Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Toyoshima Yoshio

A

This is the story of Ibn Saud—the extraordinary leader of Central Arabia who bore the trust of all Arabs, was regarded as Muhammad reborn, and has profoundly energized the pan-Islamic movement—when, over twenty years ago, he led a small band of loyal troops in a swift march across the deserts of Central Arabia.

At the time, Ibn Saud was thirty-three or thirty-four years old—in the prime of his vigor. He had mastered appearing and disappearing at will and never yielded, even when faced with danger multiple times.
When the powerful Aziman tribe was invading villages in all directions, he secretly gathered his troops, abruptly executed a forced march, pursued the Aziman tribe, and launched a surprise attack.

Just before dawn, the Aziman tribe, realizing the urgency of the situation, mounted a counterattack.
Ibn Saud was on foot, rifle in hand, leading his troops at the front when he took an enemy bullet to the groin from close range.
The bleeding was severe, and he could no longer remain on his feet.
Because of this, the entire army hesitated, and in that moment, the enemy managed to escape.

Ibn Saud’s army made camp there, but various rumors began circulating through their ranks.
Some said the Aziman tribe would launch a massive attack, while others claimed a newly arrived powerful tribe was coming to strike.
As for even more unfortunate rumors, it was said that Ibn Saud had lost his manhood to an enemy bullet, was no longer a man, and had become utterly useless—unable to command his forces, let alone be of any use.

This final rumor greatly shook the desert militiamen who relied on masculine strength.
Without their commander, they would be mere rabble.
Whispers arose that it would be better to return home, and desertions began.

Ibn Saud, lying in his tent, perceived the situation.
The groin wound was quite deep, and the pain was severe, but it was not fatal.
He had to act swiftly to calm his entire army and, above all, demonstrate that despite his injury, he remained a man.

He immediately summoned the village chief from a nearby settlement and ordered him to select one suitable virgin for marriage.
The order was easily carried out.

And that night, a grand wedding ceremony was held in the central tent of the encampment.
A lively celebratory feast was held.
Needless to say, it was the marriage between Ibn Saud and the selected virgin.

Through this single act, the entire army’s morale abruptly soared.
Not only Ibn Saud’s personal troops but also the tribal soldiers from various regions marveled, cheered, and rallied with vigor.
Indeed, Ibn Saud was a man among men.
The claim that he had lost his manhood and ceased to be a man was a lie.
Not only that—even while sustaining severe injuries, he was a superhuman who could splendidly fulfill a lover’s duties.
This admiration transformed into trust, and for this astonishing man—our commander—the entire army surged with valor, ready to sacrifice their lives without regret, follow him even to the desert's farthest reaches, and battle any foe.

And thus, Ibn Saud’s brilliant act proved spectacularly effective.—(From *Ibn Saud* by Armstrong, translated by Furuzawa Anjiro.)

At the time of this brilliant act, Ibn Saud was not, of course, single.
In his distant castle resided his beloved wife Jawhara.
It is said that the only woman he truly loved was Jawhara.
However, he married many women during his lifetime.
However, he never had more than four wives at the same time.
He was a devout Muslim believer and strictly observed the precepts established by the Prophet.
Muhammad stipulates as follows:

“You may take two, three, or four wives; there is no hindrance.”
“But you must not take more than that.”

Ibn Saud typically maintained three wives and often kept the fourth position vacant.
This fact alone would be deemed moral within the Arabian royal family.
And through this arrangement, Ibn Saud could execute his brilliant performance without transgressing any religious precepts.

The other day, in the backstreets of Shanghai’s concession area, as I sampled Islamic cuisine with several companions and the intoxication of aged wine began to spread, I found myself recalling Ibn Saud.

Islamic cuisine holds fascination.
First came several varieties of appetizers before finally reaching lamb meat.
At table center stood a brazier—its pot pierced through by a small chimney sustaining heat below.
The lamb had been thinly sliced and arrayed on fifteen-centimeter plates like fugu sashimi.
Diners took each piece with chopsticks to dip into roiling water from the pot—cooking it to their liking before eating with sauce.
This sauce’s seasoning proved extraordinarily complex—soy sauces，vinegars，miso，scallions，and spices numbering ten to fifteen varieties，all blended by each diner’s hand according to preference.

Plates of lamb meat were brought out one after another. The more one ate, the more impressive it was considered. They took pride in stacking empty plates high before themselves. If someone had a stomach so weak that they stopped after just one or two plates, they were met with contemptuous looks from the restaurant owner.—In the Arabian desert, weak royalty who could only have one wife would likely have been viewed by people with the same contemptuous eyes.

Now, what floated into my mind as I sat entranced in that Shanghai restaurant was not matters of stomachs, marriage, or religious precepts—that is to say, not customs and morals differing by latitude and longitude—but rather the single fact that Ibn Saud had proven himself a magnificent man through his brilliant act, thereby causing his soldiers to surge with valor. That could not be fully explained by mere masculine strength.—Could it have been a kind of desert mirage?

B

A passage roughly like the following, written by Mauriac, suddenly caught my eye.

“…Certain writers speak of selecting towns they know nothing about as settings for their novels and staying in hotels there just long enough to conceive their plots—but such things seem impossible for me. Even were I to settle in completely unfamiliar lands for extended periods, that would likely prove utterly useless. Only when I place events within spaces where I’ve always lived do they first come alive in my mind. I must track those characters’ movements from room to room. Though their features often stay indistinct—mere silhouettes—still I sense the musty air of corridors they pass through, and when they step through doorways at particular hours of day or night, there remains nothing I don’t know about what scents they catch or sounds they hear……”

In other words, what was necessary for conceiving a work was not so much visible knowledge about its characters as it was clear, experiential knowledge of the places they moved through—this was what he asserted.

Sentences written by authors could not be naively believed as they were.
Even in the passage quoted above from Mauriac, there might have lurked some ulterior motive of self-justification.
However, such matters were likely something many writers actually experienced.
If one were to search for models—even fragmentary ones—among various literary works, how many more things would be found regarding places in the broad sense (encompassing rooms, houses, streets, fields, rivers, seas, etc.) than regarding characters.

What is strange is our perception of places.

I recall having heard an interesting story.
On vaudeville stages, there used to frequently be performers demonstrating impromptu memory techniques.
They would let the audience freely assign items like "first: tobacco, second: beer, third: watch, fourth: knife..." and then immediately respond when prompted—for instance, answering "watch" without hesitation when given "third."
Now regarding that memorization method—items and numbers prove rather difficult to associate directly.
The easiest way to remember involves using clearly visualized houses along your route from home—the first house gets tobacco, the second beer...
With some practice, they say even you can improve surprisingly well.
——I no longer recall who told me this story.
That person has forgotten, but I distinctly remember the method—the houses.

Moreover，our daily paths—the streets from home to tram stops，transportation routes to workplaces，pub-crawling circuits for habitual drinkers，or corridors leading from inner rooms to bathrooms in spacious houses—when multiple possible routes exist yet one becomes fixed through circumstance，people will unfailingly retrace that same path without weariness—a habit stubbornly resistant to change.
They are no different from dogs.

Therefore...though it may be too much of a leap to say so—in Riladan's *Vera*, after the death of his beloved wife Vera, Count d’Athol kept her living quarters exactly as they were during her lifetime, continued their daily routines as when the two of them had lived together, and secluded himself there—until finally the entire room—the sofa, dresses, mantelpiece, jewels, perfumes, bed, vases, piano, sheet music, window drapes, and various other items—all came alive with the same atmosphere as during her lifetime. The emptiness at its center gradually solidified into her form until it reached a state where everything would be fulfilled were she to occupy that space. Yet this emptiness remained sustained until reaching its limit—and at the critical moment before collapse, this void identical to her suddenly caused her to manifest...

A place does not tolerate emptiness.
There can only be total collapse or the filling of emptiness.
——If we were to liken it to a hallucination: during prolonged absences, in that very void where one is missing from the room where one habitually sat day after day, wouldn't one's own figure be sitting motionless in that exact empty space?

C

Cats, by their very nature, constantly lick their own bodies.
Since they lick with those rough tongues, hair tends to be swallowed along with saliva, and sometimes that hair ends up lingering in their stomachs.
They then bite off short pieces of sharp-bladed grasses—such as pampas grass or miscanthus—and swallow them. When these irritate their stomachs, they naturally feel nauseated and expel the hair from their stomachs.
——If licking their fur counts as feline grooming, then their method of expelling the resulting hairballs—swallowing grass blades to tickle their stomachs—is a rather clumsy approach.

Once, there was a girl from a farm family in Saitama Prefecture who developed an unexplained stomach illness.
They took her to various doctors, yet no clear cause could be determined.
Finally, when a certain surgeon performed a gastrotomy for diagnostic purposes, they found a mass of hair tangled at the bottom of the stomach.
——Country girls often make a coquettish gesture by holding stray hairs between their lips momentarily.
This girl too had developed that habit, and it’s a strange tale indeed that she ended up having the stomach cut open after unknowingly swallowing a great deal of hair over time.

Now, a certain strict gentleman took in a young man from a provincial acquaintance at his home, but after about two months, he ended up expelling the youth.
The reason was that there was a slovenly maid in the house who occasionally dropped hairs into the food, but the young man ate them without concern; it was claimed that any youth who did not dislike women’s hairs must have a terribly lewd disposition. ——This tale is most unpleasant, and one might think that it is precisely that strict gentleman who devised such an interpretation who possesses a remarkably lecherous temperament—what say you?

D

This is an amusing anecdote, but speaking from sheer common sense—which of these do people find easiest to endure: pain, itchiness, or ticklish sensations?

The answer tends to be settled in advance.
It concludes that pain proves most endurable.
For pain possesses a certain solidity and clarity—a robust resistive force—allowing one to confront it directly and actively resist; at tension’s apex, it may even hold potential to transmute into something else.

In contrast, itchiness and ticklish sensations are somehow uncertain and slippery, making them difficult to resist actively and consequently hard to endure.
Emotionally, itchiness is vulgar, and ticklishness is indecent.

Now then, when considering whether itchiness or ticklishness is easier to endure, the answers vary.
It is no longer a matter of physical endurance but rather one of moral sensibility and personal taste.
If one were to attempt an imaginative experiment, the countenance of someone enduring an itch would bear something deserving of scorn, while the visage of someone suppressing a ticklish sensation would hold something warranting rejection.

Let us first settle this physically.
Now, if mental states are indeed part of physiology, then there exist minds enduring pain, minds enduring itchiness, and minds enduring ticklish sensations.

Furthermore, in paintings, sculptures, literary works, and other such creations, there exist those enduring any of pain, itchiness, or ticklishness.
I did some searching for such things.
I obtained extremely interesting results.
But let us refrain from enumerating them here.

E

Having reason to do so, while investigating folktales from various regions, I found quite a number of fascinating ones.
Shall I try selecting some slightly peculiar ones?
——This is one from France’s Berry region, a simplified version I have written.

“Have you returned from Barbary, Tartary, and Paris?”
“Did anything happen over there?”

“I saw a silver-feathered bird.”

“Does such a thing even exist?”

“Whether it’s a lie or the truth, go ask the man accompanying you.”

“Hey there, companion! Is it true what your master says about seeing a silver-feathered bird?”

“That’s not right. I saw a silver-winged bird—it must be about that one.”

“Have you returned from Barbary, Tartary, and Paris?”
“Did anything happen over there?”

“I saw a pond blazing with flames!”

“Does such a thing even exist?”

“——Whether it’s a lie or the truth, go ask the man accompanying you.”

“——Hey there, companion! Is it true what your master says about seeing a pond raging with flames?”

“——That’s not right. I saw carp with singed tails swimming—they must have been from that pond.”

This pattern continued at length.
Yet this was less a folktale and more a kind of folk song, sung-chanted in melodic narration.

Imagining such a scene—of a plump elderly woman in a sunlit garden, knitting or spinning a wheel while singing these tales to what must have been her grandchild—could at times prove an amusing diversion.

F

During the time when Miyamoto Musashi Masana had infiltrated the Kinoshita clan under an assumed identity as a foot soldier to investigate his sworn enemy Sasaki Kentōsai Kōryū’s movements, the summit of Himeji Castle’s five-story keep in Harima Province—stronghold of Kinoshita Wakasa-no-Kami—had enshrined since its construction by Hashiba Chikuzen no Kami Hideyoshi the spirit of Hyōbu-hime, daughter of Kōno Moronao. Due to certain circumstances, ascending it had been strictly prohibited, and thereafter none dared climb it, for legend held that any who did would incur Hyōbu Myōjin’s wrath and perish.

To witness this supernatural phenomenon, Miyamoto Musashi—acting on secret orders from house elder Kinoshita Shōgen—ascended the shadowy keep whose base spanned a thousand tatami mats: eight hundred on the second floor, six hundred on the third, four hundred on the fourth, and one hundred at the summit. At midnight, amid darkness where even lamplight had vanished, there materialized with crystalline clarity a woman of striking beauty—adorned in twelve-layered juni-hitoe robes and scarlet hakama, her face lightly powdered—who proclaimed herself Hyōbu Myōjin. Yet even Musashi’s peerless martial prowess proved insufficient to subdue her.

After several such attempts ended in failure, Musashi keenly felt his defeat until fervent contemplation brought sudden insight. Departing Himeji’s castle town for three ri, he journeyed to Mount Hokegatake seeking a branch from the famed Yakuōju tree.

There he unexpectedly encountered Chikamitsu Ryūfūken living in seclusion, who revealed that Himeji Keep’s monster was a black fox—said to transform from ordinary fox at three hundred years to white fox at five hundred—taught him its subjugation method, and bestowed a Yakuōju branch.

Elated, Musashi climbed again to Himeji Keep’s summit and stood ready. At midnight’s stroke, Hyōbu Myōjin’s form materialized once more, fixing him with a piercing glare.

Unperturbed, Musashi calmly grasped his Yakuōju branch while recalling Ryūfūken’s teaching: All beings attaining supernatural power manifest forms before you while keeping their true bodies behind. Avoiding fixation on Hyōbu-hime ahead, he quietly turned—to find something black crouching three ken behind him.

Now! With this realization, Musashi twisted his body while swinging down the Yakuōju branch with a kiai shout…

——This was, of course, not factual but rather a summary of a section from the Miyamoto Musashi Black Fox Subjugation kōdan.
While it was a kōdan, it proved remarkably entertaining.
What made it intriguing was simply this one fact: all who attain supernatural power manifest their illusory form before people yet always keep their true form behind them.
It was indeed just that single point alone; however, finding that too plain on its own, I added some flavor by emulating the kōdan’s general plot.
The secret of this single principle was not limited solely to supernatural beings who had acquired mystical powers.
Literary figures too often engaged in such tricks out of mischievous delight.
But that was merely a diversion; when it became habitual, the spirit warped and the heart dimmed.

However, in domains where victory and defeat are contested, black fox tactics had been established as a strategic method since the days of Sun Wu.
Naturally, they were always applied in warfare, and in Go and shogi as well.—That they came to be applied even to diplomacy—whose failing was this?—That they at times came to be applied to politics—an even sadder development—what failing did this represent?
Such politics would only bring about the result of causing the people’s wisdom to turn away from politics.

G

In 1931, two Parisian women who had spent the winter along the Mediterranean coast in southern France found themselves returning to Paris after Easter.
One of them, Madame D, decided to travel by car, while the other, Madame B, would take the train to visit relatives in Marseille.
However, Madame D had a beloved cat.
It was a beautiful, spirited and wild Siamese cat named Ayuthia.
This Ayuthia disliked automobiles but did not particularly mind trains.
Thus, Madame D entrusted it to Madame B.
In a sky-blue basket, she spread soft cotton, confined it inside, and made detailed requests.
Madame B received it and swore to treasure it as her own life.

However, Ayuthia had vanished.
When Madame B arrived at her relatives' house in Marseille and attempted to release Ayuthia from the basket—to her astonishment—there appeared no trace of the splendid Siamese cat; instead, a filthy gray stray cat lumbered forth.

It was an utterly baffling incident.
The sky-blue basket remained exactly as Madame D had entrusted it—unchanged in every particular.
Had someone along the way substituted an identical basket?
Or had they switched only the cat within?
Or could Ayuthia herself have transformed into a stray?
The mystery concluded without resolution.

——This story is entirely factual.
Because of this incident，Madame D came into conflict with Madame B，and Madame D engaged a lawyer to sue Madame B，demanding compensation for the loss of her beloved cat.
Even the records remain.

Though Madame D later reconsidered and withdrew the lawsuit, one cannot help but glimpse the compromised dignity of this Parisian noblewoman—protagonist of the Siamese cat affair—in her momentary fury that drove her to pursue legal action.

In Japan, it has long been told that cats disappear at death's threshold, never permitting humans to witness their corpses.
Yet in modern times, cats breathe their last peacefully upon tatami mats and futons while receiving human nursing care.
Have cats forfeited their mystical powers?
No—the truth lies in this: cats of yore, tormented by illness, would wander recklessly and plunge themselves into thickets and shadows, whereas their contemporary counterparts have likely come to place trust in civilized care instead.
This marks a regression in feline nature—regrettably—wrought by cultural advancement.

H

One summer, I spent about forty days at a certain reform school in Osaka Prefecture. My original purpose had been to become familiar with the lives of the youths there, but later my main work became compiling the life records of those who had once resided there. Now, the actual impressions I gained through daily life—engaging in intimate conversations, swimming completely naked together in the river water, and various other interactions—clashed so oddly with the knowledge I later acquired by examining records that at first, I found myself unable to place full confidence in either.

This is something that would be experienced in many instances.
The discrepancy between actual impressions and knowledge from records is a common occurrence.
However, if one were to reject both outright, one would end up gaining nothing.
The challenge lies in how to reconcile and harmonize these two.
Compared to this, the purity of the world of literature seems precious.
In the world of literature, actual impressions and investigative knowledge are unified and harmonized from the outset through creative sensibility.

But let us cease this verbose discussion of the matter.
In truth，I had intended to speak of something else.

The term "juvenile reform school" refers to what was formerly called a juvenile reformatory.
When one hears "reformatory," a certain image naturally comes to mind.
Yet the Osaka reform school I attended had facilities that differed completely from conventional notions of such institutions.
The most striking example of this difference lay in its physical layout.

This reform school occupied a site of over thirty acres stretching from the midslope to the foothills of a pine-covered mountain of red earth and gravel. Facing the street stood a single main gate, solitary in its presence; no gatekeeper resided there, its gates left open day and night—amounting to little more than two gateposts erected. With just that, the reform school didn’t even have a fence surrounding its grounds. On the flatland side, the reform school’s grounds were distinguished from neighboring properties only by the ridges of cultivated fields, with paths running level across them, while on the hillside, even the boundaries of the properties remained indistinct. The grounds were completely open on all sides.

Within such an institution, over two hundred youths labeled as delinquents by society studied, worked, and played about.
From the outside, visitors and merchants freely entered the residences within the institution, and there were even suspicious men who wandered in late at night.
However, aside from being occasionally taken out for mountain climbing or excursions, the students were strictly prohibited from unauthorized outings—not even a single step was permitted.

Under such circumstances, even though unauthorized outings had been strictly prohibited and despite the teachers and caretakers’ constant warnings, it would have been astonishing if none of the over two hundred so-called delinquent boys and girls had slipped out without permission.
And in reality, unauthorized outings often occurred.
They often occurred, but surprisingly—to an extent that even I found surprising—they were few.
According to the reform school’s official stance, only the activities conducted after going out were considered problematic; unauthorized outings themselves were not particularly feared.
In actuality, they were not as numerous as one might have feared.

If these had been ordinary boys and girls, even with unauthorized outings strictly prohibited, there would likely have been many who defied the ban.
Yet among the reform school students, such violations were surprisingly few.
There were specific individuals who repeatedly violated the prohibition, but generally speaking, it was extremely rare.
This might have been due to the effects of their usual disciplinary training and the influence of what might be called the reform school’s ethos, but in their unexpectedly obedient adherence to this prohibition, some perceived their own melancholy.
Under some pressure stemming from their past deeds—having fallen into a sort of resignation-like melancholy—and precisely because there had been little spirit of voluntary self-discipline here, some people felt pity for them.

But there may still be personal bias in these individuals' sentiments.

Our morals are largely based on geographical boundaries.
We may freely come and go into department stores yet hesitate to enter ordinary shops merely to look at goods, and cannot bring ourselves to enter houses left open out of curiosity.
From ordinary social obligations and moral codes to the very understanding of good and evil, one can discern a kind of geographical boundary.
This stands entirely apart from questions of ownership, pertaining rather to public roads and spaces.
Human morality possesses a kind of spiritual geography.
The reform school's so-called delinquent boys and girls too know this spiritual geography—and if they are melancholy, it is precisely through this knowledge that their melancholy arises.

I

In places where large crowds gather, it is fascinating that a special kind of discernment for distinguishing humans comes into play.
Though it is a chance gathering of strangers who have never seen or known each other, and though it is an assembly of people unaware of even the sound of each other's voices, there exists an eye that can discern at a glance—roughly—the age, occupation, social standing, and character of each individual within.
When faced with such discernment, there are remarkably few people who remain entirely inscrutable.

Most people possess such an eye.
They would include those engaged in security police affairs, those involved in politics, industry, or commerce, and indeed almost anyone one could name.
Geisha, restaurant waitresses, café and bar hostesses—of course—and even ordinary women and boys would likely be among them. The reason I listed these trivial matters one by one is that such people are also prone to become targets of this discernment.

Now, regarding this eye, I wish to consider not its owner, but rather its location.

This eye generally resides within what are called common sense and concepts.
That is to say, common-sense conceptual models have formed regarding human attributes such as age, occupation, social standing, and character, and it is likely that this 'eye' operates based on those models as its standard.

If one were to theoretically examine this 'eye,' one might arrive at what could be called the universality of literature.
However, when one relies solely on this 'eye' in practice, why is it that works descend into vulgarity and lose their artistic fragrance?
Why is it that a single glance from this 'eye' in a bar one evening captures the essence of humans more vividly than the tedious character descriptions found in popular novels?

Here too, let us cease our verbosity.
The destination reached is the problem of creation and phenomena, and the problem of truth and fiction.

When weary of literature, mingling among the masses and immersing oneself within them, raising a wineglass with an elated mood while paradoxically summoning this eye to peer into its depths—this too brought delight.

J

The prohibition against breaking off branches and leaves from trees in public gardens was entirely proper.
The prohibition against catching fish and birds in public ponds was also entirely proper.

But putting aside the gardens, there was something heartwarming about the sight of six- or seven-year-old children enjoying fishing in the ponds.
Seeing children dangling fishing lines from bamboo sticks and stirring the banks with hand nets to catch a few small fish and shrimp live in their buckets, anyone would likely forget about prohibitions for a while, stopping to gaze with a smile.

If one mindlessly watched such modest fishing by children, an illusion arose as though the murky pond water were purifying itself of its own accord.
Small fish and shrimp are also vibrant-scaled creatures; where such creatures dwell, the water becomes clear of its own accord.
—The ponds and moats within Tokyo city were all deep in mud and turbid in water, yet through vibrant-scaled creatures dwelling there, they at last found salvation.
For instance, Shinobazu Pond’s murky water gave the illusion of living purity not so much through the floating of rental boats or the lush growth of lotus leaves as through children scooping up a few small fish and shrimp.

For young children not yet of school age, it might sometimes be permissible to allow their modest and charming playful fishing in public ponds.
The true wrong lay in adults’ profit-driven poaching.

Shinobazu Pond teemed with long-armed shrimp.
If one set bait in an umbrella-sized net, gently sank it to the bottom, and lifted it after a few minutes, many shrimp would be swarming inside.
There had been a man who used these poached long-armed shrimp as substitutes for grass shrimp, incorporating them into okonomiyaki ingredients and selling them to customers—shouldn’t this be called the height of audacity?

The eels of Shinobazu Pond were particularly renowned among connoisseurs.
A river flowing from Tabata through Nedzu's lowlands into Shinobazu Pond—now converted into an underground culvert—had a sluice gate installed where its waters joined the pond, with a large manhole positioned there.
If one opened this manhole cover at night, ventured boldly inside, and set up nets at the sluice gate entrance, they could catch nearly a basketful of eels within hours.
This worked only during special circumstances like after rainfall, when the eels grew unusually active.
Many diners must have unknowingly consumed these brazenly poached eels at restaurants.
Yet they said these poachers never found happiness in the end.
Whatever happiness lay within manholes surely bore a demonic nature.

To speak of "noble persons"... though that phrasing feels inadequate—those who delight in the Way did not desire abundant harvests. They resembled children taking joy in two or three small fish. Shall we hear from those who practice angling?

In regions like Saku District of Shinshu, farmers raise carp in rice paddies. After transplanting seedlings, if they released young carp into the flooded fields, by autumn these fish would grow to fifteen or eighteen centimeters. When overwintered in ponds and returned to paddies the following year, they reached cooking size by that autumn's end. The farmers fed them dried silkworm pupae. Even these cultivated carp developed flavor equal to river-born specimens after swimming several weeks in clear, cool pond water. The paddies housing these second-year carp teemed so abundantly that walking along the embankments, one heard the fleeing fish school's watery commotion like tsunami waves.

When heavy rains or other causes broke the beams of water inlets or collapsed the embankments, these carp schooling in the rice paddies would often escape in large numbers into the river.
Anglers targeting carp became disheartened precisely when encountering such fish.
Being carp raised in carefree leisure within rice paddies and fed pupae, they would bite on bait without any caution and get hooked.
Catching such fish was considered disgraceful among anglers.
He would click his tongue and cease fishing.
Until the carp that had emerged from the rice paddies grew accustomed to river life and became sufficiently cunning, they refrained from fishing in that area.
The joy of fishing lies not merely in catching prey, true anglers would declare.

K

Go Seigen’s essay collection Mochou is a delightful work, within which is introduced a poem I have long cherished.

In ancient times, when Emperor Shun had reached the end of his years and departed this world, his remains buried atop Pearl Mound, the two consorts left behind clung to each other upon that mound and wept for three days and nights—until their tears ran dry and blood flowed in their stead.
That blood poured into the bamboo, forming mottled stains, and remains to this day as the renowned mottled bamboo.

The two consorts then retrieved the five-stringed zither that the emperor had cherished during his lifetime by the banks of the Xiang River, played a song of sorrow and resentment, and weeping, cast themselves into the lake waters to perish following their lord.

The song of sorrow and resentment from that time—

A single white cloud within green mountains
A single white cloud beyond green mountains
Within and without green mountains dwell white clouds
White clouds depart—green mountains remain

This had already transcended sorrow and resentment, attaining a lofty resigned acceptance within the bosom of eternal nature that possesses infinite compassion.

I came to love the profound beauty of this song and found inexpressible delight in becoming intimate with Go while humming its verses. This connection stemmed from the fact that Emperor Shun’s two consorts were daughters of Emperor Yao—who is said to have either originated the Way of Go or learned it from an immortal.

Now, when I visited Beijing and stood atop the Circular Mound Altar at the Temple of Heaven, the aforementioned song suddenly rose in my mind.

The Circular Mound Altar formed the core structure of the Temple of Heaven—this was where annually at winter solstice's predawn hour, the Son of Heaven would observe purification rites and worship the Supreme Deity of the Vast Heaven. Upon its platform, ancestral deity tablets were enshrined alongside this paramount divinity, with subordinate veneration given to various gods governing the sun, moon, stars, wind, clouds, thunder, and rain.

The altar was a vast circular structure adhering to the principle of Heaven’s circle and Earth’s square—three-tiered platforms encircled by white marble balustrades. At each tier, one ascended nine steps to emerge onto the platform, trod nine paving stones aligned with celestial numbers, and reached the central circular slab.

I conceived an extravagant fantasy: that if one were to lay a carpet over that central paving stone, set down a Go board, sit formally, and take up the stones in hand… Along with that fantasy, the song of white clouds and green mountains rose in my mind.

I told this story to Mr. Go Seigen, who was said to have spent his childhood in Beijing. Mr. Go nodded at my account and further remarked that the first move in Go at the Temple of Heaven should indeed be placed at the center point. These were truly the words of a master who had attained supreme artistry.

L

A Tale of a Certain Woman——

It was a wide paved street—newly opened, forming a gentle slope with rows of small houses on one side and the desolate precincts of a shrine on the other—a place with few passersby. One day around noon, she happened to pass through there.

Then, in a corner near the shrine, a shabbily dressed old man stood dejectedly. The thought—"That poor old beggar..."—flashed through her heart. With no one else around to witness him, this sentiment deepened further, merging with a tender state of mind. Without hesitation, she reached into her pocket and gave the old man a coin.

The old man humbly received the coin but kept gazing intently at her face. Then, as she tried to walk past, he drew near clinging to her and asked to see her palm.

Feeling slightly unsettled, she extended her left hand, but the old man requested her right one instead.
When she extended her right palm, the old man stared at it intently, tilted his head slightly and continued to examine it before declaring, "You've shown me something remarkable."

When she asked what he meant, the old man, without touching her hand, used his fingertip to indicate points on her palm. "Here and here..." he said, referring to the fleshy mounds at the bases of her thumb and little finger, "truly excellent lines are forming. This month remains somewhat blocked, but from next month onward, you will enter into truly good fortune..."

"Thank you," she said in gratitude, and with that parted from the old man—but...

If the old man’s figure had vanished unnoticed into the shrine precincts, this would take on a faint air of celestial legend; if that beggar had truly been an unparalleled master palmist, this would carry a slight flavor of heartwarming folktale; and if great fortune had indeed visited her from the following month onward, this would border on superstitious anecdote. Yet even setting all this aside—were it merely a palm reading offered in gratitude for a single coin—this tale would still weave its thread of warmth through human society.

M

Our Eastern intellect keenly perceives the confrontation between old and new.
And concerning this new and old, we find ourselves compelled to initiate renewed investigation and inquiry.

Concerning this matter, I came to form a particular image.
It was through books.
—I became engrossed in reading the complete Japanese translation of Sholem Asch’s magnum opus The Nazarene, published under the title The Eternal Man.
This novel goes without saying as the most noteworthy work among Christ biographies, but I have no intention of critiquing it here.
I shall confine myself solely to setting down in writing the aforementioned image derived from this work.

At the time of Christ’s emergence, the Jewish people were the sole monotheists surrounded on all sides by polytheistic pagans.
In nearby towns like Sidon and Tyre, they mercilessly exploited slaves while flourishing through metalworking and textile industries, worshipping various idols until their customs had become licentious and decadent.
Even in the Judean town of Gedera, various idol temples stood lined up.
Amidst this environment, the Jewish people worshipped Jehovah alone—a purely celestial deity who could assume no physical form—and maintained a sanctuary of austere simplicity within.
The Temple in the holy city of Jerusalem too, through donations from Jews across the world, displayed resplendent splendor with gold, silver, and other luxuries—yet bore no idolatrous decorations pertaining to God.

The Jewish people were politically subjugated under Roman governors and client kings, and religiously dominated by the priests of Jerusalem, groaning under multiple layers of harsh taxes. And their daily lives were constrained by strict moral laws. Amidst such lives, they believed in the words of various prophets of old, eagerly awaited the advent of the Messiah, and strained their ears to hear the voice in the wilderness that would herald his coming.

In their upper echelons existed a class of priests and teachers who were engaged in interpreting the Law and commandments.
And while the majority of their populace consisted of so-called pure people who strictly observed moral laws, beneath them existed those deemed impure.
These were people generally met with disgust and contempt—tax collectors, criminals, rebels, prostitutes, lepers, beggars, and others—who could not engage in ordinary social interaction.

It was into these circumstances that Shua—son of Joseph the carpenter of Nazareth—appeared as the Messiah.
He mainly spoke to poor people.
He also spoke to those deemed impure.
And everything he preached carried new significance, while his actions too held novelty.
The reason he actively approached poor people and so-called impure people was to demonstrate that through the depth of their troubles and remorse, they drew nearer to God.
The God Jehovah, who had primarily shown the face of wrath and punishment, through him began to reveal the aspect of compassionate mercy.
The messianic vision had transformed from dreams of national salvation toward global dominion—through this Messiah’s establishment of the “Son of Man” fate embodying human suffering—into aspirations shifting from mankind’s salvation to sovereignty over humanity.

He repeated many times: "Would anyone sew a new patch onto an old garment? Or put new wine into old wineskins?" These words were but parables. However, that he dined with the poor and so-called impure people, breaking bread without washing his hands, violated the ordinance requiring handwashing before meals—in this regard, he came into direct conflict with the priestly and scholarly classes. But as he would say: For those deep in faith, what enters through the mouth is purified, but it is what comes forth from the mouths of those lacking faith that defiles people. Herein he bypassed interpretations of laws and commandments to go directly before God. The novelty and innovation perceived in him lay precisely in having transcended the numerous old interpretations of laws and commandments to go directly before God.

It is precisely this image of old and new that I wish to present here.
I did not take up the subject of Christ.
I did not take up the God of Christianity either.
It was this newness—born from transcending countless old interpretations and returning directly to the divine—that I put forward as the answer.

In contemplating cultural ideals, these matters of old and new occupy my thoughts.
Truly pitiable is any culture lacking that divinity to which it ought to return.
The new sprouting therein must overthrow the old while remaining itself shallow-rooted, its full maturation scarcely foreseeable.
Moreover, such newness risks transforming into obsolescence by tomorrow's light.
I dare not proclaim there exists nothing new under heaven.
Yet this severe dictum demands rigorous scrutiny.

The notion that all things renew themselves daily must be understood in terms of development or decline, and through the theoretical rejection of absolute newness.
Yet at the same time, it is also necessary for this to be understood through fully considering the existence of the old that obstructs the new.
On the basis of such understanding, all things are renewed daily.
Yet we find ourselves in an age that cannot abide such leisurely progression.
If a certain literary renaissance is to be sought in the East, it must first commence by making a decisive return to the divinity inherent to the East—transcending the vast accumulation of olden things—and then elevate this beginning to a global scale.

What this specifically means is something I will not elaborate on here.
For now, I wish to intently contemplate the image of old and new obtained through the Christ figure in *The Eternal Man* and make it our own.

N

Through some happenstance—a trivial reason whose details I’ve now forgotten—I came to keep turtles.
In a corner of the garden—a space of about two tsubo where I installed low fencing and arranged a small pond—keeping large sea turtles had never been feasible from the start; there now remained only common varieties: some ten stone turtles and pond turtles at present.
As for those stone turtles and pond turtles, I had initially selected them after carefully examining individuals with beautiful, well-proportioned shells. However, through prolonged care, they gradually—though willfully—grew in uneven ways and became thoroughly soiled, turning into utterly ordinary creatures. In exchange, they grew quite tame; when I extended my hand, they would nibble at my fingertips to beg for food.
They grew accustomed not only to humans but even to cats.
There were two cats in the house: the jet-black mother cat no longer paid any attention to the turtles, but the pure white kitten would often enter the turtle enclosure and curiously tease them. Eventually they grew accustomed to each other, to the point that when given raw fish meat, the kitten and turtles would amicably eat from the same dish.

Watching turtles mindlessly was enjoyable.
As they bore those heavy shells—swimming through water or crawling across land—their slow movements showed not a trace of fretful impatience, exuding an extraordinary composure.
Yet when they basked motionless under direct sunlight to dry their shells—stretching their necks long to survey their surroundings before eventually withdrawing those necks and falling still—what manner of dreams might have been nurtured within those heated carapaces?
Even those who gazed at turtles gradually slipped into a drowsy state and sank into mysterious reveries.—The essence of such reveries proved remarkably elusive.
That is no longer worldly philosophy but transcendent wisdom.

In popular understanding, there appear to be three distinct perspectives on turtles.
Three parables symbolize this.

The First Parable—

It is found among Aesop’s fables and is world-famous as the race between the hare and the turtle.
In Japan too, it has assumed a uniquely perfected form and is commonly known.

The turtle was mocked by the hare for its slow pace and thus proposed a race.
The hare laughed and refused, but since the turtle insisted, they decided to hold a race.
The hare started running but, along the way, played and took naps.
The turtle continued walking slowly and steadily.
When the hare finally noticed and came rushing to the finish line, the turtle had already arrived there….

In my view—the turtle in this tale is either a stubborn egotist or a sage who sees through his opponent’s nature. In terms of outcome, diligence triumphs over laziness; yet whether the turtle truly embodies diligence remains questionable—it is simply being a turtle, plodding steadily onward.

The Second Parable—

This tale is said to be Chinese in origin but shares similarities with the German story of the hare and the hedgehog.

By the banks of a wide river, a turtle and a crow became friends.
Now, while the younger one must show respect to the elder, they had absolutely no idea which of them was older.
Then the turtle proposed that whoever reached the opposite bank of this river first would be considered the elder.
Of course, the crow would fly through the air while the turtle would swim through the water.
The crow laughed at such a competition, but since the turtle insisted, they finally decided to give it a try.
The two lined up on the shore, and at once—the crow took flight while the turtle began to swim.
The crow soon reached the opposite bank and called out, “Mr. Turtle, are you not there yet?”
Then, from nearby grass, the turtle popped its head out and said, “I’m already here!”
The crow was utterly astonished and declared they should try again.
They raced once more, but when the crow reached the opposite bank and cried, “Mr. Turtle, are you not there yet?”—the turtle again emerged from nearby grass and said, “I’m already here!”
Still astonished, the crow insisted they try one final time.
This time, when the crow had flown halfway across the river, it rested its wings there and called, “Mr. Turtle, are you not there yet?”
Then on both riverbanks, identical turtle heads appeared and simultaneously said, “I’m already here!”
When spotted by the crow, both turtles blinked their eyes, withdrew their necks, and furtively hid themselves in the water….

In my view—within this tale, the turtle emerges as a cunning creature, yet this cunning remains wrapped in a humorous tinge; that its audacious folly of underestimating its opponent stands so prominent may well stem from the virtue inherent in turtles themselves.
Viewed from the outcome, the stratagem was a failure; yet in the existence of two turtles so alike in others' eyes, this failure is redeemed.

The Third Parable—
While it is of Indian origin, its content shares common ground with Aesop’s tales of the turtle and hawk, as well as the fox and crow.

A turtle that lived in a small pond heard various fascinating travel tales from two storks that occasionally visited its waters and began yearning to fly through the sky himself. He persistently begged the storks until they brought a tree branch. Clamping onto its exact center with his mouth and hanging suspended, while each stork grasped one end of the branch with their beaks, they thus prepared for an aerial journey. “You must never open your mouth until we land on the ground,” the storks gravely cautioned. And so—clamped onto the branch between two storks—the turtle enjoyed a magnificent journey through the air.

However, when they approached a certain city, the large crowd noticed these unusual aerial travelers, causing a great commotion.
―“What a ridiculous turtle!”―“An absurd turtle!”―“The king of turtles!”―“Yes, the turtle king!”―The clamorous voices reached the turtle, and soon he realized they were all laughing at him.
The turtle finally lost all patience. He meant to shout back, “That’s right! I am the king of turtles! Why shouldn’t I be king?” But the moment he opened his mouth to utter that first declaration, he slipped from the tree branch, plummeted straight to the ground, and shattered his shell—everything—into smithereens…

In my view—the turtle in this tale may be a reckless ambitious creature who ultimately perished through impatience unbecoming of its kind, but that matters little; the sole truth lies in that heavy body dreaming of aerial travel.
That dream—fervently nurtured while drying its shell on rocks at the edge of a small pond—would endure even should its body perish.

My view may diverge slightly from conventional interpretations.
Could this too be because I love turtles?

When I quietly observe turtles, I myself begin to feel as though I’ve joined their ranks.
Turtles possess nothing whatsoever that repels people.
And I find myself wanting to keep all those not currently in my garden—at least every one dwelling in the Eastern regions.
Not only round turtles, mountain turtles, and softshell turtles, but I want to keep the large ones dwelling in the sea—red sea turtles and green sea turtles—and beautiful hawksbill turtles too.
Out of my love for turtles, the frames of the glasses I currently wear are made of tortoiseshell obtained from hawksbill turtle shells.

Softshell turtles alone are somewhat dangerous.
They are equipped with sharp teeth, and it is said that once they bite down, they will not release their grip unless thunder roars.
However, regarding this lord of softshell turtles, Japan has various interesting folktales.
Among these, I will roughly borrow here one written by Mr. Kunio Yanagita—

Long ago, in a village called Nakatsu located about one ri east of Ōgaki in Mino Province, there was an instance where they drained an old pond and caught an exceptionally large softshell turtle.
When that person shouldered it and went to sell it at a fishmonger in Ōgaki Town, as they were passing along the embankment of a large pond along the way, a loud voice from within the pond called out, “Hey! Where do you think you’re going?”
Then, from the basket on his back came the reply: “Off to Ōgaki today!”
Then from within the pond, the same voice asked, “When will you return?”
To this too came a reply from within the basket: “I won’t be staying long! I’ll be back first thing tomorrow!” he said in a booming voice.
The man was startled, thinking this must be what they called the lord of the pond, but deciding that showing weakness here would spell trouble, he ultimately went to the fishmonger and sold it.
And when he went to town again the next day and casually stopped by the fishmonger, the owner told him that the softshell turtle had been a fearsome creature—it had somehow escaped from a cage so sturdy that even a human couldn’t break it without a blade, vanishing without a trace.
This is said to be the tale of what was likely the lord of softshell turtles.

This story felt oddly plausible—not just for softshell turtles, but as something that could happen to any aged turtle.
The turtles in my garden couldn't speak, but when I brought them food, the large old stone turtle emitted a shrill, squeaky cry.
From its perspective, it might have believed itself to be speaking.

The feeling of loving turtles was a sentiment that connected to life's profound mysteries and transcended the mundane; furthermore, the affection one felt toward a turtle basking in the sun became a quiet nurturing of fervent dreams.
Could such words too be a foolish dream akin to that of a turtle?