at 1:00 PM—said to be prison's peak intake season—I appeared at the Tokyo Court of Appeals Prosecutor's Office escorted by comrades. A clerk guided me to the lowest floor of that imposing edifice. At the dim corridor's entrance, I bid farewell to my seeing-off companions and was confined alone in a rear chamber. This back room bore iron-barred doors and two waste buckets—already exuding prison's distinctive aura. I later learned this was called the temporary detention cell. After enduring one or two hours here, they loaded me into a carriage with slit-like blackout windows alongside Mr. Thief, Mr. Fraud, Mr. Gambler, and Mr. Arsonist. We weren't boarded so much as swine-stuffed. The sole mercy came from having handcuffs fastened.

Before long, the carriage passed through the gates of the Metropolitan Police Headquarters. “Look who’s back!” “Welcome back, Master!” some called out. “Your wife’ll come fetch you any minute now,” others jeered nonchalantly. At the Metropolitan Police Headquarters, I was made to wait another two hours or so and paid out of pocket for my evening meal. Here the police officers grew more relaxed—some asked, “Why didn’t you prepare a separate signatory in advance?” while others remarked, “Not doing such underhanded things is what makes you Socialists, eh?” From such exchanges, for a time, a discussion on socialism unfolded there, and the vigorous back-and-forth of questions and answers proved most enjoyable.

II. Tokyo Prison Then, loaded once more into the same carriage (this time allotted a slightly more comfortable seat through the officers’ courtesy), we arrived at Tokyo Prison at dusk. After undergoing various unnerving body inspections and belongings checks, I was handed bedding and a set of meal utensils before being placed into a cell.

The cell was a four-and-a-half tatami mat room with neatly laid flooring. An electric lamp glowed from the high ceiling. In one corner stood a toilet resembling a carved-out hearth. Another corner held a small triangular wooden platform bearing an earthenware teapot, a bucket, and other implements. I found this arrangement rather ingeniously designed. That night I slept fully dressed in my frock coat exactly as I had entered.

On the morning of the 21st, having barely eaten two or three mouthfuls of crushed barley rice resembling dried provisions, I was again taken to the interrogation room. It must have been around ten in the morning when I was loaded into two carriages along with fifteen or sixteen others and sent off to Sugamo Prison this time.

Here I must briefly explain the different types of prisons. First, I was told that Tokyo Prison served as the detention center for unconvicted prisoners, Ichigaya Prison housed first-time and repeat offenders, while Sugamo Prison was designated for those with three or more convictions—considered habitual "prisoner types"—alongside felons. Then light-imprisonment convicts like us, as well as those receiving special treatment, were all sent to Sugamo. Incidentally, I should note that female prisoners were placed in Hachioji, and juvenile prisoners in Kawagoe.

III. Sugamo Prison

Arriving at Sugamo Prison and thinking, "Well, I've truly fallen into the abyss now," I felt a profound unease.

First, in an entrance hall-like room, I was stripped naked. Then in the next room came the command: “Open your mouth!” “Raise both hands!” Under commands like “Crawl on all fours!”, I underwent a body inspection, and there I was handed a kimono, obi sash, hand towel, and fundoshi loincloth. All were persimmon-dyed, but the hand towel and fundoshi had vertical gradations in their coloring that formed a faint aesthetic appeal—an oddly deliberate touch. The kimono was a cotton-padded tube-sleeved garment, with a white cloth sewn onto the collar bearing a written number. This white cloth was later replaced with metal tags. Sakai Toshihiko had now become Number 1990.

Around this time came an interrogation of exceeding complexity regarding my name, age, domicile, criminal charge, and other details. Guards with Satsuma accents, Tohoku drawls, and Ibaraki dialects—wardens taking turns coming and going—repeatedly questioned me about the same things while jotting notes in their ledgers. The chaotic scene proved both intriguing and absurd. Some asked, “When were you arrested?” only to receive my reply of “I’ve never been arrested before”—at which they’d stare in bafflement, utterly unable to reconcile this answer. Being treated uniformly as thieves was insufferable.

Loincloths, socks, wrapping cloths, handkerchiefs, small pouches containing silver coins, tattered underpants—they recorded each item with excruciating detail. Yet these same men who’d casually crack open a skull or two treated every last speck of property with meticulous, unrelenting care. The notion of the sanctity of property had truly sunk in deep. Compared to a lump or two or a few drops of blood, a single postcard or hand towel seemed far more significant to them.

Then, after being made to put on garden clogs with persimmon-colored thongs and taken outside, came the command: "Squat there and wait!" After waiting for a while, this time the commands "Stand up" and "Advance" were issued. After taking two or three steps, I was scolded: "Wait, wait! Your obi is tied wrong!" I was told that the obi must be tied in a dragonfly knot with its loop facing left. Just as I finally fixed it and started moving again, I was rebuked once more: "Hey! Don't swing your arms!" "Gentlemen, try doing it yourselves—walking without swinging one's arms at all is an exceedingly difficult task."

After walking about fifty meters, we came to the front entrance of a long red-brick building. The iron-barred door was locked. "Well, here it comes," I thought—just as an outside guard called out "Fifteen new arrivals!" and handed our group over to an inside guard. We entered the iron door barefoot. Inside stretched a long stone-paved corridor where a chilly, eerie wind drifted through. "Sit there!" came the command. When I looked ahead immediately, I saw thin chopping block-like objects lined along one side of the corridor, topped with metal bowls and wooden troughs. Looking closer, I spotted ladles and bowls too. Needless to say, this was the meal station. Where people sat, something like a mat made of rags was spread across the floor. When we fifteen lined up in a row before the meal trays, a rigidly standing guard barked: "Bow!" With that bow, we took up our chopsticks. I managed only two or three mouthfuls, scarcely eating anything at all. Then under another barked "Bow!", we bowed again and stood—whereupon they opened the iron door to our right and admitted us seven or eight at a time.

IV. The Structure of Sugamo Prison

Here I must briefly explain the general structure of Sugamo Prison.

First, at the far end of the front was the administrative office, with the South Block and North Block to its left and right. Both blocks were shaped like splayed fingers, each divided into five wards. That is to say, there were ten wards in total, with each ward divided into approximately twenty cells. Then, far to the rear, seven factories stood lined up. In addition, infirmaries, kitchens (with attached bathhouses), laundry factories, and other facilities stood scattered about. And between these buildings were laid out such features as well-kept lawns, exercise grounds, and various cultivated fields. Now, it went without saying that this prison stood as Japan’s foremost, and was said to rank among the most perfectly realized institutions in the world. Truly, Japan was impressive indeed—even its prisons flourished to rival those of the West. Be that as it may, the current Warden Shōjō was said to be steadily attempting improvements to this foremost prison of Japan through so-called civilized methods.

V. First Day, Second Day, Prison Chaplain I was placed in the North Block’s Sixth Ward, where on the first day I shared a cell with six or seven frightening men serving seven- or eight-year penal sentences. After passing a profoundly restless night and reaching the second day, I was first summoned to receive the prison chaplain’s lecture. The prison chaplain was a priest of Honganji Temple who remarked: “As for the Heimin Shimbun, if I recall correctly, it was anti-war. Of course, from the standpoint of religious figures and such, pro-war arguments by no means ought to exist. “However, given that there are such things as historical circumstances, various arguments may indeed arise—but how about giving some thought to the nature of these times?” This constituted the chaplain’s guidance to me. He’s quite the smooth talker. In the afternoon, my head was shaved round and round without ceremony. With this, I became a full-fledged prisoner.

VI: Cells, Bedding, Meals

The cell had wooden flooring spanning about eight tatami mats, with a well-like structure in one corner whose sunken interior served as a toilet. In one corner was a water pipe, with a modest washbasin attached beneath it. The ceiling was exceedingly high, with one window facing outward and another facing the corridor—both positioned well beyond arm’s reach. In the early mornings, how that faint light slanted in through the window filled me with an inexpressible joy.

The bedding consisted of a single rather spacious futon, which we would fold into a dumpling-like shape and sleep on using wooden pillows. The kimono remained unchanged day and night; we were simply instructed to wear only our undergarments when sleeping and drape the kimono over us. For those assigned to work duties, there were separate short jackets and work pants.

The food was atrocious. The rice, unlike that in Tokyo Prison, was white in color. Tokyo Prison served crushed barley, whereas here it was Nanjing rice. Lately, I heard that the price of wheat had risen, making Nanjing rice the cheaper option now. In any case, its taste was incomparably awful—at first I could barely swallow it. As for the side dishes, breakfast being miso soup shouldn’t have been lacking in theory—but that miso soup was as if someone had scooped up muddy sludge from a nearby ditch, and the wooden trough holding it resembled an old ladle with its handle broken off. With kombu seaweed and vegetable leaves clinging to its rim, I initially found it utterly filthy. The next evening’s side dishes were takuan pickles with sesame salt—this combination proved quite refreshing and good. Occasionally there were miso-based vegetables. They ground in chili peppers and such—this too was surprisingly well-prepared. Lunch was the most lavish meal, changing daily. First came tofu soup on Sundays, followed by fried tofu with greens, dried daikon radish, broad beans, quail beans, horse meat, pork, and similar items—the standard menu was generally set. When they spoke of pork, it sounded quite grand, but in truth, it amounted to nothing more than three small slices of meat atop some greens or dried vegetables. Even so, everyone would cheer excitedly—“Pork! Pork!” Among the midday dishes, the one that most vexed me was when we had round-cut daikon and vegetable leaves; I would invariably sigh, “Ugh—Daikon Day again?” The only thing to drink was lukewarm water.

According to what I heard, the cost of the three daily side dishes had averaged 1 sen 7 rin until the beginning of this year, but after the war began, they reduced it by 5 rin to 1 sen 2 rin. The war’s reach extends even to the most wretched corners.

VII. Special Treatment After spending about ten days in the Sixth Ward, I was transferred to the Eleventh Ward. This Eleventh Ward was a separate building apart from the ten main wards—an old-fashioned wooden structure somewhat reminiscent of Kyoto’s Sanjūsangen-dō Temple. The cells numbered only ten on one side, with their front separated by a corridor featuring double-layered windows. The cell’s interior spanned about twelve tatami mats, with coarse lattices at the front and back that gave it the appearance of a stage prison. At the rear latticework, shoji screens were installed, and inside those screens were lined a sunken washing area and a toilet. In the toilet area stood a small screen-like partition fashioned from boards. The entire space here was spacious and refreshing; when we opened the windows and shoji screens, even the sky became visible. We could see trees, sparrows flying, and cats approaching. Compared to the main prison built with bricks, stone, and iron, the comfort here was immeasurably greater.

I learned that this Eleventh Ward served as a special treatment area housing those sentenced to light imprisonment, educated individuals undergoing heavy imprisonment (those who had held social status), elderly inmates, and others. Additionally, those who had completed their principal sentences and had their additional fines commuted to light imprisonment—what they called converted-sentence inmates—were also kept here. Let me note that people outside often claim prisoners refer to the outside world as 'shaba-shaba.' But in truth, such terms aren't actually used anymore these days. Everyone now says "society."

After arriving at this ward, I was initially placed with commuted-sentence inmates for a day or two, then confined alone in a solitary cell for about a week, and finally housed with two other light-imprisonment inmates in a group of three. The two cellmates were soldiers from the Garrison Prison. The others in this ward included a lawyer charged with attempted extortion, an army colonel convicted of fraud, a Niroku Shimpō signatory charged with insulting public officials, a Yorozu Chōhō signatory involved in a bestiality incident, a Hinode Shimbun reporter accused of extortion, a youth charged with assisting suicide (in a failed love suicide pact), a middle school clerk convicted of forging official documents, a normal school principal implicated in a textbook scandal, a girls’ high school principal involved in the same scandal, a former police inspector, and individuals connected to the horseshoe silver incident. For those of us serving two-month light imprisonment like myself, the instances where we held any sway were exceedingly few.

VIII. Daily Life

Now, to set out to describe a day’s life here: first, at 5:00 AM (4:30 AM after June), the bell rang. At that signal, we sprang up. We folded the mosquito net, folded the futon, swept the wooden floor, and wiped it down with a rag. Amidst this routine, the guards barked, “Bow!” Everyone sat formally and bowed their heads. They called out numbers—“Number 1990!”, “Number 1853!”—in a loud voice. “Yes,” they responded while lifting their heads. After that was done, they brushed their teeth with salt and washed their faces. The salt was distributed by guards who went around to each cell every morning while we slept. In the main prison, water was supplied through pipes, but here, a designated person would draw it from a nearby well and distribute it.

After a while came mealtime. In the main prison, they had to go out into the corridor and eat seated before the guards' rigidly planted boots—an intensely unpleasant experience—but here meal trays were brought into their cells, and since the cell floors stood considerably higher than the corridor, none of that discomfort remained. When meals ended, they would sit formally while using toothpicks. Toothpicks were distributed at one or two per month. Formal sitting meant maintaining proper upright posture without bending knees—after eating, they had to remain thus seated for an hour. Since they sat this way on a single straw mat laid over wooden planks, their legs would grow quite sore.

After an hour had passed since the meal, they would all sit cross-legged; this was called "relaxed sitting." Then those serving heavy imprisonment would begin their work, while we serving light imprisonment would read books or such. However, books weren’t things we could be forced to read nonstop from dawn till dusk. We grew bored; yawns escaped us. They would whisper, chatter nonsense, play pranks, go to the toilet, pass gas, hum tunes, stand on their heads—indeed, they spent their days in all manner of diversions. Of course, they did it while avoiding the guards’ notice, so they were occasionally caught and scolded. However, this applied to us light-imprisonment and converted-sentence inmates; those assigned duties actually found their days passed more easily. Thus, even among those under light imprisonment, there were not a few who voluntarily sought out duties.

A postcard from Mr. Nagashima Eisuke bore the verse: “The lotus-sitting sage finds even endless days too short.” But we ordinary mortals could hardly manage such a feat. Thus, through various delusions and fantasies, we barely managed to console ourselves. “Hey there, hey there—step right up, mister!” “Mr. Shinagawa! Mr. Ōmori! Mr. Kawasaki—step right up!” (This was their dark jest—likening themselves to prostitutes in red robes sitting before prison bars.)

“Step right up! Today’s special at Gyogen—sea bream, flounder, and tuna fillets!” “Ah, in that case, I’ll take the sea bream.” “Please fillet one side and make it into sashimi.” “But it’s fresh, right, fishmonger?” (This wordplay arose because the arrangement of the rear shoji screens and washing area resembled Sugamo’s kitchen entrance.) “Ah, what fine weather! Where shall we go out to play today?” “Well now... shall we head out from Ueno to Asakusa or something?” “But going somewhere far sounds like a hassle.” “Then again, why don’t we just take a stroll under that paulownia tree instead?” “Yeah, that’s a good idea too.” “Well then, let’s not go out today after all.” (This referred to the afternoon exercise, as would become clear later.)

“What shall we do for your side dish tonight?” “I’d like something refreshing.” “Well then, let’s stick with the usual takuan pickles and sesame salt, shall we?” “Ah, I want tempura.” “I’d be happy with just one mochi sweet.” “I’m not asking for anything fancy—just two or three helpings of yudofu or something.” “If we even had a go board here, we wouldn’t get bored at all.” “And if just one bottle of beer would appear.” “And if there were apples or biscuits.” “And if a beauty showed up saying ‘Please have one,’ then there’d be nothing left to want.” “Ha ha ha ha! You lot really know no bounds when it comes to luxury!”

While they were engaged in such foolish talk, lunchtime arrived. Engaging in guessing games about lunch side dishes or compiling lists of them—such activities also served as a way to pass the time. Lunch was at eleven, and if the weather was good, there was exercise from eleven-thirty until noon. This was limited to those without regular duties and those performing duties in their cells; therefore, it was not permitted for those assigned to work in the factories. The exercise involved walking beneath paulownia trees surrounding the prison compound or across Komatsubara’s grassy fields—always in single file under strict supervision as they circled about—yet even so, conversation was not impossible, and occasionally they would pause to observe something like an ant battle. In any case, exercise was the greatest pleasure of the entire day—and this held especially true after three straight days of rain.

After exercise came more foolish chatter, dozing off, and such—and so evening would arrive. “I wonder what time it is now.” “The changing of the guards now must be around four-thirty.” Exchanges like “Then dinner’s in thirty minutes” were repeated in nearly the same manner every day. Then came remarks like, “I’ve only got a hundred and three days left. It’s nothing.” “Yours truly’s at the peak today—tomorrow it’s all downhill from here. “Just foolishness.” “You’ll be out in another week, huh?”—such calculations of their sentences occurred nearly every day.

After dinner came another inspection, and the Anza Bell rang. The dim electric light glimmered. After enduring another two hours or so of boredom, eight o'clock arrived and the bedtime bell rang. “Here it comes!” they clamored as kashiwa mochi were rolled out in clattering rows. This, well, was more or less a day’s life.

One night, waking in the dead of night, I produced the following sleep-talking utterances.

Frogs croak in harmony with snores from the next cell.

Beneath purple paulownia blooms—people in crimson robes.

Paulownia blooms—prisoners and guards unseen before.

Through the prison window—spring’s departure lamented.

The long day finds the "Honorable Guard" standing vigil. Whether sitting formally or at ease—the endless day. The long day spent whispering furtively while sitting at ease. As evening falls—each cell releases its chorus of farts. Sitting formally, he proudly lets loose a series of farts. In loneliness—some tease the guards. The Honorable Guard scolds to pass the time of boredom. "The Professional" was just appointed yesterday. "The Professional" twists his beard when addressed as such; The Chief Guard persistently aspires to become Iwanaga. This one’s a Shigetada-style chief guard. The prison chaplain in hell conducts himself like Buddha. The prison chaplain’s kasaya and top hat—an august figure.

The prison chaplain—referred to as ‘you’ ‘You there…’ in the guard’s Hitachi dialect Through the long days—1990 dozes while sitting

IX. Bathing, Haircuts, Visitations, Letters

Bathing was another of prison life's few pleasures, permitted approximately once a week or sometimes once every four or five days.

When told “Today is bath day,” everyone grew excited and fidgeted restlessly. When the time came, they all hung towels from their sashes, put on garden clogs, gathered before their cells, and lined up in groups of five to squat. At the commands “Stand! Advance!”, they proceeded toward the bathhouse. The bathhouse lay roughly two hundred meters ahead. While being constantly scolded with “Don’t break formation!”, “No gawking!”, “No talking!”, and “Don’t swing your arms!”, they nevertheless reached the bathhouse entrance. Again they lined up and squatted. Then they formed a single line and entered the bathhouse divided into two groups of about twenty each. The bathhouse was constructed of brick, its bathtub made of concrete and quite large. The hot water was heated by steam, and they had even installed a thermometer. We were always permitted to enter first, so regarding cleanliness, there was nothing to complain about. “Undress!” Under peculiar commands like “Bathe!”, they formed lines five or six at a time—Group One, Two, Three, Four—and entered together in batches of over twenty people. Next they went under the pipes running along one wall, each washing their own heads and faces. However, that water was severely limited, making it more ceremonial than practical, but in any case, compared to the baths around Tsunohazu where we lived, it was rather decent.

Haircuts also became a somewhat pleasant diversion. This seemed to occur about once every two weeks. The barber was, of course, also a prisoner. Both the bathhouse attendants and the medical assistants (orderlies) were prisoners as well—an amusing arrangement. When the barber made his rounds and set up in the corridor, prisoners from Cells 1 to 10 would go out one by one to have their hair cut. Since they simply ran clippers around in circles, there was nothing complicated about it. Of course, they shaved our faces too. Those who particularly wished to grow beards were permitted to do so. Lice combs and scissors were also kept there. So when we chatted with the supervising guard while trimming our nails, prison life proved unexpectedly diverting.

Visits were a great pleasure for prisoners, but when visitors came too frequently, not every request could be permitted. Most letters could be viewed. Only a single picture postcard from Momo was ever shown to us. Then Mr. Nakamura Yajirou sent me a postcard with old stories to alleviate my boredom, but it bore a note stating "Not approved due to being unclear" and was handed over to me upon my release. In prison life, where we simply suffered through uneventful (or monotonous) days, anything that broke the routine—letters, visits, bathing, haircuts, exercise—was felt as an immense pleasure.

X. Meal Duty

Another diversion became having meal duty once every four or five days. In other cellblocks there existed assigned laborers who handled meal preparations and cleaning tasks, but since our block contained many prisoners without fixed duties, instead of appointing dedicated laborers, it had been decided that meal duty would rotate among these inmates.

Those on duty—two or three people—would first portion out the rice and side dishes brought from the kitchen and set up the meal trays. When the bell rang, they distributed them to each cell. After meals ended, they cleaned up. They would fetch water and wash the meal trays and bowls. When finished washing up, they swept the corridor. Repeating this three times daily made for what was quite an elegant routine. Beyond meal duties, there were also times when they were made to clean drains and weed the backyard. It proved unexpectedly diverting. At its most elaborate, they would sometimes take sandals from the sandal box to line them up before each cell when managing exercise periods, then gather and return them afterward. These tasks carried a profoundly refined quality.

XI. Glasses, Books

What troubled me most at first was having my glasses confiscated. It wasn’t that I couldn’t see anything without them, but with eleven-degree nearsightedness and these being spectacles I’d cherished for over a decade—removed only when sleeping—the sudden separation now filled me with profound discomfort. I had clung to their promise of returning them soon, but only after two or three days was the petition procedure for their restitution finally completed. Just as I began relishing this small triumph, another two or three days passed before there finally came a doctor’s vision test. When I thought it was truly imminent, after yet another two or three days, they were at last returned to me.

With the emotional fervor of a parent reuniting with their child, I felt inexplicably happy and restless-hearted—putting them on, taking them off, blowing on the lenses to wipe them clean—when I noticed that the right lens was slightly warped. While showing it to the person next door and timidly trying to bend it here and there as I muttered things like, “Just tweak this part a bit,”—crack!—the metal bridge snapped clean through. Damn it all! There’s nothing more vexing than this.

“Did I glimpse it, or was it never truly seen? The midnight moon veiled by clouds.” “Though we met by chance, an indifferent storm blew us apart.” My disappointment and desolation truly defied comparison. Even a broken bowl invites attempts at mending—such is human nature—so I tried various methods, but a snapped metal bridge defies fingertip repairs. Still, as I fiddled with it in various ways, wondering if there wasn’t some method—the idea occurred to me to bind it with thread. Then I removed the basting thread from my kimono’s hem, twisted it into two strands, and managed to bind them together. When I placed them on my nose, the fit felt somewhat awkward, but they didn’t hinder my vision. Ah! I’m truly saved by this!

Even more than the glasses I’d yearned for, what I found myself yearning for even more intensely were books. The first day, the second day, the third day—no sooner had I begun adjusting than boredom descended. All I wanted—all I craved—were books. Though Chaplain Takeda had nodded approval when accepting the books, he showed no haste in delivering them. A little over a week later, only two volumes were finally handed over. It seemed there existed a regulation prohibiting prisoners from receiving more than two books at once. For those with labor duties—men who could spare but an hour or two for reading beyond Sundays—this limit might have made sense. But to shackle someone reading from dawn till dusk to a paltry two books? That struck me as downright heartless.

Well, even if only two books had arrived, and even if broken, I still had my glasses. I felt as though I now possessed the strength of a thousand men. The two books were: Hyndman: Economics of Socialism. Wang Yangming’s Instructions for Practical Living (Volume 1)

First I would read Mr. Hyndman’s *Economics of Socialism*, and whenever boredom set in, dip into *Instructions for Practical Living*—thus passing two or three days pleasantly—but by about the fourth day, I had already finished both. There was no help for it—I began reading them again from the beginning. While occupied thus, one day Takeda Chaplain, the Director of Education, appeared and spent some time engaging in casual conversation within my cell. When I raised the matter of books, it happened that I had been placed in solitary confinement at that precise moment—with the rationale being “those in solitary cells face no volume restrictions”—and so early the next morning, all the books I had brought were delivered to me. I felt such elation I nearly leapt for joy. Now this was beyond mere thousand-man strength. I truly felt as though I had gained 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 (Zolla). The Twenty Century New Testament. Wang Yangming’s Instructions for Practical Living (Volumes 2 and 3)

I first read Zola’s *Truth*. This work, together with *Labor Issues* and *On Progeny Prosperity*—both of which I had previously abridged and translated—constituted Zola’s final three major works. It primarily structured itself around the Dreyfus Affair, vehemently denounced the Roman Catholic Church’s pernicious influence in France, and passionately advocated for reforms to the primary education system. Lately, Reuters telegrams had been reporting each time on matters such as France’s religious education laws—and through this book, 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 nearly once each day.

Next, I read Henry George’s *Progress and Poverty*. Until now I had only skimmed through it; this was my first time reading it cover to cover. When it came to the ingenuity of his prose, I scarcely knew the words to appraise it. On one level it was literary, on another scientific, and yet another religious. Vigorous prose, striking paradoxes—as if demolishing Malthus’s population theory—it was exhilarating to the extreme and razor-sharp in its precision.

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 text rendered in modern style, proved truly excellent in readability for us laypeople. What particularly captured my attention were the vestiges of communist systems manifested within Christianity. I cannot say 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 solace to my prison life. Above all, for what little knowledge I acquired regarding 'criminology,' 'penology,' and related fields as a prisoner within these walls, I must profoundly thank this book.

The contribution of Nuttall’s dictionary requires no elaboration at this late hour. There was a time when, out of sheer boredom, I meticulously examined each and every illustration in Nuttall’s dictionary from beginning to end.

12. Work, Labor Hours, Wages

As I never took on a work assignment myself, I didn’t fully understand their actual conditions, but in any case, various kinds of labor were being carried out across seven factories. There were blacksmiths and there were shoemakers. There were those making beds and those making canvas shoes. There were those weaving tabi soles and others twisting hemp rope. There were those cultivating potatoes and broad beans and those doing laundry. There were dirty assignments like toilet cleaning and assignments like kitchen duty where they could pilfer food. All were assigned according to their abilities and dispositions, so no objections could ever be raised. I recall that the work hours were longest at ten and a half hours and shortest at eight and a half hours. And each prisoner had a fixed curriculum assigned to them, which they were absolutely compelled to complete. During work hours, they could neither speak nor rest, and when needing to relieve themselves, they had to raise their hands to request permission. Moreover, each job had set wages, of which approximately two or three-tenths became the worker’s own income. Thus, there were long-term prisoners who left with savings of 100 or even 200 yen, it was said.

13. Rewards and Punishments If a prisoner committed an infraction, they were immediately subjected to punishment. The first punishment was reduced rations. As for reduced rations, this entailed having their food quantity decreased to about one-third of normal while being made to sit properly in formal posture for several days. Due to that hardship, there were occasionally those who hanged themselves. Even those who remained unfazed would quickly lose about 3.75 kilograms of body weight. Then those unaffected by reduced rations were put into dark rooms. For serious criminals who proved unmanageable, they applied something called leg irons. Leg irons were none other than shackles for the feet. For those who still remained defiant even then, they made them carry iron balls weighing some forty-five kilograms.

As rewards, meals included an extra dish once or twice a week. Other 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 Village

Now then, having spoken of these harsh realities of prison life, I allowed myself to observe somewhat more broadly the entirety of this entity called "prison."

The prison was first and foremost robust in its architecture. It was grand. It was clean. From the perspective of those living in tenement row houses, it had to truly be called a residence of grand buildings and high towers. Clothing and bedding too were kept nearly in order. Of course prisoners suffered from extreme cold in winter, but compared to those who perpetually wore tattered garments—or could not even obtain such rags—it had to be called a grateful shelter against the cold. The food was undoubtedly poor, but when one considered those who scavenged through garbage dumps, complaints could not rightfully be made. In any case, prison far surpassed society in equality and safety regarding clothing, food, and shelter.

The residents of the prison, amidst these equal and secure provisions of clothing, food, and shelter, utilized various tools of civilization such as electric lights, railways, and steam power; each engaged in division of labor according to their talents and dispositions, living a nearly communal and self-governing existence. Not to mention for physical and mental ailments—there were hospitals and there were churches. It had to be called a separate society lacking almost nothing.

When viewed in this light, prison was indeed a kind of Ideal Village. That I had entered this Ideal Village for rest was no lie either. However, when viewed from another aspect, this Ideal Village revealed an entirely different scene before one's eyes.

15. Guards

The residents of the prison were not solely prisoners. Then there were the guards. Guards were officers who supervised prisoners, but their pitiable circumstances were in no way inferior to those of the inmates. An old guard once told me: “I wake at 3 AM, leave home by 3:30, arrive at the prison by 4:00, begin duty at 4:30, take thirty-minute breaks every hour and a half, work until the prison closes at 6:30 PM, finish up tasks, and return home around 7:30. “When I sit on the veranda without even taking off my shoes, I can glimpse my home’s garden scenery in faint light for just a brief moment.” “I rarely have time to visit the baths or such, and on my fortnightly rest days I generally just sleep through them.” And yet their salaries amounted to a mere twelve or fifteen yen.

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

16. The Day Before Release from Prison

On the day before release from prison, one was transferred to what was called the completion cell. Here gathered those who would become free men tomorrow—Mr. Theft, Mr. Fraud, Mr. Swindler, Mr. Extortion, Mr. Embezzler, and others. Facing their final day and night, struggling to endure while indulging in wild delusions, they immersed themselves in foolish chatter.

First, each prisoner was summoned one by one to receive the chaplain's admonitions. The chaplain performed his duty perfunctorily in a thoroughly disinterested tone. The prisoners would bow obediently, return to their cells, and stick out their tongues. If you listened to their conversations afterward, it mostly amounted to "I want to eat," "I want to drink," "I want to go out and play." The most conscience-sensitive among them sighed, "I can no longer become a proper human being." There were those who laughed alone, muttering, "What a cursed man I am that I can't stop this no matter what." If one listened to the words of the most seemingly prudent individual: "If I'm going to do it, I'll aim for something big—otherwise I'll quit altogether." Many had not even considered the question of whether to quit or not.

There was one story I found particularly amusing. A certain swindler boss declared: "Hide two boys at your place and you'll never want for nothin' day to day. When the bonito flakes run out, they'll swipe more. When the charcoal runs low, they'll pinch more. Damn convenient little devils. "Plus those guys are so loyal—even when they get caught, they hardly ever spill the beans. "When Brother kept sayin' 'Come on, come with me,' I followed along, and we ended up at some shrine's grounds. Then Brother says, 'Since I like sake, I'll go get some right now—wait here.' "After a bit, he comes back luggin' two bottles of beer. "When I said there were no cups, he takes off again and swipes one from a glass shop. "It's almost funny how damn useful they are!"

17. Music in Prison Prisoners never behold half the sky. Prisoners never tread half the ground. Yet nature's music, freely enters here. In morning’s light, sparrows chirp. “My wife, come here—chirp chirp chirp.” “Where are my children? Cheep cheep cheep.” “Here lies food—peck peck peck.” At dusk beneath sunset, cows low. “The endless day won’t darken—Mooooo.” “Our labor has ended—Moo-moo-moo.” “Let us rest now—Moo-moo-moo.” Through night till dawn, frogs croak. People have fallen asleep—croak croak croak.

People sleep, croak croak croak.

The world is my world—chirr chirr chirr. "Sing, sing! Clatter-clatter-clatter." On clear days, black kites shrill across the sky— one might think some flute player breathes nearby. Celestial sleeves billow wide, dancing through three thousand ri of void. They whirl in dance, winds crescendo— "A lingering cry—a lingering cry." In rain, jeweled drops cascade from eaves— one might think drumbeats pulse beneath. Cords drawn taut with focused will, strike—a master’s frenzied rhythm still. Beat ever faster, beat ever swifter, "Pitter-patter-patter, boom-boom-boom."

Ah, how wondrous nature is!

“Ah, how wondrous heaven and earth are!”

18. Miscellaneous Notes on Release from Prison

June 20th at 5:00 AM—the large iron gate of Sugamo Prison, what Shūsui had likened to "the castle gates of Onigashima," solemnly swung open its metal doors and ceremoniously expelled me—a man standing just over five feet tall—back into society.

After so long without wearing Western clothes—their unfamiliar drape making me list sharply to the right as I stood clutching a heavy bundle of books in my left hand, my head swiveling restlessly—I felt boundless delight toward the rippling sea of green before me in that cool morning air, buoyant and alive as if about to float away.

I had just managed two or three steps when I encountered my friend Mr. Kawamura approaching from afar. Exchanging a smile, I was led by him into a teashop. Ah—now I could finally speak openly in public after so long. Before long, Mr. Sugimura Jūō came pedaling over on his bicycle. Following them came over twenty people—work-clad Mr. Kinoshita and shining-bald Mr. Saitō at the forefront—comrades from the Heiminsha and Socialist Association crowding in. Lastly came my young daughter Magara, her one-year-and-five-month-old legs toddling unsteadily as she was led by both hands—on one side by our neighbor Ms. Fukuda Hideko ("Auntie"), and on the other by our relative Mr. Kobayashi Sukeichi ("Uncle"). I saw her walking on the ground for the first time. And she had already completely forgotten me.

Seeing all these familiar faces gathered before me, the absence of Shūsui among them filled my heart with profound loneliness. He had entrusted someone to send me a letter from his sickbed. “Come back soon and laugh at my cowardice,” it read. Should one laugh? Should one weep? One had been left idle; another had been kept busy—and this was the outcome after two months. Surrounded by friends from that point onward, I parted through the green of fields and paddies and arrived at Ikebukuro Station as the morning wind blew against me. Standing on the platform, looking back at the prison while pointing things out and speaking with friends, I felt a profound sense of victory welling up in my chest for no particular reason.

When I disembarked at Shinjuku Station, Mrs. Kōtoku came running up to greet me. Though it was only four or five blocks from the station to my house, that road felt strangely unfamiliar. The haiku Mr. Kato Minryu had sent me in prison—"Do you know? The young leaves have already turned to deep green"—was precisely that. When I entered my home, my home again felt strangely unfamiliar. When I entered through the gate and stood in the garden, the greenery of the trees appeared so lush it seemed to drip.

My ailing wife had cooked the bean rice I loved and was waiting. After seeing how emaciated he had become—without even removing my shoes—I immediately went to visit Shūsui. Shūsui half-rose from his sickbed and grasped my hand. He was terribly emaciated, as was my wife.

I had composed something resembling a poem.

Unnoticed, paulownia flowers bloomed and scattered; now cool in their leafy shade, I exit the prison. For within the prison walls, the only trees possessing any elegance were paulownias.

19. Diary of Immediate Post-Release Days

June 20th. Released from prison. Spent the entire day at home; conversed and ate with guests.

21st. Went to work. While my colleagues were extremely busy, I alone sat dazedly, unable to get any work done. 22nd. Same as above. 23rd. Finished editing. I developed a slight stomach ailment.

June 24th. Stomach ailment extremely abnormal.

June 25th. I finally started having diarrhea, though I’d been quite careful. In the afternoon I took a laxative, and when night came had over ten bouts of diarrhea.

June 26th. Though I attended the welcome garden party for my release, as my exhaustion was so severe, I returned home immediately after taking photographs.

June 27th. As Shūsui's house had good airflow, I spent half the afternoon there. Two patients lay side by side on spread-out futons gazing at each other despondently—a scene I wished someone like Hyosuke or Isen might have depicted.

June 28th. My diarrhea finally stopped. Ate rice porridge, ate sashimi, took a bath—extremely pleasant.

(Appendix) Account of the Garden Party

On June 26th starting at 9 AM, a garden party was held to welcome Mr. Sakai’s release from prison... The location was Sakurabayashi-tei Pavilion by the pond at Tsunohazu Jūnisho... Fortunately under cloudy skies... attendees—men and women combined—numbered over one hundred and fifty... Mr. Abe Isoo, as chief representative of the organizers, stated the gathering’s purpose: “While today’s meeting naturally serves to welcome Mr. Sakai’s release from prison, truth be told, imprisonment is routine for socialists. Should we hold welcome parties every time a comrade leaves jail, we might need to host hundreds more such gatherings here.” “And I wish to regard today’s event,” he continued, “as a garden party where comrades and friends have gathered in anticipation of Mr. Sakai’s release.”...

(One of the organizers)

(Mr. Abe’s opinion was, for its time, a prescient and appropriate warning.—Sakaisei)

(March 1911, from *The Optimistic Prisoner*)