Pathway to Japanese Literature

Preface (The Purpose of This Essay)

I recall it was around April 20th when I was discharged from the hospital for Adorm addiction.
Upon discharge, Dr. Chitani, my attending physician, advised me not to work until autumn.
He urged me to relocate for recuperation and live idly.
Though I wished to heed this counsel, my depressive tendencies had begun last summer—since then I had scarcely worked.
I battled illness.
Travel.
Stimulants.
And Adorm to sleep.

From last summer until my hospitalization this spring, what I continued writing while battling mental exhaustion was only these: the pieces published in Shincho under the strange titles *Japan Story* or *A History Begins from Sukiyaki*, along with unpublished continuations, totaling nearly a thousand pages.
This unpublished portion was an unfinished manuscript that required significant revisions before it could be published.
However, even when including the unfinished manuscript, it did not reach even one-third of the novel I intended to write.

The strange title of this novel came about through its unauthorized publication while I was hospitalized, and to this day no primary title for the work has solidified in my mind.
This was because I had resolved not to waste thought on matters like titles.

In short, *Japan Story* was a name the magazine concocted themselves when serializing the work without permission—since no main title existed—but having gone that far, they ought to have stood by it consistently. Instead, whether from some belated scruple, they shrank this primary title to small print while giving prominence to *A History Begins from Sukiyaki*.

The portion I submitted to the magazine consisted solely of "Part One" from this novel's first chapter. While the magazine presumably wanted to use the first chapter's title as the main title, they faced an additional complication—the provisional title *1928—* had already been assigned to that chapter, making it unusable for their purposes. Left with no alternative, they extracted "Part One" from within the first chapter and displayed it prominently as though it were the principal title. This resulted in that peculiar designation *A History Begins from Sukiyaki*. Given that this was merely the title for "Part One" within a single chapter, such an odd name might be excusable—under any other circumstances, no one in their right mind would give it such a title. This section appeared serially across the March, May, June, and July issues of Shincho.

For me, the title "Japan Story" would have been acceptable.
The magazine was well aware of this, and I had been saying time and again that they could title it however they wished, provided a good title existed.
Therefore, it would have been better had they unhesitatingly and clearly titled it "Japan Story" without such strange reservation.
There were other matters about which Shinchosha should have exercised restraint.
That single matter was this: they must not publish without my consent.

Up until now, any full-length work I published before seeing it through to completion had all met the fate of being abandoned.
This is one of the author’s idiosyncratic habits, and I suppose it can’t be helped.
On the other hand, those works I refrained from publishing until seeing their full completion—even if they faced two or three years of difficulties—were each brought to completion.
I feared that fate.
And so, to Shincho’s employees, I had specially and repeatedly emphasized just one thing: that while titles and such could be anything they liked, I wanted them to refrain from publication until seeing the entire work completed.
Regarding matters like debts, the magazine surely had their justifications, but now that it had been published, there was nothing more to be done.
Rather than wallowing in effeminate distress, the most crucial matter for me was to overturn my previous fate and see this already-published novel through to completion at all costs.

However, to my dismay, no matter how frantically I pushed myself, an obstacle lay ahead that I couldn’t overcome through my own desperation alone—one preventing me from advancing this novel.
That obstacle was the Kyoto dialect.
This was because “Part Two” of Chapter 1 and nearly the entirety of Chapter 2 were set in Kyoto.
About thirteen years ago, when I had been writing *Blizzard Story*, I had stayed in Kyoto for a year and a half.
For that very reason, I had some understanding of it, but on the other hand, I was also keenly aware of the difficulties inherent in the Kyoto dialect.
Expressing it with individuality proved particularly difficult.
If my characters had real-life models, capturing their speech mannerisms would have been simple, but since they were all fictional, endowing each with individualized Kyoto dialect speech was no easy task.

I had finished writing “Part One” of the first chapter last November, but after submitting this final manuscript to Shinchosha and pressing on with “Part Two,” I became overwhelmed by frustration - the particular frustration of being unable to capture the Kyoto dialect.

I left Tokyo at year’s end and saw in the New Year in Kyoto. Though the novel had already completed “Part Two” and entered its second chapter by then, it was this very journey that sealed my physical collapse.

I should have hired several assistants raised in Kyoto while in Tokyo.
However, at that time, I hadn’t considered that.
This was because I had thought that if I were to hire an assistant half-bakedly, while the work would become easier, we might lose sight of the purpose by being swayed by the assistant’s individuality.
My purpose was not to learn standard Kyoto speech, but rather because I had to particularly adapt it in my own way to give distinctive language to each character in the work.

I decided against hiring assistants and instead resolved to embed myself in the heart of Kyoto, converse with as many people as possible, observe diverse speech patterns, and from these, invent several distinctive linguistic traits in my own style.
I set off for Kyoto.
This trip ended in failure.
It wasn’t that I had failed in my linguistic invention—it was simply that I had been defeated physically.
Steam trains had begun running since New Year’s Day this year, but at the end of last year, they had not yet been operating on the Tokaido Line.
I shivered from the cold inside the train, tormented by ceaselessly flowing nasal discharge and welling nausea.
When I arrived in Kyoto, I found myself in a state resembling seasickness, tormented by chills and nausea—a condition halfway between life and death.
Upon arriving at a Kyoto inn, I ended up holed up there for the entire New Year’s week.
Physically exhausted, I retreated to Tokyo like a defeated soldier, yet precisely because my expectations and hopes for this journey had been so great, my despondency was profound.
Yet I did not lose courage; enduring hardships and grappling with the Kyoto dialect, I pressed on with writing Chapter Two.
But my head would no longer function properly.
It was from this time that I began excessively taking stimulants and Adorm.
I was admitted to Tokyo University’s Neurology Department around February 17th or 18th. At that time, I could neither speak nor walk, tormented ceaselessly by visual and auditory hallucinations.
Since I could no longer walk, the violent phase had already passed—but what I have not forgotten is that I never once contemplated suicide, thought only of living and completing my work, and above all, continued to fear the onset of suicidal impulses.
When Dr. Chitani told me, “I will cure you within two months,” I was simply filled with emotion at the possibility of recovery.

And so, around April 20th, I was discharged after recovering, but despite Dr. Chitani’s warnings, I had no choice but to take on some work to cover living expenses.
If I had to work anyway, I now think it would have been better to immerse myself in this novel.
That way, the hollowness in my chest would have lifted, and I might have even achieved mental stability.
However, I considered working in a way that would avoid exhaustion as much as possible.
Such half-hearted endeavors are not tolerated in the realm of art; I seem to have utterly destroyed myself through my own hollowness.

As Dr. Chitani had earnestly warned, I—still not fully recovered at the time—found myself repeating my spring condition after being struck by summer heat and unwittingly taking what I never thought were excessive hypnotic drugs.
While reassuring myself I was taking barely one-seventh of my spring dosage, I had already succumbed to addiction.

With Mr. Tanaka Hidetomi having previously stabbed his lover in an identical addiction case—and now my own relapse—the press’s astonishment was inevitable.
I read newspaper critiques labeling it weak-willed or lunatic literature—but was that truly so? I make no protests nor excuses; I simply ask you read my novel.

“Go ahead and read ‘Japan Story’ serialized in Shincho.”
“Also, go ahead and read the subsequent installments that will be serialized in a certain magazine from now on.”
This novel—written as I battled depression (a type of mental illness), stoking the dwindling flames of my spirit and physical strength through struggle—is one I persisted in writing even when rendered incapable of walking or speaking, my trembling hands scrawling characters even I couldn’t recognize within psychiatric hospital bars.
It is a novel written amidst visual and auditory hallucinations.

Is this not a sound novel to such an extent that one cannot even conceive of a healthier one existing? My mind and body may have been abnormal, but my work remains sound through and through, with not the slightest trace of abnormality to be found. I did nothing but pursue humanity single-mindedly while battling my waning physical strength; if these portrayals of humanity contain abnormalities, it’s not because I am abnormal, but because all humans are inherently so by nature.

It’s not impossible to assert that my mind’s abnormality stems from my work’s soundness.
One could even declare that having poured every shred of my vitality into my writing, what remains is this slovenly husk of a self—nothing but dregs.

“Gentlemen, before declaring this ‘literature of the mentally deranged’ or ‘literature of weak will,’ read my *Japan Story* first.”
“Then go ahead and say whatever you want to say.”
(Note: When serializing the continuation in a new magazine, I intend to change the title “Japan Story” to one of my own choosing.)

The above constituted the main thrust of this text; henceforth, I intended to take an aimless stroll around the periphery of my mind.

★

It has been nine days since I came to Ito in Izu.
When I measured my weight exactly one week later, I had gained four kilograms since coming to Ito, and my weight now fluctuated between sixty-seven and sixty-eight kilograms.
The day after arriving here, I weighed sixty-four kilograms.
67.5 kilograms—exactly eighteen kan—was a weight I had never reached in my entire life.

In Kyoto, I had once gone from 15 kan to 17.5 kan in just two days.
This was due to swelling from beriberi.
Until that day, I hadn’t realized that swelling also counted toward one’s weight—but even with edema, suddenly gaining two kan five hundred made me feel impressively dignified, robust, and aware of my body’s substantial heft.
To begin with, beriberi makes one’s legs immobile, so it’s true that one feels tremendous weight in that area—and even reflected in the mirror, I appeared imposing—however, gaining two kan five hundred in just two days caused my very countenance to transform completely.
My countenance had suddenly come to resemble Dewanoumi’s, which left me thoroughly impressed.
However, when I took the beriberi medicine, I reverted to being flat again in just three days.
Since that time, I had gained up to 17 kan, but never beyond that.

Since discovering I weighed eighteen kan, that entire day sank into phantasmal contemplation.
This was utterly abnormal.
However, there must have been a reason somewhere.

I considered that it might be due to the moxibustion.
This moxibustion treatment was something Mrs. Ozaki Shirō taught me the day after I arrived in Ito.

When I came to Ito two years ago, Ozaki Shirō recommended a strange moxibustion treatment.

“Hey, why don’t you try moxibustion on the crown of your head?”
“It won’t leave any marks or anything.”
“You lay gauze and light the moxibustion on top of it.”
“It doesn’t get hot or anything.”
“It just gives a gentle warmth.”
“It relieves head fatigue and lets you sleep well.”

Looking back now, that was indeed warm moxibustion.
I not only didn’t know the difference between regular moxibustion and warm moxibustion—I didn’t even know what moxibustion itself was at the time.

I wasted no time trying this moxibustion starting the very next day.
It was performed by a certain old woman practitioner.
She appeared accompanied by two middle-aged female disciples in their forties.

The moment she lightly touched the area around my stomach,

"This is your liver.
You may drink as much alcohol as you like.
My moxibustion will cure it within a week.
Apply here—"

she instructed her disciples regarding the treatment location.
Then, upon discovering my wife's scabies,

“Ah, Madam, it’s scabies.”
“This scabies is vicious, but with my moxibustion, it’ll be cured in three days.”

Based on my wife’s age and attire, she seemed to have judged that this was not my wife but rather a woman of the sort found in bars—a geisha or streetwalker.

“Are you his wife? You’re his daughter, aren’t you?”

The disciple she had brought along asked in a Tokyo-accented voice.
Everything followed this routine of pitch-and-response manzai.
It was all about inserting comedic twists from a different angle.
The small crowd that had gathered began to laugh,

“She’s his wife, you idiot!”

Even so, they remained half-convinced—or rather, seemed increasingly certain in their judgment that she was not my wife.

The disciple took out a book documenting the history of ○○-style moxibustion and,

“If you undergo this master’s moxibustion, every ailment will be cured.”
“Be it liver troubles, be it scabies, or even consumption—especially those will vanish in three days to a week.”
“But where it truly shines is with the clap and pox.”
“Gonorrhea? Syphilis? With this master’s moxibustion, those don’t even qualify as proper illnesses!”

This disciple, who fired off retorts like firecrackers, was said to have once followed Seichō-no-Ie.
The master dubbed her “Fireball.”
The other was an elderly disciple who administered anma massages during treatments; she’d apparently been a Nichiren sect devotee in her youth.
She was quiet.

Fireball seemed to have deduced, based on the dispositions of the gathered people, that there must be those among them suffering from chest ailments and venereal diseases. Everything unfolded in this routine of manzai-style banter—tossing in punchlines and stripping away pretenses.

I turned to Takahashi Shōji, a dashing young man and graduate of the Merchant Marine School who had accompanied me out of concern for my illness,

“Since they say your kidneys are bad, have them do it for you.”

Takahashi liked moxibustion.
It was also true that he had suffered from kidney problems in the past.

“That’s right. Well then, let’s have them do it.”

However, the old woman did not regard Takahashi—who looked every bit the picture of health—as a patient. She lightly placed her hand on his back.

“This man is the healthiest among everyone here. I don’t need to examine him—ah! Just one look tells me exactly where this man’s problem lies. This man has a weakness here. Apply the moxibustion here—to this tailbone.”

Fireball applied the moxibustion while,

“The master’s moxibustion is remarkable, but the foot-press massage technique is also unique.”
“We press down on each pressure point with our feet—there are people cured just from that.”

“I’ll give you a special treatment later.”
“Special or regular treatment—a hundred yen per person.”
“We do this to help people. When they say ‘Doctor, thank you’ after curing incurable diseases in three days—well, that swells my chest with pride.”
“Offer me millions and I’ll refuse if I’m not inclined.”
“Tokyo folks are twisted through and through.”
“Not an honest speck in ’em.”
“That’s what ruins treatment worst.”
“Do exactly as I say—‘Yes, yes’—and I’ll cure any sickness for you.”
“Don’t care how grand you think you are! If this hag steps on your head and you get mad—go home! Hah! Let’s go! Yes! Goodbye! That’s all there is!”

This old woman’s moxibustion method—to explain it according to the origin chronicle—involved kneading together over ten types of alpine plants collected from Sugadaira Highlands with animal hormones and such into a black sea urchin-like substance, piling it about one centimeter thick atop gauze, then heaping moxa into a mound atop that and burning it.
The black sea urchin-like substance contained ample moisture, so as long as it didn’t burn, it wouldn’t get excessively hot; the mechanism was such that once it did grow hot, they would stop—a process that might take around an hour to complete.
They claimed that applying it there would make one drowsy, and proceeded to perform moxibustion on the crown of the head and neck muscles.

“Do this and your red and white blood cells’ll jump by ten thousand! Best part? Those precious hormones travel through the medicine—you’ll be bursting with so much energy, ten women couldn’t satisfy you! That thinning scalp? Bald patches’ll sprout jet-black hair in three days flat!”

They spouted nothing but grand claims.
Since it was a matter of being afflicted by a disease that even doctors’ medicines couldn’t cure, this too became a sideshow—they performed it morning and evening for four days.
They had absolutely no effect.
Nor did he feel any inclination to sleep.
The Nichiren old woman would give massages while performing moxibustion, and the master old woman would step on one’s legs, back, and neck muscles with her feet after finishing the moxibustion. They all missed the pressure points entirely, making the whole affair utterly absurd.

In the mornings, the Nichiren old woman would treat my liver, and in the evenings, the Master and Fireball would come to perform moxibustion for sleep.
The Nichiren old woman was gentle, lacking any crazed tendencies or showy promotional air,

“Your wife’s scabies will take a long time to treat.”
“Scabies with vertical perforations are particularly severe,” she would say honestly, and regarding my liver,

“Sir, alcohol is bad for your liver.”

he said earnestly, stating the obvious.
He said the opposite of what the blustering comedy duo did.
Since the duo’s words and deeds were utterly divorced from sanity,

“Well now. You folks ever heard of something called hypnotism?”
“I’ll put you folks under hypnotism.”
“You folks perform moxibustion on me.”
“Let’s have a contest to see which works better!”

“Does hypnotism make you sleep?”

“It can make you sleep, but let’s make it more spectacular.”
“I won’t use any fire or water, but just by performing my technique, shall I make your whole body feel as if it’s burning with heat or freezing with cold?”

Both Fireball and the Master old woman suddenly stiffened their expressions and gave no reply.

The next day, even though I had someone call to tell them they didn’t need to come anymore, they showed up and persistently told my wife, “Today we’ve brought a special new neri medicine different from before.”
If I told them not to come, it wasn’t as if they’d simply say “Yes, goodbye” and leave.
Since they seemed to have forcibly begun preparing to perform moxibustion, I, from the adjacent room,

“I should’ve told you over the phone not to come back. No matter how many times you show up, it’s just ‘Yes, goodbye.’”

I made them withdraw.
Even so, they did not give up, and after about an hour had passed, sent over the Nichiren old woman.
It must have been because they sensed that I held goodwill toward this Nichiren old woman.

There was no need to drive them away so harshly and completely, but their comedy duo’s act was so grating—their transparent mercenary motives and bluster grated on my nerves unbearably.
One day, they invited me for a walk along the beach—insisting there was nothing more invigorating than splashing through the tideline—and declared they’d come fetch me at five the next evening. No matter how many times I refused, the comedy duo’s relentlessness knew no bounds.
I suppose they must have intended to take some photos there for promotional material, what with all the photo studios lining the coast.
That kind of tenacity had become unbearable.
During the tedium of my journey, I had thought it a suitable diversion, but there was none of the lightheartedness that would let it remain just a diversion.

Once at Ozaki Shirō’s house, someone present said: “If you want to gain weight, Mr.Ozaki—moxibustion’s your only bet.”
“But mind you—this’d be pathological weight gain.”

“Is that right? You really put on pounds?”
“You actually get heavier?”

“Guaranteed weight gain.”
“But since it’s pathological—better quit while you’re ahead.”

“If it makes you fat—pathological or not—I’ll take it.”

And so, Ozaki Shirō had persistently wanted to gain weight.
Because I remembered that day, I wondered whether gaining four kilograms in a week was due to the moxibustion.

It had been a week since I arrived in Ito.
Within seven days, I did various things in a whirlwind.
However, none of these things I did were likely to make me gain weight.
As for their immediate effects, they were primarily of a weight-reducing nature.

★

I did not clearly comprehend the very circumstances that led me to come to Ito.
I could not clearly recall the events of several days.
I may have started taking hypnotic drugs again.

What I remembered was that on the eve of my departure to Ito, Dr. Nagumo from Kamata—the protagonist Dr. Mitsukumo in Ibuse Masuji’s *Today’s Day Off*—this man was a gynecologist and police doctor, but regardless of illness, he was the physician upon whom everyone in my household relied. Then there was Dr. Nagahata (director of the Kakinuma Internal Medicine Department, who was an old friend of mine)—the fact that these two doctors were present here constituted the first mystery. It could not be considered a coincidence.

It was Dr. Nagumo who recommended that I go to Ito.
Dr. Nagumo had a relative’s inn in Ito where two young gentlemen were staying for summer lodging.
It appeared to be Dr. Nagumo’s idea that since he needed to go to Ito to close up these rented rooms and return home, I should accompany him and spend some time away recuperating.

Dr. Nagahata also stayed overnight at my house and came with me to Ito the following day.
The day after that, Ōi Hiroshi’s wife was scheduled for breast cancer surgery.
Dr. Nagahata and Ōi Hiroshi were long-time close friends, and I had come to know Dr. Nagahata through Ōi Hiroshi.

It was Dr. Nagahata who diagnosed Mrs. Ōi’s breast cancer.
It was Dr. Nagahata who arranged for the surgery to be scheduled as soon as possible.
The surgery was scheduled to begin at 9:30 the next morning in the operating room, yet Dr. Nagahata—who absolutely needed to attend—ventured out to the boondocks of Ito at this critical juncture, a decision that must have hinged on reasons unknown to me.

At my house, Takahashi Shōji and Watanabe Akira stayed every night to stand guard against my seizures, but come morning, I would find that Mr. Harada from Kōdansha had also stayed over.
I think something must have happened.
My memory isn’t clear on this, but I have a feeling that Mr. Yagioka from Sakuhinsha had also been staying over.

Those who accompanied me to Ito were Drs. Nagumo and Nagahata, Takahashi Shōji, and my wife.
Mr. Watanabe and Mr. Yagioka arrived at a later date.

It was the morning of my third day in Ito. On the engawa of the inn, Takahashi, who had been conversing with me,

“Mr. Sakaguchi, it seems the effects of the hypnotic drugs have considerably worn off.”
“Your pronunciation has become much clearer.”

When I heard "hypnotic drugs," my heart skipped a beat.
I had no memory of that at all.

“Was my pronunciation really that distorted?”

“Yes—your enunciation was slightly impaired.”
“Your speech was bad enough, but your legs were worse.”
“Do you remember how many times you fell in the river before Mr. Ozaki’s place on our arrival day in Ito?”

That person remembered.
Yet I remained unaware of any speech impairment.

Ōi Hiroshi’s daughter Yōko-chan came to visit.
I went rowing on the Tama River with my wife and stayed overnight.
Then the next morning, Ōi Hiroshi came to pick up Yōko-chan, absolutely furious,

“Didn’t her mom cry all night after being diagnosed with breast cancer?”
“She’s having the surgery!”

With that, he was in a tremendous rage, but it was only natural for Ōi Hiroshi, a devoted husband, to be concerned about his wife’s breast cancer.
I had underestimated breast cancer as the most easily treatable among cancers, but upon hearing Dr. Nagahata’s explanation, it seemed to be quite a complex matter that could not be handled straightforwardly.
I had thought that applying radium to the breast or cutting it would involve just a small part, but apparently they removed nearly half of it.

Up until the day Ōi Hiroshi came to pick up Yōko-chan, my memory remained clear.
I was detained in a police protection room overnight and then released.

On the third or fourth day, I went to Dan Kazuo’s house and surveyed the site.
Until then, Dan Kazuo had visited me over three nights and persuaded me about building my house directly across from his.
Until that day, I had never even dreamed of such a thing, but through his forceful persuasion, I suddenly found myself inclined toward the idea.

During this period, the only thing that remained hazy in my memory was that Ishikawa Jun had come to visit me.
This was because he arrived when I was already intoxicated.
Following Dan Kazuo’s precedent, this time I persuaded Ishikawa Jun to build a house in our hamlet as well.

I had never wanted to build something like a house, nor had I ever imagined that one could be built through my own power—yet I found myself compelled to believe that a house was indeed being built. Dan Kazuo’s neighboring house belonged to Manabe Kureo, but this nearly unknown young writer—who must have been entirely obscure at the time he built his house—endured the inconvenience of manuscript fees amounting to just 200 or 300 yen, half of which went unpaid, and constructed his home without even eating properly. Mr. Manabe was said to have been completely malnourished at one time. According to his theory, someone like Sakaguchi Ango received several times more manuscript fees than he did, hence could afford to write novels while soaking in hot springs. Since he couldn’t do that, he needed his own study. That was his theory, I’m told. However, after coming to know me through Mr. Dan and witnessing my poverty firsthand, he seems to have reversed his previous theory. Apparently, he had to make Sakaguchi Ango build a house as well, so he persuaded Dan Kazuo to have me construct one. Indeed, if Manabe Kureo could build a house, there was no reason one couldn’t be built for me. I believed in this miracle. And I was persuaded by Dan Kazuo.

Dan Kazuo had hired one carpenter.
He was only eighteen, but his skills were excellent, and his monthly salary was said to be ten thousand yen.
Even working at full capacity, this young carpenter could only process seventy to eighty thousand yen worth of lumber per month.
Since seventy or eighty thousand was too much, if twenty or thirty thousand were ordered at a time, it was said that eventually a house would naturally be built, a fence erected, and even a gate completed.

When I told this story to Ozaki Shirō, the author of *Imaginary Hamlet* marveled at this real-world miracle, clicking his tongue in astonishment.

“That Mr. Manabe is quite something.”
“Well, Dan Kazuo should at least be able to build a house.”
“I hadn’t even heard of Mr. Manabe before.”
“He became malnourished, you see.”
“Hmm.”
“Since he isn’t in a position to write novels while soaking in hot springs, he absolutely needs his own study.”
“Indeed, that’s right.”

There was no exaggeration in his emotion.

“Can’t you let me in on that hamlet too?”
“Sixty or seventy tsubo is plenty!”
“Two rooms would be plenty.”

Dan Kazuo’s house also had two rooms.
Manabe Kureo’s house also had two rooms.
My house’s design also had two rooms.
When Ozaki Shirō too had two rooms, there were no houses with more than two rooms in this hamlet.
Instead, I built a tennis court at my house, and Dan Kazuo built a twenty-five-meter pool.
After building a two-room house next to the pool, when Mr. Dan moved there, Mr. Manabe would relocate to where Mr. Dan had been, and Dr. Nagahata was scheduled to move into Mr. Manabe’s former house.

What we need is a trustworthy doctor.
At least, for me, it had become as necessary as meals.

But what exactly constitutes "health"? About half of the schizophrenia patients I saw at Tokyo University's neurology department were in fact robustly muscular individuals. I myself maintained a sixty-seven-and-a-half-kilogram physique. Though hospitalized for Adorm addiction, I also received a depression diagnosis. Yet I find myself questioning whether this truly was depression.

When I was twenty-one, I had suffered from neurasthenia. At that time, my hearing had deteriorated completely, my muscles slackened to where I couldn't throw a baseball ten meters or even leap across a one-meter ditch.

The cause of this illness is not clearly remembered. Probably, I think it was sleep deprivation. I had put faith in the popular theory that four hours of sleep sufficed for humans, going to bed at 10 PM and rising at 2 AM. After continuing this regimen for a year, I seem to have fallen ill. There were incidents where I was hit by a car and sustained head injuries, but they didn't particularly trouble my nerves. There were also what might be called romantic entanglements, but they were entirely fantastical and sentimental—I do not believe they had any relation to the onset of this illness. Some attribute diseases of the nervous system to romantic entanglements, but the true cause lies in how such failed relationships lead to sleep deprivation—for as long as one sleeps soundly, even heartbreak shouldn't affect the nerves.

After developing neurasthenia, delusions would arise uncontrollably, and I could do nothing about them.
I thought that as long as delusions didn’t arise, it would be fine to immerse myself in any solvable task, no matter what it was.
I first chose mathematics and tried my hand at it, but without a teacher, even reading books left me with nothing I could do.
Since languages were something I could easily find a teacher for, I enthusiastically began studying French, Latin, Sanskrit, and more on a broad scale.
Ultimately, it’s a matter of interest—since the persistence of interest had pathologically diminished, immersing myself solely in a single subject became impossible.
When I grew bored, I would switch to another language—spending the whole day doing that, consulting this dictionary, immersing myself in that grammar—persisting in this war until sleepiness overtook me.
Using this method, I finally succeeded in conquering the illness.

From then until today, I have never again been aware of such pronounced symptoms.
It may be that this wandering life I led—unbound by professional constraints, spending a year and a half in Tokyo at times, a year in Toride at others, and another year in Odawara—was itself an unconscious form of symptomatic treatment, skillfully warding off the onset of illness without my even realizing it.

Furthermore, based on my experience at twenty-one, ever since I had concluded that neurasthenia's cause lay in sleep deprivation, I made it my daily practice to pursue deep sleep and greedily take afternoon naps—perhaps this routine had naturally enabled me to keep the illness at bay.

Sleep deprivation will likely bring about neurasthenia in all people.
As someone who successfully conquered illness through my own will, I cannot bring myself to believe I am particularly ill.

I have now repeated the folly of my twenty-one-year-old self through occupational overwork.
Yet the full responsibility for this folly rests entirely with me—with no one else.
I was compelled by no one.
Though at times I deliberately overworked myself out of a sense of duty, such excess was never truly necessary—had I but exercised my will, I could have avoided such unreasonable strain.

After being discharged this spring, I had resolved to never take stimulants or Adorm again, yet spurred by attending the Shogi Meijin Tournament, I ended up taking stimulants.
Even this was an act of my own will—every last shred of responsibility was mine alone.

The truth of the matter was already clear—in short, I supposed the conviction that I would not refuse death itself for my work had taken root in my heart. To state this conversely, it must equally have been the resolve that I must persist through and complete my work at all costs. It might seem contradictory, but these two were one and the same. Ultimately, it all came down to this single truth: work was everything.

I had now come to realize this: there existed no ultimate recourse for mental exhaustion but to cure it through one’s own spirit. Even if entrusted to a specialist, relapse would prove inevitable in the end.

For internal organ diseases, patients without specialized knowledge have no means to treat them, but when it comes to the mind, there exists no greater physician than oneself.
What I now desperately seek is physical health, and I have come to realize with clarity that the mind belongs solely to me.

★

But what, exactly, does “mental health” even refer to?
For instance, this notion that “work is everything” might already—or perhaps inherently—be unhealthy.
In that event, I find myself with nothing left to declare.
It simply means persisting in folly with full awareness until the work reaches completion.
At least, the method of art appears to allow no other path than this.

★

In the train car approaching Ito, I attempted to provoke a quarrel with a stranger.
Being fundamentally disinclined toward conflict, I remain someone who has never instigated a fight—not even in drunkenness.
This solitary aberration leaves no room for doubt: I had fallen deep into dependency on soporifics.

I arrived in Ito.
The group immediately went to visit Ozaki Shirō and drank sake.
I got drunk and went to bathe in the Otonashigawa River.
This was the post-drunken joy of visiting Ozaki Shirō.
I was also the first to bathe in the Otonashigawa River.
In the outdoor bath in the back field, taking a bath bathed in the setting sun of late autumn—I was the first to do so.

The spot I had looked forward to—where the water once reached chest height—had now become barely deep enough to submerge my knees due to changes in the riverbed. However, this cooled water was perfectly moderate for me, who was accustomed to cold baths. It was neither too chilled nor lukewarm. However, in going back and forth to my intended spot, I didn’t know how many times I fell over. The riverbed was paved with daikon-sized stones, causing my feet to slip out from under me. Three days later, when I went bathing again on the day Takahashi remarked, “It seems the hypnotic drugs have really worn off,” indeed, I no longer fell.

My memories of the first and second days were hazy.

On the second day, Dr. Nagahata returned to Tokyo early in the morning for surgery, and under Dr. Nagumo’s guidance, we went to visit Ippeki Lake. I bathed there as well, but the lakebed was muddy, sinking me up to my ankles, and what’s more—with its tepid water—it hardly felt like a lake at all. On the third day, I began moxibustion treatments, and on the fifth day, I borrowed Aoyama Jirō’s yacht for an outing. This was the first time I had ridden a yacht.

However, whether due to the intense ultraviolet exposure from the yacht or because the effects of the hypnotic drugs had begun to wear off, from that day onward, I began suffering from sleeplessness throughout the night. The moxibustion granny said, “When we perform this treatment, some people temporarily can’t sleep afterward—you must endure it.” However, when a certain period had passed, she would now claim the exact opposite of what she’d said the previous night—things like “This time you’ll sleep well”—which only infuriated me further.

In other words, this granny was the type who, when confronted with the complete absence of her vaunted efficacy, would calmly reverse her previous statements and concoct arbitrary rationalizations.
In the end, Tokyo people have too many rationalizations.
They started delivering this comedy duo routine about how the treatment didn’t work because patients wouldn’t obediently follow instructions with a “Yes, yes.”
The fraudulent practice, lurking in the shadows and lacking any levity, was as unpleasant as enduring the moxibustion granny’s comedy duo routine.

The sea of Ito curved into a bay beyond the cape, its waves generally calm, but due to stones carried from the Otonashigawa River, the seabed grew hazardous; compared to the clear waters of the Otonashigawa, here the seabed remained obscured, with large rocks scattered about—some colliding with my knees—and before long, I sustained considerable injuries.
Because of this injury, I still struggle to walk, but this time it was not due to hypnotic drug addiction—it was a failure born of plunging into an unknown sea.

When evening calm set in, the yachts ceased to move—there were valiant souls who managed to reach shore through slug-like trudging across the sea, while the merchant marine school stalwart drifted so far into the depths of Usami that his white sail vanished from sight, resulting in the dispatch of a rescue boat.
Dan Kazuo, who was aboard, knew nothing of the stalwart’s hardship in battling the wind and, facing the rescue boat,

“You—why did you come to rescue us?”

he apparently snapped back.

At this hour, the sea of Ito became crowded with sardine boats—guided by lookout ships, some dashing to their designated positions, others holding their ground—resembling a naval battle from the early years of the Meiji era.
We boarded a launch and went out to see the sights.
When they hauled in the sardine nets, large fish gathered to target them.
They caught them using imitation hooks.
It was a grand spectacle.

Save for severe insomnia, I was growing ever more like a healthy child, seemingly doing nothing but putting on weight.

What I still do not understand to this day is why Dr. Nagumo and Dr. Nagahata had both come on the eve of my departure for Ito, why Mr. Yagioka and Mr. Harada had stayed over, and what exactly I had done during that time.

I had no memory from the day after Ōi Hiroshi came to pick up Yōko-chan and left.
I had no memory of taking hypnotic drugs either.
This remained an unprecedented occurrence; from then until the eve of my departure to Ito, my memory was lost.
Family members did not speak of it either.
I may have ended up taking a large amount of powdered hypnotic drugs after getting drunk.
However, there was not the slightest possibility that I had any intention of committing suicide.
Rather, ever since Mr. Dan Kazuo and I devised the plan for the Shakujii tribe, I had come to hold profound hope regarding maintaining health in my life.

As for why such things occurred, people might perhaps call this depression.
I had no choice but to answer simply that it was due to insomnia.

Since coming to Ito—surrounded by the affection of close friends—I had been living a life so healthy it defied further improvement, gaining four kilograms in a single week.
Yet there was just one thing lacking:
That I was not working at present.

When I left Tokyo, bewildered by the unexpected appearance of two physicians and my own lack of awareness, I rushed to relocate in a blind panic—work entirely out of mind—clad in my usual attire with geta clacking, surrounded by people as I bolted from the house.

I am no longer a boy.
Spending a day engrossed in playing at the sea, I have no inclination to forget about returning home.
If work is taken from me, absolutely nothing will remain—that’s all there is to it.

I had been sinking into aimless, fantastical reminiscences when suddenly I recalled my battle with illness at twenty-one—and for the first time realized there was no remedy for my mental affliction except curing it myself. I had hesitated to work out of fear of insomnia, waiting for ideal conditions, but nothing proved more futile. Hadn't my twenty-one-year-old self frantically flipped through dictionaries and gnawed at grammar books to dispel those countless delusions? If this was insomnia, there was no need to fear insomnia. I would work until drowsiness made both eyes refuse to stay open; when sleepiness came, I could simply sleep where I fell. Compared to those past delusions—the temporary hearing loss, even slackened motor nerves—my current self could be called far healthier. The body had no choice but to be entrusted to doctors, but the mind alone must always remain under one's own control. I suddenly realized this truth.

One might say humans have no path but to find their form through willing and within what wills. Though I may have lost some magnanimity and humor—unable to stomach the moxibustion granny’s vulgar comedy act—this wasn’t wholly unsound when viewed another way. Narrow-minded perhaps, yet not unhealthy.

It was a mistake to surrender my mind to doctors and drugs. I should have placed it in will’s care.

In the adjacent room, Mr. Dan Kazuo had finished his all-night work, and the editor who had been waiting was now leaving.
Late last night, the wife returned from Tokyo with the unfinished manuscript of *Japan Story*.
I intend to continue writing this work until both my eyes can no longer stay open.
I am no longer afraid of insomnia in the least.

Postscript: This essay was originally scheduled for publication in a different magazine, but as I ended up discussing *Japan Story* too extensively, I decided to transfer it to *Gunzo*.
In other words, *Gunzo* is the magazine in which I am scheduled to serialize the continuation of *Japan Story* starting from the November issue.
Therefore, in the preface section where it mentions “a certain magazine,” this in fact refers to *Gunzo* itself; however, I deliberately chose not to make corrections.

I would be fortunate if this modest essay were to become a commemorative turning point in my life—and I have no doubt that it will be so.
Furthermore, regarding the serialization of future installments, I intend to change the title of *Japan Story*; however, as I have yet to find a suitable alternative, I have decided to retain *Japan Story* for this essay alone.

(August 30, 1949)