Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

――September 1, 1923. I was confined in Nagoya Prison.

Prison lunch came early. By eleven o'clock we'd already be licking our lips and resignedly coming to terms with how meager prison rations were，feeling profoundly wretched deep in our hearts.

I wrote this in my diary that day.

Last night was quite stormy. In the middle of the night, rain blew in through the mosquito net door, so I closed the glass door. When morning came, autumn insects in the field were shrilling incessantly. Truly, autumn had arrived in full force. The pumpkins that bore no fruit all summer were straining with all their might - their stunted growth producing small leaves less than one-tenth the size of normal ones, yet growing them lush green, while blooming morning glory-sized flowers appropriate to such meager foliage. It's already September, and yet... The instinct to preserve the species!――

While gripping the high window's iron bars, I gazed at the pumpkin field with indescribable emotion. Even those small pumpkins, utterly doomed as they are, seemed far more enviable when compared to us. According to Marx, there was apparently a country long ago where scholars seriously debated the question of to whom wind power should belong. I considered the question of to whom light should belong to be a more pertinent proposition here in prison, even now.

Small leaves, lovely flowers—are they not bathed in the morning sun and shining brilliantly? All things strive to live better. Bourgeoisie, proletariat—— As a proletarian, I am confined in prison for the sake of living better—or rather, for the movement to eliminate the proletariat. Wind and light have been stolen from me.

I am always hungry.

My face is an earth-toned color we call prison-color. My heart spews crimson flames.

Afternoon—prison meals came early—a strong quake struck. All defendants raised their voices in unison, shedding tears as they pleaded to have the cell doors opened, but the guards who normally patrolled so frequently now showed no sign of appearing. I slammed against the door. Once more I turned my body into a hammer and battered the plank wall separating my cell from the next. I did not want to die. If I must die, I resolved to die fighting against the cell door before being crushed beneath the heavy roof.

I roared. I struck like a hammer. Bringing both feet together, I kicked the plank wall. My body was thrown backward. The wall shuddered like a dying man's gasping chest. All the while, I kept waiting—with every passing moment—for guards to come demanding, "Why are you causing trouble?" But none came. As I kept kicking the wall in exhaustion, the frosted glass panel embedded near the ceiling between cells to shield the lightbulb came crashing down. I launched it upward with my left foot. Fresh blood splattered from my instep.

――Got you!――

I thrust my foot dripping with fresh blood through the meal slot as a substitute for the alarm bell. Then I shook it. This too proved ineffective. The blood was shaken off onto the cold floor.

Even though no one came, I couldn't keep waving my bleeding foot around forever. Reluctantly, I withdrew my foot. And I washed the wound with water. In the gash, I could see white nerves like a worm burrowed in a ditch. The bone was also visible. After all, I'd kicked the glass panel to pieces—if any fragments had gotten in there, it would've been serious. There, I carefully widened the wound and washed it clean with water. I bound it tightly with a hand towel.

When the first aid was done—having been a sailor, I was accustomed to treating injuries—this time, through the iron window, over the small pumpkin field and another brick wall, I began delivering an accusatory speech toward the prison administration building.

“We’re defendants, not death row inmates—our maximum sentence is two years!” “And that hasn’t even been decided yet!” “Even for crimes that could carry the death penalty—until a verdict is handed down, using a natural disaster as a pretext for execution is utterly unconscionable.—”

As I was roaring such things, from beyond the wall came voices shouting back, “That’s right! That’s right!”

——There!—— I thought again.

From every cell came voices—vigorous ones, already hoarse ones, some even completely tearful—releasing a bomb of voices carrying an intensity that ordinary people could never hear outside prison walls.

Amidst this tumult of voices, from beyond the red brick wall on the opposite side, a speech was begun.

“Comrades! Noble comrades! We are currently negotiating with the prison authorities!” “Comrades! Regarding the fact that your precious lives are deliberately confined within this rotting canned prison to await death—Mr. Yamada Tsuneo and Ms. Hata Kishiko are currently negotiating with the warden.” “On another front, we intend to rouse public opinion across society.” “Comrades! We hope that you too, from within, will remain unyielding and ××!”

When the speech ended, cheers erupted in a thunderous roar from both inside and outside the prison block.

I felt somehow tearfully moved. For several months, my vocal cords had scarcely any opportunity to move. Similarly, my eardrums could only detect extremely faint vibrations. As for air—wind—and sunlight: whose property they belonged to probably fell under the Warden or Prosecutor's Office—I didn't know—but our ownership was strictly forbidden. Now my vocal cords pulsated, my eardrums were threatening to split as they trembled and clamored at our comrades' words.

――If only, instead of this infinitely high sky above and walls threatening to collapse, there were roofs and trees and fields――an expansive vista――I felt a profound loneliness.

A life of gloomy straight lines! The prison contains no curves. Brick wall! Prison block! The guard's face! Wall! Window!

A square sky confined by the window!

When night fell，I slipped into shallow sleep and dreamed of being arrested．When I woke－though lying imprisoned－I thought：Well，that’s relief．How much easier being dragged becomes than when they first seize you．

From the window, I gazed outside while constantly exercising my vocal cords. It was around three in the afternoon, a full three hours after the tremors had ceased.

“Hey,” called the Guard Captain from the direction of the cell door.

“What?!” I answered.

"You shouldn’t be causing trouble." "You bastard! If causing trouble’s so bad, why don’t you let us out?!" "We don’t let you out because there’s no need to!"

“Why isn’t there a need?”

“Because it’s clear there’s nothing to worry about—that’s why they’re not letting you out.” “What are you? A catfish? Dr. Ōmori? Just what the hell are you?”

“I am the Guard Captain.” ——Amusing. I went from the window to the cell door and thrust my foot—wrapped in a red-stained hand towel—through the meal slot.

“If you claim to be the Guard Captain, then you’d better take responsibility for your words.” “Of course.” “You claimed you knew beforehand that the earthquake would end without incident.”

“I did say that.”

“Who taught you seismology?” “From a catfish?!” “Or did you invent it yourself?” “That requires no explanation.” “The facts themselves stand proven!”

“Very well. Let’s hear why those bastards who knew the earthquake would end safely needed to flee in panic, while we who fear for our lives must stay sealed in!” “Who ran away?” “You all did.”

“Who saw that?”

“Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!”

I burst out laughing. Tears began streaming down my cheeks like leaking rainwater. I felt as though everything above my neck had become a mass of fire. Rage! With my injured foot, I mustered every ounce of strength in my body and kicked upward at the Guard Captain’s testicles. But the meal slot prevented it. My leg from the knee down only jerked upward, merely grazing the guard’s trousers. "What are you doing?" "Open the door!"

“There’s no need.”

“I’ll show you what’s necessary.” “You’ll remember this!” Forget? As if I could! “Catfish bastard!” “Get lost!”

——……

I turned my entire face into eyes and glared at him. The Guard Captain hurriedly left.

I kept my leg stuck out and threw my upper body backward. My right foot remained aimed at the peephole. Once tears break through the dam, there’s simply no stopping them. My face became utterly drenched with tears—a pitiful sight. As soon as I lay on my back, four or five guards came. The current guard captain was the man who usually served as acting warden.

“Hata-kun, what’s this? You’re causing trouble, aren’t you?” Does it trouble you? If your side killed me, it wouldn’t mean a damn thing, would it? If I’m too much trouble, you’d just do away with me. “You getting so worked up is a problem.”

I grew sick of talking.

Since I've injured this leg—bring a doctor and let me get treated. If you don't like that either, then fine by me.

“What’s wrong?” “Your leg?” “As you can see for yourself.” “It’s blood.” “Hey, get to the infirmary and have the doctor come here immediately!” “And bring the medicine box with you.” The Guard Captain issued orders to the accompanying guards. “Oh, and also—there’s a visitor here.” “Once treatment is finished, you may leave.” Because I fell silent, they left.

――Today's Saturday, isn't it? Then why are they allowing afternoon visits? Who could be visiting? I recognized two people, but who was the one who gave the speech? Even so, why permit visitors today when it's nearly dinner time? I'd grown unbearably impatient. My foot throbbed with pain. Block 1 was in full uproar too. The prison had become unmanageable. Their failure to release us was indeed the administration's mistake. Because of that, no matter how much we protested, they still couldn't handle things right.

Eventually, the doctor came. They opened the cell door. I considered rushing out but stopped myself. My foot’s in bad shape. The doctor sat down in my cell. As he removed the tied hand towel, “What happened?” “I got hurt.” “I know that already. But I’m asking how you did it.” “It happened while you all were running away.” During your escape… “It’s because you evacuated.” “How exactly during that time?”

“The cell rammed the glass into my foot.”

“Why’d you put glass in there anyway?” “That was your lot’s doing—you’re the ones who put it there!”

——……

The doctor applied hydrogen peroxide to the wound. White foam formed. Ah—the electric light’s.

At last he'd understood.

“Did it really shake enough to make that fall…?” The doctor said in a tone that barely contained his emotions as he treated my foot. When the doctor began tending to my wound, I felt an overwhelming loneliness. A sense of vulnerability washed over me.

In the morning, we were woken up with a shout of “Wake-up” (Chikishō!). “Bring out your chamber pots!” they barked. “Those who have deliveries—present your notification tags!”

“If you’ve got nothing—spit out drool—” I shouted back.

Feces and urine drip through a hole—about six inches long and three inches wide—passing through sturdy granite to the other side.

In prison, those who protect us are none other than the very people who threw us in. The state of affairs there surpasses even the Turkish court.

During my imprisonment, someone hanged themselves to death. Engaging in social movements that get you thrown into prison isn't exactly cheerful work.

Hey. I'm actually rather energetic, if I had to say. It's not like I'm always in high spirits.

Hey. Just how terrible a place was this prison?

They had thrown in me and eleven comrades. That was when I kicked the bastard who’d done the informing right there in the courtroom. That was when I heard from my lawyer that the prosecutor was saying he’d revoke bail.

――I did something outrageous. And I came to regret it. For me, kicking the spy wasn't bad in itself, but getting thrown back into prison before even a month had passed wasn't good. Even things you think are right―pursuing them too single-mindedly can be dangerous. It's what those driven beyond weighing profit and loss―those of that disposition―simply do. Thrown into prison. That fact alone makes it no praiseworthy story. On top of that―two children, my old mother, my wife―all these people cling to me, this very me, as their sole support.

A wounded boar.

After the doctor treated me, I went to the interview room. I deliberately slammed my geta down hard. The accomplice rejoiced. I’m happy too. “Let’s do this right.” “What a rush.” With that, our eyes met. The other person couldn’t see anything beyond their eye. They had only one eye as well.

To call this exhilarating in a life-threatening situation was utterly beyond the pale. I mustn’t defy common sense. However— Even if that logic held water, in prison logic didn’t fly. Hey—it meant nothing. The more one thought in prison—needless to say—the less appealing the world seemed; conversely, the more one thought out in the outside world—needless to say—the less prison appeared as some “cozy place with easy meals.” To put it simply, it was a small prison within the larger prison of society.

II

I went to the interview room.

Mr. Yamada the Tinsmith, my wife, and the children had come. "During the earthquake, the guard captain in the office—they all rushed out into the garden to take shelter." Mr. Yamada the Tinsmith reported. "Indeed," I said. In other words, no matter how much we rioted or shouted, they probably never came to reprimand us. There was no one in the prison block.

With that, the prison block would collapse. Hundreds of defendants would be crushed flat. That much less food would be needed. The police’s involvement would become unnecessary. And thus the world would achieve peace. Tranquility would reign. What a slick system.

In Tibet there were people who chased after the moon and fell off cliffs to their deaths. I had heard about such things. In Japan they leave prisoners and socialists and anarchists to earthquakes. They use earthquakes to halt time's flow. Juggernaut!

Twisting an infant's arm takes no effort at all. You're a proper grown adult. What's more, you're some grand person bloated on blood-sapped money loaned at ruinous rates. Whether you tear these infants apart, crush them flat, or beat them dead—such things cost you no effort. You hold power. You've got your exploitation engines and helper machines. You people turn everything under the sun into your tools and put them to use. Take our own brothers—you slip them a pittance of tainted coin and make them your snitches. Turn them into constables, turn them into spies.

You embed those agents among our comrades like roundworms infesting a belly. Our comrades were wretchedly poor. So there would always emerge those who lunged at even tainted money. Such were the reckless ones. You weren’t content to uniformly exploit us all—you went on corrupting even individual comrades among us through such means.

Hmph! Twist. Crush. Go ahead and do it. When it twists, it twists, I suppose. That's right—opportunity isn't going to wait around for you forever, you know. Your resolution to suck dry every last infant on this earth is truly splendid. But before you finish slaughtering all those infants, listen here. No matter who does what, white hair will multiply on your head all on its own. Your back will bend. Your eyes will begin to grow dim. Even if you try to grab the neck of the clamoring, wailing infant with those wrinkled, bloodstained hands of yours, those very hands will cease to move. The infants you failed to slaughter completely will multiply around you all the more. They will wail even more clamorously. Ha ha ha ha!

Even if the infants don’t grow an inch, you’ll still age. *Heh heh.*

You want to pluck off the louse clinging to your back. You want to crush it like you tore apart infants, keeping it as your final memento. Even that becomes difficult for you. You begin to writhe in agony. You recall the pleasure of those days when you were well-fed, vigorous, ferocious, and resolute in carrying out slaughter. And how about now? Not only are you unable to control even lice—you don’t even have command over your own piss and shit. You’ve drunk too much blood and brought on apoplexy. What you’re trampling underfoot is the remains of countless infants and your own filth. That place—where countless infants have been thrown—is even stinkier, damper, and gloomier than the graveyard of rotting corpses you’ve been delighting in until now.

But you were still young. You still had ten years until you’d be sixty. Listen here. You were only fifty years old. But as long as that syphilis eating into your bones didn’t progress any further, you’d still be just fine. Your hands and arms had been increasingly strengthened. Your legs were magnificent things. Your robust chest, your broad shoulders that could tear apart even an ox—through that exterior, the virus festering within you was completely concealed.

That you stay up late into the night, alone, pondering treatments for that internal virus—the bone-deep syphilis—applying ointments, praying to gods, and lamenting—is known to none but a very few infants.

So now you mobilized your actual power, your empty bravado, even mercenaries to satisfy that killing instinct. That was a good thing for you. For you, that became an incomparably beautiful thing. Your morality. So for you, that became an inescapable fate—no other path remained.

A dog abides by a dog’s morality. You go on doing exactly as you please. You go ahead and pull it off!

You drag that massive steamroller with your imposing physique! Minors and children make cheap fodder for exploitation! Everything in your steamroller's path—villages trampled, cities destroyed, mountains and fields stripped bare—every infant crushed beneath it spurting blood. Flesh flies. You hoist up that blood and flesh via bucket conveyors, sucking it dry while your steamroller rumbles across the earth devouring all.

Thus, would there remain upon this earth but one infinitely bloated adult and a single steamroller towering to the azure sky?

Is that so?!

Then you'd be in trouble. There'd be no more infants left for you to devour, would there?

But before that happens, you’ll grow old. The overgrown steamroller will no longer fit your grasp. The very steamroller you created—the one that served you—will ultimately defy your control. Yet now, everything belongs to you. You remain young still. When you marched through Britain, when you trudged through Russia, you appeared thoroughly wearied—yet having crossed the seas, you’ve transformed utterly. “Here” swarms with endless infants. Cheap fodder for exploitation crowds thickly about.

Now! Giant! Haul that steamroller through! Here, everything welcomes you. Rejoice in this supreme musical harmony—the wails of starving infants, the crunch of shattering flesh, the roar of gushing blood.

The supreme hues of painting—mountains of corpses, rivers of blood, shores of shattered bones. The wonders of sculpture—tens of thousands clinging to life: dead masks! The magnificent buildings loudly sang victory toward heaven. The infant’s tomb beneath roared pale curses through its window.

Now! Go! Ravage everything! Bourgeoisie giant!

On my way back from the visit, I sat down in the concrete corridor.

“Let me see the warden!”

No matter what anyone said, I didn't move. "This isn't Utsunomiya Prison—since when does anyone crawl under a suspended torture ceiling?" "You ran off, didn't you?" "Until they sentence me to death, I won't set foot in there."

I held my ground.

(Taishō 13 [1924] October "Bungei Sensen") Vol. 1, No. 5)