Pathway to Japanese Literature

Autumn at the Monastery

“Alright then…”

As one of the young sailors released the stern rope with a drawn-out, booming shout, a dull steam whistle sluggishly grazed the sea’s surface like drowsiness itself, and the ship quietly departed Hakodate’s old pier.

A chill morning mist still lay heavily over the harbor, and the rain-washed autumn sky hung darkly with melancholy.
The clamor of anchor winches and the blare of departure signal whistles could be heard trembling through the heavy, sunken morning air.
The dark indigo, turbid sea reflected the sky’s fleeting brightness on the backs of its waves while ceaselessly rocking under the wakes of small steamers coming and going.
From time to time, flocks of white seagulls would fly low as if skimming the water, then swiftly flip their bodies to hide in the ship’s shadow.
And before long, they became like scattered snowflakes, floating buoyantly among the distant waves.
Among the steamers busily loading cargo for Karafuto and Kushiro, and the sailing ships with their white paint peeling off in ugly patches, lay the weary form of a low-gunwaled whaling ship.
My ship proceeded slowly among them.

Everything that met the eye was the lonely morning aspect of the northern land, where autumn’s arrival came swiftly.
Over the peaks of mountains near and far enveloping the harbor, clouds of cold hues drifted, and into the folds of those mountains carved by dark shadows, hues of melancholy and cruelty were deeply etched.
The traveler of the northern land could feel neither familiarity nor warmth toward its nature.
At times like a solitary saint defying the world, at times like a ruined man with a cold, desolate heart, the nature of the northern land always stood apart from him.
He felt lonely.
And he became aware of an insurmountable wall existing between nature and man.
Even if there was beauty, even if there was brilliance, it remained like a marble statue—devoid of blood, devoid of heat.
Whether he looked up at mountains or gazed out to sea, what pressed upon the northern traveler’s heart was always an indescribable sense of emptiness and solitude.

I stood on the bow deck still damp from last night’s rain, thinking such thoughts. With nothing else to occupy me, I lit a cigarette and smoked without pause.

The ship had moved far from the pier unnoticed. When I looked back, the town of Hakodate lay spread out beneath the gray autumn sky. Viewed from the sea, the town had an exotic air about it; the absence of those old lead-colored tiled roofs diminished the familiarity one expects of a Japanese town. Yet the intriguing terrain caught my eye—from the midslope of Mount Gagyūzan on our right, creating a somewhat steep slope, jumbled houses spilling down like a stream as they spread toward the Ōno plain. Here and there, temple roofs and Western-style towers stood out prominently, soaring.

“That’s Goryōkaku beyond those woods, isn’t it…” said an old man who was asking a crew member. While stroking his salt-and-pepper goatee, he would say something and then periodically burst into loud laughter. He was an amusing, kindly-looking old man. I too found myself unwittingly drawn in and laughed for no particular reason.

“What a calm sea,” he muttered as if to himself, smiling while surveying the water.

I lit another cigarette and sat down on a straw mat in a corner of the deck.
The cold sea breeze streamed ceaselessly over my cheeks, swiftly sweeping away the purple cigarette smoke.

“Are you heading to the monastery?” came a sudden voice addressing me.

“Yes,” I replied, standing up and turning toward him.

“Is this your first time?” he said again.
Dressed in a lightweight business suit with a pale cloth hat pulled low, he leaned gently against the deck railing.

“Yes… Are you going as well?” I asked in return.
He wore a friendly smile.

“I came to Hakodate from Sapporo on some business, and since today happens to be Sunday with a full day free, I thought I’d like to meet these Trappist people…” He trailed off while staring intently at me.

“And where are you from…?” I said.
In his mid-thirties, with a face that could be called that of a businessman, there was nonetheless a youthful vigor of spirit discernible beneath his courteous demeanor.

“I’ve been traveling around Hokkaido this summer and am just on my way back now.”

“Ah, so you’re traveling? That’s splendid.”
“So you’re from the Tokyo area after all…”

“That’s correct.”

“Well now, I’ve found myself excellent company.
“My name is K.”
“I shall rely on your kindness…” he said in a cheerfully casual tone.
After repeatedly striking out matches until finally lighting his cigarette, he began pacing the narrow deck as if keeping time.
I let my words fade away and gazed out at the sea.
Behind me on the straw mat, the voices of passengers engaged in endless laughter-filled conversation swept past my ears like the droning of bees.

The Martyr’s Torment—I had attempted to imagine the lives of the Trappist monks in my mind.
And that—stemming from being a complete stranger to them—filled my heart with manifold unease as I now approached that place.
At the same time, I could not suppress a curiosity akin to touching something mysterious.
In any case, from our perspective, they were people leading a particular life within a particular world.
To spend one’s entire existence in a quiet monastery removed from the vulgar masses and mundane world—devoting oneself wholly to prayer, silence, and labor under strict vows—was at the very least a life that might be called miraculous.

“Is that truly a human life?” I secretly doubted.

“For God’s sake—solely for God’s sake…” I repeated in my heart.

"If that is truly life, then I too must at least consider it," I thought again.

They are separated from people.
They have secluded themselves from all human society.
They know no joy.
They do not crave fine food.
And they absolutely reject sexual desires.
Not only do they have voices with which to pray to God, but they keep those voices locked away when it comes to people.
Man lives by spirit alone—this they hold as an unshakable creed, tormenting their flesh through every means.

"Is human flesh truly so repulsive? Must the body be subjected to such torment? If that is so, why do they not take their own lives?" This became the next logical doubt to surface.

Yet when viewed through their actions, their lives appeared utterly thorough. There existed perfect alignment between doctrine and practice. In their unyielding conviction of the spirit world's eternity—through ceaseless prayer and meditation that enriched their spiritual existence, through relentless labor that disciplined the flesh while striving to break free from obsessions, desires, and corrupt thoughts—within these efforts I could discern something worthy of reverence.

“And as for myself…” I reflected.

I could not help but think of the unease in my heart and the turbulence in my life.
There lay all the falsehood that turned against me and betrayed others.
There were wretched ambitions, jealousies, and suspicions.
There was also a sick, exhausted, unhealthy body utterly defiled by ugly desires.
And when I considered that something which separates them from myself, I felt a suffocating sensation.
The world now unfolding before me—it stirred in my breast a feeling akin to terror.

I involuntarily snapped back to myself and cast an anxious gaze over the sea.

The ship advanced along the breakwater, leaving undulations in a sea smooth as spilled oil.
When ships passed each other, a drawn-out steam whistle would sound, and the stagnant water raised white foam between swells as though sneering.

The bay gradually opened into the strait, and the Tōbetsu Cape on the opposite shore—which had been shrouded in mist—finally began to emerge clearly. Where the cliff had crumbled slightly, exposing red earth, a series of hills covered in dull-colored low shrubs stretched into the distance. At the tip of the cape facing that strait, the lighthouse building floated faintly white. The monotonous, dimly lit scenery of that entire area wearied me.

When I noticed, all the ship’s passengers had fallen silent; those standing, sitting, and leaning were gazing out at the sea with vacant expressions.
The engine’s throb beating a dull rhythm became audible.
A sense of decadence, as if from a long voyage without end, hung in that space.

I looked up at the sky.

A faint brightness began to seep through the leaden-gray clouds, and the waning sun's light seeped dimly through.
The waves of the strait, reflecting that brightness, began to glimmer with a silver sheen.
When I stared fixedly, it would grow distant or draw near.
The clouds drifted gradually onward.

“It’s in that shadow.
“Look—you can see the edge of the building, right?” said Mr. K as he approached my side and pointed at the cape.
A large red brick building could be seen on the slope of a high hill continuing from the cape.
It stood out strikingly out of harmony with the surrounding scenery.

Crossing the mouth of the bay, the ship approached Tōbetsu Cape.
A desolate fishing village came into view in its shadow.

“So we’re taking that path.”

When they jumped down from the ship onto the small pier, the two men—nodding in mutual agreement—turned left and began walking along the shore-hugging path.
The pervasive smell of dried squid assailed their nostrils sharply.

The sky gradually began to brighten.
And sunlight filtered through faintly enough to cast thin shadows on the ground.
The day—so still since morning that there lingered not a breath of wind—lay utterly motionless and silent beneath this wan light.
Within that air heavy with monotony, the sound of two pairs of footsteps echoed loudly.
And their words grew increasingly sporadic as they walked briskly with bowed heads.

The path ran along the cliff edge, alongside the sea.
When we crossed the new wooden bridge, the path split into two.

“Either path will take you…” replied the old woman curtly when Mr. K asked her, then strode briskly away.

“Let’s try going this way,” the two of them said as they climbed the somewhat steep, narrow path along the cliff.
The village houses and the sea came gradually into view below them.

“What a fine view, isn’t it?” I said between labored breaths as I continued climbing.
Mr. K, who seemed to be a strong walker, climbed energetically while swinging his cane.
He was a man of truly excellent physique.
When we reached the summit, we found ourselves on a vast plain; there on a distant hill rose high the monastery building that had been intermittently visible from the path.

“It’s closer than I thought…”
I called out from behind Mr. K.

The pasture grass was beautifully cut, and a green plain forming a gentle slope spread out before us.
In the distance, against the backdrop of the glittering strait, a herd of dairy cattle grazed quietly on the grass.
Around the barn, small human figures were moving.
Before long, a cart pulled by a horse emerged from the shadow of the barn and slowly made its way up the hill.
It was piled with dried hay like a small hill.

I recalled a Millet painting.

We walked quietly along the path through the grassland.
Here and there, crickets were chirping.
The sound of our footsteps drew near, and they abruptly fell silent.
The grass was still wet, the tips of our boots damp and glistening.
The nearby low deciduous trees had turned a vivid red, their leaves lying motionless in layers within the heavy air.

At the point where the narrow path entered a wide straight road, there stood a gray, faded house, and a human figure was visible.
Mr. K turned toward me,

“Let me just ask,” he said as he went inside.

The wide green pasture, the mist-hazed waters of the strait, the yellowing poplar grove, and the neat red-brick monastery building—all these blended into an autumn-like harmony of quiet colors that soaked pleasantly into my eyes.
And dimly I envisioned the lives of the monks persisting within these quiet, tranquil surroundings.

Before long, a man of about fifty—dressed in a plain high-collared garment and wearing black-lacquered wooden clogs—emerged together with Mr. K.

“I shall be your guide,” he said, turning toward me with a slight bow.
Narrow eyes, an expressionless face, and sparse cheekbeard streaked with white gave him the air of a lonely martyr.
And his slightly faltering voice remained ever low and restrained.
Among those bound by absolute silence, I had heard he was the sole speaker permitted to address outsiders.
He was called Mr. S.

Turning left from the straight path that faced the white main gate, we walked toward the cowshed.
As we climbed the gentle slope, the waters of the strait came into wide, distant view.

"We currently have sixty head of cattle," Mr. S remarked.
The cowshed was visibly beautifully maintained and organized.
Then, climbing the hill and going to the back of the monastery, there was a butter-making facility.

“As long as their arms hold out, they work to supplement the machinery.”
“During work hours, from the abbot down to all the monks, everyone labors.”
“That is indeed done with great earnestness,” said Mr. S as he stood before the meager machinery.
“Since that day happened to be a Sunday, they were resting from labor, and prayers became exceedingly frequent.”

When the three of them emerged from between the poplar groves and approached the monastery building, they heard loud prayers resounding from the basement.
Through the window, the figure of a monk clad in black monastic robes could be seen.

“Aren’t the monks supposed to be silent?” I asked as I heard their voices.

“Yes, that’s correct.”
“However, they raise their voices as much as possible only during prayers, sermons, and confessions—and even then, it is in Latin,” replied Mr. S with a faint smile.

“If ordinary conversation isn’t possible, how do they communicate their intentions to each other?” asked Mr. K.

“A code has been established.”

“A code... How inconvenient,” said Mr. K as he turned toward me, a faint look of surprise crossing his face as he gave a light laugh.

Beside the monastery stood a modest annex chapel.

“Please rest here for a while,” said Mr. S as he guided us to the front room.
He then closed the door and left.
The sound of his wooden clogs resounded softly against the floor.

The room was so quiet I could hear my own breath.

The room contained only a heavy yet sturdy simple table and two or three crude chairs, and the subdued arabesque-patterned wallpaper gave the space a dimly lit feel.
And there hung images of Christ on the cross and figures in monastic robes.
Before long, through the window facing the sparse poplar grove of late autumn, a serene autumn light streamed in as if peering through.
Through the layered trunks and interwoven branches, a path ascending toward the blue pasturelands and mountains came into view.
Even as I exchanged words with Mr. K, I couldn't help feeling as though my own voice was resonating unnervingly within me.
And before we knew it，our voices grew quiet.

“It’s truly quiet here.”
“Don’t you find it strange—the idea of spending your entire life living in a place like this?” I said to Mr. K.
I was envisioning city life lived amidst intense stimuli of sound and color.

“Hmm, indeed.
“I could never manage it.
“After all, for people like us, it’s only by throwing ourselves into the world’s bustle—rejoicing, suffering, and agonizing as we work—that life gains its meaning.
“I simply can’t comprehend the meaning of such a life.”
The practical Mr. K remarked.
And changing his tone,

“Can withdrawing from real society and devoting oneself solely to a life of faith truly befit the path of a human being?” he declared forcefully.

Mr. K appeared unable to forget the powerful practical force of real society looming behind him.

"Well, at any rate, I want them to consider others as they consider themselves."
"If one could obtain the power of faith, they might return to society and engage in real-world work."
"Or perhaps using teachings to save people might be another path."
"Otherwise, wouldn't their faith never truly take root?"
"To serve God or attain faith—is that something ultimately impossible while dwelling in our world?"
"I believe Christ's greatness lies precisely in loving people while constantly placing himself among the crowds."
"I want them to be more human—in a better sense."
"That is my sentiment toward the Trappists."

“Well… how should I put it?”
“In any case, they’re narrow-minded.”
“They seem like people confined to a certain mold.”

“You could call them misanthropes, I suppose.”
“Because those called misanthropes are a type of egoist…”

When the voices ceased, silence fell once more.
The air in the room was so still that the cigarette smoke hung motionless, neither flowing nor dispersing.

“However, their life might not be as harsh as we imagine.”
Mr. K said in a somewhat sarcastic tone.
I too found myself laughing along without thinking.
But that laughter seemed ill-suited to the unspoken sentiment we both now secretly harbored.
Both of us fell silent as we stared at the table’s surface.

Then, as if probing that silence, the sudden toll of a bell rang out.

It seeped deeply into the surrounding quiet air.
It resounded clearly, as if reaching into the very lifebreath of all things.
And leaving behind a subtle reverberation, it gradually faded into the distant stillness.
I listened to the bell’s resonance, afraid to so much as twitch my pinky.

“What a beautiful tone,” Mr. K said heavily after the final reverberation had been absorbed into silence and some time had passed, and I let out a sigh of relief.

“Well then, this way to the monastery…” said Mr. S as he opened the door.
We quietly stood up.
And when we went outside, we walked toward the entrance, the narrow gravel crunching underfoot.

I thought that I too must remain silent like them inside.
At the same time, I became aware of a pious feeling, as though approaching something solemn, and a sense of unease.

“This is the prayer room,” said Mr. S in a hushed voice as he quietly opened the first door.

With pure white walls and pale birch-colored woodwork, the room sank into a bright, soft light. On the high platform at the front stood statues of two saints flanking an image of Christ on the cross, motionless.
The air hung heavy with an uncanny stillness, pressing upon us a strange temptation that seemed to draw one inward.

A foreign monk sat engrossed in reading by a nearby window.
He lifted his face heavily and cast a pensive gaze our way.
After faintly returning our bow, he quietly lowered his eyes back to the page.
Another foreign monk entered soundlessly, his monastic robes dragging across the floor.
Having solemnly crossed himself before the holy icon, he lowered the golden candlestick and departed before our eyes—supporting it with both hands—as though moving through empty space.

“What kind of people they must be…” I thought.

Not a flicker of expression showed on their faces.
Their composure held a calmness so profound it bordered on coldness.
And in their appearance, there was nothing whatsoever that evoked human warmth.
Had they not moved, they might have appeared as statues.
I clearly became aware that I was standing within a special world.
There was a great abyss between them and myself.
If I do not cross this abyss and reach the far shore, I cannot comprehend their truth.
Also, no familiarity could be felt toward them.
However, I wondered—could it be that to cross this abyss, I must lose my very humanity?
At the very least, I would have to reject this emotion flowing from my own depths—this desire to love all people and feel close to everyone.
That is something I cannot do.

"Is that what they call a perfect person?" I secretly doubted again.

We emerged into a spacious, long corridor. Soft milky light streamed from the high windows, leaving the surroundings bright yet hushed. Even a slight cough sent a clear echo back to my own ears.

On the wall by the window hung prints depicting events from Christ's life before and after the crucifixion. The figure of Christ—being whipped and stumbling as he was led away—was both exceedingly heartrending and exceedingly gruesome.

“Monastery life is hardship; death is peace.”
“One attains the path of faith solely through meditation.”
I looked up at some of these precepts on the opposite wall.

Several monks moved quietly back and forth through the corridor from time to time.
Many of them were young Japanese.
When we bowed our heads, they bowed theirs in silence.
However, when I saw the markedly pale and haggard faces of my fellow compatriot monks—and when I perceived there an indescribable shadow of loneliness and torment—my heart was filled with a strange sorrow while simultaneously feeling a certain astonishment.
I found my initial impression of the prayer room betrayed.
And then the shadow of martyrdom’s noble sacrifice suddenly flitted through my mind.

"Will they too eventually turn into cold statues like those foreign monks?" I thought.

Silence pervaded every corner.
In the lecture hall, in the library...
And I walked quietly with a care that matched the rhythm of that powerful silence.
In the entrance hall stood a statue of Maria.
From beside it, we ascended to the second floor.
This was the monks' dormitory; along both sides of the corridor, orderly partitions formed simple beds arranged in rows.
When we lifted the pure white curtain at the entrance and stepped inside, the small holy icon by the pillow caught our eye.
Through the window, the silvery sea could be glimpsed in the distance.

When the hazy moon filtered through the mist over the strait at night, or when they heard the rustling of poplar leaves scattering on quiet autumn evenings, they must have secretly knelt upon their beds and prayed to God from the depths of their hearts.
And when night deepened, that refreshing sound of the bell would resound clearly through the midnight air.
That mysterious, distant silence would surely have obliterated all delusions and impure thoughts in every person’s heart.
I leaned against the windowsill and indulged in deep reverie while gazing down at the green pastures and glittering sea.

“The third floor contains only a mineral specimen room and an infirmary. Would you care to see them?” Mr. S prompted us.

“A specimen room, you say…?” Mr. K asked in return.

“No, it’s not particularly related to monastic life, but I believe the abbot here was formerly an archaeologist or something of the sort,” said Mr. S with a calm smile playing on one cheek.

“Where is he from?” I asked.

“He is French.”

In an orderly partitioned corner of the attic third floor, various minerals, fossils, and possessions of primitive peoples were arranged according to the geological periods of stratum formation.
And explanations of technical terms had been added.
That at least suggested he was quite the specialist.

“Is he young?”

“Well… Even so, he must be over fifty,” said Mr. S.

Tertiary, Cretaceous, Carboniferous, Silurian—when he, as a young researcher had pursued the traces of Earth’s creation and finally entered the ancient dark ages, I imagined the time when he was seized by life’s great anxiety and sank into deep doubt.
At least in his life from being an archaeologist to entering Trappist life, I thought there must have been some ideological Struggle.
“There are no patients now,” said Mr. S in front of the infirmary.

“Is there a doctor in attendance?” asked Mr. K.

“We have the village doctor come in,” replied Mr. S nonchalantly while descending the stairs.
An expression as if to say, “Are you really so indifferent toward death?” surfaced on Mr. K’s face.

When we returned to the original resting room, the meal had been arranged on the desk.

"You must be weary. As you can see, it's rather plain fare, but please partake," said Mr. S as he settled into a nearby chair.
Plates piled with bread, meat, and salad stood prepared.

“What sort of meals do the monks have?” asked Mr. K.

“For each meal, one dish—if it’s bread, then bread; if vegetables, then vegetables—is the rule.”
“Of course, it’s vegetarian.”
“They even drink milk with the fat removed.”
“There are no delicacies, but this food is permitted only for guests or the sick.”
Mr. S always spoke in a low voice.

"I hear it's the principle to build monasteries in as barren and desolate a place as possible," I began.

"That is correct. It is the principle to cultivate such places and sustain ourselves with what is obtained from the land," said Mr. S, lowering his narrow eyes nonchalantly. "Well... It’s been about twenty-three years since I came here, but..."

"Twenty-three years, you say..." said Mr. K, pausing his fork with a look of surprise.

“Are you also practicing monastic life?” I asked while looking at Mr. S’s lonely face.

“Yes—I’m not a monk myself—but my life here is nearly identical to theirs.”
“Yes… When I first came here, this entire area was nothing but thickets—a truly harsh place.”
“Truly, the efforts we’ve made up to now have been tremendous.”
“When late autumn comes and the grass withers, there would often be mountain fires.”
“The old wooden monastery finally burned down… It’s been over ten years since we rebuilt it in brick.”
“In any case, we still haven’t reached our ideal state as Trappists.”
“The Abbot says it’s been fifty years since our founding—about thirty more remain.”
“It’s truly an ambitious plan.”
“Yet the days gone by feel entirely like a dream.”
“Even in such a place as this, time passes all the same,” said Mr. S with a faint smile.
His gentle face held composure, but his sparse white hair and faint wrinkles on one cheek bore an indelible loneliness.
I gazed sadly at Mr. S, who had spent years here nearly equal in number to my own age.

“Have you been living here all this time?” Mr. K abruptly said.

“Yes, about a year ago I had some business and went to Hakodate for a bit.”
“That’s about the extent of it.”
“It must have changed a bit there too……”
Mr. S said in an indifferent voice.
When I secretly thought that for this man, even the mists of the Tsugaru Strait and the beautiful poplar groves likely no longer held any interest, I felt a desire to doubt all my own feelings and impressions up to that point.

Even as we spoke, we savored this simple lunch.
A sour, dealcoholized beer was poured into a cup by Mr. S’s hand.

“In other words, the monks spend their entire lives here, I take it,” said Mr.K, as if speaking to himself.
And our gazes met casually.

“That is correct.
“They gladly spend their lives.
“However, for them, heavenly life holds more meaning than earthly life.
“In other words, monastic life would be a kind of preparation for living in the eternal spiritual world after death.”
Mr.S’s low voice, conveying something wondrous without a hint of wonder itself, resonated in our ears.

The pale afternoon sunlight fell quietly into the woods.
Not a single sound disturbed the silence.
Mr. S’s voice continued.

“When a monk’s final hour approaches, that bell tolls.”
“They sprinkle beautiful ash across the sickroom floor, spread clean straw over it, and lay the patient upon that.”
“Then, starting with the abbot, all the monks surround them and offer prayers of farewell.”
“When the patient draws their last breath, the bell tolls again…”
“For monks, death is joy.”
“For them, death brings no terror.”
“And that the afterlife is what they call an eternal banquet,” said Mr. S.

As I listened intently to such talk, I suddenly recalled the figure of that foreign monk who had been sitting by the window of the prayer room. I could not forget the cold, wax-like hue of his eyes. Would he too meet his end in that manner? And would he find joy in an eternal banquet?

“It’s nearly time for the return ship’s departure,” said Mr. K, glancing at his watch.

“Is it that time already?” I asked in return.

Having forgotten my own world, I was brought back to myself by the mention of time. I was a traveler.

I was a traveler.
The steamship, Hakodate town, the sister I had left behind at the Yunokawa inn, and the distant Tokyo home—such elements of my background floated jumbled through my consciousness.
I clearly realized I was someone who must return.
For those I cherished and those awaiting me...

After bidding farewell to Mr. S, we descended straight down the monastery’s front path.
Mr. K and I walked in silence, quietly carrying an emptiness as if released from some tension.
Perhaps the clouds had parted—a bright light suddenly shone from behind us.
The grazing cattle had already withdrawn into shadows, while sunlight slanted across the green grassland.

“They’re such mysterious people—I can’t even begin to imagine,” said Mr. K, turning toward me.

“That’s right． At least，I don’t believe that constitutes the true way of living as a human being，” I said while thinking．

My heart, which had expected to be struck by some intense and piercing emotion, found itself betrayed, leaving behind a lingering sense of incompleteness. When I pursued that sense of incompleteness, I came to doubt the true value of their lives. Their goodness or love, their selflessness or self-sacrifice might indeed have been noble. Yet that nobility never left the limited world called Trappist. In other words, it existed solely for their own sake. I demanded that it hold broader, more universal meaning. Even if they aimed to become perfect people, would it not become meaningless when having no connection with all of humanity? And simultaneously, I could not help feeling lonely that their narrow, obstinate lives had lost the warm intimacy and broadly human quality one savors in Christ's teachings.

"Do they truly have no turmoil in their hearts?" I thought.
And I recalled the face of that young Japanese monk we had encountered in the corridor.

"Anxieties and contradictions unceasing in their lifelong efforts must still exist within them as well," I thought.
Even if there is consistency and thoroughness, humans must still desire the next consistency and thoroughness.
And is it not the unfortunate fate of humans that they can never ultimately know satisfaction?
They too are no exception.

“Then people can never truly find peace of mind.”
A faith that can be firmly grasped does not exist in life.
Even if they do exist, all of them are but momentary and illusory.
“Unless death seals my eyes and erases all human consciousness...”
Feeling a loneliness as though my heart were gradually being dragged into darkness, I walked on unconsciously.
Mr. K was walking a few yards ahead of me, swinging his cane.
When I raised my face, beyond the hill I saw a deep blue sea.

“It seems the ship isn’t visible yet,” said Mr. K, standing at the edge of the hill as he turned toward me.
I approached him.
And I sat down in the thicket of grass atop the cliff and smoked a cigarette.

The afternoon sea was quietly shining.
The distant horizon was hidden in gray haze, and between the sea and sky, the Mutsu mountains appeared faintly floating.
And on the desolate sea, there was not a trace of small boats coming and going.
Only the glittering swells of waves, riding the tide's flow as they moved onward, continued endlessly.
I fixed my gaze intently and watched their traces.

"Yes, unless death comes, people cannot attain true peace."
I muttered this to myself as I followed Mr. K down the slope.

(October 1916 · Maiden Work)