Pathway to Japanese Literature

To nurture their single finger while losing their shoulders and back—unaware of this—makes them a wolf-afflicted person. ——Mencius——

I

On the screen, a documentary of South Sea islanders' lives was being shown. Narrow-eyed, thick-lipped, flat-nosed native women—merely wrapped in scraps of cloth around their waists—swayed their bare breasts as they busily picked at something to eat from plate-like objects placed before them. It seemed to be rice. A completely naked boy came running. He too hurriedly picked up the rice and put it into his mouth. His face, turned this way as he stuffed his mouth full while squinting as if dazzled, bore festering sores above the eyes and around the mouth. The boy turned away again and began to eat.

That vanished, and changed to a lively scene of a festival or something. Boom-boom-boom-boom—the sound of drums grew distant, then near, echoing through the air. The facing lines of men and women all at once began moving in time with it while shaking their hips. The intensity of the tropical sun blazing down on the sandy ground was vividly imagined through the whiteness of the screen’s light. The drums echoed. A rough chorus of male voices intermingled with it, growing audible. Hips swayed, and the cloth pieces wrapped around their waists rustled and swished. At the center of the elders positioned slightly apart from the dance, a man resembling a chief sat cross-legged. An emaciated old man with prominent cheekbones, his neck was adorned with several prayer bead-like ornaments. Perhaps aware of being filmed, he watched the dance with a strangely restless gaze, as though he had completely lost the self-assurance he once possessed in this savage land. Apart from occasional violent leaps, shouts, and forceful drumbeats that erupted as if suddenly remembered, he continued staring fixedly at the same monotonous dance with bleary eyes that never seemed to end.

As he watched, Sanzō felt a certain strange anxiety he had long forgotten stealthily creeping back upon him. It was long ago. In those days, whenever Sanzō encountered such things—when he read records of primitive barbarians’ lives or looked at photographs of them—he would wonder: Couldn’t he too have been born as one of them? Indeed, he had thought at the time. Couldn’t I too have been born as one of those barbarians? And couldn’t I have lived out my life beneath the blazing tropical sun without ever knowing materialism or Vimalakīrti or the Supreme Life Law—or even the history of humanity or the structure of the solar system? This way of thinking—about the uncertainty of fate—strangely unsettled Sanzō. "In the same way," he continued to think. "Couldn’t I too have been born as a higher form of existence—different from present-day humans? Whether beings dwelling on other planets, or entities invisible to our eyes, or those emerging on Earth after humanity’s extinction in a different era—couldn’t that have been possible? Who could say that such a thing would not have happened to me had what we call coincidence—that which we fear precisely because its true nature eludes us—only slightly altered its course? And if I had been born as such a being, I would have been able to see, hear, and conceive of all things that my present self can neither see, hear, nor even conceive of." To think this was unbearably terrifying for him. At the same time, it was unbearably irritating. In this world, there can exist things that I am fundamentally incapable of seeing, hearing, or conceiving—not through lack of experience, but by inherent limitation. The things I could have contemplated had I been a different being—I cannot even consider them now solely because I exist as I am. As he followed this line of thought—steeped in vague anxiety—the Sanzō of that time nevertheless felt something akin to humiliation.

On the screen, the earlier dance scene vanished and transformed into a jungle landscape. Long-armed and long-tailed jet-black monkeys leapt from branch to branch in great numbers. One of those monkeys suddenly stopped and looked this way; it had white rings around its eyes that made it appear to be wearing glasses. A bird with a beak that looked nearly two feet long let out an unpleasant cry as it took flight from the branch.

Sanzō’s thoughts returned once again to the “Uncertainty of Existence.” The first time he had felt this kind of anxiety was when he was still a middle school student. Just as when one begins to find characters strange—when one starts breaking them down into parts and questioning whether they’re correct until their necessity gradually fades—so too did everything around him grow increasingly uncertain the more attentively he observed it. Where was there any reason things must exist exactly as they do? They ought to have been something vastly different. And wasn’t what existed now actually the most grotesque among all possibilities? This feeling had constantly haunted him during those school years. Even when considering his own father—those eyes and that mouth (which struck him as particularly alien when isolated from other features)—there were frequent occasions when he would stare anew at his father’s face in astonishment: Why did this man possessing precisely those features need to be his father? Why must there exist this intimate bond between them? Why did it have to be exactly so? Couldn’t another man have filled that role? ……Toward everything around him, Sanzō felt this distrust permeating every aspect. Everything surrounding me—how utterly devoid of necessity! What a collection of contingent illusions this world assembles! He had thought of nothing but this with endless irritation. At times he couldn’t deny sensing everything verging on coherence. This amounted to an adolescent’s vague notion—that if all were coincidence from start to finish, perhaps that totality itself constituted necessity. Thus there were moments when an answer seemed granted. There were others when none came. But such instances proved far more frequent. His fledgling thoughts circled endlessly about “necessity” with vexing frustration before retreating again.

The film showed an old-fashioned paddle steamer making its way down a river with low banks. It must have been showing the group of white people who had completed their exploration of the savage land withdrawing. That too vanished, and when the final subtitles disappeared, the electric lights flared to life.

When he left the movie theater, Sanzō entered a nearby Western-style restaurant to have an early dinner.

When the waiter left after placing the meal on the table, Sanzō noticed a man eating alone two tables away. The man’s neck—he was showing his left profile—bore a grotesque reddish protrusion. So excessively large and glaringly prominent was it that at first he thought it might be an illusion, but upon closer inspection, there could be no doubt: this was a massive tumor. A glittering fist-sized mass of flesh swelled between collar and ear. In stark contrast to the dull reddish-black grime of the man’s profiled skin with its visible pores, it emitted a taut coppery-red sheen like freshly washed ripe tomato skin. This fleshy mass lodged between navy suit collar and cropped hair—a malicious entity trampling its host’s will—resembled some tenacious parasite that remained secretly awake and smirking even as its bearer slept. The sight made Sanzō think of spiteful gods from Greek tragedies. At such times, he could not help contemplating—with unfathomable discomfort—the narrowness (or absence) of human free will’s domain. "We’re born for some incomprehensible thing beyond our will," he thought. "We die for that same unknowable thing." "Every night we’re forced into sleep—that supremely mysterious state transcending our will—for some..." Suddenly and without connection, he recalled Emperor Vitellius’ tale: how the gluttonous ruler would lament his fullness, vomit through peculiar methods, then return to gorging anew. Why had this absurd story surfaced now?

On the white wall of the restaurant hung a large electric clock, its long yellow second hand rotating like an eerie living creature as it reflected the electric light. With a coldness that mercilessly carved away at life, it turned ceaselessly without pause. Below it, the middle-aged man with the tumor worked his mouth diligently, and it seemed as though the fleshy mass on his neck shifted slightly along with the motion.

Having completely lost his appetite, Sanzō stood up, leaving about half his meal uneaten. He headed back along the canal-side road toward Apaato. Lights began to come on in the houses and along the streets, but against the not yet fully darkened sky beyond, the silhouettes of Yamate’s heights—church spires and unconventional gabled roofs—were etched.

Appearing to be high tide, debris lapped against the bellies of the filthy boats moored along the bank. On the water, a deceptively cold light interwoven with shadows seemed to drift. Faint shadows rose up from there, rising and rising only to vanish soundlessly without a trace.

With the sensation of being pursued by a stalker whose presence he could perceive but who never revealed themselves, he walked alone along the riverbank.

Was it when he was in fourth grade of elementary school? An emaciated, consumptive-looking homeroom teacher with long hair had one day spoken about Earth's fate through some chance impetus. With malicious tenacity, that teacher had repeatedly explained to young Sanzō and his classmates how Earth would cool, humanity would go extinct, and how utterly meaningless our existence was. Even in later reflection, this had clearly been an injection of venom administered with sadistic intent to terrify young minds—without afterward providing any antidote or palliative. Sanzō had been terrified. He must have listened with pallid face. The Earth cooling and humanity perishing were endurable enough. But then came the assertion that even the sun would disappear afterward. The sun too would cool and vanish, leaving only black cold stars ceaselessly circling through pitch-dark space, unseen by anyone. Contemplating this became unbearable for him. Then what purpose do we have for living? Only through believing Earth and universe would continue unchanged even after my death could I find peace in dying as one human being. If things stand as the teacher says now, doesn't that render our very birth, humanity itself, even the universe—utterly meaningless? Truly—for what purpose was I born? Afterward for some time—the eleven-year-old Sanzō—had fallen into what seemed nervous prostration. To his father and older student relatives he earnestly posed questions about this matter. Yet they all laughed while theoretically granting its validity—didn't they broadly acknowledge it? Why didn't they fear this? How could they keep laughing about it? How could they feel secure saying such things wouldn't happen for five or ten thousand years?

Sanzō found it strange. For him, this was not merely a matter of his own life and death. It was a matter of trust in humanity and the universe. Therefore，even if it was tens of thousands of years away，he couldn’t bring himself to laugh. At that time，he was fond of a dog. When the Earth grew cold—if I were to encounter that moment—I would dig a hole in the ice-covered land and go inside with that dog to embrace it and die，or so he often imagined after climbing into bed. Then，strangely，the terror would vanish，and he could dimly yet warmly recall the dog’s endearing presence and its body warmth. But usually，at night after lying down，he would close his eyes tightly and imagine the meaningless，pitch-black，infinite flow of time after humanity’s disappearance．Unable to bear the terror，he would often let out a loud “Ah!” and leap up. For this，he would often be scolded by his father. At night，while walking along the train tracks，this terror would suddenly arise. Then，the sounds of trains that had been audible until now faded away，the stream of passersby vanished from his sight，and he began to feel as though he stood utterly alone at the center of a world pressed down by an oppressive silence. At that moment，the ground beneath his feet was not the usual flat earth，but the frozen，circular surface of a planet utterly devoid of life. The sickly，warped，neurasthenic eleven-year-old boy stood there frozen for some time，a cold sweat breaking out from genuine terror as he thought：Everyone will perish，everything will freeze，all is meaningless． In the midst of this，when he suddenly noticed，around him people were still coming and going，electric lights were blazing brightly，trains were moving，and automobiles were running． “Ah，thank goodness，”he would heave a sigh of relief． This was how it always went．

(Note 1)(Note 2) Just as foods that poisoned one in childhood become lifelong aversions, Sanzō wondered if this simple distrust toward humanity and our planet had taken up residence in his body—no longer as an abstract concept but as a physical sensation. Even now, in moments like waking from an afternoon nap in the humid air, he would be assailed by an irresistible, incomprehensible terror and a sense of futility. At such times, he could not help but recall the terror of his warped elementary school days. Even after the immature shell of concepts had been somewhat shed (or so it seemed) amidst life's complexities, only that old anxiety remained—isolated and lingering forever. In ancient times during Earth's Ice Age, the llamas of South America had possessed a certain refuge that stayed safe even when danger struck elsewhere. Though the nature of dangers confronting them had changed in this modern age and their former sanctuary had lost its purpose, today's llamas in the New World still invariably tried fleeing toward their ancestors' refuge whenever sensing death or peril. Sanzō's anxiety might too be such a vestige from bygone eras. Yet this utterly unmanageable, formless dread all too often threatened to become the oppressive bass note underlying his existence. Beneath all life's phenomena ran this invisible dark current, carving existence's path in every direction; to Sanzō it seemed like a sewer flowing beneath the city, emitting faint hollow reverberations through occasional cracks. Even when relatively healthy and intoxicated by physical sensations, even while leading this passive solitary life now, that faint undercurrent's resonance had always been audible as a Pascalian accompaniment emanating from nowhere. As long as its whispers persisted however faintly, all happiness and honor remained strictly circumscribed.

Truly, how hard he must have striven to avoid being conscious of this reverberation. How many times had he recited these hollow sermons to himself?

“Would we refuse to eat unless it’s the finest food? Would we refuse to wear anything but the finest clothes? If we aren’t so extravagant that we can’t bear to live unless it’s the finest planet, then couldn’t we still discover something good enough even among what we’ve been given now...” And so on.

Let me show you the path to simple optimism. What do you think of this idea—that even the disparity between geniuses and the talentless, the healthy and the frail, the wealthy and the poor cannot compare to the chasm between those who were born and those never granted life? And so on. Look at the splendid man who said that if one lives a completely splendid life in this world, God has an obligation to promise the next world...And so on.

“Who decided you must be happy?” “Everything begins with abandoning the will to happiness.” And so on.

How feeble must have been the voices with which Gide’s *The Fruits of the Earth* and Chesterton’s optimistic essays, among others, tried to persuade him. However, he had wanted to possess his own “evaluation of reality”—one not taught or imposed by others, but something he could genuinely accept from the depths of his heart. Having followed through twisted logic only to find himself needing to convince himself that *my existence is happiness indeed*—such happiness was no use at all.

Occasionally—very rarely—there were moments of joyful exaltation. There were times when he could genuinely believe it: life was perceived as a flash streaking through the pitch-black abyss of infinite time and space—a flash whose beauty and nobility only intensified the darker the surrounding darkness grew, the briefer its luminous moment became. However, his mercurial heart would plummet into bitter disillusionment the very next instant, invariably finding himself mired in a futility more wretched than ever before. In the end, even in the midst of such spiritual exaltation, he found himself striving to suppress even his present pleasant joy, wary of the bitter disillusionment that would follow.

Now, as he walked along the riverbank, the feeble common-sense self within Sanzō—a rare occurrence—was ridiculing and admonishing his own such absurd lack of common sense. “Don’t be ridiculous. Aren’t you too old to still be thinking about such trivial things? Aren’t there plenty of more significant, more immediate problems? What unrealistic, trivial, extravagant foolishness you’re indulging in. Isn’t this something people moved past ages ago—or rather, one of those matters so utterly absurd they don’t even deign to engage with it from the start? You should feel at least some shame.”

“Do people truly graduate from this problem?” retorted the other self within him.

"The general habit of disregarding from the outset problems with absolutely no prospect of resolution is an exceedingly convenient thing indeed." "Those who benefit from this convention are fortunate." "The truth is, most people never feel such absurd anxieties or doubts." "If that's so, then someone who constantly feels these things must be defective." "Should I hide this mental abnormality like a cripple concealing their lameness?" "But then—what exactly are these things we call normal and abnormal? Truth and falsehood?" "In the end, aren't they just statistical matters?" "No—such distinctions mean nothing." "What matters most to my temperament is this fact: that what one might call metaphysical anxiety takes precedence over all other issues however much others may ridicule me." "This alone admits no remedy." "So long as I remain unsettled on this point, all human phenomena hold only limited meaning for me." "And yet history's countless proposed answers only prove too clearly that resolving this doubt remains impossible." "Thus my soul's sole requirement for peace becomes 'the metaphysical abandonment of metaphysical bewilderment.'" "This I know all too well." "And still—there's no escaping it." "That I was born with this ravenous hunger for absurdities—and without a philosopher's dispassionate rigor—is precisely my one irreplaceable given." "In the end, each person must develop their innate qualities as they will." "To fret about being laughed at for childishness or make self-justifications to oneself—that's far more absurd." "If there are men who ruin themselves with women and drink, why shouldn't there be those destroyed by metaphysical greed?" "However few compared to woman-ruined lives—men certainly exist who stumble at epistemology's very threshold and find themselves paralyzed."

"Why are the former gladly made into literary material while the latter are never taken up in literature? Is it because they're abnormal? Yet doesn't that deviant Casanova command such a readership?"

Amidst his muddled self-justifications, he suddenly recalled Dürer’s engraving Melencolia—the despair of an angel sitting dazed amidst chaos. By now, the surroundings were dark, and even the silhouette of the Yamate church was indistinguishable. Beside him as he walked, a single Japanese-style boat silently overtook him from behind. The stern’s lantern trailed its reflection in the water as the boat glided smoothly under the bridge, turning left. As if lured by that motion, the thread of his thoughts too began to stray down an unexpected side path.

"After all, I have no path but martyrdom to my own foolishness." When everything has been said and thought through, people ultimately follow where their temperaments point them—utterly divorced from all those debates and contemplations." "And henceforth every effort will pour solely into justifying what that temperament has chosen." "If you think about it—aren't all philosophies through time just thinkers justifying themselves to their own temperaments?…"

(Note 1) This warped, pitiable boy was thereafter intensely tormented by two conflicting yearnings—a desire "to know all things (or first principles) completely" and an utterly opposite, peculiar wish that "as many things as possible (or their causes) remain beyond his comprehension." The former was something everyone possessed—in adult terms, the urge "to make oneself a god"—while the latter constituted its inverse: a powerful yearning born from fear of this world’s uncertainty and wretchedness, one that sought "to believe this world to be absolutely trustworthy and unshakable." "In a world where everything could be comprehended by a puny existence like myself," he thought, "living within it becomes unbearably unsettling." It was a desperate, all-renouncing fervent wish—born from the terror of small beings—that cried: "Let me entrust myself to some vast, unshakable existence whose outermost edges someone like myself could not even begin to comprehend." Yet despite these wishes, as he grew, he came to realize with terrifying clarity—first about his initial desire’s futility, then about his second, stronger yearning’s equal hopelessness—that neither the world nor human endeavors were as solid and steadfast as he had hoped. This remained equally true whether he substituted his elementary school teacher’s apocalyptic warnings with the phrase "Second Law of Thermodynamics," or whether—disregarding such crude scientific frameworks—he approached existence through entirely different lenses of evaluation. That is to say, the boy’s nihilism—forged solely in his mind—had now been compounded by a visceral sense of impermanence arising from direct observations of his surroundings. Just as the Persian king who wept while surveying his tens of thousands of troops at the thought that none would survive a century later, this boy now recognized in everything around him "the marks of finitude," his chest tightening with each revelation. Nor was this limited to objects. He felt most acutely a scorching sorrow and loneliness at how even the truest affections would vanish as fruitlessly as trivial things—a pain that seared his very being. ——(Years later, he would conversely come to feel a chilling cruelty freeze his heart—the realization that no matter how vile or ugly a thing might be, it possessed the same right to existence as any sublime entity, meeting its end no differently than beautiful things did—without receiving any unsightly recompense.)——

(Note 2) Strangely enough, during his elementary school years, he had become so preoccupied with notions like humanity’s collective extinction that he felt no direct fear regarding his own personal death. He came to feel this much later—when he entered middle school. After entering middle school—his body having grown noticeably weaker—he would lie in bed with lights out and think about “death”: not the abstract concept, but the imminent death sure to visit his sickly self (truly convinced then that his lifespan must be short), its direct reality. He imagined what his feelings would be at life’s final moment and, looking back from that instant, the sense of life’s brevity he would perceive (whether twenty years or two hundred, it would surely feel equally short). Ah, truly—how brief it must be—he must have thought not ostentatiously, but with profound sincerity and heartfelt helplessness. I, like worldly people, would spend my days until that final moment in frantic oblivion, utterly unaware of my place within the grand scheme, fretting over mundane affairs—(or rather, perhaps once or twice amidst the clamor, like a man pausing mid-stride to ponder, I might fleetingly glimpse my true position)—only to jolt awake for the first time upon reaching that last instant. He would jolt awake—and then what? …Merely imagining this aimlessly left him no strength for direct confrontation, and with the indolent ease of postponing spring cleaning day after day, he continued fearfully avoiding any reckoning. (And yet, he hated those who said things like “One who does not yet know life cannot know death.”) “One who does not yet know death— how could they know life?”—he considered there were indeed people born feeling this way. It resembled impatient readers who, when novels describe protagonists being bullied in pitiful episodes, skip ahead to flip through the final pages seeking conclusions; for such people, process and path meant nothing. Only the result mattered—but he too found himself stripping away all intervening contemplations and trials—utterly unable to endure such things. He lacked both courage to confront them head-on and perseverance to see them through—wanting only to hear the barest conclusion, the ultimate resolution. (To whom? To God?) “Are our souls truly immortal? Or do they perish with our bodies?” Even if told they were immortal, he didn’t think this would bring salvation—(or rather, his death-aversion seemed compounded not just by fear of annihilation but profound attachment to his current existence’s form, though he couldn’t clearly ascertain this)—regardless, the thought of this “I” disappearing proved unbearable; moreover, (secondarily) it struck him as profoundly wrong that all humans were made to endure such terror. “The horror of eternal life?” That was another matter entirely. We needn’t consider such things now. Besides—this was, so to speak, the luxury of a rich man vexed over spending his wealth—or so Sanzō had thought then.

II

The room key he fished out from his pocket felt chilling against his palm—such was the season that had settled in.

He entered the dark room, turned on the light, and first flung open the front-facing window to air it out. Then, after peering into the parrot’s cage hung in the corner to check for food, without changing his clothes, he lay face up on the bed, placed his hands beneath his head with palms pressed together, and flopped over.

Even though there was no reason he should be so tired, he felt utterly exhausted. What did I do all day today? I did not do a thing. He rose late in the morning, had his combined breakfast and lunch in the downstairs cafeteria, forced himself through about ten pages of a book he had no desire to read—clutching a dictionary all the while—and when weariness overtook him, recalled the need to write a condolence letter for the death of a relative’s child; he tried to compose it but found himself utterly incapable. In the end, he abandoned the letter, dashed outside, went into town to a movie theater, and then simply returned home. What a worthless day! And tomorrow? Tomorrow is Friday. It’s a workday. When he thought that, he felt somehow relieved instead—a realization that infuriated even him.

A mere poor scholar—too sluggish to adapt to the times, too timid to engage with others. By profession—a two-days-a-week natural history lecturer at a girls' school. He was neither particularly enthusiastic about his classes, nor could he be called especially lazy. Rather than teaching, he found interest in interacting with schoolgirls and feeling toward them what he called "compassionate contempt"—all while secretly considering whether to compile a geometric-style book of Cynical theorems and their corollaries regarding female students' conduct, modeled after Spinoza. (For example, Theorem 18. Female students are those who most abhor fairness. Proof. For they are those who love only the unfairness advantageous to themselves.) Ultimately, while this man tried to convince himself that the two days he spent at school held little importance in his life, lately he had come to realize—and was occasionally startled by—how this was not quite the case; how at times, it was not so much the school itself but rather the girls who occupied a considerable space within his existence.

In his second year after graduating from school, Sanzō—now completely free of dependents due to his father’s death—used the modest assets left to him at that time to design his subsequent life. How mawkishly sodden, how shamefully slovenly that pit—the one he had tried to snuggle into at the time according to that design—had been! The current Sanzō was infuriatingly, unbearably angry.

At that time, he considered two possible ways of living as paths available to himself. One was the so-called path of success in life—a way of living that involved striving to gain fame and status as one’s lifelong objective. Naturally, paths such as becoming a businessman or politician were out of the question—both given Sanzō’s inherent disposition and the type of scholarship he had pursued. Ultimately, it boiled down to acquiring honor in the academic world—but even so, this remained a way of living that sacrificed each day’s present for some future objective (one he might die without ever reaching). The other was a method of living that completely disregarded the pursuit of fame or professional success, seeking instead to make each day’s existence feel sufficiently fulfilled in its moment—yet this approach, blending a molderingly trite European-style hedonism with a certain sulky, Eastern literati-esque desolation, amounted to an extremely (now that he thought about it) mawkish and petty way of life.

Now, Sanzō chose the second way of life. Looking back now, what had compelled him to choose this was ultimately his physical frailty. His body—constantly afflicted by asthma, a weak stomach, and sinusitis—knowing its own lifespan would likely be short, must have shunned the hardships of the first path. His "cowardly self-respect"—incurable to this day—must also have been one factor that led him to choose this course. It was likely this disposition of his—intensely ashamed to appear among people yet never lagging behind others in self-esteem—that naturally rejected the first way of life, which might have exposed his lack of talent both to others and himself. In any case, Sanzō chose the second way of life. And now, two years later—how stood this life of his? What of the tedium of autumn nights in this sparsely adorned solitary dwelling? Even the gaudy-colored reproductions hung on the wall now repelled his gaze. Though his record box contained only Beethoven’s late quartets, he found no desire to play them now. The sea turtle shell brought back from Ogasawara no longer whispered of journeys. Against the wall, bookshelves held volumes of Voltaire and Montaigne—works far removed from his academic discipline—vainly lined up beneath a film of dust. Even feeding the parrot and yellow peach-faced lovebirds wearied him. Lay flopped over on the bed, Sanzō simply stared vacantly. Both body and mind felt as if their central axis had been yanked out. Had daily life’s emptiness hollowed a cavity within him? This differed entirely from that bottomless anxiety he had recalled earlier. He had become gutless, entering a paralytic state where neither anxiety nor pain could reach him.

Yet in the blurred corners of his consciousness, the atmosphere of tomorrow's schoolgirls surfaced brightly—as if this alone were the sole living element within his deathlike life. Were these girls—ugly, base, foolish when seen individually—truly the only living beings he could touch in his existence? How meager and hollow were the days he had meant to make abundant! Could humans ultimately not survive without something to obsess over, grow mad for, pursue? Did even he crave society after all—that society which applauds, loathes, envies, flatters? "For instance," he found himself compelled to think. For instance: when last week at school, the elderly Chinese classics teacher recited his new seven-character quatrain to colleagues in the staff room, I—raised in ancestral Confucianism—had playfully matched its rhyme on impulse. More than the verse's quality, it was the spectacle of a young natural history teacher from unrelated fields performing such a feat that left the old instructor agape; he praised me with kindhearted grand gestures—and at that moment, how my pride (which should have been imperious) was titillated by such paltry joy! Indeed, had he not been so gratified as to remember verbatim every laudatory phrase from that elder? Weininger claims women remember every compliment ever paid them through life—but this apparently isn't their exclusive province. Come to think, I've heard not one word of praise directed my way these past years and months. Had my starvation been for such trifles? Then why did you—you who so thirst to sate this petty vanity—choose this life estranged from society? I who believed existence could subsist on the Odyssey, Lucretius, Mao's Odes with Zheng's Commentary—nay, even that literal "small Latin and less Greek" I could scarce digest—what a self-deluded fool! Now belatedly Sanzō stood freshly astonished by this human—all too human—truth: that a void unfillable by Du Mu, César Franck or Spinoza could be instantly plugged by one compliment, one flattery (and that this held true even for a congenital book-befogged pedant like himself).

It's still too early to sleep. Moreover, even if I do go to bed, I'm certain I won't sleep for two or three hours as usual. Sanzō rose without purpose, sat on the edge of his bed, and stared vacantly around the room. A few days earlier, while rummaging through his desk drawer, he'd found a bag of sparklers mixed among paper scraps. Forgotten since summer's end, some still remained inside. He'd stuffed them back into the drawer then, but now suddenly remembered. He stood and pulled them out. Inspecting the sparklers, they didn't seem too damp. He switched off the lamp and struck a match. In darkness raced a thin, rigid beam of lackluster light—pine needles and autumn leaves blossomed then vanished instantly. Gunpowder stung his nostrils; his stagnant heart registered faint emotion at this off-season delicacy. A wretched, stunted, desolate emotion.

III

Inside the quiet natural history specimen room. Amidst specimens like an alligator and giant bat taxidermy, along with models such as a platypus, Sanzō sat alone reading a book. On the desk lay specimens and tools for the next mineralogy class in disarray. Alcohol lamps, mortars, crucibles, test tubes—pale bluish fluorite, olivine, white translucent barite and calcite, garnet displaying pristine isometric crystals, chalcopyrite with glittering crystalline faces... In the dimly lit room, light from the ceiling skylight fell upon these immaculate mineral formations, even illuminating the thin dust coating long-unused specimens. As he sat among these voiceless stones, observing their beautiful crystals and precise cleavages, he felt himself touching something coldly penetrating—a silent natural will, a natural wisdom. From the clamorous staff room, Sanzō would always retreat into this realm of cold stones and dead flora and fauna to lose himself in self-directed reading.

What he was reading now was a novel titled *The Burrow* by a man named Franz Kafka. Though it was called a novel, what a strange one it was! The protagonist called “I” was undoubtedly some sort of creature—a mole or a weasel—but this ultimately remained unclear until the end. This I, underground, strained every ounce of intelligence to construct his dwelling—a burrow. Every conceivable enemy and disaster was met with meticulous precautions to ensure safety, yet he still had to remain ever vigilant in his trepidation, fearing imperfections in his defenses. Above all, the terror of the vast “unknown” that surrounded me and my own helplessness when standing before it plunged me into a constant state of obsessive fear. “What threatened me wasn’t just enemies from without. There are enemies in the depths of the earth too. I have never seen these enemies, but legends speak of them, and I do believe in their existence. They are creatures that dwell deep within the earth. Not even legends can depict their form. Those creatures offered as their sacrifices perish almost without ever seeing them. They come. You hear the sounds of their claws (for those very claw sounds are their true form) in the earth beneath your very feet. And by that time, you are already lost. Just because you are in your own home doesn’t mean you can afford to feel secure. Rather, you might as well be in their dwelling.”

I am plunged into an almost fatalistic terror. A nightmare-like entity that assails fever patients hovers murkily through the terror and anxiety of the small creature dwelling in this burrow. This author did nothing but write such peculiar novels. As he read on, a feeling as though threatened by something unknowable in a dream inevitably clung to him.

At that moment came a knock at the door, and Mr. M from the office showed his face. Upon entering, he said “There was a letter for you,” setting an envelope on the desk. Given how far apart the office and specimen room were, he must have come looking for someone to talk to when he went out of his way to deliver it. He was a man past fifty—not thin but short—with features grotesque in the extreme. His nose stood red and strawberry-pored, jutting abruptly from his face’s center as if divorced from its other elements; above deeply-sunken acorn eyes lay thick black brows pressed too close against the lids. Around his thick, Negroid-style everted lips clung a goatee, while his dyed hair—though lacking bald patches—grew in uneven clumps like transplants from disparate scalps, its short strands coiling into Buddha-like tight curls.

Everyone in the staff room seemed to look down on this Mr. M. There was no one who didn’t smirk whenever his name was mentioned. Indeed, his conduct appeared dull-witted—even in speech he would proceed by uttering phrases like “Well… that’s… how it… is… I suppose…”, slowly enunciating each syllable as if verifying his own pronunciation before continuing. He had apparently been working at this school for twenty years, but was better known for having had several wives die or leave him during that time. Moreover, it was also widely known that he harbored another habit: regardless of whether they were staff or students, he would immediately grab the hand of any young woman he saw. It wasn’t that he bore any ill intent—it was generally believed he lacked the mental capacity for malice—but rather seemed unable to restrain himself from casually seizing their hands. No matter how many times people screamed at him, pinched him, or glared at him, he remained utterly unfazed—or if he did notice, he’d likely forget by next time. Some staff members laughed that it was a wonder he hadn’t been fired for it, supposing his grotesque face kept him safe. Perhaps because no one else would engage him, this Mr. M would latch onto Sanzō—who only appeared twice weekly—and persistently try to discuss all manner of things. “I study French,” he would say, though upon inquiry it seemed he had merely listened to an elementary radio lecture once or twice. Yet he wasn’t intentionally boasting—he genuinely believed this qualified as studying French. In such fashion did Mr. M claim to pursue German, Chinese poetry, and waka alike. While listening to these claims, Sanzō would sometimes detect something feral lurking behind Mr. M’s dull gaze. He sensed a desperation akin to cornered prey suddenly lashing out.

Even after handing over the letter, Mr. M showed no sign of leaving; he settled himself beneath the alligator specimen and began speaking in his usual slow manner. At some point in their exchange, the conversation shifted to his current wife—a woman twenty years his junior—and he began earnestly recounting details of her life before marrying him. Just as I was thinking This is a bit strange, Mr. M opened the furoshiki bundle (which I hadn’t noticed until then—he had come specifically to show it off) and took out a thick volume from inside, placing it on the desk. When he looked at the cover, he saw white paper pasted onto a pale purple silk background with *Nihon Meifu Den* (*Biography of Japanese Noblewomen*) written across it.

“My wife is featured in this,” Mr. M said very slowly, then grinned smugly with evident delight.

“?”

At first, Sanzō couldn’t make sense of it at all, but when he looked at the spot Mr. M had opened—where a birchwood bookmark that would delight a schoolgirl was inserted—he saw that indeed, the page was divided into upper and lower sections, with his wife’s name written in Gothic script across the top portion. Following this were listed her birthdate, birthplace, schools attended, and then—upon her marriage to Mr. M—her virtues as a devoted wife and her considerable contributions as a helpmeet were extolled… But then, oddly enough, the text abruptly shifted to a biography of Mr. M himself as “the husband,” lining up phrases resembling eulogies: his career history, gentle disposition, and how people regarded him as a saintly gentleman.

Finally, everything became clear to Sanzō. Mr. M had fallen victim to what appeared to be a fraudulent publishing scheme—in other words, they must have ensnared him in this utterly nonsensical ploy: flattering him with claims like “We wish to feature your wife in this so-called *Biography of Japanese Noblewomen*,” extracting substantial sums from gullible fools across the land to produce worthless books sold at exorbitant prices. Moreover, Mr. M showed no inkling of having been deceived and seemed to proudly parade this around to everyone he met. What’s more, this text was unmistakably penned by Mr. M himself.

When he turned to the front pages, there before him—lined up in rows—were figures like Murasaki Shikibu and Sei Shōnagon, each occupying half a page in the same format as Mrs. M. Sanzō raised his eyes and looked at Mr. M. Perhaps mistaking Sanzō’s dumbfounded expression for one of admiration, Mr. M twitched his nose with uncontainable delight. (When he laughed, his yellow teeth were bared, and along with that, his red nose—neither exaggeration nor metaphor—literally began to twitch and squirm.) Sanzō immediately averted his eyes. He found it unbearable. Comedy? Maybe so. But this—what an unbearable human comedy it was! A coelenterate comedy? Sanzō, averting his eyes from the small chameleon model on the shelf, vaguely thought such words.

IV

That night, when Sanzō passed through the noren curtain of an oden shop after being invited by Mr. M, it was—upon reflection—a truly peculiar incident. For one thing, it was the first Sanzō had heard that Mr. M drank alcohol; going out for drinks in particular seemed almost unimaginable, and to be invited by him was entirely unexpected. From Mr. M’s perspective—having grown close enough to Sanzō through discussing his wife in detail (he must have thought so)—he likely felt compelled to express some form of goodwill toward him. The joy of having been treated earnestly by someone else—even if only occasionally—must have driven this man, whom no one took seriously, to take such an outlandish step as inviting someone to an oden shop. Even Sanzō himself couldn’t comprehend why he had accepted Mr. M’s invitation. Due to his chronic asthma, he had nearly abstained from alcohol, and he had never had a serious conversation with an unfathomable character like Mr. M before. Therefore, his accompanying Mr. M that evening was perhaps not so much because he couldn’t refuse the man’s sluggish, eerie—yet persistent—invitation, but rather due to a malicious curiosity toward this man, provoked by the *Biography of Japanese Noblewomen*.

Without particularly urging Sanzō—who drank little—to have more, Mr. M kept pouring himself cup after cup alone, his red nose deepening to a greasy crimson while persistently baring yellow teeth in a grin. Then, in his customary muddled words, he resumed talking about his wife with slow deliberation. He went on recounting rather risqué anecdotes in a matter-of-fact tone, elaborating at length. Mr. M himself seemed unaware these stories were improper; he simply couldn’t stop himself from speaking and let the words flow unbidden. He claimed there were regrettable aspects about his current wife’s bedroom conduct, rambling incoherently before concluding with “It’s truly regrettable”—uttered with meticulous politeness as if discussing a stranger’s affairs. What possessed him to speak this way? Sanzō wondered, staring directly at the man’s face for some time, only to be met with an aimless, slippery smile that left him frustrated. When subjected to such talk—what posture to assume, what expression to wear—Sanzō grew utterly flustered and forcibly lifted his sake cup to mask his discomfort.

When he noticed, there on the pure white Seto porcelain plate before Sanzō—though when it had arrived, he couldn’t say—perched a single dragonfly of such eye-startlingly vivid emerald green, quietly moving its antennae. The splendor of its smoothly stretched wings. Under the stark white electric light, the green was so vivid it seemed to stain even the plate itself. While staring at the white and green, Sanzō continued listening to Mr. M’s stories about his wife for a while.

As he listened, the usual sense of absurdity he felt toward this man vanished, replaced by an eerie dread and a peculiar irritation—not anger directed at Mr. M himself, nor quite the frustration toward the absurdity of his current position—intermingling into a strange amalgam of emotions that struck him.

Unbeknownst to himself, Sanzō had apparently been drinking quite a bit, and for some time the other man’s words failed to register at all—but when he suddenly noticed something different in the manner of speech and looked up, Mr. M had already stopped talking about his wife and was now discussing “some other matter.” The reason it was called “some other matter” was that this topic differed entirely from Mr. M’s usual subjects—(though at first, Sanzō had no idea what he was talking about, gradually understanding as he listened)—and, to his astonishment, turned out to be a kind of abstract reflection, so to speak, a fragment of the man’s view of life. However, as always, his expressions were excessively inane, and his speech—ambiguous, sluggish, and endlessly repetitive—made comprehension exceedingly difficult. However, when he patiently discerned and extracted the meaning, converting it into ordinary language, the sentiments Mr. M had expressed at that time were roughly as follows.

“Life… is like climbing a spiral staircase,” “You gain a view of one landscape, then ascend another turn to find the same vista again.” “The first and second landscapes seem nearly identical—but ever so slightly, the view from higher up stretches farther.” “Those who’ve reached the second vantage point notice that faint difference—those still below can’t perceive it.” “Yet even those above believe everyone shares their exact view.” “After all—if you only listen to their words—there’s almost no difference between them.”—

Instead of saying "spiral staircase," he repeated expressions like "circling round and round as you climb"—you know, like when ascending a tall tower with steps—"going up in circles while gradually seeing more of the surrounding scenery," or "having handrails here and there," countless times over. Following this pattern with excruciating circumlocution, it took him about thirty minutes just to convey the meaning outlined earlier. Yet much like extracting scarce metal from ore, if one carefully discerned his words, they indeed amounted to precisely that meaning. It somehow seemed like something even Montaigne might have said, and Sanzō found himself looking back at Mr. M’s face with renewed interest—but Mr. M was no reader, so he couldn’t possibly have borrowed such ideas from books. This had to be his own reflection born from the plodding observations of his fifty-year lifetime. While looking at Mr. M’s face—which showed no trace of the wisdom that would suggest he could utter such words—Sanzō began to think as follows.

Everyone ridicules this man, but if we possess the patience to parse his sluggish expressions, thoughts equivalent to those he just voiced might always be found scattered throughout his words. Is it not simply that we lack the ability and persistence to discern them? Furthermore, if we thoroughly chew through those sluggish and convoluted words of his, might we not come to clearly grasp—even for ourselves—the inevitability of this man’s foolishness? That psychological necessity which demands, “Why must he always behave in ways others perceive as so utterly idiotic?” Once we reach that point, it will come to feel impossible—at least subjectively—to establish a hierarchy of value between the inevitability of Mr. M being Mr. M and the inevitability of us being us—or rather, between the inevitability of Goethe having had to be Goethe. Indeed, in his earlier remarks, Mr. M clearly positions himself as having reached the upper steps while dismissing us—who mock him—as “presumptuous fools on the lower steps laughing at those above.” Is considering the standards of our value judgments as absolute nothing more than our own self-conceit? (Extending this example of Mr. M through analogous reasoning) Similarly, if we possessed the ability to understand the language and other means of expression of beasts like dogs and cats, we too might come to physically comprehend the necessity of those animals’ lifestyles through our own being, and might not fail to discover that they possess wisdom and ideas far superior to our own. Is it not merely that we—for the simple reason that we are human—flatter ourselves into believing human wisdom to be the highest?……

When his drunken mind made thinking too tedious, he inevitably arrived at his usual refrain: "Ignoramus, ignorabimus." Sanzō, as if chased by something, frantically gulped down three or four cups in quick succession. The dragonfly had long since vanished somewhere. Mr. M also appeared thoroughly drunk; he had closed his eyes but still mumbled incoherently while leaning against the pillar behind him.

V

Hmph! Not even thirty yet—and what’s with this affected composure? What’s the point of putting on airs like Monsieur Belgeler or Abbé Jérôme Coignard now? If I were so vainly proud of my solitary, aloof life of spiritual indulgence—transcending the mundane world—I’d be nothing but a complete laughingstock. It’s just that I lack the ability to act—that I’m merely being left behind by the world. The lack of worldly ability does not, by any means, imply a lack of worldly desires. Despite being filled with vulgar desires—just because I lack the ability to attain them—putting on such airs of refinement is in poor taste. This cornered isolation isn’t the least bit heroically tragic.

And then, one more thing. The absence of worldly talent doesn't mean you possess talent in spiritual endeavors. Absolutely not. What people call a life of indulgence is fundamentally just the last respectable hideout for those utterly incapable of living. What? "Life is too long to do nothing, yet too short to accomplish anything?" What gives you the right to spout such pretentious nonsense. Whether it's too long or too short—you should at least try doing something before mouthing off. You don't understand a damn thing. You make no effort whatsoever, yet spew this pseudo-enlightened drivel—a thoroughly despicable habit. That's true arrogance right there. As for that "doubt about existence" you've nursed since childhood—absurd as it is—fine, I'll address it. Listen. Humans are built to comprehend nothing beyond concepts like time, space, and numbers. Which means we're designed to remain clueless about anything transcending those frameworks. That's why gods, the supernatural—their existence or non-existence—can't be proven theoretically. Same goes for you. Your mind harbors these doubts because it's structured to harbor them. Your mind—the human mind—is structured never to resolve them, so you never will. That's all there is to it. Pathetic.

Honestly, you should stop using such sweeping phrases as "what the world is" or "what life is." First of all—don't you feel even a little ashamed? A man with even a modicum of refined sensibilities would be too ashamed to utter such phrases. Moreover—and I know it’s poor form to immediately use such terminology, but since I’m explaining this to you, there’s no helping it—the world will never grow grander, deeper, or more beautiful through those sweeping overviews. Conversely, by deeply observing the details and actively engaging with them, the world is infinitely expanded. Without having mastered this secret, you have no right to act so insolently as a full-fledged pessimist. If you’ve matured even a little as a human being, you don’t go around despising every little thing about the secular world or its conventions. Rather, you should find the finest wisdom within them. Even the most mundane facts of life, when merely observed, may hold no wonder—but if you process them with certain modifications and handle them according to a fixed method, they can suddenly transform into something meaningful and intriguing. This is precisely why life’s conventions are necessary. Of course, becoming utterly absorbed in this alone is the height of folly, but to despair or scorn it at first glance is equally absurd. You know that thing called a perfect square in elementary algebra? An equation that would otherwise seem unsolvable can be completed in an instant with just that one method. In the same way, you should master the technique of adding (b/2a) squared to both sides of the equation—so to speak—when dealing with the given facts of life, thereby rendering them comprehensible and meaningful. Save your skepticism for after that—there’ll be plenty of it.

Anyway, let me repeat myself—I want you to stop that affected, pretentiously wise, insolent way of speaking. Truly, I’m more ashamed than you—so much that I want to crawl into a hole. Just the other day—look! What about that way you spoke when discussing marriage with your fellow single friends? What was it I said? Right, right. "No matter how fascinating a work may be, once you use it as a classroom text it instantly turns dull—just like how any fine woman becomes uninteresting the moment you make her your wife." Was that it? Remembering your shallow, sneering face when you uttered that so smugly—considering your age and experience—I’m beyond shame; it makes my skin crawl. Absolutely. There’s more. There’s still more to say. You’re an insufferable poseur, and what’s worse—you’re even a filthy lecherous bastard. I know it. That time I took two students to Seaside Park. When you all sat resting on the lawn, two or three laborer-type men nearby started swapping obscenities in deliberately loud voices. Your attitude and gaze then! Feigning ignorance while looking away—yet how lecherously you ogled those girls who couldn’t help overhearing (with sidelong glances no less)!

Good grief. Well, it's not that I particularly mean to scorn humanity's inborn instincts. Lechery? By all means. But if you're a lecher, then be a lecher—why not act lecherously with pride? What's unsightly is how you try hiding your lecherous nature behind pretentious poses and elaborate justifications. This isn't the only instance. In other situations too—why can't you behave more honestly and straightforwardly? When sad, cry; when frustrated, stamp your feet; when something strikes you as funny—no matter how vulgar—laugh with your mouth gaping wide. While claiming not to care about society's opinions, aren't you ultimately most obsessed with how your own gestures appear? Of course—since society pays you no mind whatsoever—this means you're just neurotically performing all these mannerisms for your own benefit. Truly, what an elaborate fool—a hopeless ham actor beyond redemption. You as a man...

When he came to his senses, Sanzō found himself clinging to a shop display window’s handrail, precariously supporting his body by pressing his forehead against the glass—apparently half-asleep. Squinting against the display window’s brightness, he saw it was a shop specializing in pearl products: necklaces, bracelets, and similar items. He must have parted with Mr. M outside the oden shop, then wandered aimlessly until unwittingly reaching Benten-dori—the port town’s distinctive shopping street catering primarily to foreigners. Looking back down the street revealed most shops closed and devoid of pedestrians, yet this one alone remained open for reasons unclear. Before him in the display case, pearls lay motionless upon glossy black velvet cushions, deeply drinking in the light. Under the electric lamps’ glow, each white orb rested arranged—some dulled to milky opacity, others tinged with faint azure shadows. Sanzō stared bleary-eyed at them through drink-clouded vision, his face slack with surprise. Then he stepped back from the window and wandered buoyantly through the deserted street—for a time forgetting both Mr. M and his earlier self-reproach.