Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Mid-September, one evening when it rained heavily.
――It was shortly after graduating when I had some thoughts while planning to make efforts to join a newspaper company that I left my parents' home and had only recently begun lodging at a boarding house in upper Sanaizaka――when around nine o'clock, in the midst of a downpour, I returned to a certain building from elsewhere.

I entered my room and was taking off my clothes, damp from the rain, when O-Yae, the daughter of the house, came in carrying hot water.
She had been making tea, running the wet clothes through a clothes rack and hanging them by the wall as she tidied the room, when suddenly she seemed to remember—

“Oh, right! There’s a Mr. Ogihara downstairs who wishes to see you,” she said.

“What kind of person is Ogihara?... What business could he have with me?”

“What business? He’s been saying that for days now.”
“Tonight’s perfect for it.”
“I’ll go tell him to come up then.”
“...What strange language he uses.”
“Someone like me only understands half of what Mr. Ogihara says anyway.”

She chattered on and on, then went downstairs with a self-absorbed expression.

I felt somewhat puzzled but kept waiting, when eventually the karakami paper door at the entrance slid open and a large man—so tall his head nearly caught on the kamoi lintel—slipped into the room. When I saw that face framed by a cotton haori bearing a family crest over a rural-striped kimono neatly fastened at the chest, with long hair slicked back in an exact part and a ruddy complexion dotted with acne, I thought inwardly: *Ah—so this was Ogihara*. This was someone I had seen nearly every morning at the washbasin and recognized by sight—the man who would lumber out to wash his face around the time most students had already left, squinting as if daylight pained him.

Ogihara tried to sit near the entrance with an awkward smile,

“Oh, come closer over here.”

When I offered him a zabuton cushion,

“Uh, uh.”

He bowed his head two or three times and lingered there hesitating.
At that moment, O-Yae entered.

“Mr. Ogihara, please come further in.”

When she said this, he finally shuffled closer to me.

I had been waiting on edge to find out what he wanted, but as he showed no sign of speaking up,

“Do you have some business with me?”

I broached the subject.
Then, momentarily flustered and stammering,

“No, there’s no particular business,”

he said.
Indeed, his words came with a strong accent that made them hard to catch.

I felt somewhat deflated and stared intently at his face.
He had a wide, round face with indistinct features and narrow eyes that seemed half-asleep.
His mouth was small.
His complexion was swarthy, his skin rough.
He looked like someone who had grown up perpetually burdened and weighed down by heavy loads.

To distract myself from having nothing to do,

“Where are you from?”

I asked.
Then Ogihara responded,

“Huh?
...Country? My country is in the Hanamaki area.”

he said, but I couldn’t fully make it out.

“Where did you say?”

“Hanamaki.”

“Huh?”

“Hanamaki.”
His voice carried a slight nasal tone.

“Huh?”

Since I still couldn't catch it, when I asked again, he made an awkward face and fell silent, but after a while,

"The Morioka area."

"Ah, I see. So it's a cold area?
That's right."

"Uh, yes, that's right."

With that, the conversation came to a halt, but whenever we spoke, the words would catch so painfully in my throat I could hardly bear it.
Each time this happened, he would twist his lips and strain his entire body.
Naturally, the conversation began to falter and break off in fits and starts.

I still thought this man would state his business and waited inwardly for him to do so.
When the conversation lagged, expecting him to finally speak up, I looked at his face.
Yet he showed no sign of such intention—with a complexion like a cloudy day—and when stared at by me, would fidget so pitifully, at a loss where to look.
And so I found myself starting another meaningless conversation.

“Excuse me for asking, but which school do you attend?”
Judging by his appearance, I had surmised he would probably say something like Nihon University’s law department, when—

“School? My school is Waseda’s literature department.”

he said.

“Ah, I see. When will you be graduating?”

“Next spring.”

“Well, you must be quite busy then.”

“Uh, uh...”

The conversation faltered to a halt again.
Both of us were staring intently.
Finally at a loss with nothing to do, I clapped my hands without thinking and called for O-Yae.
With a clatter of lively footsteps, O-Yae entered and—upon seeing our faces—suddenly made a puzzled expression before kneeling down in silence.

“Hey, why don’t you bring something?”
I wanted to laugh inwardly, but given the awkwardness of the situation, I forced myself to suppress it and said—

“Huh?”

Unusually, O-Yae made a face that showed she couldn’t grasp the situation.

“Bring something! What’s with that face!”

“But you’re the ones being strange here, glaring at each other like that!”
O-Yae said this sincerely.

“Never mind that! Just bring it quickly!” I said, turning back toward Ogihara and,

“I was raised in Kyushu, you see. I don’t know a thing about cold regions, but I imagine the scenery must be quite different in your part of the country.”

“Uh—yes, it’s different. In my part of the country, you rarely see a clear, crisp sky from this time of year onward.”

“Huh, so it’s gloomy there, then.”
I furrowed my brows slightly.

“Gloomy.”

Unbelievable!
…When the conversation reached this point, Ogihara’s sleepy eyes began to light up. A rushed tone—half-stammered in his mouth, difficult to catch—yet somehow inherently resonant.
…Through a strange chance, I thought, I had met a strange person.

Just then, O-Yae came in with some sweets. After placing them between us, she made a puzzled face, glanced briefly at our faces, then left without saying a word—uncharacteristically quiet for her.

“Well, how about it? These aren’t this house’s usual biscuits, so they’re safe. Please eat. And please tell me stories about your homeland. But… did you have some business with me? In that case, you should bring it up yourself…”

Since I was still concerned about that matter, when I said this, Ogihara became slightly flustered, turning red with embarrassment. And he said nothing. ……Since it seemed we’d be left with nothing to do again, I too hurriedly—

“So then—what about it? The feel of the forests and woods must be quite different too, I imagine,” I brought the conversation back to that topic.
Then Ogihara, though maintaining a reserved expression, began to grow animated—

“There are many walnut groves. When mid-October comes around and you’re in the woods, the sound of walnuts dropping onto the withered grass—thud, thud—is truly lonely.”

“Someone like me has never even seen a walnut grove. …But changing the subject—this might sound like a strange question—isn’t there a lot of superstition in your part of the country? Ghost stories and such… I think I heard someone say before—those kinds of tales thrive more in colder regions.”
I too found myself getting swept up in the conversation.

“They’re prevalent. It’s all just those kinds of stories.”
When I picked up a sweet and ate it, Ogihara also reached out without hesitation and picked one up.
He gradually grew more animated, his demeanor changing visibly.

“So it’s because of the gloominess after all?”

“How about this? In my homeland, there are still many women like shrine maidens or those who use strange magic, you know.”
Ogihara tried to press ahead with the conversation single-mindedly.

“Magic?”
“What… is that?”

“Well, when they see snakes or various poisonous insects, they say something like an incantation and immediately kill them.”
“My grandmother does it too.”

“How curious. Is it only women who do that?”

“Yes, only women.”
“And it’s passed down through specific family lines.”

“Do even young women do it?”

“It’s still the elderly.”

Ogihara’s initial nervous demeanor had completely vanished.
He became carried away and continued talking.
When I looked at his face now, it was as though emotions normally buried in the deepest depths had suddenly surged forth and blossomed.

“My family home is located about five *ri* beyond Hanamaki, deep in the mountains—a vast plain surrounded by three large peaks: Mountain A, Mountain B, and Mountain C.”
“The best time in my homeland is still around the rice planting season.”
“…When that time comes，a bit away from my home at a place called B Field，the kanbana flowers bloom.”
“The children make a huge fuss as they go to gather them，you know.”
“What’s kanbana?”
“Do you mean cluster amaryllis—the ones with those red flowers that bloom?”

“No, that’s Kumagaisou—or rather, Atsumorisou. Those ones.”

“Oh, really? Go on.”
I was now completely swept up in his tales.

“When you go to the mountain foothills around that time, the nights get so noisy you can’t sleep.
“All sorts of birds start calling at once…… And in my homeland, there are few birds that sing during daylight hours to begin with.
“The lesser cuckoo and common cuckoo, then various others too.”

“If you go to B Field early in the morning—though it’s well into summer—there’s something called asadori.”
“They say they’re messengers of the mountain god—that killing them brings a curse. Everyone’s terrified of that... The asadori—they’re small purple butterflies.”
“They gather in a pitch-black mass and fly high from the mountains.”
“I’ve seen it once myself, you know.”
“The way they gather and move across the clear morning sky—as if they were clouds drifting by—is truly mysterious.”

Ogihara had now become completely carried away and continued talking endlessly on his own.

“There’s an intriguing story about those mountains too.”
“They say those three mountains were actually three sisters from ancient times.”
“The oldest sister was the meanest，and the youngest was the most docile.”
“So the mother deity，wanting to give Mountain A to the youngest sister since they all desired it，told the three sisters，’Tonight while you sleep，I will shoot an arrow．Whoever finds it by their pillow shall become Mountain A’s owner．’ Then，while they slept，she quietly came and placed the arrow by the youngest sister’s pillow．”
“Then，the older sister woke up in the middle of the night and，finding it wasn’t by her side，became terribly upset．She stole it from her younger sister’s pillow，placed it by her own，and pretended not to know a thing．”

When morning came and the three awoke to find the arrow by the older sister’s side, the youngest sister wept bitterly. But with no other choice, she went to Mountain C while the middle sister departed for Mountain B—or so the tale goes.

“And so that Mountain A is the tallest and most formidable peak—even now, it’s the subject of countless terrifying tales.”
“In my homeland, we go there around late summer to gather mushrooms.”
“When we build huts in the mountains and sleep there, something strange always happens at night.”
“The timing never varies—when midnight strikes, the mountain interior suddenly glows as if moonlight has appeared, a faint light seeping from somewhere to tint everything blueish. Then across the valley in the distance, a clear woman’s voice begins singing in a tone so drowsy it could lull you asleep.”
“Just as you’re listening intently—suddenly, right around you, a woman shrieks piercingly, and that faint light snaps out, plunging everything back into darkness…… Nearly everyone from my village has experienced this at least once.”

In Ogihara’s eyes appeared an expression like a gloomy fire.
His heart burned, and a violent trembling was visible.
Though his tales were rough-hewn, they gradually developed a natural cadence, imbued with a power to captivate.
He spoke in a voice charged with emotion,

“In those mountains, a hunter from the neighboring village who often came to my home also had such an experience.”
“There’s something called night hunting—where you stay in the mountains at night to hunt boars. When he went out for that, around what he thought was nearing dawn, from the direction of the mountain summit,”

“Agh!”
“He’d apparently heard someone cry out once.”
“Since it sounded like his old mother back home, he hoped nothing bad had happened while he was away.”
“At daybreak he rushed back to find a machete fallen from its beam hook—his mother lying dead beneath.”
“They say her death came exactly when he’d heard that scream—that’s why he quit hunting.”

“And there’s another story like this,” Ogihara said, recalling tale after tale as he became utterly absorbed in his own storytelling.

Before we knew it, the night had grown late.
I too was drawn in and listening, but when I suddenly noticed, downstairs was already silent.
The rain showed no sign of letting up, pouring straight down with a fierce, roaring noise.

When I suddenly made a face as if listening to the outside noise, Ogihara abruptly stopped mid-story and looked puzzled,

“What is it?”

he asked.

“No, it’s nothing. But the rain is really coming down, isn’t it?”

When I said this, he too suddenly seemed to notice and listened to the sound outside. Then, as if a sudden chill had swept across his collar, he briefly wore a startled expression,

“I’ve seen strange things myself.”

He blurted out involuntarily, but afterward fixed me with an oddly suspicious gaze, peering at me as if probing……Yet when I feigned ignorance, he once again became animated and launched back into his story. Moreover, for him, it wasn’t even a story that contained any significant secret.

Two

That night, having finally talked ourselves to exhaustion, Ogihara went downstairs from the second floor around two in the morning.
Given that there had been nothing resembling actual business discussed, he—being a person of such disposition—might have simply wanted someone to talk to.
Even after I had gotten into bed, I thought he was a man who harbored strange feelings.

When I woke up the next morning, sure enough, it seemed he had slept in as late as I had, and we ran into each other in the washroom.
Ogihara grinned when he saw my face, but I,

“Oh, last night...”

When I said this, he looked awkwardly embarrassed,

"Well... we talked until terribly late last night..."

he said with visible effort before turning his face away.
When I insisted we have breakfast together and forcibly pulled him upstairs to my room, he did come—but once last night’s animated mood faded, he reverted to his usual self. Like someone blinded by sudden sunlight, he sat alone in a shadowy corner wearing a dim, clouded expression, remaining silent.

Even when I spoke to him, he wouldn’t give a proper reply.
Though I thought him fundamentally good-natured, he remained a man whose thoughts I couldn’t fathom—his state of mind utterly beyond my grasp.

Because it was a time when I wasn’t terribly busy, whenever I had free time, I would eat meals with Ogihara and listen to his stories about his hometown.
Thus we had grown close enough to spend nearly all our time together, yet there lingered in Ogihara an unshakably suspicious, guarded quality.
Even if you called him suspicious, Ogihara’s nature wasn’t one that could suddenly blossom into trusting others; instead, he remained perpetually timid, focused solely on protecting himself.
Yet paradoxically, he also possessed an intensely self-obsessed aspect.
And he was always gloomy, his blood seeming clouded.

Even when we ate meals together, Ogihara would rarely initiate conversation.
It made one wonder how he could have possibly wanted to meet someone like me—with whom he had no prior acquaintance—to such an extent.

Since my position at the newspaper company wasn’t settled, I thought it would be temporary and took on translating foreign newspapers for an economics magazine edited by a schoolteacher (I’m a graduate of Waseda University’s Economics Department), so I usually stayed home and worked on that.
And Ogihara would usually come sit beside me in silence, flipping through the literary section of *Review of Reviews* and such.
Before long, as I too began to grow somewhat weary,

“Anything interesting written there?”

When I asked,

“Well...”

he said and thrust out the magazine.
By the end, even my words had become thoroughly rough, but if anything, this was true only of me; Ogihara still couldn’t bring himself to act so casually.
And as we talked idly like this, Ogihara’s literary theories would occasionally emerge, surprisingly.

Ogihara’s theories clearly didn’t point to anything specific, but he was a kind of believer in spirit worship who harbored a profound dread toward the very concept of existence.
And he ceaselessly wandered from fantasy into delusion.
At one moment he wandered through fantasies; at the next, he yearned for emotions tinged with beautiful colors—unrestrained, like those glimpsed in dreams.
……this sort of mysticism.
It hadn’t coalesced into an intense, transparent faith, yet it remained an emotion rooted somewhere deep within his heart—one that would inevitably resurface whenever any discussion arose.
Listening to him, one sensed a man who—though seemingly drawn from beneath a dim, chilly sky toward southern azure heavens in drowsy longing, lured by floral hues and verdant leaf fragrances—had in fact been born and raised in that Northern Country where gray skies hang over forests stripped bare of leaves, where everything takes on dull hues pressing down from above; a land of ochre-stained decay where female specters dwell with voices thin as ice against the skin, piercing through one’s chest.
Ogihara was, through and through, a man of fantasy.

Pitiable as it may have seemed—or perhaps chosen precisely for that preference—Ogihara’s room faced west, dim even in daylight. In that room stood a small bookshelf placed against the right wall, and pressed against it was a medium-sized desk draped with a Chinese cretonne desk cover in red and purple—a garish, cluttered pattern. The desk’s surface was narrowed by brush holders and inkstones, but from that cramped space, the flower pattern of that desk cover appeared lurid, as if casting a peculiar light within this room. On the walls hung discarded clothes and hakama here and there. The master of this room slept late into the morning with the door shut, but upon eventually opening his eyes with evident irritation, he would irritably comb back his long, tangled hair hanging over his forehead and begin reading the newspaper by his pillow. After thrashing about extensively in bed and letting out two or three consecutive yawns, he would finally manage to rise—though even then, before washing his face, he would first sit down at his desk and stare blankly. Even after washing his face, he would often spend half a day sitting at his desk, doing nothing, thinking nothing, just staring vacantly. Then he would abruptly dash out of the house and spend the entire day wandering aimlessly through the neighborhood. Even at such times, his face remained sunken and gloomy, giving no impression that his heart was animated with any vibrancy.

When he walked, he would raise his shoulders as if a tall pole were bobbing lightly along—perhaps because his body lacked suppleness. But looking at his face, the blood seemed to pulse heavily within it, giving it depth. There also appeared to be something undefinable hidden beneath the surface.

Yet he remained a profoundly lonesome soul. The glittering, restless air of Tokyo could hardly leave this Northern Country-born dreamer's heart undisturbed... Then when autumn deepened into late October within that atmosphere, winds would grow terrifyingly fierce—no sooner had skies cleared than they'd turn entirely gray in an instant.

When that season arrived, Ogihara's face would become so clouded and sunken with frustration that one feared his very mind might fracture—so completely was he buffeted by inner turmoil that no external comfort could reach him.

He would always sit with a desolate expression, staring blankly in one direction—or else lie day and night under his futon, snoring loudly. And when evening came, he would abruptly wake up and wander off aimlessly somewhere. Because he was perpetually sleeping, I would shake him awake,

“How much more are you going to sleep?”

When asked this, he raised his bleary eyes with an expression that seemed to say I was meddling in unnecessary business,

“I’m so sleepy!”

Having said that, he let out a heavy sigh. Moreover, since he showed no signs of attending school either, when I asked why, he would reply with a nonchalant expression that he was taking the year off to idle away his time.

One time, when I went to his room on some errand, the sun had already set and the room was pitch-dark—thinking he wasn’t there—I tried to close the opened paper-paneled door when a black shape writhed beside the desk and suddenly—

“I was here.”

he called out.

“Then go light the lamp—what’s wrong?”

As I said this and stepped inside, in the darkness his eyes seemed to glisten, and Ogihara was breathing heavily in ragged gasps.

As the lamp flared to life, Ogihara—who had apparently been leaning against the pillar until now—wore a face imbued with an indescribable melancholy.
And when I looked—he was on the verge of tears!

“What’s wrong?”

“Ah, while I was thinking of home, night had completely fallen,” he muttered as if to himself.

No sooner had he said this than he was holding something in his left hand and trying to hide it.

“What’s that?!”
“That thing.”
I quickly spotted it and thrust forward; he reluctantly showed it to me.
It was a shakuhachi.

“Do you play that?”

“I wouldn’t say I play it properly, but I did learn a bit back home…”

“So you mean you were playing it to think of your hometown, then.”
When I teased him lightly, Ogihara let out a voice that seemed to seep from the depths of his body,

“No—I play it because I can’t bear it.”
“But playing it makes the feeling even more unbearable.”
“It’s as if my hometown’s landscapes appear before my eyes…” he said, then pressed his lips tightly together.

“If you keep dwelling on such thoughts in this dim room, it’ll only make things worse—let’s go outside.”
“And please take your mind off things.”

When I said this, Ogihara remained sullen and gloomy, but at my urging, he listlessly stood up and then headed out toward Kagurazaka’s street.

The sky was overcast, clouds hung low, and darkness enveloped everything.
Through the town, from time to time, the wind blew through, kicking up sand.
However, even with that, the bustling Kagurazaka street did not lose a single light.
People returning home in the evening, shoppers, and even those out for leisurely strolls—since it wasn’t bitterly cold yet—could be seen scattered here and there.

The lights of the shops on both sides remained undiminished, leaving not the slightest sense of loneliness.

At the nearby vaudeville hall, the band was playing a lively tune.
When we reached that corner—for some reason—Ogihara stood rooted at the street corner, silently gazing at the town's liveliness.
From beside him,

“Hey!”

I called out, but Ogihara didn’t respond and remained rooted there.

When I saw that, I was profoundly struck.
A tall man—out of sync with this bustling, boisterous, nebulous atmosphere—stood observing with a sorrowful, agitated expression.

Bystander!
Discord!—Even this single word contained a portent of lamentable fate.

3

Around mid-December of that year, I finally found an opening and was hired as a reporter for A Newspaper. For various practical reasons—and another being that I had grown thoroughly sick of the dry boarding house life—I decided to rent a small house in Koji-machi and moved there.

Then, Ogihara began constantly coming over to my house.
But one evening, when I returned from the newspaper office, he had—as usual—cornered the absent housekeeper and was deep in conversation, so

“You’re as persistent as ever today.”

When I said this,

“Oh, are you busy?”

he said with a timid look in his eyes.

“I’m busy. You need to get to work too.”
I had said it casually, but Ogihara—apparently deeply offended by something—suddenly left.

And then he abruptly stopped coming.
I too was caught up in work, and before I knew it, about a month had passed.
……It was now mid-February.

One evening, it was already past eleven at night.
I was flipping through the new issue of The Economist when suddenly the entrance swung open hurriedly.
There was a sense of someone who must have come in great haste.
Wondering what was happening, I pricked up my ears—then, without waiting for an invitation, they slid open the shoji and came up.
Thinking it strange, I stood and went to open the karakami sliding door—and there, right at the moment of encounter, Ogihara stood abruptly.

“It’s you.”
Startled, I said sharply mid-sentence, but Ogihara was breathing from his shoulders and seemed unable to form proper words.

“Well, do come in.”

When I led him into the brighter light, his complexion turned deathly pale, his eyes growing unnervingly sharp.
His breathing came in quick rasps.
"What's wrong?"
I asked again, startled.

Ogihara remained silent but gradually hung his head.
The moment I thought this, he suddenly turned around, noticed the sliding door there was slightly ajar, and hurriedly stood to close it.…… His manner was so unusual that I—

“What’s gotten into you? … Acting like this.”

When I said reproachfully, Ogihara let out a sigh of relief,

“I just came across something strange, you know.”

No sooner had he spoken than he suddenly fixed his gaze and shuddered as if terrified.

“Hmm.”
I lowered my voice, overwhelmed by his intensity, and—

“Can hallucinations—do you think—be seen by two people together?”

“I don’t know.
“Are you saying you saw it?”

Ogihara, whether listening to my words or not, began muttering in a tormented manner under his breath,

“It couldn’t be someone’s grudge… but still, it must be something…” he muttered, but then suddenly sharpened his voice,

“It’s a hallucination.
I saw a hallucination tonight.”

Having said this, he gave a hollow, jittery laugh, so

“Where did you see it?”

When I asked,

“Where? Oh, it’s nothing, really,” he said with an oddly dismissive air.

Because his manner was so transparently artificial, I grew irritated.
Then Ogihara abruptly said, “The truth is,” his face contorted in pain as he began speaking weakly.

“Tonight I had some business to discuss and went to Koishikawa’s P Shrine with a woman I know.”
“You know how it’s pitch black there under all those thick old trees.”
He suddenly stopped speaking and heaved a sigh of relief,

“When we reached beside the shrine’s main hall, we sat down on a tree root there.”

“Did you see it there?”

“Yes,” he nodded.

“Right above our heads in the branches, something flashed—then both of us together saw the same person’s face.”

Having said this, he made a disappointed face.

“So please let me stay here tonight.”
he pleaded.

“Of course I’ll let you stay!...I’ll let you stay, so just calm yourself down.” When I reassured him, he wore a look of mental exhaustion,

“On the way here from Koishikawa—how many times did I think I was about to be killed!”

he muttered to himself.
……His upper lip trembled, and for a while every muscle in his body had turned rigid as if flexing each joint—but gradually, whether from the relief of reaching safety here or entering the brightly lit room, that tension began to ease until his face settled into an expression of weary drowsiness.

I didn't pursue anything beyond that either.

IV

From then on, Ogihara’s demeanor changed slightly—becoming oddly suspicious—and he began trying to probe into my mind.
It seemed he felt as though I might be holding some key to his secret.

However, it was around the time when the cherry blossoms along the Edo River had come into full bloom.
I had unwittingly come to hold the very secret key that Ogihara had feared—his own.

After staying up late at Ogihara’s boarding house in Koishikawa, when Ogihara offered to see me home and we reached Edo River, there was a street fortune teller who had set up shop late at night in the shade of the blossoms. In a teasing mood, I had him take a look, and the fortune teller—for whatever reason—stared at Ogihara’s face and—

“You have trouble with women,” he said.
Then Ogihara clutched his chest and, nearly frantic, turned to the fortune teller,

“Is it true? Is that really true?”

he pleaded.
I was startled and tried to pull him away forcefully, but Ogihara was already completely drained. In a voice trembling on the verge of tears, he grabbed me and spilled his entire story.

Ogihara had, surprisingly, been constantly involved with women.
The hallucination he had seen earlier was also because of that.
...Until Ogihara came to my house saying he would see me off, he told several love stories, each involving different partners.
And that night, he stayed over.

Before long, he abruptly began claiming that whenever he was in his room, he would vividly see the face of an unfamiliar man and was terribly tormented by it—until he suddenly developed severe heart disease and returned to his homeland.

After returning to his homeland, he has been sending me letter after letter filled with nothing but constant anguish—pained missives lamenting his suffering that seem addressed to no one in particular.