Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

“Oh, Mr. Yano! You came today? Ah, so my letter reached you.”

The master stood at the edge of the entranceway, saying this with casual fondness. Peering through thick-lensed nearsighted glasses at the latticework outside, he added, "Won't you come in?"

Yano—his narrow face dark-complexioned beneath slender hands—managed a crumpled smile that blended weariness with relief. In one hand he laboriously clutched a bundle containing both blanket and suitcase; carelessly dangling from the other were two oversized cloth-wrapped parcels. When his package-laden hand fumbled unsuccessfully with the lattice door's latch, the master stepped down into the earthen-floored entryway and opened it himself.

“The wind’s really picked up—you must have been covered in dust.”

“The wind was truly terrible.”

Yano spoke reluctantly as he pulled out the hand towel tucked at his hakama waist, brushed the dust off his tabi socks, and stepped up into the house. After shoving his luggage into the corner of the entryway, tossing off his Kagoshima High School cap with its emblem, and wiping sweat from his narrow forehead, he followed the master into the next room.

Ōki Shigeru was a well-built man over forty; age-wise, the difference between him and Yano resembled that of an uncle and nephew. From their literary association, Yano not only respected Ōki as his senior but also shared a closer bond with him. Yano was not naturally quick-witted, so he had a tendency to consult Ōki even over minor matters. Especially since he was now in Tokyo, he had come rushing over. Ōki, for his part, loved that Yano was not only intelligent but also pure in character and rich in emotion.

Ōki welcomed the person he had been waiting for and began speaking while still standing, without even taking a seat.

“You came quickly—I was worried.”

“I was a bit hesitant at first, but when I saw your letter, I suddenly felt encouraged and came here.”

The two cast aside the usual formalities of host and guest and sat facing each other with complete openness from the very start.

“You must have been covered in dust.”
“Why don’t you go wash off your sweat at the wash area—the water’s just heated up.”

“The wind was blowing too hard.”

“I see. Maybe it’s better not to do such things.”

Noticing this, Ōki saw that despite the heat, Yano wore a thick cotton shirt beneath his unlined garment.
Ōki secretly felt a profound loneliness and unconsciously found himself gazing intently at Yano’s condition.
However, Ōki did not let such a state show in his expression.
Ōki quickly shifted to cheerful conversation.

“Today I’ve got a treat for you—a friend in Taiwan sent me some pomelos the other day.”

As he said this, Ōki stood up and carried out two large pomelos from the cupboard there.

“How’s this? They’re huge!”
“They’re called Naishi, I hear.”
“When I tried one yesterday, sure enough, beneath the skin was a beautiful purple.”
“The taste is no match for summer mandarins either.”

Yano smirked,

“I sometimes ate them in Kagoshima.”
“Haha, so you were the Liaodong pig after all—they really are this big!”
“They’re not usually this big! This one’s huge!”

Yano took one of the pomelos in hand, kneading and turning it over.
Ōki summoned the iron kettle and prepared tea himself; sunlight streamed through the shoji screens as the wind had calmed somewhat.
Ōki still secretly paid attention to Yano’s condition.
Compared to when he had stood before the lattice door earlier, Yano’s complexion had improved considerably.
The two cut open the pomelo and spent a while laughing in amusement.

Yano graduated from Kagoshima High School and returned home, remaining unexpectedly healthy throughout the summer break.
Given this, people thought his lung condition couldn’t be severe—he could easily travel distances of about two ri.
He visited friends’ homes and went on four- or five-day trips without incident, finding it all thoroughly enjoyable. His father examined him too, declaring there was nothing serious enough to worry about.
Initially resolved to take a year’s leave for recuperation, he now felt continuing might pose no harm. He immediately wrote to Ōki for advice, who responded that if Yano wished to try continuing, he should proceed—thinking pessimistically and labeling oneself a patient from the start was utterly unwise.
Bolstered by Ōki’s reply urging “Come out! Staying at university with a playful attitude might prove stylish,” he finally mustered the energy to arrive.

Yano’s father was a doctor, and due to their household circumstances, he had no choice but to become one himself—though Yano had never liked the profession from the start, rendering his situation pitiable enough already—but since around last spring, his respiratory system had been troubling him. Ōki sympathized with Yano’s circumstances and privately grieved deeply over his illness. He grieved over Yano’s condition more profoundly than Yano himself or any of his relatives did. Every word and action of Ōki’s toward Yano—down to the very edges of characters written on postcards—was steeped in thoughts of him. Thus whenever Yano read Ōki’s letters or heard Ōki speak, he naturally found his spirits lifting.

Yano had left home in high spirits, but during the train ride, boredom led him to dwell on needless thoughts. The whistle’s wail sounded strangely mournful; he overheard distressingly fleeting conversations and glimpsed sallow-faced individuals he suspected must also have lung disease. A vague loneliness crept over him, and the vigor with which he had departed vanished as if flipped away by a hand.
I should have taken a year off; I shouldn’t have come here.
Against my will, such thoughts kept rising to the surface, and I couldn’t stop them.

Even when I tried to think of ways to lift my spirits by myself, it didn’t work. I took out a poetry collection and looked through it; it wasn’t interesting in the slightest. I took out a novel and looked through it; there was still no interest. Finally I grew angry and strangely impatient,

“How utterly ridiculous.”

While scolding myself under my breath like this, I roughly pushed open the glass window and looked outside—but beneath the dimly overcast sky, all I saw were mountains thick with mixed trees, each indistinguishable from the next, and even this landscape somehow appeared sorrowful.

Thinking he would go see Ōki immediately upon arriving at Iidamachi, Yano began to long for him with the intensity of a seasick person yearning for land.
When he got off at Iidamachi, disliking even the thought of taking the tram, he commanded a rickshaw in his urgency to gain every moment and rushed all the way to Ōki’s house.

Now settled at his senior’s house, encountering Ōki’s composed demeanor and listening to his heartfelt words, Yano found that before he knew it, his anguish had completely dissipated as though a rain-laden sky had cleared.
Today, he had come intending to earnestly consult Ōki about his troubles, but as they talked, the need to appeal vanished and he even forgot what he had meant to discuss.

Yano lay on his side, propping himself up on one elbow while idly fiddling with the pomelo in one hand as he listened to Ōki’s discourse. His smiling face showed no trace of resembling that of a sick person. Yano typically wrote at length in his letters about his thoughts, occasional mental states, and even surrounding events, yet in person he remained a man of few words. Ōki, reassured by Yano’s unexpectedly favorable condition, embarked on an expansive discussion of literature and related matters.

“Medicine is your profession.”
“Literature is your life.”
“But you—the importance of one’s profession being beyond question—must pursue it as long as your health permits.”
“You agree, don’t you?”

Yano sat upright and straightened himself,

“Yes, that’s exactly right—there can be no doubt.”
“With that, I’ve resolved myself—I’ll do it…”

Yano declared in an impassioned voice.
Even what seemed self-evident, when heard spoken earnestly from Ōki’s lips, never failed to stir Yano’s spirit.

Mosquito-repelling incense was lit.
The moonlight streamed in.
A light was lit.
From near the edge, even the sky was visible.
The wind died down completely, and the night grew still.
Though it was hot and mosquitoes buzzed about, the night undeniably bore the colors of autumn.
Some nameless insects chirped as if to soothe human restlessness.

“You mustn’t rush anything, no matter what it is.”
“This goes doubly for academic pursuits.”
“Look at the silkworms eating mulberry leaves—once they’ve eaten their fill, they have no choice but to pupate, don’t they?”
“It’s good that society seeks to make people work, but if people work themselves to exhaustion, they’ll have no choice but to spin their cocoons like silkworms.”
“Therefore, it’s crucial for humans to devise ways to work at a leisurely pace.”

“However, academic studies are preparation for work—we may very well finish during our preparations.”

“No, preparation is also part of the work. Therefore, you must not only enjoy the work but also cultivate the mindset to find joy in preparation. Depending on how you approach it, preparation can actually be more enjoyable. Look at cherry blossom viewing—the preparations before going out are so much more enjoyable than the main event itself. This right here is what’s most crucial for you. If you have the mindset of enjoying preparation, there will be no profound disappointment even if you end up doing nothing but prepare. Therefore, academic studies should be pursued with enjoyment. It’s naturally something enjoyable as well. Humans can find a certain interest even in moving their limbs—how much more so when moving the mind? Could there ever be a lack of interest? In the past, they called embarking on training a ‘study tour.’ Doesn’t this reveal the true meaning of enjoying scholarship? That’s why you must pursue your studies slowly while enjoying them. So that even if you end up doing nothing but prepare, there’ll be no profound regret—enjoy the preparation itself.”

“I am extremely delighted—ah, delighted! I will surely do it cheerfully.” I often found people enviable beyond measure. When the feeling of envying others arose, I became sad. I will no longer envy others—I will surely pursue my studies with enjoyment.

Such talk was repeated in a jumble, and Yano remained there delightfully.

II

Yano visited a boarding house in Hongōdaimachi where his friend lived and, fortunately finding the friend present, consulted him about lodging arrangements. When he did so, the friend said they could probably arrange something at this house and told him to go ahead and discuss it.
The friend was a law student named Nakajima, who had graduated from Kagoshima High a year before Yano.
He was a lively man who loved traditional comic songs.
Though Yano did not particularly like Nakajima, he had visited him because he disliked the idea of aimlessly searching for lodging and thought it best to inquire regardless.

Tea was served.
The landlady also came out.
She said there were two vacant rooms and asked them to take a look.
Yano had hoped to be as far from Nakajima’s room as possible, and by good fortune, he was able to choose the western corner room located farthest from there.
It was well-lit, and the room was fairly clean.
He promptly moved his luggage in and settled down.
Nakajima went to school.
Yano wrote letters to his hometown and friends indicating that he would be staying there for the time being.

Yano called the woman and handed over the advance payment for the boarding fee,

“Since my body is weak, I might sometimes say selfish things.”
“I ask for your forbearance.”

With these pleasantries, he gave some gratuity both to the boarding house and to the woman.
As he was an unusual tenant for a boarding house student, the lodging’s reception was naturally good; they had provided him with a brazier, tea utensils, and other furnishings that were not of the lowest quality.

Yano sipped the cold tea as if suddenly remembering something and, muttering “Well, this is good enough” to himself, looked around the room but found nothing particularly disagreeable catching his eye.

I'll have them remove the framed picture, and I'll hang a photo of someone I like.
I’ll have them remove the alcove hanging as well, and I’ll borrow Master Shiki’s piece from Mr. Ōki to hang there.
When everything gets settled like this, I feel really good.
Yano thought he had to buy a desk and lamp before sunset, but he didn’t feel like going out.
Yano recalled what Ōki had said.
“Perhaps due to your frail constitution, you seem to fixate on trivial matters.”

“You must learn to avoid approaching anything that might cause discomfort.”

Indeed—it must be because of my illness after all.
No need to fret. From now on, I’ll do everything slowly and calmly.
How splendid! Mr. Ōki is truly wise. I won’t compete with anyone.
“I’m just amusing myself”—Yano had meant to keep the thought silent, but it escaped his lips.
Footsteps echoed in the hallway.
Soon,

“Shall I prepare a lamp for you?”

The woman’s voice spoke.

“No need—I’ll buy it myself.”

With those words, Yano stood up and went downstairs, then headed straight to Hongō’s main street without hesitation.

First, I must enjoy boarding house life.
Suddenly coming up with this thought, Yano repeated it smugly under his breath and went out to the main street.
Yano suddenly entered a furniture store, purchased a desk, chairs, and a bookcase—all rather splendid items—and promptly ordered them to be delivered to his boarding house.
After leaving the place, Yano kept repeating to himself: First, I must enjoy boarding house life.
He also bought a superior-quality lamp costing over two yen.
Am I a sick person?
Such a thought arose in Yano’s mind once more.
What kind of sick person does this?
In Yano’s head, it seemed two masters had appeared.

Yano stood in front of the butcher shop, his head a jumble.
He bought pork.
He also bought sweets at Fujimura.
“There I go again thinking foolish things.”
What kind of sick person can walk around like this?
Yano deliberately strengthened his resolve, chiding himself, and hurried along, stomping his clogs.
As he was about to turn into the side street of Daichō, he met Nakajima.

When he returned, all the desk and similar items had arrived.
Nakajima also came in and applauded, “Quite the setup!”
Nakajima helped arrange the placement of the furnishings.
The woman came and lit the lamp.
Because the lamp was splendid, the room became even more lively.
Nakajima applauded the gentlemanly lifestyle once more.
Yano recalled Ōki’s words about enjoying the preparations and felt uplifted.

He handed the pork to the woman and ordered her to bring it back with two or three bottles of beer.
And he insisted that Nakajima come as well.
Nakajima had intended to go out a bit tonight, but he said he would cancel that and come instead.
Nakajima and the woman left the room, and Yano, as if realizing it only now, was astonished at how splendid his boarding house life had become.
If I were to hang a piece by Master Shiki in the alcove now, it would become even more ideal, he thought.
He sat down alone in the chair and remained blankly still for a while.

The liveliness of the boarding house reached his ears for the first time.
From the surrounding town, an indistinct hubbub of activity could be heard.
The sensation of metropolitan life struck him deeply.
It sounded as if all sorts of people in society were pushing and shoving, snarling at each other in a cramped space.
And he felt as though he too might be drawn into their midst.

“There I go again, thinking pointless thoughts.”
Wondering if I really did have an illness after all, I went down to the bathroom.
Standing before the morning glory, he suddenly recalled matters from his hometown.
Considering that my approach today had gone a bit too far for someone of my standing, I was overcome with a very unpleasant feeling.
Even if I tried to dismiss it as a one-time occurrence, the unpleasant feeling refused to fade easily.
"With such thoughts, I never imagined I could enjoy boarding house life," I scolded myself vehemently and forcibly dismissed the discomfort.

On his way back, when he stopped by Nakajima’s room, there was a student named Kijima from Tetsugakukan University in the adjacent room talking.
Yano invited both of them back to his own room.
By nature, such conduct was unlike Yano.
For Yano, tonight was remarkably out of character.
Yano himself had become aware of this and felt as though intoxicated by something.

Nakajima and Kijima both drank beer readily.
After Yano had a small cup from his glass, the two of them effortlessly polished off three bottles of beer.
And so they eagerly discussed the current state of student affairs and the prevailing ethos among students.
They spoke of how there existed a most regrettable trend even between teachers and students.
Yano simply listened with a faint, knowing smile.

At first glance, Nakajima seemed a boisterous man, but his view that becoming a judge was preferable to a lawyer and teaching safer than journalism revealed his conventional outlook. Thus his arguments held no originality. Kijima was no ordinary man in appearance. His face was large, his stature short, his complexion dark. Though he claimed to be twenty-one, no one would have guessed him under thirty. He harbored philosopher-like ideas and was fiercely strong-willed; whether he was truly profound remained unclear, but his words were invariably unconventional and somber.

The worst flaw in today’s students lies in their petty cleverness—they learn to speak before anything else and become mere masters of debate.
They’re smooth-talking but rotten at heart.
Oh, ideals! Oh, personality! Faith! Nobility! They make such a grand show of their banners but lack any sincere effort to substantiate them.
They have vulgar hearts yet act lofty in their debates.
Thus they lack the capacity to esteem and respect others, striving only to elevate themselves.
Unless they devise a way to eliminate these noble vulgar arguments—this superficial sort of thing—who knows what will become of Japan in the end, he said.

The phrase “noble vulgarian” was apparently Kijima’s favorite topic, and Yano too found his words intriguing. However, since Yano was preoccupied with the more immediate problem of what would become of him, he merely thought that Kijima’s points were indeed valid and did not listen with much enthusiasm. Kijima commented on Yano,

“The fact that he listens carefully to others’ opinions and does not rashly assert his own views is anything but ordinary,” he said.
“In any case, I ask that you continue to associate with me as a friend.”

Yano also said earnestly that “I too hope for this.”
Nakajima put on a serious face and declared, “Since I’ve got a woman with a fine name waiting for me, I can’t entertain grand ambitions like Mr. Kijima here.”
Kijima roared with laughter—“That’s exactly it! That’s it!”—and their discussion concluded.
After the two had left,Yano went to apologize at the neighboring room.
The law student next door proved equally engaging—

“Oh, it was quite lively—most entertaining.”
“We’re both in the same boat, so don’t worry about it.”

He was exceedingly amiable.
Yano had heard that all law students were amiable, and he thought it was indeed true.

Yano found it difficult to fall asleep after lying down.
He came to generally understand the ways of Tokyo students and felt somewhat relieved.
The thought of finally becoming the university student he had earnestly aspired to be and attending classes filled him with a pleasant feeling.
I don’t know how I’ll feel once I’ve grown accustomed to being a university student, but for now, I simply can’t bring myself to regard the title as something as trivial as an empty fart.
Even if, as Kijima says, there are few remarkable students among today’s university students, there’s no need for me to look down on my own status as one.
Even so, just barely managing to attend school in my regulation cap and uniform made me feel somehow awkward.

That's right, that's right—Mr. Ōki said, 'Medicine is your profession; literature is your life.' There’s no reason to take pride in studying for a profession; I’m still so immature after all. If I end up unable to graduate because of this illness, then literature truly will be my only life left—I absolutely must devote myself to literature. When I say literature, for me it’s poetry—Masaoka Shiki too left university midway to pursue literature. If it’s settled that I have lung disease, then I too will live as a poet—there’s no other path besides that. If I can enter a poet’s life, I don’t mind contracting lung disease. Whether I die at thirty or sixty, it’s all the same when viewed from beyond the grave.

When the sound of a child crying reached the ears and he woke up，there was the sound of someone beating dust from the shoji screens.
The world was still quiet.
Yano slept again.

III

Three or four days passed in preparing for boarding house life and getting ready to attend school.
When going out, even if he set out thinking he would get this and that, there were days when he would wander aimlessly and return without buying a single thing.
There were days when, intending to buy Spalteholz’s anatomical charts and Rauber’s anatomy textbook, he would arrive at the bookstore only to find five or six students making it too bustling; disliking going inside, he would wander the area awhile until his resolve shifted, leading him to Ueno where he’d visit the museum or zoo, idling without any particular reason.
Even so, when returning to the boarding house, he would briskly come back carrying a bundle in his hakama and haori, as if he had walked there for some necessary errand.
When the boarding house master and his wife greeted him politely, he found it slightly awkward but would pass through with an increasingly earnest demeanor.

I think doing things this way might actually be better.
Buying medical books feels like embarking on some solemn duty, and I find it unbearably tedious.
Yano had managed to spend two or three days naturally living in this manner—something he’d thought himself incapable of—and while this made him feel somewhat pleased with himself, he also felt an unnameable dissatisfaction.
But there’s nothing to be done—I’ll just do what I can, he told himself uncertainly, and with that solitary thought, he drifted off to sleep.

Nakajima and Kijima came by occasionally.
Yano also sometimes went to their place.
The two would cause quite a rowdy ruckus but also studied diligently.
Nakajima and Kijima were by no means the sort to naturally get along, but in Yano’s eyes, they threw themselves completely into whatever they set out to do, resting only when utterly spent.
Their actions were brisk and efficient, and they seemed to face no hardships at all.
No matter what Yano did, he couldn’t act with such brisk efficiency.
Listening to their talk—though they claimed hardships and worries—in Yano’s eyes their so-called suffering and concerns did not seem to come from the depths of their hearts.

Piercing something with a sharp drill certainly required considerable force, but there was no fear of it failing to penetrate.
The way Yano viewed the two was as such, but when he considered himself, he couldn’t help feeling like he was trying to pierce something with a blunt-tipped drill.
It was there that Ōki had admonished him: "You must shift your mind outward, discover interest in external matters, and try not to dwell on yourself as much as possible," he had been told.

It was a mindset of sharpening the tip rather than forcing through with a blunt drill; he understood this yet found himself unable to act accordingly—for even what seemed trivial when viewed critically from the sidelines became, when it concerned himself, a matter where his heart refused to align with his intentions.

Nakajima and Kijima simply could not understand the pain Yano felt. Thus, even when the three of them gathered, if the conversation was nothing more than idle chatter to pass the time, they could laugh together—but they could not engage in truly considerate conversation. Kijima was an exceedingly amusing man, but he was no friend to Yano. Who has time to deal with some weakling? they seemed likely to briskly abandon their friend, relying on their own sturdy legs.

It wasn’t just Kijima.
Nakajima was no different.
No—people in general were all like that.
Healthy people, those with status, the educated, the wealthy—each pursued what they wanted according to their own abilities, and no matter how much others might struggle, they paid it no mind.
For those cast out—or teetering on the edge of expulsion—from the whirlpool of social activity, unable to achieve anything as they wished and lamenting their despair, not a single soul offered sympathy.
They might put on sympathetic airs and attitudes, but not a single soul truly sympathized from the heart.
There were many people who went about declaring that life never goes as one wishes, treating social tragedies as mere amusement.

There’s no doubt that being born weak is my misfortune—but humans truly are detestable creatures.
The more I think about it, the more absurd being alive feels.
That’s why there are so many people in this world who commit suicide.
Even if you bid farewell and kill yourself—the people of this world won’t give a damn.
That’s why dying feels just as absurd.
I feel unbearably vexed by everything.

Yano, with his hands in his pockets and leaning against his desk, had been single-mindedly pursuing this line of thought when he suddenly noticed. My thoughts had drifted back to myself again. This is why I’m no good—it must be entirely because of my illness. The things I should do—I’m just too listless to approach them, and I keep getting caught up in thoughts like this. This is no good.

Whenever Yano got like this, he would immediately go to Ōki’s place.
Whenever Yano met Ōki, the tightness in his chest would melt away by half the moment they met.
Therefore, even when they met, there were no deep or harsh conversations.
As usual, with his crumpled smile, he said whatever came to mind in a disorderly fashion.
If Yano spoke even a little, Ōki would immediately comprehend and sympathize.
When comforted by Ōki in a manner akin to being embraced and warmed, his heart settled effortlessly.

“In Tokyo, how many people do you think die each day?”
“I am unhappy—it’s that single-minded belief of yours, thinking ‘I can’t do anything,’ that makes you unhappy.”
“When you’re starving and starving unbearably, a single rice ball would make you very happy.”
“If one empties oneself and approaches life, even a single day of existence in this world becomes something to be grateful for.”
“Thoughts that make yourself unhappy are not to be entertained.”

Yano, being a university student, understood this much.
Even if one understood, humans could not be so carelessly emptied of themselves.
Yano not only believed that listening to Ōki’s words was his sole path to solace when suffering, but since Ōki’s arguments—grounded in proper evidence—could not be opposed, he found himself compelled to settle his mind accordingly.

Yano felt that when push came to shove, he could cast aside all his hopes—but there was one sorrowful thing.
There were times when I could not easily empty myself.
Because of this, it was something that made me waver in resolving my own fate.
This was a secret in my heart that I had yet to confess to Ōki—needless to say, it was love.

Yano had often tried to confess to Ōki in his letters, but there had been no opportunity to do so.
Tonight, he had brought it to the tip of his tongue, but Yano, unable to speak, ultimately lost the opportunity to say it.
Moreover, even if I told Ōki about this matter alone, I felt that it was not something to be carelessly spoken of to someone who was my senior—being self-imposed anguish I had arbitrarily sought.
To speak of this lightly also felt like it would harm my own character.
I also feel ashamed, as if being thought to have no love despite being a patient.

Since he hadn't fully opened his heart of his own accord today alone couldn't claim Ōki's consolation had dispelled all clouds from his chest.
Yet even so on returning home—as ever—his heart grew sturdily cheerful carrying him back with a sense things weren't quite so disappointing after all.

Since coming to Tokyo Yano had found no respite for his mind.
Now with school preparations settled having heard Ōki speak after some interval and gained modest mental ease he abruptly began thinking of Misasuzu.
All along his homeward path he returned thinking solely of Misasuzu.
Misasuzu was daughter to a friend of Yano's father still only sixteen this year.
That Misasuzu would wed Yano upon his university graduation stood settled though none had formally declared it.
While Misasuzu's youthful heart seemed yet unclaimed by settled affection Yano loved her deeply.
Though never having spoken directly their bond stood beyond doubt.

By nature, Yano was a man of strong will and celestial poetic sensibility—not one to be swayed by superficial ambitions for fame—yet it was also true that he felt compelled to seek worldly honors for Misasuzu’s sake.
Had there been no Misasuzu, Yano might have calmly taken a year’s leave from school.
However, the fact that Yano had come to Tokyo harboring numerous anxieties was of course rooted in profound family circumstances.

IV

Yano found Tokyo’s air somehow harsh and unsettling—to his sickly self, it felt profoundly unsettling—and he feared his body would surely develop abnormalities within ten or twenty days of staying there. Yet even after over a month had passed, he felt no changes in his condition whatsoever.
Moreover, he finally grew accustomed to both his boarding house and school and came to find peace in all aspects.
The things he had been trying to grasp now somehow felt within reach.

He came to feel a remarkable interest in Tokyo student life as well.
From the state of the boarding house to the demeanor of the merchants and the atmosphere of the shops on the main street, his eyes began to linger; as his entire surroundings brightened, he finally found the leisure to turn his attention to external matters.
Compared to when he had first come there—when even after three days, he hadn’t recognized the face of the maid who came daily—he now felt like a different person.
Recently, Yano naturally regained his vigor, and Nakajima and Kijima often came to his room to talk.
He spoke several times with the law student in the neighboring room.
In any case, he became able to listen to people’s stories with interest.
He began to offer even a word of friendliness to the serving maid.
Acquaintances formed among classmates, and visits began.
Letters came from home; letters came from friends.
Letters from his mother and sister were always long.
Misasuzu also sent picture postcards.
Though there was not the slightest hint of her inner feelings, he was inexplicably delighted.
Misasuzu’s innocent demeanor, devoid of any coquettish air—like a flower blooming without a care—was unbearably delightful to Yano.
So he did not utter even the slightest improper word of his own.
In the act of silently suppressing his overflowing emotions, Yano alone felt a profound interest.
Even so, when selecting picture postcards to send to Misasuzu, he spared neither money nor time.

In this manner, Yano’s boarding house life of late was not a lonely one.
There were times when he would borrow scrolls from Ōki, arrange autumn flowers in a vase, and quietly enjoy solitude.

He had finally begun to take interest in his main field of study and came to greatly enjoy attending school due to Dr. Kanai’s engaging teaching style.
During this time, he composed many poems, and among those published in certain magazines, love poems were numerous.

In this mundane world—
unaware of its tainted ways,
I lie awake thinking of you,
whose fragrance pure sways.

Your face—bathed in heaven’s grace,
vivid even as I trace—
though transient its embrace,
etched where sun and soul interlace.

The songs were indeed charming and exceedingly delightful.
Yano’s unsullied character was well manifested.
Yet this very fragility and ephemerality—it was thought to unmistakably belong to one bearing illness, evoking profound pity.
Ōki read these songs and realized they were not imaginary; noticing that Yano had a lover, he moistened his eyes alone.
If Yano had love apart from his illness, Ōki thought, then when he met a lamentable fate, it would only deepen the tragedy further.

The two months of September and October passed quite energetically for Yano as well; as his physical strength had somewhat recovered, his inner anxieties had imperceptibly faded, and his complexion had improved considerably.
At this rate, if he could safely get through this winter, it would be certain—so others thought, and he himself thought so.
However, this proved to be a vain hope.

Taking advantage of the consecutive holidays—the Emperor’s Birthday in November followed by a Sunday—Yano went to Nikko for autumn foliage viewing with Nakajima and Kijima.
On the following Sunday, Yano composed many poems and visited Ōki.
The poems lacked the vigor of his love poems.
Ōki grumbled, “Wasn’t going to Nikko rather reckless?”
Yano answered brightly, “It’s nothing—I’m perfectly fine,” though in truth, from the day after returning, he had begun sweating profusely in his sleep.
After resting for two days while composing poetry—during which time he recovered—he promptly visited Ōki that very day.
Ōki warned that as this was a season of changing weather, he needed to take thorough care.

Then, five or six days later, after his lectures ended, Yano went to view the dissection room at the invitation of two or three classmates.
Yano was a medical student, but as this was his first time seeing a dissection, he found it somehow unsettling.
When he thought, “That must be the dissection room,” an indescribably unbearable, repulsive stench assailed him from afar.

The teacher, having perhaps finished his lecture, was now about to leave the dissection room. Expecting the dissection teacher to have a fearsome countenance, he looked and found instead a gentle, gentlemanly person. Yano entered the room last with unease.

Students wearing sterilized gowns—four or five in each of two groups—were intently observing their recent dissections while conversing. One student—perhaps still intending to dissect further—was diligently sharpening his scalpel. There were two corpses.

One was a man around thirty with a sign reading "Do not touch the head" hung upon him. They had worked beyond just the head—the entire body lay dissected. The other was a woman whose freshly dissected head had been hacked apart so violently that gender became indistinguishable. To Yano, nothing made coherent sense anymore. The stench and filth transcended mere unpleasantness. Every scene assaulted his literary sensibilities with unbearable force, sending chills through his body.

As one became accustomed, they said you ended up tearing the putrid flesh with your fingers when knives wouldn’t suffice, then scrubbed those hands clean and nonchalantly ate your lunch right there—but even for doctors, they said the beginning was quite unpleasant. Yano was all the more unsettled.

Yano thought deeply to himself.
If one does such things from the divine calling of entrusting oneself to human life，then being a physician is indeed a noble profession; but doing them for my own livelihood—he found this questionable.
It also seemed quite like a lowly profession.
However，there’s no reason why I alone cannot do what others perform with composure.
To think it’s unpleasant is my own immaturity.
No matter what，I must become a doctor.

Yano returned while thinking such thoughts.
He was uncharacteristically tired and couldn’t properly eat his meal.

On the desk were a picture postcard from Misasuzu and a sealed letter from his younger sister.
The message read: “I am grateful for the autumn leaves picture postcard. I await your return during the January break.”—this was news from Misasuzu.
It seemed lacking yet was all the more refined.
A sadness seeped into his chest with longing.
His sister’s letter was, as usual, long.
“The news from Nikko surprised the entire household—Father and Mother were overjoyed, thinking you had become so healthy, and I myself offered thanks at the shrine.”
Yano’s mood immediately sank.
He became unbearably sorrowful and lonely; recalling how he had sweated through nights for two or three days, the anxiety that he might betray people’s hopes seethed violently in his chest, and tears streamed down.
“Even if I’m this weak-willed, there’s nothing to be done,” he thought bitterly to himself, but finding no resilience within, he only grew more despondent.
Yano, overwhelmed with unbearable emotions, stood up and gazed out the window.
Beyond the window lay the roof of the neighboring house; not a glimpse of the town could be seen.
In the deep blue clear sky, the starlight appeared truly far-off and distant.
The city’s din roared as a single chaotic rumble.
Yano felt as though he had nothing to do with this blue sky, nothing to do with the city’s clamor—as though he were utterly alone here.
He even felt like quitting school tomorrow and returning home.
When he realized something was wrong, he was indeed slightly feverish.
Yano no longer had the strength to stand; he threw off the bedding and lay down fully clothed.

V

Upon receiving a letter stating [Yano] was bedridden, Ōki promptly visited him.
[Ōki] came expecting him to be bedridden only to find he had gone out and was not home.
[Ōki] entered the room and waited.
[The room] wasn’t too disheveled.
As [Ōki] waited with some relief, Yano entered laughing, not looking particularly haggard.

“What’s wrong? I came thinking you’d be in bed.”
“If you’re well enough to be out walking, that’s a relief first and foremost.”

“Well, I had a fever and was bedridden for two days.”
“I went to the doctor just now.”

“What did the doctor say?”

“It’s nothing serious. If I don’t have a fever, I can go to school.”
“It’s just that the apex of my lung is slightly affected, but ‘there’s no need to lose heart,’ he said.”

“...That’s good.”
“Well, just don’t push yourself too hard.”

The visit from his dear Ōki and the doctor’s assurance that there was no need to lose heart greatly lifted Yano’s spirits.
They went to get beef and, while talking, had a pleasant lunch together.

Yano suggested they take a walk around Ueno together, but Ōki earnestly cautioned him that he should stay in for the next two or three days to avoid catching a chill before returning home.

After that, Yano sometimes broke into night sweats.
It wasn’t so bad that he couldn’t attend school, but he felt some lingering stagnation within his body that made everything seem unbearably burdensome.
Yano began to agonize.
If I keep attending school like this, I might be able to graduate—but at the same time, my body will be ruined.
Yano began to waver as he thought this.
He sent letters to his parents and friends—and of course to Ōki—to seek advice.
In response, Ōki earnestly expended hundreds of words to admonish him.

Whether human beings are weightier or academic pursuits are weightier is a matter that goes without saying. Where is the necessity of pursuing scholarship at the expense of one’s very life? Especially scholarly pursuits undertaken professionally are an extremely minor issue when viewed from the perspective of life. Just as graduating from medical school would not particularly add luster to your character, not graduating would not damage it either. Therefore, for your individual self, studying medicine is an extremely minor issue.

Therefore, the question of whether to continue or quit it is also a minor issue.
Since it’s a minor issue, it doesn’t matter after all.
There is no need to rush to a resolution.
Take it easy and relax.
If you can do it, do it; if you dislike it, resolve to quit anytime.
Is it not foolish to expend your precious spirit for minor hopes? First belittle academics and approach them lightly—to suffer for academics is an exceedingly childish thing.
If you belittle academics, they will be handled with nonchalant ease.
There’s no need to quit abruptly, nor any need to feel compelled to continue.
In short, do not rush to conclusions; the desire to quickly decide whether to live or die is the talk of common mortals, I humbly submit.
Even if it is a lamp that will someday go out, there should be no need to blow it out, I humbly submit.
If one entrusts matters to the Tathagata’s arrangements and awaits a natural resolution, then I humbly submit that the resolve to be patient is of utmost importance.

Yano’s reply was as follows.

“I have read your letter and feel as though my heart has been opened through your words. I have been fixated solely on the most secular and superficial concerns, scarcely ever stepping back to engage in fundamental contemplation—a state I find deeply shameful. I believe that, possessing no particular talent to speak of, I have no choice but to attend school, let the years pass, graduate, and enter society—a fate this ordinary man finds sorrowful. Our scholarship is, as you say, a lamentable affair—yet being undeniably vocational training, I find it both shameful and anguishing that one cannot secure a profession without graduating from an institution. If one seeks to cultivate character or enter a spiritual life, school is unnecessary; but when it comes to securing a livelihood—or rather, satisfying worldly desires—what becomes essential is not scholarship itself but institutional credentials. In either case, it is the anguish of an ordinary man.”

As the eldest son, in my household there is little to no property to speak of, I humbly submit. My parents must have considerable expectations of me, I humbly submit. When I received a letter from my father yesterday urging me to return home, I was at first dazed, but eventually wept from grief and helplessness. In truth, were I to speak from my own personal hopes, I would delight in living with unconstrained freedom; yet when I consider my family’s circumstances, I humbly consider this too to be a desire far too selfish. On top of this, today—unlike before—I had another doctor examine me, and I humbly submit that the pleura has healed well, the appendix is unaffected, only the apex of the lung is slightly impaired, and they instructed me to recuperate. Even if I resolve to drop out in one decisive action, being told such things leaves me with lingering attachments, I humbly submit. How they must be thinking at home—they urge me to return as soon as possible, I humbly submit.

The thought that dropping out would cause my parents and siblings extreme disappointment, bring difficulties to my family’s future livelihood, and on the other hand, that my honor and the hopes accompanying it would be utterly destroyed from their very foundation—when I consider this, the pain in my chest becomes unbearable, I humbly submit.
That too is the sorrow of an ordinary person, I humbly submit.
When I read your letter, Mr. Ōki, you speak of matters even loftier than what I had in mind, and so at last my heart too has been opened, I humbly submit.
In accordance with your advice, I shall humbly endeavor to postpone the decision as much as possible.

Yano sent the letter and visited Ōki the following evening.
Yano conveyed his own thoughts to Ōki but found no satisfaction in merely having heard Ōki’s ideas through a letter.
Unless he encountered Ōki’s voice—unless it was spoken directly from Ōki’s own mouth—it would never truly penetrate his being.
Yet today he had come without any particular intention to ask or speak of anything.
Ōki was reading the Vimalakīrti Sūtra.

The conversation began with the Vimalakīrti Sūtra.

“When I told a monk about you, he told me to read the *Vimalakīrti Sūtra*, so I borrowed it and have been looking through it, but I can’t make sense of it.”

“Does it say anything about illness?”

“That’s right. If you like, take it and read it.”

“Alright.”

“That aside—how are you holding up?”

“Well, it’s not particularly bad, but not good either.”
“I’ve already entrusted my body to this illness.”
“Whether I continue my studies or not depends entirely on my condition.”
“So I’ve resolved not to dwell on it too much.”

“That might seem interesting, but it still won’t do. Even if you resolve not to think, being dominated by illness means you can’t avoid thinking.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because as long as your mind remains entangled with your illness, you can’t avoid thinking even if you try not to.”

“In reality, I’ve become unable to comprehend anything at all.”
“Everything I’d thought until now was merely superficial—thoughts that barely grazed the surface.”
“If abandoning my studies due to illness, or having all my hopes crushed by this sickness affected only me alone, I wouldn’t feel such sorrow—but when I consider my parents and siblings, helplessness overwhelms me.”

“The problem is you’re still telling lies.”
“You still cling to your life.”
“You cling to shallow hopes.”
“The lies stem from thoughts that try to hide how dearly you cling to life.”
“It’s only natural for humans to cling to life.”
“But clinging to life is futile—you must think.”
“Even speaking of family ties—if you yourself aren’t at ease, there’s no way you can put your family’s minds at ease.”
“If you think about family relations, first and foremost, devise a way to make yourself at ease.”

Being spoken to so harshly, Yano became intensely agitated.
His chest heaved and his fingertips trembled.
His eyes widened sharply.

“I too naturally wish to be at ease—yet if I follow through, peace of mind can be attained.”

Ōki finally fixed his gaze on Yano’s face.

“I too naturally wish to be at ease, but do you think peace of mind can be attained through such a simple approach?”
“Whether one attains peace of mind or not is a matter of life or death.”
“Only when there is such intense mental activity that one forgets their own existence can peace of mind be attained.”
“A peace of mind that lies dormant is of no use.”
“Think deeply, deeply on how fleeting human beings are.”
“Think deeply, deeply on how small your self is amidst the eternal heavens and earth.”
“Rushing after vulgar desires and clinging to your self—you’ll find it all starts to seem foolish.”
“You may think this sounds like analytical discussion, but beyond that I cannot comprehend.”
“I’ll leave the rest to your judgment.”

“Well, I really gave you quite a sermon there, didn’t I? The tea’s getting cold—go ahead and have some sweets.”

Yano sank into thought for a while.

“If I forget my illness, that’s fine, isn’t it?”

“That’s right. Humans find true life precisely where they forget themselves. For you, your life lies precisely where you forget that illness. Not to mention, you have literature as your very own realm.”

“I understand.”

After December drew near, Yano’s letter lay on Ōki’s desk; though his letters were always long, this one was remarkably brief.

Respectfully, I am resolved that I could cease being human at any time; yet this resolve falters at its core, leaving me troubled.
However, thanks to that, my body is in excellent condition.
Sincerely,

Ōki placed the letter before him and smiled, thinking he had grown remarkably carefree.