Pathway to Japanese Literature

January 1, Showa 21 (1946) (Atami)

The first day of January.
Clear and windless.
It must be a New Year’s Day never to come again.
Having looked at the calendar purchased in town at the end of last year, I ascertained the date according to the lunar calendar.
Today appeared to be the twenty-eighth day of the old eleventh month.
According to rumors, not only had company dividends ceased entirely since last June, but this year a tax of over twenty percent was said to be imposed even on personal private property.
Until now, my livelihood had been secure through stock dividends, but from this year onward, I must seek sustenance through selling writings.
Though there had been no income since last autumn, this was because I sold manuscripts—written idly during the war and fortunately unburned—to make ends meet.
From today onward, as I approach seventy years of age, would I be able to take up my pen as I once did when editing Bunmei magazine?
Not dying around sixty had proven the utmost misfortune.
To think of ending as an old man starving to death terrified me.
To economize on breakfast, I read books in bed until nearing noon, went downstairs to the kitchen, boiled leeks and carrots, made barley porridge, and ate.
If there was no charcoal fire after eating, I returned to bed and drafted manuscripts on Western paper with a pencil.

The second day of January.
Clear.
I wrote about Hyūsuken’s grave and sent it to the Jiji Shimpo newspaper under the title “The Plum at the Graveside.”

The third day of January.
Partly cloudy.
The wind was not cold.
Mr. Aoyama of Shinseisha came to talk.
Late afternoon, heavy rain fell.

The fourth day of January.
Clear.
Warm.
I mailed the manuscript to Mr. Aoyama.

The fifth day of January.
Partly cloudy.
The wind was cold.
I bought sweet buns in Ginza.
Thirty yen each.
They vouched for their sweetness.

The sixth day of January.
Sunday.
Partly cloudy.
I bought a Western umbrella.
Two hundred ninety yen.

The seventh day of January.
Clear.
Since the day of relocation was not far off, I began organizing my belongings.

The eighth day of January.
Clear.
The wind was bitterly cold.

The ninth day of January.
A south wind blew, slightly warm.
A letter arrived from Mr. Mori Senzō.

The tenth day of January.
Clear.

Mr. Ishikawa Teru, a reporter from the Jiji Shimpo, came to talk.

The eleventh day of January.
Clear.
A letter arrived from Motoyama Azusako.

The twelfth day of January.

Clear.
The cold was severe.
Shige-san, the construction foreman of this area, came and prepared the luggage for relocation.

The thirteenth day of January.
Sunday.

The fourteenth day of January.
Clear.
Warm.
I reported the relocation to Ichikawa to friends in Tokyo.

The fifteenth day of January.
Clear.
Mr. Kido came to talk.

The sixteenth day of January.

Clear.
In the early morning, the luggage was loaded onto a truck.
Gosō’s wife, eldest son, and daughter boarded it, departing Atami a little past eleven in the morning.
I boarded the 1:40 temporary train from Atami Station with Gosō, his second son, Old Man Tanaka, and others.
The passengers were few.
At six o'clock in the evening, I arrived at Ichikawa Station.
The night was dim and gloomy.
I walked to the rented house at Sugano 258-banchi.
I waited for the truck to come, but it did not arrive.
A little past eight o'clock, Gosō’s wife and her daughter arrived together, explaining that as the truck had repeatedly broken down en route, they had transferred to the government railway train from Yokohama.
The eldest son arrived a little past ten o'clock; since the truck had finally become unable to proceed, they went to Meguro Garage where the driver said he would repair the vehicle in the morning and return later.
With neither bedding nor rice, we borrowed them from our neighbor and spent a pitiful night.

The seventeenth day of January.
Clear.

The truck loaded with luggage arrived after the day had already ended.
It was said that rice, charcoal, and other stolen items were not few.

The eighteenth day of January.
Clear.

The vicinity had many vacant lots and groves and was quiet. Given the times, it was a favorable rental house. It was said to be about fifteen minutes to the government railway’s Ichikawa Station.

The nineteenth day of January.
Clear.
The cold was not severe.
I unpacked the luggage and organized various items.
Having heard that many street stalls had appeared before the government railway station, I went to see them in the afternoon.
I saw a posted notice at a gated house near the Keisei railway crossing advertising sweet red bean soup for ¥1.45; upon entering and eating it, the dumplings proved to be made of potato starch while the broth was a lightly sweetened kudzu soup.
It seemed even the term *shiruko* was gradually losing its original meaning.

The twentieth day of January.

Sunday.
Clear.
Warm.

In the afternoon, Mr. Kotaki Shigeru of Chūōkōron-sha came to talk.
Recently, I was given a box of Peace cigarettes sold by the Monopoly Bureau.
Late-night rain.

The twenty-first day of January.

A fine rain fell mistily; by noon, it cleared.
The wind was warm, and I felt that spring had already arrived.
At the street stalls in front of the station, I bought simmered smelt.
One package was twenty yen.
I intended to sit at my desk at night but was hindered by the radio in the neighboring room and ceased.

The twenty-second day of January.
Clear.
The warmth resembled spring.
As my scabies had worsened considerably, I visited a neighborhood physician that morning to seek treatment; he explained that while easily curable when first contracted, the disease had now spread across my entire body, making medicinal treatment ineffective.
He stated there was no alternative but to bathe in sulfurous hot springs.
The doctor added:
"This illness was brought back from battlefields by returning soldiers, and domestic transmission cases have become exceedingly numerous."
At the station-front market, I bought prepared foods and mandarins, crossed the Keisei railway tracks, and walked along a path through thick pine groves.
Dwellings were sparse; vacant land abundant.
Through the trees, I glimpsed a distant line of hills.
With no passersby about, I sat on grass beneath a tree, listening to birdsong while eating a mandarin alone.
The wind lay still and sunlight warm, so I unwittingly sank into meditation, losing all sense of time's passage.
A few blocks along this path, retracing one's steps past hedgerows would bring them before my lodging's gate.
Though a full week had passed since relocating here, I remained unfamiliar with any places beyond the road leading to the station.
Yet the area around the gate's deep pine grove proved delightfully tranquil—a place seemingly ideal for withdrawing from society to live in seclusion.
The local customs differed entirely from those seen daily in Tokyo's western suburbs like Shibuya and Nakano; I took great satisfaction that they hadn't adopted the so-called intellectual affectations.
However, judging from the road's geological composition and surrounding topography, would river floods occur during heavy autumn-winter rains?
This solitary concern alone demanded consideration.

The twenty-third day of January.
The weather was perfectly clear.
The warmth matched yesterday’s.
This winter’s unseasonable warmth must surely have been unprecedented.

The twenty-fourth day of January.
Clear.
Warm.
In the morning, on my way back from the hospital, I walked through the nearby streets.
A residential quarter of continuous hedgerows; every side alley devoid of passersby; here and there in the gardens, I saw heavenly bamboo and plum-like berries stained by frost, resembling rubies.
The forwarded mail from Atami arrived.
There were traces of the Occupation forces having opened and inspected it.
In the late afternoon, Mr. Nakamura Mitsuo came to talk.
I was lent Cocteau’s play Les Parents Terribles.
In the evening, I had a slight fever.

The twenty-fifth day of January.
Overcast.
Later cleared up.

The twenty-sixth day of January.
Overcast.
In the morning, I went to the hospital.
After dinner, I attempted to formulate a plan for my novel.
I was abruptly hindered by the radio and ceased.
By lamplight, neither reading nor writing would go as I wished.
It is lamentable.

The twenty-seventh day of January.
Sunday.
The drizzle ceased after a moment.
In the late afternoon, Ryōsōshi came and spoke.
On January 25 of last year, the secondary residence in Shin-Tomi-chō and its vicinity had been affected by an air raid fire; having fortunately remained unharmed, Ryōsōshi had made sushi and hagi mochi to commemorate it and brought several pieces of each to present to me.
He also lent me Kurimoto Joun’s Hōan Iko and Kakuryō Bunsyō.
Night fell, and rain began.

The twenty-eighth day of January.
Clear.
There was wind.
A letter arrived from Kobori Anzu.

The twenty-ninth day of January.
The sky held the aspect of a snowy eve.
Of late there had been repeated strong tremors.

The thirtieth day of January.
Overcast.

The thirty-first day of January.
Clear.
In the evening, Mr. Nakamura Mitsuo came and lent me the Muses poetry collection and other works.

The first day of February.
It rained.
In the afternoon, it snowed.

The second day of February.
Overcast.
From the afternoon, the sun shone and it became slightly warm.
On my way back from the hospital, when I arrived in front of the station and looked, the street stalls were bustling as usual, undeterred by the muddy post-snow roads.
Sweet potatoes had been prohibited, so there were none being sold.
I purchased five or six pieces of sweet bread (one yen each) and ate them while walking along the quiet sandy path beneath the grove alongside the Keisei Electric Railway tracks.
I felt as if I had become a homeless beggar, and pitied myself for it.

The third day of February.

Sunday.
Clear.
The wind was cold.
Near noon, attempting to stave off hunger by sipping katakuriko kuzumochi soup instead of rice, I went to the house that sold it only to find a notice posted: “Closed for the time being during February.”
Several days after moving to Ichikawa, I had discovered this shop along the Keisei Electric Railway tracks. Though initially troubled by its somewhat foul odor, as it sufficed to endure the cold, I had come to visit daily to eat there.
Everything lasts only for that day and place; that nothing endures is an unavoidable reality of the present world.
In the evening, Mr. Ogawa Takeo came to speak.

The fourth day of February.
Beginning of Spring.
Clear.
The wind was bitterly cold.

The fifth day of February.
Clear.

In the morning, the master of Fusō Shobō came to speak. A package of udon was presented. Mr. Ogawa came to speak. In the late afternoon, Mr. Kawabata Yasunari and an employee of Kamakura Bunko came to speak. At night, Mr. Ogawa brought along Dr. Kondō Keizō of the Matsudo City Communicable Disease Research Institute to examine the illness. It was decided that in the morning, after a provisional urine test, medication would be administered. It was said that Dr. Kondō resided in the neighborhood like Mr. Ogawa.

The sixth day of February.
Overcast.
Not bitterly cold.
In the evening, Dr. Kondō came for an examination.

The seventh day of February.
Afternoon snow.

The eighth day of February.
Overcast.

The ninth day of February.
Overcast.
Later, it cleared up.
At dusk, Dr. Kondō came for an examination.

The tenth day of February.
Sunday.
Mr. Ogawa came to speak.
At night, I bathed in the medicinal bath.

February 11.
Overcast.
A bitter spring chill.
It seemed poised to snow※ (replacing the “口” in “纔” with “免－（危－厄）－儿”) yet cleared.
In the afternoon, Ryōsōshi came and bestowed bush clover mochi upon me.
I lent two or three volumes of old writings and the Bunmei Kagetsu anthology.
Mr. Katabe came to speak.

February 12.
Clear.
Warm.
At noon, the proprietor of Koyama Shoten came to speak.
I received a magic stove from Mr. Ogawa.
At dusk, Dr. Kondō came for an examination.

February 13.
Clear.
In the afternoon, Ryōsōshi came and bestowed scabies treatment medicine, yunohana (sulfur residue), and other items upon me.

February 14.
Clear.
Warm.

February 15.
Clear.
Warm.

February 16.
Rain.

February 17.
Sunday.

Clear.
Plum blossoms bloomed.
The new currency was issued.
Furthermore, from today onward came a decree suspending bank deposit withdrawals.
As the edict had been sudden, public sentiment grew turbulent.
It was reported that Ikuta Kizan had passed away on December 31 last year at his house in Setagaya Daita.
A communication arrived from his widow.
His age was said to be seventy-one.
Though I had severed ties with Mr. Ikuta these ten years past, during my attendance at Thursday Association haiku gatherings I would occasionally visit his house with Mr. Iwaya Busō, presenting quatrains such as this:

Seeking you by chance I reach Shūkei's western stream;
All along the path spring winds thread through vegetable plots.

No need to ask—I know my old friend’s abode.
Deep within the bamboo grove, a noon rooster crows.

It appears Mr. Ikuta’s house had been fortunate enough to escape being burned down even during the period of frequent air raids last year.

February 18.
Clear then overcast.
The bustle of street stalls before Ichikawa Station showed no change even after the proclamation of the new decree.
At night, I once again bathed in the medicinal bath.

February 19.
Overcast.
Bitter lingering cold.
In the afternoon，a Shinseisha employee came to speak.
I submitted the continuation manuscript of *Diary of the Disaster*.
At lamp-lighting time，Dr．Kondō came to examine me．
Ms．Kobori Anzu sent correspondence．

February 20.
Overcast.
Clear later.
The evening sun amidst the trees was exceedingly splendid.
At night, I read Tachibana Nankei’s Tōyūki.
Simple and fluent prose—this is what I have always taken as my model.
Works such as *The Biography of Master Tōju* would be prime examples of this.

February 21.

Clear.
There was wind.

After the suspension of bank deposit withdrawals, black market prices rose even further.
Due to the absence of surplus money, prices became denominated in ten-yen units.

February 22.
Clear.
The wind was bitterly cold.

February 23.

Clear.
The wind was as cold as yesterday.
Shige, the construction foreman from Atami, came to speak.
It was said the plum blossoms in Atami had already fallen.

February 24.

Sunday.
Overcast.
In the afternoon, Mr. Kotaki of Chūōkōron-sha came to speak.
From noon on this day, the water supply ran dry.
I received water from the neighbor’s well and cooked rice.

Night rain pattered.

February 25.

The rain ceased, but the sky remained overcast.
The cold slightly eased.
In the afternoon, I saw sunlight.

Regarding Ikuta Kizan

I must have first become acquainted with Mr. Ikuta around Meiji 32 or 33 (1899–1900).
It was at a meeting of the Thursday Society held by Mr. Iwaya Sazanami in Kōjimachi Motozonemachi.
He was from Kyoto, and his family was a wealthy sake wholesaler called Naritaya, or so it was said.
After his bankruptcy, he came to Tokyo relying on the novelist Miyake Seiken, and Mr. Iwaya Sazanami took up residence in a house in Gobanchō, making a living through writing from around the age of twenty.
At the time I first knew him, he was staying at a boarding house called Risshinkan in Sanbanchō.
The three gentlemen—Kuroda Kosanjin, Nishimura Shosanjin, and Ikuta Kizan—had already made their names known among certain circles as talented disciples of Mr. Iwaya Sazanami during that time.
Although he was not without literary talent, having only an education equivalent to elementary school graduation led him to ultimately fall behind others, and his name gradually came to be forgotten by the literary world.
Around Taishō 2 or 3 (1913–1914), he went to Germany, but on the eve of the Great War in Europe, he could not stay long; proceeding to England, he returned to Tokyo after about half a year and temporarily resided near Sengakuji Temple.
Around Taishō 10 (1921), he took a wife and moved to reside in Setagaya Daita.
Although the novels he wrote were quite numerous, it is as though almost none remain in people’s memory.
During my time studying in the United States (Meiji 38–39 [1905–1906]), works such as *Chicken Intestines* and *Dutch Plates* published in Chūōkōron magazine were excellent.
*Chicken Intestines* was a work that depicted the prostitutes of Shinjuku.

February 26.
Overcast.
Due to the bank account freeze, I became a commissioned advisor for Chūōkōron-sha to obtain living expenses.
Concerning this matter, a telegram arrived from the same company.
At lamp-lighting time, Dr. Kondō came for a medical examination.
The illness lingered.

February 27.

Overcast.
Warm.
Late-night rain.

February 28.
The weather cleared completely.
Spring light overflowed in abundance.
At noon, Mr.Kotaki came to converse.
In late afternoon, Ryōsōshi came to converse.

March 1.

Rain drizzled mistily.
The town association distributed stamps (100 yen per person) to affix to banknotes.

March 2.
Overcast.
Old banknotes valid only through today.
In front of the bank and post office, the crowd formed lines stretching two or three blocks.
At the station front, there were only street stalls selling sundries; not a single eatery remained.
The fishmongers and greengrocers too had vanished without a trace.
I stopped at the sole remaining shop selling sweet red bean soup and had a bowl before returning home, only to find that one of Gosō’s family members lay dead after having eaten the same soup, a newspaper spread open beside them.
They were discussing that poison had been used in the sweets.
I shuddered involuntarily.
A life not worth sparing becomes precious when faced with loss—or so it seems.

March 3.
Sunday.
The rain from last night had at some point turned to snow, but it ceased by midday.
The lingering cold was severe.
Night brought rain again.

March 4.
Overcast.
I had been worrying since the day before yesterday whether I had been poisoned by the sweet red bean soup, but as of today there was nothing amiss.
However, there had been facial swelling for several days.
My body showed no particular ailment yet I was fatigued.

March 5.
Clear.
Warm.
In the afternoon, Koyama Shoten came to speak.
Since the new currency had come into use, fishmongers and greengrocers had closed their shops, and everyone suffered from the lack of side dishes.
I, having fortunately received American-made canned ham from Shinseisha and dried persimmons sent by someone from Yamagata Prefecture, was able to take up my chopsticks as usual for four or five days.
At dusk, Dr. Kondō came for a medical examination.
The illness had mostly healed.

March 6.
Every morning，I heard the bush warbler’s song.
The serene pleasures knew no bounds.

March 7.
Overcast.
Bush warblers sang incessantly.
The garden plum blossoms in the nearby neighborhoods were in full bloom everywhere.
In farmhouse gardens, I saw old plum trees with ancient trunks thickly grown with moss.
In Tokyo, there were none.
The scenes of thatched cottages and fences scattered here and there beneath the trees naturally possessed a haiku-like quality.
At noon, Tobi-shige came from Atami and spoke.
I was given sake lees-pickled celery.
The flavor was quite excellent.

March 8.
Clear.
The north wind blew fiercely; the cold was severe.
At noon, the proprietor of Shinseisha came and bestowed 2,000 yen in new paper currency.
Since last year, it has been as though perusing Hugo’s poetry collection were my daily task.
The wind did not cease through the night.

March 9.
Clear.
The wind ceased and it grew slightly warm.
In the morning Mr. Ogawa came and requested to read the manuscript.
It was a reminiscence of Asakusa.
I walked through town and bought carrots.
A bundle of five or six cost ten yen.
After the new currency's issuance prices still showed no signs of falling.
It was said that around April or May inflation would once again lead to confiscation of private assets.

Last year on this day at midnight, the residence burned down.
The collection of books had all turned to ashes.

March 10.
Sunday.
Noon snow.
The newspaper carried an article stating that anyone found possessing American-made canned goods or tobacco would be arrested by the U.S. military police.
I had no small number of items from Shinseisha and Jiji Shinpō-sha at hand; morning and evening, I was eating ham.
Where should I discard these empty cans?
In the afternoon, Ryōsōshi came and lent me Kan Ryūwan’s *Rin’en Getsurei*.
I was also given a miracle cure for scabies.
The snow did not let up.

March 11.
Clear.
North wind.
The cold was severe.
In the morning, Mr. Ogawa Takeo came to speak.
There was a letter from Mr. Mori Senzō.
A passage therein states:

Your esteemed manuscript on Tamenaga Shunsui (…) I promptly read it.
Regarding Shunsui and his works, even those who presume authority as Edo literature specialists have not addressed them at all; while he has been viewed as some lowly writer to be scorned, through your esteemed manuscript his true value has been greatly recognized—a matter that would, first and foremost, make Shunsui himself weep with gratitude in the afterlife, I humbly think.
At a time when there are only many people who ride others’ coattails and opine this and that, your esteemed manuscript was all the more a joy to humbly read.
That Joken and Gakkai, the two venerable gentlemen, acknowledged Shunsui is indeed admirable; yet on this matter, I recall that Kikuchi Sankei also appears to have loved reading *Plum Calendar*, and there existed a passage he had rendered into classical Chinese. Though this too was included in the same gentleman’s work *Jun Kigo*, when the book was published, the editor Mr. Saeki Kōkei—out of undue reserve—removed that chapter, and thus it never saw print.
As for that manuscript, some years ago I had the opportunity to see it at Mr. Saeki’s residence; it most likely remains intact, and I humbly think it would be desirable to bring it to light should some opportunity arise.
Furthermore, though I have yet to humbly read Dr. Tsubouchi’s *The Essence of the Novel*, within it might there not be passages that disparage Bakin and praise Shunsui?
Though I am one who lacks the qualifications to read Shunsui, it is regrettable that Kyōden—having entered literary life even later than I—encountered the wretched Tenpō era; and further lamentable that even Kyōden proved too timid to uphold a writer’s dignity. Yet toward Shunsui, I feel this sentiment all the more profoundly.
However, precisely because of that, I cannot help but rejoice at how your esteemed manuscript forcefully argues its merits.
Though this remains a trifling matter, Tanehiko’s stipend can be definitively ascertained through the *Kansei Chūshū Shoka Fu*, and in due course, upon reviewing it wherever [the document may be], I shall humbly make my report. (The following is omitted.)

March 12.
Clear.
The lingering cold bit sharply.
At lamp-lighting time, Dr. Kondō came for a consultation.
Snow began falling from first watch.
The electric light went out.

March 13.
Snow; then rain.
The spring cold was especially severe.
The afternoon cleared.

March 14.
Clear.
In the afternoon，Ryōsōshi came；having previously requested fine brushes from the old brush artisan Tamakawadō in Kanda Imagawa Alley some days ago，I had received a letter stating they were completed，so he purchased and brought them，presenting several called Fukanken.
I was overwhelmed with gratitude for his profound kindness.

A section from Imagawa Alley to Sarugakuchō appeared to have fortunately escaped the fire.
The first time I heard the name Tamakawadō was when I resided in Ichibanchō—now over forty years past.
I suppose the current shop still stands where it did long ago.
In those days behind the shop stood a rented hall facing a small garden where they occasionally held gatherings for haikai poetry and Noh recitals.
Having studied Kinko-ryū shakuhachi under Master Araki Takeo, I sometimes attended rehearsal sessions with the master, his son, and disciples.
When I recall those times, I remember a quiet backstreet in Misakichō with a medicinal bathhouse whose spacious garden attracted idlers playing go for hours after bathing.
These vast memories all seem like a dream.

March 15.
Clear; a spring breeze wafted gently.
At the black market before Ichikawa Station, I saw an old woman selling steamed taro; recalling the cherry-blossom-viewing seasons of old, I purchased this.
However, one yen per piece—I was astonished.
There was a letter from Mr.Kido.
There was a letter from Mr.Shimojima.
They expressed thoughtful concern regarding the matter of living expenses.
In the afternoon，a reporter from the Asahi Shimbun visited.
They expressed a desire for a serial novel to be published in the evening edition.

March 16.
Clear.
Afternoon cloudy.
The wind was cold.

March 17.
Sunday.
Snow mixed with rain fell continuously from early morning.
The electricity did not come，and as the electric stove could not be used，I cooked rice gruel over a charcoal fire.
One must consider the inconveniences of postwar life.
In the afternoon，Mr.Ogawa came for a talk.
In the afternoon，the electricity was restored.

March 18.
With the start of the equinoctial week, rain fell and the cold deepened.

March 19.
Clear.
Warm.
I bought a mosquito net at the town association.
Thirteen yen.

March 20.
Rain.
At noon, the owner of Fusō Shobō came and presented two thousand yen in new currency along with American-made food provisions.
In the afternoon, Mr. Kotaki came and presented five hundred yen as a consultant’s fee from Chūōkōron-sha.
It was said that recently mail had been delayed several days due to censorship inspections.
Mr. Kawabata Yasunari came and presented the dictionary Gensen.

March 21.
Spring equinox.
Clear.
In the afternoon, the proprietor of Usagiya came for a talk.
I was presented with potato, sugar, and herb mochi.

March 22.
Clear.

March 23.
Rain.

March 24.
Sunday.
Clear.
There was a rumor that in Tokyo, rice rations had finally ceased entirely, and people were now barely sustaining their lives with coarse bread.
As only a single river separated us, it was likely that the Ichikawa area too would not be far from encountering this hardship.
I was asked by someone for a poem:

In Katsushika, not long settled—
plum blossoms.

Red plum blossoms mingling
with bamboo and willow—

Bush warbler—
in the rented garden, spinach.

March 25.

Clear.
The wind was fierce.
I walked along the Edo River embankment.

March 26.
Clear.
Warm.
I took an afternoon stroll.
I visited Tegona Hall.
In the rented house within the temple grounds, that forger of fake calligraphies appeared to still be living.
In the shop window hung a calligraphy scroll by Kōyōzanjin alongside an arrangement of toys and such.
Publisher Mr. Satō Tsuneji came for a talk.
A messenger from Kamakura Bunko brought five thousand yen in new currency as royalties for the book.
At dusk, Mr. Kondō came for a medical examination.

March 27.
Clear.
A spring breeze drifted softly.
In every garden and grove across the city, plum blossoms bloomed without exception.
In the afternoon came Mr. Taniguchi of Usagiya and an Asahi reporter.
The owner of Fusō Shobō.
The owner of Shinseisha came to discuss matters.
The owner of Fusō Shobō presented me with five shō of white rice.
At night, I transcribed my Shōwa 16 [1941] diary for Shinseisha.

March 28.
Clear.
Warm.
In the morning, I searched around for a barber.
At last finding one among vegetable gardens, I entered and had my hair cut.
At year's end in Atami, my hair had become like mugwort from being cut haphazardly.
Night rain.
In early evening, Dr. Kondō came and administered a vaccination.
I must express deep gratitude.

March 29.
Cloudy.
A strong southeast wind.
I strolled and shopped at the station-front black market.

Ink: one gō - eight yen.

Envelope: one sheet – ten sen each.

Washbasin: one – fifty yen.

March 30.
Clear.
The air was warm as in early summer.
I read Cocteau’s play *Les Parents Terribles*.

March 31.

A clear, pleasant Sunday.
I awoke early to the songs of bush warblers and sparrows.
The owner of Fusō Shobō bestowed upon me another five shō of white rice.
From afternoon onward, a fierce wind arose and continued unabated into the night.
The electric lights remained unlit throughout the night.

April 1 (Old calendar: last day of the second month). Clear.
Bank accounts were frozen; deposits that were supposed to be withdrawable at three hundred yen per month had now been reduced to one hundred yen starting this month.
The government lacked a fixed policy; this deplorable state of morning decrees and evening revisions was something to be both laughed at and lamented.

In the farmer’s garden, peach blossoms bloomed; the wheat fields were green, and the rapeseed flowers too were lovely.

April 2.
Clear.
Though spring’s hues grew more intense, with no fire in the hibachi at home, I still felt cold in my extremities during mornings and evenings.

April 3.
Clear.
In the afternoon, Mr. Sakai of Shinseisha came for a talk.

April 4.
Rain.
Mr. Aoyama of Shinseisha, seizing upon Mr. Tanizaki’s visit to Tokyo as an opportunity, had wished to invite both him and me for drinks; though he sent his employee Mr. Sakai yesterday to convey this intention, as my post-illness fatigue still lingered, I went to the post office near the Edogawa embankment and declined via telegraph.
Passing before the provincial railway station, I found at the bustling crossroads someone who appeared to be a House of Representatives candidate delivering a speech.
Mingling with the crowd to listen, his words resembled nothing so much as the greetings of a hotel manager catering to Westerners—indeed, differed not at all from the obsequious flattery once offered by trading company managers in Yokohama during the Meiji era.
That a nation’s people could grow so servile after but a single defeat in war—this thought drew unbidden tears.
The rain, having briefly ceased, began falling anew; I bought sweet potatoes and eggs before returning home.
Mr. Okamoto of Echizen sent me an English translation of Baudelaire and a volume of Kan Chazan’s *Yellow Leaves, Evening Sun, Village Cottage* poems.
A letter arrived from Ms. Kobori Anzu of Tateshina in Shinshu Province.
At dusk, Mr. Nakamura Mitsuo came to talk.

April 5.
Clear.
Mr. Ogawa came and presented me with a zabuton.
Gosōshi showed me a rubbing of my late father’s epitaph, which he had found among the luggage sent from Shinshū.

The text is as follows:

Epitaph for Nagai-kun, Senior Fourth Rank and Fifth Order of Merit, Composed and Written by Nagasaka Shū

His name was Kyūichirō.
Courtesy name: Naifu.
Original name: On.
Courtesy name: Hakuryō.
Art name: Kaigen.
Eldest son of Nagai Masatake-kun, former retainer of the Nagoya domain.
He loved learning from a young age.
In the first year of Meiji [1868], the imperial government was restored.
He was just seventeen years old.
He devoted himself to national affairs.
He journeyed throughout the land.
In his second year [1869], he devoted himself to Western studies.
He entered Tokyo with his books.
In his third year [1870], he became an admitted student at Daigaku Nankō.
In his fourth year [1871], he studied abroad in America.
In his sixth year [1873], he returned to Japan.
Subsequently, he was appointed Junior Master of Engineering.
He later served in various official posts at the Ministry of Education, Home Ministry, and Statistics Bureau Council.

In the seventeenth year [of Meiji], he was ordered to proceed to various European countries.
Inspected expositions and handled sanitary matters.
In the 24th year [of Meiji], he was appointed Director of the Accounting Bureau at the Ministry of Education.
He was promoted to Counselor.
In the 26th year [of Meiji], he was promoted to Secretary of the Ministry of Education and Third Class Senior Official.
In the 28th year [of Meiji], he was promoted to the Fifth Order of Merit.
[He] was awarded the Order of the Sacred Treasure.
In the 29th year [of Meiji], he was appointed Senior Fifth Rank.
In the 30th year [of Meiji], he retired.
He was specially appointed to Junior Fourth Rank by imperial decree.
In the same year, he joined Nippon Yusen Kaisha.
He was appointed manager of the Shanghai branch.
In the 33rd year [of Meiji], he was transferred to become manager of the Yokohama branch.
In the 39th year [of Meiji], he was awarded the Order of the Rising Sun with Double Rays.
In the 45th year [of Meiji], he was appointed as a member of the Ishin Historical Materials Compilation Committee.
He died of illness on January 4 of the second year of Taisho [1913].
Born on August 2 of the fifth year of Kaei [1852].
Aged sixty-two.
He was buried in Tokyo Zōshigaya.
His illness took a critical turn.

He was specially appointed to Senior Fourth Rank by imperial decree.
This was indeed an exceptional honor.
His wife, née Washizu, bore three sons and one daughter.
The eldest was named Sōkichi.
He succeeded him.
The second was named Teijirō.
He left to succeed the Washizu family.
The third was named Isaburō.
He studied in Germany.
The daughter died young.
He was gentle and sincere.
He was unyielding in his duties.
He was widely read in literature and history.
He excelled at poetry.
He authored *Raiseikaku-shū*.

April 6th.
Silken rain dripped onto the remaining plum blossoms.
The wind was cold.
I purchased knit underwear (a set: ¥1,000) and a dress shirt (¥200) from someone.

○ Rumor Records

This likely occurred several days ago.
In Osaka, when police arrested numerous Koreans engaged in black marketeering, their compatriots attempted to reclaim them by storming the police station.
Here, the police daily surrounded the black markets that opened before the station and attempted to arrest all involved without distinction.
Among the black marketeers were also Japanese, who allied themselves with the Koreans and clashed with the police until finally both sides resorted to firing pistols.
In this commotion, a squad of U.S. military police—unfamiliar with the situation—fired machine guns and dispersed the rioting Japanese and Koreans along with the police.
The casualties were not few, it is said.
This incident was not reported in newspapers due to American censorship.
Though the Americans preach freedom of civil administration with their mouths, they seek to conceal matters unprofitable to themselves. It is laughable.

April 7th.
Sunday.
The wind was cold.
I felt slightly unwell.

April 8th.
Clear.

Around Shōwa 17–18 [1942–1943], when air raids were still not severe, a man named Mr. Fukazawa—whom I had come to know at Kinbee, a tea-and-rice shop in Shibaguchi—suddenly visited me there. He was the young master of Daimeirō, a Western restaurant in Kabayochō, and delivered the Hattori-made pocket watch I had entrusted to him for repairs during that time.
Afterward, Tokyo became scorched earth, and since he had been unaware of my evacuation site until now, the watch I had left with him remained untouched; but he said he had recently heard by chance of my presence here—
After four or five years, gazing at the pocket watch to check the time gave rise to a strangely unfamiliar sensation.

In the evening, two publishers came to talk.
I find receiving visitors detestable.

April 9th.

April 10th.
Overcast.
Late afternoon. Ryōsōshi came to talk.
Was presented with Tsukiji Miyakawa chicken.

April 11th.
Overcast.
In the morning, I visited Mr. Ogawa.
He was not present.
At dusk, Mr. Nakamura Mitsuo came and said he wished to publish my draft "Hitorigoto" in the June issue of the magazine Tenbō.
Around the time I finished dinner, a Western-clad woman who appeared to be a literature enthusiast came and requested a meeting.
When they answered that the family member in charge was absent—and since her house was far—she insisted she wanted to stay the night and refused to leave.
The intermediary was at his wit's end, but fortunately resolved the matter without incident.
I hid in the shadows and did not see her appearance, but they say she was around thirty years old, of average looks, and did not state her address or name.
In bed, I read the soliloquy draft.
I retitled it *Tohazugatari*.

April 12th.
Clear.
The cherry blossoms had already begun to fall.

April 13th.
Clear.

Clear.
Through an acquaintance’s arrangements, I used the public bathhouse in Yawata-machi.
I entered quietly through the back door.
The black market price was said to be two yen.
Salt had been out of stock for the past two or three days.
Soy sauce, sauces, and the like all lacked saltiness.
Having no choice, I purchased takuan pickles, umeboshi, and the like to serve as side dishes.
It was said that the black market price for one *shō* of salt was an exchange for two *shō* of white rice.
Since the war began, there had been many unforeseen events, but the fact that one *shō* of salt had risen to over a hundred yen left one with nothing but astonishment.

April 14th.
Sunday.
Clear.
The wind was cold.
At dusk, Taneda-san came to talk.

April 15th.
Clear.
The wind was cold.
It was the same as yesterday.
Lately, rumors of U.S. soldiers committing violence and looting were frequent.
It was said that someone had been beaten and had their wallet stolen on Ginza-dori at dusk.
Japanese robbers were also numerous.
It had become necessary to exercise caution regarding nighttime outings regardless of location.
Letters from Kobori Anzu and Itō Hideko arrived.

April 16th.
Clear.
In the nearby gardens, peach and plum trees, flowering quince, snow willows, small-flowered cherries, and hundreds of other flowers were gradually coming into full bloom.
The wheat had already unfurled and bore ears.
At noon, Mr.Shimizu from Fusō Shobō came and presented Aomori apples, Shinjuku Nakamuraya doughnuts, and other items.
Mr.Ogawa came to talk.
Together we bathed at the black-market bathhouse in Yawata-machi.

April 17th.

Rain.
At night, I heard frogs croaking for the first time.
Their tonal quality differed slightly from those I had grown accustomed to hearing last year in Okayama's western suburbs.
It goes without saying that people have regional accents.
That frog calls too should follow this pattern was something I realized for the first time tonight.
I found it most interesting.

April 18th.

Clear.
The south wind was fierce.
In the afternoon I went to the bathhouse in Yawata-machi, but finding a "Closed" sign posted, proceeded along the winding fence-lined path on my way back; where aged zelkova trees and ancient pines formed a dense grove, there stood an abandoned shrine.
Upon seeing the stone pillar amidst the grass, I realized for the first time that this was Shirahata Tenjin Shrine.

April 19th.

Clear.
In the morning, Mr. Ogawa came to talk.
I bought two bales of charcoal.
(80 yen per bale) At noon, the owner of Fusō Shobō came to talk.
In the late afternoon, a Jiji Shinpō reporter came to talk.

April 20th.
Clear.
A letter arrived from Ryōsōshi.
At the end [of the letter], there was a poem.

Boats waiting at ebb tide - their lamps

Lonely dwelling—

April 21st.
Sunday.
Clear.
The wind was cold.
Same as yesterday.
I was presented with a fine brush made by Heiando in Kojimachi from Kūan-ko of Tsukiji.
It was indeed a fine product made before the disaster.
In the afternoon, Ryōsōshi came to talk.
I was given bamboo shoots.
It was said that the street stalls in front of Ōmori Station had been prohibited.

April 22nd.
Clear and sunny.
I took a stroll through the neighborhood.
At the end of my reply letter to a certain lady,

In this secluded village of Sugano where I dwell, pines are abundant; come, you too should listen to the wind's melody.

In this village where only pine winds blow morning and evening, people’s correspondence has long been severed.

Though night deepens, unceasing is the pine's melody; from the capital, let me hear tidings now and then.

In this disordered world’s uncertain course, even through the clamorous sound of pine winds comes understanding.

On an evening when even the clamor of pine winds does not cease, I dream of wandering the wave paths.

April 23rd.
Clear and sunny.
There was an unknown person who had kindly sent *Ryūkyō Shinshi: Aesthetic Principles* from Shizuoka.
At noon, Mr. Aoyama of Shinseisha came and presented me with this, having obtained a copy of my late father’s poetry collection *Saikōki*.
At lamplighting time, Mr. Nakamura Mitsuo came to talk.
I handed over the manuscript of the novel *Towazugatari*.

April 24th.
Clear, then cloudy.
The south wind raged; pine winds whispered through.
Late night rain.
Once again, at the end of a reply letter to a certain lady, I wrote miscellaneous verses.
As follows:

The broad bean flowers had quietly formed their pods—in the evening wind that heralds the barley harvest.

Along the winding fence-lined path beneath pine shadows I returned, and someone inquired about my home.

In the light rain, looking at the garden with budding maples, I found myself composing a poem unawares.

When rain falls: small rice cherries, snow willows—even the white strawberry blossoms prove fair.

Bush warbler, take care when you sing—as dawn reveals the lingering traces of a brief dream.

Sugano—where pine-rich hedges stretch on and flowers breathe fragrance—stood truly as a village of beauty.

Even on rainy days when someone might call without umbrella—if you walk the path beneath these deep pine shadows—

April 25th.
The rain did not let up.
Mr. Aoyama had his messenger bring Western sweets.
Before lamplighting time, Ryōsōshi came and talked.
I prepared the draft for the June issue of *Shinsei*.
I titled it “A Dream During a Nap.”

April 26th.
Rain.
The wind was bitterly cold.
A letter arrived from Mr. Murata Takeo.

April 27th.
Clear.

A letter arrived from Mr. Kotaki of Chūōkōron-sha.
In the late afternoon, I visited Mr. Ogawa.
He was not in.
The family grilled mochi and served it.

April 28th.
Sunday.
Rationed tobacco had increasingly become coarse and inferior; now it was almost unbearable to smoke.
Soy sauce lacked saltiness; miso carried a foul odor.
The signs of a ruined nation were to be mourned.
At lamplighting time, Dr. Kondō came and requested a poem.

Departing spring—
dwarf cherry blossoms
under a light rain. —Kafū

Peonies scatter—
again I listen to the rain
in my hermitage.

April 29th.

Clear.
There was wind.
In the morning, I strolled along the Edogawa embankment.
On the slopes of the embankment too, wheat had been planted, and rapeseed flowers still remained in bloom.
The view of Kōnodai’s fresh greenery was splendid.
A posted notice at a roadside soba shop read, "Substitute sweet potatoes available."
I entered and rested.
A plate cost five yen.
The proprietress, around thirty, poured bitter tea while speaking of her husband—sent to Okinawa last year—whose fate remained unknown.
She said that with three children, it was hard for a woman alone to make ends meet.
On the way back, I bought a printed copy of the Buko Nenpyo at a used bookstore in the town near Tekona-dō.
(Thirty-five yen.) When I arrived home, Ryōsōshi had come and was waiting.
At a used bookstore in Ōmori, I obtained Inoue Aa Aa’s *Saru Rongo* and was shown it.
I was also given chicken meat from Tsukiji Miyagawa.

April 30th.
Clear.
A certain reporter from the magazine Gakan sent a letter resembling a threat and demanded a reply.
The literary world, not exempt from society’s general trends, appeared to be growing increasingly turbulent.

May 1st (Old Calendar: April 1st). Afternoon rain.
The owner of Fusō Shobō came and talked.
A midnight storm arose.
The electric lights went out.

May 2nd.
The rain did not let up.

May 3rd.
Overcast.

May 4th.
Overcast.
In the afternoon, Abe Yukiko came and talked.
White rice was bestowed.
Mr. Hayashi Ryūsaku was attacked by military fire last year in Ashiya, resulting in his collection of secretly stored instruments and curios being burned, it is said.

May 5th.
Sunday.
Midnight rain.
Began drafting a novel.

May 6th.
Overcast.
Mr. Mori Senzō sent a letter.
It rained again at night.

May 7th.
Clear.

In the afternoon, on my way back from Hachimanchō Konton, I walked through the grounds of Shirahata Tenjin. The fresh greenery was splendid. Nearby stood a farmhouse selling milk bread. One gō cost three yen. Compared to Tokyo’s offerings, the quality proved far superior.

May 8th.
Clear.
In the morning, Mr. Ogawa came and spoke.
In the afternoon, I walked along Hachiman’s national highway.
On the south side lay Hachiman’s nameless thicket.
Within the bamboo grove stood a stone tablet, but enclosed by a stone wall, I could not enter to inspect it.
The ancient hackberry tree loomed lush and verdant.
Its branches shrouded half the road.
To the north rose Hachiman Shrine’s torii.
The shrine grounds sprawled wide with dense pines and cedars.
Before the temple gate, nurserymen sold saplings.
A single teahouse stood there.
A woman wearing a tasuki sash and sister-style headscarf grilled and sold shelled shellfish meat.
Along both sides of Torii-mae Highway too stood many shops vending bread and agar jelly.
Each plate cost ten yen.
Street stalls crowded before the provincial railway station.
At night, I wrote my novel.

May 9th.
Overcast.
The wind was cool.
In the afternoon, I walked through the precincts of Katsushika Hachiman again.
At the stone lantern before the shrine, I saw the era name Meiwa 5 (Hinoto-Ne).
In the ema hall’s plaques: two depicting Empress Jingū and Takeuchi no Sukune; there was also a scene of Tang musicians performing string and wind instruments.
All appeared to date from the Kaei-Ansei era, and the artists did not seem to be particularly renowned masters.
Yet as it has become rare in recent years to see such things, I recalled the Asakusa Kannon Hall of old and paused my cane for some time.
After returning home, I took a nap.
After waking, I worked on the novel.

May 10th.
Clear.
In the garden of the rented house were many flowering trees—azaleas, peonies, roses, wisterias, and others.
During yesterday’s walk I learned a plant market had been set up nearby, and realized all previous residents must have bought their plants there.
Before my window now unfolded a spectacle of myriad flowers in full splendor.
In particular stood several red and white peony plants, each vying in beauty.
To unexpectedly behold these blooms in my exiled state brought immeasurable joy.
I composed a clumsy verse.

The day stretches long—flowers at their peak too are peonies!

Oblivious to the world’s state—the peonies’ faces!

Through war the nation fades—yet peonies bloom!

May 11th.
Fine rain.
The rain later ceased.
In the morning, the owner of Fusō Shobō came to talk.
After lunch, I went for a walk.
At a street stall, I bought eggs and drank milk at the teahouse before Hachiman Shrine.
On my way home, I walked along a hedge-lined path shaded by greenery while reading Hugo’s poetry collection.
The sandy path lay smooth and untrodden; all I heard was the birds’ cheerful chirping.
This pleasure too was something I had not foreseen before coming to Ichikawa.
Upon returning home, I found a letter from the broadcasting station.
I detest such vexatious obligations.

May 12th.
Since it was a cloudy day good for walking, in the afternoon I walked along Hachiman’s village path and climbed the hill extending north of the rice paddies.
Amidst the pine groves stood what appeared to be an Inari shrine.
Behind it lay yet another small shrine.
I saw countless small earthenware bottles that had been offered there.
I did not know what deity this shrine honored.
Descending the hill, I walked along a narrow path between rice fields and came upon a pasture.
There were grape vineyards and pear orchards.
In the irrigation channel, spatterdock flowers bloomed; along the ridge path clustered buttercups and dandelion-like yellow blossoms; what seemed to be egret orchids also flowered.
The wheat had already ripened; farm women busily tilled the rice fields—likely preparing to sow seeds.

May 13th.
Rain.
In the afternoon, it cleared.

May 14th.
Clear.
I went to the public bathhouse.
I saw farm women peddling sweet potato seedlings carried on their backs.
Night again brought rain.

May 15th.
Rain.
Mr. Yuasa from Shizuoka presented me with two volumes of Master Rohan’s old work *Ran’gen Chōgo*.
I wrote daily without tiring.
In the afternoon, as the rain had let up slightly, I walked along the small path under the pines outside the gate; by the fence of a garden where many plum trees were planted, irises grew thickly with many flowers in bloom.
As the sky clouded over and the tree shade grew dark, the colors of the flowers appeared especially beautiful.
As for the distinctions between irises—*shōbu*, *ayame*, *kakitsubata*—I do not scrutinize them.
Though I know not what name to give this flower—not large, yet rich in purple hue—it is the one I most favor.
The flowers that once grew in Horikiri’s garden—large with variegated hues—were vulgar and low-class.
While walking along Hachiman’s village path, there were many irises with yellow flowers blooming in the ditch outside the girls’ school.
They are likely of a Western variety.

May 16th.
The lingering rain cleared for the first time.

The prices these days are as follows.

One chicken egg: One piece - Large: ¥4.20 / Small: ¥4.00

Glucose residue: 100 monme – ¥45.

Dried plums: 100 monme – ¥10.

Pickled scallions: 100 monme – ¥10.

Turnips: Large bundle – ¥10.

Ginseng: Large bundle – ¥15.

Milk: 1 gō – ¥2.50.

Beef: 100 monme – ¥40.

May 17th.
Clear.
I handed over the manuscript to the Shinseisha messenger.
Late-night rain.

May 18th.
Clear.
Occasional rain.
A letter from Mr. Seitan arrived.

May 19th.
Sunday.
Clear.
In the morning, five shō of white rice were presented by the owner of Fusō Shobō.
In the afternoon, as I walked outside the gate, I saw scattered pieces of bird-scaring colored paper fluttering in the wind over the tilled rice fields.
The rice had likely already been sown.
At that moment, two or three white egrets flew high into the sky from among the reeds of the reservoir.
The times I saw egrets strolling through my rice fields and kingfishers darting above streams were during my stay at the villa in Zushi and my dawn walks through Yoshihara’s fields—both now memories nearing fifty years past.
This year, approaching seventy years of age and chancing upon these dancing egrets, I recall days of youthful vigor from times long gone.
The poetic charm of this Ichikawa residence must never be forgotten.

May 20th.
Clear.
The evening sun was radiant.

May 21st.
Overcast.

May 22nd.
Clear.
The garden roses bloomed.

May 23rd.
Clear.

In the morning, Mr. Ogawa came for a talk.
Afternoon thunderstorm.
At lamp-lighting time, Mr. Kawabata Yasunari came and presented a tax payment stamp fee of ten thousand yen from Kamakura Bunko.

May 24th.
Overcast.
In the morning, Mr. Sakai of Shinseisha came for a talk.
In the afternoon, Usagiya of Shitaya came for a talk.
Together we viewed the street stalls before Hachiman Station.

May 25th.
Rain all day.
Last year on this night, I was attacked by fire at the Nakano apartment.
A letter from Seitan-ko in Tokyo arrived.
One passage stated: "While Grand Kabuki thrives, I must humbly report that since the war, the decline in its artistry has become so severe as to cause great distress.
"Based on precedents in the theatrical world, yesterday’s discussions and today’s have diverged entirely in their plans, and at present, regarding the script matter I humbly mentioned in my previous letter—though it now seems forgotten without further word—we on our part consider this rather fortunate."
And so on.

May 26th.
Rain.
It was said that two days prior, His Majesty the Emperor had informed the people via radio regarding the rice shortage.
Rumors abounded.

May 27th.
Clear.
White clouds and fresh greenery stood in contrast; the pastoral vista appeared most splendid.
In a letter from Tokyo by an unnamed correspondent: "They say the residence of the leader among those who recently stormed the Imperial Palace holds a great store of hoarded rice—this I overheard being discussed among merchants at Ikebukuro's black market. Such a matter seems entirely plausible, and I find the state of affairs rather diverting."
"'Even Saikaku would have made an excellent dependent,' I could not but think."

In the early night, a sudden downpour and thunderclaps.

May 28th.
Overcast.
I boiled udo shoots and ate lunch.
In my old age I have come to prefer eating vegetables.
Such things as broad beans, podded peas, udo shoots, and arrowhead—during my walks I could purchase these from roadside stalls or farmers.
Compared to the people of Tokyo it might be said I was more fortunate.
After the meal I went out and walked through Onikoshi's rice fields.
Pear orchards were numerous.

May 29th.
Clear, then overcast.
A letter arrived from Mr. Nagami Tokutarō of Atami.

May 30th.
Clear.
In the afternoon, Mr. Kotaki came for a talk.

May 31st.
Overcast.
Early morning, Mr.Taneda came for a talk.
The Tamanoi unlicensed brothel district had about thirty establishments around New Year’s this year but now numbered over a hundred.
As for customers, there was a mix of Japanese and Westerners with Western patrons at one hundred thirty to one hundred forty yen and Japanese patrons around one hundred yen being the going rates.
There were also some in Tateishi along the Keisei Line.
Along the Sōbu Line they too existed in the towns of Kameari, Shin-Koiwa and Koiwa.
All of them were established immediately after Kameido Tamanoi burned down last March it was said.

June 1st (Old Calendar May 2nd). Clear.
The wind was cool.

June 2nd.
Sunday.
Clear.

In the morning, the proprietor of Fusō Shobō came for a talk.
In the afternoon, Mr. Mori Senzō came for a talk.

June 3rd.
Overcast.

June 4th.

Rain.

June 5th.
Rain, then clear.
Already like the rainy season.
Late-night stomach pain.

June 6th.
Clear.
At times sudden rain fell.
At noon the Fusō Shobō proprietor came and bestowed white rice.
The stomach pain persisted.
I abstained from food.
When night came and my condition improved slightly, I rose and sat at my desk.
Before I knew it, late night had arrived.
As I was about to retire to bed, Gosōshi and his child began playing the shamisen in the inner room.
Sleep became impossible.
Finding myself unable to take up my brush again, I retrieved Mr. Rohan's discourses and read.
Even when two o'clock in the morning came, the string music and singing showed no sign of ceasing.
With reading too becoming difficult, I busied myself writing letters to friends I had neglected during ordinary days of silence, waiting for the music to stop before finally retiring to sleep.
Life in rented lodgings proves ill-suited for scholarly pursuits; yet there remains nowhere I might move on short notice.
It is truly lamentable.

June 7th.
Clear.
In the late afternoon, I visited Dr. Kondō.
He was not present.
In the evening, Dr. Kondō came and examined my illness.
That night, with no sound of string music or singing in the house, I was able to sleep peacefully.

June 8th.
Clear.
Suddenly hot.
At lamp-lighting time, Dr. Kondō came for an examination.

June 9th.
Sunday.
Clear.

June 10th.
Clear.
The south wind blew fiercely; the mugginess was severe.
At the greengrocer’s storefront, I saw fresh seasonal vegetables.
One cucumber: five yen.
Loquats: two yen per piece.
Rationed rice over five days amounted to only three gō.

Night rain.

June 11th.
Clear.
In the afternoon, I walked through the unofficial brothel quarters near Shin-Koiwa Station on the national railway line.
From the area where street stalls had lined up in front of the national railway station, I walked along a single-road town for seven or eight blocks.
It was located at the edge of the town where houses were gradually thinning out.
They said these were relocated from the geisha houses that had been in Hirai-cho before the disaster and the renowned sake shops that had been in Kameido.
The women were not as ugly as I had imagined.
The fee for customers, regardless of Japanese or Westerners, was said to be fifty yen.
At lamp-lighting time, Mr. Katsube Shingen, the proprietor of Saitō Shoten, Mr. Nakamura Mitsuo, Dr. Kondō, and others came to talk.

June 12th.
Clear.

June 13th.
Clear.
At noon, the proprietor of Shinseisha came to talk.

June 14th.

Clear.
Looking out at the paddy fields behind the house, farm women here and there were busily planting rice seedlings.
White clouds swayed atop the hills, pine winds rustled, and the cool air flowed like water.
Correspondence arrived from Ms. Kobori Anzu.

June 15th.

Clear.
At noon, a photographer from Shinseisha arrived.

June 16th.
Sunday.
Clear.
Night rain.
I read Sugan Chazan’s anthology.

June 17th.
Clear, then cloudy.
In the afternoon, I took the Keisei train to Nakayama and walked through the precincts of Hokekyō-ji Temple.

June 18th.
Clear.
I could not endure the mugginess.
It was announced that from today until the 23rd, there would be water outages even during the day.

June 19th.
Clear, then rain.
Ryōsōshi came to talk.

June 20th.

Clear.

In the afternoon, Mr. Kotaki of Chūōkōron-sha came to talk.
At night, Dr. Kondō came to talk.

June 21st.
Clear.
The scorching heat resembled the peak of midsummer.
I entered the pine grove outside the gate and read.

June 22nd.

Clear.
Hollyhock flowers in full bloom.

June 23rd.
Sunday.
The scorching heat was like yesterday’s.
During the rice-planting season, people lamented the absence of rain.
In a letter from the proprietor of Fusō Shobō, it was stated that since rice distribution in central Tokyo ceased, sales of literary books had suddenly worsened.

June 24th.
Clear.

June 25th.
Cloudy.
The wind suddenly turned cool.

June 26th.
Half cloudy, half clear.
Street stalls sold seasonal items such as green peas, pumpkin, loquats, and cucumbers.
All were priced in units of ten yen.

June 27th.
Clear.
In the afternoon, I took the Keisei train to Funabashi.
Through gaps in the trees, I saw the sea.
Half a year had already passed since leaving Atami when I saw the ocean again.
It could hardly be called pleasant.

June 28th.
Clear.
In the afternoon, Mr. Iwasaki Masamichi came and lent me over ten French books.
I finished proofreading the galley proofs for my novel *Ups and Downs*.
On this day last year, I was caught in a fire in Okayama.

June 29th.
Clear.
The wind was like autumn.

June 30th.
Sunday.
Clear.

July 1st (3rd day of the old sixth month). Rain.
Later it cleared.
In the late afternoon Abe Yukiko came to talk.

July 2nd.
Clear.
In the morning, the proprietor of Fusō Shobō came to talk.

July 3rd.
Intermittent rain.
At Mama’s magazine shop, I bought a quick-reference map of Tokyo’s wartime street damage and burned areas.
Four yen and fifty sen.
Upon viewing this, it appeared that both the house where I was born in Koishikawa Kanetomi-chō and the house in Ushigome Yonchō-chō where my late father departed this world had turned to ashes.
In the evening, Dr. Kondō came to talk.

July 4th.
Clear.
Night rain.
Diarrhea.

July 5th.
Cloudy.

July 6th.
Clear.
I had diarrhea and stomach pain.

July 7th.
Sunday.
I received red rice from Mr. Ogawa.

July 8th.

Rain.

July 9th.
Cloudy.
A letter arrived from Seitanshi expressing the desire to adapt *Bokutō Kidan* into a script.

July 10th.
Clear.
The evening breeze ceased; the air turned stifling.

July 11th.
Clear.
It was as if the rainy season had ended.

July 12th.
In the afternoon, thunderclaps and a sudden downpour.

July 13th.
Clear.
In the evening, Mr. Saitō Tetsuo and another member of the Shochiku Company came to request the staging of my work, but as the circumstances were unclear, I declined.

July 14th.
Sunday.
In the morning, Mr. Kondō and Mr. Ogawa came to talk.
In the afternoon, at Mr. Ogawa’s house, I met Tagoto Mitsue and learned of the recent circumstances of the dancers who were formerly at the Opera Hall.
Not a few had become mistresses to American soldiers.
It was said that □□子, who lived in the apartment in front of Shin-Koiwa Station, had given birth to a black man’s child.
Red-light districts existed not only in Shin-Koiwa but also at the edges of Koiwa town.
It was said that there only white people came, and black people did not.
In the afternoon, Ryōsōshi came to talk.
From morning onward, the heat this day had been intense.
The night moon was splendid.
I took a walk outside the gate.

July 15th.
Clear.
At dusk, Mr. Nakamura Mitsuo came to talk.

July 16th.
Clear.
The scorching heat did not abate.
95 degrees Fahrenheit.

July 17th.
Clear.
In the evening, Mr. Ogawa came to talk.
A letter arrived from Mr. Nagami in Atami.

July 18th.
Cloudy.
The scorching heat made it difficult to face my desk.

July 19th.
Clear.

July 20th.
Clear.
In the afternoon, I read beneath the grove of Shirahata Tenjin.

July 21st.
Sunday.
Cloudy.

July 22nd.
Clear.
In the afternoon, Mr. Taneda came to talk.

July 23rd.
The proprietor of Fusō Shobō bestowed white rice.
In the afternoon, a sudden downpour.

July 24th.
Clear.
I took refuge from the radio in the pine grove outside the gate.

July 25th.
Due to the radio in the neighboring room and the intense heat, I could neither read nor write.
Every afternoon I left home for the green shade of Katsushika Hachiman or Shirahata Tenjin’s precincts, returning as the sun began to set.
The radio did not cease until after ten at night.
The distress of those days was truly beyond words.
Though that day’s cloudy sky brought cool winds and lamplight grew gradually inviting, I could not sit at my desk.
I could only retire early and await dawn’s arrival.
Postal rates rose to thirty sen from this day.
Postcards increased to fifteen sen.

July 26th.
Cloudy.
In the morning, Mr. Motoyama Azusako came to talk.
Since yesterday, the wind had suddenly turned cool.
Crape myrtles, oleanders, trumpet creepers, and silk trees were all in full bloom.
Lilies, sunflowers, zinnias, morning glories—all were also in full bloom.
I saw Dianthus flowers among the roadside grasses.
At farmhouse fences, hibiscus flowers bloomed; the corn had already ripened.

There was someone who had sent a letter from Sapporo detailing local prices there. As follows:

White rice one shō — thirty-five yen.

Soybeans one shō — fifteen yen.

Wheat one kanme — eighty-five yen.

Buckwheat flour one kanme — sixty yen.

Beef one hundred monme — fifteen yen.

Potatoes one bale — one hundred yen.

Honey one shō — two hundred yen.

July 27th.
Clear.
A cool breeze reminiscent of autumn.

July 28th.
Sunday.
Clear.
The morning sun's light was like autumn's; the sound of someone sneezing in the neighboring house could be heard.
In the afternoon, Mr. Nakagawa Yoichi came to talk.

July 29th.
In the afternoon, wind and rain.

July 30th.
The weather was as yesterday’s.
At lamp-lighting time, Mr. Nakamura Mitsuo came to converse.

July 31st.
Clear.
In the afternoon, I read beneath the trees of Shirahata Tenjin.
The paucity of cicada voices throughout this district likely stemmed from the abundance of sandy soil.

August 1st (Old July 4th). Occasional sudden showers.
The day’s end had grown somewhat earlier.
In the afternoon, while I was out, Mr. Kotaki came to visit.
He left behind the proof copies of *Hikage no Hana* and departed.
At night, as the radio in the neighboring room was unbearable, I walked the dark road to visit Mr. Ogawa.
I returned home around eleven o’clock.

August 2nd.
Occasional sudden showers.

In the morning, Mr. Kotaki came to talk.
Since yesterday, the black market before the station had been cleared away; even at greengrocers, vegetables were scarce.
Finding reassurance at the ice seller by Shirahata Shrine, I bought eggplants and cucumbers grown in their field and returned home.
There were rumors that bank accounts would be frozen and deposits increasingly confiscated.
The radio in the neighboring room was clamorous again tonight.

August 3rd.
Clear then cloudy.
The radio in the neighboring room had already been clamorous throughout the morning.
As my headache grew unbearable, I went out to visit Mr. Ogawa.
After dinner, when I sat down at my desk, the radio blared to life again.
Carrying my pencil notebook, I reached the grove of Suwa Shrine, sat upon a stone, and began drafting a few manuscript lines when night abruptly closed in and mosquitoes swarmed about.
After walking along the national highway and returning home, I stuffed cotton in my ears, spread out my bedding, and lay down.
Under these conditions, the novel I had been writing since May would never reach completion.
It was lamentable.

August 4th.
Sunday.
The weather remained unsettled between sun and rain.
In the morning, the owner of Fusō Shobō came and bestowed five shō of white rice.
In the evening, Dr. Kondō came to talk.

August 5th.

Overcast.
At noon, a Shinseisha employee came to talk.

August 6th.
Overcast.
From early morning, the radio in the house roared.
In the afternoon, I went out and walked along Koishikawa Komatsugawa.
I encountered a sudden shower.

August 7th.
Clear.
At night, I visited Mr. Ogawa.

August 8th.
First day of autumn.
It was cloudy and sultry.

August 9th.
Clear.

August 10th.
Clear.
During my absence, Mr. and Mrs. Masacka Yō came to visit.

August 11th.
Sunday.
Clear.

In the afternoon, I visited Mr. Masacka Yō at his home in Mama.
In the evening, Mr. Sugahara Meirō came to talk.

August 12th.
The moonlight was as bright as day.
It must have been the full moon of the old seventh month.
I walked through the pine grove outside the gate.
In the grass, I could already hear insect sounds.
I couldn’t tell whether they were crickets or katydids.
Their chirping differed slightly from that of the crickets I had grown accustomed to hearing over many years in Tokyo.

August 13th.

Clear.
When I attempt to sit at my desk at night, the radio in the neighboring room reaches a peak of clamor.
I could not endure the pain.
When I stepped outside the gate, I saw the bright moon rising among the pine grove.
The radio had ceased after ten o'clock.
By that time, as I wandered the path beneath the trees, the dew had soaked into my skin until it became unbearable, and the voices of insects had grown even more numerous than the previous night.
Upon returning home exhausted, I could do nothing.
Dejectedly extinguished the lamp and went to bed.

August 14th.
Clear.
In both Ichikawa and Hachiman, the Bon festival was observed one month late.

August 15th.
Clear.
At noon, Mr. Kotaki brought the proof sheets of *Hikage no Hana*.

August 16th.

Clear.
The lingering summer heat was intense.
At night, driven out by the radio in the house during the first watch, and having nowhere to go, I entered the waiting room of Ichikawa Station’s national railway line and idled away time on a bench.
There were suspicious-looking Western-dressed women waiting for American soldiers.
Groups of townspeople, men and women, came to cool off as well.
There also seemed to be those waiting for their husbands to return from Tokyo.
I managed to pass the time surprisingly quickly.
The station clock announced ten o’clock, and the nearby street stalls also began to extinguish their lights.
The moon around the 20th illuminated the way home.
The voices of insects had grown even more numerous.

August 17th.
Clear.
In the afternoon, I read under a tree by Shirahata Shrine.
I returned as the sun began to sink.
At night, to avoid the radio once more, I went to the waiting room at Ichikawa Station.
On this day, a letter arrived from the Takashimaya widow.
She had bought a house in Nakano Kōenji and moved there, it was said.

August 18th.
Sunday.
Clear.
Stomachache.
In the morning, the proprietor of Fusō Shobō came to talk.

August 19th.
Clear.
The morning and evening winds had suddenly turned cold against the skin.
Even after eight o'clock passed, I found myself unable to endure being without a knitted shirt.
In the late afternoon came Abe Yukiko to converse.
Since yesterday, the chorus of crickets had grown ever more numerous.

August 20th.
Clear.
The lingering summer heat returned.
Rumors of a new currency freeze abounded.

August 21st.
Clear.
In the afternoon, Ryōsōshi came to talk.

August 22nd.
Clear.
In the afternoon, a sudden rain.
In the evening, Tagoto Mitsue came and spoke of the recent circumstances of the former Opera House dancers and other park performers.
Anecdotes were abundant.

August 23rd.
It was clear.

August 24th.

Rain.
In the afternoon, Mr. Nakamura Mitsuo came to talk.

August 25th.

Sunday.

The weather remained unsettled between clouds and sun.
At noon, Mr. Murata Masao came to talk.
It was said that a music magazine had been launched.

August 26th.
Cloudy.
Night fell; rain came.
A chill seemed to sweep through.

August 27th.
Clear.

Clear.

August 28th.
Clear.
The lingering summer heat was severe.

In the evening，Ryōsōshi came to talk.
I was guided to his villa in Funabashi City，Kaijin Town，and was treated to dinner.
During the day，as all family members were out and the vacant house remained similarly unoccupied，I was welcome to use it at any time for my writing and reading.
I returned on the last Keisei train at 11 PM.
The sound of insects was like rain.

August 29th.
Clear.
Mr. Kotaki came to talk.

August 30th.
Clear.
The daytime lingering summer heat remained severe.

August 31st.
Clear.
Mr. Shimizu of Fusō Shobō came to talk.

September 1st.
Sunday.
Fusō Shobō came to talk.
The Disaster Diary draft was submitted.
Mr. Kotaki came and bestowed Japanese sake and dishes.
In the evening, Mr. Ogawa Takeo came to talk.

September 2nd.

Clear.
In the morning, Mr. Masacka Yō came to talk.
While I was out, Ryōsōshi came and bestowed candied oranges.

September 3rd.
Clear.

September 4th.
Clear.

At lamp-lighting time, Mr. Nakamura Mitsuo came to talk.
A bound sample of *Shōsetsu Raihōsha* was presented.

September 5th.
Clear.
The autumn cicadas sang for the first time.

September 6th.
Clear.
Mr. Sawada Takuuji came to talk.

September 7th.
Clear.
At nine in the evening, startled by the neighbor’s radio, I covered my ears and went outside.
The moon nearing its tenth day hung between the pine groves.
By train, I arrived at Kōnodai and gazed upon the moon over the river.

September 8th.
Sunday.
Overcast.
In the morning, the proprietor of Fusō Shobō came to talk.
In the evening, again seeking to escape the radio, I went to Sugano Station, read beneath dim lamplight, kept track of the time, and returned home.
The bright moon shone clear.

September 9th.
Clear.
No rain for some time.
The cucumbers have withered; the daikon sowing has been poor.
The night was hot.

September 10th.

Clear.
In the early morning, I heard the call of the sardine seller.
It evoked memories of Tokyo in the Meiji era.
Late afternoon, Abe Yukiko came to talk.
This night was mid-autumn.
The moonlight held an ethereal clarity.

September 11th.
Clear.
Ryousoushi was invited to a villa in Kaijin where together they admired the sixteenth-night moon.

September 12th.
Clear.
At noon, Mr. Shimojima Yūsaku came to talk.
The moon clouded over.

September 13th.

Overcast.

Having heard there was a house for sale in Kōnodai, I went to inquire around eleven in the morning, but arriving a step too late, it was already after a buyer had been secured. The land here was elevated and well-ventilated; coming from Ichikawa town center, I found the air even cooler and fresher. Beyond the fields of millet, sorghum, and ripened upland rice there lay a water purification plant. There was a pine grove. There was a temple called Ekōin. The scenery was fine. Upon returning home, Mr. Nakagawa Yoichi had come and was waiting. In the evening, Mr. Abe Harumachi came to talk.

September 14th.
Clear.
Later, light rain.

September 15th.
Sunday.
Clear.
In the morning, guided by a real estate agent, I viewed a house for sale near the Keisei railway line in Mama.
A small house of about fifteen tsubo was said to cost sixty thousand yen.

September 16th.
Clear.
Yawata-chō Hachiman Shrine festival.
A market for straw raincoats and hats and other farming tools was set up.
There were sideshows as well, and the crowd jostled in a throng.

September 17th.
The weather was clear.

September 18th.
Rain.
Night thunderstorm.

September 19th.
Overcast.

In the afternoon, Ryōsōshi came to talk.
A letter from a Tokyo student reported that around nine in the morning on the road before Ōtaya Beef Shop in Shibaguchi, a young woman in Western clothing had been giving birth to a black child in agony; though many onlookers gathered, all wore expressions that seemed to say “Serves you right” or “Good riddance,” merely laughing and jeering—not a single person had shown any sign of going to call a doctor.
The cruelty of postwar human relations could well be imagined.
And so on.

September 20th.
Clear.

September 21st.
Clear.
In the afternoon, I visited Mr. Abe in Yawata-chō and viewed nearby houses for sale.
There was nothing desirable.

September 22nd.
Sunday.
Clear.
From Mr. Ikegami, a traditional Japanese bookbinder in Kanda, via parcel: *Makurazan Zekkushō*.
*Shuntō Shishō*.
Hattori Gankei’s poetry collection *Shōjōshū* graciously presented.
In the afternoon, I viewed the house for sale by Shirahata Shrine.
Night fell, and rain.

September 23rd.
Rain.

September 24th.
Autumnal Equinox.
Clear.
I ordered Western clothing.
The white-haired old man from the tailor shop—formerly of Fukagawa Fuyuki-chō, who had suffered disaster last March—now resided in Koiwa, it was said.
A suit cost fifteen hundred yen, an overcoat twenty-five hundred yen, it was said.

September 25th.
Overcast.

At noon, Mr. Kotaki came to talk.

September 26th.
Clear.

In the afternoon, Ryōsōshi came to talk.
Together we went to the villa in Kaijin-chō.
Kaijin-chō lies within Higashi-Katsushika District.
It forms the western edge of Funabashi City.
The area appeared to have once been called Watatsumi.
When I examined a map from the Kōka era in Ryōsōshi’s collection, I found it marked with the kana “Watatsumi.”
The phonetic reading “Kaijin” likely became established after the Keisei railway was constructed through the area.

September 27th.

Clear.
At dusk, Messrs. Furuta and Nakamura came to talk.
It was said that the first edition of the novel Visitors had been printed in five thousand copies.

September 28th.
Drizzle.

September 29th.
Sunday.
Overcast.

September 30th.
Clear and bright.
Through a letter from Mr. Shusen Kūan, it was communicated that Onoe Kikugorō strongly desired to acquire my new one-act dance drama and sought an immediate response concerning my acceptance or refusal.

October 1st.
Clear and hot.
In the afternoon, Mr. Ogawa came to talk.
Everywhere in the streets and alleys, the fragrance of osmanthus flowers intoxicated people.

October 2nd.
Clear and hot.
To escape the radio indoors, I visited Ryōsōshi’s villa in Kaijin-chō in the afternoon, where by good fortune the master had come and was present.
We spent half the day in idle conversation.
I walked through the countryside near Nichibo.
There stood a wireless telegraph station.
It was said that U.S. soldiers were stationed there.
I was treated to dinner.
Past nine o'clock, I returned home.
I saw the crescent moon sinking amid the pine groves.

October 3rd.
The weather remained unsettled between clouds and sun.
A fierce south wind blew.
In the afternoon, I wrote at Ryōsōshi’s villa in Kaijin.
A festival for the neighborhood guardian deity was underway.

October 4th.
Overcast.
The day was humid and hot as if summer.
In the afternoon, I was at Kaijin.
After returning home, rain fell late into the night.

October 5th.
The clear autumn sky was to be cherished.
In the afternoon, I engaged in writing at Kaijin.

October 6th.
Sunday.
Half cloudy, half clear.
In the afternoon, I went to Kaijin.
It was said that Shin-Koiwa and other postwar private brothel districts were prohibited from receiving U.S. soldiers.

October 7th.
Rain.
In the afternoon, Mr. Kotaki came and requested the cover design for the novel Fuchin.
At dusk, Taneda-shō came and requested travel expenses for a trip to Shinshū Iida.

October 8th.
There had been no broadcasts since yesterday due to the Radio Union strike.
As the house was quiet, I did not go to Kaijin.
The day was intensely hot.

October 9th.
The weather remained unsettled between clouds and sun.
Ichikawa Mama Festival.
In the afternoon, I engaged in writing at Kaijin.
The days had grown shorter, and on my way home, I saw the lights.

October 10th.
Clear.

In the afternoon, I walked along the national highway in Kaijin-chō.
Where the road rose slightly, there was a railroad bridge.
To the south, I could see a bay.
Households were drying seaweed on their fences.
It was said that walking east for about half an hour brought one to the town of Funabashi.
That night, the fifteenth-night moon of September was splendid.
The insects still sang.

October 11th.
Overcast.
In the afternoon, I was at Kaijin.

October 12th.
It rained.
There was thunder as well.
In the afternoon, Mr. Taniguchi (Usagiya) and Mr. Higuchi (Mannendō) came to converse.
I was presented with my late father's Raiseikaku-shū.
Mr. Higuchi, having returned from Manchuria that spring, spoke about postwar conditions in that land.
Royalties were sent from Kamakura Bunko.

October 13th.

Sunday.

Clear and hot.
At dusk, when I arrived at Kaijin, the host was present.
I was treated to dinner.
The bright moon glistened purely.
On the return journey, the scenery along the train line was superb.
On the sea, fishing boat lights were like stars.

October 14th.

Clear, then cloudy.
In the afternoon, I arrived at Kaijin.
I saw dayflowers still blooming among the roadside weeds.
I found the violet-blue hues especially worthy of admiration.

October 15th.
Rain.
In the morning, the proprietor of Fusō Shobō came to talk.
In the afternoon, I engaged in commercial writing at Kaijin.
At dusk, the rain ceased.

October 16th.
Clear skies.
In the afternoon, Kaijin.
As dusk approached and I was about to return, the host came from Tokyo and once again treated me to dinner.

October 17th.
Clear.
Sugano Shirahata Tenjin Festival.
At noon, Mr. Aoyama, proprietor of Shinseisha, came to converse.
In the afternoon, I arrived at Kaijin.

October 18th.
Clear skies.
In the afternoon, I wrote at Kaijin.
On my return, I walked along the national highway and took the train from Katsushika Station.
The evening glow blazed radiantly through the pine groves.

October 19th.
Clear skies.
Kaijin.
I completed the short story "Shoe".

October 20th.
Sunday.
Clear.
In the afternoon, I was at Kaijin.

October 21st.
Clear.
Inoba Takeshi planned to exact revenge regarding the matter of the visitors in my novel.
Rumors of unrest circulated.
In the afternoon, I took a stroll in Funabashi.
I stopped by Kaijin and returned.

October 22nd.
It rained.
In the afternoon, I went to Kaijin.

As I was about to retire after ten at night, the strains of string instruments and singing arose from the neighboring room.
Even at eleven o'clock, there was no sign of it abating.
Having no alternative, I left the house and walked through the darkened town.

October 23rd.
The rain cleared at noon.
I went to Kaijin.

October 24th.
In the rain in the afternoon, I arrived at Kaijin to find the host present.
Having visited Sekiyado yesterday, he spoke of his observations along the Tone riverside.
In the late afternoon, the rain cleared and the evening sun shone brilliantly.

October 25th.
Clear.
Kaijin.

October 26th.

Clear.
In the morning, Mr. Mori Senzō came to converse.
In the afternoon, on my return from Shin-Koiwa, I visited Mr. Harumachi and reiterated my request regarding the purchase of a residence.
At nine in the evening, the radio in the neighboring room roared.
Since the beginning of the month, there had been no radio broadcasts due to a union strike, and my mind had been greatly at peace; however, tonight this calamity returned.
I went out and visited Mr. Ogawa.
During my recent trip to Kyushu, an acquaintance from Kintaikyo Bridge had given me some fine local sake, which I brought back, and he now urged me to partake of it.
We engaged in idle talk and light drinking until midnight.

October 27th.
Sunday.
Clear skies.
In the afternoon, I was at Kaijin.

October 28th.
Clear.
A cold wind.
In the afternoon, I was at Kaijin.

October 29th.
Clear.
The new cold steadily intensified.
In the afternoon, when I arrived at Kaijin, the host was present.
I was treated to dinner.

October 30th.

Clear.
In the morning, Mr. Masacka Yō came to converse.
At noon, on my way to Kaijin, I took a stroll in Funabashi.
There was a narrow stream.
Following the water, I emerged onto a main road that seemed to be a national highway.
Fishermen’s houses stood row upon row; rice fields stretched hazily to meet the sea.
Near the shore, among the reeds and miscanthus, there stood a towering pavilion.
I went to look and found that this was the gate of a restaurant.
When I asked the gardener sweeping the entrance about their business, they said they focused more on hosting banquets than serving small groups of customers.
They said that throughout November they had so many bookings there wasn’t a single open day.
I had heard there was a pleasure quarter around here, so when I asked where it was, they instructed me that one should go about a block down the side street north of the national highway and turn right.
When I went to look, rows of café bars lined both sides of the alley, though most appeared to be closed.
There were seven or eight brothels, all two-story buildings; though some had gold-lacquered screens at their entrances, I saw no prostitutes.
All had converted into inns or restaurants, appearing as though the change had only recently been made.
I took the Keisei Electric Railway to Kaijin and returned to the Higurashi residence.

October 31st.
Overcast.
At noon, I walked to Nakayama.
I looked at the ema hall before the Kishimojin Shrine in the precincts of Hokke-kyō Temple.
There was an eboshi-wearing samurai figure painted by Isshōsai Yoshitora.
There was also an oil painting of a Western landscape.
Though its colors had peeled away and half of its canvas was torn—yet finding it curious—upon examining it, I saw that its donor’s inscription read: “Chiba Prefecture Nagara District □□□□ Ōaza Goi; Kataoka __ residing in San Francisco，U.S.A.”
What manner of woman was this?
Around two o’clock, I arrived at Ryōsō-an in Kaijin.
In the alcove hung a scroll of Shokusanjin’s whimsical Chinese-style poem.

Loyalty vainly passed to Koxinga’s name,
At last the Tatars seize Cathay’s domain.
A pure breeze sweeps across one’s brow—

Four Hundred Provinces bloom with poppies now.
Shokusanjin.

November 1st.
Clear.
Kaijin.
During my absence, Abe Yukiko came to visit.

November 2nd.
Clear.
In the afternoon, the master of Mannendo came to converse.
I was given charcoal briquettes.

November 3rd.
Sunday.
Clear.
In the afternoon, I went to Kaijin.
At dusk, the master of Fusō Shobō came to converse.

November 4th.

Intermittent rain.
In the afternoon, I went to Kaijin.
At dusk, I met the master of Higurashi who had come from Tokyo.
At nine in the evening, I returned home to find clamorous strains of music and song.
I went out again, arrived at Ichikawa Station’s waiting room, read Kimura Kaishū’s *Kikusō Gūhitsu*, checked the time past eleven, and returned.
The drizzle did not let up.

November 5th.
Clear, then overcast.
In the afternoon, on my way to Kaijin, I walked through Nakayama town and entered the waiting room of the government railway station to rest.
When I went out intending to buy vegetables and realized I had left my Western-style umbrella behind, I hurriedly returned to the waiting room only to find that my umbrella remained exactly as I had left it, leaning against the bench.
In the present world, this should be an unthinkable thing.
This night again, unable to remain at home, I went to the Ichikawa Station waiting room and idled away the time.

November 6th.
Overcast.

I received a letter from the widow of Washizu Teijirō.
The eldest son, Ikutarō, had not returned from Manchuria; the second son, Shinta, was killed in action in Ryukyu, and a memorial service had been held at Shiba Zōjōji Temple on the ninth of this month.
In the afternoon, Kaijin; at night, rain.
Under the lamplight, I looked over the proof sheets of *Disaster Diary*.

November 7th.
Overcast.
In the morning, Mr. Shimizu, master of Fusō Shobō, came to converse.
In the afternoon, I arrived at Kaijin.

November 8th.
Overcast.
In the morning, an employee of Shinseisha came to converse.
Mr. Sawada Takuuji came and lent me the English translation of the novel *Karl and Anna* by the Germans Leonard and Franz.
He lent me the English translation.
In the afternoon, I arrived at Kaijin and worked on drafting manuscripts.
The days grew ever shorter, and past five o’clock the surroundings darkened.
The insect voices ceased entirely.

November 9th.
Occasional light rain.
At dusk, I walked through Koiwa town.

November 10th.
Sunday.
Overcast.
In the morning, Mr. Kotaki came to converse.
Submitted the "Kusagare" manuscript.
In the afternoon at Kaijin, completed the short story *A Certain Night*.
Received *Nanpo-jo* from Mr. Ikegami via parcel.
This book, being an Osaka edition, appeared to contain two versions of Kamo Suetaka’s preface.

November 11th.
Overcast.
In the afternoon, I arrived at Kaijin.
The scenery along the train line transformed completely with the season.
The yellowed leaves of miscellaneous trees and weeds were also a sight worth seeing.
After all the sweet potatoes had been cleared away, the ridges of the fields held onions, turnips, and radishes with softly verdant leaves, while the cabbage leaves were particularly splendid.
Dusk returned with a late autumn shower.

November 12th.

Before dawn, I had stomach pain.
Clear, then overcast.
At noon, Mr. Kotaki of Chūōkōron-sha came to converse.
In the afternoon, Kaijin.

November 13th.
Clear.
When I sat on the sunny edge of the veranda, my forehead naturally grew damp with sweat.
The warmth of this year’s early winter was unprecedented in recent years.
In the afternoon, on my way to Kaijin, I walked through the cultivated fields of Katsushika.
A gentle breeze wafted.
The vista stretched boundlessly; the green leaves of vegetables lay spread like a carpet.
I sat in the shade of a tree and read Barbusse’s *Account of Russia*.

November 14th.
Clear, then overcast.
In the morning, Ryōsōshi came to converse.
In the afternoon, I walked through the cultivated fields near the Kaijin wireless telegraph station.
They grew green onions, daikon radishes, Chinese cabbage, and spinach.
The land had undulations.
Standing on this high ground and gazing through the pine groves at the low-lying fields beyond, one saw the winter sun gently illuminating the vegetable leaves - their chromatic wonder defying description.
At dusk, I purchased grilled eel skewers (¥15 per skewer) in Nakayama town and returned home.

November 15th.
Clear.
In the afternoon, Kaijin.
Even without a hibachi during the day, I still had to sit at my desk.
In the evening, Mr. Ogawa Takeo came and bestowed red rice.

November 16th.
Clear.
The antiquarian bookseller Tatsumiya came and showed me *Histoire de l'Erotisme en Europe*.
He stated the price as five hundred yen.
It was a French translation of a German original work.
(Prof. Dr. Paul Englisch, *Histoire de l'Erotisme en Europe*, Adaptation française par Jacques Goroil.)

November 17th.
Sunday.
Rain.
I went to Kaijin.
On the return journey, the rain ceased, and a pale haze blurred the view.
It was as though the varying shades of the trees had been painted.

November 18th.
Clear.
Clear; later overcast.
In the afternoon, Kaijin.
In the evening, Dr. Kondō came to converse.

November 19th.

Clear.
A Shinseisha employee came to converse.
At noon from Katsushika Station, taking the wireless telegraph station’s mast as my landmark, I walked along a path through the fields.
To my left through pine groves I glimpsed Nakayama Racecourse’s buildings; to my right lay the telegraph office’s barracks.
Where roadside tree shade darkened stood an abandoned shrine.
Sliding open its door to peer inside, I found a thin mat spread out and one ceramic hand-warmer—but no enshrined deity.
Could this be some secret trysting spot for farmhands and country maids?
Strange indeed.
Looking upon a farmhouse garden, I saw a family gathered threshing rice beneath the winter sun.
Human happiness knows no greater form than this.
Persimmons hung nearly stripped bare while chrysanthemums blazed in profusion.
I reached Ryōsō-an and returned home at dusk.

November 20th.
Clear.
Around noon, Mr. Kotaki came and showed a bound sample of *Hikage no Hana*.
In the afternoon, I went to Kaijin.

November 21st.
Half cloudy, half clear.
In the afternoon at Kaijin, I completed the manuscript for *A Short Piece on Yōkan*.
On my way back, I visited Mr. Yoshihara, the dentist in Sugano, and had the diseased tooth extracted.
While I was out, Mr. Shimizu of Fusō Shobō visited.
After seven in the evening, Mr. Shimizu came again and informed me that Shinseisha would ultimately be unable to pay the royalties for my work *Udekurabe*.

November 22nd.
Clear.
On my way to Kaijin in the afternoon, I encountered a sudden rain.
Upon arriving at Ryōsō-an, I found the master had come and was present.
We spent half a day in intimate conversation.
I was served an evening meal.
After nine in the evening, I took my leave and returned home.
The rain ceased.

November 23rd.
Clear.
Warm.
In the afternoon, I took a stroll around Shin-Koiwa.
By lamplight, I read Kimura Kaishū’s *The Yellow Millet Dream*.

November 24th.
Sunday.
Clear; later overcast.
In the morning, Mr. Ogawa came and made a frame for the kotatsu.
In the afternoon, I arrived at Kaijin.
In the tokonoma alcove of Ryōsō-an, I hung Ryūwan’s quatrain.
As follows:
Having admired spring at Eastern Mountain,
My walking staff trailed the lingering sunset’s glow.
I turned my head to gaze upon the mountain descent path.
Bell tones escort falling blossoms.
At Tōei, viewing blossoms.
Ryūwan Rōjin.

November 25th.

The sky was perfectly clear.
It was warm.
In the afternoon, I went to Kaijin.
On my way back, regarding the purchase of a house, I visited Rokuhei at the Yahata-chō milk shop and Mr. Abe Keiichi.

November 26th.

Perfectly clear.
Warm.
In the afternoon, I walked around Nakayama Racecourse.
Whenever I beheld this area’s finest views—the pine groves and fields stretching across the countryside—the vulgarity of the racecourse’s construction grew all the more detestable.
I walked a path through the fields and arrived at Kaijin.

November 27th.
Cloudy.
In the afternoon, Kaijin.
Night rain.

November 28th.
Clear, warm, later overcast.
In the afternoon at Kaijin, I worked on my manuscript.
On my way back, I bought chicken in Yahata-chō.
(50 momme gold: 35 yen)

November 29th.
Cloudy.
Slightly cold.
In the afternoon, I went to Kaijin.

November 30th.
Cloudy.
For the first time, I placed charcoal in the hibachi.
In the afternoon, Mr. Kotaki came to talk.
He brought coffee from Ginza Lupin in a magic jar.
Such kindness must be acknowledged.
At midnight, there was a moon.

December 1st.
Sunday.
Cloudy.

In the morning, Mr. Shimizu of Fusō Shobō came and showed me a Shinseisha-issued blocked check.
With this, my relationship with Shinseisha was severed.
In the afternoon, Kaijin.

December 2nd.
A cold rain fell without respite.
In the afternoon, I arrived at Kaijin.
At dusk, I encountered the master returning home.
I was treated to dinner.
After nine o'clock, I took my leave and exited the gate to find the rain had already cleared, the half-moon shining bright.

December 3rd.
Clear.
It was the day of my birth.
In the afternoon, Abe Yukiko came to talk.

December 4th.
Clear.
Warm.
In the afternoon, I passed through the grounds of Nakayama Hokekyō Temple, walked along a road lined with houses, and emerged outside the racecourse fence from before the inner temple’s gate.
I walked a narrow path through the fields and arrived at Kaijin.

December 5th.

Clear.
In the morning, Mr. Abe Keiichi came and said he had found a good room for rent.
It was an old mansion amidst pine groves four or five *chō* away from my current residence.
The master was said to be about forty years old and an official of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.
Guided by Mr. Abe, I met with the wife and viewed the sitting room.
In the afternoon, I went to Kaijin.

December 6th.
Clear skies.
A gentle breeze.
At noon, I took the provincial railway to Chiba to view the scenery along the way.
After the urban areas burned down, many makeshift structures had been built selling oden and zenzai.
I returned to Kaijin via the Keisei Electric Railway and wrote at Ryōsō-an as was my custom.
On the return journey, the moon was beautiful.

December 7th.
Clear and warm.
In the afternoon at Kaijin, I completed the manuscript for the short story "The Ring."

December 8th.
Sunday.
Cloudy.
Cold.
In the morning, the owner of Fusō Shobō brought proof sheets.
We went out together, rested briefly at Rinya Café on the National Route, then continued to Kaijin.
Rain on the return journey.

December 9th.
Clear, with wind.

In the evening, Mr. Konishi invited me for drinks.
The moonlight was as bright as day.

December 10th.
Clear.
The cold had grown severe since yesterday.
In the afternoon, I borrowed a room in Mr. Konishi’s residence to make into a refuge from the radio.
In the evening, I walked through Shin-Koiwa.
At a street stall, I drank.

December 11th.
Clear.
In the morning, the owner of Fusō Shobō came to talk.
In the afternoon, I wrote in the rented room at Mr. Konishi’s residence.

December 12th.
Clear.
Warm.
In the afternoon, I went to Kaijin.
At lamp-lighting time, I returned from Funabashi via the provincial railway.

December 13th.
Clear.

In the afternoon, I was at Mr. Konishi’s residence.

December 14th.
Clear.
Warm.

In the morning, Mr. Masacka and Mr. Ogawa came to talk.
Mr. Kotaki came and showed a binding sample of *Hikage no Hana*.
In the afternoon, I bathed at Mama’s public bathhouse.

December 15th.
Sunday.
Cloudy.
At noon, Abe Yukiko came and presented me with two Western books.
At lamp-lighting time: Kaijin.
I was treated to dinner.

CharlesSarolea: Ce quej'ai vuen Russie Soviétique.

MaxEastman: Depuis lamort de Lénine.（Paris 1925）

December 16th.
Clear.
In the afternoon, I went to the rented room in Mr. Konishi’s residence.

December 17th.
Clear.
Warm.
In the morning, the owner of Fusō Shobō came to talk.

December 18th.
Clear.

In the afternoon, I was at Mr. Konishi’s residence.
At lamp-lighting time, the owner of Fusō Shobō came and informed me that Shinseisha would soon close its doors.

December 19th.
Clear.
The north wind was cold.
At noon, Ryōsōshi came to talk.
Together we went out and had tea at Hayashiya.
In the afternoon: Mr. Konishi’s rented room.
At lamp-lighting time, I returned.

December 20th.
Clear.
The north wind was cold.
In the afternoon, in the rented room, I completed the short story *Azechi*.
At lamp-lighting time, when I returned home, Mr. Nakamura Mitsuo had come and was waiting.
The visitor delivered the remaining royalties balance of 28,000-odd yen.
The radio in the neighboring room reached extreme clamor night after night.

December 21st.
Clear.
In the morning, Tatsumiya came.
At lamp-lighting time, when I returned from the rented room, Mr. Kotaki had come and was waiting.
Together we had a drink at Hayashiya.
(Sake: 1 gō – 60 yen.
Tempura: 1 serving – 50 yen.)

December 22nd.
Sunday.
Cloudy.
In the late afternoon, I arrived at Ryōsō-an in Kaijin.
The host was present.
As it was the auspicious day of the winter solstice, the household prepared a yuzu bath.
I was treated to dinner.
While I was out, Fusō Shobō visited.
I was presented with salted salmon and other local specialties from Sōya, Hokkaido by Mr. Abe Kiyohachi.

December 23rd.
Clear.
The wind was like ice.
As there were recurring rumors of bank account freezes, I withdrew sixty thousand yen from savings and another twenty thousand yen from a separate account.
In the afternoon, I went to Mr. Konishi’s residence.
On my way back, I bought chicken.
Fifty momme cost forty yen.

Ham: fifty momme – forty yen

Beef: fifty momme – thirty-five yen

Chicken: fifty momme – forty yen

Egg: one – eight yen

December 24th.
Clear.

At noon, Mr. Abe Keiichi came to talk.
In the afternoon, I was at Mr. Konishi’s place.
Midnight: one bout of diarrhea.

December 25th.

Cloudy and cold.
I remained at home all day.

December 26th.
Clear.
No desire to write.
In the afternoon, reading at Mr. Konishi’s; at lamp-lighting time I returned home, but amid the clamor of children and girls could accomplish nothing and went to bed early.
This has been a nightly occurrence since I came to Ichikawa.

December 27th.
Light rain.
A southerly wind, slightly warm.
In the afternoon, at Mr. Konishi’s residence.

December 28th.
Cloudy.
In the morning, Masacka Yō and a woman from Hanazono visited.
I was presented with white rice.
In the afternoon, I was at Mr. Konishi’s residence.
At lamp-lighting time, Mr. Kotaki brought a deluxe-bound copy of *Hikage no Hana*.
Together we went out and drank at Hayashiya.
A moon of about five days old was visible.

December 29th.
Sunday.
Clear.
In the afternoon, I bathed at Mama’s public bathhouse.
The bath fee came to one yen.
In the late afternoon, I walked along the Edo River embankment.

December 30th.
Clear.
Warm.
In the afternoon at Mr. Konishi’s residence, I read Shō Akumu’s translation of Kuprin’s *The Pit*.
Last night, a thief had stolen one of Mr. Konishi’s chickens, it was said.

December 31st.
Cloudy.
Later, clear.
At noon, the proprietor of Fusō Shobō came to talk.
I went to Hayashiya and drank tea.
In the afternoon, I read at Mr. Konishi’s place.
During my absence, Ryōsōshi came and bestowed mochi.
In bed reading, merely waiting for sleep to come.

Never in my life has there been a year as joyless as this one.
It was the first time I experienced how life in rented rooms proved unsuitable for reading and poetic composition.
Beyond this, there was nothing to say or record.
Covering my ears to the radio in the neighboring room, thus do I spend the second year of defeat.