Pathway to Japanese Literature

I. Flatulence

In Andreyev there was a description of a peasant picking their nose.
In France there was a description of an old woman urinating.
However I had never yet encountered a novel containing a description of someone farting.

When I said "had never encountered," this was in reference to Western novels.
This did not mean that Japanese novels lacked such descriptions.
One of them was a certain novel about female factory workers by Mr. Aoki Kensaku.
Two runaway factory girls camped out in dried straw or something.
At dawn both of them woke up.
One let out a poot.
The other started giggling—I believe that was indeed the gist of it.
If my memory serves me correctly the description of that factory girl farting was executed with considerable refinement.
It stands such that even today I still feel respect for Mr. Aoki's skill because I read this passage.

Another is a certain delinquent youth novel by Mr. Nakagawa Kichiji.
This was published in Sunday Mainichi just three or four months ago, so many readers may already be familiar with it.
A woman being courted by a delinquent youth farts at a critical moment; the carefully cultivated erotic atmosphere vanishes; she becomes oddly prim; the delinquent too finds himself unable to make a move—such was the general outline of the novel.
This novel too was skillfully executed.

The factory girls in Mr. Aoki’s novels did not necessarily have to fart.
However, the woman in Mr. Nakagawa’s novel had to fart whether she liked it or not.
If she didn’t, the story would collapse.
Thus one might say that flatulence only came to fulfill a significant literary role after finding its way into Mr. Nakagawa’s hands.

Yet this concerns modern times.
According to *The Tales of Uji*, even Fujiwara no Tadaie—when still a palace attendant—once conversed through the night with a formidable lady-in-waiting renowned for her romantic exploits beneath moonlight brighter than day.
When he finally succumbed to passion and drew her close, the woman emitted a thunderous fart just as she cried “How dreadful!”
Hearing this, Tadaie thought: What wretched fortune to encounter such a thing!
What purpose remains for me in this world?
I shall take holy orders.
Yet upon sober reflection, he found no justification for becoming a monk over a woman’s passing wind.
Having realized this, Tadaie abandoned his monastic aspirations but beat a hasty retreat.
Therefore, from a literary-historical perspective, Mr. Nakagawa’s novel cannot claim complete originality.
Still, the credit for reviving this discontinued tradition rightly belongs to him.
This achievement likely exceeded even Mr. Nakagawa’s own expectations.
But since achievement it remains, I have taken it upon myself to trumpet it here.

II. Woman and Shadow

Westerners wearing crested kimonos look comical.
Or perhaps they appear so comical that the Westerners' own masculine demeanor rarely comes into question.
Ambassador Claudel’s *Woman and Shadow* was likely dismissed with a laugh, being, so to speak, a Westerner clad in a crested kimono.
However, the man’s own demeanor should be judged independently for its merits and flaws, whether he wears a crested kimono or a tailcoat.
Public criticism of *Woman and Shadow* appears to have been surprisingly indifferent to this point.
To thus neglect his manly demeanor must be pitiable even for the ambassador who is a Frenchman.

Why not try shifting that work’s setting to Persia or India? Had lotus flowers bloomed instead of peach blossoms, and a princess or some such been made to dance in place of an old-fashioned samurai's wife, even venom-tongued critics would not have dared question his authority as resolutely as they do today. Needless to say, those mystical aesthetes who did not withhold sighs of admiration even for that work must have surely met instant death in supreme ecstasy. Ambassador Claudel suffered such misfortunes because of the crested kimono.

However, setting aside for now the question of masculine demeanor, even the crested kimono itself was not entirely without its charms.
Indeed, *Woman and Shadow* stood as a work oddly incongruous—both Japanese-like and Western-like.
Yet that incongruity had not arisen from clumsy technique.
It sprang from a failure to understand Japan and us Japanese artists.
This was not a case of intending to paint a tiger but producing a cat.
Rather, being unable to distinguish cats from tigers, he had drawn them identically.
He who failed to become a tiger—like some critic who failed to become a novelist—could not even be called interesting as a matter of courtesy.
But should it become some mysterious creature neither cat nor tiger, then since antiquity animal handlers had profited precisely from such creatures' blessings.
We had no reason to pay even one sen in admission fees for things we found uninteresting.

This was not limited to Woman and Shadow.
The same applied to Eledia’s poems such as Samurai and Daimyō.
Such works might indeed have been comical.
But within that comical aspect lurked a certain charm—one akin to a Dutch vase if we speak favorably, or resembling exports from the Samurahi Trading Company if we speak unfavorably.
To fail to recognize even this charm would have invited accusations of narrow-mindedness.
I believed that even the works of Japanese such as Mr. Noguchi Yonejirō and Mr. Kōri Torahiko, who gained fame in the West, owed half their renown to this charm.
By this, I did not mean to criticize the works of these two gentlemen.
I rejoiced for both gentlemen that they had been welcomed by generous Westerners, and I regretted for Ambassador Claudel that he had been rejected by narrow-minded Japanese.

From what I had heard, Ambassador Claudel had for some reason come to harbor doubts about Japanese abilities to appreciate recent Western art. Indeed, even works such as *Woman and Shadow* might not permit criticism from the likes of me. Yet whether in ancient or modern times, Westerners' capacity to appreciate our Japanese art—I could not help but smile in sympathy at Ambassador Claudel, who had been yawning through Mr. Sakurazaka Kintaro’s *Sumida River* on Lord Hosokawa’s stage the other night. In that case, both the Ambassador and I were equally guilty of posing as dilettantes. Ambassador Claudel of France, I pray you will deign to read this without displeasure.

III. The Death of Pierre Loti

Pierre Loti died, it seems.
That Loti was the author of works such as *Madame Chrysanthème* and *Japan: An Autumn* requires no belaboring now.
Except for Koizumi Yakumo alone, Loti was, in any case, the Westerner most deeply connected with Mount Fuji, camellias, and women clad in Bébé Nippon.
The loss of Loti could not be entirely dismissed as someone else’s affair when it came to us Japanese.

Loti was not a great writer.
When compared to his contemporaries, he did not appear particularly towering.
Loti provided new sensory descriptions.
Or he provided new lyric poetry.
However, he provided neither a new way of viewing life nor a new morality.
Of course, this was certainly no fatal wound to Loti as an artist.
A lantern deserves respect if only it bears a lit flame.
Even if it cannot keep out the rain like a raincoat, that does not mean it should be scorned.
However, since it was raining, it was only natural human sentiment to forgo carrying a lantern and instead rely on a raincoat.
In the face of such human sentiment, any doctrine of art for art’s sake had to resign itself to being as ineffectual as advice urging one to cling to lanterns.
We were laborers treading a life akin to streets in a downpour.
But Loti did not give us even a single raincoat.
That was why we did not append the word "great" to Loti.
Great artists of old—so-called—were, of course, merely those who provided raincoats.

Moreover, even if Loti had been a "personage" in the French literary world these past several years, he was not its "driving force." Therefore, his death would likely have no particular practical impact. We Japanese, as I mentioned earlier, held mourning sentiments for the passing of Julien Viaud—the former French naval officer who wrote beautiful Japanese novels. The Japan depicted by Loti may have been an image less true to reality than that portrayed by Hearn. However, that it remained an admirable image was an undeniable fact. Our sisters—the likes of Madame Chrysanthème and O-Ume—after awaiting Loti’s novels, came to walk upon the cobblestones of Paris. We wished to offer Japan’s gratitude to Loti there.

The general outline of Loti’s life was as shown on the left.

On January 14, 1850, Loti was born in Rochefort, entered the navy at age seventeen, and became a colonel in 1906.
He attained colonelcy at fifty-seven by traditional East Asian age reckoning.

His first work, Aziyadé, was published in 1879 when he was thirty years old.
A year later in 1880, he published Rarahu and became an overnight sensation.
This work was retitled *The Marriage of Loti* and republished two years later.

*Madame Chrysanthème* was published in 1887, and *Japan: An Autumn* in 1889.

He was elected to the Académie in 1891, at the age of forty-two by the traditional East Asian reckoning.

He died in Andaye on the tenth, according to international telegrams.
At the time of his death, he was seventy-three years old.

IV. Newly Verdant Garden

Cherry tree: “What a refreshing clarity after the rain.”
“Though the calyxes remain red.”

Chinquapin: “I suppose I should begin to bud as well.”
“This little bud that the mice nibbled on, you know?”

Bamboo: I am still jaundiced, you know...

“Whoa! The green lamp’s glass chimney was nearly blown off by the wind.”

“I thought I felt a chill—turns out caterpillars are already swarming all over me.”

Fatsia: Itchy... while I still have these brown downy hairs.

Crape myrtle: Oh, it’s still too early for that.
As you can see, I'm nothing but withered branches.

Kirishima azalea: Com——commonplace remarks won’t do.
As for me, I’ve been so terribly busy that this year alone I’ve ended up blooming in a pale purple unlike any before.

Saguaro: Do whatever you please for all I care.
Not my concern.

Pomegranate: My branches must have been slightly swarmed with fleas.
Moss: Not waking up?

Stone: “Hmm, just a bit longer.”

Maple: “Young maples may turn brown, yet still one glorious flourish”—Truly just one glorious flourish.
Now they’ve turned into an ordinary fresh vibrant yellow.
“Ah, a light has been lit behind the shoji screen.”

V. Strolling Alone Down a Sunlit Spring Street

Strolled alone down a sunlit spring street. Coming from the opposite direction was the senior roofer. The senior roofer too, these days, wore a navy-blue suit with a fedora and donned rubber or similar long boots. Those were some big long boots. The knees—no, that wasn't even half of it. Even half of the thighs were concealed. When wearing those long boots, one must have felt less like having put them on and more like having tumbled into them by some chance.

I peeked into the familiar curio shop.
On the front rosewood shelf sat a single Mushiake-style tokkuri.
The mouth of that tokkuri was curiously obscene in its craftsmanship.
Ah yes—the mouth of that Ko-Bizen tokkuri I had seen some time ago—I had wanted to give it something like a kiss, hadn’t I?
Right under my nose sat a single dyed plate.
Under the drooping branches of an indigo willow, a single indigo-hued person extended an absurdly long fishing rod.
Thinking it was someone, I peered in and found Murō Saisei, who was supposed to be in Kanazawa!

I resumed my idle stroll.
At the greengrocer's shop sat a few arrowheads.
The color of the arrowhead skins was refined.
It resembled the blue of old mud cloisonné.
Should I buy those arrowheads, I wondered?
Stop lying to yourself.
And yet I knew full well I had no intention of buying them.
But what on earth was this compulsion? This urge to lie even to myself. This time, a bird shop.
Every nook and cranny was crammed with birdcages.
Oh, even the proprietor sat quite comfortably inside a mountain sparrow’s cage!

"In other words, it's just like when you're riding a horse."

"It's been sanctified by Kant's thesis, hasn't it?"

From behind, two uniformed and capped university students briskly passed by.
The conversations of others I briefly overheard somewhat resembled the talk of madmen.

This area began to slope upward ahead.
The camellias at that house had already fallen and turned brown.
Though to be fair, the bamboo thicket on the cliff side remained as yellowed as ever... Ah—a horse approached from ahead.
The horse’s eyes were so large.
The bamboo thicket, the camellias, and my own face—all were reflected in those eyes.
After the horse came a white butterfly.

“Fresh Mitate Eggs Available.”

Ah—is that so?
I do not take eggs.

—Strolling alone down a sunlit spring street.

VI. Frosty Night

One memory of a frosty night.

As I sat at my desk as usual, before I knew it, the clock struck twelve.
I had made it a rule to go to bed at twelve o'clock sharp.
Tonight again, I first closed my book, then tidied my desk so that tomorrow I could begin work immediately upon sitting down.
Not that tidying up amounted to much.
I merely stacked the manuscript paper and necessary books into a single pile.
Finally, I took care of the fire in the brazier.
I poured the water from the iron kettle into the earthenware jar and placed the embers one by one into it.
The embers rapidly blackened.
The crackling of charcoal grew more vigorous.
Hazy steam also rose.
I felt a certain pleasantness.
I also felt something ephemeral.
The bedding was laid out in the next room.
Both the next room and the study were on the second floor.
Before going to bed, I always went downstairs and relieved myself freely alone.
Again tonight, I quietly descended from the second floor.
So as not to wake the family, I descended from the second floor as quietly as possible.
In the room next to the parlor, the electric light was on.
I thought someone was still awake.
I also wondered who it was that remained awake.

As I passed by outside that room, my sixty-eight-year-old aunt was alone inside, stretching old cotton.
It was faintly glistening silk cotton.

“Aunt,” I said.
“You were still awake?” I asked.
“Ah, I thought I’d finish just this bit now,” she replied.
“You’ll be going to bed soon too, I suppose?”

The lavatory’s electric light simply wouldn’t turn on.
I had no choice but to urinate in the dark.
Outside the lavatory’s window grew bamboo; on nights when the wind blew, you could hear leaves rustling.
Tonight, not a sound stirred.
Only sealed within the cold night.

Thin cotton batting—unable to stretch it out—this frosty night.

VII. Collecting

I had never in any era possessed what might be called a collecting habit.
If I ever had such a habit, it would have been limited to collecting insect specimens in my youth.
At present, it was true that some books might have accumulated.
However, they too had accumulated.
Just as fallen leaves gather in windblown drifts, they had naturally collected on the bookshelves.
This was by no means achieved through any particular effort.

Even books had already amassed themselves in this manner.
As for calligraphy, paintings, antiques - I had never once thought to collect them.
Even if I did find something worthwhile, it would likely have remained beyond the reach of us literary hacks.
Yet my disinclination toward collecting was not necessarily due solely to that reason.
Rather, I felt little delight in the very desire to collect.
Or perhaps I had grown weary of the acquisitive mindset itself.

The same applies to knowledge.
I had never yet intentionally collected any knowledge.
Of course, it was also true that I lacked enough knowledge for it to be thought I had collected any.
However, if there was even a little, it must at least be said to have accumulated.

Collectors were rich in passion.
In particular，collectors who traveled the world just to obtain a single matchbox label were practically passion incarnate.
Therefore，as long as one did not despise passion，one could not dismiss collectors with a laugh.
However，I belonged to a different mold from collectors.
At the same time，I also belonged to a different mold from revolutionaries and prophets.

I felt sympathy for the passion directed at matchbox labels.
No—or rather，to speak not of sympathy but of respect would not be amiss.
However，I was rather skeptical of the value of matchbox labels.
There was a time when I found this temperament of mine embarrassing.
But now that I’d grown thick-skinned，I could no longer bring myself to feel so self-deprecating.—

VIII. Acquaintance Fee

At that time, we were barricaded within the coterie magazine called Shinshichō.
The only one who occasionally published works in magazines other than Shinshichō was Kume Masao alone.
Then came a sudden letter addressed to me from a magazine called Kibou.
The letter requested submission of one short story in time for their May issue.
It inquired how this proposal might suit my circumstances.
I naturally agreed without hesitation.

I sent the short story "Lice" to Kibou magazine within a week. Then—I waited for the manuscript payment to arrive. The feeling of waiting for one's first manuscript payment may be quite unimaginable to those who have never sold their writing. If I were to exaggerate slightly, I too waited out the days for the transfer to arrive like Princess Sennazuka awaiting her chamberlain.

The manuscript payment did not arrive readily. I often discussed with Kume Masao how much Kibou magazine would pay for my short story.

“They’ll pay one yen.”
“If it’s one yen per page, then twelve pages would make twelve yen?”
“That’s not it.”
“They’ll definitely pay one yen fifty sen.”

Kume made such predictions.
Somehow, being told that, I too came to feel they might pay me one yen fifty sen.

“If they pay one yen fifty sen, treat me to eight yen.”

I promised to treat him.

"Even if it's one yen, you're obligated to treat me to five yen's worth."

Kume said this again.
I did not acknowledge that obligation.
However, I had no particular objection to omitting five yen.

Before long, the May issue of Kibou was published, and at the same time, the manuscript payment came into my hands. I set out for Kume’s lodging with it still tucked in my pocket.

“How much did you get? One yen? One yen fifty sen?”

When Kume saw my face, he eagerly inquired as if it were his own affair. Without answering anything, I showed him the transfer slip. The transfer slip cruelly stated three yen and sixty sen.

“Thirty sen? Thirty sen? That’s harsh.”

Even Kume finally made a disappointed face.
I maintained my stern expression.
But after a moment, we both simultaneously began to smirk.
Kume wore what might be called a faint wry smile, and I managed an effortless wry smile of my own.

“They must’ve deducted thirty sen as the acquaintance fee.”
“One yen fifty sen minus thirty sen—a one yen twenty sen acquaintance fee’s steep.”

Kume said these things as he handed the transfer slip back to me.
However, he no longer said things like “Treat me” or anything of the sort as he had before.

IX. Foolish Queries and Replies

“According to Mr. Kikuchi Kan’s theory,” began the guest, “when our lives are endangered—as in this recent great earthquake—there’s no room for art or anything of the sort. People become too preoccupied with preserving their own skins through whatever shortcuts necessary.”
“But does that truly hold water?”

“It absolutely does,” replied the host.

“Even for arts professionals? Novelists, painters—”

“Oh, professionals likely ponder art more than amateurs do,” conceded the host. “But when examined closely, it’s six of one and half a dozen of the other. You won’t find any valiant soul contemplating how to describe flames while their own head is ablaze.”

“But samurai of old composed death poems even while spears pierced their sides, you know.”

“That was solely for honor, you know. Conscious artistic impulses are a different thing altogether, you know.”

“So are you saying that once our artistic impulse encounters such a calamity, it completely disappears?”

Host: That won’t disappear entirely. Just look at the actual accounts of disaster victims. There are unexpectedly many artistic elements within them. To be expressed artistically in the first place, something must have been artistically perceived. Then it follows that such people must have unconsciously exercised their minds in an artistic manner.

Guest: But on days when their heads are on fire, wouldn’t even those people still end up losing their artistic impulse?

“Well, that’s not necessarily so,” said the Host. “You see, the unconscious artistic impulse alone makes its final leap even at life-and-death’s precipice—this much we might say, no? Speaking of death poems—might we not view samurai battlefield deaths as generally manifesting dramatic or performative impulses? That is to say, what’s vulgarly termed showmanship?”

“So you’re saying the artistic impulse can exist under any circumstances?”

“The unconscious artistic impulse, you know. However, I don’t believe a conscious artistic impulse can truly exist. Even now, with one’s head on fire, ………”

Guest: “That’s something I was already told before.”
“So you’re in complete agreement with Mr. Kikuchi Kan then?”

Host: “Only that it’s impossible, you know.”
“But hasn’t Mr. Kikuchi been saying the impossibility makes him lonely?”
“I don’t feel it’s lonely at all—I simply consider it natural.”

“Why?”

“There’s no ‘why’ about it. When people say ‘life comes first,’ they forget everything else. Of course they’d forget art too. In my case, it doesn’t take an earthquake—even when my bladder’s blocked, I forget Rembrandt and Goethe. But that doesn’t mean I look down on art.”

“So you’re saying art isn’t essential to life?”

“Don’t be absurd. Didn’t I tell you the artistic impulse moves us unconsciously? That means art has deep roots in life’s very foundation. Or rather, life itself is a seedbed bursting with art’s sprouts.”

Guest: "So does that mean 'The jewel does not shatter'?"

Host: "The jewel—indeed."
"It may perhaps shatter."
"But the stone does not shatter, you know."
"Artists may perhaps perish."
"But Kuma-san and Hachi-san—those unknowingly governed by artistic impulse—will not perish, you know."

Guest: "So you're saying you partially disagree with both Mr. Satomi's theory and Mr. Kikuchi's theory?"

Host: "I would prefer to say I partially agree."
"After all, being caught between two titans would prove trying even for me."
"Ah, and there remain parts of Mr. Kikuchi's theory I find unreliable."

“Are there parts you find untrustworthy?”

“Mr. Kikuchi claims to have deeply felt that what’s needed to earn roaring cheers from the crowd this time around is a good fabrication. That’s not particularly credible, you know. He likely only sensed it faintly. Well, keep watching him a while longer. He’ll get earnest soon enough and blurt out something real.”

10. Feelings Toward Plum Blossoms

I dedicate this piece of journalism to the solemn Mr. Nishikawa Eijiro.

We, being men of art, must observe all phenomena as they are.
At the very least, we must not borrow the eyes of the masses; we must see through our own eyes.
Since ancient times, all great artists have possessed this unique vision and naturally achieved distinctive expression.
That photographic reproductions of Gogh’s sunflowers are still admired today—is this merely a coincidence?
(Fortunately, do not condemn the error of pronouncing "GOGH" as "Gohho.")
I do not call ANDERSEN "Anaa sen," nor do I feel ashamed to call him "Anderuzen.")

This was a fact clearer than daylight to those who took art as their mission.
Yet to observe through one's own eyes was by no means an easy task.
(No, we should not forbid declaring it absolutely impossible to see through truly one's own eyes.) Above all, we found it most difficult to view through our own vision those scenes and objects that had repeatedly appeared in the poetry of the masses.
Consider attempting to compose a verse on "late spring."
After Buson had composed his "Late Spring," who could feel confident of composing "Late Spring" anew through their own unique vision?
Plum blossoms too stood as but one such instance.
No—they were precisely the paramount example.

It was not that plum blossoms failed to evoke in me those delicate sentiments spanning from the poems of The Tales of Ise to Harunobu’s paintings.
Yet whenever I beheld plum blossoms, what first seized my heart was that literati taste born in China.
This condition was not mine alone—most gentlemen of refinement seemed likewise afflicted.
(Under such circumstances, even Chuo Koron reporters would likely employ phrases like “Ode to Plum Blossoms.”) To regard plum blossoms merely as flowers of Genius Prinus fit for adoration remained the province of red-haired, blue-eyed poets.
We could not gaze upon a single petal without summoning cranes and crescent moons, desolate mountains and wild streams, broken horns and study lamps, slender bamboos and pure frosts, Mount Luofu and immortal consorts, nor escape thoughts of Recluse Lin’s cultivated elegance.
Given this reality, one need hardly marvel that artists striving to observe all phenomena through their own vision felt no particular fondness for plum blossoms.
(This truth had long been laid bare in “Plum Blossoms,” a chapter from Mr. Nagai Kafu’s *A Japanese Garden*.)
The literary world refused to acknowledge that poets possessed brains alongside hearts.
(This being precisely why I found myself compelled to plagiarize said truth today.)

Whenever I looked upon plum blossoms, what stirred thoughts of literati taste was exactly as I had previously described.
Yet do not presume me one of those so-called literati.
Call me charlatan if you must.
Call me murderer if you will.
Were there no alternative, I might even suffer being labeled professor material.
Only this I beg - never count me among those styled literati.
That practice of yoking Taiga with Buson through their Ten Conveniences and Ten Suitabilities collaboration? Precisely such contrivances define your literati.
Not even divine enshrinement would make me consort with these lunatics.

Not only this alone—I despise literati taste. I particularly despise the literati taste that prevailed during the Kasei era. Literati taste is mere dilettantism. Were we to say it begins and ends in dilettantism, then let it rest there. However, should any wish to post proclamations claiming something beyond dilettantism, they would do better to have them view Sanyo’s paintings. Nihon Gaishi is, if nothing else, a historical novel. As for paintings—whether Wu or Yue—they amount to nothing but lumpy potato landscapes. What then of Takeda’s Hyakkatsui? If this too merits being called art, then why should Anzaki-bushi not qualify as art? I am of course no opponent of their dilettantism. Had I been born in that era, I might have whimsically painted a "Kappa Returning at Dusk" scene and perhaps even elicited a smile from those gathered at Sanshisuimei Pavilion—who can say? Moreover, they too are intelligent people. How could one conflate their dilettantism with their art? I remain perpetually convinced that when Taisho's vulgar trends—art-ignorant yet guileless—earnestly delight in and crave their own platitudes, none prove more irresistibly laughable than those two.

Plum blossoms sought to impose upon me the literati taste I despised; they strove to enthrall one with vulgar poetic demons.
I had to fear these plum blossoms just as a solitary traveler on campaign feared the deep mountains and vast marshes.
Yet consider this: those who imagine the traveler’s joy in conquest must always confront deep mountains and vast marshes.
Every time I saw plum blossoms, like Xu Xiake beholding Mount Emei’s snows or Shackleton gazing at Antarctic stars, I could not suppress this surging ambition.

Discarding ashes—white plum blossoms blur the hedge.

Moreover, Bonshō had long shown us the ford’s entrance.
I hastened to cross the river—was this not but the impulsive bravado of youth?

Because I found it difficult to view plum blossoms through my own unique vision, I all the more desired to view them through that same vision.
Were I to play with a paradox, it was precisely because I remained excessively cold toward plum blossoms that I became excessively engrossed in them.
Gao Qingqiu’s poem states:
"Such jade-like beauty belongs only on celestial terraces—who dares plant them everywhere along riverbanks?"
It further continues:
"Since He Lang departed, no fine verses remain; how many springs has the east wind mourned these blossoms' bloom?"
Truly, plum blossoms resembled either celestial maidens or a wealthy recluse’s prized possessions.
(The latter was Mr. Nagai Kafu’s metaphor.)
(This did not necessarily contradict the former.) Should my writing prove inadequate, one must envision the sentiments held toward such a beauty.
Furthermore, if your sentiments amounted to nothing more than infatuation, then you too were but vulgarity incarnate—a dried shit-stick beyond salvation.

Eleven: Coincidental Similarity

When I wrote the novel *Otomi’s Chastity*, three people asked me whether Otomi might be a certain gentleman’s wife. That novel also features a beggar named Murakami Shinzaburō. There was an extraordinary figure called Murakami Shingorō at the end of the Bakumatsu period—some even inquired whether they might be the same person. However, since that novel is entirely fictional, I used no models whatsoever. *Otomi’s Chastity* contains only two characters: Otomi and the beggar. That both happened to resemble real individuals must surely count as a rare coincidental similarity. Once before, I had seen Fujino Kohaku’s haiku—“The puppeteer returns at dusk to Rashōmon”—and been astonished by this marvelous coincidence, given that both *Kairaishi* and *Rashōmon* were titles from my own short story collections. Now I found myself facing such coincidence again. It seemed these chance resemblances had cursed me.

Twelve: Cholera

What comes to mind when cholera spreads is a story about Mr. Soseki.
During Mr. Soseki’s childhood too, there had been a time when cholera spread.
At that time, Mr. Soseki had apparently eaten a great quantity of beans, drunk a great quantity of water, and then slept inside a mosquito net together with his father.
Then at dawn, inside the mosquito net, he had suddenly begun vomiting.
At this, Mr. Soseki’s father apparently exclaimed “There! It’s cholera!” and leapt out of the mosquito net.
Having leapt out—unsure what to do—and finding nothing requiring action, he apparently began sweeping the garden with a broom while stars still shone.
Of course, Mr. Soseki’s vomiting had been caused by beans and water rather than cholera; because of this incident, he said he came to understand the egoism inherent in human fathers.

What novels exist concerning cholera?
Kōyō’s *Aobudō* would likely be a cholera narrative.
There exists a short story by one La Motte that treats of Japanese cholera.
Though lacking any particularly striking incidents, it rather adeptly renders both the fish market’s languid intervals and folk engaged in their various tasks.

I do not want to die of cholera. A death involving vomiting and diarrhea—such an unrefined passing I detest. When I read how Schopenhauer feared cholera and wandered fleeing it, I felt profound sympathy for him. Indeed, I may have sympathized with him more than with his philosophy.

However, in Schopenhauer's time, it was not yet understood that cholera spreads through food. But being fortunate enough to live in modern times—and properly understanding this fact—I dine exclusively on boiled foods, take hydrochloric lemonade, and calmly implement preventive measures. Just the other day I was laughed at for being too cowardly, but cowardice is a virtue possessed solely by civilized people. If those without cowardice are so noble, let them kowtow nine times before the Hotentot king.

Thirteen: Nagasaki

Diamond-shaped kites.
Kites flown in Santo Montani’s sky.
Kites drifting gently in numbers.

Summer mandarins and bananas sold by the roadside.
The paving stones’ sunlight-glowing atmosphere.
Swallows flying throughout the town.

The Mikaeri Willow of Maruyama's pleasure quarters.

In the canal—a stone spectacles-shaped bridge.
On the bridge: the straw hats of passersby.
——A flock of ducks swimming abruptly into view.
A glaringly white flock of ducks lit by the sun.

A lizard on the stone steps of Nankin Temple.

Flag of the Republic of China.
A British ship billowing smoke.
“Light shines upon the young leaves of mountains girdling the port...”
Saitō Mokichi, his crown beginning to bald.
Loti.
Shen Nanpin.
Nagai Kafū.

Finally came the "Temple of the Japanese Madonna"—its inner sanctum enshrining the Holy Mother Mary. Ears of wheat mingled with cornflowers. A candle flame burned in lightless midday. Beyond the window stretched distant Santo Montani.

In the mountain skies still hung diamond-shaped kites—those kites sung of by Kitahara Hakushū—kites drifting gently in multitudes.

Fourteen: Tokyo's Tabata

The treetops were wet from a passing shower.
The roofs of houses glistened in the passing shower.
A dog slept atop piled charcoal bales, and several chickens sat quietly in a single cage.

The garden trees hung with crow-dipper belonged to the house of metalcaster Katori Hoshuma.

The one with bamboo-leaf fences trailing down was the house of painter Kosugi Misei.

The one with a wide lawn inside its gate was the house of Nagasa Kajima Ryūzō.

The one facing a muddy path was the house of haiku poet Takii Orisetsu.

The one with stepping stones adorned with small bamboo is the house of poet Murō Saisei.

The one among chinquapin trees and ginkgos—the one where lanterns were lit at dusk—was the teahouse Tenpen Jishōken.

Shoji blocking the garden from the passing shower.
A brazier avoiding the cold of the passing shower.
I sat before a rosewood desk, an eight-sen cigar between my lips, gazing at Ichiutei’s painting of chickens.

(1922–1924)