Pathway to Japanese Literature

Hirokoji Avenue (Part 1) ……If asked, “In Asakusa, where lies your most cherished, most intimately familiar place?” I could only answer: the neighborhood around Hirokoji Avenue. For that is where I was born. I—born in Tawaramachi in Meiji 22 (1889), who lived there until October of Taisho 3 (1914), at twenty-six. Nothing returns so tenderly and persistently before anyone as the landscapes seen in childhood—whether mountains, rivers, or towns. ……And this is all the truer for one like myself, for whom it has held since first becoming aware of the world.

Tawaramachi, Kita-Tawaramachi, Higashi-Nakachō, Kita-Higashi-Nakachō, Umamichi 1-chōme.—The willows that once stood lush and verdant before each shop on both sides had been replaced by young ginkgo trees. The narrow gutters marking the boundary between pedestrian path and roadway had been filled in. (In autumn, those gutters would lie desolate with scattered yellow willow leaves.) Nowhere remained the shadows of shop curtains faded from their indigo hues. The large rainwater barrel beneath Seimizuya Asakuraya’s window had vanished; the comb-painted signboard that once hung from Bekko Komamono Matsuya’s eaves had disappeared. No longer could I find yakitori stalls before Gensui Alley’s lantern shops, nor spot fire watchtowers piercing the sky at inn corners in Ofuro Alley.—Of course, I no longer possessed anything there that might evoke traces from even five years prior, let alone ten or thirty. Now that “Shibuya” had repainted its sign as “Paint Contractor,” “Ichi Zenmeshi” as “Japanese-Western Restaurant,” and “Gozen Shiruko” as “Ice Cream & Soda Water”—though such descriptions felt inadequate—cafés, bars, and tea shops now stood shoulder-to-shoulder without respite. Yet even if I claimed that whimsical umbrella shops had occasionally hoisted red bat-shaped emblems high on their roofs—visible from Kaminarimon Gate under cloudless skies—none would believe it anymore. Now Hirokoji Avenue lay buried in “colors.” It now bore an intense interplay of “light” and “shadow.” This did not merely refer to Café America (now rebranded Orient) having recently replaced the old Matsuda restaurant. Nor did it mean waitresses there were divided into red, blue, and purple groups. When I noticed the colossal ads for *Japan Children’s Library* and *Elementary School Student Complete Works* atop Seimizuya Asakuraya’s roof; when I saw movie actresses’ enlarged photos in Sagamaya Liquor Store’s display windows; when I found a “Children’s Western Clothing Workshop” sign beside Honganji Temple’s earthquake-ravaged back gate notices for “Scripture Lectures” and “Sunday Talks”—then I felt with stark clarity how these old districts defied my nostalgia to ride modernity’s tide.—Seimizuya Asakuraya had recently partitioned part of its storefront to sell new books. Sagamiya too had split its shop in two, dedicating one side to “merino and meisen” silks.

But it was hard to forget. But still, those towns remained nostalgic to me...

Why was that?

There stood Yoshimiya Caterers still displaying its “Official Purveyor to Honganji” signboard, and Kakuzen-dō Pharmacy where its bald-headed owner still perpetually ground medicines. Ota-ya Mochi Shop remained with its plump proprietress—unchanged from days of old—forever appearing in her work apron with sleeves tied back. ——Fujiya Inn; Yanagiya; Chōchō Poultry Shop; Hōrai Sushi; Kawamatsu Eel Restaurant; Kameidō Tile Crackers; Musashiya Lightly Baked Confectionery. ——Those shops still welcomed me with the same modest courtesy as when I attended elementary school. ——Whenever I passed before those shops, even now I would melancholy recall my childhood self—led by the hand by my grandmother in her kasuri-patterned kimono with purple meirinsu sash and okoso hood. ——It was an evening when the north wind cut to the bone, lights already flickering everywhere in the gathering dark. ——Looking up, there pierced through the distant bright remnant of twilight—poignantly—the gable of Honganji Temple.…

Hirokoji Avenue (Part 2) ...Hirokoji Avenue had, on both sides, a total of six alleyways and two large backstreets. Counting from Honganji Temple, to the right were Gensui Alley, an alleyway without a particular name, Ofuro Alley, and Matsuda Alley; to the left were Denbō Alley and Chinya Alley. ――The two large backstreets referred to Sagamiya’s backstreet located before Denbō Alley and Asakuraya’s backstreet.—That is to say, “Sagamiya’s backstreet” faced “Gensui Alley,” while “Asakuraya’s backstreet” faced the “Unnamed Alley,” each separated by a wide thoroughfare facing each other.

Yet names like “Gensui Alley,” “Unnamed Alley,” “Ofuro Alley,” “Matsuda Alley,” and “Denbō-in Temple Alley”—all of these were what everyone called them during my childhood… or at least during the time I still lived in Tawaramachi. Gensui Alley was so named because Matsui Gensui once lived there; Ofuro Alley because it had a bathhouse called “Ofuro”; Matsuda Alley because it housed the Matsuda restaurant at its right corner (it was also called Iroha Alley due to the Iroha beef restaurant at its left corner)—while “Denbō-in Temple Alley” referred to “Denbō-in Temple Alley,” and “Chinya Alley” was literally named after the Chinya beef restaurant. Come to think of it, this is the alley of Chinya—a beef restaurant known to everyone. Its origin is exceedingly straightforward.

Of these, only “Chinya Alley” remains today. It is only the designation “Chinya Alley” that remains. To the people of the area today—who even have their regular cafés in Asakuraya’s backstreets and Tanukiya Alley—the term “Gensui Alley” now carries nothing but an empty echo. At the same time, the “alley without a particular name” came to be called by the imposing title of “Kawasaki Bank Alley.” After I left there, that bank had been formed by buying out and closing down the existing novelty goods dealers, pickle shops, sugar shops, and one or two others. Nowadays, while there is a Day-and-Night Bank and Kōjimachi Bank is about to open nearby, twelve or thirteen years ago, such buildings could not be found anywhere in Hirokoji. When speaking of banks, only the long-standing Asakusa Bank (later Toyokuni Bank) on Namiki-dori Avenue existed nearby at the time.—Today, with Ofuro already lost, I felt with absolute certainty on this widened thoroughfare—cleared early through land readjustment, now far broader than before, with its crisp atmosphere—that the day was not far off when “Ofuro Alley” would fade into legend, and “Matsuda Alley” would be renamed “Matsuki Alley.”—The former Matsuda Alley had been darker and gloomier than any of the three other alleyways.—“Matsuki” refers to another large beef restaurant established after Iroha.—There, it stands in complete opposition to Chinya in every aspect…

I will not expend any more meticulous prose on those four respective alleyways. For that would merely satisfy my sentimental reflections and nothing more. Yet even now, after all these years, the sounds I heard in those respective alleyways—the calls of “Scissors! Kitchen knives! Razor sharpening!”, “Morning glory seedlings! Evening glory seedlings!”, the clang of Teisaiya’s metal rings, the charumera flute of the candy seller, the thud of the mortar pounding kankachi dumplings—all these varied noises still resonate vividly in the depths of my ears. When I think of those alleyways, my heart is always soaked by a dark, drizzle-like rain…

Hirokoji Avenue (Part 3) Now, as for “Denbō Alley.” Nowadays, they no longer call the alley facing Ofuro Alley—the lively alley that now has Miyoshino and Mitsukawaya Gofukuten (which were once a geta shop and a sushi shop) at both its corners—by the name “Denbō Alley.” They no longer call it that; instead, they call it “Ward Office Alley.” And so, the street beside Denbō-in Temple—that narrow passage of old lying at the edge of Ward Office Alley, connecting Nakamise Street to Sensō-ji Park—is now called “Denbō-in Alley” (a slightly more accurate rendering than “Denbōn Alley”).

That “Ward Office Alley” (until recently, I could not accept it—stubbornly, I had continued to call it “Denbōn Alley”). Yet upon hearing someone my age—who not only knew of the monkey doll that beat its drum at Chinsekai but also remembered well the jawless barker’s spiel at Denkikan—unhesitatingly refer to it as “Ward Office Alley,” I had to relent. Even if I were to mention that there once was a communal toilet right after entering (though “Ward Office Alley” still feels unnatural—but there’s no helping it), likely no one would struggle to recall that old memory anymore. Both sides had come to possess such orderly, beautiful, bright rows of shops. Especially the grand coffee shops of Shimousaya and Funawa (though it’s not quite right to call them that—yet to call them Mitsumame Halls in the first place no longer applies either). The fierce opposition between them—both hanging glass bead curtains at their storefronts (their cool appearance against this season’s heat now gives me the feeling of “ice shops,” a sight rarely seen anymore)—boldly narrates the prosperity of “new Asakusa” and its accompanying naive joy there. —Shimousaya, from its “Okame” sweet sake, and Funawa, from its sweet potato yōkan production—each on their own, in a short span of months and years, had refined themselves into the forms they now present.

But when it comes to their completion—it was around when I was twelve or thirteen—there had been a small open-fronted shop by the corner of Kawasaki Bank I’d written of yesterday, next to the novelty dealer’s store, where they split and grilled *mezuko* eel. A proprietor in his forties, as stout as a sumo wrestler, ran his business with a few teenage girls and mischievous boys a year or two younger than me. There was an old man with a shaved head and a seemingly strong-willed demeanor, whom the children called Grandpa—but for some reason he eventually left, and at night on Hirokoji Avenue, that same proprietor began setting up a tempura stall. By lavishly using quality ingredients and brazenly charging exorbitant prices, he quickly established his business; soon afterward he bought and moved into the former site of Toku no Ie—a waiting house in what is now called Ward Office Alley—marking the very beginning of what would become Nakasei.

Even now, I could only think of it as if it were yesterday—but with establishments like Tenpō in Hirokoji and Ten’yū in Nakamise now gone, that very place had become a shop unmatched in its old-world character. Yet there, in that alley, existed an even older oyster rice shop—if Shimousaya and Funawa were the sprouts of “Asakusa to come,” then Nakasei and those places formed the deep-buried roots of “Asakusa that was,” hidden within the soil……

Hirokoji Avenue (Part 4) The spot in Chinya Alley where the café “Juraku” now stands was once the site of the yose theater “Shin-Ebisutei.” Apart from recalling the strange combination of an old brick building and antique hanging lanterns, and holding the memory of having once seen a ukiyo-e print of Shirai Gonpachi there when I was eleven or twelve, I have nothing else to speak of regarding that theater. Because that was where I remember the old naniwa-bushi performances being regularly held. At that time, I thought of rakugo storytelling, kōshaku lectures, and gidayū puppet theater—in fact, all such arts—as nothing more than naniwa-bushi: something only vulgar folks who couldn’t understand them were forced to listen to. Thinking that way, I mentally belittled it all. —I wouldn’t go so far as to say that isn’t still the case… (Incidentally, the yose theaters I frequented most were Namikitei and Daikintei. Both were located on Namiki-dori Avenue and specialized in variety acts.—Since I rarely set foot in venues for lectures, puppet theater, or anything beyond such spectacles, I consequently held no particular fondness for yose like Tōbashi-tei near Azumabashi Bridge or Yamahiro-tei and Ebisu-tei near Kaminarimon Gate. But like Yamahiro-tei and Ebisu-tei, Daikintei and Namikitei too have now vanished without a trace, swept away by time’s currents. Only Tōbashi-tei remains.)

Nowadays, it boasts a variety of dining establishments—Juraku, Sankaku, Kinzushi, Yoshinozushi, and others—but in the past, it had been a desolate thoroughfare where only modest shops stood in sparse clusters here and there: a cosmetics store, a seal engraver’s shop… that sort of lonely, small merchant presence scattered amidst rows of unremarkable storefronts. As for eateries, there had been only a Western-style restaurant next to the Naniwa-bushi theater—its name now forgotten—with a slightly soiled white cotton curtain hung at its front, little more than an open stall. And so, when day fell, it had been no lie that lanterns were lit densely along both sides of the night stalls selling dew-drenched plants. Between the plant sellers, goldfish vendors had lined up numerous containers filled to the brim with water. The insect seller’s checkered lattice shoji screens had evoked a faint evening dusk. The rotating lanterns of the lantern shop, as if announcing the arrival of summer nights prone to fading, had spun quietly, ceaselessly, forever in that space…

Both “Sagamiya’s Backstreet” and “Asakuraya’s Backstreet” were the only two—that is to say, the sole vital thoroughfares connecting Hirokoji Avenue and the Park. And so along Sagamiya’s backstreet, both sides stood crammed with sushi shops, sushi shops, sushi shops… or more precisely, sushi shops that doubled as tempura establishments, packed shoulder to shoulder. Beneath the frenzied shades of tuna flesh roared a surge of sizzling oil. Yet once, upon entering, there had been a rough lattice at the very front where the master plasterer resided. Adjacent to it stood a waiting house called Kikumoto. On one flank lay Wakura Onsen alongside a tobacco shop that doubled as a book rental store.

……There, the path dropped down a level. Beyond that stretch lay rows of low-roofed tenements on both sides—embroidery shops, tailors, barbershops, tool stores, penny candy stalls, charcoal dealers, rice sellers… all populated by reserved, household-oriented people who seemed to live devoid of any joy. And so, I wrote about that place seven or eight years ago. But at that time, Wakura Onsen had still been there. All that remains now, even in form, is the Inari shrine standing along the path.

And so, Asakuraya’s Backstreet—now called Kuradōshi Alley beneath the Park Theater shortcut—…

First, I would like you to view today’s illustration.

Nakamise Street (Part 1)

…I attended Asakusa Elementary School on Umamichi Street. In the neighborhood, there were various substitute schools like Ogawa School and Seiun School, and those in the Tawaramachi and Higashi-Nakachō areas all took it for granted to attend these “private” institutions—but I, along with Nagasakiya’s Chaa-chan (the kimono store “Nagasakiya” still remains on Hirokoji Avenue today), was made to commute all the way there due to both our parents’ insistence on a public education. However, the current one belongs to a different era from my childhood. The original establishment collapsed about twenty years ago. Amidst that period’s comings and goings, I felt a loneliness like skies heavy with blossom-clouds—a loneliness I still intend to write into a novel someday—when, alongside that child Chaa-chan, we were made to commute all that distance due to our parents’ insistence on a public education. Asakusa School was, at the time, one of the oldest among Asakusa’s still-scarce “municipal” institutions.

Every day, I would go along the “Horse-drawn Carriage Road” with my grandmother—in those days, no trace of electric trams could be found anywhere in Tokyo. Wherever you looked, there were horse-drawn tramways. So instead of calling it “Tram Street,” we referred to it as “Horse-drawn Carriage Road.” In Higashi-Nakachō—where the electric utility bureau now stands—there had been a carriage company; passing through this area, we entered Asakuraya’s backstreet. The path there, far narrower than today, ran between Asakuraya’s kitchen entrance on one side and a soba shop’s kitchen entrance at the corner before continuing—to the right stood Asakuraya’s storehouse, while to the left was a women’s hairdresser’s shop with what appeared to be a lye bucket placed out front. Adjacent to the storehouse stood a wide-fronted single-story house fitted with crude latticework. This was the residence of the notorious gambler Dewa-saku. His henchmen could always be seen out front—wiping down the latticework or washing items at the water spout—while occasionally, the lonely figures of travelers wearing sedge hats would appear in the vicinity.

Across the road was a well, and beside it stood a small house with a miscanthus-thatched roof resembling a hermitage. A willow that looked like a cutting hung its branches over the gate, while a tangle of weeds choked the area. And now, as I write this here beneath a summer sky—a blazing blue so vivid it seemed it might stain one’s fingertips—I visualized that narrow path: uneven stones gleaming emptily white in the midday sun, where footsteps had vanished and all sound lay hushed. The sagging awning of the penny candy store, the lone sprig of millet in the pouch-maker’s window… Far off, cicadas in Denbō-in Temple’s trees seeped into the earth like a storm’s whisper or water’s echo. In that hermitage-like house, a retiree from a Nihonbashi notions shop spent his remaining years in solitary silence.

Next to Dewa-saku lived a dance instructor named Nishikawa Katsunosuke. Peering in from outside, one could see this master—with drooping outer eyes and a receding hairline reminiscent of the late En’u—always earnestly drilling small children in pieces like *Onna Dayū*, *Yamagaeri*, and *Osome*. His dark-skinned, angular-faced wife would pluck the shamisen strings as he called out, “Now—one, two, three… spin all the way around… lift your foot…!” Adjacent to them ran the quiet, gated wall of Mr. Yoshida’s property, a landowner’s residence that stretched all the way to the edge of the neighborhood.—As a child, passing by each time, I often fantasized that someday I too would live in such a stately home. For those of us born into merchant households, there was nothing as alluring as a residence with a gate.

…Having exited Asakuraya’s backstreet, I walked straight along the muddy ditch skirting the park’s outer perimeter. Turning right at the corner where Paulista now stands—on the left corner was a gambling den called Ōshika—I emerged onto what is now termed “Denbō-in Alley” and arrived at Nakamise Street.

Nakamise Street (Part 2)

……And that’s all there is to it, if I were to put it simply. However, since the shops lining one side—facing the unbroken wall of Denbō-in Temple—were geta shops, notions stores, thread sellers, and confectioneries specializing in arubei, they all stood shrouded in tree shadows, steeped in passing showers, each quietly bowing their foreheads. They kept their foreheads lowered in silence—for there, at the road’s center, stood a great enoki tree spreading its muscular branches, casting a somber dampness over the sunlight… over the very hue of the sky. Beneath it had once lived an old diviner.—The current tempura shop Daikokuya began as a soba restaurant when first established.

Therefore, the street stalls that set up there were all quiet and modest in atmosphere. Old bookstores displaying *Iroha* dictionaries and *Three Lifetimes* physiognomy books; tool shops selling tobacco-case fittings and cord fasteners; stencil shops dangling cutouts of various family crests.—At times, explanations of magic tricks and tales of filial piety were as commonplace as threading a needle… Such were the only things that mingled among those shops. Therefore, rather than being part of Nakamise Street as a thoroughfare connecting it to the Park, it was more fitting to its character to exist separately, distanced from Denbō-in Temple’s backstreets. At the same time, Denbō-in Temple’s back gate was not originally as imposing as that. It was a rather desolate and crude structure—roofless, resembling a service gate—located more to the right than its current position.

However, this was not unique to that thoroughfare alone. All the alleyways of Nakamise were like that. The alley just past Kaminarimon Gate, where the affordable eatery Otowa now stands on the corner; next, the alley once called Ten’yū Alley, where Kinryūken, a Western-style restaurant, now occupies the corner; then the alley formerly known as Kyōeikan Alley, now marked by Umeen at its corner; and further to the right, Yorozuya Alley, home to a soba shop of the same name. All those thoroughfares, until just fourteen or fifteen years ago, had oddly enough received none of Nakamise’s benefits. You were you, I was I—divided in such a manner, with no connection between us, we spent all those long years just so. Before long, only Kinryūken Alley saw various small eateries like Wakatake, Hanaya, and Miyako spring up, and with the advantage of its thoroughfare stretching across Chinya Alley all the way to Kuyakusho Alley, this spot joined hands with Nakamise sooner than anywhere else. Yet I still remember, as if it were yesterday, how there stood a brush-maker’s shop—a trade now scarcely seen anywhere—alongside a drowsy-looking barber, and one or two shops down, a nagauta instructor whose shrill shamisen reverberated over that ash-gray road. Later, among these emerged Hiraekeiken, a grubby Western-style restaurant with a nine-foot frontage beneath a vaudeville hall. To me in my middle-school uniform, that place first taught the novelty of things called “cutlet,” “steak,” and “curry”—more exotic than even Nakasei’s tempura fritters served on lacquered trays. At that time, in Asakusa, aside from Hōbaitei next to Asakusa Bank, one could not find any proper Western-style restaurants anywhere else. In Otowa Alley, there were only rows of shops of the same modest latticework design. Even now, the lonely sound of the bell from New Year’s night cold-weather devotions draws me back to that thoroughfare. As for Umeen Alley, I remember that there was once a Tako-ya there. The clear December sky still brings to mind the frost pillars along that thoroughfare.—The entire scene was winter itself.

And as for Yorozuya Alley… ……I mustn’t dawdle—I’m on my way to school now.

Nakamise Street (Part 3)

At the corner where what is now called Tatsumi Shokudo stands, there had once been a market hall named Umeenkan. Emerging onto Nakamise Street there, I turned left and headed toward Niōmon Gate. What had existed since that time was Ōhashi Photo Studio, located deep within the wooded area before what is now Ōmashi. At Ōmashi’s location during that era stood Manbai—one of Asakusa’s five renowned tea houses. To state this alone would not suffice—there, beneath the shade of that still-standing great enoki tree, its steadfast, modest facade encircled by an Edo-period black wall displayed Old Asakusa’s elegance and composure. The stone pavement there alone perpetually felt dampened—indeed, beneath that enoki tree, the fixed stall that always appeared early each autumn to sell roasted chestnuts deepened one’s sense of long,cold nights under a waning moon. Nakamise Street was at times a place that held such scenes and sentiments.

Afterward, Manbai relocated to a spot near Hanayashiki within the park, and Tokiwa—a butcher shop that had dominated Nakamise Street at the time—took over its former location. And continued operating under the name “Oku no Tokiwa.” That said, it was through such business acumen that they renovated part of its nostalgic facade to create a simple dining hall, introduced a decorative waterfall, and installed flower beds. They sought to attract a broader clientele than before.—They specifically called it “Oku no Tokiwa” because there existed various other branches of the same establishment there, such as “Kaminarimon no Tokiwa” and “Naka no Tokiwa.”

Even Tokiwa, which had once flourished so much, gradually saw its presence fade. The autumn wind had swept through every shopfront.—It was during that time that the current Ōmashi took over Oku no Tokiwa as it stood.—They too had previously owned another shop next to Imahan. And that remained until just before the earthquake.—That is why people once specifically called that place “Oku no Ōmashi” after all…

That doesn’t matter at all. What’s more important is that during Manbai’s time, the current site of Kimuraya was a photo studio—one that sold photographs of Tokyo landmarks and actors. How feverishly I must have bought up photos of those young Asakusa-za actors from back then—Yoshigoro, Kodenji, Munenosuke! Every time I passed its front, I would badger my grandmother—needless to say, this was an era when picture postcards did not yet exist. It would be six or seven years later before picture postcards came into being.

…Turning at the corner of that photo studio (I regret having forgotten its name) toward Akimoto, the shiruko shop, circling around the base of Benten Hill while observing the sea bream shapes attached to both ends of Okada’s roof, and emerging onto Umamichi Street at the corner where the rice shop has now become a liquor store—the ginkgo tree before the school would already come into view right there. My feet quickened of their own accord. At that time, Asakusa School did not yet have its gate on the street of Miso Shop Mankyu as it does now. —It only had a small gate, now less than half its size, next to the inn Kama-ya. Therefore, from the classroom windows facing that gate, the blue roof of the five-story pagoda would always float into view as clearly as a painting, framed by the shadow of the ginkgo’s branches……

Nakamise Street (Part 4) “The stretch from where the old Kaminarimon Gate once stood to Niōmon Gate spans seventy-odd ken [approx. 127 meters] and is called Nakamise.” “The road, over five ken [approx. 9 meters] wide, was entirely paved with stone, and along both sides stood over 130 brick-built shops.” “Originally, this area was where Sensō-ji Temple’s branch temples stood, with six each on both the left and right sides.” “Near that Niōmon Gate, there were teahouses collectively known as Nijūken Chaya.” “After the Meiji Restoration, some branch temples relocated while others vanished, and street stalls lined the spaces they left behind; the current shops were constructed by Tokyo City in December 1885.” “The shops of Nakamise Street divided each building into several storefronts, with a frontage of nine shaku [approx. 2.7 meters] and a depth no greater than that; the interiors were indescribably cramped, and the merchants would lock up their stalls at night to return home, only to come back the next day carrying their lunchboxes.” “However, this Nakamise Street was the most prosperous area within the park, for nearly all those making pilgrimages to Kannon purchased souvenirs for their households here, resulting in such substantial daily sales that many hoped to open stalls. Yet unless one paid substantial sums of golden yen, securing a shop license was no easy feat—indeed, depending on location, fees reportedly exceeded three hundred yen.” So writes the section on Nakamise Street in Asakusa Hanjōki, a book published in Meiji 43 [1910]. Meiji 43 [1910] was seventeen years ago. It was during my second year at Keio Preparatory School. However, even so, I thought that three hundred yen for those shop licenses was far below market rate and questioned my friend Mr. Kan’ichi Itou about this. Mr. Kan’ichi Itou was the owner of Seimizuya Bookstore, located at the corner immediately upon entering Nakamise Street. “That’s not the case—even back then, they were five or six times that amount,” said Mr. Itou. “Then, are they ten times that now?” I asked. Mr. Itou laughed and did not answer.

Instead, Mr. Itou told me various useful things about that. For example: how the frontage, which had been nine shaku during the original brick-building era, now averaged eight shaku after reconstruction in the Nara-period style (with some reportedly as narrow as seven shaku and eight sun); how each shop was referred to in units like “one tsubo” or “two tsubo”; how altogether there were 147 such units and 99 households; how seven shops near Niōmon Gate—still retaining traces of the old Nakamise even after surviving the earthquake—now bore the name “New Brick”; how on busy festival days, those on the east side couldn’t see the shops on the west; and so on, and so on. Of course, I couldn’t possibly jot down each and every one, so I listened to them all with a vacant expression.

However, what I felt now as I walked through the “Nakamise” of old—as it remained to me—was how the picture book stores had dwindled in number. (Among them, the largest had been Seimizuya… Mr. Itou’s shop had now become a bookstore that sold two or three hundred copies each of *Chūō Kōron* and *Kaizō*.) Bean shops and red plum cake shops no longer caught the eye as they once had. (In sheer numbers too, bean shops had decreased alongside picture book stores.) Shops peddling Kimuraya-style souvenir crackers had instead proliferated. And so Musashiya declined while Itōkan prospered…

Traditionally, there had never been the sort of deliberate “specialties” that outer pilgrimage sites elsewhere possessed. Even if one were to say there were roasted beans, red plum cakes, and Thunder Rice Crackers, they held nothing directly connected to Kannon-sama. They were merely located in Nakamise Street or Kaminarimon Gate—they had merely chosen the vicinity to establish their shops. Then occasionally, a bakery called Kimuraya began selling souvenir crackers. If there is no error in my memory, this was fifteen or sixteen years ago now…

Vicinity of Kannon Hall (Part 1) It was merely the traditional *ningyō-yaki* that reminded me—but long before that, there had been an old shop next to Chinya on Hirokoji Avenue. A husband-and-wife team ran the shop facing each other across its counter, both being enthusiasts of *jōruri*. At times, even I caught sight of the wife playing the shamisen in the shadows of the shop while her husband nodded fervently before her, utterly engrossed in narrating tales. It was a rigidly square world. No trams passed through here, no automobiles rumbled by—only willow leaves fell silently through still air. —I forgot to mention earlier that at that time Chinya had not yet begun operating as a beef restaurant. It remained a languishing tempura shop with sparse customers and idle hours… They had merely shaped those *ningyō-yaki* into motifs linked to Kannon-sama—lanterns, doves, five-story pagodas—but popularity came when a man in a white shirt stood at the storefront clanging his mold against blazing coals to demonstrate their baking. And so over long years it finally became one of those proper established shops whose names carried weight. In other words—as I mentioned earlier—these were imitators’ shops that sprouted afterward not by ones or twos but in swarms.

Thus, in Nakamise Street today, new “Asakusa souvenirs” emerged beyond “roasted beans,” “red plum cakes,” and “Thunder Rice Crackers.” The fact that “roasted beans,” “red plum cakes,” and “Thunder Rice Crackers” had no way to thrive as they once did was solely because the “era’s” preferences had grown so convoluted. —The red sash of Bairin-dō’s Okume-san had now at last become a complete “legend.”

The fact that Musashiya, after the earthquake, ceased to be what had until then been called a “luxury shop,” instead becoming an ordinary toy store—hanging paper-mâché samurai helmets from its eaves, lining up tinplate trains and streetcars, piling high celluloid dolls and pacifiers—the kind of shop one could now find even next door, or beyond that—left me with a feeling that I would never again hear the sound of thread-like spring rain falling upon Nakamise Street’s stone pavement. I was infinitely lonely. The miniature household tools crafted there, along with Manbai—its black fence encircled beneath the shade of an enoki tree—were what symbolized “old Asakusa.” From chests, long chests, and long hibachi stoves to baskets, sieves, shovels, and indeed all manner of kitchen tools down to mortars and pestles—they possessed a delicacy and refinement that could not be dismissed as mere “playthings.” Moreover, within that delicacy and refinement dwelled a “life force” that could not be dismissed as mere “playthings.” A steadfast, seasoned “life force” was vibrant—and yet, within it lay something as quiet as water…

Along with that place taking on such a state, the “workshop” beside Denbō-in Temple—shaded by trees and damp with winter drizzle—became a postcard shop called Happy-dō. When I stood looking at the plaque reading “Awarded Medals at Various Exhibitions” displayed in part of the decorated window, the shadow of the setting sun striking the nape of my neck grew needlessly deep… What Isekan produced were “adult deceptions” in the sense of being mere “child’s play.” Ema votive tablets, bean dolls, enkidana shelves—in the end, those were nothing but cheap imitations of gaudy pleasure-quarter aesthetics. If Musashiya’s had been flowers that bloomed blessed by dew, then Isekan’s were hothouse blooms forced into being through deception. If not, they were fragile “artificial flowers” made with glue and scissors. …To my mind, this was ultimately nothing but a superficial display of “sentimentalism” by “New Asakusa”…

But while one declined, the other prospered. —At some point, shops bearing names like “Sukeroku” had even appeared in that same Nakamise Street…

Vicinity of Kannon Hall (Part 2)

But even if the shade of the enoki trees before Daimasu grew sparse, even if picture book stores dwindled and bean shops diminished, even if souvenir cracker shops multiplied and Isekan prospered—even if white-gowned staff from the High-Class Kannon Moxibustion Efficacy Testing Center argued over jurisdiction here, even if Taishō koto shop employees with crew cuts grew entranced by their own strumming of *Rokudan*, even if nickel-plated tinplate airplanes from the toy shop whirled ferociously to fill every corner—there before me remained those old-fashioned shops: pickle vendors evoking memories of fragrant cherry-blossom baths; plectrum shops standing like shadows of my dead sister; hardware stores where I once begged for and bought a dog collar for that single cherished pet; doll shops, bead shops, chili pepper shops, and the like… all still showing their deep abyss-like tranquility of yore. —But more than that… far more than that, I now wished to take the reader to the grounds of Narita-san at the edge of Shinrenga near Niōmon Gate.

A hexagonal glass-paned lantern hung down from the stone-paved old gate. When one stepped inside after passing beneath it, no one could easily convince themselves that this place was part of Nakamise Street. A large black roof, equally black rain gutters, and the rainwater barrel catching what fell from those gutters—against these stood old lanterns labeled with names like “Narita-san” and “Fudō Myōō”… how forlorn their faded colors were, whether oblong or round. Within the dark inner sanctum draped in gold netting, candle flames flickered dreamily. When I looked up, both the large plaques and small ema dedicated by various devotee groups on the ceiling had turned pitch black with years of accumulated soot. The dedicated hand towels remained still in the rainy season wind…

When I turned my gaze, in the shadow of lion-dog statues, Buddhist wheels, hundred-times stones, lanterns, six Jizo statues, and such things all lined up in rows, a grape trellis tilted beside a building with white shoji screens—a continuation of the ablution area. Behind it, over the roof of the Shioname Jizo before the gate, the summit of Niōmon Gate—encircled by vivid, drippingly fresh young leaves of the temple’s ginkgo trees—appeared within arm’s reach. Nor could I overlook one or two chickens pecking for feed beneath the mock orange where old fortune slips remained tied.

To the left, within the sacred fence, there was a stone well. Half-buried in soil, one could read the inscription carved in Meiwa 7… Kanzan Sanpō Daiarai—Sumiiro Handan adjacent to it—the beggar who succeeded at the gate’s edge… I will stop at merely saying so. Even someone who knows that the lamp still burning above the water filled to overflowing in the water house before the hall (that of Kannon-sama) remains a lamp would sometimes forget the presence of this Narita-san—a thing I have always found regrettable. —This is indeed the nostalgic scenery of old in Nakamise Street…

―――――――――――――――

……I had earlier failed to mention how Kinryuzan Asakusa Mochi, after the earthquake, made a bold advance only to retreat just as swiftly when it proved unprofitable.—In later generations, this old specialty’s fate will likely be that only its name remains, leaving people to wonder what it was like—something to lament.

Asakusa School (Part 1) Having mentioned that the blue roof of the Five-Story Pagoda could be seen from the classroom window facing the school gate, I must add that through the northern window—now distant from that view—I could faintly glimpse the sky near the Sumida River’s waters. ―Hanakawado, Yamanoyado, Kaminarimonshita Kawaramachi (just as Kita-Higashi-Nakachō on Hirokoji Avenue is now called Kita-Nakachō without ceremony, this too is now simply termed Kaminarimonshita Kawaramachi)—those old riverside towns lay quietly two to six blocks away. Before today’s tramway with its Minami-Senju-bound stops like “Yamanoyado” and “Yoshinobashi” was built along the broad thoroughfare connecting Umamichi Street to these towns, horse-drawn carriages heading the same direction had raised forlorn clouds of dust along that road countless times daily. That road—dimmer, gloomier, and more cramped than now—was perfectly embodied by the hue of the faded red blanket wrapped bleakly around the waist of the harsh driver who whipped his horse relentlessly… or so I dimly recall.

Therefore, my friends whom I met daily at school were from the south—Namiki, Komagata, Zaimokuchō, Chayamachi (as I mentioned before, these were not areas I frequented much from my neighborhood)—and from the north: Hanakawado, Yamanoyado, and Kaminarimonshita Kawaramachi. —passing through Saruwaka-chō and Shōten-chō, they all came from as far as the Yoshino Yamadani area. Occasionally, some even came from “Yoshiwara.” —What I still remember to this day is an incident from my second or third year of elementary school. As we lined up in the schoolyard about to enter the classroom, amidst the hushed silence, someone suddenly grabbed me by the shoulder from behind and yanked me out of the line. Just like that, there was a time when I was left alone in the middle of the schoolyard, utterly disgraced…

If my memory serves me correctly, I did not cry at that time. Because I didn’t fully understand why I had to suffer such an experience. To this day, I—who until then had been not so much meek as truly spineless, utterly undisciplined, cowardly, yet quite the show-off—had never before or since suffered such humiliation. I had never once made such a blunder before.—As if in a dream, I stood there blankly, staring at my own feet.—And then the sadness spread clearly within me—tears spilled forth in a torrent, endlessly.

But seeing that, the one who stood up for me was Auntie Tsuruyoshi. Auntie Tsuruyoshi was a retired proprietor from a Yoshiwara brothel who had a girl attending the same grade as me; she constantly accompanied the child and spent entire days at the school. She occupied a corner of the janitor’s room with the other attendants and comported herself like a veritable queen. She commanded all the janitors with a jerk of her chin. Auntie Tsuruyoshi—indignant as if it were her own plight, declaring “That child isn’t like that! He’s no delinquent who deserves to be left standing there—such wrongful treatment can’t be tolerated!”—stormed straight to confront the teacher who had subjected me to that injustice…

Asakusa School (Part 2)

That teacher was in charge of the fourth year of higher elementary (meaning the highest grade)—a thick-bearded, sharp-eyed man who never once showed a smile on his pale face. He was the most feared teacher in the entire school. Even hearing that name alone made us feel our insides cower. Even if she was called the “Queen of the Janitor’s Room,” there was no conceivable reason she could stand against him.

But I was immediately released. Just like that, I was allowed to enter the classroom without any further ado. —The “protest” was readily accepted. Of course, at that time, I knew none of it—not Auntie Tsuruyoshi’s indignation, not that she had confronted the teacher on my behalf, not even that I had narrowly escaped trouble because of it. Later, when I heard about it, I found it strange. At the same time, belatedly reflecting on how I might have carelessly glanced aside or spoken to someone next to me back then, I felt ashamed. Because there was a surge of talk like, “Auntie Tsuruyoshi’s something else, isn’t she? —Even a teacher like that can’t stand up to her.” At that moment, I devoted myself entirely to avoiding the teacher’s gaze.

But much later, I heard from my grandmother that Auntie Tsuruyoshi was distantly related to that teacher. Therefore, it seems the teacher had various reasons there that compelled him to comply with such unreasonable demands from the “Queen of the Janitor’s Room.” It was only upon understanding this that I finally felt at ease. My grandmother too had accompanied me, and later attached herself to my sister—who entered school two or three years after me—occasionally spending her days in that janitor’s room as one of its regulars.

……That was all there was to it. That was all there was to it. …things that could not be simply dismissed—or at least things I did not wish to dismiss—were what I wanted to seek out from within this. There, in a white-walled corridor lined with dumbbells, croquet mallets, and wooden guns—the sight of it floated before my eyes. —The schoolyard where a reed-screen sunshade spread out under the blue sky cast a cool shadow over the gravel…the sight of it floated before my eyes. —The paulownia flowers blooming by the wall outside the singing classroom’s window…that scene floated before my eyes.—And now, with no smoke in sight, no clouds, no wind to stir the waves…it was the song of the Battle of the Yellow Sea…“Ah, how sorrowful, how joyous—we have triumphed in battle, a thousandfold…”…the triumphal song…those nostalgic organ melodies reached me as if in a dream……

All the women were fluttering their long sleeves. Even among male students, those who wore hakama were rare… But around two or three years later, when I entered higher elementary grades, the old brick school building was rebuilt as a wooden structure painted in white.—As the gate’s orientation shifted, both the staff room and janitor’s room became brighter and more spacious than before.—The bell signaling class times rang out just as it always had, but the figures of Auntie Tsuruyoshi and others could no longer be found there.

“Sumida scented with cherry blossoms at their source; the autumn moon floating over Ayase…” It was around that time that such a tender school song came into being.

“Old Asakusa” and “New Asakusa”

(Part 1) Among the school’s alumni from its earlier days were Mr. Takumichi Kuruma, Mr. Yōhō Ii, Ms. Toshiko Tamura, Mr. Zemaro Toki, and Dr. Takayuki Ōta. In the same era as myself were Mr. Noboru Umajima, Mr. Chōko Kamoshita, Mr. Tekiho Nishizawa, Mr. Seika Shibusawa, and Mr. Heijirō Ōtani of “Jūbako.” In eras after mine were Madame Matsudaira Satoko, Madame Nakamura Kichiemon, Madame Fujita Otozō, and others—of course, there were various other people as well. —Yet these individuals are people I occasionally encounter in Ginza, Nihonbashi, on trains, on buses, at the Kabukiza Theater, or the Tsukiji Little Theater—people with whom I exchange greetings whenever our paths cross. However, among them, Ms. Toshiko Tamura has remained in America since departing seven or eight years ago…

“Indeed, in Asakusa Ward, there are few who establish their residences among what the world calls politicians, scholars, or those generally referred to as fashionable Western-style adherents.” Today, one might find several well-known politicians in Asakusa. How many doctors—how many scholars, literati, and officials—could reside within this ward? Is it not rather a phenomenon to be celebrated that there are so few destroyers of Edo aesthetics and the Edoite temperament within Asakusa Ward? “If one seeks, in this day and age, the distinctive qualities cultivated under three hundred years of peaceful Tokugawa governance—those nurtured in the harmony among the four classes—there is no place other than Asakusa Ward,” stated the aforementioned author of *Asakusa Hanjōki*. The author argued that officials, scholars, educators, politicians, and businessmen were all rural people who had risen in status; no matter how much learning, wealth, or exceptional ability they possessed, their sensibilities and tastes remained utterly low-class and not worth discussing. After enumerating criticisms such as, “Gentlemen who cannot distinguish between *ochawan* and *owan*, wealthy individuals who confuse *Kiyomoto* with *Nagauta*, fail to grasp the essence of *Utazawa* or *Shinnai*, delight in the crudeness of *Satsuma biwa* and *naniwa-bushi*, mock the restrained elegance of old theater, and praise the shallowness of modern plays,” he concluded decisively: “These are but easily observable examples—from preferences in houses and dwellings to choices in garments and tools, every formal aspect deviates from what is called Edo aesthetics, too numerous to count.” Moreover, he went on: “Such tendencies are particularly pronounced in Yamanote, and even Shitamachi has gradually been eroded; only in Asakusa Ward do we see relatively few of these country bumpkins gaining a foothold,” puffing out his chest with pride.—His argument, with its sweeping generalizations, reeked of the rough-hewn sensibilities of around Meiji 43 (1910), though it was true enough that politicians, scholars, and officials had rarely settled in Asakusa up to that time. At the very least, back then, among my school friends… their parents were all merchants and artisans. They ran sake shops, oil shops, pawnshops, pharmacies, photo studios (the latter existing due to having a “park” nearby—a trade rarely seen elsewhere), or else worked as carpenters, craftsmen, decorators… On the rare occasions there were salaried workers among them, they were elementary school teachers, ward office clerks, secretaries from Yoshiwara’s brothels… that sort. Among the women, restaurants and geisha houses were numerous.—And even now, it’s not impossible that this remains true…

Now, Mr. Ryunosuke Akutagawa says the following in an essay titled *“Plum Blossoms, Horses, and Nightingales”*: “…The word ‘Asakusa’ is one that gives me at least three distinct concepts.” First, when I say “Asakusa,” what appears before my eyes is a grand vermilion-lacquered temple complex. Or perhaps the five-story pagoda and Niōmon Gate centered around that temple complex. This had fortunately survived unscathed even in this recent earthquake. By now, even before the vermilion-lacquered hall, amidst the bright yellow leaves of ginkgo trees, dozens of pigeons must still be soaring in wide circles as always. Secondly, what I recall are the show tents around the pond. These were all reduced to scorched earth. Thirdly, what appears is Asakusa as an unassuming part of the downtown district. Hanakawado, Sanya, Komagata, Kuramae—anywhere else would do. “…the rain-soaked tile roofs, the unlit sacred lanterns, the wilted morning glory pots in their planters… all of these too were transformed by this Great Earthquake into a vista of scorched earth.”

“Old Asakusa” and “New Asakusa”

(Part 2)

“Old Asakusa,” “New Asakusa,” “Asakusa as it was,” “Asakusa as it will be”—all these terms I have used until now ultimately boil down to Mr. Akutagawa’s “first and third Asakusa” and “second Asakusa.” —Let me reassert: Hanakawado, Yamano-yado, Kawaramachi to Imado, Hashiba…those towns along the Sumida River’s course; sections of Umamichi Street stretching to Saruwaka-chō and Shōten-chō—from Tachō to Sanya…those districts bordering Yoshiwara’s licensed quarter—there my “old Asakusa” persists. Tawaramachi, Kita-Nakachō, fragments of Umamichi Street…“Hirokoji Avenue” All such neighborhoods across this expanse—nearly the whole of the “Park” including Nakamise Street, and broadly speaking, the Park’s backstreets spanning from Shintani-chō to Senzoku-chō and Kizakata-chō…those towns that sprawled like vines and clustered like petals—there, my “New Asakusa” took root. ……It is precisely “the show tents around the pond” that now constitute the core of this “New Asakusa”—or rather, of “Asakusa yet to come”……

But both “Old Asakusa” and “New Asakusa,” as Mr. Akutagawa states, had once turned to scorched earth. Both had become miserable scorched wastelands five years prior. —To put it plainly, both “Old Asakusa” and “New Asakusa” were revived upon that scorched earth… upon that wretched burned wasteland. They were born anew as such.—And for the latter, that past calamity proved no hindrance at all. They grew even more steadily than before. The new prosperity spread its accompanying radiant “gratitude” and “hope” to every last alleyway and backstreet.—To put it plainly, I had secretly marveled at how unnecessary the two characters for “earthquake” now seemed, even as I wrote of Hirokoji Avenue and turned my pen to Nakamise Street……

But as for the former—that is to say, “Old Asakusa”—…

Reader, just for a little while, I would like you to climb Mochi Hill with me. There, first, we would forlornly find that the shadow of the former Gakudō Hall had vanished. Next, we would uneasily discover, amidst clusters of frail young saplings—ginkgo, chinquapin, and podocarpus—behind the main hall, the large trees of yore still bearing bark scorched by apocalyptic fires, exposed to the sun and lashed by rain. And then... no—rather than that—it would be better to gaze toward Sanya Canal through those groves.—The color of the old canal’s water lay stagnant like traditional black tooth dye from days long past. —But how were we to perceive this emptiness—the gas tanks of Senju hazily visible in the distance beneath overcast skies through Keiyo-ji Temple’s cemetery?—The only obstructions remaining were Keiyo-ji’s miraculously preserved bell tower within its precincts; ginkgo treetops blazing with color; and the construction tower of Sanya-bori Elementary School rising in haste... if pressed to name them, that was all.

Let us descend Tengu Slope and cross Imado Bridge. Even so, on that bridge—with its absurdly wide span and bronze-colored railings—people passed only occasionally. A policeman in a white uniform stood there looking thoroughly bored. Even after passing by Mr. Munesaburō Sawamura’s bunka residence—a structure that, with its window blinds, looked no grander than some complacent doctor’s home along the Tōkaidō near Totsuka—and entering toward Hachiman Shrine, no trace remained of the familiar old earthen storehouses, black walls topped with anti-climb spikes, or willow trees at the eel restaurant’s corner—none of their evocative shadows lingered. Here, before the barracks-style soba shops, ice stores, and midwives’ homes, hollyhocks, cosmos, and cockscombs still bloomed with a beauty that only accentuated the desolation left by the earthquake—their riotous colors mocking the barrenness they adorned……

“Old Asakusa” and “New Asakusa”

(Part 3)

If we were to stand before the torii of Hachiman Shrine—if we were to pass through the cemetery of Chōshō-ji Temple toward Yoshinochō……

We would see there—on that parched, cracked earth where not a single tree cast shade—only a small unpainted shrine and guardian lion-dogs standing aimlessly opposed beneath an ash-gray expanse of sky. And there, among heaped stone pagodas marking both known and unknown graves, we would find a bell—bereft of its tower—buried in weeds, its green corrosion blooming like some futile blight. No gate remained, no wall; just an old pond left in the shadow of row houses where the town’s form had crept in like dusk—the white water lilies floating atop water that listlessly echoed with truck sounds struck me as poignantly beautiful……

――――――――――――――― “Even if the author of *Asakusa Hanjōki* railed against ‘those who failed to grasp the essence of *Utazawa* or *Shinnai*, delighted in the crudeness of *Satsuma biwa* and *naniwa-bushi*, mocked the restrained elegance of old theater, and praised the shallowness of modern plays,’ where this ‘New Asakusa’ was headed now surely surpassed even that.” Yasugi-bushi and Ōryokkō-bushi—even more “explicit” than Satsuma biwa and naniwa-bushi—were gaining prominence. Swordplay dramas even more “shallow” than the patriotic plays of old were drawing crowds. Even in the realm of moving pictures, so-called “Western-style” works—those Japanese-made “super-special productions” more fleeting than the ephemeral output of certain studios—were far more popular, needless to say.

This was not limited to things seen and heard; even in matters of eating and drinking, this too remained the case. Let me enumerate them. I had already mentioned "Shimousaya" and "Funawa." It was "Sushisei." It was "Daikokuya." It was "Sankaku." It was "Noguchi-baa." It was Tsuruya, the eel restaurant. It was “Rairaiken” and “Gojūban,” Chinese restaurants. Then came “Imahan.” It was “Torinabe.” It was “Uogashi Ryōri.” It was “Tokiwa.” It was “Nakasei.” These establishments were merely convenient, cheap, quick, skillfully made to look appealing, and designed to attract even one extra customer… They were shops that aimed to welcome as many customers as possible in the shortest time. They were shops that desired nothing beyond that. They were shops devoid of excess, care, serenity, warmth, or devotion.—In other words, that was the spirit of “New Asakusa”……

The ball-rolling by Egawa at Daimori-kan, which had persisted until the end; the Naniwa dance at Seiyu-kan; the sword fighting at Nomi… After even those finally vanished, nowhere could one find the “Old Asakusa” that had once been seen and heard. (Standing in the park’s current movie theater district, I no longer recall the Denkikan, Chinsekai, Kato Kigetsu, Matsui Gensui, Saru Chaya—none of those places from ten or twenty years ago.) Even the memory of the “Twelve-Story Tower” has been fading day by day. (Forcing myself to recall them amounts to nothing but emotional sleight-of-hand.) Even in matters of eating and drinking—now that Yaōzen and Daikin are gone (how disheartening to see today’s Daikin in Fuji Yokochō, lined with beef restaurants, masquerading as its predecessor)—only Kaneda remains. Beyond that, there are only “Matsumura” (though Yoshidai changed midway) and “Akimoto.” Of the three remaining tea houses after excluding Manbai and Daikin from the original Five Tea Houses, Matsushima had lost its former glory long before the earthquake; Kusatsu and Itchō now merely occupy space with their hulking forms. But what are we to do… now that even Kaneda—our last remaining bastion—has begun courting New Asakusa’s favor?

……Wandering through nothing but “alleyways” and “backstreets” for so long, I forgot the “main streets.” ――But I had long thought that the very emergence of “New Asakusa” was nothing but a rebellion against those alleyways and backstreets.――In writing this piece, I wanted to make that clear. ――Before I could even halfway accomplish it, the pages were exhausted.

The sky clouded over, and again the wind picked up.—Putting down my pen, I now quietly dwelt on the distant glow of tall lanterns lit in the park’s night-deepening sky…… (July 14th night, in Nippori)