Pathway to Japanese Literature

I. Taiga's Paintings

I have long wanted a painting by Taiga.
However, this does not mean I would spare no expense simply because it is a Taiga.
Well, I suppose I’d like to get a Taiga scroll for around fifty yen at best.
Taiga was a great painter.
Long ago, even when Takaku Aigai found himself destitute without a penny to his name, he never parted with a single scroll by Taiga.
Paintings born from the brush of such a heroic spirit are not expensive, even if they cost hundreds of yen.
The reason I want to haggle it down to fifty yen is the sad truth that I lack surplus funds.
However, when considering Taiga’s artistic merit, perhaps whether one spends five million yen or someone like me spends fifty yen amounts to equally cheap valuations.
The only ones who believe artworks’ value can be converted into checks or paper money are irredeemable philistines.

According to Samuel Butler’s writings, he habitually desired "a good, well-preserved Rembrandt for about forty shillings." Yet he actually encountered ridiculously cheap Rembrandts no less than twice. The first time, he didn’t buy it due to the one-pound price, but the second time, after consulting his friend Gogin, he finally managed to acquire it. What kind of painting it was or how much he paid for it—neither was clear. However, the time he bought it was 1887, and the place he bought it was the storefront of a pawnshop on the Strand (London).

Considering such precedents existed, seeking to obtain a Taiga for fifty yen might not have been entirely impossible. In some desolate town’s antique shop, a lone unsold ink-wash landscape by Kyokasan Shō—whenever boredom struck, I found myself indulging in such fantasies as if awaiting the advent of Maitreya himself.

II. Acne

When I wrote my story “Rashomon” long ago, I described how the protagonist servant had a large acne on his cheek.
At the time—to put it modestly—I had relied on conjecture that even people of the imperial court era likely suffered from acne, but later discovered through *Sakyōki* that what was called “Two Lords” or alternatively “Two Prohibitions” corresponds to what we now term acne.
“Two Lords” is of course an ateji.
Admittedly, such discoveries interest me precisely as much as they hold no interest whatsoever for others.

III. General

The authorities expunged several lines from my short story "General."
However, today's newspaper reported that disabled soldiers driven to destitution had walked through Tokyo's streets hanging posters reading "stepping stones for Excellencies duped by our Captain" and "told not to look back—a colossal lie."
It seemed even the authorities' power fell short of eradicating the disabled soldiers themselves.

Furthermore, going forward, the authorities would apparently ban any works that "cause ○○ to lose the sentiment of ○○ in ○○."
The sentiment of ○○, like love, cannot be built on falsehood.
Falsehood is a truth of the past—a kind of obsolete feudal note holding no currency today.
While enforcing falsehood, the authorities commanded, "Do not lose the sentiment of ○○."
This differed not at all from demanding gold coins while thrusting feudal notes at them.

Innocence belongs to the police.

IV. Hair Growth Medicine

The relationship between literature and class issues resembles that between a head and hair growth medicine.
If the hair were growing properly, there would be no need to apply it.
And if it were a bald head, applying it would probably be ineffective.

V. Art for Art's Sake

The pinnacle of art for art’s sake is Flaubert.
According to his own words: “God manifests in the creation of all things, yet does not reveal His form to humans.
The artist’s attitude toward creation should also be such as this.”
Thus, even in Madame Bovary, a microcosm unfolds, yet it does not appeal to our emotions.

Art for art’s sake—or at least art for art’s sake in novels—is indeed yawn-inducing.

VI. Non-Abandonment of All Things

A certain someone wore only a high-quality hat.
If only that hat weren’t there—there were those who uttered such words.
However, even if that hat had been removed, the clothing of a certain someone would not have become any more impressive in the slightest.
It merely allowed a shabby appearance to spread throughout the entirety.

To describe a certain someone’s novel as sentimental or another’s play as intellectual—these were all equally clichéd expressions, no different from commenting on the hat.
Rather than devising ways to remove the high-quality hat, one had to devise ways to make the jacket, trousers, and overcoat high-quality as well.
Authors of sentimental novels had to devise ways to utilize intellect rather than contrive methods to suppress emotions.

This was not solely an artistic problem.
The same applied to life.
Monks who strove solely to overcome the Five Desires were never known to have become great monks.
Those who became great monks were invariably those who, while overcoming the Five Desires, had managed to embrace other passions.
Had not even Unshō, upon hearing of a monk’s Rakukatsu, instructed his disciples: “The male member must stand vigorously erect”?

We had to cultivate all that lay within us to the utmost.
That was the sole path to Buddhahood granted to us.

VII. Akashi Kaita

Once, I had a conversation with a devoted reader of Mr. Shiga Naoya about *Akashi Kaita’s Love*. At that time, I said the following: “In that novel, the characters have names like Sazae, Masujirō, and Ankō—mostly those of fish and shellfish. It’s not that Mr. Shiga lacks a humorous side either.” The guest exclaimed in surprise, “Ah, I see. That makes sense. I hadn’t noticed that at all.” Yet despite this, the guest remembered the plot of *Akashi Kaita’s Love* more clearly than even I did.

The guest was by no means a frivolous youth.
He was a literary connoisseur who possessed both scholarship and character—a rather rare type indeed.
And yet he had failed to notice this fact, likely because he had at some point constructed in his mind what might be termed the mold of Mr. Shiga’s works and become bound by it.
This was not limited to the guest alone.
We too must take care.

VIII. Fame-Seeking Writers

Since ancient times, it was not uncommon for authors, when publishing a book, to use reviews in newspapers and magazines to gauge its favorable reception.
Far from holding back, there were even those who, under suitable pseudonyms, wrote self-aggrandizing reviews themselves.

La Rochefoucauld was a renowned writer of maxims.
However，according to what Sainte-Beuve wrote，even this man appeared to have made revisions to his own review published in the Journal des Savants.
Moreover，since the Journal des Savants was then the sole newspaper in circulation，and since this review appeared on March 9，1665，the practice of writers manipulating reviews proved to have remarkably ancient origins.
While recalling La Rochefoucauld’s maxims，I found myself unable to suppress a wry smile upon reading this account.
Reflecting thus，Japan’s literary world—still being virgin soil—contained relatively few such corrupt customs.
Even when considering paid reviews or mutual praise-critiques，their pernicious influence remained ultimately constrained.

Incidentally.
The author of this review was Madame de Sablé; the work reviewed was that well-known collection of maxims.

IX. Historical Novels

Since it bears the name of historical novel, none exists that isn’t at least somewhat faithful to an era’s customs and human sentiments.
Yet there should also be works taking as their theme solely an era’s distinctive traits—particularly its moral characteristics.
For instance, even in their approach to male-female relationships, Japan’s court period differed markedly from modern times.
Therein, authors themselves must write with detached composure—as though they were contemporaries of Izumi Shikibu.
This type of historical novel readily offers implicit suggestions through its contrasts with modernity.
Mérimée’s *Isabella* exemplifies this.
France’s *Pilate* likewise exemplifies this.

However, Japanese historical novels had yet to produce works of this kind. Most Japanese works tended to be straightforward pieces that captured what one might call a human spark—something shared between the hearts of ancients and modern people. Was there truly no one among the young geniuses who would develop this aforementioned new approach?

X. The Public

According to Western magazines, when a statue of Anatole France was erected in Paris in September of the twenty-first year, he himself attempted to give a speech at its unveiling ceremony. While reading this recently, I discovered such a passage: “I came to know life not through contact with people.” “It was through contact with books.” However, the public may say that even if one becomes intimate with books, life remains incomprehensible.

There is a saying by Renoir: “Those who wish to learn painting should go to museums.” However, the public might say that one should learn from nature rather than view old masterpieces.

The public is always like this.

XI. Fire-Walking Ascetics

Socialism is not a matter of right or wrong.
It is simply an inevitability.
I cannot help but feel astonishment toward those who fail to perceive this inevitability as such, as though watching fire-walking ascetics.
Such things as that Radical Ideology Control Bill stand precisely as prime examples of this.

XII. Shunkan

Attempts to offer new interpretations of Shunkan beyond those in *The Tale of the Heike* and *Genpei Seisuiki* had not begun in modern times.
Works such as Chikamatsu Monzaemon’s *Shunkan* stood among the most famous examples.

In Chikamatsu’s rendition, remaining on the island was Shunkan’s own will.
Tanzaemon-no-jo Motoyasu carried pardon documents for Shunkan, Naritsune, Yasuyori, and two others.
Yet only Chidori—the island woman who had become Naritsune’s wife—was denied passage.
Though Chief Envoy Motoyasu showed willingness, Deputy Envoy Saneo refused permission.
Upon learning of his family’s deaths, Shunkan slew Saneo Taro to secure Chidori’s boarding.
“By the crime of slaying the imperial envoy, should I become an exile anew on Kikaigashima Island, His Majesty’s merciful logic shall stand intact, leaving no fault upon the envoys.”
While urging Naritsune, Yasuyori, and the rest to embark, this heroic Shunkan calmly added:
“Shunkan boards the Ship of the Vow; the Ship of this Floating World offers no hope.”

I once saw this Shunkan play with Kume Masao.
Shunkan was played by the late Danshirō, Chidori by Utaemon, Motoyasu by Uzaemon—the others I no longer remember.
That line about Shunkan boarding greatly impressed Kume Masao at the time.

Chikamatsu’s Shunkan had become a far greater man than the Shunkan of *The Rise and Fall of the Genji and Heike*.
Of course when seeing them off at their departure, he must have been filled with sorrow.
Yet afterward, Chikamatsu’s Shunkan may have spent his remaining years in peace.
At the very least, he likely did not meet as tragic an end as Shunkan in *The Rise and Fall of the Genji and Heike*. —Insofar as it imparts such sentiment, we must acknowledge that the one who wrote “Shunkan who does not suffer” had already existed in Chikamatsu long ago.

However, what Chikamatsu sought to depict was not limited solely to "Shunkan who does not suffer." His Shunkan was one of the characters in *Heike Nyogo no Shima*. However, Kurakata and Kikuchi's Shunkan took Shunkan alone as its subject. How did Shunkan, exiled to Kikaigashima Island, live his life, and how did he meet his death?—This was the problem for both gentlemen. In Mr. Kikuchi's case in particular, this problem could perhaps be rephrased as follows.—"What sort of life would we live if we found ourselves in the same circumstances as Shunkan—exiled to an island?"

The difference in stance between Chikamatsu and both gentlemen did not preclude it from being discernible in how they revised the accounts of *Genpei Seisuiki*. To create that Shunkan, Chikamatsu even altered the matter of the pardon document, which was key to Shunkan’s tragedy. Both gentlemen, of course, no less than Chikamatsu, ignored the accounts in *Genpei Seisuiki*. However, unlike Chikamatsu, both gentlemen did not alter the matter of the pardon document—for as long as they attempted to interpret Shunkan within the given conditions, this alone had to be preserved.

Just as in that case, the difference in stance between Mr. Kurakata and Mr. Kikuchi may also be discernible in how they altered the accounts of *Genpei Seisuiki*.
Mr. Kurakata portraying Shunkan’s daughter as dead, Mr. Kikuchi depicting the island as a fertile land—these alterations must have been convenient for both gentlemen to delineate their respective Shunkans: “Shunkan who suffers” and “Shunkan who does not suffer.”
My Shunkan, in this regard, follows in the footsteps of Mr. Kikuchi’s Shunkan.
However, while Mr. Kikuchi’s Shunkan has found reasons for contentment in external circumstances, mine is not necessarily limited to that.

However, as found in Noh and Jōruri, one cannot help but imagine a great Shunkan who remains composed even after being left behind on a barren, desolate island. Yet capturing this grandeur is something I cannot achieve at present.

Postscript: The Shunkan who appears in *The Rise and Fall of the Genji and Heike* was both a witty philosopher and an ardent lover of Tsuru no Mae.
I remained particularly faithful to *Genpei Seisuiki*'s accounts regarding this aspect.
Moreover, Shunkan's poems appear more inept than those of Yasuyori and Naritsune.
Though skilled in debate, Shunkan did not seem to possess a poet's temperament.
I maintained this faithful approach to *Genpei Seisuiki* in that regard as well.
Furthermore, the Kikaigashima Island described in *Genpei Seisuiki*, while perhaps not Taitei, does not appear to consist entirely of rocks.
Were one to remove urbanites' fears and aversions toward remote regions from that island's account in *Genpei Seisuiki*, it might unexpectedly transform into an endearing island worthy of inclusion in an ancient *fudoki*.

XIII. Kanji and Kana

The defining trait of *kanji* is said to lie in evoking perceptions of beauty or ugliness not only through their meaning but also through their very form.
Kana, of course, are in practical use nothing more than a type of phonetic script.
However, as with 'ka' being derived from *Ka*, all their ancestors are kanji characters.
Not only that, but due to always being used alongside kanji, they naturally tend to evoke a sense of beauty or ugliness in their very forms, much like kanji themselves.
For example, *i* appears calm, while *ri* tends to be perceived as distinctly sharp.

This was one possibility.
But what were the facts?

I must confess that I sometimes fixated on the shapes of hiragana characters.
For example, I tried to avoid using the character *te* as much as possible.
I found it particularly inadvisable to follow phrases like “doing such-and-such and such-and-such” in succession.
Yet when it came to a stop at “doing such-and-such,” I found no discomfort.
The character *te* was followed by the character *ku*.
This too, like a bent nail, lacked the strength to properly bear the weight of the text above.
Katakana, compared to hiragana, had both the *ku* and *te* characters appearing more settled.
Perhaps katakana was a more advanced phonetic script than hiragana.
Or perhaps even I, accustomed to hiragana, had grown insensitive to katakana.

XIV. People of the Late Greek Period

Lately, writings by Greeks were discovered from the sands of Egypt and the lava of Herculaneum.
The period appeared to span from around 350 B.C. to 150 B.C.
In other words, they belonged to an intermediate era transitioning from the Athenian period to the Roman period.
The types included essays, poems, comedies, drafts of speeches, letters—there may well have been others besides these.
Among the authors, some were already known to some extent for what they had previously written.
There were also those whose names alone had barely been transmitted.
Of course, there were also those whose very names had not been transmitted at all.

However, putting that aside, when I look at modern translations of such fragmentary writings, all of them contain nothing but ideas familiar to us. For example, Polystratus, a philosopher of the Epicurean school, argued: “To free oneself from all falsehoods and mental strain and make life truly liberated, one must know the fundamental principle of all creation.” Then again, Cercidas—a so-called philosopher of the Cynic school—exclaimed: “Wastrels and misers abound in gold and silver, yet I alone am left in poverty—how unjust!” ……Is justice as blind as an aardvark? After vehemently exclaiming, “Is the light of Themis (Goddess of Justice) eclipsed?,” he declared his resolute conviction: “At the very least, we must devote ourselves to rescuing the sickly and aiding the impoverished.” Furthermore, Phoenix of Colophon, who is said to have preceded him by over thirty years, declared: “Everyone is friends with the rich.” If only you have money, even the gods will surely love you. “But should you be poor, even your own mother will surely come to hate you,” he wrote in a poem brimming with satire. Finally, Diogenes of Œnoanda declared: “If one follows my observations, humanity tastes all manner of bitterness in all manner of useless things.……I am already an old man. The sun of life is about to set. I merely teach my own path. ……All people under heaven are engaged in mutually exchanging falsehoods. Just like a herd of sick sheep,” he teaches the way to salvation.

It appears that such thoughts have existed in every era and every country.
It appears that the progress of humankind is rather akin to the crawl of a slug.

XV. Metaphor

The struggles of writers with metaphors and similes are a matter of the distant West.
We have all been raised in harsh modern Japan.
Of course we struggle with such matters; we don't even have leisure to craft sentences that convey meaning accurately.
However,the heart that loves the beauty of Western metaphors—those that happen to catch one's eye—still remains.

"Twin Galera's face is ravaged by cosmetics．However,beneath that skin,something still faintly shimmers like water under thin ice."

This is Wassermann’s portrait of Twin Galera, the sex worker.
My translation is undoubtedly clumsy.
However, the gentle visage of a sex worker drawn by Guys of old appears vividly in the original text.

XVI. Confession

“Write more about your own life,” “Confess more boldly”—these were the words you all so often urged upon me.
It was not that I did not make confessions.
My novels were, to some extent, confessions of my experiences.
But you would not accept this.
What you all urged upon me was to make myself the protagonist and write without reserve about the events that had occurred in my life.
Moreover, you demanded that an index at the end of the book list not only myself as the protagonist but also all the characters’ real names and pseudonyms in full array.
I had to beg to decline that alone.—

First and foremost, I find it unpleasant to reveal to you all the innermost depths of my life.
Second, I find it distasteful that such confessions would be appropriated as pretexts to claim more money and fame than necessary.
Suppose, for instance, I were to keep conjugal records like Issa.
Suppose these were then published in Chūōkōron’s New Year’s issue or some such magazine.
Readers would all find it amusing.
Critics would praise it as marking some new turning point.
Friends would declare I’d finally laid myself bare—merely imagining this gives me gooseflesh.

Strindberg too would never have published Confessions of a Fool had he possessed money.
Even when compelled to publish it against his will, he refused to release it in his native tongue.
Should I too find myself unable to earn sustenance, I may have to embark on some new livelihood.
That time will arrive of its own accord when it comes.
Yet for now, impoverished though I am, I somehow manage to sustain this tenuous existence.
Though my body suffers manifold afflictions, my mental state remains passably normal.
No symptoms of masochism manifest themselves.
Who would willingly craft confessional novels about matters they'd blush to acknowledge?

XVII. Chaplin

Those labeled as socialists—whether Bolsheviks or not—were all viewed as dangerous.
Especially during the recent great earthquake, they seemed to have suffered various persecutions because of it.
However, when one spoke of socialists, even that Charlie Chaplin was counted among their number.
If one were to persecute socialists, then Chaplin too would have to be persecuted.
Try imagining that Chaplin had been killed by a certain military police captain.
Imagine him being stabbed to death while waddling like a duck.
Anyone who had even once glimpsed his figure on film would have been unable to suppress their righteous indignation.
If one were to act upon this righteous indignation—then certainly you too would become one of the Blacklist.

XVIII. Playfulness

This was a passage from "Recent Developments in American Tennis" by Mr. Masanosuke Fukuda, published in the Sunday Mainichi.

"After Tilden cut his finger, he began to display even more remarkable shots."
As for why he improved more after cutting his finger than before—one reason was that his focus had intensified.
"He had considerable showmanship and would not easily secure victory even in matches he could win, instead toying with his opponent to a certain extent. However, this season, due to the handicap of his 'finger,' he approached each game with heightened tension from the start, making him even stronger…"

Tilden, who further honed his skills after severing the fingers that gripped the racket, was truly a great player.
Yet he who had been content with his fingers—and he who had also been imbued with the playful spirit of toying with his opponent—was certainly no less great.
No—I suspected that even Tilden himself sometimes felt a faint nostalgia in his heart for the days when he had been rich in the spirit of "playfulness."

XIX. Worldly Troubles

I, like most hack writers, lead a hectic life.
My studies never quite proceed as I intend.
I still haven't read books I wanted to get to two or three years ago—such is my current state.
I had also thought such vexations existed solely in Japan.
But recently, upon reading something about Remy de Gourmont, it appears that even in his final years he wrote one essay daily for *La France* and one dialogue every fortnight for *Mercure*.
Thus even a literary man born in France—that nation which esteems art—is far from enjoying leisurely tranquility.
For one such as myself, born in Japan, to voice complaints may indeed be misguided.

XX. Ibáñez

Mr. Ibáñez has apparently come to Japan as well. His stay was brief, and he likely only managed a cursory tour of the sights. Biographies of Mr. Ibáñez include works like Camille Pitollet’s *V. Blasco-Ibáñez, Ses romans et le roman de sa vie*, which are currently in vogue—though this does not mean I have read them. I have only perused what was introduced in Western-language magazines two or three years ago.

"The writing of my novels is an inevitability—I cannot help but create them... I passed my youth in prison." I must have been incarcerated at least thirty times. I have been a prisoner before. Time and again, I sustained grave injuries in barbaric duels. I have tasted every physical agony a human can endure. I have plunged to the depths of poverty." But on the other hand, I have also been elected to the Diet." I have been a friend to the Sultan of Turkey." I have resided in palaces." Afterward, I became a businessman handling vast fortunes." In America, I built an entire village." I say these things to demonstrate that novels can be realized in life." "To show they can be actualized far more skillfully than through mere paper and ink."

This was apparently Mr. Ibáñez’s own words from Pitollet’s book.
However, even after reading this, I did not particularly feel that novels were being realized in life as the great writer Mr. Ibáñez claimed.
All it did was make me feel that they were merely actualizing the advertisements for novels.

XXI. Ship Captain

While on my way to Shanghai, I spoke with the captain of the Chikugomaru.
We spoke only of things like the Seiyūkai’s tyranny and Lloyd George’s “justice.”
In the midst of this, the captain looked at my business card and tilted his head slightly as if impressed.

“The name Akuta River is quite unusual, isn’t it?”
“Ah, Osaka Mainichi Shimbunsha—so your specialty remains political economy?”

I responded perfunctorily.

After a short while, we began talking about Bolshevism or something of the sort.
I quoted an essay by someone that had been published in that very month’s *Chūō Kōron*.
But unfortunately, the captain was not a reader of *Chūō Kōron*.

“*Chūō Kōron* is certainly good, but—”

The captain continued speaking with a bitter expression.

“Because they include too many novels, I end up reluctant to buy it.”
“Is there truly no way they could cease doing that?”

I put on as pathetic a face as I could manage.

“That’s right. Novels are such a problem. If only they weren’t there at all—that’s what I often think.”

Since then, I seem to have gained the captain’s particular trust.

XXII. Sumo

"A must-not-lose sumo match recounted in bed" is Buson's renowned sumo-themed haiku. Surprisingly divergent interpretations appear to exist regarding this "must-not-lose." According to *Lectures on Buson's Haiku Collection*, both Mr. Kyoshi and Mr. Hekigotō—and more recently Mr. Kimura Kūkaku as well—interpret "must-not-lose" as conveying future tense. They construe it as meaning: "Tomorrow's sumo match must not be lost—they speak of this must-not-lose match as a bedtime tale." I had always interpreted it exclusively in the past sense. I still interpret it in the past sense: "Today he lost a sumo match he must not lose—now he earnestly recounts it as a bedtime story." Had Buson intended future meaning, he surely would not have placed the drawn-out closing phrase "recounted in bed" beneath the emphatic "must-not-lose" in the opening five-syllable line. This is not a matter of grammar. It is purely a question of artistic sensibility—how one perceives "must-not-lose." That said, within *Lectures on Buson's Haiku Collection*, both Koji Shiki and Mr. Naito Meisetsu similarly interpreted it in the past tense.

XXIII. “Totemo”

The affirmative usage of "totemo" in phrases like "very cheap" or "very cold" became part of Tokyo's vernacular only several years ago. Of course, it was not that the word "totemo" had been entirely absent in Tokyo either. However, its traditional usage had always been accompanied by negation, as seen in phrases like "it simply cannot be done" or "it will never come together."

The newly popular affirmative "totemo" was likely a dialect from Mikawa province. Indeed, an example of this "totemo" being used by people from Mikawa remained in *Sarumino*, published in the fourth year of Genroku (1691).

Autumn wind— / how the silver grass stalks / must sway so fiercely! —Mikawa, Shiin

Thus, it took over two hundred years for "totemo" to migrate from Mikawa Province to Edo.
There was no other way to describe it but as "it was very time-consuming."

XXIV. Cats

This is the explanation of cats in the *Genkai*.

“Cat: [...] A small beast kept in households.
It is well-known.
Gentle and easy to tame, they are kept if they can catch mice.
However, they have a thieving nature.
In form resembling a tiger, it does not reach two feet in length.
(The following is omitted.)”

Indeed, cats undoubtedly steal slices of sashimi from dining trays.
But if one insists on labeling this as “having a thieving nature,” then there would be no inconsistency in saying dogs have a nature of corrupting public morals, swallows a nature of trespassing into homes, snakes a nature of intimidation, butterflies a nature of vagrancy, and sharks a nature of murder.
Upon reflection, Mr. Ōtsuki Fumihiko, author of the *Genkai*, is at the very least an elderly scholar endowed with a slanderous nature toward birds, beasts, fish, and shellfish.

XXV. Edition Numbers

Japanese edition numbers were unreliable. According to rumors I had heard, certain reputable publishers apparently counted two complimentary copies sent to the Ministry of Home Affairs as constituting one edition. Even if that were a lie, given such haphazard practices, readers across the land who purchased books based on advertisements touting “50th edition” or “100th edition” were being mocked all the same.

However, it seemed even French edition numbers were highly unreliable. For example, Zola’s late novels were apparently designated as one edition per two hundred copies. Yet this was a bad practice. There was certainly no need to import things like perfume or Opera Back. Moreover, Merkur had also recorded exactly which number in the series each published book was. Even if emulating Merkur proved difficult, establishing how many copies constituted an edition and advertising these numbers without falsification should naturally have been an undertaking that Japan’s Publishers’ Association rigorously enforced.

No—such an obvious matter must have long since been noticed by the wise gentlemen of the Publishers’ Association. Then perhaps their failure to implement this stemmed from imparting the lesson: “If you wish to obtain good books, choose those with fewer editions.”

XXVI. House

Mr. Hayakawa Kōtarō included several incantation songs in the appendix of *Sanshū Yoko-yama Banashi*.

A song chanted to guard against thieves: “Now we sleep, you beams; we entrust it to you, pillars; should anything occur in our dreams, rouse us, rafters and crossbeams!”

A song for fire prevention: —“frost pillars, ice beams, snow crossbeams, rain-soaked pillars, dew-thatched grass.”

In all of these, one could glimpse the visage of people of old who sensed life within houses.
Such feelings had long since died out within us.
Those born after us might feel no impression whatsoever upon reading these songs, even if they did read them.
Even were we to come to live in reinforced concrete rental houses, these songs might perhaps make us recall—like phantoms—the thatched roofs scattered in mountain shadows.

If advertised next, Mr. Hayakawa’s *Sanshū Yoko-yama Banashi* would likely be the most intriguing collection of legends since Mr. Yanagita Kunio’s *Tōno Monogatari*.
The publisher is Kōkyō Kenkyūsha at 52 Myōgadani-chō, Koishikawa Ward, and the fixed price is a mere seventy sen.
However, I do not know Mr. Hayakawa, and needless to say, I was not commissioned to write this advertisement.

Postscript: It seems there were also songs like this in Tokyo forty or fifty years ago.
"We're off to sleep now, you pillars; we entrust it to you, beams; listen well, rafters; at the sixth hour of dawn, rouse us with your loud snoring!"

XXVII. Continued: “Totemo”

The "totemo" that accompanies affirmation was not Tokyo speech. What Tokyoites had traditionally used was the "totemo" accompanied by negation, as in "it's utterly impossible." Recently however, the affirmative "totemo" too came to be widely practiced - for instance, expressions like "totemo kirei da" ("very beautiful") or "totemo umai" ("very skilled"). That this affirmative "totemo" appears in *Sarumino* was something I had already discussed in *Seikidō Zakki* (found within the essay collection *Hyakusō*). Later, when examining it upon being alerted by Mr. Shimaki Akahiko, I realized this "totemo" also derived from the "totemo" in "totemo kakutemo."

Autumn wind—

However, lately, as I’ve been reading haphazardly again, I discovered this kind of *totemo* even in the spring section of *Shokushunkashū*.

Market dolls—so many faces there are. Kayō

Shion of Genroku was, as his title indicated, a man of Mikawa Province.
As for Kayō of Meiji, from which country might he have been?

XXVIII. Concerning Jōsō

That the Bashō school had many prominent disciples went without saying.
However, if one were to ask who most faithfully inherited Bashō’s mantle, it would likely be Naitō Jōsō.
At least in haiku composition, no one in the Bashō school had captured Bashō’s sabi as thoroughly as this new discovery within haikai.
Having recently read through *Jōsōshū* compiled by Mr. Noda Betsutenrō, I had come to feel this truth all the more deeply.

Preface omitted

Grime on the wooden pillow—
snow lingering on Ibuki

Ōhara—
butterflies emerge to dance
beneath the hazy moon

Valley wind—circling green rice fields, a guest at the hermitage.

On a small folding screen—the mountain village’s coolness upon one’s belly.

Thunder invites out the fireflies—

Fireflies emerging from the grassy turf—the sound of their wings.

Cockscomb—

A sick person and a bell clapper sleeping—the cold night.

A dragonfly comes and catches flies beneath the sedge hat.

Until dawn—blowing rain amidst two stars.

Firewood embers— / at approaching dawn, five or six shaku.

These haiku do not merely attain *sabi*.
The fact that each haiku is rich in variation demonstrates the writer’s skill as an author.
I find it exceedingly presumptuous that Kikō and others mock Jōsō.

XXIX. Kesa and Moritō

When I published a monologue-style novel titled *Kesa and Moritō* in the April issue of *Central Review*, I received a letter from a certain person in Osaka:
“Kesa was a chaste woman who, driven by Gengi’s duty and Moritō’s passion, resolved to die to protect her virtue. To write it as though there had been an affair between her and Moritō would not only be cruel to the virtuous Kesa but would likely produce undesirable consequences for national education. I cannot condone this for your sake.”

However, as I promptly replied to that person at the time, the fact of an affair between Kesa and Moritō was neither my invention nor anything novel. In the chapter on Mongaku’s awakening in *The Rise and Fall of the Genji and Heike*, it is explicitly written: “He came swiftly and lay with the woman, and as the brief night gradually deepened…”

The general public has dismissed this through some sort of reasoning and advertises that pitiable heroine as if she were some superhuman paragon of chastity. Therefore, it would not be incorrect to say that the crime of arbitrarily altering historical facts lies not with me, who wrote that novel, but rather with the bourgeoisie critics themselves. I do not consider altering or not altering texts to be a particularly major issue, but as a matter of fact, I will take this opportunity to state these things here. Of course, should some scholar appear claiming that *The Rise and Fall of the Genji and Heike*'s account is fabricated, I would resignedly allow myself to be branded as a falsifier at any time.

XXX. Posterity

I am not one who seeks to await a kindred spirit a hundred generations hence.

Public criticism was always prone to miss the mark.
The current public needed no telling, of course.
History had already taught us how even the citizens of Athens during Pericles' age and those of Florence during the Renaissance remained far from constituting an ideal public.
If today's and yesterday's public were thus, could we truly expect tomorrow's public criticism to differ?
Whether they would discern sand from gold a hundred generations later was something I found myself unable to doubt, however regrettably.

Even supposing an ideal public could exist, could there truly be such a thing as absolute beauty in the world of art? My eyes today are nothing but my eyes today; they are by no means my eyes tomorrow. At the same time, it remains certain that my eyes are ultimately Japanese eyes, not Western ones. If that is so, how could I believe in beauty existing beyond time and place? True enough, Dante's infernal flames may still make Eastern youths tremble even now. Yet between those flames and us, does not something Italian from the fourteenth century drift like mist?

Moreover, I am but an ordinary literary man.
Even if posterity's judgments were infallible and universal beauty existed, entrusting writings to famous mountains is not an act I should perform.
That I do not await a kindred spirit a hundred generations hence is, I believe, something too obvious to require stating.

At times I imagine that an era will come—twenty years hence, or fifty, or even a hundred—that does not even know of my existence.
At that time, my collected works will likely be buried under heaps of dust, vainly awaiting readers in the corner of a secondhand bookstore shelf somewhere in Kanda.
Or rather, depending on circumstances, there may remain only a single copy in some library, reduced to pitiful food for silverfish, so tattered that even the characters become unreadable.
However—

However, I think—
However, would there not be someone who, by chance, discovers my collected works and reads a brief piece from them—or perhaps a few lines from such a piece?
If I were to voice an even more fanciful hope—might there not be some piece or lines that could offer readers in an unknown future even the slightest glimpse of a beautiful dream?

I am not one who seeks to await a kindred spirit a hundred generations hence.
Therefore, I am aware of how much this imagination of mine contradicts what I believe.
But I still imagine.
In the desolate era of a hundred generations hence, that there exists a single reader who should hold my collected works in their hands.
And that before the mind of that reader, there exists my mirage, however faintly it may rise.
I am aware that there exist wise individuals who ought to ridicule my folly.
However, even I myself have no intention of lagging behind others when it comes to laughing at my own folly.
Yet even as I laugh at my own folly, I cannot help but pity this spineless self of mine that clings so tenaciously to that very foolishness.
Or perhaps I cannot help but pity not only myself but also the spinelessness of ordinary people in general.

XXXI. “Past Times”

Since many of my works deal with events from the past, I received requests to explain my approach when handling such historical material.
To speak of something like an "attitude" may sound overly grandiose, but rest assured I possess nothing so remarkable.
Well then—when I write about the past, how do I regard it? Or rather, what role does the past perform in my works? I suppose I could attempt to discuss such matters.
This being no formal academic discourse to begin with, I ask that you kindly listen with that understanding.

When reading fairy tales, Japanese ones will have phrases like “Once upon a time” or “In days of old” written. In Western ones, you find statements like “when animals could still speak” or “when Belt was spinning thread.” Why do they do this? Why couldn’t it simply be “now”? This opening undoubtedly serves as a prefatory phrase to lend plausibility to all the fantastical events in the main text. The reason lies in how every incident appearing in fairy tales consists entirely of strange occurrences. For fairy tale authors, setting these stories in the present day proves problematic. It’s not that using the present is absolutely impossible, but the past offers greater convenience. By invoking “Once upon a time”—an era of remote antiquity—no sense of contradiction arises when depicting a thumb-sized boy dwelling somewhere or a princess emerging from a bamboo stalk. That is why they prefixed “Once upon a time” at the very beginning.

If this indeed explains the origin of “Once upon a time,” then my practice of drawing material from the past largely arises from the same necessity as this “Once upon a time.” What this means is: suppose I now grasp a certain theme and set out to write it as a novel. And suppose that in order to express that theme most powerfully in artistic terms, some extraordinary incident becomes necessary. In such cases, the more extraordinary the incident, the more difficult it becomes to convincingly portray it as something that occurred in present-day Japan. If one forces such a depiction, it will in most cases strike readers as unnatural, thereby rendering even the carefully conceived theme utterly futile. As for the means to overcome this difficulty—as indicated by the phrase “would be difficult to convincingly portray as something that occurred in present-day Japan”—there is no other option but to set it in the past (future cases being rare), in a land outside Japan, or in a time when it occurred outside Japan. The novels I wrote drawing material from the past were mostly compelled by this necessity, leading me to seek settings in antiquity to avoid unnatural obstacles.

However, unlike fairy tales, novels—by their very nature as novels—could not simply get away with writing "Once upon a time" and leave it at that.
Therefore, certain period restrictions came into being.
Consequently, even elements such as the social conditions of that era came to be partially incorporated to a degree that satisfied a natural impression.
Therefore, what are called historical novels could perhaps be distinguished from others in that they did not aim to reproduce the "past" in any meaningful sense. — Well, that’s roughly the gist of it.

By way of preface, let me add that since this is how things stand, even when I write about the past in my novels, I do not harbor any particular longing for that past itself.
I am far more grateful to have been born in today’s Japan than in the Heian period or the Edo period.

Furthermore, let me add one more thing: I have said that expressing a certain theme may require an extraordinary incident, but I believe that beyond this necessity, my own interest—or rather, the interest we humans hold toward all things abnormal—is also at work here.
In the same manner, when selecting the past out of necessity to write about an extraordinary incident without imparting a sense of unnaturalness, there can be no doubt that beyond this necessity, the beauty of the past itself exerts considerable influence.
However, the role that the past primarily serves in my works remains fundamentally akin to "when Belt was spinning thread" or "when animals could still speak."

XXXII. Late Tokugawa Period Literature

Late Tokugawa Period literature is said to be frivolous.
Admittedly, it may indeed be frivolous.
Yet whether these literary creators truly lacked understanding of life remains a question in my mind.
Were not even those sophisticates privately aware of life's profound darkness?
And might they not have drowned themselves in wit to evade that reality—however unconsciously?
Consider one among them—read Mr. Miyatake Gaikotsu's *Santō Kyōden*.
That one could inhabit such an existence yet remain oblivious to life's bleakness defies comprehension.

This was by no means limited to the authors of *kibyōshi* and *sharebon*. I do not believe even Kyokutei Bakin himself truly believed in his own doctrine of rewarding good and punishing evil. Bakin may have been striving to believe it. Yet according to works like Mr. Aibara Kōson’s compilation of *Bakin Nikki Shō*, Bakin himself could not have remained unaware of his own contradictions. Mr. Mori Ōgai certainly wrote in the afterword to *Bakin Nikki Shō*: "O Bakin, you were fortunate." I seem to recall him adding something like: "You could still place your trust in the Way of the Ancient Kings." But I believe Bakin too did not actually believe in the Way of the Ancient Kings or such notions.

If we speak from the standpoint of falsehood, their works are nothing but falsehoods.
It might be said that they deceived society along with themselves.
However, a yearning for goodness and beauty remains in their works.
Above all, the era in which they lived—contemporaneous with France’s Rococo period—was an age where an aesthetic sensibility permeated even the most mundane corners of daily life.
Therefore, if we speak from the standpoint of beauty, the air pervading their works is undeniably beautiful (albeit somewhat decadent).

I do not hold much respect for so-called Edo tastes.
At the same time, I am not one to bow my head in reverence to their works either.
However, to simply dismiss their works with a laugh under the label of “superficiality” would be doing them a disservice.
If one were to consider their so-called “commonplace remarks” as “serious,” then even works such as *kibyōshi* and *sharebon* contain within them many issues.
We cannot agree even with those who take delight in their works.
However, we cannot readily agree with those people who simply laugh off their works either.

(1918–1924)