Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Yasugi, who taught colonial policy at a private university’s law faculty, once attended a roundtable discussion for the university newspaper published by the school. After the discussion concluded and casual conversation continued for a while, just as they were about to adjourn, a student posed a question he had never encountered before.
It was after the topic had shifted from language in colonial contexts to writing styles when the discussion leapt from language to prose: Among the many articles currently published in Japanese newspapers and magazines, there seemed to be a marked neglect of punctuation marks—namely periods and commas. Was this acceptable, or were punctuation marks not particularly significant? That was the essence of the question.

Yasugi struggled to formulate a proper response and was offering vague remarks when the student pressed further: “I was born on the peninsula and consider myself reasonably fluent in Japanese—even pride myself on eloquence—yet whenever I attempt prose, it inevitably lacks gravitas.”
“This led me to conclude that true dignity in writing lies in mastering punctuation marks—a discipline I’ve cultivated with some success.”
“Yet even in works by esteemed authors, punctuation’s vital role—how each mark bears more significance than mere characters—appears woefully overlooked by all.”
“What does this signify…?”

In that case, Yasugi found himself increasingly unable to provide an immediate answer, but more than the issue itself, his attention was drawn to the fact that the student was born on the peninsula, and he observed the young man’s demeanor. Among the students born on the peninsula whom Yasugi had encountered thus far, many had angular-boned and sluggish-featured appearances, while very few possessed what might be called a fair-skinned and sharp-faced demeanor. The student before him now was one of those rare latter cases—and moreover, he even wore a somewhat vacant-looking smile.

In the shadow of that smile, Yasugi responded with a smile of his own and candidly replied that since he himself didn’t fully understand the issue of punctuation either, it might be better to consult a literary scholar.
From there, the conversation jumped to the question of why Western texts contained not only punctuation marks but many symbols carrying diverse meanings, whereas Japanese texts, Korean classical texts, and Classical Chinese had few such symbols—and topics such as how Yoshimura, an acquaintance of Yasugi’s who dabbled in both creative writing and translation, usually remarked that he found punctuation misprints far more bothersome than character typos were raised.
And from something like suggesting they hear Yoshimura’s opinion as well, Yasugi came to know the student’s name—Lee Yeong-tae—and looked at his face once more.

The name Lee Yeong-tae had existed within Yasugi's memory.
Several months earlier, while reviewing end-of-term exam papers on colonial policy, Yasugi had come across a particular page that caught his attention—Lee Yeong-tae's submission.
Generally speaking, among student exam answers, those short and messy were inferior while long and neat ones were excellent—yet strangely enough, the short ones tended to be messy and the long ones neat.
Lee Yeong-tae's paper, however, proved unusually short and neat.
The excellence of his penmanship could be accepted given his peninsula origins, but what stood out was how his essay—adorned with orderly punctuation—concisely addressed only essential points.
Confronted with this splendid penmanship and lucid style, Yasugi felt momentarily rescued from the gloom of exam grading.
When reporting scores to the academic affairs office later, he happened upon an acquainted clerk and casually inquired about Lee Yeong-tae's overall academic record.
All his subjects showed excellent marks.
The sole peculiarity lay in how few courses he completed each year—likely due to irregular exam attendance—so that despite normally graduating in three years, he'd already spent four years enrolled with three or four subjects still remaining.
"He's an odd student," the clerk had remarked.

Such memories resurfaced in Yasugi's mind.

The roundtable adjourned, and Yasugi declined a car to walk awhile. Since there seemed to be more to discuss with Lee Yeong-tae, they naturally ended up leaving together.
The other students and two teachers had left—perhaps because they had no interest in matters of prose, or perhaps out of deference to Lee who after maintaining silence throughout had now launched into an extended conversation with Yasugi, or perhaps because their paths diverged.
Yasugi and Lee walked slowly along the wide quiet streets from the Ogawamachi venue toward Ochanomizu Station’s East Exit, bodies slightly flushed with alcohol as they breathed in the night air.

The conversation drifted from matters of prose toward Yasugi’s curiosity.
A dialogue reminiscent of that between a long-familiar teacher and student ensued.

“You excel in every subject—why have you lingered at the university for five years?”
“Wouldn’t it be better to graduate sooner?”

Lee answered frankly, showing no suspicion at Yasugi’s knowledge of his situation.

“I want to study various things while I remain enrolled.”

“Are you attending many lectures?”

“Not lectures. I tried studying things like typesetting, editing, and proofreading.”

He spoke of how he had gone to help at a small printing office, assisted with editing a literary coterie magazine, and been allowed to proofread for an acquaintance. However, this last one was a failure. When something was uninteresting, he would grow weary of proofreading it, and when it was interesting, he would end up just reading through without proofreading.

“But you could do that even after graduating, couldn’t you?” said Yasugi.

“I could do that, but if I graduate from school, I won’t receive tuition.”

“Tuition… Then, are you receiving assistance from someone?”

“Since my father isn’t around, I receive it from my uncle.”

“If it’s your uncle, you could get help with living expenses even after graduating.”

“That won’t do. If I graduate, I must work—and if I have to work, I’ll have no time to study.”

“So, does your uncle not know that the faculty allows graduation in three years?”

“He knows.”

“And doesn’t he tell you to graduate sooner?”

“He probably hopes so. However, he also knows well that it’s better to study various things.”

“I don’t quite follow your reasoning. If your uncle has that much understanding, then wouldn’t it be better to graduate sooner…? At least the tuition would no longer be an issue.”

“However, if I graduate, I must work.”

“If you intend to stay enrolled, why not just focus on your studies?”

“That won’t do—it’s a matter of morality.”

“Morality… What sort of morality calls for this?”
“Staying enrolled indefinitely when you could graduate—isn’t that even more immoral toward your uncle?”

“It’s my own morality.”
“To graduate without working—that’s what’s immoral.”

“By your own logic, isn’t deliberately lingering at school immoral?”

“I don’t consider it immoral.”
“It’s for study.”
“Moreover, staying enrolled makes me more trusted.”

“Trust… What trust?”

“It’s society’s trust.”
“Even you, Professor, would trust me as a student.”
“Boarding houses, apartments, even printing offices—they all trust students.”
“If you graduate and don’t work, no matter how much you claim to be studying, they won’t trust you.”

“But trust isn’t about one’s status—it’s about the person themselves.”

“I think so.”
“Then I don’t understand your reasoning.”
“It’s that society doesn’t understand, I suppose.”

“That could be said, but…”

Yasugi fell silent. From something that seemed to make sense yet not quite, he felt he had distinctly touched upon one aspect of Lee. Lee’s reason for remaining enrolled—the reason for his deliberately prolonged enrollment—appeared to stem from two factors: his personal morality and strategic maneuvering in society. The former carried a whiff of self-deception, yet beneath it seemed to lurk something else entirely. In the latter, one could discern the anguish of someone from the peninsula, though this likely held true in a more general sense as well. And when considering both of these aspects, something terrifying seemed to surface within Lee’s character. Yet Yasugi could not yet grasp it clearly. Within Lee’s brisk and frank words, he sensed something akin to the force of his ideology. And averting his eyes from Lee’s face, he found himself drawn into a contemplative mood.

When they reached the east exit of Ochanomizu Station, Yasugi made to take his leave and board the train.
After those two or three steps, he was called to a stop by Lee.

“Professor, could you introduce me to Mr. Yoshimura?”

Yasugi had already forgotten about that matter.
He considered writing a letter of introduction but changed his mind; instead, leaning against the railing of Holy Bridge, he jotted a brief note on his business card and handed it to Lee.

Two

Lee Yeong-tae visited Yoshimura through Yasugi’s business card introduction.
He didn’t particularly bring up any issues related to literature or writing, engaging only in ordinary small talk—and moreover, mostly talking about Korea as Yoshimura asked—before leaving after about an hour.
It seemed he had merely observed Yoshimura’s presence out of vague curiosity.

After that, he would visit Yoshimura from time to time.
If Yoshimura was busy with work, Lee wouldn’t show any sign of displeasure and would simply smile and leave.
When there was free time, he would engage in small talk for about an hour before leaving.
And during their casual conversations, Yoshimura never failed to notice how he would voice clear assertions, gradually developing a sense of goodwill toward him.

It was perhaps about two months later when he brought several sheets of manuscript.
Yoshimura tried to read that short piece right there in front of him.

“I’ll leave it with you for now. Please read it later,” Lee said.

Those words, so uncharacteristic of Lee’s usual self, only served to pique Yoshimura’s curiosity.

The manuscript Lee had submitted was something between a novel and a short essay—uneven in its execution, with certain passages that felt questionable in their phrasing—but its general content was as follows. However, since creative intent took precedence over technique in presenting it here, what follows reflects how it might have turned out had Yoshimura edited it: the end result as he might have shaped it.

The title was "Oyaji."

“Oyaji” was the nickname given to him by those around him.
A man past forty, his hair still thick and coarse but sparse as if robust strands had been forcibly thinned, bore deep sagging in his narrow face—features that must have been handsome in youth—marking life’s turbidity, while only his eyes strangely retained vitality.
Though seasonally appropriate, his hat was thoroughly worn-out, his geta clogs ground down at the heels, his Meisen silk kimono frayed—yet his beard remained neatly shaven.

At his usual bar, when he was drinking while already drunk, a seventeen- or eighteen-year-old young man who appeared to be a shop clerk—neatly dressed and seemingly dutiful—came in and suddenly tried to pull him away.

“Wh-what… Died?!”

Though his voice alone registered shock, he kept his eyes fixed on the young man’s face, remained firmly seated, and did not release the cup from his hand.

The young man was insistent.

“That’s why we need to hurry now. We’ve been indebted to them all this time—they won’t refuse me.”
“Mom’s already there.”

“So… my preparations…”

“They’re all done at home….”
“Come on, Dad, let’s go.”

“Hmm… Guess it’s really over then.”

Still staring at the young man’s face, his own slackened immeasurably for an instant—as if every muscle had gone limp—then abruptly stiffened.

“Well, guess I’ll go then.”

With a pensive air, he nevertheless stood up immediately—without greeting anyone or settling the bill—and let himself be led away by the young man.

The act left everyone present astonished.
Who had died, or what relation the deceased held—such details mattered little to those gathered at this bar. But that he could have such a dutiful-seeming son—a fine son who called him “Dad”—was something none had anticipated.

As dusk fell and outside grew dark while houses brightened within—until the contrast between light and dark became palpable—that was when people would gather from nowhere in particular.
Even among the regulars who always came together, they knew neither where each other lived nor what lives they led—not even their names. In the hazy blend of alcohol fumes and cigarette smoke, only their facial features served as code.
That son of the young man didn’t quite fit his code.

--Could he really be his own flesh and blood?

Both in his facial features and the tone of his speech, he certainly seemed like a real son.

“Still, he had a kid damn early, I must say.”

Tilting his head, the sign painter exclaimed loudly as if deeply impressed, causing his vagrant companion to burst out laughing.

“There’s nothing funny about that.”

Overlapping the laughter, another regular—a man in a workman’s coat—began speaking in a confident tone.

“Sooner or later, everyone becomes a father once.”
“I’m a father too.”
“Though I’m only the father of a little one yet…”

The vagrant youth laughed again.

“Oyaji… Oyaji… So it’s Oyaji…”

Why Oyaji had suddenly become such a laughable figure was beyond anyone’s comprehension. Whether it was due to the twenty-sen-per-go cheap sake, the bat-shaped pipe smoke, or the tone of their words—in any case, it was some slight and subtle trigger. They became amused and grew merry. The man in the workman’s coat himself also began to laugh and offered a cup to the youth.

“Hey, kid. Drink up.”

“Pop, drink up.”

But by then, it was no longer about the man in the workman’s coat and the vagrant youth—in their and everyone’s minds, it had shifted to him and his son who were not there.

And so he became “Oyaji,” but due to strange circumstances, that nickname was further emphasized.

Among the regulars was a thirty-six- or thirty-seven-year-old bachelor.

He claimed to be a bachelor by principle, but in truth it was no real principle—a man cowardly in every aspect of life who had ruined himself through debauchery and drink.
He always wore an old-fashioned bird-hunting cap, so he came to be known as “Torīuchi.”

That "Torīuchi," once encountering "Oyaji" when their drunkenness had set in, offered a cup to "Oyaji" in an oddly polite manner.

“I never would have expected someone like you to have such a fine son.”
“You must be so fortunate indeed.”
“Please accept this one.”
“To your son and… the old man’s health…”

Oyaji’s eyes glinted sharply, but as though the reaction had struck a chord within him, he waved his hand excessively as if to brush it off and spoke with matching politeness.

“No, that’s… well… let’s not…”

Then he said abruptly.

“Let’s drop it.”

“Why?” Torīuchi demanded.

Oyaji’s demeanor at that moment was comical. Whether he meant to answer Torīuchi or was merely muttering to himself, he mumbled incoherently before abruptly rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand and fixing his gaze on the man.

“I’ll accept any cup offered. But I won’t accept any cup that brings up my son’s name. If it’s just about the old man, I’ll drink anytime, but…”

“This is absurd,” Torīuchi retorted, growing strangely impassioned.

“A father is only a father because he has a son, and a son is only a son because he has a father. A father without a son—that’s no proper state of being at all.”

“But there’s something.”

He shouted and grabbed Torīuchi’s arm.

“I will never bring my son into a place like this, among these drunkards.”
“I’ve sworn it in my heart.”
“Do you understand?”
“You do understand, don’t you?”
“Only I come here.”
“The other day there was a sudden death, so my son came…”
“Later I gave him a proper scolding.”
“He did apologize though…”
“He’s an honest young man.”
“And filial.”
“From now on I’ll never let him set foot here again.”
“Having lived this long, I’ve come to understand much about the world.”
“What’s terrifying is this thing called habit.”

At that, the group fell completely silent.
That only fueled his loquacity even more.
With the drunkard’s rapid speech and leaps of association, he pounded the table with such force it seemed about to break.

To summarize the subsequent discussion here—

The evils of society are nothing but habit.
Only habits drag people down bit by bit.
Things that are not habits are all fresh and hold some significance.
Of all habits, the most terrifying are drinking and smoking.
They can become constant, unceasing habits—habits that escalate into addiction.
Possessiveness, lust… theft and debauchery—these only become evils when they turn habitual; sporadic instances could almost be called blameless.
Even murder, when impulsive, is largely blameless in itself.
The reason romantic love is not an evil is that it cannot become a habit.
Romance and habit cannot coexist.
Therefore, romance will never become an evil.
However, debauchery easily becomes a habit.
Therefore, debauchery becomes an evil.
The most easily formed habit is drinking.
Therefore, drinking becomes a terrifying evil.

He drank while rambling on about these disjointed yet somehow coherent arguments and rambled on while drinking.

“I’m beyond saving.”
“Once a habit takes root like this, no matter how much you tell me to quit drinking, it’s impossible.”
“The folks at home understand that well enough.”
“That’s something to be grateful for.”
“I think it’s thanks to having had a child early.”
“It’s something to be grateful for.”
“But I don’t want my son to walk the same path.”
“That’s why it’s only me here.”
“Really, it’s only the old man.”

And the more heated Oyaji grew, the more mockingly Torīuchi—the bachelor—responded.

“In that case, why not go all the way—abandon that troublesome son and everything else, become a bachelor, and join our ranks?”
“Nice and easy, I tell ya.”

Oyaji didn’t answer, clamping his mouth shut as if doused with water and staring fixedly at the other man’s face.
Then, swaying unsteadily, he stood up, wove through the earthen floor between soot-darkened wooden tables, went toward the counter, and brought back an empty beer bottle.
His footing was unsteady as he staggered, but with a thud as he dropped back into his seat, he set the beer bottle upright on the table.

“I won’t argue.”
“This bottle is proof.”
“What I said isn’t wrong.”
“I will keep my oath.”
“I will keep my oath as a father.”
“When the time comes, this bottle will prove just how much strength I have.”

The onlookers wore faint smiles.
That was his usual habit.
When he became thoroughly drunk, he would take out an empty beer bottle on some impulse.

At some point, he had witnessed a fight between Koreans.
While the two were arguing, one of them stood up, and no sooner had he grabbed the empty beer bottle from the table than he struck it cleanly toward his opponent’s crown.
By some quirk of timing, the beer bottle remained intact while the man’s skull split cleanly in two, sending him collapsing to the floor—or so the story went.

“Here we go again.”

The vagrant youth in the corner muttered, then raised his voice.

“Hey Oyaji-san, I’m countin’ on ya.”
“Give us one proper strike—swift and clean.”

“Fine. If there’s a challenger, I’ll do it anytime.”
“That’s how a pro works.”

He truly hoisted the beer bottle, and while remaining seated in a defensive posture, struck it down with a swift, clean motion...
The moment a violent crash resounded, everyone leaped up.
The beer bottle slipped from his hand and shattered across the earthen floor.

More than Torīuchi beside him, he himself was even more astonished and sat there dumbfounded.

“A new invention!” shouted the vagrant youth.
“Never thought an empty beer bottle could act as a bomb.”
“C’mon Oyaji-san, give it another proper swing!”

Taking that as their cue, cups were extended toward Oyaji from all directions.
Oyaji had first turned pale, then bright red, and then—truly like an old man—proudly accepted those cups.

III

After a considerable interval, Lee came to visit Yoshimura.

"What did you think of that manuscript?"

Unlike his previous evasive manner, he abruptly posed the question.

Yoshimura formed a smile and, while mentally sifting through impressions of the "Oyaji" story, answered truthfully.

“It’s generally interesting, but feels too manufactured.”

“Oh, can you tell?”

“It’s conjecture.”
“For example, that part toward the end with the empty beer bottle.”

“That actually happened.”
“That may be true, but within that work, it seems to have turned into contrivances—or perhaps borrowed elements.”

“That’s right. Because I couldn’t bring it to a proper conclusion, I borrowed that part, you see.”

“You can’t let that get exposed in the work, you know.”

“Understood. And besides…”

“Besides… Well, there’s that Oyaji-san’s morality—or ideology, I suppose—the way it’s condensed into those parts…”

“Ah, that part—I slightly obscured my own ideology there.”

“Your ideology…”

“Yes.”

And according to Lee’s account, the bar was an embellished version of an oden shop he frequented now and then; he was acquainted with Oyaji and particularly on friendly terms with his son. Both father and son were typesetters at a certain large printing company, their relationship being exactly as described, and Lee held a particular interest in their circumstances, encouraging the son with such ideology. To put it bluntly, while it is ordinary for a father to guide his son, Lee found it rather amusing that here, it was the son who cared for his hopelessly alcoholic father, supported his drinking expenses through his own hardships, and in turn guided him with such an ideology.

“No matter what happens—even if there’s a massive earthquake, even if the son gets sent off to war—that alcoholic father and diligent son, both of them, wouldn’t they be saved through that?”

As Yoshimura gazed through cigarette smoke at Lee—whose words were frank and face beaming—he felt his own shallow reading of the “Oyaji” piece laid bare.
But something still didn’t sit right.

“Right, I understand your intent well.”
“But given that, why does the whole thing have such an antiquated feel?”

“That’s it. That’s something I don’t understand either.”

And he confessed that he had come to intensely dislike how he had dressed the typesetter father in a meisen kimono and portrayed the son—who shared the same profession—as a much younger, dutiful shopkeeper.

“So you were trying to write a novel, then?”

“That might be the case. Because you’re a novelist, Professor.”

And he wore a smile that could be called guileless.

Yet suddenly, he blurted out: “Since that manuscript is no longer needed, I’ll give it to you, Professor.”
“You can rewrite it and use it if you like.”
“In return—though this is something entirely different—please lend me thirty yen.”
“There’s an urgent need, and I’m in a bind, so please help me.”
“If you don’t have it on hand, please write a letter to the magazine company.”
“The spending—I’ll handle it…”

Yoshimura was utterly exasperated.

“Even if you make such sudden demands, you must know how poor I am.”

“I’m in a hurry, though…”

“Well, wait two or three days—I’ll think it over.”

With that, Lee left, but three days later he came again and pressed for the thirty yen.

Yoshimura, even more exasperated, told him to wait another two or three days and sent him home.

Three days later, Lee came again.
Yoshimura finally relented and, fortunately having that amount on hand, handed it over.
Lee spread a childlike joy across his face and went home.

After that, Lee did not show his face for about twenty days, but one evening he came energetically and insisted they go out to eat together.

“That thirty yen was incredibly helpful.
“Even if I repaid you—you’d just end up spending it anyway—so please let me treat you to dinner as thanks.
“Anywhere you prefer works fine—just nothing too pricey.”

Yoshimura had reached a point where he could hardly believe Lee’s sincerity anymore, but since Lee was so insistent in his invitation, he went out under the pretense of taking a walk.

As they walked, Lee spoke these words.
“That thirty yen—actually, I lent it to Oyaji’s son because he was struggling with both old and new drinking expenses for Oyaji.”
“But when I think about it, such ideologies cost money and are troublesome for poor people.”
“On the other hand, mere abstract ideologies without practical backing have no value whatsoever.”
“What’s needed is a practicable ideology that doesn’t cost money, but my problem is I can’t find one.”
“From all that, after much consideration, I’ve come to think that since I’ve already been in the university department for five years, I might as well graduate this year.”
“Staying enrolled is more convenient in many ways.”
“First of all, even you, Professor, only lent me thirty yen because I’m a university student—if I were out of school idling around, you probably wouldn’t have trusted me at all.”
“But even if I graduate, I can receive some support from my uncle, and I can start working to some extent myself.”
“Moreover, there are several seniors and friends who understand me—like the Professor and Oyaji’s son.”
“The landlady at my current apartment is also very kind to me.”
“With this, I’m reassured and can persevere.”
“And so on.”

“Professor, what do you think?”

Yoshimura, who had been giving light responses, was suddenly questioned and looked back into Lee’s earnest eyes.

“And what exactly do you plan to pursue from now on? Surely you don’t mean to take up literature?”

“I have no such intention. Similarly, I don’t plan to become a salaried worker either. That’s why I’m struggling—but things will work out naturally. I’ll consult you again when the time comes.”

The words carried an oddly lonesome resonance, leaving Yoshimura silently gazing upward. At the base of a broad slope, a half-moon hung faintly in the eastern sky tinged with dusk.

Yoshimura suddenly felt a surge of heartfelt affection welling up within him.

“Let’s go eat blowfish.”
“Then we’ll stop by that old man Oyaji’s bar.”

It seemed Lee had started to reply, but before he could, Yoshimura spotted an empty taxi passing by and hailed it.