Pathway to Japanese Literature

To literary figures came fluttering in all sorts of letters from unknown people.
There were those like stones hurled with vigor, and those like the fragrance of flowers carried on a gentle breeze.
They had varying effects depending on the state of the literary figure's own mind.
But whether to send a reply or not—that was his prerogative.
Since it was a letter received suddenly from a stranger, whether he ignored it or responded made no difference at all.
In most cases, they apparently did not write replies, but depending on the occasion, they sometimes wrote kind-hearted replies.

To the literary figure Yoshioka Shinichirou there arrived one day a letter written in beautiful handwriting.
He was nearing fifty years of age and had written many novels, but lately became vaguely aware of his waning vitality, could no longer write much, grew to detest not so much life itself as humanity at large, and ultimately even developed disgust for his own being, sinking into a desolate mood where he did nothing but drink.
The letter with beautiful handwriting that had suddenly arrived—he read it carelessly and cast it aside, but later, feeling something lingering in his heart, he slowly read it again.

As the summer heat lingers on without respite, may Respected Master Yoshioka be in good spirits and passing the days in tranquility?
In my presumption—not having considered my station nor propriety—how must you view this foolishness of impudently sending a letter such as this as impertinence?

Respected Master Yoshioka, whom I humbly believe to be the most exalted in this world—through gazing upon your photograph each dawn and dusk, there grew within this aimless heart, before I knew it alone, such notions as becoming one who might receive your words if only in dreams; this alone have I clung to deep within my breast as my fleeting purpose for living.

At life's threshold where I comprehend nothing, I have already lost sound health.
How utterly wretched this must be.
Unable to die yet unable to live—in this excruciating torment, I have secretly shed tears of blood.

How must I endure this shame and resignation—this utter worthlessness of my being that can bear neither the slightest physical burden nor the faintest anguish of the heart, as helpless as an insect, as incapable as a fool?
The more I became aware of my foolishly warped and shriveled wretched soul, the further I withdrew my being from the crowds of this world.

Living alone in the countryside, with no desire to mingle with others and shutting myself away, the loneliness pierces unbearably through one's very being; yet the vexation of engaging with society proves even more intolerable, driving me into such frenzied despair that I am seized by the impulse to cast myself into the bottomless abyss of emptiness.
Even when gazing at the moon, loving the wind that blows through the sky, and trying to distract my gloom with koto and shamisen, what can be done about this profound emptiness of a hollow heart that defies salvation?
Neither people nor nature will ever accept this warped and shriveled tiny soul.

No love, no talent, not even any purpose in living.

Even insects crawling in the dirt likely possess some awareness of being alive—so what meaning could there be for a foolish, incompetent human inferior to such insects to exist in this world?
Were I able to devote myself wholeheartedly to noble pursuits like literature or art—how joyous that would be, how my path might open before me—I indulge in these dreamlike, fleeting fantasies. Yet when I realize the foolishness of having no talent whatsoever, my heart is torn apart and crushed beneath searing shame and despair. All strength vanishes: the will to walk life's path, to face others, to do anything at all. My chest seethes with this agonizing, unbearable emptiness that leaves no place for me in this world.

Since teacher-student relationships exist in every path, I thought—if only through tearful entreaties I could have you, Respected Master Yoshioka, open my soul's eyes and save me—but whether such a thing could truly be possible for one like myself, who knows nothing and possesses no confidants, who foolishly agonized alone over these matters... in this way, long months and years passed in gloomy idleness.

To you, Respected Master Yoshioka, whom I humbly believe to be the most exalted in this world—casting aside all shame, audacity, and foolishness—I resolved to write this letter just once and lay bare before you this anguished, desperate resolve of mine.
Though clearer than fire itself was how you would furrow your brow in displeasure at these foolish ravings of a madwoman, I wrote this letter in a frantic state of mind.

Please save my pitiful, lonely, wretched soul. Please teach me about literature. Please teach me how to write novels. This is my lifelong entreaty. Please deign to heed this heartfelt wish of my pitiful small soul. Prostrating myself again and again, I humbly beseech you.

Suffocating from anguish, I can write no more. Please forgive my foolishness.

If I could but receive even a single line of reply from you—though that reply may plunge my heart into despair with its hopelessness—how gratefully and joyously I would think it.

So very, very tormented...
Please kindly forgive my rudeness.

To Respected Master Yoshioka, From Hayama Kimiko

There was something uncanny about it.
Such letters were not easily written.
The characters were beautifully written, and the prose was elegant, yet beneath lay something that could be called an almost eerie persistence.
That drove a single nail into Yoshioka Shinichirou's heart.
He took up the pen.

After a considerable interval, a letter arrived.
They began arriving one after another.

Autumn had come, with bush clover blooming in the fields.

May Respected Master Yoshioka be in good spirits? I humbly inquire.

The other day, driven by overwhelming emotion, I sent Respected Master Yoshioka a shamelessly incoherent letter, and in my terror of what might come of it, I kept my eyes tightly shut.

How—how could this truly be happening?
The god-like Master has deigned to send a letter to a fool such as myself.

I remain dumbfounded as though bewitched by a fox spirit, comprehending nothing at all.
Might I be dreaming?
I can believe none of it.
If this be a dream, I earnestly pray never to awaken—not until my dying breath.

How ought I to express my gratitude to you, Respected Master? Finding no adequate words, repeating 'today, today' in my thoughts, I have let the days slip by unnoticed.
I beg your most gracious forgiveness.

As I am a fool, I know not how to express such inane matters.
Were I to write nothing but trivial matters and send such a letter to you, Respected Master Yoshioka, you would surely scorn me as a worthless fool.
Being terrified of that, I cannot bring myself to say anything.

Right now, I feel nothing but—how unworthy!—joyous, blissful emotions filling my heart to bursting, as though I were dazedly wandering through a dream.
And somehow, I even feel as though it would be all right to die now.

I cannot make sense of anything I think, and feel this aching, aching urge that makes me want to weep.

Today it rained all day, a dreary, drizzling rain.
The day is already drawing to a close, and the hazy mountains look just like a painting.

"Yesterday I went to Himeji to search for the book *The Eternal One*, but it was nowhere to be found. If by chance it should be available in Tokyo—though I am terribly, terribly ashamed to ask—please obtain it and send it to me. I humbly beseech you. I humbly send 200 yen for the cost of the book. But perhaps it is insufficient. I will humbly send any insufficient portion immediately afterward."

I have done nothing but trouble you with all manner of trivial matters—how you must think me a fool.
Please kindly forgive my rudeness.

I humbly pray for your continued good health.

To Respected Master Yoshioka, From Hayama Kimiko

I am truly, truly grateful for the book.

I had been away in Suemoto for about ten days and returned yesterday.
During my absence, the book had arrived.
So happy, so happy—I hugged it and pressed it to my cheek.

I feel somehow exhausted and listless today, and have no inclination to do anything.

When I think of you, Respected Master, I find myself suddenly startled for no discernible reason, then overcome by feelings of anxiety, dread, loneliness, and helplessness.

I do not know what to do with my own foolishness.
And also, I cannot do anything about it.
Both my thoughts and reflections are nothing but trivial, trivial, foolish things.
I am a foolish imbecile, lower than an insect.

Your book, Respected Master—what a delightful story it must be.
I feel reluctant to read it quickly, as though it were some beautiful and delicious confection.
"I have not yet begun reading *The Eternal One* at all, but it somehow seems terribly difficult."
I wish to read both slowly.

I am truly, truly grateful.
Today I write only to express my thanks for your book.
I have done nothing but trouble you with trivial, foolish matters—you must surely think this displeasing.
Please kindly forgive my foolishness.

To Respected Master Yoshioka, From Hayama Kimiko

Yoshioka Shinichirou found himself gripped by an uncanny notion—that Hayama Kimiko had somehow drawn near to his very side even as her form grew faint in the distance, poised to vanish completely. Her approach must have been wrought by the affection palpable within her letters, he reasoned, while that gradual fading stemmed from the extreme self-deprecation permeating those same pages. This self-abasement comprised two elements: an exaltation deeming Yoshioka the world's most eminent man, and a denigration reducing herself to a foolish, worthless insect. These mutually opposed evaluations surpassed ordinary extremes, forming two sides of a single coin—a duality that never sat right with Yoshioka and at times even vexed him. From past experience he knew the affection women often bore literary figures resembled mere curiosity, hardly worth valuing. Yet Kimiko's self-deprecation held unique qualities. What manner of person was she? A physical invalid? Someone of excessive purity? Such speculations increasingly consumed him. Yet whenever he dwelled on these thoughts, though she felt immediately present, her essence remained ungraspable.

Yoshioka's heart was drawn toward her unbeknownst to himself.

I humbly thank you for your letter.

I feel as though my current self—the one who presumes to send letters to you—exists in a dreamlike state.

I have continued to regard you, Respected Master, as the most eminent person in this world.
But could I have ever even dreamed of becoming someone who might receive letters from you?
Even if I were to die now, it would be sufficient fulfillment.
I felt deeply that there had been worth in my being born into this world.
And yet, and yet—now I find myself compelled to feel ashamed of my very being before you, Respected Master.
I find myself infinitely ashamed of my own wretchedness before you, Respected Master.

How could I possibly muster the courage to speak of my own inner self—wretched and foolish like an insect—to you, Respected Master?
But, but—I no longer care what becomes of me.
Even if I fall to the depths of hell along with my shame, there is no help for it.
Please despise me.

I came fleeing to my current home all alone seven or eight years ago.
I failed in my marriage.

In the very midst of despair and hopelessness, I poured endless bitter tears upon myself.

Everything—all of it—was unjust and wrong.
I felt a bottomless terror toward life itself and, at the same time, gave up entirely on all of human existence.
Everything—all of it—is it not despicable foolishness that should be scorned?

The phantom of death had completely enveloped me.

Within it, I found myself poised to leap up and die at the slightest shock.
My mind was already shattered.
My body was already shattered.
I thought my life had completely ended.

I will become alone and die—become someone who isn’t violated by worthless things. I shouldered the unbearable pain of existence and fled in desperation to this house.

No matter what might happen, I will never step outside from here again—I no longer care what becomes of me. And so, days of utterly miserable, fiercely anguished existence passed by.

I have an elder brother. Though he now lives far away, that brother provided someone like me with a house, about eight tan of rice fields located some distance away, five tan of mountain land—all registered in my name—and gave me a small amount of money. But how can I possibly live on income from tenant farming alone? I continued to receive modest financial assistance from my brother. My shabby, pitifully poor life—wretched like an insect’s—continued without end.

During that time, whenever I had opportunities to come into contact with the world beyond myself—even if only slightly—my heart gradually underwent various changes.
But try as I might, I cannot comprehend the hearts of those living in this world—I simply cannot.
People all declare me naive about the world.
I too strove with all my might to live as others do.
But try as I might, it proved utterly impossible.
I do nothing but receive painful, unbearable wounds to my heart whenever I interact with people.

I was a woman born with a heart incapable of living in this world.

No matter how much time passes, I cannot rise to the surface of this world.
Whether this stems from my constitution weakened by illness, emotional wounds suffered long ago, or a psychological state warped and withered through years of misfortune—I do not know.

Yet beautiful hearts do not exist anywhere in this world.
No matter whom I speak with, our feelings never touch in the slightest—this unbearable pain and loneliness suffocates me.

And now I have exhausted all capacity for thought—this foolish, fragile heart of mine, like some wretched insect, has begun gradually detaching from this world to wander desolately through the cosmos alongside the wind.
I have no hope left whatsoever now.
What exists is only the pitch-black darkness of a bone-chilling abyss of solitude.
I can do nothing about this self of mine that grows ever more wretched and pitiful like an insect with each passing day.
For one such as I—bereft of the will to live courageously—what days could possibly lie ahead?

Starting next year... I think I shall reluctantly hire someone to haphazardly cultivate about five tan of rice fields.
Whether that can be done or not matters little.
When I stay still, I become so lonely I can hardly breathe.

I have been uttering nothing but trifling matters, and I am desperately afraid of having caused you, Respected Master, to feel displeasure.
I beg you to forgive my wretched inferiority.
Whatever may now become of me, there is no remedy.
Please do scorn me.

Respected Master Yoshioka — Kimiko

Thank you for your letter.

Respected Master, I beg you not to drink too much alcohol.
It must surely be harmful to your body.
I find myself unbearably anxious.

I wanted so desperately—so desperately—to write you letters, Respected Master, that I started writing them many, many times.
But I was so ashamed of myself and lacked the courage to say anything; my chest churned painfully, like water forced into whirling vortices.

The time when I think of you, Respected Master, is when I am happiest.

What follows is nothing but shameful matters.

My house measures about sixty tsubo—some two hundred square meters—I suppose.
It stood old and unsightly, of which I used perhaps half.
Then came an earthquake recently, and some three hundred roof tiles from the disused section slid away.
I knew nothing of it at the time.
No sound reached me—nothing at all.
Though I lack any capacity for living—being a fool who dwells on trifles—I must surely be receiving divine punishment.
Truly this will not do for one such as I.
I must build a firmer foundation for my existence.
From now on I shall gather my strength and resolve to manage all my affairs myself.
Yet still I drift aimlessly or find myself assailed by fathomless loneliness.
A cold, biting, desolate wind pierces through my breast.
This I cannot endure.

I often dream of Respected Master.
But somehow, I cannot clearly see your face.

If Respected Master were to declare that any place would suffice and graciously come even to someone like me—were such a thing to exist even in a dream—how overjoyed I would be.
But even I thinking such thoughts will surely incur divine punishment.

I have said nothing but foolish things.
Please forgive me.
The thought that I might lose Respected Master fills me with unspeakable dread.
That dread—when must I feel it so deeply in my heart?

I have said nothing but various rude things.
Please forgive me.

Respected Master Yoshioka — Kimiko

Yoshioka went to play at a mountain lake for about ten days.
Instead of visiting Kimiko himself, he wrote her a letter.
Though his heart strained intensely toward Kimiko, his body remained rooted.
There was something in her extreme self-abasement that repelled people.

Kimiko's circumstances had gradually come into focus, and her character did not appear particularly remarkable. She was imagined to be an intensely shy person with a pronounced sense of shame, deficient in practical living skills, leading a solitary and lonely existence. She seemed cultured nonetheless. While the handwriting in her letters was elegant, following the general pattern that women with beautiful penmanship often have plain features whereas those with poor handwriting tend to be comely, her appearance presumably fell short of beauty by that conventional measure. Yet strangely enough, Yoshioka found himself captivated by her and began thinking of her constantly. Conversely, her relentless self-deprecation—less like sentimental affectation than genuine vexation—made him frown in discomfort. This dichotomy effectively split Yoshioka asunder: physically immobilizing him from drawing near, while emotionally reeling him ever closer.

This feeling was a first for Yoshioka.
Receiving a letter with her characteristic tone was also a first for him.
He experienced a fascination he had never known before.
He, who had been sinking into a despondent state of mind, came to harbor affection for the Kimiko he had yet to truly know.

From Kimiko, letters arrived frequently.
It would be too cumbersome to present each of them here individually; therefore, let us extract only their most distinctive phrases.

The letter I received from your travels made me cry with joy as if in a dream.
While gazing blankly at the fields, I thought I wanted to vanish like mist.

――――

I woke up very early this morning and lay still, listening to the rain until daybreak.
As I was thinking about trivial matters, I became confused about myself again, and my chest filled with sadness.

――――

I have recently become a koto teacher in a small way.

Someone said that if I taught koto or shamisen, it might lift my spirits a bit, and arranged for five students for me.
I find myself feeling rather awkward and ill at ease about it all.

And then, I took the liberty of sending a box of pears through a shipping service.
They said it would take fourteen or fifteen days, and that they couldn't guarantee it would arrive intact—they gave such unreliable terms.
I grew sad.

――――

Respected Master, how did you spend your New Year?
My New Year has been empty.
I had no desire to go anywhere and spent my days sinking into vague reverie.

Respected Master’s letter has not arrived today either.
It is unbearably painful and heartrending.
I do not know what to do.
I cannot make sense of my own self or anything at all.
My head aches.
My chest aches.

I wrote a rude letter before.
Could it be that this has offended you, and so you no longer send me letters?
What am I to do?
Please reply to this letter.
I do not mind any sort of letter.

Is it that I must not dare to think of you, Respected Master?
Is it that even weeping in sorrow is comical?
I do not understand anything at all.
It is unbearably painful and heartrending.
This world is as tasteless as husks.

――――

I do not have the power to accept the rawness of the secular world directly into my heart and body.
Something as fleeting as mist or haze—there are times when I somehow feel myself becoming such a thing.

I feel inclined to dwell quietly within some intangible realm beyond this present world.

I find it dreadfully lonely and painful to the point of being unbearable.

The delicate crab-shaped clouds sway and are about to vanish.

Both dreams and reality seem to vanish.

――――

I think I would like to read some books now.
But I have not the slightest idea how I ought to read them.
If I were to merely recite them without understanding and fail to perceive anything at all, it would be better not to read.
How should one go about appreciating literature?
Respected Master, please teach me.

――――

I have become utterly wretched.
This was something I had known since last year.
I thought of trying various measures, but being a woman alone, nothing went as I wished, and it ended in a pitiful outcome.
My small paddy fields, being labeled as absentee-owned land, will now be purchased by the government and transferred into tenant farmers' hands.
I am unbearably angry.
If only they would let me keep such a meager amount—less than one chōbu—it would have been perfectly acceptable.

I desire money in abundance.
But how this might be obtained, I do not know.
Poverty is painful and hateful beyond endurance.
I desire money.
I desire money sufficient to live without want.
This constant wretched shabbiness grows hateful beyond endurance.

Respected Master, should this letter cause you to cease your correspondence, I implore you...
Please tell me so with but a single word.

Losing you, Respected Master—I cannot bear it, I cannot bear it.

Please tell me it matters not if the fields should vanish.
And please keep writing your gentle letters henceforth.

――――

Respected Master must have grown so very weary of me by now.
The fact that a worthless person like myself was able to send letters to you, Respected Master, even for a brief period—it must have been God showing this desperate heart of mine a fleeting vision of you.
I feel lonely and sad.

Tonight is an eerie night of rain and wind.
I am not the least bit sleepy.

Respected Master, I beg of you.
Please send me a letter once more.
Kindly write me one final letter that makes everything clear.

――――

Respected Master, that your work has reached completion—I too am immeasurably pleased.
What magnificent work you must have created.
That you, Respected Master, deign to write such splendid things brings me the greatest happiness.
The fact that one such as myself persists in sending these trifling letters must surely disturb your sentiments and impose upon you terribly.
I beg you to pardon my selfishness.

Will there ever come a time when I might have the honor of your visiting even someone like me?
Is such a thing not even conceivable in dreams?
If you were to think of me as a country maid living in the countryside and act as freely as you wish, how delighted I would be.

The other day, I sent you a small amount of rice and tobacco.
There is nothing here in the countryside.
Please forgive me.

――――

The day before yesterday I went to Himeji, and during my brief absence a burglar broke in and took all my kimonos.
I feel no semblance of being alive—I think I shall just die now.
When I think about it, my chest aches so that I cannot bring myself to eat.

I become unbearably lonely and sad.
Were I to die and leave anything behind, how happy I would be if you were to accept it—though this is truly an impertinent thing to say.

I beg of you to permit me to continue thinking of you, Respected Master.
That alone gives my heart a blissful dream-like state.

――――

I could bear it no longer—I wrote to you again.
Respected Master, could it be you would not even deign to declare your disgust with me?
I implore you.
Please tell me this with but a single word.
Quickly, quickly—without an instant’s delay—please allow me to hear it.
I must hear it this very moment.
How many days must I await your reply?
I cannot endure even one more day.
Not a minute—not a second—can I wait.
I beseech you.
Grant me clear words that say “This is how it stands.”
Bestow them upon me at once.

――――

My heart aches unbearably over your daughter’s illness.

How your heart must ache.
Weeping, I pray to the Buddha, offering up my life in exchange.
Please keep up your spirits and do not allow yourself to be defeated by illness or such things.
Long ago when fluid filled my pleura, when my fever reached forty degrees and I could no longer breathe—in that truly terrifying moment, I became so afraid of sinking into death’s pitch-dark depths that I struggled and prayed in my dreams to rise once more and walk beneath the sun’s light—and thus escaped death.

I know nothing of your daughter's condition and can only fret anxiously.

I am praying earnestly to the Buddha for your daughter’s full recovery.
I would not mind dying right this instant.
In return, I pray to the Buddha that your daughter’s illness may be healed even a single day sooner.

Your precious daughter—when I imagine your heart, Respected Master, my chest aches unbearably.
It is so sad and unbearable.

When Yoshioka Shinichirou's daughter died of illness, there came from Hayama Kimiko a brief condolence letter tending toward incoherence along with an incense offering.
Then abruptly, her letters ceased altogether.
There came no reply to the two or so letters Yoshioka had sent.
Yoshioka received the distinct impression that Kimiko too had vanished somewhere.

"That might be for the best," Yoshioka thought.
His feelings toward her were not as visceral as what one might call romantic love, yet in a certain sense they seemed to constitute an even deeper form of affection.
Precisely because it was something abstract and difficult to grasp as a tangible entity, it remained in his heart without any taint—clear and pure.
Or perhaps it had been a projection of her own heart.
She was simply resolute and pure, unmarred by physical corruption.
For him, she herself had been entirely those letters.
As some of those letters suggested, she had been like a vestige of a bygone era—and perhaps because of that, had been able to submerge herself completely within correspondence.

For him, she was a kind of transparently pure love.
At times it had irritated his heart, but now she was a somewhat faded, quiet, unforgettable flower.