Pathway to Japanese Literature

Preface When various painful and anguishing matters arise within one’s heart, does not everyone feel an intense desire to confide those sufferings and torments to others and be understood? And does not this desire grow all the more fervent the more intense and profound the inner suffering becomes—to the point where at times, believing it utterly impossible to convey one's feelings to others, one grows frustrated and agitated until finally feeling compelled to shout and wail at every visible tree, plant, and all other things? At least in my experience, that was the case.

Or perhaps not only in such times of anguish—even when one’s heart overflows with happiness and peace, would we not still feel that same desire to speak of our joy to others and have them share in it? And in cases where one has no one around them with whom to share that joy, does it not often transform into sorrow, becoming an awareness of loneliness that even torments oneself? Doubtless you too have had such experiences—if indeed you are one who has encountered true suffering... And I trust you will understand this compulsion that drives me to write such things.

And yet, when it comes to speaking of my private life, I require considerable effort and courage. First comes the disgust at writing such letters, then the self-contempt—what good does exposing this trivial private life to society accomplish? Can your petty sufferings and joys possibly matter to society? Are you not merely a single twenty-day laboratory rat, or at best a hairy louse? Do you truly believe that if society matters to the individual, then the individual must matter to society? But such beliefs are nothing more than eighteenth-century dreams—against these I must wage war. In this case, the sole weapon I can wield is love—or if that word feels too corny, then empathy will do. I believe in this desire within me, this craving to have someone share in my feelings.

To give an example, we possess the letters that Flaubert gave to George Sand. The crucial point for us lies in this fact: that Flaubert—who believed one must destroy one's own life, that the human being is nothing and the work everything—nonetheless found himself compelled to write such letters.

(Unfinished?)

Surrounded by holly hedges

Upon exiting the station, I had about two pieces of luggage, so I absolutely had to take a car. With just Father and me, if we each carried one piece, it wouldn’t have been impossible to manage—but when told we had to walk nearly four kilometers, I felt utterly exhausted just hearing it. In front of the station, two or three 1934-model Chevrolets were parked, so

“You stay here.” Father told me to stay there and went to negotiate. I stood where I was, gazing at the distant mixed grove, the nearby rows of houses, and the chicken coops clinging to the backs of those homes. It was a lonely sort of feeling, a sad sort of feeling—yet when I thought it might be those things, I found myself unexpectedly composed—a state of mind I couldn’t quite grasp myself. Before long, Father returned with a clouded expression, “They say they’ll transport just the luggage.”

He said only that. I felt my illness violently churning in my head. I was ill, but my case was still mild—this was a time when I couldn't help feeling that the leprosy others loathed and my own leprosy were somehow distinct—so the driver's attitude struck me like a club suddenly falling from above. Yet when I thought about it, it seemed only natural, "Then let's have them take just the luggage."

"I said to Father. When the car drove off, Father and I began walking along the white road, sweating profusely. Since he had visited the hospital once before regarding my hospitalization, 'I know the way.' he said calmly as he walked on, but being my first time on this path, I found the distance unbearably daunting. 'Father, are you sure about the route?' When I asked, 'No mistake.' Thus reassured, I followed—until Father started tilting his head."

“But there’s only one road after all.” Father said this as we kept trudging steadily onward. “How old are you now?” When Father asked this, I replied, “You already know,” to which— “Twenty-one... Yes, twenty-one it was.” “Well, you’ll just have to endure two years.” “By twenty-three, you can come home.” He counted them off on his fingers—one, two.

It was the afternoon of May 18, 1934.

The sky was clear throughout, and the sun was shining brightly down. I still sometimes picture our figures walking along the road that passed through several windbreak forests of zelkova trees and ran straight through mulberry and wheat fields—a hollow, aching sorrow it brings. Before long, Father said, "I'm in a bind here. "I'm stuck." When I asked, "Did we take the wrong path?" he replied, "Well, seems there aren’t any field toilets around here. "They have them in the countryside, but—"

Father needed to relieve himself. I forced a bitter smile, but suddenly felt a longing for Father welling up within me. Father rustled into the wheat and hid. When I stood on the road, between the blue ears of wheat, a head streaked with white hair peered out. I suddenly felt sad. When he emerged, Father remained deep in thought, but "We seem to have gotten lost."

he said. With nowhere to sit down, they stood like solitary posts, at a loss, wiping their sweat. There was no one in sight. Above the distant grove of mixed trees, pure white clouds were welling up.

Before long, someone who appeared to be an electrician came cycling by, so we called out to stop him and asked. Father was reluctant to mention the hospital's name, but there was nothing to be done about it.

We began to turn back. After walking another fifteen or sixteen minutes—or so it seemed—we arrived at a spot that lay directly along the hospital’s flank. The holly hedge came into view first. With abnormal curiosity and anxiety, I continued peering into the hospital grounds as I circled around the hedge all the way to the main gate.

For two years since then, I lived in this hospital. Surrounded by the holly hedge, those were days with no outlet, suffocating days—but I turned twenty-three. How many years will I have to keep living in here? Today, I attempted to walk a full circuit around the hospital grounds along the path that ran alongside this hedge. And suddenly I recalled the opening passage of Notes from the House of the Dead. "—This was, in other words, the prison's outer perimeter. On one side of this outer perimeter stood a sturdy gate. That gate remained tightly shut at all times, with sentries standing guard day and night without cease. It opened only when going out to work by order of a superior officer. Beyond this gate lay a bright, free world where ordinary people lived. But on this side of the prison wall, they regarded that world as something like a dreamlike tale. Here existed a special world utterly beyond comparison. This was a house of the living dead."

But even this world was still lighter compared to ours. There existed the enemy known as superior officers. But in my world, there were no enemies. Everyone pitied me. And the true enemy resided within my own body. If the enemy had been outside myself, then fighting itself might have become a form of salvation. But how was one supposed to fight an enemy dwelling within one's own body?

Surrounded by the holly hedge—yet I lived two years. I must keep living.

Flowers

It was the day after I was admitted to this hospital that I first felt, with profound intensity, how beautiful flowers could be. Now that a new admission ward had been built, patients aren't immediately placed in the severe ward anymore—but when I first arrived, since that facility hadn't yet been completed, I was put straight into the severe ward upon admission. What I saw there and what I felt were beyond language—utterly impossible to express. There's a saying: 'Don't call it splendid until you've seen Nikko.' But here, precisely the opposite held true. For example, even if you were to use every last ounce of your imagination to conjure up the most hideous, repulsive, and terrifying things imaginable, I believe that the moment you stepped inside here, you would instantly realize just how impoverished your imagination truly was. I had felt it too. Until coming here, I had imagined and pictured this place in various ways, but upon arriving and seeing it, I was astonished at how it exceeded my expectations. My nerves, which had never been bathed in the stench of pus, became utterly confused, emitted a shriek, and literally turned into something like a bamboo whisk. I had absolutely no idea whether it was okay to cry, whether it was okay to laugh, whether it was okay to feel creeped out, or whether it was okay to find it ridiculous.

There was absolutely zero color, sound at sub-zero levels, and scent lower still. My senses were terrified and could only freeze like stone. While the books I had brought were being returned from the disinfection room, I had become exactly like a dead person. I wanted at least to see printed text—characters—words imbued with thought that carried a human presence. What I still cannot forget is the joy I felt when the woman patient in the bed next to mine lent me a magazine—whether it was King or something else—with its cover torn off. In truth, I devoured the pages of this entertainment magazine—pages I had never so much as glanced at before—as if biting down on them.

But above all, the joy when my books—those volumes steeped in my own body odor and hand grime—returned was even greater. I was on the verge of tears as I cradled each volume in my arms, gazing at them and running my hands over them one by one, then stacked them atop the cupboard fastened to my bed. While gazing at them, I somehow came to feel relieved. As I was lost in such thoughts, someone—I forget who—brought me flowers. What kind of flower it was—careless as I was, I did not know its name—but I remember it was a crimson flower with small petals. The underside of the petals had a whitish tinge, appearing pale pink. It wasn't showy, but there was a somehow refined, well-composed elegance to it, and I found myself utterly captivated as I gazed.

Until then, I had never once looked at flowers or anything of the sort, but from that time onward I came to love them completely.

The other day, due to certain circumstances, I made a truly arduous journey back to my hometown in Shikoku, but upon returning, I potted cosmos that had yet to bloom. It was one that had been growing in front of the hut; I carefully dug it up while putting strength into my fingertips. Just then, one of the nurses came and said:

“Mr. Hojo fiddling with flowers seems a bit strange, doesn’t it?” Now that she mentioned it, I was indeed a savage. Yet I said: “I want to live peacefully. Death’s always clinging to me.” She looked at me with an expression that seemed to say “poor thing.”

Facial expression

Losing one’s facial expressions was truly a lonely thing. They say eyes are the window to the soul, but facial expressions must have been symbols of individuality. No matter how unpleasant one’s face might have been—or how unlikable one’s expression seemed—I believed that having your own expression—your own individual expression—was a joyous thing, something to take pride in.

“Having your own expressions and gestures stripped away—it’s truly lonely, isn’t it.”

Just the other day, one of my friends said to me. He remained a mild case still, his eyebrows only slightly thinned, but infinite sorrow dwelled in his eyes as he spoke. He had contracted the disease while studying philosophy at X University, yet possessed nerves so delicate they might be called feminine and a countenance so fair, being skilled too in composing poetry. That such a man—gazing upon his many fellow patients devoured by disease and knowing himself fated to follow—should feel a desolation deeper than his words could convey: this much I could perceive.

“But you see, I believe even those who’ve deteriorated terribly still retain individual expressions.” “Or perhaps—as illness transforms one’s appearance—I also think new individualities never before seen might surface through that very transformation.” “Discovering this matters. I want to discover it.”

At that time I answered such things, but this was nothing more than my stubborn pretense. The skin turns a dusky black; reddish-black patches rise up and soon bumpy nodules form—these crumble and rot away, the bridge of the nose collapses, what was once beautiful hair thins out sparsely, and eyes become white and ulcerated like those of dead fish. Even when writing with utmost restraint, briefly touching upon it yields this. What expression could one possibly discover there? No matter how beautiful a spirit one may live by, their exterior falls beneath even beasts. If one is afflicted by the neural type, the mouth becomes distorted—making laughter impossible, anger impossible, even being moved impossible. At times I find myself gazing intently at nurses who have removed their masks playing with glee. Because there are vivid “human” expressions there. Because there are youthful expressions there.

They could not get angry or laugh. Of course, in their hearts they were angry or laughing. Yet those expressions remained twisted as if blanched pale, drooling all the while. The more I thought about it, the more I felt a strange, frightening sensation.

It was four or five days ago.

I went to watch the children practicing for the autumn sports festival. The children, true to their nature, were darting about with energetic innocence. This showed me no small measure of brightness. Since they were children who could still move so freely, they were all mild cases—ones you wouldn't recognize as patients at first glance. I marked out long jump lines and checked takeoff points. At that moment, a child wearing nothing but pants came to my side. He crossed his arms and squared his shoulders,

“Jump properly!” he shouted. His height measured only four shaku five or six sun; seen from behind he was still just a child, but his voice had already become an adult’s. And no wonder—this boy, who could not truly be called a boy, was twenty-one years old. But when I circled around to the front and saw his face, what proved even more surprising was that there remained none of the youthfulness expected of a twenty-one-year-old—he instead resembled a man nearing seventy. His entire face was covered in wrinkles, his skin sagging, his eyes narrowed and small—he looked every bit an oppressed old man. Yet not only was he consciously aware of being twenty-one years old—and though his body might be corroded and rotting, young blood likely still flowed within—he wore his thinning hair in a modern-style bob and perched non-prescription glasses on his nose.

“Tsk, sloppy! Isn’t this three meters?” With his small body yet bellowing like an elder brother.

He had been ill since childhood. Because of this, he was unable to develop fully, both physically and mentally. And from boyhood onward, he grew up in the sanatorium, matured, and literally welcomed a corroded youth. I once read this man's essay. It had been published in *Yobukodori*, a children's magazine put out by this hospital, but was filled with senility-tinged clumsiness. In children's essays there exists a childlike, innocent awkwardness that moves adults' hearts—but what I found there was only the bitter ineptitude of an old man.

When he laughed, an expression that was neither old man nor child would surface, but that essay too had borne precisely such an expression. As I looked upon his dwarf-like smile and listened to his hoarse shouts, I was overcome with boundless pity and, unable to endure the sight any longer, hurried back. That oppressed-looking smile lingered endlessly in my mind, leaving me melancholy. A world devoid of expression, and those expressions that do exist are all as strange as this. My friend’s lament was by no means unreasonable.

But if I were to say such things, those with severe cases would likely dismiss them with a scornful laugh.

“Don’t act so spoiled.” They said.

That, too, I know. The fact that one can still grieve and lament over such things means one remains a fortunate mild case!

At times, while staring fixedly at the mirror,

"You mild case! Spoiled brat!" With contempt I say to myself. But still I feel desolate. I do not think of wanting a beautiful face. It’s simply unbearable to lose my own distinctive expression—this face of mine that no one but me possesses. When observing my daily face I perceive little change; I cannot readily sense its gradual transformation into this leprosy-ravaged visage—yet when recalling healthier days or imagining friends from that time seeing me now and wondering what feelings he might harbor upon this sight—I find myself wanting to cease breathing on the spot.

But even that was still bearable. What truly terrified me was how my heart's expressions gradually withered and shriveled alongside those external features. Even while living this dwarf-like existence within a hundred-thousand-tsubo confined world, I wanted at least my spirit to remain a roc soaring through vast skies. Yet even that became buried beneath the leaden air, this hopeless life, these days drained of tension and stimulation—steeped in lethargy. The scenery I saw daily consisted of a meager mixed forest and clusters of dying patients. Drenched in pus, my senses lost their luster like lead; eventually, my spirit lost its tautness like a barrel with loosened hoops.

It had been two years and three months since I came to this hospital—how I had fought against this “loosening of the spirit.” But no matter how I fought, I could not help feeling that ultimately I was being defeated. Of course, I remained resolved to fight until the end; yet this very will to fight—the physical elements constituting that will—were themselves losing strength. Against such erosion, what weapon could possibly exist?

Religion!

At this moment, the only thing that seemed capable of bestowing infinite power upon my heart was religion. It was furthermore the spirit of Christ. However, in the end, that too remained merely a thought. Religion! Had I not seen the desperate expression of my own heart, I might have lost myself and plunged into a life of faith. To believe, I thought one must become utterly absorbed. I must not see my own expression even in dreams. A distorted expression.

A stiff expression.

A pained expression.

A wretched expression. An expression like a starving monkey lunging at a rice ball. This is my own expression when attempting to rely on religion.

I grew distressed. I felt as though I'd written things that should not be written.

Despair.

Every ten days without fail, I would be assaulted by violent despair. My head felt as though it was sinking into the depths of murky water, and I couldn’t help but struggle helplessly. Generally, I could return to my previous state of mind within a day or two, but in severe cases, it might persist for five or even six days. My appetite was halved, my pulse quickened, and even breathing became labored. After four or five days of this, I became as powerless as a patient. But what exactly was I despairing over? Whether it was my talent, the incurability of my illness, being cast out by society, or perhaps my youth being devoured— No, no—I…

While I was absentmindedly pondering such careless thoughts, dinner time had already arrived.

"Not again," I thought. Lately whenever meeting people，they would suggest wrapping up this leprosy business and trying wholesome novels instead. Each time，I’d answer “Ah yes，I’ll write one soon”—but truthfully，breaking free from writing about leprosy seemed impossible. No—more than inability，I’d secretly square my shoulders，resolving：I’ll write more leprous novels. Not because I’m a patient myself，nor from daily exposure，nor living among sufferers alone. Two millennia of patients’ agony burned in my eyes. Could reducing this historical weight to three shoddy novels suffice？ My mind demanded answer. Reaching this point，resolve surged：Let them mock “Again？”，let journalism bar me，lose all readers—still，teeth gritted，I’d never flee this battleground.

× Of course I too want to write healthy novels. I don't want to depict this rotten, grotesque world perpetually reeking with pus's foul stench. Moreover, how truly beneficial could it be to show healthy people this kind of world through depiction? At the very least society is busy—with so-called domestic and international crises. In Europe they're proclaiming a cultural crisis; war already nears its term. What does bringing such a novel into that society even signify?—These doubts cling incessantly to my thoughts.

What infuriated me most was how our suffering originated from illness—how it lacked any social dimension, being purely personal, how from society's perspective our anguish held no meaning whatsoever. As I depicted patients convulsing under violent neuralgia or writhing at death's edge, how often did I try to snap my brush and tear my paper? Among the scant records and novels I produced, not one escaped being written without disgust.

× And this was not limited to when I wrote. It was something that directly confronted my own attitude toward life. Living itself had no meaning—the feeling of having to truly think so while gazing at my own form was by no means something so pleasant.

I sometimes took walks pacing in circles through the severe ward's corridor. And gazing through the glass at the groups of severely ill patients reflected before my eyes, I found myself questioning: Should I bow my head in respect toward these people who persisted in living even in such a state, or was contempt the proper response? Indeed, these people were suffering. They were groaning in the very depths of life. But what did that matter? Whether these people suffered or not, to society at least, it remained irrelevant and absurd.

I had now used the words "these people." But of course this term included myself as well. I too would eventually end up like that—of course I would probably become unable to write novels and such anymore. In a few years' time，I too would likely be groaning and writhing in agony．I understood this perfectly well．Moreover，I had to laugh—how I had to laugh—while picturing my future self in that state and staring at it．When envisioning such a form within myself，the mental attitude I had to adopt could only be this：to endure the agony motionless while directing a cold sneer toward my future self writhing in torment．

"Brothers, dost thou know what contempt is? "Dost thou know the pain of justice—of being told 'show fairness even to those who scorn thee'?" Nietzsche is said to have once spoken such words, but I understand well this pain of justice.

× Indeed, living is foolish. Life remains ugly and base no matter how considered. Those who grew weary of this foolishness, this ugliness, this baseness—who hanged themselves or leapt into seas—are by no means few. Yet here I cannot help but mutter: How utterly foolish appear the death throes of those who took their own lives in disgust at life's foolishness! —

It was utterly absurd. I had seen hanged corpses many times before—though they were never truly witnessed. The crucial matter wasn't knowing life's absurdity but knowing suicide's absurdity. For instance, even were I to hang myself now—the leprosy patients would persist in living. Had my death coincided with theirs perishing altogether—then my suicide might claim nobility. But truthfully—even should I die—people would merely keep breathing with indifference. Thus my death turns absurd. Descartes declared—"I think therefore I am"—but truer words would be—"Others think therefore I am."

If that's the case, then I must on no account die. No matter how absurd living may be, it is still somewhat better than suicide. There's nothing for it but to endure motionlessly. One must not make grand pronouncements about enduring life. Just endure motionlessly. There may yet be an unexpected feast of love waiting there. × Therefore, I want to write more about leprosy. Even if meaningless to society, it may be necessary for humans.

Two Deaths

It must have been autumn's doing—lately I couldn't stop remembering the friend who had died. Had these been recollections of his vigorous days when still alive, there might have been some redemption, but what surfaced were only images of his death throes, as if I'd become possessed. At night, lying down with closed eyes, his face—the one whose breath had been about to give out—would rise like a phantom. The browless face turned livid bluish-black rather than merely darkening, emaciated to skin and bones until it resembled a skeleton—no, this was what they meant by a living corpse—and now this visage began writhing convulsively before my eyes. Then came the touch of the still-lukewarm corpse I'd handled during its ritual washing, the enormous eyeballs that had rolled back two or three times just before breath failed, the groans—nothing but these memories came clattering back tumultuously, making it utterly unbearable. Last night finally passed without sleep, tormented by those visions. Because of this, my head swam dizzily today, leaving no choice but to string together trivial prose. Yet through this, I managed to devise some poetic lines.

Rough wall. Smashed nose against wall

Late night— A horsefly flutters its wings.

When I showed it to my friend, he said, "Hmm, it's like a poem." "For the title, rather than 'Horsefly,' I would prefer 'Wall.'" Well, whether this qualifies as poetry matters little—last night I spent the whole night thinking of ways to break through the wall. But even if breaking through proves impossible, the horsefly has no choice but to beat its wings until death.

(Unfinished)