Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

I had just stepped out of the library—utterly alone— Though I myself clearly felt how unsteady my gait had become—so light and floaty—the dreamscape unfurling in my mind and the actual scenery beneath my feet harmonized effortlessly, allowing me to walk on with nonchalant amusement. It was a bustling, dazzling street. It was the hour of midsummer dusk. It was a lively, sprawling four-way crossroads where noise—like a tidal wave—churned ceaselessly. Were one to attend to each individual sound—the blare of car horns, the clatter of train tracks, the din of cranes echoing from construction sites, fragments of human conversation, the strains of restaurant orchestras—every element could indeed be distinctly identified. Yet to ears absorbed in other thoughts, it all merged into the ceaseless roar of an infinite tidal surge. A mellow soundscape filled the streets—akin to the adaptive rhythm of train tracks heard when leaning against a carriage window, recalling the bustling cityscape recently departed against distant desolate mountains. Accompanied by the clatter of wheel ruts and the nocturnal tick of clocks, I had often experienced how—when idly singing or rambling without purpose—those acoustic rhythms freely transformed into songs, into words, into conversational partners. This chaotic, ceaseless din of the streets too might freely adapt itself—mourning me on sorrowful days, setting leaps to rhythm on joyous ones—or so I mused, muttering with all the gravitas of one pondering profound matters, struck by an inexplicably self-assured conviction.

I leaned against a gas lamp post at the edge of the roadway, crossed my arms, and gazed absently through half-closed eyes, intently watching the beautiful floodlike flow of passersby. People bustling home after completing their day's duties; lovers setting out hand in hand for after-dinner strolls; young men hastening onward with cries of "To the tavern! To the tavern!" Others broke away decisively—no, I'm heading to the dance hall!—as they pressed forward.

“I had a terrible time.” “That bastard—I never realized he was such a villain.” “A villain who knows sorrow… That’s what makes him wretched.”

When I strained my ears slightly, the fragmented words of people brushing past beside me became clearly discernible. “What a pitiful man. What on earth could he be yearning for?” “Has he lost all distinction between delusion and reality, walking about like some monster?” The moment I resolved not to listen—poof! They vanished immediately. How amusing!

I looked up at the sky like a composer. Before my eyes, twilight’s curtain descended thick and deep, while across the rooftops of distant high-rises and the eaves of nearby storefronts, blue, red, and yellow kaleidoscopic lantern lights began twinkling all at once. The loudspeakers in every window began broadcasting frenzied melodies heralding the gaudy night’s grand opening. The tidal roar was instantly overwhelmed.

The essence of all creation resided within my heart flowing through heaven and earth, flowing through my heart Oh, this inexorable surge! Embracing you, I would go mad— The street's music played as if performing love songs sung by fifteenth-century idealists. Tentatively humming fragments of those lengthy lyrics under my breath, I found it delightful how perfectly they synchronized with the street music's rhythm. "Is that song popular now?" "It's that 'Singing in the Rain' sort of thing—a little revue ditty they've just cooked up recently."

The girls passed by, discussing such matters while humming along to the radio a song whose lyrics I didn’t know. The current song—appeared to bear no resemblance to my own. Oh my! I thought. And so I tried singing my song once again. Delightful! Truly, the street's music was the accompaniment to my song. Can you hear the drumbeats resound? Can you hear the hymn voices resound? A newly arrived musical troupe? No, no—you there, do not be alarmed. By the marsh at the foot of the back mountain

Gathering amidst the reeds It's the commotion of the night herons.

……………… Suddenly the crowd burst out! They let out a cheer of “Waaah!” As this happened, I too instinctively looked up at that part of the sky and saw magnificent fireworks scattering. Before I knew it, an enormous crowd materialized before my eyes. They were heading toward the sky where fireworks rose. Countless cars were blocked, overflowing the entire street. And at intervals, whenever the dam broke, they would burst forth in a tumultuous surge.

“There lies treasure where blue flames burn—”

The crowd were dreamers adhering to Brocken’s superstitions. They formed a serpentine procession gathering and advancing toward Brocken’s foothills. I had wandered into the 16th-century castles in the air beneath the library’s domed ceiling exactly as they were. Carriages, carriages, carriages—an unending procession of carriages flowing like a great river. A golden carriage surrounded by imperial guards passed. When I gazed from afar, there was King Oberon wearing a white-haired wig, solemnly riding together with Queen Titania, who held before her breast a fan adorned with white peacocks. The Prime Minister, wearing a blond curly wig, proceeded calmly in his carriage while discussing something with the Minister of Home Affairs. A troop of spearmen bearing blue, red, yellow, and multicolored triangular pennants advanced in orderly ranks. Accompanied by the vigorous drumbeats of a taiko troupe, the light cavalry’s horses raised cheerful hoofbeats and marched forth rhythmically.

Through towns, across fields, over hills We march on!

To the mountain of festival where blue flames burn

…………………

The tidal currents of mortal realms Stormy rain, drifting on waves Dazzled in blizzards Ah, yet we soar Freely and unrestrainedly On the sea of life and death with unfathomable bounds To wilderness' edge, forgetting heaven's and earth's decrees Fluttering banners soar onward Only knowing the Great God's blessed light

……………… A chorus of such military songs rose. The Round Shield Unit’s infantry marched forward, striking their shields with swordtips to keep time.

Then, synchronized with this military song, the entire street let out a siren-like roar and chorused the subsequent military songs. This was the Buddhist hymn of the crowd surrounding the resplendent procession. The choir had already passed beyond the city's far reaches in the blink of an eye, yet their voices reverberated through the sky like a tsunami, lingering endlessly.

In the sky，fireworks burst and scattered again and again． An old philosopher leaned on his cane as he made his way along． An astronomer walked unsteadily，carrying a telescope like a rifle while gazing intently at the sky． A delinquent youth with a top hat tilted rakishly passed by arm in arm with his lover—who had gathered the hem of her long hakama—expounding on poetry as they went．

It was a ceaseless flow of people—old and young, men and women. And then, various fragmented words would somehow come to my ears with strange clarity. …“The Round Shield Unit and Angled Shield Unit are apparently holding a chariot competition at Brocken’s foothills tonight, but whose side are you on?” …“Still, with this crowd—even if blue flames were to ignite, wouldn’t they get trampled before anyone notices?” “If they keep putting on such a ruckus night after night down here, isn’t it possible the earth spirits might get curious and start spewing blue flames? That’s apparently the whole idea behind this festival.”

“In last night’s pageant, the climactic scene showed demons grappling with demons—but what sort of conclusion was that theme meant to make us anticipate, I wonder?” “If it weren’t demons versus demons, you wouldn’t get proper clamor—the idea being that if you let devils trade insults, even the earth spirits would have their slumber disturbed and start bellowing.” “But among living creatures, those who eternally despise each other—that’s supposed to be proof they’re both demons.”

“Using Orpheus’s lyre as accompaniment in that scene was the stage director’s stroke of genius.”

“Oh, Fes!” “Oh, Fis!” To think of awakening earth spirits through demonic brawls—what a terrifying scheme this was! I just hoped no terrible retribution would come... but my chest began to tremble. I could not help fearing the infinite dusky blackness of that sky. The frenzied dance of light flashing across that sky was as if the wyvern that should have been slain long ago by Kristendam’s Saint George had been reborn and was now showering us with its venomous breath.

“Fes—you say?” “Ah, so that’s it—the word was love, you mean? Fis—that wholesome light—is that it?” “What nonsense! Words like love and light—we cast those aside ages ago.” “Work and indulgence—we’ve no room for anything beyond that.” “Only seminary students or noble princesses could still babble about Fes and Fis like that.”

“You are cursed.” “I am neither a seminary student nor a noble.” “I am but the poorest soldier of the Angled Shield Unit—a sentry who must rise at dawnbreak when the weathercock’s wings on the chapel steeple still glisten with morning dew, polish shields and swords from battalion commander down to platoon leader, then sound the reveille.” “At night—be it rain or shine—I must stand sentry on the barracks’ watchtower, keeping vigil for blue flames that might erupt unpredictably anywhere, anytime.” “How do I endure such labor? Because beyond bearing a soldier’s supreme pride, I feel Fis—light—and Fes—love—their crisp flutter ever moistening my breast.”

Various people were exchanging all sorts of conversations at the crossroads while waiting for the floodgates to give way. I agreed with this Soldier of Angled Shield Unit’s words, “Hey, you—wait! Give me your address! You’re a friend I rarely encounter.” As I shouted and tried to cross the procession, suddenly both carriages and the crowd began swiftly advancing. As I reached out my arm to chase after him,

“Idiot, move back—I’ll fine you!” I suddenly received a harsh rebuke from the traffic controller. “Hey there!” Without flinching, I placed my hat on the cane’s tip and hoisted it high. Then two or three carriages surrounded me and opened their doors.

“After seeing the small world as you wish, we shall leisurely proceed to the great world.” “Undoubtedly you will obtain immense joy and immense profit, and along the way, you will surely break into dance.” The driver’s assistant skillfully enticed with his words. “Well now, I thought those sounded like some dreadfully familiar words—”

I muttered while retreating two or three steps and staring intently at the other’s face. “The extinguisher of light and love—aren’t those Mephistopheles’ lines?... But faced with such suave lines of invitation, I can hardly refuse boarding—” “Then why don’t you try your hand at exchanging lines as well?” “With this bearded face, there’s no helping it—ah yes, that’s the one. Now I remember.” “Alright then, I’ll strike my finest pose and growl right back at you. This’ll be splendid!”

And I, like a drunkard, exaggeratedly puffed out my chest and put on an affected voice. “But with this beard, there’s no helping it. “Since I’m not particularly skilled in light social graces, I suspect this plan of ours won’t likely meet with success. “When it comes time to appear before others, I become unbearably self-conscious and utterly incapable of action—such is my nature, you see.” “There’s no need for such worries.”

And Mephistopheles' lines continued. “As they say, the way of the world is easier made than fretted over.” “All you need do is remain composed with nothing but strong confidence.”

“I’ve got that down.” “And how do we depart?”

“Yes, if you just spread this coat, that will suffice.” The Assistant spread open the “carriage” door even wider and continued his lines: “This coat will carry us high into the air. “For this bold journey, I must advise against bringing any heavy luggage whatsoever. “As soon as the small amount of gas I am currently preparing is ready, we shall drift lightly away from this earthly plane. “And as your body gradually lightens, you’ll be able to fly with ever-increasing speed. “Come, let us celebrate the commencement of our new journey.”

I became utterly elated at how fluently these lines had been exchanged, flowing as naturally as our daily conversations, and upon leaping into the seat—though these words were now entirely my own—I unintentionally adopted the same affected, ponderous tone as before: “Without concern for me, let your whims as guide first carry us to what must be the most delightful small world.” “But break free from this procession of crowds and fly us swiftly toward the direction opposite that fireworks-filled sky—let us turn our backs on blue flames.” “There! Quickly now, hurry!”

I signaled.

Through the park’s forest—as if utterly devoid of passersby—the taxi sped along, kicking up a cloud of sand. Suddenly, the assistant turned around—(What a sharp-eyed young man... I thought, noticing his features for the first time.) That sharp gaze—somehow resembling the profile of the Soldier of Angled Shield Unit from earlier—was the eye of one who yearns for Fues, I thought.— “About how many gold coins do you have?” When he asked this, I—having just completed a three-month translation of a work by Aristophanes, who rebelled against Azenes’ demagogic politics and mocked Socrates-derived idealist philosophy (“The Clouds” and another piece)—possessed a bag of gold coins. I promptly held it up before his eyes, whereupon he extended his arm for a handshake and sang.

“A wooden feast table too can yield wine— With piercing gaze behold nature’s design— Here lies a miracle—doubt it not!”

And I sang. “False forms and words” “Alter your thoughts and transform the land” “Appear here, and there as well!” He too sang once again in response.

……………… “Delusion, begone! Remove the veil from their eyes!” Unaware that the bag of gold coins I clutched at my chest like a dangling rabbit had slipped to the floor, I remained posed with my chest still shaped as though grasping it, intoxicated by the song I meant to sing. Having felt proud when fitting my own lyrics to the military song’s rhythm—the one earlier sung in marching cadence by the Circular Shield Unit’s light cavalry—I now sang again to that same martial melody.

……………… Roll, roll this barrel Summoned by the nightingale, The barrel's a sake cask—gulping whale-deep, Drinking and singing, if these eyes should open, Inside the conjurer's cage

…………………

“Hey driver, I’ve come to want to see a beautiful woman’s face.” “Therefore, out of respect for etiquette towards ladies, I should have this bearded face neatly shaved off at some beauty parlor.”

“I know a swift barber who’ll groom your face spotless in five minutes flat without letting you feel a spring breeze’s caress on your cheeks—then, with your hair sleekly parted using Lombardy camellia oil and Osiris-scented perfume misted over you, if you stride out of that shop after clearing your throat with an ‘ahem,’ even some attic-dwelling hook-nosed philosopher would instantly transform into Don Juan’s comrade—that’s the celebrated barber I know.”

“That story’s a bit too sweetened, don’t you think?” “You’re not suggesting a Badenburg beautician, surely?”

……………… Note—This tale originates from the 1500s, approximately two hundred years before our Johann Goethe drafted his play Faust. Dr. Weir of Tellenburg, Doctor of Medicine, recounts the following episode in his work *Intercourse with Faust*—when Faust was imprisoned in Badenburg’s jailhouse for charges of magic abuse, he encountered a chaplain with unkempt hair and a grimy face. According to his account to Faust: “I am truly unskilled at using a razor and thus bear this unintended visage—but do you not possess some useful knowledge?”—so it is written. Faust struck his knee and immediately imparted a method to shave his beard without using a razor. The chaplain expressed profound gratitude, presented Faust with a bottle of wine, and furthermore pardoned his crime to release him from the prison house. Yet as days passed, the chaplain’s facial skin gradually peeled away until finally even the flesh was lost, leaving behind a countenance of unparalleled superficiality. They dispatched pursuers in all directions to track down the fearsome Faust but ultimately failed to capture him. Before long, an enigmatic epidemic known as Facial Skin Shedding Disease began spreading through various countries until citizens exposing skeletal cheeks to the winds of the streets emerged with alarming frequency. It was determined that the agent propagating this epidemic was a suspicious barber donning bizarre attire who wandered from town to town—yet despite this revelation, no method through human means could be found to counter his disguises and phantom-like appearances. He rode upon a giant leaf fan to soar through the skies, crossing mountains and seas, leaping across eras—and declared he would propagate this epidemic for all eternity. However, if one were to speak solely of this “technique of shaving beards without a razor,” it might sound demonic—yet according to my research, this was merely an exceedingly primitive method of applying liquefied arsenic essence. When one applies scientific explanations to his other varieties of magic as well—though they may differ little from such mechanical contrivances in kind—it remains essential that scholars of discernment first exercise prudent caution toward the cosmeticians of this world. For his magician’s descendants—in which town, in what guise they might have disguised themselves to lie hidden—cannot be known.

II

“What in the world are you looking at? Just look into my eyes... You mustn’t be thinking about other things, isn’t that right?” The beautiful Dancer, whose arm I had taken and was whirling in dance with, whispered into my ear as she danced.

Because I couldn't speak, [she] led me to a corner and leaned against the window.

“I was on pins and needles thinking you might step on my foot.” “My apologies—thank you.” “What have you done? Why are you staring off like that? Making such strange eyes—isn’t that improper?” “This morning, when I tried to write a letter and searched for a pen…” “Were you thinking of writing to me? Huh—and then?”

“It’s not you—it’s a friend from the countryside.” “……” “What a charming countryside with such delightful scenery—that place you’re always saying you absolutely must visit… The place you’ve come to yearn for after reading my poems singing of life there—” “You’ll take me along?” “I’m so happy!” “When?” “The day after tomorrow—see?” “With you being so accustomed to wearing those kinds of shoes, there’s no way you could climb that mountain path.” “Therefore, it’s a letter requesting that someone bring our renowned horse called Rocinante—you see—to the station.”

“But I can’t ride a horse—I’m too scared—”

“We can’t possibly take a carriage—we’d have to climb three *ri* along a narrow, narrow mountain path.” “……In that case, how delightful~.” “Then I’ll just steel myself and ride~.”

“Until you get used to it, someone will handle the reins for you—no need to worry. If it’s your bridle being taken up, volunteers would swarm forth and stir up quite the commotion.” “So your ‘Song of the Western Frontier’ isn’t mere fantasy after all—” “A chronicle of lived experience.” “Then tell me truly—did you really wear those American Indian garments back then? Hoist sacks of grain? Drive wagons heaped with dry hay? Make merry playing accordions in taverns?”

"The recollection still sends cold sweat down my spine.—'Pitiable one, why dost thou find no satisfaction in the objective world thou perceivest? What greater wealth, what mightier thing dost thou hold than sun, moon, stars, and ocean?'—This saintly admonition pierces my breast. Thus should I seek supreme contentment in all tangible things granted for my pursuit of happiness without regret—yet why is it that when recalling my past self, I grow dizzy at that figure's wretchedness and those actions' absurdity, plunging into nightmare valleys? Tomorrow's reflection upon today's self fills me with dread."

“So you should just stop drinking then.”

“Hmm. Conveniently enough, I can get drunk on mere air if I so choose—once resolved to inebriation, I wouldn’t know the difference between a glass of Diels water and a bottle of vodka. To substitute ‘valley of nightmares’ with—‘ecstasy’—isn’t such an insurmountable task, I’ve found. Enough of this foolish talk. Now, let’s dance once more.” “...So what became of your letter?” “Right—and when I tried to write it, the pen had gone missing somewhere. So I picked up a pencil, and this thing had broken again.”

“Oh, how pitiful—”

“There’s no knife.” “And then carelessly using my precious razor to sharpen it and write the letter was fine at the time, but now when I try to shave my beard—oh what a mess…” “How troublesome~.” “There must at least be a barber near the inn…” “……” “Truly that beard must make you melancholy~.” “After going through all this trouble wearing such a new kimono—” “No matter how I tried to keep this face from nearing the cheeks of my revered Princess Tarnisia, I couldn’t settle myself.” “It wasn’t like I was wrestling with any grand philosophy beyond that.” “My apologies—”

“There’s a barber right beneath this building—you should just pop down there. I’ll show you the way~” “……”

“Well then, shall we go out for a walk?” “Let’s dance once more—the carriage that went to fetch my wife should be returning soon.”

And we threw ourselves back into the whirl of dancers.

“The distant drumbeats echoing, this newly arrived choir—do you know this song?” “I don’t know—” “It’s an age-old German song.” “But doesn’t it match the steps rather well?” “Any song would naturally suit each step if one tries to match them—what a darling little doll you make with those artfully surprised expressions!” “Then do sing some more now—in a voice slightly lower than this—there’s a dear.”

“Once glutted with pleasures— Now fallen silent forevermore, Dancing madly in tattered shoes— Beyond this point lies barefoot roads.” “What a curious little song~. And then?” “Emerging from swamp’s embrace— Joining the dance’s snaking train—”

……………… “Oh my, in a smaller voice—I did tell you~”

“…………

“The dance procession marches on— Bent legs hop and advance— Plump legs leap and advance— Striking poses without care for reputation— La la la, la la la, la la la…” “That’s—enough.” “Speaking in such a loud voice—it’s so unseemly I can hardly bear it.”

“Ah—the moon’s visible through the window.—Ah, beautiful—the fireworks are splendid……I can’t stay like this any longer. Goodbye—”

I dashed out of the hall without looking back.

The carriage had been faithfully waiting for me.

The lamp's flame flickered on the Buddhist altar. The flame enveloped by black walls appeared pale blue to my eyes. Having pulled an Indian gown over my head and deep over my eyes, I gazed fixedly at the pale blue flame through a gap in the shutters for a full hour.

I am not a slacker. But neither my studies nor my labor provides me with enough material to satisfy my hunger. Barely do I find here the shabby, pitifully moss-covered remnants of my birthplace. Why must I myself call this act plunder, mock it as theft—why must I truly behave like a bandit and sneak about in this manner? Am I not keeping this act secret even from my dear wife? You fool—if you’d just strutted out openly in broad daylight to start over, it would have been more fitting. The gold coins stored in that Buddhist altar’s drawer should belong to no one’s ownership. Wash your face and start over, change your attire and start over—

I could not tell how many times I had repeated such things in my heart, yet I could never bring myself to obey those words. It was a mental phenomenon beyond rational control. My chest trembled as a frantic alarm bell clanged within, and despite my feet being unable to even feel the ground beneath them, I remained motionless, peering into the room’s interior. If I possessed the strength to endure such thoughts, then no matter what other profession I took up, I should be able to approach it with greater ease and cheerfulness. Within the flow of my blood there must lurk some deviant nature that favors evil. Creating secrets myself, within the veil of secrecy, I drive evil needles into my own flesh and long for criminality that would cry out in triumph.

At my waist was prepared a dagger sheathed in leather.

The interior was hushed, without even a human voice. ...that drawer of the Buddhist altar was governed by our family’s ancestral decree as “something never to be opened,” so as long as my present actions remained unseen by others, my deeds should forever lie buried in secrecy.

………………

From then until I successfully completed my task—my appearance, demeanor, and state of mind during that time—I cannot bear to record here now. Before long, I would don the mask of a playwright and, upon the stage of a grand period drama, secretly, solemnly speak my truth, my face flushing unbeknownst to all.

……………… Having returned with stealthy steps to Rocinante—tethered beside a chestnut tree in the shadow of the rear bamboo grove—I fastened two bags firmly to both sides of the saddle, rolled a number of gold coins into the purse until it was crammed to bursting, and slipped out onto the highway with bated breath. And then, removing the straw sandals—intentionally soaked in water—from Rocinante’s hooves, I braced my body and leapt onto the saddle. The earlier pangs of conscience and trembling had vanished in an instant, and an indescribable exhilaration overwhelmed me—I couldn’t help but leap on in such a manner. I buried my face in Rocinante’s mane and cracked my whip with a whistling crack through the pale moonlight.—It was a long, straight highway along a stream where, once the farmers returning from the fields had passed, not a soul would tread even in the early evening. Rocinante’s four hooves, like giant hail, thunderously resounded across the earth as they whipped up a gale and galloped off in a mad dash. I had somehow become disoriented—likely because Rocinante’s mane, whipping violently in the ferocious wind, had become chaotically tangled against my eyes, nose, mouth, ears, and exposed chest, suffocating me—and now I was seized by violent sneezing fits, clawing at my face and chest until tears began streaming down uncontrollably.

It was spring. The lights of the village at the hill's base had blurred into a hazy glow.—Even now, I clearly remember how the stream's murmur beside me would occasionally resonate with an almost cruel serenity in my ears as I lay prone across the galloping horse's back, my disheveled face buried. I remember it all as if viewing night scenery through a train window—the white highway rushing like a torrent, wheat fields appearing as marshes, radish flowers scattering like swarms of butterflies, and riverside pussy willow trunks discernible with crystalline clarity.

I had been living a life akin to that of a woodcutter in a corner of the village visible beyond, commuting to the forest. I exchanged those gold coins and the silver vessels in the bag for modern currency and made my way to the capital.

…………………

I had reached the predicament where I must once again "visit" my birthplace in that neighboring village this very night. Having reached this point, I could no longer keep anything hidden—the mask had become impossible to wear any longer.

I had pretentiously written at the beginning of this text that I had translated Aristophanes' comedies and possessed a bag of gold coins—but that was falsehood. That bag of gold coins was in truth the last copper pieces exchanged for old koban. First of all, I possess no such grand scholarly capacity as to translate Greek comedies. Moreover, my dread of arsenic too had been fabricated. In this modern age—though one scoured every back-alley barbershop—could such an inept wizard exist? Even were I to encounter one, I would feel no fear. For this night's visit, I had painstakingly cultivated this unkempt cheek beard in secrecy.

I bought a paper mask at the picture postcard shop. It was a blue mask for a masquerade ball.

“On my way back from the library, I’ll stop by the dance hall.” “Let’s meet there.”

I had made such a promise to my wife, but as the last train’s departure time drew ever nearer, I could no longer remain composed,

“When I went to R Company today, I was invited to give a lecture at a literary conference and must suddenly depart for Kyoto now.” “My lecture will be titled ‘On the Origins of Greek Comedy—’” “I’ll return late tomorrow night with a souvenir, so please wait without worry.”

I had fled after leaving such a note. I—already a healthy man in my prime, more than a dozen years past life’s midpoint—found myself tormented by such foolish tricks and felt profound shame toward my wife; yet when I thought of the woman who had chosen as her spouse this man, who possessed no capacity for growth beyond the ever-increasing difficulty of “these visits” year after year, I could not help but feel an overwhelming pity. Therefore, I never attempted to confess this scheme to her. If I were to clearly state such things, she would sink into grief, reach a resignation akin to having rendered a decade of hardship futile—and then, despising me, set out to seek a new life—so I think.

Simply put—setting aside matters of human emotion—I had always revered that age-old Western courtesy which holds it the utmost disgrace for a gentleman to cause a woman to harbor this kind of sorrow and resolve. Art— That—art—is nothing but eternal anguish, terrifying intoxication, and endlessly resplendent cirrus clouds for me alone in my solitude. ——For even a thief or liar, as long as their deeds remain undiscovered, none shall feel sorrow—and as for myself, such trembling too would vanish in the moment—thus in the end, this should be called a good deed……I who revere Stoic philosophy as a model for living (not for art…) felt it would be desecration not to attribute my actions to soundness and goodness. I held nearly the same simplistic view of women as previously described regarding my own mother.

In any case, I had to make every conceivable effort to soundlessly open that Buddhist altar drawer unseen by others, close it quietly, and return like drifting smoke. And once returned—so I thought—I must immediately write a seasonal greeting letter to my mother. Finish this vexing task quickly—I must lean over my dedicated research desk—such panicked thoughts raced through me.

"What will I do if that drawer becomes empty?" I muttered such a thing. "Am I the only one who will discover this emptiness—" "My mother, who rigidly upholds our ancestral precepts, will soon reverently transfer guardianship of that Buddhist altar to my wife without ever examining its contents." Will this empty drawer continue to be inherited for generations to come? "One of my descendants will eventually discover it and investigate which generation’s ancestor committed such misconduct—but will they truly be able to identify the culprit?"

"I wonder… Should I become Rocinante’s rider and enter prize races come next spring…"

I was aboard the express third-class train. The clatter of the train's wheels sounded to my ears like "Rocinante—Rocinante—".

I entered the train’s washroom, locked it from the inside, then took out the paper mask from my pocket and attempted to fit it over my ears. While stroking my black cheek beard, I gazed intently at the figure reflected in the mirror. "What a masterful disguise this is—even I wouldn’t recognize myself. My efforts had borne fruit." Muttering such things, I donned a pointed headcloth, removed my coat and trousers, and found myself clad solely in a black undergarment—an unmistakable Mephistopheles.

I continued striking bizarrely theatrical poses before the mirror while using a folding fan.

Outside the window was a hazy moonlit night just like that evening when I had ridden Rocinante clad in an Indian gown.

Midsummer midnight. The train sounded its horn as it crossed the iron bridge.