Pathway to Japanese Literature

*Kyoto Diary*

Preface

Ten years ago, when I was in Kanazawa and planned to visit Kyoto's temples, I wrote to Mr. Akutagawa Ryunosuke about it, whereupon he kindly wrote me something like a simple Kyoto guide.
When I took that letter from my bookcase and examined it, I found it written across about one ken of scroll paper, with meticulous attention given even to souvenir recommendations.
"For lodging in Kyoto, you should stay at Nakamura-ya house in Sanjō Kiyamachi-kami. Though the building is shabby, it offers fine views of Kamo River and Mount Hiei. Tea expenses should be ten to fifteen yen per week—give neither less nor more than this amount. Five yen suffices for maidservants if given to one person. Meals are excellent as they bring food from nearby teahouses. You must see Kinkaku and Ginkaku; though guides explain briskly while moving through both pavilions, take your time viewing without reserve. Admission fees have gradations—the higher tier includes weak tea and sweets; trying this once may prove amusing. From Higashiyama, Honpō-ji(?) and Kōdai-ji both warrant visits south of Shijō. Though few visit Shōren-in at Awataguchi, its fusuma paintings are splendid and evenings feel pleasantly compact—do see it without fail. Daitoku-ji, Shōkoku-ji, and Kennin-ji guarantee worthwhile visits too. The museum's famed celadon pieces demand viewing—do not neglect this. For teahouses, Hyōtei and Isechō suffice. Avoid Western cuisine like snake meat; Kitano's Maruya turtle dishes are famous. Have Nakamura-ya telephone all these places for you. Enclosed are two calling cards—one for Nakamura-ya, one for painter Kobayashi Ukō... (omission)... Needles from Misuya needle shop and yokan from Suruga-ya confectionery make good souvenirs—they'll delight recipients. Other sweets like wheat bolo, uh-roka (easily damaged), and twisted beans also please."
(September 12, 1924)

It was a letter so characteristic of Seikōdō in its kindness, but that year too, circumstances prevented me from going up to Kyoto, and before I knew it, eleven years had passed. Even to visit Nakamura-ya mentioned in the letter, since the calling cards had gone missing, I didn't go out of my way to bring the letter along.

Not even five minutes had passed since arriving in Kyoto when Mr. Saburi appeared. Mr. Saburi was the foremost disciple of Mr. Nishikawa Issotei. If I didn't follow Mr. Saburi's every word, this country bumpkin of an outsider like me couldn't tell east from west. Mr. Saburi's notebook and several pages of my own were filled with temple names. The two of us exchanged notebooks and talked, then boarded the train from Shichijō Station. We decided to visit the most distant places first.

From the outskirts of Uji came tea fields swelling with thick green growth. To find such vibrant color amidst winter-blasted fields brought quiet delight. I remembered Mr. Akutagawa's haiku—prefaced by his note about being Uji-born, written in Kyoto dialect—that went: "In tea fields at sunset / light settles upon my old home." Uji Village glowed like some cherished childhood place where even summer mandarins shone luminous.

1. Ikkyu-ji (Maki Ikkyu-ji Temple)

When we alighted from the train in the town called Tanabe, steam from a sweet potato vendor wafted a sweet fragrance, and on the plaster surface of the roasting pot were written the words "roasted potatoes" and "fluffy soft." The term "hokohoko" must be Kyoto dialect, I thought, yet the sensation of those softly boiled potatoes came through with perfect directness.

The closer we got to Ikkyu-ji Temple from Tanabe, the older the rows of houses became, with white-walled earthen enclosures coming into view and rice fields appearing, which deepened the sense of an ancient countryside.
When we passed through Ikkyu-ji Temple’s stone-paved gate, three ancient cedars stood immediately before us, their presence instantly conveying this temple’s antiquity.
The roof tiles on the low earthen walls lining both sides were truly beautiful.
The roof tiles of Kyoto’s temples were all splendid, but I thought that in a way Kyoto might have been a city of roof tiles.
For wherever I looked, the roof tiles appeared dulled like Chinese ink, densely jostling against each other.
When we went beneath the old cedars, the thick roots exposing about two shaku of their bark appeared tremendously robust.
The sturdy rigidity of roots half-buried in the ground balanced with old cedars measuring six or seven shaku around, creating an indescribably splendid sight.

I tried asking what the "Maki" in Maki Ikkyu-ji Temple meant, but Mr. Saburi didn't know.
We saw the front garden housing Ikkyu-san's mausoleum.
Though created by Murata Jukō, this garden felt intimately fresh—impossibly so for something crafted four centuries prior—its compact arrangement appeared almost shy, like a person of refinement.
We were not permitted to enter this place and could only view it from outside, but the stillness—not a single bird alighting—resembled a cherished old painting carefully stored away.
That it had become beautiful to this degree was partly due to its age, yet this newness remained an indescribably well-preserved quality.
Like unearthed Mishima ware, it looked completely new.

The white sand was laid out vibrantly, with azalea bushes trimmed into rounded shapes nestled between stones here and there—it was a gentle garden. It was a garden that could be called nothing but beautiful. The splendid roof tiles harmonized with the deep brown of the mausoleum’s layered roof, creating an incomparably subdued beauty.

In the temple kitchen, among beams, pillars, and planks gleaming with soot, there stood a large folding screen woven from soot-stained bamboo—this too was a thing of antique charm to be cherished. The three-sided key-shaped inner garden had its center arranged in a triad formation with stones and azaleas, but rather than pondering what makes a renowned garden, I found myself captivated by the roof tiles of the earthen wall. It was said to be a collaborative work by Ishikawa Jōzan, Shōkadō, and Sagawada Kiroku, but I thought the stone garden should maintain its uniform simplicity throughout. The arrangement of four or five stones beneath the inner pine was skillful, but I thought the triad formation followed a contrived direction. I felt how difficult it was to arrange standing stones now—that even a master could not achieve proper balance. Two new pine trees were standing there, but I thought, can’t something be done about that?

When we went out to the back graveyard and looked, five-ringed pagodas ranging from those about one shaku tall to the massive one measuring roughly one ken that belonged to tea master Sakuma Shōgen stood lined up in a row, all covered in white stone moss, as if crying out at night for their beauty.
Some leaned precariously against each other; others stretched their spires skyward as if to touch the stars; and collectively, they pressed in upon my heart with relentless weight.

Mr. Saburi suggested we eat udon, and we left the garden to enter a small udon shop.
Mr. Saburi learned from the old man that "Maki" was a place name and was told that seven hundred years before Ikkyu-san's arrival, it had been a dilapidated temple.
And when I left a little udon uneaten, the old man chided me kindly: "Who leaves udon behind? Warm yourself by the hearth and eat it all up."
I had to slurp down the remaining udon.

As I slurped my udon, the cedar moss at Ikkyu-ji came to resemble tattered fragments of ancient brocade—the beauty of those fragments seemed beyond compare. What struck me particularly was how the small garden before the mausoleum appeared less a garden than an aged hanging scroll.
Moreover, having come to view this warm old painting in winter, I perceived a severity and warmth absent in other seasons.
I found it fitting that this garden revealed only its bones.

2. Ryoan-ji

Upon entering Ryoan-ji's precincts, a townswoman stood holding a furoshiki bundle from whose knot peeked a full cluster of withered cedar branches. Even for gathering firewood, she had prepared a furoshiki—this old woman’s thoroughness was admirable. This might be the kind of refined custom upheld by Kyoto women.

Though no snow had fallen in the town, fresh snow lay in scale-like patterns upon the roof tiles of the six-tiered earthen wall surrounding the stone garden. The sight of the stones in this garden—the sovereign of stone gardens—lying in perfect stillness grew more profound with each repeated viewing. In sixty tsubo, fifteen stones lay sunken entirely. However, there was an oppressive sense of being forced to contemplate something, which proved unbearably distracting while we were within this garden. When I returned to the inn and contemplated under the lamplight, this stone garden seemed to settle well into my mind. The stiff, aged rigidity had softened into a stillness that made me want to stroke each of the fifteen stones’ heads. Mr. Shiga Naoya’s theory that this is a work from Sōami’s late years is correct. While being made to listen to stodgy old men’s sermons and riddles was tiresome, Sōami’s approach here undoubtedly did not follow a simple solution like arranging a tray landscape—whether he initially used more stones and gradually removed them, or placed fewer stones and added more over time. The stiff rigidity born of Sōami’s struggle still lingers now.

I discovered a splendid hōkyōintō pagoda in the hills behind this stone garden that most people seem to overlook, but the emaciated austerity of this Muromachi-period pagoda evoked a desolation akin to ash.
The stone moss enveloping the pagoda’s finial clung flatly from its base to the crown like flowers blending ash with a pale green hue.
The beauty of the rafter patterns on their canopies was unparalleled; the five pagodas throbbed with their beauty as they resonated with one another.
Above all, the one crowned with the tallest finial atop a double-layered base was an especially exquisite masterpiece.

Additionally, small five-ringed pagodas stood like mushrooms, each rounded by weathering and bearing stone moss, leaving me enraptured. Whether hōkyōintō pagodas or five-ringed ones, what mattered most was that the deeper their weathering penetrated, the more clearly I could perceive solitude's whisper. On returning, I felt how the stone garden had been set within a frame of earthen walls, every stone rendered immovable. This was a garden framed thus—something that had to be treasured and preserved exactly as it was.

Growing along the edge of the stone wall was something resembling Eizan moss—this served as undergrowth adorning the frame.
If one wasn't careful, they might forget—but I keenly felt that undergrowth bearing such weighty responsibility was something indispensable at all times.

The pines and deciduous trees stood in winter’s desolation, their forms embracing the pond to reveal a beauty of pure structure.

I noticed that an essay I had written long ago was quoted in Ryoan-ji’s explanatory materials and felt an acute sense of embarrassment. Having paid five sen for it without knowing, I thought myself an endearing fool for having bought my own explanatory materials—precisely because I had been unaware. If I had known and returned without purchasing it, that would surely have gotten on my nerves a bit.

3. Myoshin-ji

At Myoshin-ji, a bell tower jutted out above the main hall, and a large ladder had been erected all the way to the eaves of the main hall.
On the roof, a raft-like ladder had been placed following its slope, and between the main building and the slightly lower bell tower, another small ladder had been hung.
I found a childlike joy in the harmonious contrast between the splendid building and such crude ladders.
By discovering such ladders amidst the overly pristine Myoshin-ji, I felt as though I could break free from that oppressive rigidity.

The stone steps leading up to the main hall were slightly sunken, and between them peeked some green leaves.
Upon closer inspection, it was a violet bearing white flowers that retained its green leaves even in winter.
It seemed strange that only this single stone step had sunk slightly, but rarer still was how violets grew in such gaps.
In precincts paved stone upon stone without a single weed growing, these secretly rooted violets conveyed a pure sensation.

4. Reiun-in

The wooden corridor from the temple kitchen had decayed, and the traces of corrosion showed a rosary-like carved pattern.
The beauty of the old wooden corridor and the softness underfoot were truly something to be grateful for.

The stone garden created by Kore'an, known for his ink paintings, showed stones arranged in a delicate equilibrium, as if connected by faint spider's threads. Each configuration bore karmic significance, yet I felt a faint sense of dissatisfaction.

"Before the sacred seat, please remove your footwear."

The elderly monk serving as guide reverently cautioned us. We straightened our collars and bowed deeply in the inner chamber where the sacred seat had once been enshrined. There, in the dim light filtering through bamboo blinds, it had been protected for centuries.

At Reiun-in, a subtemple of Myoshin-ji, an unusual large fire-prevention fan stood propped at the temple kitchen entrance alongside hooked poles and fire ropes. Hooked poles could be seen at any temple, but the fire-prevention fan was found only here. At the end of a handle measuring about seven shaku in length was attached a black-lacquered fan, upon which the two characters 'Reiun' were written in white ink. It appeared to be for preventing embers during fires. There was also a geta cupboard for the Sōzu’s footwear, but from within peeked alluring shoes resembling a woman’s stationery case, which strangely lingered in my mind.

5. Tōkai-an

There was a central courtyard arranged with seven stones amidst white sand spread across the ground. There was nothing here but stones and sand. The arrangement seemed childlike yet deliberate in its composition, but I found myself unable to view it with simplicity. I could not bring myself to admire such pretentious displays of significance. Is there no garden that impresses without contrivance?

The inner garden did not leave any profound impression either, but from some hidden recess came the sound of water falling through a bamboo channel deep within the garden.

In Tōkai-an’s temple kitchen, as was customary, about ten large and small fireman’s hooked poles were mounted on the wall.
The rusty patina of old metal fittings inexplicably drew attention solely to the fireman’s hooked poles.
The imposing grandeur of the old timber in the threshold shone rather with soot, its inner part alluringly peeling to reveal a reddish surface—it was the very pinnacle of beauty.

6. Rinne-an

I was about to pass by but stopped my feet. Even one of the small front gardens of the lower temple had caught my eye with its five or six untended pine trees and moss. All that was visible outside were about two patched shoji screens on the main hall's front—their mended paper, thin as ice, shone vividly.

At the bases of five or six pine trees, moss clung thickly—gardens like this, evoking a sense of serene stillness, could also be found at temples in Kanazawa and elsewhere. Yet here, amidst Myoshin-ji's grand old structures, how could there exist such a quiet, unadorned garden? It was then that I began to feel a creeping homesickness. As I walked through gardens rendered emaciated by excessive artifice, amidst such merciless gardening techniques that even my own body seemed to wither, I began to wonder whether I was merely wandering through a landscape of lies.

Therefore, I stood in the garden for a while, gazing aimlessly at the pine trees, the moss, and the pale winter sunlight slanting down—distinctly Kyoto in its chill. I wondered if someone like me, walking around gazing at gardens, truly thought this could serve as nourishment for the heart. This garden has nothing yet contains everything—isn't this alone already sufficient? I thought to share this observation with Mr. Saburi, but remained silent and stepped out onto the stone pavement. The gate plaque was inscribed with "Murin-an."

7. Kofu-do

At Kofu-do, tea was served, and the young woman prepared it with hands moving as if folding paper.
I do not know the ways of tea, I declared, and resolved not to adopt rustic manners.

As twilight deepened, I went out to the garden and was astonished to find not a single dead leaf on the sweet flags growing along the pond's edge and at its outlet.
The fence of cold bamboo and cypress leaves partitioning a garden with circular elements about one ken high extended like midsummer waves for twelve or thirteen ken, and the meticulousness of its upkeep struck me.

All the plantain stalks at the entrance had been cut away—and that alone sufficed.
If I were to visit Kyoto henceforth without first acquiring some understanding of the tea ceremony, I thought there might be occasions requiring my participation—but should a rustic like myself take up tea practice, I would surely grow affected, and that very affectation would prove my undoing.

8. Daitoku-ji Abbot's Quarters

When visiting Daitoku-ji's Abbot's Quarters, there was an object resembling an old townhouse's money box placed in the temple kitchen, with "Document In/Out" written on it.

The front garden of the Abbot's Quarters designed by Enshū had white sand spread across its surface—just a few trees on the left with standing stones embedded among them, and two or three rocks arranged in front; that was all.
It employed Enshū’s technique of incorporating Mount Hiei and the Eastern Hills, but my heart could not follow this stone garden.
Nowhere could soothe my feelings; only oppressive deer-claw-like things seemed to pile up.
The garden’s emotionless hardness had come to affect my heart until I was growing sad.
What meaning lay in propping standing stones among trees—the garden’s creator Enshū must never explain any significance.
I left the Abbot's Quarters with loneliness.

9. Daisen-in

At Daisen-in's stone garden, Soami of Ryoan-ji had employed an entirely different, complex arrangement—using stones so numerous they verged on clutter—to create a single murmuring stream flowing from a waterfall.
From the bridge downward, simple stones—only their crowns emerging from the bank into the river—were skillfully utilized.
It was a scene where boat-shaped stones seemed to float toward the current, their excessive size rendering them endearingly clumsy.
To arrange stones so densely in this narrow garden and achieve such a composition must lie beyond any amateur's capability.

Standing downstream to view it, there was perspective—somehow comical yet, were it not for its childlike quality, it might resemble a garden made by Soami. To gather stones of such differing characteristics must have required considerable labor. It must be because this was Kyoto that such materials could be collected; in Edo there existed no stones of such excellence. That Kyoto abounds with renowned gardens owes above all to its plentiful stones. Moreover, were one to remove but a single stone from these arrangements, each still retained the essence of a splendid era and an air of peerless beauty. And every stone must undoubtedly stand as a masterpiece.

When creating this garden, the narrow space must have made it inconvenient for the gardeners to move about. Moreover, expressing complex techniques through heavy objects was no ordinary task.

10. Juko-in

At Juko-in, I saw Rikyu's grave.

This appeared to be one of the Korean pagoda stones Rikyu had cherished during his lifetime.
On its pedestal, sixteen Buddha figures were carved in full relief, their forms softened with age like mist or smoke. The central portion became a lantern holder, and from what could scarcely be called a canopy rose a relief-carved finial standing like a potato.
It was a simple stone pagoda, precisely the sort Rikyu would have favored.
When viewed as a lantern, the lantern holder was well-proportioned, with angular carvings above that accentuated the Buddha figures below.
Yet while the stone pagoda's beautiful wabi-esque essence naturally resided in its finial, the charm of its very awkwardness was something I had never before witnessed to such a degree.
Weighty yet not cumbersome, its desolate gray solitude seemed unrepeatable.
The sentiment that led Rikyu himself to choose this as his tombstone resembled Hosokawa Sansai's wabi-esque sensibility.

There were numerous other five-ringed pagodas, but here, unusually, a stone water basin—shrunken to about the size of a tea bowl like a rice cake mortar, with its water surface made shallow—had been placed before the pagodas.
Though I was seeing it for the first time, even when viewed as a garden ornament, it struck me as quite a respectable water basin.
The stone’s ochre-tinged quality also contributed to its effective coloration.

11. Koto-in

The entrance was as simple as a country temple.

There being prior guests, Mr. Saburi and I were shown into a dim parlor and exchanged greetings with the old woman and her son who had arrived before us.
When meeting people at temples, humans tend to deepen their courtesy.
The old woman, appearing to be a person of high status, was discussing matters concerning nobles.

Here, the Abbot himself prepared tea with his own hands and served it.
I could not recall how many years had passed since I last drank tea—it had been so long since I had tasted such a thick, emerald-green froth.
Mr. Saburi, being a tea practitioner, displayed splendid posture in his kneeling and deftness in his hand movements, but knowing nothing of such arts, I made sure to decline the formalities and steadfastly maintained my own manner throughout.
A half-baked pretense of knowledge would only have appeared gauche.
I found myself recalling my father—a monk—after so long, remembering how delicious the tea he used to prepare for me in my childhood had been.
My father must have so loved making tea that he would even deign to brew it for his own child as a worthy counterpart.

Natto was served.
The natto, apparently an annual tea confection made at Daitoku-ji, had its saltiness simmered down to a hint of briny depth.
When I remarked it would pair well with sake, the Abbot laughed and said, "That might indeed be splendid."
It seemed Mr. Saburi, my companion, had supplemented the monetary offering I had presented, for they wrapped the savory natto in white paper as a household gift.
I privately resolved to take this back to Tokyo as sake accompaniment.

I saw the stone lantern that Hosokawa Sansai had cherished; it was free of affectation, quietly weathered into unassuming simplicity, its slender form drawing no particular attention. Even during his sankin-kōtai processional journeys, Sansai would set up this stone lantern in every post-station garden along his route and gaze upon it, never failing to lavish his devotion. Following his instruction that it should become his grave after death, they ultimately made it into a tombstone—so the story goes. This Sansai must have been a true devotee of singular passion. To speak of traveling with a stone lantern in tow would seem eccentric today, but through this final transformation into a memorial marker, we come to understand that peculiar attachment.

The stone fence encircling this lantern had a heavy stone door bearing Hosokawa Sansai’s crest, but what proved truly unmissable was the sight of the single weathered slab—battered by wind and rain yet exuding a pleasant air with its moss-covered surface.

The Kesagake no Chōzubachi—a grand washbasin about the size of an old well, displaying a square kesa pattern—had a solidly heavy feel and made for an imposing structure.
Mr.Saburi remarked that it would be better placed higher, and I thought so too.

Mountain doves cooed mournfully in the cedars behind us, their calls grazing my ears as I walked along the stepping stones. From the main hall’s ceiling hung what appeared to be an old Chinese-style lacquered lantern. “We had it stored away in the repository, but it seemed a shame to leave it there unused, so we decided to hang it here for viewing,” explained the cheerful Abbot. Though I thought it overly slender, it struck me as rather fine.

In this garden, the stepping stones were excellent. As if carefully chosen and refined through generations, they lay moss-covered in a layout that evoked pure nostalgia. The tea room too held splendor. Four stones bound crosswise with palm-fiber rope marked what seemed the garden's cardinal law - beyond this point none shall pass. Having walked only through stone gardens until then, entering this tea garden made me encounter subtle emotions and feel something akin to relief.

12. Murin-an

It was Mr. Yamagata’s villa, where from the waterfall’s mouth onward, the sparse woods to the right had arranged beautiful bare winter branches. The water had been drawn shallow, the stones set low, the stream’s edges displaying a delicate sensibility. Moreover, Kyoto’s peculiar air—neither quite smoke nor fog, yet tinged with grime—gave this new garden its particular clarity.

Mr. Saburi had noted with admiration that there were no carp in the pond, yet due to its depth, numerous carp could be glimpsed moving among the floating brushwood. “With this much water, one can’t help but release carp—if I ever find a pond without any, I’d tip my hat to it,” I said. But Mr. Saburi clearly favored and cherished the gardens he personally showed us; this must be the real thing, I thought. On our return, the caretaker woman—in that Kyoto-native manner—told us amiably and apologetically that the cleaning hadn’t been thorough enough.

13. Saiho-ji

Saiho-ji is so renowned as the Moss Temple that its gardens are completely blanketed in moss without a gap. Now in winter, when only the garden’s skeletal structure remains visible, the thick moss still grew densely across the expanse, though showing slight patches of sparseness here and there.
Today’s guide was Mr. Okouchi Denjiro; from behind, he said, “Mr. Muroo, look—the pine roots have crawled all the way up onto the bridge.”
And the Temple Auntie said she’d be happy to let us stay in the tea room if we wished, while Mr. Okouchi insisted, “You really ought to stay here.”
When I said I’d rather stay in town, Mr. Okouchi remarked, “Do you still visit cafés?” I replied that I went with a sense of resignation, but a certain feeble, lingering heaviness remained in my chest.

In the pond water there, light green algae grew, and the water became beautifully clear and transparent, as if in summer.
The temple auntie, wearing a tattsuki robe, said, "I love the garden so much I can’t stand it; when I’m out here, I forget all about cooking rice or doing needlework."
"Where the moss has peeled off, if you put red soil there and scatter moss powder over it, it'll grow back right away."
“Oh yes,” the Temple Auntie continued eagerly, her voice echoing across the mountainside as she rattled on—how she had laid these small stepping stones herself, how they’d installed a telephone line at the temple for urgent matters, how matsutake mushrooms grew at the pine roots in autumn, how two rare irises had bloomed in late December that year that she’d cut for the New Year’s altar flowers. Even when stepping out to sweep, she kept muttering “just a bit more” while vigorously working her broom, her ruddy face animated as she lamented, “I never get anything proper done this way!”

Behind us lay a deep thicket spanning some fifty thousand tsubo, and the auntie said they made about three thousand yen a year from bamboo shoots and timber.

Amidst the clustered bamboo trunks, the persistent high-pitched cries of brown-eared bulbuls rang sharply.

Taking the path strewn with acorns toward the mountains, we came upon a massive assembly of stones arranged to resemble a dry landscape garden. In the elevated section of this garden created by Musō Kokushi, I thought piling so many stones must have been an extraordinary undertaking during the Nanboku-chō period. On our return, I found the cryptomeria moss growing beneath the white earthen wall at the temple entrance particularly beautiful. Though the cryptomeria moss at Ikkyu-ji had been lovely, when it came to vast gardens completely carpeted in moss, Saiho-ji stood alone. The Temple Auntie kept regaling Mr. Okouchi with drawn-out tales of moss thieves, but when he stepped outside the gate, he remarked, "She's quite the kindhearted soul, that auntie."

By the time we arrived at Tenryu-ji, it had already grown dark. Patches of last night’s light snow lingered here and there, and a piercingly cold wind blowing through the pines chilled us to the bone.
"What a cold place Kyoto is!" I said with a shiver. Mr.Okouchi, his cheeks reddened, replied, "I’m quite sensitive to cold myself—Kyoto truly does me in."
As the car passed beneath Arashiyama, where traces of faint snow remained, the world outside had turned completely dark.

14. Radio Station

The Osaka radio station had asked me to talk about haiku, and I had previously declined by saying I'd never done a broadcast before. But when they suggested this time that broadcasting from Kyoto station would work well since it was quiet there anyway, I set out for Kyoto combining it with sightseeing.
I—who had become a lecturer at Meiji University only to give one lecture before growing so nervous I nearly fainted and resigning—had now prepared two days' worth of scripts written in formal style at one page per minute; all I needed was to read them properly.
Yet even as I lay in my third-class berth thinking about broadcasting matters felt unsettling enough that proper sleep eluded me.

The third-class berth proved supremely comfortable.
I had taken the middle berth, but when dawn broke, someone who had risen earlier opened the corridor curtain for me. Lying abed while being gently warmed by the morning sun steaming through, I could see a nostalgically withered winter wheat field and thought this made for a fine view. Though I wanted to smoke a cigarette, both the passenger on the upper tier of the three-tiered berth and the one below still slept.
Resolving to stealthily take small puffs, I lined an ashtray with paper to catch the ashes and had a smoke while gazing out the window—the illicit tobacco tasted surprisingly satisfying.
The person across from me in the middle berth had been fidgeting restlessly for some time, but when I began smoking, they finally relaxed and started puffing on their own cigarette.
They then took from their bag a nickel-plated object resembling a soapbox lid and began letting ashes fall into it.
Just as I was marveling at this clever solution, they extended their hand holding the nickel lid toward me when my cigarette ash threatened to drop—a silent invitation to use their makeshift tray.
"Thank you for this kindness," I said, feeling belated wonder at such unexpected human consideration.
With matters unfolding this auspiciously, the broadcast would surely go well—after all, they say execution proves easier than anticipation. Carrying this propitious feeling, I disembarked at Shichijo Station beneath a cloudy spring morning's chill.

The inn I had asked a flower master to arrange was a quiet lodging in a house at the end of a cul-de-sac off Shichijo Street, devoid of common inn-like atmosphere.
As the broadcast needed to be heard by people before work, it was scheduled for 7:40 in the morning—even for an early riser like me, this proved somewhat taxing.
When evening came and I realized I had forgotten to inform the radio station of my lodgings, I remembered while out walking and entered an automatic phone booth. Having never even made calls in Tokyo, I became utterly flustered inside that box—unable to understand Kyoto dialect or operate the phone—as if trying to make a call in a foreign language abroad.
When I finally managed to place the call, I thought telephone operators were remarkably patient and kind-hearted souls.

When I got up at six in the morning, even looking up at the roof, it was still dark.
After the inn staff had finally provided hot water, they seemed to set about cooking rice.

Since I had requested a slightly early pickup the previous evening, the radio station’s car arrived at seven-oh-five.
Putting on my coat and hat made me feel more composed, so I boarded the car as I was, still dressed in my inn clothes.
During the approximately ten-minute drive to the radio station, I rehearsed the script aloud.
Since it was after all the radio station’s car, I convinced myself it was Mr. Seki’s vehicle and, feeling at ease, read aloud with confidence.

The radio station was quiet with nothing to disturb one’s composure, warm enough that I didn’t feel nervous in the slightest.
As the announcer came out and we drank tea while talking, I felt an odd sense that he was acting as today’s guardian figure, which made me feel close to him.
When I said, “Since it’s my first time, please let me sit in front of the microphone about five minutes beforehand,” they led me to the broadcasting room.
“After I introduce you, please begin,” he said. “Given how you’ve been speaking since earlier, a slightly louder voice would suffice—yes, that volume... Well then, go ahead.” Thereupon I began speaking.
I raced through three or four pages in a frenzy before realizing I was speaking too quickly. After slowing down for about two pages, I found myself speeding up again, rattling off another three or four pages in a half-dreamlike state.
Thinking “Who knows who’s listening—I must steel myself properly,” I regained my composure and kept talking until I noticed with surprise that I had fallen into a rhythm and was now speaking with confidence.
“This fool’s getting carried away,” I thought to myself when suddenly I sensed that the announcer who should have been behind me had quietly slipped out of the room.
Wait—had he left because he couldn’t bear to listen? No—perhaps some errand? As I wondered this, I felt him return to the room.
It gave me a sense of relief.
Having chattered through twenty-four pages, when I finally checked my wristwatch—which I’d tried unsuccessfully to glance at multiple times earlier—it showed two minutes past thirty.
I moved my left hand behind my back to signal completion with the ※ gesture.
The announcer released me from duty.

When I returned to the waiting room, I felt a strange trembling in my body - a full-body tremor I hadn't experienced before the lecture. The announcer had gone outside to listen and reported he could hear everything clearly. So he had indeed left the room after all. When I asked if I might receive about six yen, he remarked that I'd spoken rather quickly.

When I returned to the inn, though the maid had said nothing initially, she remarked that she had listened carefully. When I asked if I had stuttered three times, she gave an uncertain reply: "I suppose you did."

Since I had to broadcast again early the next morning after a day's interval, I rehearsed in the pickup car as usual, and Kyoto's slow-waking machiya townhouses appeared to have just stirred from sleep. As customary, a uniformed attendant greeted me at the entranceway—though we'd only met three times before, I felt an oddly endearing sense of familiarity. The announcer differed from last time's, yet we quickly grew amicable and entered the studio together, sitting in silence for five minutes before beginning our talk. With the soundproofing making my voice resonate lower in my ears, it paradoxically made me feel more articulate. Unlike the previous day when I couldn't even drink water, this time I'd removed the tea bowl lid beforehand and kept it within reach, allowing me to sip with composure. The hot water tasted remarkably delicious. Though I tried conscientiously to speak slowly, I found myself speeding up again. Compared to the prior broadcast, I spoke more comfortably and retreated to the waiting room afterward, yet my body still trembled beyond control. This shaking might have sprung from both task-completed relief and fresh-blooming anxieties.

Before boarding the return car, I felt toward both the announcer and the uniformed subordinate who had silently provided transportation a closeness and sense of parting I had never before experienced with strangers. Because I disliked and worried about the broadcast, and because they were people I had met during such times, I may have felt particularly nostalgic.

When I returned to the inn, the maid said, “It came through well,” while preparing tea.
When I asked, “Did you hear me give a single cough?” she replied, “I must have missed that.”

Mr. Tada Fuji from the Tokyo radio station came and said, “To be honest, I’d been worried and listened in Osaka—it was sufficiently audible.”
When I remarked, “You probably heard it from your bed,” he responded, “No—I got up out of friendship to listen.”

Broadcasting was a trying endeavor.
I had to prepare manuscripts; couldn't risk catching a cold and losing my voice; couldn't stay up late the night before; couldn't even eat too much... Saying all this made me feel as though I had accomplished some grand task.
Even while walking through Kyoto's temples, I couldn't stop worrying about the broadcast.
When I met with Mr. Okouchi Denjiro and discussed this matter, he said he too often worried about catching colds during filming—how during yesterday's broadcast, someone had grown concerned halfway through, but it was quickly fixed and put them at ease.
"Lately I've been quite preoccupied with how to position my feet after cutting someone down," he remarked. Indeed, though I hadn't noticed before, I realized feet must play a crucial role in such movements.
I had never paid much attention to feet.

15. Hiuunkaku

Since arriving in Kyoto, there had not been a day without snow; true to its reputation as the city of passing showers, even when the sun shone, thin snow fell leisurely before ceasing unnoticed. Since that day was the one I would depart Kyoto, the inn’s mistress came to the next room and asked me to write the promised poem cards. She said her daughter had told her, "If it's difficult for Mother to ask, I will go and make the request." That daughter had never once shown her face during the entire week I had been staying there. I had only caught a glimpse of her back in the washroom and heard what sounded like a school song twice; it seemed she was deliberately hiding to avoid letting me see her face.

As I was scribbling on the poem cards, the maid came in and silently prepared tea; I had been asked to write one for the mistress, one for her daughter, and even one for the maid herself, but in the end, no botched poem cards remained behind. When I explained the situation, the maid made a face like she was about to cry, so I promised to send one from Tokyo.

When I called Mr. Okouchi Denjiro because he was running so late, they said they had been waiting there for some time already.
Since Mr. Okouchi said he would leave right away, I decided to go out front and eat lunch before his arrival.
At a restaurant on Shichijo Corner, I ate some clumsily prepared fried chicken and an apple, but the waitress who came to serve asked if I wouldn't like to drink some sake.
"I've made it a rule not to drink during the day," I said. When I asked, "Do you drink?" she replied with piercing blue eyes, "I've had about five bottles since this morning."
"Your speech sounds Tokyo-like—are you from there?" I asked. "Born in Asakusa," she replied in a tone that seemed to scorn the very question.
Women who drift into Kyoto generally seem to look down upon its natives.

When I returned to the inn, Mr. Okouchi arrived shortly after, his cheeks flushed like an aging beautiful youth, still reeking of alcohol today.
When asked why he drank during the day, he said it was because he had children in Osaka and would end up drinking out of loneliness.
At his house near Nikkatsu Studio, he always lived alone with his chauffeur, so I supposed that was why he tended to drink.

When I said that I wanted to see the Hiuunkaku Pavilion at Hongan-ji today but was troubled by having no one to introduce me, he suggested that stating our reason and asking would suffice.
“Yesterday, since I couldn’t meet you, I went to Kyōgoku for a drink, and then happened upon a Chūji performance. Back in those days, everyone from Mr. Itō onward was so enthusiastic, performing without regard for order, so I ended up watching until the very end.”
“Since the Chūji days were barbaric, that was good—from that time onward, everyone has become masters,” I said. When I mentioned this, Mr. Okouchi replied, “We must remain steadfast.”

At Hongan-ji, where the clock had struck four, the attendant said that since it was already dusk, Hiuunkaku Pavilion would be too dark to view.
The word "dusk" lingered in my ears, but no matter how much we pleaded, they showed no sign of listening.
When Mr. Okouchi mentioned the name of his wife’s matchmaker, the attendant finally reconsidered us, and having no other choice, we agreed to present both Mr. Okouchi’s and my business cards.
Then, the person who had earlier tried to dismiss me with that mean-spirited "dusk" remark suddenly showed goodwill and arranged for us to view the inner areas.
Even at such times, Mr. Okouchi maintained a calm, feminine gaze, not showing the slightest sign of unease.

The garden of Hiuunkaku Pavilion appeared not to have been swept for a long time, remaining untended in a manner uncharacteristic of Kyoto gardens.
It seemed children had entered, for five or six bundled stems of fern had been left on a stone and dried out.
Most stone lanterns lacked their tops, with not a single one flawless, yet many remained splendid specimens of their era and style.
The haggardness that had seeped deep into their surfaces lingered before my gaze.
"If only I could acquire something like this," Mr. Okouchi said as he wove through clusters of stone lanterns.
I estimated there might be twelve or thirteen standing there.
Amidst the grass rose a stone pagoda with three stacked tiers likely brought from Korea, its exquisitely carved rafter ends heightening my astonishment.

Inside Hiuunkaku, we saw Toyotomi Hideyoshi’s bath chamber, which had been converted into a steam bath where warm vapor rose through gaps in the wooden boards. Outside the one-tsubo shrine-like bath chamber was a washing area of about ten tatami mats, and I could easily imagine Hideyoshi emerging from the bath, his eyes taking in the sight of a beautiful maid leaning forward with one hand resting on the floor. The next room served as a changing lounge, with a shelf for hats suspended from above.

16. Light Snowfall

When we left Hongan-ji, light snow began fluttering down, the cold seeping into our bones as if we were submerged in water. Emerging at Kamo River and seeing patches of lingering green grass on its banks, we drove toward districts preserving old townhouses of bygone eras, only to find ourselves funneled into a narrow path between temples that abruptly opened onto a bright thoroughfare.

“This must be a neighborhood I’ve never traversed before,” Mr. Okouchi remarked—just as a policeman materialized from shadows to confront us. “You’ve got gall bringing a car through here when even carts struggle!” he barked.

When Mr. Okouchi started to protest, the officer cut him off with unnerving civility: “Kindly remain silent, sir.” Even Kyoto’s constables wielded courtesy like a blade.

Ultimately, our chauffeur had to relinquish his license temporarily with orders to return later. “Truth told,” he admitted ruefully, “I knew ’twas dicey—but none o’ my business to say.”

“Aye,” agreed the compact-built driver with disarming cheerfulness when Mr. Okouchi ordered him to face reprimand later. “Off I go for me proper scoldin’, sure enough!”

We decided to have dinner at Warajiya, but the room we were shown—devoid of any warmth—clung to us as though the cold had lain in wait. When the hearth fire was lit and we had just begun to feel revived, they informed us that three more guests had arrived and asked if we might move to a slightly smaller room—already beginning preparations before receiving our answer. Even had moving to another unheated room been possible now, the cold left us no inclination to do so. “Might we remain here as we are?” Mr. Okouchi suggested with nonchalance, adding he wouldn’t mind relocating if necessary, but I—too chilled to move—planted myself firmly and showed no intention of budging.

In the end we avoided enduring further cold, though Mr. Okouchi remarked much later, “What an unreasonable demand they made,” his composure never wavering. His eyes retained their gentle aspect without any trace of severity. “I’ve always considered myself short-tempered,” he said, “yet people frequently tell me I’m patient.” I replied that I’d nearly scolded the old woman earlier myself, thinking how the real Mr. Okouchi far surpassed his cinematic portrayals.

We went to a teahouse in Miyagawacho, but there was no one in the tearoom, and even when we called out, no one came.
When Mr. Okouchi went to the kitchen and persistently called out "San," the mistress finally emerged and said, "Terribly sorry."
"How carefree, sleeping from early evening!" Mr. Okouchi said as he went upstairs.
As we were drinking, women emerged—every one of them bearing an aged face.
They all had eyes upturned at the corners, small slightly raised noses, and narrowed faces that radiated an unmanageable vitality from these features alone.
The face of a certain maiko-like woman bore an eerie resemblance to a fifteen-sen bamboo skewer doll—so uncanny it unsettled the senses.

Even here, Mr. Okouchi kept smiling as he sipped little by little, his undershirt peeking out from his chest like a seasoned drinker.
At times, laughter rang out as if from the heart, and I—how perpetually on edge I remained toward the world—thought that I ought to become more at peace.

Since I was returning to Tokyo on the 11:30 night train and had someone to meet at ten o'clock, I arranged to be dropped off at Shijo Intersection. When I said, "There's still an hour before needing to go to the station - I want to drink alone here to bid Kyoto farewell. Please go ahead without me," he replied, "Then I'll drop you off right at the center of Shijo, Mr. Muroo."
"Because there's someone you want to meet, I suppose," said Mr. Okouchi.
When drunk, this person became strangely beautiful.
When I considered why this was, it was because the real Okouchi was an agelessly handsome youth.

When I got off at Shijo and checked my watch, I spent a full hour drinking alone at a small café.
“This place is all people from Kyushu, so feel free to drink,” the woman said.
When I said, “It’s not good for women from Kyushu to use Kyoto dialect so much,” she replied, “We learned it right after coming from Kyushu.”
When the clock struck eleven, subtracting thirty minutes—ten for the car ride, five to stop by the inn and retrieve my luggage, and five at the station—I lingered for ten minutes, drinking.
The women of Kyoto’s cafés were a jumble of those who were gentle and those who were not.
A woman with a short haircut wearing Western clothes spoke in Kyoto dialect, and it didn’t suit her at all.
No matter what I said, they would only reply with polite “Ohoki ni’s,” until I began to feel as though I were being made a fool of.
Stopping by the café called Nagasaki-ya at the Shijo street corner, I went in to drink some sobering soda water and was taken aback by the gathering of young men and women from Kyoto’s intellectual class.
I saw beautiful women who appeared composed, yet none seemed hurried like Tokyoites.

17. Kyoto Town

On the main street, I saw a cart puller making a dog haul the cart with a rope, and today again witnessed the dog—harnessed at both collar and midsection—pulling onward despite exhaustion, never once glancing aside.
The pathos of it clung to my mind and would not leave.
The cart puller paid no heed to the dog as he strained and sweated to haul his load, and the very presence of the animal made witnessing it all the more wrenching.

When I went to the public bath, they gave me something called five-rin tickets; apparently, saving ten of them would allow one to bathe for free. The way those five-rin tickets seemed to pierce life's vulnerabilities made me accept them without refusal and take them with me. The bath chamber was dim compared to those in Tokyo, with two or so people who had entered the medicinal bath lying on wooden planks using buckets as pillows. In my hometown such customs existed, but in Tokyo I had never seen such bathers. Another thing that surprised me was a certain bather leaving the water running while washing himself there, still not turning it off. I frantically rushed to stop the water, but as a result the bathwater turned lukewarm. I regretted having gone out of my way to come here instead of using the inn's bath.

At Saw Shop, there was a store that displayed a saw design with prominent teeth thoroughly dyed white.
I passed by there many times, but for some reason, that noren-like curtain left an impression on my heart.
A saw design with pitch-black blades was displayed, its teeth as sharp as small knives.

Next to it was a shop that sold nothing but prayer beads.
Prayer beads hung there—small-grained ones and large-grained ones, long strands and short strands, along with headache-inducingly large beads.
In a dazed state, I passed by, merely telling myself in my heart, "That is what they call prayer beads," and nothing more.
But strangely, it could not be forgotten.

As I looked out over the town from the car, a signboard reading "Mukadeya" came into view, and I wondered what kind of shop it was. I thought perhaps it sold centipedes or was a tabi shop, but since returning to the inn to ask would immediately solve the mystery and ruin the intrigue, I merely kept wondering to myself what "Mukadeya" could possibly mean. It might have simply been the shop's name.

How about establishing fixed admission fees for Kyoto's temples as straw sandal charges instead of relying on tips? Saiho-ji had set twenty sen per person—what if we standardized around that amount? For three people, perhaps fifty sen would be appropriate.

The women of Kyoto speak gently; the men are too kind for their own good.
I—likely perceived as a country visitor—had no sooner alighted at the station and made my habitual move toward an automobile when the driver planted himself before me: “By regular car it’s fifty sen, but with mine you can go for half that.”
“Don’t do yourself a disservice—ride in my car,” he kindly insisted.
“Ah, that does make sense—this isn’t a hurried journey. Driver, take me to Shichijo-Kawaramachi!”

18. Journey's Melancholy

People who come to Kyoto to see its temples and gardens generally return home after about two days, but those who specifically come for the gardens find it impossible to view more than three in a single day.
Viewing about two per day ensures the impressions remain distinct.
I walked around viewing about three [gardens], but unless I jot them down in a notebook, I found myself forgetting even the fine points I observed.

At every temple, the wooden floors and corridors of the kitchen quarters, along with the doors and shoji screens, bore a sooty sheen and were beautiful.
The compact soot-colored lumber possesses an indescribable antiquity.
Moreover, in this humid climate, moss grows on the roof tiles, harmonizing beautifully with their grandeur.

When I visited Mr. Okouchi Denjiro in Uzumasa Village, he had gained some weight and acquired a healthier complexion compared to our meeting four years prior.
Having never seen Nezumi Kozo's Resolution Chapter and learning it would end its run that night, I went into town where we watched it together.
I cannot say how one might feel watching their own starring film, but Mr. Okouchi observed it in reverent silence without uttering a word until the end.
I too remained silent.

Though Kyoto's townhouses apparently contain small yet well-crafted gardens, I did not encounter a single such example.
Perhaps there exist gardens of this sort that breathe life into their spaces in ways distinct from famous landscaped gardens.
Mornings stayed perpetually overcast, the faint sunlight piercing through clouds carrying a lingering chill; every garden I wandered through bore moss that blended harmoniously with shaded areas into subdued hues.
One could not discount how profoundly air, humidity, and that diffused sunlight might contribute to nurturing Kyoto's gardens.

The women of Kyoto generally give off a certain familiarity through their manner of speech, but whether the gentleness in their words reflects their true character remains unclear. However, for someone like me who hears only the sharp tones of Tokyo speech, listening to the words spoken now and then by the inn maid—who quietly slips in to attend to tasks—leaves me feeling treated with remarkable gentleness and goodwill. Outside it may not be so pronounced, but within the quiet rooms of an inn, the words of Kyoto women sound strikingly gentle—especially for someone like me who rarely travels. Even if their skills are somewhat lacking, these women of the capital still manage to evoke a touch of traveler’s melancholy. Perhaps the very lack of skill makes the traveler’s melancholy feel all the more poignant. Beauties tend to feel boisterous, but women lacking in skill are quieter, and when they possess good quality, they carry a more profound depth than mere beauties.

19. Notebook

Last night, Mr. Tada Fuji arrived late from Tokyo, so I showed him to the guesthouse and told him to sleep there, but when I—an early riser—got up, Mr. Tada was still asleep.
The garden of this inn was also narrow, but it had stone lanterns and nine-ringed pagodas, with winter camellias scattered atop discarded stones like old crepe fabric scraps.
Though it was called an inn in name only, even after staying there for a week, the guest was none other than myself.
The sound of breakfast being cooked over firewood reached my ears on the second floor as it did every morning.

No matter how long I waited, he still did not get up, so I began writing impressions of the temple gardens I had been visiting since earlier. When I walked around viewing several gardens in a single day, the impressions became jumbled and diluted until all the garden layouts blended together as if they were identical. Perhaps because I had mainly been viewing stone gardens—and since I had only seen those by Soami and Enshū—every garden came to feel the same. I would glance at my notebook and write drafts, but my notebook contained nothing but disconnected characters jotted down impressionistically, so even I myself could scarcely make sense of it. Saiho-ji was rendered in such fashion—Moss Temple, tea rooms, temple auntie, woodpeckers, cedar moss, Muso Kokushi, paths strewn with acorns, stone mountains, thickets spanning fifty thousand tsubo (approximately 165,000 square meters)—that anyone else looking at it would have made no sense of it at all.

Near Ryoan-ji, at a stonemason’s workshop, there stood a five-ringed pagoda about one shaku tall. I arranged for its purchase and dispatch to Tokyo, but whether in its well-composed form suggestive of a child’s memorial pagoda or its antiquity, it proved rather difficult to pass by unnoticed.
The era name was Shōtoku.
As graves seemed not to be in demand and there were no buyers, I was able to acquire it at a more reasonable price than anticipated.

I had written about three pages when Mr. Tada seemed to have woken up; the sound of water came from downstairs where he appeared to be taking his morning bath.
After finishing breakfast together, Mr. Tada said he wanted to stop by the Kyoto Broadcasting Station, so we set a time to meet at a café called Nagasaki-ya in Shijo and decided to stroll around Kyoto.

At one o'clock in the afternoon, I went to Nagasaki-ya and sat by the sun-warmed window on the second floor overlooking Shijo intersection; the tea was good and the bread delicious.
On Shijo Street, a familiar-looking couple who had been drinking tea here until now walked across to the other side as if taking a leisurely stroll.
Perhaps because they were people who had been here earlier, I couldn't help feeling as though I were seeing something strange.

When I looked at the clock and saw it was already twenty minutes past one, leaning against the window, I closed my eyes and thought I might take a little nap.
In Tokyo I would bask in the southern sun, but even after a week of walking through Kyoto's sunlit streets, I had yet to leisurely soak up its warmth.
Merely visiting temples with their cold pines left my body chilled through, making such sun-basking an unimaginable luxury.
The cold within temple buildings centuries old and air thoroughly chilled - mingling with Kyoto's unique penetrating cold when people gathered - formed a clinging chill that clung to one's very bones.
I walked about viewing gardens seared by frost, sneezing and coughing all the while.

When Mr. Tada finally arrived, I opened my sleepy eyes—it seemed I had indeed dozed off for two or three minutes. That drowsy sensation from the brief nap felt all the more pleasantly memorable when I saw Mr. Tada’s face.

"I’d just been napping, you see, but even then I felt as if I were in some temple garden," I said. Mr. Tada, aghast at the mountain of sandwiches heaped on the plate, remarked:

“To think this costs only twenty sen—they’ve made it absurdly cheap.”

Now that you mention it, it was a heaping portion of sandwiches—more than one could possibly finish alone. Between the bread slices, the fresh green skin of cucumber peeked through, revealing in this spot alone the soft, delicate shades of early spring. Kyoto seemed to allow even sandwiches to be made cheaply, and I ate the entire plate, even polishing off Mr. Tada's portion.

20. Maruyama Park

We strolled along in a carefree manner all the way to the vicinity of Gion.

I asked a man who looked like a kimono shop manager for directions to Gion's town, but he proceeded to politely explain women's entertainment fees and local customs, even offering to accompany me partway since he was heading near Gion anyway. I declined and continued my aimless wandering.

At an antique shop near Gion, I browsed through various items but couldn’t immediately find what I wanted.
I returned to the stonemason’s shop and looked around at the stone lanterns, but none appealed to me, so I left.
As I walked through Gion’s streets in the daytime, I wanted to drink some thick green tea, but finding it difficult to enter anywhere, I simply kept walking.
As the dimly lit houses continued, I found myself wanting tea all the more.

I bought the bean-and-sugar confection called mameita that Mr. Akutagawa had told me about—it had a satisfyingly solid texture and tasted quite delicious.
Since I had already asked the innkeeper about the Misuyabari needles, I decided against purchasing any.
I tried looking for a souvenir suitable for a boy, but proper gifts meant for boys proved surprisingly hard to find.

At Maruyama Park’s tobacco shop stood a small cabinet with Korean-style drawers.
As I bought tobacco and remarked flatteringly, “This looks rather unusual,” the monk-like shop clerk responded, “Ah, this was brought over from Korea, but unlike Chinese goods, it’s rather brittle and poorly made.”
“Maruyama Park is such a dreary place,” Mr. Tada Fuji remarked.
“Exactly,” I said, recalling the bug-eyed man from earlier. “Shops like that tobacco place displaying Korean boxes—whether they mean to sell them or not—make it all the more tedious.”

While climbing Chion-in's stone steps, I recalled how twenty-five years earlier during another cold winter I had climbed these same steps.
I had been a twenty-one-year-old youth who sat prattling about poetry in Mr. Ueda Bin's study.
My grubby student self surfaced in memory with inexpressible distaste.

An ancient plum tree stood in full bloom, its flowers appearing dust-stained.
We viewed the garden with guidance from Mr. Igawa of Historical Compilation.

Mr. Igawa, Mr. Tada, and I poured sake at a cozy teahouse in Gion as evening fell.
Mr. Igawa suggested we invite Mr. Naruse Mukyoku, and I said it had been four or five years since I last met him in Karuizawa.
When Mr. Naruse appeared, the conversation turned to Ms. Soei and then to Ms. Soei’s mother—"No," he said in his carefree, childlike manner, "it was after I did a script reading that Ms. Soei came to dislike me."

Since Mr. Tada was returning to Tokyo, we left the teahouse early, only to find thin snow falling through daybreak-pale light outside.
What meager snow this is, I thought.
At a Shijo bar where we drank for two hours, Mr. Tada grew tipsy and began nodding off.
"You Tokyo folk," the women said, "what sort of people are you? What would you say you do?" To which I replied, "I couldn't possibly know such things."

Ikkyu-ji, Saiho-ji, Ryoan-ji, Koto-in—the mosses in those gardens lingered in my vision like a dream, blue-green.

In those stone gardens, coarse white sand was typically spread—a sand they called Namban Sand that glistened like mica.
In Tokyo, I had never seen a garden laid with that Namban Sand.

What brought me the greatest joy was how perfectly my own conceptions had aligned with those of Enshu, Soami, and Muso Kokushi.
What I envied was how they, free from life's hardships and living leisurely, had achieved such opulence in their garden-building.
My gardens were always designed within means proportional to my life and finances; even when arranging trees and stones, I could not use overly expensive materials, and aspects of my own circumstances inevitably seeped through to my sorrow.
Our gardens were plentiful in that way.
That might indeed be why they brought joy.

21. Dining Car

When I entered the dining car—perhaps because it was past breakfast time—there were only four or five customers.
There was a person drinking beer with breakfast, a person chewing their rice with apparent relish, a person working through an extravagant array of Western dishes, and then a woman who, exhausted from the train journey, could only manage half a cup of black tea.
The woman's physical frailty manifested in that half-consumed black tea.
I took as much time as possible with my bread and tea, eating slowly to smother the train's tedium.
When I combed through every corner of the newspaper, it took a full thirty minutes; looking up, I found the clientele had changed save for the beer drinker.

Before long, the dining car filled with people who had risen late, three taking seats before me and one beside me, which forced me to fold my spread-out newspaper. And feeling it would be rude not to order something else, I decided to have another cup of black tea.

The dining car master remarked that seasoned travelers tended to enter the dining car later—a notion I found myself agreeing with.
The waiters were all girls, their apron strings tied at their backs like butterfly wings, each bearing an unhealthy pallor.
In a corner sat last night’s trio of student-types from Kyoto—boisterously talking while starting on Western food and morning beer.
To someone my age like myself, lounging in third-class berths drinking beer from dawn seemed an unimaginable luxury.
The vigorous speech of those sharp-eyed youths struck me as clamorous.
Though already full, I ordered another green tea out of restlessness.
Then pickles too—for I couldn’t bear sitting silent, staring at tabletop flowers and passing scenery.

While driving some distance from the outskirts of Uzumasa Village, we came upon a deep thicket surrounded by a bamboo-branch fence, before which ran a single white country road of old-fashioned charm.
This was exactly the sort of scene one sees in period dramas—a road that felt somehow familiar.
Never had I encountered a landscape that made me feel I had truly arrived in Kyoto as much as this one did.
Compared to the bland plains of Kanto, Kyoto's scenery felt profoundly evocative, always unfolding nostalgic vistas that connected us to ancient times beyond mere historical association.
A short way from Shichijo Station brought us to a marsh pond where stands of dried miscanthus and reeds rose like pillars, presenting a scene as splendid as any painting—the beauty of their withered plumes unmatched in both color and melancholy.
When the miscanthus thicket vanished from view, we found ourselves in lagoon-like marshlands, and the experience of watching this scenery unfold from the train presented views unimaginable in Tokyo's suburbs.

Around the time the person sitting immediately before me finished their meal, I finally left the dining car, though people still lay upon their berths.

When we arrived at the house in Omori, my eldest daughter—who had caught a cold at the start of this trip—was now energetically up within a folding screen arranged in multiple panels, her fever having finally broken last night.
The souvenirs were a doll, bamboo clogs, bean-paste boards, and sewing needles that the inn’s landlady had bought and brought.
For those ten days—what one might call ten days—I walked continuously during the day, wrote exhaustively when at home, and immersed myself in nightly drinking; yet sitting in my own house, everything felt so hectic that all matters took on a dreamlike quality.
In that dreamlike state, images of cold temples’ halls, corridors, and earthen walls capped with tiles would surface, and I thought how good it had been to go to Kyoto.
I felt as though a long-cherished wish had been fulfilled; yet my heart had grown thick with an abundance of crowded thoughts.
It occurred to me that perhaps Ryoan-ji and others were the gardens I had seen this time that remained most clear and serene in my heart.