Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Sakaguchi Ango Magichi’s ideology was called Regressionism. In an era when every tom, dick, and harry raised trite banners like existentialism and communism, Magichi’s creation of an unheard-of school dubbed Regressionism compelled one to declare: this was no ordinary rat. The name “Magichi” derived of course from his gluttony—a nickname meaning “Great Eater.” At five shaku four sun five bun (roughly five feet four inches) and fifteen kan (about one hundred twenty-four pounds), he appeared an utterly ordinary Japanese man with no striking features—yet through karmic misfortune housed a stomach ill-suited to lean times, demanding thrice an average man’s rations just to subsist. He was twenty-five that year. Now, regarding his occupation—this requires explanation.

He was conscripted as a student soldier at twenty and spent his time digging holes somewhere in Japan until the war ended. When he returned to his family home in Asakusa, he found it reduced to scorched wasteland. His only surviving mother had swiftly transformed into the wife of an oden stall operator. “Oh, it’s you.” “You came back unharmed.” “Everyone here died.”

Mother raised her face with an expression devoid of interest, paused her work for just a moment, and said only this. Magichi looked up and thought she was Mother. She wasn’t truly a mother in any maternal sense. She had a certain allure about her—wasn’t she actually quite a beauty?—he found himself idly thinking.

The new father and Mother got along remarkably well. They paid no heed to Magichi. However, out of some worldly obligation, they put him to work as an unpaid servant. Magichi admired the new father, thinking him splendid, but it was the new father and Mother who panicked. Though it remained unclear what training he had undergone during his soldiering days digging holes, Magichi’s appetite was monstrous. Since it was merchandise, they couldn’t hide it away. They couldn’t very well maintain constant surveillance day and night. Magichi would thrust his hands in without hesitation, and before anyone knew it, he’d devoured a massive portion.

If they sent him on food runs, he'd devour the purchased goods, or down five bowls of Chinese-style noodles followed by gnawing through ten ears of corn—all while believing himself to be exercising tremendous restraint.

“I really wanted tonkatsu, but that stuff’s too pricey.” “I showed real restraint there.” Such was the state of affairs. “You gluttonous brat.” “Try thinking about the damn times!” “There’s this thing called rationing—government and citizens bound as one—don’t you know a damn thing about the suffering since we lost the war?” “Damned fool!” “Oh.” “You’re spouting nonsense when you know better.” “Since we can’t survive on rations, you’re not doing so great even though this business keeps us going. Real inconsiderate of you.” “You’re making this whole arrangement feel rotten.”

There, New Father and Mother put their heads together and held a secret meeting. Even working him unpaid proved unprofitable. Chopping him into pieces and dumping him in the Sumida River wasn't feasible either. They did possess a razor-sharp kitchen knife, and while he resembled a horse in build, there was no danger of him kicking up a fuss like one—but the irksome reality remained: even after losing the war, prisons obstinately refused to disappear.

At that moment, New Father tapped his forehead and celebrated his new discovery. At the farmhouse in Saitama where New Father went to procure rice, there lived a simpleton of an only daughter—a veritable millstone around their necks. They were seeking a son-in-law, but these weren’t times of bride shortages—moreover, country bumpkins now gathered city-style serge suits and jumpers, swayed to Western tobacco smoke as they danced like dandies, paying no heed to half-baked imitations. New Father and Mother gave Magichi a stern ultimatum. If he refused this arrangement, they would disown him. Currently, in this democratic era, once one reached twenty years of age and became an independent person, they were neither parent nor child. As this was truly a valid argument, Magichi too came to a realization. The absence of social obligations and human emotions was truly splendid—bracing. Having been forged by war, Magichi could not possibly mistake the true beauty of human nature.

It was at this time that he came to profoundly embrace Regressionism, and thus did he become a son-in-law with the resolve of a soldier devoted to his divine mandate. It was a grand wedding. His bride possessed an amusing countenance reminiscent of Zhu Bajie. Her body was plump, slightly full-chested and wide-hipped, maintaining a consistency with her facial features that held its own charm. However, an unexpected obstacle lay in wait. Having been raised as a spoiled only daughter in the countryside, she had never brushed her teeth until the war ended. Ever since the war ended, after watching so-called "sex films," she was shocked to her core and abruptly learned to brush her teeth—but it was already too late. Every last tooth was decayed. Brushing her teeth stimulated the nerves and caused toothaches. Although it was painful, the bride’s resolve led her to endure it again and again. Once the son-in-law was settled, that was that. There was no need to suffer through brushing teeth.

Magichi was shocked. When the bride opened her mouth, even from a foot away, it was enough to make him feel faint. Even Regressionism had its limits—he engraved in his guts the impossibility of man forming bonds with the swine’s offspring.

There, using feigned illness to shut himself in a room, he poured out his erudition and wrote a farcical script. His erudition was not of learning but of upbringing. For he was Jinta’s boy—raised in Asakusa through thick and thin—and thus this stood as a dazzling burst of nostalgia.

Magichi visited the Tanuki Theater Troupe in Asakusa with the script tucked inside his coat, about two bushels of rice, and a full set of bedding loaded onto a cart. The two bushels of rice weren’t some commission. They were his own damn provisions. “Cut the crap! What’s so lacking that you’d ditch being a farmer’s son-in-law?” “You’re one unreliable piece of work, ain’tcha?” Manager and Literary Director Shinagawa Ippei roared.

“You don’t get it. I’m a Regressionist.” “Civilization’s true progress is decay.” “In other words, everyone’s bursting at the seams.” “Everyone becomes hybrids—right? Don’t you agree?” “Don’t you get it?” “In the end, everyone’s gotta become hybrids—isn’t that how it’s gotta be?” “The notion that Japanese or Malayan natives should strive to approach Europe—with all due respect—don’t you think that’s fundamentally mistaken?” “Europe drawing near to Japan and Malaya—that’s civilization.” “Because climbing up from below was never possible in the first place.” “There ain’t no way but to fall from top to bottom.” “So even I—resolved to become a farmer’s son-in-law—intended to descend, but this was a mistake.” “So I’ve gotta descend again.” “I’ll humble myself at the Tanuki Theater Troupe.” “Regressionism—it’s a desperate struggle!” “I’m begging you.”

“Cut the crap.” “I’m not messing around.” “I’ll do anything, I tell you.” “No pickiness—actor, stagehand, errand boy, whatever.” “That sort of thing? A little practice and I’d manage.” “Hell, I’ll even be your damned manservant.” “Just feed me and give me a bed—I’ll take whatever work.” “Want me to guard this shack’s fire?” “Look—I brought my own futon. Let me crash right on center stage and there’s zero hassle, yeah?”

“Hmm.”

With that, Shinagawa Ippei turned away, but through his mind’s eye, he had discerned Magichi’s extraordinary qualities. There exist performances only a true fool could execute. Yet such fools prove scarce in this world. Having been abandoned by his wife and burdened with menial tasks, Ippei resolved to exploit Magichi as a temporary manservant. But that even his vaunted mind’s eye failed to foresee Magichi’s bottomless stomach stood beyond remedy.

If only everything could have been settled through Regressionism—but that brief taste of success proved Magichi’s undoing.

If only everything could have been settled through Regressionism—but that momentary taste of success became Magichi's downfall.

He once took the stage as an actor and got a bit of a response. The title: Amateur Singing Contest. Magichi was tone-deaf. In the midst of his disarray, a shrill voice erupted from his crown, guttural groans seeped from his navel, and the voices of heaven and earth tangled together in writhing torment.

“Heere we go! Magichi! I’ve been waiting for this!” There had been times when voices called out to him like this, and Magichi had felt a thrill. Even being well-received was but a fleeting dream—the sorrow of an amateur with no lasting aftermath. Shinagawa Ippei too came to realize his mind’s eye had gone deranged.

“You’ve got no future as an actor, but I’ll put you to work as a stagehand’s lackey. But a gluttonous bastard like you can’t stay here. Find another hole to crawl into by today.” “That’s impossible!” “What’s impossible? You’re stuffing your face with a whole sho of rice when there’s no rationing system—I can’t sustain this. Get yourself to Ueno’s underground tunnels—regress already.” “That’s no good. There’s no rice just lying around in the underground tunnels, is there?”

“Your rations are your problem—deal with ’em yourself!” “How the hell would people know that?”

And so, he was driven out.

Indeed, Shinagawa Ippei’s argument was a sound one. Magichi was a man who never failed to admire sound arguments, and so he thought, “Indeed, this is utterly reasonable.” However, he couldn’t afford to simply admire, and so he went around pleading with each member of the troupe, “Hey, let me stay the night.” “No can do. Letting you stay ain’t a problem, but I can’t just keep you here forever.” “You’re shameless—you’ll swipe food to eat.” “That’s exactly why it won’t work.”

“If I get hungry, I might steal out of necessity, but it’s just one night, isn’t it?” “Even one night’s out of the question—your stomach’s a bottomless pit. Go try somewhere else.”

Actresses were out of the question for him. Having newly joined the troupe and approached each member one by one, only to be brusquely rebuffed without exception, there was no hope. He had long since sold off the handcart and drunk away the proceeds. Well then—sell the futon and drink that away too! Let the rest be fields or mountains. That night, he got drunk and slept outdoors. This society appears warm, yet is in fact a bitterly cold place. That, too, was due to Magichi’s disposition. He might borrow from others to drink, but as a shrewd operator who wouldn’t be borrowed from; even when lodging at Shinagawa Ippei’s apartment, he ate two to of rice all by himself; even when selling the handcart, he enjoyed it alone, never treating anyone else. This was Magichi’s innate disposition, but in this society, most people shared the same disposition; even if Magichi glared at them thinking *The bastards must have money today* and followed them to the bar, they would only drink and eat by themselves, giving nothing to Magichi. They were all such noble samurai—truly, they uniformly refused—and Magichi couldn’t help but secretly admire them.

Magichi was not a man who feared living in underground tunnels. In those days there were underground tunnels and spaces beneath temple eaves—no shortage of places to sleep—but the stomach could not be satisfied with that.

The next day, rising from his night outdoors, he drank water and made his way to the hut, where—choosing women over men—he visited each actress one by one to receive pinched-off portions of their boxed meals. To underestimate women is a grave error. “What nonsense are you spouting? You good-for-nothing oaf!” In the end, he was made to sit cross-legged by the senior actress and subjected to a tongue-lashing. Only two punks grudgingly gave him scraps of bread.

Due to an old habit, he was going to the senior actresses' rooms and looking for openings. Because the male actors were stingy bastards who'd suck their cigarettes down to the very end in their pipes. After all, women didn't use things like pipes. He would wait for them to discard their cigarette butts and then pick them up. Merely picking them up would have been acceptable, but he'd snatch them away before they were even discarded. In the past, they would say things like "I'll give you one," but these days there wasn't a single soul who offered such kind words. When they saw Magichi, they would tell the apprentice actress,

“Magichi’s here. The cigarettes! The boxed meals! And the frog-mouth pouches—make sure you lock everything up tight,” she said.

“Cut it out. Don’t get so high and mighty. I don’t wanna be doing this either, y’know? But...” He spread his hands in a theatrical shrug. “These hard times make you lot my targets. Makes sense, no? With your waitress gigs and pan-pan side hustles—women got ways to scrape by. Men? Not a chance.” A twisted grin split his face. “This is your world now—that’s why I’m buttering you up! You oughta feel honored.”

“What nonsense are you spouting? A man without grit is just male trash! You half-wit!” With such words flying about, there was no managing him. He was a man everyone looked up to. He could have managed some semblance of livelihood in this society had he swiftly solidified his regressionist formation—but then came that single “Yoo-hoo! Been waiting for this!” moment when they called out to him just once, and now he was living it up like a star actor, drowning in debts with no way out. There was no salvaging this.

Magichi surrendered to hunger. Theft and murder too were strategies of Regressionism—measures one couldn't refuse to take—yet he thought it reasonable to first attempt honorable methods. He, already reduced to a stagehand’s errand boy and thus unable to appear onstage, had groveled before San-chan—a sniveling punk—to have his face painted white, then lurked in the shadows awaiting the finale.

It was the first finale of the day. The music began, and they filed out one after another. He swiftly stepped into the dance, took the lead at center stage, and frantically performed a grotesque amalgamation of hula, boogie-woogie, acrobatics, and erudite pontifications with his back arched—even after the others had retreated, he alone remained, delivering a fervent performance. When the curtain fell, they parted it to perform a song blending heaven and earth, yin and yang. Everyone was roaring with laughter.

Magichi clasped his palms together over his chest, tilted his head slightly, and offered a greeting.

“Ahem. Ladies and gentlemen! Your one-of-a-kind novelty actor Magichi—he of the boastworthy voice—humbly offers his greetings. While our troupe continues its modest operations through your gracious patronage—and while our leaders and senior actors bask in bountiful support!—even amidst these trying times of scarcity, living in Kosuge Minister-level luxury thanks to your gifts... Yet even a strapping man like your unworthy Magichi here—merely for being labeled a novelty act—finds not one soul in this world willing to sponsor him! Ahhh! This marks the very zenith of regret—the apex of sorrow! O mysteriously smoldering blood! I am tormented! I desperately await the charitable support of tender maidens—ah!” “Eek!”

For someone had thrown an apple that struck him square in the lower abdomen. Magichi groaned “Umm” and crouched like O-saru-san with his knees splayed out, rendered immobile. This was no act. Even when several troupe members grabbed him by the collar and dragged him backstage, he remained stuck in the O-saru-san posture.

“Hey, you bastard! You’re pulling this stupid stunt! You’re making a complete mockery of the troupe’s honor! You damn pervert!” The young troupe member landed a series of slaps across Magichi’s face with brutal efficiency. Indeed, Shinagawa Ippei was roaring with laughter—for when it came to third-rate actors, he understood that their mettle only ran so deep. For Magichi, this was profoundly gratifying.

“Brother, you’re truly something.” Magichi, trying to hide his embarrassment, acted heroically and requested a handshake from Ippei, “Cut it out! Quit your bullshit!” he was shoved away.

“What’s this now?” “That’s brutal.” “You’re the one cackling your head off, but when I try to show a speck of sincerity, you shove me away—not amusing at all.” “I didn’t wanna do that crap either.” “But if I’m to act otherwise, it’d be thieving or killing.” “Even a man’s got no taste for Pan-suke work, right?” “You idiot!” “Who needs half-assed Pan-suke antics from the stage?” “You’re the one spouting that drivel.” “The public streets are worse off!”

“You’re fired.” “Get out.” “Don’t get flustered.” “I’ve got my own circumstances too!” “Getting fired’s one thing, but you can’t just boot me out like this.” “Obstructing business ain’t allowed.”

The present age was truly an era that permitted no prediction of what might lie ahead, yet hope passed right by Magichi without stopping. He wandered around the aisles of the auditorium but found nothing.

Regressionism too appeared to be a rather trying enterprise.

The remaining method was theft—but upon opening the ticket booth’s door, “Well, well, look who’s here.”

But upon entering, though the ticket seller usually worked alone, today there was an assistant, and even the cleaning lady stood wide-eyed and rigid, glaring sharply at Magichi,

“No good. A proper notice has been posted, you know. Heh heh heh.” “Eh heh heh.”

Magichi also gave a wry smile. He turned back and attempted to climb up to the dressing room, but found the dressing room attendant blocking the stairway entrance. "No way," the attendant growled. "There's an official notice sayin' we can't let you up." "This isn't a joke!" Magichi protested. "My luggage is stored there!" "Eh-heh-heh," the attendant sneered. "That you're a threadbare sparrow without even spare clothes—every soul in this troupe knows it."

Magichi shuffled toward the backstage and collapsed behind the props. If I don't steal something, I won't make it through this immediate hunger. It didn't matter whether it was glass or something else entirely. First, a bit of sleep—he was already snoring soundly. Whether theft or murder, he maintained a calm state of mind where either could be done at any time.

★

Magichi was kicked in the side and woke up. The assailant was Kuma-san from the props crew—the troupe’s strongest fighter—so he stood no chance. “Hey, cut it out. You don’t have to kick me! I’m getting up now.” “You’re in the way—scram!” Magichi reluctantly got up, but because Kuma-san wore a murderous glare utterly divorced from prop-handling duties, Magichi only grew increasingly desperate for something to take. “Hey, Kuma-san. We’re companions who’ve shared goodwill, right? Can’t you wrap up some parting rations for me?”

“Cut the crap. I said scram—you deaf or what?” “I said scram—don’t you get it?”

Magichi gave up and started walking. There was no helping it. If I was going to steal anyway, this familiar place would’ve been ideal—but with security so tight, there was no way. At the exit, the dressing room attendant glared, his ferocious demeanor making it abundantly clear he wanted him gone immediately. “Hey, you. We’re companions who’ve shared goodwill, right?” “Can’t you wrap up even a little? Parting rations, huh?” “I’ll owe you big time.” He knew it was futile, but he needed to voice his thoughts. Instead of replying, the dressing room attendant opened the back door, grabbed him by the scruff of his collar, and shoved him out. While he was staggering, the door slammed shut. Such things no longer mattered.

He found himself uncharacteristically preoccupied with notions of goodwill and companionship, which left him feeling awkward. Social obligations and human emotions were trivial things. Both Germany and this lot were nothing but self-important samurai. "Life is like that," he thought with a wry smile at his own carelessness.

Well, I too must become a samurai. What is a samurai? Someone like Mr. Teikoku Bank Incident Perpetrator of Shiinamachi would make an admirable samurai. He found a cigarette butt on the road and picked it up. Borrowing the lighter from the lighter shop, he lit it. No helping it now. Forgive me. The lighter shop's salesgirl was rather cute. Her eyes bulged in shock. Feeling a sudden urge to show off, he slipped the lighter into his pocket. She nearly cried out.

“Heh heh heh.” “That’s a lie!” He put down the lighter and grinned slyly with a wink. Suddenly he was thumped. “Hey—cut it out.” “This ain’t funny!” “Pull that smartass shit again and we ain’t lettin’ you off easy!”

The two seemed to be clerks from the neighboring store of the lighter shop. They might have wanted to show off their mettle for the salesgirl there.

“Heh heh heh.” Magichi was a practitioner of non-resistance. It shared common ground with Regressionism—once those gaudy notions like pioneering spirit vanished, this became civilization’s ultimate form that anyone would naturally assume. He noticed a clever idea. He went to Shinagawa Ippei’s apartment. He borrowed the key from the administrator. Since they had been living together until just yesterday, and security measures couldn’t possibly have been implemented to this extent yet, there was no fear of suspicion. He succeeded smoothly.

“Heh heh heh. “Anyway, that guy’s too naive.” “While everyone was glaring daggers, that bastard alone kept bellowing with laughter.” Magichi found some rice and first cooked a meal. Since Magichi had been handling Ippei’s cooking, he was well accustomed to it. Since Magichi wasn’t there to cook, he would have to eat out—so that good-for-nothing Ippei had no reason to return early. Magichi slowly ate his meal and was just one or two more bowls away from being completely full.

Bad timing couldn’t be helped. Ippei had returned. Unlike actors, he originally had no need to be confined to the backstage room around the clock. Magichi was momentarily startled, panicked, and embraced the rice pot with both hands. This was because there still remained a little more rice to eat. “Wait a second!” “Wait—wait!” “Can’t be helped.” “You’ve got to wait.” “Even if you’d gotten angry five minutes earlier, it’d still come to the same thing in the end.”

He hurriedly stuffed the rice into his bowl, pressing it down vigorously. He thrust his chopsticks into it and retreated to a corner of the room, rice bowl clutched in one hand. “Even if you’d gotten angry five minutes later, it’s the same logic, isn’t it? Be patient. An appetite is something that can’t be helped. In the battlefield, isn’t it said they even went and ate the flesh of their comrades’ corpses? I don’t want to do this either, but I’ve got no other options. You’ve got to see things from my perspective.”

Magichi shoveled the rice with desperate speed while nervously darting glances at Ippei. “Damn it. If you keep glaring at me like that, I’ll choke. Having your eyes roll back like that—when you’re the one experiencing it, it’s truly agonizing, you know. Damn, this isn’t working. It’s stuck. Just give me five more minutes. I have to drink water too. This grub here’s my own doing, but it’s kinda lousy, ain’t it? Probably just my imagination—or maybe not, what with you glaring at me like that.”

Magichi finally finished eating his meal, poured water from the kettle into his bowl, and gulped it down. Ippei’s initial momentum had waned, and his anger had faded, but this being the theater business—where he knew the proper form for anger—his performance didn’t falter.

“Hey, you bastard, quit messing around!” If in a kimono, he would’ve hiked up his hem and struck a proper glaring pose.

“Hey, cut it out already. I just cooked the rice and ate it—that doesn’t count as stealing. Though to be honest, I was just about to do a little something extra, but since I haven’t yet, cut me some slack. Anyone trying to sneak into an unfamiliar place to steal would feel uneasy not knowing the folks’ temperaments or the layout—it’s downright creepy, don’t you think? You’ve gotta understand that part. I don’t want to do anything rough or unreasonable.”

“Cut the damn act already!”

He delivered two vigorous slaps. This too was a standard theatrical gesture. However, Magichi was slapped resoundingly and realized.

“Ah, that’s right! “I have to get my severance pay.” “Anyone should get severance pay when they’re fired.” “It’s only natural!” “Heh heh heh.” “Cut it out.” “Don’t try to cheat me!” “Enough with the stupid act already!” “Severance pay is something legitimate regular employees receive.” “You’re nothing but a temp worker or some kinda apprentice.” “And don’t you still owe me that 1,000 yen advance?” “You should be damn grateful I’m even letting that slide!”

He delivered another pair of slaps. Ippei too was gradually growing genuinely angry. Magichi paled and flashed a fierce grin, but it gradually twisted. “Tch.” “Don’t try cheating me.” “I’m being serious now, you know.” “I hadn’t noticed that until just now.” “That’s right—you absolutely must give me severance pay.” Another sharp slap rang out. The blow landed with such force that Magichi’s neck wobbled unsteadily. His eyes blazed fiercely as they darted about. He retreated along the wall, spinning around in retreat.

“What’s owed must be given.” “That’s cheating—so underhanded.” “Ever since the war ended, it’s like I’ve been getting tricked nonstop, don’t you think?” “So humanity’s gotta regress—no other way!” “Heh heh heh!”

Another set of slaps resounded. At that moment, he had just reached the spot where the knife was. Magichi's face darkened as he grinned. It seemed as though he had merely hunched slightly and stood up. The deba knife had been stabbed into Ippei’s stomach. As Ippei recoiled, Magichi calmly said, "Yoisho." And he pressed down hard on the deba knife with both hands. When people heard the noise and rushed over, Magichi was thrusting the deba knife into Ippei’s neck. By then, his face was no longer contorted. It seemed like nothing more than playing with a toy.

Seeing the crowd that had come rushing in, he grinned slyly. “We must regress.” He shouted these words in a resonant, oratorical voice, then rolled backward with a thud. One might think he had committed suicide, but no—perhaps from being satiated, he was snoring like an old cat in a deep coma. Magichi was diagnosed with schizophrenia, yet he insists on calling himself a Regressionist, periodically writing down manifestos only to tear them up.