Pathway to Japanese Literature

(1)

“Leisurely World” was indeed a leisurely world.
It danced among wild clouds and slept in the grass like a yellow ox.
Just as spring light had flowed through fields where birds first sang, so too did evening wind surge in cool shade where evening cicadas raised their voices.
Not yet permitted were those who lived merely to live and went merely to go—to enter this Leisurely World.
Takuboku, having long been buried in the capital's dust—chased day and night by life's urgencies, unintentionally turning his back on his hometown's scenery all the while—found his body steeped in urban grime and his poetic spirit knowing no rest.
Thus here, seeking temporary refuge in the Leisurely World, he would release clouds from his mind and harbor pure breezes in his heart's depths—sleeping deeply, reclining peacefully, seeking inspiration in twilight temple bells while entrusting thoughts to dappled sunlight through green leaves, chanting verses harmonized with wind chimes and conversing with rainfall as companion, intending to dwell through a hundred days of summer in this realm of unburdened serenity.
O readers of my beloved hometown—if you held within your breasts a speck of leisurely ground, if amidst life's bustle you still retained hearts that saw flowers as flowers and heard birds as birds—come then! Do not spurn the poetic communion offered in this boundless Leisurely World between I, an exile of Michinoku, and yourselves.
(I hereby record this as the preface to these hundred topics of random jottings.)

(2) Exile's Heart

This time, I told people it was to hear my journey's hometown cuckoo.
Nor did I mention having grown utterly weary of dwelling in these dusty capital lanes where young leaves know no respite from bustle.
Be that as it may—seen off by the chill dawn wind through unlined summer robes, this iron train journey bearing inexpressible thoughts arrived at drizzling Sendai on the twentieth day of May at twilight hour. Yet I, who had left the capital gates so aimlessly—this wandering child of Michinoku with neither heart nor body anchored—found the distant vistas of ancient Miyagino's ruins too precious to abandon. Though weighed by unbearable thoughts, my spirit grew somewhat lightened by young leaves' sleeves fluttering pure; in those moments of early summer clarity, I wandered Hirose River's banks too, climbed Tenshudai where seas meet azure fields' edge at the horizon, and scaled Mukaiyama besides.
Once I grew accustomed to the rising lilt of their local speech here, it no longer grated so harshly on my ears. Bound by the affections of dear companions—those from Bansui’s Lakeside Blossom Village and Recluse Castle—I ended up idling away some ten days at an inn.
In such passing days, during lonesome idle hours of solitary dwelling—seeking somehow to lift this sinking heart—I pulled closer my feeble-legged desk, ground the travel inkstone in cold dregs of tea, smoothed wrinkled small hanshi paper across its surface, and unconsciously dipped brush to write two or three minor poems. These being but whimsical diversions of an exile's poetic spirit in early summer—rootless yearnings with no particular aim—they were not works to proudly show others. Yet thinking how even these shabby verses might return as amusement when next summer comes—their pitiful state rivaling the resentful freshness of patience plants' young shoots—I recorded them as mementos beneath Five-Castle Tower, titling this collection 『Exile's Heart』.

Summer has come

Crossing the sea, summer has come――

Commanding three thousand leagues of waves

Through the white steed's azure breath

The world now—trees sprout fresh verdure

Thus—that azure realm

Mountain-traversing summer has come――

Cherry-blossom tint—pale crimson—

Tracking Spring's traces along gossamer hems

Young warrior's sword-bearing form

Thus—that breath gentles

Field-crossing summer has come――

Vivid black pupils

Two figures' light-stepping gait

Dazzling life seeks—

Thus—that realm of love

Forest-clearing summer has come――

In eight-sun star formation

From lily lands blooming glorious

The sea-traversing breeze has come—
Thus—that fragrance is sweet
Crossing the sky, summer has come——
Silver light shines
Bearing daylight's wings
A blue dragon soaring through high heavens—
Thus—that intense light

From the south I came――
To praise summer days
My heartstrings lay slender——
Having fled the capital of fine verse
Thus—that exile——
One hundred ri I had come――
The night bird's cry distant
In flickering lamplight of still nights
Alone would I go to Michinoku to weep
Thus—those hundred ri——
In dream-spirit I arrived――
The ancient Miyagino's

Wandering—(Ah, Yodo’s waters)

The riverside inn stagnates briefly

Thus—that river’s azure

With fleeing heart I have come――

Breathless, I climbed——
Tenshukaku—I also saw the river’s flow
I saw Tōno too—summer has come
Thus—that summer has come
Through heaven and earth, summer has come——
Battered and worn, when I came to rest
To this exile at journey’s end
At kindred hours the cuckoo sang
Thus—that night bird

(3) Exile's Heart (Continued)

As the Meiji Restoration's revolutionary tide gradually approached, there was scarcely a youth bearing long swords and wearing short hakama who did not know Wen Tianxiang’s "Song of Righteousness"; just so in our present age, among those who drag their canes through academic groves, none remain unaware of Heaven and Earth Have Feelings.
To know Bansui of the Hirose Riverbank, one need not ask those versed in poetry.
Even village schoolmasters in remote hinterlands still inscribe his name as "the happy poet."

When the darkness of two thousand years’ long night began to lift at last, and new life’s light first dawned upon this land, he too stood solitary at his lone bastion—one who brandished his poet’s staff to cry new voices from Akamon’s study windows.
The astral flowers that are stars, the earthly stars that are flowers—though silent through millennia, their harmony of ceaseless nightly yearning soon swelled into heroic strains singing of great heroes exiled to die on distant isles; when playing autumn’s desolation upon Wuzhang Plains’ heights, it made men weep spectral wails, while at times blending with bronze-toned vesper bells to forge voices of fathomless depth that endure through cosmic winds.
Where the Great Wall spans ten thousand li through ruins beneath chaotic sunsets—there halting sorrowful war chariots—when wanderers gaze upon heaven and earth, then myriad history books quake with tears while massed white clouds press down upon the land.
Should copper strings and iron plectrums resound with cloud-rending tones along Amur’s banks, the great waters would still their flow to take on blood-tears’ hue.
Though I refrain here from critiquing his verse—being as he was our poetic dawn-bell who seemed to monopolize grand style—his name must endure eternally in Japan’s poetic annals.
When young I first borrowed his poetry volume from a friend—that midnight hour beneath a lone lamp when, overcome by departing chants and rising inspiration, I struck my desk and declaimed aloud—remains freshly carved in memory’s flesh.
Since coming to Kyoto—through Dr. Chōfū’s accounts and talks with Mr. Takekaze that revealed glimpses of his character—I had longed to meet and exchange poetic discourse.
When I reached Sendai, an invitation came—I visited this happy poet one night at his Ōmachi residence.

(Unfinished)

(4) Exile's Heart (Continued)

Where the lamplight blazed dazzlingly, this friend's beautiful beard—borne on Mediterranean tidal winds—how gloriously and joyfully it shone; I truly thought him a most endearing poet.
Moreover, among modern poets, I believed there could be none as free from affectation as this man.
Together paging through Raphael's art book, I heard that the intoxicating charm of the backgrounds in these paintings was none other than scenery from Northern Italy captured through his divine brush.
When I asked, "What were your thoughts when you wandered through that beautiful land?" the host calmly twisted his splendid beard and replied: "Though Italy's scenery along the Arno River has its merits, yet for me there was no time more joyous than when I beheld Switzerland's blissful paradise—the peerless divinity of the Alps."
"My heart, though filled with courage, shrank small as a spiderling when I gazed up at those Alps—my very blood seemed to freeze—and though my mouth hung open, no words could emerge."
"No wielder of a divine brush could brandish their artistry when crushed beneath such natural majesty."
Then taking out several photographs—"This here is the Alps! On this very hill I stood transfixed for over half a day"—he repeated these words until suddenly growing nostalgic; closing his eyes awhile, he began humming what seemed to be a song by Lenau.
When the conversation turned to poetry, he declared: "I do not inquire who the author might be—if a poem possesses one distinguishing feature, I shall not hesitate to make it my companion for daily recitation."
He added: "The summer flower maiden of Ringai is astonishing; I find it difficult to regard her as either elder or younger brother to Mr. Nakikinshi."
He further stated: "I consider the 7-5 meter foundational to our national poetry's style."
I unfortunately could not agree with this poet's theories.
Yet I believed I had at least come to understand him.
Time passed like a dream; conversation flowed like water.
The cuckoo's cry had sounded countless times.

Late into the night, when our conversation had shifted unexpectedly to music through some trivial matter, he brought out his treasured gramophone—a souvenir from Berlin, he called it—and specially selected several pieces to play for me.
There was Verdi’s *Il Trovatore*—he who was hailed as the sacred composer of modern Southern Europe.
There was Wagner’s *Tannhäuser* Act III, the Roman March from *Faust*, and then that famous orchestral piece from *Wilhelm Tell*—Lohengrin’s Bridal Chorus.
There was a popular song from London too, and a thunderous composition.
Though merely a lifeless mechanical device, these celestial strains—wrenched from the profound depths of those master composers whose works once thundered across European and American skies—still resonated through it. To our unaccustomed ears, even this small machine’s voice seemed akin to the lingering warmth of a heavenly garden’s afterglow.

The hour had passed one in the night.
Finding no rickshaw at hand, I trudged alone down the desolate avenue toward my lodgings—an unfamiliar calm flowing through my breast—my traveler’s mind dazed yet grasping at shreds of solace.
The following day, seizing my brush in haste, I wrought a sonnet and dispatched a messenger to deliver it to Mr. Bansui.

○

The first sun has risen—Ah! In this land,
Even the messenger-birds of light refrain from singing—Ah!
When foolish voices reigned over Asia—
I heard—trampling flowers in Eastern gardens,
Nobility, valor, exhibiting kings' pride,
The rooster resoundingly crows its first cry——,
The night-shadowed clouds lingering at dawn finally,
Ah! From that voice, this land became dawn.
Behold now, in poetry's realm, the dawn where flowers shower—
Awaken! Come now—a divine decree urges, proclaiming,
When the childlike heart's dream-eyes open,

Noble, plucking the grand garden's fresh blooms while—
Singing and standing, the cuckoo—on its crown,
The sun of heaven burns—I simply gazed transfixed.

Heaven's sun blazed—I simply gazed in awe.

(End of this section)

(5) O Educators of the World

There was a friend who once told me: "Since entering the capital five years ago, I had changed lodgings over a dozen times." At times he would seclude himself in squalid alleys like yellow-dust smoke; at other times reside in tranquil suburbs where hardship made him yearn for his hometown. Yet only when renting a nurseryman's detached cottage deep in Komagome did he receive such gentle and kind treatment—and never otherwise. I quietly thought: Is that so? Is that so? Ah, that must indeed be the case.

O people, do not lightly dismiss this as merely an idle passage from trivial conversation. Were lessons worthy of respect truly those that emanated solely from beneath deer-claw-like mustaches within austere chalk-white school halls? The trivial matters of daily life, when savored over time, held infinite interest, infinite secrets, and infinite lessons—they were what caused us to unexpectedly feel compunction and refrain from reckless actions.

If one were to state merely that he rented a gardener’s detached cottage and received kind treatment, who could possibly have discerned such profound lessons in this seemingly random occurrence? Yet in this world, there existed no truly accidental events. Even occurrences that people dismissed as mere coincidences—when examined closely—revealed an immovable rock foundation at their core, unlike those mirage towers upon long shores and waves. There existed a governing principle that penetrated all phenomena in the cosmos—omitting none, disordering none—such that when activated, it formed inevitable causes, and when settled, produced inevitable effects.

Let me first think, let me see, let me hear, and thus be taught: what is this gardener?
He was none other than an old man of the town—cultivating trees, growing flowers, selling them to sustain his livelihood.
Though equally pursued for sustenance, his work differed from those joyless existences—minds spinning on abacus beads, days buried in drudgery, oblivious even to the turning of seasons.
From early spring winds coaxing tender buds to earth's surface, to late winter's frigid snows threatening harm to grass roots—through three hundred sixty days of dawn-to-dusk devotions made for livelihood—did not these ascetic practices gradually draw his heart near nature's essence; make it lean upon her, grow intimate with her, embrace her; until even toward a single stem of wildflower or one fresh leaf, he came to feel such concern, fervor, and affection as one might show toward their own children?
Thus did nature come to dwell within his heart, and his heart became one with nature’s great compassionate heart of grace and beauty through even a single stem of wildflower; and through this subtle transformation of sentiment, was it not this that ultimately enabled him—even amidst the detestable, heartless dust of the capital—to still bloom unfading flowers in his breast, hold undimmed tender sentiments, and perform noble, gracious deeds within this present city consumed by profit-loss calculations?
Do not consider us as those who deliberately resort to sophistry.
We have indeed come to think thusly: within the pure memory that eternally moves him to gratitude for that chance encounter with a friend, we perceive this remarkable inevitable cause; moreover, we cannot help but feel with utmost profundity how deeply this cause's noble inevitable effect teaches us.

But now I turn and ask:
O educators of the world, and especially you elementary school teachers—
What impressions have you formed upon reading this far?
You already possess the wisdom to teach others, making you incomparable to that unlearned old gardener.
Moreover, your gardens hold pristine flowers of beauty—the universe's most divine creations.
Those blossoms ascend heavenward when blooming, suffusing the earth with fragrance, far beyond comparison to humblest stems of common plants.
Yet I ask you—as you cultivate these sacred flowers, do you nurture within your breasts that same beautiful heart the old gardener gained from his weeds?
How will you address the impurity, ruin, and disorder your multitudes keep proclaiming?
Ah—I shall not elaborate. To you elementary teachers who must be saints yet remain unperfected, I inscribe this single phrase:
First clear a three-shaku plot and plant one flower stem.
Water it at dawn, remove insects at dusk—then after one year or two, sit quietly before it:
Reflect. Feel shame. Repent.
Only then will the supreme vocation upon your shoulders gain meaning, power, life, and light.
(June 12th night)

(6) Rock of Faith

In this world, there existed that which was most fearsome, most great, most impregnable—that which no power whatsoever could move.
This was human conviction.
When Socrates was brought before the court on charges of leading Athens' youth astray, he declared: "I am Athens' light. Condemn me if condemnation be my due."
He spoke no more.
Thus did he meet his end.
When Nichiren's head lay upon the execution block, it was just so.
When Christ stood before the governor, again it was just so.
They offered no defense for themselves.
Yet their silence became this world's greatest eloquence.
The Rock of Faith remains unmoved even by death—how much less by trivial earthly powers?
When the great philosopher Spinoza attended the Jewish Theological Seminary in his youth, he boldly critiqued its doctrines without hesitation.
Though angered instructors expelled him, Spinoza persisted as Spinoza.
Hugo too faced exile by Napoleon III.
The poet Shelley wrote The Necessity of Atheism and met expulsion from Oxford University—all following this same pattern.
The single ideogram of 'belief' stands as this world's most unassailable fortress.

At the vanguard of French Romantic literature stood Madame de Staël.
She—a woman who by all rights should have been lost in dreams amidst palace flowers within secluded chambers—yet wielded her vigorous brush to expound grand arguments and rouse all of France, much like a fierce tiger roaring across the wilderness.
Therefore, even Napoleon could ultimately do nothing against that single woman.
She became an object of fear for the giant who had swept across all of Europe.
She often declared: “To behold great individuals, I would journey even a thousand or ten thousand leagues without deeming the distance too far.”
The vigor of her spirit was truly such as this.
People often cite her as an example of women’s strength not lagging behind men’s—but consider quietly: such is truly the power of human conviction.
Once that blazing spiritual light takes residence in a person’s breast, even a delicate willow-browed and jade-cheeked beauty finds herself compelled to perform such heroic deeds as this heavenly steed galloping across the skies.
Conviction is a giant tree in the spiritual realm.
Not a single leaf of it can be shaken loose by earthly winds.
Moreover, it is a rock rooted in the earth’s axis.
Though mighty be the forces upon the earth’s crust layers—they find no way to move it; life’s greatest authority is erected solely upon this Rock of Faith.

O people, if you have a single conviction in your heart, do not lose yourself in the chaos of the external world. Do not hesitate. Do not hold back. Recognize enemies as enemies. Know that my strongest ally is myself. Open your mind's eye and observe closely the universe within your own breast. There blooms an eternal flower—is this not your most beautiful lover? There blows an eternal pure breeze—is this not your dearest friend? Are they not your brothers? There shines an eternal sun that never sets—is this not your most revered father? Is this not your mother? There exists the imperishable character 'Faith'. You must grow arrogant in your pride, insolent in your self-regard—raise a voice like torrential waters to praise and glorify yourself.

Errata: In the conclusion of Part IV of *Kan Tenchi*, the seventh line of the poem dedicated to Mr. Doi Bansui—"夜影の雲もつひて"—contains a misprint and should read "夜影の雲もつひえ." This correction is hereby noted.

(7) Authority Rests with the Victors

I recall it was the summer two years prior.
I remained secluded at Shirakashi Shidō at the foot of Mount Iwate.
On one occasion when villagers gathered at the country schoolhouse, I ascended the podium to deliver a lecture titled "Russo-Japanese Relations from Civilizational History," arguing that the world civilization of this new era should converge Eastern and Western cultures upon our Far Eastern Empire to create an unprecedented golden age—radiant as cherry blossoms in full bloom under the morning sun yet unrecorded in history's annals. I emphatically declared that the Russians' savage Eastern policies constituted clear interference by demonic hordes against this supreme awakening bestowed upon us, moreover an ill-omened bane upon the world's eternal progress, and that those who shared such great awareness with us now stood at the hour when we must take up arms beneath the Heavenly Emperor's divine decree.
When we crossed into last year, from the beginning of early February, urgent military missives flew to all quarters and emergency telegrams arrived incessantly, until finally reports of victory from Incheon and Port Arthur spread—whereupon the entire nation resounded with voices of tragic exultation, and Russo-Japanese international relations were severed.
I still remember the words I recorded in a letter I sent to Dr. Chōfū at that time:
"The people all shrugged their shoulders, raised their eyebrows, and gazed at the northern sky.
Behold, does not the light of the Seven Stars swell like torches?
When following the village lanes, here and there existed several groups of children who, imitating swords with bamboo sticks and waving Hinomaru flags, united their voices to repeatedly chant 'Banzai!'
When one entered the room, a rustic man would pour a large cup of wine, strike the barrel, shatter plates, and shout in a booming voice that echoed off the four walls: 'Let us make Zaal's head our drinking feast!'
Do you not hear this voice? Infinite emotion bursts forth, about to resound through the four quarters like sudden thunder.
Ah, let the poet Takuboku be made but a single patriotic child!
As a barefaced patriot child—casting aside inkstones, snapping brushes—permit me to join those impassioned masses in their madness of pounding barrels and shattering plates.
I know not how to express this excited state of mind.
If I had a map of the Five Continents in my hands, I would burn it to ashes and drink it down with the people in ten thousand koku of sake."

Since then, world history finished recording over five hundred pages in its iron stylus while bearing the clamor of war.
O days of one and a half years—so long yet so brief.
Where they fought at sea they fought at sea, where they battled on land they battled on land—wherever the Imperial Army advanced, they triumphed.
As the humble populace—the majority who read only official bulletins showing superficial results and harbored no deeper thoughts—might imagine, victory came not easily.
There existed no battle fought that was not hard-fought, no victory won that did not exact immense sacrifice.
Yet the great power of national consciousness coalesced like well-tempered steel and burst forth like a scorching heavenly inferno; flags tore yet did not falter, horses fell yet did not yield, swords broke yet did not bend—charging forward with cannon fire, they finally raised triumphant songs in every quarter.
Ah, this astonishing earth-rending triumph!
This success stood as the world's most fearsome destruction.
And yet it also stood as the world's most fearsome construction.
That which was destroyed became the balance of world power—no, it became the road of the god of history that had governed three thousand years of the world.
(Unfinished)

(8) Authority Rests with the Victors (Continued)

And now there had been erected both the colossal light that dazzled one and a half billion living beings and the towering pillar that would administer the world's second civilization.

Reader, would you not for a moment let the poet ascend imagination's spiritual dais and, borrowing the formless white wings borne by his heart, survey the entire earth from the lofty summit of our national ideals?

Did you not see—far in the distance where white waves roared—two or three derelict ships with broken masts and shattered hulls drifting in the Baltic Sea? Near that shore, beneath bullet-scarred walls once struck by live celebratory shells, in dim palace chambers stealthily shedding endless tears with his wife, raising sorrowful prayers only to weep anew—that gaunt, pale-faced figure?

He was indeed none other than the Russian Emperor who, through a moment's miscalculation, had come to bury his entire life in a dark valley of tears.

Look again—was it not England that, like Central Africa's black slaves, kissed our feet and bowed repeatedly in worship, solely anxious that our favor might not wane?

Was it not France that stood on the Rhine's southern bank, cradling in her left arm a beauty clad in pale green Parisian fashion, trembling lest the wings of the proud roc soaring through the skies should fail to graze her head?

And was it not Germany—that so-called rising nation—that spread open a single-page map upon its northern fortress, watching intently as the world's hues became tinged with Eastern cherry-blossom radiance? Perhaps intoxicated by poisoned wine from its 'Jiaozhou Bay' chalice held in the left hand, its complexion grew increasingly pallid while its eyes blazed fearsomely, until at last it trampled that map beneath boot soles like a madman, even tearing apart its right hand's treasured 'World Policy' volume to cast into the river, clawing at its inverted-eight-shaped beard in anguish?

Turning my gaze further, there lay distant America—uttering empty flatteries about "no offense to irrelevant gods"—beckoning us with an alluring smile.

These were indeed the scenes from the grand stage of world drama that flashed before our eyes in an instant.

Who could be the protagonist of this magnificently boundless living epic?

Was it not indeed we—the Japanese nation?

Quell your pounding heart and gaze awhile over the Five Continents.

Countless squirming creatures existed there, likely gazing up into the brilliant light emanating from our very breasts.

Gentlemen, do not mistake them for innumerable frog swarms merely because their mouths gaped over-large.

They were none other than one and a half billion common folk standing dumbstruck with mouths agape.

Ah, how astonishing, this new vista!
This was indeed an earth-shattering transformation that should startle hearts and widen eyes.
The goddess of history once perpetually traversed the skies of Europe, still scarcely knowing that humans existed in the lands of the Orient.
Now she suddenly advanced her five-colored phoenix-drawn chariot and had to come to our treasured land of the rising sun at the extremity of a vast expanse. The center of world diplomacy had already shifted away from Europe.
The Pacific, where until decades past it had been difficult to spot even a lone skiff, now became a harbor where all nations' commerce converged; the line connecting Yokohama's wharves with San Francisco's Golden Gate indeed became the world's highway.
The unprecedented time when the world should manage the civilization of a new era centered on Japan was now truly about to arrive.
Our national ideal, pregnant with full-winged winds, aspired to soar high into the ninefold heavens.
(Unfinished)

(IX) Authority Rests with the Victors (Continued)

Such was the present state of our empire that we had finally attained through our people’s year-and-a-half-long fierce struggle, executed with unity between high and low and the fruition of ethnic harmony.
We acknowledged this fact with extraordinary delight and arrogance.

Yet was not the era of one's greatest triumph soon also to become the era that gestated the greatest despair to come?
Things expanded when not compressed.
Expansion became rarefaction; rarefaction became laxity and powerlessness.
We now strode with great steps upon the stage of 'triumph' since the dawn of history, while at the same time harboring a dark cloud of unprecedented terror that approached.
This terror did not necessarily arise from the nervous hypersensitivity of our genius-like nation, but was indeed the result born of our nearly infinite self-regard through wise introspection.
Our pride was not so timid as to be dazzled by the vastness of the stage.
It had already become thus.
Therefore, what this terror demanded of us was not hesitation, nor consideration, nor adherence to old ways, nor retreat, nor the premonition of self-loss, nor satisfaction with minor achievements—but indeed the vigilant caution that urged the fulfillment of perfect effort.
This vigilance ceaselessly spurred us onward, even now bringing forth our greatness.
And thus we now encountered the time when we must most earnestly heed this vigilant caution of introspection as we welcomed this transformation to a new stage.
What was it? To wit: a turning point in diplomatic history at the focal point of the world's astonishment and envy—the warning delivered by the great man we revered, Roosevelt, to the two warring nations to commence peace negotiations.

We had thought from the beginning that this grand drama starring Japan and Russia would conclude its first act with the fall of Port Arthur and its second act with the annihilation of the Baltic Fleet. This prediction was fully realized upon the long stage of the past year and a half. And as this second act drew its curtain with a grand naval clash upon the Genkai Ocean, even before the spectators' applause had yet to subside, the third act abruptly opened—the stage transformed with sudden swiftness. The roar of gunfire echoed in the distance; the gleam of swords and halberds flickered far away. What master artist's brush painted this backdrop? To the left lay Russia's final sea of fate, where two or three wrecked ships—masts shattered and decks piled with corpses—floated amidst towering, raging waves; to the right unfolded the realm of Northern Manchuria, where the setting sun illuminated great banners, casting light upon warriors somber and unarrogant. Both protagonists had now abruptly ascended onto this stage from left and right. What were they about to discuss? What new hues would they apply to this dramatization? The spectators gazed with sweat-slicked hands at every movement of the two figures.

We did not know whether this third act was merely an interlude or indeed the final curtain. Moreover, our present eagerness to swiftly ascertain this matter was no trifling anxiety satisfied by petty achievements. Indeed, this fate was likely something even its performers could not foresee—why then should we now give free rein to timid delusions about our path ahead? Yet none could deny that this new vista served as the motive force for momentous changes upon future stages; precisely here lay our need for utmost vigilance.

The era that regarded diplomatic mastery as lying in shifting appearances and unbridled stratagems had already passed.
No—such methods were not the path for those who would erect an ideal jade hall upon the bedrock of profound self-awareness.
We possessed no precise knowledge of who had come as ambassador to initiate these negotiations.
Be it Prime Minister Katsura, Old Marquis Itō, Foreign Minister Komura, or even some unnamed village elder—
those entrusted needed only to deeply reflect upon our Nippon nation's awakened consciousness, never forgetting that this endeavor existed not merely for Oriental peace nor solely to guard domestic interests, but rather waged ceaseless struggle under the ethnic mission we bore for eternal civilization's advancement—individuals who would proclaim our demands with utmost boldness, naked sincerity, and solemn dignity.
Show no hesitation! Cling to no conventions! Embrace no half-measures!
For authority resides in the victors' grasp.
This authority arrives bearing destiny.
Those who awaken to their destiny become authority incarnate.
We must wield heaven-bestowed victors' authority—boldly, barefistedly, exhaustively—to perfect our striving's fullness and make immutable our ethnic ideal's foundation.
We resolved to make this new stage life's most solemn platform.
Should our expectations go unmet—with three-foot blades in hand—would one swift stroke prove arduous?

(End)

(X) My Four-and-a-Half Tatami Room (Part 1-1)

If the reader were to hear that my room measures four-and-a-half tatami mats, they would likely marvel at how cramped this 'Leisurely World' appears to be.
In days of old, Carlyle donned threadbare garments and a tattered hat as he spent a day driving his carriage through London's bustling streets.
A townsman who saw this burst into laughter and cried out, "Who is that beggarly figure perched so arrogantly in the carriage?"
A bystander hastily restrained him, saying, "Mind your words! Beneath that ragged hat lies the entire cosmos."
To borrow this turn of phrase, why should anyone marvel that my Leisurely World dwells within this grimy four-and-a-half-mat room?
For every person contains a heart within—my universe ultimately resides nowhere but in my own mind.
Were I a stock trader, even amidst the endless clamor and dust of Kakigarachō's markets, I could still uncover my Leisurely World.
And were I to find myself confined within Kitsunemori's brick-walled prison as some leisureless guest, even in that shadowed three-foot cell I might discover a Leisurely World where my heart wanders cloud-like through eternity.

If one spoke of a four-and-a-half tatami room, one might imagine some tea master-esque chamber of refined simplicity and elegance—but fortunately, my living quarters were no such ordinary thing. To say that again might suggest some grand contrivance, yet it was not so either. To confess frankly, my four-and-a-half tatami room must surely have been one of the most cluttered and squalid chambers under heaven—and moreover, one of the most carefree and blissful of places. The window spanning one-and-a-half bays with its old lattice stood with four paper screens smoked to a raincloud hue, two fitted with glass panes that harbored day and night the shadows of the garden's verdant leaves yet remained unclouded. As it faced west, I could greedily indulge in morning slumber without being brightly illuminated by the rising sun. Waking around ten to eat breakfast and lunch simultaneously had been a matter of rich taste, but lately I found myself generally compelled to rise around nine o'clock. Reading the newspaper upon my pillow—after five or six lines I would gaze at the ceiling, then read again and gaze once more—there was nothing particularly interesting about this routine. And thus I spent about thirty minutes lingering in the warmth of dreams within my bedclothes. The paper ceiling veiling my four-and-a-half tatami room was itself an exquisitely tasteful rarity. Within its two tsubo and a quarter sprawled about twenty rectangular patches both new and old, with two or three torn sections left unpapered. Five or six cloud-shaped stains bore witness to Lord Kurokawa Chūbee’s nocturnal patrol through his paper realm—the ceiling’s resident sovereign who had once mistakenly relieved himself upon its thoroughfare in an act of public indecency. Mottled with soot in gradations of intensity, this surface appeared through sleep-blurred eyes from my pillow as nothing less than the apocalyptic sky of a world’s final day.

(XI) My Four-and-a-Half Tatami Room (Part 2)

The tatami in most homes were the color of calm blue waves, but those in my room were a light burnt brown. This hue would have been quite favored as a vibrant dye for young women’s summer kimonos, yet many found it disagreeable when used for tatami mats. However, when I considered that they had become this way through being rubbed by the pure white feet of many beautiful people, they could not be such bad things after all. Beneath the window lay a square hearth measuring one shaku five sun, where even once daily the bean-sized embers died out, necessitating that I strike matches to light tobacco—yet mostly, day and night, I listened to the clattering pine-wind music that formed its intermittent rhythm from the five-gou old iron kettle; this aged kettle too held its own peculiar charm. This object—received by my aged, kind parents from an elderly monk related as an uncle from the Kitayama area when they first established their household—had a long history: since becoming part of our family, for no less than forty years—fourteen thousand six hundred days—it had unfailingly filled rooms of joyful gatherings with the fragrance of boiled water and resonated with serene tranquility, day after day without interruption. Three people shared living quarters in this room. One was me; two were women, and one of them was my sister. Therefore, there were three desks. One desk stood beneath the window in the left corner, where textbooks from a girls’ school near Hikage Gate, two or three old and new women’s magazines, *Uta no Shiori*, and the like were haphazardly propped in a book holder. Alongside these sat a photograph of the renowned painting *Water-Carrying Greek Girl* and a vase clutching a single-layered peony of striking beauty—all arranged without ceremony beside a brush stand and inkwell. On the desk in the right corner, several poetry collections, *Ongaku no Tomo*, *Myōjō*, music score books, and others took center stage, with novels and stodgy books also present. Though the *Nihon Daijirin* might put on airs most prominently, in this author’s biased eyes it was *Aogare* that stood out most conspicuously. Amidst these piles lay a medicine bottle labeled “Kumichinki.” To those unaware, it might have appeared as though I were advertising that I’d developed a stomach ailment from overeating. At times, the treasured violin lay carelessly thrown atop these stacks. Most refined was the pale crimson wild rose in a small vial—when winds blew, its scattered fragrance stirred the owner’s disheveled hair; yet still more refined lay a thick old letter, one that if unfolded might have stretched twenty ken, bearing five stamps upon it. Who was the sender? What matter was sealed within? I did not know. Knowing yet not knowing—even I had not let slip this divine mystery.

(XII) My Four-and-a-Half Tatami Room (Part 3)

In the center of the room, adjacent to the desk, there stood an ikkanbari-style single-legged chair.
This indeed was the stage where the master of this place daily drafted "Leisurely World"—though the room might be shared, this desk alone remained my sole dominion.
My life's work, with brushwork as its lifeblood, was entirely built upon the foundation of this single-legged desk.
What continued to pierce the eye no matter how many days passed or how often one gazed upon it was the large white rose planted in a morning-glory-shaped pot adorned with lapis lazuli patterns.
One flower, one bud—a lofty fragrance billowing forth struck my face, then scattered to quell the floating dust throughout the room.
This had been borrowed from Mr. Taka’s house across the way, yet my affection for it had grown deeper than when my sister first bore a daughter.
Beneath it leaned a small photograph taken last month in Sendai at the lakeside with Kohan and Kakyo, two brothers.
There had been a time when some friend remarked that your room gave the illusion of containing books yet held none.
If one forgot what they had read, they could not be considered capable of proper work.
Such a person would spend their whole life merely reviewing things, perhaps becoming a dictionary before tumbling into their grave—or so I idly mused. Even if everything they once held ended up lost somewhere, they were hardly the sort of well-off bibliophile who could keep buying new books volume by volume.
One needed only look upon this desk’s surface to discern: the Tang Poetry Anthology with Bushō’s postscript and a tattered volume of Three Styles Poetry—all relics from the previous century that had endured for over a hundred years.
The Sankashū of Saigyō Hōshi—transcribed by Bishop Iun of Hōon-ji six generations prior—was among my possessions that I particularly did not wish to be stolen, along with my own poetry manuscripts.
Outside of these lay a book containing Clara Bell’s English translation of Mr. Mau Patsu’s acclaimed psychological novel Beer and Gin.
The miscellany collection I had loved reading around age twelve or thirteen—which had long been hidden away—had been fortuitously discovered just days prior: Minamijō Ueno Yūzōba’s *Figures and Literature* from my father’s old book chest.
Among people today, there were none who knew Minamijō.
I too could only remember his name through this single book, yet it pained me deeply that his talent remained obscure and unknown to the world.
Had he already died?
Was he still alive?
Though one might discern no trace of his prose having studied under Sohō’s brush, it possessed a singular originality—taste, observation, emotion, moral depth, and transcendent spirit.
As I opened it, I felt as though I had met a blood-related elder brother whom I had not seen for many long years.

Having read this book, I was suddenly overwhelmed by longing for times past; the poetry manuscripts and drafts from my youth that I had finally unearthed now lay piled high upon this desk. There were no other writings beyond these. Several new poems I had scribbled in a manner only I could decipher lay there as they were, not yet transcribed into fair copies. The inkstone was a modest one of Akama stone, but the ink was clove ink. In my days at Shibutami Elementary School, I had often used this; though the name 'clove' was fine, grinding it upon the inkstone produced an uncanny sound like scrubbing heel calluses against a pumice stone. This was the disagreeable sensation I felt every time I attempted to take up the brush.

(XIII) My Four-and-a-Half Tatami Room (Part 4)

The wall had taken on the hazy color of twilight haze, eroded by decades until parts showed precarious states.
I often thought about this.
Current scholars might be scrambling to make new discoveries and obtain doctorates, but discovery itself isn't so difficult.
Were one to bring a microscope and inspect this wall closely, there would likely be countless bacilli—so numerous that even with people taking shifts to count them, they couldn't be tallied—being born and perishing every instant.
Among these might exist species still unknown to humankind.
Though whether bacilli are discovered or not scarcely affects our lives, ultimately problems and secrets dwell not in libraries nor vast heavens above, but lie layered within our daily existence.
I once wrote a poem expressing barely contained emotions—tears threatening to overflow—after plucking small yellow flowers blooming along a country path at dusk.
Its concluding lines read:

Ah, were one to understand this flower's heart—
My heart too could be laid bare.

Were the heart's blossom to unfurl,
The gate of unseen gardens would swing wide once more.

Thus it stood revealed.
Problems and secrets dwell within the humblest blade of grass, nestle in the most trivial of matters.
Yet what breed of myopic pedants are these who pointlessly convolute scholarly pursuits—who squander precious lives on futile endeavors under banners of 'truth-seeking' and 'inquiry'?
What then are these vaunted new theories they produce? Naught but vacuity—or failing that, sheer uselessness—that alone.
Ah, that alone!
We cannot consent to shape our lives into living syllogisms.
Nor may we crave existences ethical as cold ash, legalistic as deadwood.
I count it misfortune indeed that today's academic luminaries merit no place within my regard.
Readers, forgive me—my wall-gazing monologue has strayed into digression unawares.
Yet this verily constitutes the living portrait of my four-and-a-half tatami realm.
Let all who would visit me steel themselves to endure such ramblings ere they cross my threshold.

Along this desolate wall-edge hung several sets of garments and hakama, silent and lifeless in their suspension.
Their aspect resembled twilight's death throes beneath ruined temple walls—vengeful spirits wandering through crumbling remnants.
Should any who have read the Bard's Hamlet wish to truly taste that scene from its first act where Hamlet converses with his father's ghost—that spectacle defying containment of tremors—let them come enter my four-and-a-half tatami room.
For indeed, reading it while facing this wall-edge's dreadful state would bring one nearer to apprehending its desolate grandeur than witnessing Irving's divine craft at London's Court Theatre.
There hung a haori with frayed sleeve cuffs.
There hung a hakama trailing threads from its hem.
There hung an unlined kimono sewn nearly five years prior.
Though these might not resemble true phantoms, who could deny they were at least phantoms of garments?
Yet at times ceremonial women's robes—adorned with crimson silk linings—would be hung among them.
It was as though living souls had strayed from this world's path into the underworld's maze.
At such times one imagined these phantoms' discomfiture.
For they too, like myself, disdained sharing their world with others—a revulsion exceeding even madmen's parents loathing talk of madness.

(XIV) My Four-and-a-Half Tatami Room (Part 5)

My deep maroon hat too hung upon this wall.
The two-year-and-four-month chronicle since this hat first crowned my head resembled my own magnanimity, yet brooked no insult from any quarter.
Ponder this—has anything in creation ever been born antique?
When first plucked from a Western goods shop in Kanda Ogawamachi by my discerning eye, it had been a vibrant burnt-tea marvel.
At times I fancied this hat might govern my very fate.
For since that early spring two years past—when I bore my sickly frame to hide in ancestral hills—wherever this hat journeyed, there too went I, hauling my gaunt body like winter-stripped trees.
Why had its once-glorious burnt-tea hue dulled to this somber maroon?
The cause proved manifold as my near-three-year destiny—aye, truly manifold.
First came saturation in Eastern Capital street dust.
Next immersion in the three-hundred-sixty-ri air between Ueno and Kōma Stations.
Perhaps too some lingering breath of carbonic gas exhaled by carriage companions—bearded bear-warrior, policeman, rustic crone, geisha-like maid—still haunted its fibers.

Next came twenty months beneath Mount Iwate.
It likely soaked in Shibutami Village's peaceful atmosphere more than any other.
There in that Zen hermitage's single room, my study's tea smoke and tobacco smoke must have thoroughly permeated it.
As it most frequently traveled between Shidō, the doctor's entrance hall, and the village school's organ room, one must know the scent of medicines and lingering echoes of musical notes had also permeated its fabric.
At times it absorbed Morioka's morning winds and evening hues.
There was a rainy night in late spring when I walked through the park sharing a snake-eye umbrella with someone—a long-haired figure—and felt pained at trampling fallen flowers seeping into muddy ground. If that rain's scent still lingered now, what a profoundly nostalgic seed for reminiscence it would be.
In the Zen hermitage's room when night deepened profoundly and the solitary lamp burned dimly, I alone sipped cold bitter tea, my brow sweating through desperate poetic struggles—this hat watched over my wretched state with sympathetic expression from atop a pillar.
When I lingered at Tsurugai Bridge's night view and resoundingly sang to the midheaven moon—"Does this glory symbolize my poetry's pride made manifest?"—this hat absorbed every trace of that lunar radiance with me.
There was its merit when on balmy midsummer nights I led numerous beloved siblings to hunt fireflies around Tsurunawa Bridge—serving as fan substitute to capture countless drifting fireflies.
When I followed wild paths smelling flowers' fragrance, this hat too became intoxicated by that scent.
Though cheap, it was a fellow understanding elegance.
Amidst devoted service scarcely fully recounted: my umbrella hatred—stronger than public urinators detesting police—drove me to sneak out rainstorm days; even when showers came mid-journey rather than use umbrella I'd dash comically Toba-e style—hem hitched, geta removed—never seen since birth. Though meant merely protecting my crown, this single hat endured rains as umbrella substitute.
A year prior during village victory lantern night: hundreds waved crimson lanterns like fire dragon through tranquil roads—voices raised creation-first cheering homeland's glory.
Disregarding yellow-cloud dust storms I leapt up raising gong-like voice with vanguard group—sole chance for Mr. Old Hat to express heart full of patriotism.

(XV) My Four-and-a-Half Tatami Room (Part 6)

Last autumn came to pass.

At the end of September, I abruptly decided and, concealing a poet’s sorrow, wandered alone to Hokkai.
Along the way, the dawn winds of Shimokawara Marsh, the tidal breezes of Noheji Bay, the scent of beach roses—all soaked into this old hat and left their traces.
For five and a half hours on the deck of the Mutsu Maru, crossing the Tsugaru Strait with its calm autumn waves from Aomori to Hakodate, both I and my hat for the first time inhaled deep into our chests the eternal winds that have blown across the great sea since ancient times.
The next day, the twenty-hour voyage aboard the German ship Herren from Hakodate to Otaru’s pier was so full of interest that even recalling it now brings delight.
Due to this hat and my maroon crested haori, a fellow merchant aboard was led to mistake me for a Tenrikyo missionary.
Furthermore, in the squalid third-class cabin, having inhaled an indescribably peculiar stench that filled every corner until I finally felt dizzy, it was I and this hat that rushed up to the deck as if fleeing.
The waves were very calm around the offshore area of Kamui Cape.
Leaning against the upper deck's railing into autumn's azure expanse, gazing at the sun about to sink beyond the western waves of the Japan Sea, I let my desolate sorrows be swept by a gust of celestial wind as I recited and recited Du Fu's verse—"Fluttering, what do I resemble? Between heaven and earth, a single sand gull"—when the ship's chief engineer, a red-bearded, green-eyed man, approached and asked, "Can... you... speak... Engurisshi?" I answered, "Yes, but only poor English."
From this point onward, an extraordinary conversation was initiated between me and the German.
As the conversation gradually progressed, I inquired, "All the crew members on this ship are bustling about with urgency—why do you alone appear so leisurely?"
He answered, twitching his nose smugly, “I am this ship’s chief engineer—second only to the captain.”
I could not suppress a quiet sneer.
Ah, Your Excellency, the honorable chief engineer of a merchant ship.
“Are you a student, or what profession do you pursue?”
“I—I am a poet,” I said, and laughed.
He continued speaking further: “All Japanese people are without exception poets—Japan’s very land is already the most beautiful poetic composition.”
As an odd emotion played across his face, he asked, “Do you know the name Goethe?”
“I—I do not know German, but through English translations, I have dimly savored some portion of his works.”
He further said, “Have you read Heine’s works? There is not a young man or woman in Europe who does not know Heine’s love poems. They are not merely the glory of my homeland but truly poets of the world.”
“Indeed,” I answered with a wicked jest, “they are at least greater than present-day Germans.”

He gave a bitter smile.
I laughed uproariously.
At this moment, my hat too—together with me—seemed to laugh haughtily and unabashedly at this honorable chief engineer of a merchant ship.
That night, together with me, it bathed in the light of the midnight moon hanging from the mast—a light as desolate and icy.
The following day, when we entered Otaru Port and transferred to a small boat, it was this hat that was waved in farewell to the Herren and its chief engineer.
During my two weeks in Otaru, there were times when the sky would haze over like smoke at high tide, the heavy wind carrying two or three fragments of fallen leaves that struck the windowpanes with melancholy; my traveler's heart brimmed with desolation until I could no longer bear facing solitary stationery; cane in hand, I staggered in melancholy steps along the shore, my breast disordered by autumn waves beating against the bank; stumbling to the breakwater, I prostrated myself on its cold stones as an evening wind—unchanging through eternity—advanced through the haze with the waves; where raging swells drifted shoreward came a lone fishing boat, its gunwale song profoundly mournful,

Oshoro and Takashima—unattainable as they are—
If only to Utasute Isogaya.

As I harmonized with the desolate creak of oars, my thoughts scattered by the grim sea wind; as swarming memories pressed down upon my crown, stirred by this anxious heart; as I felt my homesick sentiments torn piecemeal by distant sorrows; as wretched blood-tears overflowed beyond containment; as evening winds carried an ancient melody and funeral hymns rose sparsely from heartstrings—in that moment when sorrow threatened to destroy me utterly, even as I lay like stone upon the breakwater bathing repeatedly in raging spray’s spume—it was I and this old hat.

(XVI) My Four-and-a-Half Tatami Room (Part 7)

On the return journey, having ridden a second-class carriage to Hakodate on the third day of the Hakodate-Otaru Railway's opening, there was even an instance where a train attendant courteously took my hand and brushed dust from me with a whisk.
The second crossing of Tsugaru Strait found waves rising high and winds raging, white gulls screaming as if tearing through silk, the storm pattern unlike our outbound journey. The ship pitched violently like a poplar leaf in the wind, the cabin instantly filling with thick vapors of retching voices that made reading impossible. Emerging onto the deck with this old hat, a desolate drizzle struck my gaunt cheeks sideways. My heart grew resolute amid all sights turning solemn—standing at the prow, gripping rigging to steady myself, I glared around with eyes wide. Waves like ten thousand layered peaks suddenly became bottomless chasms; just as the ship seemed to plunge into netherworld depths, it would mount cloud-like swells anew.
To my right lay the Japan Sea, to my left the Pacific—a panorama where eternal gales raged unchecked. My eyes met nothing but white waves roaring like battle cries and dark currents streaking like arrows.
When the vast, primordial sea air penetrated three inches into my chest, as my focused gaze overflowed with the four kalpas and sought to envelop the infinite sea of battle, there were moments when colossal waves shattering against the gunwales burst forth like sudden hail, drenching me and my old hat in piercing cold.
Having concluded three weeks of northern travels, I dyed my homeland's tree leaves with parting tears that ushered in autumn, then rode the golden wind southward to enter the capital's gate.
Did the old hat rejoice upon entering our hometown? Or did it not?
At Yayoi Hill for a week, Surugadai for three weeks, Ushimon for six months—just as I had driven myself to the utmost in my frantic busyness, this old hat too rushed through dusty streets from dawn till dusk, scarcely able to rest a single day outside those times when I lay ill.
That varied life cannot now be hastily written down in full.
Indeed, Mr. Old Hat too advanced step by step along this chain of triumphs and defeats, containing within a heart full of grievances and ambitions, homesickness and unyielding arrogance—while outwardly playing and laughing like any other—at times treading moonlit alleys in melancholy lament, at others summoning wine in tall buildings to debate freely with the nation's seasoned heroes; sweeping dust from poetry rooms for refined tea conversations that forgot the approaching dawn; yet also struggling against life's seasonal demands until, after a hurried half-year more when the stench of worldly dust grew ever harder to shed—he suddenly composed his "Return Home."
Like a solitary sandpiper drifting through heaven and earth, thus did I fly northward with twin wings heavy with thought; after ten days of poetic wandering along the Hirose Riverbank, first letting Miyagino's azure storm sweep away all dust-traces to appear before the inviolable mountains and rivers of my ancestral garden; then—like a shipwreck drifting through tempestuous seas reaching familiar shores—breaking the oar of self-regard, lowering vanity's sails; regardless of all else, unable to conceal the faint smile within my heart, I quietly entered this four-and-a-half tatami room yet could not obtain the Leisurely World.
I upon the old tatami mats, and the faithful old hat upon the sooty wall—each thus having momentarily escaped life's bustle—came even to let the waves in our chests rest upon the tranquil lotus pedestal of peace.
I now gaze up quietly at him upon the wall, truly unable to withstand infinite emotions swirling like a revolving lantern.
Should any person come forth and ask what sort we ought to choose as an ideal wife, I would answer without hesitation: there are two standards in this four-and-a-half tatami room, one being this old hat.
He truly resembles another standard to be upheld—sincere and faithful, possessing a passionate love that shares any fate with me without ever wearying or bending—or so I would say.

(XVII) My Four-and-a-Half Tatami Room (Part 8)

Gentlemen, my four-and-a-half tatami room was indeed thus—was it indeed?

Indeed，whether fortune or misfortune，I now found myself fated to use this past-tense expression—“became”—while this manuscript of *Four-and-a-Half Tatami Room* remained yet unfinished.
Yesterday，I left that four-and-a-half tatami room and moved with my family to this new residence by Nakatsugawa，where the cool sound of water resounded through my pillow all night long.
Ah，those three weeks there—as happy and calm as a dream!
That now became nothing more than a beautiful past remaining in the history of me and my old hat.

The violin I could hear daily in that room when listening intently—even in this new residence, it was not beyond hearing.
The person who had been tasked both with adding phonetic guides to my writings and cutting out "Leisurely World" from daily newspapers now resided here with me.
My two elderly parents and young sister—all in good health—had moved along with me.
Moreover, compared to my former dwelling, here mosquitoes were fewer and noisy frog calls absent; the tatami mats, sliding doors, paper screens and walls all stood new, while the garden contained what appeared to be a two-hundred-year-old sandalwood tree.
Roses bloomed, hydrangeas bloomed, and with the river's ceaseless clamor, even the wind felt refreshingly cool. Though people and I rejoiced in our supremely comfortable abode, yet somewhere within my breast still lurked a hidden heart that endlessly yearned for that squalid four-and-a-half tatami room.
There, evading my elderly mother's watchful eyes as she scolded me about ruining my stomach, I would secretly drop green plums into the garden pond—though never fully savoring that taste which seemed to cleanse my heart—yet my happiness had only increased.
Though my spiritual wealth had not diminished, why did my heart thus yearn for that wretched dwelling in the back alleys?

Indeed, the past is always longed for.
The past is, in this world, the one who knows oneself best.
The emotion of longing for the past is ultimately that which seeks to recognize—through the shadow trailing behind the self, that self which is most intimate yet whose true nature remains most elusive—the visage of oneself connected to both present and future.

Thus does reminiscence beget solace, beget lessons, beget strength, beget life, and must needs beget the striving for betterment that shapes our very existence.
Though the postcard informing acquaintances that "We have now relocated from the four-and-a-half tatami room on Katabirakoji to Fourth Household, Kagano Kawaharamachi" contained nothing remarkable, when I considered how even this surface-level triviality constituted successive scenes in life's grand rotating lantern, I could not help but marvel at—and had inevitably to contemplate—the fact that within such changes lay profound significance, vitality, and purpose.
People were all too quick to call life an illusion, an empty flower; yet when one's thoughts reached this point of realization, within the empty flower's roots lay substantial content, and amidst illusion's shifting shadows there still remained a solitary eternal awakening.
Once the human heart touched this hidden voice, thereupon it straightened its collar and, solemn yet awe-stricken, was struck by the dignity of "The Significance of History."
In this very instant, people leaped forth from a life of illusion and ephemeral blossoms to immediately conceive the power and life of a true human being.
Ah, life is the greatest fact.
Be sobered beyond sobriety.
Enrich its content beyond fulfillment.
Young as I was then, thus believing and thus emboldened, I felt heartened and leaped with joy at the vastness of my future.
As I was about to conclude this manuscript—though it had lasted merely three weeks—I gave thanks that this squalid four-and-a-half tatami room, which had granted the greatest comfort and happiness of my half-life, through this reminiscence now bestowed again significant experience, wisdom, and courage without begrudging; simultaneously, I thanked heaven which, like the finest teacher, never let my life stagnate but perpetually provided motives for stimulation and excitement without tiring.
Thus, in my household's poverty and my heart's wealth, I alone stood sovereign as an emperor. (End of this manuscript)

(XVIII) Those Who Have Spirit Resonate with Spirit

“How strange it is,” he wrote, “that before I entered Elder Brother’s dream, I had an incident of coughing blood one day, and have now barely reached a state where I can grasp this brush today.”
"I humbly consider this a form of spiritual resonance."
"When I imagine your circumstances ensconced amidst verdant leaves, I too feel as though my chest is swept clean by azure winds—a most refreshing sensation."
...”

This occurred not long after I entered my Duling—one night near dawn, on the day I awoke from a brief pillow-dream where I had conversed with my ailing revered friend Mr. Tsunashima Ryōsen in Kyoto, and feeling somehow unsettled in heart—it was the opening passage in beautiful ink from that gentleman’s reply to my hastily dashed-off postcard inquiring after his condition.

Ah, a form of spiritual resonance!

O reader, with what heart can you read this single word? In this present age when the entire world had become a collective of lifeless matter, people would surely dismiss this term as meaningless delusions and phantasms. Yet O reader, when I truly read to this word, it was as though something—a gleaming axe flashing with icy sharpness—had struck my chest; I shuddered and straightened my collar, compelled to sink into fervent silent prayer for a time. Ah, there are such mysterious things in the world! And yet this mystery—when calmly considered over time—ultimately proved not mysterious, not phantasmal; how much less so some meaningless delusion or fantasy? We would declare it truly mysterious—this very act of people deeming such mystery mysterious. O reader, this is truly our life's most meaningful manifestation—the mysterious voice welling up from the hidden source-spring of this world!

Those who have spirit resonate with spirit.
I once established a theory that human nature consists of a primary self (material self, carnal self) and a secondary self (divine self, spiritual self, original self), interpreting life's various miracles arising from the union or conflict between spirit and flesh, and one day posed this question to Dr. Anesaki when we met.
The doctor replied: "Rather than creating hierarchical distinctions like primary and secondary, it would be more appropriate—how should I put it—to use the terms 'the self below consciousness' and 'the self above consciousness' in our terminology."
Indeed, the distinction between primary and secondary was merely a designation I adopted for expository simplicity in my argument.
People are like trees, for instance.
What we can immediately perceive upon seeing their trunks and branches constitutes the self below consciousness—the primary self, carnal self, material self, differentiated self.
Human spirituality—elusive and difficult to grasp, distant and hard to observe—resembles those tree roots.
The roots remain hidden from view; unseen yet existing—where do they dwell? In the earth.
The Earth is singular and without duplicate.
Thus the single planetary core serves as the anchor for all arboreal life; though their forms may differ across myriad shapes and appearances, all trees in this world sustain identical life essence.
Humans too are precisely thus.
The self beyond consciousness remains deeply rooted in the universe's center.
Whether called God, Buddha, or fundamental consciousness—all refer to this essence.
Though people differ in countenance, thought, and character, once entering spirituality's realm they suddenly attain selflessness here.
Selflessness ultimately means transcendence; it means liberation.
The lesser self—the material self—is extinguished as it unites with the greater self—the divine self.
This does not ultimately signify personal annihilation.
Freeing itself from all distinctions, time, and space, it expands into the eternal and infinite cosmos.

In the Blue Cliff Record, there is the saying "A clay ox enters the sea and vanishes without trace"—this indeed teaches the profound truth of this state without deficiency.
Ah, a clay ox enters the sea and vanishes without trace—yet its traces pervade the cosmos.
Already pervading the cosmos, the spiritual selves of all people enter the bosom of the divine without distinction or distance, completely breathing the celestial lifespan spanning immeasurable eons and boundless space to unite as one.
Therefore, that life is shared.
Therefore, they interact with one another, inspire one another, and respond to one another.
Herein, the great music of life ascends to its highest pitch, and the inconceivable mystery manifests as a radiant miracle in broad daylight.
The razor-sharp sword of inquiry sees its blade crumble to dust; the axe of science fails to wield its power; only poetry and faith reign supreme over the world as if by divine revelation.

Ah, those who possess spirit resonate with spirit.
Through this single phrase, I hold the authority to demand from readers a blood-vomiting intensity of contemplation.
What then will you, O reader, do?

(XIX) Sickness and Poverty

In ancient Greece, there was a philosopher.
With disheveled hair and grime-streaked face, clad in tattered rags, possessing neither wife nor children nor property, he wandered rolling a single large barrel before him—like a vagrant breeze drifting between flower-shaded spots here and tree-sheltered places there, never settling more than a night in any lodging.
Awakening to sit within the barrel and expose his back to sunlight; when evening fell, he would again sleep peacefully within that same barrel without bedding, meditating on profound thoughts as he delighted in the solitary quietude of his isolated circumstances—desiring nothing, sustained by mist and haze—his life flowing unadorned, truly resembling that of a divine immortal.
The Great Emperor Alexander of that time, who deeply admired this barrel-dwelling philosopher, having visited him one day beneath the shade of a verdant laurel tree where he sat cross-legged in his barrel basking in warm sunlight, found him precisely spreading out his tattered rags and twisting lice between his fingertips.
The Great Emperor stood before him and, humbling his words, spoke thus: "O philosopher whom I revere, if there is anything you desire, I pray you tell me."
“If it can be granted in this world, no matter what it may be, I shall swiftly procure it for you.”
The philosopher, after a pause, finally answered languidly: "I have but one wish."
"I beg you: depart from this place and do not block the warm sunlight from me."
And thus it was that Alexander—that peerless hero who had trampled the world beneath iron-shod hooves of warhorses, whose name had long illuminated history's annals—found himself at last bereft of words; quietly bending to grasp the philosopher’s grime-caked hand, he offered with utmost courtesy an apology for his discourtesy.
This story is no moral fable concocted by scribblers; though merely a fragmentary anecdote long preserved in Western chronicles and widely recounted by people, it nevertheless teaches us something profoundly significant.
Now poverty is the greatest misfortune of this world.
Yet this misfortune ultimately remains confined to being a worldly affliction.
Though misfortune remains misfortune, for those who have transcended this world, it ultimately causes neither pain nor irritation.
Is not such a barrel-dwelling philosopher truly one of the most noble human beings this world has ever produced?
He possessed nothing beyond that single wooden barrel.
His poverty was needless to say at its extremity.
Yet through this material poverty, he instead severed worldly desires; through single-minded meditation attained infinite spiritual wealth—and thus came to dwell calmly in that state of extreme destitution where ordinary people writhe helplessly.
And thus what he desired from the world's great emperor was simply that warm sunlight remain unblocked.
He battled fate; having battled, transcended fate.
While his five-foot emaciated frame remained within an unadorned wooden barrel, his mind soared unfettered through the cosmos.

Poverty was, for him, both the best and most beloved friend.
Through this most beloved one, he obtained the noble opportunity to attain enlightenment in a single-minded awakening.

(XX) Sickness and Poverty (Continued)

Alas, poverty was indeed the cradle that nurtured genius.
A devout adherent of truth, Spinoza too was thus.
He, amidst abject poverty that seemed to wash away his entire life while grinding lenses, quietly immersed himself in free thought.
The poet Wordsworth too lived a life devoid of even a shadow in Rydal’s humble abode alongside his beloved sister Dorothy, yet peacefully and diligently pursued his divine calling.
When Schiller, in his youth, secretly fled his hometown with a friend, they found themselves along the way without a single copper coin or loaf of bread, helpless against hunger and exhaustion, on the verge of collapsing in a remote forest far from any village.
Goldsmith wandered throughout the land, carrying a single flute.
Richard Wagner too, leading his beloved wife Minna and cherished dog Rutsus, left his homeland with nonchalant ease and entered Paris; in a desolate, cold lodging of a shabby alley, he indeed tasted the toil of securing clothing and sustenance.
And it was precisely in this direst adversity that Tannhäuser—his first lion's roar expressing his conviction and purpose of artistic synthesis after abandoning conventional operas—took form within his mind.
Even taking examples from the modern era, as is widely known, Maxim Gorky was a wanderer from Russia's lowest class of outcasts.
Marbiqueuri of Belgium, though possessing a brilliant literary talent, could not support his family; having retreated alone to a remote countryside to complete his astonishing debut novel, he was compelled to prepay the postage in order to send it to his wife who remained in the capital.
A certain American writer once exclaimed in astonishment, "Ah, are our country’s log cabins the cradles that produce great figures?"
Indeed, that eminent hero Garfield too was raised in a modest log cabin in a forest where even wolves' cries could be heard.
Ah, great figures and log cabins!
How profound is the friendship between great figures and poverty such as this!
If I were to expound upon such examples in detail, even were I to repeat this Kan Tenchi a hundred thousand times, there would still be insufficiency.
(Unfinished)

(XXI) Account of the Eleventh Night Gathering

On the eleventh night of Minazuki in the lunar calendar, the moon shone with surpassing beauty.
In the evening at Mr. Kakyō's initiative—he having come visiting—beneath a single lamp's vivid light they composed verses, explored themes, and laid bare their poetic hearts.
Gathered were Zankō, Kakyō, Setsuko, Mitsuko, and Takuboku—five in total.
Beginning around eight o'clock with verse composition, mutual selection, and critique exchange, it seemed to have concluded sometime past midnight's Hour of the Rat.
At this season when Nakatsu River's waters had receded—the sound through trees growing intermittent—the nearby waterwheel's creak wove together autumn-tinged insect chirps and hydrangeas' ineffable charm in lamplit garden shadows, making an uncommonly exquisite night.
The deity of poetry gardens—who rarely descends to mortal realms—must have lodged tenderly in my thatched hut this very night alone.
Afterward they did not converse with others in particular enjoyment.

They composed verses, with each of the five contributing two topics, thereby obtaining ten in total.
Moonlight, river wind, longing, painted hall, azure tides, sound of water, early summer, Nakatsu River, fireflies, cuckoo... Though none of these topics struck me as particularly inspired, I initially hesitated somewhat; yet seeing how even the inexperienced were participating tonight, the group appeared satisfied.

Someone bit their brush, kept their mouth shut, and stared fixedly at the lamplight.
Someone silently fingered the tassel of a round fan.
Someone fluttered a white fan; another muttered, "How relentless the mosquitoes are tonight."
Someone stuffed their cheeks with chestnut rice cakes; another remarked, "These are better than poems."
While this unfolded, sheets of hanshi paper—cut into eighths and folded small—had piled high upon the cloud-patterned lacquer tray.

When they had finished transcribing through divided tasks, they straightened their postures on the five-ringed round seat and selected only about ten poems each favored in style from over forty compositions. The recitation duty fell to me; my tongue roughened by tobacco, my voice refused to emerge as I wished. Though my intonation was clumsy, the earnestness with which everyone listened resembled how most people in this world, while disbelieving, nevertheless heed with grave attention divinations touching upon their own misfortunes.

Each time a poem was read aloud, announcing the author's name was required by custom. While most could readily discern whose work it was through poetic style, unexpected instances occurred that made them exclaim in surprise: "Was this yours?" On the Cuckoo's Song

The cuckoo cries with a resonance like a rusty axe felling trees, commanding people to die (Kakyō)

A madwoman calls forth heaven's sorrow through eternal dark—the cuckoo cries (Zankō)

While the former poem's dazzling wit speaks for itself, its forced "command to die" compels us to ask: should not the latter verse—though less polished in diction—be deemed superior for truly harmonizing with the cuckoo's spirit? Alas, my

Boatman awaiting cuckoo on night-river—mended sails beneath bonfire's glow

In its stark simplicity, this could never stand comparison from the outset.
On Moonlit Songs

For that lone night when moonlight graced the hidden shrine—through all these years I've loved and languished (Zankō)

In the garden’s ancient trees stands a stone horse’s back and upon my shoulder—the moon’s shadow. (Takuboku)

Though two poems were selected, their tone—bearing the secluded shrine’s mysterious charm beyond compare, akin to moonlight faintly permeating the heart—held a tenderness conceivable only through Zankō; even the playful gesture of laying laurel branches upon one’s back contained no envious intent—this may you comprehend.
(Continued)

［“Iwate Nippō”
[Meiji 38: June 9, 10, 11, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 27, 28, 29, 30; July 6, 7, 18]