Pathway to Japanese Literature

Hirokoji Avenue (Part 1)

……If someone were to ask me where in Asakusa lies your most beloved, most deeply familiar place, I could only answer: the vicinity of Hirokoji Avenue. Because that is where I was born. I was born in Tawaramachi in Meiji Year 22 and continued living there until October of my twenty-sixth year in Taishō Year 3. No vista witnessed in childhood—whether mountain, river, or town—ever revives so gently and persistently before anyone’s eyes. ―especially for someone like me who has come to understand the world, this holds all the more true.

Tawaramachi, Kita-Tawaramachi, Higashi-Nakamachi, Kita-Higashi-Nakamachi, Umamichi 1-chōme.—The willow trees that once stood fresh before each shop along both sides had been replaced by young ginkgo saplings. The narrow gutters marking the boundary between pedestrian path and roadway were filled in. (In autumn, those gutters would collect yellowed willow leaves scattering mournfully.) Nowhere could I see even the faded shadow of indigo-scented shop curtains anymore. The large kettle-shaped rainwater barrel beneath Asakuraya Bookstore’s window had vanished, and with it disappeared the box signboard at Matsuya Comb Shop’s eaves—its painted comb motif erased without trace. I could no longer find yakitori stalls before Gensui Yokocho’s lantern shops, nor spot the fire watchtower thrusting skyward at Ofuro Yokocho’s inn corner.—Of course, nothing remained for me there now that hinted at traces from ten or five years prior, let alone thirty. Now that “Shibuya” had repainted its sign to “Paint Coating,” “Ichi-Zenmeshi” to “Japanese-Western Restaurant,” and “Gozen Shiruko” to “Ice Cream & Soda Water”—though what truly struck me was how cafés, bars, and tea houses stood shoulder-to-shoulder without respite—there had once been a whimsical Western umbrella shop that hoisted a large red bat-shaped parasol high atop its roof. Yet even if I claimed one could once glimpse this landmark from distant Kaminarimon beneath clear skies, none would believe it now. Thus did present-day Hirokoji Avenue lie buried in “colors.” It possessed an interplay of stark “light” and “shadow.” This was not merely because Café America—newly renamed Orient—had replaced the long-standing Matsuda restaurant. Nor did it mean the waitresses there wore uniforms divided into red, blue, and purple groups. When I noticed the colossal advertisements for *Japanese Children’s Library* and *Elementary School Students’ Complete Works* atop Asakuraya Bookstore’s roof; when I then saw enlarged photographs of movie actresses displayed in Sagamiya liquor store’s window—that old establishment; and when I finally spotted the *Children’s Western Clothing Workshop* signboard beside Honganji Temple’s earthquake-damaged rear gate, its notices for *Scripture Lecture Series* and *Sunday Lectures* clinging to mere form—it was then I clearly felt within myself how these old towns, defying my nostalgic sentiments, rode ever more determinedly upon modernity’s advancing tide. —Asakuraya had recently partitioned part of its shop to begin retailing new books. Sagamiya too had divided its space to display “merino and meisen” fabrics on one side.

But unforgettable. Yet still—to me, those towns remain dear…

Why is that? There was Yoshimiya caterers still hanging their “Purveyor to Honganji Temple” sign, and Kekkendō apothecary where its bald-headed proprietor still ground medicines day after day. There remained Ōtaya rice cake shop with its old-fashioned plump proprietress perpetually wearing her work apron tied crosswise over rounded shoulders. —Fujiya Inn stood alongside Yanagiya lodging house; Torichō bird shop neighbored Hōrai sushi counter; Kawamatsu eel restaurant persisted near Kameidō’s tile-shaped crackers and Musashiya’s light-baked sweets. Those shops welcomed me with unchanged modesty from my elementary school days. When passing before them even now, I sadly recall my childhood self—small hand clasped in grandmother’s wrinkled palm as we walked beneath her okoso hood shielding against autumn winds; her striped kimono sleeves brushing against purple merino sash. It had been one such evening when north winds cut through flesh—twilight deepening while shop lights began winking awake across Hirokoji. Raising my eyes then revealed Honganji Temple’s gable stabbing through lingering dusk—that bright wound in darkening skies forever sealing away childhood’s fragile hour……

Hirokoji Avenue (Part 2)

...Hirokoji Avenue had six side streets and two large alleyways lining both sides. Counting from Honganji Temple’s direction, on the right were Gensui Yokocho, a nameless side street, Ofuro Yokocho, and Matsuda Yokocho; on the left were Denbon Yokocho and Chinya Yokocho. The two large alleyways meant Sagamiya’s alleyway just before Denbon Yokocho and Asakuraya’s alleyway.—That is to say, “Sagamiya’s Alleyway” faced “Gensui Yokocho,” while “Asakuraya’s Alleyway” faced the “Nameless Side Street,” each separated by the broad thoroughfare and standing opposite one another.

As for “Gensui Yokocho,” “Nameless Side Street,” “Ofuro Yokocho,” “Matsuda Yokocho,” and “Denbon Yokocho”—these were what everyone called them during my childhood… or at least during my time in Tawaramachi. Gensui Yokocho was so named because Matsui Gensui had once lived there; Ofuro Yokocho because the alley once contained a bathhouse called “Ofuro”; Matsuda Yokocho because it had the Matsuda restaurant at its right corner (it was also called Iroha Yokocho due to the Iroha beef shop at its left corner)—while “Denbon Yokocho” means “Denbō-in Temple Side Street,” and “Chinya Yokocho” quite literally refers to the alley of the Chinya beef shop. Speaking of which, this is the alley of Chinya—the beef restaurant everyone knows.—The origin of its name is exceedingly straightforward.

Of these, only Chinya Yokocho remains today. Only the designation "Chinya Yokocho" remains. To the current residents of the area—those who now frequent cafés in Asakuraya’s alley or Tanukiya Yokocho—the term "Gensui Yokocho" had already ceased to evoke anything but an empty echo. At the same time, the "nameless side street" came to acquire the grandiose designation of "Kawasaki Bank Side Street." After I left there, that bank had been created by buying out the existing novelty goods dealers, pickle shops, sugar shops, and one or two other stores. Nowadays we have Chuya Bank operating around the clock, and Kojimachi Bank will soon open nearby—but twelve or thirteen years ago, one couldn’t find such buildings anywhere along Hirokoji Avenue. Speaking of banks, there had only ever been Asakusa Bank (later Toyokuni Bank) along nearby Namiki-dori.—With Ofuro bathhouse now lost to time, I felt with stark clarity upon this swiftly redeveloped thoroughfare—its width vastly expanded from before—that the day could not be far off when “Ofuro Yokocho” would fade into legend, and “Matsuda Yokocho” would be renamed “Matsuki Yokocho.”—The former Matsuda Yokocho had been darker and gloomier than any of the other three alleys.—“Matsuki” refers to another large beef restaurant established after Iroha.—There it now stands directly opposite Chinya in every aspect...

I shall not delve into exhaustive detail about those four respective alleys any further. For that would merely indulge my sentimental musings to no purpose. Yet even now, decades later, the cacophony from those very alleys—the calls of “Scissors sharpened! Kitchen knives! Razors honed!”, the cries of “Morning glory seedlings! Evening glory seedlings!”, the clanging of Teisaiya’s metal rings, the charumera flute of the candy vendor, the rhythmic pounding of mortar from the kankachi dumpling stall—resounds with crystalline clarity in the depths of my ears. When I think of those alleys, my heart is always drenched by a dark rain like sudden showers……

Hirokoji Avenue (Part 3)

Now, to "Denbon Yokocho." Nowadays, people no longer call the alley facing Ofuro Yokocho—the lively alley with Miyoshino and Mikawaya Kimono Shop (which were once a geta shop and sushi shop) at its two corners—by the name “Denbon Yokocho.” They instead call it “Kuyakusho Yokocho.” And so the thoroughfare alongside Denbō-in Temple—that narrow passageway of old which lies at the exit of “Kuyakusho Yokocho,” connecting Nakamise to the park—is now referred to as “Denbō-in Yokocho” (a slightly more precise rendering than “Denbon Yokocho”).

That "Kuyakusho Yokocho" (until recently I could not accept this name—stubbornly I had continued to call it "Denbon Yokocho"). Yet when I occasionally heard someone my own age—someone who indeed knew the monkey doll that beat drums at *Chinsekai* and could still recite the chinless barker’s spiel from Denkikan Theater—unhesitatingly refer to it as “Kuyakusho Yokocho,” I yielded. Even if I were to mention that there once was a communal toilet immediately upon entering (though “Kuyakusho Yokocho” still feels unnatural yet unavoidable), likely no one would struggle to resurrect that old memory anymore—so much had both sides now come to display an array of tidy, beautiful storefronts. Especially the grandiose coffee shops of Shimousaya and Funawa (to call them that was of course incorrect; to say "Mitsumamehōru" no longer applied either). Their mutual display—both establishments now hanging glass bead curtains at their storefronts (their cooling appearance against this season’s heat evoking what are now rarely seen "ice shops")—this ferocious rivalry valiantly proclaimed the prosperity of "New Asakusa" and its accompanying naive delight right there. Shimousaya had transformed from producing "Okame" sweet sake, and Funawa from crafting sweet potato yōkan—each independently reshaping themselves into their current forms in mere months.

...Yet if we speak of completion, it was around when I was twelve or thirteen—at the corner of Kawasaki Bank I wrote about yesterday, beside the novelty goods shop, there stood a small stall where they split and grilled Mezzoko eel. A sumo-sized owner in his forties ran the business with young women and a mischievous boy 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 owner began operating a tempura stall. By lavishly using quality ingredients while ruthlessly charging exorbitant prices, they quickly established themselves. Soon after, they purchased the former Tokunoya meeting house in what is now called Kuyakusho Yokocho—the very origins of today’s Chūsei.

Even now, I could only think of it as if it were yesterday—but with Tenpō in Hirokoji and Ten'yū in Nakamise now gone, that very shop had become one that would rival any in age. Yet there in that alley existed an even older “oyster rice” shop—if Shimousaya and Funawa represented the budding shoots of “Asakusa to come,” then Chūsei and its ilk were the deeply buried roots of “Asakusa that was”…

Hirokoji Avenue (Part 4)

The spot in Chinya Yokocho where Café Juraku now stands was once the site of the Shin-Ebisu-tei variety theater. Apart from recalling the strange combination of an old brick building and antiquated paper lanterns suspended high above, and retaining the memory of having once seen a print of Shirai Gonpachi there when I was eleven or twelve, I have nothing more to say about that theater. Because that place had long been established as a regular venue for naniwa-bushi performances. At that time, I thought naniwa-bushi was nothing but what vulgar types—those incapable of understanding rakugo storytelling, kōshaku lectures, or gidayū recitations—were forced to endure. Thinking this way, I arrogantly dismissed it. Not that I can claim to have entirely abandoned that prejudice even now... (Incidentally, my constant haunts were Namikitei and Daikintei. Both stood on Namiki-dori and specialized in variety acts.—Being someone who rarely ventured into venues for kōshaku lectures or jōruri puppet theater outside such entertainments, I naturally felt no particular attachment to places like Tōbashi-tei near Azuma Bridge or Yamahiro-tei and Ebisu-tei close to Kaminarimon Gate. But like Yamahiro-tei and Ebisu-tei before them, both Daikintei and Namikitei eventually vanished without trace beneath time’s relentless tide. Only Tōbashi-tei remains.)

Nowadays the place boasts dining establishments like Juraku Café, Sankaku, Kinzushi, and Yoshinozushi in a garish jumble of colors—but in former times, this was a desolate thoroughfare where shabby tenements stood in rows, with small, lonely merchant shops scattered here and there among them: cosmetics stores and seal-carving shops wedged in between… that was the atmosphere it had. As for eateries, there was only a Western-style restaurant next to the *naniwa-bushi* theater—its name forgotten—resembling a makeshift stall with a dingy off-white curtain hung at its front. Hence, come nightfall, it was no lie that both sides of the dew-laden plant stalls were densely lined with lit lanterns. In the gaps between plant vendors, goldfish sellers arrayed numerous containers brimming with water. The insect vendor’s Ichimatsu lattice evoked a faint evening gloom. The rotating lanterns of the lantern shop heralded the ephemeral summer nights, spinning quietly and ceaselessly through the spaces between...

Both "Sagamiya’s Alleyway" and "Asakuraya’s Alleyway" were the only two—meaning precisely two—key thoroughfares connecting Hirokoji Avenue and the Park. And so in Sagamiya’s Alleyway, both sides had been crammed with sushi shops, sushi shops, sushi shops… To be precise, sushi shops that also served tempura jostled shoulder to shoulder. Under the frenzied hues of tuna surged the roaring sound of seething oil. But once, that place had maintained a rough lattice at its entrance where a master plasterer resided. Next to it stood a meeting house called "Kikumoto". On one side there remained Wakura Onsen and a lending bookshop that doubled as a tobacco shop.

……And there, the road dropped a level.

Beyond that point stretched rows of low-roofed tenements on both sides—embroidery shops, tailors, barbers, tool dealers, penny candy stores, charcoal sellers, rice vendors… Household-bound people who rarely exchanged words lived there, seeming to find no joy in their days. And so, I wrote about that place seven or eight years ago. But at that time, Wakura Onsen still existed. The only thing that remains now, even if only in form, is the Inari shrine midway along the path.

As for "Asakuraya’s Alleyway"—now designated as Kuradōshi Yokocho beneath the "Park Theater Shortcut"—this passageway...

First, I ask that you view today's illustration.

Nakamise (Part 1) …For elementary school, I attended Asakusa Elementary School in Umamichi. Various substitute schools like Ogawa School and Seiun School existed in the neighborhood, and it was been customary for children from Tahara-cho and Higashi-Naka-cho to attend these 'private' institutions—but I was made to commute all the way there together with Chā-chan from Nagasaki-ya (the kimono shop "Nagasaki-ya" still remains on Hirokoji Avenue today. However, the current establishment belongs to a different era from the Nagasaki-ya I knew as a child. The original one had collapsed about twenty years prior. Amidst that transitional period’s flower-clouded skies of melancholy—a sadness I still intend to novelize someday—I was made to commute all that distance alongside this girl due to both sets of parents’ insistence on attending a public school. Asakusa School was then among Asakusa’s rarest municipal institutions, indeed its oldest.

Every day, I walked along "Horse-Drawn Carriage Road"—in those days when no trace of electric trams could be found anywhere in Tokyo—with my grandmother. Everywhere one looked there were horse-drawn trams. Thus we called it "Horse-Drawn Carriage Road" rather than "Electric Car Street." We would pass through Higashi-Naka-cho—where the Electric Bureau now stands but where a horse-drawn carriage company existed then—and enter Asakuraya's Alleyway. The alleyway, far narrower than today, first ran between Asakuraya's kitchen entrance on one side and a soba shop's kitchen entrance at the opposite corner; to the right stood Asakuraya's storehouse, while to the left lay a women's hairdresser's establishment with what appeared to be a lye bucket placed out front. Adjacent to the storehouse stood a single-story house with a broad frontage fitted with crude latticework. This was the residence of Dewa Saku, a renowned gambler. Sanshita could always be found out front—wiping the latticework or washing items at the water spout—while occasionally, the lonely figures of travelers wearing sedge hats might be glimpsed in that vicinity.

Across the road stood a well, and beside it sat a small house with a thatched roof resembling a hermitage. A willow—like a cutting—hung its branches over the gate while wild weeds choked the surrounding area. As I write these words now, I envisioned that narrow path paved with uneven stones—vainly white and glaring under the thick summer sky that seemed ready to cling stickily to one’s touch, where all footsteps ceased and sounds stilled in the midday hush. The sagging awning of the penny candy store, the bag maker’s workshop window displaying sparse millet sprigs… From afar, cicadas in Denbōin’s trees seeped into the earth like a storm’s roar or water’s echo. Within that hermitage-like dwelling, a retiree from some Nihonbashi notions shop passed his solitary remaining days.

Next to Dewa Saku lived a dance instructor named Nishikawa Katsunosuke. Peering in from outside, one would see this master—with drooping outer eyes and a receding hairline resembling the late En’u—always earnestly drilling small children in pieces like Onna-dayū, Yama-gaeri, and Osome, while his dark-skinned, angular-faced wife plucked the shamisen’s base tones. “One, two, three… turn around… lift your foot…” he would count. Adjacent to this stretched the quiet walled residence of the Yoshida family, its gate-bearing compound continuing all the way to the alley’s end. Each time I passed through as a child, I would imagine myself someday dwelling within such an estate—this fantasy recurring whenever I traversed that path. For those of us born into merchant families, there was nothing as alluring as residences with gates.

Having exited Asakuraya’s Alleyway, I walked straight along the muddy gutter that traced the park’s outer perimeter. Turning right at what is now Paulista’s corner—where at the left corner there once stood a marble gambling house called Ōshika—I emerged into what is now called Denboin Alley and arrived at Nakamise.

Nakamise (Part 2)

……And if I were to put it simply, that’s all there was to it. However, on one side running along Denbōin’s wall, the shops facing it—geta shops, notions shops, thread shops, confectioneries specializing in arubei cakes—all bore tree shadows, held drizzling rain within them, and quietly lowered their brows one after another. They lowered their brows in silence.—For there, in the road’s center, stood a great enoki tree spreading its sturdy branches, darkly and damply suffusing the hues of daylight… of sky. Beneath it had once lived an old diviner.—The current tempura shop “Daikokuya” had begun as a soba restaurant.

Therefore, the street stalls that emerged there were all quiet and modest in feel. Used bookstores displaying *Iroha* primers and *Sansesō* fortune-telling manuals; tool shops selling tobacco-case clasps and cord fasteners; stencil shops dangling cutouts of various family crests—occasionally pamphlets explaining magic tricks or extolling filial piety through needle-threading… such things alone interspersed those stalls. Therefore, rather than being a thoroughfare belonging to Nakamise that connected it to the Park, it was more suited to the hues inherent to that place when considered separately as an alleyway distinct from Denbōin’s back streets. At the same time, Denbōin’s back gate had not originally been such an imposing structure. The original had been a far more desolate, crude structure—roofless, positioned further to the right of its current location—resembling what one might call a service gate.

However, this was not limited to that single thoroughfare. All the alleys belonging to Nakamise were like that. The alley immediately after entering Kaminarimon Gate—where the affordable restaurant "Otowa" now stands at the corner; the next alley—once called "Ten'yū Alley"—where the Western restaurant "Kinryūken" occupies the corner; then the alley formerly known as "Kyōeikan Alley"—now marked by "Umezono" at its corner; and finally, leaping rightward, the alley with Yoruya soba shop. All these thoroughfares had, until just fourteen or fifteen years ago, strangely failed to receive Nakamise’s benefits. You were you, I was I—we went our separate ways in such a manner, and without any connection between us, have spent all these long years that way. In time, only the alley by Kinryūken saw various small eateries like Wakatake, Hanaya, and Miyako emerge—and the fact that this thoroughfare stretched from Chinya Yokocho across to Kuyakusho Yokocho allowed it to join hands with Nakamise sooner than any other area. But even there, I still remember as if it were yesterday: a brush-maker’s workshop—a trade one scarcely encounters anywhere nowadays—stood alongside a drowsy-looking barbershop, with a nagauta instructor’s establishment one or two doors down sending the shrill twang of shamisen reverberating along that ash-gray road.—Later came the Western restaurant “Hiraekeiken” in that row—a grubby nine-shaku-frontage shop beneath a variety hall that might as well have been another cheap eatery. To me in my new middle school uniform, this place first revealed delights surpassing even Chūsei’s famed tempura fritters: things they called “cutlet,” “teki,” and “curry.” At that time, in Asakusa, one could find no Western restaurant that truly resembled a Western restaurant except for "Hōbaitei" next to Asakusa Bank. In the alley by Otowa, only lattice-fronted shops of uniform shabbiness stood lined up. The lonely sound of the cold winter procession’s bell on New Year’s nights still beckons me to that thoroughfare even now. As for the alley by Umezono, I remember that there was once a Takoya kite shop there. The clear December sky still makes me think of the frost pillars along that thoroughfare.—The entire scene is winter.

And as for Yoruya’s alley… ...I mustn’t dawdle; I was now on my way to school.

Nakamise (Part 3) At the corner where what is now called "Tatsumi Shokudō" stands, there had been an exhibition hall named "Umezonokan." Emerging onto Nakamise there, I took the path straight left toward Niohmon Gate. What had existed since that time was Ōhashi Photo Studio, set deep within the woods before what would become Ōzō. At Ōzō's future site stood Manbai, counted among Asakusa's five renowned tea houses of that era. To state this alone would render it insignificant—yet beneath those still-standing great enoki trees whose shadows stretch even now, that sturdy, modest, unassuming facade, surrounded by its Edo-style black wall as if by natural consequence, showed forth old Asakusa's elegance and calm. The stone pavement there alone always bore a dampness as if perpetually misted by autumn drizzle.—But more than anything, the permanent stalls selling roasted chestnuts beneath that enoki tree—appearing ever earlier each autumn—deepened the impression of long, chill nights beneath a waning moon. —Nakamise was a place that sometimes held such scenery.

Afterward, Manbai relocated near Hanayashiki within the park, and Tokiwa—a beef restaurant that had been expanding its influence in Nakamise at the time—took over its former location. And thus continued operating under the name "OkunoTokiwa." That said, they renovated part of its nostalgic facade with business acumen—creating a simple cafeteria, installing a hot water cascade, and adding flower beds. In doing so, they sought to attract customers from a broader clientele than before.—They specifically called it “OkunoTokiwa” because other branches of the same establishment—“Kaminarimon no Tokiwa,” “Naka no Tokiwa,” and the like—existed there as well.

Even the once-prosperous "Tokiwa" gradually saw its presence fade. Autumn winds had swept through every shopfront.—It was during this time that Ōzō inherited OkunoTokiwa’s original structure.—Even before this, they had maintained another shop adjacent to Imahan. And that remained until before the Great Earthquake.—Hence why people specifically called that place “Okuno-Ōzō” in those days…

That didn't matter—what did was that during Manbai's tenure there, the current Kimuraya was a photo studio. It was a shop that sold Tokyo landmarks and actor photographs.—How fervently I must have bought up photos of those young Asakusa-za performers like Kichiemon, Kodenji, and Sōnosuke back then! Whenever I passed in front of it, I would beg my grandmother.—Needless to say, it was an era when picture postcards did not yet exist. —It would be six or seven years later that picture postcards came into existence.

...Turning at the corner of that photo studio (I regret having forgotten its name) toward Akimoto shiruko shop, circling Bentenyama’s foothills while observing the sea bream-shaped ornaments clinging to both ends of Okada’s roof, then emerging onto Umamichi Avenue at what is now a sake shop—formerly a rice dealer’s corner—the ginkgo treetops before my school would come into view there. My feet quickened of their own accord. At that time, Asakusa School did not yet have its gate on Mankyu miso shop’s street as it does now. It only had a small gate, less than half the size of the current one, next to the inn Kama-ya. This meant that when viewed from the classroom windows facing that gate, the blue roof of the Five-story Pagoda would always float distinctly like a painting beneath the shadows of those ginkgo treetops...

*Nakamise* (Part 4) “The stretch from where Old Kaminarimon Gate once stood to Niōmon Gate—spanning over seventy *ken*—is called *Nakamise*.” The road width of over five ken was entirely paved with stone, with over one hundred thirty brick-built shops lining both sides. Originally, this land was where Sensō-ji Temple’s branch temples stood, with six each on both the left and right sides. Near that Niōmon Gate stood teahouses collectively known as the Twenty Teahouses. After the Meiji Restoration, the branch temples either relocated or ceased to exist, and in their place, street stalls and such lined up; the current shops were constructed by Tokyo City in December 1885. Each Nakamise shop was divided into several units per building, with frontages of nine shaku (approximately 2.7 meters) and depths not exceeding that, their interiors indescribably cramped; the stall merchants would lock up their shops at night and return home, only to come back the next day carrying their boxed lunches. “However, this Nakamise being the most prosperous area within the park—as nearly all those making pilgrimages to Kannon purchase their souvenir gifts here—the daily sales amounts are so substantial that many wish to establish shops here; yet unless one brings forth a considerable sum of golden yen, one cannot easily obtain shop rights, with some locations reportedly reaching over three hundred yen.” This passage explaining Nakamise is written in the “Asakusa Prosperity Chronicle” published in Meiji 43 (1910). Meiji 43 would be seventeen years ago from now. It was during my second year in the preparatory course at Keio Gijuku. However, thinking that even so, the three hundred yen price for those shop rights was far below market rate, I questioned my friend Mr. Itō Kan'ichi about this. Mr. Itō was the proprietor of Shimizuya Bookstore at the corner immediately upon entering Nakamise. “That’s not the case—even back then they went for five or six times that amount.” “That’s not the case—even back then they went for five or six times that amount,” said Mr. Itō. “Then, has it now become ten times that?” I asked. Mr. Itō laughed and did not answer.

Instead, Mr. Itō told me various useful things about that. For instance: how shop frontages that measured 9 shaku during the brick-building era had now averaged 8 shaku—with some as narrow as 7 shaku 8 sun—under the new Nara-period-style reconstruction; how each shop unit was designated as “1-to-koma” or “2-ta-koma”; how altogether there were now 147 such units housing 99 households; how seven shops near Niōmon Gate—spared by the Great Earthquake and still retaining traces of old Nakamise—now bore the name “Shinrenga” (New Brick); how on festive days when crowds swelled, those standing on the east side couldn’t see the shops on the west; and so on, and so forth. I couldn’t possibly jot down each one, so I listened to them with a vacant expression.

But what I felt when walking through what remained for me as the Nakamise of old was how few picture bookshops remained. (Among them, the largest—Shimizuya... Mr. Itō's store had now become a bookstore handling two or three hundred copies each of *Chūō Kōron* and *Kaizō*)—bean shops and kōbaiyaki shops no longer caught the eye as they once had. (In terms of numbers, bean shops had decreased along with picture bookshops.) Shops selling imitation Kimuraya-style *meisho-yaki* had increasingly appeared. —and thus Musashiya declined while Itōkan prospered...

From time immemorial, it had none of the ostentatious “famous products” characteristic of other pilgrimage sites. Even if one speaks of there being roasted beans, kōbaiyaki sweets, and kaminari-okoshi rice crackers, they possessed nothing directly connected to Kannon-sama. They were merely in Nakamise or at Kaminarimon—they had merely chosen their locations in those vicinities. And occasionally, there would be a bakery called Kimuraya that began selling famous site cakes. If my memory serves me correctly—and I believe it does—this was some fifteen or sixteen years ago now…

Near Kannon Hall (Part 1) That was just the traditional ningyō-yaki cakes... which reminded me—long before that, there had been an old shop next to Chinya on Hirokoji Avenue. They were a couple running shops facing each other, both devoted to jōruri balladry. On occasion, I would glimpse from the shadows of their store—the wife plucking her shamisen while her husband, nodding fervently before her, lost himself in recounting those tales. It was a simple, orderly world. No trams passed, no automobiles rumbled—only willow leaves fell in quiet drifts. —I forgot to mention earlier, but at that time, Chinya had not yet started as a beef restaurant. It was a languid, customerless tempura shop in its final decline....They had merely shaped those ningyō-yaki into motifs linked to Kannon-sama—lanterns, doves, the Five-story Pagoda—but it became popular when a man in a white shirt stood at the storefront, baking them before customers’ eyes over a clanging, blazing fire. And so, over the long months and years, it at last became one of the district’s renowned shops. In other words, as I mentioned earlier, these were shops that emerged one after another in blatant imitation—not just one or two, but a continuous succession.

Thus, new Asakusa souvenirs—other than roasted beans, kōbaiyaki sweets, and kaminari-okoshi rice crackers—had now been created in Nakamise. That the prosperity of "roasted beans," "kōbaiyaki sweets," and "kaminari-okoshi rice crackers" could no longer be revived in the present day was solely due to how richly convoluted the "era’s" preferences had become. It was precisely the red tasuki sash of Okume-san from Bairindō that had now at last become a complete "legend."

The transformation of Musashiya—which after the earthquake ceased being what we might call a "luxury shop," instead becoming an ordinary toy store with papier-mâché helmets hung from its eaves, tin trains and streetcars arrayed out front, celluloid dolls and pacifiers piled high—precisely the sort of establishment one might find replicated in every neighboring shop and the next beyond—left me feeling as though I could never again hear that threadlike spring rain pattering upon Nakamise's stone pavement. I am inexpressibly lonely. It was precisely the miniature household items crafted there—alongside Manmei, encircled by its black fence beneath the enoki tree—that symbolized "old Asakusa." From chests, long clothing chests, and long hibachi-type braziers to sieves, colanders, fire shovels—down to grinding bowls and pestles—all these kitchen utensils possessed a delicacy and refinement that could not be dismissed as mere "playthings." Moreover, within that delicacy and refinement dwelled a "vitality" that could not be dismissed as mere "playthings." A steadfast, deeply ingrained "vitality" leapt forth—and yet there was something quiet as water in its inner stillness……

Alongside that transformation, the workshop beside Denbō-in—shaded by trees and damp with seasonal rain—became a postcard shop called Happidō. When I stood gazing at the plaque reading “Awarded Medals at Various Exhibitions” displayed in part of that decorated window, the shadow of the setting sun falling upon my nape grew inexplicably deep... What Isekan produced were “adult deceptions” in the sense of being mere “child’s play.” Ema votive plaques, bean dolls, auspicious shelves—in the end, they amounted to nothing but cheap indulgences in tawdry pleasure-quarter aesthetics. If what once blossomed at Musashiya had been a flower nourished by dew, then what bloomed at Isekan was a hothouse flower forced into being through deception. Otherwise, they were frail “artificial flowers” made with glue and scissors... If you ask me, this ultimately amounted to nothing more than a manifestation of the shallow “sentimentalism” of “new Asakusa”...

But while one declined, the other prospered. Before long, even shops bearing names like "Sukeroku"—of the same ilk—had come to be established in that very Nakamise...

Near Kannon Hall (Part 2)

Yet even as the shade of enoki leaves before Daisō grew sparse; even as picture bookshops dwindled and bean shops diminished; even as meisho-yaki bakeries multiplied and Isekan prospered; even as white-coated staff from the High-Grade Kannon Moxibustion Efficacy Testing Center argued over territorial claims there; even as Taishō koto shop employees with sporty haircuts grew entranced by their own renditions of Rokudan; even as nickel-plated tin airplanes in toy shops whirled with ferocious vigor through every corner of their stores—still before me remained those shops of old: pickle stores evoking memories of fragrant cherry-blossom baths; bachi shops standing like shadows of my dead sister; hardware stores where I had bought monji-yaki tools and, after begging endlessly, a collar for that single dog I was once allowed to keep... doll shops, bead shops, chili pepper shops... all preserving their ancient stillness like a deep abyss, each remaining as they always had been. But more than this—far more than this—I now wished to lead my readers to the grounds of Naritasan Temple at the edge of Shinrenga near Niōmon Gate.

A hexagonal glass-paned lantern hung from an old stone-paved gate. When one passed beneath it and took but a single step inside, no one could easily convince themselves that this place remained part of Nakamise. A large black roof, equally black rain gutters, and the rainwater barrel catching their runoff stood against old lanterns labeled “Naritasan” and “Fudō Myōō”… how sorrowful their faded hues were—some oblong, some round. In the dark inner sanctuary lined with metal mesh, candle flames flickered like dreams. Looking up, one saw large votive plaques and small ema tablets dedicated by various fraternities—all blackened by years of soot clinging to the ceiling. The rainy season wind did not stir the dedicated hand towels…

Turning my gaze, behind the motley array of lion-dog statues, ox-drawn carriages, hundred-prayer stones, lanterns, and Six Jizō statues, a grape trellis leaned beside a building with white paper doors adjoining the ablution area.—Beyond it, over the roof of the salt-licking Jizō before the gate, Niōmon Gate’s pinnacle rose into view—encircled by ginkgo leaves so fresh they seemed to drip with vivid hues of new growth—while beneath the old camphor tree where weathered fortune slips were tied, one or two chickens pecking for food proved equally impossible to overlook……

Within the left-hand sacred fence enclosure lay a stone well. Half-buried in soil, the inscription carved with "Meiwa 7" (1770) could still be discerned...

Kanzan Sanpō Daiarai—the neighboring Sumiiro Handan—and beggars clustered at the gate’s edge… I resolved to stop at merely having said so. ――Even those who know that what still burns above the water vessel before Kannon Hall’s overflowing basin remains a lamp—even they sometimes forget this Naritasan’s existence, and I have always found this regrettable. ――This is indeed Nakamise’s nostalgic scenery of old……

――――――――――――――― ...I had previously failed to record how Kinryūzan Asakusa Mochi—after staging a valiant post-earthquake expansion—withdrew back to its original state almost immediately when the business proved unsustainable.――This ancient delicacy’s destiny will likely be that coming generations retain only its name while mourning, “What manner of thing was this we’ve lost?”

Having mentioned how the blue roof of the Five-story Pagoda was visible from the classroom window facing the school gate, I must also note that from the northern window—removed from that vantage—one could dimly glimpse distant skies hovering near the waters of Sumida River. ――Hanakawado, Yamanosyuku, Kaminarimon-shitagawaramachi (just as Hirokoji Avenue’s “Kita Higashi Nakamachi” is now carelessly called “Kita Nakamachi,” this too is now simply “Kaminariyama Kawaramachi”)—these old towns along Sumida River lay quietly two or three to five or six blocks away.――Before streetcars bound for Minami-Senju with stops like “Yamanosyuku” and “Yoshinobashi” existed as they do now along the broad thoroughfare connecting Bamichi and these towns, horse-drawn carriages heading in the same direction would raise lonely clouds of dust along that road countless times a day. And I faintly remember how that road—dimmer, gloomier, more cramped than now—found its essence articulated through the color of an old red horse blanket wrapped desolately around the waist of a cruel driver who repeatedly lashed his horse on that rickety carriage……

Therefore, my friends whom I encountered daily at school came from the south—Namiki, Komagata, Zaimokuchō, Chayamachi (as I mentioned earlier, these southern districts were not much frequented from my neighborhood)—and from the north: Hanakawado, Yamanosyuku, and Kaminarimon-shitagawaramachi. —they all came from distant areas around Yoshino Yamadani, passing through Saruwaka-chō and Shōten-chō. On rare occasions, some even commuted from Yoshiwara.—What I still remember now is an incident from my second or third year of elementary school. As we lined up in the schoolyard about to enter the classroom during that freshly watered moment, someone suddenly grabbed my shoulder from behind and dragged me out of the line. Just like that, I was left standing alone at the center of the exercise ground—utterly exposed...

If my memory serves me correctly, I did not cry at that time. Because I myself did not fully understand why I had been subjected to such treatment. For until then—I, who was less gentle than spineless, utterly undisciplined, timid yet ostentatious—had never before or since experienced such humiliation. I had never once made such a blunder. As if in a dream, I stood there blankly gazing down at my own feet. Before long, the sadness spread clearly within me—tears streamed down without ceasing.

But the one who saw this and stood up for me was Auntie Tsuruyoshi. Auntie Tsuruyoshi was a retired proprietor from a Yoshiwara brothel who had sent a girl to my class; she constantly accompanied the child and spent entire days at school. Alongside other attendants, she occupied a corner of the janitor's room and comported herself with all the dignity of a "queen." She kept all the janitors under her thumb. ―Auntie Tsuruyoshi flared up as if it were her own affair―“That child isn’t like that―he’s not some bad kid who deserves to be stood up like that! There’s no way such a mistake could happen!”―and promptly confronted the teacher who had subjected me to such treatment about this injustice……

Asakusa School (Part 2)

That teacher—in charge of the fourth-year advanced class (the highest grade)—was a man with thick sideburns and sharp eyes who never once revealed a smile on his ashen face. He was the most feared teacher in the entire school. Merely hearing his name made our bodies stiffen with dread. However much she may have been called "the Queen of the Janitor’s Room," she had no grounds whatsoever to oppose him.

But I was immediately released. Just like that, I was permitted to enter the classroom without incident. ―The protest had been readily accepted. Of course at that time, I knew none of it―not how Auntie Tsuruyoshi had flared up in anger, nor that she had confronted the teacher on my behalf, nor that this was why I had narrowly avoided trouble. When I later learned of this, I felt a strange sensation. At the same time―as if only now realizing it―I looked back at my past self who might have carelessly glanced sideways or spoken to someone beside me then, and felt ashamed. For whispers had spread like wildfire: "Auntie Tsuruyoshi is something else," they said. "Even that teacher couldn't stand up to her―not against Auntie Tsuruyoshi." In those moments, I devoted myself solely to evading the teacher's gaze.

However, much later, I heard from my grandmother that Auntie Tsuruyoshi was distantly related to that teacher. Hence, it seems the teacher had various grounds there for having to acquiesce to 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 had entered school two or three years after me―becoming one of the regulars who would while away their days in that janitor's room.

……That was all there was to it. That was simply all there was to it. …things that cannot be simply dismissed—or at least, things I do not wish to dismiss as such—are what I wish to seek out from within all this. ――There, a white-walled corridor where dumbbells, croquet mallets, and wooden rifles were deliberately displayed……the sight floats before my eyes. ――A playground where reed-screen sunshades stretched across the blue sky cast cool shadows on the gravel……the sight floats before my eyes. ――The paulownia blossoms that bloomed by the classroom windows where we sang...that scene now floats before my eyes.――And now, with no smoke in sight, no clouds, no rising wind nor cresting waves...the Yellow Sea Battle song...Oh joyous, oh jubilant—we have triumphed in battle, countless times over...the triumphal song...the nostalgic strains of that organ now reach me as if in a dream……

All the women were fluttering their long sleeves. ……Even among male students, those wearing hakama were rare…… However, two or three years later, around the time I entered higher elementary grades, the old brick school building was renovated into a wooden structure painted with creosote.――Along with the gate’s reorientation, both the staff room and janitor’s quarters became more spacious and brighter than before.――Though the bell signaling class times continued to ring as before, figures like Auntie Tsuruyoshi could no longer be found there again.

“Cherry blossoms perfuming Sumida’s banks, autumn moon floating over Ayase…”

The creation of such a gentle school song also occurred during that time.

“Old Asakusa” and “New Asakusa”

(1)

Among the early graduates of that school were Mr. Kuruma Takumichi, Mr. Ii Yōhō, Ms. Tamura Toshiko, Mr. Toki Zenmaro, and Dr. Ōta Takayuki. In the same general era as myself were Mr. Umajima Noboru, Mr. Kamoshita Akimizu, Mr. Nishizawa Fueho, Mr. Shibusawa Seika, and Mr. Ōtani Heijirō of "Jūbako." In eras after mine were Mrs. Matsudaira Satoko, Mrs. Nakamura Kichiemon, Mrs. Fujita Otozō, and others—of course, there were various other people as well. —Yet these individuals were people I would occasionally encounter in Ginza, Nihonbashi, on trains, in motorcoaches, at the Kabukiza Theatre, or the Tsukiji Little Theatre—people with whom I exchanged greetings whenever our paths crossed.—Though it must be noted that among them, Ms. Tamura Toshiko had left for America seven or eight years prior and remained there ever since……

"Indeed, in Asakusa Ward, there are few who establish residence among those so-called politicians, scholars, or those generally labeled as Westernized elites." "If one were to seek out well-known politicians today, there are some in Asakusa." "How many doctors—how many doctors, literary scholars, and even government officials—could reside within this ward?" "Considering this, is not the scarcity of such destroyers of Edo taste and Edokko temperament within Asakusa Ward rather a phenomenon to be welcomed?" "'If one seeks, in this present age, the distinctive qualities cultivated under three centuries of peaceful Tokugawa governance within the harmony of the four classes, there exists no place but Asakusa Ward,' states the aforementioned author of *Asakusa Hanjōki*." "The author’s point was that officials, scholars, educators, politicians, and businessmen were all provincials who had risen in society; no matter how much education, wealth, or exceptional ability they might possess, when it came to their temperament and tastes, they remained utterly low-class and not worth discussing." "'Gentlemen who cannot distinguish between *ochawan* ceremonial bowls and ordinary *owan* bowls; wealthy men who confuse Kiyomoto ballads with Nagauta songs, who fail to grasp the essence of Utazawa or Shinnai music yet delight in the bluntness of Satsuma biwa lute and naniwa-bushi storytelling—who mock the refined subtlety of classical theater while praising the shallow spectacle of modern plays.' After elaborating thus, he concluded unequivocally: 'Such examples are merely the most visible instances—from architectural preferences to choices in clothing and furnishings, every formal aspect deviates from what might be called Edo aesthetics, beyond all reckoning.'" "He further declared with pride: 'Such tendencies grow particularly pronounced in Yamanote, while even Shitamachi gradually succumbs to their encroachment. Only Asakusa Ward remains relatively unconquered by these provincials.'—His argument, steeped in the sweeping generalizations of Meiji 43 (1910), held true insofar as politicians, scholars, and officials had indeed scarcely inhabited Asakusa’s soil until then." "At the very least, at that time, among my school friends... their parents were all merchants and artisans." "These included liquor store owners, oil merchants, pawnbrokers, pharmacists, photo studio operators—the latter thriving due to the nearby 'park,' a trade scarcely found elsewhere—or else carpenters, craftsmen, decorators…… If you occasionally spotted salaried workers among them, they were elementary school teachers, ward office clerks, clerks at Yoshiwara’s brothels…… that sort of ilk." "On the women’s side, there were many restaurants and geisha houses.—Even now, one could hardly say this is no longer the case……"

Now, Mr. Akutagawa Ryūnosuke writes the following in an essay titled "Ume, Uma, Uguisu": “...The term ‘Asakusa’ is, to me at least, a word that evokes three distinct concepts. Firstly, whenever I speak of Asakusa, what appears before my eyes is a grand vermilion-lacquered temple complex. Or perhaps the five-story pagoda and Niō Gate centered around that temple complex. These structures miraculously survived unscathed even in this Great Earthquake. Even now, before the vermilion-lacquered hall amidst the bright yellow ginkgo leaves, dozens of pigeons must still be tracing their great circling arcs. Secondly, what I recall are the sideshow stalls surrounding the pond. These were all reduced to burnt fields. Thirdly, the Asakusa that comes into view is an unassuming part of the old downtown district. Hanakawado, Sanya, Komagata, Kuramae—any other place would do. ‘Things like rain-drenched tile roofs, unlit sacred lanterns, pots of wilted morning glories... this Great Earthquake too has transformed them all into a vista of scorched earth.’ And...”

“Old Asakusa” and “New Asakusa”

(2)

“Old Asakusa,” “New Asakusa,” “Asakusa of the past,” “Asakusa of the future”—all these expressions I had used until now ultimately returned to Mr. Akutagawa’s “First and Third Asakusa” and “Second Asakusa.” Let me reaffirm: Hanakawado, Yamanojuku, Kawaramachi to Imado, Hashiba…those towns along the flow of the Sumida River; parts of Umamichi to Saruwakachō and Shōtenchō—from Tamachi to Sanya…those neighborhoods near Yoshiwara’s quarters—there, my “Old Asakusa” remained. Tawaramachi, Kitanakachō, part of Umamichi…“Hirokoji Avenue” Across these clustered districts—the entirety of the “Park” including Nakamise, the broadly defined “Park’s back alleys” stretching from Shin’ya-chō to Senzoku-chō and Kisakata-chō…towns that spread like vines and clustered like flower petals—there my “New Asakusa” was established. ……it was precisely “the sideshow stalls around the pond” that now formed the heart of this “New Asakusa”—or rather, “Asakusa of the future”……

However, both “Old Asakusa” and “New Asakusa,” as Mr. Akutagawa stated, were once reduced to scorched earth. Both had become miserable burnt fields five years prior. ――For what I mean is that both “Old Asakusa” and “New Asakusa” have been resurrected upon that scorched earth……upon those wretched burnt fields. They were reborn as such.—Moreover, for the latter, that past calamity proved no hindrance at all. It had grown even more steadily than before.

The new prosperity spread the radiant "gratitude" and "hope" accompanying it to every last corner of every "back alley" and "side path."――To put it another way, all this time, while depicting Hirokoji Avenue and turning my brush to Nakamise, I had secretly marveled at how utterly superfluous the two characters for "Great Earthquake" had become……

But as for the former—conversely, "Old Asakusa" was…

Reader, just for a little while, I ask that you ascend Matsuchiyama with me.

There, first, we found ourselves forlornly discovering that the shadow of that former Gakudō Hall had been lost. Next, we stood disheartened among frail saplings of ginkgo, chinquapin, and podocarpus behind the main hall, confronting the scorched trunks of great trees from days past—their wretched bark still exposed to sun and rain since the conflagration. Then... no, better instead to gaze through those groves toward Sanya-bori Canal—the water’s hue in that old channel remained stagnant as traditional tooth-blackening dye, unchanged through time. But continuing past Keiyōji Temple’s cemetery, staring straight through to where Senju’s gas tanks loomed faintly beneath overcast skies—how were we to perceive this emptiness veiled in haze? What blocked our view? Only these remnants: the temple grounds’ small bell tower, miraculously spared by flames; ginkgo treetops blazing with color; and the hurried construction frame of Sanya-bori Elementary School... if pressed to name them, that was all.

Let us descend Tengu Slope and cross Imado Bridge. Even with its absurdly wide span and bronze-colored handrails, only occasionally did anyone cross that bridge. A policeman in a white uniform stood looking bored. Even if one passed by Mr. Sawamura Sōjūrō’s modern residence—which, with its bamboo blinds hung over the windows, looked no grander than some complacent doctor’s house along the Tōkaidō near Totsuka—and continued straight toward Hachiman Shrine, one would find no trace of those fragrant shadows: the familiar old storehouses, black walls topped with anti-climb spikes, willows at the eel restaurant’s corner…… Instead, before the barrack-like structures—whether a soba shop, an ice seller’s, or a midwife’s home—hollyhocks, cosmos, and cockscombs still bloomed riotously beautiful, vainly echoing the desolation immediately following the Great Earthquake……

“Old Asakusa” and “New Asakusa”

(3)

If we were to stand before the torii of Hachiman Shrine—if we were to pass through Chōshōji Temple’s cemetery toward Yoshinochō……

We would see there—on this parched, desiccated earth where not a single tree cast its shade—only a small shrine of plain wood and vacant-faced guardian lion-dogs left facing each other, beneath an ashen sky stretching endlessly above. There among the piled stone markers of souls both remembered and forgotten, we would find the temple bell—lost with its bell tower—buried in weeds, its surface pointlessly patinated with verdigris. No gate remained, no wall—just an ancient pond left in the shadow of row houses where the town’s disorderly sprawl had crept in unnoticed. ――On waters that dullly resonated with truck noises, even the white water lilies blooming there seemed poignantly beautiful……

――――――――――――――― “Fail to grasp the essence of Utazawa or Shinnai music yet delight in the bluntness of Satsuma biwa lute and naniwa-bushi storytelling—who mock the refined subtlety of classical theater while praising the shallow spectacle of modern plays”—no matter how vehemently the author of *Asakusa Hanjōki* might have protested thus, the trajectory of this “New Asakusa” now undoubtedly surpassed even that. Yasugi-bushi and Ōryokkō-bushi—styles even more explicit than Satsuma biwa lute and naniwa-bushi storytelling—were gaining prominence. Swordplay dramas—even more shallow than the patriotic plays of yore—were drawing in crowds. Even in the realm of motion pictures, the so-called “Western films” far surpassed in popularity the “super special works” of Japanese productions—ephemeral as mayflies—and this went without saying.

This was not limited to things seen and heard; even when it came to eating and drinking, it remained so. Let me enumerate them. "I had already mentioned 'Shimofusa-ya' and 'Funawa'." There was Sushisei. There was Daikokuya. There was Sankaku. There was Noguchi Baa. There was Tsuruyu eel restaurant. There were Rairaiken and Gojūban serving Chinese cuisine. Then came Imahan. Then came Torinabe. There was Uogashi Ryōri. There was Tokiwa. There was Nakasei. These establishments were simply convenient—cheap, quick, cleverly stylish enough to attract extra customers even when understaffed... shops striving to welcome as many patrons as possible in the shortest time. They were shops that desired nothing beyond this. They were shops without extravagance, without meticulous care, without serenity, without familiar warmth, without devotion. In other words, that was the spirit of "New Asakusa"...

The ball balancing by Egawa at Daiseikan Hall that had persisted until the end, the Naniwa dance at Seiyūkan Hall, the swordplay at Nomi... After even those finally vanished, nowhere could one find the "Old Asakusa" that had been seen or heard about. (Standing in what is now the movie district of the park, I resolutely no longer recall Denkikan, Chinsekai, Kato Kigetsu, Matsui Gensui, Saru Chaya—those places from ten or twenty years ago.) Even the memory of the "Twelve Stories" grows fainter with each passing day. (Even if I forced myself to recall, it would be mere emotional 'sleight of hand.') In dining too, now that 'Yaōzen' and 'Daikin' were gone (it was too disheartening to consider the current 'Daikin' alongside 'Ushi Ryōri' in Fuji Yokochō as inheriting its former spirit), only 'Kaneda' remained. Outside lingered only "Matsumura" (though Yoshishiro had changed midway) and "Akishige". Of the three remaining tea houses from the former "Five Tea Houses" after excluding "Manbai" and "Daikin," "Matsushima" had lost its vestiges of bygone days long before the Great Earthquake; "Kusatsu" and "Itchoku" merely retained their massive structures. But what was I to do with this dawning realization that even Kaneda—the sole remaining bastion upon which all hopes rested—had begun showing signs of kowtowing to "New Asakusa"...

……Wandering through nothing but "back alleys" and "side paths" for so long, I had forgotten the "main street". —Yet I have long believed that the very emergence of "New Asakusa" amounts to nothing less than a rebellion by its back alleys and side paths.—In writing this, I wanted to make that point clear. —Before even half of that could be written, the pages ran out.

The sky clouded over and the wind picked up again.—Laying down my pen, I now quietly envisioned from afar the light of tall lanterns kindled in the park’s deepening sky…… (July 14th night, in Nippori)