Pathway to Japanese Literature

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“All other substances are thoroughly ingested, converted into fat or protein, and stored within its body.” Since this was written, the Animal Husbandry assistants and janitors at the agricultural school brought and dumped anything that wasn’t metal or mineral. For the Pig, this was innate and something it had grown thoroughly accustomed to, so it never once found the arrangement disagreeable. On the contrary, there were evenings when the Pig felt its own happiness with particular intensity, gazing heavenward in gratitude. For on that very evening, a first-year chemistry student had come before it and was gazing at its body with an air of profound wonder. From time to time, the Pig too would raise those small, bean-shaped eyes that seemed perpetually angry and glance furtively in that direction. The student said.

“The Pig has become such a peculiar creature. It eats water, slippers, and straw, and converts them into the finest fat and meat. The Pig’s body is, so to speak, a living catalyst. It’s exactly like platinum. For inorganic bodies, platinum; for organic bodies, the Pig. The more one thinks about it, the stranger it becomes.” The Pig had of course heard its name being mentioned alongside platinum. Since it knew well that platinum cost thirty yen per momme, it could immediately calculate how much its own body would amount to at twenty kan. Pressing its ears flat and half-closing its eyes, the Pig bent its front legs sharply as it performed this calculation.

20×1000×30＝600,000. That was a full sixty thousand yen. If you spoke of six hundred thousand yen in those days around Furandon, well, that meant a first-class gentleman. Even now, that might still hold true. Given such standing as a first-class gentleman, none could call it unreasonable when the Pig - utterly suffused with contentment - twisted its great shark-like mouth at the shadowed rear of its head into a self-satisfied grin.

However, the Pig’s happiness did not last very long. Two or three days later, from a lump of food that came crashing down from above, the Pig of Furandon Agricultural School—(University students, fortify your resolve— (Okay?) From within that food, it saw something—a slender white object about an inch long, with short hairs planted at the tip; to put it quite plainly, a camel-embossed toothbrush. This is truly an unpleasant sermon, and I must apologize to you university gentlemen who have gone through the trouble of receiving this baptism, but please kindly bear with me a little longer.

The Pig was truly startled. When it saw those toothbrush bristles, all the hair on its body rustled roughly like grass in the wind. The Pig stared at it for an exceedingly long time, pulling a strange face, but finally grew dizzy and felt utterly sickened. It suddenly buried its head in the bedding straw across from it and curled up to sleep. As evening came and its mood improved slightly, the Pig quietly rose. Even if one were to call its mood good—being ultimately a pig’s mood—it didn’t crisp like an apple or gleam like a blue sky. Of course not. This was a gray mood. This was a gray and slightly cold, transparent mood. Therefore, to truly understand the Pig’s state of mind, there was no way but to become a Pig and see for oneself.

Whether they be foreign Yorkshires or black Berkshires, pigs never consider themselves obtuse or lazy. What proves most difficult to imagine is what a pig feels when its flat back is thwacked with a stick. Well, could it be expressed in Japanese? Italian? German? English? How should one express this? Yet in the end, nothing can be known except through its screams. It remains entirely unknowable, just as with Dr. Kant.

The Pig grew steadily fatter, sleeping and waking time and again.

The Animal Husbandry Teacher of Furandon Agricultural School would come daily, fix his sharp eyes on it, silently calculate its biomass, and then depart. "You need to shut the windows more properly and darken the room—otherwise the fat won't set well." "And it's about time we commenced intensive fattening. Could you start giving it a little amani every day?" The teacher said this to the young assistant in the pale blue jacket. The Pig heard all of this. And again it became utterly disgusted. It was just like with the toothbrush. Even that specially prepared amani would not go down smoothly. The Pig intuitively sensed all of this from the Animal Husbandry Teacher’s tone.

(Those two kept sending me food, but at times they would stare at my body with eyes like the Arctic sky, their hearts so unyieldingly harsh it was unbearable—thinking of me that way terrified me. Oh, how it terrified me.) As these thoughts raced through my mind, I could bear it no longer and began frantically ramming my snout against the front fence.

However, precisely in the month before that Pig was to be slaughtered, a decree had been issued by the king of that country.

This was called the Livestock Slaughter Consent Sealing Act, decreeing that anyone wishing to slaughter livestock must obtain a Death Consent Form from said livestock, and that this certificate required the livestock’s own seal. In those days, whether cows or horses—all were forcibly compelled by their owners to press their seals firmly onto these documents the day before slaughter. Even aged horses had their horseshoes specially removed and, shedding streaming tears, would slap that large seal onto the certificate.

The Yorkshire of Furandon also saw that Death Consent Form printed through letterpress. This sighting occurred on a certain day when the principal of Furandon Agricultural School came to the pig's enclosure carrying a large yellow sheet of paper. The Pig was highly advanced in language studies—its tongue being naturally supple and well-suited for speech—and thus greeted the Principal fluently in human language with quiet composure. “Mr. Principal, what splendid weather we’re having today.” Keeping the yellow certificate silently tucked under his arm while slipping a hand into his pocket, the Principal responded with a bitter smile.

“Well, the weather is nice.” The Pig felt that somehow, this statement had entered its ears and then lodged in its throat. Moreover, the Principal’s scrutinizing gaze at the Pig’s body was precisely identical to that of the Animal Husbandry Teacher. The Pig sorrowfully laid back its ears. And then, timidly, it said: “Lately, I’ve been feeling so terribly down that I can’t bear it.” The Principal, while making a bitter smile, said to the Pig: “Hmph. “Feeling down.” “Is that so?” “Have you grown sick of the world already?” “Is that not why?” Because the Pig made such a gloomy face, the Principal hurriedly retracted it.

After that, the Principal and the Pig stood for a while in silence, glaring at each other. They simply stood there without uttering a single word, staring intently. Eventually, having finally abandoned his efforts regarding the Death Consent Form for that day,

“Well, just make sure you get plenty of rest.” “And don’t move around too much, okay?” Still clutching that familiar large yellow certificate under his arm, he walked off into the distance. Afterward, the Pig replayed the Principal’s bitter smile and those words heavy with hidden intent again and again, shuddering as it muttered to itself.

“Well, just make sure you get plenty of rest. And don’t move around too much, okay?” What on earth did this mean? Oh, the agony. The agony. The Pig, having thought this, felt as if that trapezoid-shaped thing would split its head apart. Moreover, that night brought a fierce blizzard. Outside, the wind raged violently, and dry, rustling snowflakes blew through the cracks in the shed, turning even the remnants of the pig’s food completely white with snow. However, the next day, the Animal Husbandry Teacher came again with that assistant in the pale blue jacket and red face. With their usual sharp gaze, they stared intently at the pig from its head to ears, back, and tail—as if trying to consume it with their eyes—then raised a single pointed finger,

“Have you been giving it amani every day?” “I have been administering it.” “That’s right. Even tomorrow or the day after tomorrow would be acceptable. Just get the Death Consent Form quickly. What could have happened? Yesterday, the Principal did indeed come this way with the certificate tucked under his arm, but...” “Yes, it did seem he came in.” “So, has it been completed already, I wonder? If it were done, he should have sent it over immediately.” “Yes.” “How about darkening the room a bit more? And on the day before it’s done, don’t give any feed at all.”

“Yes, I will certainly do so.”

The Animal Husbandry Teacher fixed his sharp eyes on the pig once more, then left the room.

The Pig’s anguish afterward—(What kind of consent form was this? What were they trying to make me do? On the day before it was done, they mustn’t give any feed at all—what did “the day before it’s done” even mean?) What were they going to do to me? Was I going to be sold somewhere far away? Ah, this was agony, agony.) The pig’s head felt as if it would split apart just as it had the day before. That night, the Pig was too overwrought to sleep properly. However, the next morning, when the sun had finally risen, three students from the dormitory came guffawing to the shed. And so, to the Pig—having stayed up all night with a throbbing headache—they made it listen to yet another unpleasant conversation.

“I wonder when it’ll be. I wanna see it soon.” “I don’t wanna see it though.”

“I hope it’s soon. Even the onions we’ve stored will freeze if this drags on too long.” “We’ve stored potatoes too.” “They’re stored.” “Three bushels are stored.” “There’s no way we could eat all that by ourselves.” “It’s awfully cold this morning, isn’t it?” One of them blew white breath into his hands and said this. “That pig looks warm.” When one of them answered like this, all three burst out laughing. “That pig’s wearing a one-inch-thick overcoat made of fat, so of course it’s warm.” “Looks cozy enough.” “Right?” “You can even see steam rising off it.”

“That pig looks warm.” “Right?” “Steam’s even rising fresh and hot off it.” The pig was so overwhelmed with grief and agony that it staggered. “I wish they’d just hurry up and get it over with.”

The three muttered among themselves as they left the shed. The Pig's suffering afterward—(I want to see it, I don't want to see it, I hope it's soon, the onions will freeze, three bushels of potatoes, we can't eat them all. A one-inch-thick overcoat of fat—oh how terrifying, oh how terrifying how they see right through my body. I'm terrified. But what connection could there possibly be between me and onions? Ah, this is agony.) In the midst of that anguish, the Principal came again. He shook off the snow vigorously at the entrance, then stood before the pig with his usual ambiguous smile.

“How’s it going? How are you feeling today?” “Yes, thank you.” “Is that so? Splendid. Is the food tasty?”

“Thank you very much. It is most splendid.” “Is that so? That’s good. Now actually I’ve come today for a confidential discussion with you—is your mind clear?” “Yes?” The pig’s voice grew hoarse. “You see—everything living in this world has to die. In reality anything dies eventually. Whether nobles among humans, the wealthy, or middle-class folks like myself— even wretched beggars.”

“Yes,” The pig’s voice caught in its throat; it couldn’t give a clear reply. “And even animals that aren’t human—horses, cows, chickens, catfish, bacteria—they all have to die, you know.” “Mayflies, for instance, are born in the morning and die by evening—their lives last but a single day.” “Everyone has to die.” “So both you and I will surely die someday—it’s inevitable.” “Yes...” The pig’s voice had gone hoarse; it couldn’t manage any reply at all.

“So here’s what needs discussing—our school has fostered you up to this day.” “It wasn’t anything grand, but as an institution, we’ve certainly taken every care.” “Your kind exists everywhere in plenty—and I know this well—though it may sound odd to say so, yet nowhere treats you better than my establishment.” “Yes...” The pig tried to respond, but what it had eaten earlier clogged its throat, making any sound impossible.

“So then, actually, I’ve come to consult with you—if you feel even the slightest gratitude for such treatment, might I ask you to grant just one small favor?” “Yes...” The pig’s voice came out hoarse; it couldn’t form a proper reply. “It’s truly a minor matter.” “There’s a document here like this—this paper states as follows.” “Death Consent Form: I, the undersigned, having received perpetual beneficence hereby acknowledge, and by your convenience consent to expire at any appointed time. Date: Furandon Barns. Yorkshire [Pig]. To: The Principal of Furandon Agricultural School—that’s all it says, you see,” Having begun his spiel, the Principal now prepared to unleash it in one relentless torrent.

“In other words, since you must die eventually anyway, it’s truly nothing significant—merely declaring you’ll die cleanly whenever required through these words. As long as death isn’t yet necessary, there’s absolutely no need for you to die. I simply want you to press one front hoofprint here. That’s all there is to it.”

The pig furrowed its brows and stared intently at the document thrust before it for a while. If things were as the Principal said, it would be nothing—but upon scrutinizing the document’s wording carefully, the pig was utterly terrified. Finally, the pig could no longer endure and said in a tearful voice. “Does ‘at any time’ mean even today?”

The Principal flinched but recovered his composure and said. “Well yes. “But something like today—I would never do that.”

“But you mean even tomorrow, don’t you?”

“Well, to speak of tomorrow—it’s not such an urgent matter.” “It’s merely something vague—like ‘whenever’ or ‘someday.’”

“Does dying mean I’ll die alone?” The Pig asked this in a shrill voice. “Hmm, it’s not entirely like that.” “I don’t want to! I don’t want to! If that’s how it is then I don’t want to!” “I absolutely refuse!” The pig wept and screamed.

“So you refuse?” “Then there’s no helping it.” “You’re too ungrateful.” “You’re even worse than dogs and cats.” The Principal fumed, his face turning crimson as he hastily stuffed the document into his pocket and strode out of the hut. “In the first place…I’ve always been inferior to dogs and cats anyway…Waa!” “Waa!” The Pig was so overwhelmed by bitterness and sorrow that it began crying uncontrollably. However, after weeping for half a day, the exhaustion from two sleepless nights surged forth all at once, and despite its tears, it finally collapsed into sleep. Even in its slumber, the pig startled repeatedly, its limbs jerking involuntarily.

However, it was the next day. That animal husbandry teacher came again, bringing the assistant with him. And after gazing at the pig with that unbearable look, he turned to the assistant with a deeply displeased expression and said: "What's wrong? You've done a fine job making the meat drop off, haven't you? This is completely unacceptable. Even farmers' pigs could reach this condition. What on earth happened here? Can't you think of any reason? The cheek meat has shrunk far too much. And on top of that, even the shoulders have gotten this thin. We can't even enter it in the exhibition. What on earth happened here?"

The assistant pressed a finger to his lips, thought intently for a moment, then replied vacantly. “Well, only the Principal came by yesterday afternoon, sir.” “That’s all I can think of, sir.”

The Animal Husbandry Teacher leapt up.

“Principal?” “I see.” “It was the Principal.” “He must’ve tried to get the consent form and pulled some fantastic blunder.” “Spooked it.” “So this one’s been pacing around restlessly and didn’t sleep a wink last night.” “This has turned into a real problem.” “Moreover, he must’ve failed to get the Death Consent Form as well.” “This has turned into a real problem.”

The teacher, looking utterly vexed, ground his teeth for a moment, crossed his arms, and then spoke again. “Ugh, no helping it. Open the windows all the way. Then take it outside and give it some exercise. Don’t beat it haphazardly or force it to run around, you hear? Take it for a slow walk through areas where the sun doesn’t reach—around the barn’s shadowed side, over snowless grassy patches. About fifteen minutes per session, then don’t give any feed and let its stomach get a bit empty. Once its mood has fully recovered, give it a bit of the good parts of cabbage. Then once it gradually recovers, you should proceed as before. This has completely undone a month’s fattening in a single night. You got that?”

“Understood, sir.” The teacher returned to the faculty room; the Pig, now utterly dispirited, blankly stared at the opposite wall, wanting neither to move nor cry out.

At that moment, the assistant entered carrying a thin whip and smiling. The assistant opened the enclosure’s exit and spoke with utmost politeness. “How about a little walk?” “Today is exceptionally fine and clear, with a gentle breeze.” “Then I shall accompany you.” The whip cracked against its back—utterly unbearable—and though Yorkshire had no choice but to shuffle out of the barn, its chest filled with such sorrow that every step felt like tearing apart. The assistant approached slowly from behind, nonchalantly whistling “Chipperary.” He swung the whip loosely.

What in the world was 'Chipperary'? Despite this overwhelming sadness, I—the pig—kept grimacing. At times, "How about walking a bit more to the left, if you would?" he said with honeyed words alone—then cracked the whip. (This world is truly, truly unbearable—a realm of pure suffering.) Thwacked once more during the walk, I contemplated this with bitter clarity.

“How about it now—it’s time for you to retire.” The assistant cracked the whip once more. Ultra University students—how could such a walk be enjoyable? There’s nothing of this being for my body’s sake.

The Pig reluctantly returned to the barn and flopped down onto the straw. The assistant brought a small amount of the prime green parts of cabbage. The Pig didn’t want to eat, but with the assistant standing rigidly across from it—staring down with indescribably terrifying eyes—there was truly no choice left; when it pretended to nibble a little, the assistant finally relaxed, let out a single “Hmph” with a laugh, then left while whistling “Chipperary” once more. At some point, the windows had been left wide open, so the pig was unbearably cold.

In this manner, Yorkshire spent three days as if in a dream, each day sinking deeper into contemplation.

On the fourth day,the Animal Husbandry Teacher came again with his assistant. He cast a brief glance at Yorkshire and,waving his hand,said: "No good.No good. Why didn't you do as I told you?" "No,I opened all windows properly and provided prime cabbage portions. I've conducted daily exercise sessions diligently-fifteen minutes each time." "I see.Even after such thorough measures? Then this one will keep wasting away. Nervous malnutrition. Nothing more we can do peripherally. Must decide before becoming mere skin over bones-unpredictable otherwise. Hey. Seal those windows tight. We'll employ forced feeding via fattening device-shove fodder down its gullet. Two pecks wheat bran,two pints linseed,five pints cornmeal-knead with water into dumplings.Divide into two-three daily portions through fattening apparatus. The device was available?"

“Yes, there is.” “Tie this one up and leave it.” “No—before tying it up, we must quickly obtain the consent form.” “The Principal’s thoroughly inept, isn’t he?”

The Animal Husbandry Teacher hurriedly ran toward the school building, and the assistant also left after him.

Soon, the Agricultural School Principal arrived in a great hurry. The Pig dug at the bedding straw with its snout, its body finding no place to rest.

“Now then, we really must hurry.” “About that death consent form from earlier—today I absolutely must have you press your claw seal on it.” “It’s nothing serious.” “Press it.”

“I don’t want to! I don’t want to!” The Pig wept. “Don’t want to? Hey! Don’t act so selfish—that body was entirely made thanks to the school! From now on we’ll give you two pecks of wheat bran daily—two pints of linseed and five pints of cornmeal powder too! Come on—put your seal on it already! Won’t you do it now?” Indeed—seeing him erupt like this—the Principal truly was terrifying.

The Pig was utterly terrified, "I'll do it. I'll do it," the Pig said in a hoarse voice. "Very well, then." The Principal finally regained his composure, swiftly took out that Death Consent Form on yellow paper, and spread it before the Pig's eyes. "Where should I put it?" The Pig asked tearfully.

“Here. “Beneath your name.” The Principal stared fixedly through his glasses at the Pig’s small eyes. The Pig twisted its mouth to the side with a twitch, jerked up its short front right limb, then pressed the seal down perfectly. “There. “Very well. “This will do.” The Principal pulled the paper, carefully examined the seal, then regained his composure. As if he had been waiting at the entrance, that mean-spirited Animal Husbandry Teacher suddenly arrived.

“How is it proceeding?” “Did it go well?”

“Yeah. “Well, it’s done.” “Then I’ll leave this with you.” “Well, how many days will the fattening take?” “We’ll need to monitor developments—with chickens and ducks they fatten reliably enough—but a neurotic specimen like this might prove resistant to compulsory fattening.”

“I see.” “Understood.” “In any case, ensure you execute this thoroughly.”

And the Principal left. This time, the assistant brought a strange canvas tube fitted with screws and some sort of bucket. The Animal Husbandry Teacher said while briefly pinching and examining the contents of the bucket.

“Then tie up the Pig for me.” The assistant grabbed a Manila rope and leaped into the enclosure. The Pig thrashed about wildly, but in the end had both right legs bound to two iron rings in the enclosure’s corner. “Good. Then insert this end into its throat for me.” The Animal Husbandry Teacher said while handing the canvas tube to the assistant. “Now open your mouth.” “Open your mouth.” The assistant said quietly, but the Pig clenched its teeth tightly and absolutely would not open its mouth.

“No choice. Make it clamp down on this one.” The Animal Husbandry Teacher took out a short steel pipe. The Assistant wrenched the pipe between the Pig’s teeth with a grating creak. The Pig shouted and wept with all its might, but in the end, they fitted the pipe into place, leaving it sobbing from deep in its throat. The Assistant pushed the canvas tube through the steel pipes into the Pig’s gullet. “That will do.” “Let’s begin.” The Animal Husbandry Teacher transferred the bucket’s contents into the funnel at the tube’s end, then worked a strange spiral to drive the food into the Pig’s stomach. Though fighting desperately not to swallow, the Pig’s throat betrayed it; the kneaded mass slid down, making its belly grow heavy by degrees. This was forced fattening.

The Pig's nausea was so intense, it spent the entire day crying in a daze.

The next day, the Animal Husbandry Teacher came again to inspect.

"Splendid - properly fattened." "The method proves effective." "You will perform this procedure twice daily henceforth with the janitor - both of you together."

In this manner, for seven days thereafter, the Pig could no longer discern whether sunlight shone or winds blew outside—its stomach grew unbearably heavy, its cheeks and shoulders swelled unnervingly until even breathing became laborious—while students came in shifts saying all sorts of things.

At one point, about ten students came clamoring and said this.

“It’s gotten really big. How many kan do you think it weighs now?” “Well, if it were the teacher, he could tell you down to the hundred me at a glance, but we can’t really tell.” “Because we don’t know the specific gravity.” “We do know the specific gravity—if that’s what we’re talking about, it’s probably about the same as water.” “How do you know that?”

“Because that’s generally how it works.” “If someone put this thing in water, it’d neither sink nor float.” “Nonsense—it definitely wouldn’t sink. It’d float for sure.” “That’s the fat’s doing, but pigs have bones too.” “And there’s meat as well, so its specific gravity must be about one.” “Assuming a specific gravity of one, how many *to* would this thing measure?” “It must be five *to* five *sho*.” “No—five *to* five *sho* can’t be right.” “At least eight *to*.”

“Eight to isn’t nearly enough.” “There must certainly be nine *to*.” “Well, let’s settle on seven *to*.” “If seven *to* of water equals five *kan*, then this thing must be exactly thirty-five *kan*.” “It must be thirty-five *kan*.” Listening to such talk, how the pig must have wept. This was beyond cruel. They measure a human body by the square. They go on about seven to, eight to, and such.

And then，exactly on the seventh day，the Animal Husbandry Teacher and the assistant stood side by side before the Pig.

“That should do.” “Perfect.” “If it’s fattened to this extent—well, that’s likely the limit.” “This point here.” “Overdo the fattening and risk illness—that’d just set us back.” “Tomorrow should be ideal.” “Stop today’s feed.” “Then wash it thoroughly with the janitor—both of you.” “Replace all bedding straw with fresh.” “Understood?” “Understood.”

The Pig was listening to these exchanges with every ounce of its being. (It’s finally tomorrow—is that what that Death Consent Form business means?) It’s finally tomorrow—tomorrow has come. What on earth will happen—it’s unbearable, unbearable.) In unbearable anguish, the Pig slammed its head against the rough wooden planks.

That late afternoon, the Assistant arrived with the Janitor. Then, after releasing the Pig’s legs from the two iron rings, the Assistant said: “How about a nice bath today? Everything is ready for you.” Before the Pig could consent or even utter a word, the whip snapped. The Pig reluctantly began to walk, but having grown so excessively fat, moving had become an immense effort—after just three steps, its breath came in ragged gasps.

Then the whip came down with a crack. The Pig nearly collapsed under the blow, yet somehow managed to stagger outside the stable—where a large wooden tub filled with hot water had been placed. “Now, get inside here.” The Assistant cracked the whip again. The Pig finally managed—barely—to tumble over that high rim and into the tub.

The Janitor scrubbed the Pig's body clean with a large brush. Catching a glimpse of that brush, the Pig screamed like a fool. The reason was that the brush was made from pig hair after all. While the Pig screamed, its body turned completely white. "Now then, let us proceed." The Assistant cracked the whip again. The Pig reluctantly went outside. The cold seeped shudderingly into its body. The Pig finally sneezed.

“This one’s gonna catch cold.” The Janitor widened his eyes as he spoke. “Fine by me. Won’t rot so easy.” The Assistant replied with a wry smile. When the Pig reentered the barn, fresh straw lay neatly spread across its floor. The cold stabbed through its body like needles. Having eaten nothing since morning, its stomach had hollowed completely, roaring like a tempest. The Pig kept its eyes shut tight while its head throbbed relentlessly. Memories of terror from its Yorkshire life—brightening and dimming like a revolving lantern—drifted through its mind. Strange noises echoed around it. It could no longer distinguish whether those sounds came from outside its flesh or within its skull. Eventually dawn broke, the school bell clanging through frozen air. Soon came the clamor of voices as students swarmed in, followed predictably by the Assistant’s arrival.

“Let’s do it outside. “The outside does indeed seem better. “Take it outside. “Hey. “When you take it out, don’t let it squeal too much. “It’ll ruin the flavor.” The Animal Husbandry Teacher had somehow changed into an unusual brown gown-like garment and was standing at the entrance door. The Assistant entered with earnest formality. “How are you feeling? “The weather seems quite nice as well. “How about taking a little walk today?” The Assistant snapped the whip with another sharp crack. The Pig offered no protest at all, puffing its cheeks with labored breaths as it began to shamble forward. In front and to the sides, the students’ pairs of black legs moved as if in a dream.

Everything suddenly blazed bright. Outside, where sunlight glared upon snow, the Pig narrowed its eyes against the brilliance and kept shambling forward. Uncertain where they were taking it—ahead stood a lone cedar—the Pig briefly lifted its head when suddenly it saw a blinding flash: something like a fierce white light scattering before its eyes like fireworks. From this burst streamed countless crimson flames sideways like water. A sharp keening sound rang through the heavens. To one side roared water surging upward.

Well, as for what happened after that—I no longer know. In any case, right beside the Pig stood that Animal Husbandry Teacher, holding a large iron hammer, breathing heavily and slightly pale. Moreover, at his feet lay the Pig itself—now completely still save for two faint snuffles through its nose. The students were already in full motion; fresh water had once more been poured into the tub where the Pig's body had been washed, and they all stood waiting with their uniform sleeves rolled high.

The Assistant stabbed the Pig’s throat with a large knife in a sickening thrust. Truly, this story is far too pitiful. Let’s stop here with what follows. In any case, the Pig was soon after dismembered into eight pieces and piled up behind the barn. It was left soaking in the snow overnight.

Now then, university gentlemen—that night's sky had cleared completely, with the Taurus constellation glittering forth; the twenty-fourth night's silver horn, a cold-shining crescent moon, poured bluish-white mercury light over those drifting clouds. In that frigid white snow, beneath drifts piled like a battlefield cemetery, lay the Pig—washed clean and buried in eight pieces. The moon passed by in silence. The night grew keener still.