Pathway to Japanese Literature

March 12th: Clear skies, spring chill, bamboo grass rustling—and departure: Yawata.

Last night I couldn't sleep a wink; before departure, I sowed the poppy seeds gifted by my American comrades!

This morning's vow: Henceforth I shall not drink shochu; fire liquor fundamentally disagrees with me; drinking fire liquor never brings anything good; fire liquor is hell's envoy!

At long last boarded the nine o'clock train—what a relief! Today's newspaper I managed to read in the train car.

Eleven o'clock—crossing the Kanmon Strait.

I hurried to visit Mr. Kansui at the Japan Bank branch; he showed me only the good nature of a young Edo-born lad—it was something to be grateful for.

Mr. Reireika was away on business—a mild disappointment, but there was hope for the return journey.

One cup after another—cheap sake, sobering sake, lonely sake!

Waited for Mr. Kansui in the Moji Station waiting room—at four o'clock, accompanied him to Kokura.

Visited the Ōhara branch office—was kindly guided around—caught fragmentary glimpses of modern landscapes—drank and talked at an oden shop before parting ways.

By train, in a haze of tipsiness, I rushed into Kyōsho Residence at dusk—guests had arrived, and I alone was treated to a feast; true to Onagoya's nature, it bustled with life—between chats with the proprietress about mundane affairs, I drank and ate my fill, soon grew pleasantly drunk, then collapsed into sleep—gratitude upon gratitude.

It was a good day, but even so, each of my days must be called fragments of an unending nightmare.

Sow into the morning light and depart (to my American Poppy Society comrades)

Set out on a journey having eaten up all provisions (to myself!)

Reprint

A body that could perish anywhere in the spring breeze walks on (another self-mocking verse)

Reminiscence; winter departs, spring arrives

Without starving or freezing, winter too has loosened its grip (Another)

War sprouts forth from the earth to come

・A lone tree in the field budded earlier than the rest

Plum blossoms at their peak; munitions smoke.

Sudden clouds gave way to clear skies—seagulls in the strait.

Moji Station waiting room observations:

From beside those reading together amicably peered an unpleasant face.

—"Promote silk over cotton fabrics!"
Another wartime domestic production campaign.

Revised and added another verse—at the mountain pass with a vagrant one day

・On the grass we divided the meal—right and left

March 13th: Cloudy, showers, Wakamatsu.

I was troubled by not being allowed to rise early—in this society where late nights make morning sleep the norm—and slipped out stealthily for a walk; with no morning baths available due to the current state of affairs, I had no choice but to sip cup sake... Left with a useless person’s useless time......

Organizing my belongings, preparing an America-bound package and writing letters.

Impressions of Yawata—the center was undoubtedly the steel mill chimneys; then eateries, workers—everything a jumbled mess.

Two things moved me in the newspaper articles—Morgan Oyuki’s return to Japan and the lamenting words of Okada Hiroshi’s mother.

In the afternoon, led by Mr. Kyōsho, I visited Toku—received a fine bath, and was also granted the blessings of sake and money.

Around four o’clock, I departed—renewing my gratitude for Mr. Kyōsho’s kindness—visited the police station to see Mr. Seijōshi but found him absent, resolved to stop by Mr. Unpei’s residence on my return trip, and took the train to Tobata.

At the Tatazakura Residence, I listened to his wife’s lamentations (regarding Mr. Tatazakura’s condition); finding the sympathy unbearable, I immediately headed to Wakamatsu Hospital.

A cramped fourth-floor hospital room—Mr. Tatazakura lay on the bed being fed dinner by an attendant; I met him there. His complexion wasn’t as bad as I’d feared—a relief; we talked for over two hours, though it was really just me doing all the talking.

Though night had fallen, there was moonlight; I hurried by bus to Mr. Soyō’s residence; he happened to be home; we talked for a while; but somehow my mind and body wouldn’t settle; so I took the bus back to the station; lodged at a cheap inn; walked, drank, slept; there was a police inspection in the night.

Today I saw three pleasant girls: a bus girl, a bar girl, and a train passenger.

Everyone was wearing military caps—this wasn't bad as it reflected the wartime mentality, but the world painted over in the same color couldn't be all that good.

—What is that?
(tipsy me)

“—It’s Ms. Moon!”
said the young townspeople.

This was my nonsense in Wakamatsu.

Early spring fruit shop—its shade reflected

Wharf Observations

In the wind—gathering scattered grains of rice—a mother and child

Munching on manju while watching departing ships; it’s cold.

・Rather than the morning rain dampening the stones—the sky cleared

To Wakamatsu: The Ferry Landing

Ferried briefly through early spring’s ripples.

Visiting Mr. Tatazakura in the hospital: Hospital Room Impromptu

Tossed-in cherry buds—swiftly bloom.

・Tree fruits layering together—the evening’s quietude

Steel Mill Viewed from Afar

The sound of flames burning fiercely through the night.

En Route

It’s a sad journey—what a way for the bus to sway.

March 14th: Clear, Itoda.

The ease of cheap lodgings.

I ate rice at a rice shop, drank sake at a liquor store, and tasted mochi at a mochi shop (the allure of mugwort mochi). The forest of masts and sails in Wakamatsu no longer seemed what it once was these days.

I set out intending to walk but collapsed midway; took the bus to Orio, then the train from Orio to Nogata.

Visited Sōsan Koji—who happened to be visiting his hometown—at S Bar; was treated to unadulterated hospitality; received gifts to take home as well; many thanks upon thanks.

I was seen off to the town's edge; took the bus to Kaneda; walked from there to Miyatoko; the Ryokuhei Residence felt familiar no matter when I came; Mount Kaho too stirred nostalgia; the slag heaps were tinged with colors suggesting sprouting buds; spring in the sky, spring on earth, spring in people too; kept talking until night grew deep; talked and talked, yet there was still more to say.

Coal Mining Area Scenery

Hazy with blossoms—coal cars stretching long, long in a row.

Spring breeze—clip-clopping astride a donkey.

Observations of the Station Premises

Brightly—blue flags, red flags,

Coal Mining Area Scenery: Two Haiku

・A mountain crowned with slag heaps under a bright spring sky—oh!

・Gathering coal where coal lies scattered across the earth

Along the water—an uneven path where grass sprouts

Slag dump car

The slag heaps too sprout buds with a skip

Explosions; cherry blossoms still unopened

March 15th: Clear, Nakatsu.

Today again I organized my surroundings; at last managed to fulfill my literary debts and felt some relief.

At ten o'clock I took my leave; walked to Ita; from Ita took the train to Yukuhashi; transferred to Nakatsu.

On the train I couldn't savor Nanamagari's seven curves; at the station I pitied the young woman weeping softly.

Uheijō Residence remained unchanged from years past; the young lady immediately served me a meal—a gesture I deeply appreciated.

Mr. Uhei was busy both as doctor and citizen—too busy even to fall ill he claimed; splendid indeed.

In the evening, Elder Nikkyū visited; the three of us displayed our carefree manner.
I slept poorly, but it was a fine moonlit night.

Nakatsu

The town was freshly painted with cherry blossom sales drawing near.

Uheijō Residence

Pouring water on stone—a spring night’s doing.

Waiting for you—the perfectly round moon’s

March 16th: Fine weather, Nakatsu.

Woke early, took a salt bath, morning sake; the miso soup was delicious.

The good things at Uheijō are the gate and the stone Buddha.

Visited Maimai Residence; Mr. Maimai is a lonely person but too reserved.

I viewed Mr. Fukuzawa’s former residence; the old-style clay-walled storehouse was unforgettable.

The willows were budding; bamboo shoots already adorned the shopfronts; I ate mugwort rice cakes; drank sake called Futabayama (Futabayama is a local product).

Nakatsu is the home of abalone; every fish shop you could name had splendid abalones on display. As I was gazing at them, the shop attendant auntie suddenly called out to me, “Mister, shall I clean one abalone for you?”

The flyers (for haikai-begging purposes) were completed.

In the evening came a haiku gathering—Elder Nikkyū, Mr. Maimai, Kōhei, the proprietor, and I. We talked too much; I grew lonely—grew even sad.

Peering through—the budding willow’s lingering dearness

Myōrenji Temple

The temple's great willow buds and sways.

Spring-chilled abalones lined up, eager to be sold.

The saltwater bath agreeable, spring too gradually takes form in the scenery.

Mr. Fukuzawa's Former Residence

That clay-walled storehouse remains as it was with Aoki berries.

March 17th: Perfectly clear, Usa.

Not a single cloud shadow—such clarity; the joy of morning baths and morning sake; at last I departed. Mr. Uhei, Elder Nikkyū, Mr. Maimai—thank you, thank you, thank you.

The haikai beggar profession was doomed from the start!

On the way, I gulped down two or three cups; becoming unable to walk, took the bus to Usa, stayed at a cheap inn called M-ya—it was a good place, their kindness pleased me most of all; visited the shrine to pray—the shrine was under repair.

Usa scenery: hills, white walls, and shops selling Usa-ame.

A loincloth mishap—one of Santōka's nonsenses. For me, it was the curse of overdrinking; for the rural policeman, it must have been his habit of throwing his weight around. In any case, it was a noisy world—an incident that made me want to laugh but couldn't.

Self-Mockery

Travel too takes on spring's guise—like lice squirming about.

Spring dust breeding so many children.

Exiting the town, there's a long bridge bathed in moonlight.

Usa Shrine

From the pine—the morning sun’s red great torii.

Following spring frost, I make pilgrimage.

water between us—endless peaceful talk

The road marker unreadable—a mayfly’s ephemeral flame.

Spring water brimming—years overflowing.

With a cow as my companion—a sunlit pass spanning one ri.

Released by someone—the horse eats all the grass it wants.

Chinese milk vetch and rapeseed flowers—I’ve lost my hometown.

Spring wind—crushing stone to powder.

Sunlit—with children, Glico tastes delicious.

Concluding today—the mountain sharply tall.

Morning moon sinking—the mountain’s buds have emerged.

Fountain-watching faces in their tranquility—

Spring’s herald beats a large drum—what are they selling?

Alone I cross a mountain—another mountain.

March 18th: Clear, frost; Higan begins; Beppu.

I departed early, wandering aimlessly south, ever south—too serene by half, this serenity.

Passing Kitbajō, I opened my bento box at Tateishi; the young teashop mistress’s proud tales proved deeply engaging.

A group of three pilgrims—parent and child; the child was the most radiant.

To Kamegawa by train—I regretted the forty-seven sen fare—but since no decent lodgings could be found in Kamegawa, took the tram to Beppu; at F-ya, removed my tabi socks, promptly bathed and had a drink!
I strolled until late and slept soundly.

Beppu had splendid mountains and sea, its hot springs naturally excellent, and the women didn’t seem bad either.

Due to the wartime climate, there didn’t seem to be many sightseers, but even so, there must have been two or three thousand. Hot springs were everywhere; every corner was peaceful; the baths were free; even the women seemed cheap.

Resort Town Beppu—it's no place for paupers or eccentrics.

Beppu Observations—

Kobata who? By Asamigawa Asahibashi bridge—they say Takeda wrote this for a courtesan and gave it to her. Night might have its merits, but daytime here was pure bedlam!

Beppu Takeeda, Nagarekawa-dori, Nagenohashi-ato—cafés huddling with oden stalls, traditional restaurants elbowing geisha houses.

Mount Takasaki with its crude charm, Mount Tsurumi standing prim.

Travelers shuffling through sulfur mists while shopkeepers sized up their purses, hot spring reek tangling with face powder musk.

Souvenir shops peddling trinkets. Brothels trading flesh.

Yufudake—once called Yunotake, locally dubbed Bungo Fuji—this mountain I loved; truth be told, all Bungo's peaks stirred me.

One must walk the main road as much as possible—though long, it holds no error. Shortcuts—they are mostly old roads; those paths are fine to tread, but you must observe them well and walk with utmost care.

Endless desolation—

To create is to live.

A person tilling with one hand!

Sincerely and modestly.

Forget yesterday, don’t think of tomorrow, don’t cling to things.

Cast off everything; transcend daily life.

I envied camels (after reading a North China newspaper article); when I struggled to eat, I ended up being laughed at by camels!

Kashiranari (Head Formation)—this place name was unusual.

Poverty is the foundation of simplicity!

March 19th: Clear; Hamawaki. (One night with two meals: eighty sen. One person, one room, one lamp.)

I bathed early in the morning and took a walk; I saw off the departure of the Akatsuki Maru.

This inn wasn’t bad but was too noisy, so I moved to G-ya in Hamawaki; quiet and kind and clean it was, with good bedding and meals provided.

Walking and bathing and writing and drinking—wearied by the journey, or to put it plainly, by people and hot springs and sake—I slept soundly from nightfall on, a truly restful slumber unlike any I’d known of late.

March 20th: Clear; Hamawaki.

Perfect weather—truly a fine season.

I woke early to bathe and stroll, and... Bungo Fuji’s form was beautiful—especially when it glowed in the morning.

The inn being comfortable, I decided to stay another day; wandered aimlessly sightseeing here and there—the crowds were large—a blessed Sunday.

I stood at the wharf and saw off the departing Sumire Maru while welcoming the arriving Akatsuki Maru.

At night I took a walk; figures in padded kimonos wandered to and fro.

Today I broke my vow again—drank shochu and awamori. The proprietress at the awamori shop remembered my face (business acumen indeed!) and served me a piece of small shrimp tempura as a complimentary side dish!

Lately I'd become acutely aware of my declining eyesight—whether from malnutrition or old age, it must be one or the other.

Three nights in Beppu had stretched too long; my spirits grew leaden and travel funds dwindled. Rain or shine at dawn, I resolved to depart.

That night sleep eluded me completely.

Beppu Wharf

The spring wind tangled farewell streamers—even partings held their joy.

The departing steamships, the arriving steamships, the serene horizon.

March 21st: Cloudy, turned stormy; Yufuin.

A morning bath felt splendid; this morning I abstained from morning sake.

Being the equinox week's midpoint meant red bean rice for breakfast—even this stirred boyhood memories. Resolutely, I departed at eight to walk toward Yufuin.—

Splendid driveways stretched before me—those automobiles roared (for us walkers), becoming diabolical contraptions to non-riders (though admittedly convenient even so).

I could no longer climb mountains; I could only crane my neck upward to behold them.

Passing Tsurumi Garden as I climbed; the higher I went, the more hells appeared in succession—Sea Hell, Yawata Hell, Mugen Hell, et cetera.

The mountain village had plum and peach blossoms blooming, waterwheels turning, cows lowing—it was utterly tranquil; yet nearby came the sound of artillery fire from what seemed to be military drills!

The wind rose as if bringing clear skies, but finally turned stormy; camel-colored mountains loomed jaggedly among the peaks.

Asamigawa Tsurumibashi.

Hiohime Shrine.

Bush warblers sang; those with beautiful tones among them. I searched for the sound of water to drink; my stomach filled deliciously. Mountain echoes, mountain mist—lonely, somehow uneasy.

Kanegafuchi Seed Ranch; it appeared to be quite large-scale. Jōgadai—the view was said to be magnificent, but the fog completely obscured it.

A skylark sang; this too became a seed of memory. I plucked two or three butterbur sprouts by the roadside.

Nearing five o'clock, I finally reached Yufuin’s hot spring district and settled into T-ya, a cheap inn—it seemed fairly good. The building was crude, but… they lent me a padded kimono; brought tea (takuan pickles weren’t bad with it); heaped charcoal in the brazier; there was a private bath; electric lights shone brightly.…

After sending a postcard, I promptly downed a cup—two cups; it was delicious sake, and also good sake.

Rustling, rustling—but the wind rattling the glass shoji doors sounded so lonely.

There was no water here—only hot springs, it was said. To think that...—

They called it six ri from Beppu to Yufuin—what nonsense! Having trekked six ri through the mountains left me utterly spent—I don't want to get old, damn it all!

Tonight I'd take it easy; surely I could sleep soundly.

Yufuin made for a lonely hot spring town, yet I loved it there; bathing in the waters and idly soaking in the warmth brought such quiet joy.

Since it wasn’t water to sober me up, I gulped down hot spring water to sober me up! The night deepened into rain and wind—this was troublesome, I thought—but when I awoke suddenly and looked through the glass shoji, it had become a moonlit night; what a relief. Yufuin stood starkly erect, the morning moon drawing near—how fine.

・Plum blossoms at their peak amid hot spring steam
・Written "goods for sale"—the rock's sunlit radiance
・Withering field wind blows—the sun peers through

・Climbing up and down—soaked yet not chilled by the rain
・Butterbur sprouts—let’s rest here
・Mountain mist thick—windmill motionless
To Bokusui
・Thoroughly soaked, today too I journey on (how many mountains and rivers...)
・In the mountains—mountains unseen—walking through fog
・Withered grass—truly excellent rocks here and there.

Yufugoe

· The wind blowing down—I won’t be swept away head-on!

March 22nd: Clear weather; spring light radiantly abundant—Kusu.

At seven o'clock, with body and mind lightened, I departed. The plateau's crispness—autumn-like—guided me as I turned toward Minami-Yufu until finally entering mountain paths: Mikumari Pass. Mountain after mountain stretched endlessly while bush warblers sang relentlessly.

I walked ten steps then halted; walked a hundred steps then crouched down.

Skylarks trilled; frogs chorused; butterbur shoots emerged by pathsides. Water murmured its song where dwellings stood—there came clucks of chickens, lows of cattle, cries of children.

The happiness of being alive; the joy of walking.

Field shit—no, insisting on calling it mountain shit as I let it drop!

Delicious water flowed down; of course I drank my fill.

I encountered no humans; I met this year's first butterfly.

It was a long mountain pass, but a good one.

Unnoticed, I had passed Noya Station and descended toward Nakamura; chewing on Glico caramels, then walking three ri further, I finally reached Mori Town as dusk approached. By good fortune, someone directed me to an inn called M-ya where I was allowed to stay—a decent enough lodging.

Because the lights had been turned off for air defense drills, I gulped down a cup and went straight to sleep; in the middle of the night, I felt traveler's melancholy in the sound of rain drumming against the tin roof.

The subjective meaning of ri (the hardships and pleasures of walking). Objectively one ri may be subjectively two ri.

The concept of distance.

Elementary school students were relatively correct.

Hijūdai is a good place name.

Country people are generally kind and considerate, but sometimes they can be unkind and inconsiderate; today, because of that inconsiderateness, I ended up walking about half a ri more than necessary.

Living near that mountain yet not knowing its name—is this carefree spirit or sheer foolishness?!

The old plum tree was in full bloom, quietly, quietly, like a saint of the fields (22nd).

The path of reminiscence.—
I acutely feel the baseness and filth of humans—to the point where I can’t endure their physical, physiological stench!
Mikumari Pass
Withered mountains everywhere bathed in sunlight—bush warblers sing.
The peacefulness—the calf won’t leave the udder.

Brightly—the mountain sprawled thick and heavy
When I glanced down—trampled underfoot, clinging persistently.
Butterbur sprouts clustered within the mountain’s bosom

Mount Yufu

Looking back—the mountain's form appearing and disappearing

Mikumari Pass

I encountered no one—the mountain’s butterfly.

Fluttering butterfly—how far would you follow?

Spring had fully arrived; bush warblers perfected their song.

Before the budding mountain, I sat solidly.

Falling flowers and blooming flowers—ambling through the warmth.

The village of water sounds had drawn near.

Scattered rapeseed flowers not yet full-blown—a memory.

Budding trees dripped wetly—beautifully—

The journey’s loneliness—rain pattering on tin roofs.

March 23rd: Rain—cloudy—rain, Hita.

I rose early; as it had turned to light rain, I departed promptly.

Took the 8:30 train to Hita (I'd wanted to walk today, but having no rain gear made it unavoidable).

I had wanted to stay one night in Amagase.

Hita is a land that's good to visit anytime, but what's never good is my wallet!

I waited out the rain at the station for a while, then made my way through the town and visited Ashikibi Residence after four years—nostalgic.

I strolled about, fished for ayu, leisurely passed the time; quite chilly—steam in the trains, stoves in the stations, yet no embers tended even in the hibachi.

The Hita region was a place where sake came cheap; or rather, their measures ran generous—even when tossing back a cupful, it wasn’t an ordinary cup but a masu box, what they call masunomi (box drinking). Hita stood as timber country; sawmills dotted the landscape, many of them operating on a considerable scale; its products included charred cedar clogs; the local specialty being sweetfish, and their fermented viscera—uruka—proved delicious. Eateries, inns and restaurants stood plentiful.

Suigō Hita—Hita truly becomes Hita from summer through autumn!

What was good about Hita—what pleased me—was the abundant water and cheap sake; what proved unbearable was how the wind blew.

The fog wasn't bad (they called it bottom fog).

Father and child, child and father.—

March 24th: Cloudy—clear, Hita.

The weather just won't clear up—exactly like modern society!

Angora rabbit.

Master Tansō's grave site, Chōseien.

The former residence where Master Rai San'yō stayed—Joshi-tei.

Fugu cuisine—not sure about that. River fish cuisine though—that's good.

A certain house's white magnolia in full bloom.

Rivers rivers; water water; sake sake.

Hinokuma Park Tsukinokuma Park Hoshinokuma Park.

Zenibuchi Bridge; the riverbed boulevard.

Sawmill scenery.

Ashikibi Residence.

A single paperbush flower in the corner.

The river wind's chill left me restless—butterfly.

The waterwheel turned with a voice like weeping.

Hita.

In water's gentle ripples, willows bud.

Mountain cherry blossoms—people climb up and break them off.

Are the camellias in the thicket so red?

At the fork in the road, cherry blossoms bloom—Sarutahiko.

Flower haze—droning on and on, one plane after another.

March 25th: Cloudy—clear, Futsukaichi.

“Mr. Ashikibi, goodbye, goodbye, Mr. Ashikibi.”

It had been a day of sake—Ken, thank you.

I came by bus and stayed at H Inn in Musashi Hot Springs—utterly trivial.

March 26th: Clear, clear, Hakata.

A morning bath and morning sake—such sheer luxury; I must apologize.

I took the ten o'clock train to Hakata, visited Mr. T in Momochi but found him absent, then finally located the reform school in Rōji—only to be told Mr. Sandō was at his Hakata office. Doubling back to the office, I had them take me to his temporary residence, where after three years I reunited with that cherished warm countenance—he was living in lodgings with two young boys in tow.

I had dinner at a family restaurant, then walked awhile before returning to my lodgings.

Elder Sandō!
That way of addressing suits him perfectly.

Sandō Temporary Residence

Camellias fallen undisturbed in the rear garden.

A vexing equation's crimson indeterminate bud.

March 27th: Cloudy, light rain, Hakata.

A heartwarming scene of father and child—so moving it brought tears.

I scrawled with my terrible handwriting.

In the afternoon, I accompanied someone to visit Mr. Shakokudō—how many years had it been since our last conversation? I thought you'd aged.

Nothing but being plied with sake—morning sake, evening sake, yesterday's sake, today's sake; I'd finally grown weary of it all!

I had them put me up again tonight.

Diner proprietress and Lumpen (in Hakata)

Public-tavern hostess

Odaishisama and the Lumpen (on the way)

Buddha and the Thief

March 28th: Clear, Fukuoka.

“Thank you, Mr. Sandō. Goodbye, boys.”

I wandered haphazardly through Fukuoka’s streets, recklessly guzzling sake.…

In the evening, I visited Mr. T again; having fortunately met him—and since we were both heavy drinkers—we casually got drunk and collapsed into sleep.

Mr. T snapping “Oi!” at his wife wasn’t good.

March 29th: Clear skies, Kamiminato.

I went to Kamiminato by bus.
——
Priest Shun was a monk I liked precisely because he wasn't some eminent priest; Reverend Kiyomaru had grown into a fine monk; his wife was, as expected, a gentle homemaker. They treated me to delicious chili; the udon was tasty too.

March 30th: Yahata.

I drank from morning; was introduced to Mr.H—a painter one might call Lumpen—he, not yet fifty and homeless, carried the air of an international wanderer; he painted, I wrote, and together we drank.

I departed in the afternoon; Priest Shun’s kindness sank deep into me—bus to Akama, train to Orio, streetcar to Yahata; tumbling into Mr.I’s tearoom meant sake once more.

In the evening, I visited Kyōsho Residence; returned quietly and went to bed quietly.

March 31st: Clear—cloudy, Yahata.
I stopped by Seijōshi Residence—found him absent—and waited.

Mr. Seijōshi is a good friend, a precious friend; I am often scolded, angered, and loved.……

I alone drink, and you heartily eat.

Mr. Seijōshi, do not scold your child, and you must not shout.

Revised versions added.

Spring astride a donkey—how far?

Yahata Steel Works Scenery

Towering smokestacks all spewing smoke

Slag flowed beautifully into sky and water.

April 1st: Clear，Moji，Shimonoseki．

I visited Mr.Unpei—he was out，his wife too；finding no will to wait，I hurried by streetcar to Moji．At the office I called on Mr.Reireika—our first meeting in ages—who said that since today was April Fools’，he’d assumed the visitor’s summons was a prank and apologized profusely for having kept me waiting；we shared lunch，then parted after agreeing to meet again in the station waiting room later．Next I went to the bank to see Mr.Kansui—inconveniently he was on night duty—and with the fiscal year-end rush，he had neither time nor energy to spare；at dusk I accompanied Mr.Rei on a visit where we spoke briefly；we two crossed the strait together．After eating nigiri sushi in Shimonoseki：“Goodbye，Mr.Rei—marry soon！”

These past two days—I was unbearably restless with irritation; wandering aimlessly alone—drinking then walking, walking then drinking—got plastered; stuffed my belly until my wallet was empty; I ended up passed out on a waiting room bench!

April 2nd: Perfectly clear skies, Hōjō.

I jolted awake—what's this? Sleeping at the station? The five o'clock train's departure point—I had just enough fare to return home, but wait—let's walk back from here! If Mr. Rei found out, he'd laugh and say, "Didn't I tell you last night you should've gone home early?"

At Karato, I packed in a ten-sen breakfast and started walking slowly yet steadily.—

A serenely balmy day—should I call it Nippon-bare or festival clarity? (Today was the second day of the third month by the old calendar.) Nagato’s shore bustled with clam-diggers, that balmy restlessness leaving nobody still—I, this carefree wanderer, joined the crowd for a while.

I lodged in Hōjō—still early, though I could have walked on (seven-ri journey). Group lodgings bring many annoyances; though saying so changes nothing. Nagato Coast. As a traveler I too dug for clams with them awhile. Waves murmuring serenely—the grass made a good bed. Matsubara cleared and new work begins.

April 3rd: Cloudy, occasional rain. Returned to the hermitage.

I departed as early as possible; walked without hurrying or resting.

Spring had come galloping in; cherry blossoms scattered into bloom here and there; mountain cherries had already shed their petals, leaving some places aglow with young leaves; two or three grand cherry trees in full bloom within the grounds of a country estate were truly beautiful—it was quintessentially Japanese, the houses and flowers and people.

The cherry tree rows along the Atō River were also beautiful.

A spring Sunday holiday—though an ideal day for outings, the weather wasn't favorable; I somehow felt sorry. Do not lament; of course do not regret; people being as they are, let them enjoy moderately.

Before I knew it, I had walked nearly ten ri; by past five o'clock, I returned to the hermitage for the first time in three weeks.

April 3rd: Cloudy.

——I returned to the hermitage at dusk, but there was no fire to dry my soaked clothes, no rice to fill my empty stomach—not a single coin, not a single possession.—I visited Mr. Boyo; though he had waited for me, his wife regretfully informed me he'd gone to his family home today. Having no alternative, I went into town and settled at W Shop—borrowed sake, was treated to a meal, and in the end, they even let me stay the night!

April 4th: Cloudy, hail fell, clear.

While I may have over-relied on W Shop couple's kindness—and though collapsing drunk was unavoidable—stumbling into Y Shop in my drunken haze was inexcusable; no—wrong, wrong; shameful, shameful.

That evening brought an invitation to Boyo Residence where I was treated to a feast amid smiling faces.

April 5th, 6th, 7th, 8th

Exhausted, I kept sleeping deeply with rumbling snores—what you might call travel fatigue—though in my case, it should rather be termed people-fatigue and alcohol-fatigue.

One cannot be born by one’s own will, but dying is one’s own freedom—herein unfolds the human tragicomedy.

April 9th: Clear.

Fasting—insomnia—melancholy, and then.—

Ah, what a frenetic spring—already cherry blossoms scattered and persimmons budded.

April 10th: Cloudy.

At a certain shop, I managed to borrow a little white rice, with joined palms in gratitude.

Rice!
Rice!

Mr.H and a certain gentleman came visiting; we conversed awhile.

In the afternoon—to my surprise—Mr.Kei came to the hermitage; then Mr.Jumei arrived too; a joyous drinking bout began; I got drunk! Drunk! Delightful! Delightful!

Slept like a log; jolted awake by rain's sound—truly a splendid dawn it was.

—I have made a grave resolution—to resolutely dissolve Chūgan-an and once again become a wandering mendicant adrift.

Starvation and Fasting

┌Objective Facts

└Subjective Significance

April 11th: Cloudy—Clear.

Bush warblers sang incessantly; the sky gradually cleared.

I peered into the mirror and was startled by my aged face!

I tidied up personal affairs.

The shaga have begun to bloom; I offer tree buds and grass buds before the Buddhist altar.

Akita fuki spread their young leaves brilliantly.

—Here once again, I express my gratitude to the W Shop couple.

April 12th: Cloudy.

I waited and waited, but the scrap dealer wouldn’t come—a breach of contract remains unpleasant in any circumstance.

I continued tidying up personal affairs.—

At last I steeled my resolve—I would dissolve Chūgan-an and set out on a distant journey; prepare a last-stand formation; adopt a stance of total self-abandonment. Unless I became Santōka the Mendicant, I could not create true haiku; I could not fully become Santōka the Haiku Poet.

It was a beautifully chill spring moonlit night.

Record of Chūgan-an's Dissolution

A journey's path whose destination even I know not—ah.

Things turbid, things stagnant.

April 13th: Clear.

It was quite cold.

Organizing travel diary.

I consider war to be an inevitable phenomenon, but no matter what, I think I detest war.

I did some rare fieldwork.

April 14th: Cloudy.

A beautiful sunrise; a life with too little purpose to live for.

A happy reply came from K—truly, like parent like child!

I went out to town and paid N, W, K.

After days without tending to myself, I got a haircut and bath; then began drinking leisurely—one bottle became two became three became four five six—until finally I derailed completely. This year's first derailment! Forgive me! Forgive me! Shame upon shame (though what I call derailment means little to ordinary folk).

The stench of humanity.

April 15th: Clear-cloudy indeterminate.—

A continuation of yesterday—still can't put a period—drink and wander—returned to the hermitage late at night.

April 16th: Clear—Cloudy.

I lay alone in my hermitage; fasted; read.

Again, as the Yamaguchi Regiment departed for war, cheers swirled up; those voices seeped into body and soul......

April 17th: Cloudy, light rain.

Practiced self-restraint; calmly listened to the rain.

April 18th: Cloudy.

In the afternoon, since it had cleared up, I went to Yamaguchi, exchanged books for rice, and returned.

I could eat a proper meal for the first time in four days!

Drinking and eating in moderation, thinking humbly, reading quietly, creating with all my might—that must be my greatest pleasure.

April 19th: Clear—Cloudy.

Spring cicadas began to sing; the warmth felt close to summer.

In the grass by the gutter, discarded parsley bloomed vividly green; the astonishing vitality of living things—I reflected and was overcome with shame.

I boiled butterbur and ate it—delicious! I dipped it in tea and miso and ate it—delicious! Everything was delicious, delicious!

In the evening, I strolled through the fields and appreciated the wildflowers—violets, buttercups, rapeseed flowers, Chinese milk vetch; each one beautiful, the green grasses beautiful, the insects beautiful.

Today I thought of visiting S but refrained for lack of money; flesh and blood—when apart you yearn for them, yet meeting brings weariness—therein lies life's torments......

I slept fitfully, assailed by nightmares.

April 20th: Cloudy.

The bright cheerfulness of small birds singing; the beauty of camellias and their thorns.

--Self-awareness, self-confidence--self-restraint, self-admonishment.--

It was the twentieth day of the third lunar month; from tomorrow onward, the Akio area would likely bustle. I had intended to make a pilgrimage, but through recent profligacy had lost that luxury.

I took a walk, stopped by the agricultural school to have them let me read the newspaper; on days I didn't read the paper, it felt like I hadn't eaten.

Lately I had been feeling with acute intensity what might be called the laws of nature; I perceived the phenomena of ceaseless flux......

The oil ran out so I went to bed at dusk; while composing and revising haiku in the dark, I unwittingly fell asleep, then kept composing and revising them even in my dreams.

Don't push yourself too hard; be true.
――

Everything is encapsulated in these words—as long as one does not lose this mental preparedness, a person can live fully as a human being.

April 21st: Cloudy.

Gloom.
——

I took a walk and visited S's S; meeting them felt worthwhile—after all, blood truly is thicker than water!
As dusk fell I returned; stopped at W Shop along the way to drink; then drunk beyond reason I headed to F House—and ultimately collapsed there!

April 22nd: Cloudy—Clear.

Sake, sake, sake. Idiot, idiot, idiot.

I'm sorry to W Shop, to N Shop, to T Shop; I'm sorry.

I became unable to move and ended up being taken care of by W Shop.

April 23rd: Clear.

In the morning, trying to rouse myself, I returned to the hermitage.

I roasted and ate the rice cakes received from S one after another.

In the evening, Mr. Boyo came to the hermitage bearing sake and side dishes.

Toward humorous haiku, and then—

Toward nonsense haiku (though one might call them verses of non-action and spontaneous creation).

April 24th: Cloudy.
I slept in a heavy daze.

April 25th: Cloudy.

Just when the gloom became unbearable, Mr. Kei came to the hermitage; talking with him for a while calmed me somewhat—thank you.

I bought rice and oil.

After gathering old newspapers, old magazines, and rags to sell to the junk dealer—to my surprise it made one yen and nineteen sen; with this, perhaps I'll manage this month after all—thank goodness, thank goodness!

In the evening, I visited Boyo Residence where I was treated to a drink; after taking a stroll I had another—with this, I ought to sleep well tonight, but...

April 26th: Clear—Cloudy.

Because I couldn’t sleep well last night, my body and mind felt leaden.

I organized my surroundings and resolved to cleanse my inner self.

To move or be still—to die or live—ah, I was lost.

--Cast off all attachments--be without action or thought.--

Today too, from where the young leaves faced, I heard cheers and songs of “Banzai!”; without thinking, I sat upright and pressed my palms together, then from the depths of my heart cried out: “I truly am sorry.”……

In the afternoon I took a walk, did some shopping, and on my way back unexpectedly encountered Mr. Jumei—ah, Mr. Jumei, I could do nothing but feel profound shame for my own ingratitude and betrayal toward you.

How rare—truly rare—an evening drink! Though it was nothing more than munching on dried sardines as a side while sipping shochu in tiny increments, even so, thanks to that, I slept well.

April 27th: Cloudy—Rain.

Melancholy circulates through my body like seeping water—a feeling of wanting to cry, yet being unable to.

Quiet rain, melancholy me—the gloom demon stirs to rampage.

The freshness of persimmon's young leaves, the vividness of yō's young leaves.

In the afternoon, Mr. Boyo came to visit.
Tonight I suffered from insomnia; having no choice, I read.
Travel is my life's trump card!

April 28th: Cloudy—Clear.

——What needed settling has finally been settled, yet this physical and mental unease defies remedy.——

I walked through mountains and fields swelling with spring's vigor—azaleas riotous on slopes, swallows darting as seasonal envoys. Reached Kagawa, met Mr. I. Rice: thirty-four sen per shō. Barley: nineteen sen.

Peeling butterburs, memories surged without end.

Till the soil, set eggplants and cucumbers—for whom!

Spring chill; without lighting the lamp, I went to bed from early evening.……

At times I think I'll live; at times

I whip myself who thinks I will die.

Just as Japan—and the world too—are in a time of upheaval, I myself stand at a turning point, confront life and death; this is my final struggle. I am lost—what should I do? What must I do?……

April 29th: Clear.

April 29th: Clear.

Tenchōsetsu; a flawless Japanese sky—how auspicious.

At any rate, I’d settled down—how auspicious, how auspicious.

Grateful news came from America; thank you, Mr. K.

Ganpaku sang a marvelously skillful song for me.

With humility—with utter humility.

I was given barley rice—grateful, grateful.

I strolled; palm flower clusters dragged me back to my boyhood.

An owl drew near, perched on a tree right there and hooted; I read and wrote pensively.

April 30th: Clear.

A tumbling step.
——

Clear skies, good season—through overseas goodwill I made it to Yuda hot spring; soaked leisurely in scalding water after so long, drank my fill (must have downed a full shō!), and collapsed exhausted at S Inn.

It was truly a splendid day and night; I expressed my deep gratitude to Mr. K.
——

One might say that happiness is the very act of thinking oneself happy, and unhappiness the very act of thinking oneself unhappy—but what makes one think they’re happy or unhappy? And what is this mind that does such thinking?

The Realm of Egolessness and No-Mind

“From the Man'yōshū”

For Beginners

○ An Introduction to Free-Verse Haiku

On the Nature of Haiku

○ Miscellaneous Thoughts on Haiku Composition

Santōka Correspondence

○ The State Within

The Mendicant Igetsu

Fact and Truth——

This Year Again, Five Shō of Rice for Today’s Portion

Nature and Art——

For whom does evening wait? The bush clover spills forth endlessly.

*Chronicle of Solitary Cold*

┌Home Front Scenery
│Wandering Roam
“Azure Skies, White Earth” └Gleaned from the Road

The things I can do are merely two:
drinking sake and writing haiku,
I drink and suffer, suffer and drink, eating irregularly
while composing haiku—truly the height of foolishness,
karma, karma, karma.

Receiving the remains.
Trickling sweat fell onto the white casket.
Even the horse was conscripted; grandfather and grandmother [were left].