Pathway to Japanese Literature

Takeda

Takeda was a good man.
If one learns from Roland’s evaluations and others’, he was more than just a good painter.
Had he lived today, save for Taiga, he would be the painter I should most wish to know.
Though friends and comrades, Sanyō’s displays of genius were far inferior in refinement to Takeda’s.
When Sanyō journeyed to Nagasaki and composed that verse—“At home await striped robes for my return / Three years have passed with my lone quilt cold as water”—to dispel suspicions of pleasure-seeking, it merits nothing but derisive laughter; yet when Takeda sent lines from Nagasaki—“I climb no tavern towers / Buy no singing courtesans / Zhou Wen’s paintings / Brushes dipped in water / Ink lingering on mountains”—these likely revealed true sentiment.
Takeda was acclaimed for excelling in poetry, calligraphy and painting—the three perfections—yet showed no skill in waka.
Even his hard-won insights into painting’s path seemed utterly useless when applied to thirty-one-syllable verses.
They say he was versed too in incense and tea—but knowing nothing of those arts myself, I cannot judge.
What amuses me is this: when Takeda painted mushrooms and his assistant pulled a sullen face, he declared “Behold my labor”—then showed the man a great basket brimming with water-soaked shiitakes, at which the assistant’s wonder ceased—so goes the tale.
While Takeda’s diligence goes without saying, nothing surpasses such methods for astonishing common folk.
Among so-called tales of masters’ hardships, surely many are fabrications devised by ill-meaning virtuosos to confound mediocrities.
Sanyō’s sort seems precisely the type.
With Takeda one cannot imagine such guile existing even as falsehood.
Again and again—Takeda was a good man.
When I saw a book titled Tanomura Chikuden, I grew fonder of him than ever before.
This book: author Ōshima Shirō; sold by Chūbundō bookstore in Ōita, Bungo Province (July 20).

Strange Tales

There was a young girl from a bento shop who frequented a certain factory in Osaka.
One of the workers licked the young girl’s cheek and promptly went mad.

It was a certain coast in America.
A woman preparing to bathe in the sea had her clothes stolen by a thief and was unable to leave the changing room for nearly a day.
Afterward, the thief was caught—the charge being unlawful confinement through exploitation of her sense of shame—or so it was reported.

A man whose foot was stepped on by an old woman in a train, vexed, stepped on her foot in return—whereupon the old woman suddenly began a speech: “Ladies and gentlemen.
“This person here—I accidentally stepped on a foot just now，and now they’ve gone and deliberately stepped on mine.”
“...and so forth.”
The man who had retaliated by stepping [on her foot] finally relented and apologized, it is said.
That old woman was likely an underling of Ms. Yajima Kikuko or some such figure.

In this world, there are more stories that seem like lies than one would expect.
All were heard from Koana Ichi Yūtei.
(July 23)

Bashō

Again I read Sarumino.
In the linked verses of Bashō, Kyorai, and Bonchō lay many passages of turbulent maturity.
Among these, such passages evoked an indescribable feeling.

Having gone to find a half-chest whose lid does not fit Bonchō

Staying awhile in the grass hut, then casting it aside Bashō

Joyous life in the anthology’s tale Kyorai

The way Bashō linked his verse—"Staying awhile in the grass hut, then casting it aside"—flashed like Tokuyama’s staff across the sky, leaving one utterly breathless.
Where did he conjure such verses from? There was nothing to say but that it was terrifying.
Before this sharpness, even Bonchō could scarcely hold his head high.

Speaking of Bonchō, there was the following passage below.

Sleeping at noon - the Blue Heron's body holds such dignity Bashō

Swaying unsteadily - irises in water tremble — Bonchō

This linking technique of Bonchō’s appeared unskilled.
Yet this verse of Bashō’s was such that even a hundred exertions by ordinary talents could scarcely hope to match it.

Though confined to a mere seventeen syllables of life-and-death brevity, I was left in awe of Bashō’s unrestrained mastery.
As for the poetry of Western poets—perhaps because we Japanese could not comprehend them—I had never thought them to be this magnificent.
At best, their admiration amounted to nothing more than an "I see."
Therefore, even if one were to explain Bashō’s greatness at length, whether Westerners could understand it remained the greatest of doubts.
(July 11)

Dragonfly

I saw a dragonfly perched on a tree branch.
The four wings were not lying flat.
The front two were raised about thirty degrees.
When the wind blew, it adjusted its balance with those wings.
Though the tree branch swayed, the dragonfly did not depart.
It continued moving leisurely as it was.
When I looked more closely, the angle of the front wings changed quite a lot with the varying strength of the wind.
A pale-colored red dragonfly.
The tree branch was a dead branch.
What I saw was atop a cliff.

(August 18 at Aone Hot Spring)

Children

There are various novels written about childhood.
However, those written exactly as a child would perceive them are few.
Generally, they are written in a tone where adults look back on their childhood.
In that regard, it can be said that James Joyce introduced a new approach.

Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man is written in a manner that truly captures how a child feels.
It may carry a sense of being written exactly as one faintly perceived.
However, a rarity is a rarity.
There is likely no other person who writes such prose.
Having read it, I thought he had done a good thing.

(August 20)

*Jūsenmandō Diary*

The January 25 entry in the *Jūsenmandō Diary* recorded an instance where Kōyō attempted to make entries in the Register of Talents alongside his disciples. Fūyō had hoped for “one more inch to his current height,” Shun'yō had hoped “to live until forty,” and Kōyō had hoped “to erect a monument to Marble’s verses on the European continent.” Furthermore, Shun'yō listed *Journey to the West* among books, Fūyō listed “all dictionary types,” and Kōyō listed *Encyclopedia*. Kōyō’s tastes, when compared with those of his disciples, showed a marked tendency toward Western affectation. However, in that very affectation, one could instead perceive the magnitude of Kōyō’s caliber.

Then, in the entry for the 23rd: "This night: drafting Part VIII until dawn reached me.
In the end, I did not complete the manuscript.
A precious thing is charcoal on a cold night."

There was something inexplicably delightful about this passage.
(VIII) refers to Part VIII of Konjiki Yasha.
(August 21)

Neighboring Room

“Sis. What’s this?”

“A fiddlehead fern.”

“Are we making Zenmai Coffee now?”

“You’re being silly. Hush for a bit. You’ll make me self-conscious saying things like that. That’s Genmai Coffee.”

The older sister was fourteen or fifteen.
The younger sister was twelve years old.
Both sisters took sketchbooks and went sketching.
On rainy days, they would sketch each other's faces.
The father was a refined man in his fifties.
This man also appeared to have a cultivated interest in painting.

(August 22 at Aone Hot Spring)

Youth

It is said that Kokkei was always clad entirely in black habutae.
This appeared extravagant, yet someone remarked it was in fact economical.
That person also said: “Though we youth fully acknowledge the excellence of Kokkei’s tastes, before becoming clad entirely in black habutae, we wish to try our hands at a greater variety of things.”
This statement applied just as well to the writing of novels.
Though I dimly grasped what kind of works held true value, before charging headlong down that singular path, I found myself with no small desire to try my hand at various other approaches.
Rather than short-sighted complacency, this must be a mindset that trusts in youth.
To find contentment in this mindset might not be entirely virtuous—might one call it being prodigal in art?

(August 23)

Passion

To fully capture the passion between men and women inevitably requires addressing bedroom matters. Yet this is precisely what officials forbid. Thus novelists must resort to the most roundabout methods to convey perhaps eight or nine parts out of ten. That *The Plum in the Golden Vase* remains unsurpassed as a passion novel stems partly from its unflinching treatment of this very subject. Even falling short of its example, were officials less meddlesome, we might see novels achieving depths several degrees beyond our current fare.

Does there indeed exist in the West a novel comparable to *The Plum in the Golden Vase*? Pierre Louÿs's *Aphrodite*, when compared to *The Plum in the Golden Vase*, amounts to nothing more than a child's plaything—though it must be noted that the latter, as stated in its preface, proclaims itself under the banner of hedonism, rendering any direct comparison fundamentally flawed.

(August 23)

Bamboo

When viewed from afar, the bamboo grove on the back mountain appeared as clusters of green floating before the dark cedars and cypresses. It looked exactly like bird feathers. This scene evoked no mental constructs of “elegant bamboo groves” or similar fancies. The Chinese have a term they call “Bamboo Laughter” for how bamboo sways in wind—though I observed it on windy days too, no sense of such mirth arose within me. When I went out again on a fog-heavy evening, everything appeared dimly black, resembling some ordinary Nanga painting and proving utterly unremarkable. Then upon entering the bamboo thicket and seeing how the peeled sheaths glowed only on their sunlit undersides, I felt a strange eeriness, as if slugs might be crawling about there.

(August 25 at Aone Hot Spring)

Aristocrats

The reason aristocrats or aristocratists cannot fully indulge in vanity is that they too, like us, must visit the privy.
Otherwise, in any country, their ancestors might have assumed godlike visages.
During the Tokugawa period, whenever great feudal lords stayed at inns during alternate attendance processions, they took care to deposit their waste into sand-filled barrels so as to leave nothing behind.
Hearing this account makes one sense they too were aware of this frailty.
To phrase it more elegantly: this aligns with Nietzsche’s aphorism—“Why don’t people consider themselves gods? Because...”

(August 26)

Seigetsu

In the Ina region of Shinshu, there was a beggar and haiku poet named Seigetsu; his destitute poetic spirit rivaled Ryokan's. Shimojima Kōkoku had recently been collecting his poems. "Morning glories—/ lingering guests at an unhurried meal," "Whispers of cooking/ in brazier light," "Autumn's first attentiveness/ in miso and soy," "Cherishing the horse's tail-tie/ in autumn wind," "Fallen chestnuts find their place/ in hollow pools" (Upon first coming to Ina), "Field ropes slacken/ in winter cherry's hue"—these verses, from one active around the Tenpō period, proved unexpectedly fine. His death poem was said to be: "Somewhere—/ a crane's cry within mist." The regret lay in the lack of detailed accounts of his life. It was said he disliked dogs.

(September 10)

Crape Myrtle

As far as I could ascertain, none began yellowing their leaves sooner than the cherry.
The pagoda tree came next.
Yet when it came to shedding all its leaves completely, the crape myrtle stood first.
Even when sparse remnants still clung to cherry and pagoda boughs, the crape myrtle alone remained utterly bare.
Paulownias, plantains, willows—all those trees lauded in poetry for their cascading fall—shed their leaves more slowly than one might expect.
Generally speaking, the crape myrtle refused to sprout red buds even when spring reached its verdant peak.
Though Mr. Nagatsuka Takashi’s poem declared, “In gardens where spring rain flirts wantonly—how foolish stands the paulownia,” in truth paulownias budded earlier than crape myrtles.
A tree that relishes both lying abed at dawn and retiring early at dusk—such as this crape myrtle—proves exceeding rare.
I sometimes found myself vexed by this tree’s audacity as though confronting a human foe.

(September 13)

Masterpiece

In Mr. Kameo’s translation of Eckermann’s *Conversations with Goethe*, there exists a passage that repeatedly warns how young men’s creation of grand works entails much labor yet yields little merit.
This was likely because Goethe himself had grown thoroughly weary while attempting to write works like *Faust*.
Considering this, Tolstoy too must have ended up unable to comprehend European art of the nineties after immersing himself in completing masterpieces like *War and Peace* and *Anna Karenina*.
Of course, even if one failed to grasp others’ art, so long as they possessed their own magnificent art like Tolstoy’s, there should have been no issue whatsoever.
However, judged by standards of comprehension, there can be no doubt that Tolstoy—he who wrote on art theory—was rather the possessor of pitiable discernment.
As for us lesser beings, once stirred by half-baked ambition to undertake grand works beyond our station, ending up empty-handed might be an utterly foregone conclusion.
That said, someone like me would likely spring up impulsively once I felt the moment had ripened for such an endeavor, deaf even to Goethe’s warnings—or so I suspect.

(September 26)

Water Demons

The study of kappa was exhaustively documented in Mr. Yanagita Kunio’s *Legends of Mountain and Island Folk*.
Before the Meiji Restoration, kappa had also dwelled in the river at Daikonkashi.
When the paperhanger from Kanze Shinji went to that river to wash shoji screens, something suddenly clung to him from behind and began tickling him relentlessly.
When the paperhanger, at his wit’s end, rolled onto his back in the street, a kappa detached from his back and plunged into the river with a splash—a tale I had heard from my mother in my childhood.
After that, there had been a rumor that a giant brocade carp dwelled in the depths beneath Mannenbashi Bridge, but I never learned what became of it.
There was a man—an acquaintance of my father’s—who claimed that when he went night fishing, a large soft-shelled turtle had tried to climb onto the stern of his boat a short way upstream from Azumabashi Bridge.
He recounted how the turtle’s neck had been as thick as an iron kettle.
Tokyo’s rivers too abounded with such water creatures back then.
If you were to go to the countryside even now, kappa might still be wrestling sumo among the reeds somewhere.
Having by chance seen Yūtei’s painting of Kotaro Drinking Alone, I set down these recollected matters.

(September 30)

Innate ability

One snowy morning after a snowfall, Gasan of Tenryū-ji Temple gazed up at the clear sky while remarking: "The same sky that unleashed such snow yesterday now pours down sunlight this morning.
Without this spirit, humans cannot accomplish great work."
When I had read that tonight, I felt it was unattainable.
When writing a short story of fewer than a hundred pages, if one finds oneself being tossed between joy and sorrow, even I myself cannot help but feel utterly pitiable.
The other day, while soaking in the bath, I found it curious how difficult it becomes to write about bathing—though the act itself is utterly simple.
At the same time, it was also unpleasant.
However, since we are born as inferior beings, I suppose there is nothing to do but endure patiently and labor single-mindedly.
(October 3rd)

Fallacy

Translating "Ars longa, vita brevis" as "Art is long, life is short" was commendable.
But when observing how secular society employed this phrase, they used it to mean “though the person perishes, their work remains evident.”
That was a usage based on self-satisfied understanding unique to the Japanese—or rather, to Japanese literati.
That first aphorism of Hippocrates does not contain such a meaning.
Modern Westerners who use this phrase today likewise do not employ it in that meaning.
The phrase 'Art is long, life is short' means that precisely because life is brief, even if one devotes oneself to rigorous study and diligence, one cannot easily master a single art.
Explaining such matters might have been the duty of a middle school teacher.
However, these days even among critics who presume to lecture us, there are some who remain unaware of this misapprehension.
In that case, it seems rather pitiable even for the literary world.
If one wishes to use it in that sense, there remains Sun Guoting’s celebrated phrase about "the person perishing yet their work enduring" and so forth—no need to borrow words from Greek philosophers.
Let me note in passing that future critics must not brandish nonsensical pretensions like "Landor and Leopardi’s Imaginary Conversations."
No matter how much they act so self-important like that, they won’t even deserve the name of pedantry.
Rather than idly wanting to teach others, they would do better first to teach themselves.
(October 5th)

Immortality

Even though human life has its limits, it does not necessarily follow that one may treat life carelessly.
To strive for longevity as much as possible remained each person’s own discretion.
Artistic works too were destined to perish someday.
Wang Shizhen had already observed: "The vitality of painting lasts five hundred years; that of calligraphy, eight hundred."
Yet to attempt creating works that might endure as long as possible—this too lay within our discretion.
If one thought this way, then not believing in art’s immortality while striving to leave works for posterity need not be considered particularly contradictory.
Now then, regarding what works did not grow antiquated—though I could not speak to calligraphy or painting—it remained a fact that in literary works, a concise style proved most enduring.
Of course, since no reasoning existed that style equaled the work itself, even exemplary styles could not guarantee perpetual novelty.
However, so long as style influenced a work's merits, it seemed beyond doubt that flamboyant styles would unexpectedly grow antiquated.
Goethe should not be read today.
Yet Mérimée renewed himself daily.
Observing this in our nation’s literature too, when comparing works like Mr. Ōgai’s short stories to those such as “Sneer” and “Whirlpool” published alongside them, the former still brimmed with such freshness that even had they been proofread yesterday, one could hardly find fault.
Zola, when studying styles, had lamented taking Rousseau’s floridity as his model rather than Voltaire’s simplicity, and was said to have predicted his own novels would inevitably grow outdated—a testament to his self-awareness.
However, as I had written before, style was not the entirety of a work.
If one sought a work’s permanence beyond stylistic particulars, it must ultimately return to its depth.
"That which endures long into posterity among all things must possess a quality of earnestness" (The Mustard Seed Garden Manual of Painting; omission)—this statement, I believed, held true in literature as well.

(October 6th)

Vulgar Conventions

I think that vulgar conventions have the characteristic of persistently clinging to truths that were useful in previous eras.
Admittedly, there is no lack of various vulgar conventions corresponding to truths from one era prior, two eras prior, or even three eras prior.
Now then, if we ask how long one era lasts, this cannot be uniformly determined in years, as it varies according to time and place.
In Japan's case, might I say one era spans approximately ten years?
Moreover, the degree to which ordinary vulgar conventions harm academia and art is inversely proportional to the age of the truths they stubbornly cling to.
For example, that Bushido adherents today harm the progress of the times no more than children’s pranks serves as an excellent illustration of this law.
Therefore, in today’s literary world, it is only natural that the humanitarian faction proves more troublesome than the naturalist faction.

(October 7th)

Osmanthus

While walking through a certain neighborhood in Ushigome, he came upon a stretch of black walls—though whose estate they belonged to, he couldn’t say.
It was an extremely old black wall that looked ready to collapse at any moment.
Within the walls, bashō trees and pine trees were densely growing, leaning against each other.
As he walked alone there, a cold osmanthus fragrance began to emanate.
Somehow, he felt as though that fragrance were seeping into even the bashō and pine trees.

Then from the opposite direction came a woman walking straight toward him.
When she drew near enough to see clearly, her face seemed somehow familiar.
Even after they passed each other, he tried to recall where he might have seen her, but could not remember.
Yet he felt an air of refined elegance about the encounter.
Upon emerging onto a bustling avenue, sporadic raindrops began falling.
At that moment he suddenly remembered both the woman and where they had met before.
This time he was abruptly struck by vulgarity.
Four or five days later while conversing with Orishiba, I heard about someone planting a festival-purchased osmanthus in a holed Seto hibachi that had bloomed.
Then I recalled again the woman encountered in Ushigome.
But no trace of vulgar sensation remained.

(October 10th)

Butler’s Theory

Samuel Butler’s theory states:
"The fact that Molière read his own plays to an ignorant old woman does not mean that he regarded her critiques as valid."
It was solely for the purpose of discovering flaws in his own plays while reading them aloud himself.
"In such cases, those who serve as listeners are none better suited than an ignorant old woman."
This was truly a theory with merit.
When Bai Juyi and others read their own poems to old women, they may have had the same sentiment.
However, the reason I find Butler’s theory interesting is not merely because it contains some validity.
This was because such a theory could hardly have been articulated unless by someone who, like Butler, possessed firsthand experience in creative work.
Indeed, even ordinary scholars and critics may have understood Molière’s comedies.
But that alone did not immediately enable one to articulate Butler’s theory.
To be versed in such insights, one must feel Molière himself within.
That was precisely what I found valuable.
The reason Rodin’s notebooks and such are esteemed lies precisely in their containing many such instances.
If one wishes to see the face of an old friend two thousand ri away, one must inevitably endure hardship oneself.

(October 19th)

**Tonight**

Tonight my heart lies calm.
Sitting cross-legged at my desk, sipping broth dissolved in hot water, I feel like a citizen of tranquil times.
At such moments, writing novels strikes me as rather pitiful.
Wouldn't practicing haiku composition be far better for preserving one's health than writing such things?
Or perhaps practicing calligraphy instead of haiku might serve me even better.
No—or rather, might I not recognize that this very sensation of sitting here as I am now constitutes something precious in itself?
I have never read Taoist texts or Buddhist scriptures.
Yet deep within my heart, some hereditary strain of nihilism seems to lurk.
Just as Westerners may struggle endlessly yet ultimately return to Catholic faith, someone like me might find myself desiring seclusion or such as I grow older.
But while still enamored with women and craving money as I am now, I could never make such a clean break.
Though it must be said—among those called sennin exist livestock breeders like Zhujiweng and libertines like Guo Pu.
I could easily become that sort of immortal.
Yet if I must become one, I'd not wish to be some vulgar transcendent.
As for young recluses who read Western letters—that's something I want no part of whatsoever.
Compared to such types, novelists still seem somewhat closer to the true path.
"Seeking immortals yet not venturing to azure peaks—to dwell among men suffices for poetic sentiment," I muse.
Somehow tonight I've written nothing but half-baked dilettante's soliloquies.
(October 20th)

Dream

The dreams that appeared in ordinary novels never truly felt like dreams.
In most cases, their artifice lay transparently exposed.
Even Koma's dream in Crime and Punishment still lacked conviction in this regard.
They might speak of dreamlike tales, but crafting dreams that genuinely resembled dreams required more meticulous preparation than slipshod depictions of reality.
The reason was that events within dreams—their temporality, spatiality, and causal relationships—differed fundamentally from those in waking life.
Moreover, this difference utterly defied confinement within any mold.
Therefore, unless one transcribed an actually experienced dream, writing a convincing dream proved nearly impossible.
Yet when employing dreams as narrative devices within novels, one needed to witness extraordinarily convenient dreams fulfilling their intended purpose before committing actual dreams to paper.
Thus even at their best, fictional dreams could scarcely rival Dostoevsky's depiction of Koma's vision.
However, when constructing novels from genuinely dreamed material—even without explicitly framing them as dreams—an oneiric atmosphere naturally emerged, frequently yielding mystical works.
The renowned tale of the Suicide Club supposedly originated from Stevenson hearing someone's dream narrative.
Therefore those wishing to compose such fiction would do well to regularly record their nocturnal visions.
For my part I neglected even this practice, though Dostoevsky indeed maintained a dream journal.
In our country Mr. Shiga Naoya produced an exquisite short piece titled Izuku River.

(October 25th)

The Realism of Japanese Painting

No matter how I considered it, I found something peculiar in Japanese painters' fixation on realism. They might achieve some degree of success by pursuing realism further. Yet however successful they became, they could never attain realism comparable to Western painting's capabilities. If they wished to express sensations of light or air or massiveness, why didn't they first take up the palette? Moreover, their attempts at conveying such sensations differed fundamentally in nature from how the Impressionists had sought to capture outdoor light effects. The French artists had advanced one step forward. What Japanese painters achieved through their realism was merely a sidestep. Confronting works like Mr. Hayami Gyoshū's maiko paintings left me feeling genuinely pained for Japanese painting itself. Those photo-paintings Yoshikazu produced long ago shared similarities with them too—but since what Yoshikazu sought was mere provincial vulgarity, his works weren't nearly as distasteful in comparison. Rude though it may sound to say so, I couldn't escape the sense that Mr. Hayami and his ilk created their paintings with motivations surprisingly lacking in solid foundation.

(November 1st)

Understanding

There was a time when certain people fancied that mere indulgence in debauchery could grant them comprehension of art.
These days there exist those who assume airs of effortlessly grasping both Bashō and Leonardo da Vinci through discussions of morality and religion.
Da Vinci aside—even to attain a rudimentary understanding of Bashō's greatness requires considerable labor.
It may well be that for us in this latter age, even after dedicating ourselves body and soul to contemplation, some measure of Bashō's greatness remains beyond our apprehension.
In Jean-Christophe lies a passage portraying a vulgarian who believes he understands Beethoven just as Christophe does.
Understanding proves not so easily attained as the world imagines.
In any artistic path once undertaken, what matters most is maintaining the resolve to seek understanding beyond what one already knows.
Otherwise they shall descend into becoming wild foxes.
Having discovered one or two reckless and slipshod theories among essays on static electricity and Bashō published in literary journals, I therefore cease writing out of profound dissatisfaction.

(November 4th)

Tea Kettle Lid Rest

Today when I visited Mr. Katori Hoshuma's residence, he showed me three lid rests for tea kettles.
They were small iron objects resembling trivets.
All three differed in shape.
Their variation lay solely in how the balance between three legs and a ring differed slightly—as one would expect from trivet-like objects.
Yet each was distinctly different.
The longer I looked, the more pronounced their differences grew.
One exuded solemn dignity.
Another displayed refined elegance.
The last proved unbearable to behold.
Contemplating how even such simple objects could vary so profoundly in execution made me feel art's path was truly formidable.
It struck me that reverent devotion—each chisel stroke a prayer—wasn't confined to Buddha statue carving.
Comparing our literary remnants against masters' works made me think their total incineration would bring no loss.
The deeper I ponder it, art's Way remains uniquely unfathomable in all creation.

(November 10th)

Westerners

When one pours tea into a cup and serves it, they look at the cup before drinking the tea.
This may be an everyday occurrence for Japanese people, but Westerners rarely seem to do such things.
Phrases like "What a splendid coffee cup this is" do not appear to exist in Western novels.
This alone might explain why Japanese people are artistic.
Or perhaps it shows how Japanese art attends even to the finest details.
Mr. Riichi may be an excellent ceramicist, but when examining his plates and bowls, one notices no care given to their undersides.
Though one might dismiss this as trivial if pointed out, I cannot help sensing here an irrefutable trace of Westernness.

(November 10th)

Density/Sparsity and Purity/Impurity

Density and sparsity stemmed from differences in temperament.
To dislike sparsity and favor density could be left to individual preference.
Yet density/sparsity differed fundamentally from purity/impurity.
Purity and impurity involved more than mere temperamental variance.
They took root in the deepest strata of our character—the great matter governing our lives.
To revere purity while disdaining impurity demanded criticism transcending personal preference.
That night I happened to take out Kikuchi Kan's Gokuraku. Though his novels might be called rough-hewn, they remained unsullied by vulgarity throughout.
As proof of this, his works overflowed with words—for better or worse.
Though not exclusively employing peerless phrases, they contained none that insulted the reader's intelligence.
Here stood novels perfected on their own terms—works without parallel.
In this regard, certain celebrated masters emitted a far ranker stench of vulgarity.
As I had written before, density and sparsity arose from temperamental differences.
Therefore, regarding appreciation, anyone might freely declare their preference for Kikuchi's novels.
Yet to condemn their artistic value as unforgivable due to roughness alone invited charges of personal bias.
From the creative standpoint too, Kikuchi's novels proved inseparable from his temperament—that roughness never carelessly dashed off in conclusion.
Thus were other writers—particularly those favoring density by nature—doomed to vulgar afflictions should they blindly ape Kikuchi's methods.
In temperament I stood quite apart from Kikuchi.
Hence regarding density/sparsity preferences, we likely diverged at many points.
But when considering purity/impurity, we were not necessarily strangers.

(November 12th)

(Taishō 9)