Pathway to Japanese Literature

One night, an unfamiliar student came to visit,

the sleeve of his coat was torn at the cuff,

a small hole revealing the striped pattern of his undergarments.

The student—“Long live satirical literature!” he shouted—
and then requested a handshake from me．
“It was dawn—
the nature of your work—
in Japan，satirical literature—”
In any case，the fact that it arose from truth—
“It is decisively our victory．”

Having said this, he fell silent.

Now, as for us—after that,

After bickering back and forth,

—Satirists are assassins in the realm of art; they must be truly refined literary technicians—the two reached this conclusion.—The Narodniki,

And once again，the student—
He waved the torn cuff of his coat sleeve.
Why this student was devoted to the antiquated Narodniki—
Why was he so devoted to these antiquated Narodniki?

There was a reason for that.

He would graduate from university next year.
His graduation thesis—

was titled 『A Socio-Historical Study of Narodniki-ism』,

It was not exactly a savory thesis topic.

Seeking material in that country—

The faculty council would not be pleased.

×

Now, let me have an idle chat with you, dear readers,

—the conventional interpretation that 'life is eternal,'
It is this interpretation I believe in—
My poetry belongs to leisurely days and months,
The shorter the poem, the purer it is—so they say.
Readers who hold such views—even if they follow other poets—

they were not readers for me,

This type of reader, when faced with Japan’s tediously long novels—even if they had the patience to read hackneyed novels—they denied the length of a poet’s poems. Readers patient with novels yet hasty toward poetry—this type of reader would surely want my poems flung aside right about here. I wanted to eat roadside grass like a donkey—I merely wished to speak at length about foolish things. The conclusion of poetry—of course, there was no such thing. A conclusion was a rope.

I do not wish to forge ropes that bind you all—do not mistake me for some poet who scorns rhythm entirely. It’s simply that I lack the courage these days to sing in rigid 7-5 measures:

"The moon hangs trapped in dung-hued clouds,
its light dripping earthward
to gild rice ears gold.
But when wind sweeps moonlight aside,
those stalks fade pale and gaunt,
standing thin as a peasant’s child."

I could accept this level of rhythm,

If readers were pleased with such ornate prose, I would write as much as they liked,

I wrote poetry while vigorously scratching my hairy shins,

Even though the author wasn’t tense,

It was absurd for readers to read tensely,

Moreover, I was even dozing off drowsily—

I was even dozing off,

In the government railway train
A tired child's body went limp,
softening into sleep—

There, the mother flusteredly shook [the child], calling out, “Here, here!”

If you, dear readers, had any love for the author—

“Hey, you—what’s wrong? Wake up,”

“And tell me the continuation of your poem—”

you would have shaken me awake,

And so I hurriedly jumped up.

I launched into continuing the story in an absurdly high-pitched voice.

By the way, the People’s Will faction

they stood atop a hill facing the peasants
“Our peasants—stand for freedom—”

When they shouted,

The peasants were busy harvesting oats.
They paused their work for a moment and looked up at the speaker.

“Gentlemen for our sake,

Stand up, stand up—even if you keep tellin’ us that, we can’t keep standin’,

We can’t be stuck bent double like this—

“’Cause we ain’t even harvestin’ what y’call oats—”

they gave a dumbstruck greeting that made no sense,

At that moment, the speaker—What a bunch of blockheads these peasants are!—

succumbed to full-blown sentimentality,

He looked up to the sky and with an exaggerated gesture said this.

“O Melancholy!
O my Russia—you melancholy being,
No matter which corner of you one goes to,
like dung clinging to a cow’s rear
melancholy clings.”

There, he muttered under his breath.

The emancipated peasants
nothing but talk about oats
Is there such a thing as their heads being filled with nothing but talk of oats?
"Stand up, stand up—" they restlessly
The intelligentsia wailed sorrowfully,
In Russia at that time, the state of the world was
Despair, as though suffocating,
had densely sealed away every bit of the earth's air,
The Narodniki became hysterical.
The writings of their theorist Mikhailovsky
despite being theories, were more entertaining than fairy tales.

While making readers roar with laughter,
they were enlightening.
By the way, Japan’s former Narodniki—
as for their criticism, how was it?
As for those Narodniki currently remaining—
they don’t have a shred of humor about them,
so devoid of it that one can scarcely believe they’re human.
They were all utterly devoid of humor.
Even tree bark has more wit than what this lot writes—
has more cleverness than their theories or novels.
Enlightenment—they don’t realize it means making people laugh,

Truth-sniffing pointed noses

Only when many had gathered did it begin

This country too had a rightful place among cultured nations.

Lords, young masters, little princes, those akin to male concubines—

Flat-faced countenance literature,

Roundabout prose spirit with an unpleasant texture,

That type of literature held sway,

And in our country there existed no necessity for Satirical Literature to emerge—
they rationalized things like that and made excuses,
jutting-jawed literature, pointed-nose literature’s

A fierce jealousy that only stifled young sprouts—
It was not literary jealousy
But one burning from social positions—
Akutagawa Ryūnosuke was truly formidable,
He caught a societal chill
And died with snot streaming down his face,
Yet regarding the remaining work of Japanese literature
He perished leaving behind a testament—

He wrote: "To persist only at the tip of one's nose—"

×

“I’m a student—”

And at that moment, the student began speaking in a formal tone,

So I interjected to stop him.

“Now, don’t go overemphasizing this ‘student’ business.”

Whether he skips pages in his textbooks,

or doesn’t skip them,

after graduation, finding employment would be equally troublesome.

If possible—without skipping pages like a student—

and while still enrolled,

it’s best not to develop bad habits like running around after established writers.

“I’ve given up on employment—
I intend to pursue Satirical Literature.
Please guide me—”
“That may be well and good—in Gogol’s novels,
the sort of characters that emerge
in our country there is no shortage of them.
There are characters, but works do not emerge.
You too, as a character, are a satirical entity,
But you—who would overwhelm your own individuality—
can you become a skilled storyteller of truth?
If you fail,
others will keep caricaturing you relentlessly,”

“You’ll end your life as a comical figure.
So if you want to become a satirist,
to avoid being outdone in satire,
you must launch vigorous attacks against others through satire,

That was quite difficult.

“Student,”

“Now then—though they can’t reach where it itches—
Don’t get so agitated.
Show me your back—I’ll scratch it for you.
If I were to scratch your back—
If that would ease your mind—
Abandon this aspiration to become a satirical writer,”

“Take up a position as a factory warehouse guard. If you truly become completely naked and gain the power to scratch your own back, then come visit me anew.”

“Even a horse rubs its back against a crossbeam.
They possess the wisdom to scratch themselves vigorously.
After all, our backs—
even if you wait a thousand years, no one will scratch them for you.”

It seemed his back had been itching so much that

It seems he came to my place.

“Student, pray lift your face a little and show me.”

His features were impressive,

A jutting chin—he fully possessed the skeletal structure of a satirist. The movements of his fingers, as if declaring they would not cease until they grasped something, were twitching beautifully.

A sharp-nosed one，a far-sighted one，
A quick-paced one，a leaping one，
You，the youth aspiring to be a satirist，
Glory be to the cruelty inherent in the skeletal structure—

×

Around the Neva River where reeds grew
There was a man who had been wandering about.
He stood there and suddenly shuddered violently.
In the guise of a wolf clad in an old morning coat
He had fastened the collar of his dirty, threadbare overcoat.
He had completely adopted the wolf’s admirable habits.
He was an intrepid man who seemed to have fully embodied them.
Tapping his stick click-clack while lost in thought...
while pondering Russia's future

While he was walking along the riverbank,

by the sound of his stick against the ground,

he discovered a hollow cavity in one spot.

"Oh! This is when my glorious fate unfolds!"
"To throw a life into this hole—"
"That suits my habits perfectly—"

He flipped aside a single stone on **the** riverbank there.
There was something that led somewhere.
A dark horizontal hole existed.
He removed **the** stone lid from **the** entrance of **the** hole.

He crawled into the ground.

×

At that moment, the Russian Kirigakure Saizō

Leading from the Neva River,
he crawled through a mysterious inner tunnel—
completely by chance, as if pre-designed by an architect
or commissioned from one—
the passage perfectly connecting to the Kremlin’s fortifications.

The secret path gradually narrowed.

When the crawling advance had ended,

here, he let out a human-like "Ugh" and

stretched to stand upright.

Here, it was time to demonstrate the strength of human will.

It became his turn to act.

The wall had no gap wider than five inches.

Working the joints of both legs with practiced skill,

when he circled around the outer corridor of the Kremlin Palace,

how insolent fate was—

this thing likely meant to bring joy—

he abruptly emerged beneath the ministers' meeting room.

He quietly climbed the stairs.

When he peeked into the meeting room,

On the large table there

Like white flowers tinged with crimson,
Small clustered flowers were arranged in a vase,
The name of those flowers was unknown,
They must have been greenhouse-grown flowers out of season,
The flowers were on the round table,
Arranged as if their behinds were perked up,
Around the windows,
Draped green,
The thick curtains looked heavy,
At that moment, the door in one corner of the meeting room was pushed open,
The ministers emerged from inside that door one by one and took their seats.

They appeared and took their seats.

So there, the Russian infiltrator
quietly descended the stairs and slipped into the basement.
And he struck his chest—Dance, heart!—
Even the wrinkles of his brain—like an accordion’s bellows—
rippled like an accordion’s bellows and made his eyes gleam.

I muttered—"Well, time to get busy"—
I had to wipe my runny nose,
I had to brush back the hair hanging over my forehead,

I took out the round iron heart from my chest,
I had to position it in a suitable spot underground,
I had to listen intently, I had to hum a little tune,
I had to think about the Russian peasants too,
I had to shed tears of joy,

I had to do everything all at once,

Oh, oh—overhead,
on Russia's current state
a grave-faced meeting.

×

Directly beneath it, his round heart was now on the verge of erupting,

He then pulled out a long detonator wire.

“Mr. Smoke-Hating Heart,

Any moment now, I’ll give you a light with a match.

I’ll let you have a puff,

Once you’ve choked enough on smoke,

Once you burst into flames,

Dear heart,”

I’ll leave you here.
I’ll start backing off now,
But don’t you worry—
You and I are connected by a conductor wire.

"You and I are connected by a conductor wire,

So there—let me make contact via the newly installed telephone,

While saying this, he took his own iron heart"

After placing it directly beneath the meeting room,
he stealthily retreated.

×

"You who came to visit me, my student,
Shall we end our discussion here—"

“Or leave it at this unresolved itch—

“If failing to make them laugh is deemed a sin,

Then I will continue the story of what happened next,

After all, I had set aside time for your visit; I had made room in my schedule.

You too, as a satirical writer—
since you seek to join those who invoke three spells—
First: critical spirit,
Second: irony,
Third: material expression—
these three incantations must soar through the winds,
must dance between gusts—
or else Japan's common people will never find joy,

×

Do not forget the three incantations.

O future satirist,

the Kremlin’s denizens,

For an escape route in case of emergency,
the horizontal tunnel they had constructed

Conversely, he infiltrated from the Neva River.

The unconventional tactician,

The more they proliferate, the brighter life becomes,

The other day, I saw a celluloid factory fire,

Boom after boom, they soared into the night sky.

The explosive laughter was beautiful.

“My student, your heart too—like that one’s heart—”

“Set it up far away,”

“Exchange secret words through the conductor wire, you see.”

When the connection was severed,

your heart—

covered in a carpet of fire—

would likely have soared up to the ceiling.

The ministers were blown to pieces,

their own hands and feet

they were apparently searching for them.

×

“Now, chant the three incantations—”

"My student,

Become my disciple—I who am Japan’s Kirigakure Saizō—"

Are you still concerned about what remains of the story?

That’s only natural,

Just then, a gorgeously bedecked—

The gold-crowned rooster, accompanied by hens,

had come to attend the meeting, but

At the door, he was startled and tripped over his own feet.

He did not enter the meeting room—
Because he had tumbled outside,
He was saved from being covered by the carpet of fire.
At that time, in the reeds of the Neva River,
A bird let out a sharp cheep.