Pathway to Japanese Literature

Preface

I published my diary covering the three years from when I became a third-year agricultural student up to today.
After all, I was poor at both handwriting and composition.
If you're not someone who's devoted yourself to your work as seriously as I had, this would surely be nothing but an utterly tedious and unpleasant thing.
Even now, as I read back through it, there were so many parts that struck me as utterly cowardly and almost barbaric.
There were passages that felt contrived and artificial, just like village descriptions in elementary school readers—parts I found deeply unpleasant.
But mine was genuine, so there was nothing to be done about it.
In imagination, we could do anything.
But real work was all so plain.
And when you engaged earnestly in that work, even your capacity to think—everything you considered—became plain. No, not just plain—it transformed into something boorish, what you might call country-bumpkin-like.

I’m not saying this out of spite.
But if people were to read about me working alongside Father, discussing various tasks as we labor, I’m sure there would be plenty who’d look down on me.
I want to strike down such people.
I think those who can only look down on others or envy them are the most cowardly of all.
Comrades who labor like me, comrades, let us eradicate such cowardice from this world.

April 1, 1925, Tuesday, Clear

Today marked the start of a new first term.
But even when I went to school, there was somehow no drive.
The first-years hadn’t arrived yet, and the third-years were absent.
Not that they were absent—we were the third-years now—but those cowardly upperclassmen who used to wait for greetings while glaring arrogantly out of the corners of their eyes were gone.
In that void, I felt as if the low ceiling I’d been knocking my head against had vanished—yet also like a cherry tree stripped of all its supports.
In today’s practical training, we did just that.
We had dug them up from around the old racetrack last September and planted them there.
Everyone thought it was still too early to remove the supports now.
Because just when small roots were about to emerge, the west wind kept blowing—the trunk would act as a lever and shear them off.
But Mr. Kikuchi made everyone take them down.
He said having supports during flowering would look unsightly, but the cherry blossoms wouldn’t bloom for another full month at least.
I think Mr. Kikuchi removed them simply because spring had come and he found it amusing.

We gathered things like the old ropes and winter debris in the corner of the playground and burned them.
The members of the other practical training groups watched enviously.
In the morning we did that practical training until classes ended.
Since the textbooks still hadn’t arrived, they said tomorrow would be practical training again too.
In the afternoon we all worked on repairing the tennis court.

April 2, Wednesday, Clear

Today, the third-years had practical training in geology and soil properties.
Mr. Saito led the way, first examining exposures of the Diluvium layer and Tertiary-period mudstone behind the girls’ school, then gradually analyzing soil properties as we made our way to the banks of the Kitakami River at Kobune Ferry.
At the wide mudstone exposure extending to the river, we collected many things—fossils of walnuts with peculiar jagged zigzags, red takahashi concretions, and so on.
Then we went down along the riverbank, crossed Asahi Bridge, came out onto a wide gravel riverbed, and together used hammers to collect various rock specimens.
From the riverbed, heat hazes were already rising in shimmering waves, and the water in the distance somehow looked like wind.
We parted ways at the riverbed, and I returned home around two.

And I helped tie the fence until evening.
Tomorrow is a day off.

April 3: Today, I was assigned to dig up old mulberry roots all day, so I was terribly exhausted.

April 4: Ueda-kun and Takahashi-kun did not come to school today either.
Ueda-kun had apparently taken the teacher’s college entrance exam, but it was still unclear whether he had gotten in.
Why would he go to teacher’s college after spending two whole years at agricultural school?
I heard Takahashi-kun was working at home and had said he wouldn’t be coming to school anymore.
I heard Takahashi-kun’s family had suffered the worst from last year’s drought, so they would likely have a hard time this year.
Compared to that, our household could still harvest plenty even at half yield, so we were better off.
This year, I worked out everything about the fertilizer and such—I would surely make up for last year’s shortfall.

Practical training was nursery bed digging.
Since it only involved breaking down the soil that had been piled into small mounds last autumn, it was no trouble at all.
I heard the textbooks had mostly arrived.
They were just saying that Surveying and Horticulture hadn’t come.
Tomorrow was Sunday, but I should go buy them before they were gone.
As for Japanese Language and Ethics, I had received those from Mr. Kudo who went to the Agricultural Experiment Station, so only nine books remained.

April 5, Sun

I was sent to help with roof replacement in Minami-Manchōme.
It was truly harsh.
When I climbed onto the roof, the school lay stretched far to the south.
All day today, I somehow didn’t feel like a student of that school.
I will buy the textbooks tomorrow.

April 6, Mon

It was the entrance ceremony today.
The new students looked vague yet somehow stiff—odd creatures indeed.
But I knew they’d all start acting up soon enough.
When next year came, they’d become second-years and grow cocky.
In two years’ time, they’d turn just like us and mock new students in turn.
Thinking that way left me feeling strangely unsettled.
I went with Itō-kun to the bookstore and asked them to set aside nine textbooks for me.

April 7, Tuesday. In the morning, I received money from Father and bought the textbooks.

And today classes began.
Surveying was indeed interesting.
Looking at maps was also interesting.
Mr. Takeda said none of these paddies and fields around here were properly measured.
That’s why they couldn’t figure out work schedules or how to apply fertilizer.
Once I’d learned a bit more, I would measure each of our rice fields one by one and bind the records in a notebook.
And I’d work out everything about the fertilizer and such.
I’d surely make up for last year’s drought and harvest enough to cover my tuition this year.
Practical training today was again nursery bed digging.

April 8, Wednesday. Today there was no practical training; we practiced the school’s marching song instead.
We sang, and the first-years imitated us.
But somehow I felt weighed down, and I hated that marching song.
When I sang that song, it felt like my head would start aching.
Practical training was actually preferable.
Since the school was placing a bulk order, I requested two apple trees and one grapevine.

April 9 [The following is blank.]

May 5, 1925. Sunny.

The morning wind still carried a chill, but the cherry blossoms in the park at the school's entrance had bloomed.
But I didn't really like cherry blossoms.
When viewed from beneath the tree, backlit by the morning sun, they somehow reminded me of frog eggs.
Moreover, they made me think of old-fashioned songs and such, and then I imagined those sluggish old-timers composing poems, which was why I found them so off-putting.
If those things hadn't existed, I might have liked them more.
If no one had called cherry blossoms splendid, I might have shouted about their beauty at the top of my lungs.
I preferred dandelion fluff instead.
If they were illuminated by, say, the sunset, they might be splendid beyond measure.

Today’s practical training in upland rice sowing was interesting. We all did two furrows each. I borrowed stakes, pressed a ruler against them, and sowed. When the seeds became properly spaced and straight, I felt happy. If they were to sprout soon, they would appear exactly as green as intended. There must have been three or four skylark nests in the school’s rice fields. During practical training, they landed many times. Yet I never witnessed the moment they took flight. Skylarks deliberately land away from their nests when descending; unless you see where they fly up from, you can’t find their hiding places.

May 6, 1925

Today at school, Mr. Takeda told us about the third-year school trip. We were to depart at 10 PM on the 18th and tour from Sapporo to Muroran until the 23rd. Mr. Takeda described the scenery ahead and the things we would see as vividly as if he were holding them in his hands.

Tsugaru Strait, Trappist Monastery, Hakodate, Goryokaku Fort, Ezo Fuji, White Birch Grove, Otaru, Sapporo University, Beer Brewery, Museum, Danish-style Farm, Tomakomai, Shiraoi Ainu Village, Muroran—ah, just listing them made my heart leap.
In fifth period, Mr. Kikuchi handed me a letter addressed to my home and explained various details.
He mentioned that Mr. Takeda and Mr. Kikuchi would be accompanying us.

They said the trip would be canceled unless twenty-eight students participated.
This was because prefectural regulations required at least one-third of the grade to attend.
But nineteen yen had to be paid to the school first, with another five yen needed afterward.
When they asked who felt certain about going, only Naito-kun and four others raised their hands.
All were townspeople.
Would my family consent?
With Father absent, I told only Mother about it, but she just looked up anxiously without saying a word.
Still, Father would surely agree.
Then I'd fill two whole notebooks during the trip and show them off.

May 7

This morning, I handed the letter from school to Father and tried to tell him about various things the teacher had said.
Then Father finished reading the letter and, with an oddly considerate air toward those around him, stopped me before I could finish half of what I was saying.
And said we’d discuss it properly later.
He might have been being considerate of Grandmother and Mother.

May 8. It seemed many people were going.
But at home, no one said anything.
So I am really suffering.

May 9,

In third period, Mr. Kikuchi went over various details again.
Those who had committed to going listened with keen interest.
My head burned and throbbed.
Ah, Hokkaido—how overjoyed I would be to cross the Tsugaru Strait by ship with everyone, a haversack slung over my shoulder and my cloak swirling around me.

May 10. Today was no good either.

May 11, Sunday. Cloudy. In the morning, I worked in the rice fields with Mother and Grandmother.
In the afternoon, I trimmed our hiba hedge.
Ever since they started talking about the school trip, the whole house had gone strange.
I didn’t need to go anymore.
If I wasn’t going anyway, they shouldn’t waste class time checking attendees or discussing trips.

Hokkaido’s nothing special.
I’ll work hard now, earn my own money, and go anywhere I want.
I’ll even go to Brazil and show them.

May 12. Today, they checked the number of participants again.
They were four short of twenty-eight.
Everyone kept blaming us, saying the trip would be canceled because the likes of me and Saito-kun weren’t going.
Even Mr. Takeda made a strange face and told me to go.
I was truly suffering.
It would all be settled by the day after tomorrow.
In the evening, because Father had returned and was by the hearth, I mustered my resolve and told him once again about the school’s circumstances.

Then Father said that Mother hadn’t even made her Ise pilgrimage yet, and Grandmother had only done her Ise pilgrimage once and a Kannon temple circuit around here once in over a decade—that all she kept saying was how before she died she wanted to visit Zenkoji Temple—and especially with this area-wide drought since last year, going off on a pleasure trip now would look bad to the neighbors and everyone, so it simply couldn’t be done.

No matter how much I looked down, tears kept spilling into the hearth. Even so, after some time had passed, I said, "Then I don’t have to go anymore." I thought I would skip school, saying it was a break during the time everyone departed for the school trip. Then Father fell silent again for a while, but he said he would discuss it once anyway, and then asked me all sorts of things—types of rice and matters he wouldn’t normally inquire about. But I felt relieved.

May 13. Today, when I returned from school and went to the fields, only Mother was there alone, looking oddly happy as she cut the ridges of the rice paddy.

When I asked if something had happened, she told me to hear it from Father later.
I was sure it must be about the school trip.

I also helped by tilling the fields there until Mother returned home.

But Father still hadn’t returned.

May 14. Last night, Father returned home late and told me he would send me on the school trip.
Mother looked happy too, and Grandmother talked about various things she had heard about there.
Grandmother’s stories all seemed to be from Hokkaido’s early settlement days—tales of bears and Ainu people, pumpkin rice and cornmeal dumplings—so different from now, I thought.
When I went to school today and told Mr. Takeda I would be going, he was very pleased.
They were still two people short, but I heard they submitted the application to the prefecture as if they had exceeded the quota.
I will go and see everything thoroughly, then tell everyone all about it in detail.

May 18, 1925.

The train steadily pushed northward through the darkness.
The sky above Morioka still appeared hazily bright and murky.
Black thickets and pine forests rushed past the window one after another.
The upper edge of the Kitakami Mountains was occasionally faintly visible.

Well, at last we too were leaving Iwate Prefecture.

At home, everyone must have already gone to bed.
Grandma had lent me her amulet.
Goodbye, Kitakami Mountains, Kitakami River, night winds of Iwate Prefecture—now Mr. Takeda came around to check everyone’s seating arrangements before leaving.

May 19, 1926. [The following is blank]

May 19.

＊

The train is now traveling along the coast of Aomori Prefecture.
The sea glitters as if countless needles were laid out, and there's a triangular island densely wooded.
This white sea I'm seeing now is the Pacific.
Beyond that, America truly exists.
I feel a strange sensation.

The sea disappeared at the cape.
It was a pine forest.
The sea came back into view.
Next was Asamushi.
Roofs weighted with stones came into view.
How delightful it was!

＊

The town of Aomori was about the size of Morioka.
In front of the station, there were many people selling things like bananas and apples.
The waiting room was large, and many people were washing their faces or eating.
It was strange that someone dressed in a white uniform like a conductor was also selling soba in the waiting room.

＊

The ship was now dragging a long trail of black smoke toward Aomori, passing between the Shimokita and Tsugaru Peninsulas as it headed out into the strait.
Everyone was singing the school song.
The smoke’s reflection on the waves was like a black mirror.
The Tsugaru Peninsula side looked exactly like the Hiroshige painting we had at school.
All the mountain valleys reached down to the sea.
And along the coast there was a small sandy beach, where a road lined with a row of large black pines ran.
In the slightly larger valleys, twenty or thirty small houses were built, and on their beaches there were five or six boats.

The white lighthouse that had been visible since earlier was right there.
I’ll stay silent and watch everything thoroughly while the ship passes by.
It would be good if I were good at drawing, but since I can’t draw, I’ll memorize everything and tell everyone about it.
The wind was cold, but it was good weather.
I did not get seasick at all on the ship.
No one else was seasick either.

＊

A pod of dolphins was passing by the side of the ship.
I had been the first to spot them.
When I glanced over there, a black shape leaped from the waves, traced a small arc, and plunged back in. Wondering what it was, I kept watching—then another surfaced right nearby.
And then they surfaced here and there.
So I informed everyone.
Somehow, they looked comical, appearing and disappearing in the water as if standing at attention.

Even the teacher didn’t seem to understand what they were, but a fat man dressed in what looked like a fisherman’s boss’s Western-style clothes said, “Ah, so that’s what they are.”
Because too many people kept crowding onto this side of the deck, the ship tilted slightly.

The wind picked up.

Somehow, the waves grew higher.
East and west—all was sea.
In the distance, Hokkaido came into view.
Somehow, I felt things were taking a turn for the worse.

＊

The train was now departing Hakodate and heading toward Otaru. Outside the window was pitch dark. It was already eleven o'clock. Hakodate Park, which I had just seen moments ago, felt like a dream.

Each large cherry tree had about a hundred lights attached. There were red and blue lights too—electric installations shaped like irises in the pond, harbor ship lights, sparks from trams—all truly beautiful. But I was tired from not sleeping well since last night. Even if I hadn't written it down, I wouldn't have forgotten such scenery. Then during the day came the superphosphate factory and Goryōkaku. They produced superphosphate lime and sulfuric acid.

May 20

＊

Now, Ezo Fuji was visible out the window on the right.
A volcano.
The summit lay flat.
There stood a small house built from charred railroad ties.
Dwarf bamboo grew thickly.
This was colonial land.

＊

I was now in Otaru Park.
I had also seen the Higher Commercial School’s specimen room.
The specimens of 150 to 160 varieties of products made from potatoes were fascinating.

The park was also situated on a hill.
There were many white birches.
The deep blue Otaru Bay lay spread out before us.
A warship was docked, so flags flew at the naval station.
"If there were time, I would show you," Mr. Takeda said.
When I sat on a bench to rest, someone came to sell boiled red crabs.
Somehow, it felt frightening.
People actually ate those things.

＊

October 16, 1925

Even after the first-period ethics lecture ended, if there was still time left, the principal said we could ask any questions.
But everyone remained silent, just looking down.
There were plenty of things I wanted to ask—things everyone wanted to ask.
But if we asked what we truly wanted to ask, the teacher would surely make a strange face, so it was no good.

If ethics education truly teaches what we must believe we should do, then why don’t they let us ask any questions and clearly demonstrate whether it’s true or false?

October 25, 1925

Today was practical training for soil property investigation.
I was the leader of Group Two and carried the drafting board.
After that, the five of us left school carrying hammers, soil augers, test papers, bottles of potassium chloride—the exhilaration upon leaving was indescribable.
Mr. Tani too looked genuinely cheerful.
Group Six split into separate courses according to their individual plans and began their surveys.
Since I’d properly copied my county research into a preliminary map beforehand, I didn’t fumble like the other groups.
Yet I still couldn’t grasp it fully.
The county map was only at 1:100,000 scale with rough survey data.
By 10:30 we’d reached the flatlands south of Sarugashigawa River.
Our main question became whether the Diluvium Layer overlay Old Tenno’s andesitic agglomerate hills—but near the hilltops we discovered multiple agglomerate outcrops.
In the end we roughly marked Diluvium below the 140-meter contour line on the topographic map, then determined boundaries using tree growth patterns as instructed.
I find geology more engaging than soil analysis.
With soil properties you just test dirt and mark colors on a map, but geology requires thinking—and that thinking often proves right.

We encountered other groups again and again in the pine groves and among the pampas grass. Everyone wanted to peek at our map. From within the pampas grass, pheasants burst forth time after time. In areas undergoing land consolidation, the rice plants had barely been planted due to drought damage; instead, short red weeds had sprouted while the fields lay crisscrossed with cracks. Even where planting had finally succeeded, rice stalks stood unharvested - reddened without tillering, their panicles empty of grain. They say those who led the land consolidation did it for everyone's sake, but what a wretched outcome it made. We investigated that soil down to its last property. If only water could be brought here, I thought, we might yet achieve three koku per tan someday.

At 1:00 PM, as agreed, each group gathered at the site of the beautiful andesitic agglomerate outcrop along the banks of Sarugashigawa River.
The teacher said he had received small pears from somewhere and distributed them to everyone.
We redrew our maps there.
At that location, the teacher didn’t say anyone’s work was good or bad.
After resting for a while, this time all of us followed the teacher and walked around learning about the geology and soil properties in areas with granite to the north of the river and Tertiary mudstone formations.
We decided to neatly transcribe the diagrams and submit them by next Monday.

Once I submitted that diagram and had the teacher correct it, I would ask Takahashi-kun next Sunday to completely map out the areas around my house. Near my house there were only Diluvium and Alluvium layers—it would be much simpler. Even so, their fertilizer application methods were completely different. I thought everyone might be doing the exact opposite now.

November 10, 1925.

Today after finishing practical training, I stood in front of the farmhouse looking at the dried gladiolus bulbs when Mr. Takeda came over, having finished disinfecting the chicken coop or something, his pants covered in sulfur powder.
He too had been examining the bulbs, but then plucked three large ones and gave them to me.
When I hesitated awkwardly, he said, “These are a new expensive variety.”
“I’m giving them only to you—plant them next spring,” he instructed.
Just then when Mr. Naito, the flower supervisor, approached from the farm’s direction, Mr. Takeda urgently added, “Put them in your pocket now!”
Feeling uneasy but obliged, I slipped them into my pocket.
Mr. Takeda then hurried into the farmhouse and started tidying farm tools or something.
After Mr. Naito left, my discomfort grew unbearable—I quietly returned the bulbs to their straw mat, rushed into the school building to change out of my work clothes, and went home.

March 2[ ], 1926,

I performed saltwater seed selection.
After finishing ours, I did Naruto’s as well.

When I followed the specific gravity as written in the book, not even half of the Kamenoo remained.
Last year’s drought damage had left things in such a state even in the best areas.
However, only about thirty percent of the Rikuu 132 had floated.
Even so, with the saltwater selection applied, there was exactly six to—enough for the 1 chō 1 tan of the main field.
Anyway, I’d surely done fifty yen’s worth of work in half a day today.

Because until now, without saltwater selection, I had barely managed to yield about two koku per tan at best, but this time, even if we assumed a ten percent increase of two to each as various agricultural experiment stations had reported, for 1 chō 1 tan it would amount to two koku and two to. Once everyone truly understood how beneficial this was, I intended to have all of Naga-ne use the same saltwater solution. Even if each household gained thirty yen, the entire village would make four hundred fifty yen. That was just five or six people’s half-day work. While I performed saltwater selection, Father gathered and burned the winter debris from around there. When the rice grains were ready, Father packed them into the long, narrow straw bags he had neatly woven. I thought that was rational. Because there was no springwater, we diverted it into that embankment. Since ice was still floating in the shade of the embankment, it must have been around zero degrees Celsius. After filling the cracks in the embankment in December, the water had accumulated up to six-tenths of its capacity. This year would surely be a good one. The fact that such a terrible drought had lasted two years wasn’t even in the meteorological records to date—no matter what coincidences conspired, there was no way it could continue into this year. If only the climate were normal this year, I would surely restore all the drought damage up to now. And starting next year, I’d ease our family’s financial burdens and make all of Naga-ne into something vividly thriving.

June 14, 1926. Today irrigation water was finally allocated from noon to seven, so I did the channel watch duty.
With those big cracks still remaining from last year, the water refused to accumulate properly.
Sitting on the ridge with my feet in the tepid water that kept trickling away, I grew drowsy and somehow felt myself becoming a rice plant.
There I was suffering from a peach-colored fever, and now that water had arrived, I was drawing it up through my feet.
I startled awake.
The water kept trickling through the fissures, foaming as it spread slowly like ink.

Since the water stopped coming and we could no longer prepare the lower fields, today marked exactly twelve days without rain. I wondered just how the weather patterns had changed. Even though the observatory had said there was no record of such a drought lasting two years, now it would continue for three. The water in the large irrigation channel was only about four *sun* deep. By evening, water had finally been applied in one full cycle to cover all that had accumulated up to now.

Around three o’clock, when the water stopped coming entirely, I went to check what was wrong and found Gonju had blocked our channel and diverted it toward his own fields. I felt as if Gonju were a cabbage cutworm. His face was puffy and swollen, and on top of that, he wore a laborer’s cap with a sagging brim full of holes—the kind that didn’t need such a hat—and had even wrapped a hood over it.

Because his hands and feet were swollen too, I felt as if Gonju were a cabbage cutworm.
When I said, “What are you doing?” he retorted, “Don’t act so high and mighty just ’cause you finished agricultural school!”
I flared up.
What the— Whether I’ve finished agricultural school or not has nothing to do with it! Right now, it’s my family’s turn to draw water.
“What do you mean by stealing that?” I said. To which he shot back, “Look who’s talking—now that you’ve gone to school, you’ve gotten all mouthy.”
I even thought about hurling a large rock at him.

However, since Gonju had left just like that, I redirected the water back to our side.
After all, Gonju must have thought I was just a child and done such a thing because I was there alone.
Just you wait—I’ll strike down every last one of those cowardly bastards.

August 21, 1927

The rice plants finally collapsed.
I no longer knew what to do.
Even though they had been that sturdy until yesterday, almost half had collapsed from the fierce thunderstorm at dawn until just now.
I even sneaked over to check Kisaku’s field, but his had collapsed too.
It was still raining now.
Father laughed and said, “It’s fine, it’s fine,” but that was just to calm me down—in reality, it was terrible.
Mother seemed solely worried about me.
If it were just our rice plants that had collapsed, it would have been nothing.
Even Kisaku’s—the one I taught about fertilizer—would have been nothing if that were all.
If it were just that, I would have surely made up for it by working on the railway this winter or becoming a peddler.
But after putting in that much care and devising that much fertilizer—if it still ended up like this—then there was no hope left for any part of the village to improve further.
I have nowhere to go for advice.
Even if I went to school now, it would be useless.

...Had the teachers collapsed like that? Were their seedlings not too weak? They'd just say things like 'Don't lose too much heart' and laugh it off.

Diary, diary—if I didn’t have this diary I’m writing, what would I be doing tonight?
I stopped the dam and cut the outlet, yet I couldn’t enter the rice fields; there was nothing to do but sit silently listening to that rain—now squelching softly, now swelling threateningly stronger.
Is there any chance this rain will clear up by tomorrow?

Ah, it doesn’t matter anymore. What will be, will be.
Whether the rain clears tomorrow or not is far less certain than the fact that tonight I can make one pair of ………….