Pathway to Japanese Literature
Discover Japan's stories—across time, across language.
Antique StewAuthor:Akutagawa Ryūnosuke← Back
Antique Stew
A Realm Apart
Judith Gautier’s China in poetry was China and yet not China.
As for Katsushika Hokusai’s illustrations in the *Water Margin Picture Book*, who would claim they had faithfully depicted China?
Therefore, should we not declare that this so-called China—evoked through that bright-eyed poetess’s silent poems and this short-haired old master painter’s resonant paintings—was rather a separate realm where they had roamed freely in their daydreams?
How fortunate that life contained this separate realm.
Who would join Koizumi Yakumo in lamenting the mirage towers of Penglai—those that departed never to return—amidst celestial winds and oceanic tides where azure waves surged endlessly?
(January 22)
Frivolity
Li Gan of Yuan examined dozens of Wen Huzhou’s bamboo scrolls yet found none satisfying.
Even when reading critiques by Dongpo and Shangu, he suspected they were colored by personal connections.
By chance, he met his friend Wang Ziqing, and their conversation turned to Wen Huzhou’s bamboo.
Ziqing said, “You have yet to see the true work.”
“The government archive holds a highly authentic copy. I shall borrow it tomorrow and show you.”
The next day, when he beheld it at once: wind-swept branches sparse and scattered dispelled frontier mists; dew-laden leaves desolate and still bore pure frost—as though seated between the Wei and Qi Rivers.
※（行がまえ＜干）could not contain his admiration.
It is said he felt profound shame at the paucity of his knowledge.
Those such as ※（行がまえ＜干） cannot yet be pardoned.
Those critics who prattle on about color variations after viewing photomechanical prints of Cézanne—their frivolity is truly worthy of scorn, it must be said.
They must be admonished.
(January 23)
Philistines
When Balzac was interred at Père Lachaise Cemetery, Interior Minister Baroche stood among those attending by the coffin.
During the funeral procession, he turned to Hugo—who likewise stood vigil by the coffin—and inquired, “Would you say Mr. Balzac was a competent man?” Hugo snapped back brusquely: “A genius!”
Baroche, perhaps incensed by this retort, whispered to a bystander: “This Mr. Hugo too proves madder than reported—a veritable lunatic.”
France’s ministerial ranks are not lacking in such philistines.
The ministers and dignitaries of the Empire of Japan may rest assured of this truth.
(January 24)
Homosexual Love
Those who love Dorian Gray must read Escal Vigor.
The passion of men loving men—there may be none that depicts it as exhaustively as this book.
If one were to translate passages from it—
Not a few contain wording that would undoubtedly violate our authorities' prohibitions.
At the time of publication, it became embroiled in a famous lawsuit—a predicament largely attributable to these passages of sensual prose.
The author George Eekhoud was a literary giant of modern Belgium.
His reputation stood not necessarily beneath that of Camille Lemonnier.
Yet the Japanese literary world, teeming with talent as it was, had yet to offer even a single word of introduction to this man's life's work.
Could it be that the splendor of the arts manifests solely in Northern realms where Aurora Borealis paints its grandeur?
(January 25)
Coterie Magazine
Young disciples pooling funds to publish coterie magazines was likely one of the current fashions.
Yet in this present age where neither paper nor printing costs were particularly cheap, those struggling to manage such ventures were by no means few.
It was said that when Le Mercure de France first released its inaugural issue to the market, since those unsuccessful literati naturally could not have had abundant funds, they reluctantly had solicited bonds from members at sixty francs per share—yet even Jules Renard, their sole major shareholder, had held no more than a mere four shares.
Moreover, considering that among their members had been such talents of their age as Albert Samain and Remy de Gourmont, even contemporary coterie magazines—though fashionable—seemed to have had no reason to lament their less-than-abundant funds.
The only thing now difficult to obtain was a single dauntless soul of heroic spirit—one who, like those who had raised high the banner of Symbolism in Le Mercure of yore.
(January 26)
Literary Pseudonym
Japanese writers today mostly do not use literary pseudonyms.
To distinguish between new and old writers in the literary world，it almost seemed sufficient to do so by the presence or absence of a literary pseudonym.
Thus，even among those who previously possessed literary pseudonyms，not a few had abandoned their use.
How tragically ill-fated were literary pseudonyms!
There existed a Russian writer by the name of Osip Dimov.
I recalled that Chekhov’s short story *Locust* features a protagonist bearing the same name.
Could it be that Dimov borrowed this name to fashion his literary pseudonym?
I would be most grateful to receive instruction from a scholar of wide learning.
(January 28)
Brothel
In French, the term *lamaison verte* for brothels was reportedly coined by Goncourt.
It likely derived from translating the combined name “Brothel Beauties.”
Goncourt wrote in his diary.
“In this year (1882), the amount I spent for my pathological compulsion to collect Japanese art objects indeed reached three thousand francs. This constituted the entirety of my income, leaving not even forty francs remaining to purchase a pocket watch.” He also wrote: “For several days now (1876), this longing to depart for Japan has proven impossible to suppress. Yet this journey is not solely to satisfy my habitual mania for collecting. I dream of producing a written work—a single volume. The title would be A Year in Japan. A diary-like format. Mood over narrative. If I proceed thus, I shall obtain peerless prose. But what of this old age of mine?” When one considers Goncourt—that solitary connoisseur who loved Japanese prints, Japanese antiquities, and even Japanese chrysanthemums—the single word “brothel,” though brief, cannot but hold infinite resonance.
(January 29)
Language
Language was by nature multifaceted.
They called it mountain; they called it peak; they called it summit; they called it ridge.
If one employed words that shared meaning but differed in character, one might subtly convey intent between the lines.
They dubbed a glutton "Ōmatsu" and labeled a presenter "Saheiji."
Were those hearing this not Edo natives, would they have remained so composed even when subjected to direct insults?
Consider this: should someone have composed a novel borrowing vocabulary from *The Plum in the Golden Vase* and *The Carnal Prayer Mat*—terms like “elegant flute,” “rear courtyard blossoms,” and “upside-poured candles”—how many censors could have possibly discerned and dismantled its vulgarity?
(January 31)
Mistranslation
Mistranslation
That De Quincey presumed to point out mistranslations in Carlyle’s German translations was pure officiousness.
However, Carlyle the philosopher treated this younger prodigy—
On the contrary, since he responded with such profound sincerity, it is said that De Quincey too submitted to his magnanimity and formed a century-long friendship.
As for the nature of Carlyle’s mistranslations, I do not know.
The most comical mistranslation I know is rendering Madonna as “wife.”
The translator is no servant angel guarding the gates of paradise.
(February 1)
Playful Kanji Readings
In years past, Mr. Kume Masao assigned the reading "Laughing Detour" to "Shō," rendered "Ibsen" as "Smoke Hermit," interpreted "Maeterlinck" as "Meditative Phosphorescence," and translated "Chekhov" as "Abundant Wisdom." Could such contrivances truly merit the designation of playful kanji readings? Suzuki Shōsan, author of *Two Nuns*, titled his anti-Christian polemic *Hakki Rishitan* (Breaking Demons and Terminating Heresies). This too must stand as an exemplar of maliciously devised character readings.
(February 2)
Haiku
That Kōyō’s haiku failed to grasp the spiritual ingenuity of ancient masters could not be ascribed solely to their Danrin-school style.
Even when examining this man’s prose, one found no wonder akin to delicate brushstrokes directly conjuring pines.
His strength lay in scrupulous precision—depicting rocks without omitting a single blade of grass.
Was the conciseness of his verse not inevitable?
That Mr. Izumi Kyōka—the Gyūmon school’s prodigy—far surpassed Master Kōyō in poetic quality likewise adhered to this principle.
It remained perplexing how Saitō Ryokuu’s haiku ultimately proved indistinguishable from those of commonplace versifiers despite his protean genius.
(February 4)
Pine tree avenue
I once read in some newspaper that the pine tree avenues along the Tōkaidō were to be felled.
While it may have seemed unavoidable given road improvements, when one considered that countless ancient pines—like hundred-foot withered dragons—would suffer the calamity of axes for this cause, was there any limit to how deeply we should mourn them?
When Paul Claudel came to Japan, there existed an essay he composed upon seeing these Tōkaidō pine tree avenues.
With their slender canopies enshrouded in mist and perilous roots overturning stones, he captured their form with what could be called vivid brilliance.
Now these pine tree avenues stand on the verge of perishing.
If Claudel were to hear of this, he might well tremble—or perhaps find himself unable to suppress a deep sigh over these yellow-faced youths not yet bathed in royal civilization.
(February 5)
Japan
Goethe’s daughter’s China had already been discussed.
José Maria de Heredia’s Japan constituted another realm entirely.
A beauty behind bamboo blinds plucked her biwa while awaiting an iron-clad warrior’s arrival.
The scene’s essence remained undeniably Japanese.
(lesamourai) Yet that world adorned in white silk, lacquer, and gold proved but a phantasmal Parnassian dreamland.
Moreover, were one to map Heredia’s visionary realm, it would lie closer to France than Japan—separated from the latter by vast remove.
Even Goethe’s Greece confronted us with Trojan heroes bearing traces of Munich beer foam upon their lips.
What proved lamentable was imagination itself bearing nationality.
(February 6)
Taiga
Though it was said there were many painters in Tōkai, one could scarcely imagine another master like Kyokasanshō existing.
Yet even Taiga himself, upon reaching thirty years of age, grew distressed that his skills did not progress as he willed and sought instruction from Gion Nankai.
How could those of fiercer temperament than Taiga avoid feeling impatience at their own sluggish advancement?
What we must learn repeatedly is Kyokasanshō's artful method—he who never missed the moment to nurture the sacred embryo.
(February 7)
Witch
In English, what they call a "witch" is generally translated as "old hag," but young and beautiful witches are by no means scarce. Merezhkovsky’s *The Forerunner* and D’Annunzio’s *The Daughter of Jorio*, or Crawford’s *Witch of Prague*—though far inferior in refinement—which depicts a jade-complexioned witch; if one were to search, many more such examples would likely be found. Yet is it not an undeniable fact that vigorous characters remain as scarce as white-haired, pallid-faced witches? Setting aside Scott and Hawthorne of old, among modern English and American literary depictions of witches, those that stand out—such as Kipling’s *The Courting of Dinah Shadd*—might well be called preeminent examples. In Hardy’s novels too, employing witches as material proves far from uncommon. Within the celebrated *Under the Greenwood Tree*, Elizabeth Endaafield likewise belongs to this category. In Japan, mountain hags and demon crones do not constitute true witches. In China, the Yaseiko recorded in *Yetan Suilu* approaches most closely what might be termed a witch.
(February 8)
Jujutsu
I had heard that whenever Westerners spoke of Japan, they invariably thought of jujutsu.
Was this not why even in a chapter of Anatole France’s *The Revolt of the Angels*, there appeared a scene where a Japanese angel who had come to Paris seized a French policeman and hurled him away with splendid force?
Maurice Leblanc’s detective novel protagonist Arsène Lupin was versed in jujutsu—though it was said he had learned it from Japanese masters.
Yet among protagonists in modern Japanese novels who had mastered jujutsu’s subtleties, there remained only Kiritarō from Mr. Izumi Kyōka’s *The Song of Peonies*.
Jujutsu too must lament that no prophet finds acceptance in his homeland.
How droll.
(February 10)
Yesterday's Elegance
Zhao Oubei states in his Wu Men Za Shi (Miscellaneous Poems of Wu Gate):
Having viewed all fireworks and meticulously appraised them,
In his Shantang poem, he also states:
As one grows old in pleasure haunts, emotions multiply;
A heart full of poetic sentiment nearly evokes Mr. Nagai Kafū, it might be said.
(February 11)
Pronunciation
Since Poe’s name had been printed as “Poë” in the Quantin edition, the pronunciation “Poë” came to be adopted in France and elsewhere.
Our late English literature teacher Mr. Lawrence too had on occasion been heard pronouncing it as “Poë.”
While Western names being prone to mispronunciation was understandable, it felt utterly vulgar when even those who revered Whitman and Emerson erred in their accents on French names.
This could not go unheeded.
(February 13)
Arrogance and insolence
At a certain gathering, when a young writer began to say, “We men of letters—”, Balzac, who sat nearby, abruptly cut him off: “Your presumption in seeking to rank yourself among us is outrageous. We are the generals of modern literature.”
I hear that certain figures in literary circles have long been censured for their arrogance and insolence.
Yet I have yet to encounter a single figure resembling Balzac.
Needless to say, I have never heard that La Comédie Humaine was produced by a mere handful of writers.
(February 15)
Tobacco
Tobacco came into widespread use in the world following the discovery of America.
The claim that smoking customs existed even in Egypt, Arabia, Rome, and such places was nothing but the absurd talk of ignorant folk.
That Native Americans partook of tobacco could be known from observing that when Columbus reached the New World, there already existed cigars, shredded tobacco, and snuff.
The very name "tobacco" in fact did not denote the plant itself, but rather referred to the pipe meant for savoring shredded smoke—a most comical misunderstanding.
Therefore, the only new innovation that European Caucasians contributed to smoking was the invention of the convenient cigarette.
According to the Wakan Sansai Zue, what the captains of the Southern Barbarians and Red-Haired Ones first imported to Japan by ship appeared to have been these cigarettes.
Before Murata's kiseru pipe had emerged into the world, our ancestors were already smoking cigarettes on the streets of Yamaguchi beneath a balmy spring sun, gazing up at the cross of the Catholic church as they lavished praise upon Western ingenuity and civilization.
(February 24)
Madame Nicotine
From Baudelaire’s pipe-themed poetry to translations of *Lyra Nicotiana*, one may observe that Western poets’ cherishing of smoking and Eastern poets’ delight in brewing tea form a perfect pair.
In novels, Barrie’s *Madame Nicotine* has become most widely known.
However, its light and witty prose merely elicits an easy smile from its readers.
The name nicotine originates from the Frenchman Jean Nicot.
In the mid-sixteenth century, when Ambassador Nicot was dispatched to Spain bearing his official duties, he obtained leaf tobacco that had come from Florida, realized its efficacy in medicine, and vigorously endeavored to cultivate it; thus it came to pass that the French once called tobacco "Nicotiana."
De Quincey’s *Confessions of an English Opium-Eater* previously inspired Mr. Satō Haruo to produce the singular text *Fingerprints*.
Who will next emerge after Barrie to write a tobacco novel surpassing him by several degrees, akin to Havana’s preeminence over Manila?
(February 25)
One-Character Mentor
During the Tang Dynasty, Ren Fan visited Tiantai Jinzi Peak and inscribed a poem on a temple wall:
"The summit's new autumn begets night's chill.
A crane startles, dripping pine dew on robes.
The moon over the front peak lights a single river's flow—
A monk in jade hills opens his bamboo abode."
Having inscribed this, he journeyed dozens of *ri*. On the road, he realized "a single river's flow" paled before "half a river's flow." When he hastened back to the inscription site, someone had already scraped away the character for "one" and replaced it with "half."
Ren Fan sighed deeply and declared, "Taizhou has true talent."
One must imagine the traces of bitter toil when considering how ancients devoted themselves to poetry.
In Seisei's haiku collection *Tsumaki* appears this verse: "First dream—a crimson cord being tied."
I thought: The syllable 'ru' won't do. Replace it with 're,' and it might pass muster. I wonder if Seisei will bow and accept me as his one-character mentor.
I smiled wryly.
(February 26)
Literary Repartee
Hugo hosted an evening banquet at Avniou Deiroo’s residence. When all the guests happened to raise their glasses to toast the host’s health, Hugo turned to François Coppée beside him and said: “Now the two poets present shall take turns toasting each other’s health. Would that not be fitting?” He was about to propose a toast for Coppée. Coppée declined, saying, “No, no—there is but one poet here.” This meant that Hugo alone remained true to the name of poet. At this moment, the author of *Orientalia* suddenly smiled and retorted: “So there is but one poet? Very well—then what am I?” Coppée thereby retracted his statement, revealing his error in speech. We hear of the “Autumn in the Monastery” Society, the “Mr. Miura Silk Mill Owner” Society, the Cat Society, the Ladle Society—though literary circles today teem with such gatherings, none have attained the exquisite wit found in repartee such as this. There was someone nearby. He sneered, “I pray you—let us begin with Guo Wei.”
(February 27)
Zen in the White Rain
Kano Hōgai often taught his disciples: “The divine principle of painting must be grasped through enlightenment alone.
“It must not come from a teacher’s instruction.”
One day, Hōgai fell ill and took to his bed.
Suddenly, white rain poured from the heavens, and the deep alley fell silent, devoid of passersby.
Master and disciples remained silent, listening to the sound of rain for some time, when suddenly someone appeared.
They passed by outside the gate, singing loudly.
Hōgai smiled faintly, turned to his disciples, and said, "Have you grasped it?"
Beneath the phrase lies a killing intent.
Our house’s hair-splitting sword—the Chanyu purchased it for a thousand gold; spirits weep beneath the moon.
A single path of cold light—you must perceive it.
(March 3)
Criticism
Piron’s sarcasm had resounded through the ages.
A certain literatus declared to him his intent to achieve a feat no predecessor had accomplished.
Piron coolly replied, “It’s all too easy—then compose your own praises.”
In what passed for the contemporary literary world, there existed factional criticism. There existed pandering criticism. There existed formalistic criticism. There existed imitative criticism. The tumultuous mix of praise and censure—even the self-aggrandizement of mediocre talents—resembled one dog barking at shadows, whereupon ten thousand others passed it on as truth. Such phenomena could hardly be deemed the "unprecedented feats" of which Piron had spoken. Shuryō Yoshi was born into this decadent age. To be a Piron was no easy feat.
(March 4)
Fallacies
There existed teachers who claimed the sparrows at their gates chirped passages from *Mengqiu*, just as there were scholars who declared it resembled flames devouring a wilderness.
There existed agricultural professors extolling Meiji Shrine's timber as "magnificent harmony of form and substance," alongside Diet members advocating military expansion with cries of "Our warships must never cease!"
In antiquity, when Jiang Du's son was born, Li Linfu composed a congratulatory message: "I hear there is joy in the deer-play."
A guest beheld this and hid his laughter behind his sleeve.
For Linfu had mistaken the character for "jade scepter" and written "deer" instead.
Nowadays, when ministers bemoan current affairs and decry dangerous ideologies, they proclaim: "The malady has penetrated the vitals—the nation's survival hangs by a thread."
Yet none in the realm find this worthy of remark.
The disregard for cultivation in Chinese learning could not but be deemed extreme.
How much more so today's youths and maidens—though they comprehend Roman letters, their recitation of the Four Books remains unsteady; though Tolstoy's name sits familiar in their ears, Li Qinglian's sobriquet lies foreign to their eyes. Such cases defy enumeration.
Recently I chanced upon several old magazines at a bookseller's front counter.
Titled *Red Tide Issue Number Such-and-Such* from Kōchō-sha.
Do they not know that in Chinese parlance, "red tide" signifies none other than a woman's monthly courses?
(April 16)
Menstruation
As for whether there existed any poems in the West that sang of women's menstruation, this humble scholar's limited knowledge had yet to ascertain. In China, among poems of the imperial palace and women's quarters, there existed rare instances that sang of monthly courses. Wang Jian's palace poem stated: "Secretly informing the emperor of her entering the month, she summoned companions to wash her skirt's hem." Where the spring breeze blew beaded curtains and swayed silver hooks—to behold moth-eyebrowed palace ladies washing skirt hems—was not menstruation also an affair of elegance?
(April 16)
Nocturnal Emission
As for whether there exist any poems in the West that sing of male nocturnal emission, this humble scholar’s limited knowledge has yet to ascertain.
In Japan, the *Haikai Kinshūdan* contains the verse: "Startled by nocturnal emission—dawn's dream, Shinshuku."
However, whether the meaning of "nocturnal emission" here was indeed identical to that used in contemporary times had not been examined in detail.
If one could obtain instruction from experts, it would be most fortunate.
(April 16)
Posterity
Have you not witnessed?
The Hon'ami certifications transform across eras.
When Romanticism surged, Shakespeare's name reverberated through the four seas like thunderclaps; when Romanticism waned, Hugo's works scattered through all directions like frost-scorched leaves.
This boundless spectacle of ceaseless flux:
The present is foam, posterity illusion.
The voice of wisdom remains beyond grasp.
The folly of multitudes defies reckoning.
When Fragonard resolved to hone his craft in Italy, Bouchet bid him farewell with these words: "Never gaze upon Michelangelo's works.
One such as he belongs solely to madmen."
To deride Bouchet as a philistine was hardly difficult. How could one have possibly found fault with this? Even were a thousand years to pass, none could declare the world would never uniformly adopt Bouchet’s views. To scorn the present age with disdainful eyes while awaiting posterity through lofty chants—this too amounted to mere subsistence within a demon’s den. Why imitate such ways? To mingle with the vulgar yet remain unstained by vulgarity—how might that be achieved? By the hedge grew chrysanthemums. The koto lay stringless. Gazing upon the southern mountain brought perpetual serenity. Shuryō Yoshi peddled his writings from a ramshackle stall. Let him spend his days never speaking of posterity—discussing Tolstoy with the motley Zhangs and Lis of the literary world, debating Saikaku, prattling on about this doctrine’s merits or that trend’s faults—dwelling content in realms of playful absorption.
(May 26)
Crime and Punishment
*Shigarami Zōshi* with Mr. Ōgai as editor-in-chief contained in its forty-seventh issue several seven-character quatrains by Tekiten Jōsen titled "Reading Crime and Punishment (Part One)". These verses likely marked the inaugural instance of poetry addressing Western novels. Let me transcribe two or three examples: "Considerations flash like lightning/Blankly flying into the crone's room/Self-debating crime's traces—real or feigned?/Killing an officer—madness or not?" (Chapter 13); "Poverty-stricken woman, ailing wife—tears crimson/Cart wheels clatter, patriarch collapses/Emptying his purse to save her—what chivalry!/A single meeting in a tavern" (Chapter 14); "Pitiful girl goes to invite guests/Charitable scholar half-dead/Finding the chamber utterly bare/The grateful one becomes the moved one" (Chapter 18). Whether these poems possess merit I shall not discuss here, but considering how literary circles had already been debating Dostoevsky as far back as Meiji 26 [1893], one cannot help but crack a smile at these verses—and not Shuryō Yoshi alone.
(May 27)
Demons
The number of demons was exceedingly great.
The total number amounted to one million seven hundred forty-five thousand nine hundred and twenty-six demons.
They were divided into seventy-two units, with one captain placed in charge of each unit—or so it was recorded.
This was what the German Wierus recorded in his demonology at the end of the sixteenth century—so detailed in conveying intelligence of the demonic realm, transcending temporal and spatial boundaries, that nothing like it had likely existed before or since.
(In sixteenth-century Europe, pioneers of demonology were not few.)
(To Wierus we may add others of thunderous renown across the world—Italy’s Pietro d’Apone, England’s Reginald Scot.) It further stated: “Demons transform freely: becoming lawyers, Kunlun slaves, black steeds, monks, donkeys, cats, rabbits—or even carriage wheels.”
They had already become carriage wheels.
How could they not become automobile wheels that lure people away into the fireworks-filled city at midnight?
They must be both feared and guarded against.
(May 28)
Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio
That Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio, together with Jian Deng Xin Hua, perfected within Chinese fiction the art of conjuring ghosts and foxes until cold lamps verge on turning blue—this is widely known. However, that Pu Songling—owing to his profound dissatisfaction with the Manchurian court—took refuge in tales of ox-demons and snake-spirits to satirize palace intrigues remains all too often overlooked by readers in our land, which is no small oversight. For instance, even "The Heroic Woman" included in Volume 2 is said to be nothing but a reworking of the secret history in which the daughter of the court official Nian Gengyao assassinated the Yongzheng Emperor. The preface to Kunlun Waishi states: "Was Dong Hu solely a mirror of human relations?" Does this not too betray such secrets? In Spain there exists Goya’s Los Caprichos. In China there exists Liuxian’s Liaozhai Zhiyi. Both borrow mountain spirits and wild demons to mercilessly denounce traitors and rebels. These twin white jade treasures of East and West may be said to deserve preservation in a golden cabinet.
(May 28)
*Portrait of a Beauty*
Spain had a beauty.
She was called Dona Maria Theresa.
She wed Don José Alvalez de Toledo, the 11th Marquess of Villafranca, at a young age.
Her bright eyes and crimson lips; her fragrant skin as white as lard.
Queen Maria Luisa, jealous of her beauty, finally had her poisoned with venom.
Could mortal means have halted the enduring resentment within a single perfume sachet? How does she compare to that Yang Taizhen?
The Marquise had a lover.
His name was Francisco de Goya.
Goya, whose renown as a painter spread throughout Spain, frequently painted portraits of Dona Maria Theresa during his lifetime.
If one were to believe the popular tradition, both paintings—*Maja vestida* and *Maja desnuda*—would indeed appear to convey the Marquise’s peerless beauty that defined an era.
In later years, there was a painter in France.
His name was Édouard Manet.
Goya obtained the portrait of the Marquise and could not contain his ecstasy.
He immediately copied the portrait and created a painting of a beauty like spring.
Manet was then a pioneer of Impressionism.
Those who formed associations with him were not few among the talents of the age.
Among them was a poet.
His name was Charles Baudelaire.
Manet obtained the portrait of the Marquise and cherished it like Hongbi.
In 1866, when Baudelaire succumbed to madness and died in his Paris lodgings, there hung upon the walls this portrait of a celestial beauty—her lips sandalwood-hued, her skin snow-white.
With starry eyes casting autumn ripples in her gaze, the poet of *The Flowers of Evil* beheld his own demise—just as in years past at the Madrid court a sallow-faced dwarf had watched tumblers perform their acrobatics, so too did this scene unfold.
(May 29)
*Phoenix Incense Cakes of Sold Charms*
In China, boys who sold male charms were called xianggong.
The term xianggong originated from xianggu.
This spoke of seductive allure being precisely like that of young maidens.
Xianggu and xianggong connected through homophony.
They simply adopted it and changed it to the name Yinma.
In China, women who peddled spring on streets were called wild pheasants.
This referred to them luring wandering pedestrians, being precisely like wild pheasants—so it was said.
In our language, these people were called night hawks.
It might be said they emerged from nearly the same rut.
Once the term wild pheasant circulated, it reached the point where wild pheasant cart emerged.
What then was this wild pheasant cart?
They were unlicensed rickshaw pullers of twilight who haunted Beijing and Shanghai.
(May 30)
Karmic Retribution for Speech
Shuryō Yoshi had now written *Antique Stew* three times for the magazine *Ningen*. To raise the flames of pedantry by citing miscellaneous books from East and West across all ages resembled nothing so much as the witches’ cauldron in *Macbeth*. The wise fled its stench from three thousand leagues away; the ignorant succumbed to its poison in the span of a finger-snap. This, I reckoned, was the karmic retribution for speech. If Luo Guanzhong had been fated to sire mute children across three lifetimes for creating *Water Margin*, what infernal punishment might Shuryō Yoshi incur for penning *Antique Stew*? Silent obliteration? Annihilation? Or perhaps not a single volume of Yoshi’s story collections would sell in the marketplace? Since I was no longer young, would it not be better to cast aside my brush at once and, in drunken solitude, cherish an idle retreat from Zen before an embroidered Buddha? I regretted past mistakes and recognized present truths. Why hesitate even for an instant? I cast aside my *Antique Stew*. If what was consumed today could be deemed precious, tomorrow might see auspicious light upon the privy. A śarīra amidst excrement—behold, all ye masters!
(May 30)
＊ ＊ ＊
*Pilgrim’s Progress*
Is the translation of *Pilgrim’s Progress* as Tianlu Licheng adopting the name from its Chinese version published by Shanghai Huacao Shuguan in 1869 (the eighth year of Tongzhi)?
This book contained several leaves of copperplate illustrations that depicted all figures and landscapes within its pages in Chinese style. Though works like the Entering the Narrow Gate illustration or Entering the Palace of Beauty might pale beside the red-haired figures of Nagasaki prints, they were not devoid of their own charm. The text too, using Chinese literary forms to narrate Western matters, impressed one with no small evocative force when read from start to finish. Particularly in its translation of English poetry—though unbearable as verse—their peculiar fascination matched perfectly with the illustrations. Consider the poem on the River of Life’s Water: *“By roadside flows Life’s Water pure; / Celestial travelers pause here secure. / Strange blooms and fruits bring sweet delight; / How blest we roam this shore so bright!”* — such was its manner. To expound upon such curiosities would doubtless invite bystanders’ derision.
Yet consider this: Oscar Wilde in his prison cell found constant companionship in none other than the stiff Greek Bible.
(January 21)
Sanba
A few scholars gathered and debated: "To depict the hearts of ancients through modern eyes—this must be the most striking tendency in the literary world since Naturalism."
There was an old man.
The old man interjected from the side: "What of Shikitei Sanba's *The Great World Backstage Investigation*?"
The scholars, unaware of where these words had come from, could only exchange dumbfounded glances.
(January 27)
Ōzaki Kōyō
Nearly twenty years had passed since Kōyō’s death.
Works such as *Tajō Takon*, *Kyara Makura*, and *Futari Nyōbō*—even when reread today—retained vivid presence like a single tortoiseshell-patterned peony, their luster apparently impervious to erosion.
How true it was that a man’s work shines forth only after his death—this saying found its very embodiment in him.
The aforementioned works possessed compositional structure and foundational brushwork; their variations never strayed from established principles—these were precisely why they would endure through the ages.
I often thought: In the realm of art, there exist no unfinished works.
Would Kōyō not be likewise?
(February 3)
Erotic literature
Setting aside Jin Ping Mei and Rou Pu Tuan, were I to enumerate those Chinese novels within my knowledge that had incurred accusations of moral corruption, they would likely include Xing Hua Tian, Dengxin Qiseng Zhuan, Chi Pozi Zhuan, Mudan Qiyuan, Ruyi Jun Zhuan, Taohua An, Pinhua Baojian, Yiwai Yuan, Shazi Bao, Huaying Qiqing Zhuan, Xingshi Diyi Qishu, Huanxi Guanguan, Chunfeng Deyi Qiyuan, Yuanyang Meng, Ye Yu Puyan, and Tangpai Heimu.
It was said that those works imported long ago already had Japanese adaptations.
I had also heard that in recent years, there were those who had secretly committed this type of adaptation to woodblock printing.
To those who wished to peruse such Japanese-translated erotic novels in their entirety, I say unto you: Go knock upon the doors of our contemporary censorship gentlemen—those demon-revealing mirrors—and humbly borrow the banned books they hoarded.
(February 12)
Theater History
Though many books on Western theater studies were now published, their pioneering work would likely have been Nagai Tōru’s single volume titled *History of World Theater*.
This book bore the Romanized title Kakkoku Engekishi on its copperplate-engraved cover depicting drums, trumpets, harps, and such.
Its contents covered the evolution of theaters and stage machinery, historical and contemporary conditions of male and female actors, and the origins of plays from various countries, though its discussion of English theater appeared to be the most detailed.
To offer a glimpse: "However, in the year 1576 during Queen Elizabeth’s reign, a theater was first established on unused land belonging to Blackfriars Monastery for special theatrical performances.
This was regarded as the founder of Britain’s orthodox theater.
(omission) Among the actors was one called Uiriyamu Sekisupiya.
At the time, he had been a twelve-year-old child but had completed elementary studies in Latin and Greek at the Stratford school."
Such accounts—those that elicited wry smiles—were by no means few.
Published in January 1884; that the author Nagai Tōru had served as an inspector assistant at the Metropolitan Police Department added a curious charm.
(February 14)
Shuryō Yoshi
(Taishō 9)
A Realm Apart
Judith Gautier’s China in poetry was China and yet not China.
As for Katsushika Hokusai’s illustrations in the *Water Margin Picture Book*, who would claim they had faithfully depicted China?
Therefore, should we not declare that this so-called China—evoked through that bright-eyed poetess’s silent poems and this short-haired old master painter’s resonant paintings—was rather a separate realm where they had roamed freely in their daydreams?
How fortunate that life contained this separate realm.
Who would join Koizumi Yakumo in lamenting the mirage towers of Penglai—those that departed never to return—amidst celestial winds and oceanic tides where azure waves surged endlessly?
(January 22)
Frivolity
Li Gan of Yuan examined dozens of Wen Huzhou’s bamboo scrolls yet found none satisfying.
Even when reading critiques by Dongpo and Shangu, he suspected they were colored by personal connections.
By chance, he met his friend Wang Ziqing, and their conversation turned to Wen Huzhou’s bamboo.
Ziqing said, “You have yet to see the true work.”
“The government archive holds a highly authentic copy. I shall borrow it tomorrow and show you.”
The next day, when he beheld it at once: wind-swept branches sparse and scattered dispelled frontier mists; dew-laden leaves desolate and still bore pure frost—as though seated between the Wei and Qi Rivers.
※（行がまえ＜干）could not contain his admiration.
It is said he felt profound shame at the paucity of his knowledge.
Those such as ※（行がまえ＜干） cannot yet be pardoned.
Those critics who prattle on about color variations after viewing photomechanical prints of Cézanne—their frivolity is truly worthy of scorn, it must be said.
They must be admonished.
(January 23)
Philistines
When Balzac was interred at Père Lachaise Cemetery, Interior Minister Baroche stood among those attending by the coffin.
During the funeral procession, he turned to Hugo—who likewise stood vigil by the coffin—and inquired, “Would you say Mr. Balzac was a competent man?” Hugo snapped back brusquely: “A genius!”
Baroche, perhaps incensed by this retort, whispered to a bystander: “This Mr. Hugo too proves madder than reported—a veritable lunatic.”
France’s ministerial ranks are not lacking in such philistines.
The ministers and dignitaries of the Empire of Japan may rest assured of this truth.
(January 24)
Homosexual Love
Those who love Dorian Gray must read Escal Vigor.
The passion of men loving men—there may be none that depicts it as exhaustively as this book.
If one were to translate passages from it—
Not a few contain wording that would undoubtedly violate our authorities' prohibitions.
At the time of publication, it became embroiled in a famous lawsuit—a predicament largely attributable to these passages of sensual prose.
The author George Eekhoud was a literary giant of modern Belgium.
His reputation stood not necessarily beneath that of Camille Lemonnier.
Yet the Japanese literary world, teeming with talent as it was, had yet to offer even a single word of introduction to this man's life's work.
Could it be that the splendor of the arts manifests solely in Northern realms where Aurora Borealis paints its grandeur?
(January 25)
Coterie Magazine
Young disciples pooling funds to publish coterie magazines was likely one of the current fashions.
Yet in this present age where neither paper nor printing costs were particularly cheap, those struggling to manage such ventures were by no means few.
It was said that when Le Mercure de France first released its inaugural issue to the market, since those unsuccessful literati naturally could not have had abundant funds, they reluctantly had solicited bonds from members at sixty francs per share—yet even Jules Renard, their sole major shareholder, had held no more than a mere four shares.
Moreover, considering that among their members had been such talents of their age as Albert Samain and Remy de Gourmont, even contemporary coterie magazines—though fashionable—seemed to have had no reason to lament their less-than-abundant funds.
The only thing now difficult to obtain was a single dauntless soul of heroic spirit—one who, like those who had raised high the banner of Symbolism in Le Mercure of yore.
(January 26)
Literary Pseudonym
Japanese writers today mostly do not use literary pseudonyms.
To distinguish between new and old writers in the literary world，it almost seemed sufficient to do so by the presence or absence of a literary pseudonym.
Thus，even among those who previously possessed literary pseudonyms，not a few had abandoned their use.
How tragically ill-fated were literary pseudonyms!
There existed a Russian writer by the name of Osip Dimov.
I recalled that Chekhov’s short story *Locust* features a protagonist bearing the same name.
Could it be that Dimov borrowed this name to fashion his literary pseudonym?
I would be most grateful to receive instruction from a scholar of wide learning.
(January 28)
Brothel
In French, the term *lamaison verte* for brothels was reportedly coined by Goncourt.
It likely derived from translating the combined name “Brothel Beauties.”
Goncourt wrote in his diary.
“In this year (1882), the amount I spent for my pathological compulsion to collect Japanese art objects indeed reached three thousand francs. This constituted the entirety of my income, leaving not even forty francs remaining to purchase a pocket watch.” He also wrote: “For several days now (1876), this longing to depart for Japan has proven impossible to suppress. Yet this journey is not solely to satisfy my habitual mania for collecting. I dream of producing a written work—a single volume. The title would be A Year in Japan. A diary-like format. Mood over narrative. If I proceed thus, I shall obtain peerless prose. But what of this old age of mine?” When one considers Goncourt—that solitary connoisseur who loved Japanese prints, Japanese antiquities, and even Japanese chrysanthemums—the single word “brothel,” though brief, cannot but hold infinite resonance.
(January 29)
Language
Language was by nature multifaceted.
They called it mountain; they called it peak; they called it summit; they called it ridge.
If one employed words that shared meaning but differed in character, one might subtly convey intent between the lines.
They dubbed a glutton "Ōmatsu" and labeled a presenter "Saheiji."
Were those hearing this not Edo natives, would they have remained so composed even when subjected to direct insults?
Consider this: should someone have composed a novel borrowing vocabulary from *The Plum in the Golden Vase* and *The Carnal Prayer Mat*—terms like “elegant flute,” “rear courtyard blossoms,” and “upside-poured candles”—how many censors could have possibly discerned and dismantled its vulgarity?
(January 31)
Mistranslation
Mistranslation
That De Quincey presumed to point out mistranslations in Carlyle’s German translations was pure officiousness.
However, Carlyle the philosopher treated this younger prodigy—
On the contrary, since he responded with such profound sincerity, it is said that De Quincey too submitted to his magnanimity and formed a century-long friendship.
As for the nature of Carlyle’s mistranslations, I do not know.
The most comical mistranslation I know is rendering Madonna as “wife.”
The translator is no servant angel guarding the gates of paradise.
(February 1)
Playful Kanji Readings
In years past, Mr. Kume Masao assigned the reading "Laughing Detour" to "Shō," rendered "Ibsen" as "Smoke Hermit," interpreted "Maeterlinck" as "Meditative Phosphorescence," and translated "Chekhov" as "Abundant Wisdom." Could such contrivances truly merit the designation of playful kanji readings? Suzuki Shōsan, author of *Two Nuns*, titled his anti-Christian polemic *Hakki Rishitan* (Breaking Demons and Terminating Heresies). This too must stand as an exemplar of maliciously devised character readings.
(February 2)
Haiku
That Kōyō’s haiku failed to grasp the spiritual ingenuity of ancient masters could not be ascribed solely to their Danrin-school style.
Even when examining this man’s prose, one found no wonder akin to delicate brushstrokes directly conjuring pines.
His strength lay in scrupulous precision—depicting rocks without omitting a single blade of grass.
Was the conciseness of his verse not inevitable?
That Mr. Izumi Kyōka—the Gyūmon school’s prodigy—far surpassed Master Kōyō in poetic quality likewise adhered to this principle.
It remained perplexing how Saitō Ryokuu’s haiku ultimately proved indistinguishable from those of commonplace versifiers despite his protean genius.
(February 4)
Pine tree avenue
I once read in some newspaper that the pine tree avenues along the Tōkaidō were to be felled.
While it may have seemed unavoidable given road improvements, when one considered that countless ancient pines—like hundred-foot withered dragons—would suffer the calamity of axes for this cause, was there any limit to how deeply we should mourn them?
When Paul Claudel came to Japan, there existed an essay he composed upon seeing these Tōkaidō pine tree avenues.
With their slender canopies enshrouded in mist and perilous roots overturning stones, he captured their form with what could be called vivid brilliance.
Now these pine tree avenues stand on the verge of perishing.
If Claudel were to hear of this, he might well tremble—or perhaps find himself unable to suppress a deep sigh over these yellow-faced youths not yet bathed in royal civilization.
(February 5)
Japan
Goethe’s daughter’s China had already been discussed.
José Maria de Heredia’s Japan constituted another realm entirely.
A beauty behind bamboo blinds plucked her biwa while awaiting an iron-clad warrior’s arrival.
The scene’s essence remained undeniably Japanese.
(lesamourai) Yet that world adorned in white silk, lacquer, and gold proved but a phantasmal Parnassian dreamland.
Moreover, were one to map Heredia’s visionary realm, it would lie closer to France than Japan—separated from the latter by vast remove.
Even Goethe’s Greece confronted us with Trojan heroes bearing traces of Munich beer foam upon their lips.
What proved lamentable was imagination itself bearing nationality.
(February 6)
Taiga
Though it was said there were many painters in Tōkai, one could scarcely imagine another master like Kyokasanshō existing.
Yet even Taiga himself, upon reaching thirty years of age, grew distressed that his skills did not progress as he willed and sought instruction from Gion Nankai.
How could those of fiercer temperament than Taiga avoid feeling impatience at their own sluggish advancement?
What we must learn repeatedly is Kyokasanshō's artful method—he who never missed the moment to nurture the sacred embryo.
(February 7)
Witch
In English, what they call a "witch" is generally translated as "old hag," but young and beautiful witches are by no means scarce. Merezhkovsky’s *The Forerunner* and D’Annunzio’s *The Daughter of Jorio*, or Crawford’s *Witch of Prague*—though far inferior in refinement—which depicts a jade-complexioned witch; if one were to search, many more such examples would likely be found. Yet is it not an undeniable fact that vigorous characters remain as scarce as white-haired, pallid-faced witches? Setting aside Scott and Hawthorne of old, among modern English and American literary depictions of witches, those that stand out—such as Kipling’s *The Courting of Dinah Shadd*—might well be called preeminent examples. In Hardy’s novels too, employing witches as material proves far from uncommon. Within the celebrated *Under the Greenwood Tree*, Elizabeth Endaafield likewise belongs to this category. In Japan, mountain hags and demon crones do not constitute true witches. In China, the Yaseiko recorded in *Yetan Suilu* approaches most closely what might be termed a witch.
(February 8)
Jujutsu
I had heard that whenever Westerners spoke of Japan, they invariably thought of jujutsu.
Was this not why even in a chapter of Anatole France’s *The Revolt of the Angels*, there appeared a scene where a Japanese angel who had come to Paris seized a French policeman and hurled him away with splendid force?
Maurice Leblanc’s detective novel protagonist Arsène Lupin was versed in jujutsu—though it was said he had learned it from Japanese masters.
Yet among protagonists in modern Japanese novels who had mastered jujutsu’s subtleties, there remained only Kiritarō from Mr. Izumi Kyōka’s *The Song of Peonies*.
Jujutsu too must lament that no prophet finds acceptance in his homeland.
How droll.
(February 10)
Yesterday's Elegance
Zhao Oubei states in his Wu Men Za Shi (Miscellaneous Poems of Wu Gate):
Having viewed all fireworks and meticulously appraised them,
In his Shantang poem, he also states:
As one grows old in pleasure haunts, emotions multiply;
A heart full of poetic sentiment nearly evokes Mr. Nagai Kafū, it might be said.
(February 11)
Pronunciation
Since Poe’s name had been printed as “Poë” in the Quantin edition, the pronunciation “Poë” came to be adopted in France and elsewhere.
Our late English literature teacher Mr. Lawrence too had on occasion been heard pronouncing it as “Poë.”
While Western names being prone to mispronunciation was understandable, it felt utterly vulgar when even those who revered Whitman and Emerson erred in their accents on French names.
This could not go unheeded.
(February 13)
Arrogance and insolence
At a certain gathering, when a young writer began to say, “We men of letters—”, Balzac, who sat nearby, abruptly cut him off: “Your presumption in seeking to rank yourself among us is outrageous. We are the generals of modern literature.”
I hear that certain figures in literary circles have long been censured for their arrogance and insolence.
Yet I have yet to encounter a single figure resembling Balzac.
Needless to say, I have never heard that La Comédie Humaine was produced by a mere handful of writers.
(February 15)
Tobacco
Tobacco came into widespread use in the world following the discovery of America.
The claim that smoking customs existed even in Egypt, Arabia, Rome, and such places was nothing but the absurd talk of ignorant folk.
That Native Americans partook of tobacco could be known from observing that when Columbus reached the New World, there already existed cigars, shredded tobacco, and snuff.
The very name "tobacco" in fact did not denote the plant itself, but rather referred to the pipe meant for savoring shredded smoke—a most comical misunderstanding.
Therefore, the only new innovation that European Caucasians contributed to smoking was the invention of the convenient cigarette.
According to the Wakan Sansai Zue, what the captains of the Southern Barbarians and Red-Haired Ones first imported to Japan by ship appeared to have been these cigarettes.
Before Murata's kiseru pipe had emerged into the world, our ancestors were already smoking cigarettes on the streets of Yamaguchi beneath a balmy spring sun, gazing up at the cross of the Catholic church as they lavished praise upon Western ingenuity and civilization.
(February 24)
Madame Nicotine
From Baudelaire’s pipe-themed poetry to translations of *Lyra Nicotiana*, one may observe that Western poets’ cherishing of smoking and Eastern poets’ delight in brewing tea form a perfect pair.
In novels, Barrie’s *Madame Nicotine* has become most widely known.
However, its light and witty prose merely elicits an easy smile from its readers.
The name nicotine originates from the Frenchman Jean Nicot.
In the mid-sixteenth century, when Ambassador Nicot was dispatched to Spain bearing his official duties, he obtained leaf tobacco that had come from Florida, realized its efficacy in medicine, and vigorously endeavored to cultivate it; thus it came to pass that the French once called tobacco "Nicotiana."
De Quincey’s *Confessions of an English Opium-Eater* previously inspired Mr. Satō Haruo to produce the singular text *Fingerprints*.
Who will next emerge after Barrie to write a tobacco novel surpassing him by several degrees, akin to Havana’s preeminence over Manila?
(February 25)
One-Character Mentor
During the Tang Dynasty, Ren Fan visited Tiantai Jinzi Peak and inscribed a poem on a temple wall:
"The summit's new autumn begets night's chill.
A crane startles, dripping pine dew on robes.
The moon over the front peak lights a single river's flow—
A monk in jade hills opens his bamboo abode."
Having inscribed this, he journeyed dozens of *ri*. On the road, he realized "a single river's flow" paled before "half a river's flow." When he hastened back to the inscription site, someone had already scraped away the character for "one" and replaced it with "half."
Ren Fan sighed deeply and declared, "Taizhou has true talent."
One must imagine the traces of bitter toil when considering how ancients devoted themselves to poetry.
In Seisei's haiku collection *Tsumaki* appears this verse: "First dream—a crimson cord being tied."
I thought: The syllable 'ru' won't do. Replace it with 're,' and it might pass muster. I wonder if Seisei will bow and accept me as his one-character mentor.
I smiled wryly.
(February 26)
Literary Repartee
Hugo hosted an evening banquet at Avniou Deiroo’s residence. When all the guests happened to raise their glasses to toast the host’s health, Hugo turned to François Coppée beside him and said: “Now the two poets present shall take turns toasting each other’s health. Would that not be fitting?” He was about to propose a toast for Coppée. Coppée declined, saying, “No, no—there is but one poet here.” This meant that Hugo alone remained true to the name of poet. At this moment, the author of *Orientalia* suddenly smiled and retorted: “So there is but one poet? Very well—then what am I?” Coppée thereby retracted his statement, revealing his error in speech. We hear of the “Autumn in the Monastery” Society, the “Mr. Miura Silk Mill Owner” Society, the Cat Society, the Ladle Society—though literary circles today teem with such gatherings, none have attained the exquisite wit found in repartee such as this. There was someone nearby. He sneered, “I pray you—let us begin with Guo Wei.”
(February 27)
Zen in the White Rain
Kano Hōgai often taught his disciples: “The divine principle of painting must be grasped through enlightenment alone.
“It must not come from a teacher’s instruction.”
One day, Hōgai fell ill and took to his bed.
Suddenly, white rain poured from the heavens, and the deep alley fell silent, devoid of passersby.
Master and disciples remained silent, listening to the sound of rain for some time, when suddenly someone appeared.
They passed by outside the gate, singing loudly.
Hōgai smiled faintly, turned to his disciples, and said, "Have you grasped it?"
Beneath the phrase lies a killing intent.
Our house’s hair-splitting sword—the Chanyu purchased it for a thousand gold; spirits weep beneath the moon.
A single path of cold light—you must perceive it.
(March 3)
Criticism
Piron’s sarcasm had resounded through the ages.
A certain literatus declared to him his intent to achieve a feat no predecessor had accomplished.
Piron coolly replied, “It’s all too easy—then compose your own praises.”
In what passed for the contemporary literary world, there existed factional criticism. There existed pandering criticism. There existed formalistic criticism. There existed imitative criticism. The tumultuous mix of praise and censure—even the self-aggrandizement of mediocre talents—resembled one dog barking at shadows, whereupon ten thousand others passed it on as truth. Such phenomena could hardly be deemed the "unprecedented feats" of which Piron had spoken. Shuryō Yoshi was born into this decadent age. To be a Piron was no easy feat.
(March 4)
Fallacies
There existed teachers who claimed the sparrows at their gates chirped passages from *Mengqiu*, just as there were scholars who declared it resembled flames devouring a wilderness.
There existed agricultural professors extolling Meiji Shrine's timber as "magnificent harmony of form and substance," alongside Diet members advocating military expansion with cries of "Our warships must never cease!"
In antiquity, when Jiang Du's son was born, Li Linfu composed a congratulatory message: "I hear there is joy in the deer-play."
A guest beheld this and hid his laughter behind his sleeve.
For Linfu had mistaken the character for "jade scepter" and written "deer" instead.
Nowadays, when ministers bemoan current affairs and decry dangerous ideologies, they proclaim: "The malady has penetrated the vitals—the nation's survival hangs by a thread."
Yet none in the realm find this worthy of remark.
The disregard for cultivation in Chinese learning could not but be deemed extreme.
How much more so today's youths and maidens—though they comprehend Roman letters, their recitation of the Four Books remains unsteady; though Tolstoy's name sits familiar in their ears, Li Qinglian's sobriquet lies foreign to their eyes. Such cases defy enumeration.
Recently I chanced upon several old magazines at a bookseller's front counter.
Titled *Red Tide Issue Number Such-and-Such* from Kōchō-sha.
Do they not know that in Chinese parlance, "red tide" signifies none other than a woman's monthly courses?
(April 16)
Menstruation
As for whether there existed any poems in the West that sang of women's menstruation, this humble scholar's limited knowledge had yet to ascertain. In China, among poems of the imperial palace and women's quarters, there existed rare instances that sang of monthly courses. Wang Jian's palace poem stated: "Secretly informing the emperor of her entering the month, she summoned companions to wash her skirt's hem." Where the spring breeze blew beaded curtains and swayed silver hooks—to behold moth-eyebrowed palace ladies washing skirt hems—was not menstruation also an affair of elegance?
(April 16)
Nocturnal Emission
As for whether there exist any poems in the West that sing of male nocturnal emission, this humble scholar’s limited knowledge has yet to ascertain.
In Japan, the *Haikai Kinshūdan* contains the verse: "Startled by nocturnal emission—dawn's dream, Shinshuku."
However, whether the meaning of "nocturnal emission" here was indeed identical to that used in contemporary times had not been examined in detail.
If one could obtain instruction from experts, it would be most fortunate.
(April 16)
Posterity
Have you not witnessed?
The Hon'ami certifications transform across eras.
When Romanticism surged, Shakespeare's name reverberated through the four seas like thunderclaps; when Romanticism waned, Hugo's works scattered through all directions like frost-scorched leaves.
This boundless spectacle of ceaseless flux:
The present is foam, posterity illusion.
The voice of wisdom remains beyond grasp.
The folly of multitudes defies reckoning.
When Fragonard resolved to hone his craft in Italy, Bouchet bid him farewell with these words: "Never gaze upon Michelangelo's works.
One such as he belongs solely to madmen."
To deride Bouchet as a philistine was hardly difficult. How could one have possibly found fault with this? Even were a thousand years to pass, none could declare the world would never uniformly adopt Bouchet’s views. To scorn the present age with disdainful eyes while awaiting posterity through lofty chants—this too amounted to mere subsistence within a demon’s den. Why imitate such ways? To mingle with the vulgar yet remain unstained by vulgarity—how might that be achieved? By the hedge grew chrysanthemums. The koto lay stringless. Gazing upon the southern mountain brought perpetual serenity. Shuryō Yoshi peddled his writings from a ramshackle stall. Let him spend his days never speaking of posterity—discussing Tolstoy with the motley Zhangs and Lis of the literary world, debating Saikaku, prattling on about this doctrine’s merits or that trend’s faults—dwelling content in realms of playful absorption.
(May 26)
Crime and Punishment
*Shigarami Zōshi* with Mr. Ōgai as editor-in-chief contained in its forty-seventh issue several seven-character quatrains by Tekiten Jōsen titled "Reading Crime and Punishment (Part One)". These verses likely marked the inaugural instance of poetry addressing Western novels. Let me transcribe two or three examples: "Considerations flash like lightning/Blankly flying into the crone's room/Self-debating crime's traces—real or feigned?/Killing an officer—madness or not?" (Chapter 13); "Poverty-stricken woman, ailing wife—tears crimson/Cart wheels clatter, patriarch collapses/Emptying his purse to save her—what chivalry!/A single meeting in a tavern" (Chapter 14); "Pitiful girl goes to invite guests/Charitable scholar half-dead/Finding the chamber utterly bare/The grateful one becomes the moved one" (Chapter 18). Whether these poems possess merit I shall not discuss here, but considering how literary circles had already been debating Dostoevsky as far back as Meiji 26 [1893], one cannot help but crack a smile at these verses—and not Shuryō Yoshi alone.
(May 27)
Demons
The number of demons was exceedingly great.
The total number amounted to one million seven hundred forty-five thousand nine hundred and twenty-six demons.
They were divided into seventy-two units, with one captain placed in charge of each unit—or so it was recorded.
This was what the German Wierus recorded in his demonology at the end of the sixteenth century—so detailed in conveying intelligence of the demonic realm, transcending temporal and spatial boundaries, that nothing like it had likely existed before or since.
(In sixteenth-century Europe, pioneers of demonology were not few.)
(To Wierus we may add others of thunderous renown across the world—Italy’s Pietro d’Apone, England’s Reginald Scot.) It further stated: “Demons transform freely: becoming lawyers, Kunlun slaves, black steeds, monks, donkeys, cats, rabbits—or even carriage wheels.”
They had already become carriage wheels.
How could they not become automobile wheels that lure people away into the fireworks-filled city at midnight?
They must be both feared and guarded against.
(May 28)
Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio
That Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio, together with Jian Deng Xin Hua, perfected within Chinese fiction the art of conjuring ghosts and foxes until cold lamps verge on turning blue—this is widely known. However, that Pu Songling—owing to his profound dissatisfaction with the Manchurian court—took refuge in tales of ox-demons and snake-spirits to satirize palace intrigues remains all too often overlooked by readers in our land, which is no small oversight. For instance, even "The Heroic Woman" included in Volume 2 is said to be nothing but a reworking of the secret history in which the daughter of the court official Nian Gengyao assassinated the Yongzheng Emperor. The preface to Kunlun Waishi states: "Was Dong Hu solely a mirror of human relations?" Does this not too betray such secrets? In Spain there exists Goya’s Los Caprichos. In China there exists Liuxian’s Liaozhai Zhiyi. Both borrow mountain spirits and wild demons to mercilessly denounce traitors and rebels. These twin white jade treasures of East and West may be said to deserve preservation in a golden cabinet.
(May 28)
*Portrait of a Beauty*
Spain had a beauty.
She was called Dona Maria Theresa.
She wed Don José Alvalez de Toledo, the 11th Marquess of Villafranca, at a young age.
Her bright eyes and crimson lips; her fragrant skin as white as lard.
Queen Maria Luisa, jealous of her beauty, finally had her poisoned with venom.
Could mortal means have halted the enduring resentment within a single perfume sachet? How does she compare to that Yang Taizhen?
The Marquise had a lover.
His name was Francisco de Goya.
Goya, whose renown as a painter spread throughout Spain, frequently painted portraits of Dona Maria Theresa during his lifetime.
If one were to believe the popular tradition, both paintings—*Maja vestida* and *Maja desnuda*—would indeed appear to convey the Marquise’s peerless beauty that defined an era.
In later years, there was a painter in France.
His name was Édouard Manet.
Goya obtained the portrait of the Marquise and could not contain his ecstasy.
He immediately copied the portrait and created a painting of a beauty like spring.
Manet was then a pioneer of Impressionism.
Those who formed associations with him were not few among the talents of the age.
Among them was a poet.
His name was Charles Baudelaire.
Manet obtained the portrait of the Marquise and cherished it like Hongbi.
In 1866, when Baudelaire succumbed to madness and died in his Paris lodgings, there hung upon the walls this portrait of a celestial beauty—her lips sandalwood-hued, her skin snow-white.
With starry eyes casting autumn ripples in her gaze, the poet of *The Flowers of Evil* beheld his own demise—just as in years past at the Madrid court a sallow-faced dwarf had watched tumblers perform their acrobatics, so too did this scene unfold.
(May 29)
*Phoenix Incense Cakes of Sold Charms*
In China, boys who sold male charms were called xianggong.
The term xianggong originated from xianggu.
This spoke of seductive allure being precisely like that of young maidens.
Xianggu and xianggong connected through homophony.
They simply adopted it and changed it to the name Yinma.
In China, women who peddled spring on streets were called wild pheasants.
This referred to them luring wandering pedestrians, being precisely like wild pheasants—so it was said.
In our language, these people were called night hawks.
It might be said they emerged from nearly the same rut.
Once the term wild pheasant circulated, it reached the point where wild pheasant cart emerged.
What then was this wild pheasant cart?
They were unlicensed rickshaw pullers of twilight who haunted Beijing and Shanghai.
(May 30)
Karmic Retribution for Speech
Shuryō Yoshi had now written *Antique Stew* three times for the magazine *Ningen*. To raise the flames of pedantry by citing miscellaneous books from East and West across all ages resembled nothing so much as the witches’ cauldron in *Macbeth*. The wise fled its stench from three thousand leagues away; the ignorant succumbed to its poison in the span of a finger-snap. This, I reckoned, was the karmic retribution for speech. If Luo Guanzhong had been fated to sire mute children across three lifetimes for creating *Water Margin*, what infernal punishment might Shuryō Yoshi incur for penning *Antique Stew*? Silent obliteration? Annihilation? Or perhaps not a single volume of Yoshi’s story collections would sell in the marketplace? Since I was no longer young, would it not be better to cast aside my brush at once and, in drunken solitude, cherish an idle retreat from Zen before an embroidered Buddha? I regretted past mistakes and recognized present truths. Why hesitate even for an instant? I cast aside my *Antique Stew*. If what was consumed today could be deemed precious, tomorrow might see auspicious light upon the privy. A śarīra amidst excrement—behold, all ye masters!
(May 30)
＊ ＊ ＊
*Pilgrim’s Progress*
Is the translation of *Pilgrim’s Progress* as Tianlu Licheng adopting the name from its Chinese version published by Shanghai Huacao Shuguan in 1869 (the eighth year of Tongzhi)?
This book contained several leaves of copperplate illustrations that depicted all figures and landscapes within its pages in Chinese style. Though works like the Entering the Narrow Gate illustration or Entering the Palace of Beauty might pale beside the red-haired figures of Nagasaki prints, they were not devoid of their own charm. The text too, using Chinese literary forms to narrate Western matters, impressed one with no small evocative force when read from start to finish. Particularly in its translation of English poetry—though unbearable as verse—their peculiar fascination matched perfectly with the illustrations. Consider the poem on the River of Life’s Water: *“By roadside flows Life’s Water pure; / Celestial travelers pause here secure. / Strange blooms and fruits bring sweet delight; / How blest we roam this shore so bright!”* — such was its manner. To expound upon such curiosities would doubtless invite bystanders’ derision.
Yet consider this: Oscar Wilde in his prison cell found constant companionship in none other than the stiff Greek Bible.
(January 21)
Sanba
A few scholars gathered and debated: "To depict the hearts of ancients through modern eyes—this must be the most striking tendency in the literary world since Naturalism."
There was an old man.
The old man interjected from the side: "What of Shikitei Sanba's *The Great World Backstage Investigation*?"
The scholars, unaware of where these words had come from, could only exchange dumbfounded glances.
(January 27)
Ōzaki Kōyō
Nearly twenty years had passed since Kōyō’s death.
Works such as *Tajō Takon*, *Kyara Makura*, and *Futari Nyōbō*—even when reread today—retained vivid presence like a single tortoiseshell-patterned peony, their luster apparently impervious to erosion.
How true it was that a man’s work shines forth only after his death—this saying found its very embodiment in him.
The aforementioned works possessed compositional structure and foundational brushwork; their variations never strayed from established principles—these were precisely why they would endure through the ages.
I often thought: In the realm of art, there exist no unfinished works.
Would Kōyō not be likewise?
(February 3)
Erotic literature
Setting aside Jin Ping Mei and Rou Pu Tuan, were I to enumerate those Chinese novels within my knowledge that had incurred accusations of moral corruption, they would likely include Xing Hua Tian, Dengxin Qiseng Zhuan, Chi Pozi Zhuan, Mudan Qiyuan, Ruyi Jun Zhuan, Taohua An, Pinhua Baojian, Yiwai Yuan, Shazi Bao, Huaying Qiqing Zhuan, Xingshi Diyi Qishu, Huanxi Guanguan, Chunfeng Deyi Qiyuan, Yuanyang Meng, Ye Yu Puyan, and Tangpai Heimu.
It was said that those works imported long ago already had Japanese adaptations.
I had also heard that in recent years, there were those who had secretly committed this type of adaptation to woodblock printing.
To those who wished to peruse such Japanese-translated erotic novels in their entirety, I say unto you: Go knock upon the doors of our contemporary censorship gentlemen—those demon-revealing mirrors—and humbly borrow the banned books they hoarded.
(February 12)
Theater History
Though many books on Western theater studies were now published, their pioneering work would likely have been Nagai Tōru’s single volume titled *History of World Theater*.
This book bore the Romanized title Kakkoku Engekishi on its copperplate-engraved cover depicting drums, trumpets, harps, and such.
Its contents covered the evolution of theaters and stage machinery, historical and contemporary conditions of male and female actors, and the origins of plays from various countries, though its discussion of English theater appeared to be the most detailed.
To offer a glimpse: "However, in the year 1576 during Queen Elizabeth’s reign, a theater was first established on unused land belonging to Blackfriars Monastery for special theatrical performances.
This was regarded as the founder of Britain’s orthodox theater.
(omission) Among the actors was one called Uiriyamu Sekisupiya.
At the time, he had been a twelve-year-old child but had completed elementary studies in Latin and Greek at the Stratford school."
Such accounts—those that elicited wry smiles—were by no means few.
Published in January 1884; that the author Nagai Tōru had served as an inspector assistant at the Metropolitan Police Department added a curious charm.
(February 14)
Shuryō Yoshi
(Taishō 9)
Pagetop