Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

There are times when the past life suddenly takes on new significance and begins to vigorously stir the present life into motion. At such times, the rhythm of life and Conversion are markedly stimulated and guided by the past life. And thus it makes one realize that all the past has not truly 'passed away.' The maturation of karmic conditions was nothing but the 'past' impregnating the present and the 'past' growing within it. Now at last, I think I have begun to grasp the meaning of 'the will to reform the past.'

Those crushed beneath the burden of the "past" were ultimately destined to bear destruction's fate. Those who sought salvation in oblivion's sweetness were mere decadents fated to become "living corpses". Those enduring suffering fiercer than ruin itself—those pursuing breakthroughs' joy that oblivion could never conceive—precisely these deserved to be called the ones who truly lived and grew. That mind is eternal present, that eternity is carved into consciousness' flow—only this kind would prove it through life's very act.

II

The memory of having once poured my friendship into I, J, K, and others torments me.
My regret does not stem from having "loved" them.
"The fact that I discovered myself 'within them' has become unbearably repulsive to me."
However, I cannot deny that there was something within me that resonated with them—that still does even now.
Therefore, all the more does that memory torment me.
There can be no doubt that I was utterly defeated by that tendency in the past.

But also, the memory of having decisively distanced myself from them with cold finality tormented me in the same way.
(Of course, that suffering began two or three years after this Conversion.
And thus, it was probably preparing me for a new Conversion.
I desired it.)—In any case, I began to doubt whether my love had been too narrow, too self-serving.
Even if I hated their "tendency," I should not have hated the humans.
Even if I had discarded their tendency, I should not have discarded them as humans.
I felt as though I lost my way even while seeking the path.

I desired thoroughness and acted decisively.
And now I watch as incompleteness is born from within that very thoroughness.
I cannot escape from either of these two sufferings.

III

Why did I love them?

The first reason was direct.
I liked them.
Seeing their faces and conversing with them brought me boundless joy.
And thus I saw within them valiant warriors of life and believed I could share in the restless urgency of youth pursuing life’s meaning.
I sensed that their atmosphere brimmed with youth and that they were utterly free.
Their rough, immoral behaviors too appeared to my eyes as manifestations of a courageous adventurous spirit—a bold plunge into life’s whirlpool, a manly bravery staking death itself to approach life’s core.
Thus, I continued to hold affection for all aspects of their personalities and behaviors.

I desired to always bring my heart into contact with theirs. However, as time passed, I noticed they did not seek quiet affection. What they esteemed was drunken revelry, madness, wit, and bluntness. Anything that could not be called cheerful proved insufficient to please them. They wanted boisterous emotions that jolted the senses rather than quiet love seeping into the heart. Thus I remained utterly alone. My love stayed buried deep within, never finding its way out.

Into this opening crept the second reason.
The Aesthet within me found there an exceedingly favorable ground for growth.
My Aesthet removed Sollen from its shoulders, threw it to the ground, and roared with bright laughter.
I felt my hands become free.

The world transformed overnight.
The new dawn began illuminating a world filled with unbridled beauty and pleasure.
Thus I came to sense an Aesthet-like resonance in their way of life.

There within their world, I loved them.
It was merely a co-conspirator's attachment, yet I gladly embraced it as substitute for concealed human love.
In that realm they were all my forerunners.
To my eyes they stood as living proof that world and humankind were inexhaustible vessels of pleasure.
To me then, those groaning under Sollen's weight seemed laughable cowards.
Those unsated by indulgence appeared pitifully meager.
Small wonder I/J/K seemed beings truly worthy of devotion.

IV

Why did I hate them?

It was because I was not an Aesthet like them.
My belief that I had cast Sollen to the ground was nothing but an illusion.
Sollen was within me.
In order to discard Sollen, I had to discard myself.
I cannot deny the presence of Aesthet within myself, but I myself was not an Aesthet.
Thus, a year later, I became someone who fiercely tormented myself for having behaved like an Aesthet.

I felt as though I smelled the stench of decay emanating from my own self that had loved them. There, the earnestness of life had withered away, and the passion that approached its core had cooled. What had seemed like life’s adventure was merely the whimsical, irresponsible caprice of a libertine. What had seemed like restlessness toward life’s meaning was merely restlessness toward empty fame and acclaim. What had seemed like valiant warriors was merely due to childish willfulness born from lacking strong willpower. I cursed myself for having remained unaware of that stench until then. The fact that I, who had even come to believe myself morally fastidious, had been sitting complacently in a muddy ditch filled with filth shook my trust in my own character to its very foundations.

Corruption did not stop at that alone.
Unwittingly, I came to belittle and scorn the heart of love.
I saw not humans but objects of pleasure.
I transposed the gradations of the heart onto sensations, measured the depth of emotion by the delicacy of their savor, and sought life’s opulence in the opulence of physical sensation.
And thus I esteemed all things for their mutability and their novelty.
Thus, while believing I grasped the profound secrets of life, I always kept its core truth at arm’s length.
Therefore, I perceived true courage as cowardice and true fullness as meagerness.
Therefore, I respected humans reeking of decay as beings of high value.
Ah.
What a self I am.
Without loving anything, coldly (even if I was sentimental) and irresponsibly (even if I bore responsibility in money and promises), I tried to taste my way through everything.
And thus they became the concrete evidence of my corruption.

I cursed myself.
I hated them too.
To love them became synonymous with loving corruption for me.
The memory of having loved them became nothing other than the memory of my own corruption.
As long as this memory persists, I cannot help but sometimes doubt my own character.
As long as I hate corruption, I cannot help but hate them as well.

Thus, a Conversion occurred within me.

V

Then why do I torment myself over having abandoned them?

Overwhelmed by passion for elevating my own existence, what had once delighted me became unbearable.
I could do nothing to prevent this Conversion.
Even toward those with whom I had shared intimacy, there remained no room for leniency.
Just as I had sought meetings when affection moved me, I came to shun them when aversion took hold.
To maintain superficial fellowship and evade accusations of coldness—such artifice lay utterly beyond my capacity.
In demanding absolute purity, in refusing to endure attitudinal contamination—thus did I ultimately cast them aside.
――Why then do I anguish over this?

Even those of us who had crossed over small peaks could not help but feel the cruelty inherent in the path of self-elevation.
The philosopher’s words—"God’s path is steep; God is cruel"—resonated profoundly in my heart.
――Of course, in this case, I do not think my actions brought about any "great misfortune."
Because their hearts were far too invulnerable to feel pain from this matter.
However, I did not abandon them after considering whether they were invulnerable or not.
For me, more than the degree to which they might feel pain, it was the very act of "abandoning those who were once close" that became the issue.
Therefore, more than whether people were hurt or not, what became at issue was whether one committed the act of hurting others.
I indeed betrayed their trust.
Within my heart, the loneliness of those I betrayed arose incessantly.
That alone is sufficient to torment me.

I often came across articles recently stating that Mr. T was rejecting all visitors.
I found it strange that Mr. T, who had once been so kind and gentle, could dare to commit such cruelty.
For I could still feel a certain sympathy with the sincere quest for truth in the hearts of those young people who visited Mr. T.
However, I also felt that I could understand the anguish of Mr. T—who desired to love—choosing cruelty of his own accord.
And thus I felt that I too had to share the responsibility for having pushed Mr. T into that state of mind.
It was the visitors themselves who had made Mr. T experience the transience of meeting with them.
We sought love and wisdom from Mr. T like patients seeking medicine, yet eventually grew as cold as passersby on the roadside.

Even when I occasionally recalled Mr. T with nostalgic feelings, I lacked the fervor to convey them.
We had been utterly ignorant of how deeply this must have wounded Mr. T’s heart.
We had been far too unaware that Mr. T was himself a seeker riddled with frailties—that he was a scarce repository of love who must both give and receive.
I cannot suppress this remorse toward Mr. T.

Even toward Mr. T, whom I had met only three or four times, this held true.
How much more so was this in their case.
――After all, I and K must have been lonely.
Not so much because they had lost me, but because my departure had resonated as a bad omen.
――Thus I think.
I had been heartless.
And thus, even a single act of heartlessness was sufficient to make one contemplate life’s transience.
Their stubborn pride would likely refuse to acknowledge this fact, but regardless of whether they did so or not, I believed I had hurt them—and thus I constantly felt remorse.

I did not avoid heartlessness to elevate myself.
However, no matter what the circumstances, being heartless was painful.
I think I wanted to somehow keep loving them.
I think there must have been lovable aspects hidden within them too.
That it was impossible for me did nothing but prove the smallness of my love.
I want to cultivate a great love capable of embracing even them as brethren.
I felt as though the sprouts of that love were forcefully breaking through the March soil.

Spring has come.
Spring has come.
The spring of true life has come.
All begins now.

VI

Even if I were to regain the capacity to love them, I would never again love the tendency that drives them.

Viewing this tendency as the focal point, they had no life beyond pleasure.
They sought to indulge with both their whole bodies and entire lives.
They rejoiced in discarding all inner and outer morality to sink into the "depths" that people feared.
What saints deemed evil was good for them.
Moreover, it was all the more profound precisely because it was called evil.
Sincerity, integrity, the preciousness of life, a will in tension, love of fate—these were what they spurned without regret.
What is individuality? What is the self? What is eternal life? Those things were not worth a single full breast of a woman.
Cast away those dried-up thoughts and words, and listen to the voice in the depths of thy heart.
Both thy core and thy instinct seek only the beauty of life.
The delicacy of fleshly sensations and the rapturous delight of emotions—only there exists the highest beauty.
Whimsical excitement, fickle curiosity, and reckless courage—these shall bring that to thee.
Where else but in that could there be a path for thee to live most fully?
Thus they said.

This too constitutes a view of life.
It represents one particular stance.
Yet I find myself fated to strive conquering it.
To me, life possesses spiritual depth without limit.
Life's beauty appears to scintillate solely through individuality and continuity.
The beauty of fragmented pleasure amounts to naught but delusion in my eyes.

Even if one were to permit it as an attitude, I believed there would still be room for inherent criticism.
In other words, had they thoroughly implemented that attitude?
Or were they burning with the demand to make it thorough?
―I thought that the danger of these Japanese Aesthet lay precisely in their inability to be thorough even as Aesthet.
Or in their unwillingness to even desire thoroughness.
They were finally in danger of being unable to build any meaningful life.
――For example, they told lies.
Lies were undoubtedly an appealing means that Aesthet found difficult to abandon.
However, they were apt to attempt compromise with society through lies.
Moreover, what astonished me was that they remained unaware of those lies.
At times, they comported themselves as deeply compassionate, sincere men.
And thus they believed themselves to be so.
At that moment, an incident occurred.
They displayed extreme insincerity.
And yet they still believed themselves to be sincere men.
Even in J, who appeared to be the most thorough, this held true.
He poured all his interest into writing works that trampled human dignity and beauty for the sake of respecting pleasure.
In that context, he was an admirer of evil and ugliness.
Moreover, he became enraged at those who called him a villain and a monstrosity.
Even if he inverted values in his creative works, he did not desire that inversion in daily life.

When the viewpoint was limited solely to creative works, the circumstances became somewhat different. Within this scope, J did not lack purity of attitude. He acknowledged value solely in sensory pleasure and earnestly carried it through. In his creative works, he never told lies. The criticism that his creative works exhibited vulgar taste stemmed from an ethical standpoint, not from any impurity in his attitude. In comparison, I's creative works—deemed refined and elegant in taste—felt unbearably foolish due to the impurity of their attitude. He pretended to be ashamed while being inwardly pleased. He expressed joy as pain. Everything was a lie.—K lived as an Aesthet due to his weak-willed nature. He stumbled while trying to enter another world. And so he always returned to the world of the senses. But even there, he could not settle. He was constantly mocking himself. He was too spiritual to thoroughly commit as an Aesthet, and yet not spiritual enough. If he had strong willpower—if he had been truly destined to become an Aesthet—he would have first pressed his spiritual tendencies deeper than he ever had, then shattered them against the earth. That path represented thorough commitment as an Aesthet while simultaneously fostering the possibility of conversion to an even higher world. But he did not have that. His creative works lacked the quality of truly delving deep. None of it touched the core.

The differences among these three suddenly caused me to form three associations.
J bore a Faun-like semblance.
He would gaze at his ugly figure reflected in the water's surface and seem to feel irrepressible delight.
He displayed that joy before the crowd, dancing about shamelessly and ecstatically like a Faun.
What induced nausea in us induced Extase in him.
When we blushed, he guffawed.
He was a realist focused on shamelessness.
(I too had once been that.
For a time, I could dance cheerfully within that.
But during that time, my mind's eye had seen the fundamental ugliness.
I finally came to realize the value of the bonds I had once shaken off and bound myself again.
My shame was not that of innocence but of repentance.) — There was something about I that reminded one of a courtesan.
His application of white makeup, his hairstyling, his manner of wearing kimono—all were flawless.
He gave a delicate impression, with meticulous care applied to captivate others through pure beauty.
And yet there glinted something that betrayed it all.
One could not help but sense the shameless sow revealing her true nature in the secret chamber.—K evoked a tepid Mephisto.
He mocked his own ugliness.
But this did not stem from any fervent desire to burn that ugliness away.
He took pleasure in exploiting others' weaknesses.
But this did not arise from moral indignation against evil.

――Having thought this far, I suddenly began to sense a danger.
As for the tendencies they manifested—even if I cannot claim to have completely severed myself from them—there should no longer be any danger to myself.
But while I had been fighting this enemy, another had circled behind.
I had believed it to be an ally, but I cannot say that I might not have had my legs taken out from under me by that very ally.

That is the Mephisto within me.
Is it permissible for me to unleash my Mephisto simply because I possess this ardor for purification and moral indignation?
Would that not injure the ideal of love for self and brethren?
Even after dissecting their weaknesses to my heart’s content, how much could I have advanced my own love?
Anger fans anger.
Ridicule provokes ridicule.
Mephisto too will draw out Mephisto.

Have I erred again?

VII

I want to see people's merits.
And so I want to feel love for as many people as possible.
However, I cannot do it as much as I wish.

The shortcomings of those for whom I feel love can be viewed with sympathy.
At times, I even think that growth is hastened precisely because of those shortcomings.
However, the shortcomings of people for whom I don't feel love often appear fatal.
I tend to overlook such people's merits, suffering, and efforts.
And in those moments, I cannot say I don't unconsciously take interest in shooting bold arrows of sarcasm—arrows that strip away the garments of self-deception and tear off the masks of hypocrisy—precisely where it would hurt most.

I too had once been utterly consumed by such impulses. In those days, every phenomenon revealed its repulsive underbelly to my eyes against my will. The words and deeds of others laid bare their base motivations with humiliating clarity. Social customs and moral codes stank of deception through and through. An irresistible compulsion to deride it all possessed me—yet through it all, I remained oblivious to my own profound superficiality.

This realization marked a pivotal moment for me. I burned with shame at my past self, cursed its memory, and resolved to cast it off entirely. Had it been possible, I would have expunged from human recollection every word I'd ever committed to paper. My courage to take up the pen deserted me completely. It felt as though some vital force driving my self-expression had been severed at its root. Even casual conversation with acquaintances filled me with unease during that period. I withdrew from social contact as much as possible, maintaining strict silence. I made a solemn vow: henceforth I would neither speak nor write unless compelled by genuine love and sincerity.

Thus, for over a year, I directed neither my eyes nor my words beyond my narrow surroundings.
During that time, I believed I had managed to recast myself.

However, Mephisto still lived within me.
His foundation proved unexpectedly deep.
At every turn, he would come bouncing out.
And in that very moment, I found myself applauding him.
Even if I immediately regretted it afterward.

Two or three days ago, I saw a woman’s dishonesty, falsehood, shallowness, fragility, and ostentation laid bare. However, when I stood before her—her nose flushed red with agitation—I felt only pity and vexation. Weakness of character and an ostentatious heart rendered her shameless and immoral. Strengthening her will and instilling confidence in her would eventually save her. For bringing forth a stronger force from within was the best method to break through self-deception. Thus I could gently care for her.—An hour had passed. Before I knew it, I had become Mephisto. I would dig out falsehood and vice from every corner of her heart and lay them bare with an unsparing scalpel. I burned with intensity, focusing all my strength as I did so. The backlash from the wounded pride of the woman’s heart stimulated me all the more. I was so cruel that I would not rest until I had exposed and overturned her feigned indifference—her last weapon. And what would be the result? The woman would strive to become increasingly shameless. All that remained for me was regret.

I cannot say that my feelings toward others’ creative works are free of such tendencies.
For example, four or five days ago, I read the impressions of someone called a master and considered that person’s creative works.
He intends to adhere to “facts.”
Moreover, he does in fact possess “facts.”
However, that was nothing more than shallow, half-baked facts.
Yet he knows many thoughts and words that point to deeper facts.
By connecting them to his own shallow facts in his thinking, he superficially elevated himself to the height of those thoughts.
As a result, he depicts and discusses things he does not know.
He flippantly uses profound words.
He expresses shallow facts with false depth.
He remains at the entrance of the problem while believing he has solved it.
He does not know his place.
He adheres to a doctrine that rejects falsehood, but to thoroughly implement it, shallow experiences should have been expressed precisely as shallow.
He should have discarded all borrowed elements and thought based solely on his own direct observation.
As I pondered thus, two words from his impressions rose in my mind as proof of my criticism.
While discussing “thoroughness,” he says: those who preach thoroughness are surprisingly unthorough, while there are those who remain silent yet embody it.
This is a fact.
It is a fact so obvious it does not even warrant discussion.
Moreover, he believes he has refuted those who advocate thoroughness with this very word.
Even through this, it is clear that he had never questioned “thoroughness.”

For in his attitude showed not the slightest sympathy or understanding for the suffering and efforts of those who demand thoroughness.
In the very places where one cannot be thorough exist various states of mind among those who demand thoroughness.
How can someone who cannot discern this have the right to discuss "thoroughness"?
He may fancy himself a 'thorough person,' but such thoroughness was likely either an ignorant compromise of complacency unaware of its contradictions or merely a rigidity in perspective and approach.—He also mocked the desire for possession, declaring that ownership was impossible even when viewed through his own domestic experience.
This further showed that he lacked any desire for possession—and consequently could not comprehend such a desire.
How can one definitively say it was impossible to someone who truly burned with the desire for possession (or where one once burned)?
There were times when one felt like muttering that one lacked (or had lacked) such power in oneself, but even if that became grounds for mocking oneself, it could not serve as grounds for mocking others.
Indeed, he had arrogantly criticized matters of a world he did not know, basing his judgment on his shallow, half-hearted experience.…

This line of reasoning left me feeling pleased.
I looked down with satisfaction upon the shallow ugliness of him and his clique.
Thus I completely overlooked his long-standing efforts, struggles, and achievements.
I feel the narrowness of my love there.
I cannot help but worry that this kind of mentality may frequently arise toward others' creative works.
As someone who has come to curse criticism devoid of love, the gall to casually condemn others has vanished.

VIII

There was a certain similarity between Shaw and Dostoevsky. That might have stemmed from their distinctive expressive methods marked by intellectual and psychological characteristics. However, I particularly wished to recognize it in how Mephisto emerged from within them. And there too I wished to recognize their great differences.

Behind the scathing sarcasm that Shaw hurled at society blazed his passion for ideals and public indignation. Yet in his creative works, there was not a trace of earnest depth. He could not depict people overflowing with love, nor those tormented by their path. After all, he could not depict the form of humanity. He had only a heart that hated evil, devoid of compassionate solace. His Mephisto demonstrated this relationship. His Mephisto directed the arrows of negation solely at hypocrites—at the lid concealing rot—and nowhere else. He delighted in destruction, but he did not attempt to destroy what was truly good and beautiful. He was, so to speak, a Mephisto who had changed his trade to that of a knight of justice. Therefore, this Mephisto did not possess a Faust. And furthermore, it appeared that within Shaw himself, Faust was entirely absent. He remained firm and unmoving, like a mass of goodness, like someone who had fully constructed himself. He appeared as someone who had gained the confidence and power for societal salvation without undergoing the arduous path of self-discipline. He, by right of his idealistic passion and public indignation, unhesitatingly and boldly poured out his satiated scorn upon society’s hypocrisy and half-heartedness.

However, Dostoevsky’s Mephisto always appeared alongside Faust.
Beside the 'human' who weeps, suffers, fears, and despairs in pursuit of true life—only there did Mephisto hold significance.
He denounced society’s evils and human folly, but that was not to save society—it was to tempt Faust and strip Faust of love and trust toward the 'human'.
Those who sought the path had inevitably to face this trial at least once.
Faust overcame this temptation and continued to love society and humans.
And thus, Dostoevsky sought to save humans through this love.
What he depicted was 'the individual' and the 'path' they trod.
The focus of his efforts lay in constructing his eternal life.
It was accomplished only through love.
And there lay the salvation of mankind.
He could not be satisfied with merely denouncing evil.
He pitied humans for their evil and suffered himself.
Great love, religious love...

――Here lay the path I must take.
I think that even the dwelling of Mephisto within me was not without meaning.
Without Mephisto, my world would be lonely.
Mephisto broadens my world and teaches me many psychologies and perspectives.
Through this opportunity, my Faust comes to acquire true wisdom.
……I must not let Mephisto run rampant.
However, suffering because of Mephisto is a good thing.
The fact that Mephisto did not depart too quickly is something I must be glad about.
The presence of Mephisto also serves as a good stimulus for me.
As long as I do not become like Shaw’s Mephisto.

Being able to leave Shaw was also a Conversion for me.