Pathway to Japanese Literature

The decline of my ailing body had grown increasingly severe year by year; nowadays, even distinguishing between time spent sleeping and time spent awake had become nearly impossible.
When I awakened, my eyes would be clear yet I felt no sense of having slept; when I closed my eyes and lay still, my delusions drifted hazily into dreams.
Thus though I customarily awoke around five or six in the morning, judging that rousing myself during these weary morning hours to engage my mind would afford less rest than remaining still, I lay drifting between dreams and delusions until seven or eight o'clock.
I likely awoke around five o'clock this morning.
The neighborhood remained quiet; Mother seemed to have just risen.
Finding myself somehow unable to return to sleep with this persistent headache, I had the rain shutters opened.
Mother came and opened the rain shutters outside the south-facing glass-paneled shoji, adjusting the window coverings.

Outside, thick fog enveloped everything; Ueno Mountain appeared dreamlike, still faintly dark in the lingering gloom. Even the cockscomb plants in the garden bore mist upon their leaves; those slightly farther away appeared faintly red—a remarkably thick fog it was. Lying with my head to the west, slightly turned away from the glass door, I took the newspaper Mother had placed by my pillow and read while reclining. The moment I awakened in the morning—without a moment’s delay—I took up the newspaper to read; this was my daily custom. Taking up *Nippon*, I first skimmed through the first page, then immediately spread it open to read the second page. The China problem showed no sign of resolution, and the Itō cabinet seemed likely to form yet remained unformed—both matters stayed unresolved. I looked at page five, then page three, then page four, returning again to page one to examine the editorials, miscellaneous columns, literary section, and other parts in detail. While I was thus engaged, the Jiji Shinpō and Osaka Mainichi Shimbun arrived. This reading occupied me from one and a half to two and a half hours. During that time, I did not rest for a single moment. When I finished and turned toward the glass door, the fog had gradually thinned; the morning sun shone upon the wet tips of the cockscomb leaves—beautiful and soothing.

Feeling intensely fatigued, I wanted to sleep again and closed my eyes; yet as usual, I only drifted hazily between wakefulness and sleep, finding no proper rest.
I called for the bedpan.
The Kainan Shimbun arrived.
I spread it open to see if there might be any news of acquaintances within.
I instructed my younger sister to change the bandages.
Bandage changing was a daily task.
Before she could begin, Kaian arrived.
He slid open the fusuma door at my bedside and spoke across the threshold.
I turned to my right, raised my head, and rested my right elbow on the futon.
This was the posture one assumed when meeting guests, eating meals, or holding a brush.
“Has the person I requested by letter the other day been prepared?” asked Kaian. I replied, “Since I’ve informed everyone that I won’t be writing characters, I can’t write even this one. Please convey that to them.”
Kaian took out and showed a small strip bearing Kidō’s calligraphy.
From there, the conversation shifted to calligraphy.
Kaian said, “I have no other desires—I just want to try my hand at writing.”
“I too sometimes scribbled large characters, but having no brush, I sent someone to buy one—a twenty-sen brush labeled ‘for Mr. Ichiroku.’ When I tried writing with it, the characters turned out so bizarrely similar to his that I was utterly dumbfounded,” he said with a laugh.
“I can’t stand Ichiroku,” Kaian pursed his lips and said.
I had someone bring out the two small Chinese brushes and an incense pouch that I received yesterday from Sosanjin and showed them to Kaian.
Kaian removed the copper brush cap covering the bristles, fiddled with the tip using his fingertip, and said, “This seems like it would write well.”
From there, they spoke awhile about how the old saying “a skilled calligrapher needs no special brush” contradicted historical masters’ meticulous brush selection; how Fusetsu had recently become obsessed with model calligraphy books; the excellence of Fusetsu’s Gagun-jō album; Hototogisu magazine’s frequent publication date errors; Western periodicals investing vast sums in ambitious projects; printers grumbling over Yukimine-ō’s heavy proof corrections; and other news concerning Reiun—after which Kaian took his leave.

Sunlight streamed through the glass-paneled shoji to within about six feet of the sickbed, and noon approached.
I felt comfortable yet fatigued.
I lay down again on the pillow and waited for the meal.
Since it was not my custom to eat breakfast, I waited for lunch.
Before long, Mother brought tooth powder, a toothpick, a cup containing warm water, a small tin basin, and such, placing them by the pillow.
I gargled a little and spat into the basin.
Mother brought in a large tin basin filled with warm water.
With this, I washed my face partially.
While lying down, I could not wash my face properly.

Either resting against the pillow or leaning on my cheek, I waited.
Around noon, Mother finally brought the meal.
She placed a rectangular wooden tray, serving as a substitute for a meal tray, atop the futon.
The feast consisted of three dishes: warm soft rice, dried bonito sashimi, and sweet potato miso soup.
Not only were they all favorites, but their combination was particularly excellent, making them exceedingly delicious.
I ate two and a half bowls of rice, two bowls of soup, and finished all the sashimi.
I took a sip of brandy.
Mother served the meal while sitting there filling gelatin capsules with creosote liquid.
After finishing the meal, I swallowed three creosote capsules.
Pickles and tea are not part of my usual practice.
I peeled two pears and ate them.
I finally bit into the core and sucked on the peel.

After eating, I had gathered and placed the inkstone box, manuscript paper, submissions needing attention, and such near the sickbed, but being utterly exhausted from the meal, I had no energy to take up the brush and lay down again on the pillow.

After a while, my younger sister placed medicine and a pus basin on top of a box, then gathered bandage cotton, oilpaper, cotton, and such into a shallow papier-mâché basket and brought them all together.
Mother covered the glass-paneled shoji with the window curtain, closed all the sliding doors tightly, and left.
From this point, the bandage changing commenced.
I lay facing right, untied the sash, loosened the bandage fastenings, and made ready.
The bandages consisted of two in total: one wrapped from my back to abdomen, and another covering the buttocks and tied to the leg.
My younger sister was behind me; first, she removed the buttocks bandage and wiped away the pus.
The buttocks were especially excruciatingly painful; even when wiped gently with cotton, it was nearly unbearable.
If even slightly pressed too hard, I would involuntarily let out a deathly cry.
Next, she removed the bandage on my back and wiped away the pus.
This area was usually less painful; having the pus wiped away rather felt somewhat pleasant.
(There was a spot of pain on my left flank where even a light touch proved unbearable;) the amount of pus also appeared unchanged from ordinary days.
However, as for what constituted the usual amount, I did not know.
As for the state of other painful areas, I remained entirely unaware.
About three years ago, when I once thought to have my back reflected in a mirror to observe its condition and told my younger sister so, she vehemently tried to stop me and would not listen. I forced someone to bring a mirror and looked—the blistered scars and oozing sores appeared ghastly beyond measure in red and white, so unbearable to behold twice that my complexion changed in shock. At this, my sister teased from beside, “Like layered fabric,” and I became greatly angered at her impertinence.
Chastened by this experience, I never again looked in a mirror—though over three years my wounds must have worsened through countless transformations. Yet such was the strangeness of partial eyes that I now fancied my back as something beautiful, with beautiful pus flowing across it—a delusion pitiful beyond measure.

When the pus had been wiped away, ointment was applied; absorbent cotton was laid over it, oilpaper over that, then plain cotton over that, and finally everything was covered with clean cotton bandages—thus the task concluded.
At this point, it was customary to administer an enema.
Today, no enema was administered.
My bowel movement was satisfactory.
The time required for this daily routine was approximately forty to fifty minutes.
During periods like these when the pain lessened, the bandage changing caused no hardship at all; rather, I found myself almost eager for it.
This was because after the bandage change, I felt extremely pleasant and sometimes obtained one or two hours of peaceful sleep.

Younger Sister left carrying the soiled items; Mother brought a metal basin and opened the window coverings.
I attempted to sit up and, laying the glass bead from the tassel end of the incense pouch that had been on the tatami under my elbow, broke one.
I washed my hands with peach-colored soap.

Exhausted after the bandage change, I lay down on the pillow again.

“Since it’s warm today, how about cleaning this room?” Mother asked.
“I agreed.”
Mother prepared a sickbed in the parlor and said to me, “Move.”

Though the distance was barely one ken, it felt like journeying a thousand ri, and I could not easily resolve to move.
At last resolving myself, I managed to rise and ended up crawling on all fours.
However, the left leg hurt and would not move.
I spread a small futon—about one shaku in length, called a “leg futon”—under my left knee joint and continued shuffling forward minute by minute.
I overcame the treacherous threshold, and the one-ken journey passed without incident until I reached the sickbed in the parlor.
I crawled onto the futon and, this time, turned my feet toward the shoji to lie down with my head to the north.
This unfamiliar exertion left me suddenly hungry - a sensation I welcomed.
Mother, broom in hand ready to clean, lingered at the edge of the sickroom while gazing outside and muttered to herself, "I can hear the Ueno Sports Festival."

I had them return the inkstone, paper, and such to my bedside, but exhausted from the journey of one-and-a-half ken, I couldn't muster the courage to take up my brush and lay back down on the pillow again.
I called for the bedpan.
Since the tips of my feet were cold, I had them put hot water in the hot-water bottle.
These days my attire consisted of a single flannel shirt and an unlined flannel garment worn day and night alike, though when raising my shoulders to work I would add one padded haori over these. Today, having kept warm by simply covering my feet with one white blanket without using a coverlet until they grew cold, I called for the hot-water bottle.
The use of the hot-water bottle had begun a full month prior, so there was nothing novel about it now.

After a short while, I raised my head and took up the brush.
I began editing the solicited weekly diary entries for Hototogisu.
It was unfinished work from the previous day.
Diaries can be interesting when long and interesting when short.
After neatly transcribing various entries, I then took up the longest diary and rewrote it bit by bit.
This was the diary of someone living in the countryside of Kawachi who commuted two ri daily to a primary school.
Though there was nothing particularly remarkable, because the ordinary events from morning till night were meticulously recorded, the detailed circumstances of that person's situation became known, which intrigued me.
I found it particularly intriguing that it was by a primary school teacher.
Whenever I saw reports in the newspapers about the recent shortage of primary school teachers—having myself harbored the desire to become a teacher at an impoverished rural village school—this must have resonated with me profoundly.
The only regrettable aspect was the scarcity of classroom-related entries.
There should have been others like the clean copy section from Saturday.
Since this entry was long, I attempted to revise two or three days' worth by simplifying extracurricular articles as much as possible, but writing while lying down made no progress at all, and when my right hand grew numb beyond endurance, I stretched out my arm and massaged my elbow with my left hand.
Soon, I propped my right hand against my cheek and rested awhile.

I ordered black tea.
I nibbled on two or three rice crackers and drank two half-cups of black tea.
Between lunch and dinner, it was customary either to eat sweets or sip tea and have snacks.

While resting vacantly, I suddenly remembered that today being October fifteenth was the day I ought to write the daily article for Hototogisu's submissions.
Though I had fleetingly recalled it upon waking this morning, from then until now I had completely forgotten.
Having thought to write something myself—for surely something must have happened today worth recording—I found there was nothing at all to write about.
It was truly a day of utmost ordinariness.
Visitors were exceedingly few, and moreover nothing whatsoever seemed to have occurred within the household.
Even such daily disturbances as a cat attacking the birdcage were absent today.
With sunlight already fading on the shoji and past four o'clock now, no startling new events could possibly occur hereafter.
Wondering if anything interesting might yet appear, I rested my cheek in hand and gazed ahead—the alcove space before me measured one ken, decorated in the usual manner.

This so-called usual decoration consisted first and foremost of an extremely grubby paper-mounted ink bamboo large scroll hung at the very center.
The bamboo in this painting had sparse leaves and numerous stalks, with the thickest stalk measuring five or six sun in width; it was the work of an ancient fellow townsman named Kurazawa.
With ink tones that seemed soaked through and a composition that was perhaps skillful, it had been praised by Professors Asai, Shimura, Nakamura, and others; Koson would visit multiple times a month, praising it anew each time he came.
Since my house possessed no other stored scrolls, even when three years or five years passed, the front of the tokonoma always remained this aged bamboo.

Under the bamboo, in the front, there was an elegant black-lacquered Kasuga desk.
On top of it lay something resembling yesterday’s haiku meeting manuscript.
The bamboo and manuscript, both being grubby, ought to harmonize; yet the desk harmonized with neither the bamboo nor the manuscript.

In the right corner of the tokonoma stood a somewhat narrow box resembling those used for transporting Western-style meals. This contained matcha utensils exactly as someone had lent them. It resembled a Western meal box yet felt incongruous. I did not drink matcha myself, but as Sachiou consumed more than ten servings daily, we would set out this box whenever he visited. Before it stood a bronze vase cast by Hidema with three legs, holding small yellow chrysanthemum buds. Immediately beside this sat a gaudy soapstone vase clutching roughly two stems of red chrysanthemums. The utter disharmony of this entire arrangement defied description.

In the dimly lit left corner of the tokonoma sat a shallow box with legs attached, where only a beautiful green taxidermied small bird perched on a branch about one shaku long could be clearly seen; beyond that, nothing was visible.
Though unseen, I had known this from the start.
In this box alongside the bird lay three treasures I had fashioned myself that spring while bedridden, kneading clay with my own hands.
The first was a neck-shaped piece about four sun tall—something I sculpted over two days while mirroring my face in a looking glass, though people insisted it bore no resemblance.
The second piece, intended as a base for this neck sculpture, was a circular table-like structure some five sun high. Beneath its platform I carved numerous flowers and leaves in relief—blossoms with six unidentifiable petals and peony-like foliage. When I proudly declared I'd shaped this overnight by lamplight, people laughed at the peculiar table.
In any case, since the neck stand proved precarious, the head perpetually remained lowered.
The third piece featured a dragonfly perched on one end of a sencha water-cooling vessel, its tail bent to grip the rim.
The dragonfly concept held some interest, but ultimately it was just vulgar—the sort of trinket that pleases common tastes.
I once asked Hidema to fire that neck piece, but he said it couldn't be done without properly preparing the kiln.
When a certain woman who specialized in pottery firing visited, I made the same request, but she too advised against firing it.
Thus I ultimately left the neck unfired, leaving it to remain an ashen gray unto this day.

In front of the box containing these items was a jet-black bird perched on a somewhat thick branch measuring five or six sun in length.
This was a lesser cuckoo.
A certain person had gone hawking, commanded their hawk to catch this cuckoo, then specially had it taxidermied to present to me.
The clay neck had been positioned where it lay half-hidden by this lesser cuckoo.

Wishing to also view the garden scenery, I called Mother and had her slide open the shoji panels to both sides.
Though part of the same garden, the area facing the sickroom now appeared lively with cockscombs and leaf cockscombs, but this side held no notable flowers—and as the sun had already faded, the cold seeped into my bones with a touch of loneliness.
The bush clover had already been cut, and a chrysanthemum or two without flowers—twisted—were barely lifting themselves with the support of stakes.
The roses and Korean roses had mostly shed their leaves, with one or two reblooms faintly glimmering.
Behind them stood a red pine about one ken in height, at whose base two boards had been propped up.
This pine had been toppled by yesterday’s typhoon, which Mother and others had propped up by placing makeshift boards against it with the intent to support it.
The saplings of cherry, plum, persimmon, and pomegranate lining the fence alongside the pine presented a scene utterly devoid of charm.

The large wire-mesh birdcage, when viewed from here in the sickroom, showed only half of its opposite side. Through the wire mesh were visible two or three stalks of red and yellow cockscombs. Wire mesh and cockscombs—how utterly vulgar! Yet within this, there indeed existed interesting aspects.

The peaceful weather quietly faded into evening with not a breath of wind, but fearing a cold, I had the shoji closed. I remained absently propping my cheek on my hand. Feeling somewhat lightheaded, I took out the thermometer that had been placed in the inkstone box alongside brushes and tucked it under my left arm. As my torso and arms had grown emaciated, my armpits had become hollow, causing the thermometer to sit loosely; there were times when it would slip down unnoticed.

Mother brought in the evening meal.
I checked the thermometer; it read thirty-seven degrees and five tenths.
Surveying the tray, there was rice gruel, soup, potatoes, and a small portion of dried salmon.
Other than warm rice, eating gruel was my usual practice.
The soup was a clear broth with shiitake mushrooms and turnip greens, upon which a single egg had been dropped.
I liked the greens but did not care for this type of egg.
This evening’s meal felt lacking in feast-like quality, giving rise to discontent.
Mother tore open the newly arrived magazine’s envelope and placed it atop the mountainous pile of Hototogisu submission verses while remarking, “This month’s Myōjō has changed its cover color.”
I glanced sidelong at it; it was brown.
When told to change the soup, I tried eating it; finding it not entirely inedible, I ate it after all.
When told about the potatoes, I ate two plates of them as well.
Newly boiled baby potatoes were a savory thing.
I completely consumed two bowls of gruel, two bowls of soup, two plates of potatoes, and all the dried salmon, leaving nothing on the tray.
Three bags of creosote.
I peeled and ate a pear myself.
I bit into the core and sucked at the peel.

After resting a little, I begin tending to my diary.
Younger Sister lights and brings the half-heartedly placed lamp.
After some time had passed，there were signs of a fever.
Threw down the brush and lay supine.
Upon checking the thermometer, it had risen to thirty-eight degrees and one tenth.
Such a temperature would not be considered a high fever for me, but in my current weakened state, even this level of heat torments me, leaving me moaning and writhing for two or three hours.
Yet even with a fever exceeding thirty-nine degrees, the pain shows no significant difference.
After all, does the pain depend more on the body’s strength or weakness than on the degree of fever?
During more vigorous times, I would even take up my brush and write manuscripts while running a thirty-nine-degree fever.

Suddenly remembering, I took up Myōjō while lying supine and began looking through it. I opened each page to examine the titles and illustrations. When I came to the portrait of Goethe’s death face, I gazed intently at it for some time. I read the brief text accompanying the illustration. As I continued turning the pages, I found an article titled "Jaguchi Busshin" concerning myself. I read it thoroughly. The ridicule I had received in the previous issue had been fully retracted. Though this recent matter had arisen from misinformation and speculation—a mistake—I nevertheless believed myself worthy of such societal scorn on the whole. I kept turning page after page until I reached the end.

Finding that merely lying still would only increase my suffering, I called Mother to distract myself from the pain through conversation. At this time, my younger sister seemed to have gone to the public bathhouse. Mother slid open the fusuma door from the long brazier room and sat down opposite the lamp. “First, what shall we prepare for tomorrow evening’s feast?” I said. This concerned the four individuals—Sachiou, Hekigodou, Kyoshi, and Fumoto—whom I had invited to come tomorrow evening; the purpose being to consult with these gentlemen and make a final decision regarding my planned relocation to Okitsu, which had been delayed until now. I was resolved to retract the previous proposal and put forth a motion to halt the relocation.

“There’s no need for anything special with the feast,” Mother replied.
When I said, “By ‘feast’ I just mean wanting one unusual item as usual—we mustn’t repeat those orange-flavored buns from last time, but perhaps some sweets? With so many tea masters coming, should we intentionally serve Western confections?” Mother answered, “Western confections would require going to Aokidō? If so, I must go tonight—there’ll be no time tomorrow.”
“If you can’t go tonight,” I pressed, “then does Okano have anything special?” She suggested, “How about premium rice cakes?”
“Premium rice cakes—that’s utterly commonplace,” I laughed.
Setting that aside, I decided on the menu: one plate of fish, first-harvest mushroom soup, and a simple side dish.
“For the side dish,” I proposed, “what about cabbage? Boiled like before and simmered in beef fat—it was delicious then.” Mother countered, “If cooked in beef fat, Mr. Oka likely won’t eat it.”
“The very fact he won’t eat it makes it intriguing,” I remarked.
When our talk turned to how cabbage hadn’t been seen at Yaotoku lately, we concluded by agreeing “anything will do if unavailable.”
Throughout this discussion, I had lain on my left side facing away from Mother. When our consultation ended, she rose and left.

Once again alone, I recalled today’s diary. A day as uneventful and peaceful as this occurs not even twice a month; it was unfortunate that precisely such a day had fallen on my diary-writing day. However, I once had the thought—though never intending to show it to others—to write down a single day of my life in utmost detail; having since failed to realize that ambition, now seizing this opportunity to write today’s account, a peaceful day might instead prove most suited to revealing my true circumstances. To publish this in a magazine would be to treat people as fools, but would there be any harm in using it as a substitute for personal updates? Though relatives and acquaintances from the provinces had frequently inquired about my condition, my failure to provide detailed replies in each instance had led to various misunderstandings: some—perceiving my illness as more severe than it truly was—had particularly sent letters inquiring after my welfare to Kyoshi and others; while conversely, those viewing it as far lighter than reality had urged me to travel about as one capable not only of sitting comfortably but even some degree of walking, coming to request corrections of haiku manuscripts and other works. I found myself tormented by various thoughts—whether a factual account might also be necessary to correct these misunderstandings, and so on.

I called for the bedpan.

For some time now, I had been frequently experiencing chronic vomiting.
This was nearly an ordinary occurrence, but tonight it was somewhat more abundant.
It seemed I had overeaten at dinner.

My ruminations abruptly shifted to ethics education.
Lectures on loyalty and filial piety—concepts already fully grasped by middle and high school students—served no purpose whatsoever.
Particularly insufferable were the sanctimonious moralizing from unethical instructors—those barely scraping by on twenty or thirty yen monthly salaries as middle school teachers, who’d sweep the principal’s beard while spouting grandiose theories of worldly ambition—their very existence strained one’s sides to bursting.
Though I cannot confirm now, it struck me as odd that all my ethics teachers during middle and higher school years had invariably been Confucian scholars.
Was this because ethics had developed more fully in China than the West? Or because Confucian morality surpassed that of Western academics?
Were one to pose this question to a principal, even he would likely falter for an answer.
I maintained that moral elevation required edification above all else.
Yet if ethics instructors must be appointed, schools should recruit reputable figures from beyond their walls—whether for lectures or speeches.
A teacher despised by students could preach ethics until his tongue withered—not a single troublemaker would diminish thereby.
In Tokyo’s higher schools today, they claim to teach philosophical ethics—infinitely superior to immoral instructors’ moralizing—yet this too fails to reduce delinquents by even one, proving equally futile.

Delusions upon delusions—finally shifting to theories of kanji restriction.
The Ministry of Education’s selection of 1,200 to 1,300 kanji to be taught over four years in ordinary elementary schools—amounting to a rate of learning one character per day—would likely be roughly appropriate in terms of quantity.
However, whether their method of selecting those characters was appropriate remained questionable.
Rather than taking methods like flipping through dictionaries to extract common characters from one end, if I were to transcribe children's conversations, omit words particular to an individual child, their household, or region from those transcripts, select only the most ordinary terms, and create textbooks using this as the standard, those being taught would benefit from easier memorization and greater retention.
For example, were one to create vocabulary lists for three-year-old children, four-year-old children, and so on up through five, six, and seven years according to their developmental stages, this would not only serve as reference material for textbook creation but also undoubtedly contribute to the study of child psychology.
Even when viewed through a poet’s eyes, it was not without interest.

Suddenly noticing the enlarged shadow of myself lying supine cast onto the fusuma—with both knees raised and covered by a blanket—the shadow resembled a flattened mountain that formed an abrupt cliff at the knees before plunging steeply downward. As I gazed intently at this, I recalled the diagrams of "mountains in writing" I had frequently drawn lately. Moreover, when I diagrammed clumsy writing with rakugo-like abrupt endings, the mountain shapes—resembling the shadow of my current knees—made me find my own shadow increasingly uninteresting.

Amid delusions and tossing in bed, muttering speeches under my breath, repeatedly reviewing the day’s progression since morning, and gazing at two plaques—a watercolor by Yuzan and an oil painting by Fusetsu—I somehow passed three or four hours of torment until the fever gradually began to subside.

I mustered my courage, turned to face right, and took up the brush.
As I set about revising the diary again, the fever had completely subsided and my mind was clear, yet I felt no progress in my writing.
After a fever, my mind would always clear and work proceed swiftly; until around last year I had often undertaken tasks through all-nighters, but as the suffering the next day grew severe, I had now lost the courage to stay up through the night.
Even working just one or two hours after a fever would leave me unable to sleep that night, and it had become customary for my head to remain foggy the entire next day, rendering me incapable of any work whatsoever.

The surroundings were hushed and silent; I moved from one diary revision to the next.
Mother abruptly slid open the fusuma door and said, “How about some senbei?”
This was because it had become customary for me to eat something during nightly work sessions, hence her saying this.
“Unfortunately, tonight’s vomiting was somewhat severe,” I said, “leaving my stomach unsettled and appetite absent—but to flatly refuse seemed unwise. Is there truly nothing besides senbei?” To which she replied, “There is some Nikko yōkan received today.”
“In my wretched gluttony,” I answered, “I’ll have that then.”
Mother brought the yōkan and cut it with a small knife.
I ate two pieces.
Mother also ate.
The clock struck twelve.

Again, I took up the brush.
Finally, I came to Hidema's Cast Metal Diary.
This was the first-prize entry in this diary competition.
Not only did it overflow with fascinating and tasteful material, but its childlike sincerity in composition admirably revealed the artisan's innocent spirit.
There was no need for rewriting.
After correcting two or three characters here and there, I had completely finished revising all the diaries.
Joy upon joy!

I called Mother and announced I would sleep.
My younger sister, exhausted from bathing duties, appeared to have retired early.
Mother spread an additional blanket over the sickroom futon.
No sooner had I crawled back to the sickroom and climbed onto the futon than I settled my head on the pillow and whispered "paradise" to myself.
The diary revisions being completed felt absurdly gratifying.
Mother lit the low corner lantern by my pillow, tidied the inkstone box and manuscripts in the sitting area, then retired.

The yōkan left my mouth bitter.
I heard one o'clock strike.

Addendum

The amount of sputum over twenty-four hours was approximately two cups, each filled to about six or seven-tenths capacity.
It was especially abundant in the morning.
There were no traces of blood mixed in.

During sleep, he mostly lay supine.
When lying supine later caused unbearable back pain, he would turn to lie on his left side.
Though lying on the left side was preferable to lying on the right for sleeping, doing so meant he could only rest with his head pressed into the futon, making it impossible to half-rise and work.
Moreover, if maintaining the left-side position proved untenable, he ultimately reverted to lying supine.
His left leg remained bent and would not extend.
Therefore, when lying supine, his left knee was always raised.
He did not bathe.
He occasionally wiped his body with alcohol, though this occurred only about once or twice a month.
However, as foot grime could not be removed with alcohol, a foot bath was administered approximately once monthly.

Haircuts occurred about once a month by summoning a barber; he would half-rise to have it cut.

Tableware and such were handled separately for his portion and the family’s portion.
The portion for visitors required no mention.

Mail averaged three to four items daily.
However, submissions to *Nippon* were left to his family’s handling; as he did not lay a hand on them, he remained unaware of how many letters had arrived even on that day.

The degree of fever on that day was normal.
Lately, even days when he did not take up the brush were numerous; thus a day like that one counted as having accomplished much work.
Undoubtedly, this sufficed to prove that his condition was better than on usual days.

[Manuscript for *Hototogisu* Volume 4, Issue 2 - November 20, 1900]