Pathway to Japanese Literature

I have no name—though humans did bestow one upon me, I shall refrain from speaking it for now.

But it’s absolutely not that I keep silent out of embarrassment.
It’s simply because it’s too troublesome to say.
There’s no inherent logic to anything—snow falls when winter comes, darkness descends at night, you eat when hungry. What people call “reason” is just something we cobble together after the fact—no deed or action ever starts out being calculated through logic from the beginning.

Let's skip the formalities—anyway, I'd just turned three this year.
That is—I only said that in human terms—in my world, there's no such thing as age or anything of the sort.
Whether New Year's Day were New Year's Eve or New Year's Eve were New Year's Day, I'd feel utterly indifferent either way.

Next was where I dwelled—though one might want to proclaim it the very heart of Edo’s Nihonbashi, in truth it was a hole at some forgotten corner’s edge where the dust and grime of eight hundred and eight neighborhoods seeped out. The proof lay in how they came rumbling every dawn and dusk before the gate of my dwelling—rain or snow be damned, sunspots be damned—hauling carts piled with the excrement of 1.5 million souls off to this Itabashi place they kept yammering about. If you thought I lied, you could come see for yourself. Now, the name of this entire area was—well, some stylish folks called it Mukai ga Oka, Yayoi ga Oka, also known as Kōryō, or even Buryōgen Tō and such. There stood six ramshackle houses lined up in a row. However, when I first came here, there had been only five houses. The name of this house was apparently Jichiryō. Some humans called it the Castle of Autonomy, but in truth, this so-called castle—or even house, which felt too grand a term—stood perpetually ramshackle, utterly devoid of moisture. Given its filth and antiquity, they said if you exhibited this at the St. Louis Exposition, it would surely win a gold medal. When even the slightest Tsukuba wind came whistling through, this ramshackle house creaked and groaned—though since it wasn’t a coffin, you wouldn’t find any corpses twisting limply out of broken hoops. But should this house have collapsed, what came crawling out wouldn’t have been just a single mouse. In reality, there were approximately six hundred students residing in this Jichiryō. Plus, there were about fifty of our companions residing in this house, so altogether there must have been around six hundred and fifty of us. If we were counted alongside humans, they might have gotten angry, but I wasn’t the slightest bit afraid. I had also turned three that year; if I were a goldfish, I’d have been worth about fifteen or sixteen sen apiece by then. I had come to understand both the sweet and the bitter quite thoroughly.

From here on, this is about to become my chronicle—but now that I try to speak of it, I find myself oddly blank, like glimpsing the shadow of a fledgling mustache in the distance, unable to distinguish beard from eyebrow, everything shrouded in haze.
I’m overcome with an unbearable sense of time’s passage.
But perhaps I should begin haltingly from when I first arrived here—from that very occasion.

Well, I wasn’t originally in such a place either—I too used to loaf about idly under shop eaves. But exactly three years ago now, along with about ten of my fellow companions, I was brought to this house.
Fate’s a strange thing, isn’t it? I can’t fathom by what rhythm that grand stage spins—its unknowable turns make no damn sense.
The future—when you think about it—is fascinating; it shows it can wield our destinies however it pleases.

This so-called interestingness—in short—stems from the fundamental unknowability of the future’s nature.
Ah, O future! O future!
All things we deem interesting or frightening seem to exist most abundantly in the obscurity surrounding their counterparts’ true nature.
Just as humans delight in watching external matches, they engage in this precisely because they find the uncertainty of outcomes intriguing.
Moreover, humans supposedly fear ghosts, but this too must stem from uncertainty regarding their true nature—whether they’re wisps of pampas grass, wooden ladles, or yukatas fluttering on clotheslines; the ambiguity surrounding such matters undoubtedly fuels their dread.

Such matters are ultimately trivial—in any case, my being brought to this house wove splendid colors into my chronicle.
When I think back over these past three years, there were amusing things, pleasant things, and also sad things—painful things too.

Now, if you ask about our current circumstances—well, some companions find them pleasant while others find them disagreeable.
But I don't find them either pleasant or uninteresting.
What do you think? I feel nothing about it. But don't imagine I lack will simply because I say so.
Interesting things and sad things cancel out to zero.
At this point, I come to think nothing at all.
Add one, two, three; subtract one, two, three—the balance cancels to zero.
Here we arrive at nothingness.
Flowers bloom and flowers scatter until nothing remains. Yet this nothingness—though indeed nothing—isn't absolute nothingness.
Nothing yet not nothing; if you call it existence it isn't—an incomprehensible matter through and through.
But consider this: whether humans are born into this world to die at ten, twenty, or even a hundred years old—they all end up dead.
Immediately then, life and death cancel to zero—this zero being one in instant death—but the processes leading there transform through endless permutations.
Any process reaching death becomes zero—yet contemplating why it becomes zero isn't without interest.
No—life's worth enjoying lies precisely in its process.
Are humans not manipulated at process's very source?
Here we must declare this 'zero' holds profound significance.
To rephrase—zeros remain equally zero yet differ in their attributes.
Humans labor with great enthusiasm precisely where attributes should differ.
Moreover—they must labor so.

The conversation had veered off into some back alley, but now—when we were brought to this Jichiryō dormitory and immediately separated—I ended up being sent to the North Dormitory.
There were about five of my companions here as well, but being unable to gather in one place was our nature—so each kept apart and remained silent day and night.
Ah—when I wondered where and how those who’d been brought here with me were faring now, even I, on my first journey, couldn’t help but feel a certain unease.
Moreover, our duty was to work at night—we’re not thieves—for when you speak of night, it’s when all things should sink below the horizon, yet here they are, perversely awake—how utterly detestable humans are.
Why on earth did we have to work at night? It’s because humans made us do it.
Humans are the worst kind of perverse creatures.
And despite having no more than a pinprick of wisdom, their arrogance was utterly preposterous.
With wisdom insufficient to even manufacture humans themselves, how dare they proclaim themselves the pinnacle of creation?
They went on about animals lacking reason or monkeys missing three hairs—what impertinent busybodies they were!
And then they spouted nonsense—that birds are things that fly through the sky, rice is something to be eaten, and moreover, that our companions are lifeless beings devoid of consciousness—how utterly absurd! It made my bellybutton boil tea until it overflowed! Just look at these self-serving logics and principles humans arbitrarily concocted—such utterly foolish things they’d persistently claimed!
Even something like me might think such things, I wonder.
All that humans did, acted upon, and said—they were all condoning some kind of (assumption).
“If you were to strip away the two characters for ‘assumption’ from humans, what do you suppose they’d do?”
That would leave them utterly paralyzed—not something that could budge an inch.
"If we were to strip away the words 'grant this assumption' from the mouths of those called scholars, what would remain afterward?"
Moreover, since this assumption can never be explained, isn’t that all the more interesting?
What is zero? What is one? What does it mean that one plus one equals two? If humans condoned the assumption that adding one and one makes two, there existed no logic in our world that would prevent them from condoning an assumption where one plus one makes three.

In short, whether it becomes two or three, they just accept it arbitrarily—like feet slogging out of a muddy field.
Humans who find satisfaction in such childish things yet call us lifeless beings—how utterly foolish they are, how shameless!
The words we discuss among ourselves—humans would never understand them.
However, just because you don’t understand something doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.
Even during the day, there are stars in the sky.
If there were no such thing as night, humans would never have beheld the stars’ beautiful glow.

Human wisdom—this so-called thing—is roughly like this.
Setting aside such talk, there were about seventy students in this North Dormitory.
However, not a single woman was among them.
If there had been any, they would surely have been laundry hags.
They say names reflect reality, so I thought the North Dormitory would be fittingly northern—but those old crones looked as if they'd been chewing bitter worms year-round.
For two or three days after arriving at the North Dormitory, I simply drifted through without major disturbances—but gods, the noise! The filth! Laughing, shouting, groaning (though never quite weeping), all clamoring on amidst billowing clouds of dust.

On the third night—this was what I would come to call the day I could never forget in my lifetime. It must have been the old man’s death anniversary. That’s not the story here. What happened that night was not something that occurred a hundred or two hundred times afterward. Since they were actually happening right then and there, I too gradually went from being terrified to feeling nothing at all, and now I’ve even come to find them somewhat amusing. After all, it was only my third night since arriving—how could I possibly keep my seat settled? That said, my buttocks never stay settled. It was just like the feelings of a bride in her first moments after marriage—though I can’t say for sure—a mix of fear and sorrow. By around past eleven at night, when this time came, the electric lamps would all be asleep, leaving only us blinking with sleepy eyes. Soon after twelve, when Ueno’s bell resounded with a deep gong from the heights behind, a dog howled in the distance as if reminded. A damp wind gathered in the shadows with a rustling sound. In the dead silence of the hour of the ox, when all things under heaven held their breath—what do you suppose emerged here? Of course, I want to call it ghostly—but the reality was not so.

I was hanging motionless at the top of the ladder leading to the second floor when voices erupted outside the building. As I wondered what was happening, the clamor steadily approached the North Dormitory. The footsteps grew louder until they began climbing the ladder.

There were six students—of course—and as I watched their furtive movements, that ogre-like Mortar suddenly grabbed me and yanked me down. I yelled "Gah!" in surprise, but the oaf didn't comprehend a thing. Clutching my head, he stomped rhythmically—"Three years of Dekansho! Four more of drunken stupor! C'mon now, thud-thud-thud!"—bellowing as they marched.

When I cautiously peered down after this fright, I recognized one resident from the North Dormitory—later identified as Niguro. By day they paraded with prim expressions, but now! Crimson-faced practitioners of octopus monk drills, one deathly pale among them—bellies exposed, headbands tied, some clad only in loincloths.

Imagine showing this to you! The stench of alcohol permeated everything as they clattered open a bedroom door and tumbled inside. Mortar led the charge, hoisting me aloft as they stormed where seven or eight students slept. Pillows flew, futons soared, desks catapulted through air—had this been a dumpling dream, fine, but an octopus nightmare proved harder to swallow.

Contrary to expectations, the sleepers didn't rage—just blinked dazedly, forcing wan smiles when roused. Such acclimation impressed even me! The octopus crew kept leaping wildly until exhaustion set in... then Mortar flung open a window and heaved me out.

Of course it was me.

Before I could gasp, my vision spun wildly until—CRACK!—my skull struck something hard enough to scream protest before darkness claimed me.

When I came to my senses—well, I’ll be!—I found myself transformed into a human wearing splendid clothes. When I looked before me, there lay pork, beef, Western cuisine not to mention—chestnut buns, rice crackers, and monaka wafers—all perfectly prepared for eating. When I looked around, here was a gourd-shaped pool of sake. Due to what they called proper heating, white smoke wafted gently upward in just the right manner. Music began to drift in from nowhere. The scent of White Rose permeated the room, leaving both body and soul on the verge of melting away.

But all this was a lie—no, rather, in truth, night had already broken without my noticing, and upon closer inspection, I found myself lying alone in the grass. Moreover, I had a severe injury on my head, though it didn’t hurt much. Two or three sparrow chicks came flying over with chirps, making curious faces as they looked at me. I tried to say Whoa, early, but lacked the energy to voice it. As I lay dazed, what floated into my head was last night’s calamity—from where the monsters danced to where they kicked pillows flying, and then how Mortar threw me out the window.

Abruptly—with a sharp yank—a figure hauled me up.
Thinking it was happening again, I started to chant “Namu Amida”—but when I looked, the one who’d grabbed me was none other than the Old Janitor, my good friend.
As I patted my chest in relief, the old janitor walked off muttering something under his breath.

I was dangling from the left hand, but when I looked toward the right hand, about three of my companions were dangling there as well.
They all seemed to be injured.
While I was thinking how strange it all was, I found myself abruptly thrown into some dark room.

Then, what do you know—here too sat about six of my companions. Moreover, it was strange how all of them were injured in the same way. When I greeted them with a “Hey there!”, they replied with a listless “Yo.” I couldn’t make heads or tails of it. First, having seemingly settled myself properly, I looked around thoroughly. In the hazy beams streaming through the skylight, including the one who had just arrived, our companions appeared to number twelve in total. They sat with their perfectly aligned shaven pates, putting on solemn airs. Then, the fellow sitting across from me said, “You lot finally made it here too, huh?” The voice was surprisingly kind, so I perked up. Thinking they’d surely be astonished, I proudly recounted every detail of last night’s events. However, not only this fellow but also the group sitting around him were primly composed, wearing expressions as if a teacher were listening to a student’s lecture—stopping just short of declaring it all perfectly obvious. Not only was this extremely irritating to me, but it was also rather awkward, so I asked in a slightly louder voice, “When did you come here?” Then came the reply: “When? This makes my fourth time,” he puffed out his chest as if to say “Impressive, right?”—though what exactly was so impressive about that, I couldn’t fathom. “Hmm,” I gave a noncommittal reply, when someone among them declared, “This is my third time.” “This is my second time,” came another voice in succession. Several of them made such remarks. They all seemed determined not to be outdone. So what if they lose? It doesn’t matter anyway. If it’s twice, then it’s ultimately twice; if it’s once, then isn’t it ultimately once? In short, two can’t become one, and once can’t become twice. Even if one argues which is better—the sun or the moon—the sun remains the sun, and the moon remains the moon. The rest of them, it seemed this was their first time, and they remained silent.

The atmosphere grew awkward for no particular reason.
The gloom deepened.
They all wore angry expressions.
I couldn’t care less about this keeping score business.
Whether you sank for a day or floated for a day; whether you grew jaded for a day or sullen for a day; even if you raged for a day or laughed for a day—it was all just a day.
Rather than sinking into disillusionment and anger, you had no idea how much better it was to darken, float, and laugh.
A gourd over a sake flask—that was my principle, you know.
Since it was my principle, I immediately grabbed the fellow sitting to my left and addressed him.
“This must be your first time too,” I said, to which he replied, “That’s right.”
“What was it like?” I asked, giving him a poke, and he latched right on.
“Just as you said.”
“But with you, there was something different too,” he continued.
“I see,” I replied．“In your case there were six people，but in mine there was only one.”
“And as for how black that fellow was—they lacquered him, poured oil over it, polished it again, then left him to dry in the Sahara Desert for a year, or so they say.”
“I see,” “The time was past twelve.
“Just like you, he barged into the bedroom and made a racket.”
“Moreover, this Mr. Desert seemed quite the talkative sort—no sooner had he plopped down than he launched into an endless stream of chatter.”
“A one-man show of laughing one moment and raging the next.”
“This went on for about an hour.”
“Well, I was just cozily practicing dozing off nearby.”

“Then picture Mr. Desert swaying upright and throwing open the glass window.”
“Last night happened to be the fifteenth—a full moon.”
Not an insect chirped, while a basin-sized radiance hung at zenith like some luminous water droplet about to fall.
“The boundless sky held not a wisp of cloud; all lay steeped in primeval stillness; that crisp clarity deepening autumn’s contemplative mood over Kōryō Hill through the night.”
“Only Mr. Desert and I remained awake—me glowing faintly.”
Suddenly came a roaring like cascading waters.
“Know what that was? Piss.”
“But don’t you dare laugh.”
“Never had I witnessed such beauty.”
“We were transfigured utterly—Mr. Desert, myself, and most gloriously that stream of urine.”
“One ought always piss at such moments.”
“Harvest moon meets Desert-man—now there’s haiku material.”
“Beauty’s a queer beast—the vilest things transform into sublime visions.”
“Though mind you, these days they claim naked flesh holds beauty’s essence.”
“‘The wicked excel likewise in virtue’—sounds monkish cant, yet contains truth.”
“Extremes touch closest—their supposed opposition proves illusion.”
“Blossoms massed in glory versus those already fallen: zenith versus nadir. Yet their beauty lies precisely in that indivisible instant between blooming and scattering.”
“You’ve heard ‘Behold—gambling midst cherry blossoms!’? Our current gamble outshines even that.”
“The lack of interval fascinates.”
“The neck’s severance in an eyeblink—that fascinates.”

“Humans with necks and humans without necks—that this distinction is settled in an instant, I tell you! Fascinating, truly fascinating!”

Well, to continue—the sound of urination soon ceased.
While I was thinking this, Mr. Desert grabbed me for some reason.
And after that, it was just like you.
"That’s Bochyan’s whirlwind!"
"Oh ho, is that so?" I thought, finding him quite the prickly one to handle. Then someone across the room said, “Don’t get so startled—this’ll be happening nightly from now on.”
"This red-blanket bastard’s face seemed to say—"
"Old blanket wretch—I thought he was talking nonsense," but since I figured this lout needed rousing more than anyone, I said, “Well now, you veterans must’ve had your share of odd tales,” and off he went.
“Plenty.”
“Even if I told you lot, you still wouldn’t get it—but seeing as you’ve got long lives ahead, this’ll serve you well later. Best listen sharp and remember.”
“Been four years since I came here.”
“When I first arrived, I lived in East Dormitory.”
“You lot probably haven’t seen it—three stories tall, much higher than this dump.”
“Three floors up—what with that ‘no refuge across three lifetimes’ rot—call it a prison and you’d be spot-on.”
Given its size, there must’ve been about two hundred students crammed in.
With numbers like that, strange things happened aplenty.
“Now then—got stories worth hearing—oh right! You lot never seen a man die, ’specially not by his own hand.”
“Bah—seen it five-six times.”
“That’s something.”
“What’s this about doing it to bell-and-drum beats? What nonsense is that?”
“Don’t mock it like some play—not some shabby business of crawling solo under a red blanket.”

“As one would expect of Kōryō’s stalwart men, it was splendid indeed.”
“Ah, even now when I recall it, I can’t help but feel wretched.”
“Exactly a year ago now.”

“When bleak autumn winds filled heaven and earth—as coolness verged on cold—around when a dying mad butterfly might have rested its frigid remains upon pure white out-of-season cherry blossoms, one night past eleven again, I found myself entranced at the third-floor window.”

“Then—glancing down idly—there stood someone at the window.”

“In bluish moonlight, one cheek appeared hollowed to translucence.”

“And those eyes glinting with dew or tears—at first I thought them those monster fellows you know—but something felt wrong; they stood silent thirty minutes.”

“No sooner had he stirred than—sliding headfirst from window to earth—came a thud, and Kōryō Hill returned to desolation.”

“Suicide, naturally.”

“Though not human then, terror gripped me.”

“Why choose death?”

“Gazing at that still-open window—the blurred shape resolved: that gaunt-cheeked face now half-drenched in fresh blood. Shuddering, I blinked—window gaping as before, moonlight slanting like painted art.”

“To leap from third floor—how ephemeral his fate.”

“That floors become killing tools—who’d conceive it initially?”

“Third floors house humans.”

“Yet become death’s instrument.”

“I pondered many things.”

“Blades, swords, guns, poison, illness—these we know kill.”

“But why limit death-tools? Towels kill. Sticks kill. Feet kill. Waterfalls kill. Volcanoes kill. Wars kill. Even third floors kill.”

“Earth seems filled with death-tools everywhere.”

“We can die anywhere—using anything—by any method—instantly.”

“Is breathing air our reason to live? Exhaling our reason to die? Or live through exhaling—die through inhaling?”

“Either way—instant death.”

"Inhaling and exhaling—ain't that where we're living?"
"If we wanna die, we could kick off any time."
"Yet here we are, clinging to this shaky breath like it matters."
"Dying don't seem to get what makes this gasp-and-puff business so damn interesting."
"Course, maybe I've got it all backwards."
Imagination kept birthing imagination without rest.
"Not just dying—everything runs on this breath-work."
Mid-gasp, the whole stage shifted clear as crystal.
"Sixty years of history? Just sparks from this wheeze."
"Like when you watch fireworks at Ryōgoku—first comes the 'pan' bang, then 'satsu!' with a hundred red streaks tearing up the sky."
"The lightshow's pretty enough—human history and all—but that raw 'pan' crack? That's the real juice."
"The whole damn universe's built on 'pan' and 'satsu.'"
"Get 'pan,' you'll grok 'satsu.'"
"But stare at 'satsu' all day—'pan' stays slippery."
"They say folks get killed by dirty looks nowadays? Bet they never learned their 'pan' from 'satsu.'"

“We’ve taken a wild turn from suicide talk, but there’s still more fascinating things.”
“You lot being new here probably don’t fully grasp these students’ disposition yet—but they’ve got some truly peculiar qualities.”
“Thanks to those monster regulars—or rather because they forgot about me—I once lounged in the study room for two-three days. Surprisingly entertaining.”
“When I stayed in Room Four of your North Dormitory, that was quite lively too.”
“Pretty sure there were five residents back then—who knows now—seems they had a Chinese student among them.”
“Few in number but making enough racket—howling, dancing, gorging themselves—their debates turn savage. Honestly, they’d foam at the mouth like ink-squirting squid till you couldn’t bear approaching.”
One day, a certain rabble-rouser among them—a man with a ridiculously oversized head—complained of chills and let out a shrill, feline sneeze.
Then the pallid man opposite—who fancied himself a master of vitriol—snapped, “Any weakling who catches colds should just crawl to bed.”
That sparked a grand debate.
“A cold’s a cold,” growled Big Head.
He appeared genuinely incensed.
“Not catching one’s just not catching one,” White Head dismissed airily.
“You might boast about avoiding sniffles, but if nobody ever caught colds, what’d become of apothecaries?”
“You’re hopeless with your extreme individualism.”
“The twentieth century demands social(ist) collectivism!”
“Society can’t endure solitary pillars—it’s built through mutual leaning, reciprocal buffeting! That’s how nations form!”
“You’re defective thinking nothing exists beyond your own bollocks.”
“Let me demonstrate social(ist) collectivism’s merits to individualists like you through examples—”
“Make it food-related examples if you would,” White Head interjected flippantly.

“Hey, shut up.”
“You all must at least know the saying ‘ten people, ten colors.’”
“In short, ‘ten people, ten colors’ is a colloquial way of stating ‘difference.’”
“‘Difference’ is difference itself and ‘being different.’”
“Throughout the universe, there exists not a single identical thing.”
“What’s that? ‘You and Big Head are the same thing’? Cut it out, you idiot!”
White Head said with a laugh, “That may be a joke, but I actually think it exists.
“At their core, men and women are the same thing.”
“Night and day, heaven and earth, beauty and ugliness, your wallet and my wallet—they’re all the same thing.”
“Let me put it this way—if there were no men in the world, what would you call women?”
“Similarly, if there were no women, there would be no men either.”
“In short, men and women are the same thing.”
“The existence of beautiful people is due to the presence of ugly ones.”
“Without ugliness, there is no beauty.”
“If there were no beauty, then of course there would be no ugliness.”
“Beauty and ugliness are one and the same here.”
“You must know that your wallet and mine are one and the same.”
“In short, what we call a parent exists because there is a child; if there were no child, there would be no parent.”
“If there are no parents, then naturally, there are no children.”
“Therefore, children and parents are one and the same.”

“At this point, we arrive at the inference that a parent’s belongings are a child’s belongings.”
“You should’ve read more books,” whereupon Big Head—wasn’t this anger?—“Shut your mouth! That black-and-white sameness theory? I finished reading about it in elementary school and forgot every bit.”
“First off, even if you try to dazzle me by grasping at such expanded words, you’re different from the Chinese student.”
“Go read more books.”
“Quit that gloomy footstool of an argument—at least write down what I say.”
“Now—the truth is all cosmic things differ. But why do they differ so?”
“Not one identical thing exists—isn’t this wondrous?”
“Yet upon consideration—this very point proves social(collective)ism’s virtue: difference compels mutual dependence.”
“Imagine if Hongo-area faces all looked identical—what chaos!”
“With bells drumming ‘MY HUSBAND-OI!’”
“‘MY WIFE-OI!’ ‘MY BROTHER-OI!’—they’d search endlessly.”
“Now—isn’t our varied-face design avoiding such chaos proof humans must be social creatures?”
“There’s more.”
“Difference births all progress—it alone lets things proceed peacefully. Some may only laugh.”
“Some may only rage.”
“Some may only weep.”
“Yet through difference, balance holds.”
“If all humans only laughed or raged—what then?”
“Or fools chattering away.”
“Some silent sleepers.”

“There might be people running.”
“There might be people walking.”
“It’s precisely because we’re all different like this that everything balances out and moves along smoothly.”
“If everyone just acted foolishly and babbled nonstop, imagine the bedlam that would ensue!”
“As I’ve explained, the fact that humans differ in every particular is exactly why we must become socialists—why we cannot escape being relative beings.”
“Even a white-haired simpleton like you should’ve grasped this much by now.”
“Which means you’ve also figured out why I caught this cold.”
“Some catch colds, others don’t—this disparity creates progress, fosters peace, maintains equilibrium, and proves our fundamental relativity!”

“Well now, that was quite a thorough explanation.”
As White Head sneered, “But seems your cold still hasn’t cleared up,” the door clattered open to reveal one of their absent companions returning.
His emaciated frame so resembled a specter that they called him both Ghost and Nebelgeister.
The two who had been heatedly arguing suddenly turned. “Back already?”
Ghost went “Ooh” while rummaging in his sleeve with spectral fingers, then declared “Here!” and tossed something before Big Head.
“What’s this?” Big Head inspected the object before cracking a grin that threatened to split his broad face. “Thank heavens—without you, I’d be sunk!”
“So it’s Big Head’s cure?” White Head chuckled, picking up the item labeled “Cold Remedy Effective Powder.”
Ghost stood smugly by, lips quirking.
Truly an uncharacteristic kindness, I mused.
Though perhaps this generosity only flows when coins jingle.
Then White Head—born with vinegar on his tongue—needled Big Head: “You—this says ‘Single-Dose Powder.’”
“Means one dose’ll fix you,” he jabbed, prompting Big Head’s retort: “Don’t spout nonsense! Since when do single-dose cures exist?”
“If one fails, take two doses,” Big Head insisted.
“But wait—”
“Look here—it says two doses return you to your former self!” White Head feigned earnestness.
Ghost cackled: “Three doses must say ‘Death Guaranteed!’”
All three exploded in laughter.
I couldn’t help but silently chuckle too.

The Chinese student wore a composed expression, fussing with his neck before the mirror.
Just then, the door clattered open again as the last remaining member returned.
He must have been at the library—he was clutching some books.
This guy was absurdly dark-skinned.
No sooner had he entered the room than he barked, “Oi! Let’s go somewhere—I’m starving.”
“Got any money?” White Head jeered, shooting him a sidelong glare.
“Plenty,” Ghost stated coolly.
The matter was settled at once, and with some raucous clamoring, all four filed out of the room.

The clock in the next room struck nine.
Where had the four gone off to? The Chinese student still wore a face that couldn’t discern whether it was night or day.
Having grown drowsy, I too slipped off into sleep.

I found such goings-on quite amusing.

The following day also had its amusing incident.
It seemed school ended at two-thirty, and until then they appeared to be fidgeting restlessly.
When the 2:30 bell finished tolling, the four returned with weary faces.
One started writing a letter.
One was shaking Sando.
One was spreading out his wallet.
One was gazing vacantly out the window.
Suddenly, from outside the window, a guy stuck out just his face while shouting, “Hey there!”
“What’s going on?” said White Head. “Today’s the old roommates’ gathering, so I stayed behind,” he replied, propping himself up on his elbows and climbing through the window into the room.
What’s more, he was still wearing his shoes—astonishing.
On closer inspection, he had a dark, dirty face.
Moreover, his height being about four shaku—though he was called “Chibi”—I found myself thoroughly impressed that he truly was an Asakusa native. Had it been possible, I would’ve liked to see his parents’ faces too.
However, Chibi—even while wearing shoes indoors—remained remarkably composed. Talking, laughing, smoking—all without studying a lick—he kept up a steady stream of chatter.
Somehow, another debate seemed to have begun.

“You say such things, but even those called *haikara* aren’t necessarily to be rejected,” White Head said to Chibi.
“Of course, we pride ourselves on being *bankara*.”
“Since they’re ideals upheld by noble adults and Kōryō’s stalwarts, *bankara* deserve high praise.”
“But—however—there must be times even you don’t go flower viewing.”
“No one exists who doesn’t appreciate the moon.”
“Now observe a *haikara*—the way they neatly part their hair resembles roaring tidal waves crashing and receding.”
“With snow-white high collars and sharply creased suits standing tall—isn’t that the very image of elegance?”
“I don’t speak of mere extravagance.”
“I speak of cleanliness.”
“Cleanliness occupies one of our four guiding principles.”
“Conversely, consider *bankara*—the nearest example being you—with your mushy head like a mold-festered miso ball and shirt buttons utterly absent.”
“Your obi hangs split; your hakama lies in tatters.”
“And when emitting such peculiar stench—even through impartial eyes—one cannot side with you.”
“Would I dare focus solely on formality?”
“Innocence is well enough.”
“Yet if all humans wandered stark naked—what then?—there exists a truth I never doubt.”
“Namely: ‘Beauty lies in concealment.’”
“To put it plainly—if I told you now, ‘You fool, drop dead,’ friendship might stay your anger, but it wouldn’t please you. Yet conceal that thought, say nothing, feign ignorance—wouldn’t all proceed beautifully?”
“Beauty lies in concealment—that’s certain!”
“You might think me pointlessly formalistic, but no—this *haikara* type strikes me as guileless.”

“That is to say, there’s no malice involved.”
“To put it negatively, they might be a bit simple-minded—but I believe it’s guilelessness.”
“The way they part their hair and take such delight in it—isn’t that guilelessness?”
“Therefore, they are worthy of love.”
“On the contrary, while those *bankara* types might seem outwardly guileless, I can’t help but find them sinister.”
“If I put it this way, you might conclude that since you’re a *bankara*, you’re sinister—but you’re an exception.”
“Proving this is difficult, but they’re truly people who can’t be handled with one ordinary rope.”
“There may be admirable fellows, but villains are definitely among the *bankara*.”
“That’s why I say one shouldn’t befriend *bankara* but should love *haikara*.”
“How about that?” he said with an expression that seemed to crave even water—pitiable though it was—for no one was lending an ear to this grand debate.

In the midst of all this commotion, it became four o'clock.
Then Chibi said, “I’m off—later,” and once again climbed out through the window.
Just like a cat.

“Hey, don’t drink too much,” White Head called out, sticking his head through the window and laughing.
The room had become quite filthy with the mud from the boots that Chibi had just worn in.
“Ugh, this is filthy. Commuter students’ individualism just ain’t right.”
“Just because I’m not here, it’s a complete mess.”
“There’s nothing as irritating as commuter students,” snorted White Head.
However, to tell the truth, from what I’d observed, this Mr. White Head had also exited through the window before.

Humans are such self-centered creatures, I thought with thorough clarity. Self-centeredness is a matter of biased perception. It is a matter of favoritism. Favoritism is when good things appear bad or bad things appear good. Thinking oneself grand, Russia appearing strong on its own, the moon looking larger than the sun, stars seeming to laugh, violets feeling like they weep, nights appearing brighter than days, watermelons resembling ghosts, automobiles seeming faster than trains—when one considers that all these arise from self-centeredness, even self-centeredness becomes quite a poetic thing, I mused alone.

Well, in this manner I spent two or three days amusing myself in Room Four, but what I came to visibly admire were these four. They certainly spoke ill of others and played pranks, but there being no real malice behind it, when it came to the good aspects among them, they were practically of one mind. Whether waking up together, making noise together, eating sweets together, or sleeping together—I found myself thoroughly envious of them. The story was by no means limited to just this much. “Well, seems I’ve rambled on quite a bit—but did any of that get through to you lot?” With this, the fourth-year sensei’s tale came to an end. “Well, that’s truly something,” I remarked—though in truth, even I had to inwardly admire the complexity of this fellow’s experiences. The other young folks also seemed thoroughly impressed. Then, someone else began to speak.

“I might just tell you all a boastful story of my own.”
“As for me, I’m in a slightly different field compared to Fourth-Year here. If he’s Port Arthur, then I suppose I’d be Shaho.”
“I’d say I’d want to twist my beard if I had one—but alas, I have neither beard nor hands, so there’s nothing to be done.”
“That sounds worth hearing,” someone said. When everyone egged him on, his story proceeded as follows.

“Actually, the areas I’d been frequenting up till now were the janitor’s room, lavatory, bathhouse, and suchlike.”
“When I first arrived, I was taken to the janitor’s room in West Dormitory.”
Of course, it was the janitor’s room. They brought me into this matchbox-like space crammed with corner braziers, large medicine pots, charcoal scuttles, brooms, cots, futons, desks, bells—even down to teacups, earthenware teapots, lunchboxes, and iron skewers—leaving literally no place to set foot. If a fire had broken out then, I thought for sure the janitor would’ve been roasted alive.
Autumn’s early days weren’t so bad, but as Mount Fuji gradually turned white, he steadily piled more charcoal into the janitor’s room brazier—and along with that, students began crowding into this cramped space.
They clattered into occupying the janitor’s chair and encircled the brazier.
To be sure, it was mostly the older students who did such things. Thereupon, the janitor—looking like a hermit crab expelled from its conch shell—stood forlornly to the side, clad in mottled ogura clothing, shivering as he watched.
Kotchi and the others carried on laughing and nodding without a care, the janitor’s presence naturally beneath their notice. At times, they would bring rice cakes or fish sent from home for their beloved sons and grill them on iron skewers to eat.
“They’re all a pack of wolves—no restraint whatsoever! Those rice cakes sent from afar for their beloved sons—meant to feed those precious boys—were devoured China-style in the blink of an eye. As for those poor sons? Lucky if they managed to swallow even one bite! Had those bastards chewed properly, these lads wouldn’t have gotten half as much.”
I earnestly thought—one would never send rice cakes to a son living in Edo or anything like that.

One particular day brought a relentless *dondon* snowstorm from morning onward; consequently, the janitor’s room became splendidly crowded, forcing him against the wall where he made himself small.
I worried that just a little more pressure might plaster him straight into the plasterwork.
With that, their talk began in earnest.
The monster-like student stationed nearest the brazier declared, “Nah—not half bad as folks make out! Drinkin’ sake ain’t all harm nohow.”
His shrill tone made me cock my ears. “See here—everything’s got two sides,” he continued.
“Front and back of a shield’s old news—but hidden under ‘going’ lies ‘returning.’”
“To speak of rising means falling.”
“Short version—the Doctrine of Kandokuri.”
“That’s where Kandokuri goes in and outta copper pots—enterin’s exitin’, exitin’s enterin’. Get it?”
“Good and bad stick together like glue.”
“Can’t dismiss winter’s joy—bitching ’bout cold while roasting your ass at a kotatsu!”
“Right—sake *is* Storm! Maybe your first time hearin’ it—but what y’all saw last night? That monster crew? That’s Storm.”
“Might be Storm’s egg itself.”
“But forget Storm’s pros ’n cons—when sake meets us ‘upstanding gents,’ there’s bigger fish than Storms fryin’, I reckon.”
“They keep tellin’ me sake itself’s bad—but that’s bullshit at root.”
“Same as callin’ sun itself good or bad—pure nonsense!”
“What I mean’s this—the give-‘n-take ’tween sake and our lot’s circumstances.”
“To hash that out—gotta hear my theory first... ’course it goes beyond booze.”

“Now, we humans possess what are called predilections. There exists no human devoid of predilections. Setting aside questions of whether these inclinations are noble or base, lofty or low—humans fundamentally harbor some form of predilection. Indeed, I dare say without this predisposition, human survival itself would prove impossible. Were we compelled to perform only detestable acts from dawn till dusk, how could any desire to live persist? It is precisely through these predilections—through pursuing what pleases us—that humanity endures. This constitutes what we call life’s purpose. These inclinations may well be termed human vitality itself. Given their vital nature, should such predispositions be stripped away—whether seized by others or simply lost—people would inevitably strive to seek replacements of equal or greater potency. Nay, they would never cease until finding them. This truth requires no empirical proof. Now consider our present condition: undeniably we are adults and gentlemen—yet gentlemen of youth. Youth, to rephrase, represents an epoch teeming with predilections—an era when any passing fancy becomes an object of devotion. A time when all comers find welcome! Admittedly shallow these interests may be, yet vast in scope they remain. Suppose then we bestow upon such youthful gentlemen the predilection called sake—what consequences might follow? Here we must first examine sake’s essential nature: nothing equals sake in subtlety.”

“There is nothing poetic about it.”
“Speaking of drinking sake—it makes one strangely bold.”
“The Six Continents appear no larger than a palm.”
“Among those who drink sake, there may be some who cry and others who get angry—but generally most people become quite cheerful, amused, and childlike.”
“They start to stagger.”
“There exists no other thing possessing such an inexpressibly mystical nature as this.”
“Now then—when you bring and bestow the taste of such splendid, amusing, delightful sake upon us adult gentlemen—who possess an absurdly excessive number of predilections—it’s like giving a cat a mouse.”
“It’s only natural that one would suddenly come to love sake.”
“So what would be the result?”
“Of course—given their circumstances as students—they can’t do it every day—but about once a week when they have money—they invite like-minded companions and go drinking.”
“They become cheerful; they become childlike; they put on airs of heroes; they grow bold; they come to dislike sweets; they come to detest shiruko.”
“In general—the paths of the drinking comrades I know proceed exactly as described above.”
“Now—considering this again—if one were to ask whether there exists—in our current circumstances—something with an even stronger predilective force than sake—the answer is that there most certainly does.”
“Moreover—there exists something far more dangerous.”
“Now then—if we were to strip this drinking faction of their predilection for imbibing sake—what would be the result?”
“It may ultimately be impossible to strip them of that predilection—but assuming one could—the result would inevitably be this: they’d have no choice but to seek out predilections even more dangerous than sake.”
“When I say this—perhaps some among you might retort: ‘Enough of these shallow arguments! Giving children sweets is by no means the ultimate goal.’”
“What you’re saying is nothing but an utterly despicable stopgap measure.”
“You say that if we strip away the predilection for sake—people will turn to other dangerous ones—but what of those who never drank it in the first place?”
“Let alone that—when it comes to the immense harm sake inflicts upon our bodies—mental faculties—reason—and character—it is ultimately impossible to speak of it lightly.”

“You may attack me by saying things like ‘Just look at the nearby Storm,’ but I still cannot agree with your arguments.”
“Those who don’t drink sake are precisely those who couldn’t drink it even if they tried—people who ultimately can’t comprehend its taste. Such folks have no right to speak about sake.”
“The blind can’t discuss Mukojima’s cherry blossoms.”
“Let me make one thing clear—I won’t stand for conflating regular drinking with heavy drinking.”
“Excess is unacceptable in all matters.”
“Excess isn’t sake’s exclusive flaw!”
“Then there’s this harm you all claim sake inflicts on the body.”
“This so-called harm probably needs some convoluted explanation, but I’m certain—from what I know—that sake (not heavy drinking) never harms our bodies.”
“Doctors’ opinions mean nothing to us, naturally.”
“But don’t mistake us for stubborn Innocent Brides, barbarians, or skin-and-bones ghosts.”
“Doctors analyze things solely to prolong life—they’ll deny anything remotely harmful.”
“But should we humans make longevity our ultimate goal? Crawling through life? Lying bedridden? That’s no easy question.”
“If you ask me—rather than plum blossoms clinging resentfully to branches under spring rains, staying green and sullen—I prefer cherry blossoms resolutely abandoning full branches in one night’s gale.”
“Seeing doctors’ self-ignorance firsthand makes even them seem cherry blossom admirers.”
“What’s the point of living to a hundred if you piss short streams and shit tiny turds?”
“Wouldn’t we rather eat hearty meals, drop massive shits, and live resolutely for fifty years?”
“At this point, our ideas of gain and loss might differ slightly from yours.”
“What I say could be wrong—I just follow my preferences.”
“I’d rather be a devoured watermelon than a dangling loofah.”
“It’s odd—whenever I hear about Temperance Society members or Temperance Societies—nothing seems more absurd.”

“They might be thinking of picking a fight with sake vendors, but I find it utterly incomprehensible.”
“To put it bluntly—suppose we were to create something like a student council and go to school; how absurd would that be?”
“Going to school isn’t something you do because you’re a student council member—you go whether you are one or not.”
“If there’s no Student Council, someone who says they won’t go to school must be an utter fool.”
“Temperance Society members ought to rename themselves as the Society of Feeble Will.”
He wore a look that seemed to say he wanted nothing more than a drink.

“Hey, the cafeteria’s open!” someone shouted.
At this cry, they scattered like spiderlings, and in an instant, the janitor’s room was left desolate.

“You all should try entering the janitor’s room at least once. There are quite interesting things there. But the gatekeeper’s situation was also rather amusing. They claimed there was an 8 PM curfew on entering and exiting, but it was a complete lie. Even at nine they came through, even at ten they came through—eleven, twelve o’clock, still they came and went. As if he’d flip over some placard! The gatekeeper must have been quite a carefree fellow to manage this job. From morning till night, he stared at walls, took leaks, tried drawing dolls, read newspaper ads—and then even after going to bed at night, he had to get up and open the door. What a blessed fellow. And with all that, he even got abused by students sometimes. Ah yes, last year it was—one evening when eleven o’clock had already struck, just as Mr. Gatekeeper was about to close the gates, a student came slinking back and suddenly barked, ‘Hey Gatekeeper! Erase my name! Kehkehkeh—won’t you erase it, bastard!’ As he tried to land a whack on the gatekeeper’s gleaming head, yet another student arrived. This one appeared sober. Restraining the drunkard with a ‘Hey, wait—what’s this?’ he barked, ‘Let go! Let go, I said let go! You there—Mr. Gatekeeper—you don’t understand a damn thing about autonomy! Look—he’s trying to erase my name!’ ‘With that—’ *thwack* ‘Now wait—this is your fault! Quietly go back and sleep.’ ‘What? I’m at fault? Seems you don’t understand autonomy either.’ ‘Just listen for a bit.’ ‘You see—autonomy isn’t something you grasp after a year or two here.’ ‘You need three years—often four—to get it.’ ‘To rephrase: autonomy means no rules—the absence of rules.’ ‘But first-years like you’ll misunderstand with just that.’ ‘Rulelessness itself becomes a kind of rule.’ ‘It’s having “no rules” as the rule.’ ‘Now, autonomy has three classes.’”

“First is true autonomy.”
“Second is semi-autonomy.”
“Third is what we call specious autonomy.”
“Of course, autonomy’s purpose lies in attaining true autonomy—yet ultimately, we can never witness such true autonomy.”
“Because...”
“It grows increasingly complicated.”
“Because autonomy means rulelessness—therefore in human society, all rules vanish.”
“To rephrase—when would a perfectly peaceful society manifest? An ideal society? A ruleless realm like Tolstoy described? It never occurs.”
“As long as two or more humans exist, such society remains impossible.”
“Thus true autonomy can only materialize after humanity’s extinction.”
“Now then—next comes semi-autonomy.”
“Our dormitory exists precisely in this semi-autonomous state.”
“Semi-autonomy means rules both exist and don’t exist.”
“Our dorm’s so-called autonomy is this hazy entity I describe.”
“A vague thing—easily swayed.”
“Yet this hazy entity—this lantern-like entity—is fascinating. Autonomy must use this lantern-form to succeed.”
“Build too fierce a fire, and rice cakes burn.”
“Roast them slow and gentle—that’s how sweetness emerges.”
“Leaning port then starboard—thus boats sail.”
“Sun shifts to rain, shine yields to showers—back and forth—in this haze, rhythms sweetly coalesce.”

“This is where the true essence lies—this is the very point you must consider.”
“It may be rather difficult for you all to grasp, but even great sages stir up marketplaces.”
“Within its listless gourd-like form lies a crisp cinch at the belly.”
“That cinch there is what matters.”
“Stillness in motion or motion in stillness—I can’t say which—but it applies to faces too.”
“Though no single feature excels—eyes unremarkable, ears ordinary, nose unrefined—the vague totality makes a splendid countenance.”
“Our autonomy is semi-autonomy.”
“In this state—erasing or not erasing, striking or sparing the gatekeeper’s head—isn’t it amusing?”
“Yai-dōda!” he exclaimed, smacking his lips.
Mid-speech, four or five students came clattering in, scattering both drunk and sober alike into the distance.
Such scenes happened nightly.
“I’ve rambled enough—grown weary of my own voice,” he concluded. “Won’t another speak?” And so ended the second teacher’s discourse.

But everyone fell silent as if in mutual agreement—not a soul spoke up.
Having listened to and endured such tales day after day—or rather night after night—I must have spent nearly two weeks confined within that lightless chamber.
Then one day came salvation: Old Janitor arrived and led us all away for medical treatment.
After two or three days passed—wounds fully mended—we returned once more to our posts at the dormitory.

Looking back, this incident occurred exactly three years ago. Since then, two winters had passed and two springs had come. During that time, I sometimes resided in East Dormitory and other times in South Dormitory.
I also stayed in the janitor’s room.
I sustained injuries five or six times.
But I had yet to see a person die.
What I find strange is that the storms—which had terrified me most when I first arrived—now, after being repeated dozens of times since, had become thoroughly enjoyable, to the point where I felt vaguely dissatisfied if there wasn’t one every three days or so.
As a result, among the students, I had developed quite intimate companions.
The ones I was closest to would probably be Monster, Wolf, Niguro, Benkei, Ghost, Octopus, and the like.
Even as I spoke, I waited in eager anticipation, wondering if this lot might come tonight to take me along.
With this, I concluded *My Chronicle* up to today.

Finally, though you’ve likely already deduced my name, let me state for good measure: the name humans bestowed upon me is Lantern. With that, I shall lay down my brush.
(End)

Thirty-Eighth Year February Nineteenth