Pathway to Japanese Literature

February 22 [Note: Showa 11 (1936)] Letter to Family Members No. 1 I had just left Moji. Because I was tired, I did not feel like writing letters. Once you grew accustomed to it, life aboard ship was comfortable, but my head became fuzzy as if right before sleep. It was warm enough that I wanted to take off my coat, but when I carelessly began writing letters in the salon, a sudden draft from the Sea of Japan came through and made me cough. I thought my cold still had not gone away. In a panic, I fled to a place free of drafts and took up my pen again.

I want you to save the letters I will send from now on. At such times, writing down my thoughts must be done through letters alone. Because there's a risk I might lose them if I keep the letters myself, I want you to number and preserve them. Though I imagine I won't write much of anything, this is because I wish to later compare the psychological transitions aboard ship, nature's transformations, and my own state of mind.

Last night, the purser told a story about a seven-year-old boy who returned alone from London to Japan longing for his grandmother. Moreover, because he himself absolutely refused to back down from his insistence on returning alone, his parents in London apparently found themselves at a loss and ended up letting him make the journey by himself. I also heard a story about some Japanese woman who had traveled around the world and, upon her ship’s arrival in Yokohama, plunged into the sea and died. If one has been circling nothing but the sea, it’s only natural that worries would arise. That is nothing at all.

At my dining table were Mr. Takaha Kyoshi and his daughter, Chief Engineer Uenohata Junichi, and myself—the four of us.

February 24

9:30 AM. Arrived in Shanghai. As I ascended the stairs of my friend Imataka's house, someone called out loudly from below. When I glanced down, there was Mr. Yamamoto Sanehiko. Since this encounter was entirely accidental, I wanted to go down and talk, but having not yet even exchanged greetings with Imataka either, I went straight up to the second floor, drank a cup of tea, then went back down to the Uchiyama Bookstore below. In the study were Mr. Lu Xun, Mr. Sanehiko, and the proprietor of Uchiyama Bookstore—three people. Mr. Lu Xun had not slept since last night due to writing a manuscript for Kaizo—his face pallid, beard thick, teeth beautifully aligned. The entire group was treated to lunch at Xinya on Nanjing Road.

Departure.

Because I was tired, I decided to put off writing about Shanghai for another day and resolved to begin my diary from Hong Kong.

The sound of waves casts upon the ceiling—a midday nap.

February 26

News of the assassination in Tokyo arrived. It was still morning. As we passed Taiwan, a group of young passengers playing deck golf had just finished a round when someone brought news of the assassination. The entire group fell silent for about two minutes, their faces darkening as they muttered, "Huh..." Then one of them said, "Come on, let's do the next round." Their faces suddenly lit up with grins, and forgetting everything, they took their clubs and began hitting balls. While watching them from nearby, I thought—such is human nature.

February 28

Cloudy.

8:00 AM. Arrived in Hong Kong. The harbor’s scenery suffices to make travel’s joy tangible reality. This area too stands already in spring rain.

Repulse Bay’s expanse of yellow flowers rippled in the wind—after circling Hong Kong Island by car, I donned a mask and strolled through the streets. The crowd was continually astonished by my mask. The children came chasing after to get a look. Even those engaged in conversation stopped talking and stood there dazedly, their mouths hanging open. By this point, as I went on observing what expressions the next person would make, each person I encountered would momentarily adopt the same look before my eyes. All the Chinese in Hong Kong were more agile and vivacious than those in Shanghai.

Spring rain—viewing the sea with beggars

While circling the island by car, the vehicle broke down, leaving us stopped in the mountains for over an hour. We got out and gazed down at the harbor until it could move again. Beneath gusts that flipped up the undersides of leaves, wave crests glittered beautifully in the passing sunlight. They finally declared the car beyond repair. At a loss, I bought mandarins from a street vendor and composed haiku while eating them standing. A car suddenly dashed through the spot and sped away. When I looked, it was Mr. Takaha Kyoshi and his daughter. Even as I tried to call out, they were already gone. With no alternative, I composed another haiku. A Chinese man hooked a dead branch in the treetop with his pole's tip and snapped it off. It was for a bonfire.

Even as dead branches fell, ships continued to ply—countless in number. Hong Kong had been established eighty years prior; its entire island’s lushly wooded mountains had apparently been bald peaks until then. The beauty of terraced architecture ascending toward the summits. They say Hong Kong’s night view ranks among the world’s four great nightscapes, but I preferred its daytime vistas.

Rampant young leaves; Kowloon’s wave crests sharpen.

As the ship advanced while swaying side to side, my head grew hazy and my brush would not move. The passages I had corrected when the ship tilted left suddenly became repulsive when it began tilting right. The mind’s peculiarity. Outside held nothing but sea. The horizon at the center of the two-shaku-high window merely rose and fell across its entire pane.

Things that had seemed interesting or impressive while I was back home gradually came to appear dull as the ship advanced. Could it be that shifting values are proportional to distance?

An American millionaire was aboard. This gentleman was leaning on the deck railing, talking with Major General Hasebe. “Since Japan won’t say a word no matter how much you take east of Baikal, you should take it quickly. Just make sure they don’t kick up a fuss,” he said.

An eight- or nine-year-old British boy proposed to me that we play golf. The deck was empty. When we began playing together, this child proved extremely strict toward others yet remarkably lenient with himself. However, when dining with his mother, he would offer her a chair.

On the morning I arrived in Hong Kong, two British reporters from the China Mail came to visit. They were both polite. After asking me various questions, they lined up in rigid postures and, bowing in unison, said "Thank you."

As long as journalists do not value courtesy, a nation's culture will never rise. The more journalists who instill fear in the populace increase, the more culture declines.

A story from aboard ship—In London, there was a British prostitute who, while continuing her trade catering exclusively to Japanese clientele, had managed to save eighty pounds. She had grown old yet remained childless. Her constant refrain was: "I have eighty pounds saved, all earned from Japanese clients. When I die, I'll leave it all to a Japanese club so they can put it to good use." She had written this declaration into her will, they said, always keeping the document on her person— This was something Mr. Yonezawa, the former consul-general in London, told me directly.

Hong Kong, 29th. Departed at 7 AM. It was cold. I had heard summer attire was customary west of here, yet I found myself wanting to wear an overcoat. Could it be that even the South Seas are changing these days?

Around here there were many islands, all resembling illustrations from the adventure tales I had read in my youth. They say pirate strongholds exist around here too, but I thought if there were so many islands of this shape, one would naturally be tempted to become a pirate.

March 1st

Until yesterday there had been those wearing overcoats, but today had grown somewhat warmer. It was around the start of the rainy season. We were off the coast of French Indochina. Since Shanghai, I had hardly seen sunlight. I marveled at how there could be so many clouds. The sea seemed vast, but the clouds were just as vast. When day after day brought nothing but endless sea, the sensation of being on a journey simply did not arise. Those who dwell endlessly upon an unchanging sea cannot feel life’s worth without adventure. It is said crews of large ships that do not sway grow dizzy more than sailors on small vessels. This is because they rarely encounter major swells.

The peach blossoms in the salon gradually scattered.

Aboard the ship, two or three days revolving solely around peach blossoms.

People often say there's no paradise on earth quite like life aboard ships bound for Marseille on the Europe route. Indeed, that may well be true. However, how utterly tedious it all was. I had become nearly friends with all the passengers and crew, yet there was something missing aboard the ship. I thought about various things, but that was what loneliness was. Human beings are crafted with boundless extravagance.

March 2nd

Clear weather; I saw the sun for the first time. The high mountains of French Indochina could be seen about four ri in the distance. Aboard the ship, they had changed into summer uniforms. We were soon to cross the equator, yet it remained surprisingly cool. I was still in transitional clothing.

When a training fleet approached near the equator, an officer handed a telescope to a subordinate soldier and said, "How about it—can you see the red line over there?" When the officer teased him, saying "That's the equator," he replied, "Yes, I can see it." There was a story that he answered in this way. I had heard that the horizon lay six ri from the ship and been told various strange things about the Strait of Malacca, but I wanted to see it soon. It was there that Sato Jiro had jumped overboard, and that ship from back then was this very ship. The ship that Chaliapin had boarded was also this very ship. The purser still had some premium vodka left that he had received from Chaliapin, and saying "This is it," he poured me a glass. When I suddenly brought it to my lips, there was a beastly odor.

Passengers on the Europe route were like students entering some school. We called those on their second trip our seniors. Regardless of age or status, first-year students listened to their seniors' opinions with the fresh enthusiasm befitting newcomers. Yet the seniors' admonishments consisted solely of selecting stories that anyone would undoubtedly find interesting. Once caught up in these tales, all vigilance vanished. Only the married passengers got themselves knocked out of the game. The stories that could not be committed to paper—how inexhaustibly they proliferated in this world, beyond all measure.

The last time I went to Shanghai was in Showa 3. It had been eight years this time, but previously, the White Russians had been mostly beggars and prostitutes. Within those eight years, they constructed an imposing town in a corner of French Town. All of that was money they obtained through their own efforts by turning their wives and children into prostitutes. The constellation Orion hung almost directly overhead. When this star reaches directly overhead, it marks having crossed the equator. Tomorrow was March 3rd - the Doll Festival. The Doll Festival with Orion pointing directly overhead.

I tried sending a telegram to Japan. Aboard the ship, as long as we did not enter port, the rate remained uniformly eighty sen wherever we were. Today a reply came stating that all was well. I wore summer clothes for the first time. I was the last passenger to change into summer clothes.

News from home reported all was well and the seasonal change of clothes.

The chief engineer of this Hakone Maru was Mr. Uenohata Junichi, whom I had occasionally seen in newspapers. This man had the support of two-thirds of all employees at the shipping company. He shared the dining table with me. His haiku name was Kansō, and he was a disciple of Mr. Kyoshi. His conversation was always mechanical, but as I listened, I began to sense the intriguing depth inherent in machinery. He had crossed to Europe twenty-six times. He occasionally explained to me the psychological shifts during the voyage from Yokohama to Marseille. Statistics showed that the fatigue from farewell parties when departing Tokyo persisted all the way to Singapore. Indeed, my body still hadn’t returned to its normal state. The peach buds grew.

The Doll Festival when the swelling peach buds went unnoticed

I thought the distance from Shanghai to Singapore was quite long, yet throughout this stretch lay mostly barbaric countries. When I considered that three times this length of uncivilized lands still stretched all the way to Marseille, I couldn't help feeling war breaking out was inevitable. Who would leave them untouched?

March 3rd

Doll Festival. A haiku gathering was held at sea. The themes were "Dolls" and "Seasonal Clothing Change." Three of my haiku were selected by Mr. Kyoshi. News from home: safety and seasonal clothing change Cam Ranh Island: pale indigo in the seasonal clothing change Seasonal clothing change: distant palms tilting

From that night onward, I caught a cold.

March 4th

At 8:00 in the morning, we arrived in Singapore. At first glance, the port's view appeared ordinary. Our expectations proved utterly mistaken, and we had no desire to go ashore into the city. However, once we disembarked, the defining characteristics of the tropics assailed our senses with sudden ferocity.

A floral assault, a symphony of fragrance. A tangle of cultures. The profusion of vegetation. Singapore residents said there hadn't been such a hot day in recent times. Today was a public holiday for the Malay New Year, they said. The indigenous people's clothing was new and multicolored. When I asked about that tree, they said it was a rain tree. Beneath the rain tree lay crimson floral garments. When I asked about that crimson flower, they answered hibiscus. A water buffalo cart entered amidst hibiscus Through street trees adorned with crimson and yellow flowers, we headed toward Johor Palace. Here, palm trees were Japan's pine trees. They said there were eighty varieties of coconut palms, each one different. As for the plants we saw in our homeland, there were only ferns. A cluster of flame-like flowers—this was called the flame tree. There were palm groves like sudden rain.

Palm trees in tumult, as if resembling rain. We visited an Islamic temple and then went to see a rubber plantation. For thirty to forty minutes at forty knots, both sides were nothing but rubber groves. As if in autumn foliage season, the rubber trees turned crimson. Suddenly, the scent of spices assailed us from within the forest. There seemed to be fragrant wood. The Shino Road where fragrance blew through the rubber grove We arrived at Shino. The rubber plantation under Mr. Okuda's management (Mr. Okuda being a friend from the ship) had its office in a solitary house amidst groves of coconut palms and rubber trees. We rested here. There was a crocodile as desiccated as a stone wall. Under blooming flowers, the guard poked it with a stick.

Above the raging crocodile, a crimson floral garland. We drank palm wine. It was wine made by cutting new buds from coconut palm crowns, from which it flowed. The taste and color resembled Calpis, but it was tepid with a pungent odor. To collect the wine, Malays would climb the crowns of large coconut palms like monkeys. When ascending the palms, the natives apparently performed ritual purification. Returning from Shino's rubber groves, we viewed the Sultan’s tomb at Johor Palace. The scent of Indian jasmine drifted at the gate. The overpowering fragrance of Cape jasmine. On the consort's tomb lay scattered only flowers of intensely potent aroma.

At the Sultan’s consort’s tomb, roses too were present. We passed through the streets of Singapore and had lunch at Tamagawa-en in the suburbs. The low tide at Kanjōn gave way to coconut palm plantations. Among the clothing of people from various nations, that of Chinese women was most beautiful. I now realized that the absence of seasonal change was as economical as classical literary style. Pampas grass bent in the squall’s swift rush—cloud peaks towered. Penang-bound flower-offering passengers—their mouths crimson.

I couldn't possibly record all the flower names. Were one to strip Singapore of its flowers, its tedium would become hell itself. Travelers from Japan's mainland appear convinced they've found life's paradise here, dazzled by nothing more than blossoms. But what could these flowers possibly compensate for among those who've long resided here? Malay reportedly means 'land of exile.' They say Singapore's Japanese community consists entirely of parental outcasts and lovelorn refugees. All know Malay culture progresses around rubber cultivation. Yet through this very progress, native suffering has grown from unexpected sources. When cultural forces intrude upon people who once sustained themselves through nature's bounty—free from concerns over clothing or shelter—they must now procure shoes, garments, hats. But with rubber prices fallen today, cultural standards can't simply decline alongside commodity values. Yet if required goods remain unchanged from times of greater prosperity, natives inevitably endure hardship. Material privation cannot help but corrode the spirit. These natives' supreme aspiration remains making pilgrimage to Mecca to obtain certification of their liberation from material craving.

For natives in uncivilized lands who needed not concern themselves with food, clothing, or shelter, obtaining proof of non-attachment was not particularly difficult. The crux lay in saving up the funds to make pilgrimage to Mecca. They would receive proof of their non-attachment with the money they had saved, return home, and end up taking pride in this non-attachment for the rest of their lives. Life was remarkably simple. Yet cultural invasion had crept in through shoes and hats. Even when they made pilgrimage to Mecca, shoes and hats would not release their hold on them. With the money required to buy one pair of British-made shoes, they could purchase Japanese-made shoes, a hat, and even clothes. That is to say, Japan had begun stimulating their material desires, resulting in the phenomenon of supporting their culture.

When the British government reformed its currency system, it was said they first always applied it in India to experiment. Because applying it to natives in uncivilized regions yielded the clearest reactions. It was said that the most outstanding economists in contemporary Britain were all those who had each served in India. In Japan, this was Manchuria. In the evening there was a haiku gathering. All twenty attendees were Mr. Kyoshi’s disciples residing in Singapore. I joined in. My haiku received twelve points and ranked fourth. Mr. Kyoshi selected the following two verses from my haiku.

The water buffalo’s cart enters—hibiscus blossoms. Above the raging crocodile, a crimson floral garland. The highest score went to Mr. Uenohata Kansō, the chief engineer. It ended at eleven o'clock. On the return trip to the ship, Mr. Yanagi Shigenori, special correspondent for the Nichi Nichi Shimbun, drove us back in his own car. Mr. Yanagi appeared slightly drunk and thus dangerous at the wheel, but being a pleasant young man, I felt compelled to entrust him with my life. The moon rose to the zenith, truly cool and refreshing; we dashed through rows of tall coconut palm trunks.

March 5

At noon, we departed Singapore. We entered the Strait of Malacca. From nine until around eleven at night, Sato Jiro’s story enlivened the salon. It was precisely the time when Sato had jumped overboard. The captain recounted the hardships of that time. It was the bellboy’s story that among the passengers, there still remained one British passenger from that time on this ship. A British ship that came afterward reportedly saw Sato Jiro’s corpse floating. I never spoke with Sato Jiro, but there were times at Shiseido when I sat at a table next to him and observed his silent presence. This too was a few days before his departure. It appeared that two boat fittings (weighing ten kan [37.5 kg]) had been wrapped around his body and were missing. The cause was unknown to anyone. They say that from this area onward through the strait’s next day’s span—dubbed the Sea of Demons—is where those who leap overboard are most numerous. The sea surface stretched smooth as a mirror. It was muggy. I stood alone at midnight at the spot where Sato Jiro had jumped overboard and peered down below. This was the only spot without a railing. It felt as though underfoot might slip into the sea at any moment. I felt dizzy. So this was it.

March 6th

Morning. Clear skies. We were finally entering the Sea of Demons. Not a single wave stirred. At that moment, a pod of dolphins appeared alongside the ship. Somersaults and flips. Leaping ones, twisting ones. They appeared one after another. Among them were also the massive bellies of sharks.

At 4 PM that same day, we entered port at Penang. This place was likely one that none of the passengers had ever considered worth noticing. Yet for me, among all the lands I had visited—Shanghai, Hong Kong, Singapore—this became the one I favored most. It must have been following an evening shower. The air stood crystalline, the town poised between tranquility and grace—the whole city a single sprawling park. Trees burgeoned in profusion, structures carried themselves with dignity, and the floral variety rivaled Singapore's. Here was a town truly deserving of its distilled elegance. Though it boasted scarcely any celebrated sights, every corner I turned revealed some new wonder to my eyes.

I didn't feel much like writing about Penang. This is how beloved places are. There's nothing to question here either. For an author to write about their own domestic affairs in a novel is akin to being punished. It was already like a phantom. Nothing is more foolish than the act of writing.

The summer clothes I wore were not worn by more than three people in Tokyo. They had been made from rough hemp sacks used for Indian cement storage, but the first to discern this were Malay money changers in Singapore. One man widened his eyes, grabbed my sleeve between his fingers, and marveled so persistently that his companions began gathering around us. Everyone stared in astonishment before bursting into cries of “Very nice!” Yet when we reached Penang, our Malay guide there suddenly shouted fresh praises at my Western-style suit—a relentless chorus of “Very nice! Very nice!” Then aboard ship, a British couple standing behind me examined my attire and exclaimed, “Oh, homespun!” The fabric had cost one yen fifty sen, with eight yen more for tailoring. Now I found myself anticipating what verdict Colombo’s Indians might deliver—this prospect added one more thread of interest to my journey.

March 7th

Clear skies. We entered the Indian Ocean for the first time. Having grown weary of the sea, even as we approached the Indian Ocean I had long wanted to see, I felt nothing. Yet my fatigue was gradually recovering. I heard about the formation of the Hirota Cabinet. The conviction that land matters should stay land matters grew steadily stronger. Everyone thought it had nothing to do with us.

When considering routes to Europe, I had wavered between going via America, passing through the Indian Ocean, or crossing Siberia—but now that I had come this way, I thought I had made a good choice.

If one circles the Indian Ocean, one gradually ascends from uncivilized lands to the summit of European culture. It amounts to traversing their long history and emerging into modernity. There exists likely no experiment more richly endowed than this in all the world. For were these Europeans making such a journey, they would have to move through history in reverse—compelling them to declare that happiness exists nowhere in Asia. In all experiments, methodology proves paramount. Europeans find themselves structurally condemned by their geographical position to methodological error. This truth stands as one of the most vital realizations I attained solely through undertaking this voyage.

We entered the Bay of Bengal. The true Sea of Demons lay upon these waters we would traverse in the coming days. Human psychology grew peculiar here; they said all those compelled to leap overboard ended up doing so. Futabatei had died here as well. It was said that during the voyage, this was where the most fights broke out among the crew. Once past this, they said they would raise cups in celebration, relieved above all to have come through safely.

In the dead of night when all had fallen asleep, I rose and went out to the deck to look. Not a soul was in sight. Drifting clouds moved at precisely the ship's speed. The moonlight shone with crystalline clarity. It is in such moments that humans become most elemental. After crossing vast seas for over two weeks, the ocean ceased appearing as ocean. It resembled nothing so much as safe, placid land. What did I trust to keep me standing on this deck? Only the engine's rumble beneath my feet. Could anything be more rudimentary? At such times every person turns philosopher. Waves, moon, clouds—suddenly I recalled faces at Hasegawa's desk corner, people prodding oden. Were I to materialize before those friends now, they'd likely murmur in confusion: "Did such a man ever exist?" Whether returning or proceeding, I now stood precisely midway. If all outcomes prove equal, those inclined must inevitably think of casting themselves into this sea. The sea's uncanniness brims with illusions inverse to land's mysteries. Maritime reason amounts merely to unstable constructs built from terrestrial logic. What remains are boundless truths like formless clouds. To touch them would make death's resolution effortless. Truly this realm sustains an unbroken sequence of wondrous trances.

It was the very essence of an unfulfilled dream. My entire body was enveloped in nothing but something like incomprehensible sighs.

The sensation assailing us from the open sea would occasionally criticize that terrestrial reason—like the scant luggage we had brought along. Here it wasn’t reason criticizing sensation. The relationship was inverted. To have such visions thrust before one’s eyes day after day—anyone would begin to verge on madness. Those who came accompanied by wives or friends seemed to be dragging their homeland along with them; I doubted they could comprehend this feeling of mine.

"It is because they are precise that they become madmen," Nietzsche states in Ecce Homo. However, I think it is because I am somewhat simple that I become a madman. Is it what is complex that becomes madmen, or what is simple? When it comes to braking mechanisms, the more excellent the machine, the more numerous they are. I was now clearly aware of my own consciousness. I likely didn’t differ much from people on land in this regard, but then again—perhaps it was no different from a drunkard believing himself precise. However, when I thought about those people on land fighting day after day in newspapers and magazines, even that didn’t seem like the work of sanity. There was indeed something mad about them.

Unless you leave home, your criticism of it isn't justified. Unless you break free from land, your criticism of terrestrial matters can never be justified. When it comes to this, those remaining on land may indeed be more justified in their critique of maritime psychology.

A new fruit appeared: mangosteen. The taste of a pomegranate drizzled with milk. I suddenly found my mind brushing against a thought I’d never before considered—that people’s worldviews had been exclusively terrestrial ones. Moreover, no one knew whether the causes of human conflict assailed us from maritime or terrestrial psychology. Maritime nations have always emerged as the world’s most powerful countries. This must have been caused by maritime passion that terrestrial reason could not control. The sea and land were skillfully created by God as if to dazzle people’s eyes.

When I woke in the morning, even the passengers who had exchanged greetings gradually grew silent and sullen.

The foreign single men and women had become utterly chaotic. One of them suddenly shot a suspicious glance in passing. Then, as early as that night, the two of them were walking arm in arm through the deck's darkness. The Japanese followed behind while keeping tally. Island mentality means one cannot help being preoccupied with others' affairs.

March 8th

Clear. Due to days of sweltering heat compounded by eating tempura, my stomach ached. I felt unwell all day. It was the Sea of Demons. This area was also the most tedious. Dreadful weariness.

March 9th This morning my stomach felt slightly better, but after drinking a cup of coffee brought at dawn, I immediately grew ill again. With this condition, I don't think I can remain long in France. I might return within two or three months. The heat difference between the ship's port and starboard rooms proved extraordinary. The swelter in my port-side cabin defied description. At night I found sleep impossible.

At 4 PM there was the Third Ocean Haiku Gathering. Due to my stomach pain I couldn't compose a good verse and abandoned it. One of my verses was selected by Mr Kyoshi. Kyoto-like Penang lies directly beneath the moon— The verse I prefer is this one on the left. After rain clears—breadfruit trees in summer grove

March 10th

We were supposed to arrive in Colombo at 2 PM today. At last, my stomach recovered. We safely passed through the Sea of Demons. They said the Red Sea’s heat couldn’t get any worse, but I wished they’d show some moderation already. Even going to Europe entailed such hardships. Moreover, we still had to travel twice this distance. I thought about going to look at the third-class cabins, but if I ended up sympathizing with those passengers, that would be problematic now. I wanted to remain in carefree bliss as much as possible.

However, there were fifty or sixty Indian deck passengers who might be termed fourth class. They were said to have plenty of money, but cooked for themselves on deck and lived under canvas tents. The object of envy across all classes was this. Ceylon Island ran alongside the ship. We were soon to reach Colombo. At first glance, India resembled the edge of Kyushu. The Indian deck passengers looked delighted as they changed into beautiful garments. They would disembark here and return to the homeland they had long yearned for.

March 10th

At 4 PM, we arrived in Colombo. By the time we reached this point, the palm trees were no longer a novelty. It was like looking at a Japanese thicket. The flowers that bloomed in the town were far surpassed in beauty by those of Singapore and Penang. Just when I thought there might be elephants plodding about, there wasn't a single one to be seen. The rain kept starting and stopping, so they did nothing but take off and put on their car hoods. I wished a squall would come, but it didn't come either. Even when I wanted to buy cigarettes, they were astonishingly expensive here. Even peeking into shops hoping to find jewels yielded nothing but counterfeits. The town was cramped and poor, the merchants looked crafty, and everything grated on the nerves. When prices ran high, things must come to this. Could tariffs truly exert such influence on human psychology? If that were so, then Britain must have considered it. It likely hadn't been like this before.

The land withered, young leaves fade yet flourish.

However, I witnessed a sublime spectacle. As darkness settled over the arborous town and gas lamps began flickering to life, a dreamlike radiance suddenly blazed across the heavens. What a magnificent sunset glow this proved to be—the depictions of Amida Buddha’s Pure Land were no mere fantasy after all. Vermilion, violet, and gold whirled riotously through the firmament. Trees, human complexions, dwellings and manors alike gleamed resplendently until, while I stood transfixed, nightfall descended. Truly this earth contains manifold wonders. No moment spared to behold the Pure Land in dusk's glow

Just as British Lancashire had aimed to push their goods into India, Japanese products cascaded down like a waterfall. The customs authorities stemmed this flow. The natives opposed this. However, amidst this turmoil, India’s own machinery developed, and their domestic products rapidly swelled. Thus Britain’s plans became increasingly complicated. New problems that no one could comprehend were emerging one after another. In such circumstances, being clever proved utterly useless. When it became impossible to tell which country was which,

“Push through. “There’s no choice but to press forward with single-minded determination.”

Such were the arguments made.

What in the world is this "pressing forward"? I now find thinking about such things more fascinating than anything else. Britain has now come to suffer from its own cleverness.

In Colombo, my summer clothes were immediately seen through. The Indians kept muttering among themselves as they looked at my clothes, until suddenly one man grabbed my garment. He seemed to inform everyone that it was indeed as they suspected. As the whole group smirked at me, one kept saying something insistently. His expression suggested, "That's probably the sack they use here for the worst things." Yet when I walked, those following behind to touch my clothes only grew in number. If that sack could become Western clothes, India would have no troubles at all, they seemed to imply. I might as well have been walking while hurling bombs. If this Indian cement-sack garment of mine could truly become proper Western attire, then Lancashire textiles and Japanese spinning mills might indeed become irrelevant. Tariffs are nothing but a farce.

March 11th - At noon, we set sail from Colombo.

The sea in this entire area was a beautiful navy blue. The waves were smooth as if their crests had been planed away.

The Indian Ocean's feathers remain still; birds take flight.

Beneath the direct sun, neither wind nor waves seemed to stir here. People's minds appeared to follow this stillness. Their large black eyes - forged through battles with fierce light - had ultimately yielded to nature, now glinting like nature's own eyes. It was precisely through such eyes that nihilistic philosophies like "form is emptiness" must have been born. Japan had long imitated this worldview. What we gained was nothingness. Though this breeds treating life as lightly as goose down, how strange a path Japan has taken compared to Indians' fierce devotion to nature!

March 12th

In the tropics devoid of seasonal changes, and in foreign lands where Japan's seasonal sentiments and words hold no sway—the confusion and contradictions of composing haiku... There seemed to be various theories about this. I thought that haiku without seasonal sentiment and seasonal words could not be haiku. Yet having come to the tropics, there was no need now to distort real impressions by forcibly cramming in seasonal words and sentiments. When understanding faltered, theories were better left aside after catching one's breath—there lay an intriguing potential in where they might develop. Knowing when theories should be made to conform to reality became crucial in all matters.

March 13th

Clear. The passengers grew increasingly close. There were scientists, military men, consuls, company presidents, executives, officials, economists, and judges—people of these varied professions—who gathered like a family, discarded class distinctions, forgot age differences, and lived together while sharing their innermost thoughts. Such a beautiful and beneficial way of living would likely be impossible on land. I realized for the first time that this must be why people say life’s paradise exists aboard Europe-bound ships. They stretched a screen between the masts and enjoyed photographs.

The harvest moon hung above the cinema screen. Children will be children. The Japanese, British, and French passengers, though their three languages remained mutually unintelligible, each babbled about whatever they pleased and played together from morning onward. Watching them, I never witnessed any confusion. They managed to play without quarreling. If such a natural order existed in children's world, perhaps a day might come when wars ceased.

March 14th

Clear.

In the middle of the Arabian Sea. The fourth maritime haiku gathering took place. The haiku had gradually grown worse. They say once you learned the conventional forms, your skills grew worse. Yesterday, at two thousand meters in the sea, a coral island had jutted into view. It was called Minikoi Island. The trees grew thickly across the entire surface, and white gulls flocked. The island thrives—bell-like gulls, white coral.

There was a lighthouse. The lives of lighthouse keepers in the open sea had once endowed us with dreamlike imaginative power, but we had long forgotten such notions. This thought felt somehow nostalgic, like discovering old garments brought out from storage for midsummer airing. I meddled with various reflections, but it seemed wiser to leave them gently preserved as they were in the past. Thoughts that might pass without incident are best left undisturbed. Once I reach Paris, these thoughts of mine will surely find no peaceful resolution.

March 15th

Clear. Each day, they had been setting the clocks back by twenty to fifty minutes. By today, my watch must have fallen about five hours behind Japan’s time.

That day, the sea raged most violently. Waves occasionally swept onto the deck. Without such occurrences, the voyage grew uninteresting. Because winds blowing from Africa and Arabia clashed, the waves formed triangular peaks that thrust upward. The potted pine of Atami stands bathed in waves My appetite remained hearty, but stiffness came over my legs. However, my mind was gradually returning to realistic thoughts. When I looked back on our passage through the Strait of Malacca, it became clear that at that time, the passengers’ minds had similarly turned romantic. Human psychology—no matter how certain one believes oneself to be—always harbors some flaw.

March 16th

Clear. A little past nine in the morning, a corner of Somaliland at Africa’s eastern edge appeared to the left. At first it resembled clouds, then snow-capped mountains, then transformed into a rocky mass devoid of trees. It was quintessentially African. On the cliff above stood a solitary lighthouse. This magnificent spectacle continued uninterrupted along the port side from nine until twelve. Yet even those who had gasped in awe upon first seeing it did not truly observe it in full. They immediately started playing shogi. After all, politics was more interesting. Still, not one of them mentioned the war in Ethiopia raging beyond those mountains.

A young man who appeared to be a stoker, covered in oil, came up from the engine room below. Pointing at Somaliland, one of the passengers asked, “What is that island called?” “We always pass through here,” he said, “but somehow we don’t know. If you ask the higher-ups, they’ll know.” Africa unknown—the stoker murmurs in a low voice

From nine to ten at night, I climbed to the topmost bridge and searched for stars invisible from Japan. The Southern Cross, opposite the Big Dipper, still hovered just barely above the horizon. As time passed, the horizon spread these celestial constellations out to the left as it turned. The stars glistened as if about to drip. When I gazed up at the sky for half an hour, a primordial melancholy and freshness seeped into my being. When I suddenly looked down, I found myself leaning my elbows on the faintly lit compass. The tip of the compass needle pointing true west advanced while swaying with the waves by about five minutes at times. At that moment in the heavens, the handle of the Southern Cross—sharply pointing toward Antarctica—rose from the left horizon. That humans acquired the image of the Earth being round is an astonishing fact, but we dwell in an insensitive age that feels no particular wonder. Even more foolish than that, I have come to find it astonishing that all the waters of this vast sea are wholly salty. The phenomenon of this abundant water being filled with salt—there must be a reason for this.

Arabian waves—salty their final fate. I hear that warships have machines to extract fresh water from seawater, but drinking this water gives everyone diarrhea, and giving it to plants causes them to wither. That’s why only humans endure diarrhea to drink this water, while they give fresh water to plants, I hear. Gentle and beautiful. Upon hearing this story, I found myself trusting the navy more than any other account.

March 17th

Clear.

Today was my birthday. We were supposed to arrive at Aden at 1:00 PM that day. Having written this far, I suddenly looked out the window to find Aden coming into view. It was a towering and jagged pale brown rocky mountain. There was not a single tree. Somehow, the colors of the sky and rocks seemed to hold Muhammad’s presence. It felt as though I were lost in a wine-hued dream.

Arrived in Aden. A massive rock with copperplate-colored horizontal wrinkles was Aden itself. Between steep peaks and strange crags, I could see burnt and crumbling ancient castle walls. I disembarked.

The land appeared utterly barren. Within the fortress walls lay but a single well—dug fifteen hundred shaku deep before finally striking water. There was no way for plants to grow.

By the well, a native broke off a white flower and gave it to me.

“Jasmine,” he said. When I smelled it, I realized it was indeed jasmine. Being recently planted things, they must have been the rarest of spectacles to the Arabian natives. In my home’s spring—flowers I suddenly recall also exist There was a hut-like museum. Excavated artifacts and fossils dating back to 2000 B.C.E. were arranged here. This land had been a vital thoroughfare to Africa and the tip of Arabia rounding toward India; there must have been fierce struggles over it since ancient times. The nostalgia of Arabic letters remaining on stone.

When I passed through the rocky mountains, desert stretched beyond. In the far distance, I could see an oasis. Caravan encampments from the barter era lay in the desert. Along the path ahead, I saw what appeared to be roofs of white tents stretching out—thinking it might be a caravan lodging—but found instead an expanse of salt mountains. A large windmill spun on the salt. The wind was fierce. I had heard the people here were treacherous. As we had to rush our time ashore before the ship's departure, it felt as though we were merely scurrying about sniffing the scent of caravan camels. It was hot.

Salt mountains sleeping in the caravan’s gale— A land where even plants can scarcely take root—without water, with scorching heat and hot winds raging—is precisely where certain races must make their home. The majestic elements were the rocky peaks, the sky, the sun, and the fortress. Moreover, they stood supremely magnificent—their beauty surpassing any comparison with the race dwelling there. At this point, humans could no longer make use of this nature. They could only await their own decline.

Scorched rocks—a fortress stealing life.

Under the evening sky, Aden departed. The ruby-colored mountains seemed to dissolve and flow away into wine.

I suddenly realized—travel, I thought, meant comparing each destination's nature and people. That alone drove the experience. Yet here in the distant Red Sea's heart, when they forced me to hear Tokyo Ondo and Nagauta records, I felt my neck constricting—this was my punishment, I realized, my exile by some unseen hand. No joy remained anywhere. That clever phrase "Western voyage" masked the truth—it was but a prisoner's work song. Yet who could endure this silk-floss strangulation without self-aggrandizement? Even our urge to say "Over there..." merely voiced our pain.

March 18.

Right now in the heart of Tokyo, those people so utterly bored they don’t know what to do with themselves—I can’t help but think they might as well be dying a peaceful death. Those who lose understanding of their own actions and sink into excessive self-consciousness are no different from the most vulgar barbarians. One cannot bow one’s head unless beholding the colossal sun and boundless blue sky.

If I had been one of Columbus’s sailors, I would have thrown him into the sea.

March 19.

Clear.

The foreigners all looked delighted as their homelands drew near. The Japanese passengers, realizing they had no time left to indulge themselves except perhaps here on the ship, were finally beginning to act on it. The signs of neurasthenia seemed to begin manifesting around this point. The people accompanied by their wives were all in good spirits. The young officials said that being sent abroad was a trial they had resigned themselves to. Someone was apparently given a warning by their superiors that while going abroad was all well and good, upon returning home they would come to appreciate their wives more and treat them with greater care—so they should be cautious of this, as it would lead to neglecting their official duties.

Though we spent each day merely amusing ourselves like this—since through this very idleness the ship progressed—well then, one might say we were working after all, said a certain executive passenger. There was also a passenger who declared: "Humans are born on Earth for a reason—how can they speak of it without even making a single circuit?" However, there were those who suddenly started saying: 'Just where exactly is this Arabia country anyway?' No one could say anything about this. A passenger who had roamed the world working in cotton cloth trade muttered, "Ah, the world already turns through Jews, Indians, and Chinese. No one can match this," he concluded dismissively. Since everyone kept saying Norway was good, I went to see it—but they could stand to cut the salaries of officials stationed there. There were also those who claimed it was truly a fine place. When someone goes to Turkey, travelers there can’t even use their own money—in other words, they say you’re not allowed to take out more than five pounds.

Since it was called Europe, they had gone expecting something grand—but found it so small, so small. There were also those who said that with something like that, it was only natural the Orient became a problem. Among those who had spent long years abroad, there were also some who looked down on Europeans from the start. The reason they gave was that they were unintelligent.

March 20.

Clear.

The Red Sea ends today. Tomorrow we visit the pyramids.

We passed the Haruna Maru returning to Japan from Europe. The ship was exactly the same as this Hakone Maru. (The captain said:) A banner hung with large characters praying for a safe voyage. Both ships gradually drew closer. Each of the passengers held a flag in their hand and waved it. They were enthusiastically calling out to each other at the long-awaited sight of a Japanese ship when suddenly, someone beside me shouted toward the other vessel: “Hang in there!” Then, a frantic voice called back, “It’s no use!” In the blink of an eye, the ship moved away. Now came evening preparations again. After that, I slept again. I looked for the Haruna Maru’s whereabouts, but neither shadow nor form could be seen.

The Red Sea—merely a name in the summer sky.

March 21.

Clear.

Each day, I did nothing but lose track of the date. Even when I asked others, “What’s the date today?” they mostly just replied with a vague “Well…” Days were invisible to the eye, and at sea, I could not grasp where to fix them in memory. Moreover, the ship progressed.

We approached Suez. To the right came Mount Sinai into view; to the left appeared Egypt. As we passed through this area, my head filled with the scent of the Bible. Treeless, milky-brown mountains stretched endlessly along both shores of dawn—that was all.

Would that Moses had come—the morning star falls The toll for passing through Suez is fifty thousand yen per ship, one-way. The entire fares of all passengers are—in other words—completely consumed by this single toll. Even here alone exists a mountain of problems.

When I tried to write about even slightly detailed matters, my head began aching and I couldn’t manage it. The fact that considerable disorder had set in became clear when I took up the pen.

March 21.

3:00 PM. Arrived at Suez. Here we disembarked mid-voyage to go see the pyramids in Cairo. A group of fourteen or fifteen people. We sped through about a hundred miles of desert by automobile. The road was better maintained than those in Keihin. We maintained a speed of fifty to sixty miles. At this speed, even a single pebble would have flipped the car over. A treeless, desolate pale-brown desert—such a boundless vista could hardly be called a landscape anymore. A bright red sunset hung directly ahead. There is a song that says the sun sets in the desert, but the sun could do nothing but set there. We charged toward the sun as if to impale it with a spear. To eyes that had seen nothing but sea, the desert provided a kind of excitement, but this time there was simply too much desert. At first I remained astonished. However, I gradually realized all excitement had vanished and that fatigue was skillfully rescuing me.

The desert, roundly sucking down the sun.

However, when night had fully fallen, there suddenly appeared at the edge of the desert a great metropolis beyond all imagination. That was Cairo. How on earth could such a modern metropolis be necessary and sustained amidst nothing but sand? There's a limit to how bold one can be. ――That initial doubt of mine remained. I had heard about the fertility of the Nile Delta. Yet even so, it stayed mysterious. Whether as a distribution hub for goods, as a national capital, or as the world's oldest site of human activity―the questions persisted. It must be that travelers came to this land in numbers far exceeding anything we could imagine.

Both the exorbitant prices and their ingenious methods of fudging accounts exceeded anything we could have imagined. A cup of black tea cost as much as eighty-five sen. Five small mandarins cost one yen and fifty sen. A single match cost six sen. The travel expense for driving one hundred ri by automobile from Suez, staying overnight, and returning the next day to the ship waiting for us at Port Said came to over one hundred yen per person. Yet despite such an expensive excursion, there was indeed something about having come to this Cairo that left no regret—it must have been this very quality that lay at the root of why this place grew into a great metropolis. Though this was Egypt, when we offered Egyptian currency to purchase goods, they refused to sell. When the hotel maid secretly inquired about our group's travel cost per person and we replied six pounds five shillings, she exclaimed in surprise that with six pounds it was their custom to go from Cairo to Paris and return—so everything must follow this pattern.

We saw the Pyramids, the Sphinx, and countless ancient excavated artifacts in the museum. However, I found myself feeling little interest in these things. The abundant artifacts strewn about were all from five or six thousand years ago. When things reached such temporal remove, our perceptions became ineffectual, serving only to diminish our interest. What intrigued me more was how the British earl who excavated Tutankhamun had gone mad and died immediately afterward. In this land, there had long circulated a legend that those who unearthed kings' tombs would succumb to madness and death. The ancient kings, in their excessive reverence for tombs, might well have installed some mechanism involving unique ancient chemicals to ensure such ends. That science could not prove this might be called modernity's defeat—yet I could not deny there might be something to it. If one were to ask why, then witnessing these ancient civilizations firsthand made undeniably clear that here existed an entirely different order of abundant knowledge—fundamentally distinct from the core principles governing our modern culture. In other words, the very nature of their laws differed. The most striking realization upon coming here was how we moderns proved to possess unexpectedly simplistic minds.

The modern Egyptian king's vanity—he who lives perpetually gazing up at pyramids looming overhead—must surely lie in his desire to compete for glory with the ancient kings. This king’s dream must surely be that he cannot help but adorn Cairo so excessively. This must be the agony of the modern king—ceaselessly despised by the pyramids whether waking or sleeping.

The Sphinx of the king's dream, of ancient dreams.

March 24.

Clear. The Greek island of Crete stretched long to the right. We had entered the Mediterranean two days prior. We had switched back into winter clothes from summer ones. There was snow on the peaks of Crete’s mountains. The shelf-like stretch of clouds somehow resembled Japan’s spring scenery. Countless battles must have been fought in this area. Beholding Crete’s snow yet making no seasonal change of attire.

I had thought that upon entering the Mediterranean, we would surely feel a certain excitement. However, no particular emotion arose. The sea was simply the sea. In truth, I desperately wished to lose myself in boyish fantasies here, but Egypt's exhaustion still clung relentlessly. Looking at the map, I could only think of it as nothing more than the Mediterranean. If Marseille had appeared before the Red Sea, how delighted I would have felt. What a waste that was. If one cannot feel joy when desiring to feel it, then joy itself serves no purpose. It resembled a lover arriving too late.

When we entered the Mediterranean, the passengers' psychology grew increasingly complex no matter how they tried to conceal it. From around this point onward, those who had been proficient in English—once welcomed like kites pulled by eager hands—now found those skilled in French beginning to gain respect. The French language that had diminished now began to swell strangely large. The contest between English and French within people’s minds was itself akin to the Mediterranean. Yet strangely enough—though we had not noticed it at all until now—from deep within our hearts there began abruptly welling up a gut defiance that sneered, "Hmph! What's so special about your Mediterranean?" This was something that seeped out like a draft through cracks no matter how much you suppressed it again and again.

Once such psychology began squirming within, a travelogue could no longer be safely written. I would probably have to continue waging countless futile struggles from now on. What a nuisance.

March 25.

Cloudy.

For the first time, I saw the urban landscape of Europe. Approaching Italy's tip at the Strait of Messina—to the left bank lay Messina on Sicily, to the right Reggio—the distance between them akin to that between Moji and Shimonoseki. The strait had swirling whirlpools—a terrible rapid. We wore overcoats while crossing the strait, but once we had crossed, it grew warm again. Just two or three days ago they had kept complaining how hot it was even in summer clothes, when suddenly the electric fans stopped, and from today steam heat flowed through the rooms.

The city of Reggio resembled Atami. It served as a naval base yet carried an air reminiscent of Saint Francis. Terraces with olive groves, red roofs, a riverbed of pure white sand. Mt. Etna should have been visible next to Messina on the right, yet it remained hidden within the clouds. At nine o'clock in the evening, Stromboli's erupting volcano was visible five miles out at sea. Occasionally erupting fire flared up brightly at the summit. Like Sakurajima, the entire island was a Fuji-shaped volcano. It was a pity this ship did not call at Naples. In two more days we would arrive in Marseille, so everyone was busy, occupied solely with preparations for disembarkation.

March 26.

Clear. Dusk. To the right lay Corsica; to the left, Sardinia. The distance between the two islands seemed nonexistent. The ship cut through this space and advanced. The sun set over Corsica. Sardinia—resembling a chain of Myōgi Mountains—had rough waves. In this strait between the island where Garibaldi was born and the island where Napoleon was born, the sunset was something like a garnish for sashimi.

March 27.

Marseille came into view—pine-hued trees clung like moss to ash-white land. The limestone geology, eroded by wind and waves, assumed an untamed aspect. At customs immediately after landing, the oldest among us passengers was made to pay duty alone. Only his luggage was mercilessly ransacked from bottom to top. Then they spoke these words.

“Since you appear to be the eldest here, we have thoroughly inspected your luggage on everyone’s behalf—please do not take offense. You will be crossing various borders hereafter, so you must not carry this many unnecessary souvenirs. We ask that you alone resign yourself to paying the duty.”

After saying this, it was my turn next, but they looked at almost nothing. The others were treated similarly. We saw the French people's initial display of freedom.

I wandered through the streets of Marseille. The street trees were all uniformly massive. The houses were aged and ash-white.

I ascended to the summit of Notre Dame. My legs had stiffened; one of them wouldn't move. Once again I toured the city by automobile. Yet strangely, not a single person in the Marseille crowd was laughing. Finding this truly peculiar, I asked my companions to alert me if they spotted anyone laughing. It was nearly five in the afternoon—the streets overflowed with a shuffling crowd, everyone exhausted, pallid, sunken, and sullen. The evening sun shone upon them. So this was Europe. —This proved far more hellish than I had imagined. The rise of colonies overturning their homelands had become modernity's great undeniable fact.

March 28.

Clear. Departure from Marseille.

To Paris.

As the train advanced, the countryside unfolded before me. I strove to maintain nothing but a dispassionate gaze. Yet it was inexplicably beautiful. The tender buds of peach and apricot trees burst open all at once in spring. Gently sloping meadows cascaded downward. Elegant farmhouses dotted the landscape. The Rhône’s gentle flow lay enveloped in apricot blossoms—even as I gazed upon this entrancing scenery, I suddenly realized I was still contemplating the rise of colonies.

Six o'clock at dusk.

Arrived in Paris.

April 4th.

Rain. It had already been a week since arriving in Paris. I had seen all there was worth seeing. Yet I found no urge to write of matters here. I want to return soon. This place isn’t fit for human habitation. Some even compete to prolong their stays—a foolish endeavor. Concerning Paris, various people have said and written all manner of things. Yet none speak of how their own faces have altered; none even know.

April 6th

Clear. It was the first clear day since arriving in Paris. However, within my mind, whirlpools continued to swirl, collided, collapsed, entwined with one another, and ceaselessly transformed. When I returned alone to my room, the scene that came to mind late at night was the Arabian desert I had passed through. That human capital was money—this simple fact I only grasped now that I’d come to Paris. We could not so easily regard capital as money. The pinnacle of culture was something supremely transparent. Insight and such troublesome things were unnecessary and economically unprofitable. Here, everything appeared transparent through and through. In houses made of glass like these, everyone would be at a loss over where to place the human heart. Morality too must have been something far removed from what we had imagined.

The very notion of first freedom differed fundamentally from what we had conceived. Within an endlessly freeform structure, the smooth application of strict regulations passed as liberty. Yet even at these impeccably ordered tables where ladies and gentlemen wielded forks with unassailable elegance mid-meal, they would abruptly seize bread barehanded. Bread alone remained excepted. This peculiar mindfulness still sustained European culture. Or perhaps they had forgotten even this vestige. But had Japan not long since resolved such contradictions in some bygone era unknown to us?

Everyone was preoccupied with the question of when war with Germany would break out. Moreover, in this next war, even what we proudly called tradition would be blown away. The preparations of thinkers were not made in any country. One could still maintain ideologies while despising colonies. It was like a dream. I came to see ideologies as strange fortresses—these systems preserving their aesthetic integrity within human minds, arbitrarily maintaining their beauty amidst the interstices of our collective dreams. How excessively profound were the efforts humankind had made!

Letter 1

A week had already passed since arriving in Paris. Now, for the first time, I took up my pen. During those initial two or three days after arrival, I had been thrown into dizzying disorientation by the cultural differences, but by now I had already grown weary of it.

It was time to prepare for my return. The day was rainy and cold. I wrote this letter at Café Dôme near my lodgings—a nest for foreign artists—where across the table sat the very woman said to have made Mr. Fujita Tsuguharu famous, engaged in ceaseless chatter with someone. A woman with a fearsome countenance. Yet the pattern of her jacket resembled Japanese Noh costumes in its beauty. When I complimented the design of her clothes, she informed me there existed only one shop in Paris's Saint-Germain that sold this fabric—an ancient cloth merchant—and gave me its address. This shop, however, could not be entered without an introduction. This grandmother came daily to Dôme to converse, her face declaring she had grown thoroughly weary of men. Yet when she saw Japanese people, she looked wistful.

I had already seen everything worth seeing throughout this entire week, so I felt no desire to visit anywhere else. Why had I not encountered a single man truly worth admiring? Even if I inquired about the children’s health, there would be no guarantee of receiving an immediate reply; since I would refrain from asking henceforth, you must take care of yourself.

The horse chestnut blossoms had not yet bloomed. There were a few things I wanted to buy, but I would get them little by little in time. While the city still appeared beautiful, I did not want to do much shopping. Every part of the city looked like a painting. I thought painters must multiply like lice. However, even I quickly grew weary of such things.

For some reason, when I am in Paris, I find myself desperately wanting to visit hot springs in the Japanese countryside. Tokyo holds little appeal.

Letter 2

Unless one sent letters to Japan on Monday or Thursday, this place served no purpose. Letters arriving from Japan followed precisely the same rule. Letters did not arrive except on Mondays or Thursdays. There seemed to be daily reports of rain, but yesterday and today were nothing but rain.

(April 22nd) As I watched what I thought were horse chestnut blossoms falling today—to my surprise—it was snow. Moreover, with all taxis on strike, the city was quiet. I saw paintings by Picasso and Matisse, but none seemed to sell, and art dealers were rapidly going out of business. However, Picasso’s paintings were far better than seeing them in photographs. Lately when I walked through the city, things had finally started coming into focus; even the shadows of people walking caught my eye, and I had become able to sketch. What troubled me most was the food. The moment I felt hungry and picked up my fork, my appetite already vanished. If I didn’t eat right away, I grew hungry again. It was precarious in a way that I couldn’t sustain myself on coffee alone.

When I woke up in the morning and thought about where to go after rising, there was nowhere special to go, so I felt listless. I recalled how you would wonder every day what feast to prepare for lunch. How unpleasant—how truly unpleasant it must have been—I found myself sympathizing there.

Although Japanese people from various places invite me out, dining with strangers feels like having a plaster stuck to my body—my limbs don’t move so freely.

The cherry blossoms in Japan must have already scattered.

Bound for Hungary

The great strike in Paris was the first such event since the city’s founding. This strike had rapidly escalated from the time when the horse chestnut blossoms scattered, acacia flowers floated adrift in the rain, and began accumulating on the cobblestone streets. In the mornings, upon waking and keeping my head on the pillow while drowsily wondering what sound would reach me first, the cries of "Front Populaire (Popular Front)" would always be the first thing heard each day.

Even when walking along the boulevard, foreigners from various countries could not shop; they could only wander about peering into display windows with their iron latticework lowered. Those not participating in the strike had dwindled to only temples and police officers.

When the strikes had reached their lull and shop shutters began to open in mid-June, I departed Paris alone. From Alsace I entered Munich in Germany, extended my journey through Tyrol to Vienna and Budapest, and when I arrived at the hotel on the banks of the Danube River, the Hungarian plains were a crimson blaze of hollyhocks in full bloom.

In Europe,the cities said to be most beautiful were Paris and Budapest.Budapest,the capital of Hungary,bore beauty in its cityscape,nature,and people.Moreover,a half-ri stretch along its riverbanks—some two kilometers—held one hundred twenty natural hot springs gushing scalding water.This landlocked country generated mechanical waves within its thermal baths,crowds rejoicing vigorously as they swam through imagined surf crashing against rocky shores.

Government offices and public offices closed as early as nine in the morning. The townspeople soaked in hot springs from morning, and cafés and dance halls were packed. Though they were called cafés, beneath the greenery of street trees stretched grand structures spanning several blocks, teeming with crowds wherever they clustered. Among them stood one called Japan in a prominent place at the city center.

As day faded and the evening moon hung over the Danube, a band of Gypsies played Hungarian songs. Adorned with rib-like decorations on their chests and wearing tight-waisted red dresses with sky-blue sleeves and skirts complemented by red knee-high boots, the girls' Hungarian dance commenced around moonrise. The sorrow of this land—seized by Mongolia, defeated by Turkey, subjected to Austria—was kicked away by their dancing feet. In Europe where nineteenth-century romanticism had been swept from its foundations, only here still lingered a vestige of lyricism.

One night, I was leaning against a bench alone on the banks of the Danube River. At that very moment, as the moon rose over the hill, on the water that had surged in with a lapping sound, the moonlight shimmered hazily across the distant surface. From somewhere unseen came the deep, low-pitched drone of a continuously sounding flute. Its heartrending plaintiveness was like that of a defeated general—his horse fallen, his armor rent—gazing up vainly at the moon during a night encampment in the wilderness. When I later asked someone about it, they said that tárogató player was Hungary’s foremost master.

On the day before departure, I went to see the suburb called Roma Town. From here, a great metropolis buried underground two thousand years ago is being excavated. The floors of the great circular theater capable of holding some twenty thousand people, the market, bathhouses, and other structures are all adorned with intricate mosaic patterns. The aligned stone sarcophagi bear Latin inscriptions amidst Persian patterns, and judging from the water supply systems, bathhouse drainage channels, and the scale of hearths, there can be no doubt that this city's culture once demonstrated a prosperity that rivaled ancient Greece and Rome. Moreover, how far the expanse of this city extends remains unknown even to this day.

Bound for Italy 1

It was late June when I entered Italy. I emerged in Venice after flying over the precipitous peaks of the Alps by plane.

The city-state design of seventeenth-century Paris became the model emulated by urban centers across nations, rendering every metropolis uniform. Venice alone preserved its twelfth-century form with Byzantine influence intact. —Whatever historians might claim, Venice appeared at first glance a city of wonders. To erect marble palaces in water and mistake their winding corridors for deep channels would be no error. Without soil, trees or grass, between stone and water glided gondolas with black-lacquered hulls and silver-prowed elegance—now stripped of passengers by motorboats, drifting aimlessly among the waves.

In front of the hundred-ken stone plaza, St. Mark’s Basilica piled golden rings upon its forest of spires and gathered pigeons in dense flocks. When the two bells resounded high atop the bell towers, their echoes reverberated through the stone and across the water, and the towers themselves became like musical instruments. On a day when the water held a pale bamboo hue and the sky stood clear and still, I tried gathering pigeons before San Marco. The pigeons perched from my head to shoulders and down both arms in clustered formations, their bodies creaking like straining bones as they ate the corn kernels from my hands. In this city where alleys narrow to nothing and a single step sends one plunging into water, there was nothing to do but play with pigeons.

Wanting to savor the night’s beauty, I wandered along the water’s edge, but the black gondolas merely rumbled between the stone walls of buildings with extinguished lights. As I stood on the steps of a stone bridge, I suddenly found myself thinking about the children of this town. The children of this town play exclusively upon the slick, smooth stones of shores devoid of railings, where the bottom cannot be seen. And these are toddlers who have only just begun to walk. Venice, having persisted in this dangerous state as it is for hundreds of years, must surely have amassed its wealth through many sacrifices. The Merchant of Venice’s historically renowned talent for saving is not necessarily Shylock’s alone. The beauty of San Marco’s bells offered no solace to my traveler’s heart; to me, their tolling became the song of Sai no Kawara—the Buddhist limbo for deceased children—resounding deeply and sorrowfully.

In the rain, I departed Venice and headed to Florence. In the train car, two Japanese people entered my compartment. One of them asked me in German, "I'm going to Florence—is this the right train?" Caught off guard, I replied in English, "Yes, it's fine," though I wasn't quite sure why.

Having not used Japanese for some time during my travels, I was eager to talk, but they remained silent and I did too as the train raced through Bologna's fields. Before I knew it, the rain had cleared; along the railway line sunlight grew intense as pine trees for pencil-making and olive trees stood upright on every hill—at last the Italian landscape grew increasingly vivid.

2

The city of painting and sculpture, Florence—a place that has exhausted countless artists' brushes through the ages. And now, have I too come to enter this city once more?

The first city to bestow both happiness and misfortune upon the modern world—Florence transformed completely since the Renaissance arose here, shifted to Paris, and then returned once more to this land.

Just as it is said that no city in Europe can be comprehended without understanding the divide between the Italian Renaissance and the Parisian Renaissance, I too felt Paris's development become clear for the first time upon coming to Florence. As lighting apparatus roamed about, its focus would gradually adjust itself from some unseen source.

The city of Florence was a basin surrounded by hills. The Arno River flowing through its center resembled the Seine in both bridges and embankments. In my view, seventeenth-century Paris could be seen as exactly like present-day Florence. I climbed the surrounding mountains and felt that the Florentine hills forming backgrounds in da Vinci’s paintings had largely been drawn from here. On the terraced hill roads, wisteria blossoms hung curiously from beneath olive leaves of deep green like oiled lacquer. The gentle flow of distant mountains descended into sunlit temperate fields, while on every summit that rose again into hills, ancient temple walls could be seen. Pine trees standing upright like long brushes wound around the hills’ creases in continuous rows, and beneath floating clouds’ motionless hems high in the sky, they seemed to offer ceaseless prayers to the earth.

I descended the hill, boarded a red-lacquered carriage to tour the town, and ventured out to the banks of the Arno. As I gazed upon Florentine women—growing ever more conspicuously beautiful in the streets—passing between smooth-skinned marble trunks resembling human figures, I imagined the woman Dante had sought. Beatrice and Mona Lisa seemed to be everywhere in this city.

Wherever I passed, museums and temples vied to outdo each other, each filled with masterpieces lying hushed. Having grown thoroughly weary of masterpieces, I peered into the stone garden’s grass and, upon seeing the pure white oleander blooming unnoticed there, unexpectedly found my journey’s loneliness comforted. After staying three days in Florence, I departed for Milan. Milan is a metropolis yet a city with few trees that does not invite one to linger. The cityscape lacked any distinctive character, and as I stroked my aching toes inside my shoes—wondering whether they would hold out until Paris—I drew closer to the Swiss border. Along this railway line lay decayed towns nestled in valleys, old castles rotting among rocks, and as I watched a mere few chickens pecking for feed, the train entered into the mountains. When I came this far, Bokusui’s song finally rose to my lips.

How many mountains and rivers must I cross before reaching the land where loneliness ends? Still today, I journey on.

To Switzerland

I had thought the mountain scenery along the German-Austrian border from Mittenwald to Tyrol was unsurpassed, but after crossing the Simplon Pass into Switzerland and reaching Montreux, I could only gaze at the peaks in a daze, realizing there is always something higher beyond what one knows. The Swiss landscapes I had seen while in Japan were all landscapes of Montreux. The snow-crowned peaks of Mont Blanc reflected in Lake Léman, and the crystalline lake surface enveloping Chillon Castle—I recalled having seen this scene in photographs many times before.

However, now that I encountered this scenery before my very eyes, I thought that photographs could not possibly capture the actual scene. The water surface, cold even in summer and unrippled by a single wave, became the floor of a deep valley, while the stern grandeur of the mountains rising sheer from that place resembled some burnished, colossal machine. At its base, two girls were playing tennis. The white ball reverberated quietly again and again. As I watched, I thought there could be no pastime in this world so extravagantly perfected. Nearby stood Chillon Castle. Ever since I was a boy, whenever I dreamed of happiness, the Swiss lakeside would surface in my mind, and the waters of Chillon Castle would appear before me as an idol.

What I could now immerse myself into within this fragment of past happiness was the sound of the white ball. In that instant, I truly thought I had seen happiness. This fleeting fragment of sensation must surely be the sole path leading to eternity.

Even though earthly changes are infinite, it was the solemn stillness of Montreux's scenery that constituted that supremely achieved, profound stillness. Arriving in Lausanne, I traced with my eyes the snow's height at the mountaintop faintly tinged with madder red. From the hotel's observation deck, the moon was rising over the lake. The moon remains ever constant, no matter when one gazes upon it. The beauty of moonlight rising over Japan's autumn grasses permeated my very being, and as restless homesickness welled up within me—this urgent longing to return home soon—I closed the window. How irreplaceably dear was that vision of Dewa's mountains and Echigo's peaks emerging from amidst summer-end rice paddies.

To return to Japan, I must first go back to Paris, and the next day retrace my steps to Geneva. This place was like someone had made the inlet section of Lake Biwa into a park. To eyes that had beheld Montreux's scenery, nothing could stir any further interest. The only thing that impressed me was how the hotel's hospitality surpassed that of other countries—truly befitting Switzerland.

The next day, I returned to Paris in a thunderstorm.

The strike subsided without a trace, and the streets bustled with preparations for the approaching Paris Festival. Once this concluded, I would depart for Berlin; right now I could only chafe with impatience, wanting to reach Japan before summer's end. For me, there is no place as enjoyable as Japan.

April 7th

The Japanese people I encountered asked me how Paris was. I found myself at a loss for an answer. In truth, the impression Paris made on me ceaselessly transformed each day, like gazing at the facets of rotating cut glass. The conclusion reached each day would contradict that of the previous day, and by the next day would take on an entirely different character again. When constricted by these whirling conclusions, I could do nothing but agonize and fall silent.

I find it perfectly reasonable that Dostoevsky, having finally come to the Paris he had yearned for over many years, fled to Florence after just two months and wrote scarcely anything about Paris.

I didn’t know what it was, but I couldn’t bear staying any longer—I desperately wanted to go to Florence.

Every foreigner long resident in Paris lived in uniform reverence and ardent love for the city. Into this milieu Dostoevsky had plunged. At that time, the Russians in Paris—rather than despising their homeland—despised him, the newcomer, at every turn; this was as plain as fire. It was not that Dostoevsky had failed to notice such things. In short—why must Russians live while mutually despising their own homeland? That regrettable, inexplicable frustration had been something unbearable to endure.

“Protect the Russian spirit. “Create new Russian literature.” What compelled Dostoevsky to voice these words against his will is precisely what lies hidden within this Paris.

There is a term called Parisian ennui. I too had experienced melancholy many times by this age, but never before had I been driven to such depths of ennui. It felt as though my body had been ground into fine dust; when I suddenly reached for support, everything I grasped turned out to be shattered fragments. Particularly when confined by rain, the blackness of the buildings seeped inexorably into my very being, impossible to fend off. In the rain, where no one made any commotion, the sight of people conversing leisurely without even holding umbrellas was anything but tranquil.

My irritable emotions had vanished somewhere, and a suffocating melancholy crept up from beneath the chair where I sat. I found myself completely at a loss over how to handle myself.

In Paris, there was no such thing as lyricism anywhere. They enthusiastically devoted themselves to this and that contrivance to delight travelers, lining up nothing but enchanting objects in lavish displays—yet I found myself unable to be surprised by such things, with only their ulterior motives glaringly catching my eye. Even the charm of the French curve somehow felt lacking. Since coming to Paris, I felt as though I’d come to understand Shanghai’s appeal all the more. In Shanghai, there was no straightedge. Lyricism indeed remained only in Shanghai. One needed only look at the planting of trees in French gardens to understand. Everything adhered to geometric precision, and one had to calculate angles even to turn one’s head. In transforming nature, there could be none more skillful than these townspeople. What was called the spirit of Catholicism likely referred to this sort of second nature as well.

April 8th

As I thought about changing hotels and walked through the streets, I came upon one bearing a sign stating Strindberg had stayed there. When I entered and asked which room Strindberg had occupied, they led me to the third floor and said, "This one." It was a long narrow eight-tatami room where only the neighboring roof could be seen from the window. Since it stood right beside Luxembourg Park, the park appearing in Inferno must be this very one. There had been a time when I was enamored with Strindberg—particularly since Inferno had sustained my soul—so I considered renting this room, but it cost fifteen hundred francs. Moreover, judging by the period, this was the room where he had verged on madness. The air felt stifling, and above all I detested its elongated shape—so I resolved to abandon the idea.

When I recalled how he had written about someone trying to electrocute him on a park bench at night with murderous intent, I thought this room might well drive one mad. The park abundant with statues of literary figures was Luxembourg Park. Here stood Verlaine alongside Stendhal, Flaubert, and George Sand. Yet what I cherished most was Montaigne’s statue before the Sorbonne, just beyond the park. Though newly erected for last year’s tricentennial celebration, seeing this statue made me feel I had truly touched Montaigne’s spirit for the first time. His tolerance, his freedom, that virtue of shrewdness laid bare—the mysterious smile that rendered others’ schemes impotent. I thought this statue indeed manifested perfectly a man’s unfathomably gentle and magnanimous bearing.

April 21st

Rain.

It’s said that as many as twenty local Diet members here die each year due to overwork. With the general election approaching, the streets were charged with tension. The taxis had been on strike citywide since morning. My room was on the sixth floor of the Raspail Hotel. A vast cemetery spread out below. Baudelaire too lay in this cemetery. Rain continued to fall every day on the cemetery filled with chestnut young leaves. Sometimes, the clouds broke. As I watched the sunlight filtering through the young leaves, I could clearly see the wet white flowers blooming more abundantly each day.

The buildings of Paris stood uniformly six stories tall, each blackened with soot. Walking along the streets felt like being at the bottom of a canyon. With no escape routes except the roads themselves, it seemed I trudged through gasoline ten feet deep unless emerging into a square. Both buildings and statues were crafted from marble-like limestone, their wind-battered protrusions glowing white as snow-capped peaks. This meant the city's faintly sooty patina conversely served to make those pale areas stand vivid. There grew that horse chestnut tree—its leaves surpassing blossoms in beauty. Their clustered foliage harmonized perfectly with the buildings' solid lines. This horse chestnut's leaves put all other street trees to shame. In Tokyo, the tochi trees lining from the Metropolitan Police Headquarters to the Naval Ministry resemble these closely. Yet their leaves grow slightly smaller than tochi foliage, denser and glossier.

Every city’s beauty maintained a balance. Everywhere one looked was simply Ginza—though a Ginza rendered far more splendid. When I abruptly looked up, there was the delicate precision of architectural lines and statues. When I abruptly looked down, arrays of supremely exquisite items filled the display windows. The beauty of passersby.—After having spent some twenty days in this daze, I had become completely unable to find where to begin writing.

There are these things people say. In France, if you keep cash instead of depositing it in banks, you aren't taxed. Thus there's no knowing how much money remains unbanked. In any fight, whoever strikes first loses—that's the rule. —The more you save, the more respect you earn. —Even if someone dies next door, you pretend not to notice. —A man forbidden by his parents cannot marry. —Rickshaw pullers want only to remain rickshaw pullers; bellboys only bellboys. —Women cannot marry without money. —Parents must divide property equally among children—so they scheme not to have them. —Every soul believes their nation deserves the world's highest esteem.

Even considering all this, France somehow resembles China.

April 23rd

I went to Saint-Germain. Along the way, I passed through Bougival, where La Dame aux Camélias was said to have lived with Armand. This was a quiet village in the upper Seine where even tree roots were washed by the current. Here, cloud shadows mirrored themselves in the water; old mansions wrapped in trees stood scattered about, creating storybook landscapes at every turn. Saint-Germain stood on high ground, offering a panoramic view of Paris's gentle undulations six ri away. Apple blossoms had reached full bloom. In the distance, Sacré-Cœur floated faintly within spring haze atop Montmartre's summit. Beneath the apple blossoms, the Seine meandered past an ancient castle whose gun embrasures rose imposingly on one bank as it flowed ceaselessly toward Paris. A faint chill lingered in the wind.

As I passed through François I’s palace gardens, the small plum cherry blossoms had already passed their peak. Within the gardens lay an English-style garden. During France’s dynastic era, English-style gardens must have been regarded as the very height of modern sophistication.

April 26th

Rain. Today was the general election day. The results would apparently become clear by evening, though it was said to be already certain that the Left would win by an absolute majority.

On street posters, the Right writes that if the Left wins, war will break out, and the Left writes that if the Right wins, war will break out.

Because the French Left held influence within government circles like Japan’s Right, it was actually the Right that continued facing oppression there. It was here I first realized: what passed for conversion to the Left in this place carried the same gentle acquiescence as rightward shifts back in Japan.

April 27th

Though it was not yet clear, it was said that the far right and far left were locked in fierce competition.

April 28th

Higuchi, Okamoto Taro, and I went to Brolugny in the afternoon. The citizens who preserved a vast forest measuring five ri square within the city find their hearts continually purified by this woodland. Inside the forest, the horse chestnut trees were in full bloom. A flower came dancing down into the teacup from which I drank coffee. When basking in the sunlight filtering through the flower canopy, I grew disinclined to speak and abruptly found myself questioning why I had come to such a place. It was by no means my own desire that brought me to Paris. My friends, with their incessant urgings of "Go on, go on," finally pushed me out. Well, having come here, this is how it was—no matter where I turned, there was nothing but white blossoms and green leaves. When I thought of Japan while here, all Japanese people appeared to be drinking sake amidst withered fields. Here, radios perched in the treetops so music drifted down from amidst the blossoms.

Now, as evening fell, I stood up. A young man and woman seemed to be quarreling, standing silent beneath a cluster of horse chestnut blossoms that swayed ponderously in the wind like rows of white candles. Okamoto Taro passed before them under Paris’s rooftops while singing “Young man, love!” in French. Then, still in the midst of their earlier quarrel, the young man and woman—without either prompting the other—sullenly kissed. While listening to a bush warbler singing with a feeble voice amidst dense foliage, I brought this day to a close.

May 1st

It was cloudy. I was coming down with a cold.

In the afternoon, for the first time, I ventured into the spacious cemetery before me. There stood Maupassant’s tomb. Beyond roses that had shed their petals climbing the gravestone, dull nameless flowers bloomed tawdry and dim. No sooner had I thought 'Is this what awaits in death?' than a writer’s anguish seeped into my bones, driving me to retreat from that place. Yet unwittingly I came before Baudelaire’s tomb—the very site I had vowed not to visit next. This stone effigy of Baudelaire, renowned for its craftsmanship, displeased me with its posture. That stance—chin propped, gaze fixed forward—no prose writer would assume. In the murky shade beneath trees lay a recumbent statue. But to me, the rust bleeding through the rear stone wall evoked more keenly the sensation of reading his verse.

Perhaps I had a slight fever—the cramped tombstones' chill sent shivers creeping up from my feet. When I hurried out onto the street over clumps of fallen plane tree flowers, May Day gripped the city. Cold. My hand brushed against a flower Higuchi-kun had plucked from Maupassant’s grave and tucked into my pocket; at a street corner, I gave it away. Here on May Day, they sell lilies of the valley in place of parades—so they might bring happiness to all.

May 2nd

I do indeed show slight signs of neurasthenia. However, to think that I developed neurasthenia precisely because it was justified—as Nietzsche would say—might perhaps be more accurate. There were times when I sat on the terrace of the Champs-Élysées grand avenue and spent entire days gazing at the faces of passersby. Then, the gangster-like man accompanying a first-class-appearing woman would be mimicking Greta Garbo. When wondering what sort of man this might be, one needed only look at the woman beside him to know immediately. The faces and figures of men and women who took pride in tradition were beautiful. Yet that such people somehow appeared foolish differed not at all from Japan.

Foreigners and Japanese in France who tried to act French also appeared deficient in this respect. For some reason, since coming to Paris, I had never once felt afraid in any regard. In Japan there truly existed something that did not inspire fear. Lately I had been trying to grasp what that something might be, yet no distinct image would coalesce. Day after day immersed in crowds jostling with foreigners, I would vaguely observe the surrounding faces yet feel nothing worthy of dread. Apart from what could not be imitated, things needing imitation had gradually vanished from Japan. The beauty of sallow skin tones mingling among white complexions occasionally took on the appearance of tarnished silver. A short physique that bent taller spines addressing it resembled a pine tree stubbornly driving roots into earth. Yet humankind seemed to have engaged in altogether too many disparate endeavors.

May 4th

I came to London. In the airplane that had crossed Dover, when my foot touched the vertical wall on the side, I felt a vibration through my body like an electric shock and nearly became nauseous. In Japanese airplanes, such a thing had never once occurred. When I mentioned this to someone, they said there was nothing in the world as superior as the motors used in Japanese passenger airplanes. They were also Japanese-made. The vibration was different. (Departed Paris at 9:00; after an hour and a half in flight, arrived at London's Piccadilly at 12:00)

Day after day, I had Mr. Nanto take me around the city and suburbs by car. Though my eyelids had been drooping from lack of sleep since the previous day, when we reached the suburbs, my eyes awoke. Clusters of golden laburnum flowers blooming across the vast verdant wilderness. Though I wandered from journey to journey, what delighted at first glance remained flowers. The buildings in central London resembled Osaka's Dojima. Their stone pillars were thick and heavy. The Thames' scenery too was exactly like Nakanoshima. All substance without compromise, where ornamentation became imposing intimidation; from beneath the shadow of a great nation's magnanimity rose an oddly restless smoke one could sense.

May 5th

It was the day of the Pen Club’s reception, but during the event, one of the attendees reportedly confided to Mr. Nanto, "It would be troublesome if you took this to be the British Pen Club." The event planners were conducting themselves in a profoundly unnatural manner.

May 6th

I took a solitary walk through the city. No matter how much I waved, taxis wouldn’t stop, and when I boarded a bus, it went in the opposite direction and let me off, so I trudged back to the inn. In the inn’s garden, pear and apple blossoms were in full bloom. I had never seen a garden I loved as much as this one. It was Tokiwa’s annex building, though I heard it had been open no more than a month or two. The mansion seemed to have been a wealthy person’s home; though dilapidated, it retained an air of elegance. The garden was about four times the size of the mansion, with nothing but a decaying fountain amidst a sea of grass and a single weathered stone statue of a man and woman whispering to each other. It was as though I were witnessing the downfall of the House of Usher before my very eyes. Amidst pear blossoms ceaselessly scattering without a sound and apple blossoms enveloped in the shadows beneath trees, wood pigeons occasionally stirred the air with heavy wingbeats. Rose vines crept up the crumbling brick wall, and an old man who had circled around a tree trunk emerged, sleeping beneath apple blossoms while still holding an infant. The guests were just myself and the professor of bacteriology. The professor told me about bacteriology from noon until one o'clock at night.

May 7th

I thought it was rain—it was fountain spray. The pear blossoms had scattered completely within a single night. I thought I should return to Paris now, but while staying at this inn, I couldn't bring myself to go outside. It remained quietly overcast all day. The old man of this house, who had worked as a sailor in nearby waters for over twenty years, said every day between hacking coughs, "England’s weather is like this." When I went out into the garden, amidst the fresh green leaves all around, pale peach-colored apple blossoms still remained. I abandoned my plans to go to Scotland.

The other day, when I was drinking tea amidst the crowd at the Dôme in Paris, I suddenly came across the American woman who had been sitting three or four tables away, now found herself in the middle of the Piccadilly crowd in London. Though we had never exchanged a word, she too seemed to remember me and, smiling brightly, called out "Hello" as she passed by. This became one of my favorable impressions of London.

May 8th

I took a walk through the cloud-covered city. I didn’t know where I had walked or where I had emerged. All I did was take off and put on my heavy overcoat five or six times. I walked between similar-looking buildings until I grew tired, and whenever I spotted green grass that seemed like a park, I would come to a halt. I didn’t understand why I was walking through the city. Each time I walked through the city today thinking I should return to Paris, upon returning to the inn I ended up postponing my departure for another day, swayed by the garden’s beauty and the family’s unaffected simplicity.

May 9th

Not feeling the slightest desire to see anything, I departed London. 12:30. The sky above Dover was nothing but fog. The fog was like a boundless snowfield stretching endlessly. I flew between the sunlit blue sky and snowfield while drinking coffee. The land below in France formed orderly square clusters, but England’s terrain was cloud-shaped. I arrived in Paris at three o'clock. What a carefree city! I felt as though I had returned home for the first time. My visit to London was essentially a means to reassess Paris.

In the week I had been away, the horse chestnut flowers had bloomed completely. From the Grands Boulevards, I continued walking to Saint-Martin, turned back toward the Champs-Élysées, and gazed tirelessly around the streets. When June came, I thought I would go to London once again and reassess England.

May 10th

I went to see the horse racing at Longchamp. The horse racing here was no different from going on a flower-viewing excursion. There were women sprawled on the fresh turf, absorbed in reading novels at the racetrack. Because betting tickets were affordable starting from five francs, one could spend a peaceful half-day without it turning into a mad rush. On the return journey, I rested at the Ronpan on the Champs-Élysées.

Amidst pure white horse chestnut flowers with panicles uniformly spread across the expanse, a fountain sprayed mist that billowed. The promenade descending from Étoile was, it being Sunday, a river flowing with fashionable spring attire.

May 11th

I went to see the Matisse exhibition at Rosenberg Gallery. The main pieces were this year’s productions. Matisse had changed again. When I saw Picasso’s exhibition the other day, my secret concern had been how Matisse would counter Picasso’s bold transformations, yet I marveled at Matisse’s own status as a supreme genius. The outcome of this rivalry between the two appeared to be gradually relegating Cézanne to third place. In contrast to Picasso’s pursuit of authenticity, Matisse’s richness gave a sense of slightly deviating from the path, but in terms of beauty, Matisse was undoubtedly first-rate. This year’s main color in Matisse’s work was black. Somehow, it felt like looking at the ornate kimonos with black collars worn by Japanese women, yet they did not lack refinement.

May 12th Today I went to see Matisse again. I became thoroughly convinced that painting was no different from literature. In Japan, both literature and painting still lacked authenticity. Therefore, there existed a danger that anyone could immediately degenerate into mere taste. I thought it was a matter requiring caution. Once artists were tripped up by this, that would be the end. But for now, I stopped writing such things.

May 13th

It was unusually clear today. Today I came again to where the Matisse exhibition was being held. Truly, this town lay nearly five miles away, yet there was a reason I found myself drawn here every day. For this stretch from Rue de la Boétie to Saint-Honoré—a street measuring just under a kilometer—was where Paris’s tradition manifested in its most concentrated form. Despite the sparse foot traffic, its beauty ordinary and dated, with nothing particularly striking, the items displayed in shop windows—even a single glove—were all pure works of art. It was probably the world’s greatest street. Throughout all of Paris, it was only this slender, desolate street that spoke most eloquently to me of what Paris truly was. To put it in Tokyo terms, it would be the area extending from Yagenbori to the backstreets of Ningyocho. In all of Tokyo, I thought this was probably the only place selling purely Tokyo products, but in all of Paris, it was only this ordinary street extending from Saint-Honoré to Boétie—a stretch of just under a kilometer. The rest were towns cherished by foreigners and the general public.

I too had a favorite street. That was Auguste Comte Street, running along Luxembourg Park's outer perimeter. Few people ever walked there, but its nocturnal beauty held a divine austerity.

Along a high iron fence over three meters tall, thick jet-black horse chestnut trunks stood in a row, while beneath the dense trees, the rare figures walking methodically remained utterly silent. The old gas lamps glowed blue, and amidst the buildings on one side with all their windows shut, the loneliness of my own silent walking was so intensely beautiful it made me shudder. When I suddenly touched the smooth granite stone wall, the sweet-sour petals beginning to decay clung to my fingertips. In their final moments, people likely resemble the desolate scene of this street. Every time I pass through here, I think that as long as Paris has places like this, it’s already finished. Most aspects of other towns can be imagined without seeing them, but this place alone is a world in its final throes. An urban canyon.

In Paris, what seemed most vulgar yet was recognized by all as the most refined place would likely be the Rond-Point des Champs-Élysées, I thought. That which occupies culture's highest position must inherently possess vulgarity; otherwise it loses value. I suppressed my personal taste and acknowledged this as supreme. After all, taste ultimately stems from human weakness. I considered Place de la Concorde too as representing artificial beauty's ultimate realization. The splendor of countless fountains erupting from statues clustered across the flatly gleaming square - Were one to seek its equivalent in the Orient, it would be Fengtian's Beiling Mausoleum or Kyoto's Higashi Honganji Temple roof. The awe of walking through midnight forests paled before the overwhelming intensity of traversing Concorde's vast artificial perfection - this latter grandeur excited people far more profoundly. It was here I felt true sentimentality. Nature in the end remains merely natural.

I learned today of Mr. Sabi Shin's suicide. I had received three letters of introduction from him, though two still remained. He wrote in an earnest hand. Mr. Makino Shin'ichi too had taken his own life recently; I last met both men some four days before my departure. Though our meetings occurred on different dates by a day or two, every encounter without exception took place before Ebisu Beer in Ginza. Even those were merely passing exchanges in night crowds where we raised hands in brief acknowledgment. Both had worn smiles of unearthly cheerfulness as they passed by, striking identical poses.

Every time I passed through the canyon of Auguste Comte Street, I thought I would pray for the repose of those two.

May 18th

I went to the Vincennes Forest with Higuchi-kun and Okamoto-kun. The heat that had persisted since the day before yesterday continued today. The vast forest was packed with people. When I tried to enter deeper into the deserted depths to rest, couples—men and women—lay sprawled here and there amidst the thicket. I couldn’t help but think we three men were defiling the forest. We huddled close together, simply gazing at the treetops, but none of us spoke with any depth. Higuchi-kun occasionally let out sighs and said he wanted to return to Japan soon. Okamoto-kun remained sullenly silent, doing nothing but plucking leaves. I suddenly wanted to turn this forest into a scene for a play and took out my notebook. I also heard the theory that Parisians consider it their ideal for men and women to come to the forest on Sundays. The anguish of Parisians who yearn desperately to become utterly barbaric.

In Paris, where they had conquered primal nature, exhausted secondary nature's technologies, and compressed tertiary nature—the realm of thought—to its absolute limits, people now desperately yearned to return to primal nature through barbaric affectations. This constituted the fourth nature. Realism had long since vanished here.

May 19th

I went to see stereoscopic motion pictures. However, this had first appeared here just two or three days prior, yet I heard it had been released in Japan a month earlier. I think that the way the inventive nation lets other countries take the lead first is something one can hardly afford to overlook. There are no drunkards in France. They maintain the view that only those of deficient intellect become intoxicated, and whenever such individuals appear, they are promptly seized and ejected from cafés. However, even those dozing off get seized and ejected. Dozing off and drunkenness serve as proof of foolishness.

A place said to be filled with beauties wherever one turns is no different from having no beauties at all. Nero set fire to Rome precisely because there were too many beauties.

Among the drivers and attendants of this country, there were many men with the stature and appearance befitting a prime minister of a nation. However, many of the ministers here had faces as pinched as those of Japanese attendants. The quantity of muscle appeared inversely proportional to the quantity of intellect. This was what they called culture.

In the evening, after finishing dinner, I walked through the streets and went to the Bois de Boulogne from around ten o'clock. From three directions, groups of automobiles poured into the forest in an unbroken stream. I couldn’t tell where those countless cars were headed as they scattered away. Only above the open-air café in one corner of the forest did a hazy glow linger like flowing crimson mist. I went out by boat to the lake in the forest. Crimson round lanterns swayed on the jet-black water surface. When I looked at the passing boats, every one carried a man and woman together. In the faint lantern light, faces remained indistinguishable. The moored boats all belonged to guests who had abandoned them in the island’s tree shadows. The crimson lanterns of empty boats waiting vaguely in the darkness appeared alluring like curtained windows. A swan plunged heavily into the dark water with a splash. Drooping tree branches brushed against my face as they passed. The smell of algae mingled with the scent of face powder. Occasionally, boats filled only with men passed by silently. It carried an inexplicable air of refined elegance. Mr. Okamoto raised his hand in mutual acknowledgment of respect.

I circled the lake and went ashore on the island. I wanted to walk in the tree shade but refrained for fear of startling waterfowl and entered the pavilion. At this pavilion some days prior while drinking coffee I had been busy chasing falling horse chestnut blossoms; now only thick layers of green leaves remained. When I cut open a lemon its sharp fragrance pierced me with memories of Japan’s season of fresh verdure.

May 20th

I went to Rouen.

This was where Chavannes and Racine had been born. It was also the town where Jeanne d'Arc had been executed by burning. This was also where Madame Bovary from Flaubert’s novel would emerge from a nearby village and pass by in a carriage with her lover.

It took three hours by bus from Paris to Rouen. The countryside along the road lay within Normandy, brimming with that distinctive French sunlight. When Madame Bovary polished her shoes and walked through the village pastures, there reflected in her shoes dusted with tiny grass seeds was a green horizon curving broadly and lazily—across the boundless fields devoid of ridges or dikes, soft grasses formed valleys, heaped up hills, parted under wind gusts to herd sheep onward, and made island-like forests rise up beside which stood a tilting church tower. The smooth road extended straight through the grass all the way to Rouen. Here and there were villages of five or six houses each. Every village was tranquil yet listless, and under the strong sunlight, people’s voices too were low and heavy.

When I crossed the hill, there in a low plain resembling a valley lay the town of Rouen wrapped around the Seine River. Both banks of the river were lined with cranes. Many ships had come up from Fâvre. In the center of the city rose several tall Gothic temple towers. The view from the path descending this hill appeared finest, and they said Chavannes had depicted it exactly as it was.

When night fell, contrary to the heat of recent days, it became bitterly cold. It was so cold that I couldn't walk without an overcoat. I emerged from the dark town to the riverbank. Clouds streamed swiftly over the river; the cold grew ever more intense.

I had come here after being told that if one wanted to see authentic French people, one should go to Rouen—but it was so cold I couldn't venture out. Yet through a single walk about town, I perceived simple folk, girls untainted by worldly ways, and the earnestness of those who tempered their smiles.

May 21st

I returned to Paris by train along the Seine River. Paris is a city where my mind settles and I feel at ease each time I return. That places with the most complete regulations prove the freest and most carefree was no new revelation. They say Beethoven once came to Paris, alighted by carriage at the Brueghel Bar near my lodgings, took sudden offense at a lewd painting displayed in the shopfront, and promptly returned to Vienna the next day. Such indecent paintings still hang everywhere. Yet displaying them in shopfronts amounts to proclaiming that all roads lead to Rome. The French translation of India's Kama Sutra stood imposingly in the front row of a grand new bookstore's display. No one here considers this an obscene book. The sincerity with which they treat it as a physiological treatise alongside sacred texts more than explains the complex history of a people who kiss in public without their countenances flickering.

In other words, anything unsuitable to show humans had long since vanished from this land. A terrible boredom and nihilism were assaulting me. The reason lay here: in the realism where a driver remained a driver for life without complaint, and a janitor ended their days as a janitor. In that case, happiness did not lie in the waste of money. It lay solely in savings. The virtue of diligence stemmed from this. It was said that in this country called France, they would not accept bills unless directly exchanged for actual goods. In this credit-based society, such old-fashioned practices were also profoundly foolish. Yet what use could a mere piece of paper—a bill that didn't show the actual goods—possibly serve to someone who considered savings their lifelong hope and sole happiness? To trust others and risk throwing away one's entire life ran contrary to absolutely certain happiness.

Having cash hidden away at home—there could be nothing more fulfilling to the tactile sense of possession. Yet nothing could be more utterly devoid of desire than this. Nihilism once meant releasing all things. But now it means most assuredly grasping onto things.

May 22nd

When in Paris, I found myself with no desire to compose haiku. Under the onslaught of thoughts piling up without respite, my mind grew hazy. There existed a term among the Japanese here—"Paris haze"—but remaining in this place without being clouded by it required the fortitude to keep one's eyes sharpened to the clink of coins.

Today, Mr. Mizuhara Shuōshi's poetry collection Katsushika arrived. Opening the volume, first came: The skylark cries out; pine winds rise and fall away. A verse of spring in Yamato, from Tōshōdai-ji Temple. I was astonished at how profoundly this differed from what I saw day after day in my present. The Concorde goddess has aged in the spring rain. Champs-Élysées—a donkey's bell sinks into blossom-clad gloom. A jockey thrown—in spring-cold fields sleet falls. Here, they do not become haiku. The above were my verses composed immediately after arriving in Paris, but when creating haiku in a foreign land, there exists the difficulty of having to kill verses for the sake of invention.

In the Indian Ocean, Mr. Takaha Kyoshi had composed: Indian Ocean: moon east, sun west Though no haiku could be more artlessly made than this verse, within its descent into childish simplicity lay an insurmountable chasm of foreignness—one that none but a master could have breached. I believe novels follow this same principle. True artistry means passing through successive forms—utterly eradicating oneself, pushing aside constraints, breaking through barriers—until reaching mass accessibility. Without this discipline, there can be no true artistry.

To gather only purity and attain a high degree of purity is a form of vulgarity. This idea had now become a common issue across French literary, art, and theatrical circles. This was why New Realism had emerged.

May 26th

In France, among acts of dining and dashing, only the eating portion carried severe punishment. But when it came to drinking, it was not treated as problematic. In trials there, because the jury system held powerful adjudicative authority, even if a beautiful woman committed murder, she was often acquitted. The rationale that beautiful women contributed to the state merely by existing manifested as an implicit jest.

The French laughed very little. This was because they had words that rendered laughter unnecessary. Japan still had to laugh. As long as one laughed, fortune would not come. They had almost never seen any fights. Even if they bumped into someone，it was the one who was bumped into who said，＂I’m sorry．＂

I once witnessed this at a main street intersection: when a blind person approached, all traffic would halt as a police officer took their hand and slowly led them about a block to safety. The total value of artworks by French painters sold overseas far exceeds Japan's entire silk exports. Here, art surpasses industry.

It was said that the majority of overseas travelers entering Spain were those who went to see paintings in museums. The amount of money these travelers spent became the most important source of revenue for the national treasury. Because these four geniuses—El Greco, Picasso, Velázquez, and Goya—had emerged, the nation could thrive perpetually.

The greatest contribution Tokugawa Ieyasu made to Japan might have been building his own mausoleum in Nikko.

I thought Kabuki should be made a state enterprise and new theater left to Shochiku and Toho. Beyond this there could be no other method for developing theatrical art. Regarding literature I thought the government should provide travel funds to up-and-coming critics. Moreover there was no need for extended periods for any single individual. Three months would suffice. For anyone who stayed in this land more than half a year was bound to become a fool in some sense. Here anesthetics gushed out from everywhere. Those unaware of this were simply ones who had already fallen asleep.

May 27th

A Japanese-made measuring rod had to be doubled in length when brought to Paris to reach the bottom. Having come to Paris myself, I found there were surprisingly few things whose true depths I had managed to grasp. Those who insisted France remained incomprehensible without prolonged residence were precisely those attempting to rival French tradition itself. Such a person could do nothing but die.

On the first day after arrival, when walking through the streets, if my eyes fell upon some curious item of interest, I immediately wanted to purchase it. However, one month later, I came to regret having wanted so badly to buy that. Yet it was precisely the things that caught my eye on the day of arrival that I realized were what Japanese people truly needed.

Today, I went to see the Cézanne exhibition. As it was the thirtieth-anniversary exhibition, masterpieces by Cézanne had been gathered from various countries—so much so that even those long in France said they had never seen such a collection. The Jeu de Paume gallery contained a total of one hundred forty pieces along with letters. The fountain in the outer garden glittered amidst the verdant foliage. I thought the evolution from Cézanne’s early to late periods was equivalent to transformations in literature. This person pursued imitation upon imitation, accumulated transformation after transformation, chased realism, and died upon reaching symbolism. Sleeping on a journey, his dreams roamed withered fields—once this realm was reached, the art world fractured endlessly. Many people praised Picasso’s tormented transformations in depicting inner worlds as marks of genius, but I saw them as the pitiable struggles of a blind man.

May 31st

I tried reading Japanese novels. I marveled at their delicate and subtle beauty. Had I, without realizing it, come to feel that such a manner of appreciation must be directed toward my country's literature? Yet everyone had unconsciously banded together in emulating Proust. In other words, they had been practicing how to die. It was high time I began practicing how to live.

Above all else, first and foremost, it is to live. New literature need not be entertaining.

June 1st

Every person carries deafness within their heart. When in Japan, one rarely noticed the deaf parts within oneself. However, once one stepped into this place, the terrible deaf parts bristled up and pierced inward.

Well, my ears began to hear, but the world was already too late. Dusk was falling. Even if I ran now, I wouldn’t catch up. There, unable to forget the pleasure of deafness, I frantically clung to Oriental things—salvation lay in this.

There is probably nothing that has made people look so foolish as the beauty of Kabuki and Noh.

June 2nd

Before my departure, I often met with Mr. Yoshida Ken'ichi, who had spent his youth abroad for many years. This was a young man who loved the Shiseido store in Ginza above all else. When I asked why he liked that place, he answered that there was something profoundly good and Oriental about it. The things we believed to be the most European in Ginza now appear Oriental.

Nara and Kyoto—they say such places do not appear Oriental. This peculiar phenomenon too, I came to fully understand only after coming to Europe and seeing it for myself. Shiseido is nothing in comparison. Karuizawa and Hibiya too possess Oriental merit. Since the foreign residents in Japan are already Oriental, it’s only natural. In literature, Kume Masao and Hayashi Fusao—these two gentlemen appear the most Oriental. Nara and Kyoto are already battery-depleted Japan.

June 3rd

The place called Paris does not belong to any country; I think it is a special nation named Paris. Here, there exists only abundant knowledge and sensuality. The torment of being unable to resist mimicking emotion—this was the cause of Paris's melancholy.

At the restaurant I frequented, there was a man—the owner—who had been away to Japan for some time. Since I was always silent, this man came over and said: “How about it? Parisian women don’t care about receiving money or keeping accounts—must be dull for you Japanese.” “Now when it comes to that, Japanese women are truly splendid.” “I make money here, and going to Japan is what I look forward to most of all,” he said. In this land, there existed an established theory that the detrimental effects of implementing laws of liberty and equality during the French Revolution had become the cause for losing the people’s sentiments. Moreover, each person was indeed conscious of it. The sharp Catholic spires towering over towns appeared like a resentful rebellion against liberty and equality. Gide’s journey to Russia had been to search for emotion.

Strikes had broken out at two hundred factories since the other day. Those sparks had spread throughout all of France, and now they had arisen even in dance halls and sundry goods shops. As of last night, it had reached 350,000 people, but since the government was left-wing, this dispute wasn’t causing any uproar. It was as tranquil as a festival. However, even the newspapers were on strike. The spirit of leaning left without losing one’s own money—this had manifested as individualistic communism, but in France, this was what was most popular. A leftism that caused people to lose their own money was something the law did not permit. But beyond that, people’s very minds refused to permit it. There was likely no place that comprehended the principle of leftism as a precaution against having one’s money taken away more thoroughly than here. Any more complex logic than that was of no use to the people.

Throughout the streets, there were those selling printed materials that listed in detail the addresses of twenty wealthy French families and over two hundred individuals, while shouting that when the time came, these must be crushed. Both police and people passed by calmly without saying a word.

June 4th In Paris, it made no difference whether one was American, Black, or British. Here, humans held no currency. The only thing that held currency was money. To truly study economics, there was no better place than here. Therefore, even a heart equivalent to money could have its workings clearly discerned. In Japan, they would not accept it unless money and heart were kept separate. In short, whereas France purchased hearts with money, Japan purchased money with hearts. The world was destined to grow toward whichever proved more convenient.

The cabinet was to be formed that night. The incident of a major strike erupting under a Socialist government must have been an unprecedented event. The Communist Party used this for their own show of force. The right-wing employed this to attack the Socialist Party. As I watched from the sidelines, people gradually came to appear as lumps of gold. Meanwhile, the gold bullion flowed overseas like blood in an unceasing stream. Though they floundered about with gauze in their panic, the blood roared on torrentially. Then a surgeon appeared—the cabinet to be formed that night was one that intended to sever an arm.—Léon Blum’s cabinet emerged.

June 5th Clusters of white acacia flowers washed away by the rain floated upon the road's stones. The traveler found respite for his heart even in such things.

What a terrible rain it was. The manuscript fee from Bungei Shunju-sha arrived. Sasaki-kun’s letter was among them, but there wasn’t a single thing written about Japan. In Paris, there existed a one-page mimeographed newspaper called Japan-France Correspondence published by Mr. Awatoku Saburō. This compiled reports and critiques of events that had occurred in Japan from both foreign and Japanese newspapers—it became a specimen revealing how interpretations of identical incidents could diverge so radically between East and West—which remained profoundly intriguing. Europe moved without knowing the Orient; the Orient revolved without knowing Europe. This mutual unknowing difference transformed into foreign exchange; mutated into war. To truly know meant entering its psyche. Literature arose from this soil—the sole weapon that would ensure the world’s peace.

June 6th The strikes continued to spread ever wider. Newspapers too—only the extreme left wing and extreme right wing—were barely managing to continue publication. As I walked through the Latin Quarter at dusk, far-right vendors pressed newspapers sideways against their chests and went about shouting. A few moments later, the far-left came shouting to drown them out, whereupon a continuous back-and-forth of “Far-right! Far-left!” erupted between the vendors. They said even sugar would be unavailable the next day. Gasoline too wasn’t being sold, so there were fewer automobiles.

Electricity, gas, and water supply alone—it was said the military protected these. Just whose military this was—which side’s military—remained unclear to us.

At night, while I was resting in the restaurant, drivers who couldn’t buy gasoline came crowding in with nothing else to do. They talked about nothing but politics. "Last year, when we established the forty-hour workweek, America agreed but Britain remained silent," they said. "That’s why Britain’s in trouble now." "French workers all have money saved up, so they won’t suffer even if the strike drags on." There were no bloody clashes anywhere, but precisely because of that, the situation seemed likely to persist indefinitely. The natural logic of attrition warfare proved useless here as strategy. The far-right newspapers’ method of assailing the new cabinet—accusing arsonists of masquerading as firefighters—evoked visions of uniquely sophisticated tactics.

Four hundred eighty-one factory owners had lost. As a result, each worker’s wages increased by three hundred to four hundred francs. Moreover, not only did their holidays multiply, but they now received payment for those days too. The grand shops along the avenues had mostly shuttered their doors behind employees' strike placards. That day I wandered from Grands Boulevards through Champs-Élysées without witnessing a single altercation. Revelers continued their amusements; promenaders maintained their leisurely pace. This hushed interlude of civic repose was steadily metamorphosing into Parisian revolution.

June 7th The yen and the franc were engaging in a devaluation race. In these two countries, a formidable storm seemed to be swirling into being.—Today it rained. In the cemetery ahead, a red flag fluttered. At the crossroads, a squad of officers with rifles at the ready stood guard. When I asked what was happening, I was told that Léon Blum was holding a meeting. A graveyard becoming a venue isn’t limited to funerals alone.

June 8th

Newspapers gradually began to appear. In their place, the train dining cars and the Tourist began closing down. The Governor of the Bank of France was replaced. The large department stores had all lowered their shutters; under these circumstances, every store would undoubtedly go on strike at least once. As if performing a long-forgotten major cleaning, stores that had finished cleaning began reopening one after another. That not a speck of dust settled on pedestrians' faces—this, I thought, was truly France.

June 9th

I thought about traveling to Spain or Italy but resolved to settle in again until I had seen Paris’s strikes through to their end. People who came to Paris often spoke of its pleasure quarters, but even where such places existed, they were anything but sites of revelry. All of this here was a workplace. They made pleasure their work. Of course, Tokyo was no different in this regard, but here it was serious work—so the revelry burned white-hot. If given time to think, their desperate scheming—which could hardly be called work—scattered sparks as steadily as industry. This was no longer decadence. It was an operating room charged with murderous intensity.

June 10th

The strikes are expanding ever wider. However, it seems they have already forgotten all about it.

When great fires continued burning around us, it was as if everyone forgot about the flames licking at their very feet. For Europe, France's Sovietization would undoubtedly have been a momentous event. Yet this land would not be dyed so easily. Rather, it seemed Germany—its polar opposite—had actually readied far more conditions for Sovietization by seizing the initiative from France. The far right and far left stood divided by nothing more than a sheet of paper. One embodied emotional ferocity; the other intellectual acuity. Liberalism became a target bristling with arrows sunk deep into its flesh, yet through its own turbid tempering continued guarding thought's primordial womb. What I most desired to witness was the course of this colliding decadence. Here still burned—however faintly—a sacred flame never once extinguished.

June 11th

The conflagration of strikes had finally reached us spectators at our very feet. When I left the inn for a meal that day, every restaurant in Montparnasse sat serenely quiet with chair legs upturned. The foreigners who had come out seeking meals like myself merely laughed as they wandered about. Remembering a nearby eatery run entirely by White Russians, I went to see whether it too had joined the strike. When I arrived, this alone stood open for business. Yet conspicuously displayed on its window was a union membership certificate—affixed specifically that day. After some time, a strike enforcement committee came to inspect but passed through wordlessly upon seeing the document. Upon closer look however, a donation box for the White Russian movement hung precariously askew before the counter—its tilt betraying both its emptiness and symbolic weight.

In the afternoon, starting from Bruvard, I crossed the river, emerged at Opera, turned at Madeleine towards Saint-Honoré, and walked from Champs-Élysées to the Latin Quarter. I had circled nearly all of central Paris, but the hotels, cafés, and restaurants were all closed due to strikes. In the end, after walking five or six ri in my struggle to find dinner, even the Italian restaurant in the Latin Quarter I had counted on had a housewife smiling and saying it was no good. I was hungry, but there was nothing to be done. I entered Luxembourg Gardens, sat down on a cold iron chair, and was gazing up at the darkening sky while thinking about Tokyo when suddenly an old woman tapped my shoulder and demanded a seating fee. Before my eyes, Flaubert’s stone statue continued gazing at tomorrow’s weather with a vacant expression.

June 12th

Meals became available again.

That evening, Okamoto Taro-kun invited me to join him in visiting a friend’s house, so I decided to go out. Our destination was Tristan Tzara’s house. Tzara was the founder of Dadaism and patriarch of the Surrealist school, as well as a poet whose works had been translated into Japanese by Mr. Yamanaka Sansei. The house stood atop Montmartre as an opulent structure. When I was on the terrace, eleven guests gathered. There were four or five female poets, a writer named Caillois, and the sculptor Giacometti among others. Okamoto-kun spoke French with astonishing fluency. Particularly in how he interacted as equals with renowned French figures and other foreigners, it abundantly revealed the caliber of this man who had established his household abroad while still young.

The conversations among the gathered French people were entirely about strikes. What particularly intrigued them was their collective focus on the government's delicate balancing act—providing aid to prevent capitalists from collapsing under the strikes while simultaneously promoting the workers' strike movement. Whispers surfaced about Picasso making a leftward turn to paint a mural of the Bastille uprising. This was unknown to any Parisian, but whether this story—murmured that night by a female poet friend of Picasso's seated beside me to Tzara—was truth or fabrication remains unknown to me.

June 17th

Departure from Paris.

To Strasbourg. Though it was called a solo journey from Tokyo to Paris, companions were plentiful. However, as this journey through five countries was one I embarked on alone, I had much interest in what awaited in each land I visited. The railway line to Strasbourg, being within France, showed little variation; however, the twelve borders ahead remained, now as ever, the frontier checkpoints of nations unchanged. The pale white color of the French soil gradually turned red like salmon flesh. Red pines increased in number; coal became more abundant; pastures transformed into factories.

7:00 PM. Arrived in Strasbourg. The capital of Alsace—Strasbourg—is where the Western legend of cranes bringing human children from atop chimneys originated. Having been contested by Germany and France, and as the eternal hotbed of Franco-German wars, the colors I saw here were a blend of German and French influences. If it truly incorporated only the best aspects of Germany and France, this should have been considered Europe’s foremost capital—but though not without echoes of Tsutsui Junkei’s Horaga Pass tactics, I occasionally sensed schemes swift enough to pluck the eyes from a living horse. Soldiers—no matter from which nation’s military—could not set foot in this city.

With the mountain range forming its boundary, topographically this was Germany. Yet the language remained French. The cuisine followed German styles while houses stood jumbled in Franco-German confusion.

From here all the way to the Belgian border, it was said that a vast underground city stretched beneath the earth. I heard they had made it so that not even a single rat could crawl through from Germany into France. However, at a glance, there appeared to be no particular difference.

June 18th

I arrived in Munich. It was a quiet town yet one where some great machine seemed to rumble deep beneath the surface. The hotels were large and their room keys equally massive. The water tasted remarkably pure. The next morning brought no desire for sightseeing even after rising. I wandered beneath linden shadows for five blocks before retreating to the hotel.

The heat was fierce. I tried drinking beer, but to me, Kirin beer tasted slightly better.

June 19th

Departed for Tyrol.

At stations throughout Munich, modest women stood on platforms drinking beer. Many men had closely cropped heads, while the women’s faces were flushed. The heightened beauty of the forests in this area wasn’t solely attributable to the forests themselves.

As we passed through Garmisch and Partenkirchen and approached Mittenwald's border, nature's transformations and beauty reached their zenith. Jagged gray-blue mountain peaks surged like boiling waves. Snowfield torrents loomed close enough to graze my brow. Be they mountains or valleys—an unbroken succession of pastures overflowed with flowers. In relentless metamorphosis they appeared—jagged summits and fantastical crags replacing one another endlessly. One could only marvel that such a plateau of beauty existed in this world. And still it stretched onward without end.

Thistles, saffron, small yellow chrysanthemums, hay—large trees emerged from amidst the flowers, and the train advanced, parting the blossoms. Where glaciers flowed down among flowers, the neatly trimmed soft grasses of pastures stretched endlessly for dozens of miles. Through the undulating flowers, a girl on a bicycle advanced proudly. The entire mountain was one vast park. This beauty showed no signs of diminishing no matter how far we traveled—marshes here, forests there, the dazzle of snowfields, new vistas appeared with each peak rounded, spread and approached until they filled the window—this place was called Mittenwald. Mist rose from the valley, and an ancient castle lay quietly sunken below. From around here, we entered Austria.

Same day.

Arrived in Innsbruck. This city is the central hub of Tyrol. Embraced by snow-capped high mountains from the west, south, and north, it becomes a plain only as it faces eastward toward Vienna. In Innsbruck’s streets, my own footsteps echoed back with such clarity it became disconcerting. The sound of bicycle chains could also be heard clearly. As Europe’s premier scenic destination, there were many foreign tourists. The local men’s faces resembled those of monkeys, but the women possessed the rustic beauty of mountain dwellings, their garments perfectly suited to floral patterns adorned with pasture blossoms. The water flowing down from the snowfields held exceptional deliciousness.

When night fell, it rained. The beauty of lightning flashing along the snow line of the serried mountain peaks. The rain ceased; unable to sleep, I went out into the hushed town and sat alone on a bench gazing at the fountain. Not a single soul passed by. The mountain peaks drew near; the forests loomed thick and terrifying. The loneliness of travel seemed to reach its limit in Tyrolean nights. In the middle of the night I woke; as I tried sleeping and rising by turns, the rain began to fall again.

June 20th

This park was filled with small birds. People rested on benches here and there, but not a single one spoke. Branches hung down to the ground. Glacier peaks towered above. Bird droppings fell. At my feet, a squirrel and a tit played. Sunlight burned intense. Air hung clear. In a place like this, I didn't know what to do.

In the afternoon, I climbed the mountain. It was the border between Switzerland, Austria, Germany, and Italy. The high mountains' wave-like peaks, all crowned with snow, stretched into the azure sky. In the picture postcards of this area, there were many images of Tyrolean girls gazing at distant foreign mountain ranges from high peaks and weeping as they lay prostrate. Below were nothing but pastures filled with flowers. Involuntarily, I found myself yearning now for Yumeji.

On the mountain were cows with bells. The drone of bees' wings, the murmur of snowmelt streams, the clang of cowbells with each movement—the snow beneath my boots lay muddied, meaning this place couldn't be very high after all. The teahouse girl curled into a C-shape beside me, penning a letter in delicate script. Clouds drifted languidly toward Swiss skies. Upon that mountain remained only this sun-seared girl and myself. The bells' resonance lingered without end. "Until saffron blooms in yonder pasture."

I think there was such a line in Mr. Kunio Kishida's play Autumn in Tyrol.

Night turns to rain. A driving rain.

June 21st

I departed for Vienna. Along the railway line, limestone mountains were abundant. The road was so pure white. When the wind blew, all the dust that blew into the window smelled of chalk.

Arrived in Vienna at 10:30 at night. Here lay the capital I had long yearned for. Now that I had arrived, I felt no allure from this place. I felt this might be discourteous, but it was somewhat critical. However, even so, being the ancestral capital of the Habsburg dynasty, though it had declined, one could still distinctly perceive in the soil’s gleam the lingering traces of its greasy opulence. Even the sculptures lining the streets—it was this capital that surpassed Paris. The Gothic splendor of Stephansdom particularly excelled in design compared to Notre Dame.

However, positioned at Europe's center and surrounded by powerful nations, this squandering of strength—the perpetual need to subjugate them through displays of authority—could not last indefinitely. As I studied the faces of this country's people, many bore a majestic demeanor that commanded their surroundings. Even in silence their gazes stayed keen; grave and dignified, they carried an innate presence that dominated others. Yet upon closer inspection, this proved insubstantial. When tested, there was something about them that seemed apt to founder first. Even the station vendors' voices buzzed like mosquitoes, mismatched to their sturdy frames. But the noble bearing exhibited by elders was what Vienna's citizens prized above all.

June 22nd

Departed for Budapest. From Austria across the Hungarian plains to their farthest reaches，corn poppies grew indiscriminately wherever they pleased. The Danube River thickened with corn poppies.

We arrived in Budapest at 6 PM.

——Whenever the topic arose of which place in Europe had been most interesting since arriving, everyone would unanimously say Budapest. This was the city where Buda and Pest faced each other across the river. Of Hungary’s total population of eight million, one million sixty thousand people lived in this capital. In contrast to Pest's plain, Buda stood as a densely wooded hill on the opposite bank. Along a half-*ri* stretch of the Danube’s banks beneath these hills, there existed one hundred twenty high-temperature natural hot springs. Moreover, this was right in the city center. There was no reason why various ethnic groups would not vie for a city that so comprehensively embodied the ideals of this land. This was precisely why ceaseless contention had surrounded it for two thousand years.

It was seized by Genghis Khan, seized by Turkey, seized by Austria, and now Italy’s reach has stretched eight-tenths of the way. The Hungarian plains have crimson sunflowers as their symbol. If one draws a circle around Europe with a compass, the center pierces Budapest. A people possessing not a single coastline—who must wander uncertainly about which border to concentrate their military forces toward—through their unending sorrow, discovered in life’s pleasures their sole path forward. Just as in Japan, where ceaseless slaughter during the Warring States period forced ignorance upon the people, here too—in place of that void—the path of pleasure was imposed.

June 24th The evening moon hung above the Danube River. On the riverbank, a group of Gypsies played a song of the Hungarian plains. A boundless vista of sorrow pressed against my chest. The ripples of the Danube were Vienna’s joy at having seized Hungary. Yet these ripples groaned under tyranny—howling into emptiness, resigning themselves to sink beneath waves of inconsolable grief.

June 25th To love Japan—none could compare to the people here. In Budapest stands a grand café spanning what seems an entire city block, named Japan. In its abundance of emotion and overflowing lyricism, nowhere in Europe finds its equal. Moreover, rivaling Paris—the magnificence of its cityscape, orderly facilities, expanded roads, and beauty of street trees—all put Tokyo to shame.

I thought it would be good to bring more artists into the Tokyo Municipal Office. In this city, they provided houses free of charge to groups of sculptors. There has never been a country that advanced its culture without giving money to artists. Foreigners who traveled around the world said that when they came to Kyoto and Nara in Japan, it was the first time they felt truly saved—as if granted deliverance. This was the story of Mr. Seligman, who had recently concluded his experiment and returned to Paris. When traveling through cities of various countries, I found myself wanting to leave immediately from places with few street trees.

In recent years, a two-thousand-year-old ruin was discovered underground in the suburbs of Budapest. This ruin was a mixture of Persian, Greek, and Roman elements, yet various features testifying to its past cultural heights could be perceived at a glance. I was able to receive an oil flask from this excavation site. They said they were giving it to me especially because I am Japanese.

June 26th According to the tickets, I was supposed to return to Vienna once and then proceed to Venice from there, but finding this troublesome, I changed to a plane and flew directly to Venice. However, even by plane, I had to return to Vienna once. The Hungarian plains stretched endlessly like a continuous band of brocade patchwork. Through them flowed the meandering Danube, resembling the capricious wanderings of an only daughter. The winding current twisted and untwisted itself in leisurely cycles that forgot their source.

At the edge of the Hungarian plains, the Alpine range gradually loomed into view. The fanged, snow-capped peaks suddenly vied to surge upward, aiming for the aircraft’s belly. It bore witness to the fecundity of the earth’s force. On and on we went as accumulated snow filled every hollow and surged forth in assault. The gliding rocks radiated outward. The valley’s wrinkles lay pitch-black and crystal-clear like the abyssal depths. The clouds here were like ships.

June 26th

I arrived in Venice. Perhaps today was actually the 25th. I heard that entering Venice through Austria and Hungary was considered the optimal approach. Having chosen this route by chance—emerging abruptly from a realm dominated by alpine peaks and endless plains to Italy's maritime expanse—the vividness of my impressions came as no surprise.

"That evening, the Adriatic Sea was violet." "I think this was how D'Annunzio’s short story 'The Little Cat' began." "Indeed, while sunlight still lingered, the Adriatic remained bamboo-green; only as dusk fell did it shift to violet." "Through Venice’s streets—paved entirely in stone without a speck of earth—deep, unclouded water wound between eaves before settling quietly." "The slender gondolas with their black-lacquered hulls and silver-prowed bows evoked Venice’s mercantile heyday." "A vessel both alluring and bewitching."

The hall of my hotel, Royal Daniel, was more beautiful than the Palace of Versailles. The sea lay beside the window, and a canal wrapping around the hotel wound deeply behind San Marco's temple. I recalled San Marco being listed among three representative beautiful temples in Mr. Itagaki Takaho's Italian Temples. The dense gathering of pigeons in the front square surpassed anything at Senso-ji Temple. There was warmth in the flock pressing close to land on my outstretched arm.

When night fell, dancing girls sang as they glided their gondolas under bridges spanning from eaves to eaves. Their chorus resonated between the narrow buildings' stone walls and water; even several minutes after their figures had long vanished into the distance, it still continued to resound nearby. This place—the entire city—was engineered as a single instrument. The piano of two thousand years ago had been a water piano. The designer of Venice’s cityscape must have envisioned this romantic instrument.

June 27th

As I was having breakfast in front of San Marco today, the waiter whispered that if I paid fifteen lire, he would give me a ticket for an island tour. Thinking this fortunate, I paid the money, and he gave me an afternoon departure ticket—but apparently treating it as a secret, he kept emerging from behind pillars to hide the ticket under a napkin whenever I looked at it, then next under a hat. As for the island tour, I forgot what the islands were called, but I believe we visited three or four of them. Venice’s streets were all stone pavement without trees or grass, but the islands were lush southern lands. On one island stood a glass factory. Another contained communities of pure-blooded old Italians. The last and farthest island had a ruined temple amidst grass. Inside this temple were many anonymous masterpieces and Buddhist statues, but what surprised me was how every window door consisted of a single thick slab of cement-like stone. On this island, life’s hardships had not come surging from Venice. Under bright sunlight, grapes ripened while flowers ran wild and chickens roamed freely. When I suddenly peered through a building’s window, all the women wore dirty clothes over dignified faces as they sat silently embroidering hemp.

June 28th

Venice’s rain. —A drizzle had lingered since morning. In the afternoon I needed to leave the hotel for the station, but in this city threaded by canals there were no taxis at all. Boarding the steam transport went smoothly enough, yet I remained utterly unable to discern where the station lay.

Same day

7:00, I arrived in Florence. Before sunset, I took a walk around the hotel. Here too, there were few taxis, and horse-drawn carriages befitting the city were plentiful. Since the shops had all closed, the town felt like nothing but stone walls. Exhausted, I couldn’t forget the chicken from the boxed lunch I’d bought on the train and kept walking around searching for more.

June 29th

The city of Florence lay in a basin surrounded by hills. All the surrounding hilltops were temples. Moved by the beauty of temples visible through lush greenery in the distance, I felt compelled to go there regardless and hailed a taxi. It became an unbroken succession of landscapes I had so often seen in Italian masterpieces. Every masterpiece had sketching as its foundation. Even the women passing by in Florence often bore an exact resemblance to figures from Raphael and Titian's paintings.

I saw Leonardo da Vinci's Mona Lisa—he who was born in this land—at the Louvre in Paris, but even that Lisa herself proves lesser than the critics who strained to find meaning in her smile; they had merely overvalued their own interpretations. Would da Vinci have ever endeavored to seek meaning from a woman's smile? Having come to Florence and seen it, I believe I came to understand Paris with greater clarity. The Renaissance that arrived in Paris a century after the Italian Renaissance arose from this very soil was nothing but an imitation of Florence. Yet by the seventeenth century, Florence found itself compelled to imitate Paris in turn. The French had never forgotten to build new traditions that perpetually overcame their old ones. This must be the profound reason Paris could transcend even Italy's final beauty and gather—then create—the layered, successively emerging cultural beauty of the new century.

Venerating old traditions—this alone was not sufficient. Florence’s dignity resembled the sorrow of a beauty who had aged without realizing it. We could only pay our respects to this and take our leave. Florence's streets were a flood of masterpieces. Yet the real Florence was far more beautiful than its paintings. What need was there to enter museums? If I had that much time to spare, I thought I would ride around the town and hills by carriage.

The place where Dante was born—da Vinci, Boccaccio, Machiavelli, Giotto, Cimabue, Cellini—all are born in this town. I passed by the banks of the Arno flowing through Florence—a city where other geniuses had appeared like clouds—in a carriage. Just as I came upon the bridge where Dante first saw Beatrice and stopped the carriage, there on the bridge walked Beatrice too—now strolling alongside a dapper soldier. The river’s water did not move at all. The Arno River, still as a marsh with its profound quietude, lay reflected with ancient buildings and clouds, appearing as though dead. No waves, nor boats, nor people. The loneliness of carriage hooves clattering against stones was akin to driving nails into a coffin.

At night, I passed through again by carriage. Fireflies swarmed thickly between the Marumo trees in the park. The coachman pointed at the statue at the crossroads and said "George Washington," chuckling under his breath. Indeed, Washington's standing statue—whatever it signified—shone here of all places. When I laughed, the coachman guffawed louder still and cracked his whip.

June 30th

Before departing, I toured the museum. The originals of those Italian masterpiece prints I had bought in Paris were all displayed here. Yet prints as a medium were each slightly better than their originals. It was like how canned sardines could sometimes taste more flavorful than fresh ones.

Same day

Arrived in Milan at 5:00 PM.—Because the period for my reserved ticket at Hotel Regina had expired, I was driven out due to full occupancy and transferred to Hotel Maruno. However, when leaving, they told me to come here to pay. Milan is spoken of as a place of purple mountains and clear waters. However, here there was neither water nor mountains—what’s more, not a single tree.

After leaving Paris, I came to develop one insight regarding travel. That was to first check my luggage at the hotel upon arriving in a new town and then walk to that town’s park without fail. There I would rest for a while. By doing so, the disappointments of travel began to diminish. There stood an old castle that seemed to have emerged straight from the Monastery of Palm. A brick castle with a dried-up moat encircling it and towering walls—one that inevitably conjured images of princes or prisoners who must have dwelled within—I had seen many castles, but this Milan Castle stood as the most splendid, resembling something straight from a fairy tale. I leaned against the iron railing of the moat and gazed up at the towering castle walls, losing myself in reverie as my fatigue faded. If one bell tolled, return to origins; if two tolled, return to nothingness; if three, return to non-existence.—That famed description of the Tower of London had been incomprehensible to me as a boy, but now struck me as somehow absurd. On the headless cylindrical tower soaring above, swallows swarmed and darted like a dense cloud of mosquitoes.

I hailed a taxi from the park and told him to go to La Scala. The taxi stopped beside La Scala, but all the gates were closed. With no alternative, I resolved to return to the hotel and directed him to Hotel Maruno. Yet the driver suddenly began shouting loudly and would not budge. Unable to comprehend anything, I stared vacantly at his face—only to realize there was no issue at all, for we had already stopped directly before Hotel Maruno.

July 1st

Departed Milan. When preparing to leave, I took a liking to the hotel’s ashtray, and among all the hotels I had stayed at, I ventured to praise this particular ashtray here as the finest. “Then please take it,” I said, and they promptly wrapped it in paper. Impressed that this didn’t seem like something foreigners would do, I offered a two-lira tip. However, they demanded ten lira. This sort of thing plagued me not only in Italy but at all times. Once you show an opening, something will inevitably force its way in. Yet someone like me—riddled with vulnerabilities—must appear so unclear about where to strike that even foreigners hesitate to approach carelessly. However, there are times when frighteningly swift individuals exist—those who, upon spotting a weakness, will pounce for the kill without hesitation. Before I knew it, I was already done in. At such moments, I pay the money as if settling a tax.

As one approached the border from Italy into Switzerland, the beauty of the mountains and waters intensified to such a degree that one might have mistaken this area for Switzerland itself. However, once crossing the Simplon Pass into Switzerland, there emerged a ruggedness to the mountains, a clarity to the air, a grandeur to the glaciers—each distinct in their gradation. Descending further and nearing Montreux, there emerged a crystalline splendor in the scenery—something that compelled one to straighten one’s collar. Passing through here and gazing down at Leman’s ancient castle below, as we approached Lausanne along the lakeshore, my mind grew utterly empty, free of thought—at last, I had entered into the true essence of travel. The beauty of the mountains and fields was in full glory. A place that was too splendid felt somehow vulgar. Without this, beauty could not be genuine.

8:30 PM, arrived in Lausanne. I thought I had seen various countries. There was no time for impressions to well up. It seemed this was because my head had become completely clogged with something. Laozi said that things cannot rotate unless hollow within, but my emptiness had become clogged into emptiness. Lausanne was like a small Paris with a lake placed in it. Whenever I climbed a heart-pounding slope, flat boulevards would multiply alongside. With the moon suspended over the lake, looking down revealed a clamorous town.

July 2nd As I climbed up the streets, sweat began to form. As I descended, my feet grew cold and sneezes multiplied. What a troublesome city. The lake lay clouded by rain. Above the large roses blooming on the observation deck, the glacier steadily vanished.

Early summer rain— roses sharpening beyond the billowing clouds

In the rain, I departed amidst all the flowers swaying in the full garden. Having circled half of Lake Leman, I arrived in Geneva at 5:00 PM. Since this was the final destination of my journey and I wanted to buy a watch, upon arriving at Hotel Verrebru, I immediately went out into the city. Geneva was a town that seemed to consist of nothing but hotels and watch shops. Seeing cigarettes arranged in the display window, I thought it was a tobacco shop—but watches were lined up in every corner amidst the cigarettes. Thinking it was a toy store because they sold children’s toys, I went inside—only to have expensive genuine watches come pouring out from beneath the toys. Imitation pistols seemed available at the toy stores too, but feeling no urge to buy them, I wandered the streets searching for a specialist watch shop—yet such establishments proved even scarcer. Here, it seemed the very notion of a specialist watch shop was too absurd to exist.

The watch shops here would immerse watches in water for about ten minutes, then take them out and sell them by declaring, "See? They haven’t stopped at all."

There was nothing in this world as fair as a watch. That this was considered the greatest specialty of this land was not without reason. The fact that peace conferences convened here—though contemplating the relationship between watches and peace might have appeared foolish at first glance—this task of people who took pride in receiving the privilege of earthly paradise: a land of supreme scenic beauty protected by all, maintaining eternal peace through their gratitude and service that bestowed upon the world its most precise timepieces—could this have been mere coincidence? If such serendipitous correspondences were meaningless, then symbols themselves amounted to nothing at all. Who would have diligently applied their mind to matters of peace?

July 3rd

11 PM, arrived in Paris.

What grew ever deeper with each return from my journeys was, as always, Paris's mystery. The large and small cities across five countries that I had circled—all without exception having exhaustively imitated Paris—I came to realize this was no mere imitation. The closer things approach authenticity, the more their orbits converge and individuality disappears.

The intellectual design of city-states that began with Descartes robbed Europe of its individuality. This triumph of geometry exerted its despotic force even within people's hearts, extending into the modern era. The human heart, too, cannot move when caught between the two legs of a compass.

Once a strike broke out, Paris—as though all its roads were interlinked—ignited every sector of labor. Just as the Place de la Concorde absorbs all of Paris’s roads, money converges every function of Parisian hearts and minds. ――Every time I returned to this kind of city, my heart quieted down, and I felt an even more unfathomable depth growing within me. This mystery. In other words, it was because I was gradually losing that cumbersome thing called individuality.

I must have unconsciously stopped recognizing any value in things simply existing where they were. I had already abandoned my distrust toward myself. The vigor to rail against empty smiles' beauty was gone.

July 9th

I attended a lecture hosted by the Porza Association. The lecturers were just two people: myself and Mr. Brallange, renowned as a botanist from Sorbonne University. I spoke about the foundations of Japanese literature. The interpreter was Ms. Yamada Kikuko, but I was told that in Paris lectures, rather than the talk itself, the real challenge lay in being bombarded with various questions from the audience and having to answer them on the spot. I couldn't quite discern what sort of people made up the audience, but from appearances, Porza Association members seemed to constitute the majority. The association's chairman was a former Minister of Education, but listed among the advisors were names such as Einstein, Paul Valéry, and about ten others.

After I finished speaking, the secretary-general turned to the audience and said, "If anyone has questions, please feel free." No one had any questions. Those who came to shake my hand were all elderly people; the young men and women merely watched me from afar with vacant, strange expressions. Before long, someone from among the audience came up to the podium and began to speak. The person next to me told me that was a famous sculptor.

July 13th

Paris was bustling with preparations for Bastille Day, but when I asked people, they said this festival grew more desolate with each passing year—this year in particular was terribly desolate by all accounts. Even so, people danced wildly in the rain. Tomorrow would finally bring the festival itself. This year, everyone braced for inevitable clashes between right-wing and left-wing factions during the celebrations. Lately I had seen right-wingers being suppressed and beaten by police officers nearly every day. The local right-wing consisted mostly of spiritualists. In Paris where those who raised tricolor flags and sang national anthems were ordered to disband—from all I saw and heard—every vestige of its former self had already vanished entirely. Though it should have been summer, there was nothing but rain and an unrelenting chill.

Night of July 13th

In the evening, I received an invitation from Mr. Shiotani and Mr. Okubo of Auteuil and went. Professor Yabe of Imperial University was also with us.

It was a suburb beyond the Bois de Boulogne, but since this area was a Communist Party stronghold, red flags stood planted. Until dinner, the four of us took a walk in the Saint-Cloud Forest. This forest was a place I had once written about in my work "Napoleon and Taimushi". Now walking through the actual site, I was astonished by its beauty far surpassing my imagination. The other day I had also visited the Jardin d’Agrément described in such ornate detail within my writing, yet it differed little from my imaginings.

The Saint-Cloud Forest was a vast woodland. What set it apart from other forests was that it was a garden where massive horse chestnut trees, never exposed to sunlight, stood in orderly rows. Beneath them flowed the broad Seine, but for some reason, cork stoppers floated about, forming islands. That evening, during casual conversation in Mr.Okubo’s room, Mr.Matsudaira and his wife from the upper floor along with Mr.Tsuruoka gathered, making the discussion grow even livelier. These were gentlemen who each loved and worried about their homelands. Just past two in the morning, a lantern procession accompanied by a brass band stretched on interminably, like a Nichiren Buddhist ritual. They were all Communist Party processions. This would continue until tomorrow's Bastille Day. When three o'clock came and I went outside, the car was gone and I couldn't return. Mr.Matsudaira drove his own car and took me all the way to distant Raspail. I have never before encountered such a kind, graceful, and cultured aristocrat.

July 14th, Bastille Day—

Every year on this day, they said it rained. Today the sky was clear. I had been told that normally every road would become impassable to cars and trams due to swarming, dancing crowds—but this year, Montparnasse remained no different from any ordinary day. I went to Place de la Nation to observe the crowds' festival. The square was filled with red flags and tricolor flags. Into this space marched various groups that had gathered from across the nation, each hoisting their own banners. The procession included many women and children among its ranks. As I watched, their numbers seemed to reach hundreds of thousands. They each clenched their right hands and raised them high, responding to the surrounding crowd as they sang "The Internationale" and "La Marseillaise" in chorus. At every intersection stood police squads armed with rifles, defending against encroaching right-wing groups.

High above the heads of the marching crowd, large photographs of Lenin, Gorky, Stalin, and others swayed like signboards. This was the Communist Party. Next came photographs of Gide, Malraux, Barbusse, Romain Rolland and others streaming above the Front Populaire. Whether intended as satire or not, float after float imitating queens of antiquity passed by; amidst sullen, bored-looking women costumed as ladies-in-waiting, only the queens themselves smiled brightly toward the crowd.

The banner of the International Association for the Defense of Culture—the organization that had invited me the other day—advanced with its lengthy name displayed. I could not attend due to travel commitments, but had these people turned left-wing? Or were they participating in this procession even without being leftists? The color of the flags was pure white only for this contingent. I surmised this organization must be a mixed group.

At night, I went to the Champs-Élysées. It was pouring rain. Iron-helmeted police squads were stationed at every key position, yet nothing occurred. I immediately turned back to Montparnasse. There, in the torrential downpour, they danced without raising umbrellas.

July 15th Lately it had become customary for rain to fall five or six times within a single day. I read the borrowed Bungei Shunju. As I read my second correspondence, it described the time when I arrived in Paris. The vivid recollections of that period—the feverish excitement, the breathless gasping—came flooding back, and I found myself looking back with strong conviction that I too had crossed a high mountain pass. Even so, my recent solo trip through five countries had provided me with various practical benefits. I believe grand journeys are best undertaken alone. There is nothing more valuable than handling every single matter oneself.

July 17th

After Bastille Day had passed, it was said that what remained in Paris became an object of ridicule, but the emptied streets now felt idle with a relaxed air of mutual acknowledgment.

From Foch Avenue where the wealthy strolled to the Champs-Élysées and Bardeblounyu area, people unconcerned with their appearance wandered about aimlessly, seemingly at a loss for what to do. The bourgeoisie around here all set out on journeys by automobile; they said they didn’t ride trains. Even when crossing seas, since one could simply load automobiles onto ships as they were, there existed a custom of undertaking motor journeys as far as distant Africa. On Sundays, it was common to spot automobiles around the Champs-Élysées that had come over from England for overnight stays—all because there were special ships prepared to transport cars. Even if one were to become wealthy in Japan, I doubted it would bring any significant happiness; yet Europe’s affluent ceaselessly devised new diversions one after another.

July 18th

In my room alone, I was reading Mr. Mizukami Takitaro’s sumo essays in Chuo Koron. (I’ve always enjoyed sumo coverage, but I was struck by the exceptional quality of Mr. Mizukami’s pieces.) Just as I reached the end, Higuchi-kun entered for the first time in a week and abruptly declared, “Mr. Mizukami Takitaro has died.” I sat stunned by the coincidence when he went on: “A cerebral hemorrhage.” Having heard about this man’s struggles with excessive drinking in his final years—and musing how my own father had been the same—I stepped out that day. On the way, I encountered Okamoto Taro-kun, and the three of us made our way toward the opera. In the car, when I inquired about Mr. Mizukami’s death, they replied they knew of Mr. Minami Shutaro’s passing but asked who Mr. Mizukami was. As confusion deepened, I began to think it was Mr. Minami who had died. This was the man who had provided my letter of introduction when I arrived. For twenty minutes I remained bewildered—then suddenly Higuchi-kun turned ashen, clutched his side, and collapsed onto a bench beside the Madeleine church. Feeling death draw near as we panicked, Higuchi-kun pleaded in a mournful voice: “Just leave me—this is how I heal.” Oily sweat streamed down his forehead, a harrowing sight. After five minutes, his face normalized and he started walking: “Alright then, let’s go.” Helping him into the car, I concluded Higuchi-kun must have been mistaken about Mr. Mizukami’s death.

In the evening, I attended Ms. Yamada Kikuko's invitation. After a lavish feast, I listened to records of Shio-kumi and others. I could hardly resist the urge to see Kabuki theatre.

July 19th

I made preparations to return to Japan. I packed my luggage and sent it ahead by ship—somehow it felt pleasant. Returning to that space where spear-patterned fusuma stood prickling all around also required its own courage.

July 20th

My second correspondence titled "Disillusioned Paris" had apparently stirred controversy among the Japanese residents here, though this title was not of my own choosing.

The purpose of my correspondence was not to write about Paris itself, but rather to observe without falsehood the psychological transformations undergone by myself—a solitary natural human being—cast into this refined metropolis.

It is said that the painter Koide Narashige departed Japan and, upon arriving in Paris, declared his intention to return home the very next day—ignoring all attempts by friends to dissuade him. The following day he turned back to Marseille, but when attempting to board a ship had his money stolen; after staying three days in Marseille he ultimately returned to Japan. Mr. Takaha Kyoshi had done precisely the same. I too felt similarly, but when one crosses over a mountain pass another would appear, making it difficult to discern how many passes should be traversed. I have come to think Paris lacks realism, yet with each passing day this conviction only deepens. This becomes clear when one reads the novels of this city. In such a place as this, nothing but criticism can take root—novels and such simply cannot exist.

July 21st As I observed, every man had grown thoroughly weary of women, and women thoroughly weary of men. Yet despite this mutual exhaustion—in this city where men dispensed sweet words as mere afterthoughts while women labored diligently—a metropolis so saturated with beauties that beauty itself held no value for women, there could exist no other place like it in all the world. Here too with talent—here there existed only those already possessed of it. In this midden heap of beauty and talent, even these qualities that people took greatest pride in radiated no particular brilliance. The melancholy of Paris remained unchanged whether one roared with laughter or maintained stony silence. To keep faithfully to one’s proper role—here this became the most beautifully noble thing, and rightly so.

Human behavior where psychology and money constantly maintain equilibrium, fluctuating up and down and left and right—until one can perceive this as the beauty of highly developed humanity, the beauty of Paris remains difficult to comprehend. The difficulty of acquiring the belief that money and human emotions are entirely equivalent constitutes Paris’s inscrutable first step. Furthermore, the next inscrutable aspect is the ethics between men and women.

It was not that notions of chastity had been lost here. Unable to endure the agony of a man persisting in loving one woman or a woman persisting in loving one man, they adopted the method of mutually seeking other partners beyond their lovers so both might continue loving each other more joyfully and enduringly. In other words, as a means to strengthen their central bond, this resembled how Europe established separate colonies elsewhere.

July 22nd

The rebellion in Spain expanded, with reports of three thousand wounded yesterday. Travelers were said to be unable to return. I had planned to go myself but avoided incident by postponing my departure.

July 23rd I bought a plane ticket for the flight departing for Berlin.

That night, I encountered Mr. Nishijō Yaso at Botan-ya. He had toured America and had just arrived in Paris yesterday.

July 24th

I woke up at nine o'clock. As departure from Bourget Airport was at ten o'clock, there was less than an hour left. I hadn't seen Okamoto Taro-kun for three or four days, so he still didn't know about my sudden trip to Berlin. However, I no longer had time to inform him. I should leave Paris without meeting him—

As I was thinking this and fastening my luggage, Okamoto-kun suddenly appeared. “Oh, just as I thought. "Just now, while I was sleeping, I had a dream where you came to my place saying you were already going to Berlin." “I was so startled that I jumped up and rushed over—and sure enough, it was true!” “What a surprise!”

I was also surprised. It’s not like I went anywhere, but I felt somewhat uneasy. “Since today is the day Mr. Akutagawa died, this plane might just crash.” “Then stop it.” “Like hell I will!” The two of them looked down at the city, laughing. The horse chestnut leaves were also beginning to shed their dead leaves. Then Higuchi-kun came. A bit later, Nishimura-kun also came. They had their photos taken, got into a car, and went to the Grand Boulevard aviation hall. Saga Zenbei and Inoue Kiyoshi had come to see me off.

Since there was some time, I walked with everyone to the Opera district for our final shopping. A thin mist hung in the air, and there was no wind.

"I'm gradually becoming more reluctant to return." When I said this, everyone replied that therein lay Paris's true virtue. Those who reside long in Paris are said to weep when departing. That such a city exists upon this earth must surely be humanity's pride.

At eleven o'clock in the morning, I departed Paris. Because the aviation hall’s bus was full, I had Higuchi-kun take me to the airport by himself. “What am I to do once you’ve returned... I’ll be so lonely,” Higuchi-kun said at the airport. “You should return to Japan soon too. You shouldn’t stay too long,” I said. “You truly said something kind. I’ll return soon too.” Higuchi-kun was someone who had come to Paris one voyage after me, so to me, he was something like a classmate. When I looked out the window after boarding the plane, Higuchi-kun was pointing his camera in my direction. However, as my figure must not have been visible to him, he showed no awareness whatsoever of my raised hand. Finally, he responded with a sudden smile. The plane's door closed. Then, the aircraft soared into the sky.

The plane maintained an altitude of five hundred meters as it gradually drew away from Paris. I had no idea where the border might lie. It merely flew over forests and fields. The land where Europe’s Great War saw its most intense mutual slaughter now lay beneath my eyes. That when humans exert every ounce of their wisdom, they end up committing such folly—beyond this thought, no other sentiments arose within me. Yet despite thinking I would likely never fly over this again, I found myself struck only by how composed I remained.

Once I took to the skies wherever they might lead, my sole desire was to reach my destination at the earliest possible moment. In other words, as long as I remained aboard this aircraft, I assumed the mentality of a bird. In the sky, it seemed humans needed only to sleep.

Forests, fields—nothing but the same things—but since there was nothing else to see, I occasionally peered down at the world below.

"Ah, I peered again. 'How monotonous it was!' There was a river. But it didn't matter which river it was—my heart grew utterly defiant, battling the monotonous sky as I tried by any means to fall asleep."

At 2:00 PM (the timetable stated 14:00), I arrived in Cologne. A brick-colored city with a spire sharply erected at the center of the plain. The smell of coal enveloped the entire city. To the traveler descending weary from the skies—why did modern activity on the ground appear so pitiful? Unlike France, here at first glance I sensed vitality from the people—yet even that felt too human, remaining for a time a world apart from me. When I saw before my eyes even their severe movements, I found myself wanting only to become once more a person aboard the plane.

4:00 PM. A thick-scaled dragon with reddish-black hide lay sprawled beneath us, wings outstretched and breathing fire. That was Berlin. If Paris were subjected to such violent thrashing, even Paris could not endure it intact—so I thought. I traveled by car from Berlin Airport to Luitpoldstraße. The buildings lining both sides of the road stood uniformly five stories tall. Each massive stone structure mirrored its neighbor in perfect equilibrium. Linden trees arched their branches low enough to brush one's head; whetstone-smooth roads cut straight through veils of leaves; geraniums blazed scarlet from every windowsill. Where Parisian architecture had made me feel like a climber gazing up at mountain peaks, Berlin's edifices now pressed around me like walls of a stone ravine. The city stretched flat and featureless—identical vistas repeating endlessly. I sought some landmark to fix in memory but found nothing distinctive. One might easily confuse entrances for exits. This seamless fusion of buildings resembled hearts devoid of windows. Should stone and linden leaves remain one's sole visual fare day after day, human eyes would inevitably pierce through flesh alone. Here indeed—the window to souls lay bare upon skin.

In the city of Paris, our eyes wandered among urban sculptures, played with shop decorations, rested in the elegance of horse chestnut trunks, and found freedom to repose upon the undulations of the streets and the people. However, here, only what one first glimpsed at a glance continued endlessly. If this was how things were, then the method for disciplining the human heart had to be nothing but endurance. I thought it only natural that the hearts of this city’s people moved in unity. If one was in a town where there was no need to use one’s eyes, it was ideal for study. The town’s cleanliness existed precisely because it could not help but be kept clean. Thinking from this perspective, what abundant freedom Japanese cities must have because of their very dirtiness!

July 25th

I lodged at No.33 Lutzenburgar Strasse. Because hotels were full, my accommodation was at a woman doctor’s house. The hostess was a White Russian noble from Kiev. A woman past fifty who retained dynastic-era dignity and kindness, she had fled penniless to Berlin during the revolution with her elderly mother and two sons. She applied herself diligently to studying medicine and sought a physician’s license, but in Germany medical licensing proved difficult—especially for women. When she finally passed, they said she collapsed from exhaustion. Moreover, being Jewish meant even in Germany this family now struggled considerably. Her husband reportedly remained in Russia still—since their separation during the revolution, no word of his whereabouts had come. Such circumstances were hard to imagine in Japan.

July 26th

After visiting the Olympic Village in Depelitz, I walked through the town. Flags hung from every house's window. It was said there were many Japanese people about, but I encountered few. No sooner did I think it had cleared up than it rained. No sooner did I think it was raining than it cleared up again. I peered into shop windows throughout the towns, but what made me want to stop and look was mainly machinery.

The decorations on the busiest streets of the towns centered around Tsuō Station were apparently once done similarly to Paris, but they were said to have been prohibited and changed to the German style. If this had been carried out in Tokyo, there was no telling how severely the government would have been attacked. Rather, in Japan, there was a fear that Japanese-style decorations might be prohibited. When I found myself with nothing to do, I became preoccupied with the weather. Foreigners seemed to have been gradually increasing due to Olympic spectators. In foreign towns after seven o'clock, no matter the country, it was quiet with no people out, but here now, as night fell, it became packed with crowds. I had come to discern people’s races at a glance. I could now identify prostitutes by their gait. Berlin, Paris, and London all shared a common thread of sadness in their prostitutes. However, if such women were to come to Japan, they would likely be seen as noble ladies.

July 27th

There was no city anywhere as thoroughly cleaned as this. If human hearts were to become as clean as this, perhaps there would remain no hope but to wage war. As long as one lived on this earth, by what were those who had pondered and pondered and exhausted all thought moved to act? For those who had exhausted all means of organization, there could be no method other than solidarity. Where solidarity led must be either absolute peace or war; there was no other direction in which it could move. In this country that had been defeated in the Great War, the question of good and evil had long since passed. To consider what might be called universal human problems—such roundabout matters held no meaning here. Here, Kant and Goethe belonged to a century past. Now, in Germany, nothing other than fascism seemed permitted. Regarding the psychology that could not be understood without experiencing loss, there existed an irrationality in that those who only ever won could not comprehend it.

July 28th

I walked along Unter den Linden and tried to find the Yokohama Specie Bank, but couldn’t quite locate it. Then an old woman tugged at my sleeve and said, “You’re looking for the Yokohama Specie Bank, aren’t you? If it’s the Yokohama Specie Bank you want, go that way and turn sideways.” I turned as instructed but couldn’t identify the building. However, apparently still watching me from behind, the old woman came running up again,

“Right there—go in there and climb to the third floor,” she said. Though her appearance was rather plain, receiving such kindness even once in a country made me feel as though I had encountered a momentous event. No matter what Germany might do, when I thought of this old woman, I felt the country’s ill repute fading away from me. I did not believe this stemmed from my ignorance. The simple fact that a country and its people are different remains something others find remarkably hard to grasp. In Paris, I never once encountered anyone like this old woman.

July 29th

The hostess looked delighted because her eighteen-year-old niece was coming from Paris. She remarked that while an eighteen-year-old Berlin girl would already be doing the same things as adults, her Parisian niece was still just a child.

In my adjacent room lived Mr. Kido Mataichi, Paris correspondent for Mainichi News, and his wife. Since Mr. Kido was occupied with company duties, I received every kind of assistance from his wife. She was truly an attentive and intelligent woman. Fluent in French and possessing a pleasant demeanor, she had only just arrived in Paris from Japan the other day, yet declared that while she didn’t intend to stay long in Paris, she could remain in Berlin indefinitely. The perspectives of those who intended to stay long in Europe henceforth and someone like me who had come aimlessly wandering about as a tourist would naturally differ, I supposed.

July 30th

It was decided that Japan would host the next Olympics. Japanese people who encountered one another exchanged glances. Everyone felt vaguely disappointed.

“What are we to do?” each and every one of them said. “It’ll just be more fights again,” one person said. As for the Berlin Olympics that were about to begin, they now found themselves feeling that none of it mattered anymore.

The dining areas in the district where Japanese people gathered also exhibited a peculiar kind of excitement. "It's finally coming, isn't it." "Hmm." After such conversations, no one would say anything; they all just fell silent. The gazes of all the European nations simultaneously turned this way. Now, as for us Japanese—we exchanged glances, but merely stroked our faces, at a loss for how to produce a culture that could rival Berlin's. Every face was flushed dark and damp with greasy sweat. They did nothing but recklessly satisfy their appetites.

July 31st Saga Zenbei arrived from Paris. That night, I went out to Tsuō Station. The streets grew increasingly crowded. When we sat down at the café, the waiter went so far as to place a Hinomaru flag on our table. All the foreign customers turned to look at us. Since yesterday, it felt as though we had been thrust onto a grand stage, making everything somewhat overwhelming. Yet as people from every nation came gathering here as gentlemen, the city became like a festival adorned with courtesy, decorum, and magnanimity. The Olympics mattered less for the sports themselves than for this display of peaceful internationalism and humility during its duration. This could not be dismissed as mere superficial pretense. Precisely because it was an endeavor devoid of purpose and substance that such splendid flowering of spiritual beauty could occur.

August 1st

The Olympics began. At night, I wrote about the stadium scene. Mr. Kido typed this in Roman letters and sent it off to Japan for me. Forty minutes later, this text would be rewritten exactly as my original on a desk in Japan. However, my head would not work as I wished due to daytime fatigue. Having finished writing, I went with Kido, Kitazawa Kiyoshi, and Honda Chikao to the nearby Victoria Terrace. Inside, dancing was in full swing, but none of us entered; instead, we drank beer on the increasingly cold terrace where not a soul remained, then each went our separate ways. Victoria was colloquially called Toria, said to be the place that had helped Japanese people most for generations. A Japanese man vanished into the darkness with a woman in his arms.

August 2nd

The Japanese athletes' poor performance left me with no desire to write about it. Though the newspaper company kept pestering me with their "Write! Write!" demands, I couldn't bring myself to pick up a pen. The reporters worked themselves to utter exhaustion. They barely found time to eat. They scarcely slept at all.

August 3rd When I tried to leave the store after shopping, the old woman shopkeeper said “Heil Hitler” instead of goodbye. Whereas old women in France were perpetually nostalgic for bygone days, those here venerate the present. For the citizens, this current system must be preferable to the Kaiser’s era. The Kaiser had been a man of style—he mandated decorative window displays across the city, conducted monthly inspections, and awarded prizes for the most beautifully adorned windows. The geraniums still blooming riotously today remain vestiges of the Kaiser’s influence. An emperor’s whims too become woven into civic customs, transmitted through generations.

August 4th The landlady’s niece came from Paris. As I had been asked to accompany her to the stadium, I showed her around. It was the first time I had spent a day with an eighteen-year-old Parisian girl. This girl was light and beautiful in her French-style attire. However, when it came to sports, she was even more ignorant than I.

Among these four nations—England, Germany, France, and Japan—it was Japan that most admired its athletes. This was because while many Japanese athletes were students, those from other countries were mostly merchants. However, it was said that for German female athletes, victory or defeat exerted a significant influence on their marriage prospects. The reason for the German women’s team’s exceptional performance was not difficult to imagine.

August 5th

We went to dine at the Chinese restaurant where former Mainichi Berlin correspondent Mr. Otsuka Torao had uncovered the hidden Ma Zhanshan, captured him, and first confirmed his survival.

"This is the room," Mr. Kido said. When I looked inside, it was a squalid restaurant. The food tasted dreadful. The walls bore crude bamboo patterns painted in red with gold powder resembling stage flats - flimsy enough to produce a hollow papier-mâché sound if rapped. Even Chinese patrons had abandoned this place. Ma Zhanshan's life here must have been indistinguishable from any ordinary man's. Orientals who flee their homeland inevitably lose their critical perspective toward European culture. Is there truly nothing of which we can be proud in that manner? Is it truly impossible for us to exist without despising every last vestige of our own culture?

I do not consider three thousand years of Eastern history to be without value. The Japanese intellectual class reserves its sympathy for those who recognize this worth. The hues suffusing modern Japanese intellect now rise before me like the crude gold powder on this room's bamboo-patterned stage flats. Yet even this does not disappoint me.

August 6th

Should I make my way back to Japan via America or the Soviet Union? I wavered. When faced with that difficult choice between two paths, I resolved to yield to whatever external force might move me. It is in such moments that God appears. First and foremost, I wanted to see my god. I thought now was the time—now that I had become utterly hollow—to submit to natural forces. From which direction would they come to move me east or west?

August 7th

I was now utterly empty. The will to follow my own path existed neither in America nor the Soviet. I had felt to the fullest extent possible what I could perceive. Like an overinflated bag, I could only believe in the forces assailing me from without. To me, people’s criticisms and words had become utterly useless. No sooner did it start raining than the weather cleared again. That day, whether to bring a raincoat had grown into my greatest concern. Even when walking through the streets, I simply wandered wherever my feet led. “If I can have my coffee today, let the world end”—this mindset of Dostoevsky’s in Berlin was no rarity.

Dostoevsky gambled here every day. How was my desperate deliberation over whether to bring a raincoat any different from that?

August 8th I had yet to visit even this city's museum. I found greater satisfaction in discovering one tasty Berlin sausage than in the city's history; with that, my heart was fully content as I smoked my cigarette. While my heart remained thus empty, the Olympics now surged onward toward their climax. "How about this—will you go via America, or choose the Soviet route?" Mr. Kido inquired.

“Ah… I really don’t know either. “Which way it goes—that’s exactly what my Olympics are about.” Mr. Kido merely responded with a wry smile. As I wandered aimlessly through the streets alone, I came upon Mura-sha. What beautiful eyes.

August 9th When night fell, I was asked to take the marathon film back to Japan. The die had been cast. I decided to comply. They held a farewell party for me at the Hotel Adlon. This hotel served as headquarters for the Olympic World Federation Committee. Though said to be Berlin's finest hotel, it somehow possessed the magnificence of a grand theater. During dinner, a call came through for me. Passing through a long hallway to answer, I found it was from Mr. Wakimura. A scholar engaged in petroleum research during his London residency, he had been introduced through Mr. Ōmori Gitarō's connections—our first meeting now occurring here in Berlin.

After the farewell party, I waited for Mr. Wakimura, and the two of us walked through Unter den Linden and strolled through the Tiergarten. This park was a place where towering linden trees stood so densely that even at noon it remained dark. There, while drinking beer, I listened to his accounts of Britain. Mr. Wakimura was a diligent and kind-hearted man; there wasn’t a trace of scholarly pretension about him.

August 10th

To prepare for traveling through Siberia, Mrs. Kido and I went out into the city for shopping. Today was to be my last day in Europe as well. Yet how terrifying it was to have grown weary. I no longer felt any lingering attachment to Europe. I did not even question whether I had truly come to know Europe. However, what I had seen with my own eyes, I had seen clearly. There was not a single thing I had seen with my own eyes that I had forgotten. I distinctly remembered even the shadows of the grass that grew on Parisian roofs. Now I felt fortunate that I had not been nearsighted. It was only that expressing this proved difficult.

Even so, I felt amazement that the human brain could contain such vast landscapes within its structure. I was amazed by the human brain itself. This particular wonder was something I had never before experienced. If memories were to grow more complex, human actions would inevitably have to become correspondingly complex. When I returned to Japan, how would I need to store away these memories and put them into words for others? Having come this far, there was nothing to do but close my eyes.

Whether expression captures but one ten-thousandth of what floats in one’s own mind—no one has ever measured. The technique of literary scholars is nothing more than expressing this two or three times more than others. People refer to natural forces—that is, physics—as social phenomena. All things in the world hinge upon this sole expression. Yet how astonishing—people’s minds observe with layers upon layers of vividness surpassing this very principle, watching over the naturalness of physics that envelops the self. “Why would such an eminent person say such trivial things?”

Even this young man’s question ultimately amounted to humanity’s doubts about the natural sciences. The question of how utterly powerless the natural sciences could become against the physiology of the human mind—this was the paramount question of our age. All social phenomena wandered endlessly within this question, following an interminable destiny. What shone through this darkness was Bergson. The luminous clarity of contemporary intellect that none in the philosophical realm could match—this very light formed the eye through which we might survey our modern world. Moreover, that this eye had advanced into the spiritual realm through mental power meant European intellect and logic had at last circled back to the East.

However, the knowledge of the modern Orient is entirely that of materialists diametrically opposed to this. They strive to exclude anything other than European logic from the world's intellectual sphere. The exchange rate of knowledge always forms its tables by pooling the highest aspects of a nation's people. At this moment, Easterners press upon Europe with the boldness to abandon their own history. Here lies intuition. The very trajectory of this self-obliterating intuition is what interests me most.

August 11th

At 11 PM, departure from Berlin’s Zoo Station. As the train began moving, a Japanese man over fifty suddenly boarded. He seemed to be a good-natured gentleman. “I am this kind of person. I’m returning to Japan now, and since there are only two Japanese people on this train—you and me—I ask for your kind cooperation.” Mr. Oyama—this person and I would be traveling together to Tokyo. When the Olympic swimming events still had four days remaining, he was an eccentric fellow trying to return to Japan.

During our conversation, it became clear he was a trade merchant who had come from South America while also working as an engineer. Mr. Oyama said: "I've been entrusted with film by a newspaper, you see." "They want me to take it to Manchuria." "But then yesterday I got a letter from Mainichi News asking me to carry their film too, so I assumed this was theirs—but when I check now, it's Asahi's." "I can't make heads or tails of it." "Well anyway, I figured either would do, so I've got it here. Should we take a look at what's filmed?" "It's been tightly sealed though."

“I have Mainichi’s film, you see.” I ventured.

“Oh, so it’s you.” “Now I’m even more confused.” “How about this?” “Why don’t we secretly swap one of them?”

In this way, he was such a carefree person. When it came to the marathon, for both companies, this was the Olympics' most significant film. In truth, Mr. Oyama and I also had to race across Siberia; however, being in the same train made even that impossible.

August 12th

While night still hadn’t broken, something suddenly knocked on my room.

It was the German-Polish border. The inspector entered and examined our cash on hand. Marks are strictly prohibited from being taken out. It must have been around three in the morning. I went back to sleep.

I opened my eyes and gazed at the scenery from the window. It was around nine in the morning. Unbeknownst to me, we had already ventured deep into Poland and arrived at a rainy Warsaw. It somehow resembled a city in the Nōbi Plain. Grass was growing between rusted rails. Pastures stretched on. The grass in this pasture looked soft. Occasionally, cranes would land among the grass. Remote forests, woods, and abandoned squalid grasslands lay soaked and utterly flat. The eyes of the girl standing in the grass gazing at the train gradually deepened into blue. Under a cloudy sky, the grasslands that stretched endlessly while embracing marshes here and there were a gloomy sight. As I gazed at the desolate scene of a single telegraph pole left standing forgotten in the field, I suddenly found myself thinking of Chopin who had emerged from this land. Within this country, there must undoubtedly exist some self-oblivious indolence that gives birth to genius.

“Does inferior culture truly render a place so pitiful in appearance?” Mr. Oyama said to me.

In this country, once a young woman shares a bed with a man, by ironclad religious law she must marry him regardless of circumstances. However, someone long resident there once told me it was customary for married women to cast off their sense of chastity like prostitutes. Another person had also claimed no nation held more beauties than Poland. I often conversed with a young Polish beauty in Paris. When I inquired, "They say your country abounds with mathematical geniuses," I recall her retorting, "There's simply nothing else here besides that." At that moment I concluded one must never disparage their homeland, however humbly phrased. From then onward, that Polish woman ceased appearing beautiful to me.

I cannot imagine greatness in a person who does not love their own country's distinctive qualities. In Paris, I once became acquainted with a woman from Berlin's Communist Party who had been driven out of Germany. When I asked this woman, "Where do you like best?" she once answered, "Well, it's still Berlin."

The most uncultured aspect of Japan was that among its intellectual class there existed many who despised their own country. More than anything else, I believed what Japan needed most was confidence.

From the moment I awoke in the morning until around four in the afternoon, the scenery visible from the window was nothing but damp grasslands. Probably all of Poland was like this. When I considered those who had spent their lives in such a country, I found it only natural that women lost their sense of chastity. It wasn’t hard to understand how nothing existed here beyond mathematics. This monotony—and what a dreadful monotony of nothingness it was. In this land of endless flat plains, people had no means to engage their minds except by wrestling with mathematics—that very incarnation of void. Mathematics or meaningless music? They had to incline toward one or the other; otherwise they couldn’t sustain their mental lives.

Gradually, larch trees became more numerous.

At 5:30 PM, we entered the Russian border. The two German diplomats beside me gazed at the border with anxious eyes. From the border station emerged the vivid emblem of crossed hammer and sickle. So this is the Soviet Union, I thought. Birch trees gradually grew more numerous. The green of the primordial fields grew deeper. The people along the line, their complexions imbued with confidence and ideology, gazed at our aged international train from Europe as if it were a meaningless wind. The surrounding landscape presented the absurd spectacle of modern science having abruptly intruded upon primeval forest realms. Amidst this, the composed demeanor of the people presented a scene like a picnic from which one could no longer return home. In the log-piled hut-like houses—were they immersed in simple contentment?—a quiet resignation and a peculiar, fresh melancholy that showed no smiles drifted through the air.

At 6:00 PM, we arrived at Negoree. We changed trains here. Our passports were taken here. The luggage inspection was thorough. Dollars were exchanged into ten ruble notes. The exchange rate of money—this very thing is the culprit that disrupts world peace. If there were no fluctuations in this exchange rate, how happy the world would be. Every psychological aspect of all the world's peoples is entirely contained within this. The difference between using mathematics in astronomy and applying it to monetary exchange rates is as vast as that between heaven and earth. The difference between hell and paradise. All intellectual endeavors in the world are devoted to eliminating exchange rates, yet how futilely human intellect is squandered on such efforts! As I gazed at the sky and earth of Russia’s boundless plains, I now found myself contemplating the mysterious nature of exchange rates. All the world's history—every terrestrial chronicle of humans killing, trusting, and hating one another—not a single strand has ever managed to take a single step beyond this exchange rate. All systems of thought likewise forfeit their right to speak from this very foundation.

That I am Japanese—this alone I cannot doubt. The difficulty lies in believing this constitutes my sole truth. This precisely mirrors the challenge of perceiving exchange rates' inherent mystery. At this juncture, I wish those Japanese who've never glimpsed their nation's borders could hear the word "homeland." One flaw of our sea-encircled people remains our ignorance of the primordial tremor within that word.

I changed trains. It was a dark green room. At first glance, I felt as though I were peering into the inside of an old-fashioned silk hat. This was what would take me all the way to Japan. It must surely have creaked and groaned. I suddenly thought of my friends back in Japan. These dear, wise people—whom I considered the supreme honor of my life for having become friends with me—persisted in their cruel act of refusing to see what I had felt. What sort of things would I report to these people? My friends would each imagine me in their own arbitrary ways.

I now gaze at the Soviet plains in an unfeeling state of mind. The reason being that this is not Japan. To me, the beauty of Russia's plains remains merely beauty. Communism—this now signifies nothing whatsoever to me. All that appears before me now is the love of Japan.

The joy of loving. This is what life is.

When I thought of Japan, my heart throbbed incessantly. Those who had never felt the visceral immediacy of the word "homeland" would surely denounce this love of mine as fascism. But that was certainly mistaken. I harbored no sentimental compulsion to provoke indignation in others. But I knew I would be attacked. I had mastered the technique to extract any bullet that pierced my chest.

At night, nine o'clock, I met André Gide in the dining car.

August 13

Clear weather. I met Gide again in the morning dining car.

Russia was nothing but plains. A succession of plains dozens of times larger than Japan's. This was all nothing but grass. The bizarre nature of the desolate grass. I had come to feel there was nothing that looked down on people as foolishly as grass. No highly advanced culture could rival grass. Nature, as such, could not be seen unless in Russia. Here, there was no artifice whatsoever. The plains devoid of artifice could never arise in the minds of Japanese people. I could only sit there dumbfounded, just like a fool.

The immensity of Russian literature seemed to compete with the very grass of its homeland. What could exist here beyond this vastness? The field of view attainable to a human standing on earth measured six ri square. Yet here, a six-ri square space containing forests and grasslands stretched endlessly across the smooth expanse.

At 11 AM，I arrived in Moscow. The city of Moscow had gentle undulations centered around a river. The people who built this city in the midst of the great plains must have been drawn initially to this land’s undulations and water. Even a single small undulation was，for the people of these plains，the only pleasant human-like change.

On top of a dusty pale brown hill beyond the milky river, the golden-painted round dome of the Kremlin was visible. Could it be that the citizens here lacked any love for trees? The spindly, emaciated street trees existed in name only. For residents who possessed abundant forests across their plains, efforts to make trees flourish in the city must have seemed a foolish endeavor. Certainly, given that Moscow was a city situated amidst forests, they must surely have wanted to avoid planting trees here at least. In other words, within Russia’s beautiful natural environment, the dirtiest place was Moscow. This was equally true of Tokyo, Japan.

The prevalence of civil engineering projects in the city rivaled that of Tokyo. These two nations were now in the midst of new construction. In the course of building, they cut down every obstruction in their path one after another. Another similarity between Moscow and Tokyo was that their traditions had lacked logical foundations. As long as traditions lacked logical foundations, there was no need to hesitate in adopting anything from anywhere. There was no need for either compulsion or caution to make one's culture equivalent to Europe's. If we were to do this, there would be no meaning in being new unless we surpassed it.

The architecture of the Kremlin gave me an eerie impression, as though I were looking at dark red embroidery. The entire area surrounding Red Square that enclosed it consisted of American-style architecture. I walked through Moscow’s Ginza. Ah, I realized—this was indeed a workers’ country. As I traveled through various countries, I found myself forgetting all about things like national systems before I knew it.

The inconvenience of being unable to faithfully record even the sensations received while gazing about with utterly vacant eyes—it was just like how there were neither shops nor cafés in this shopping district. Such things were unnecessary. The many people walking through the town were not strolling around. Here, the city was nothing but people streaming by. Even if one were to call it vigorous and lively, if this were done half-heartedly—when I considered it thus, I came to understand how the sheer force of human desire did not destroy humanity.

I was able to see a city without shops here for the first time. Compared to European cities where shops formed the greatest urban ornamentation, there was no use being surprised now by Moscow's simplicity and plainness. Here, if people wished to enjoy themselves, they went to the suburban forests. In front of Lenin's Mausoleum stood bayonet-bearing guards. The mausoleum was a square of red marble that appeared polished to a shine, but as that day was a holiday, entry inside was not permitted. I went to the world's premier grand hotel and the hotel that the Soviets claimed as their own. Although it wasn't entirely completed yet, the interior somehow gave the feeling of a city hall.

I saw many Soviet motion pictures in Paris. The substantial state of this country’s military preparedness was likely not merely propaganda. From the hardships faced by nations compelled to compete in an arms race with this country, it must have been an unforeseen reality for people that the winds of a military boom would strangely begin to rise. When reality’s chaos had reached such a point, even ideology could not avoid becoming disordered.

The weakness of believing that merely adhering to logic suffices lay precisely in its impossibility of execution. The nobility of unimplemented beliefs had now transformed into a shallowness incapable of refraining from vilifying all things. Moreover, this superficiality purported to contemplate matters more deeply than anyone—people could no longer navigate this world without confusion. In Russia, interactions between youths and maidens had grown strictly regulated. The adage about men and women not sharing seats from age seven was now becoming Russia's reality.

The first thing I felt while walking through Moscow's streets was why people wore such melancholy faces. I thought this must stem from their ethnic traditions having crawled up from amidst a boundless expanse of giant grasses. In Chekhov's *The Cherry Orchard*, the sadness of felling cherry trees differed fundamentally in quality from the grief of cutting down identical trees in Japan. I marveled at how the Russian people had endured within these steppes until now. From Japanese gardens—where mountains, valleys, rivers, and fields created varied terrain adorned with seasonal blossoms, allowing immersion in nature's elegant beauty—not even Dostoevsky or Tolstoy could have imagined such landscapes. What I most wanted to show Japan's youth was Parisian culture and Russian grass. Gazing at Russian vegetation, I paradoxically sensed Kant's *Critique of Pure Reason*. I perceived that boundless wilderness of the mind.

I think it’s right for the Japanese to find joy in Japan. In Japan exists this miraculous circumstance—that simply by opening your eyes to delight, salvation lies everywhere around you.

People will probably say that you know nothing of the suffering of workers and peasants. However, that is the same in any country. The problem lies elsewhere.

At 3:00 PM, we departed from Moscow. Though it was a different station from where we had arrived, the train remained the same. Once again, the train ran through the grass. The forest continued again. Moreover, there was not a single undulation in the terrain.

August 14

A succession of grasslands, forests, and birch trees. Moreover, every single tree stood perfectly straight. The square room, about two tatami mats in size, was my compartment; Mr. Oyama occupied the lower bed, while mine was the upper bunk that formed a right angle to his. When I lay there, I would sometimes wake up feeling like I might be thrown off. The dining car’s food wasn’t that bad. However, more than that, what brought me the greatest joy was knowing that Siberia would soon come into view.

The scenery consisted of nothing but white birches and larches, just as it had the previous day. When white birch trees stretched on in great numbers, they ceased to look like trees and instead appeared as supple, gentle creatures. I marveled at how all these trees could stand so patiently straight. I wanted to see even a single gnarled tree. Here, if there was a gnarled tree, it had fallen. When it came to this point, the whole roasted chickens sold at the station became strangely vivid and caught one’s eye.

We reached the Ural Mountains. Yet even as a mountain range, it remained indistinguishable from the flat grasslands in every particular.

August 16

The plains continued. The grass gradually grew shorter. “There’s nowhere like this in Argentina or America, I tell you.” Mr. Oyama exclaimed in astonishment. I gazed at the narrow path clinging tenuously alongside the railway tracks and found myself staring, wondering if this was where Dostoevsky had been brought by sled. It was a horizon no different from when one ventured into the open sea and became enveloped by the horizon. As long as that persisted, no matter which direction one faced, it continued endlessly.

When I was in Paris, I felt the sadness of humans having done too many things. However, here I felt the sadness that humans had not yet done anything. "Well now, trying to say whether this is wide or not wide—it’s beyond words." Mr. Oyama said.

I had exhausted all there was to say. No matter how much I tried to exaggerate, I was struck by the thought that here—for the first time on earth—I had encountered a place utterly devoid of exaggeration’s power. Nothingness. Having said this, I felt my face flush with shame at the nothingness I had perceived until then. As I gazed at the dim glow far beyond the horizon, the image of Raskolnikov and Sonya standing in silence surfaced in my mind. The nothingness of Japan was something one circled through with all one’s intellect only to finally recognize one’s own foolishness—but here before my eyes lay nothing but nothingness.

Fields were scattered here and there. However, even those were like scratches made by a finger.

August 17

The terror of this boundless Russia expanding its military—but that was impossible. Humans could not possibly control nature of such immensity. Even if they had managed it, it would have been nothing more than a single railway. Here, the railway alone was the nation. Even if we were to assume that this railway—this muscle—could move involuntary muscles, its limits would still have been evident. I was not looking down on anything. I was only feeling the powerlessness of humans against nature.

When the clock precisely pointed to 9:00 AM, the reality inside the train was around 3:00 PM. It was already nearing evening. This was because up to this point, we had continued using Moscow time without making any adjustments. If we were to adjust this to world-standard time, not only would various complications arise, but there simply weren’t enough people here to warrant such a necessity. On the black soil, stations were scattered in abundance. All were filthy, and the surrounding houses could hardly be called villages—they were mere hamlets. However, the strictness between unmarried men and women could be felt at every station. Not a trace of lewdness could be found anywhere. When our train arrived, old women and Kyrgyz girls came running from the direction of the houses, each holding eggs or milk in their hands. Some carried whole roasted bird legs.

On the station platform, a crowd of laborers were clustered together, remaining squatting motionless as they watched the train. I approached one old man among them and took out a fine cigarette I had brought from Germany, but he neither extended his hand nor smiled. Reluctantly, I held out the cigarette until it made contact with his finger—only then did he finally take it, pinching it between his fingertips. Could ideology have permeated their minds so thoroughly? Was this pride that had lost its way?

Because it was an international train that ran no more than once every four days, all the villagers turned out to gather at the station. Every station platform was bustling. Everyone wore expressions of pride that concealed their joy. Europeans who disembarked from the train walked through this crowd, but the pride of culture and the pride of local ideology exchanged subtle glances and lamented the brevity of their fleeting festival. A small festival enveloped by endless horizons. Ideology, money, love—all met their end here. Intellect had nothing but prayer. As for all else, I knew nothing more. I knew only this: that beyond here, when one digs through the snow, mammoths from five thousand years ago are still being unearthed with flesh that can be sliced by a knife.

At every station, American newlyweds were taking photographs. People from other countries were all prohibited, but only this couple was tacitly permitted. The two German diplomats carrying diplomatic documents from Berlin to Japan never let the large bag fastened with string leave their side, even when going to the dining hall.

“What is that?”

Mr. Oyama asked. "This is a terribly important thing for Japan." With that, the two laughed.

The international train bound for Paris had come to a stop. The three-foot gap between my train and that one was abuzz with an unexpected crowd. A Japanese man among them approached and bowed. "I have just been briefed over there. Thank you for your efforts." "I am a member of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs currently en route to Warsaw." He greeted us. This man too was transporting diplomatic documents requiring two people, but since one couldn't leave them unattended, he was said to remain inside the train. When Mr. Oyama relayed this to the German diplomats, they all burst into laughter.

The moment you flaunted something as being this important, no one would even try to steal it anymore. Our attendant would stand outside listening even when Mr. Oyama and I were talking inside the room. At night, one couldn’t look outside at all. However, in two more days, we would arrive in Manchuria.

A world kept expanding where even if someone were to retort, "What country is this anyway?" it would not seem particularly unnatural. I no longer felt any surprise at all toward the sky's vastness. My mind had cleared completely.

August 18 We were approaching Lake Baikal. The mountains gradually grew more numerous. It was the first time since Berlin that I had seen anything resembling mountains. However, those could hardly be called mountains yet. Even so, could we not do without this many mountains? It must have been precisely this that allowed those winds to sweep across Russia. The theory that returning from abroad makes one foolish is common sense among the Japanese. However, under these circumstances, one truly has no choice but to become a fool.

That a human being had ever completely traveled the earth alone remained utterly nonexistent throughout all ages. The intelligence gathered from the world's discourse constituted what we knew as logic. How much escaped from this logic that everyone believed in? No—rather, how much more existed beyond our knowledge than within it. When one became aware of such things, they turned into a fool. This was no drawn-out intellectual construct resembling skepticism or psycholinguistic analysis.

There exists a universal logic. This too was like an electric current that had surged forth from human imperfection. As evidence of this, its constant transformation demonstrated the peril of not knowing where intelligence's ultimate limits lay. The safety of having become utterly clueless—from this head alone emerged the intellect called dialectics. I am one who has traveled through Europe, and I doubt the minds of those who believe they have become wise.

August 19

Manchuria Station was nearly upon us. The people who produced Genghis Khan were those inhabiting the lands stretching from Lake Baikal to this region. The gently undulating yellow-green terrain held an entrancing beauty. In valleys of gradual slopes where no dwellings could be seen, white flocks of sheep drifted like clouds. Mongolians stood in the fields with calm, smiling faces, watching our train pass by undisturbed by any occurrence. The vivid shadows cast by landform folds upon the earth's own creases—this was a thoroughly modern beauty. This expression was impossible to capture.

Around midnight, we finally reached the border. Here, the Russian side conducted a baggage inspection, and for the first time, my passport was returned to my hands. A German diplomat had his 100 yen in Japanese banknotes confiscated. The reason was that he had forgotten to enter it in his passport when entering Negoreloe at the Polish border. “Please return it. “Because I need to use it in Japan.” “Because it’s something I’ve cherished.”

The German pleaded repeatedly, but the young border control officer would not comply. The degree of political animosity between Germany and Russia manifested itself here. "How many days will you be staying in Japan?" "Two weeks." "In that case, I'll return it when you come back." The German clenched his teeth, tightened his fists, leaned back, and slammed his fist on the desk while glaring. "Fine." He simply walked away from there.

August 20

It was now three hours to Manchuria Station. I tried getting into bed, but couldn’t sleep. I was eager to see how Japan would look.

At three in the morning, I arrived at Manchuria Station. It was too dark to see anything. I remained seated in the train with no intention to move. I wondered if Japan's influence had truly extended this far. Yet compared to how Russia had spread all the way here from Poland, it seemed insignificant. I contemplated the propriety of remaining silent about matters anyone would naturally sense here—through this darkness, I perceived human destiny in ideology's terror. Moreover, this was an uninhabited borderland. The mysterious opposition faced by those who would enrich this land instead of sheep—how earnestly I wished to speak with Japanese intellectuals at this frontier.

At Manchuria Station, a man who had come to retrieve the marathon film I brought back was the first to approach me.

“Is Mr. Yokomitsu Riichi here, Ah?”

Calling out like this, he entered the train corridor. “It’s me,” I said. “So it’s you? Do you have the marathon film?” “I have it.” “Then let’s have that.” he said to the others behind him. Instead of saying “Thank you for your trouble,” was this man who spoke thus the first Japanese I encountered? “I do have the film, but since it’s an important entrusted item, kindly show me your business card.”

I answered. Then another kind young man presented a Mainichi News reporter’s business card and said, “I am the reporter. Thank you very much. You must be exhausted. I’ve just arrived by plane from Hailar—there was such a downpour until recently that I might not make it back tonight. The Asahi team seems to be struggling too.”

Secondly, I witnessed competition at the border. "This is Japan through and through," I thought. In Europe, newspapers don't even put out extra editions. Next appeared a Special Higher Police detective wearing Chinese attire. "I may be part of this organization, but please leave your luggage untouched. Dawn will break soon, so there's no need to worry. This place has absolutely no thieves— nowhere for them to flee. If you haven't secured lodgings yet, I'll escort you. Though there's scarcely time for sleep now, you should still try to rest briefly. There remain eight hours until departure."

Whether they were from the Special Higher Police or whatever else, for me, as long as they were Japanese, there was now nothing more reassuring. I exited the station, led by the detective. This detective was remarkably kind and gentle. I had no desire to ponder what lay beneath this man’s demeanor. One had to be either an eccentric with a peculiar curiosity or have some significant reason to come live in a place as remote from human habitation as Manchuria. When we descended from the station to the tracks, the faint morning sun began to shine.

Mr. Oyama and I walked toward the lodgings together. “There are many Japanese military personnel here, but among ordinary Japanese who aren’t soldiers, there are many who commit suicide. What do you make of that?” the detective asked quizzically. For the first time, I gazed intently at the dreamlike undulations of the grassy expanse along the border. Indeed, as the final land of happiness granted to those who take their own lives, I thought there could be no place more beautiful than this. There were no trees. As far as the eye could see stretched overlapping soft low hills blanketed in yellow grass. Bright light. As I fixed my gaze on the flowing clouds and stared at the mountains, in this uninhabited borderland the sky and earth seemed to frolic intimately in peaceful play. The land somehow wore the bashful expression of a virgin.

The morning sun was gradually rising higher. The beauty of the fields grew more intense. However, because this beautiful land was a border, all people here were completely deprived of their freedom. Those on this side of the mountain were not permitted to see the beauty that lay beyond. Those on the other side were not permitted to see this beauty here. Between here and there, a beautiful border that no one had yet seen continued endlessly alone.

“Is that the border?” “That’s right,” said the Tokkōka detective. “Well, we just call it that. In reality, no one can clearly say where exactly the border lies.” As for this man’s professional dedication, I found myself unable to criticize him—I could only think he was doing good work. There was nothing more admirable than that. Let us each do our part. I thought I would have no complaint even if bound by this man. I too would respect national law like Socrates.

At 10:00 AM, I headed toward Harbin.

Olympic Chronicle

July 24.

On Akutagawa’s death anniversary, I departed by airplane.

Before I could grow nostalgic for Paris, I passed Cologne, and soon the lakes of Potsdam came into view below, followed by Berlin's massive form with its clusters of ochre-black spires. Unlike summer Paris—desolate as an empty nest—here was a festival. The landscape stretched before me: polished roads running straight between linden trees with drooping branches; windows bursting with crimson hollyhocks; row upon row of swastika flags fluttering in the wind—as if a band of warriors from the Warring States era might come charging forth at any moment. What war could each person here be preparing for? The towns beneath the linden trees, teeming with foreigners, were veritable international cities. Berlin's citizens responded to this hospitality with humility, politeness, cleanliness, and kindness. On a Sunday after the rain had cleared, I visited the Olympic Village. This was Deberitz—a place far removed from the city, resembling a corner of Tama Cemetery surrounded by red pines. When I entered through the back gate, a Japanese flag stood on a house called Antwerp. Mr.Yoshioka—whom I'd often seen in photographs—sat on a bench basking in sunlight while watching clouds move like early autumn. No one was indoors; stillness reigned. Only a shot put lay rolling in the corridor. Amid birch forests stood lodgings for American athletes. The scenery resembled Karuizawa—birch treetops with upturned leaves glittering in sunlight; narrow paths curving through bright grassy hills. Metcalfe descended the slope alone, chest thrust forward in his linen suit. Swans floated in a nearby pond. Pale red blossoms swayed in flower beds; green fields cascaded downward; cranes wandered freely through woods. With each step, the impending competition day grew distant as some tranquil memory—the view expanded; air clarified; sparse figures moved; red roof tiles glimpsed through trees evoked paradise. The stadium stood four kilometers from Berlin's outskirts. At an ash-white square's base lay a red-tiled oval encircling green lawns—like water scooped from a pool.

On that lawn, Riefenstahl held a blue flag and was preparing for the event. Amidst the noise of construction, Messrs. Son and Minami dashed about. When comparing the three legs of the iron fire bowl brought from Olympia, Greece, to its spine, one still had to look up a full shaku. That solemn majesty would likely endure for a thousand years to come.

Olympic Opening Ceremony

August 1 The streets from Unter den Linden to the stadium, under leaden skies that had persisted since the previous day, were lined with the brown ranks of the Assault Unit, and the crowds came to an abrupt halt. As we neared the venue, the ranks transformed into even more elite black-clad SS units. A giant Zeppelin glided leisurely while maintaining balance directly above the perfectly straight road. When we looked up at the sky, it was as though we were at the bottom of the sea.

The next Olympics had come around to Japan. Due to the previous day’s incident, the Hinomaru among the street flags suddenly appeared to swell large. A single rope hung down from the heavens to Japanese culture—we had to climb it with vigor and resolve. When we took our seats in the venue, rain began to fall sporadically. The Zeppelin once again revealed its massive form above the stadium. The beauty of the ship-like shape quietly crossing over the oval venue was as if the pinnacle of mechanical culture had been reached here. A peaceful trumpet sounded from atop the tower. In response, the orchestra struck up and cheers erupted as Hitler entered through the main entrance. The Nazi salute resembled spears with their tips aligned at an angle.

Within the solemn venue, the tolling bell signaling the commencement began low, then gradually swelled in volume. As the bell’s tolling subsided, a group of Greek athletes marched in with precise steps, led by their flag bearer. Following this, in alphabetical order, the groups of fifty nations entered one after another. The audiences from various nations filling the venue erupted in waves of applause every time a new group appeared. However, I believe that at this moment, I was able to witness firsthand Europe's attitude—where the entire crowd, though swept up in a single excitement, cheered and applauded according to their individual preferences despite their differing nationalities.

The athletes from each country who marched before Hitler had to perform their respective national salutes. However, the countries that received applause were those that had performed the German-style oath salute. Among the countries that advanced while looking sideways up at the front were Britain and Japan. No one broke the silence to applaud these two nations. Nations that stood out clearly in their attire and complexion received applause for their beauty. Austria and the United States received roaring cheers that filled the venue due to their political backgrounds, but Costa Rica—which had sent only a single flag bearer as its athlete—stirred a thick wave of goodwill through its lonesome solitary figure. France passed quietly and silently through Germany's watchful gaze. As if this were entirely natural—the very instant when they suddenly came before Chancellor Hitler under the spectators’ collective gaze—they performed the German-style oath salute. At this clever reversal, the audience erupted in a tumultuous uproar that showed no sign of abating, and the British team that followed could only proceed through the cheers that had been bestowed upon France. Switzerland’s flag bearer would toss the flag high and catch it, letting out peculiar cries to greet the spectators as they advanced. It was unclear what etiquette this was supposed to be—it felt like watching an acrobatic performance, and the solemn venue itself seemed to teeter on the brink of collapse from one corner.

The Republic of China team emerged all wearing summer hats, but the beauty of their synchronized removal allowed one to sense the Republic’s elegance. If anything, when seeing how the latter half of Japanese athletes became disordered in their steps—marching forward while trampling grass that should not have been trodden upon—one could not help but feel concern over the excitement Japan’s Olympic bid had instilled in them, causing hands to clench with sweat. Particularly after Italy’s stately procession and applause that surged forth as if in response. The last in the athletes’ procession was Germany. Among all nations, theirs was the most precisely aligned march; their white uniforms stood out vividly, forming an even tighter ring of tension within the venue.

After Dr. Lewald, Chairman of the Organizing Committee, delivered his address and Chancellor Hitler concluded his opening remarks, a cannon shot suddenly resounded. Thousands of doves flew up from the ground all at once, swirling around the venue as they traced circles in the air. Each time the cannon shots resounded deeply, they would change direction, soar high into the sky, and scatter away.

At that moment, an athlete rushed over holding the sacred flame torch—resembling a bamboo sword—that had been brought from Olympia, Greece. The fire spread burning across the large iron platter. While the audience straightened their collars and watched the blazing flames, the choir quietly, gradually, and loftily sang Richard Strauss’s Olympic anthem. The struggle for peace among nations would now commence.

August 3 Both yesterday (the 2nd) and today (the 3rd), the weather was bad. On days when I left home and saw threatening skies, I always thought: "Today will be no good for Japan." Japanese people shrink like plants at even a wisp of cloud. The conical Berlin Olympic Stadium particularly had a base deeper than we imagined, its rim plunging profoundly. On such planes where little sky showed through, their daily training proved useless. The main reason none of our athletes achieved personal records lay in that narrow overcast sky viewed from below. When Murakoso and Miss Yamamoto—the two who posted relatively good results—competed, sunlight had broken through clouds to bathe the venue in rare brilliance. To exceed one's limits requires nature's cooperation. Miss Yamamoto's javelin throw had been one breath away from success. Just at crucial moments, roaring applause would erupt for some other event—the 800-meter race. When she prepared to throw again, cheers rose for high jumpers. Under such conditions, performance became impossible. Their defeated figures clutching furoshiki bundles resembled divorced women trudging back to parental homes. Murakoso's 10,000-meter race against Finland became that day's highlight. Of thirty-one runners, he led unchallenged through twelve laps. But glancing back at lap thirteen's end sealed his fate—by lap sixteen a Finn overtook him. With two laps remaining came three Finns scrambling past each other while Murakoso dropped to fourth. Yet he regained lead position once more—only to collapse immediately after. On such days only flesh speaks.

The larger ones ended up winning nearly every event. The grand spectacle of beholding the physical limits of a nation’s people spread out below one’s gaze could absolutely not be witnessed anywhere but at these overcast Olympics. On days when Japan lost, I would find enjoyment in occasionally picking up a telescope as though it were a microscope to examine people’s muscles, as if I were in a grand laboratory.

August 5

On the 4th and 5th, Japan’s team was remarkable. Among the international spectators up until yesterday, there had been a sense that Black and German athletes were dominating the stage alone. As Germany declined and Japan began to rise, cheers from all nations surged toward Japan. The waves of applause that Murakoso received two days prior and Nishida and Oe received yesterday were so intense they seemed ready to overwhelm the entire venue. By the time of the pole vault finals, the sun had completely set. The audience gazing down at the brightly lit arena ceaselessly chanted Nishida and Oe’s names—then, just as the two finally took their jumping stances, silence fell like still water. Only the clatter of typewriters reporting to nations and the crackle of Olympia’s flame bursting in the sky above remained. As I watched these scenes, I could not help but hope that when the Olympics came to Japan, the spectators’ conduct would prove as fair and beautiful as this.

After Returning from Paris

Before departing for France, I received a copy of Lamiel translated by Mr. Nakajima Kenzō, and though I took it with me intending to compare it at my leisure with the French original while there, I ended up bringing it back unread. Now that I am finally reading this, I find that passages describing the road from Paris to Normandy—particularly their opening sections—mirrored exactly the route I had taken to Rouen.

The fact that this book mercilessly lambastes Parisians—who do not even construct landscapes without calculative reasoning—holds such value that Stendhal himself merits attack, regardless of whether one considers his Grenoble origins.

However, there was no issue that made us foreigners ponder more deeply than this "value deserving of attack." Paris was a target that should have been attacked by all foreigners. And yet no matter who attacked it or how they did so, Paris would become like this—only through becoming like this would it come to know itself—as it silently kicked back.

The place where, each time the world’s talented individuals return to their homeland after having once ventured forth to conquer, their very forms undergo complete transformation. The place where each time a woman ventures forth proudly displaying her beauty, she returns home having realized it holds no worth whatsoever. In such a place, men come to despise women completely, and women utterly mock men to the fullest extent—and from this mutual contempt, romance arises. This is likely the quintessential visage of modern romance. What criticism in the world could possibly be useful against such a form of male-female relations? The statement that theater is far more noble than life is true.

The French Prime Minister Léon Blum had once published an article in Paris-Soir from his youth when he wrote essays on Stendhal and novels; yet while Japan's conventional wisdom holds that novels are written by fools, here it was precisely because one was a fool that they proved useful in life. I had never seen a place where literature guided life as thoroughly as in this country, nor where the general populace enriched their existence through it. It was precisely for this reason that Gide's words emerged: "Has there ever been anything great that did not become vulgarized?" However, there comes a time when everyone inevitably reaches an impasse. At this moment, each person returns to their true self and reverts to youth.

The foundation of the French attitude—beginning language study at sixty or seventy, respecting sixteen- or seventeen-year-old youths as equals, acting independently without regard to age—must lie, I think, in their ceaseless effort to discover youth within their own years. What I envied most during my stay in Paris was the beauty and grandeur of this country’s elderly people. Wondering whether the thoroughness of individualism shapes men thus, I often directed my attention to observing the elderly, but came to realize that the Japanese cultivation which makes elders behave as elders should is no longer the kind of cultivation that renders life happy. I too, keeping a sixteen-year-old boy in mind as I resolved to study anew, came to realize that refraining from practicing adulthood while young constitutes the foremost principle of modern cultivation—this too I owe to France. This was no time for theories of youth. What makes an adult? No one speaks of it.

I once sent a dispatch to Bungei Shunjū under the title "Disappointing Paris." That dispatch caused problems among the Japanese in Paris and worried my friends back in Japan, but in truth, I did not write that title. Far from being disappointed in Paris, I in fact gained a great deal there. Some time ago, a Japanese person in Berlin wrote that they were troubled by how bad the food was there, but then received a flood of critical letters from Japan attacking them with remarks like, "What do you know about the taste of Berlin’s cuisine?" Even within mainland Japan, among those who once went abroad, there still remain many people who harbor a spirit of guarding their own sacred sites, each living while regarding foreign lands as their spiritual homelands.

The fervent disputes among those who defended Paris, those who defended Berlin, and those who defended London were a common sight in foreign lands, but the most intense among them was the Berlin faction. There was an instance where Mr. Masamune Hakucho arrived in Moscow and, while being guided by a Japanese person, walked around denouncing everything he saw; the guide reportedly suggested that if he found it so disagreeable, he should leave Moscow sooner. The person tasked with guiding had not particularly favored Moscow, but when one stayed in a place for long, it became natural to develop affection for it—a truth that likely remained unchanged for anyone. However, when I met Mr. Saijō Yaso and Mr. Fujiwara Yoshie abroad, both gentlemen stated the same sentiment: "No matter what they say, Japan is best. I want to return soon." This made me think that even those who longed for foreign lands might feel similarly to us—but those who had lived overseas for over ten years told us newcomers that unless one returned to Japan periodically, they would turn into fools. Looking at the faces of such people, one could not tell whether they were young or old, and it suddenly struck me that age was something that developed based on one’s country of birth; yet there was a stark difference in their capacity to grow into the land between those who had crossed to foreign countries in their youth and those who had moved overseas in old age. To put it starkly, young people grew old in relation to the land faster than the elderly did. Though I was still one who should have been called a youth, even so, while abroad, I felt myself growing acutely distant from young adulthood and grew bored with everything.

Those who traveled abroad without any purpose found that once they’d seen what they wanted to see, nothing remained afterward but an unrelievable boredom. Waking up each morning and wondering where to go that day was like the daily ordeal of a housewife agonizing over what to prepare for lunch. Moreover, what troubled me most was that the buildings were so tall I couldn’t see the sky, and stone walls pressing down from above assailed me relentlessly wherever I went. Rather than the desolate scenery of mountains and fields, it is the bleak sight of vertical stone walls that nurtures a beastly mentality in humans. Rather than the modest affection of gazing at things, it is the mindset to act above all else that comes to the forefront.

If acting upon both evil and good constituted the psychology within stone walls, then Japan’s contemplative observation must have been the psychology amidst plants, trees, wind, and moon. As for what was called Oriental taste, I believed we Orientals could never escape from it. Lately, a trend of scorning Oriental taste seemed to have finally gained momentum in Japan, but I hoped that the ideal of progressing toward East-West harmony would not become as shoddy as cheap serge garments.

If I were to write disparagingly of Berlin and Paris, the trouble of facing various attacks would, I imagined, grow even fiercer upon entering Russia. Among the Japanese in Paris, the owner of Tomono Shōten—a man who had contributed more to Paris than any other and had even received the Légion d'honneur from the French government—once gave a radio broadcast after returning to Tokyo in which he happened to mention the French people's negative aspects. When he later returned to Paris, he was promptly summoned and, after severe reprimand, had his French medal revoked—or so I heard. Yet even when speaking candidly about such experiences, it wasn't just matters concerning one's own country; there were now various hardships one had to navigate. Realizing that the feudal anxieties of the Tokugawa era had somehow spread to places one would never have dreamed of, I often felt deeply moved at how even Europe—which had once boasted the zenith of liberalism—had come to such a state.

In Berlin, people warned me: "Don't discuss politics—even foreigners risk being taken away and killed." But upon entering Moscow where photography was prohibited, I felt thoroughly constrained, as if my hands and feet had been bound. The notion of judging whether someone is right-wing or left-wing upon sight has pervasively spread worldwide. The idea that humans observe things freely has now become society's common belief. Though everyone knows Spain's turmoil represents ideological conflict, travelers now risk being seen as spies in some sense—no one can escape this feudalistic misconception. Each time they slip through, modern people chased by new rope handles find that living with folded hands in idle spectatorship has become impossible.

In contrast to this, Japan still retained a single natural attitude that remained permitted. In other words, the bizarre dojo called "Okera's Song"—where one abandoned oneself, stabbed others to death, and reduced everything to nothingness—continued to breathe like the ascetic training grounds deep in the mountains of Tanba. When a light was cast here, various faces—indiscernible as barbarians or cultured people—sat cross-legged, facing no particular direction, snickering vacantly.

When I crossed the Urals into Siberia and saw the plains stretching thousands of miles, Europe's intellectual culture that I had left behind appeared as nothing more than a romantic, ephemeral castle; yet it seems we cannot escape this perspective that negates the results of human endeavor. In the disputes of European intellectuals, they avoid striking their adversaries' absolute vital points; whereas the Japanese will not strike unless it is an inescapable vital point that paralyzes the opponent. The custom that takes as its true purpose the elimination of vital points—much like pigs—never ceases to cling to us. However, now, there is no one who lacks vital points. The flourishing of "Okera's Song" is an auspicious omen praying for good fortune and perfect virtue.

The Study of Humanity

The fact that each person thinks about humanity—the remarkable fact that those of any profession consider humanity in accordance with their work—swirls onward into the new year as a grand spectacle.

Once a year, during this mental celebration where all people collectively contemplated their age and wished for happiness in the coming year, the morning sun already rose as it commenced. That such things were truly auspicious—for a long time I had forgotten this. However, the custom wherein everyone secretly engaged in the study of humanity yet ceased this pursuit only during the New Year's pine-decorated season had never ceased to continue in this world since the day I was born. Of all that remains unchanging, it is the New Year alone that will likely endure forever.

Mr. Kume Masao’s statement that "Humans are born to hold festivals; therefore, one must not despise festivals" struck me as an insightful observation. A festival is humans forgetting humans. However, I thought it was about time I began my study of humanity anew with the coming year. I commenced my study.

While in Paris, I occasionally paid attention to events occurring in mainland Japan. Then, from those printed words, my own slander came mixed in, entering my eyes. In a foreign land, when I was fondly directing thoughts toward my homeland, the emotion felt upon unexpectedly discovering slander against myself became unbearably repugnant. Having returned to Paris after traveling through various countries, when I tried to summon back memories of those lands I visited, each nation began to appear as living beings with color, voice, and rounded forms. But just when I visualized that most nostalgic of creatures and reached out to touch it gently, there came that same eeriness—as if being suddenly subjected to malicious words. Yet undeterred by this eeriness, I resolved to return home at all costs and raced across Siberia—that spine of the Earth—only to collapse into Japan in a headlong slide. I couldn't discern which direction I had collapsed in, but above my head—where I lay suffering from severe dizziness—only the faintly audible voices of someone arguing "Safe!" and another countering "Out!" could be heard. Finally, the dizziness subsided. I stood up, brushed off the sand and dust, and tried to start walking, but my legs were still unsteady.

Just then came a barrage of questions, but the very first one invariably concerned Parisian women—this was how it went. I had been asked this everywhere, and upon reflection couldn't help feeling chagrined that Japanese men cared more about this than anything else. Considering how the Simpson Incident stirred global sentiment more profoundly than Chiang Kai-shek's Xi'an Incident, I suppose people's fascination with Parisian women has its reasons. Daily life ultimately proves more compelling to humans than politics. The study of humanity remains undiminished, unchanged from ages past. Rather than peddling ideologies, I believe writers should spend this year too in study—gleaning original thoughts from observing humankind.

"I do not want to flee from anything that would put my true worth to use."

Like Gide, I now think this way. Whether safe or out, I know nothing of such matters.

It was unseasonably warm for winter. After extinguishing the brazier's fire and removing my haori, I stood on the veranda and saw a white plum tree with branches weighed down by dense blossoms trembling in the wind. Suddenly I thought to take my wife for a neighborhood stroll. Having not yet used the camera I bought in Germany, I brought it along and invited her out. With all the children away playing, our walk together felt like sneaking off—strangely intriguing in its way. I had scarcely ever done such things before. When our house disappeared from view, I finally understood why people did this sort of thing, feeling an unconstrained New Year's spirit emerge within me.

The intense sunlight made my body grow slightly damp with sweat, but this languid sensation softened into calmness as I gazed at the withered fields and clouds around me. The treetops of bare winter trees stood in a row, their pale purple forms faintly hazed, and with no sign of new buds emerging, no restlessness stirred within me. It was a quiet winter afternoon, mild for the season, without passersby. When I had walked this same path last year, camellias and hollies dense with blossoms had stood here—now gone, replaced by a house. From the forest came the sound of a great pine tree being felled.

As I chose a sunlit path and ambled along, my desire to take photographs waned, yet when I spotted a large ginkgo tree, I had my wife stand beside it and took a couple of shots. Since my wife said she would photograph me too, I stood there having her take pictures, and as we did so, I began to think this was quite an enjoyable diversion. Here we were—a real couple recreating another reality together—and putting logic aside, both found ourselves newly struck by a subtle sensation we'd never experienced before. The photos we took couldn't be viewed on the spot, so we had no way of knowing how they turned out; yet the act of photographing each other grew naturally more profound than before we began.

There are two types of married couples: those who strain day and night trying to shift their immovable life together somehow, and those who resign themselves—since marriage is marriage after all—feeling as though they've plunged to the abyss's depths. Yet I often think lately that the evolution of static couples lies precisely where one would least expect. Even in the study of humanity, observing evolution between static couples proves most difficult. During my travels abroad, I encountered none of the pitfalls one easily stumbles into with foreign women and returned home exactly as I had departed. Many others laughed at me, but since I have my own method of study, I cannot allow myself to be mindlessly disrupted by them. Because of this, I gained much indeed.

Dostoevsky said that when one lives forty years, they become a peculiar sort of human. Indeed, even someone like me often thought I had grown into a peculiar sort myself. First of all, human beings had come to appear far simpler than before. It was simply that there were too many visible human chess pieces; their sheer numbers ended up dazzling our eyes. In battle—and in this alone—it remains ever one against hundreds of thousands; no different for any soul.

In streets, venues, or crowded places, whenever I found someone interesting, I had this habit of standing still and watching them until they disappeared from sight. However, this was during idle times. Even when abroad, as there was nothing but idle time, I always let this habit run free as I walked about. When I spent my days doing nothing but observing people, I inevitably developed an intense desire to do nothing but read books. Yet if I endured this urge and continued watching people, it always came to pass that the relationship between my home and myself became clearly apparent.

It was the night of August 12th last year.

That night, I encountered an interesting experience.

To travel from Berlin to Moscow, I had to transfer trains at the Polish border. The train I transferred to would take me all the way to Manzhouli, so it and I were destined to become quite familiar with each other. With that thought, I entered the dining car for dinner, where a distinguished gentleman who had finished his meal sat facing my direction, absorbed in contemplation. At first, due to my extreme hunger, I paid little attention to this gentleman positioned about fifteen feet away from me.

Having satisfied my hunger, I began observing the dining car's occupants with my usual leisurely gaze. The demeanor of a gentleman who had remained motionless before me then seized my attention. He appeared forty-eight or forty-nine years old. His attire consisted of a thick beige suit with matching golf trousers and socks bearing vertical stripes of identical hue—an ensemble of remarkable refinement. His features and neck maintained an elegant slenderness, while his melancholic countenance suggested he might never have smiled; his right hand lay sideways on the table as he continued staring fixedly at its surface one or two feet ahead. Though unmistakably French in appearance, his physique seemed somewhat large for a man of that nationality. His profession defied all conjecture. The faint recession of his hairline escaped notice due to his attire's pale brown tones. Most striking were his eyes—youthfully clear despite his years yet possessing an intensely cold and willful sharpness. Though I had scrutinized countless foreigners during my nightly wanderings through foreign lands, this man's character resisted categorization within any framework I'd prepared for my study of humanity.

The gentleman had not touched the tea he ordered and had been gazing about with displeasure when he suddenly began staring fixedly at me. His face was truly beautiful. This was no ordinary handsomeness of a fine gentleman—rather a vivid beauty sharp as an unsheathed blade, one that had long ceased finding anything of interest in this world. It struck me that were there many such people in existence, I would surely come to despise living. In all the Orient, not a single person of this sort exists. That was just as well. Even as I thought how fortunate this made the Orient, the gentleman continued staring unwaveringly at me. "Do as you like," I thought, taking up my beer. Yet whenever I considered this man, despite feeling inexorably drawn to him, I found myself confronting what seemed like culture's final reckoning—my heart instead yearning for the wholesome vigor of ripened grain. Compared to him, I still felt grounded in earthly happiness. Within me existed none of that cultural chill. This was fortunate indeed. This alone I resolved never to shoulder—so I truly thought.

However, the person before me was none other than André Gide, the preeminent figure of the intellectual world. I had not known this at all. I had seen numerous photographs of Gide before. Yet the reason I failed to recognize that the man staring at me was Gide stemmed from having heard two months earlier that he was in Moscow. At that moment, it never occurred to me that someone supposedly in Moscow would be traveling back there from the Polish border. However, it was only after this gentleman left the dining car and vanished from sight that I began suspecting his identity. When I saw him stand to leave holding a French book, I started thinking he might be a literary man. Since Gide was French, I gradually convinced myself he must belong to that very lineage—this marked the beginning.

The next morning when I went to the dining car, that same gentleman appeared again, this time showing me his back as he sat reading at a table about fifteen feet away. At this time, he had crossed his legs at an angle and was wearing glasses. With a single glance, I clearly thought: This was Gide. When I called the waiter and asked what kind of person that was, the reply came that he was a famous French literary figure. In that case, there could be no further doubt. It was indeed Gide. And yet, how could this man appear so different when viewed from the front versus from behind? Seen from behind, he looked every bit the refined, kindly, cheerful-looking old gentleman who had seen and known all there was to know. He occasionally made notes in his book, slightly leaning back as if there were no greater joy in this world, tilting his head this way and that while moving his pencil with difficulty across the pages of the swaying volume. Since I had been the one observed last night, this morning I resolved to observe him thoroughly and gazed unwaveringly at Gide's figure from behind. While reading, he would haphazardly throw food into his mouth and then appear hurried to jot down notes again. As I drank my tea, I gazed at the beautiful morning plains approaching Moscow and at Gide, thinking to myself that among all the scenery one could enjoy in this world, there was none as fascinating as this, and I slowly ate my meal alone.

It would not be long before Gide published his Russian travelogue, and if that were so, then by now some distinct theme concerning Russia must have already taken shape in his mind. Even so, a question I found impossible to accept arose and would not leave me. What could explain this phenomenon of Gide—the greatest intellect of France, that foremost cultural nation—becoming a spiritual colony of Russia? Could this truly be considered proper intellectual history? To me, it remained utterly incomprehensible. Of course, there can be no borders in the spiritual world. Yet is not the very essence of a cultural nation's identity rooted in its traditions? Beyond that, culture is nothing at all. Of all foolish notions, none proves more meaningless than an intellect that rejects culture. If this holds true, then what exactly constituted French intellect? And did France's training within its traditional spiritual world truly grow so feeble?—From these thoughts swirling within me, yet more questions began to multiply. This stood as the paramount concern of my study of humanity.

After finishing my morning meal, Moscow was finally approaching. I needed to prepare to disembark. Thinking I would never meet Gide again, I returned to my compartment. When I got off in Moscow, I was immediately taken by special correspondent Mr. Mori to tour the city. Around noon, while having my photograph taken at the entrance of a grand hotel called the Metropolis, Gide suddenly appeared there once more. "Isn't that Gide?"

I asked Mr. Mori. "Yes, this is Gide’s regular hotel," came the reply—but even as it was given, Gide’s figure had already vanished into the hotel. I was treated to lunch by Mr. Mori on the hotel terrace. As I was cutting into the bird served with a knife, Gide appeared there once again. When I watched to see if he would dine on the same terrace, he exited through the entrance toward the theater square ahead. He wore no hat and was dressed in golf trousers typical of a traveler, looking around through the crowd as he strolled leisurely across the square toward the street. The sunlight was so strong that his bald crown gleamed conspicuously, making him unmistakably identifiable at a single glance even amidst the throng.

That was the last I saw of Gide.

Led by Mr. Mori, I walked through the streets again for sightseeing. As we climbed up to one of the squares along the way, I saw a single oppressive reddish-black building. "That is the GPU headquarters," he said. "Once someone passes through that gate, none ever come out."

I can say I had never particularly harbored any ill feelings toward Russia. Yet whenever I heard of Russia indiscriminately taking the lives of so many capable individuals, I could not help but think Japan differed in this regard. I believe culture's greatest value lies above all in respecting human life.

As I stood before the GPU headquarters, I thought that if Japan were Russia, there would have been no time for issues like ideological conversion to arise. When I thought of the joy of having safely reunited with my many excellent friends from before, I felt a sophistication in Japanese intellect that I had not yet noticed. With this sophistication, there is no reason for Japanese culture not to rise.

When I looked at the January issue of Chuo Koron, Gide's Russian travelogue appeared there. Of course I read it with great interest while recalling those two days with Gide in Russia, but what struck me most was that he had been first to articulate what no one else could yet express. He described Russia's various forms of happiness and high-quality living, lavishing them with exhaustive praise, yet still declared that in Russia the worst sometimes overtakes the best. This very phrase, I thought, embodied French intellect. Here manifested the loftiness of French tradition. Mr. Gide said:

“For me, there exists something far more significant than myself—more significant even than the Soviet. It is humanity, its destiny, and its culture.”

For now I will refrain from addressing many other issues, but what stands paramount as both a cultural and human concern is that we must respect human life above all else. I believe the strength of this awareness constitutes a race's intellect and forms the foundation of all culture. As for other evils, I think present-day Japan must have them forgiven for a time.