Pathway to Japanese Literature

August 3. Clear.

Fasting—I must fast, not just because there’s no food, but for the purification of body and mind.
—

At least for today alone I want to live honestly, modestly, rightly—to fill each day, each moment, is to fill a lifetime.

Read in silence, withdrew into myself and observed my inner self; when weary, sipped coarse tea……

Today too there was a remnant evening shower in the afternoon; it grew noticeably cooler—even the dawn felt chilly—at night I visited Musuikyō.

August 4. Cloudy—clear.

Fasting again today， feeling unsteady， I smiled wryly—had I grown so old?

Carrying hunger， I went out； visited a hermitage along my travels and borrowed some immediate living expenses from the wife； managed to bring home two shō of mixed rice—82 sen— Ah， the deliciousness and preciousness of rice！ I keenly savored each grain’s radiance （first offering it before the Buddha， palms pressed in repentance）.

I curse my health—I am too healthy—a derailment from being overly healthy, (this weak-willed self of mine being beyond remedy,)

Morning glories—noon flowers—evening faces,

A note to a certain friend——

...I continue my barely-there existence huddled in a corner as ever, but even that life has reached an impasse; I must make a decisive turn regardless of means—sink or swim—I am mustering my entire being to forge a new way of living....

August 5. Clear—cloudy.

Early rising—I reflect and resolve: —I must establish a life of moderation; abandon self-indulgence and live with discipline; I was too capricious; my life was too irregular—a life unashamed upon reflection; unashamed before heaven and earth; a life without messy aftermaths—it’s in such a life that true peace of mind and spiritual grounding reside.

I stepped out to the post office; along the way bought vegetables—two large eggplants for five sen, one large cucumber for five sen; daikon was too expensive to buy (they were asking twenty sen per piece).

Southern magnolia—I arranged one of its branches. I wished to exist like the Southern magnolia; its leaves, its flowers—how masculine they were!

The blowing wind was unmistakably autumn; my heart set on renewal.

I was repulsive; I wanted to be dull-witted—to return to foolishness, protect foolishness, persist in foolishness.

August 6. Clear.

I rose, unable to wait for the eastern sky to brighten; soon the drum of Gokoku Shrine began its resounding toll. The days had grown noticeably shorter—it must have been nearing five already.

My body and mind were depressed; to lift myself up, I went out after receiving an invitation to the film *Miyamoto Musashi*. Watching it solemnly, I was made to ponder deeply—the sword is the person—isn’t the single-minded path of sword spirit also my own path? Ashamed, ashamed—I lacked willpower, ah, I lacked willpower.

Writing is the person; haiku are the soul. Without polishing the soul, how can haiku shine? The radiance of haiku is the radiance of the soul—the light of humanity.

The more I think, the more keenly I feel I don’t deserve to live—especially under the increasingly urgent circumstances both within and without, being unproductive, I cannot help but feel this way.

What makes me think this way?—the modern age has no room for it, and I have no confidence!
Even as a beggar like myself, I am losing even the passive value that might be permitted only to those single-mindedly devoted to serving the nation through haiku.

I don't want to live—I often want to die—and if I say it's because I lack the vitality for living, that would settle it; but it's also my weakness, lured by alcohol's charm, deceiving myself and others. What weakness! What futility! What worthlessness!

My only path now lies in this single-minded transformation—hold firm, Santōka!

August 7. Clear—cloudy—rain.

I rose with the drum of Gokoku Shrine.

I did all sorts of laundry—and at the same time, polished my haiku!
Days of seclusion brought me some calm.

“Those who endure shall be saved”—calm down, calm down, stay calm and endure.

When I had no money—which often stemmed from dissipation—I ended up acting unreasonably against my true feelings; there were many things I regretted. That day too, I couldn’t properly apologize to the electricity bill collector—I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

Tobacco became quite plentifully available at tobacco shops; just this alone made people’s minds relax—a mood of ease drifted through society.

I couldn't help feeling—with ever greater intensity these days—the shameful enormity of my stomach; how despicable!

A good rain shower had been granted; it grew cooler by the day—daytime was summer, and nighttime was autumn.

Today I produced an unusual number of haiku—thirty in a day was excessive, but such occasions were rare.

Do not cling to the past. Cast off the ego. Abandon self-attachment.

Night—a drunkard approached and called out; I stayed motionless. Splendid, splendid! Keep it up, keep it up!

They say long life brings many shames—ah, I’ve lived too long, amassed too much disgrace. A life steeped in shame. Yet luckily, I’ve not lost my capacity for shame.

Insomnia; couldn’t sleep until near dawn—read *The Gateless Gate*.

August 8. Cloudy—occasional light rain; First Day of Autumn.

Early morning visit to Gokoku Shrine; truly autumn was here.

A cup of plum tea without breakfast.

A touch of melancholy—whether from self-immersion or abstaining from alcohol—whichever it was, there was no mistaking that I remained weak.

Today, all the foreign rice I had—a little over one gō—was what I had no choice but to make do with.

What I awaited would not be granted…… I resolved to wait quietly.

Vast emptiness—how utterly absurd!
This had been my mood these past days.

Tonight again I couldn’t go to bed early, so I read The Gateless Gate.

Because I am without talent or ability, I could devote myself single-mindedly to one path—haiku composition; there was nothing else I could do but compose haiku. The question lies in whether I can accomplish it. To achieve this, I pour all my heart and strength—yesterday, today, and tomorrow as well.

Various matters—though there are no real tasks—keep me quite busy.

My head bows before the daily shrine flag……

Next door too, cute Tanabata bamboo decorations had been set up; gazing at them, I found myself immersed in a childish sentiment.

Waiting yet not waiting—the unawaited thing came.

Yū-kun, thank you, thank you; congratulations, congratulations.

To town—bought as much as I could: alcohol, rice, tobacco, and so on...

Took a bath at Dogo; of course, had a drink.

Shake, don't shake—it would be too pitiful if their once-a-year rendezvous were to fail; though in this world, there's no shortage of things far too pitiful.

Today's sake wasn't bad—mellow and smooth. The dangerous thing apparently wasn't dangerous after all.

By returning just the one shō worth of rice money, that alone made me feel thoroughly settled.

August 11. Rain—cloudy.

I got up around four o'clock.

When I reflect, there is nothing but actions I should be ashamed of.

Rain—somewhat stormy conditions; the recent weather was not normal.

I sat silently in deep contemplation; I did not step beyond the gate—

From the neighbor I received five or six persimmons; in exchange, two or three branches of evening faces.

Alcohol, alcohol—ah, is it a beloved demon or a hateful angel? Ah.

August 12. Cloudy—clear.

I slept soundly from evening until dawn—yesterday and today too, I lived modestly and honestly.
Stroking my limbs, I thought how fat I’d gotten; whether fat or thin, peace of body and mind was what I desired above all.

Today felt properly summer-like for the first time in ages; the lingering heat was finally severe. To borrow Priest Ryōkan’s words: summer’s heat is as it should be.

For the first time in ages—no, for the first time in half a year—I submitted haiku to *Sōun*; as for the essay for *Teiyū*, I couldn’t write it. No—rather, this willful self of mine had no inclination to write it. I told another lie; I should be ashamed, should be ashamed.

When I went out to the postbox and returned, there were two visitors—Mr. Tōkotsu and a friend—and receiving bread and tobacco made me happy.

It is an evident fact that bread tastes better than pure barley rice.

Insomnia until late at night; The Gateless Gate’s fifth case, “Kyōgen Climbs the Tree”—the first koan I read.

August 13. Clear—cloudy.
Third Anniversary of the Shanghai Incident.
A flood of emotions; I felt an unbearable sense of self-reproach.

As I gazed absently around, the figure of the priest going out for alms caught my eye; I felt distressed that I must repay the debt soon.

Yesterday’s evening faces were good, but this morning’s morning glories aren’t bad either; I arrange them and attentively admire them.

Disappointment; today too I waited in vain—Survive, survive we must, we Japanese.

I went out to the postbox and dropped in a letter I didn’t really want to send.

As it’s the time before Obon, visits to graves are numerous; today was dully overcast and muggy all day.

The crickets have begun singing close by.

*The Gateless Gate*, Case 7: Zhaozhou Washes the Bowl.

When it comes to Japanese high priests, I am devoted to Zen Master Dōgen; when it comes to Chinese high priests, I revere Priest Zhaozhou.

August 15. Cloudy—clear.

When my eyes opened, I got up immediately; the neighbor’s clock struck four.

With it being this cloudy and dully muggy, I grew worried about insect damage to the rice plants—Clear up, clear up, I kept praying, shine shine……

Last night I ate heavily; this morning I ate sparingly.

In every shop matches were sold out; being unable to smoke tobacco left me somewhat troubled.

I received a branch of southern magnolia and inserted it in a corner of the garden—may it take root like the oleander that budded.

At least—let me obtain my final haiku.
——

Calm down—I am waiting…

I had cooked all the barley I possessed that day and was calculating how to stretch it through tomorrow when Isshinrō came to my hermitage—ah, how nostalgic! A month had passed since our last conversation. I listened to his travel tales and received money for souvenirs; gratitude filled me.

In the afternoon, to Dogo—a bath and one drink, then another drink—that was my mistake. Another drink, another drink, until I was reeling; ended up mud-caked and tattered. Ah, ah.

The wretchedness of humanity! And my own weakness! I did nothing but lie prostrate, gaze up at the sky, berate myself, and whip my own self…

August 15. Clear.

I got up while it was still dark, organized my surroundings, reflected with shame, and disciplined myself.

The twelfth day of Obon; grave visitors did not cease.

I bought rice and soy sauce.
——

The sun blazed down; I gave thanks to heaven and earth.

——If—if only I didn’t drink alcohol—if only I weren’t so strong against it—how relieved I would be!—No—I would be too virtuous—No, no—I would be too happy!

The seventh haiku collection arrived; sparrows and crows came flapping their wings together. I bowed my head deeply and offered heartfelt thanks to both gentlemen of Ryokuhei Sumita.

Sake should be sipped, beer should be guzzled—yet here I am guzzling sake; it’s through guzzling sake that misfortune arises.

At least from now on, I’ll resolutely sever ties with shochu—for me, alcohol remains better than anything.

Humans are lying animals—this I feel piercingly.

Symptoms of alcoholism are appearing; that’s an all too natural consequence, yet somehow I feel uneasy.

——

Under the midday sun, I dropped my haiku collection into the postbox, one by one.

Visited Teiki; they were completely absent. Left the haiku collection and returned.

A fine moonlit night; viewing the moon from my bed—too good for me.

Today's purchases

○82 sen: 2 shō of mixed rice.
○5 sen: stamps.
○7 sen: soy sauce 1 gō.
○5 sen: one cucumber.
○10 sen: a small amount of dried sardines.
—Remaining funds: exactly 1 sen!

August 16. Clear, sometimes cloudy.

After four o’clock, the drums of Shinonome Shrine sounded; when it neared five, those of Gokoku Shrine resounded. I always rose between them—this morning was no exception.

——Please let what I await come—I prayed that if it didn’t come, I’d have no excuse—but this morning too, it did not come; I was miserable and could only sigh pitifully.——

That I was living—or rather, that I was not dying—meant borrowing from friends everywhere: exploiting them, causing trouble in all directions. Though I held no such intention, wasn’t this the result I was bringing about? …I thought and shuddered.

Distant thunder; the evening shower seemed about to come but did not—there was something that connected with my mood.

I was overwhelmed by the heat, power, and light of the All-Japan Secondary School Total Strength Rally.

Priest Gyokuhō came to the hermitage; as a Shingon priest, he was open-hearted and clear.

Since sugar became rationed with coupons, the temple wife asked, “What shall we do about sugar?” I replied, “I have no connection to sweet things.” I’m a savory person; you sweet tooth, enjoy my share to the full!

While taking an early evening walk, I visited Teiki; it was the Persimmon Society’s regular meeting. Seven attendees—no particularly striking haiku emerged, but their sincerity gladdened me. During casual talk at the gathering, Mr. Tsukimura told me about the front and back sides of painters or artisans; artists who aren’t the real thing are wretched, wretched.

Somehow exhausted, I slept soundly.

August 17. Morning clear, afternoon cloudy, night light rain.

I slept soundly and woke to rise at once, but it was already nearing six o'clock.

The fourteenth day of Obon—how lonely my Obon is!

Mosquitoes, flies, ants—even spiders and wasps came flying in.

The severity of the lingering heat these days.

Organizing my surroundings—no，organizing body and mind.

Confinement to these grounds；reflection and prudence；mental preparedness for the nation’s unity of 100 million hearts and one virtue.

After dusk came a brief sudden rain，and then it turned into a fine moonlit night.

Poverty was painful，but debt doubled that suffering.

The essence of life—as far as I am concerned—consists of the following three items.

Maintaining moderation.

Avoiding debt.

Not clinging to the past……not anticipating the future.

...I do not believe in an afterlife; I cast off the past; I believe solely in the present—this very moment, to which I devote my entire being to fulfilling the eternal instant;...I believe in a cosmic spirit yet deny individual spirits;...the individual parts from the whole and reunites with it; in this sense, life is a sojourn and death is a return.
…(as my belief)

My dining table is meager—often lacking side dishes, sometimes even rice—but that fact alone does not sadden me. What I always lament about this table is this: my stomach is large, too large; that I crave alcohol; that I stir up a greedy thirst (!) for just one drink.

Truly, I am a talentless glutton, a greedy demon.

August 18. Clear, with a small evening shower in the afternoon.

On the fifteenth day of Obon, I ate well and slept well.

This morning too, what I awaited did not come; I remained calm.

The criminal who killed the police officer finally exhausted his ill fortune—arrested yesterday morning, eleven days after the incident occurred—it was a rare event in this region. Everyone let out sighs of relief and grim satisfaction.

I think of haiku day and night; sometimes compose them obsessively. Being a haiku poet means one should be so thoroughly immersed that every action—walking, standing, sitting, lying down—becomes haiku itself.

I’m prone to dwell on death—my heart awaiting death is too weak—I am a coward! I cursed myself.

This very moment, thusness upon thusness; seeking the self and finding it unobtainable; dependent origination and non-self; emptiness and stillness.

My day—today’s record.

*The Gateless Gate*, Case 12: Zuigan Calls His Master.
——

I prepared to send out my seventh haiku collection—it was just preparation, since I didn’t have money for stamps.

I received cucumbers, eggplants, and pumpkins from Mr. K at the temple—grateful—the goodness of handmade things shines.

Evening walk—a truly beautiful full moon rose; it was fully autumn. I walked aimlessly yet felt somehow lonely: the desolation of a wanderer, the sorrow of a solitary man—an unchangeable fact.

“Leisurely Grass Talks”

On the Nature of Haiku—

To commit fully to simplicity.

Self-purification—attachment—toward trivialities—letting go: become it completely.

Life’s law—natural law—law of freedom ┌flow of nature

│ Rhythm

Fusion of self and other—unity of subject and object; oneness of body and mind └fluctuations of life

The Whole and the Individual (A Personal Inquiry)

Manifest: the expression of the whole through the individual.

August 19. Clear.

I got up after four o'clock; a calm dawn.

Old Calendar Obon, 16th day: servants’ holiday.

I’m a bit irritated—my Obon is truly a backside Obon in the original sense: “hanging suffering”—there’s no rice and no tobacco!

A stomach cleansing!
Today I’ll eat the cucumbers that arrived and pass the time, like a katydid!
The fruit of lies never ripens!
Very well—I will keep to my foolishness; I will persist in my foolishness.

I organized my haiku collection and prepared it for mailing—though I couldn’t buy stamps.

My honest stomach growled with hunger, but there was nothing to be done—drink water, drink water—

Clenching my empty belly, I brandished my wild brush!

Utterly famished—you can’t trade your back for your belly—by evening I finally resolved to borrow the electric bill money (which I’d hung near the doorway in a paper bag to allow payment even when absent), and with those seventy sen bought provisions—40 sen of mixed rice, 6 sen of hagi, 2 sen of matches, 9 sen of stamps—then found two or three stalks of beloved kariukaya grass by the roadside and arranged them in the vase on my dining table.

Today, I was vividly confronted with my own gluttony at dinner—though perhaps not entirely without extenuating circumstances.

Oneness of body and mind; practice and understanding correspond; body and mind naturally fall away; the original face manifests—(Dōgen).

Flowers scatter out of attachment, grasses grow from aversion—or so they say—but unless one understands the goodness of weeds, one cannot comprehend nature’s heart; weeds, each in their place, find their spot and express their truth.

I ate leisurely inside the mosquito net, then lay down simply spread out in the shape of the character “dai”—it was a happiness too great for happiness.

August 20. Clear.

I rose early; the sky was indescribably beautiful.

Commit to solitary poverty—that is the sole path remaining to me.

It must be of the immediate scene, the immediate event, the immediate object, the immediate mind.

As mental preparation for composing haiku—

Cast off greed and attachment.

Become one in body and mind.

Be honest; be strong, strong; be thin, thin.…

Yesterday had yesterday’s wind; today has today’s wind; tomorrow shall have tomorrow’s wind.

Live this very moment of today; persist in living it.

“Seigen Hakke’s wine.
Three cups consumed.
Yet the Way has not moistened his lips” (Case 10 of *The Gateless Gate*; Qingyue’s “In Praise of Solitary Poverty”).

—They’re here, they’re here! They’ve come, they’ve come! Thank you, thank you—straight to town, to the post office, then all around—paid what I could pay, bought what I could buy.
(I can’t pay as much as I want to, can’t buy as much as I want to.)

Haircut, bath, walk—ah, how refreshed I felt.

Sake is good, so good—but you mustn’t drink shochu!

I returned to my hermitage for the time being; then to Musuikyō, where I had a cheerful talk at the shopfront; further visited Old Donguri; was invited to dinner and such—ended up talking too much.

In the evening, I took a stroll and browsed the night stalls along the street.

The night meal was delicious; I also had a nightcap.

August 21. Clear.

I did manage to rise early, but with a slight hangover; reflecting on yesterday, I detest my own loquacity—whenever I meet people, I talk too much, and it’s so troublesome!

Mr. S, thank you; your friendship seeps into my very bones.

The lingering heat remains brutal—all the more acute because only mornings and evenings bring coolness.

To Kami-Ichiman; visited Old Donguri Isshinrō at his dwelling, conversed about haiku awhile, was treated to dinner—the somen feast delighted me; thanks to this, my Obon finally took on its proper spirit.

I took a night walk and bought various things at the night stalls.—

30 sen: chirimen jako

5 sen: vegetable leaves

10 sen: chili peppers

80 sen: alcohol

50 sen: picture book

40 sen: parcel postage fee

40 sen: stamps

There exists the term "cultivating virtue"—it means to nurture one’s nature and foster virtue.

Unusually today, a pilgrim stopped by and the Takashima Ekidan seller came.

—I wrote what needed writing, sent what needed sending, threw away what needed throwing away—I had managed to put both body and mind in order considerably.

It was an honest, unassuming day.

August 22. Clear.

I rose at four; soon the drums urging everyone to wake up resounded here and there.

The gleam of the morning star, the clatter of the first train, people’s footsteps, the sound of drawing water—the morning world was noble and beautiful.

My mind was calm and my body felt abundant.

The mosquitoes seemed to have decreased somewhat; I was finally getting some relief.

Truly, I am the owner of this bottomless stomach!

I write letters to various people; friends are dear; I am grateful.
The make-believe scenes are interesting.
I go out to the postbox.

I pickled vegetable leaves—tomorrow morning I could enjoy delicious quick pickles!
The cheapness and preciousness of salt; I even thought it was too cheap.

Tonight, for the first time, I heard the bell cricket’s song.

Cockroaches had come from somewhere and were nimbly scurrying about; I simply couldn’t feel any goodwill toward cockroaches alone.

……Before three o’clock, I woke up and read for a while.

The individual and the nation—the expression of individuality becomes the elevation of the nation.

When I reflect, there’s nothing but shame; exercise restraint, restraint, restraint.

Old grandmother’s memories have no end—

One must not treat even the most trifling odds and ends carelessly.
They will surely be useful for something.

August 23. Clear.

Rising too early is still rising early—what a fine morning this is!

I had been calm, but still couldn’t manage!

I went out; at Musei-ki, someone treated me to good shochu; I searched for alcohol (most retailers were sold out; breweries wouldn’t sell to casual customers), but finally got some at my usual shop in Nibancho; did various shopping; drank one cup, two cups, three cups… got drunk; borrowed a little from Priest K-san and went to Dogo for another cup; then to the oden district for yet another one, two, three cups… blackout drunk, collapsed by the roadside, and was luckily found by the neighbor’s wife who took me home—this won’t do, this won’t do—how shameful (I myself don’t remember clearly).

Idiot! Didn't you just cause trouble at the police box the other night, you fool? An old man should act like an old man—it's wartime! Get a grip!
Ah, I'm so ashamed.
Myoga—one bunch of five stalks—seven sen is too pricey for Matsuyama.
A life without confidence is worthless. Someone who can't believe in themselves is pathetic. And isn't that exactly what I am!

August 24. Clear turning cloudy; a brief evening shower in the afternoon.

The thought of last night’s disgrace was unbearable—I tilted the sake jar and gulped it down, mustered that vigor to visit the neighbor’s house to offer apologies and thanks, presented them with a haiku collection, and chatted a little.

Isshinrō visited the hermitage; I confessed my recent drunken antics; felt somewhat better; a sense of “well, well” came over me.

I received a recent work from Sumita—titled *The Taste of Japan*, which was Sumita’s taste—and savored it pensively.

In the evening, Musei-kun visited the hermitage; I lent him the September issue of *Haiku Kenkyū*.

Everyone has their own quirk—mine is this drinking habit. Tasting alcohol would be one thing, but I’m a bar-hopper: once I start drinking, I go from place to place guzzling until I’m dead drunk… This slurring old wreck is nothing but folly upon folly upon folly!

I am, quite literally, incompetent and talentless. There are just two things—only two—that I can do better than most: compose haiku and drink alcohol. What a wretched existence!

Let the grass grow as it will; isn't a home for insects also good?

Today’s Purchases

9 sen: Batto / 10 sen: pink / 15 sen: small sardines / 1 yen 35 sen: alcohol / 7 sen: myoga / 34 sen: dried udon / 20 sen: medicine / 5 sen: eggplant / 10 sen: train fare / 6 sen: cucumber / 10 sen: postcard / 12 sen: loach soup / 10 sen: chili pepper / 35 sen: bonito flakes

August 25. Rain, cloudy in the afternoon, clearing later.

Long-awaited rain—autumn rain—a clear transition from summer to autumn.

From today, rice too became rationed with coupons: 1 gō 6 shaku per day (1 gō foreign rice, 6 gō domestic rice). Even when mixed with wheat and doubled, this wouldn't fill my stomach—should I make do with two meals? Turn one meal into udon? While sugar rationing didn't bother me, this left me rather troubled.

Thank you thank you for yesterday and today; I'm happy, so happy.

I went all the way to Dogo and ended up guzzling—three gō meant for three days, down in one go!

For a time it rained quite heavily; the river’s water turned muddy and rushed turbidly onward.

The bell crickets’ song grew keener; the deeper autumn deepened, the keener it grew.

August 26. Cloudy—Clear.

The days grew shorter; mosquitoes drastically decreased.

Air-raid drills began today.

——Autumn, autumn—the new autumn had come.

When I heard from the temple attendant, it seemed rice wasn’t on the coupon system yet.
(I’d left everything to Priest K-san.)
I bought barley; I couldn’t buy rice.

Today’s substitute meal—an udon dish—was a failure.

Ah, ah—gluttony, gluttony! It must be my lack of artistry that makes me such a glutton.

Indeed, the landscape nearing an ill-omened day—the posture of the clouds, the wind’s restless motion—felt somehow unsettled.

I gathered white flowers from the graveyard fence and arranged them; what kind of vine is this? It has a lovely fragrance.

I went to bed early; the lamp was too dim for reading.

At times, artillery fire roared; insects chirped incessantly; I slept soundly.

A Humble View on the Nature of Haiku—I don’t think form necessarily dictates content; it can also be said that content creates form.

Purification—purify completely—the realm of non-duality.

(Become it.) (Innocence and zeal.)

August 27. Clear, sometimes cloudy.

Early rising—even though five o’clock struck, it was still dark; chilly.
The second day of air-raid drills; artillery sounds and insect sounds.

With body and mind solemnly applied, I studied; I should rewrite my will as well.

In the afternoon, I went to buy tofu—supplemented it with yatsuko. My meals were always meager, but the wildflowers tossed into the jar added a touch of grace; yesterday and today, a few stalks of miscanthus grass.

A refreshing wind blew in and purified the room; filthy desires fled away!
Oh, the preciousness of this vast sky without a single wisp of cloud shadow!

In the evening, Mr. Musei visited; we engaged in haiku talk and idle chatter for a time. Before long, Isshinrō arrived, and we discussed plans for September’s gathering.
The bush mosquitoes had dwindled considerably—what a relief.

Today I stepped on and broke my geta sandals, so I couldn’t go for a walk.

Truly splendid bell crickets were singing; their voices pierced through the surroundings with crystalline clarity.

Deep sleep—one of my few sources of happiness.

August 28. Autumn sunshine—cloudy; evening brought light rain.

I got up before four o'clock to a fresh cool scene with the morning moon; after a while, the air-raid alarm siren blared out, and the tranquil night gave way to dawn.

The early morning was chilly enough that I layered a yukata.

Having no money to buy geta, I stayed indoors; mending the torn upper zōri allowed me to avoid going barefoot for the time being.

The lingering summer heat retreated; today’s substitute meal—udon—wasn’t bad.

A few thoughts after reading *The Flavor of Japan*—

Writing is the person; the person is the writing; Sumita-kun’s writing is Sumita-kun himself.

Sumita-kun has a pure cotton character—no synthetic fibers mixed in.

A humble giant (physically too)—a warmly grounded person!

Alcohol is my kōan; to solve alcohol, to truly taste alcohol—this will become my awakening and enlightenment.

From dusk I burrowed into the mosquito net, reading by faltering lamplight—extravagant perhaps, but paradise! Paradise!

I crushed a pill bug crawling inside the net; that lingering discomfort wouldn’t fade—hey, you ancient pill bug! Where’d you sneak in from? You’ve got no comrades here…

August 29. Cloudy.

Early rising—dawn had not yet broken.

——Thank you, thank you; I’m happy, so happy.

Prime Minister Konoe announced the New Order declaration—the dawn of the Showa Restoration.

I headed to the post office (barefoot!), first bought geta, then tobacco, and of course two or three drinks! (First time in five days.) In between came manju, chikuwa, skewers, and so on.

In the afternoon, I dropped in on Mr. Musei and delivered a lengthy lecture; on the way back, detoured through Ōkaidō to catch a show at the Yūrakuza Theater—relaxed with a carefree movie. The fact that such films were gaining acceptance—albeit among certain circles—gave me pause for thought.

In the evening, I went out for another walk; coaxing Mrs. Isshinrō into lending me a little drinking money, I wandered aimlessly about. The air-raid siren wailed ominously, plunging everything into pitch darkness. I ducked into my usual oden shop; two or three regulars were there, chatting about nothing in particular as we grew pleasantly tipsy. Around ten, I returned safely to my hut and fell straight into a deep sleep.

At a time when the New Order is being formed, my actions today are too carefree—but they are my only comfort, my sole luxury. Compared to my usual modest poverty, I beg you to forgive me!

Today's sake was good—and so things went well: I didn't collapse, didn't chatter too much, didn't waste money,… didn't pass out drunk, didn't lose anything,… Good, good, splendid, splendid! (What makes me happiest of all is that I didn't cause others what you'd call real trouble.)

Santōka, who once rushed to drink, became he who frets over eating.

Santōka flounders even in drunkenness!

August 30. Clear—cloudy, light rain.

I rose early; though the drunkenness still lingered, my mind was clear.

Laundry, scrubbing away.

With the air-raid drills having ended last night, today the heavens, earth, and people all seemed brighter—and I thought this was more than mere perception.

In the afternoon, it turned to rain—falling and stopping like autumn rain, a quiet, good rain; I could settle down.

I headed to Dogo—my first bath in a week; as usual, one bath and one cup [of sake], so delicious.

I’m in trouble because I can’t pay the electricity and newspaper bills; it’s utterly pitiful—if only I didn’t drink… Such troubles wouldn’t arise, and yet…

The chirping of insects defies description; I lie in bed listening endlessly.

Self-examination: what has it brought me?
——

Overcoming alcohol is my wish, my duty, and my responsibility.

The term “flavor” (or “elegant refinement”) is a quintessentially Japanese expression.

Today’s shopping—various items.

78 sen: alcohol—10 sen; small sardines—2 sen; bath fee—10 sen; postcards—10 sen; tobacco and matches—8 sen; takuan.

August 31. Cloudy—rain.

As usual, I rose early,

Thank you—off to town—feeling a bit dazed.

In the afternoon, I went out barefoot again; redeemed the interest on my pawned items, gulped down two or three cups.—
I visited Tsukimura’s place and was served dumpling soup; then visited Isshinrō’s place to set the date for the haiku gathering—after that, I wandered here and there, growing more and more tattered, staggering and slurring.

No good, no good, no good—I’ve finally collided with the critical juncture to rebuild body and mind; steady on, steady on, steady on!

Oath: We solemnly swear to uphold the Imperial Will, discard all personal desires, refrain from clinging to the past, avoid being bound by individual positions, and devote our full strength with united hearts to establish the New Order.

This is the oath of the New Order Preparatory Committee—but it must also be the oath of all Japanese citizens, and it is my own oath as well.

September 1st, early morning.

Santōka humbly records

September 1st. Cloudy; light rain.

210th Day; First Anniversary of Kōa Hōkō Day; Great Kantō Earthquake Memorial Day.

In every sense, today was a deeply meaningful day for me.

Barefoot, I went for a walk in the suburbs—a state of mind prepared to wander step by step.

When walking alone, be unashamed before yourself; when sleeping alone, be unashamed beneath your quilt.

The realm of vigilant solitude—this is the world I must live in.

I am one who feels guilty upon reflection; I must become one who feels no shame before heaven and earth.

All day and night in seclusion; with body and mind stabilized, I was able to sleep soundly.

My resolve—

Strict enforcement of alcohol moderation, absolute prohibition of debt, practice of two meals.

To put it concisely, it is moderation of desires; to state it concretely in terms of daily life:

Alcohol: one gō per day; no more than three gō at once or five gō in a day; to be sipped and savored, not gulped; no seeking beyond mild intoxication.
Never take on debt—unless it is an urgently needed accommodation—do not overeat; implement substitute meals.
Strive to ration tobacco by cutting it into smaller portions.

It is simply practice; reflection must manifest as disciplined action. I vow this—I vow to myself: Protect yourself; persist in your folly.

September 2nd. Clear, sometimes cloudy.

I rose with Gokoku Shrine’s drum; heaven and earth clear and bright, body and mind tranquil. In the lower field, scarecrow clappers had been set up and were rattling since early morning; hearing them, even I felt my boyhood dreams revive.…

Today school begins and boys and girls attend; I too will relearn life’s first lesson with a schoolchild’s heart!

Cast off attachments, cast them off! Discard greed! Shatter greed!

No breakfast; an early lunch.

The rice rationing system was implemented—the temple acolyte even obtained my share (the priest advanced the rice payment); I’m sorry.

Eight *gō* for five days’ worth at once (allocation per person per day: six *shaku* of domestic rice, one *gō* of imported rice).

Imported rice cost (1 *shō*: 38 sen): 5 *gō*—19 sen.

Domestic rice cost (1 *shō*: 45 sen): 3 *gō*—13 sen 5 rin.

Total sum: thirty-two *sen* five *rin*.

Ah, I am inferior even to flies and mosquitoes.…

The recent muggy heat... I wish for some sunlight for the rice.

Wartime life should be solemn and bright.

Haiku poet's notes:—
The realm where form and mind are not two, where object and mind become one—the thing itself is the mind itself.
The realm of accepting fate with joy—sing things exactly as they are.

I remained indoors all day; quiet reading, quiet contemplation.

My meals became more scarce than meager.
At night, I was stung twice by a centipede; somehow found myself deep in thought.—

September 3rd. Clear.

I rose early; the morning glow was beautiful.

Friend, thank you—I'll head into town right away, grab this and that for shopping, hastily snatching things up!

September 4th. Clear.

Slightly hungover; I must reflect, I must exercise caution.

Soldier, oh—I—

Nonsense, fabrications—truth or its absence—

The molting effect—that with each drunken bout I shed a layer—shedding a layer is indeed a fact; alcohol is both poison and medicine!

Idiot! Stupid fool!
I cannot stop berating myself—ah—

September 5th. Cloudy, light evening shower.

I went to the post office, and then—and then—ah ah...

No money, no possessions, no teeth—this solitary self.

What does such a one amount to? Feel shame, feel shame!
Dash yourself against the earth!

September 6th. Cloudy, occasional light rain. Self-restraint; bathed in Dogo. Today I overcame alcohol; I conquered myself. Hooray!

On the way, I bought six eggplants from a farmer’s child for five sen.
(Too cheap.)

Cast away attachment, discard likes and dislikes; in cause and effect, no self—this very moment is thusness, thusness.

September 7th. Cloudy; stormy conditions around what seemed to be an unlucky day.

Body and mind depressed—self-reproach unbearable; only through practicing self-restraint could I be saved—first and last—overcome alcohol! Were not my recent disgraceful acts solely due to drink?

Old age—the dregs of nightmares, guilt and remorse—this was what my old age amounted to; emotions beyond measure—rise up! Savor old age! Enter a cheerful old age! Put your experiences to use!

I could no longer avoid becoming aware of body and mind weakening.

September 8th. Cloudy—clear.

Melancholic self-examination.

——Where to go? What to do? What should be done? What must be done? What cannot be left undone?—— Examine yourself thoroughly to the bitter end.

Visited Nishiyama’s Hōtō-ji; paid respects at Priest Heki’s grave.

Visited Asahiyama Army Cemetery.

Viewed Shiki’s haiku monument in Yogo.

September 9th. Clear.

Unable to bear the loneliness, I visited Isshinrō’s place; then I visited Fusame.

After that went wrong—I became tattered, muddled……

September 10th

Rain—wind； lying in bed； reflection； anguish； repentance.

September 11th.

Heavy rain fell as if striking.

Today again, my head wouldn’t lift—not so much from bodily ailment as from a troubled conscience.

September 12th. Clear.

I will go out to Dogo—literally one bath and one cup.

In the evening, Isshinrō came to my hermitage; he said he’d come out because the moon was beautiful. We talked late into the night; my mood seems to have lightened considerably.

September 13th. Clear autumn day.

The autumn sky stretched endlessly blue.

After four days abed, I rose; self-restraint and self-reproof; setting my surroundings in order; body and mind felt somewhat lighter.

The anniversary of General Nogi’s death—the General’s sincerity outweighs all treasures.

B’s messenger came; I could only muster a wry smile (this too alcohol’s doing). Gave him a fee and entrusted a letter; he struck me as an oddly virtuous sort.

Both yukata torn through, one soiled besides—I donned a lined kimono instead; sweltering, sweltering, I bore the sweat.

September 14th. Clear.

Around 1 AM I woke and read, selected verses, wrote; around 5 AM while drowsing had an unpleasant dream—dreaming itself isn’t bad, but such disagreeable ones pose a problem.

A peerless autumn sky; put body and mind in order, settled calmly into reading immersion.

Have self-respect; I am not a self that belongs only to myself!

Today I resolved to pull up the weeds in the front garden; having cleaned it completely—it was as though I’d purified my own body and mind.

Lying in bed, I gazed at the moon—a joy granted to me.

The rice rationing system—this saved me; for half a month now, the priest has been bringing my allocated rice, advancing the money—grateful yet unworthy of such kindness.

September 15th. Clear.

Early rising; the drum of Gokoku Shrine sounded.……
Depression; I felt the heaviness of body and mind.

Skipped breakfast; felt feeble.

I boiled all the wheat and potatoes I had—(not potatoes, old nags!)

A day somehow filled with irritation; a day when I might succumb to death’s temptation.

Because of this fallow land utilization, Mr. K, Daikoku-san, the children, and the wife were all bustling about; I alone sat there in solitude.

My stomach unsettled, I lay pondering early inside the mosquito net; the perfectly round moon shone in—was this paradise at the bottom of hell?……

The moon hid behind clouds and reappeared; I grieved and smiled; before I knew it, I had fallen asleep.

In any case, it was a sound sleep—happiness upon happiness.

Do not crave it as alcohol—savor the sake.

September 16th. Cloudy—windy—clear.

The fifteenth day of the eighth lunar month—the Mid-Autumn Harvest Moon.

Today, my state of mind opens somewhat—

For breakfast, I ate potatoes.
(Since there was no rice or wheat.)
A fallow land utilization field was created in the temple’s front garden; a scene of the couple working together!

I sold waste paper; prices had dropped lately, but even so—seventy sen—it was a great help.

I had intended to go to Dogo but turned back from the postbox.

Two small cucumbers: 3 sen; one medium daikon: 4 sen.

Today was windy and cool.

Today again, I received rationed rice from Priest K, who covered the cost upfront—I am deeply, deeply grateful.

Nostalgic recollections are unbearable; how antiquated and decrepit I have become!
Turned against people, turned against the world, and turned against myself.
——
To let things be as they are—to let them become as they become—existence as-is—natural suchness.

Rice, rice! Ah, ah—for the first time in ages, I received a bellyful of white rice; it was truly a thing of gratitude.

A penniless Mid-Autumn—the truth was that it felt lonelier than a moonless night, like some genuine falsehood.……

Driven by autumn wind-roused mosquitoes stinging fiercely, I retreated early into the mosquito net—there I spent hours gazing at the moon, reading books, thinking thoughts, and nursing loneliness.

Such a splendid moonlit night, yet no one came—Priest Isshinrō, what has become of you!

I couldn’t help but recall Hōsaibō’s haiku.—
Gazing at such a fine moon alone and then sleeping — Hōsaibō

I too have two or three self-mocking haiku.

No alcohol; I watch the moon pensively.

Even to me inside the mosquito net, the moon shone brightly—

Throwing open [the net], I gazed at the moon as I lay down to sleep.

"I want to have a drink!
This is natural; this is my truth!"

Viewing the moon, my emotions were boundless; I thought of the battlefronts and looked back on the home front—those near and far, intimate and distant; the connected and unconnected—Namu Amida Butsu.—

Night; unable to bear the emptiness, I went wandering here and there; scattered figures visited Gokoku Shrine under the moonlit night; inside their homes, people enjoyed harmonious moon viewing.

Call it wanderlust or homesickness—anyway, I—tonight’s Santōka was lonely; ate potatoes; they were potatoes, but old nags of potatoes.—

Unable to sleep no matter how long I lay there—even though the neighbor’s clock struck one, I still couldn’t sleep—I kept reading *The Narrow Road to the Interior*.

When dawn broke and I finally drifted into half-sleep, I saw a strange dream—of visiting my deceased younger brother’s new marriage, and such……

Anyway, toward moderation—and then simplicity—and then toward austere simplicity.

September 17th. Clear.

When I got up, the neighbor’s clock struck five; the moon setting over the mountains was beautiful.

Having regained calm in body and mind—I am growing brighter day by day, moment by moment—this I believe and celebrate.

Scattered cold rice; bitter autumn chill.

This is my genuine feeling from this morning; reality cannot be falsified—it is precisely there that haiku’s dignity resides.

The mail hasn’t come again this morning? Ah ah—how pitiable Santōka is.

If I—if only—could quit drinking—how much peace I would find! First materially I’d be saved; rescued from this hand-to-mouth existence of eating or not eating each day; the anguish of deficits and pangs of debt would fade; trivial hardships would vanish—but I can’t muster confidence to abstain—for drinking alcohol is—to me—the very moisture keeping me alive!

The symptoms of alcoholism were gradually becoming apparent—ah.

I walked a short way to the postbox; along the path, I picked up haiku and picked up cigarette butts.

Today’s shopping—

26 sen: one shō of barley; 10 sen: pink; 6 sen: one block of tofu; 5 sen: stamps.

How base humans are! — How ugly Santōka is!

Wind, wind, wind—autumn, autumn, autumn.

Cleaning up around myself; being confronted with my own egoism.

Regarding haiku—

┌Spirit—Japanese—unchanging ┌Structural

Haiku-esque│ │

└Expression—era—trend └Subjective

Complete—in terms of individual works; incomplete—as a writer,

While cooking rice, I thought of various things.

Oh what a huge stomach—the owner of such a stomach, this incapable old man called I am unfortunate (as is only natural).

Something pressing in relentlessly—ah, I cannot go on living!

The power of self-restraint—the power of the era—and the power of the season.

Tonight too a fine moon; alone, quietly reading and thinking, I went to sleep.

September 18th. Cloudy.

The 10th anniversary of the Manchurian Incident; the funeral ceremony of the late His Imperial Highness Prince Nagahisa of Kitashirakawa-no-miya.

I had come to feel an unspoken intimacy with the brazier—one manifestation of what might be called the heart of autumn.
I thought my dining table was less destitute than lonely.

From Gokoku Shrine came unceasing shouts of commands and applause; listening intently, I felt overwhelmed by mourning for the late His Imperial Highness and the fervor for building the East Asia New Order……

Isshinrō visited my hermitage after a long absence—apparently he’d come during my recent days away.—

In accord with Prime Minister Konoe’s aspiration, I too reaffirm my resolve for “100 million hearts as one”—though I remain an unreliable man.
——

That my stomach empties yet can devour endlessly—how wondrously strange.

Today begins the equinoctial week; heat and cold persist only until Higan—how true this rings.

Good eating, good sleep—alas, no good bowel movements (my hemorrhoids are ruptured!).

I had a dream—a vulgar dream, shameful upon reflection. They say saints don't dream; I wish at least to avoid such dreams.

September 19th. Clear autumn weather.

Slept in; woke up around six.
A cup of plum tea without breakfast.
Airing out against insects—ragged drying; mold-mold—stench-stench.
Autumn mosquitoes grew ever more sharply pressing; no wonder.

Mixed yam-barley rice—(there was no regular rice)—I was always “without complaint,” yet unexpectedly regretted the effort—the time it took to prepare.

The Incident disciplined the people, put the nation on edge—as divine will, it should be prayed for.

For an early lunch, several bowls of yam-barley rice—so delicious, so grateful.

I keenly felt that the completion of a highly defense-oriented nation and the guarantee of minimum livelihood were inseparable.

There are times when marking time proves futile—whether for an individual or a nation—but one must never turn back.

A mixture of the natural and unnatural—I discovered this within myself, for instance in my loneliness.

True haiku—not haiku-like haiku—haiku within haiku.

In the evening I went to Shōshū-ji Temple; as it was the Shiki Memorial, I paid respects at the grave. On my way back, I had intended to visit Teika Honei, but feeling dispirited, I ate two bowls of udon at Kameya—that was my dinner, and I had the twelve sen for it—then returned straight to my hermitage. Though it had been ten days since I last went into town, I found it slightly grating; and I keenly felt how my eyesight had weakened—probably due to malnutrition—or rather, maybe because I’d run out of gasoline!

Early this morning, I was startled by the frantic tolling of alarm bells; apparently an elementary school somewhere had burned down completely. I felt sorrier for the children than anyone else.

Tonight was another fine moonlit night; I slept soundly.

“Chronicle of Lingering Years”

The equinoctial week was said to begin tomorrow.

The fire at dawn today in Shintamachi had apparently destroyed over twenty houses; they said it was Matsuyama’s largest conflagration in recent times.

I too had grown forgetful of late; I often mixed things up; I seemed to be turning senile—how keenly I felt I didn’t want to age.

September 20th. Clear autumn weather; the rising sun is precious.

When I opened my eyes, it was dawn; the crowing of roosters, the beating of drums, the tolling of bells—calmly, solemnly, daybreak arrived—I pressed my palms together in silent prayer.

The morning was cold; how I longed for fire.

For breakfast, I steamed and ate potatoes.

Body and mind clear and pure; lately being able to sleep well brings me joy.

A shrike came near and chattered nonstop.

The deliciousness of water, and the preciousness of salt.

The mail—somehow melancholy because the letter I’ve been waiting for impatiently hasn’t come; what a coward I am!
I'm so self-indulgent!

The calmer I grew, the lonelier I became—clear skies only deepened the solitude.

The pouch lay empty; from the kitchen, a jar stood hollow……

Aesthetic appreciation of poverty was ill-advised.

I wished to maintain an unshakably composed posture.

I shifted from three daily meals in drunken stupor to two with mild intoxication.

The sorrow of a stomach that hollows too easily—there's humor in that too.

Robustness—too robust, this unmanageable robustness!

If I can't achieve self-reform, what reform is there?

Shake off this fidgety restlessness.

Visited Musui-kun—not home—borrowed dried udon; visited Warei Residence—borrowed pocket money.

76 sen: two shō of imported rice (though not from the black market); 17 sen: half a cup of shochu; 6 sen: one gō of soy sauce.

Cigarettes can be scrounged, but there's no rice to be had!

Even with pure imported rice, if I crush a bit of dried udon and mix it in, it won’t scatter—this is my discovery as someone who cooks for myself; isn’t that simple and affordable?

Morning and evening, I felt the autumn chill; it was truly autumn; I thought of journeying.

September 21st. Cloudy, light rain, then clear.

Waking early; lately I had come to sleep well, and mornings were particularly comfortable.

I arranged red spider lilies; this was one manifestation of the equinoctial mood.

Priest K was quite diligent in his fieldwork; though I always relied on his help in every matter, I sensed there was something we shared in common.

Lately, I have been living modestly, excessively modestly; this stems both from internal tightening and external pressures, but regardless, I have been practicing self-restraint and self-admonition. Going forward, I will likely continue living true to myself—my original way of life. What I must reflect on is not forcing things: forcing is unnatural; what is unnatural neither persists nor should be persisted in.

I confessed my faults facing heaven, earth, and humanity.

I was at a loss when pressed for the newspaper fee; no wonder, since four months' worth had piled up.

Unusually, I took an evening nap; I saw various dreams; waking now and then, my loneliness grew crystal clear; pressing close came a tinkling—the insects must be lonely too!

The power of virtue—personal virtue

September 22nd. Clear autumn skies; an inexpressible serenity; the afternoon turned cloudy.

I rose before dawn; there was a moment of solemn realization.

The mail arrived—I was notified of Hōko’s death. Shocked I was—truly shocked—though it wasn’t unforeseen sorrow. Ah Hōko—you were a narcissus-like soul; as a friend too young and distant, yet my memories of that visit remain boundless—this surging grief and loneliness became haiku after haiku, flowing forth like water—Hōko, how fiercely you clung to life till yesterday! A decade’s illness-battle—that pain, that effort, that devotion—far beyond what a mortal like me could bear; I bow my head to you anew—Ah what passes must pass; Hōko too has finally gone—Ah—Alone I quietly burned incense and chanted sutras.—

Wandering through mountains and fields—the grief of mourning knew no bounds—haiku came forth in abundance.

Body and mind were serene; I studied Cases Eleven and Twelve of *The Gateless Gate*.

Priest K, I was truly grateful—thanks to you, I hadn’t starved.

I keenly felt that the current situation was growing ever more critical.
(On the 19th, an imperial conference had been held.)

In the afternoon, I visited Gokoku Shrine. That day there were especially many worshippers; since morning, the stream of visitors had been unceasing.

Poverty enlarges the stomach—a warning born from my own experience!

Tonight I felt particularly lonely.

It seems like rain tomorrow—a rare day for an outing; I hope it doesn’t rain.
(Not for my sake, but for theirs)

Finally, I gathered five sen, searched for pinks, and managed to buy them.

I tried sleeping without a mosquito net, but bush mosquitoes kept attacking, so I hung it up again; I detest mosquito nets.

“Matsuyama Stroll”

I spent nearly the entire night composing and polishing haiku.

Tonight again, I killed a centipede. It felt unpleasant, but there was no helping it.

Today’s rice expenses (covered by Priest K)

One day: 1 gō of imported rice; 1 shō: 38 sen.

Allocation: ten days’ worth
One person: 8 shaku of domestic rice; 8 gō: 36 sen.

September 23rd. Cloudy—occasionally clear.

Autumn Imperial Spirit Festival—midday of the equinoctial week—a perfect day for outings.

I tried to get up too early, and dawn hadn’t broken at all.

——I must now repent all my transgressions.

Imported rice was also delicious; without complaint, simply, modestly.

Outing-day outing-goers; splendid, splendid.

Ah, a message from Ken! (To feel unsatisfied because the amount wasn’t what I’d hoped for—what a sin!)

I went out to town—my first street stroll in nearly half a month. At Y shop, I had my exchange vouchers converted to cash (today being a holiday), bought as much as I could after paying what I could upfront.

It was my first drink in half a month—one cup, two cups, three cups—I turned into a sloppy mess but didn’t completely fall apart; for me, that counted as passable.

I also went to Dogo, washed away ten days’ worth of grime and filth in my first bath there, and even got a haircut—it felt refreshing.

I spoke with Priest K; I spoke with Musui-kun and Rarei-kun; I spoke with the oden shop’s proprietress and the rice shop’s old man… Talks of black-market dealings, restaurant violations, drinkers’ tales, and so on.

(Only Japanese sake!)

Sake is delicious—truly delicious—too delicious!

Giving a gold coin (koban) to a cat demonstrates not the ignorance of the cat that received it, but rather the foolishness of the human who gave it.

September 24th. Rain; a quiet autumn rain.

I got up around three; drank and ate yesterday’s leftovers.

Yesterday, having received dumplings from the temple and managed to buy rice cakes myself, it somehow began to feel like the equinoctial week.

“Autumn in truth—purity indeed—become it, become it!”

First I must organize my debts; to do that I must abstain from alcohol—total prohibition may be impossible, but moderation is achievable.

Eradicate this slacker’s disposition and self-destructive mood—by all means execute this!

I’ll record yesterday’s repayments and purchases.—
2 yen: repayment to Priest K — 2 yen: rice expenses — 2 yen 40 sen: newspaper fee — 42 sen: udon payment to Musuijū.
2 yen 40 sen—alcohol expenses — 30 sen—tobacco — 8 sen—incense — 10 sen—soap — 10 sen—hijiki seaweed.
15 sen—matches; 52 sen—pressed barley; 8 sen—ginger; 40 sen—bonito flakes; 20 sen—bread; 20 sen—rice cakes; 24 sen—soy sauce; 15 sen—miso.

My stomach felt uncommonly unsettled—though given how yesterday’s indulgences had carried over into today, this was only to be expected.

The morning turned unseasonably cold despite wearing lined robes, so I layered a sleeveless vest over them.

I wrote three letters—to Hōko, to Hiiragiya, to Manchuria—all sorrowful letters, shameful letters...

I kept ranting about ambushing Priest K; it was such a lonely day that solitude became unbearable.

First: strictly prohibit shōchū. Shōchū brings no pleasure—only intoxication. Psychologically and physiologically harmful—to me, shōchū is truly demonic.

Since I don’t have a rain umbrella, I borrowed one from the temple and headed to the post office; had a quick drink along the way!

Then again to the post office; I gulped down another cup!
The beloved son of Donkitsuan brought chestnut rice by bicycle; I immediately partook of the feast—grateful, grateful.

Two bundles of Chinese cabbage for six sen; immediately washed and pickled them.

The proprietress of K-ya came to the hermitage; I felt apologetic; it was the aftermath of bar-hopping.

Today: pure Japanese rice; yesterday: pure Shina rice; tomorrow—.
——

In the evening, Kyoharu-kun visited; it seemed he came to request prayers to correct his brother’s drinking habit. The irony of alcohol-banishing prayers! Priest K must have given a faint wry smile!

Before I knew it, the sky had cleared into a starry expanse.

Tonight again I slept without a mosquito net; I stretched out and slept soundly.

October 1st. Cloudy—occasional light rain.

Asia Development Public Service Day, National Census Day, First Day of Comprehensive Air-Defense Drills.

The first day of the ninth month in the lunar calendar.

I rose early, visited Gokoku Shrine, practiced self-restraint and self-admonishment.

I organized my surroundings—so that I'd be ready whenever death came.
——
I read calmly and quietly.
Without noticing, I had caught a cold—coughing fits and snot dripping down made everything troublesome.
It was this day last year—I crossed over to Matsuyama and hadn't forgotten my first meeting with Isshinrō. How could I forget? It had already been a year—a year less swift than tumultuous.
I would not leave my gate; meet no one; spend not a single penny; devote myself solely to prudence.

Feeling under the weather, I went to bed early and dozed fitfully throughout.

October 2nd. Cloudy; shrikes chirping incessantly; seems likely to clear up.

Though I got up early, my head felt heavy, my chest was tight, my appetite wouldn't come, and I sat there in a daze.

Rather—as for me—I glorify my maladies; nothing in this world does me any good.

I went out to the post office—along the way, out of habit, I took a quick drink at my usual liquor shop—but before I knew it, one cup became two, then three—until finally I borrowed train fare from Isshinrō's wife and dashed off to Imabari…… When I called, Mr. Shimizu kindly rearranged his work to come meet me; I was treated to a meal and drank heavily (I did take a liking to F Hall's dishes)—but with everyone busy from air-defense drills and no one settled—we agreed to meet another day and parted ways on the ten o'clock train back—the return journey plunged into darkness—I had no choice but to grope through the void—and I was made to feel the wretchedness of alcoholism until I could bear no more…… Thank you—Mr. S—truly thank you—not only did I receive pocket money—but even a gift.

I returned to the hermitage close to two o’clock; after tidying up this and that, I likely got into bed around three.

I received something from a dog—this night, a dog that had followed me from nowhere was holding a large rice cake; I was treated to a feast of rice cake from the dog.

Thank you, Wan-kō; thank you, white Wan-kō. The leftovers—I offered them to this white cat that also appeared from nowhere.

The first—and last—act of merit!
To receive something from a dog!

┌The rice cake shop’s rice cake

│Approximately five sun (about 15 cm) in diameter.

└Color somewhat black

October 3rd. Rain—Cloudy.

Slept in slightly; after all, I was exhausted—feeling under the weather.

When I thought about yesterday’s meeting between me and Mr. S, I felt both happy and ashamed—repentance upon repentance, gratitude upon gratitude.

I repaid Priest K, paid the rice payment, repaid Isshinrō’s wife, bought barley; then gulped down two or three cups—completely drunk. Drunk I was, yes—but I didn’t collapse from drunkenness.

I went to bed early in the evening, but due to insufficient blackout measures, was scolded by the youth monitor.

On the nature of haiku: —

Symbolization of impressions (the eternal in the momentary; the whole and the individual)

Crystallization (not compression but simplicity)

Purification of body and mind; clarity and penetrating transparency.

Core, burning silence, centripetal.

I thought my misfortune arose from being too robust.

October 4th. Clear skies—a flawless day.

Fourth day of drills—the air-defense exercises grew increasingly serious. I was impressed by the monpe-clad units; I was grateful to the youth monitors.

The cold cleared up—both a blessing and not a blessing, so to speak.

In the afternoon, I strolled through the city, observed the townspeople’s training drills, then dropped by Musuikyū for a bout of haiku talk.

Lately I had been quite undisciplined; today I restrained from alcohol, tightened my resolve, and studied—well done! Well done!

October 5th. Clear skies—utterly autumnal skies.

Before dawn, I rose; from early morning, the air raid alarm blared—I felt restless for no particular reason.

In the morning I stayed in reading; in the afternoon, for the first time in a long while, I went to Dogo—shaved off my beard, scrubbed away the grime, and felt refreshed. Usually it was one bath and one drink, but today I abstained after just the bath.

Everywhere showed pre-festival scenes; children were running wild.

Even during festivals, there were no festivals for me; days when I had pocket money and felt good were always my festivals; the meagerness of my dining table, amidst the festivals, only became all the more meager!

Matsutake mushrooms had gotten cheaper; though not yet at peak season, lower-grade ones were forty sen, upper-grade eighty sen.

I wanted to have a drink with grilled matsutake mushrooms, ah!

Last evening, I went for a walk and felt a penetrating chill—and then, somehow, a shivering cold—; upon returning to my hermitage, I found that my rice had been eaten by a stray cat.

In the evening, I was rejoicing at being able to settle down now that the air-raid drill was over, but the warmth brought a swarm of bush mosquitoes—however, once it grew late and colder, I could read and write at leisure.

October 6th. Clear—Cloudy.

Today and tomorrow are the autumn festival in the Matsuyama area.

Priest K came specially to offer kind words—"If you need extra pocket money for the festival, I have some here—please don’t hold back"—his warmth seeped into my very bones—ah gratitude upon gratitude.

——I must not forget—the hermitage in Miyukidera Temple’s grounds at Miyuki Mountain’s foot where I had moved last December 15th under Isshinrō’s guidance—perched high with tranquil purity in both dwelling and land, commanding fine views of distant towns and wild hills—and above all having encountered Priest K himself—for this I feel nothing but gratitude.

Sumita named this place One Grass Hut; though each tree and blade of grass receives the universe's life, I continued living in pure gratitude—this life of gratitude was surely what Sumita intended.

One Grass Hut—a six-tatami room in the narrow space, a four-and-a-half-tatami room; the kitchen and toilet were well arranged. There was a pump at a water-drawing spot about ten ken ahead; the water quality wasn't bad. Firewood could be freely gathered from behind. Facing east-north, the sun rose directly—though lately it had shifted slightly to the right—and it was ideal for moon viewing.

To the east lies the newly built Gokoku Shrine; to the west, the ancient Ryūtai-ji Temple. Matsuyama Ginza is about seven chō away, Dogo Hot Springs a few chō, Donguri-an four chō—my friends are all kind—in every respect, this dwelling is far beyond my station. I wept with emotion; it will soon be a year since I humbly settled my bed here—and yet, and yet.—

I felt…… upon returning to my hermitage, my rice had been eaten by stray cats.

In the evening, I was rejoicing at being able to settle down now that the air-raid drill was over, but the warmth brought a swarm of bush mosquitoes—however, once it grew late and colder, I could read and write at leisure.

October 6th. Clear—Cloudy.

Today and tomorrow are the autumn festival in the Matsuyama area.

Priest K came to me with warm words—"If your festival pocket money falls short, I have a little on hand—please don't hesitate"—and he made a point of saying this; kindness, ah, how grateful I was, how grateful—I didn't intend to impose on others, but eventually I ended up thinking, "I'm sorry, but..." and making the request, ah, ah...

That morning I ate the cat's leftovers, and thinking to combine it with last night's dog incident, I planned to write a piece of miscellaneous writing; if I received any manuscript fee, I would treat both Wanko and Nyanko—and of course I would drink too!

October 7th. Overcast, then clear.

Early morning visit to Gokoku Shrine; feelings of gratitude and restraint welled up. Gratitude! Gratitude!
Gratitude is sincerity and faith—gratitude to the nation; gratitude to those who have served the nation, those serving now, those born with the karmic destiny to serve; gratitude to my mother; gratitude to my child; gratitude to friends; gratitude to the cosmic spirit—to Buddha.
The life path of gratitude, repentance, and diligence—deeply taught to Isshinrō by his teacher Kūkaku Shōni—is ordinary yet profoundly what I believe to be humanity’s true way. These three paths are ultimately one: where there is repentance, gratitude must dwell; where there is diligence, gratitude should surely reside. Gratitude is the daughter born of repentance and diligence; I must tenderly nurture this daughter within my heart. And I wish to die with a mind of gratitude—that gratitude which cannot truly move others unless it is art and verse born from a sincere soul.
I think that the reason Sumita and Isshinrō possess both relaxed composure and serene warmth—something that seems to have the power to move people—is because they hold this heart within them.

I felt... When I returned to my hermitage, my rice had been eaten by stray cats.

At night, I rejoiced that I could finally settle down after the air-raid drill ended, but the lingering warmth brought a swarm of bush mosquitoes—though once the late chill set in, I managed to read and write at ease.

October 6th. Clear—Cloudy.

Today and tomorrow are the autumn festival in the Matsuyama area.

Priest K came specially to tell me with warm words—“If you’re short on festival pocket money, I have some here—please don’t hesitate”—kindness, ah how grateful I was, how grateful. Last year, led by Isshinrō, I had moved to this new dwelling—the hermitage in Miyukidera Temple’s grounds at Miyuki Mountain’s base—perched high up, quiet and pure in both house and land, with fine views of distant towns and wild mountains—and above all, having found in Priest K such a person.
I could feel nothing but gratitude.

Sumita named this place One Grass Hut; though each tree and blade of grass receives the universe’s life, I continue living a life of gratitude—this life of gratitude was surely what Sumita had intended.

One Grass Hut—a six-tatami room in the narrow space, a four-and-a-half-tatami room; the kitchen and toilet were well arranged. A pump stood about ten ken ahead at the water-drawing spot; its quality wasn’t bad. Firewood could be freely gathered from behind. Facing east-north, the sun rose directly—though lately it had shifted slightly to the right—making it ideal for moon viewing.

To the east lay the newly built Gokoku Shrine; to the west, the ancient Ryūtai-ji Temple. Matsuyama Ginza stood about seven chō away, Dogo Hot Springs a few chō, Isshinrō’s Donguri-an four chō—my friends were all kind—in every respect, this dwelling exceeded what someone like me deserved.
With gratitude, I had humbly settled my bed here—it would soon be a year since I did so.
And yet… and yet….

A life of gratitude—I truly contemplate it.

October 7th. Cloudy—Clear.

In the early morning, I meet Priest—he said to me, “How was yesterday? Do you have festival pocket money?”—Too much, too much; I don’t intend to impose on others, but I suppose I’ll end up saying, “I’m sorry, but…” and making the request, ah, ah…

This morning I ate the cat’s leftovers; thinking to combine it with last night’s dog incident, I plan to write a piece of miscellaneous writing. If I receive any manuscript fee, I’ll treat both Wanko and Nyanko—and of course I’ll drink too!

The story of how I was treated to mochi by a dog—

October 8th — Clear.

Early morning visit to Gokoku Shrine—the 10th and 11th were its festival days—; at dawn, the shrine was especially pure and divinely sacred. Unbidden, feelings of gratitude and reverence welled up—gratitude! Gratitude!
Gratitude is sincerity and faith; because it is sincerity and faith, it becomes powerful; because it is powerful, one can endure ascetic discipline—and from that endurance, unending joy is born.

Imperial Household—gratitude to the nation; gratitude to those who have served the nation, those serving now, those born with the karmic destiny to serve; gratitude to my mother; gratitude to my child; gratitude to friends; gratitude to the cosmic spirit—to Buddha.
——

The life path of repentance, gratitude, and diligence—deeply taught to Isshinrō by his teacher Kūkaku Shōni—is ordinary yet profoundly what I believe to be humanity’s true way. These three paths are ultimately one: where there is repentance, gratitude must dwell; where there is diligence, gratitude should surely reside. Gratitude is the daughter born of repentance and diligence; I must tenderly nurture this daughter within my heart.

Art is sincerity and faith; only art and verse born from a heart of gratitude—the pinnacle of sincerity and faith—can truly move people. I think the reason Sumita and Isshinrō possess both a relaxed composure and a serene warmth that somehow moves others lies in this very heart. When there is gratitude, my mood is always good; when my mood is good, every day becomes a festival for me. Let me live with a reverent heart, die with a reverent heart—there, a world of infinite light and life awaits me. For the pilgrim’s heart must have been my true homeland all along.
——

At night, I went to Isshinrō’s place; after having a quiet talk, I returned. Late into the night when I tried to write, my hand trembled especially today.