Pathway to Japanese Literature

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These several essays discuss a number of individuals.
No—they instead reveal my own preferences and aversions toward those individuals.

To seek eternal truths within these several essays was of course highly dangerous.
I did not for a moment think to boast of the fairness of my critiques.
In truth, I was unfortunately not blessed with fairness—or rather, it was a virtue I refused to deem worthy of being blessed with.

To seek the spirit of humility within these several essays remained a grave miscalculation.
All art of criticism stood incompatible with the spirit of humility.
Above all, my writing became a suction pump for self-conceit and vanity.

To seek a frivolous attitude within these several essays betrays the most profound misunderstanding.
I must hurriedly wield the pen to meet the deadline.
Yet even under such circumstances, only those of great capability can afford to behave frivolously.

These several essays have almost no merit apart from revealing my preferences and aversions.
I simply tried to present my preferences and aversions as honestly as possible.
If I were to name something resembling merit, it would be solely this: that I did not dare the baseness of self-deception.

The *Jin Shu Li Ji* states: "At the New Year assembly, they established the Self-Beast Jar in the palace courtyard, adorning its lid with a white beast. Should there be one capable of offering candid counsel, they would open this jar to serve wine and have them drink."
I offered candid counsel—that is to say, prejudices—within these several essays.
Is there no one who will open the Self-Beast Jar and bestow upon me a single ladle of wine?
Is there no one who will side with my prejudices—nay, lend an arm's strength to establish their authority?

Saitō Mokichi

To critique Saitō Mokichi was no simple undertaking.
At least for me, it was not an endeavor that could be approached more easily than by others.
The reason being that Saitō Mokichi had long since taken root in a corner of my heart.
I had chanced upon reading the first edition of *Red Lights* when I was a higher school student.
*Red Lights* swiftly unveiled a new world before me.
Ever since then, I had loved alongside Mokichi: the lives of tadpoles, the rustling of asaji plains, Aoyama Cemetery, Miyakezaka, the glow of afternoon electric lights, and the veins on the backs of women’s hands.
To view such a Mokichi with detachment was to view myself with detachment.
To view myself with detachment—or rather, even when keeping a diary that permitted no outside eyes, I could not help but harbor a vanity that anticipated some third party.
It remained utterly impossible for me to observe myself as one might a passerby on the road.

My eye for poetry did not owe its opening to anyone.
It was opened for me by Saitō Mokichi.
Had I not read that volume of *Red Lights* over a decade ago in the second floor of a rented house near Toyama Plain, even now I would likely remain like a deaf hare, unable to catch even a glimpse of poetry's great sunlight.
Heine, Verlaine, Whitman—it was around that time I indiscriminately read such red-haired poets' verses.
Yet my linguistic knowledge proved too meager to enter their inner sanctum.
Moreover, even had I possessed the combined erudition of Ueda Bin and Kuriyagawa Hakuson, I doubt I could have truly devoured their flesh and blood.
(To this day I still fail to grasp their poems' musicality—
even when fancying I'd understood some passage, counting on my fingers would reveal barely ten lines.) Thus had I never read them at all then, I likely would have felt no regret.
Yet had some chance denied me even that single volume of *Red Lights*—truth be told, considering it now, I might not have regretted that either.
Instead, like some blissful critic heedless of his own color blindness, he had indeed pronounced with finality: "Poetry can never become a central force in the literary world."

Moreover, Mokichi did not merely open my eye to poetry.
He also helped open my eye to the formal beauty inherent in all literary arts.
Do you mean eye?
—Or perhaps it might just as well be called my ear.
Had I not acquired this ear, I would have passed indifferently by the sound of *The Languor-Stirring Spring Rain*.
But for now, whether it was my eye or my ear that received this favor matters little.
In any case, even now I still see the Man'yōshū with these eyes.
With these eyes, I see *Saruminō*.
With these eyes I see *Red Lights* and *Aradama*—or to speak with complete honesty, with these eyes I also see a few bad poems within *Red Lights* and *Aradama*.

To critique Saitō Mokichi, for the reasons stated above, is not a task I can perform more easily than others. Moreover, there must naturally exist those who will evaluate the value of Mokichi's poems, discuss his contributions and faults within tanka poetry circles, and determine his position in tanka history. (Even if none exist now, a century hence there will surely emerge at least one person who either praises Mokichi or reviles him—in any case, someone who earnestly contends with the author of *Red Lights*.) For now, I must postpone observing Saitō Mokichi upon the imposing stage of objectivity to another day. What I wish to discuss here is solely this: why Mokichi shaped the spiritual autobiography of his junior—myself; why I found in Mokichi the poet an artistic mentor; why we unwittingly passed down a tenuous thread of lineage; in short, why I came to admire Mokichi at that time.

Yet even this "Why?" proved more difficult to answer than to ask.
To say this did not necessarily mean that an answer could not be found.
Rather, I could not help but be bewildered by the excess of answers.
For instance, one might ask Kamiya Jihei of Tenma why he loved Shiragi Koharu of Sonezaki.
Jihei would promptly, abacus in hand, enumerate various distinguishing features—her lovely hair, her beautiful eyes, or perhaps her gentle hands and feet.
My case with Mokichi was likewise the same as this example.
Were I to begin enumerating Mokichi’s distinctive qualities, that alone might fill several pages.
Mokichi sang of a devotee’s love in his *Ohiro* series.
In his series *The Dying Mother*, he narrated the cycle of life and death in the mortal world.
In his *Kuchibue* series, he boasted a boldness in subject matter that avoided nothing.
In his *Kansō* series, he played with a sensory acuity never before experienced.
In “In this village dwells the Great General Ōyama, thus my heart rejoices,” he conveyed a gentle humor.
He evoked a simple pictorial charm with “Small birds come and go among the deep black, round-ripened persimmons as dew and frost fall.”
He breathed new life into onomatopoeic expressions like “kōkō” and “shinshin.”
He infused fresh crimson blood into Buddhist phrases such as “born of parents” and “this shore of the sea.”...

These characteristics, to some extent at least, do answer each "Why?"
But even if one were to enumerate all of them, they could not fully answer the "Why?"
Indeed, Koharu's eyes and hair each possessed their own distinctive features.
However, what Jihei loved was the woman named Koharu herself.
The fact that her eyes and hair possessed distinctive features existed precisely because they manifested the woman named Koharu herself.
Thus, as long as we cannot grasp the essence of Koharu, it remains ultimately impossible to fully answer the "Why?"
To grasp the essence of Koharu as such—whether Jihei himself ever truly grasped it remains, of course, an eternal question.
At the very least, he does not appear to have put any particular results of such grasping into written form.
But I must first grasp the Mokichi I favored and then craft an essay.
Even if clearly grasping it lies beyond human capability, I must at least outline its features as a matter of obligation and fulfill my promise to contribute.
Therefore, I must once again hurl the same "Why?" into the superabundance of Mokichi's characteristics.

“Light comes from the East.”
That was so.
However, in modern Japan, this phrase regrettably held no currency.
At least in the realm of art, it often seemed to come from the West.
Art—there was no need to put it so grandly.
Even if we considered only the literary arts, modern Japan appeared to have received the benefits of the modern West almost everywhere one looked.
Or perhaps it seemed to be attempting imitation of the modern West.
Of course, rashly declaring it as “imitation” might immediately invite criticism.
Indeed, the phrase “skilled in imitation” was used as an epithet to brand the Japanese people instead of a true term of disgrace.
However, anyone who imitated had first to understand the original they sought to imitate.
Even if there were differences in depth, one had in any case to understand the original.
A prime example of such shallow understanding was the so-called monkey’s mimicry of humans.
(A virtuous monkey, upon gaining deep understanding of human affairs, might never again engage in mimicry of humans.) An example of such deep understanding was the imitation practiced by artists.
That is to say, the morality of imitation did not lie in imitation itself.
It had to lie in the depth of understanding.
Even shallow understanding had at least to be said to surpass complete lack thereof.
The fact that monkeys sat leisurely on a higher rung of the evolutionary ladder than peacocks or serpents clearly taught us this truth.
“The phrase ‘skilled in imitation’ was not necessarily a description that concerned our dignity as Japanese people.”

Artistic imitation, as stated above, was rooted in deep understanding.
When this understanding became thoroughly penetrating, imitation ceased to be mere imitation.
For example, Kunikida Doppo’s *Shōjikimono* (The Honest Man), now considered a classic, was an imitation of Maupassant.
However, to call *Shōjikimono* an imitation was no different than calling Napoleon’s achievements an imitation of Alexander’s.
Indeed, Doppo likely viewed life through Maupassant’s lens.
But this was because Doppo himself had also become Maupassant.
Or perhaps because a subtle Doppo-Maupassant amalgamation had taken shape within Doppo himself.
If we further play with aphorisms, it could not be denied that life itself had also imitated Maupassant.
The famous aphorism by Wilde—“Life imitates art”—spoke to this very dynamic.
Life?—Nature would of course present no objection either.
Wilde stated that before Impressionism was born, there had existed no such thing as the beautiful russet-hued fog enveloping the streets of London.
The cypress trees burning blue also undoubtedly had not existed before Gotsuho was born.
At least the girl who began walking down Ginza Street—her dewy earmuffs casting shadows over faintly glowing red cheeks—did so unquestionably after Renoir’s birth—an event of quite recent occurrence.

To reiterate for clarity’s sake: when understanding in art became thoroughly penetrating, imitation was almost no longer imitation. Rather, it became a creation that naturally blossomed from the fusion of self and other. If one sought traces of imitation, there was no work—whether ancient or modern—that could be called entirely new. But if one sought the foundation of originality, there was no work—whether ancient or modern—that could be called entirely old. As mentioned above, *The Honest Man* was a product of the Doppo-Maupassant amalgamation. To say this was not merely to say that only the signature belonged to Doppo. It meant that Doppo’s originality permeated the entire work. Thus, the life as seen by Doppo did not solely consist of imitating Maupassant. Even for Wilde himself, he had likely not strictly defined the extent to which life imitates art. In reality, if one applied Wilde’s aphorism, nature and life had to be called rather inaccurately reproduced three-color prints. Among these, the girls on Ginza Street were the most inept three-color print.

Modern Japanese literature aspired horizontally toward Western imitation while vertically striving to express an originality rooted in Japanese soil.
As long as one was born in Japan，Mokichi Saitō too did not escape this pattern.
No—Mokichi was the poet who equipped both aspects to their highest degree.
Those who knew the tradition of Araragi—which originated in Masaoka Shiki’s “Take no Sato Uta”—would not doubt the Japanese temperament of Mokichi，one of Araragi’s members.
Mokichi proclaimed： “Within our veins flows ancestral blood pulsing with rhythm.
That the words our ancestors could no longer contain and poured forth would feel unfamiliar to us，their very extensions，is a falsehood for us.
‘Surely this must also be a falsehood for you!’” proclaimed this Japanese to the world.
Yet even among such Japanese，how vividly must the visages of predecessors across the vast sea have risen before them at times.

Aglow, a single road lies traversed—my life now made whole.
A shining lone path stretches far—the howling wind blows ever onward.

In the field it shines—a single path visible where I nearly lose my life.

Van Gogh’s sun had illuminated Japanese painters’ canvases many times over.
Yet it had not necessarily cast its light upon landscapes as somber as those in the *Single Path* series with equal frequency.

Facing the wind, I watch the great zelkova tree’s sun-baked leaves churn in swirling green.

A swelling, rounded millet field spans the plain as a gale—borne on surging sea winds—races through.

Aglow, pumpkins lie scattered upon the ground; along the opposite path, the farmer makes his return.

Encountering these poems felt akin to viewing something at a late Impressionist exhibition.
Speaking of which, it was not as though there were no figure paintings.

Through the long corridor where the scent of madness lingers, eyes wide open, I walk.

Beneath the low-burning beach fire glowing translucent, the naked child came wet with tide.

Not only that, but even the figure of the painter who created such works was depicted.

In the winter field, a man came alone and began drawing undulating smoke.

Some fortunate poets took pride in their West either in singing of roses or in singing of dynamite.
But one should compare their West with Mokichi’s West.
Mokichi’s West was naturally filled with a beauty that penetrated to the depths.
This was not a product of sensibility alone like their West.
It was a product of an agonized soul that had probed itself with honesty.
I do not necessarily say that the poems mentioned above were Mokichi’s lifetime masterpiece.
However, it remained an undeniable fact that I could not help but feel the overwhelming intensity of Mokichi’s fervent spirit permeating these works.
At the same time, it was also an undeniable fact that one could not help but sense the West—that which had emitted sparks from the depths of a blast furnace—within this very intensity.

I stated as above:
"Modern Japanese literature, while horizontally imitating the West, vertically aspires to express an originality rooted in Japanese soil."
I also stated as above:
"Mokichi is the poet who has equipped both these vertical and horizontal aspects to their highest degree."
Throughout the vast realm, there may well have been poets with more masterful verses than Mokichi.
However, it was certain that there existed no other poet who had occupied such a symbolic position in modern Japanese literature—or at least in the contemporary Japanese literary arts to which I had entrusted my life—as the author of *Red Lights*.
A poet?—No, it was by no means limited to poets.
If we set aside even a few exceptions, I had to assert that among all artists of every discipline, there had not been a single one who symbolized the age as profoundly as Mokichi.
This was something slightly more monumental than merely being a great poet.
It was something sufficient to stir a somewhat broader life.
Wasn’t my fondness for Mokichi ultimately due to this very reason?

Could I not think of that youthful, sorrowful force—my mother’s power that birthed me?

Even I, with my meager talents, at times felt the power of the mother who bore me—the "youthful, sorrowful force" of modern Japan.
That I discovered in the poet Mokichi Saitō my artistic guide was by no means accidental for me.

Iwami Jūtarō

It was said that the gallant figure known as Iwami Jūtarō later took the name Masakane Usukata Hayato.
However, given that no scholars other than kōdan storytellers vouch for this, it may well not be factual.
Yet even if this were not factual, to despise Iwami Jūtarō would be a grave misjudgment.

First and foremost, Iwami Jūtarō was a man more abundant in life than any historical figure who actually existed. As evidence, one needed only compare him with a contemporary figure—say Nagatsuka Masaie, Junior Assistant Minister of the Treasury and one of the Osaka Five Commissioners. The image of Jūtarō in his warrior training garb would rise vividly before one's eyes. Yet whether Masaie had been a large man or a small one—even that much remained unclear to us. Moreover, given these circumstances, Jūtarō dominated our emotions tenfold compared to Masaie. Should we encounter an announcement in some newspaper corner stating, "Concerning Nagatsuka Masaie: Having long suffered illness, medical treatment proved ineffective," we would scarcely feel particular pity. But were an extra edition announcing Jūtarō's demise to appear, even the pitiless Kan Kikuchi—who had manipulated this hero in his play *Iwami Jūtarō*—could not have helped being disconcerted. Not only that—Jūtarō dominated our wills even more than our emotions. That children imitated Jūtarō in their war games went without saying. Even I found myself assuming Jūtarō's serpent-slaying vigor whenever engaged in debate.

Second, Iwami Jūtarō was a man who breathed modern air—a human being more abundant in life than, say, Viscount Gotō.
Indeed, the Viscount might have been one of the political heroes Japan had produced.
But whatever his gallantry might have been, Viscount Gotō Shinpei was a well-built man wearing pince-nez glasses who occasionally erupted in booming laughter—in any case, a figure neatly confined within certain limitations.
There was no such thing as the Viscount having one more eye in Person A's view than in Person B's.
Precisely because of this, it remained remarkably accurate.
At the same time, it also proved extremely constricting.
If Person A regarded an elephant's weight as ideal, then the Viscount—being lighter than an elephant—naturally could not fully satisfy Person A's demands.
If Person B extolled a qilin's height as ideal, then the Viscount—being shorter than a qilin—likewise had to prepare himself for Person B's disapproval.
However, Iwami Jūtarō—Iwami Jūtarō was not entirely free from the limitation of being a hero who had naturally set out on warrior training.
Yet this limitation stretched and shrank like a rubber band.
The Jūtarō seen by Persons A and B did not necessarily remain identical.
Precisely because of this, it became remarkably imprecise.
At the same time, it also grew remarkably unrestrained.
Person A, who mused abstractly on an elephant's weight, would surely acknowledge that it balanced with the elephant of Jūtarō's weight.
Person B, who celebrated the qilin's height, would inevitably discover that it matched the qilin of Jūtarō's height.
This was not limited to physical constraints.
The same held true for mental constraints.
Even with a virtue like courage, Viscount Gotō had to make it a lifelong question of how much of a warrior he could become alongside us.
Yet warriors of the realm made it a lifelong question of how much they could become Jūtarō.
For this reason, Jūtarō could more readily exert greater influence over our sentiments than Viscount Gotō.

We could not help feeling heartfelt anxiety for Jūtarō as he battled a formidable enemy at Amanohashidate.
Yet we maintained complete indifference toward Viscount Gotō fighting formidable enemies on the Diet podium.

The reason Iwami Jūtarō cannot be despised is identical to why all fictional characters cannot be despised.
The term "fictional characters" does not merely indicate legendary figures.
It also encompasses those created by modern legend manufacturers commonly called artists.
It is permissible to despise Kaiser Wilhelm.
But it would be an error to scorn Faust reading alchemical texts under the solitary glow of a lamp.
The promissory note Faust supposedly wrote has never been found in any library.
Yet Faust still drinks beer in some Berlin café corner today.
One may despise Lloyd George.
Yet to despise Macbeth inquiring of his fate before three witches is a mistake.
The dagger Macbeth carried has never been housed in any museum.
Still Macbeth puffs his cigar in a London club room as ever.
These beings demand greater vigilance than both past and present real persons.
Nay, they outlive the very geniuses who created them.
By AD 3000, Europe will likely have forgotten even Ibsen's masterworks.
But brave Peer Gynt will surely still gaze down upon dawn-lit fjords.
Even now eccentric Kanzan and Jittoku wander twilight mountain ridges.
Yet their creators—even the tiger tracks left by Bukan's mount—have long vanished beneath Mount Tiantai's fallen leaves.

When I visited Master Zhang Taiyan in the French Concession of Shanghai，I discussed Sino-Japanese relations with him in his study where a stuffed crocodile hung.
The words Master spoke at that time still reverberate in my ears：＂The Japanese I detest most is Momotarō，who subjugated Onigashima．＂
＂I cannot help but feel some antipathy even toward Japanese citizens who adore Momotarō．＂
Master was truly a wise man．
I often heard foreigners mock Duke Yamagata，praise Katsushika Hokusai，and denounce Viscount Shibusawa．
However，I never heard any Japan expert level a critique at Momotarō—that peach-born hero—as my Master Zhang Taiyan did．
Not only that，but this Master’s single arrow contains far more truth than all the eloquence of any Japan expert．
Momotarō must also be long-lived．
If he is indeed long-lived，then even those five or six forlorn oni on the twilight-misty shores of Onigashima—lamenting the bygone days of their homeland when they had magic cloaks and hats— But before I discuss Japan’s colonial policy，I must first address Iwami Jūtarō．

If I were to reiterate my earlier statement, Iwami Jūtarō remains a figure imbued with such vitality—surpassing not merely ancients but even moderns—that he defies contempt.
To be sure, Toyotomi Hideyoshi might appear equally formidable when measured against Iwami Jūtarō.
Yet this equivalence stems unmistakably from Hideyoshi's status as the legendary protagonist enshrined in Ehon Taikōki.
Were this not so, Tokugawa Ieyasu—who orchestrated equally grand historical dramas—would necessarily shine with comparable brilliance to Hideyoshi.
Moreover, those moderns who become objects of naive hero-worship generally wear these fabricated halos about their brows.
Needless to say, our wide world has never lacked manufacturers of such luminous crowns throughout history.
Consider Stefan Zweig—that well-intentioned chronicler of Romain Rolland—as their quintessential representative.

It was a fact that I felt contempt for Iwami Jūtarō.
Like the stalwarts of the Kokusuikai, he did not seem inclined toward contemplation.
After his beloved sister Otsu perished in prison, he finally turned to jailbreaking; he strangely trusted prophetic dreams; though withholding crucial vengeance, he exerted himself in demon-slaying and serpent-subduing—always indulging in reckless antics.
In this regard, one could not blame Kikuchi Kan for manipulating him.
Yet Iwami Jūtarō possessed a virtue great enough to redeem any vice.
No—it was not necessarily virtue.
Rather, it was a unique quality standing beyond good and evil.
Iwami Jūtarō surpassed human strength.
(Of course, his fellow heroes were exceptions.) When his wrath erupted, even thick prison bars snapped like dry hemp stalks.
Demons and serpents could only meet instant death beneath his blows.
Rolling Chihiki's great boulder was but morning's work.
A thousand pirates off Yuraga Beach fell captive at once.
At Amanohashidate's vengeance, he routed an army of two thousand five hundred.
In any case, his might deserved to be called peerless under heaven.
Such valor itself became a trait that brought rapturous joy to us denizens of latter days.

Let the timid spiritual eunuchs hurl whatever criticisms they please.
Ever since tides dripping from heavenly blades coalesced into Yamato Shimane’s form, what we have truly loved remains those who possess strength and bravery.
They are heroes who ceaselessly trample notions of good and evil beneath their feet.
Our hearts have never escaped sin’s consciousness.
The citizens of fair Nara’s capital deemed egg-eating sinful.
Yet modern Tokyo’s citizens now consider egg-abstention sinful.
This extends far beyond eggs.
We—perpetually timid souls clutching feeble faith in “self”—even feel sin’s weight upon our innate nature.
But heroes remain untroubled by such moral awareness.
Practical ethics textbooks they dismiss outright; divine gazes of gods and Buddhas they laugh away serenely.
Such casual dismissal springs naturally from unshakable faith in “self.”
Consider Susanoo-no-Mikoto—heroic deity from mythic ages—who surely endured exile across a thousand households.
Yet punishment left no stain of guilt upon his august heart.
Had remorse touched him when banished beyond Takamagahara’s plains, he’d never have slain Uke Mochi with such tranquil ferocity.
In this vigorous “self” we feel life’s flame warming our cores.
Or perhaps glimpse Superman’s visage—that ideal we strain toward.

Truly, we ardently loved Iwami Jūtarō.
Moreover, it was no wonder that we loved him.
However, had one interpreted our love solely as what was called love for the strong, that would have misrepresented us.
Indeed, some politicians and wealthy individuals might have stood beyond good and evil.
But standing beyond good and evil had always been their secret.
Moreover, they had never escaped the consciousness of sin regarding that secret.
Secrets were not necessarily worthy of condemnation.
Indeed, even the heroes of old had often donned masks to command us, who resembled livestock.
But being tormented by a consciousness of sin was clearly not the act of a hero.
They were weak—so much so that they were ruled by pathological desires rather than being strong.
Had you doubted this, you might have tried confining them in prison for three years or so.
They would surely have discovered Shinran Shōnin in place of Nietzsche.
The heroes we loved were those most distant from them.
Had we compared them [to anyone], we would have had to say that even the heroes of moving pictures far more possessed the countenance of the Superman than they did.
In reality, we loved the heroes of moving pictures more than we did them.
The spectacle of being knocked down by the modern tycoon Hurricane Hutch was unbearable to behold.
However, whether their timid group would have taken interest in Hurricane Hutch of modern tycoons—a Hurricane Hutch who went around knocking people down—remained doubtful.

As we have already stated, the tales of Iwami Jūtarō's martial prowess hold meaning for us. However, not all of Jūtarō's adventures held equal interest for us beings of the latter days. The most compelling were two: his jailbreak and demon subjugation. To break a nation's prison differed not from breaking national law. The creature he slew was no mere baboon but Gozu Myōjin—a demon god that had demanded annual human sacrifices. Thus Jūtarō trampled human laws through his jailbreak, then crushed divine law itself by slaying this idol. This pattern symbolized not just his life but those of all heroes from Susanoo-no-Mikoto above to Mikhail Bakunin below—no, further still, it epitomized the ideological journeys of all solitary truth-seekers. They had always trampled both human falsehoods and divine deceptions. They would never cease crushing falsehoods hereafter. The descendants of Jūtarō's demon still gorged on human sacrifices. Prisons too—prisons existed not solely in Ichigaya. Prisoner couples clad in modern fashions—oblivious to their captive state—streamed ceaselessly along Ginza Avenue.

Human progress was slow.
Or perhaps even slower than a snail’s pace.
But however slow it might have been, it remained a fact—as Anatole France had remarked—that “we gradually realize the traces of what wise men dreamed.”
The sages of ancient China had dreamt of Yao and Shun’s reign while gazing upon punishments by chariot-dismemberment and statues of ox-headed demons with serpent deities.
(Seeking the future in the past was ever our way.)
(Our mind’s eye seemed to share some kinship with that of fairy-tale frogs.) The reign of Yao and Shun still lay beyond clouds and mist even then.
Yet chariots were no longer used for dismemberment as in antiquity.
Statues of ox-headed demons and serpent deities now gathered dust in antique shops or museum displays.
Granted, such mere changes might not be called progress, but human civilization had barely witnessed a few thousand years since history’s dawn.
Still, they said Earth’s ice and snow would entomb human civilization six million years hence.
Humankind might yet make remarkable strides across those vast six million years.
At least believing in that possibility could not be dismissed as mere foolishness.
Were this conviction fact, humanity’s future must needs fall into the hands of our beloved Iwami Jūtarō.
It must fall into the hands of the Superman who shattered prisons and slew baboon-demons.

It was at a rental bookstore in Honjo Otakekura that I first came to know Iwami Jūtarō.
No—it was not just Iwami Jūtarō.
It was also through this rental bookstore that I came to know Hagai Isshinsai; that I came to know Dahin no O-Hyaku; that I came to know Kunisada Chūji; that I came to know Yūten Shōnin; that I came to know Yaoya O-Shichi; that I came to know Kamiyui Shinzō; that I came to know Harada Kai; that I came to know Sano Jirōzaemon—every last one of these legendary figures created by unnamed geniuses of the back alleys did I come to know through this rental bookstore.
Even as I write of such things, I cannot forget that cramped shop where the summer's western sunlight streamed in.
Hanging limply from the eaves was a single glass wind chime with a short strip.
And then, the walls were crammed with hundreds upon hundreds of stenography books of kōdan tales.
Finally, in the shadow of an old reed door, a lone old woman with pickled plums stuck to her cheeks crafted floral hairpins as piecework.—Ah, how nostalgic I feel for that rental bookstore!

What taught me literature was neither university nor library.
It was indeed that desolate rental bookstore.
From the books arrayed there, I learned lessons whose depths I could spend a lifetime plumbing without ever exhausting.
Learning the dignity of that self-styled Superman anarchist numbered among them.
True, the term 'Superman' may have only entered my vocabulary after reading Nietzsche.
But the Superman itself—O great Iwami Jūtarō! Your figure glaring across the realm with ancestral sword at hip had long since taught my childhood heart Zarathustra's great deed of resolute mountain descent.
That rental bookstore must have vanished without trace long ago. Yet Iwami Jūtarō still maintains vibrant life within me today.
Ever at life's crossroads, leisurely fan in hand.

Kimura Sonsai

This spring, I visited the Kyoto Museum for the first time in exactly a year.
However, at that time, my stomach—already prone to excess acid—was exhibiting even greater abnormalities.
To forget the taste of meat upon hearing Shao music is a feat achievable only by saints.
Once I felt even a single flea beneath a camel’s coat, even if shown Sakata Tōjūrō performing “Fujijūrō’s Love,” I would have had no composure left to calmly watch the stage.
Moreover, the acid that saturated my stomach rendered all enjoyment impossible.
Furthermore, there did not appear to be many masterpieces among the exhibits of that time.
I proceeded to discover poor works one after another—starting with Buddhist paintings, then ceramics, Buddhist statues, and old calligraphic works.
In particular, the hanging scroll by Gong Banqian or some such artist—with its thick characters clumsily arrayed—seemed to have been created solely to tempt us stomach patients toward suicide.

Before long, the exhibition room I wandered into was one hung with nothing but nanga paintings.
This room too was utterly worthless.
Firstly, Tetsuō’s mountain ranges were as grimy as pumice stone.
Secondly, Fujimoto Tessei’s trees exuded menace like a rusty knife.
Thirdly, Uragami Gyokudō’s waterfall boiled over like Ryukyu awamori.
Fourthly—in any case, nanga paintings as a whole were mostly things that grated on my nerves.
I walked through the rows of large glass cases like a martyr, grimacing all the while.
Then, before my eyes—appearing more abruptly than any miracle—was a small paper-mounted landscape painting.
This landscape painting, at first glance, lacked any semblance of dynamic brushwork.
Rather, it even carried an amateurish limpness in its bearing.
If we considered only that aspect in isolation—setting aside Gyokudō and Tetsuō for the moment—one might have had to concede even a few steps to someone like Komuro Suiun.
However, the scenery—with moss on mountain rocks taking on a blue tint and mountain apricot trees bursting into bloom—was crafted so serenely harmonious that even the diminutive Komuro Suiun, let alone Gyokudō Tetsuō, could never have conceived it.
When I gazed upon this landscape painting, I instantly sensed a vibrant spring breeze transmitting through the thick glass, and further felt the great tide of acid filling my stomach surge up as if drying out.
Kimura Sonsai, commonly known as Taikichi—an Osaka townsman who called his hall Kenkadō—was indeed the amateur creator of this landscape painting.

Sonsai’s given name was Kōkyō, his style was Sesshuku; he was the son of a sake brewery owner residing in Horie, Osaka.
Sonsai himself states: "From my youth, my innate constitution was weak.
Judging by his statement that he 'devoted himself to recuperation,' his body was apparently frail by nature. However, just as healthy minds—with few exceptions—dwell in unsound bodies, Sonsai's spirit too had possessed robust strength since childhood.
To this, the happy bourgeois family scarcely begrudged anything in providing opportunities for cultivation.
Now, as an attempt, if I were to excerpt several passages from the biography recounting Sonsai’s own circumstances during that period—

“From my youth, my innate constitution was weak.”
“I devoted myself to recuperation.”
“My father, taking pity on me, permitted me to plant trees and flowers.”
“A relative who ran a pharmacy spoke of natural history studies, and I learned of Ino Jakusui and Matsuoka Gendatsu.”
“At twelve or thirteen years old, I learned that Tsushima Kōnosuke—a disciple of Matsuoka in Kyoto—was deeply versed in natural history; around this time, accompanying my father on his visit to the capital, I first paid my respects to Master Tsushima and heard him speak on botanical matters once.”
“The following year, when I was fifteen, I encountered my father’s death; in the spring of my sixteenth year, accompanying my mother to Kyoto, I was able to study under Mr. Tsushima once more and become his disciple.”

“From the age of five or six, I had a considerable understanding of painting. In my region, Ōoka Shunboku of the Kanō school had renown. Therefore, I followed and learned from them. Shunboku once emulated the Mustard Seed Garden Manual of Painting, copied the works of Ming artists, and carved into woodblocks a color-illustrated book titled *Ming Dynasty Purple Inkstone*. It was upon seeing this that I first conceived a longing for Tang painting. Around this time, my father’s friend Yanagisawa Gondayū of Kōriyama, Yamato Province (that is, Yanagisawa Rikyō) would often stay as a guest. Therefore, through a friend’s introduction, I studied Yanagisawa’s painting techniques. (Omitted) At the age of twelve, there was a monk from Nagasaki named Kakutei. He resided in Naniwa as a guest. He was a disciple of Nagasaki Kojin Jinsaemon (that is, Kumohai). The first spread of the Nanpin school within Kinai began with this person. I studied flower-and-bird painting under him and landscape painting under Ikeno Shūhei (that is, Taiga).”

“At eleven years old, through being a disciple of my relative Katayama Chūzō (that is, Hokkai) of the Kodama clan, he led me to request a scholarly name.”
Katayama bestowed upon me the name Meikaku, and my style was set as Senri.
Afterward, Mr. Katayama resided in Kyoto.
When I was eighteen or nineteen years old, Mr. Katayama once again came down to Naniwa and resided in Tachibori.
I thereupon received instruction in classical texts.
“I was able to read the Four Books, Six Classics, Historical Records, Book of Han, Literary Selections, and others.”

As these several passages indicate, Sonsai’s dedication to scholarly and artistic pursuits began before he reached manhood, and the majority of scholars and painters under whom he studied were leading figures of their time.

But that is not all.
Not only did he immerse himself in Western-flavored natural history studies rich in new knowledge, but his sudden infatuation—upon seeing *Ming Dynasty Purple Inkstone*—with the Southern Song school’s painting techniques, born among the reeds of the Yangtze River, speaks of a boyish passion.

Under such fortunate circumstances, this intelligent son of a sake brewer gradually perfected himself.
That self was not a purely and utterly pure artist like Taiga.
Rather, he was a dilettante closer to Yanagisawa Rikyō—who is said to have mastered sixteen arts in which he served as teacher.
Yet while Yanagisawa Rikyō’s dilettantism bore extraordinary talent, it was not without a whiff of decadence.
At the very least, we must acknowledge as fact that in his essay *Dokushin* [Solitary Sleep], he displayed the audacity of a true connoisseur by declaring he would trade a lifetime of scholarly pursuits for a courtesan’s undergarment.
However, Sonsai’s dilettantism, while lacking the wondrous adaptability [of Yanagisawa’s], possessed the serene dignity befitting an exemplary scholar.
Yanagisawa Rikyō would drink tea with beggars, play the shamisen of blind minstrels on horseback, and indulge in every manner of eccentricity.
Or so it is said he indulged in such behavior.
However, the legends concerning Sonsai did not deviate from the norm in the slightest.
What first astonished people was this anecdote: “When the master of Hōchidō—an Edo brushmaker—visited Naniwa and called upon Kenkadō, he was made to wait awhile; then, for his diversion during this interval, [Sonsai] produced an album.”
“When he opened it to see what it was, lo and behold, it contained a collection of name cards bearing the house names of Edo brushmakers—not a single one omitted.”
“(Yamazaki Yoshinari)”—they are but anecdotes of this caliber.
Though even this anecdote can only be considered as saying, “One can well imagine his exceptional connoisseur’s passion.”
Sonsai was clearly offering a silent salute to the master of Hōchidō.
To put it even more casually, he thrust forth an album filled with brushmakers’ name cards as if to say, “How about this?”
There is no doubt this aspect reveals an acrid wit.
However, compared to Yanagisawa Rikyō—especially Yanagisawa Rikyō as author of *Solitary Sleep*—he undoubtedly displayed a far more temperate and dignified bearing.

"I have been utterly unacquainted since youth with ancient music, instrumental performances, sarugaku theater, folk ballads, go and chess matches, various contests, brothels, and entertainments of voice and appearance—none of their pleasures have I ever obtained."
All the more so because from my youth, I had no leisure amidst multifarious pursuits.
"I do not take pleasure in contests because I am devoted to self-cultivation."

That Sonsai had not the slightest interest in what are called entertainments was made clear by this passage.

"My preferences lie solely in rare books.
As for studies of renowned artifacts and encyclopedic knowledge—alongside matters of calligraphy, paintings, steles, and rubbings—though my abilities are modest, through years of economizing on all expenses I have collected books without deficiency.
It might well be called excessive.
Beyond these lie collected items: ancient Japanese calligraphy and paintings; modern Confucian literati poetry and prose; authentic Chinese calligraphy and paintings; maps of Japan's provinces; Chinese and foreign maps; plants, minerals, jewels, shellfish, birds, and beasts; old coins and ancient artifacts; Chinese utensils; foreign exotic products—all for scholarly investigation.
They are not to be compared with other ornamental displays."

Sonsai loved these collections and loved showing these collections to visitors from afar who came to Kenkadō.
No—rather than mere collections, they were veritable museums.
The words of his youthful friend Tanomura Chikuden—“Model calligraphies, famous paintings, metal and stone artifacts, ritual vessels, and exotic curiosities from foreign lands fill the halls to overflowing”—were likely no exaggeration.
Sonsai said of these collections, “All are for scholarly investigation.”
Within the maps of Tang China and foreign territories, the continents of Europe and America must have been spread out far and wide.
No—among the exotic foreign products were undoubtedly mingled chintz fabrics, copperplate engravings, magnifying glasses, an alcohol-pickled dragon child called “Daraaka,” and even strands of Cleopatra’s golden hair (of course, this was a forgery).
He “investigated” these collections.
What emotions must have stirred within this intelligent dilettante before the manifold aspects of an enigmatic civilization?
At the very least, what dream could he have dreamed before the vastness of the world?

"In the land of Naniwa, since ancient times many renowned in the arts have emerged, and though there are those known throughout the realm, few equal Kenkadō in breadth and depth of knowledge."
[Omission] Once, when he had traveled to Nagasaki and inquired into Chinese customs, after returning he would often visit Ōbaku-san and spend time in the company of Zen Master Daisei; there was a person who asked the Zen Master about Chinese customs.
The Zen Master pointed to Kenkadō: "This person knows this well."
"I was told there was no need for further discussion."
"The Zen Master was originally from Tang China; having converted [to Buddhism], he resided at Ōbaku-san."
(Yamazaki Yoshinari)

"This person knows this well." Whether the words "I need not waste my breath" constituted praise remains doubtful. Perhaps they delivered a blow to that erudition-loving dilettante—one who set aside even life's greatest matters. Yet despite this blow, there remains no disputing how thoroughly Sonsai had mastered Chinese ways. He was, one might say, among the foremost authorities on China. Naturally, such erudition in Master Kenkadō—who loved Chinese painting, literature, and philosophy during that era—garnered due acclaim. Indeed, as Sonsai's fame spread across the realm, scholars and artists flocked to his gate in steady succession: Shibano Ritsuzan, Bitō Jishū, Koga Seiri, Rai Shunsui, Kuwayama Gyokushū, Kushiro Unsai, Tachibana Suiken, Noro Kaiseki, Tanomura Chikuden—all were his friends. Particularly Tanomura Chikuden...this Chikuden, more a competent artist than a great one, showed most exquisite deference to the aged dilettante. "When first I donned the cap of manhood and journeyed east to Edo," he wrote, "passing through Osaka on my way, I desired to visit Kiseishuku—that is, Sonsai. By chance, someone seized me and sought to ascend Tennōji's pagoda, declaring: 'This tower founded by Prince Shōtoku has endured a thousand years—not merely standing as majestically as Lu's Lingguang Temple!' I refused. At last I met Sonsai. Returning westward the following year and arriving again, I found Sonsai already deceased and the pagoda reduced to ashes by fire."

Sonsai concluded his tranquil sixty-year life amidst such fame.
This sixty-year life might perhaps appear ordinary to innocent hero-worshippers.
What Sonsai bequeathed to posterity—apart from the renowned Kenkadō Collection—consisted merely of a few volumes of poetry and essays and several landscape paintings.
Yet even in this Taishō era, our dispassionate and desireless homeland—which nonchalantly reduced the Imperial University Library’s collections to ashes—naturally allowed the Kenkadō Collection to suffer merciless dispersal as well.
Where has the alcohol-pickled Daraaka gone?
Where have the paintings by Taiga and Yanagisawa Rikyō gone?
Cleopatra’s golden hair—what becomes of such things matters not.
But ultimately, it must be said that Master Kenkadō left nothing to posterity beyond his meager writings and paintings.

Nothing?——No—it’s not necessarily “nothing.”
The abundant Kenkadō Collection—particularly its ten-thousand-volume library—had presented contemporary scholars and artists with a great many precedents.
These precedents had inspired them and propelled them into a new world—exactly as the likes of Rodin, Tolstoy, or Cézanne had stimulated us.
The benefaction of Kimura Sonsai, this patron-collector, too remained a legacy transmitted to posterity—according to the critiques of solemn predecessors, it had to be counted among the greatest legacies.
But if I were to coldly state it outright, it stood fifty steps to a hundred apart from the benefaction Maruzen & Co. had bestowed upon us.
At the very least, it stood fifty steps to a hundred apart from the benefaction that wealthy connoisseurs or their sons could bestow upon us.
I do not refuse to express gratitude before such benefaction.
However, to praise Master Kenkadō solely for that reason—if only because it would inflate the egos of so-called patrons of the world—was harmful!

To reiterate once more for convenience’s sake, what Sonsai bequeathed to posterity consists merely of a few volumes of poetry and essays and several landscape paintings. If one seeks to discern Sonsai’s true worth beyond the benefaction the Kenkadō Collection bestowed upon his contemporaries, one must inevitably return to these works—or at the very least, to that single Spring Mountains scroll mentioned earlier. The spring swelling within that painting does not possess the supreme nectar-like flavor of creation melted into one’s own cauldron, as seen in the manner of the great Taiga. Yet it is equally certain that it lacks the brisk vigor of Buson’s singular brushwork applied to heaven and earth. However, it is not at all mediocre. Something akin to a broad smile—softly radiant—naturally suffuses the paper’s surface. I discovered within that something Master Kenkadō’s true essence—the soul of a dilettante quietly savoring existence. Even if the Kenkadō Collection had not bestowed the slightest benefit upon contemporary scholars and artists, that would not concern me in the least. I cannot help but feel an affinity for this dilettante—this peerlessly refined Osaka townsman who knew how to relish a lonely life.

We are, as Pascal said, reeds that think.
But in reality, we are not merely that.
We are reeds that on one hand think about things while on the other ceaselessly feel them.
Even if we do not deny this capacity to feel, the rustling of our leaves in the wind may resemble merely sensing the wind itself.
Yet our way of feeling things is not necessarily so mechanical.
Indeed, it is surprisingly common to sense trade winds spanning a thousand leagues within twilight's faint breeze.
For instance, a single cypress tree might stir ordinary people no more than a breeze would.
Yet Van Gogh—ablaze with genius—perceived tremendous vital force even in that solitary cypress.
Therefore, to fully savor a desolate life, one must both contemplate things with subtlety and feel them with nuance.
One must possess cerebral matter while simultaneously possessing nerves.
Truly, dilettantes of old were ever both partial scholars and partial artists.
Sonsai, who both mastered productology and aspired to painting's path, stands precisely as such a man.
A reed that subtly contemplates while subtly feeling—and speaking of which, how curious that Sonsai had styled himself Master Kenkadō!

But even if there exist roses without thorns, there exists no pleasure unaccompanied by suffering.
A reed that subtly thinks while subtly feeling is precisely a reed that subtly suffers.
Therefore, the wise dilettante must abandon heaven's splendor to escape hell's purgatorial flames.
To state it more succinctly: one must shun all extremes of vice.
Of course innocent hero-worshippers will mock such a dilettante's attitude as tepid mediocrity.
Yet the permissibility of inhabiting tepidity resides in the permissibility of hedonistic postures.
To deny hedonistic postures—the fact remains that no philosophy through the ages has ever succeeded in elucidating life's purpose.
In antiquity even Confucius—who understood this impossibility yet preached benevolence—cherished tepid moderation.
Nowadays even youths who achieve nothing beyond haunting cafés adore scorching absolutism.
But regardless—to greedily pursue ecstasy is not how one consummates pleasure.
Sonsai too followed this pattern, perpetually cherishing the golden mean.
The single volume of *Kenkadō Zatsuroku* where Sonsai himself chronicled his conduct demonstrates how he balanced his heart's scales.
Never has anything ensnared literati more than wealth-and-poverty romanticism.
They typically either vaunt ascetic penury or parade lavish extravagance.
Yet Sonsai alone dwelled serenely content in frugality.

"Thanks to my family’s surplus funds, what I receive each year amounts to no more than thirty ryō."
"In addition, thanks to the mutual sympathy of close friends, I was able to indulge slightly in cultural refinement."
"Had I not practiced frugality in all things, how could I have achieved what I have today?"
"The world does not know my true circumstances."
"I am compared to the wealthy."
“It is not my true intention.”

An annual income of thirty ryō translated to two ryō and two bu per month.
Even during the Hōreki and Meiwa eras of old, with a monthly income of two ryō and two bu, he likely could not have afforded lavish purchases.
Not only did he indulge in cultural refinement, but he even left behind the Kenkadō Collection—this in itself must be said to demonstrate the vulgar nature of opulence.
(Unfortunately, as I am currently traveling, I do not have reference books at hand.)
But during the Hōreki and Meiwa eras of old, the exchange rate stood at roughly sixty monme of silver per one koku of rice.
Assuming one ryō of gold to be approximately forty monme of silver and using rice prices as the conversion standard, thirty ryō annually at that time would amount to just under a thousand yen today.
Of course, this calculation is no more reliable than an educated guess.)

"In the sixth year of Hōreki [1756], at age twenty-one, I married a woman of the Mori clan."
"My innate constitution was frail, and I could not endure my frequent illnesses."
"Even after ten years had passed, I bore not a single child."
"Therefore, my mother greatly grieved over this."
"In the second year of Meiwa (1765), he commanded his family to take a woman of the Yamanaka clan in marriage and had her serve him."
"(Omitted) Three years later, in the winter of Meiwa 5, his wife Mrs. Mori gave birth to a daughter."
"In Meiwa 8 [1771], she gave birth to another daughter."
"The concubine from the Yamanaka clan assisted his wife’s frail constitution while he cherished their two daughters; thus did wife and concubine grow harmonious rather than adversarial."

It goes without saying that they avoided Sonsai’s partiality in being content with frugality.
It was probably not solely due to their chastity that the wives and concubines did not harbor jealousy.

“From my youth to my prime, I devoted myself to the study of poetry and prose. Due to the numerous poetic exchanges, I grew weary of composing verse correspondence. Moreover, being untalented, I could not act with agility. This greatly displeased my heart. In friendships, there are intimacies and distances. By entrusting myself to my lack of talent and limiting contrivances, I may encounter spontaneous inspiration, obtain fine verses, and find pleasure.”

Poetry and prose were what Sonsai loved. Moreover, even in his poetry and prose, Sonsai did not recklessly flaunt his talent. Even if he neglected the obligations of poetic exchanges, he guarded the supreme joy of absorbing fine verses into his being. Such an attitude was not limited to merely the several passages cited above. What governed Sonsai’s entire life was indeed this subtle restraint. This was the rein-adjustment that both restrained and indulged the self. It must be said that it was no accident Master Kenkadō concluded his six decades of life in tranquil bliss.

The Spring Mountain Painting, referred to earlier on multiple occasions, wound its way past old trees and massive boulders into the depths, where a single secluded path lay.
The end of that secluded path must undoubtedly have been the uninhabited peaks buried under centuries of snow.
Those whom the world calls geniuses are none other than courageous solitary travelers who do not hesitate to climb those peaks.
To traverse centuries of snow was of course a monumental undertaking of the ages. Yet to wander among the clouds while gazing upon cliffside blossoms in bloom and listening to mountain streams sing—this too remains the joy of a lifetime.
My beloved Master Kenkadō journeyed alone through these desolate spring mountains astride a donkey.
That the *Spring Mountain Painting* abounds in unconventional charm may indeed be no cause for wonder.…………