Pathway to Japanese Literature

When I was in middle school, my mother would often try to scare me by saying that. Uncle was Mother’s younger brother. Father taught at a girls’ school, but Uncle being a high school teacher made him seem even more distinguished. However, according to Father, Uncle was an oddity.

“Uncle is a scholar, isn’t he?” I asked my mother. “He'll get his doctorate soon.” “Shouldn’t it be about time he got it already? It’s been since I was in elementary school.”

“There are institutional considerations at play.”

“Rather than that, it’s because he’s quarreling with university professors that he can’t get along properly, isn’t it? They say even if you’re accomplished in academics, being an eccentric won’t do.”

“Who said such a thing?” “I learned it in Moral Education class at school.” “So you’re saying I’m lying?”

Mother glared.

Disagreements occasionally arose between my parents over Uncle’s eccentricity. “It’s about time he got married, don’t you think? Shall I try suggesting it to him?” Father said. I’d thought they were talking about his doctorate, but it turned out to be about finding him a wife. “That won’t work.”

“Why? Because he’s an eccentric?” “There’s no such thing as him being eccentric. His mind is simply too full of academics—common sense gets overwhelmed.” “Anyway, he’s well past forty now.” “He’ll consider that after getting his doctorate.” “Setting that issue aside, isn’t there some way to get him married sooner? If we keep dawdling around, the Ono family line will die out.” “That’s something I’ve been considering as well. I’ve urged him many times before.”

“This time I’ll take the field. There’s just the right one available.” “A girls’ school teacher?”

“Right.”

“It’s Ms. Yasui, isn’t it?”

“That’s right. When I casually brought it up during small talk the other day, it seems he doesn’t intend to stay single forever. She’s over thirty, so not exactly young for a bride, but then the groom’s already well past his prime too. I can’t help feeling there’s some fateful connection here.” “If it comes from you, it might actually work. I’ll entrust this matter to your care then.”

Mother accepted this. Because Father was a Japanese and Chinese classics teacher, he was good at writing. He composed a lengthy letter and sent it. I went to mail it and, taking precautions, remember affixing three stamps. However, no reply came. Since we had already procured a photograph beforehand, we attached it and pressed him once more. This time by return post, a photo arrived from Uncle. "Finally surrendered the castle, eh?"

Having said this, Father opened it only to find it was the photograph we had sent. Moreover, a mustache was drawn on it in ink. Father became furious. "I'm done associating with Mr. Kotaro." Shortly after I entered a certain high school, Father received a promotion to a girls' school in that same location. From Father’s perspective, he thought it was a fortunate coincidence, but in truth, it hadn’t come about naturally. Mother had asked Uncle. Uncle’s friend happened to be the superintendent of education for that prefecture, so they skillfully arranged it. That summer, when Uncle stopped by during a collecting trip, Father repeatedly expressed his thanks. Uncle specialized in botany. He discovered a moss that no one knew of and gave it the scientific name Oenokotariya. With this, Ono Kotaro intended to leave his mark on the world.

“Michihiko, why aren’t you pursuing proper scholarship after all the trouble of entering high school?” Uncle asked in a reproving tone. “Huh?” “If you’re studying regardless, you might as well engage in real academics.” “It’s liberal arts. Since I’m studying Japanese literature, that constitutes scholarship.” “Literature isn’t scholarship. It’s systematized common sense masquerading as academic discipline.” “It’s not common sense. It’s a legitimate field of study.” “I’ll permit that ‘field’ designation if you insist. Literature is scholarship manufactured by humans. I wanted you to pursue scholarship shaped by nature instead.”

“Botany?” “Right. If you’d studied botany, I would’ve made you my successor though.” “But there’s no helping it now.”

“Play around for a year and retake the science entrance exam—what do you say?” “I’m not interested.”

“There’s no medicine for fools.” “Oh... Oh...”

And I had nothing left to say. “Japanese literature can’t exactly be said to lack scholarly merit.”

Father interjected. Because he taught Japanese and Chinese classics, he felt insulted and couldn’t stay silent. Uncle wasn’t one to compromise from the start. A debate began between them. Since Father too was quite stubborn, matters grew troublesome. Mother stepped between them until at last both regained their composure. “Kotaro, there’s something more important than botany or Japanese literature,” Mother said.

Because Mother was the elder sister，she held some degree of authority. "What is it?"

“It’s the marriage issue.” “Hmm...” “You must take a wife soon. If you keep dawdling like this forever, the Ono family line will die out.” “I’m perfectly content with Oenokotariya.” “What do you mean by that?” “That—” “Even if the Ono family continues, should a good-for-nothing emerge, we’d only become a laughingstock.” “Rather than that, there’s Oenokotariya.” “Plants never do anything bad.” “Moreover, since it’s something that will never die out, I’m grateful for it.” “It will spread the Ono family’s good name worldwide for eternity.”

Uncle remained a botanist through and through.

Mother also gave up. However, having come from the Ono family, she felt a sense of responsibility.

“Then how about making Masao study botany and have him succeed you?”

she proposed. Masao was a fourth-year middle school student. “That’s fine. Masao, will you do it?” “No way! Not me. I’m going to devote myself to the nation!” Masao snapped.

“You idiot!” Uncle bellowed. Uncle believed that botany alone constituted service to the nation. I sensed Uncle growing more irascible with each visit. I suspected it might be some form of illness. Whether it was the following year or the one after, Uncle transferred to the Women’s Higher Normal School. When Father saw the appointment notice in the newspaper and sent congratulatory wishes, an immediate reply arrived. It came as a postcard. “In response: This transfer constitutes no promotion, but rather a demotion. Following debate with a Japanese literature colleague, matters escalated to physical confrontation. As this marks my third such altercation, and out of consideration for the principal’s dignity, I have withdrawn. May this amuse you. Respectfully submitted in haste.”

I surmised this had likely been his argument that Japanese literature didn't constitute true scholarship. That he'd sent a reply immediately—contrary to usual practice—might have been a demonstration of his willingness to stake even his position on that debate. "As expected, Uncle really is an eccentric." "An eccentric." "He's not an eccentric at all. Because his mind is so filled with scholarship, you see—ordinary common sense simply gets overwhelmed." And Mother never doubted her brother's sanity.

Around that time, Uncle’s close friend Shimazaki Gahaku came to paint a portrait for a prominent family in the city and stopped by. He and Father had lived near each other in their hometown, so despite the age difference, they were friends since childhood. “Mr. Kotaro has been transferred, hasn’t he?”

And Father brought up Uncle’s issue in the conversation. “Ah. He got into a fight, you know.” “He really went and did it. He’s such a troublesome man.” “Actually, I had one myself the other day. However, since I was going to stop by here anyway, thinking there might be some message, when I showed up before leaving, he said, ‘What did you come here for?’”

“Hah hah.”

“I dug in my heels too. I told him I’d come to take a leak at his gate—so when he came out, I went through with it right there.” “Ha ha ha!” “I’ve done it dozens of times now.” Mr. Shimazaki made for quite the partner in mischief. “It’s you, Kikuchi, and Takeuchi then—the ones who never run out of patience with that eccentric.” “That’s what decades of friendship do.” “We understand each other’s marrow.”

“Why did he get into a fight?”

“Go. There’s a saying that a Go rival is both detestable and dear, but Kotaro’s brand is detestable through and through—utterly unbeatable.” “Ha, ha, ha!” “If I won, he’d start tearing into my paintings. ‘Without academic rigor,’ he’d say, ‘every plant you draw lies dead.’ Right—when I countered ‘Your stones there are dead,’ that’s when he launched into it.” “He stockpiles insults in advance and unleashes them based on the board’s momentum—enough to make your blood boil.”

"If he were that tactically adept, it might be commendable, but that man genuinely believes botany alone constitutes true scholarship." "He completely lacks worldly awareness." "That must have been the crux of their dispute, no?" "And the school altercation too—"

“I heard how it unfolded. A colleague brought some rare flower and asked for its scientific name. Kotaro-kun couldn’t figure it out right away, so he retorted, ‘Someone without scholarly knowledge asks about things all wrong.’ It’s too confrontational—that’s the problem.” “He’s utterly charmless. Even if he says the same thing, it comes off as abrasive.” And Father had ample experience with this. “The other party must have gotten irritated. ‘Then how should one properly ask?’ ‘When seeking botanical identification, one should bring both flower and fruit.’ ‘I see.’ ‘If you understand, come back properly prepared.’ But this was impossible for Kotaro-kun.” “Flowers and fruits can’t possibly exist at the same time.”

“I see.” “The other party had also noticed this flaw, so he shot back, ‘Spouting such preposterous nonsense won’t get you anywhere.’” Almost simultaneously, Kotaro-kun’s palm struck a cheek with a sharp smack. “Since it was the faculty room, everyone crowded around and caused an uproar.”

“You seemed to have seen it coming.”

“That’s where a painter’s imagination comes in,” “Kotaro-kun had been quarreling so often with other colleagues that matters came to a head—he ended up submitting his resignation.” “There happened to be a convenient transfer opening, I suppose?” “No—Professor ○○ mediated and made them wait about half a year.” “All thanks to the Professor.” “I keep worrying Professor ○○ might finally lose patience with him.” “The Professor must actually be rather exasperated with him too, don’t you think?” “Do you know the Kunlun grass story?”

“No.” “During his student days, the Professor took him to Mount Amagi on a collecting expedition. While instructing him, the Professor apparently spoke about Hiraga Gennai. ‘Because Hiraga Gennai was so knowledgeable, there was nothing he didn’t know.’ After the Professor said that even when encountering something unknown, one should immediately assign it an apt name on the spot, Kotaro-kun found a plant and asked the Professor for its name.” “‘Kunlun grass,’ the Professor answered.” “‘Professor, isn’t that the Gennai approach?’ Kotaro-kun retorted.” “That was just his usual style.” “That doesn’t sound like a joke.” “The Professor apparently became quite displeased.”

And Mr. Shimazaki was remarkably knowledgeable. As their topic concerned an eccentric, the conversation blossomed.

“He says he won’t marry—but what’s your take on that?” “Until about ten years ago we all urged him, but we have given up now.” “I trust his conduct remains exemplary?” “In that regard, he’s truly remarkable.” “Takeuchi and Kikuchi can’t hold a candle to him.”

“It’s commendable how principled he is, but this creates difficulties,” Father said. “What if we attempted to introduce him to an appropriate companion for social interaction?” “Utterly impossible,” Shimazaki countered. “He’s my polar opposite.” “In what regard?”

“He says there’s nothing filthier than women.” “I, on the other hand, believe there’s nothing more beautiful than women.”

“You’re special.” “Extreme versus extreme, I suppose.”

“Ha ha ha!”

“Will the Ono family end up dying out after all?” “No—he boasts that Oenokotariya will endure forever.” “That sort of thing is what you call academic obsession.” “It can’t be helped.”

Father seemed to be throwing in the towel more and more.

One day during an English translation class at school, when my turn came in the group recitation, "He who disdained sweating on his brow was waiting for the shoes of his successful bachelor uncle in the colonies. ..." I delivered. Having failed to prepare properly, I'd resorted to bluffing. "What's this? This 'waiting for your uncle's shoes' business—" the Professor pressed. "I don't know." "You mustn't casually spout things you don't comprehend. Anyone?" "That means waiting around counting on an inheritance," answered some grade-hungry student.

And the grade-hungry student answered. That was perfectly acceptable. At that moment, I thought: Uncle was single. It seemed he wouldn't be taking a wife going forward either. The one with the closest relationship to Uncle was me, the eldest nephew. I'll just keep waiting for Uncle's inheritance, I decided.

As I was about to graduate from high school, Father sent a letter to Uncle. He requested that I serve as a live-in caretaker under supervision since I would be entering a university in Tokyo. Staying at Uncle’s would cost less than boarding elsewhere. While supervision was part of the consideration, that financial aspect remained the primary goal. However, Uncle refused outright. He declined for now, stating he likely couldn’t manage it, adding there was no point dealing with someone who didn’t pursue academics. Next came Mother’s attempt. Uncle generally consented to whatever Mother said. This time he not only accepted but offered to cover all my tuition, though he pressed whether I could handle the arrangement. I naturally intended to manage it.

Both Father and Mother were delighted. The family had effectively been saved by Uncle. Since my younger brother had already entered high school and below him two younger sisters were attending girls' school, my studying in Tokyo was no easy matter. Father had said he would dispose of our family’s rural property. Uncle had perceived our family’s circumstances. I moved to Tokyo and began commuting to university from my uncle’s house. There had only been the matter of being pressed about whether I could manage it.

Uncle lived in a large house but made do by getting bento from a nearby shop every morning and evening. He likely ate a school-provided bento at lunch. There was a maid, but since she commuted daily, her role was limited to watching the house during daytime hours. She arrived each morning and left in the evening. She apparently brought her own bento too. Households that relied on bento for every meal weren’t common. I concluded Uncle was simply indifferent to maintaining such an austere lifestyle and soon devised an improvement plan. Three daily bento meals just didn’t sit right.

“Uncle, how about having the maid stay over and handle the meals?” “Why?”

“Bento boxes are uneconomical.” “But they’re hassle-free and perfectly fine. I’ve been eating bento boxes for about twenty years now.” “Ah...”

“You’ll get used to that too.” “Oh... However, it must be inconvenient when you go out at night, so how about at least having the maid stay over?”

“I absolutely never go out at night.” “In case of banquets or such occasions.” “They might clash with my comings and goings.” “I’ve made it a rule not to go to such places at all.” “I hate seeing people’s faces.” “I still haven’t properly seen this current maid’s face either.” “Oh…” “Ever since you came, my routines have been completely disrupted—it’s a nuisance.” “In the morning, I wake up and open the door.” “As long as the door’s open, take it as proof I’m alive today and come right in—that’s what I’ve instructed.”

“Ah…”

“You must not go out at night either. The thought of that gate being left open would make me too uneasy to rest.” “Right…” “Even if you’re home, talking won’t accomplish anything. Once you finish your evening bento and retreat to your respective rooms, consider that day’s connection severed.”

“Understood.” “It would be preferable not to cough or sneeze.”

“Right…”

Any notion of improvement was out of the question. I found myself prohibited from nighttime outings while being subjected to enforced silence. Uncle never spoke a word. Upon reflection, I realized the entire household mechanism functioned through unspoken coordination. The maid would prepare the bento, “Your meal is ready.” calling through the sliding doors from the tearoom—by the time Uncle and I entered, she’d already retreated to the maids’ quarters. This pattern repeated each dawn and dusk. Even Sunday afternoons followed suit, though I seized those hours for personal excursions. After we finished our evening meal, the maid would offer “Goodnight.” through the paper screens before departing completely.

“Good night.” She would bid farewell through the sliding doors and head home. The only ones who came to visit were Mr. Shimazaki, Mr. Kikuchi, and Mr. Takeuchi. Since they were all childhood friends, there was no need for formalities. As a junior from the same hometown myself, I would come forward to listen to their lofty discourses. This was my only respite—during these times, even if I talked or sneezed, he wouldn’t scold me. “Hey,” “Painter, what do you say?” Uncle declared pompously. “Stop with the ‘Painter’.” “Give me a break—I’m a Teiten-recommended artist, you know!”

Mr. Shimazaki lodged a protest. He likely wanted to be called "Master Painter," but Uncle would never address him as such. Mr. Kikuchi was "Dead Scholar." Though a company executive, this man always carried Western books with him. He seemed to be a book lover. However, since it wasn’t botany-related, Uncle apparently held a grudge and called him "Dead Scholar." Mr. Takeuchi was "Alms-beggar." This stemmed from his joking self-description of commuting daily to Kabutocho as "going on alms-begging rounds," leaving no room for complaint. "Alms-beggar" commanded the greatest trust. All kimonos were made by Alms-beggar’s wife.

“Alms-beggar, thank you for this kimono the other day. Give my regards to your wife.” Uncle expressed his thanks. “Not at all. It seems to suit you well, but you’ve already managed to stain it.” “This is resol. I disinfected it. I applied a bit too much.” “I had my wife make it herself without outside help so she wouldn’t worry.” “But your wife isn’t necessarily free from germs either. Can you prove it?” “It’s fine.”

“That sort of amateur thinking is precisely what’s most dangerous.” “It’s not that being thorough isn’t preferable...” Mr. Takeuchi conceded, though he likely remained displeased. Uncle was obsessively fastidious. Nothing from outside escaped disinfection. When letters arrived, my duty became applying resol, drying them, and delivering the treated correspondence. “Uncle, shouldn’t newspapers be disinfected too?” When I asked, he explained that newspaper ink contained coal tar which served as natural disinfectant.

“The bento comes from outside too. What do you say to that?” “You idiot!” When I returned home for summer vacation, Mother scrutinized my face repeatedly, “Aren’t you unwell somewhere?” “You’ve grown dreadfully thin.”

She worried. Part of it may have been due to my unfamiliarity with such circumstances, but maintaining both the vow of silence and bento lifestyle proved this grueling. I recounted Uncle’s daily habits, “Uncle may be Mother’s younger brother, but he’s thoroughly eccentric.” I protested. Even Mother finally conceded. Yet since I was attending university tuition-free through his allowance, enduring this became unavoidable. Moreover, stripping away all luxuries from consideration revealed this arrangement’s personal benefits. Uncle remained agreeable provided I kept studying.

One evening, Mr. Shimazaki came to visit, but Uncle refused to see him.

“He’s furious.” “The man’s impossible.” “Mr. Michihiko, come now, please listen.”

Mr. Shimazaki came to my room and launched into an explanation. Mr. Shimazaki had borrowed a plot of land around that time and was building a new house. Since Uncle also intended to build a house, he requested that Mr. Shimazaki split his plot of land in half and share it with him. Because he had resolved to remain single permanently, his later years became a concern. Uncle had resolved that if he lived alongside close friends, they would look after him. However, Mr. Shimazaki refused, saying he would be troubled because he would lose his garden. Then Uncle became furious. Which mattered more—friendship or a garden? He declared he would no longer associate with such a person.

“This is quite troublesome.” “He ended up quarreling with every friend he had until only us three remained.” “Since he himself keeps narrowing his social circle, it’s such a self-defeating disposition.” “But within that circle, his temper should settle down, I suppose.” “Please intercede appropriately from your side too.” “If he had told us that from the start, we could have looked for a larger place to split evenly, but now that construction’s already begun, there’s nothing to be done.”

“Painter, go home quick. Go play Go with the garden pine tree.” Uncle shouted from his study. The one who ended up in this fine mess was me. After Mr. Shimazaki fled, “Michihiko, you and Shimazaki were badmouthing me together.” “That’s not true.”

“No—there was. I was even considering your future, but I’ve given up on you.”

“I wasn’t badmouthing you. Just ask Mr. Shimazaki and you’ll see.” I protested, but Uncle remained single-mindedly fixated. Not getting kicked out was my only consolation. I gave up on Uncle’s shoes for good. A few days later, Mr. Kikuchi came and brought up this issue. While playing Go, he intended to soothe Uncle’s emotions. “You dismissively say there’s no friendship, but even Shimazaki has his unavoidable circumstances.”

“Why?” “His household isn’t like mine or Takeuchi’s—it’s wife-ruled.” “Even if Shimazaki wants to lend you the land, his wife won’t consent.” “The world isn’t as simple as bachelors imagine.” “Every home has its own circumstances.” “I won’t beg that wretch for anything again. We’re done.” “That poses difficulties.” “Shimazaki bears no fault.” “Show mercy considering his wife-dominated situation.” Mr. Kikuchi foisted the blame onto Mrs. Shimazaki. He likely deemed it safe since they’d never cross paths.

“Fine.” “Understood?”

“Hmm. Then lend me half of your garden instead. Your place is your own property and much larger than Shimazaki’s.” “That’s a problem.” “Didn’t you just say it’s not a wife-dominated household? Then does that mean there’s no friendship? It could easily be resolved with just your decision.” “But the garden was originally part of the property.” “Is the garden more important than friends? Then that bastard needn’t bother coming anymore. Go home and play Go with the garden pine tree.”

Uncle snapped at Mr. Kikuchi. Listening nearby, I was utterly appalled. Even though he was my uncle, I thought what a stubborn mule he was and felt ashamed. Mr. Shimazaki got his apology through, but it was mediator Mr. Kikuchi who ended up the fool. He continued being turned away at the door for about half a year. Even so, he took the trouble to come visit. “This sort of thing happens all the time.” he said. It was a noble friendship.

One evening, a thief broke into Uncle’s house. I of course didn’t notice, but it was Uncle who found out the next morning. Upon checking, there were signs that someone had rummaged through every room. But since the house contained nothing but books, they couldn’t steal a single thing. Despite this, Uncle became terribly flustered and sent me running to Mr. Takeuchi’s place. Mr. Takeuchi came right away. “You—what should we do if another burglar gets in?”

“They won’t come back—they’ve ascertained there’s nothing worth taking in your house.”

“No—others might come.” “We need precautions for that eventuality.” “You can’t take what isn’t there.”

“It’d be fine if they gave up and left like last night’s guy, but there are such things as robbers. Even if there’s truly nothing, if they think there is, they’ll take lives. How much should we keep on hand for such occasions to get them to spare us?” “Well—a hundred yen?”

Mr. Takeuchi intended it as a joke. However, since then, Uncle always kept 100 yen in cash ready. Through this single incident, I reached a conclusion. As Mother had said, Uncle’s common sense had been completely overwhelmed by his devotion to academics. As a scholar he might have been formidable, but as a member of society he verged on incompetence.

Mr. Takeuchi alone never had a falling out. To my uncle—consumed by academic obsession—a stockbroker should have been beneath notice, yet this alms-begging lay priest was the one he respected most. The lay priest did not play Go. This might have been why it never provoked Uncle’s temper. They always got along. However, one evening Uncle— “Lend me half of it.”

When he said this, I grew somewhat concerned. “Very well.” “You truly understand things.” “It’s none other than you. It must be some sort of fate. Let’s split half the plot and keep each other company into the next life.” “That put my mind at ease too. As long as whichever of us goes first waits there, that’s all that matters.” “The conversation’s taken such an oddly somber turn tonight.” Mr. Takeuchi laughed. It was a conversation about the cemetery. Mr. Takeuchi owned a burial plot at a temple in Tsurumi. Uncle, who had wanted half the plot, ended up requesting exactly half of it.

I continued eating bento for three years, graduated from university, and was immediately assigned to a middle school in the Chugoku region. Being near Father’s post turned out to be convenient in every way. At first, I occasionally sent letters to Uncle’s place, but since he never replied, we gradually grew distant. Several years passed with only New Year’s cards exchanged between us. When I saw the notice of Uncle’s leave of absence in the newspaper, I wrote and sent a long letter, but again no reply came. Through a letter from Mother, I learned it wasn’t due to any quarrel—he had withdrawn because of illness. Soon after, a telegram arrived from Mr. Takeuchi.

“Uncle Kotaro critical.” “Come immediately.”

I headed for Tokyo immediately. On the way I coordinated with Mother, and she joined me. But we didn’t make it in time. Mr. Takeuchi came to meet us, tears streaming down his face. Apart from doctors, nurses, and elderly maidservants, there was no one else. Uncle was in the midst of another falling out with both Mr. Shimazaki and Mr. Kikuchi, so he hadn’t allowed them near. “I cried,” “When Kotaro saw my tears, he looked as if he’d witnessed the strangest thing in the world.” “Since he’d quarreled with every last friend, colleague, and acquaintance, he seemed genuinely astonished that any human being existed who would shed tears for his sake.” “‘Thank you,’ he smiled faintly—and that was all.” “He had a fine death.”

Mr. Takeuchi recounted the circumstances of his final moments. The illness had been nephritis. Upon receiving word, Mr. Shimazaki and Mr. Kikuchi came rushing. “Ono—you didn’t pull through after all?”

“Why wouldn’t you see us while alive?” The two men wept.

Mr. Takeuchi had been entrusted with the will and unsealed it before everyone. Article 1: I find full satisfaction in Oenokotariya. No further provisions need be made.

Article 1: All deposits at ○○ Bank shall be donated to the Botanical Society. Article 2: The real estate in my hometown shall be liquidated into cash and divided equally among my four relatives: nephew Michihiko, nephew Masao, niece Fumiko, and niece Kikuko. I had completely given up during those three years living with my uncle, yet still came into possession of shoes.

“Hadn’t he enrolled in insurance?” Mr. Shimazaki asked. “Oh, he certainly did not. I once introduced a salesman and got my head bashed in.” Mr. Kikuchi answered. Uncle’s funeral presented an unexpectedly grand spectacle. Death seems to settle all circumstances. The crowd that gathered for the second night’s wake consisted entirely of his former quarreling partners.

“I was struck by him too.” There were ten former colleagues who made this confession.

“What a righteous man he was.” “Struck down everyone yet never once was struck back himself.” “That’s because all those with wives and kids had to watch their necks.” “That bastard had nerve since he was a bachelor.”

said one person.

“Ha ha ha!” The one who laughed at that moment was Professor ○○ of Kunronsou. “I never got hit myself, but my hat took a beating." "He came to consult me." “This was after he’d gotten into a fight at high school and needed advice on how to handle things." "I gave him a little lecture." "Then he smacked my hat lying on the desk and stormed out." “I suppose this was Ono’s version of showing respect to his old teacher.”

Uncle was laid to rest at Tsurumi Temple. As promised, we received half of Mr. Takeuchi's grave plot. The stone monument of my deceased uncle and the stone monument of the still-living Mr. Takeuchi were lined up amicably. "A twin grave for two men must be unparalleled in the world. Considering I'm the only one left after he severed ties with everyone else, perhaps I'm something of an eccentric too?"

Mr. Takeuchi was in his element.

(August 1934 [Showa 9], Sunrise)