Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

September 1, 1923—I was in Nagoya Prison. Prison lunch came early. By eleven o'clock, I would already be licking my lips, feeling deeply and pitifully in my heart how meager prison meals were at that hour.

I wrote in my diary that day as follows.

――Last night turned stormy. In the middle of the night, rain blew through the mosquito-net door, so I shut the glass one. Come morning, autumn insects shrilled incessantly from the field. Autumn had truly arrived. The pumpkin plant that hadn’t borne a single fruit all summer now strained with stunted leaves—no larger than a tenth of normal size—bursting into green vigor and clusters of morning-glory-sized blossoms suited to such meager foliage. And still September came. The species-preservation instinct!—

While clinging to the high window's iron bars, I gazed at the pumpkin field with indescribable feelings. That small, hopelessly doomed pumpkin—even it seemed enviable compared to us.

According to Marx, there was once a country where scholars earnestly debated the question of who should possess wind power. I consider the question of who should possess light rays to still remain a relevant proposition here in prison.

The small leaves, the lovely flowers—aren’t they bathed entirely in morning sunlight, shining brilliantly?

All things strive to live better. Bourgeoisie, Proletariat—

As a proletarian, I am in prison for the sake of living better—or rather, for the movement to abolish the proletariat. Wind and light have been stolen from me. I am always hungry. Our faces bore what they called the prison pallor—an earth-colored hue. My heart spewed crimson flames. Midday passed—prison meals were served early—when a strong earthquake struck. All the defendants pleaded in unison, tears streaming down, begging for the doors to be opened—but the guards, who usually made frequent rounds, now showed no sign of appearing. I slammed against the door. Once more, I made my body like a hammer and slammed against the plank wall separating my cell from the next. I did not want to die. If I were to die, I thought, better to go down fighting the door before being crushed by the heavy roof.

I roared. I struck like a hammer. Bringing both feet together, I kicked the plank wall. My body was thrown down. The wall trembled and quivered like a dying man's chest. Even then I waited—waited for guards to come demand why I caused trouble— But none came.

While I was exhausted from kicking the plank wall, the glass panel meant to block the light bulb—embedded between the ceiling-level walls of the cells—came crashing down. I kicked it upward with my left foot. Fresh blood gushed out from the top of my foot. ――Got you!――

I thrust my foot—dripping with fresh blood—through the meal window in place of the signal log. And then I shook it. This too had no effect. The blood was shaken off onto the cold floor.

Even though no one came, I couldn’t keep swinging my bleeding foot forever. Reluctantly, I pulled my foot back. And then I washed the wound with water. Like a worm in a groove, white nerves were visible. Bone was also visible. After all, I’d kicked the glass panel to pieces—if any shards had gotten in there, it would’ve been disastrous. There, I carefully spread open the wound and washed it clean with water. I bound it haphazardly with a hand towel. When I finished the first aid—I had been a sailor, so I was accustomed to treating injuries—this time, through the iron window, over the small pumpkin field, past another brick wall, I began a denunciatory speech toward the prison office.

“We’re defendants, not death row inmates! Our maximum sentence is two years!” “And even that hasn’t been finalized yet!” “Even for crimes that might warrant capital punishment, executing someone under disaster pretexts before a verdict is downright outrageous.—” As I roared these accusations, shouts of “That’s right! That’s right!” came booming back from beyond the wall. Got them!—I thought again.

From every cell came a bombardment of voices—vigorous shouts, already hoarse cries, and even tearful wails—projecting an intensity that ordinary people would never hear outside prison walls. Amidst this clamor of voices, from beyond the red bricks on the opposite side, a speech began. “Comrades, noble comrades—we are currently negotiating with the prison authorities! In response to the fact that your precious lives have been deliberately confined within the interior of a rotting tin can to await death, Mr. Yamada Tsuneo and Ms. Hata Kishiko are currently negotiating with the warden. Moreover, we intend to arouse public opinion in society as well. Comrades, I hope you too will remain unyielding within these walls and ××!”

When the speech ended, cheers erupted in unison from both inside and outside the prison cells.

I felt somehow poignantly moved. For several months, my vocal cords had almost no opportunity to move. Similarly, my eardrums had only vibrated with the most minute tremors. As for who owns air—wind—and light rays—probably the warden or the prosecutor’s office—I didn’t know for sure, but our ownership was absolutely forbidden.

Now, my vocal cords were leaping, my eardrums nearly splitting as they trembled and clamored at the comrades' words.

If only there were—above this—an infinitely high sky instead of walls that seemed ready to collapse inward, roofs and trees and fields stretching into a distant vista—I felt a lonely ache.

A life of gloomy straight lines! The prison had no curves. Brick! Prison block! The guard's face! Wall! Window! The square sky framed by the window! When night came, I would fall into shallow sleep and dream of being arrested. When I woke—though still lying in prison—I'd think: Well, at least this is real. How much easier it was once they'd dragged me away than during the dragging itself.

From the window, I gazed outside while continuously exercising my vocal cords. That was around three in the afternoon—three hours after the tremors had stopped.

“Hey—” came a call from the direction of the door. “What?!” I retorted. “You shouldn’t be making trouble.”

“Bastard! If making a fuss is so wrong, why won’t you let us out?!” “There’s no need to let you out, so we won’t.” “Why isn’t there a need?!” “As you can see for yourself—we know there’s nothing to worry about. That’s why we’re not letting you out.”

“What the hell are you? A catfish? Or Dr. Omori? What the hell are you anyway?” “I am the Chief Guard.”

Interesting.

There, I moved from the window toward the door and thrust out my foot—wrapped in a hand towel stained red—through the meal slot. “If you claim to be the Chief Guard, then you’ll take responsibility for your words, won’t you?” “Of course I do.” “You said you knew beforehand that the earthquake would end without incident, didn’t you?” “I did say that.” “Who the hell taught you seismology? From a catfish?!” “Or did you invent it yourself?”

"I don’t need to say such things. The facts themselves are proof enough."

“Very well.” “Let’s hear why those who claim to know the earthquake would end safely needed to flee in panic, while we who fear for our lives must be sealed in.”

“Who ran away?” “You lot—all of you!” “Who saw that?” “Ha ha ha ha!” I burst into laughter. Tears began to stream down my cheeks like rainwater seeping through a roof. I felt as though everything from my neck up had turned into a mass of fire. Rage!

With my injured foot, I summoned all my strength and kicked upward at the Chief Guard’s testicles. But the meal slot hindered it. My foot only managed to jerk up from the knee, barely grazing the guard’s trousers. What am I doing?

“Open the door!”

“There’s no need.” “I’ll show you what need means.” “You’ll pay for this!”

You think I’ll forget just because you tell me to?! “You catfish bastard!” “Get out!”

——……

I made my entire face into eyes and glared at him.

The Chief Guard hurriedly left. I kept my leg stuck out and hurled my upper body backward. My right leg was positioned toward the peephole.

Once tears break through the dam, there's no stopping them. My entire face became shamefully drenched in tears.

As soon as I lay on my back, four or five guards came. The current Chief Guard was the man who usually acted as the warden’s proxy. “Mr. Hata, this is rather troublesome, don’t you think?” “Troublesome? On your end, even if you killed me, it’d be no consequence at all, wouldn’t it? If I’m too much trouble, you’ll just do away with me, huh?” “You getting this agitated is problematic.”

I grew sick of speaking. “Since this leg’s injured, bring a doctor and have it treated. If you don’t want to do that either, then fine by me.”

“What’s wrong?” My foot. “As you can see.” “Blood.” “Hey! Go to the infirmary and get the doctor here now!” “And bring the first-aid kit with you.” The Chief Guard issued orders to the accompanying guard. “Oh, and also, there’s a visitor here.” “Once treatment is finished, please leave.”

Since I remained silent, they left. Today’s Saturday—why would they allow afternoon visits? Who’s come? I recognized two of them, but who gave the speech? And why permit a visit now when it’s nearly dinner time?

I grew unbearably impatient.

My foot ached. In Block 1 too, they were making a racket. The prison became unmanageable. Indeed, their failure to provide it was the prison's own failing. Because of that, even with all the uproar, they still weren't doing anything about it.

Eventually, the doctor came. They opened the cell door. I considered rushing out but stopped myself. My foot was acting up. The doctor sat down in my cell. While undoing the tied hand towel, “What happened?” “I got injured.” “I know that already. But I’m asking how it happened.” “It happened while you were running away.” “During the evacuation?”

“It was during the evacuation.” “How did it happen then?” “The cell thrust the glass into my foot.” “Why was there even glass in here?”

“Wasn’t that your lot who put it there out of sheer convenience?”

——……

The doctor dropped hydrogen peroxide onto the wound. White bubbles formed. Ah, the light bulb’s…

At last he’d figured it out. “Did it shake hard enough to make that fall…” The doctor said as if restraining some emotion and treated my foot. When he began tending to my injury, I felt desperately lonely. I felt exposed.

In the morning, they’d rouse us with a snarled “Chikushō!”—a crude pun on “rising” and “damn you!” They’d bark, “Bring out teapots!” “Those who’ve received parcels—bring out notification blocks!” “If you don’t have it, spit drool!” I shouted back.

Feces and urine dripped through a hole—fifteen centimeters long and seven-and-a-half wide—carved through massive granite into the cesspool below. In prison, those who protect us are none other than those who threw us in here. The situation there outdoes even a Turkish court. While I was inside, one person hanged themselves. Engaging in social movements that land you in prison isn't exactly jolly work.

Hey.

I am, if anything, on the energetic side. It's not like I'm always in high spirits.

Hey.

Just how godawful is this prison? Exactly when they threw me and eleven comrades in here. That was when I kicked the bastard who ratted us out right in the courtroom. That was when I was informed by the lawyer that the prosecutor was saying he'd revoke bail.

I've done one hell of a thing. And I ended up regretting it. For me, kicking the spy wasn't such a bad thing, but being thrown back into prison before even a month had passed was no good. Even things you think are good—pursuing them too single-mindedly is ill-advised. It's simply that among those driven to the brink where they can no longer weigh profit and loss, those with a certain temperament are the ones who act. I was thrown into prison. This fact in itself wasn't exactly a heartwarming tale to boast about. On top of that, two children, an elderly mother, and my wife—all these people cling to me, this very me, as their sole cane.

I am an injured boar.

When the doctor treated me, I went to the interview room. On purpose, I slammed my clogs down hard. The accomplice rejoiced. I was happy too.

“Let’s stay resolute.”

“That’s exhilarating!”

After saying something like that，they exchanged glances． The other person couldn’t see anything beyond his eyes． He had only one eye． To call something exhilarating in a life-threatening situation was utterly beyond the pale． I mustn’t abandon common sense． However，

Even if that logic might hold water—in prison, reason doesn't work. Hey—it's just... The more you think about it in prison, the less the world seems any good—and conversely, the more you think about it out in the world, the less prison seems like "some cushy place to eat easy." To put it bluntly, it's a small prison called a penitentiary within the larger prison of society.

II

I went to the interview room. The tinsmith Yamada, my wife, and the children had come.

“During the earthquake, the Chief Guard in the office fled out into the garden with everyone else to take refuge.”

The tinsmith reported.

"Indeed," I said. In other words, no matter how much we thrashed or shouted, they shouldn't have come to complain. No one had been in the prison block. With that, the prison block would collapse. Hundreds of defendants would be crushed. That much food would be conserved. The police's hands would become unnecessary. And so the world would achieve peace. It would achieve tranquility. What a clever scheme. In Tibet, there was a person who chased the moon, fell from a cliff, and died. I'd heard about that.

In Japan, they leave prisoners, socialists, and anarchists to the earthquakes, I see. They use earthquakes to halt the flow of time. Juggernaut!

Twisting a baby's hand—what a trifling matter that is. You're a full-fledged adult. What's more, you're some fine upstanding person who's grown fat on the blood-money you lent at exorbitant rates. Whether you tear this baby apart, crush it, or beat it to death—such things come easily to you. You've got this thing called power. You've got your exploitation apparatuses and auxiliary apparatuses. You people can use absolutely anything as your own tools and exploit it all. "For instance—they're truly our brothers—but slip them just a tiny 'bribe,' and you can turn them into your informants." Make them constables, make them spies.

You let those worms slither among our comrades like parasites burrowing into their guts. Our comrades are wretchedly poor. So of course some will snatch at even tainted coins. The shameless ones.

You aren't satisfied just uniformly exploiting us—on top of that, you corrupt even our individual comrades in that way. Hmph! Twist. Crush. Go ahead and do it. When it twists, it twists. Opportunity won't wait around for you forever. Your determination to suck dry every last baby on this earth is truly magnificent.

But before you finish slaughtering all those babies, listen here— No matter what anyone does or doesn’t do, white hairs will sprout in your head all by themselves. Your back will begin to bend. Your eyes will begin to cloud. Even if you try to grab the neck of the clamoring, wailing baby with your wrinkled, bloodstained hands, those very hands will cease to move. The babies you failed to kill completely will only multiply around you more and more. They will wail even more clamorously. Ha! Ha! Ha ha!

Even if the babies never grow at all, you’ll age. Heh heh. You want to pick off that louse clinging to your back. You want to crush it as a final keepsake, just like you tore apart those babies. That thing’ll turn troublesome too. It’ll start thrashing about. You’ll remember how good it felt back when you were fat and hearty and savage—when you could slaughter however you pleased. How’s it feel now?

You can't even control your own bowels or bladder, let alone lice. You drank too much blood and had a stroke. What you're trampling on is substitutes for countless babies and your own filth. That place where countless babies have been thrown will be even fouler, damper, and gloomier than the stench of rotting corpses in the graveyard you've been reveling in.

But you're still young. You still have ten years until sixty. Listen here. You've only reached fifty since being born. As long as that syphilis gnawing at your bones doesn't advance further, you'll remain just fine for ages yet. Your hands and arms grow ever stronger. Your foot is magnificent. That bull-splitting chest of yours, those broad shoulders—their imposing bulk perfectly masks the rot festering within.

That you stay up late into the night alone brooding over treatments for that internal disease—the syphilis gnawing at your bones—applying plasters praying to gods and lamenting was known to none but a handful of babies. So now you mobilize your actual power your bluster even mercenaries to satisfy your killing instinct. That’s a good thing for you. For you that stands as an incomparably beautiful thing. Your morality. Therefore for you that remains an inescapable fate with no alternative.

A dog abides by a dog’s morality. It does as it pleases. You go ahead and do it too! With your splendid, imposing physique, you dragged that massive juggernaut along! Minors and children were cheap materials for exploitation! Everything that lay in the path of your juggernaut—rural areas trampled, cities destroyed, wilderness stripped bare, every last baby crushed beneath it, spurting blood. Flesh flew. You hoisted up that blood and flesh via bucket conveyor, guzzling it down, while the juggernaut swept across the earth with earth-shaking roars.

And so, would only an infinitely bloated adult and a single juggernaut towering into the azure sky remain upon this earth? Is that so?! If that's how it stands, you're doomed. Haven't you already exhausted your supply of babies to devour? But before that comes to pass—you'll grow old. The overgrown juggernaut will cease to fit your grasp. That very juggernaut you built, that served you—even that crushing machine will finally escape your command.

But now, everything was yours. You were still young. When you walked through Britain, when you roamed Russia, you had seemed utterly exhausted—but after crossing the sea, you transformed beyond recognition. “Here” teemed with countless babies. Cheap exploitable resources swarmed.

“Now! “Giant! Drag your juggernaut through! Here, everything welcomes you. A symphony of supreme delight—the voices of starving babies crying, the sound of crushing flesh, the roar of gushing blood. The supreme colors of a painting—a mountain of corpses, a river of blood, a shore of shattered bones. The wonder of sculpture—tens of thousands clinging to life: dead masks! The magnificent building proclaimed its victory to the sky in a resounding voice. The basement’s infants’ tomb spewed a pale curse through its window.”

“Now! Go! Trample everything underfoot!” Giant of the bourgeoisie!

I sat down in the urine-scented corridor after the visit.

“Let me see the Warden!” No matter what anyone said, I didn’t move. “This isn’t Utsunomiya—who’d be fool enough to crawl under a suspended ceiling here? Didn’t you run away? As long as I haven’t received a death sentence, I absolutely won’t go in.” I held my ground.

(Taisho 13 [1924], October, *Bungei Sensen* [Literary Front] Volume 1, Number 5)