Pathway to Japanese Literature

This month, I felt inclined to write a monthly critique after a long interval. I wanted to approach this with as calm and quiet a state of mind as possible.

The first thing I read was Fujimura Chiyo’s A Woman’s Life, which appeared in Chūō Kōron. I had not read too many of this person’s works. I had only read one piece of hers—something titled in pale ink tones. At that time, I did not think she was particularly talented, but I did consider her one of those women who wrote with bold determination. I felt as though I were catching a whiff of the stench of a rotten ditch. However, that was not meant in a bad sense. A Woman’s Life could also rightly be called one such work. There was something novel and expressive in its manner of revelation—that much I found commendable—but did she not stir up these ditches rather too excessively? If there had been value in stirring them up, that would have been one thing—but was she not just agitating ditches that held nothing at all? Moreover, while the surface appeared to be probed deeply, I felt there was surprisingly little truth to it. Even as facts, they were not true facts; I felt that the author had deliberately fashioned them this way. Why was that? Was it not because the author could not stand upon these wretched facts? As art, immediacy was certainly necessary—but did she not merely see wretchedness as wretchedness and fail to observe or consider what needed to be observed or considered further? To rephrase once more: while it might have been neurotic, did it not ultimately fail to be essential?

But this is how I felt.
After all, she is a woman.
Always shedding bitter tears toward men, and eventually being conquered by them.
If one were to say there are sharp points, one could say so, but unlike works by male authors, there is no magnanimity, no tenderness, no grand tears.
Consequently, having read it, one feels a certain constrainedness.
I felt a superficiality as if devoured by a woman steeped in vanity.
However, in today’s literary world where there are many women—both as individuals and as female authors—who possess honesty and boldness, it goes without saying that someone like her must be regarded as exceptional.

Next, I read Miyachi Karoku’s *Hanako’s Visit*.
Compared to *A Woman’s Life*, I perceived in it such a carefree, magnanimous, and wryly humorous sensibility that one might marvel at how starkly they differed.
Indeed, I thought—this is a man’s perspective on women.
There was a naivety to it, an idealization, a lack of thoroughness, and dull observations.
Moreover, within it there was ultimately none of the vanity, bitter tears, or resentment toward the opposite sex—none of such things.
It felt sincere.
It wasn’t pure, but neither was there any coquettish allure.
Judging purely by its execution, it likely could not be counted among this author’s better works; yet its sincerity, its breeziness, its sheer artlessness imparted a somewhat crude—though oddly distinctive—flavor, like artificial sweetness.

Nagata Hideo’s *Kesa no Tamashii* flowed smoothly. However, I did not feel he had added anything significantly new to the Kesa plays that had long existed. In the author’s view, he likely intended to impart a sense of novelty to those lines about “Kesa’s soul,” but the impression I received upon reading was that this rather made the play feel smaller, more pedantic, and of secondary importance. I did not find the portrayal of Hōnen particularly effective, nor did his character emerge distinctly. This play was generally better in its first half. The further it progressed, the worse it became. However, unless I had seen it performed on stage, I might not have been able to speak definitively.

Kurata Hyakuzō’s *The Prodigal Son’s Fall into Hell*, featured in *Kaizō*, is quite something.
I found it astonishing that such a thing could have been published.
Of course, this is not a moral judgment.
No matter how harsh it is, that alone isn’t an issue.
As long as it is art, there is no issue.
Even shunga would be acceptable as long as they are art.
However, far from being art, this felt like being shown some lowbrow, vulgar, clumsy paintings of hell and paradise by a rural artist.
I felt disgusted.

When I say that while I like religion but dislike present-day monks, it is precisely this kind of feeling I mean—they look down on people as if they were country bumpkins or something, stand one step above, and preach nonsense, which is why I dislike them.
However, this work still carried that same disagreeable odor.
There was a form akin to a country monk preaching about hell and paradise to the ignorant masses.
Art, I believe, is never something like this.

Moreover, everything written was mere fantasy.
It was a fantastical exaggeration.
To impart a vulgar sensation, they deliberately rendered what wasn’t vulgar as vulgar.
Furthermore, they transformed ordinary things into strange ones.
Even that would have been fine.
Had it been grounded in substantial facts, that would have been acceptable.
Yet I could find no true facts anywhere within it.
Thinking there must be something of substance, I searched meticulously—yet there was nothing but inane tales heard from others, no more than the usual jests told in jest.
As for matters between men and women, I did not think he possessed any deep understanding of them either.
I suspected he knew no more than an ordinary country monk preaches in his sermons.
Art is not such a thing.
I believe it must be something more earnest, more refined, more authentic.

Mushanokōji Saneatsu’s *The Tale of a Certain Man*—this too was a strange work.
I do not conflate confession and art, nor do I countenance even the slightest admixture of self-justification or self-defense within artistic works—indeed, I have always feared how such adulteration strips art of its savor as art—and yet, not only in this regard alone, I have always believed all of this author’s works to be profoundly flawed in such aspects.
As for works like *A Certain Man*, I have never considered them art in any measure.

Therefore, this author’s works always contained nothing but raw material.
If we speak in terms of history, they were historical documents.
Thus, to make them into something genuine, one had to place this material once more into a crucible—though this was not merely a matter of form.
Even in such a form, were one to overturn it again, it might still become art.
First, even regarding *The Tale of a Certain Man*, should that not have been written more concretely?
With only that, it remained merely an outline—did it not utterly fail to reveal the truth?
Was it not presented with no more depth than courtroom testimony?
Only through writing in greater detail and vividness did an artistic quality emerge; though writing in such a cursory manner might have been easier, did art not slip away somewhere from those painstaking facts?
Was it not precisely because we wished to take that—something on the level of *The Tale of a Certain Man*—and somehow remake it into a cohesive whole, or an entity floating independently in cosmic space, sustained solely by itself, that we who pursue art toiled so diligently?
Were we not striving earnestly even in such exacting circumstances—ones that might appear as absurd as hairline engravings to others—persevering through every minute trial?
However, if I were to say it wasn’t so, then there was simply nothing to be done about this—

Tanizaki Jun’ichirō’s play *Mumyō to Aizen*—its structure, its background, and its psychological insights—all coalesced so masterfully that I could unreservedly declare it an outstanding work. Moreover, the author’s signature demonic sensibility permeated it exceptionally well, and even the form retaining the woman—Aizen—until the end might be said to speak profoundly of his deep experience with women approaching naturalness. From the point where that High Priest began to die, even Mumyō Tarō’s compelled movements took on a natural quality. If I were to voice a criticism, might there not be a certain transparency detectable in how the author had first conceived an idea and then imposed it upon the characters? Therefore, instead of a natural impression arising from the characters, might one not receive a contrived, formulaic impression born of ideology? In other words, was it not that Mumyō, Aizen, and the High Priest had been delineated and portrayed all too clearly? While having Kaede represent ordinary women might be acceptable, wasn’t the author’s intent rendered too starkly clear? If one were to approach from the characters rather than from ideology, those shortcomings would vanish—becoming more ambiguous yet thereby vibrant, and more complex yet thereby acquiring a simple, unfathomable depth—would it not? However, setting aside such matters, I thought it was an interesting and good work.

Ogawa Mimei’s *Snowmelt Stream* did not strike me as particularly good even among this author’s works.
The discordant mingling of his former fantastical elements with what is now called new also evoked in me a sort of desolate feeling.

Next, I read Toyoshima Yoshio’s *Ringo*, which appeared in *Josei*.
This author had long shown merit, but this work was by no means a dull one.
At first, I sensed something seemingly absent in Japan—or rather, inconceivable among Japanese people—and alongside what might be called this author’s trademark style, with its fastidious attention to facial expressions and such, I grew dissatisfied, as if witnessing mere imitation of foreign works. Yet as I read on, these impressions gradually dissolved, and I found myself unreservedly following that enigmatic protagonist to the end.
After finishing it, I thought that even when portraying a madman, depicting him thus might avoid becoming tiresomely off-putting.
Even scenes like producing an apple to eat—which would normally feel contrived enough to halt one’s reading—unfolded with utter naturalness in this work.
In its very method of depiction, I sensed something novel at play.

I also read the dialogue titled *The Carefree Parent and Child* that appeared in the same magazine.
It was another work by Mushanokōji Saneatsu.
As I read it, I recalled *Daruma*, which I had encountered in *Chūō Kōron*’s New Year issue.
They’re just the same!
I thought.
Too trite!
I thought.
No wonder such works find an audience.
Written half in jest, no doubt…
The sort that demands raucous laughter…
This isn’t an author haunted by self-doubt or existential torment…
Faced with Arishima Takeo’s suicide—I wouldn’t have died!
An author who resolves everything with such glib simplicity…
Thus ran my thoughts.
We must recognize that this author’s peculiar lightness—not mere superficiality—springs precisely from such qualities.

I read three novels that appeared in *Bunshō Club*. None of them impressed me. Among them, Yokomitsu Riichi’s *The Hole* may indeed be technically proficient in its prose, but for a young writer to be producing such work struck me as far from commendable. Moreover, since this author’s work *Sweet Potato and Ring*, which also appeared in the New Year’s issue of *Shinchō*, was said to be skillful, I read it as well—but even that was nothing remarkable. Firstly, the contrast between sweet potato and ring that forms the work’s foundation—the fact that Takashi couldn’t pay the wages for the day laborer’s work and had to hire a caretaker all because he bought his wife a ring was utterly absurd. Such a thing could not possibly exist in today’s world. Perhaps he deliberately structured it that way to contrast capital and labor, but if so, there ought to be more fitting realities for such a purpose. Moreover, whether it be the wife, the protagonist, or the day laborer, they all fit neatly into their molds. It still reveals that the author does not truly know such people. Nakagawa Yoichi’s *Katsura* is merely written down from a story he heard and contains no description whatsoever, yet it does display some talent. If one were to take Yoshida Kaneshige’s *Saido no Jokyo* and the youth typical of a contributor—they do take them, but—

Next, I read Kanō Sakujirō’s *The Desperate Bird*. I also read *After My Younger Brother Ran Away* by the same author, which appeared in *Waseda Bungaku*. This author may have other commendable works, but speaking solely of these two pieces, there was an oddly lax, slovenly quality to them, attesting that his artistic inspiration had been by no means heightened when writing these. Moreover, what was one to make of the flaw inherent in authors affiliated with Waseda—their persistent failure to break free from mundane self-depictions and petty sentimental states? Shouldn’t this author have broken away from such works long ago? Shouldn’t he have been advancing toward more transformed works that presented fresh ideas? Hadn’t this resulted in a form that regressed even further from works like *To the World*? Moreover, taken as a whole, hadn’t they lost their clean lines and become overrun with oddly vulgar, sentimental elements? However, between these two works, *After My Younger Brother Ran Away* was still better than *The Desperate Bird*. There were some nuanced psychological aspects. The father’s feelings were also somewhat well-depicted. Works such as *The Watercolor Painter* that appeared in New Year’s magazines were by no means good.

Nagai Tokutarō’s play *Wakō*, which also appeared in the same magazine, was so utterly dull that I was disappointed.
I could find absolutely nothing of value within it.
Psychologically, impressionistically, and expressively…
However novel the subject matter may be, I saw through this work that that alone was not enough.
This author should have given more thought to dialogue.
They should have further honed their skills in depicting characters.
Moreover, the entire work felt lowbrow—like watching a shoddy moving picture.

Kimura Takeshi’s *Kokoro* in *Fujin Kaizō* was cloying—whether in its prose or observations, it remained ordinary and unremarkable, at times making one wonder why it relied so heavily on mere exposition; yet when the protagonist stayed at an inn with a woman, it left a strangely earnest, enigmatic impression. The description of “how the large obi that appeared so firmly bound around the body would, upon removing the obiage, collapse as helplessly as a barrel’s hoop coming undone” was splendid. Moreover, the fact that he slept side by side with the woman yet did nothing ultimately induced a Turgenev-style pathos in the latter half of this work.

In the prize-winning novel *Policeman and Two Stray Cats* featured in *Josei*, I felt as though I had stumbled upon an unexpected find. What kind of person is Takanae Sen’nosuke? Is he someone who has never published anything in the literary world until now? Is he a complete amateur? Could this be someone’s pseudonym? In my opinion, not only do the three new writers from *Bunshō Club* fail to approach this work’s caliber, but even compared to two or three pieces by authors I read just yesterday, this one seemed far superior. It may face criticism for lacking engagement with the literary world’s central ideologies or for its trivial content—but what of its precise observational gaze? What of its meticulousness? What of the keenness of mind and hand in expressing what it observes? And what of that skill in weaving together thought and material as delicately as the bristles of a hairbrush?

"This too was born from the sheer intensity of its emotion and burning passion."
Even if one tried to write such things through observation alone, it would be utterly impossible.
"Deep emotion and a keen mind!" I told myself.

Compared to this, how much freshness has been lost from you gentlemen of the literary world’s works?
Moreover, how greatly has your creative impulse to write such works declined and vanished? No—how utterly has your true artistic conscience been lost to literary vanity or material indulgence?
It may be that this work itself is not particularly remarkable.
It may indeed be a mistake to compare such minor works with you gentlemen’s grand literary productions.
Yet I remain one who believes without doubt that this work’s pure expression, sincere emotion, and meticulous effort will serve as a refreshing remedy for you—weakened, complacent, and exhausted as you are.
In truth, even I could not help but envy and covet such a unique style of writing.
I found myself thinking that prize-winning novels might not be entirely worthless after all.

I had long been fond of Sato Haruo’s works, but there seemed to be nothing significant published by him this month. As for this author’s works, *The Prisoner* in *Fujin Kōron* was by no means an outstanding piece. I was not dismissing it simply because it appeared in a women’s magazine, but somehow that Mokusei element failed to strike true. While its intended aim was clear—and under different circumstances one might have expected it to resonate—whether due to a lack of genuine inspiration or because its imagination remained unfocused, even after finishing it, I was left without any particular sense of excellence.

Since Yanagihara Byakuren’s *Phoenix Strikes the Sky* in *Fujin Kaizō* is unfinished, I cannot speak definitively about it, but I read it wondering what sort of work it might be.
There were mildly interesting elements in its assertions, and no shortage of scenes evoking life in a Kyoto nunnery; yet as a novel, I found it somewhat deficient.
Why not abandon this manner of writing and attempt something more truthful?
There is no need to keep societal considerations in mind.
Nor any need to worry about public gossip.
Is it not essential to write earnestly and authentically—without viewing things through vanity or sinfulness, nor maintaining a rebellious disposition?
Is this not necessary both for oneself and for society?

Suzuki Zentarō’s *Daughter’s House*, a one-act play published in *Fujin Kōron*, was another work that I could not consider to have advanced even a single step beyond being mere reading material for a women’s magazine.
The author’s intended aim stood out as glaringly transparent.
It was also lowbrow.

In *My Views*, I read Masamune Hakuchō’s *Gold* first.
I had long been acquainted with this author’s works.
I could say I had read nearly all of this author’s works and liked them.
A compact composition.
An oddly persistent, scrutinizing observation.
A temperament that appeared uninterested in anything yet was in fact preoccupied with myriad concerns.
A detached, bystander-like mood arose of its own accord from being too quick to comprehend things and thus unable to immerse oneself deeply.
The irony that arose alongside it.
Yet it was not that the interior lacked fire; rather, one sensed it passively smoldering, ceaselessly emitting smoke.
I had indeed been under such an impression for a considerable length of time.
Moreover, persisting in the same manner no matter how much time passed—to put it negatively, one could say it had become formulaic; conversely, it might also be said to possess a steadiness that refused to relinquish what it had firmly grasped.
Moreover, this author’s works had always fallen into two categories—the genuine and those artfully disguised as genuine. At first, I had even mistaken the latter for the former, but lately I’d gradually learned to distinguish them: “Ah, this is fantasy!”
I had come to clearly recognize that the focus was not sharply aligned.
Moreover, lately, he had seemed to me to have grown quite weary.
Therefore, even in this year’s New Year works, this had been thrown out far too carelessly!
There were not even two or three works that could be perceived in such a manner.
*Chiyomatsu’s Art* could also be counted as one such work.
Even in *Kagebōshi* (Shadow Figure), which had come out last month, I wished he would show a bit more originality.
If I were to put it in my own words, *Gold* fell into the category of genuine works among the two types, and I found it quite a pleasant read.
Moreover, I observed that there was no waste in what was written; it was compactly structured, with “time,” “money,” and “life” all skillfully woven into its fabric.

I thought he was indeed a master.

Tanizaki Seiji’s *The Stepmother* was by no means innovative in its style, observations, or atmosphere; however, as it approached the latter half, gradually elements of authenticity began to emerge.

I recalled the time when I wrote *Life*. Above all, I found it truthful how no one showed sympathy to the stepmother growing agitated in death’s presence—not even her own birth daughter—leaving her stranded, reduced solely to unsightly forms and harsh words in their treatment. Yet I regretted how the author became completely immersed alongside his characters. The author absolutely needed to take one more step—otherwise it rang false. Wasn’t the very fact that readers were moved proof that in the latter half he had somewhat emerged from that immersion? The author must reflect on this.

Katō Kazuo’s *Ironic Reward* has made some noise, and it’s only natural that this author would write such a work—but to call this what the proletariat demands! To call it such was far too trivial. It was also far too ordinary. I thought it should have had more intense and profound passion. Moreover, even in terms of its method of expression, there was nothing that could be considered new. The prose was dry and overly descriptive in many parts, and the scenes the protagonist experienced were often discordantly pasted together with the author’s own observed or overheard imagery. If one were to depict this with the brushwork seen in *Policeman and Two Stray Cats*—that organic fusion of heart and setting, executed with a deeply passionate sensibility—then a truly remarkable proletarian novel would have been established—and yet—.

Fujimori Seikichi’s *Osono’s Letter* in *Shincho* concludes with a line: “Even if I’m called a hypocrite, it doesn’t matter—at any rate, I saved someone.” Whether it be hypocrisy or whatever else, saving someone is better than not saving them. I realized the author seemed to position their perspective on this point—but what exactly did that entail? Helping someone was undoubtedly better than not helping them, but this author had to consider how all too often, this act would be swiftly overturned, resulting in consequences worse than if one had never helped at all. In fact, even someone like me had often experienced such things. When you save someone, even if you intend not to make them feel indebted, you inevitably end up doing so. In other words, the very act of having done a good deed—the mere fact of thinking so—already took the form of imposing an obligation on the recipient. Moreover, there was no one who did not think that saving someone constituted having done a good deed. Already, this author themselves thought so. The phrase “From the Everlasting Hypocrite” clearly revealed this. In other words, they were imposing an obligation on the person they saved. One could not help but worry that various complications might arise from this. However, I was not saying this was bad. Here, I simply wished to state that saving people could not be considered so straightforward a matter. I wanted to say that the day would surely come when this author considered such matters. I wanted to say that the day would come when this author reflected on how what they had believed to be good and acted upon did not turn out well at all. From a technical standpoint, it could have been called a cleverly conceived short story.

Inagaki Taruho’s *Hana-Megane* did not strike me as anything remarkable. That may have been unavoidable given the author’s temperament, but I found myself troubled by its contrived sophistication—that smug precociousness. Of course, the prose itself was not unskilled—there were refined aspects and passages rich in color, and among young writers, it stood out as superior; yet does it not rely too heavily on mere talent? Are they not failing to truly see things, merely skimming over them for superficial amusement? Are they not becoming pretentious? Are they not putting on airs?

Kume Masao’s *Photography* turned out to be unfinished when I realized it only after finishing, so I was bitterly disappointed—my expectation of finally reading something genuine after so long had been dashed.
With no alternative, I resolved to critique *Kuroi Hahe*, which I’d read during the New Year as well.
That work had already been dissected by various critics in numerous quarters, so perhaps there was little need for me to add my voice now—yet I found that Habe repugnant.
I felt compelled to state here that the work had become thoroughly vulgarized precisely through that Habe—that black Habe—being included.
Was there truly any need to introduce Habe at all?
Would it not have been better to conclude around the point before Habe’s appearance?
Would that not have made for a tauter short story?
I maintain that forcing meaning where none exists—or feigning profound symbolism—does nothing to enhance a work’s value.
But if the author genuinely conceived Habe in such terms, then we must deem this a rather vulgar mode of thought.

Nakagawa Yoichi’s *The Day of the North Wind* was far better compared to his earlier works like *The Wig*. With this work, the author could—to some extent—reveal his true self. Above all, it was commendable for being free from formulaic constraints; it had a relatively sharp and liberated quality, demonstrating solid craftsmanship that conjured substance from nothingness. Like *Hana-Megane*, what was written wasn’t particularly significant, but even so, one could catch whiffs of youthful scent and vitality from somewhere. How much better this was compared to the exhausted and listless works of middle-aged writers!

However, such things had to be considered.
Young people had yet to shoulder any significant burdens in life, but in contrast, middle-aged writers—already saddled with family responsibilities, wearied by long years of labor, and in some cases reduced to writing solely for monetary gain—had allowed their inner artistic activities to wither away unchecked.
Of course, that was bad.
No matter how exhausted they might be, that was no excuse.
However, this state of existence—bearing life’s unbearable burdens, battling fatigue and weariness, resolutely forging ahead alone—was something only middle-aged writers could truly comprehend; for young people, it had to be said to be a realm beyond even their imagination.
Therefore, even if middle-aged writers were not flourishing, it could not be easily dismissed.
At any rate, they were adrift in the heavy tides of their lives.
They were rising and sinking amidst the turbulent waves of reality.
At the very least, they were entirely different from the young people about to plunge into the sea of life—in their state of mind, in their perceptions, in their very sensibilities.
This had to be considered.
Therefore, even if they had produced a few lackluster works, even if they had written pieces inferior even to new writers, there was something about them that could not be so simply compared to the young people.
For the reason that middle-aged writers, too, could undoubtedly burst into flame once more.
No—for when they ignited at dawn, they would write works far superior to anything the young writers could produce...

Okada Saburō’s *The 1920 Era* purports to be Cubist, but I felt its emotional resonance was somewhat thin.
Even if the form had transformed into any shape, the hidden elements within—the hints, feelings, and moods—should have emerged far more clearly in some way.
Because art must be an activity that has blazed up from within the author.
Even if they call it Cubism or Expressionism, all such works must be artistic expressions that have blazed up from within the author...
Of course, I did not think it trivial, but I felt it would have been better had it been slightly more striking.
I also found myself contemplating things like Tairov’s liberated theater.

Togawa Sadao’s *Distant Thunder* had a somewhat better latter half, and I did find the handling of that mistress character skillful—but what struck me as far more crucial was whether this author might not shatter his established mold with greater freedom and boldness.
In *The 1920 Era*, I felt a concern that it might be rushing too far ahead, but in this work, I sensed a kind of loneliness as if being left behind.
No matter how it turns out, it doesn’t matter.
No matter how bad they say it is, I don’t care.
They should attempt to write something vastly different.
I thought how I wished they would come to share this sentiment.
In other words, I want works more abundant in internal artistic activity.

In Engei Shinshō, I read Kikuchi Kan’s *The Thatched Hut by the Inlet*.
Of course, it was nothing remarkable.
However, while presenting it as akin to Enoch Arden or Maupassant’s short tales—things of that sort—the way it subverted expectations at the conclusion made me think it bore this author’s distinctive mark.
This author excels at such techniques.
On another consideration, I felt that such approaches might indeed constitute the essential knack for writing plays and similar works.

Wanting to read more works by younger writers, I read Kawabata Yasunari’s *Bonfire* and Kaneko Hirofumi’s *The Wolf*, both published in *Shinshōsetsu*. Both had a certain degree of interest, but I found myself wishing they could have been something more.

I had heard that the author of *The Wolf* was a writer with certain tendencies, but having read this work alone, I did not find him to be so particularly. As fantasy and as theory, he had thoroughly considered it and was even lashing himself to advance in that direction—but one could not help but question how much he had truly confronted and deeply felt it in reality. No—it seemed that such illusions would yet be shattered many times hence. In particular, I thought that the psychological conflict between men and women depicted in *The Wolf* was still quite immature. Was it not precisely because of this naivety that it manifested in such a form? The struggle between men and women is not something merely descriptive like that—shouldn’t it be something more visceral? Wouldn’t explaining it cause that very mood to immediately slip away? Silently clenching their teeth at each other—and isn’t it akin to them straining toward becoming one, physically and spiritually? Even if conflict is conflict, isn’t the nature of that struggle entirely different when it’s between men versus between women? This is what I thought. However, this work does indeed have some such elements. The part where the man who had turned his back ends up naively left to the woman’s hands is one such instance. That part is good. However, because it is difficult to express that inexplicable mood, the author has unfortunately laid on the colors too thickly. He exaggerates. He renders it garish. As a result, he even makes the woman’s dialogue utter trivialities. Unable to convey delicate emotions and moods, he rushes from the initial exaggeration he succumbed to into yet another.

And each time, he lost that “naturalness.”

*Bonfire* stood as the polar opposite of *The Wolf*. Yet I could not declare it superior to *The Wolf*. There I witnessed young emotions unfurling with tenderness. In place of *The Wolf*’s shadowed clashes between men and women, I beheld the portrayal of an artless, guileless romantic affair. Where *The Wolf* revealed an author gnawing on gallworms, here I found one both innocent and perilously self-complacent. One bloomed garish crimson like a canna flower; another recalled peach blossoms akin to a country maiden—these twin visions rose before me.

In contrast to this, Tanaka Jun’s *The Old Pastor* struck me as a work that borrowed Maupassant’s popular elements while neglecting his profundity.
It maintained cohesion, but through methods typical of middle-aged authors—from which neither freshness nor brilliance could emerge.
Works like *The Wolf*, *Bonfire*, *The Day of Winter Winds*, and *Nose Glasses*—flawed though they were—let one glimpse something new and unbound by convention that might yet blossom. Yet from works such as *The Cornered Bird*, *The Stepmother*, *Snowmelt Stream*, *Irony’s Reward*, *Gold*, or even this one [*The Old Pastor*], however polished or cohesive, I sensed no potential for genuine transformation.
Why was this?
As I’ve noted before: because artists who should ceaselessly create instead shun difficulty for ease, lack inner artistic urgency, produce only inoffensive works through tired methods—stagnating like those suffering creative dyspepsia.
I cannot but urge middle-aged writers to strive anew.

Yamazaki𪸵’s *Osei’s Journey to the Capital* from *Literature and Religion* was skillful and showed unclouded talent in its essence, but I found it somewhat anticlimactic.
I felt it should have had a section or two more.
Moreover, with this kind of writing style, unless one adds more shading of light and dark or injects some intrigue into the events, wouldn’t the overall impression fail to come into focus?
Speaking from my preferences, while I certainly think it is superior in technical skill compared to those younger writers’ works I mentioned earlier, I could not sense much activity in terms of the author’s internal artistic inspiration.

Kimura Tsuyoshi’s *A House in the Suburbs* was not something that could be called a proper novel.
However, the parts where he wrote about the small birds, squirrels, long-tailed birds, and snakes coming around the house did pique my interest somewhat.
The innocent author was also commendable.

Nagata Hideo’s *Within the Trench* was a minor one-act play.
Had the company commander’s words in the conclusion emerged more forcefully, they might have carried a certain profound meaning, but as it stands, I could only perceive it as a portrayal of the commander’s love and hatred toward his subordinates—or rather, the love and hatred inevitably forged within human collectives.
Consequently, despite the stage being set in the desperate circumstances of a trench, one could only receive a small, confined feeling from it.

The magazines that had been placed around my desk—I had now finished critiquing them all—yet even so, I remained unsatisfied with this alone.
This month, even regarding those authors who had not written anything new, I felt that unless I said a bit more about them, I could not truly claim to have evaluated the literary world despite having gone to such lengths.
Regarding authors like Kubota, Akutagawa, Satomi, Sato, and Muroo—these especially—I wanted to add something further.
Yet this remains a monthly critique.
It would feel peculiar indeed to critique works from last month or even earlier.
No—in truth, I made two or three attempts at it—but being unable to speak forthrightly left me feeling rather sorry for those authors.
Therefore here—satisfied with what I have done—I wish instead to venture a few words concerning our current literary world.

In my view, has the current literary world not become overly technical?
Is it not becoming secondary and tertiary rather than primary?
Is it not centering itself on what is merely entertaining?
No—even without making it the center, isn’t it unconsciously tending toward such a manner?
Are they not misunderstanding social movements as merely “social” and thus concluding that vernacular novels are commendable?
To become preoccupied with technique is itself an exhausting affair.
If internal artistic activity is truly vigorous, then it is only natural that technique will naturally follow.
Technique is something that should go without saying.
Therefore, as an author, one must truly feel.
Truly engage with this life and humanity on a fundamental level.
Engage fundamentally with society’s flaws as well.
And invigorate internal artistic activity.
Such will must be the very first thing to set itself in motion.
And only after reaching that next stage should one attempt to write good works—it is then that the authorial demand to produce excellent works must arise.
However, during periods when one’s will flourishes vigorously, such things are naturally taken for granted—they renew themselves relentlessly, moment by moment and with burning intensity—but once even slightly weakened in body and mind, it becomes truly inevitable for them to visibly turn toward the technical or contemplative.

Therefore, becoming preoccupied with technique is not a good thing.
Moreover, the very act of trying to write something entertaining is also not a good thing.
Authors' minds must always be vividly active and immediately resonate with anything.
Moreover, the form of prolonged stagnation is undesirable.

Most authors strived and struggled until they reached a certain stage in their work, but once attaining it, anyone would let out a sigh of relief.
No—if it had been merely catching their breath, that might have been acceptable, but most grew complacent and stagnated right there.
And they grew attached to both the works they had painstakingly created and the sentiments contained within them.
That was undesirable.
In other words, this proved there was no sustained intensity.
Had their efforts been more vigorous and their internal artistic activity flourished, they would have regarded completed works as finished—never looking back—and immediately moved on to new endeavors.
They should not have lingered over such matters as how well their own creations turned out, how skillful particular carving techniques were, how finely detailed those wrinkles and folds appeared, or whether others’ writings seemed clumsy or masterful, successful or not.
No, to rephrase it once more: just as this life and universe never cease their activity for even a moment, they must continue striving without respite.
That is the authors’ first and foremost life.

Therefore, this fixation on literary-world consciousness—one’s position within the literary world, one’s influence within it, the tendencies one has painstakingly struggled to establish—marks the first step where the author internally shifts toward a contemplative and technical stance, from which point their inner activity gradually dulls.
As for why middle-aged authors fail to flourish, I believe one factor lies in the burdens of life, as I have previously stated, while another is that their stagnation is being engendered precisely by such forms.

Then, advancing one step further, one could say this: if internal activity were momentary and burning, they could directly confront vast nature as it was while simultaneously growing ever more sensitive—more than others—to society’s flaws and decay, becoming able to instinctively engage with them. Consequently, they could be both natural writers and social writers. Yet this boundary proved exceedingly difficult. Most people failed to unify these aspects, instead perceiving them as separate and scattered. Indeed, were we to let someone speak on this matter, they might claim that mental states and naturalness were static things—that fixating on them made dynamically stirring one’s heart utterly impossible. But this reflected a narrow perspective, akin to observing only the movement at a circle’s circumference traced by spinning a stick through air while failing to see its rotation from the center. Though nature might appear stagnant in one place, it in fact ceaselessly rotated through space with tremendous force.

Therefore, it is most crucial for them to constantly maintain this transiently blazing state of mind; as long as this remains active, there is nothing more to be said. Within that state—social issues, class issues, cultural issues—everything has been subsumed. Religion and art—everything has melted into that state. After a long interval of encountering my literary colleagues’ works, there was much to feel and much to gain. I think there may have been some discourteous words among them, but I hope that will be forgiven. (March 11, 1924)