Pathway to Japanese Literature

This was the suburbs of the capital.

As for Takino's suddenness—(let me clarify that this "suddenness" only functions as an adverb for Takino himself and for his mother who, about a year prior, had also suddenly lost her husband and was living desolately in an impoverished seaside village over twenty ri from here with his only younger brother)—having moved here from Shiba-Takanawa where he had stayed for two or three months with his wife, one young child, and a single luggage cart, over thirty days had now passed. She had anticipated the return of her eldest son, Takino, to his hometown. Takino himself had also intended to do so until two days before moving here. He had come to find unexpected ease in becoming what was called a "prodigal son who could return"—a figure passed down from ancient times. ...But he intended to omit any explanation of why things had turned out this way. (All I wanted here was to briefly clarify the scope of this adverb.)—So it was that over thirty days had now passed since he had moved from Shiba-Takanawa, where he had stayed for two or three months with his wife, one young child, and a single luggage cart.

It had become spring, but it was still cold. Since coming here, Takino had not set foot outside except to go bathing once a day. He would wake past noon, stare blankly, then drift back into a pleasantly drowsy sleep; after some time crawl out of bed, head to the bathhouse, return refreshed to find the lamp lit and face the evening meal—there was nothing else. Devoid of thought and incident, his days passed thus—even a toy flute unfit for music holds about three tones; the sound of a clay pigeon whistle, though monotonous, carries a plaintive strain—yet in his chest, head, and throat, nothing resonated. He was not particularly feeling weary, nor harboring any profound melancholy—though of course he wasn’t cheerful either. To put it another way, whether he rose at whatever hour in the morning or returned each evening on the same train that arrived every ten minutes, finishing his supper only to promptly fall asleep with loud snores… he differed little from some carefree tool of middling quality—a worker of sorts.

Once, he received a letter from his mother in the impoverished village—written by his younger brother’s hand—inquiring about a nearby fire. Since newspapers had not yet been delivered to his residence, it was through that letter that he first learned of the major fire in Higurashi on the city’s outskirts. As he had a friend there, he ordered his wife to go buy newspapers. The wife took the train to some distant place and finally returned after gathering four or five days’ worth of newspapers. The great fire had been in a different direction from his friend’s house. As for Higurashi—if one were to imagine the capital as a circle, his current location here was one end of a straight line passing through the circle’s center, with the other end being there. Because they were both in the same suburbs, Mother had assumed that place and this one were nearby. ...During his childhood, when his father had been in Boston, America, a great earthquake that occurred in San Francisco, America, was reported in Japanese newspapers. He still remembered that incident clearly even now, over twenty years later. He still could not laugh at his ignorant grandparents from that time.

On the sunlit engawa (though he couldn't recall the season, it somehow felt like winter), Grandfather had been looking through the newspaper, “Damn it!” he shouted. Grandfather had often spoken about the terror of the Ansei Earthquake. At that time, even when Mother—who was knowledgeable about American geography—explained things like how the distance between Boston and San Francisco would translate in terms of Japanese locations, Grandfather would not readily accept it. Grandfather was slightly built with a physique resembling Takino’s own, and was a notorious coward. At sixteen—during the Meiji Restoration—he had proudly told stories to Takino about securing Hakone’s checkpoint and receiving a sword wound at the Battle of Yamazaki, but Takino still believed those to be tall tales.

“It’s all connected land, I tell ya!” He remembered Grandfather letting out such a sigh. “But wasn’t the Ansei Earthquake only in the Kanto region?” “Anyway, let’s send a telegram… We can’t make heads or tails of these foreigner lands!” Just as Grandfather had done, he worried about his father—known only through photographs—and whether he was safe. On the day he received the fire inquiry letter, he had briefly recalled those old memories and imagined the conversation between his mother and younger brother before they wrote it.

It had been Takino's habit never to praise his current residence no matter where he lived—not even his birthplace—but he declared that he hated this latest place more than any he had lived in before. On the first day after moving here, when he went to the bathhouse, he looked around at his surroundings and gazed at the strange houses scattered across the fields—what sort of people lived in those homes, and how did they live? He found himself wondering about such things. There was a man and woman of quite advanced years walking arm-in-arm without a hint of shame, as Westerners do. There were also two men about his age earnestly studying how to construct Western-style buildings most easily while maintaining an air of lofty sophistication in appearance alone—and so on—as they walked along. He had proudly declared he hated it—but was that all? Just these dubious observations! —And he vaguely pictured in his mind the next place he would move to in the near future. When he relocated, it had been his custom until now to inform his mother in detail about the new address, but this time he did not consult her at all—and even when notifying her by postcard (this being the first instance of such a method), not only was it troublesome to write out “Tokyo Prefecture, Such-and-Such District, Such-and-Such Village, Ōaza Such-and-Such, ××× Number,” but he had his wife write it for him. Even if he—being the sender—were to dispatch a hundred letters in a single day, his mother—the recipient—would, unless each address and number matched exactly what was recorded in that district office’s official registry, return them unopened to him upon his next homecoming. Therefore, he rarely sent sealed letters, but even with postcards—if he made such omissions—she would return them in an envelope; though being postcards, their original purpose would surely be achieved regardless. On rare occasions, he would deliberately forget to write the address and send things like "Your's obedient son" just to annoy her. So now she didn’t even bother to return them. Even so, there were times when he would draft writings for himself, and whenever needing to use his current address within them—though fully aware of how pointless this was, even counterproductively conspicuous—he simply couldn't feel settled unless he meticulously wrote out each unique place name: Sagami Odawara Town, Izu Atami Town, Ushigome Such-and-Such Town, Shitaya Ward Ueno, and so forth. He could never bring himself to handle them as casually as one often sees in other novels—labeling places as A Town, B Village, or simply some village. While it was certainly due to his own impoverished imagination, he would sometimes bitterly smile wondering if his mother’s old-fashioned education had influenced him even in such matters—and think that if he were to write out these rather insignificant place names in such exaggerated fashion, those who saw it would likely laugh or even find it grating.

A few days prior he had thought this foolish notion: If I ever encountered this town name again, maybe this time I'd casually label it First C Town using initials—after all, I'd grown thick-skinned enough to even sign "Your's obedient son" to Mother... Though never having taken a leave of absence, he had spent extra years completing the liberal arts program at a certain private university. Yet despite his prolonged stay, he made no friends there. On rare occasions when encountering former classmates in the streets, nervous bile would rise in his throat while they in turn made faces asking if that eternal dunce still lived—in the end, he thought staying long in this town would surely recreate that same relationship between himself and those liberal arts peers. While declaring how much he hated it or some such thing, he nonetheless possessed an abundance of that murky amorphousness which drew him in.

(...If Takino had been compelled to create something called a chronicle, how would he have had to chronicle each day after the first?) ......) From when the outside world still held daylight, Takino—alone—had been tilting his sake cup in gradual sips until he felt adrift on waves, abruptly referring to himself in such dismissive terms.—And what had he been saying? He chuckled mirthlessly—solitary—

(If I mustn’t… then I must…) Only those foolish phrases rolled across his tongue like the poorly sliding wheels of a cheap toy. (...Reciting those hateful phrases—whatever they were—three or four times over without losing breath... I did have such tongue-twister races when I was a child!) Hmm? What were those phrases again? I’ve completely forgotten! But I was always the failure in that game, wasn’t I! My tongue just wouldn’t work... Still, you’d think I’d remember at least one of those chants by now... Tch! Damn it! I’d kind of like to try it right now…? When it comes to such tasks, I wonder whether children or adults are superior! I wonder if that’s also one of my natural gifts after all? The games I couldn’t manage as a child… Well, of course not—if anything, I must have grown even clumsier by now.)

“Tch,” he clicked his tongue. That was all it took for him to feel disgusted. The same days kept repeating—that is to say: waking past noon in a daze, dozing off again, eventually crawling from bed to visit the bathhouse, returning to find lights lit and facing the evening meal—before suddenly getting drunk, with no memory of how he ended up in bed. Then the next day, when his eyes snapped open again past twelve noon, there he discovered himself exactly as described in those literal translation-style explanatory phrases from English-Japanese exercises. Needless to say, he forgot everything—what drunken thoughts had crossed his mind, what nonsense he had spouted, what antics he had performed. What he remembered was waking up past twelve, going to the bath, and—the noise! “The noise!” he shouted at the child; then—as happened every day without fail when he would shout this—his wife dryly laughed, “If there’s no noise to begin with, someone who’s so high and mighty as to say such things ought to rent a bigger house,” thereby souring his mood; he sulkily turned to face the evening meal—that was all. That drunken actions were entirely forgotten was commonly dismissed as sophistry—and while he may have possessed some measure of this excuse, his drinking bore little resemblance to respectable evening libations. To put it plainly, it took the form of a failed scholar’s reckless binges—raw, juvenile, and utterly chaotic—leaving no room for orderly recollection.

(……If only Takino had……) He had again unintentionally muttered the same words and unintentionally let slip a bitter smile. ——So what did he consider during those hours between waking past twelve and sitting down to the evening meal? Merely the same few lines of nonsense already described in this first section—groundless thoughts forgotten within an hour. ——Though he did mutter things like "Let’s make it C Town when writing the novel next time," there being no events to speak of and life remaining this simple yet rigidly structured, were he to create something called a diary, the first day would record elementary school-style entries: what time he rose, visited the bath, returned home, finished supper and slept——and for all subsequent days, he’d note changes in cloud cover or sunshine or rainfall if he must, with everything else reduced to same as the day before, same as the day before——there being no alternative. If this had been due to weather’s influence—if one’s mood shifted with each condition, becoming cheerful on sunny days, calm on rainy ones, or feeling some nameless way when winds blew—then naturally their reflections would have gained color. But he remained utterly untouched by such things.

He had harbored an antipathy toward "diaries" since his boyhood. At the same time he entered elementary school, his mother commanded him to keep a diary. Every day, in the weather column—since his mother would not permit simply writing "sunny" or "rainy" based on the weather conditions, insisting instead on entries like "cloudy then clear," "clear all day," or "wind rising in the afternoon"—merely recording this already proved utterly tedious.

“I rose at six, washed my face, ate breakfast, went to school at seven-thirty, played with friends until evening, studied at night, and went to bed.” "A diary isn't something you write for others to see—when you grow up and read it yourself, you'll gain various insights. That's why you must write honestly and in as much detail as possible." This was what Mother said, but he—perhaps because she occasionally inspected the diary—would feel certain someone would read whatever he wrote, making him reluctant to record even minor impressions. When admonished by Mother that he must document even things like "...being roughly awakened by everyone in the morning, sluggishly rising from bed, starting a fight with Grandfather out of frustration..."—such types of incidents—he found writing shameful matters utterly repugnant. Even on days he didn't study, he would invariably write that he had. Since it wasn’t checked every day, a few lies could likely be slipped through—even when he’d risen at eight and nearly been late for school, he wrote seven o’clock as his waking time. In later years, he sometimes thought that the diary had compelled him to falsify things. Several volumes of diaries he had written until mid-January remained in his family home in his hometown until just two or three years ago; though he once briefly opened them, not a shred of sentimental nostalgia for his childhood arose. Seeing those insipid, desiccated sentences laid bare the duplicity of his younger self’s heart—so much so that it left only a creeping-crawling sensation across his back—and during chimney-sweeping season, he threw them into the fire.

In one single place, such a passage caught his eye. “Today there was horse racing at Komine Park.” “When I returned from school, Mr. Kawai came with Kiyo-chan and we went to see the horse racing. The horse racing was fun—when the horses ran along the opposite bank of the racecourse, I thought they looked just like toys and wished they could run that well! But up close, their breath came out like steam from a steam engine’s smokestack—terrifyingly so—and the riders’ faces looked frightening too, with such tremendous force! I thought if I fell under those horses’ legs, I’d be done for! Yet when they circled back around, they became cute toys again—it was all so interesting somehow! On the way back, Kiyo-chan and I raced down a slope pretending to be racehorses, but since I was wearing snow clogs, I lost! Kiyo-chan kept shouting brave cries as he ran! I was sweating buckets, breathing hard, choking on dust—but watching Mr. Kawai laughing at us from afar, I figured he couldn’t possibly understand how intense this was…”

Moreover, upon entering middle school, he was made to keep something called a summer vacation diary, which annoyed him every summer. It must have been the summer of his fourth year. The homeroom teacher of their class was a kind old man called Teacher Matsuoka who served as mathematics instructor, differing from ordinary math teachers in his tendency to expound on excerpts from ancient Greek and Eastern sages' theories, taking pleasure in sharing studies on life's enlightenment. ——This coincided with his typical delinquent phase of boasting about idleness. “Hey, who keeps a diary? Ridiculous! Just ask someone about the weather before term starts, then make up whatever nonsense you want!”

He spent many days smugly boasting about such things—days he could never actually record in the school-submitted diary. It was at the prefectural middle school where regulations were draconian. Entering an eatery like a soba shop or Western restaurant meant five-day suspension; going out without hakama trousers brought one-day confinement; cropping hair to three centimeters or trimming sideburns earned a fist strike from the gymnastics instructor; bicycle riding required submitting a written statement; reading new literature deducted ethics points; love letters meant expulsion; pleasure quarter strolls brought indefinite suspension; wearing geta with Western clothes warranted another strike; singing popular songs summoned one's guarantor; playing harmonicas or violins invited suspicion of composing love letters; theater visits incurred three-day suspension; marked athletic shirts banned sports; wearing rain clogs on fine days mandated barefoot commutes on rainy days; nighttime outings were permitted only in summer under regulated attire for seaside walks until seven—or nine during shrine festivals. These were mere fragments of the code. A rogue Justice Party faction—self-organized among students to uncover misdeeds like love letters, violin performances, literary reading and pleasure quarter visits for sanctions—counted him as member, though their entire existence consisted of violating every authority's taboo, making him the prime instigator in that regard. ——Thus there remained not a single day worth recording in the diary meant for school submission.

Four or five days before the second term began, he visited a diligent student and, disregarding their reluctance, seized their diary to copy fifty days’ worth of "weather" entries. And so he had to fabricate each day’s record according to the weather—though from that time onward, neither his mind nor pen moved freely, and the difficulty of this forgery truly carried the bitter taste of hell. Had he instead applied even half the diligence spent meticulously copying “weather” from others’ diaries to creating an honest record and meekly accepting the authorities’ punishment, he might have found himself more lighthearted and surely earned praise from his fellow party members. Yet he remained equally cowardly like the rest.

The idea of copying weather data had been his conception. When he proposed this method, the entire group showered him with unprecedented praise. Each member then meticulously transcribed meteorological details from his master copy before swiftly composing elaborate fabricated diaries. ——A assembled diverse materials to craft an illustrated chronicle of ascending the Japanese Alps; B forged an account of tent living on Mount Hakusan; C documented accompanying fishing vessels around Ōshima; D recorded insect-collecting expeditions to Mount Tanzawa featuring encounters with wild monkeys; E tediously narrated hiding beneath Ishigaki Mountain’s slopes for fifty summer days while envisioning himself a hero—interlacing the text with endless citations like Franklin’s Autobiography, Napoleon’s Words and Deeds, and Plutarch’s Lives; F authored “Records of Marathon Sprints and Marathon Swims,” detailing moonlit dashes along Atami Highway followed by oceanic returns to Ogōri-Miyukigahama Beach; G compiled a seven-day fasting log from Amiri Shrine; while H tentatively suggested composing “My Tussle with a Tanuki in Dōryō Mountains,” only to retreat scratching his head when others jeered that such transparent falsehoods would inevitably be exposed.

But for him, not a single one of those brilliant ideas came to mind. And the several days' worth he had finally finished writing—had they been truthful—would have created a gentle, faithful record worthy not only of top ethics marks but even of wresting away the class leader's position. With each character he wrote, Teacher Matsuoka's face would materialize; with each line advanced, the student supervisor's terrifying visage appeared. Then he'd grow despondent thinking what a wretchedly unfilial son he was toward his mother, while the insipid falsehoods stalled at every turn—muddling through incoherently, sweat streaming down his back as he wrote in desperate fits. At home he had indeed affected an air of dutiful obedience to his guardians' words, never neglecting dedicated self-cultivation—yet though this too was fabrication, such flights of fancy (as chronicling encounters with macaques on Mount Tanzawa) lay beyond his imagination. Compared to those grand fabrications, it sufficed merely to narrate extreme antitheses of his actual existence—a far easier task than lofty inventions, and a more familiar expedient.

To vary each day’s entry out of necessity, he wrote of rising at seven one day (though school rules demanded five o’clock—but surely skipping the rigid five-five-five routine for an occasional seven was permissible)—then set it at 5:30 the next, followed by three or four days of strict five o’clock risings before again—having overslept that morning due to yesterday’s long swim, he snapped awake to find his bedside alarm clock already past 7:10, the front garden flooded with dawn light. *I leapt up energetically*, he wrote, *ran to the wellside for my usual five cold baths, then solved mathematics until nearly noon—yet bathing past seven proved futile, the tepid water failing to invigorate mind or body. Thus I resolutely resolved to rise at four tomorrow!* The following day boasted grandly: *4 a.m.—awakened by the alarm’s cheerful chime. Last night’s rain lingers; Hakusan vanishes into distant twilight haze. Silence envelops all but the whisper of raindrops. Unthinkingly I shout “Bravo!”, seize my fishing basket for ten cold baths, then spend the day in sparkling spirits solving over ten geometry problems from the textbook.* In such fashion he crafted several diary types—yet conquering fifty days of such forgery proved beyond him. And so he conveniently arranged several such records according to the weather, interspersing them with blandly rule-compliant entries—for example: *5 a.m. rising, cold bath, mechanical exercises and military bugle practice, followed by homework review until nearly noon; afternoon swim; one-hour seaside walk after supper; 6:30 return home; 8 p.m. bedtime*—then for the next day would write things like *same as yesterday* or *actions identical to the previous day* in such fashion, until these repetitions occupied nearly one-third of the entire diary.

Shortly after the new term began, they (the self-styled Justice Party members) were summoned by the student supervisors. From that year onward, an investigation report titled "Student Behavior Survey Record During Summer Vacation" had been created. Several student supervisors had assigned shifts to investigate the town day and night, and on top of that, they secretly visited parents to conduct thorough investigations. However, since their faction had always been persons of interest to the authorities, this investigation report might as well have been made specifically for them—so thoroughly had their activities alone been scrutinized. His section documented matters such as: failure to take breakfast during vacation; multiple entries to the permanent electric theater in cunning disguises with C, D, E, F, etc. (dates omitted)—C in fireman’s livery and hunting cap, D with mustache and glasses, E posing as a university student, Takino wearing a fisherman’s festive mahihahi robe with a face cloth, F as a motorcycle driver; organizing a Gluttony Society to hold rowdy late-night gatherings in absent parents’ homes; assembling at Western restaurant Banzai Hall (X month X night), soba shop Seiseian (X month X night), and the inner room of sweets shop Matsutsuki (X month X night)—where they commandeered the shop’s professional imagawayaki grills for chaotic misuse, vexing the proprietors; on X month X night, stealing sweet potatoes and watermelons from fields near Kurihashi Road using several bicycles and one sidecar-equipped motorcycle, then congregating on the coast past midnight to drain beer barrels while chanting “Gluttony Society forever!”; and their diaries, copied solely for weather data from another student’s journal three days before term began, then fabricated during an all-night conspiracy in the vacant XX residence—all such details were meticulously recorded. When this was thrust before them, they were left dumbfounded. The timid H fainted. They were all given a two-week suspension and had their ethics points reduced to zero. During their confinement, their homeroom teacher came to each of their homes for a visit once. Teacher Matsuoka came to his place. Teacher Matsuoka said with a laugh,

“How simple it was to just write ‘same as yesterday’!” he said. “Aren’t these days exactly like the day before?” “…………” “That may well be, but what you must consider lies precisely there—do you grasp this?” “Haa…” “The Samantabhadra Sutra states: ‘Those who take delight in purifying the six senses must learn this contemplation.’ Since ancient Greece, the theory of universal flux has stood proven—even were it a stone’s existence, moment by moment in its surroundings, atmospheres shift, clouds race, lightning flashes…leaves scatter windless…the disparity between each instant grows immense! How much more so for us who are no stones—we possessing eyes, ears, nose, body, tongue, and mind: the six roots!”

The countenance of Teacher Matsuoka, which until now had been filled with gentleness, stiffened abruptly at this moment. "The eyes reveal joy and anger," he said, thrusting his index finger against his brow. With considerable force applied, his body—sitting upright—leaned back slightly in response to the Teacher’s finger and then returned. At the same time, Teacher Matsuoka— "The ears inherit the duty of hearing and discerning," he declared, pinching both of his ears with his fingertips and pulling them upward. He involuntarily grimaced and lifted his hips. "The nose discerns love, hate, fragrance, and stench," the Teacher solemnly continued, his demeanor slightly excited as he sharply pinched his nose. ——And this time, rapidly,

"The tongue discerns bitter and sweet," he declared, pulling his lips as if reeling in a fishing line. He involuntarily let out a pained grunt! He gurgled in his throat, his chin jutting forward like a spiteful child making a hateful face—but of course, his expression of pain and shame and stupefied confusion was no different from a fish caught on a hook. For two or three breaths, the teacher kept his fingertips clamped tight (the teacher’s fingers reeked of tobacco)—then abruptly—*Hah!* —and with force concentrated in his gut, thrust back his chin,

“The mind constantly examines and contemplates!” he roared—then with a “Take this!”, slammed his fist against Takino’s chest. With a yell, he struck him hard in the chest. Truly, the teacher’s swift technique at this moment was, just as his words moments before had foretold, a masterful kiai-jutsu delivered with lightning speed. Thereupon the Teacher resumed his appropriately gentle countenance and declared, “As you’re not a complete fool, I’ve nothing more to say. Fourteen days’ confinement—meditate in silence. Chant ‘purify the six senses’ during cold baths. Record your daily reflections with utmost care: at least five sheets of ruled paper per entry (requires guardian inspection and seal).” Having delivered these instructions, he dismissed him. And after conferring with his guardian—his mother—on numerous points of caution for a short while, he knocked on Takino’s study before leaving,

“Work properly now. I bear you no hatred,” he said and walked away.

He buried his face in his desk and wept. Mother too came to his side, tears welling up.

“The friends from back then…”

With cup still in hand, he thought with exaggerated intensity. ...What about A? What about B? What about C? ...What about G? What about H? ..."Lately, the only ones I’ve had any contact with are G and K!" A had reportedly become a Bachelor of Laws, while B took eight or nine years to graduate from Keio University’s political science department only to die of typhoid that same year. C became a police officer and went to Korea. G became a Bachelor of Science and is now engrossed in entomological research at America-Michigan University. He too harbored ambitions for going to America and entomological research, so he exchanged letters with G about three times a year. K is currently engaged in the family business of fishcake manufacturing at his ancestral home in Odawara.

“And what about Takino?” he muttered, then frowned in the same manner as when he had earlier mused about his diary and such.

“What’s with all this muttering to yourself and twisting your neck around since earlier?” Though long accustomed to such scenes, his wife found herself overcome with unbearable irritation whenever she observed her husband—even in his drunken state—affecting such absurdly pretentious gestures with unwavering seriousness, leaving her no choice but to hurl those scornful words at him.

“I’ve been thinking this way of living won’t do.” “If you spend your whole life spouting that nonsense, I couldn’t care less!” she snorted. “Whatever you do, don’t speak until I address you first.” “Please answer without getting angry—what exactly are you…”

“Shut up!” he shouted, though he didn’t seem particularly angry. He looked pitiful.

“May is a bright time for dreaming—a moving picture narrator once said that. Now that was an excellent phrase.” He had slipped into a drunken tone without realizing it as he muttered this to himself.—Ah—his wife sighed. But she, “When did you go see a moving picture?” she asked with some curiosity. “Back in middle school days, we organized a costumed troupe and—” “Ah, enough already!”

What a tedious man he was——she thought with profound bitterness. “O soul, Make merry and Carouse, Dear soul, for all is well! ……” (Tennyson)

Was there no saving him now?! she thought. Because he’s light in weight, he can be moved around easily—but even so, when he loses consciousness, he becomes quite heavy. Dealing with that every night is a real task! she thought. Still, while thinking—What an unsightly spectacle, him bellowing those suspicious-sounding English phrases at every turn. I’ll give him a proper scolding tomorrow—she found herself unable to reverse course now that things had come to this. “How very impressive knowledge you have there,” she said. “Do explain it to me.” But fortunately, he merely hung his head and heaved rough sighs. “(And Takino...)” he thought.

At that time, there existed in his country’s literary world a faction known as the "Self-School". This name arose from the authors themselves taking their own real lives as material and transforming them into art. For unlike the other faction called the “Experience School”—though both took life as their material—here some wielded sharp chisels, others infused wild imaginings, while still others took up keen blades of intellect, each transforming “life” into a jewel. Moreover, there was another faction called the "Circle-Breaking Faction". This derived from words once employed by Jonathan Swift in old England, which a certain critic had quoted—comparing life to an egg, asserting that when breaking it, one should crack it from the rounded end to avoid injury, and that our path through life ought to follow this principle. Those adopting such an attitude were collectively dubbed, much like the "Self-School" or "Experience School," with this conveniently assigned name: the "Circle-Breaking Faction". There was also a faction called the "Sharp-Breaking Faction". This was generally the opposing faction to the Circle-Breaking Faction.

Thus, the literary world of that era was undeniably a golden age of literary prosperity since the nation’s founding. Many youths, drawn by the glittering literary world of the Eastern Capital, flocked en masse from afar.—Now, Takino had long lived in his rural family home as an unwelcome burden; then, without parental decree—nay, in defiance of it—yet equally devoid of any youthful romance, he haphazardly married his current wife five years prior. Finding his family home intolerable thereafter, he fled as if chased out to Izu-Atami once, and now drifted through Tokyo shifting residences, passing these simple days without purpose. At first, he had not aspired to be a writer, but as he spent those days, at some point he had become a self-styled "Self-School" student.

So it was that he, wearing that plausible expression, muttered once more as if just realizing it—“If only Takino could take his so-called diary and…”—and frowned. Life was exactly as it appeared; his ideology remained unchanged. Yet he still clung to youthful vanity, unaware these were delusions; sputtering complaints of “Life—” “Life—” he would forget his own failings while chasing those very fantasies. What terrifying self-delusion others would see in this “Self-School” adherent! What then of the delusions harbored by that student—Takino? He had already lost his father; though eldest son, he’d relinquished their impoverished village home to his mother; now he stood father to a four-year-old child—and thirty years old. The ancient proverbs about vainly amassing dog-and-horse years—or again, that old song: *Though bush warblers herald spring’s renewal of all things, I alone grow old*—even these rang newly true for him.

Four or five days prior, he had received a postcard from his old friend K in Odawara that read: Once next month arrives, I’ll be coming up to the capital primarily to watch baseball, and on that occasion would like to visit your lodgings for the first time in ages—troublesome as it may be, please write out how to get there by train along with a map and send it my way. He was eagerly awaiting K’s visit. I had briefly noted earlier about G and K; those self-proclaimed Justice Party members from our middle school days all grew up to become unfilial children, but now most had found their place in something. Only I alone… he would sometimes think, and grow despondent. K had once gone to Tokyo resolved to enter Waseda University and become a baseball player, but before even matriculating, he fell in love with a geisha in Koji-machi and Fujimi-cho. Devising every possible pretext, he had his family send him living expenses for about a year—until this was discovered, leading to his recall home where he temporarily engaged in the family business. But then he fell for a local geisha and repeatedly squandered his living allowance in quick succession, leading to his disownment. Undeterred, he boldly declared he would go to America to become an activist and extracted one final travel fund from his parents. However, instead of going to America, he went to Hakone with the geisha. Before long, he somehow parted ways with that geisha, and this time—truly, how many times had K used this word?—declared “reform,” then tearfully pleaded with his parents. And then he sat down in the shop. But then he fell passionately in love with another geisha in the area and embezzled his living allowance funds. And once again was disowned; the woman went off to Yorosho Town, and around that same time, Takino too had been driven from his home and was staying in Atami—so K spent the entire summer there. In Atami, he came down with heatstroke, which led him back to his family home—but then he embezzled his living allowance again, persistently visiting another geisha, and this time was met with a five-year disownment. Yet the very next day brought the Great Taisho Earthquake. A fire broke out, and the town was completely destroyed. —K’s family ran a venerable establishment, but after the earthquake, their fortunes rapidly declined. Despite once having over a dozen craftsmen constantly working in splendid fashion at the storefront, when Takino happened to pass by one day, there was K—standing before a massive chopping block alongside three or four craftsmen, skillfully pounding kamaboko while leading a spirited chant.

(Author’s Note: "Kamaboko" is a type of food product that has been a renowned local specialty of Sagami-Odawara Town since ancient times. In its manufacture, they place the material upon an enormous chopping block measuring over two ken in length (approximately 3.6 meters), where several craftsmen—each gripping two knife-shaped mallets in both hands—strike it in unison while chanting rhythmic work calls. The sound was as delightful as listening to a xylophone’s performance.)

Three years ago when he lived in Atami, neither his lifestyle nor his ideology differed from what they are now. ——Through K’s postcard he indulged in such reminiscences and profoundly muttered about belonging to the “Self-School.” He had once inserted fragments of those days into his old work *Spring Coat*. This occurred because K’s visit briefly energized his life, leading him to first compile a diary intending to novelize that period. When his initial novel plan failed, this painstaking diary became obsolete—though he later excerpted parts for *Spring Coat*. The remaining fourteen or fifteen pages still lay at his trunk’s bottom. This diary avoided resembling elementary school journals through its purpose yet remained aridly flavorless.

(My complexion had become so dark that people said my appearance had changed. I sat down before the mirror intending to shave my beard, and when I looked at my face, even I thought, "I see!" Neither was I a competent swimmer, nor did I find the seaside interesting enough to go out. Having been invited by K, I went reluctantly—it was better than just lazing about in my room. But watching men and women frolic about as if in perfect merriment was unbearable; their exaggerated gestures only brought discomfort to the viewer.)

(It was already mid-August; the stomach ailment I’d incurred during that single trip to Tokyo back in June still hadn’t fully healed. Thinking of Tokyo made me dizzy; yet I never seemed to grow accustomed to the loneliness of the countryside. K swam all the way to Manazuru today and returned by boat. "If I stay still even a little, my old man’s terrifying face floats up and I can’t bear it—so while I’m awake, I exercise like crazy," K said. At night K drank until he collapsed; a bit worrisome.)

(In Russia and such places, they say there's a method called snow suicide. After getting dead drunk and wandering aimlessly through the snow, an intensely pleasant drowsiness supposedly overcomes you; once you fall asleep, they say you never wake again—apparently the easiest method among all forms of suicide. Can't you pull off that trick at sea too?" K said with a laugh. The Russian story was undoubtedly a lie. What an unpleasant thing for K to say.) (K complained of feeling unwell and didn't get up. When I placed my hand on his forehead, it burned terribly. Alarmed, I took his temperature—just over 39 degrees. I rushed outside in panic; went to A Hospital but found it closed, had no other acquaintances, randomly pleaded at three clinics; while the rickshaw was speeding through town, without any reason I suddenly stood up and kept running as I was, only noticing when passersby laughed at me. Two doctors came. Heatstroke, enteritis; cooling his head and chest with three ice bags. It climbed to forty-one degrees. Having no medical knowledge and rarely falling ill myself, I felt utterly helpless. All-nighter. Since pulling all-nighters is my specialty, there's no hardship whatsoever.)

(K said to inform his family.) Though it was no longer necessary, he kept insisting I inform them—he wanted to request the nurse he knew. I went to the post office and called K’s house. K’s mother’s voice was trembling; it seemed she was deliberately speaking lightly to prevent us from worrying. There was some truth to that, but K’s mother was too sensitive. She said she would come tomorrow morning with the nurse. She couldn’t help adding: "The nurse alone would suffice, but if you’re coming under the guise of leisure, then don’t bother. No fool would visit your place for amusement," K’s mother said.

(K’s mother came in the morning. The letter she had sent the previous day arrived as she stood absentmindedly at the gate in the evening gazing at the sea; having received the very letter she herself had dispatched—since it had already come beforehand—she turned this way flustered and tried to conceal it in her obi sash, but when I glimpsed the address bearing my name, I playfully wrested it away and read it. Since the day before yesterday, we had laughed for the first time. It was a remarkably lengthy letter written in colloquial style. When I read the letter, my chest grew heavy. "How sorrowful I am to have given birth to that child—" she had written. The next day, forgetting even to go out, I could understand the heart of K’s mother who had written such a letter without thinking.)

He took out those materials and looked at them the other day, then discarded them without reason. In this state—since having his eyes poked and nose grabbed by Teacher Matsuoka—he must have felt he hadn’t advanced a single step. But now these suburban days remained nothing but “the same as yesterday,” no matter how harshly his ears were yanked, lips pulled, or chest struck by Teacher.

He also had occasions when he thought about his lineage. His father was a man who never held a steady job throughout his life, yet remained perpetually unsettled, meeting his end in frantic haste. His father was a sort of coward who would drunkenly proclaim things like “My outlook is global—I am, so to speak, a cosmopolitan!” yet none of his statements ever survived until the next day. He had died about a year before, but to Takino it already felt like an old dream—something that, if pressed to recall, would only evoke a vague urge to laugh (much as his own father had once laughed at previous generations). There remained no legacy or words to pass down to his child, nor any material through which the child could meaningfully speak to others as an heir in any sense. Therefore, he envied K, who had inherited his ancestors’ fishcake manufacturing business and now devotedly worked at the cutting board. If there was one thing he had inherited now, it was this single matter that remained.

His father—in what might have been a single moment of uncertainty—became obsessed with running as a candidate for either the village council or prefectural assembly (an act that likely contradicted his usual proclamations), gathering so many campaigners that his fervor grew excessive ("How utterly un-cosmopolitan! And how utterly un-socialist despite his constant claims!"). Merely through his campaigners casting votes, he optimistically declared, "It's in the bag—hurrah! When it comes down to it, I've got allies galore. After all, I've championed democratic principles—my artisan friends alone make a formidable force! Trust pops up in the unlikeliest places!" On election day he crowed, "Look at those pasty-faced weaklings losing their nerve!" while anxiously muttering, "Let's just hope we don't get ambushed after such an outrageous landslide." But when ballots were counted, H. Takino had received only one vote. That night, his mother, his maternal grandmother who'd come for convalescence, and he (S. Takino, then a literature student) sat around the brazier awaiting H's return. Opposite their house stood another with an imposing black gate. Suddenly shattering the silence came the clatter of gravel pelting that gate's door. "Children's mischief perhaps," they whispered.

“I threw stones at it.”

Having said this, H returned bright red. As soon as he entered the house, H suddenly raised his voice and shouted. Then in his frenzy, he shouted “Don’t we have any bigger stones?!” and tried to go out again when Grandmother grabbed him from behind (this grandmother had mostly memorized the lines from Chushingura and prided herself on her vocal mimicry)—“This is not the age of warring states! If you must dispute something, do so through dignified debate! How much less should you throw stones at gates under cover of darkness!” “If there were any discourtesy from the other party, one ought to go forth in the morning… and such,” she explained in old-fashioned phrasing, admonishing her nearly fifty-year-old son-in-law. H fell asleep while muttering something under his breath.

The owner of the black gate was the person who had promised H their vote. Of course, H did not go out the next morning. H.Takino was inept at all forms of argument; when angered, he could do nothing but hurl expletives like “You idiot!”, “Damn you!”, or “Step outside and I’ll thrash you!”—mere interjections devoid of substance. And when he encountered them the next day, he couldn’t remain composed; though wanting to speak but not knowing what to say, he could only turn away in anger. He had inherited this very trait and, though a man of letters, knew no means to protest through argumentation no matter how mortified he felt when bitten by the neighbor’s dog. Later, his father had once told him of wanting to find that single voter and befriend them. But he died without meeting that friend—what he had now inherited from his father was little more than thoughts of 'that friend'. So much did he resemble his father—that is, possessing no talent beyond investing in doomed ventures—but since his father had devoted himself solely to such undertakings, their household had now become impoverished, rendering them unable to maintain a lifestyle like his father’s. He had no way to spend his days other than thinking about "The Impoverished Chronicle"—something he had been inept at since childhood, just as expected. And these days, his chronicle required no more than five or six lines.

One day he put on a suit, stuffed opera glasses into his pocket, and went out.—His wife felt refreshed. Late at night, he returned home extremely drunk. The next day, he went out again—this time wearing a kimono. That night, he did not return.

Each time a train arrived, she found it slightly irritating to hear the station attendant’s calls, but his wife felt a sense of calm, able to immerse herself in reading for the first time in ages. When she had first come here, she had imagined the suburbs would be more spacious, but row upon row of houses like beehives stood clustered together—this house being one of them—offering no sense of ease whatsoever. If it meant ending up in a house like this, she thought, there had been no reason to come here at all. Takino’s mother from his hometown had sent over their family’s maid, but with the house having only three rooms, the maid could do nothing but laugh and leave. She was met with scorn. No doubt he had told his mother back home some outrageous lies about rent and deposits like he always did to deceive her—how long did he plan to keep acting like a delinquent student, forgetting his own family’s critical situation?—she became terrified thinking this. What’s even more unpleasant was being lumped in with his kind—not going out shopping anywhere, not strolling about to any particular place, working like a maid…—when she continued like this, she unintentionally—

"That fool..." she muttered, calling her husband, only to grow pitiful instead. ..."What a stingy man..."

It was a quiet night. When she gazed at her four-year-old child’s sleeping face, tears welled in her eyes. The child—with a sturdy build unlike his father’s (only in thinking this did she sense a glimmer)—slept breathing as steadily as bellows. ...Yet she remained unaware that S. Takino’s mother, who had kept her own husband housebound for over a decade, had often harbored similar thoughts. Lately she had grown uneasy about how her husband refused to stay home (why didn’t she feel jealous? It was simply strange)—how he shouted nonsensical things in his sleep or muttered incoherently in the next room—could this be nervous exhaustion? The suspicion took hold. At that very moment, something like a black wing struck her head—she saw a bizarrely ominous vision.—No—this was merely her nerves fraying, she told herself in panic, forcing a feeble, strained laugh...

The following night, he returned home late. He seemed quite drunk, wore a gloomy expression, did not raise his voice, and picked up his cup.

“I want to live with Mother.”

He said such things. Exaggerated movements displease those who see them—he recalled having written such things in the Atami Journal and the like.

“Maybe I should go back to the countryside and really study!” First of all, this business of having to think about Mother when I'm here—this must be...this must be done, this must absolutely be done, this must be—regardless of what kind of obligation it may be—is a burden. A burden is detestable—even if you call it a whimsical delusion, it’s simply in one’s nature… Whose nature? H. Takino’s? S. Takino’s? H. Takino? S. Takino? …… His wife clicked her tongue in her chest and endured with rigid composure. And then, deliberately putting on a sleepy-looking face, she chased the fading sound of the train until it vanished and counted the ticks of the clock.

“Ugh! If I could say, ‘We do not drink the wine of ignorance in vain…’, that would be amusing—Tch! Pour me a drink! Though parrots may speak well, they remain among birds; though mythical beasts may speak well, they remain among animals. Now, even should a person without propriety speak eloquently, their heart remains that of beasts—or so it goes… or perhaps…”

He started to say something like "What Mother taught me long ago..." but instead let out an exaggerated, drunken sigh…….

That evening, his wife did not feel the usual tedious unpleasantness as much as she normally did, but in its place, her husband’s expression struck her as eerily unsettling. So she—

“I also think it would be better if we went to Odawara,” she said in a piercing tone. But perhaps because she had spoken too softly, it seemed not to reach her husband’s ears. In his mind floated such scenes... (Before my bed, moonlight— / I take it for frost on the ground. / I lift my eyes to the mountain moon, / Lower them, dreaming of home.) —“Li Bai”—a poem he had memorized in his second year of middle school.

Truly, the window there was bleached white and blurred in the moonlight. He couldn't help feeling as though he were in a seaside room. ――When spring came during his childhood, on moonlit nights, his mother would invariably take him down to the shore. ——And she would sing those schoolroom songs. "I'll count to ten—see if you can reach that boat by then," she'd say, making him run. As he raced away, she'd amplify her counting voice—prolonging each number's space—until reaching nine. Just as he kept running desperately toward it—waiting until he nearly writhed with anticipation—the instant his hand touched the boat,

“Ten—” she called out, drawing the syllable long.

“This time from there…” she said, and when he came running frantically to her side, she called out, “Te-e-en—”. “This time I’ll count to twenty—hop on one leg! Go on your right, come back on your left…”

Engaging in such games, they passed the night. When hopping on one leg, he would usually become fatigued halfway back, fall onto the sand, and be unable to get up.

Just recently, he had received a letter from Mother—saying that they looked down on her as a foolish woman, that no matter where she went she couldn’t obtain what ought to be obtained from where it should be taken, and that on top of it all the owner of the ×× shop had subjected her to cruel mockery; unaccustomed to such treatment she found it bitterly vexing—and that since he couldn’t do anything about it in her stead she was at a loss over what to do—and he had felt terrible resentment toward the owner of the ×× shop. He—unlike his usual self—tilted his cup repeatedly with a strangely flustered air, muttering under his breath fragments like “If only Takino…” or “…must be done” or “Can’t make it look deliberate.” But when his wife withdrew to the adjoining room, these soliloquies persisted, growing just audible enough for her to discern.

—His wife tried to convince herself she was the one suffering nervous exhaustion, but her husband’s unnervingly eerie demeanor left her no peace; driven by wild delusions, she sat rigidly clutching their child. And her husband’s soliloquies grew increasingly distinct.—(Mother, let’s live together harmoniously from now on)—(I am indeed your OBEDIENT SON—please forgive me for everything until now)—(Raise your head to gaze at the mountain moon)—(Steady your footing)—(But what would I do upon returning?)…

When he had grown unnaturally quiet, his wife thought, "Has he finally fallen asleep? Well, good," and resolved to let him be a while longer,

“Blast!” Her husband’s voice carried such forceful intensity that she instinctively whirled around to look. Then he sat up straight with rigid formality, glared fixedly ahead with exaggerated solemnity, exclaimed “Blast!”, jabbed at his eyes, pinched his nose upward, yanked his ears while contorting his face in apparent pain as he stretched up, tweaked his lips—then again barked “Blast!” and pounded his chest—all in a frenzied trance.

Seeing this, his wife shuddered suddenly and buried her face in the child’s nightclothes. (It wasn’t her own delusion after all—that man had truly lost his mind.)

Once she fixated on this thought, her entire body trembled, and at the same moment tears gushed out violently.

(Year 14, April)