Pathway to Japanese Literature

I. From Hibiya to Tsurumi

One summer morning, I had business in Tsukiji and went out by train.
When I changed trains at Hibiya and looked at my watch, finding it still somewhat too early for my scheduled time, I stepped into the park.
Emerging into the square with its autumn grasses, I found cannas and morning glories blooming in full splendor.
Unlike usual times, human figures were scarcely visible—only a man in a marked happi coat lay sprawled alone on a bench in one corner.
Beyond the grove of trees, buildings of varied hues shone resplendently as they basked fully in the morning light.

The scarcity of people was likely due to the hour, but given this tranquility, I thought it might be good to come sketch here someday.

Four or five days later, one morning I roused myself to rise early, and when trains began running, I went out carrying my paint box.
When I held the red ticket for the discount train in my hand for the first time in years, it felt like a symbol signifying my restored health.
When I reached the moat-side and saw the white walls of Chiyoda Castle's keep tinged with peach-colored dawn light, I felt similarly.

When I got off at Hibiya and looked toward the park entrance, I realized this wouldn't do.
A line of people, looking as if they were wearing rumpled nightclothes, was shuffling into that narrow entrance.
When I entered the square with flowers and grasses, I could not help but be all the more disappointed.
People with toothpicks in their mouths, people dragging dogs, people lugging cameras everywhere and needlessly agonizing, people who seemed to delight in observing all these others—this beautiful morning square was completely overrun by such people.
In the center of the lawn, a crane was walking while a small black dog barked at it.

These people, who ought to have appeared the most carefree, struck my eyes today as an oddly imposing procession.
It felt like a crowd parading through a grand theater’s promenade.
And I came to feel there was nothing more dreadful in this world than "idle people."
I had completely forgotten that I was, after all, one of them.

When I went around to check the grassy area at the back, it was just the same. Against the backdrop of brick buildings that might have been a court or naval ministry, the willow branches—still not fully awakened from their short night's slumber—so strongly tempted me with their picturesque charm that I nearly resolved to set up my easel, when I began to feel as though the people walking about were maliciously turning their steps in my direction. I recalled the feeling of the man from a short story by Gogol or someone else—wandering about searching for a place to discard the nose that had emerged from bread.

Resigned, I bought a ticket from Tokyo Station to Tsurumi.
The train had few passengers, but among them was one rather elderly man wearing what looked like sleepwear and carrying a cloth-wrapped bundle, who no sooner boarded than he got off at Yūrakuchō.
For some reason, this struck me as strange.
I formulated a hypothesis that perhaps this person was a Tokyo station employee who had been on night duty last night and was now returning to a lodging near Yūrakuchō this morning.
Speaking of which, quite a few people got off at Shinbashi as well.
I couldn't tell what kind of people these were either.

A grubby-looking, withered old woman with bleary eyes and a man around twenty years old—who appeared to be her grandson—were aboard, the latter carrying a large cloth-wrapped bundle and wearing a yukata undergarment patterned like a hand towel. From their conversation's tenor, I gathered someone close to this old woman had been admitted to a hospital near Kawasaki and now approached death's door. The man seemed to be earnestly reassuring her anxieties about whether they would arrive in time. When I observe such elderly women, while they appear fragile at first glance, I come to recognize how their long tempering through life's hardships has forged an admirable resilience far beyond what someone like myself could ever hope to attain. There are moments when this realization stirs not so much pity within me as something akin to envy.

After getting off at Tsurumi with no particular plan, thinking that climbing the hill behind might lead somewhere worthwhile, I somewhat aimlessly sought out a slope and began ascending.
There was not a breath of wind, and against the sunlight streaming through the thin morning haze from the side, the hat's brim proved utterly useless.
When I reached the top of the slope, there was a wide newly opened road.
After walking a short distance, the road suddenly ended, and a deep trench cut through the heart of the hill at a right angle to the path.
The large temple visible ahead was probably what they called Sōji-ji.

In the pine grove stood a cluster of small houses with only Bunka-style red-tiled roofs visible.
Diapers were hung out to dry here and there, yet from somewhere came the sound of an organ.

I entered the grounds of Sōji-ji Temple that I had never seen before.
On the mid-slope of the left hill stood several strange monument-like objects whose meaning I couldn't comprehend.
Though incomprehensible, they gave me an intensely peculiar feeling.

As it had grown hot, I rested on a bench beside the pond within the gate.
Affixed to the bench was a large shape resembling a Tenpō coin.
This appeared to have been donated here to promote what is called Tenpō coin-ism.

Having completely lost any inclination to paint, I proceeded further into Sōji-ji Temple intending to look around.
When I climbed the gentle slope lavishly paved with granite slabs, I emerged at the far end onto the bank of a bowl-shaped pond.
There stood a peculiar house bearing a sign that read "Newspaper Reading Room."
On one side rose a large sign labeled "Automobile Road."
As I stood there surveying the temple grounds, I was overcome by a strange sensation I had no memory of ever experiencing before.

Not long ago at a friend's house, among illustrations I had seen in Kaempfer's book about Japan, there was one labeled as depicting Kiyomizu in Kyoto or some such place.
The scenery shown contained none of the Kyoto that ordinarily occupies Japanese minds. In one corner of an elevated terrain—desolate, gloomy, and parched like something from Tibet or Turkestan—stood structures one might describe as roofed coffins, scattered here and there.
Figures resembling dried-up mummies were likewise dotted about.
I cannot quite express it—the scene was strangely glistening yet oppressively eerie.
Words like 'dismal' or 'weird' came to mind, though I felt certain better adjectives existed that I simply couldn't recall.

When I looked around the massive buildings and monuments of Sōji-ji Temple, the feeling that struck me was somehow remarkably similar to the impression given by this Kaempfer illustration.

In the mortar-shaped depression at the bottom of the hollow, the stagnant pond also appeared rather gloomy to me.
The grass standing dazedly on the pond's islet was no exception.
The long, narrow concrete structure that slanted diagonally from the water's edge to the top of the bank—precisely because I couldn't discern its purpose—further intensified that feeling.

Climbing up the slope through the pine grove at the very back, I unexpectedly came out onto a road. There stood the entrance to the renowned Hanatsukien. Looking down at how the cluttered roofs of strange wooden-shingled houses jostled crampedly in what should have been a beautifully lush valley, I thought, "Ah, so this is what it's like."

When I went a little west, there was a natural field for the first time, and farmers were working in the fields. However, when looking to one side, I was quite startled by the sight of a large painted tengu figure towering on the cliff above.

The return train was normally crowded.
As I absently listened to two young men who appeared to be company employees standing side by side talking, they were saying that commuters who ride at the same time every morning seemed to naturally establish fixed positions when boarding the cars, with familiar faces always congregating in the same places.
That might be so.
However, perhaps the impression formed when seeing those familiar faces obscures the impression from when they aren't seen, leading one to think that way.

The Shinagawa to Ueno-bound train was astonishingly empty.
On the opposite side sat a middle-aged woman who appeared to peddle small goods, perpetually dozing against a large bundle.
My eye caught a fingertip-sized hole in the yukata's knee that had been painstakingly darned.
The soiled white tabi sock's torn thumb area told the same tale.

Two men who looked like stock speculators or contractors, dressed identically as if by prior agreement, were talking loudly while alternately setting upright and laying flat identical briefcases on their laps. When I heard words like "40,000 yen," "10,000 tsubo," "Qingdao," and "Yokosuka," for some reason the phantom image of Sōji-ji Temple I had seen earlier resurfaced in my mind.

Two or three soldiers carrying guns entered.
While carefully observing the brass cap-like object fitted over the gun muzzle, I recalled how during my middle school days I used to load lead pellets into an Enpīru gun for target practice.
When viewed simply as a tool for target practice, a gun is a pleasurable thing.
However, when regarding this as an instrument for killing people, that they could bring it into a train in broad daylight—with not only no one to reprimand them but even failing to attract any attention—seemed strange to me.

In the end, I returned home utterly exhausted without having drawn a single picture.
However, discovering Japan as depicted in Kaempfer's illustrations in such an unexpected place became the sole treasure of this day.

II Gagaku

Through an introduction from a friend, I obtained my first opportunity to witness a Gagaku performance.

It was a beautiful clear autumn day that happened to coincide with Yasukuni Shrine's festival or some similar occasion, making the Ushigome Mitsuke area bustling with crowds and basking in cheerful brightness.
At the venue entrance, automobiles and rickshaws had clustered together while Westerners and people dressed in fine attire poured in.
The seat to which I was guided after passing through a narrow corridor from the entrance faced directly toward the stage.
Familiar faces could be seen scattered here and there around me.

The stage with its independent roof was surrounded on three sides by corridor-like audience seating, with a moat-like white gravel expanse between them that also served as seating. Between the corridor seats and white gravel area, there must have been rather distinct class distinctions in former times. The seat to which I was guided would likely have been reserved for court nobles in ancient days. Now that I thought of it, all front-row seats were occupied by Westerners, and from where I sat, a large hat worn by one woman obscured nearly a third of the stage. This remains a perennial problem worldwide, but in such confined spaces, it seemed to me the venue should have prohibited such obstructions - if nothing else, for that woman's own dignity.

The raised stage appeared to be square. Surrounding the pillars at the four corners was a wide veranda-like structure. The placement of musicians at the rear of the stage followed Noh theater convention, but the screen erected at the front—though perhaps that too adhered to traditional form—did not strike my eyes as particularly jumbled in composition. Rather, it felt as if it had been borrowed.

Musicians dressed in robes reminiscent of eboshi hats and suikan garments came forth carrying various instruments and sat cross-legged in formation. I could recognize the faces of musicians I had seen at concerts in the Meiji music world and such, but their attire was so different that I felt a sense of wonder.

First came the performance by the gagaku ensemble. The first was "Nyuha," said to be part of the grand composition called "Shunchōden"; next came "Koinjū"; third was "Shinpō," described as one of the chanting pieces; and fourth was "Butokuraku," attributed to Emperor Gaozu of Han.

To me hearing them for the first time, the harmonies of these pieces and melodies all sounded nearly identical. The reed flute tones that seeped into objects, the double-reed pipe notes that soared skyward, and the imploring transverse flute calls interwove and chased one another while continuing like a gentle stream's flow or serene clouds' passage. Against this backdrop, like the occasional shadow of a bird or something similar, the tones of koto and biwa strings would be interjected. And like scattering flower petals, or like a water clock marking time, the kakko drum's beats continued in dotted succession.

The twists and turns that one might consider crucial listening points here remained beyond my grasp as an amateur.
Yet there was indeed something like an atmosphere flowing from the music that permeated earth and sky and human hearts.
This atmosphere could not easily be found in today's cultural Japan; one could only catch faint traces of its scent when reading tales from ancient times.

Having initially approached it with the tense mindset of listening to Western music, I found myself imperceptibly enveloped in this strange atmosphere until I entered an uncharacteristically relaxed state.
The melody ceased to matter.
I became entranced as though leaning against a palace veranda railing on some drawn-out spring day, gazing at a garden strewn with falling blossoms.

Whether all music was like this or not, I could not say.
However, I felt this gagaku music was not something to be listened to objectively, analytically, or critically, but rather something one should unconsciously immerse oneself in within the atmosphere these sounds conjured.
By doing so, I felt this music gained its true meaning.

Since this was an atmosphere, once having immersed oneself in it, one no longer needed to consciously listen.
Within this air, I felt it might even be possible for me to eat meals, read books, and ponder difficult mathematical problems.

There is a story that Leonardo da Vinci had music played in an adjacent room while painting, which undoubtedly sought nothing more than the atmosphere created by the music.
He was a man who possessed an immensely multifaceted and active mind.
At times his nerves must have split into a thousand strands, all their endings agitated, making it impossible for him to attain any peace of mind.
At such times he must have been enveloped in the ethereal atmosphere conjured by music, through which he was finally able to attain mental focus.

This is merely my own baseless conjecture.
However, in any case, to calm today's irritable world even slightly and guide people's minds toward purer concentration, might this kind of music prove unexpectedly effective?

As I half-consciously pondered such things, my mind wandered to the distant world of our ancestors.

The lyrics of the chanting piece were said to be "The hue of Xinfeng wine lies pure and cool within parrot cups; The songs of Changle Palace murmur faintly behind phoenix pipes," yet they were chanted with such drawn-out and undulating elongation of sounds that one could scarcely discern these words while listening.
This voice—if one could call it muffled sobbing—carried a muted quality, as if echoing from deep within some palace's innermost chambers.
This might have been because the singer kept their mouth barely open and lips scarcely moving, vocalizing from within their oral cavity; during the initial solo passage, I couldn't immediately identify who was singing just by looking.

This too might strike many modern people as overly passive singing.
If that were indeed the case, then perhaps this very quality made it a necessary antidote.

When the gagaku ensemble's program concluded, after a brief intermission, the bugaku dances began.

The first was called "Kaden."
Four dancers in identical costumes appeared and performed similar movements, yet this too seemed to conjure a kind of atmospheric "music of movement," exactly like the gagaku ensemble.
There was no manifestation of dynamic energy as seen in other forms of dance—everything seemed to be a rhythm of static lines and shapes.

The second piece, called "Chikyū," was likewise danced by four people, but the masks worn by these dancers had particularly peculiar visages. While bearing some resemblance to Ebisu, their noses protruded sharply like the beaks of crow tengu. These persimmon-hued faces maintained expressions that seemed to wring heartfelt smiles from some bottomless wellspring of joy—expressions that would have been impossible for living humans to sustain even for thirty seconds, let alone a full minute. Though not unique to bugaku, this very quality generated a distinctive atmosphere. Most mysteriously, prolonged observation of these masks produced an illusion of shifting expressions—a phenomenon that manifested here as well. To my perception, even these frozen smiles underwent rhythmic transformations in harmony with the music and movement.

The combination of persimmon-hued faces and chartreuse costumes created a distinctive impression. The avian crowns adorning their foreheads, along with bird-head ornaments resembling helmet frontlets, intensified this sense of wonderment. I couldn't help sensing something akin to the expressions of Pan from Western paintings in these masked visages.

The third piece was titled "Somarusha." I remained uncertain of its pronunciation since the program lacked phonetic notation. According to the notes, this composition originated from Indian music while its choreography was devised domestically. The Somarusha tradition finds detailed documentation in the Rokuharamitsu-kyō (Six Pāramitās Sutra). It records that when Prince Shōtoku played his vertical flute on Mount Shigi at age forty-three, the mountain deity—overcome by emotion—emerged to dance; the prince subsequently formalized this dance based on that apparition and commissioned court performers to enact it.

First appeared a man in court robes—likely representing Prince Shōtoku—who took position at the stage's edge and played a flute. After some time, the mountain deity emerged and commenced its dance. Beneath disheveled ash-brown hair peered a jet-black face with diminutive features. Both its profound darkness and the physical distance regrettably prevented me from discerning any facial expression. In one hand it tightly clutched something resembling a short stick, though I couldn't determine what this might be. Yet this mattered little to me. What captivated was its motion. Countless repetitions of mysterious movements—hands brought together above the head then rapidly parted to trace aerial circles; gestures mimicking obstacle clearance; motions suggesting stealthy approach toward unseen targets.

In stark contrast to the decidedly slow and leisurely nature of the previous two dances, this *Somarusha* seemed to convey a somewhat more urgent emotion. This may have ultimately arisen from the speed of movement and consequent difference in energy, but beyond that, there might also be something in the dancer's own movements that suggested a certain emotional urgency. If pressed to define what emotion this might be, I could not say—yet when viewed as the expression of joy from a half-divine, half-beastly being blending both sanctity and savagery, it's not impossible to see it that way.

I imagined that the mountains and forests of our Ōyashima lands in that distant Age of Gods had been inhabited by such mystical beings.
And then I tried considering that I was the legitimate descendant of those beings.
By thinking so, I feel my attachment to this land neither increases nor decreases.

Finally, they performed a piece called "Chōgeishi." It was meant to express celebratory sentiments, and the program notes stated that this piece would be played as attendees exited—perhaps because of this, people began noisily rising from their seats one after another during the performance.

When I exited the gate with a sense of ease unlike any I'd felt in recent times, the tranquil Indian summer sunlight had already sunk considerably westward.

III. Nobel Prize

One night, while working as usual, the telephone rang.
It was from a newspaper company.
When I went to answer wondering what it might be, I found they had received an international telegram notifying them of last year's and this year's Nobel Prize recipients—one being Einstein and the other a man named Niels Bohr from Copenhagen—and were inquiring about what sort of person this Bohr was and what work he had done.
I explained only the essential points I knew as concisely as possible and hung up.
Just as I resumed my interrupted work, the phone rang again.
This time it was another newspaper company making the same inquiry.
Since it irked me that they kept mispronouncing "Bohr" as "Poa," I made sure to correct that detail.

Bohr’s theory was first published in 1913, making it now exactly a full decade old.
The theory was promptly disseminated among specialists in our country, studied, introduced, and even applied.
Today, among those interested in physics, there is likely not a single person unaware of Bohr’s name and the general nature of his work.

Yet despite being such a prominent figure in experts’ eyes, this person’s name had never appeared anywhere in what might be called “society’s directory”—not until this very day.
Adorned with the Nobel Prize’s halo, it now stands before “society” like an angel suddenly descended from heaven.
It was as if the light from a nova that appeared ten years ago had finally reached Earth now.

To such an extent was the world of scientists removed from "society." However, thanks to that, scholars might have been able to calmly devote themselves to their respective research.

According to a friend who had recently met Bohr there and returned, this still-young scholar owned a small cottage-like villa in some nearby countryside, going there whenever he had leisure time; there in peaceful surroundings and fresh air, he would devise ideas and wield his pen—sometimes even lying on the grass to gaze absently at the clouds from an outsider's perspective. At such times, it seemed that the germs of various original ideas floated up in his mind. He would write down those ideas, carefully preserve and organize them, and then pursue them further. I think this was a method truly befitting this person. Rather than compiling catalogs of past achievements, this person appeared to be striving to organize the seeds of future work—a tendency that manifested his ever-progressive character in an intriguing manner.

It is precisely through such methods that scholars like him can perform what might be called true work—is that not the case? I cannot help but consider this an enviably fortunate situation.

There exists a theory that scholars, universally and not limited to Japan, are not respected by society.
The very meaning of the word "respect" comes into question.

In the past it may have been different, but today even in our country, the utilitarian value of science is not so much understood as it is championed by society through misunderstanding.
As a natural consequence, scientists are respected in that sense.
Therefore, scientists are compelled to constantly feel occupied with matters outside their research.

As scientists, considering it their own duty to society, there are likely a considerable number of people who believe they must respond to societal demands to the fullest extent possible.
If one holds such a view, then in certain cases they must feel burdened responding to societal demands even by drastically cutting into their precious research time, and consequently be forced to deplete that much extra mental energy.

This may be unavoidable.
And I intend to continue respecting the spirit of sacrifice demonstrated by such scholars.

However, when viewed from a completely detached third-party position removed from both scholars and the society that engages with them, this does not seem to be a method by which society truly respects scholars and aims for academic progress.
In some cases, I cannot help but think this may actually result in the abuse of scholars and hinder scientific progress.
This is a rather important problem that must be considered with considerable care.

Among scholars, there are those who take interest in scientific applications and possess special innate talents in that sphere. On the other hand, there are also those who become wholly engrossed in exploring principles and facts out of purely theoretical interest. Indeed, one occasionally finds multitalented individuals abundantly endowed with both inclinations.

Bohr rather seemed to belong to this second category of scholar. One might therefore imagine him as precisely the sort of person who would find greatest happiness not in being pestered and exploited by society, but in being left entirely undisturbed. If such a type of scholar exists, then should society genuinely wish to respect them, I believe it would be best to simply refrain from interference—allowing them complete freedom to lie upon grassy fields and contemplate clouds without meddlesome observation from others.

Come to think of it, Einstein too fundamentally struck me as being that type of scholar.
However, whether fortunately or unfortunately, he too had been thrust before society's eyes several years prior.
Because of this, as was well known, he became dreadfully busy.
Admittedly, he himself appeared to regard it as his own pleasant duty.
And he appeared to be swamped with satisfying everyone's demands without showing the slightest sign of displeasure.
This was a beautiful thing.

However, from a standpoint that considers pure scientific progress as paramount, this situation struck me as somewhat pitiable for Einstein.
Would it not rather be that granting him slightly more mental and physical repose—allowing him to devote himself freely to his desired work—would in fact constitute both the true means of respecting this extraordinary great man and simultaneously serve as the proper way to secure genuine benefits for all humanity?
This too gave one pause.

I cannot help but feel that society—ambushed by this Nobel Prize as usual—might brashly and discourteously assault Bohr's quiet villa by training cameras upon it, sullying his study's rugs with magnesium ash, and wantonly trampling the beautiful lawn, thereby disturbing even temporarily this brilliant mind's tranquility.
Such a scenario seems all too plausible.
And I find myself troubled at the prospect.
Yet he himself might laugh with unanticipated equanimity.

If someone had dragged Kant out and made him lecture his Critique from the stage of a vaudeville theater, what would have happened? That might not be amusing in the slightest—it could indeed be considered a splendid thing—but there remains no doubt that it would strike one as pitiable toward Kant.

I was simply imagining Bohr's inner life without any particular rationale, feeling both envious and wistful. And I earnestly hope that such a life will continue undisturbed in tranquility forever, bringing forth beautiful blossoms and fruits of research along its long, unending path.
(January 1923, Chūō Kōron)

IV. Ticket Punch Holes

The train terminating at Hibiya stopped in front of the Imperial Theater.
When I looked at the tracks ahead, over a dozen cars were lined up parked from there all the way to Hibiya.
The passengers began filing out in a steady stream, but I remained seated at my leisure.
Then, right before my eyes, the train conductor began some sort of argument with one of the passengers.
The problem was that the ticket punch holes didn’t match.

This passenger was a fair-skinned, respectable-looking man around thirty years of age.
He wore what appeared to be a Panama hat and an alpaca coat, carrying a slender cane.
He was saying something in a small, calm voice, but ultimately tried to take out a separate new ticket and hand it over to the conductor.

The two conductors pressed forward with intimidating manner and spoke loudly.
"Did you think you could deceive us? Isn't that so?"
"Come now, which is it? Speak clearly."

The young man, surprisingly without changing his complexion, was quietly saying something with downcast eyes as he presented a new ticket.
The conductor did not even attempt to take it.

“Come on, which is it—
“…The conductor isn’t an idiot!” he shouted.

Feeling somehow displeased, I immediately stood up and got off the train.

It was hard for me to believe that such a young, respectable man would sell his soul over a mere ticket. However, whether that was truly the case remained unclear.

Even so, I found the train conductor’s attitude in this scene exceedingly unpleasant.
Even if there had been ample evidence suggesting that the passenger opposite had indeed dared to commit misconduct, the conductor's arrogant and vicious attitude—which seized upon human weakness with triumphant glee—gave me, as a bystander, nothing but an ugly, unpleasant feeling.
If, by any chance, this were not fraud but arose from some error or oversight, how would things turn out then?
If the time and place were different—in a situation where a person would stake their life to uphold Honour—this would not end peacefully.

Thinking about such things only intensified the oppressive mood of that sweltering day.

A few days later, it happened.
I had business in Z Town and set out under the midday sun.
The train I boarded at H Town stood nearly empty, like a hollowed-out shell.
I took out a fifty-sen note and bought two round-trip tickets.
Tearing off the punched portion, I boarded while pinching it between my left fingertips.
As the train advanced, I began thinking about resuming that morning's unfinished work until it filled my mind completely.
At such times—owing to my wretched habit—I unconsciously fiddle with whatever's in my hands; now my left fingertips worried at the ticket's punch holes once more.
I cannot explain why this occurs, but it might resemble how a blind person's fingers tremble during mental arithmetic.

When I tried to get off at Z Town Station and handed over my ticket, the conductor who examined it punched another hole, compared them, and said, “This is different—the hole is larger than mine.”

I was perplexed.
“But you’re the one who just punched it yourself.” I ventured this statement, which didn’t even qualify as evidence.

The freshly punched ticket holes had a shape where a right-angled sector had been removed from a circle.
In the hole that had been expanded by my fingertips, traces of its original shape still remained intact; however, the diameter had increased by twenty to thirty percent, with the edges now frayed and soiled.

Another conductor came over and punched yet another hole in the same ticket.
“This here is mine, you see,” he said, thrusting it before my eyes.
The three holes appeared to threaten me.

I did think it would be simpler to produce another replacement ticket.
But given how ill-tempered I was feeling at that moment, I found myself utterly unable to adopt such a nonchalant attitude.
Producing another ticket would amount to admitting to a false accusation, I felt, so I simply remained silent and alighted from the train.
The conductor leaned out from the footboard, tilting his head slightly while making a gesture with his right hand as if proffering something, and said, “Let’s have another one, shall we?” with a smirk.

The blazing reflected light from the street where I had alighted might have played its part, or perhaps it was the lingering effects on my stomach and head since morning—but regardless, when I saw that conductor's peculiar smile, I felt all the blood in my body rush to my head at once.
And before I could even collect myself,
"In that case, come along to the police box," I found myself saying.
The police box stood right before me.
I thought that without enlisting an impartial third party, our endless back-and-forth would never reach resolution.
The train conductor said, "Oh, I'll come—I'll come all right, I'll come as much as you like," and followed me.

While the police officer was listening to our brief statements, a telephone call came into the police box.
The police officer was writing something down with white chalk on what appeared to be a seat while listening to it.
He seemed quite busy.
I began to feel somewhat sorry.

The police officer had the conductor sign his full name and promptly sent him back to avoid delaying the train.
Then he asked me, “Are you in a hurry?”
I found myself harboring an inexplicably favorable impression of this police officer while simultaneously feeling a rather intense shame over my own rash behavior.

What I must confess here is that at the very moment we entered the police box, I took out my own official business card from my wallet and presented it to the police officer.
I had done this thinking it would be the best way to settle the matter as quickly as possible, but upon later reflection, there was no doubt this had been a foolish and cowardly act.
And while it was the most shameful conduct imaginable, it does serve as evidence that my mind had lost its equilibrium to that extent.

According to the police officer’s account, train conductors had apparently been conducting particularly stringent inspections of ticket punch holes lately.
And since the conductors focused solely on these punch holes, there was no helping it.
When told this, I found myself at a complete loss for words.

Before long, someone who appeared to be a train supervisor arrived.
The supervisor, who seemed thoroughly accustomed to such matters, handled the incident with utmost courtesy.
“We would never dream of doubting our esteemed passengers’ integrity, but as this is part of our duties, we kindly ask for your understanding.”
When told this, I became increasingly flustered.
I apologetically bowed politely to the supervisor and police officer before hurriedly leaving the place.
In the end, I did not hand over another ticket.

Fortunately, there was not a single inevitable crowd of onlookers in such a situation. Therefore, if I do not write about this now, this mistake of mine might have remained unknown outside those involved.

That day after returning home, I told my family about this unusual experience.
Then, a family member brought up a similar example and livened up our casual conversation.

The other day when riding the train with a large group of children, they presented a commuter pass and had six or seven punches made in it.
And when getting off, they had apparently inadvertently mixed in two or three tickets without punches and handed them over.
Thus, the punched tickets remained in their possession.
Unaware of this, when they carelessly presented their ticket upon boarding again, they were admonished with "This already has a punch hole," and reportedly found themselves in an extremely awkward situation.
The conductor at that time handled the matter purely as business, which was still manageable, but the person sitting next to them was oddly smirking, so the story goes.

In this case too, it was entirely due to the passenger's carelessness, leaving no grounds for argument against the conductor.

If the Electricity Bureau were to order and encourage strict enforcement of ticket punch inspections, then conductors carrying this out would be only natural.
And it would be equally natural for various situations to arise there depending on conductors' dispositions and passengers' types.

I harbored neither any inclination to blame dutiful conductors while overlooking my own lapse, nor any original thought of bringing complaints to the Electricity Bureau.

However, this trivial failure of mine might serve as a reference for others—at the very least, it could be instructive for those with bad habits like myself who fiddle with and enlarge ticket punch holes. At the same time, I believe it would also serve to inform the Electricity Bureau and conductors of the fact that there exist passengers with such troublesome habits.

Incidentally, while the edges of freshly punched ticket holes are sharply defined and angular, the periphery of those that have been rubbed and expanded becomes frayed, blurred, or curled, soiled somewhat by hand grime and greasy sweat. Still, in many cases they retain at least some vestige of their original form. Even if such rubbed traces exist and the size of the hole matches that of a new one, this would instead serve as evidence that the original hole had been punched by a different ticket punch.

I thought it might be good for the Electricity Bureau to collect such deformed punch hole "specimens" and show them to conductors for reference on some suitable occasion. Perhaps it might even be good to have them examine each hole through a magnifying glass one by one. If we were to take this one step further, I thought it might be good to investigate all possible cases of errors that could occur regarding train tickets. Apart from those arising from fraudulent motives, it wouldn’t be bad to research and enumerate just how many various other cases there are and instruct the conductors for their reference. Since these matters concern people’s "reputations," going to these lengths wouldn’t be unreasonable.

If both conductors and passengers could view matters in purely material terms, things would be simple, but when human emotions enter the equation, situations inevitably become complicated.

Unlike government offices that handle only material matters, the Electricity Bureau—dealing with entities like citizen-passengers who are not mere objects—had to consider passengers' emotions and even address the psychological effects its operations exerted on citizens, which must have made its duties quite troublesome.

Yet this was unavoidable.
Even if matters seemed trivial, depending on how it was conducted, inspecting train ticket holes might very well implant certain ideas into citizens' minds while removing others from within them.

For instance, what if every day when we rode the train, we were shown scenes like what I witnessed at Hibiya? Our sense of "beauty of emotions" would likely grow increasingly numb day by day.

I could not help feeling that centuries later, some careless historian imitating the Spring and Autumn Annals' judgmental style might count the Electricity Bureau among those responsible for leading Tokyo citizens into nihilistic thought.

Over a decade ago when I visited Helsingfors, the capital of Finland, I saw my guide take from their wallet a ticket shaped like a white copper coin and throw it into the conductor's box where no conductor stood.

Though trivial, I think this minor incident contributes to that vaguely beautiful and pleasant sensation still arising when I recall this country and capital.

Even when traveling through various nations, countries where one could retrieve used train tickets proved rare.
Thus I was able to collect tickets from trains ridden across countries as mementos to bring home.
Seizing this peculiar opportunity, I now think of crafting a collage-pasted folding screen with them to commemorate beautiful memories of "lands where people don't view others as thieves."

V. Good Deeds Day and Bad Deeds Day

One day while looking through the newspaper, a strange advertisement caught my eye.
"SALMON DAY" was printed in large letters.
Thinking it might be some kind of sermon, I looked closer and saw it wasn't "Sermon" but "Salmon Day."
A day for eating canned salmon—in other words, I judged it to be an advertisement for those very cans.
Then I realized it was connected to what was being called "Economy Day" observed that day.

Setting aside the relationship between salmon and thrift as a separate matter, the very characters of this "Economy Day" somehow gave me an odd sensation.
That feeling was of a kind not easily explained.
It was, in essence, a peculiar distillation of what I am about to write hereafter.

The act of designating a specific day within the year as "Economy Day" implied that on most other days prior, people either had not practiced thrift or had engaged in wasteful spending.
To give similar examples - this resembled cases where a student who was lazy all year round established one annual "Study Day," or where a man who usually did nothing but bad things occasionally instituted a "Good Deeds Day." While such efforts might appear genuinely commendable at first glance...

However, should there exist even the slightest possibility of a mindset that compensates for a hundred days of misdeeds with one day of good deeds while still expecting surplus credit on top, it would create an even greater predicament.
Is there really no cause for such concern at all?
While it may not be openly discussed, it seemed we could not say there were absolutely no people harboring such a mindset.

To prevent such occurrences, it was presumably with the aim of establishing a habit of continuing good deeds thereafter—using that special day as a starting point—that this "Economy Day" had been promoted and encouraged.
Otherwise, even just the printing costs for the advertising leaflets would instead have become wasteful expenditure.
The effectiveness of this Economy Day would likely not be known until some time had passed, but I could not help feeling that the very necessity of such a 'day' already guaranteed its failure.

Be that as it may, these various "Good Deeds Days" seemed to me to have been imported from the West quite recently.
I couldn’t say for certain without proper investigation, but they somehow gave the impression of having come from somewhere like America.
At the very least, there was a whiff of that.

Though I cannot claim deep knowledge of antiquity, even considering my own limited experience, I can't help feeling there were more occasions in former times that should have been termed "Bad Deeds Days" rather than these special "Good Deeds Days."

Country farmers who worked diligently all year would cast off their usual restraints during occasions like village shrine festivals, insect-repelling rituals, and Bon dances, becoming boisterous and idling about playfully.
In recent years, with villages now having cultural institutions like youth associations, such old practices were probably no longer seen.
In my hometown of old, on Tennchōsetsu days, they would hold a costume procession called "obake" in the municipal park.
This too became a day when earnest citizens would cast off restraints and act frivolously.
It seems the police had long since imposed restrictions on this.

Even the most frugal among the four classes of people established specific "Wasteful Days" during their annual cherry blossom viewings.
In a certain region’s frugal merchant family, where not only their servants but even the masters ate simple meals on weekdays, there are stories of them occasionally establishing "Luxury Days" when they would feast on delicacies.
However, it is said that this was a method entirely calculated through practical accounting.

The term "bureikō" remains in use, and in the West there exists what is called "April Fools’ Day."

Even in Britain—that bastion of common sense—there apparently remain rituals so absurd as to defy our comprehension. Yet it seems to me their value today lies not merely in preserving national heritage, but rather in serving as a "Day of Absurdity" essential for maintaining constant common sense.

While "Wasteful Day," "Liar’s Day," and "Sloth Day" may not sound particularly commendable, if their existence serves to declare the thrift, diligence, and earnestness of ordinary days, it is in fact a fortunate matter. And in such cases, the effects of implementing these "Days" are not necessarily entirely negative. Even in today's world, depending on circumstances, one cannot definitively say they do not surpass the various well-received Days of recent times. People today probably aren't doing nothing but bad deeds all year round.

There was a story that trying to abruptly stop someone standing on a dangerous cliff edge might instead prove perilous.
If a similar principle were to apply, then attempting to curb what had become excessively wasteful for just a single day might instead prove dangerous in some cases.
When you release a bow drawn back, the arrow flies forward.
However, whether this analogy applied in this situation remained unclear.

Even so, the term "Economy Day" still gave me a peculiar sensation.
If this had instead been "Wasteful Day," its meaning would conversely have been easier for me to grasp, and I felt I could better predict its effects.

People's minds were adrift on waves of tension and relaxation.
They vibrated between the positive and negative extremes.

Might it not be problematic to only encourage "Good Deeds Days"?
Might it not be an idea to at least establish "Bad Deeds Days" intermingled in parallel with these?
It appears that the rulers of old actually engaged in such practices.

However, it seemed my proposal would find no supporters after all.
The "Bad Deeds Days" I proposed were gradually being abolished.
Recently, even summer vacation—which should have been a "day of idleness" to nurture latent energy for gaining active study power—had come to be abolished to such an extent.
(Taisho 11 September 『Chuo Koron』)