Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Having just left the library, I—alone— could distinctly feel how unsteady my footsteps were even to myself, yet walked on with amused composure as the dreamscape unfolding in my mind and the actual scenery beneath my feet blended without discord.

The city was a bustling, dazzling spectacle. It was midsummer dusk. A lively, vast intersection—where noise swirled ceaselessly like tidal waves. If one focused on each individual sound—the blare of car horns, clatter of tram wheels, din of cranes from construction sites, fragments of conversation, restaurant orchestras—all could be distinctly identified in that moment. Yet to ears lost in other thoughts, it became an endless roar of surf. A mellow resonance filled the streets—akin to train wheels' rhythmic clatter heard when leaning against a carriage window, recalling bustling urban scenery now reflected upon desolate mountains. Accompanied by wheel sounds or a late-night clock's ticks, whenever I sang or chattered idly, those rhythms would transform into songs, words, or conversational partners—and so too might this city's ceaseless cacophony freely adapt its cadence to my whims, lamenting with me on sorrowful days or pulsating with joy on happier ones. Muttering such thoughts with all the pomp of someone pondering profound matters, I found myself struck by an inexplicable, self-assured conviction.

I leaned against a gas lamp post at the edge of the roadway, crossed my arms, and gazed intently—eyes half-lidded in a daze—at the beautiful flood-like spectacle of the passing crowd. —People bustling homeward after finishing their day’s duties; couples venturing out hand in hand for post-supper strolls; young men hastening ahead—“To the tavern! To the tavern!” Young men hastening ahead—“No, I’m off to the dance hall!”—and one pushing through the crowd.

"I've had a terrible time. I didn't realize that bastard was such a villain." "A villain who knows sorrow—how wretched." When I listened carefully, the fragmented words of people brushing past my ears became perfectly clear. "What a pitiful man. What on earth could he be yearning for?"

“He’s lost sight of the boundary between illusion and reality—isn’t he walking like some grotesque creature?” The moment I resolved not to listen—they vanished instantly. How peculiar! I gazed up at the sky like a composer. As I watched, twilight’s curtain descended heavily, and blue, red, and yellow kaleidoscopic lantern lights began winking simultaneously from distant skyscraper roofs to nearby shop eaves. Loudspeakers in every window had started blaring a frenetic overture proclaiming night’s gaudy commencement. The tidal roar of noise was abruptly drowned out.

The essence of all creation resides within my heart Flowing through heaven and earth, flowing through my heart Oh, this irrepressible frenzy! Embracing you, I shall go mad—

The city’s music played as if performing love songs sung by fifteenth-century idealists. When I experimentally hummed fragments of those lengthy lyrics under my breath, I found it delightful how perfectly they synchronized with the city music’s rhythm. “Is that song popular these days?” “Singing in the rain—or something like that. A little revue song that was just made recently, right?”

The girl passed by discussing such matters while humming along to the radio a song whose lyrics I didn't recognize. This current song—my song—seemed to bear no resemblance whatsoever. "Well, well!" I thought. So I tried singing my song once again. Delightful! Truly, the city's music became the accompaniment to my song.

The sound of drums must be heard The sound of singing must be heard A new musical troupe? No, no, you there—do not be startled

At the edge of the marsh on the back mountain, Gathering in the reeds, It’s the commotion of night herons.

……………… Suddenly, the crowd erupted—"Waaah!" they raised a cheer of “Waaah!” Accompanied by this, I too inadvertently looked up at the sky in that direction to find magnificent fireworks scattering—before I knew it, an enormous crowd had materialized before my eyes. They were heading toward the sky where fireworks rose.

Countless automobiles, their path blocked, overflowed throughout the city. And then, at intervals, the dam would break, and they would burst forth in a torrent.

“Where treasure lies, where the blue flame burns—” The crowd were dreamers adhering to Brocken’s superstition. It was a long serpent gathering and surging toward the foothills of Brocken. I wandered exactly as I was into sixteenth-century castles in the air beneath the library’s domed ceiling.

Carriages, carriages, carriages—an unending procession of them flowed like a great river. A golden carriage surrounded by imperial guards passed. Gazing from afar, King Oberon—wearing a white-haired wig—rode solemnly alongside Queen Titania, who held a white peacock fan poised at her chest. The Prime Minister, adorned with a blond curly wig, proceeded calmly in his carriage while discussing matters with the Home Minister. A troop of pikemen waved blue, red, yellow, and multicolored triangular flags as they marched in orderly formation. Accompanied by the vigorous drumbeats of a corps, the light cavalry’s horses raised a cheerful clatter of hooves and marched in lively rhythm.

Through the city, across the fields, over the hills We march onward To the festival mountain where burns the blue flame

……………… The tide’s flow through the mortal world

Storm’s rain, adrift on waves Blizzard-blinded,

Ah, yet we flit and dart With perfect freedom On the sea of life and death of unknowable bounds Forgetting even the decrees of heaven and earth, to the farthest fields Turning and flying onward

We know only—the light of the great god’s divine blessing.

………………

Such a chorus of military songs arose. The Round-Shield Brigade’s infantry unit marched forward, striking their shields with sword tips to keep rhythm.

Then, keeping time with these military songs, the entire city let out a siren-like roar and joined in singing the next military anthem in unison. This was the crowd’s hymn encircling the resplendent procession. Though the chorus had already raced past to the city’s far edge in an instant, their voices kept echoing through the sky like tsunami waves without end.

In the sky, fireworks were shattering and scattering. There was an old philosopher making his way while leaning on a cane. There was also an astronomer who, shouldering his telescope like a rifle and gazing intently at the sky, walked unsteadily onward. A delinquent youth wearing a silk hat askew, holding his lover who had taken hold of the hem of her long hakama, passed by while discoursing on poetry. It was a boundless flow of people—men and women, young and old—an endless stream of the crowd. And then, all manner of fragmented words would somehow come to my ears with uncanny clarity.

“……I hear the Round-Shield Brigade and Angular-Shield Brigade will hold a chariot race at Brocken’s foot tonight—but whose side are you on?”

“……Even so, with this crowd—if the blue flame were to ignite, wouldn’t it get trampled before anyone notices?” “If they put on such a racket every single night here on earth, wouldn’t the earth spirit’s curiosity be piqued enough to spew out blue flames?—that’s apparently the main idea behind this festival, you know.” “In last night’s pageant, the scene of demons clashing was the climax—but just what conclusion was that theme meant to make us anticipate?”

“If it’s not demons versus demons, how else would such a clamor arise? Let them hear devils squabbling, and even the earth spirit would have its slumber disturbed and roar out—or so they say.” “However, among living creatures, the fact that they eternally despise each other is apparently proof that they’re both demons.” “Using Orpheus’s lyre as accompaniment for that scene was the stage director’s stroke of genius.”

“Oh, Fes!” “Oh, Fis!” To think of rousing the earth spirit through some demonic brawl—what a terrifying scheme that was! I just hoped no terrible retribution would come… My chest began to tremble. I could not help but be terrified by that sky’s infinite murkiness. “The flickering dance of lights in that sky was as if the dragon Saint George of Christendom was meant to have slain long ago had been reborn and now spewed its venomous breath upon us.”

“Fes—you say?” “Ah, so it was the word ‘love,’ Fis—radiant light—was it?” “What nonsense! We cast off words like ‘love’ and ‘light’ ages ago.” “Work and indulgence—there’s no room for anything else.” “Only seminary students or some noble princess could afford to go on about Fes and Fis and such nonsense.”

“You are cursed.” “I am neither a seminary student nor a noble.” “I’m the poorest foot soldier of the Angular-Shield Brigade—a sentry who must rise in the predawn hours when the church weathercock’s wings still glisten with morning dew, polish the shields and swords from battalion commander down to squad leader, then sound the reveille.” “At night, rain or shine, I must stand rigid on the barracks’ watchtower, keeping vigil for the blue flame that might erupt anywhere, anytime—such is the sentry’s duty.” “If you ask how I endure such labor—it’s through a soldier’s supreme pride, and feeling Fis (light) and Fes (love) perpetually drenching my breast with their bracing flutter.”

All sorts of people exchanged various conversations at the crossroads as they waited for the dam to break. I found myself in complete agreement with this Angular-Shield Brigade soldier’s words,

“Hey, you—wait! Give me your address—you’re a friend I rarely get to meet.”

As I shouted and tried to cut across the procession, suddenly both the vehicles and the crowd began swiftly surging forward. I stretched out my arm to chase after him when— “Idiot, get back—that’s a fine!” when suddenly I was met with a harsh rebuke from the traffic controller. “Hey.” I, without flinching, placed my hat on the tip of my stick and raised it high.

Then two or even three carriages surrounded me and opened their doors. “After viewing the small world to your heart’s content, let us leisurely make our way to the great world. Surely you shall obtain immense delight and immense profit—dancing all along your path without fail.” The coachman’s assistant artfully coaxed. “Ah—those terrifying words sounded somehow familiar, I thought—”

I recoiled two or three steps backward while scrutinizing his face intently and muttered, "You who deny light and love—those are Mephistopheles's lines... But when lured with such stylish dialogue, I can hardly resist boarding—" "Then why not attempt an exchange of lines yourself?"

“With this bearded face, there’s no way—ah, that’s it! Now I remember.” “Alright then—I’ll strike my finest pose and roar right back at you! This’ll be a riot!” And I, like a drunkard, extravagantly threw out my chest and uttered in an affected voice. “But with this beard, there’s no way—I suppose.” “Since I’m not versed in light social graces, I suppose this plan of ours likely won’t end well.” “When it comes to appearing before others, it’s in my nature to feel unbearably self-conscious and become utterly incapable of action.”

“There’s no need for such worries.”

And Mephistopheles’ lines continued: “As the saying goes, worldly affairs prove easier to enact than to agonize over.” “You need only remain calmly composed with strong confidence.” “I’ve mastered that part,” I said. “Now—the method of departure?” “Simply spread this coat open—that will suffice.” The assistant threw the carriage door wider and resumed his recitation: “This coat shall bear us aloft through the skies.” “I advise against bringing heavy luggage on such an audacious journey.” “Once the modest quantity of gas I’m preparing is ready, we shall float free from earthly bonds with utmost ease.” “And as our bodies grow lighter by degrees, our flight shall quicken evermore.” “Come—let us toast to our new voyage’s commencement.”

I became utterly ecstatic at how flawlessly these lines were exchanged, flowing as freely as our daily conversations. Upon leaping into the seat, though now speaking entirely in my own words, I found myself unwittingly reverting to that same pretentious, solemn tone—

“Without a care for me, first take me to what must be the most delightful small world at your guide’s whims. But break away from this procession of crowds—fly as swiftly as you can toward the direction opposite that firework-strewn sky! Turn your back on the blue flame. Now hurry! Hurry!”

I signaled.

Through the park’s forest, which seemed utterly devoid of pedestrians, the taxi sped, kicking up a cloud of sand.

Suddenly, the assistant turned around—(What a sharp-eyed young man he was… I thought, noticing his features for the first time.) That sharp gaze—somehow resembling the profile of the Angular-Shield Brigade soldier from earlier—was the eye of one who yearned for Faust, I thought.

“How many gold coins do you have?”

He asked. Today—having just completed in some three months my translation of a work by Aristophanes, who rebelled against Athenian demagoguery and ridiculed Socratic offshoots of idealist philosophy—*The Clouds* and another piece—I happened to be carrying a bag of gold coins. When I showed it directly before his eyes, he stretched out his arm seeking a handshake and sang: “A wooden feast table shall bring forth wine,” “With eyes ablaze, behold nature”

“Here lies a miracle—doubt it not!”

And then I too sang. “False forms and words, Change your thoughts, change your country, Appear here, and there as well.” He too sang back once more.

“………………” “Delusion, strip the veil from their eyes!” Unaware that the bag of gold coins I had been clutching at my chest—as if holding a rabbit by the scruff—had slipped to the floor, I remained posed with my chest still shaped around the absent bag, intoxicated by the song I meant to sing. Earlier, having swelled with pride when matching my own lyrics to the military song’s rhythm that the Round-Shield Brigade’s light cavalry had chanted in step, I now sang again to that same martial tune.

……………… Roll, roll this barrel Lured by the night-telling bird The barrel’s a sake barrel—a whale’s guzzle. Drink and sing, and when you open your eyes, Inside the magician’s cage

………………

“Hey driver, I’ve grown eager to see beautiful women’s faces. Therefore, out of respect for the ladies, I’d like to have this bearded face neatly shaved off at some barbershop.”

“I know of a barber who’ll fashion your face neat as you please in mere five minutes—without even letting you feel a spring breeze’s caress on your cheeks. There, with Lombardy camellia oil parting your hair cleanly, Osiris-scented perfume sprayed upon you, and ahem—one cough cleared as you exit his shop—even an attic-dwelling philosopher with a crooked nose could instantly transform into Don Juan’s companion. Such is his renowned signboard.”

“That tale of yours seems a touch too naive.” “You can’t possibly mean that beautician from Badenburg?”

……………… Note: This tale dates from the 1500s—nearly two hundred years before our Johann Goethe drafted his play *Faust*. Dr. Weir of Tellemburg recounts in his work *Intercourse with Faust* that when Faust was imprisoned in Badenburg’s jailhouse for magic abuse, he encountered a disheveled chaplain. According to the chaplain’s account: “I am truly unskilled with razors and thus bear this unsightly visage against my will—do you possess any knowledge that might aid me?” Faust struck his knee and taught him how to shave beards without using a razor. The grateful chaplain gave Faust a bottle of wine, pardoned his crimes, and released him. Yet as days passed, the chaplain’s facial skin gradually peeled away until even the flesh was lost, leaving him with a countenance pitifully shallow beyond worldly measure. They sent pursuers everywhere to track Faust but ultimately failed to capture him. Soon after, a mysterious epidemic called the skin-shedding disease spread through nations—citizens exposing skeletal cheeks to street winds appeared with alarming frequency. It was discovered this plague spread through a suspicious barber clad in bizarre attire who wandered towns, yet his disguises and phantom-like appearances defied all human countermeasures. He rode a giant fan through skies, crossed mountains and seas, leaped across eras, and boasted he would spread this epidemic eternally— Though this “razorless shaving art” sounds demonic, my research reveals it was merely applying liquid arsenic—a primitive method. His other magical arts too would prove mechanical tricks under scientific scrutiny; thus all wise folk must exercise caution toward cosmeticians. For his descendants—these magicians—lurk unknown in towns and guises.

II

“What on earth are you looking at? “—You must stare only into my eyes… It won’t do for you to be thinking of other things…” The beautiful dancer—whose arm I had taken as we danced briskly about—whispered in my ear while continuing to dance. Since I couldn’t speak, I led her to a corner and leaned against the window. “I was so worried my feet might get stepped on—it had me all on edge, you know.”

“My apologies.—Thank you very much.” “What was that about? What are you spacing out about—making such strange faces all the time?” “This morning, when I tried to write a letter and looked for a pen…” “Were you thinking of writing me a letter? Oh? And then?” “It’s not you—a friend from the countryside.” “…………” “What a scenic and charming countryside it must be—I’d love to go there—the one you’re always talking about… The one that’s become your longing after reading my poem singing of life there——”

“Will you take me along?” “Delightful!” “When?” “The day after tomorrow—that’s when.” “With those shoes you always wear, you’d never manage to climb that mountain path.” “So this letter’s to request they bring our famed steed we call Rocinante—you see—to the station.” “But I can’t possibly ride a horse—I’m too scared—” “We simply can’t take a carriage—we’ve got to climb three miles up a narrow, narrow mountain path.”

“Well… If that’s how it is, it sounds delightful again.” “Then I’ll just brace myself and ride.” “Until you grow accustomed, someone will hold the bridle—you’ll be perfectly safe.” “With suitors clamoring to take your reins, volunteers would be tumbling over each other—prompting quite the uproar, I should think.” “It isn’t mere fancy, is it—this work of yours called ‘Song of the Western Drama’—” “A chronicle of lived experience.” “So back then—did you truly don those American Indian garments? Carrying sacks of wheat, driving wagons heaped with dried grass, playing concertinas riotously in taverns?”

“The mere recollection makes me break into a cold sweat.—‘Pitiable one, why dost thou find no satisfaction in the objective world thou beholdest? What greater, richer thing dost thou grasp than sun, moon, stars, and seas?’—This saint’s words pierce my breast. Thus I ought to seek supreme contentment in all tangible things granted for my pursuit of happiness, yet why—when I recall my past self—do I grow dizzy at that figure’s wretchedness and the absurdity of its deeds, tumbling into nightmare’s chasm? Tomorrow’s self, reflecting on today’s, terrifies me.”

“Then you should just quit drinking.” “Well.” “Conveniently enough, I can get drunk on air itself—if I so choose, I wouldn’t know the difference between a glass of Diels’ water and a bottle of vodka.” “To substitute the valley of nightmares with—intoxication—isn’t something I consider a particularly difficult task.” “Enough of this foolish talk—come on, let’s dance once more.” “So… What happened with the letter?” “Right—and when I tried to write, the pen had disappeared somewhere and I couldn’t find it.” “So I picked up a pencil, and this one’s broken too.”

“Oh, how pitiful—” “There’s no knife.” “Well—carelessly using my precious razor to sharpen that thing and write the letter worked out alright at the time, but now when I try to shave my beard—this is quite the predicament…”

“What a troublesome affair this is. “There’s even a barber near the inn，isn’t there…” “……”

“Truly, that beard of yours must be quite depressing.” “After all the trouble of wearing such a splendid new kimono—” "The thought that somehow this face of mine might draw near the cheek of my revered Princess Tarnishia had me beside myself with worry." "It wasn’t as if I’d been struggling to seek any other philosophy." “My apologies—” “There’s a barber right under this building, so why don’t you go down? I’ll show you the way.”

“……”

“Why don’t we go for a stroll?”

“Let’s dance once more—the carriage that went to fetch my wife should be returning soon enough.”

And then we plunged once more into the throng of dancers.

“The distant reverberation of drums, a newly arrived chorus—I know this song.” “I don’t know it.”

“It’s an ancient German song.” “But doesn’t it match the steps splendidly?”

“If you sing intending to match, isn’t it only natural that any sort of song would fit the steps at hand?—You’re such a lovely doll with that charming way of being surprised!” “Then why don’t you try singing some more? In a voice just a bit lower than now—okay?” “Though once I grew weary of delicacies, Now I’ve ceased to partake, Dancing and leaping in torn shoes, From here on out, it’s barefoot.”

“Amusing song, isn’t it. “And then?” “Emerging from the midst of the swamp, Join the dance procession

……………… “Oh my, in an even softer voice—or so you said.” “…… The dance procession marches on Bent legs leap onward Grow stout, legs too leap onward Without concern for poses or reputation La la la…” “That’s—enough.” “With such a loud voice, it’s so embarrassing—I’m at my wit’s end, you know.”

“Ah, I can see the moon through the window.—Ah, beautiful—the fireworks are magnificent, truly magnificent.……I couldn’t stay like this any longer.” “Goodbye—”

I ran out of the hall without looking back. The carriage was faithfully waiting for me.

The lamp flame flickered on the Buddhist altar. The flame enveloped by black walls appeared bluish-white to my eyes. With an Indian gown pulled deep over my head and eyes, I stared through a gap in the shutters at the bluish-white flame for a solid hour.

I am not a slacker. But neither my studies nor my labor gives me enough material to satisfy my hunger. Barely am I finding here these shabbily pitiful, moss-covered remnants of my birthplace. Why must I label this act as plunder myself—mock it as theft—yet still cannot help but sneak about like some common bandit? Even from my dear wife—am I not keeping this act secret? You fool! Had you simply strutted out in broad daylight and started anew! Those gold coins stored in that Buddhist altar drawer shouldn't rightfully belong to anyone. Wash your face and start over—change your garb and begin afresh—

I couldn't say how many times I had repeated such things to myself, yet I could never bring myself to obey those words. It was a mental phenomenon beyond reason's control. My chest trembled with such violence that a frantic bell seemed to clang janglingly within, and though my feet felt no purchase on the ground, I remained motionless, peering into the room. If I had the strength to endure such thoughts, I should be able to approach any other profession with far calmer composure. Within the flow of my blood, there must lurk a perverse inclination that delights in evil. I create secrets myself and, within the veil of secrecy, impale my own flesh with wicked needles—such criminality, akin to crying out in exultation, must be what I yearn for.

At my waist, a dagger thrust into a leather pouch was prepared.

The interior was hushed, without even a human voice. …Since that Buddhist altar’s drawer was bound by our family’s ancestral edict as "that which shall never be opened," so long as my present deed remained unseen by others’ eyes, my actions should stay buried in secrecy forever.

………………

As for my appearance, demeanor, and state of mind from then until I successfully completed the job—I could not bring myself to record them here now. Before long, I would don the mask of a playwright and, upon the stage of a grand historical drama, secretly, solemnly confess the truth, my face blushing unseen.

……………… When I stealthily returned to Rocinante—tethered to a chestnut tree in the shadow of the bamboo thicket behind—I firmly fastened two bags to either flank of the saddle, rolled several gold coins tightly into my purse, and slipped onto the highway with bated breath. Then I removed the straw sandals—deliberately soaked in water—from Rocinante’s hooves, shook myself off, and leapt onto the saddle. My earlier conscience and trembling had vanished instantly, seized by indescribable exhilaration that compelled me to vault onto the saddle in that manner. I buried my face in Rocinante’s mane and cracked my whip with a swish through the bluish-white moonlight—a long straight highway along a stream, deserted even at dusk once farmers had passed. Rocinante’s four hooves pounded the earth like giant hailstones, whipping up a gale as they charged forward in a mad dash. I grew utterly disoriented—Rocinante’s mane thrashed wildly in the ferocious wind, tangling mercilessly over my eyes, nose, mouth, ears and exposed chest until I could scarcely breathe—then came a violent sneezing fit as I clawed at my face and chest, unstoppable tears streaming down.

It was spring. The village lights at the foot of the hill blurred hazily.—Even now I distinctly remember how the murmuring stream beside me would occasionally resound with an intensely tranquil note in my ears as I lay sprawled face-down on that galloping horse’s back. I remember how the white road ran like a torrent as seen from a train window at night, how the wheat fields appeared like marshes, how the radish flowers scattered like swarms of butterflies, and how the trunks of the willows along the river could be clearly distinguished.

I had been living like a woodcutter in a corner of the village visible beyond, making my way into the forest. I exchanged those gold coins and the bag's silver vessels for modern currency and went up to the capital.

………………

I had reached the dire predicament where I must once more "visit" my birth home in that neighboring village tonight. ――Having reached this point, I could no longer keep anything hidden―the mask became impossible to wear any longer.

I had written with such affected refinement at the beginning of this text—claiming I’d translated Aristophanes’ comedies and possessed a bag of gold coins—but that was all a falsehood. That bag of gold coins was in fact the last copper coins exchanged for old gold coins. First of all, I possess no such great scholarly ability as to translate Greek comedies. Moreover, my terror of arsenic was equally a falsehood. In this day and age, no matter how many back-alley barbershops one might search, would there truly exist such a foolish magician? Even if I were to encounter one, I would not fear it. For this night’s visit, I had secretly labored to cultivate this unkempt beard.

I purchased a paper eye mask at the picture postcard shop. It was a blue mask for a masquerade ball. “I’ll swing by the dance hall on my way back from the library.” “Let’s meet there.”

I had made such a promise to my wife, but as the time for the last train drew ever nearer, I could no longer stay put,

"When I went to R Company today, I was invited to a literary lecture and suddenly had to depart for Kyoto now. I am to give a lecture on the origins of Greek comedy—that is what I shall do. ‘I’ll return late tomorrow night with a souvenir, so don’t worry and please wait for me.’" I had fled after leaving behind this note. I—a healthy man in my prime who had already surpassed a full generation past life’s midpoint—felt shame toward my wife above all when I considered myself tormenting my head over such foolish tricks; yet when I thought of this woman who had chosen as her spouse a man with no capacity for growth beyond his yearly increasing struggles to devise means for "these visits," I felt an unbidden pity welling up. Therefore, I never attempted to confess this scheme to her. Were I to declare such things plainly, she would sink into grief—reaching a resignation that her decade of hardship had come to naught—and then, despising me, would likely embark upon a new life—or so I think.

However, setting aside matters of human sentiment, I revered the ancient Western courtesy that to cause a single woman to harbor such sorrow and resolve was the utmost disgrace for a gentleman.

Art——

That—for me in my solitude alone—remained an eternal anguish, a dreadful intoxication, nothing but endlessly resplendent cirrus clouds. Thief though I was, liar though I became—so long as those deeds stayed undiscovered, none would feel sorrow; even my own trembling would vanish in that very instant—thus this must be called a virtuous act……For I who revered Stoic philosophy as life’s model (not in art…), to not attribute my actions to soundness and virtue would have felt sacrilegious. As for my own mother, I held nearly that same sort of pitilessly simple view of women as I had earlier described.

In any case, through every possible effort, I had to open that Buddhist altar’s drawer without a sound, close it quietly, and flit back like smoke without being seen. And once I returned, I would have to immediately write a seasonal greeting letter to my mother—so I thought. Quickly finish this troublesome task—then I must lean over my dedicated research desk—I flusteredly thought.

“What will I do if that drawer becomes empty?”

I muttered such a thing. “Will I be the only one to discover this emptiness—” “My mother—who strictly upholds ancestral precepts—will likely transfer custodianship of that Buddhist altar to my wife with solemn reverence, never once verifying its contents.”

"Will this empty drawer be inherited through countless generations?" "One of my descendants may someday discover it and investigate which ancestor committed such impropriety—but will they ever truly succeed in pinpointing the culprit?"

“Next spring, perhaps I’ll become Rocinante’s jockey and try entering a prize horse race…” I rode in the third-class carriage of an express train. The clatter of wheels resonated in my ears as “Rocinante, Rocinante—” I entered the train’s lavatory, locked it from within, then pulled a paper eye mask from my pocket and attempted to fasten it over my ears. While running my fingers through the black beard covering my cheeks, I stared fixedly at my mirrored visage. "What consummate artifice this disguise is—so thorough that even I cannot recognize myself when looking." "My labors had borne fruit."

Muttering such things to myself, I donned a pointed headscarf, removed my coat and trousers, and found myself clad solely in a black undergarment—an unmistakable Mephistopheles.

I, wielding a folding fan, struck one peculiarly delightful pose after another before the mirror for what felt like an eternity.

Outside the window lay the same kind of hazy moonlit night as that evening when I had flown Rocinante clad in an Indian gown. It was the dead of midsummer night. The train sounded its horn as it crossed the iron bridge.