Pathway to Japanese Literature

February 22 [Note: Showa 11 (1936)] Letter to Family I

I just left Moji. Because I was tired, I didn't feel like writing a letter. Life aboard the ship becomes comfortable once you get used to it, but my head felt hazy, like right before falling asleep. It was warm enough that I wanted to take off my coat, but whenever I carelessly wrote letters in the salon, a draft from the Japan Sea would suddenly make me cough. I thought my cold still hadn't healed. In a panic, I fled to a draft-free spot and took up my pen again.

I want you to save the letters I will send from now on. At such times, letters alone can properly record what comes to mind. Since there’s a risk I might lose them if I keep them myself, I want you to number and preserve them. However, though I suspect I may end up writing nothing at all, it’s because I wish to later compare the psychological transitions aboard ship, natural transformations, and my own shifting sentiments.

Last night, the chief purser told a story about a seven-year-old boy who returned alone from London to Japan out of longing for his grandmother. Moreover, since he himself absolutely refused to go back unless he could return alone, his parents in London were at a loss and ended up letting him make the journey by himself. I also heard a story about a Japanese woman from somewhere who, after traveling around the world and returning, when the ship entered Yokohama, jumped into the sea with a splash and died. If one keeps circling the sea, it’s only natural that worries would arise. It’s nothing at all.

My dining table consisted of Mr. Kyoshi Takahama and his daughter, Chief Engineer Jun’ichi Kaminohata, and myself—the four of us.

February 24

At 9:30 AM,I arrived in Shanghai. As I climbed the stairs to my friend Imataka’s house,suddenly someone called out loudly from below.When I glanced down,there stood Mr.Yamamoto Jitsuyoshi. Though wanting to descend and converse due to this chance encounter,I had yet even to greet Imataka,and so proceeded straight upstairs.Drinking a cup of tea,I then went down again to Uchiyama Bookstore below. In the study were three men-Mr.Lu Xun,Yamamoto,and Uchiyama Bookstore’s proprietor. Mr.Lu Xun had reportedly not slept since last night while drafting his Kaizō manuscript.His pallid face framed a thick beard,yet his teeth remained beautifully aligned. The entire group received lunch hospitality at Xinya on Nanjing Road.

Departure.

Because I am tired, I will put off writing about Shanghai for another day and begin writing the diary from Hong Kong. The sound of waves cast upon the ceiling—a midday nap.

February 26 News of an assassination in Tokyo arrived. It was still morning. As the ship passed off Taiwan, a group of young passengers playing deck golf had just finished a round when someone brought news of the assassination. The group’s faces darkened as they uttered “Heh,” then remained silent for about two minutes. Then, one of them said, “Alright, let’s do the next one.” In an instant, all their faces burst into smiles, and forgetting everything, they picked up their clubs and began hitting the balls. While watching from the side, I thought to myself, “Is this how it is?”

February 28

Cloudy. Arrived in Hong Kong at 8 AM. The harbor’s scenery sufficed to render tangible the journey’s happiness. Here too, the spring rains had already begun. 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 remained endlessly astonished by my mask. Children chased after me to look. Even those engaged in standing conversations stopped mid-sentence and stood vacantly agape. As I continued watching to see what expression the next person might make, each encountered face momentarily assumed the same look before me. All Chinese in Hong Kong appeared more agile and vibrant than those in Shanghai.

Spring rain— watching the sea with beggars While circling the island by car, the vehicle developed a malfunction and remained stopped in the mountains for over an hour. Until it moved again, I got out and looked down at the harbor. Beneath trees whose leaf undersides flipped up in the strong wind, wave crests glistening in the momentary sunlight were beautiful. Finally came word that the car was beyond repair. At a loss, I bought mandarins from a street vendor and composed a haiku while eating them standing. A car sped through the spot and vanished. When I looked, it was Mr. Kyoshi Takahama and his daughter. Even had I tried to call out, it was already too late. Resignedly, I composed another haiku. Chinese people were hooking withered branches at the treetops with pole tips and snapping them off. For a bonfire.

The number of boats moving even as withered branches fall. Hong Kong has been established for eighty years; the mountains across the entire island, now thick with trees, were said to have been barren until then. The beauty of architecture forming steps toward the mountain’s summit. It is said that Hong Kong’s night view is one of the world’s four major night views, but I preferred the daytime scenery. Wild young leaves—Kowloon’s wave crests sharpen. As the ship advanced while swaying side to side, my head grew hazy and my pen wouldn’t move. The text as well—the passages I had corrected when the ship tilted to the left suddenly became unbearable when it began tilting to the right. The strangeness of the mind.

Outside, all that met the eye was sea. The horizon at the center of the two-shaku-high window merely rose and fell within its frame. The things I had found interesting or impressive while inland gradually began to seem dull as the ship advanced. Do changes in value proportionally correspond to distance?

An American tycoon was on board. This gentleman was leaning on the deck’s railing while talking with Major General Hasebe. “Since no one will say a thing if Japan takes everything east of Baikal, it should take it quickly,” he said. “Just make sure they don’t make a racket,” he added.

An eight- or nine-year-old British boy suggested to me that we play golf. The deck was empty. When we started together, this child was extremely strict with others but lenient with himself. However, when he had meals with his mother, he offered her a chair.

On the morning we arrived in Hong Kong, two British journalists from the *China Mail* came to visit. Both were polite. After asking me various questions, they lined up in rigid postures and bowed while saying “Thank you” in unison. A nation’s culture will never rise unless its journalists value courtesy. The more journalists who instill fear in the populace increase, the more culture declines. A story from onboard—there was a British prostitute in London who saved eighty pounds while conducting her business exclusively with Japanese clients. She had grown old but had no children. Her catchphrase was “I have eighty pounds from Japanese patrons—when I die I’ll give it all to a Japanese club for good use.” They say she wrote this in her will and always carried that paper in her pocket— This was something Mr. Yonezawa, former consul general in London, directly told me.

Hong Kong—departed at 7 a.m. on the 29th. Cold. I had heard summer clothes were worn west of here but found myself wanting an overcoat. Could it be even the South Seas were changing these days? Around here lay many islands—all resembling illustrations from adventure stories I’d read in my youth. They say pirate bases dotted these waters too; with so many islands shaped like this, I thought one might naturally turn pirate.

March 1 Until yesterday there were those wearing overcoats，but today it grew somewhat hotter. It must be around the start of the rainy season.

We were offshore of French Indochina. Since Shanghai, I had hardly seen sunlight. I marveled at how there could be so many clouds. I thought the sea was vast, but the clouds were vast as well. If day after day all that continued was the sea, the feeling of being on a journey did not arise. Those who remained constantly upon an unchanging sea could not feel their reason for living without adventure. The crew of large ships that did not sway were said to get dizzy more than sailors on small ships. In other words, it was because they rarely encountered major swells. The peach blossoms in the salon gradually scattered.

Two or three days aboard with peach blossoms pervading.

People often say there is no paradise on earth to rival life aboard a ship bound for Marseille on the Europe route. That may well be true. But how dreadfully boring it all is. I became almost friends with the passengers and crew members, but there was something lacking in the ship. I thought about various things, but that is what loneliness is. Human beings are made with boundless extravagance.

March 2

Clear weather; I saw the sun for the first time. The high mountains of French Indochina could be seen about four miles in the distance. Aboard the ship, summer clothes had been adopted. We would soon cross the equator, but it remained cool for that. I was still wearing layered clothing. When a training fleet had approached the equator, an officer handed a telescope to his subordinates and said, "Well? Can you see a red line over there?" When he teased them by saying "That's the equator," they replied "Yes, we can see it." There was a story that they answered thus. I heard the horizon lay six miles from the ship and had learned various things about the Malacca Strait's wonders, but I wanted to see it soon. It was there that Satō Jirō had jumped into the sea, and the ship from that time was this very ship.

The ship that Chaliapin had boarded was also this very ship. The chief purser still had some leftover premium vodka he had received from Chaliapin, and saying "This is it," he poured me a glass. When I abruptly brought it to my lips, there was a beastly odor.

Passengers on the Europe route were like students entering a school. We called those on their second voyage our seniors. Without distinction of age or status, first-years listened to the seniors’ opinions with their own sense of wonder. Yet the seniors’ advice consisted solely of stories that would interest anyone. Once entangled in these tales, all caution vanished. Only the married passengers were left out of the running. The stories that could never be written down—how immeasurably abundant they were in this world.

The previous time I went to Shanghai was in the third year of Showa (1928). This time marked eight years since then, but back then White Russians had mostly been beggars and prostitutes. Within those eight years they had built an imposing quarter in a corner of French Town. All that money had been earned through their own efforts of turning their wives and children into prostitutes. The star Orion had come nearly directly overhead. When this star reaches zenith, they say it signals crossing the equator. Tomorrow would be March 3rd, the Doll Festival.

The Doll Festival with Orion pointing directly overhead. I tried sending a telegram to Japan. On the ship, telegrams cost a uniform eighty sen anywhere as long as we did not enter a port. Today a reply telegram arrived stating that all was well. I wore summer clothes for the first time. I was the last passenger to change into summer clothes.

Word from home: all's well with the change to summer clothes.

The chief engineer of this Hakone Maru was Mr. Jun’ichi Kaminohata, whom I had occasionally seen in newspapers. This person had the support of two-thirds of all employees at NYK. He shared the same dining table as me. He went by the haiku name Kansō and was a disciple of Mr. Kyoshi. Though our conversations were always mechanical, as I listened I began to sense the intriguing depth of machinery. He had made twenty-six voyages to Europe. He would occasionally explain to me the psychological shifts during the voyage from Yokohama to Marseille. I heard there were statistics showing that the fatigue from farewell party bombardments when departing Tokyo persisted all the way to Singapore. My body still hadn’t returned to its normal state. The peach buds grow.

The Doll Festival forgets the swelling peach buds.

I thought the stretch from Shanghai to Singapore was quite long, but almost all of it consisted of uncivilized lands. When I considered that three times this length of uncivilized lands continued all the way to Marseille, I couldn’t help but think that war breaking out was inevitable. Who would leave it as it is?

March 3 Doll Festival. There was a haiku gathering at sea. The themes were dolls and seasonal wardrobe change. Three of my haiku were selected by Mr. Kyoshi.

News from home is safe; the seasonal wardrobe change. Cam Ranh Island; light yellow wardrobe change. The seasonal wardrobe change—far off, palm trees tilt. From this night, I caught a cold.

March 4th

At 8 AM, we arrived in Singapore. At first glance, the port scenery appeared ordinary. Our imagination had been completely off the mark, and we felt no desire to go down into the city. Yet once we disembarked, the tropical characteristics abruptly assailed our senses. An assault of flowers—a symphony of fragrance. Cultural complexity. Botanical profusion. Singapore residents remarked that such heat had not been seen in recent times. Today was said to be the Malay New Year, a public holiday. The natives' garments were new and multicolored. When I asked about that tree, they called it a rain tree.

Under the rain tree were crimson floral garments. When I asked about those crimson flowers, they answered “hibiscus.” A water buffalo cart arrives; hibiscus.

Through street trees adorned with crimson and yellow flowers, we headed toward Johor Palace. Palm trees here are Japan’s pine trees. It was said there were eighty varieties of palm trees, yet each one differed. In our homeland, the plants we saw were only ferns. A cluster of flame-like flowers—they called it the kaenju tree. There was a palm grove like a sudden downpour.

The palm trees tossed wildly, as if they were rain. We visited an Islamic mosque, then went to see the rubber plantation. At a speed of forty miles per hour, for thirty to forty minutes, both sides were nothing but rubber forests. It seemed to be autumn foliage season; the rubber trees were turning red. Suddenly, the scent of spices assailed us from within the forest. There seemed to be incense wood there. Shino Road through fragrant rubber forests

We arrived at Shino. The rubber plantation under Mr. Okuda’s control (Mr. Okuda was a friend from the ship)—a solitary house amidst coconut and rubber groves served as the office. They rested there. There was a crocodile that resembled a dried-up stone wall. Under blooming flowers, the guard poked it with a stick. A raging crocodile; above, a crimson floral garland. They drank palm wine. They cut the new buds at the top of a palm tree, and from there flowed out the wine. The taste and color resembled Calpis, but it was lukewarm and had a strong odor. To collect palm wine, Malay people climb up the tall coconut palms like monkeys. When climbing palm trees, it is said that the natives perform ablutions and purification rituals.

From Shino’s rubber forests, they turned back and visited the Sultan’s tomb at Johor Palace. The scent of Indian jasmine drifted at the gate. A voiceless yet intense aroma. Upon the queen’s tomb lay only flowers of overpowering fragrance. At the Sultan’s consort’s tomb there were also roses. They passed through Singapore’s urban district and took midday meal at Tamagawa-en in the suburbs. Palm groves followed Kanjōn’s ebbing tide. Among the garments of people from various nations, Chinese women’s attire stood most beautiful. I now realized that this unchanging climate held an economy akin to literary language.

Pampas plumes bend in the squall—swift cloud peaks. Passengers bound for Penang hold flowers—their mouths red. The names of the flowers could not all be written. Were one to strip Singapore of its flowers, its monotony would be hell. Travelers from the mainland, dazzled by blossoms alone, seemed convinced this was life’s paradise. But what could these flowers replace for those who dwelled here long? Malay, they say, means “land of exile.” The mainlanders in Singapore were said to be exiles—disowned by parents or jilted lovers. All knew Malay culture now revolved around rubber. Yet from this pivot, the natives’ anguish swelled in strange ways. When culture breached those who’d lacked no food or shelter while living off nature’s bounty, they found themselves needing shoes, clothes, hats. But with rubber prices fallen now, culture could not be cheapened alongside them. Just as when their vigor had surged, to keep using these things unchanged surely pained them. Material want could not but scar the spirit. The natives’ highest aspiration here was to pilgrimage to Mecca and return with certificates proving they’d shed all worldly desire.

For natives of uncivilized lands who need not concern themselves with food, clothing, or shelter, obtaining proof of non-attachment was not so difficult a task. The crux was for them to save up the funds required to make the pilgrimage to Mecca. With their saved money, they received proof of non-attachment, returned home, and ended up taking non-attachment as their lifelong pride. Life was exceedingly simple. However, the invasion of culture came through shoes and hats. Even if they made a pilgrimage to Mecca, the shoes and hats did not leave them. With the money needed to buy one pair of British-made shoes, they could purchase Japanese-made shoes, a hat, and even clothing. In other words, Japan began stimulating their material desires and became a phenomenon that sustained culture.

It was said that when the British government reformed its currency system, it always first applied and tested it in India. Applying it to the natives of uncivilized lands was done because the reactions appeared most clearly. It was said that the most distinguished economists in present-day 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 disciples of Mr. Kyoshi residing in Singapore. I joined in. My haiku received twelve points and placed fourth. Mr. Kyoshi selected the following two verses from among mine: A water buffalo’s cart enters; hibiscus. A raging crocodile; above, a crimson floral garland. The highest score went to Mr. Kaminohata Kusō, the chief engineer. It ended at eleven o’clock. On the return to the ship, Mr. Shigenori Yanagi, special correspondent for the *Nippi Shimbun*, drove us in his own car. Though slightly intoxicated and handling the wheel precariously, Mr. Yanagi was such an agreeable young man that I resolved to entrust him with my life. The moon climbed to its zenith, refreshingly cool; they dashed through rows of towering coconut trunks.

March 5

At noon, we departed Singapore. The ship entered the Malacca Strait. From around nine to eleven that night, talk of Satō Jirō enlivened the salon. It was precisely the time he had jumped overboard. The captain recounted the hardships of that incident. Among the passengers circulated a boy’s story that an Englishman from those days still remained aboard this ship.

The British ship that came afterward was said to have seen Satō’s corpse floating. I never spoke with Satō Jirō, but there were times at Shiseidō when I sat at the table next to him as he remained silent and observed him. This was also a few days before his departure. It appeared he had wrapped two boat fittings (weighing ten kan [37.5 kg]) around his body, but they were gone. The cause was unknown to anyone. It was said that from this area onward, within a day’s journey through the strait they called the Sea of Demons, the number of those who leaped into the water was greatest. The surface of the sea lay flat and smooth like a mirror. It was sweltering. In the middle of the night, I stood alone at the spot where Satō Jirō had jumped overboard and peered down. Only there was there no railing. It felt as though the ground beneath my feet might slip into the sea at any moment. I felt dizzy. This must be it, I thought.

March 6

Morning. Clear weather. At last we entered the Sea of Demons. There were no waves at all. Just then a pod of dolphins appeared alongside the ship. They somersaulted and flipped. Some leapt upward; others twisted. They kept appearing one after another. Among them was also the belly of a huge shark.

At 4:00 PM on the same day, we entered port at Penang.

This place was likely one that many of the ship’s passengers had not given much thought to. However, for me—among Shanghai, Hong Kong, and Singapore—it became my favorite of all those visited lands. It must have been after an evening shower. The air held crystalline clarity; the town stood elegant and hushed; every corner formed part of one vast parkland. Trees grew in profusion; buildings carried grace; flowers bloomed with variety matching Singapore’s own. Here indeed lay a city where refined elegance pooled like water ready for cupped hands. Though lacking famed landmarks by common measure, wherever my gaze fell became its own monument.

I had little desire to write about Penang. Such was the nature of a beloved place. Here existed no complications.

For an author to write about their own family affairs in a novel was akin to being punished. Everything had already become like an illusion. There was nothing more foolish than writing.

The summer clothes I was wearing were worn by no more than three people in Tokyo. They were made from rough hemp sacks used for Indian cement, but the first to detect this were Malays working at money changers in Singapore. He widened his eyes, grabbed my clothes with his fingers, and exclaimed in admiration for so long that their companions gradually gathered around. Everyone was utterly astonished and shouted, “Very nice!” However, upon arriving in Penang, the Malay who had been guiding us suddenly let out another cry and marveled at my Western clothes. “Very nice—very nice”—a rapid-fire repetition. However, on the ship, a British couple stood behind me and, while looking at my clothes, marveled, “Oh, homespun!” The material for the clothes cost 1 yen and 50 sen, and the tailoring fee was 8 yen. When we arrived in Colombo proper—the real place—it would be worth seeing what the Indians said, adding one more thing to look forward to from then on.

March 7

Clear weather. For the first time, we entered the Indian Ocean. Because I had already grown tired of the sea, even as we approached the Indian Ocean—which I had long wanted to see—I felt nothing. However, my fatigue finally began to recover. I heard of the emergence of the Hirota Cabinet. The feeling that land matters should remain land matters grew gradually stronger. Everyone thought it had nothing to do with us.

As for the route to Europe, I was torn between going via America, passing through the Indian Ocean, or crossing Siberia, but now that I have come this way, I think it was a good decision. If one goes around the Indian Ocean, one gradually proceeds from uncivilized lands to the pinnacle of European culture. In other words, it is akin to emerging into modernity through their long history. An experiment richer than this probably does not exist in this world. If this were a European, they would be moving through history in reverse, and thus would have to declare that there is no happiness to be found anywhere in Asia. In all experiments, method is paramount. Due to their position, Europeans are structured so that many must inevitably err in their methods. I think this is one of the most important things I came to feel only after making this voyage.

We entered the Bay of Bengal. The real Sea of Demons was here on this ocean over the next day or two. Human psychology became strange there, and it was said that all those who needed to jump in ended up doing so. Futabatei had died there too. It was also there that the most fights broke out among the crew during the voyage. Once past this, they said everyone would raise a toast to their safe passage, which would be most welcome indeed.

At midnight, when everyone had fallen asleep, I rose and went out to the deck to look. There was not a single human figure present. Drifting clouds were running at precisely the ship’s speed. The moonlight shone with crystalline clarity. This is when humans become most simple. When one has traversed the open sea for over two weeks, the sea ceases to appear as sea. It takes on the semblance of an utterly safe, flat, and temperate land.

What was I trusting as I stood on this deck? Only the engine rumbling beneath my feet could be heard. Could anything be this simple? At such times, anyone becomes a philosopher in their own way. Waves, moon, clouds—suddenly I recalled faces of people picking at oden by Hasegawa’s desk corner. Were I to appear before these friends now, they would likely gaze blankly, wondering if such a person had ever existed among them. Whether returning or proceeding onward mattered little—I was precisely midway. If either outcome proved equal, those inclined to cast themselves into this sea would surely do so without hesitation. The sea’s strangeness brimmed with illusions inverse to land’s mysteries. What passed for maritime reason amounted merely to unstable applications of terrestrial logic. What remained were truths as vast and formless as clouds—to touch them rendered mortal resolve effortless indeed. Here lingered an unbroken succession of wondrous trances—the very essence of dreams unseen. The whole body became enveloped in something akin to incomprehensible sighs.

The sensation assailing us from the open sea would occasionally criticize what might be called terrestrial reason—like the meager luggage we had brought aboard. Here, it was not reason criticizing sensation. The relationship was inverted. To be subjected daily to such visions would drive anyone slightly mad. Those traveling with wives or friends seemed to drag their homeland behind them; they could never comprehend this feeling of mine. "It is precision that makes madmen," Nietzsche declares in Ecce Homo. Yet I believe it is precisely my simplicity that destines me for madness. Are madmen those who are complex or those who are simple? Braking mechanisms—the more sophisticated the machine, the more numerous they become.

I am now clearly conscious of my own consciousness. I probably do not differ much from people on land, but then again, perhaps it is no different from a drunkard believing himself to be precise. But when I think of those quarreling day after day in newspapers and magazines on land, even that does not seem like the work of sane minds. There is certainly a touch of madness in them.

One cannot justly criticize home without first leaving it. Unless one breaks free from land, criticism of the land cannot be justified. When it comes to this, perhaps those on land have more justification in criticizing maritime psychology. A new fruit, mangosteen, appeared. The taste of pomegranate drizzled with milk.

I suddenly found my mind brushing against something I had never considered before—that people’s worldviews had been solely land-based. Moreover, no one knew whether the cause of human conflict arose from maritime or terrestrial psychology. Maritime nations had always become powerful countries in the world. This must have been what the passion of the sea—unmanageable by land-based reason—had wrought. The sea and land had been skillfully created by God as if to dazzle people’s eyes.

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

The foreign single men and women had gone completely wild. Suddenly, one of them cast a suspicious glance in passing. Then, that very night, the two were already linking arms and searching through the darkness of the deck. The Japanese followed after them while keeping track of it. Island mentality is when one cannot help but be concerned with what others are doing.

March 8

Fine. My stomach aches from eating tempura amid days of sweltering heat. Unpleasant all day. It is the Sea of Demons. This area is once again the most tedious. Dreadful weariness.

March 9

This morning my stomach was slightly better, but after drinking a cup of coffee brought this morning, it immediately went bad again. With this, I didn’t think I could stay in France for long. I might return in two or three months. The heat in the port and starboard rooms of the ship had a remarkable difference. The heat on my port side was unbearable. At night, there was no way I could sleep. At 4:00 PM, there would be the third onboard haiku gathering. Due to my stomach pain, I couldn’t come up with a good haiku and abandoned it. One of my haiku was selected for Mr. Kyoshi’s compilation.

Kyoto-like Penang lies directly beneath the moon.

My favorite haiku is the one on the left.

After the rain clears—a summer grove with breadfruit trees.

March 10

We were scheduled to arrive in Colombo at 2:00 PM that day. My stomach had finally recovered. The Sea of Demons had been safely passed through. They said the Red Sea’s heat was the worst there was, but I wished they would ease up already. Even going to Europe entailed such hardships. Moreover, I still had to travel twice this distance. I thought I would go take a look at the third-class cabins, but if I ended up sympathizing with those passengers, it would have been troublesome right then. I wanted to remain in paradise as much as possible. However, among the deck passengers who could be called fourth class, there were fifty or sixty Indians. They were said to have plenty of money, but they cooked on deck and lived under canvas tents. The object of envy for all classes was this.

Ceylon Island moved alongside the ship. Soon it would be Colombo. From what I could see, India resembled the edge of Kyushu. The Indian deck passengers looked delighted as they changed into beautiful garments. They would disembark there and return to the homeland they had long yearned for.

March 10 At 4:00 PM, we arrived in Colombo. By then, the palm trees had ceased to be novel. It felt like gazing upon a Japanese thicket. The flowers blooming in town paled compared to Singapore and Penang’s splendor. One might have expected elephants lumbering about, yet not a single one appeared. As rain intermittently fell and ceased, they busied themselves removing and replacing car hoods. If only a squall would come—but none arrived. Though I wished to buy cigarettes, the prices here staggered me. Peering into shops for even one piece of jewelry revealed only counterfeits. The cramped, impoverished town teemed with shrewd, clamorous merchants. This must be the consequence of exorbitant prices. Could customs duties truly wield such psychological power? If so, Britain must have calculated this. Likely, things differed in earlier times.

The nation withers— young leaves hollowly thrive.

However, I saw a beautiful scene. The sky was dark, and when gas lamps began lighting up in the tree-filled town, suddenly a dreamlike radiance flashed brilliantly across the heavens. What a magnificent sunset glow that was! The painting of the Pure Land where Buddha dwells was indeed no lie. The entire sky became a riotous dance of vermilion, purple, and gold. Trees, people's skin, houses, mansions—all shone resplendently until, before one could recover from the astonishment, darkness fell. There truly are countless different places in this world.

No time to gaze upon the evening glow as Pure Land. Just as Lancashire’s aim had been to push their domestic products into India, Japanese goods cascaded down like a waterfall. Customs intercepted this. The natives opposed this. However, amid this chaos, India’s own machinery developed, and domestic products swelled rapidly. Thus Britain’s calculations became increasingly complicated. New problems that no one could comprehend were emerging one after another. In such cases, being clever is of no use at all. When no country makes sense anymore,

“Press on.” “There’s no choice but to press forward with a single-minded strategy.”

Thus they concluded. "What on earth is this 'press forward'?" I now found thinking about such things more interesting than anything else. Britain had now come to suffer from its own cleverness.

In Colombo, my summer clothes were immediately seen through. The Indians muttered among themselves while eyeing my clothes until suddenly one man grabbed them. He seemed to inform the others that it was indeed as they suspected. As the group smirked at me, one kept saying something insistently. His expression appeared to state, “That’s probably a bag for holding the worst things here.” Yet when I walked on, those following behind to touch my clothes gradually multiplied. If such a bag could become Western clothing, India would surely have no troubles at all—they seemed to want to say. I might as well have been walking while hurling a bomb. If this Indian cement bag of mine were to transform into proper Western attire, then Lancashire and Japanese textiles might truly cease to matter. Customs duties amounted to nothing.

March 11, noon. Departed Colombo.

The beauty of the sea’s color in this entire area was navy blue. The surface was smooth, as if the tips of the waves had been planed down. Indian Ocean—feathers motionless, birds take flight. Because we were directly under the sun, it seemed that no wind or waves arose here. Human hearts too appeared to follow suit. The reason people’s eyes were large and black was that they had battled strong light rays, but having finally succumbed to nature, now only their eyes gleamed sharply like those of nature itself. It was precisely with such eyes that nihilistic thoughts like “form is emptiness” must have been born. Japan had long imitated this. What had been gained was nothing. It was from here that life was made as light as a goose feather, but compared to the Indians’ intense attachment to nature, what a peculiar catch Japan had made.

March 12 In the tropics where seasons never changed, and in foreign lands where Japanese seasonal sensibilities and vocabulary held no currency—the perplexities and contradictions of composing haiku—there seemed to exist various theories on this matter. I believed haiku without seasonal essence and lexicon could not truly be called haiku. Yet having reached these tropics, there appeared no present necessity to contort genuine impressions while forcibly inserting seasonal references. When understanding faltered, pausing to set aside theory allowed room for interest in unforeseen developments. More than anything else, recognizing when theory should yield to reality remained paramount.

March 13

Clear.

The ship passengers grew increasingly close to one another. There were scientists, military personnel, consuls, company presidents, executives, officials, economists, and judges—this group composed solely of individuals from varied professions gathered as one family, discarding class distinctions, forgetting age differences, and living while sharing their innermost thoughts. To live such a beautiful and rewarding life would likely be impossible on land. Indeed, he realized for the first time that this was what people meant when they said life’s paradise lay aboard ships on European routes. They stretched a screen between the masts and enjoyed taking photographs.

The harvest moon hung above the cinema. Children were children. Japanese people, British people, and French people—though their three languages remained mutually incomprehensible—each kept chattering about their own matters while playing together from morning onward. When one watched them, they never once became flustered. They managed to play harmoniously without fighting. If such a natural mechanism existed in the world of children, then perhaps one day there might come a time without war.

March 14

Clear.

In the middle of the Arabian Sea. The fourth seaborne haiku gathering was held. The haiku gradually became worse. They say that once you learn the standard forms, they get worse. Yesterday, in the two-thousand-meter-deep sea, a coral island was dimly visible. It is called Minikoi Island. Trees flourished all over, and white seagulls gathered in flocks.

The island flourishes—bell-like seagulls, white coral.

There was a lighthouse. The lives of lighthouse keepers in the vast sea had once granted us the power of imaginative thinking, but we had long forgotten such notions. With the feeling of gazing at old clothes brought out from a storehouse for midsummer airing, this thought felt somehow nostalgic. I tinkered with all manner of reflections, yet it seemed better to leave them quietly as they had been in the past. Thoughts that could pass safely were best left safely undisturbed. Once I reached Paris, these thoughts of mine would hardly come to any peaceful conclusion.

March 15

Clear. Each day, they had been setting back the clocks by twenty to fifty minutes. As of today, my watch was probably about five hours behind Japan’s time.

Today, the sea raged at its wildest. Waves occasionally swept onto the deck. Without such things, a voyage would not be interesting. Because the winds blowing from Africa and those from Arabia clashed, the waves surged up in triangular shapes. A potted pine standing bathed in Atami’s waves.

My appetite remained hearty, but stiffness had come to my legs. However, my mind was gradually returning to realism. 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. The human mind is such that no matter how certain one feels of oneself, there always remains some madness lurking within.

March 16

Clear. A little past nine in the morning, the eastern edge of Africa—a corner of Somaliland—appeared to the left. At first like a cloud, then like a snow-capped mountain, then it became a rocky mountain devoid of trees. It was unmistakably African. On the cliff, there was nothing but a single lighthouse. This magnificent view continued uninterruptedly along the port side from nine o’clock until twelve. However, even the people who had let out exclamations when they first saw it were not looking closely enough. They immediately started playing shogi. After all, politics was more interesting. Yet not a single one of them mentioned the war in Ethiopia raging beyond those mountains.

When a young man who appeared to be a stoker, covered in oil, came up from the engine room below, one of the passengers pointed at Somaliland and asked, “What is that island called?” “We always pass through here, but somehow we just don’t know.” “If you ask the upper-class people, you’ll find out,” he said. The stoker’s voice, unaware even of Africa, grows hushed.

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, had only barely risen above the horizon. As time passed, the horizon spread these celestial constellations leftward as it turned. The stars were on the verge of dripping. When I gazed up at the sky for half an hour, the melancholy and freshness of antiquity seeped into my being. When I suddenly looked down, I found myself leaning my elbow on a faintly lit compass. The tip of the needle pointing due west swayed with the waves for about five minutes as it advanced. At that moment in the heavens, the handle of the Southern Cross, pointing distinctly toward the Antarctic, was rising from the left horizon. That humans had acquired the image of the Earth being round was an astonishing fact, yet we lived in an insensitive age where we felt no particular wonder at all. Even more foolish than that, the fact that all the water in this vast sea was salty had come to appear astonishing to me. The phenomenon of this abundant water being filled with salt—there must be a reason for this.

The briny waves of Arabia meet their end—what a fate! I heard that warships had machines to extract freshwater from seawater, but they said that when people drank this water, everyone got diarrhea, and when given to plants, they withered. Therefore, it was said that only humans endured diarrhea and drank this water, while they gave freshwater to plants. Gentle and beautiful. Hearing this story, I found myself inclined to trust the navy more than any other account.

March 17

Clear. Today was my birthday. We were scheduled to arrive in Aden at 1:00 PM. Having written this far, when I suddenly looked out the window, Aden came into view.

It was a craggy pale brown rocky mountain. There was not a single tree. It was the color of sky and rock that somehow seemed to evoke Muhammad’s presence. It felt like being immersed in a wine-hued dream.

Arrived at Aden. A giant rock with horizontal wrinkles and the color of a copperplate—that was Aden itself. Amidst steep and jagged peaks could be seen the tattered remnants of ancient castle walls, as if burnt and crumbled. I disembarked from the ship.

It truly seemed a completely barren land. There was nothing but a single well within the fortress that had been dug fifteen hundred shaku deep before finally yielding water. No vegetation could possibly grow. By the well, a native picked a white flower and gave it to me. “Jasmine,” said the native. When I smelled it, sure enough, it was jasmine. Even though they were planted only recently, for the natives of Arabia, this must have been a rare spectacle above all else.

In my home’s spring— flowers I suddenly recall— there are such things.

There was a shack-like museum. Artifacts and fossils from 2000 B.C. were arranged. This land had surely been fiercely contested since ancient times, being a vital thoroughfare to Africa and the tip of Arabia that curved toward India. The nostalgia evoked by Arabic letters remaining on the stone. When I passed through the rocky mountains ahead, desert stretched beyond. In the far distance, I could see an oasis. In the desert lay trading posts from the barter era where merchant caravans once gathered. Along the path ahead, I saw roofs lined with white tents and thought they were a caravanserai for merchant caravans, but it turned out to be an expanse of salt mountains. A large windmill spun atop the salt. The wind was fierce. I heard the hearts of the people here were treacherous. Since we had to rush our landing time before the ship departed, it was as if we were merely sniffing around the smell of the caravan’s camels. Hot.

Salt mountains slept in the caravan’s gale. A land where even planting vegetation proved nearly impossible—a land without water, with scorching heat and raging hot winds—was precisely where certain races had to make their home. What stood majestic were the rocky peaks, the sky, the sun, and the fortresses. Moreover, they were so magnificent that their beauty surpassed any comparison with the races dwelling there. Under these conditions, humans could no longer make use of this nature. They could only wait for their own decline.

Scorched rocks—a life-stealing fortress, ah!

Under the evening sky, the ship departed Aden. The ruby-colored mountains seemed to melt and flow away into wine. I suddenly realized that travel was about comparing the nature and people of the destinations one visits. That alone was its function. Yet here in the distant middle of the Red Sea, when suddenly made to listen to records of Tokyo Ondo and Nagauta, I felt as if my neck were being squeezed, and realized: I had been exiled by someone to receive punishment. There wasn’t any joy at all. The so-called Western journey—that was nothing but a prisoner’s ditty. However, if subjected to a punishment of being slowly strangled with silk floss, surely no one could have endured it without some form of pride. The urge to say “over there” was in fact nothing more than an expression of that pain.

March 18th

I thought that those who were bored and utterly listless in the heart of Tokyo at that moment were as if experiencing a grand passing. Those who lost understanding of their own actions and sank into excessive self-consciousness were no different from the most despicable barbarians. Unless I beheld the colossal sun and boundless azure sky, my head refused to bow. If I had been one of Columbus’s sailors, I would have thrown him into the sea.

March 19th

Clear. The foreigners all seemed happy as their home country drew near. The Japanese passengers, realizing they had no time left to indulge in selfishness even aboard the ship, finally began to act on it. The signs of neurasthenia seemed about to begin appearing around this point. The people accompanied by their wives were all in good spirits. The young officials were saying that being sent abroad was a trial they’d resigned themselves to. Someone said that going abroad was all well and good, but once you returned home and started feeling grateful for your wife and cherishing her, you had to be careful about that—your office duties would become neglected—or so they were admonished by their superior.

“We spend every day doing nothing but playing like this, but since the ship keeps moving this way—well, it’s as if we’re working,” said a certain executive passenger. “Humans went to the trouble of being born on Earth—can you even call it living without circling it once?” remarked some passengers. Yet others suddenly blurted out, “Where exactly is this country called Arabia?” No one could respond. A passenger who had worked in cotton textiles and roamed the world declared, “Ah, the world’s already spinning on Jews, Indians, and Chinese. No one can rival this anywhere.” “Everyone kept saying Norway was wonderful,” another traveler interjected, “but they could stand to cut those resident officials’ salaries there.” “There are truly good places,” someone added. “When I went to Turkey,” another said, “travelers there can’t even use their own money. They say you’re not allowed to take out more than five pounds.”

They went expecting Europe to be something grand, but it was so small, so small. There were also those who said that given this, it was only natural for the Orient to become an issue. Among those who had spent long periods abroad, there were also some who looked down on Europeans from the outset. Their reasoning was that they were unintelligent.

March 20th

Clear. The Red Sea ends today. Tomorrow would be pyramid sightseeing.

We crossed paths with the Haruna Maru returning to Japan from Europe. The ship was identical to this Hakone Maru. (As the captain had noted,) a banner hung boldly inscribed with “Praying for your safe voyage.” Both ships gradually drew closer. Each passenger held a flag and waved it. They were shouting excitedly to the Japanese ship—a rare encounter after so long—when suddenly, from beside me, someone yelled toward the other vessel: “Hang in there!” Then came a frantic reply: “It’s no use.” In an instant, the ship receded into the distance.

Well, time for evening preparations once more. After that, they slept again. They searched for the Haruna Maru’s whereabouts, but neither shadow nor form could be seen any longer.

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

March 21st Clear. Every day, I do nothing but forget the date. When I ask others what today’s date is, the reply is always, “Well…” Days are invisible to the eye, and at sea, I cannot grasp where to anchor them in memory. Moreover, the ship moves forward.

We were approaching Suez. To the right, Mount Sinai came into view; to the left, Egypt could be seen. As we passed through this area, the mind became saturated with the aura of the Bible. Treeless, milky brown mountains stretched endlessly along both banks of the dawn.

Would that Moses had come—the morning star has not yet fallen. The tax for passing through Suez was fifty thousand yen per ship one way. The total fares of all passengers were, in other words, entirely consumed by the taxes here. Even in this single matter, there existed a mountain of problems. When I tried to write in detail, my head began aching and I couldn’t manage it. It became clear that I was in a considerable state of imbalance whenever I took up the pen.

March 21st

3 PM: Arrived at Suez. We disembarked there midway and went to Cairo to see the pyramids. The group consisted of fourteen or fifteen people. They sped through about a hundred miles of desert by car. The roads were better maintained than those in Keihin. They continued at fifty to sixty miles per hour. At this speed, if there were even a single stone, the car would overturn. It was a treeless, desolate light brown desert—such a boundless vista could hardly be called a landscape anymore. A crimson sunset blazed directly ahead. There is a song that says the sun sets in the desert, but the sun has no choice but to set there. They charged headlong toward the sun as if thrusting a spear. To eyes that had seen nothing but sea, the desert offered excitement—but this time there was simply too much desert. At first, I continued to be astonished. However, gradually all excitement disappeared, and I noticed fatigue was skillfully rescuing me.

The desert utterly sucks down the sun— Yet when night had fully fallen, at the desert's edge, a metropolis beyond imagining suddenly materialized. That was Cairo. How could such a modern city be necessary—how sustained—amidst endless sand? There's a limit to boldness.

—That was my initial doubt. I had heard about the fertility of the Nile Delta. However, even so, it remains puzzling. Even if it is a distribution hub for goods, a national capital, or even the oldest site of human activity in the world—the doubts remain. No doubt it is because the number of travelers to this land far exceeds our imagination. The exorbitant prices and the deftness at fudging accounts—these too surpassed all imagination. A cup of black tea cost as much as 85 sen. Five small mandarins cost 1 yen and 50 sen. A single match cost six sen. The travel expense—driving a 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. However, despite such an expensive excursion, there was certainly something about having come to Cairo alone that left no room for regret; thus, it was likely that this very aspect lay at the root of why this place had become a metropolis. Though it was Egypt, when we offered Egyptian currency to buy things, they refused to sell them. When the hotel maid discreetly inquired about the travel expenses per person in our group and I answered six pounds and five shillings, she exclaimed in surprise that with six pounds, it was their custom to travel from Cairo to Paris and return—so everything must operate on this scale.

We saw the Pyramids, the Sphinx, and the countless ancient excavated artifacts in the museum. However, I did not feel particularly interested in these. The abundant artifacts lying around were all from five or six thousand years ago. When things became like this, our perception failed to connect, and instead we ended up losing interest. Rather than that, what intrigued me more was how the British earl who excavated Tutankhamun had gone mad and died immediately after the excavation. There had long been a legend in this land that those who dug up kings' tombs would go mad and die. The ancient kings, in their excessive reverence for tombs, might well have devised some mechanism involving poisons unique to antiquity to ensure their deaths. The fact that science could not prove this might be called modernity's failing—yet one could not definitively assert there was no... something. If one were to ask why—when witnessing these ancient civilizations before our eyes—the first thing we felt was undeniably this: that there had existed here a rich knowledge entirely distinct from the fundamental knowledge governing our modern culture. In other words, the nature of the laws differed. The most interesting thing upon arriving here was that our modern minds became surprisingly simple.

The modern vanity of the Egyptian king, who lived ceaselessly gazing up at the Pyramids overhead, no doubt lay in his desire to vie for glory with the ancient kings. This king’s dream undoubtedly could not help but decorate Cairo to such an excessive degree. This must have been the pain of the modern king—ceaselessly despised by the Pyramids whether asleep or awake.

The king’s dream—the Sphinx of ancient dreams

March 24th

Clear.

The Greek island of Crete stretched long off to the right. We had entered the Mediterranean two days prior. Summer clothes had been changed back to winter ones. There was snow on Crete’s mountain peaks. Layered clouds hung in a formation vaguely reminiscent of Japanese spring scenery. Countless battles must have been fought across these lands through the ages.

Viewing Crete’s snow—an unexpected seasonal robe change.

I had thought that upon entering the Mediterranean, I would surely feel a certain excitement. Yet no particular emotion arose. The sea remained simply the sea. In truth, around this time I had desperately wished to lose myself in pure, boyish fantasies, but the fatigue from Egypt still clung to me and would not let go. Looking at the map, I could only think of it as nothing more than the Mediterranean. Had Marseille appeared before the Red Sea—how delighted I might have been! What a wasted opportunity. If one cannot feel joy when desiring to feel it, then joy serves no purpose. It was like a lover arriving too late.

When entering the Mediterranean Sea, no matter how passengers tried to conceal it, their psychology grew increasingly complex. From around this area onward, those who had been proficient in English—once welcomed like kites in high demand—now found those skilled in French beginning to be respected. The French language, which had been diminishing, now began to swell strangely large. In ordinary people's minds, the struggle between English and French was like the Mediterranean itself. Yet strangely enough—something we had not noticed at all until now—deep within our hearts, a gut defiance of “Hmph, what’s so special about the Mediterranean?” had begun to emerge unexpectedly. No matter how much one tried to suppress it, it seeped out like a draft from some unseen crevice.

Once such psychology began to stir within us， travelogues could no longer be written with any certainty. No doubt， I would have to continue engaging in countless futile struggles from then on. This was troublesome.

March 25th

Cloudy.

I saw European city streets for the first time. As we approached Italy’s tip at the Strait of Messina, the distance between Messina on Sicily Island to the left bank and Reggio on the right bank resembled that between Moji and Shimonoseki. The strait swirled with whirlpools—a fierce rapid. While crossing it, we wore overcoats, but upon finishing the crossing, it grew warm again. Until just two or three days prior, we had been lamenting how sweltering it was even in summer clothes when abruptly the electric fans ceased, and from today onward, steam heat was coursing through the rooms.

The town of Reggio resembled Atami. It was a naval base but had the feel of Saint Francis. On the terraces were olive groves; red roofs; rivers of nothing but white sand. Mount Etna should have been visible to the right of Messina but remained hidden within the clouds. At nine o’clock at night, Stromboli’s erupting volcano was visible five *ri* away in the sea. The fire that occasionally erupted flared up brightly at the summit. Like Sakurajima, the entire island was a Fuji-shaped volcano. It was regrettable that this ship did not call at Naples. Because we would arrive in Marseille in two days, everyone was busy solely with preparations for disembarking.

March 26th

Clear. It was dusk. To the right was Corsica Island; to the left, Sardinia. The distance between the two islands seemed not to exist at all. The ship plowed through this space and advanced. The setting sun sank over Corsica Island. The waves were rough off Sardinia, its jagged peaks reminiscent of Myōgi Mountain. In this strait between the island where Garibaldi was born and the island where Napoleon was born, the sunset was like a garnish for sashimi.

March 27th Marseille came into view—pine-colored trees clung like moss to the ash-white land. The geology, being limestone, had been eroded by wind and waves into a carefree charm. Right after landing came customs, and the oldest among us passengers was the only one charged tax. Only this person’s luggage had been mercilessly rummaged through from the bottom up. Then they said something like this: “From what we can see, since you’re the eldest here, we thoroughly inspected your luggage on everyone’s behalf—so please don’t take offense.” “As you’ll be crossing various borders from now on, you mustn’t carry so many unnecessary souvenirs.” “Please resign yourself—just you alone—to paying the tax.”

After saying this, it was my turn, but they hardly inspected anything. The others were treated similarly. We witnessed the first instance of French freedom.

We walked around Marseille. The street trees were all uniformly large. The houses were aged and grayish-white. I climbed to the summit of Notre-Dame. My legs had stiffened; one side would not move. Once again, I drove around the city. However, strangely enough, not a single person in the Marseille crowd was laughing. I thought something was strange and asked my companions to let me know if they spotted anyone laughing. The streets were packed with crowds trudging about as evening approached five o'clock, but they were all exhausted, pallid, withdrawn, and sullen. The setting sun shone upon them. Is this Europe? This was far more hellish than I had imagined. The rise of colonies overturning their home countries had become a major fact of the modern era.

March 28th

Clear.

Departed Marseille. To Paris.

As the train advanced, the countryside unfolded before me. I strove to do nothing but gaze dispassionately. Yet despite myself, it was beautiful - peach and apricot blossoms opening all at once; spring buds softening on branches; pastures sloping gently downward; elegant farmhouses scattered like brushstrokes across hillsides; the Rhône's languid current swathed in flowering apricot boughs.—Even as I drank in this enrapturing scenery, I abruptly realized I was still pondering the colonies' emergence.

Dusk at six o'clock. I arrived in Paris.

April 4th

Rain.

It had already been a full week since arriving in Paris. I had seen everything there was to see. However, I had no desire to write about things here. I thought I wanted to return soon. A place like this is not where humans live. Among them were those who competed to stay longer—a foolish thing. Regarding Paris, various people had said and written all sorts of things. However, none of those people ever mentioned how much their own faces had changed, nor did they even know.

April 6th

Clear. This was the first sunny day since arriving in Paris. Yet within my head, countless vortices kept swirling—colliding, collapsing, entangling one another—ceaselessly transforming. When I returned alone to my room late at night, the landscape that rose before me was the Arabian desert I had traversed. That human capital equates to money—this simple truth I grasped for the first time upon reaching Paris. We cannot so easily reduce capital to mere currency. The pinnacle of culture is a thing of utter transparency. Something as cumbersome as insight proves unnecessary—economically unsound. Here, everything lies laid bare. In these glass-walled dwellings, who could know where to place a human heart? Morality too must surely dwell far removed from what we had envisioned.

The primary freedom was undoubtedly different from what we had envisioned. On the boundless grid of meter, the application of strict regulations that glided smoothly remained free. Yet even amidst gentlemen and ladies wielding forks with flawless elegance at perfectly ordered tables, they would abruptly grab the bread with bare hands. Only bread proved exceptional. Such considerations still sustained European culture. Or perhaps they had forgotten just this much. But might Japan have already moved beyond such things in some forgotten age long past?

Everyone was preoccupied with the question of when war with Germany would break out. Moreover, in this coming war, even what we called tradition—that pride—would be blown away entirely. No country had made the necessary preparations for its thinkers. It was still possible for thought to exist alongside contempt for colonies. It was like a dream. I came to see that thought—which, in the intervals between human dreams, arbitrarily retained the beauty of a system within the human head—appeared as a strange fortress. Humans had made such excessively profound efforts.

Letter 1

It has now been a full week since arriving in Paris. This marks my first time picking up a pen since arrival. Though I was initially dazzled by cultural differences during my first few days here, I have already grown weary of them. I think it’s time I began preparing to return. Today is cold and rainy. I write this letter at Café Dôme near my lodgings—a haunt for foreign artists—where across my table sits none other than the woman reputed to have made Mr. Tsuguharu Fujita famous, chattering incessantly with someone. Her face strikes terror. Yet her outer garment bears a pattern resembling Japanese Noh costumes—quite beautiful. When I complimented this pattern, she informed me that only one shop in Paris’s Saint-Germain sells such fabric and gave me its address. They say one cannot enter without an introduction. This old woman comes daily to Dôme for conversation, her face betraying weariness of men. But when she spots Japanese people, she looks wistful.

As I have already seen everything worth seeing in this whole week, I have no desire to visit anywhere else. Why is it that I have yet to see a single man who inspires admiration? Even if I inquire about the children’s health, there’s no reason I’d receive a reply straight away; since I’ll refrain from asking hereafter, please take care of yourself. The marronnier blossoms still haven’t bloomed. There are a few things I want to buy, but I’ll get them little by little in time.

While the city still looked beautiful, I didn’t want to do much shopping like this. No matter which part of the city you took in, it formed a perfect picture. I thought painters ought to multiply like lice. However, someone like me quickly grew tired of such things. For some reason, being in Paris made me desperately want to visit hot springs in the Japanese countryside. Tokyo and such places held little appeal.

Letter 2

To send letters to Japan, it had to be Monday or Thursday; otherwise, this place was useless. Those coming from Japan followed the same rule. Letters did not arrive except on Mondays or Thursdays. They seemed to send daily reports of rain, but yesterday and today had been nothing but rain. (April 22) On this day, watching what I thought were marronnier blossoms scattering down—what do you know—it was snow. Moreover, with all taxis on strike, the city had turned quiet. I saw paintings by Picasso and Matisse, but none seemed to sell, and art dealers were rapidly going bankrupt. However, Picasso’s paintings were far better seen in person than in photographs. Lately, when I walked through the streets, things had finally come into focus—I’d even begun noticing the shadows of people walking by, becoming able to sketch at last. The real problem, more than anything, was meals. When I got hungry and picked up my fork, I immediately lost all desire to eat. If I didn’t eat right away, I became hungry again. It felt unreliable in a way that I couldn’t just keep drinking coffee alone.

When I wake up in the morning and think about where to go after getting up today, there’s nowhere special to go, so I feel completely fed up. I recall how you think every day about what to prepare for lunch. What a bother—I can only imagine how tiresome it must be—and here I am, sympathizing from afar.

Japanese people from various places invited me, but dining with strangers felt like having a plaster stuck to my body—my body didn’t move so freely. The cherry blossoms in Japan must have already fallen.

Hungary Bound

The great general strike in Paris was the first event since the city’s inception. This strike rapidly intensified from when marronnier blossoms scattered and acacia flowers floated adrift in the rain, gathering upon cobblestones. Each morning, as I awoke and lay with my head on the pillow—drowsily wondering what sound would reach me first—the cry of “Front Populaire” (People’s Front) would invariably pierce through.

Even when walking along the main streets, foreigners from various countries could not shop and could only wander about peering into display windows with iron lattices lowered. Those not participating in the strike had dwindled to temples and police officers alone.

When the strike reached a pause and mid-June arrived with shop doors beginning to open, I departed Paris alone. From Alsace into Munich in Germany, extending through Tyrol to Vienna and Budapest, when I arrived at the hotel on the banks of the Danube River, the Hungarian plains were in full bloom with crimson hollyhocks. In Europe, the most beautiful cities are said to be Paris and Budapest. The capital of Hungary, Budapest, is beautiful in its city, nature, and people. Moreover, within a two-kilometer stretch along the city’s riverside, one hundred and twenty natural hot springs gush forth scalding water. In this landlocked country, they generate mechanical waves within the hot springs and, while imagining crests washing onto rocky shores, joyously swim with vigorous strokes.

Government offices and public offices closed as early as nine in the morning. The townspeople soaked in hot springs from daybreak, while cafés and dance halls stood packed. Though termed “cafés,” beneath the green canopy of street trees clustered grand establishments spanning entire neighborhoods—everywhere teeming with crowds. Among them stood one named Japan at the city’s most conspicuous location.

When the sun set and the evening moon hung over the Danube, a band of Gypsies played Hungarian songs. The Hungarian dance of girls wearing rib-shaped ornaments on their chests—their sky-blue sleeves and skirts swaying beneath crimson dresses cinched at the waist, red boots gleaming—began at moonrise. The sorrows of this land—seized by Mongolia, defeated by Turkey, made subject to Austria—were kicked away by dancing feet. In a Europe where nineteenth-century romanticism had been swept from the earth, only there did a wisp of lyricism still linger.

One night, I was leaning alone against a bench by the banks of the Danube River. At that very moment, as the moon rose over the hill, the shimmer of moonlight spread hazily over the lapping water that had reached fullness. From somewhere came the deep, low-pitched drone of a horn. Its heartrending mournfulness resembled a defeated general—his horse collapsed and armor sundered—gazing vainly at the moon during a nocturnal encampment in the wilderness. Later when I inquired, they said this tárogató player was Hungary’s foremost master.

The day before my departure, I went to visit the suburb called Roman Town. From there, a metropolis buried underground two thousand years ago was being excavated. The floors of the large circular theater capable of holding around twenty thousand people, the market, the bathhouses, and other structures were adorned with intricate mosaic patterns. The aligned stone sarcophagi bore Latin inscriptions amidst Persian patterns, and judging from the water supply systems, bathhouse drainage channels, and the size of the hearths, the culture of this city must have once shown a prosperity rivaling that of Greece and Rome. Moreover, it is said that even now, the extent of this city’s expanse remains unknown.

Italy Bound

1

It was late June when I entered Italy. I flew over the steep peaks of the Alps by plane and arrived in Venice.

Once seventeenth-century Parisian city-state designs became models for cities across nations, every metropolis came to resemble one another. Only Venice alone retained its twelfth-century form, preserving Byzantine influence intact. Whatever these historians' theories might be, Venice was at first glance a strange city. They built marble palaces in the water—to mistake their winding corridors for deep water would be no error. With no soil, no trees, no grass between water and stone, gondolas with black-lacquered hulls and elegant silver bows now drifted aimlessly among the waves, robbed of passengers by motorboats.

In front of the hundred-ken stone square, San Marco’s temple layered golden rings upon its forest of spires and gathered pigeons in dense flocks. When the two bells resounded high atop the temple tower, their echoes reverberated off the stones and through the water, and the tower itself became like an instrument. On a day when the water held a pale bamboo hue and the sky had cleared into stillness, I tried gathering pigeons in front of San Marco. The pigeons perched in clusters from my head to my shoulders and down both arms, making bones creak as they ate the corn kernels from my hands. In this cramped city where any movement sent one colliding with water, there was nothing to do but play with pigeons.

Wanting to enjoy the beauty of the night, I wandered along the water’s edge, but the black gondolas were merely clattering amidst the stone walls of buildings with extinguished lights.

I suddenly found myself standing on the steps of a stone bridge, thinking about the children of this city. The children of this city played only on the slippery smooth stones of embankments without guardrails, where the bottom could not be seen. Even those were toddlers who had just begun to walk. Venice, which had continued this dangerous state as it was for hundreds of years, must have surely amassed wealth by paying many sacrifices. The merchants of Venice, with their historically renowned talent for saving—this was surely not Shylock’s alone. The beauty of San Marco’s bells offered no solace to my traveler’s heart; to me, they resonated mournfully like the song of the River of Souls.

In the rain, I departed Venice for Florence. In the train car, two Japanese people entered my compartment. One of them asked me in German whether this was indeed the train to Florence. Caught off guard, I replied affirmatively in English without quite knowing why. Having gone some time without using Japanese during my travels, I felt eager to converse, but neither they nor I spoke; the train continued through Bologna's fields. Before long the rain cleared, sunlight intensified along the tracks, pines used for pencil-making and olive trees stood rigid across every hillside—at last the landscape thickened into unmistakably Italian scenery.

2

The city of paintings and sculptures, Florence, is a place that has time and again stirred the brushes of many. Have I now entered this city as well, I wonder?

The first city to bestow both happiness and misfortune upon the modern world—the Renaissance originated here, transitioned to Paris, and since returning once more to this land, Florence has been utterly transformed. As they say that one cannot understand any city in Europe without knowing the divide between the Italian Renaissance and the Parisian Renaissance, I too came to Florence and felt for the first time that Paris’s development had become clear. As I walked around with lighting equipment, it somehow got adjusted from somewhere.

The city of Florence was a basin surrounded by hills. The Arno River flowing through the center resembled the Seine in both its bridges and embankments. In my view, seventeenth-century Paris could be regarded as identical to present-day Florence. I climbed the surrounding mountains and sensed that many of the hills in Florence’s wilderness that served as backgrounds in da Vinci’s paintings had been drawn from here. On the terraced roads of the hills, from beneath the thick, oiled green of olive leaves, wisteria flowers hung down as if curious. The gentle flow of distant mountains descended into a sunlit, temperate field, and atop the peaks that rose again as hills, old temple walls could be seen everywhere. The pino trees, standing upright like long brushes, wound through the wrinkles of the hills and, beneath the motionless hems of floating clouds high in the sky, seemed to be in ceaseless prayer to the earth below throughout the day.

I descended the hill and rode a red-lacquered carriage around the city before making my way to the banks of the Arno. Here and there in the streets, as I watched Florence’s women—their beauty growing increasingly conspicuous—pass between marble trunks smooth as human skin, I imagined the woman Dante had sought. Beatrices and Mona Lisas seemed to inhabit every corner of this city. Wherever I walked, museums and temples vied for space, each filled with masterpieces yet steeped in silence. Having grown thoroughly weary of renowned paintings, I found myself peering into the grass of a stone garden where pure white oleander blossoms bloomed unnoticed—and there, unexpectedly, felt the loneliness of my journey eased.

After staying in Florence for three days, I departed for Milan. Milan was a metropolis yet had few trees—a city that did not invite one to linger. The cityscape lacked discernible character, and as I wondered whether my feet would last until Paris while stroking my toes, I drew nearer to the Swiss border. Along this railway line decayed towns lurked in valleys, ancient castles rotted among rocky crevices, and as I gazed at two or three chickens pecking feed, the train entered the mountains. When I came this far, Bokusui’s song at last rose to my lips.

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

Switzerland Bound

I had thought the mountain scenery between Germany and Austria’s border at Mittenwald and stretching toward Tyrol was supreme, but after crossing the Simplon Pass into Switzerland and reaching Montreux, I realized there are always greater heights above—I could only stand dumbfounded, gazing at the mountains. All Swiss landscapes I had seen while in Japan were those of Montreux. The snow-crowned peaks of Mont Blanc reflected in Lake Léman, and I remembered having seen in photographs several times that clear lake surface enveloping Chillon Castle.

However, now that I stood before this scenery, I thought photographs could never capture its reality. The summer-chilled water lay unrippled, forming a valley's deepest floor, while those sheer mountains rising starkly resembled some colossal machine burnished to perfection. At their base played two girls at tennis. The white ball quietly multiplied its echoes through the air. Watching them, I thought no greater luxury of leisure could exist in this world. Beside them stood Chillon Castle. Ever since boyhood, whenever I had imagined happiness, Swiss lakeshores would surface in my mind—the waterside of Chillon Castle materializing as some sculpted idol.

What now allowed me to penetrate a fragment of that bygone happiness was the sound of the white ball. In that instant, I truly thought I had glimpsed happiness. This fragment of a fleeting sensation was undoubtedly the sole path that leads to eternity. Even though earthly changes are infinite, it was the solemn stillness of Montreux’s scenery that constituted the stillness of towering forests at their peak. Following with my eyes the faintly crimson-stained snow heights of the mountaintop, I arrived in Lausanne. From the hotel’s observation deck, the moon rose over the lake. The moon is always the same, no matter when one looks at it. The beauty of the moon rising over Japan’s autumn grasses pierced through my entire being, and as a surge of nostalgia welled up—I want to return to Japan soon—I closed the window. The mountains of Dewa and Echigo at summer’s end—the scenery of peaks rising from amidst the rice fields—were irreplaceably dear.

To return to Japan, I first had to go back to Paris—the next day, I headed back to Geneva. This place resembled what one might get if they turned the inlet of Lake Biwa into a park. To eyes that had beheld Montreux's scenery, no further interest stirred. The only aspect where the hotel's hospitality surpassed that of other countries was indeed worthy of Switzerland—that alone left me impressed. The following day, I returned to Paris through a thunderstorm. The strike had subsided without trace, and the streets bustled with preparations for the approaching Paris Festival. Once this concluded, I would depart for Berlin; now I could only feel impatient, wanting to make it back before summer's end in Japan. For me, there exists no place as enjoyable as Japan.

April 7

The Japanese people I encountered asked me how Paris was. I found myself at a loss for an answer. In truth, the impressions I received from Paris ceaselessly changed each day, as though watching the facets of a rotating cut glass. The conclusion of that day contradicted the conclusion of the previous day, and the next day’s conclusion took on a character entirely different from that of the day before. When pressed into these swirling conclusions, I could do nothing but agonize and fall silent.

I find it entirely reasonable that Dostoevsky, having come to Paris which he had longed for for many years, fled to Florence after just two months and wrote almost nothing about Paris.

I can't quite explain why, but I too desperately want to go to Florence. Every foreigner who had long resided in Paris lived there revering and ardently loving the city. Into this Dostoevsky plunged. At that time, it was clearer than day that the Russians in Paris—rather than despising their homeland—scorned him, the newcomer, in every matter. It was not that Dostoevsky could have failed to notice this. In other words—why must Russians live despising one another in their own homeland? That regrettable, inexplicable frustration was something he could not endure.

“Protect the Russian spirit.” “Create a new Russian literature.” The very thing that Dostoevsky could not help but utter lurked within this Paris. There exists a term known as Parisian melancholy. Though I had often experienced melancholy by this age, never before had I been pressed by such melancholic thoughts. I felt as though my very being had been shattered into dust, and when I suddenly looked at what I had clung to, all of it lay broken in fragments. Especially when confined by rain, the blackness of the buildings seeped inescapably into the heart. The scene of people standing and chatting leisurely without umbrellas in the rain, with no one making a commotion, was far from tranquil.

The irritating emotions vanished somewhere, and a voiceless melancholy that not even a grunt could escape crept up from beneath the chair I sat on. I was at a loss as to how to handle my own being. In Paris, there was no such thing as lyricism anywhere. In their fervor to please travelers with this and that contrivance, they lavished attention on lining up nothing but enchanting displays, yet I found myself unable to be surprised by such things—only the ulterior motives behind them unpleasantly caught my eye. The appeal of the French curve also felt somehow unsatisfying. I felt as though I had come to understand the appeal of Shanghai even more since arriving in Paris. In Shanghai, there were no rulers. Lyricism remained only in Shanghai. One needed only look at the arrangement of trees in French gardens to understand. They were rigidly geometric and orderly, such that even moving one’s neck required precise angles. In transforming nature, there could be none as skillful as these townspeople. The spirit of Catholicism likely referred to this sort of second nature.

April 8

Thinking of changing hotels, I walked through the streets and found a hotel bearing a sign that read “Strindberg stayed here.” When I went inside and inquired which room Strindberg had occupied, they led me to the third floor and said, “This one.” It was a long narrow room of eight tatami mats where only the neighboring roof could be seen from the window. As it stood right next to Luxembourg Park, I supposed this must be the park that appears in *Inferno*. There had been a time when I idolized Strindberg—*Inferno* in particular had been nourishment for my soul—so I considered renting this room, but it cost fifteen hundred francs. Moreover, judging by the period, this was likely the very room where he had teetered on madness. The air felt suffocating, and above all I detested its elongated shape—so I resolved to abandon the idea.

When I recalled how someone had written about electrifying my bench in the night park with intent to kill, I thought this room might well drive one to madness. Luxembourg Park contains numerous statues of literary figures. There stand Verlaine alongside Stendhal, Flaubert, and George Sand. Yet what I favored was Montaigne's statue before the Sorbonne after exiting the park. Having been created for last year's tricentennial, it remained new still, but upon seeing this statue I felt I had touched Montaigne's spirit for the first time. His tolerance, his freedom, his unveiled cunning virtue, that mysterious smile rendering others' schemes futile. I thought how truly this statue manifested a man's unfathomably gentle magnanimity through its bearing.

April 21

Rain. I heard that as many as twenty members of parliament here died each year from overwork. As the general election approached, the streets grew tense. Taxis were on strike citywide since morning.

My room was on the sixth floor of the Raspail Hotel. A wide cemetery spread out below. Baudelaire too is in this cemetery. In the cemetery filled with chestnut young leaves, the rain continued to fall every day. Occasionally, the clouds broke. When I looked at the sunlight striking the young leaves, I could clearly see the wet white flowers blooming more abundantly each day.

Paris’s buildings were all the same height—six stories—but every one of them was sooty and black. When I walked along the road, it felt as though I was at the bottom of a canyon. Since there were no escape routes other than the roads, unless I emerged into a plaza, it felt as though I was walking at the bottom of gasoline flowing about ten feet deep. Both the buildings and statues were made of limestone resembling marble, so the protruding parts exposed to wind and rain were beautifully white, as if crowned with snow. In other words, the city’s dusky sootiness conversely served as a backdrop that made the white parts stand out clearly. There was that horse chestnut tree—its leaves were more beautiful than its flowers. The way the leaves clustered harmonized perfectly with the lines of the stately buildings. The leaves of this horse chestnut tree rendered any other street tree inadequate. The street trees resembling horse chestnuts closely resembled the Japanese horse chestnut trees lining the streets from beside the Metropolitan Police Department to in front of the Navy Ministry in Tokyo. However, their leaves were slightly smaller than those of the Japanese horse chestnut, densely clustered, and glossy.

Every city’s beauty existed in equilibrium. Everywhere—in short—was like a Ginza made far more splendid. When I suddenly looked up—the lines of buildings and statues’ subtle precision. When I suddenly looked down—an array of exquisitely perfect items in display windows. The beauty of passersby.—Thus, after spending some twenty days in idle listlessness, I found myself at a loss for where to begin writing.

There were stories like these: In France, if you kept your money in cash without depositing it in a bank, no taxes were imposed. Therefore, there was no telling how much money remained unbanked. In a quarrel, the one who struck first lost without exception. —That the more one saved, the more respect one received from others.—That even if someone was dying in the next room, they feigned ignorance. ——That a man whose parents did not permit it could absolutely not marry. ——That rickshaw pullers aspired to nothing beyond being rickshaw pullers, and bellboys to nothing beyond being bellboys. —That women could not marry if they had no money. ——Since parents had to distribute their property equally among their children, they consequently devised ways not to have children. ——Everyone was convinced that their own country was the one most deserving of respect in the world.

Even after considering all this, France somehow resembled China.

April 23

I went to Saint-Germain. On the way, I passed through Bougeval, where it is said that Camille lived together with Armand. There, in the upper reaches of the Seine River, was a quiet village where even the tree roots were washed by the water. There, even the shadows of clouds were reflected in the water, old mansions surrounded by trees were scattered about, and landscapes resembling carrots could be seen everywhere.

Saint-Germain was on high ground, and from there, the gentle undulations of Paris—some twenty-four kilometers distant—could be seen in a single sweeping view. The apple trees were in full bloom. In the distance, atop Montmartre, Sacré-Cœur floated faintly in the spring haze. The Seine River meandered beneath apple blossoms, raising high on one bank the gun emplacements of an old castle as it flowed ceaselessly toward Paris. The wind was chilly. Passing through the palace gardens of François I, the small plum cherry blossoms had already passed their full bloom. Within the gardens, there was an English-style garden. During France’s royal era, English-style gardens must have seemed utterly fashionable at the time.

April 26

Rain. Today was the general election day. The results were said to be mostly known by evening, but it was decisively stated that the left wing would win by an absolute majority.

On street posters, the right wing wrote that war would break out if the left wing won, and the left wing wrote that war would break out if the right wing won. Since the French left wing held influence within the government like Japan’s right wing, it was the right wing that remained under sustained oppression. For the first time, I realized that shifting to the left there was said to carry a gentleness akin to leaning right in Japan.

April 27

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

April 28

I went to Brougny in the afternoon with Higuchi and Mr. Okamoto Tarō. The citizens who preserved a large forest spanning five ri square within the city had their hearts constantly cleansed by this forest. The forest was a profusion of blooming horse chestnut trees. A flower danced down into the bowl of coffee I was drinking. As I sat bathed in sunlight filtering through the blossoms, I no longer felt like speaking and suddenly found myself wondering why I had come to such a place—how absurd it all was. It was absolutely not of my own volition that I came to Paris. My friends, with their “Go! Go! Go! Go!”, finally pushed me out. Now that I had come and seen, this was how it turned out—no matter which way I turned, there was nothing but white flowers and green leaves. When I thought of Japan from there, all Japanese people appeared to me as if drinking sake in withered fields. Here, because there was a radio in the treetops, music came falling from within the flowers.

Now that evening had come, I stood up. A young man and woman appeared to be quarreling as they stood silent, while above them, a cluster of horse chestnut flowers—like rows of white candles—swayed ponderously in the wind. Mr. Okamoto passed before them, singing in French, “Youth, love!” beneath Parisian rooftops. Then, still locked in their dispute, the pair kissed sullenly, neither seeming to initiate it. Listening to the warbler’s frail song amid dense foliage, I brought this day to an end.

May 1

It was cloudy. I had a slight cold. In the afternoon, I entered the spacious cemetery in front for the first time. There was Maupassant’s grave. In addition to roses with fallen petals climbing up the tombstone, lusterless, unnamed, dingy flowers were blooming. Other than thinking that this must be what it’s like to die, the suffering of being a writer suddenly seeped into me, and I hurriedly distanced myself from its side. I found myself before Baudelaire’s grave, which I had resolved not to visit next. This stone statue of Baudelaire was famous for being well-made, but I disliked its pose. The pose of supporting one’s chin and glaring forward is something a prose writer would not adopt. In the shadow of a gloomy tree, there was also a recumbent statue. However, to me, the iron rust seeping into the stone wall behind gave a far stronger sense of reading his poetry.

Perhaps because I had a slight fever, the cold from the tightly packed grave markers sent a chill through my feet. Stepping hurriedly over the clumps of fallen plane tree blossoms and emerging onto the street, the town was May Day. It was cold.

When the flower that Higuchi-kun, who had gone with me, had picked from Maupassant’s grave and stuffed into my pocket brushed against my hand, I gave it away at the street corner. Here on May Day, instead of parades, they sell lilies of the valley in the streets. In hopes of bringing happiness to everyone.

May 2

I do indeed seem to be showing slight signs of neurasthenia. However, the view that one developed neurasthenia precisely because it was legitimate—as Nietzsche said—may perhaps be accurate.

There were times when I sat on the terrace of the Champs-Élysées boulevard and spent entire days gazing at the faces of passersby. Then, the gangster-like man accompanying the woman who appeared to be of the highest class was imitating Greta Garbo. When one wondered what sort of man this might be, a glance at the woman beside him made it immediately clear. The faces and figures of men and women who took pride in tradition were beautiful. Yet their foolish appearance differed not at all from what one might see in Japan. Foreigners and Japanese in France who affected French manners still seemed deficient in some way. For some reason, since arriving in Paris, I had never once felt afraid in any sense. In Japan there truly existed something that instilled no fear. Lately I had been trying to determine what that something might be, but no clear image would take form. Day after day I immersed myself in crowds teeming with foreigners, gazing absently at the faces around me, yet never feeling anything to fear. Apart from what could not be imitated, Japan had been losing those things it once needed to imitate. The beauty of pale yellowish skin tones amidst white complexions occasionally resembled tarnished silver. A short build that made taller figures bend to address it appeared like a tenaciously rooted pine. Yet it seemed humans had done altogether too many different things.

May 4

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 like an electric shock through my body and nearly felt nauseous. In Japanese airplanes, such a thing had never occurred. When I mentioned this to someone, they said there was no motor in the world as excellent as those used in Japanese passenger airplanes. Moreover, they were domestically produced. The vibrations were different. (Departed Paris at nine, an hour and a half in the air, arrived at London’s Piccadilly at twelve.)

I had Mr. Nanjo of the Nippi Shimbun take me around the city and suburbs by car. Despite my eyelids drooping heavily from lack of sleep the previous day, the moment we reached the suburbs, my eyes snapped awake. Clusters of golden enishida flowers blooming in succession across the vast verdant wilderness. Wandering from journey to journey—what first delights the eye is still flowers. The buildings in central London resembled Osaka’s Dōjima. The stone pillars were thick and heavy. The scenery of the Thames was exactly like Nakanoshima. Solely focused on substance, the ornamentation became a grand intimidation, and from beneath the magnanimity of a great nation, one sensed a restless haze rising—somehow uneasy.

May 5

It was the day of the PEN Club’s reception, but during the event, one of the attendees reportedly told Mr. Nanjo, "Please don’t think this is the British PEN Club." The event’s planners were acting extremely unnaturally.

May 6 I took a walk alone through the city. No matter how much I waved my hand, taxis wouldn’t stop, and when I boarded a bus, I ended up heading in the opposite direction and was dropped 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 liked more than this one. It was Tokiwa’s annex, but they said it had been only one or two months since its opening. The mansion appeared to have been a wealthy family’s residence; though dilapidated, it retained an elegant charm. The garden was about four times the size of the mansion, with nothing but a crumbling fountain and a single weathered stone statue of a man and woman whispering to each other amidst a sea of grass. It was as if 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 with heavy wingbeats. Rose vines climbed up a crumbling brick wall, and an old man who had come around a tree trunk slept under apple blossoms while holding a baby. The only guests were myself and a bacteriology professor. The professor told me about bacteriology from noon until one o'clock at night.

May 7 What I thought was rain turned out to be fountain spray. The pear blossoms had all fallen overnight. I keep thinking I should return to Paris, but while staying at this inn, I find no will to go outside. The sky stayed quietly overcast all day. The old man of this house - a sailor who'd plied coastal waters for over twenty years - would cough hoarsely each day and say, "England's weather's just like this." When I went out to the garden, pale pink apple blossoms still lingered amidst seas of fresh green leaves. I've given up on the Scotland trip.

The other day, when I was drinking tea amidst the crowd at the Dôme in Paris, I suddenly encountered—right in the middle of the crowd at London’s Piccadilly—the American woman who had been sitting three or four tables away. Despite never having exchanged a word, she too seemed to remember me; grinning, she called out "Hello" as she passed by. It is one of London’s good impressions.

May 8

I took a walk through the cloud-covered city. I didn’t know where I had walked or where I had emerged. I merely took off and put on my heavy overcoat five or six times. I walked between similar buildings until I grew tired, and when I spotted green grass that seemed to belong to a park, I came to a stop. I didn’t know why I was walking through the city. Every time I walked through the city today thinking I would return to Paris, upon returning to the inn, the beauty of the garden and the family’s simplicity made me postpone yet another day.

May 9

With not the slightest desire to see anything, I departed London.

12:30. Above Dover was nothing but fog. The fog resembled a boundless snowfield stretching endlessly. I flew between a sunlit blue sky and this snowfield while sipping coffee. The land below France formed orderly square patterns, while England’s terrain appeared cloud-shaped. I arrived in Paris at three o’clock. What a carefree city this was! For the first time, I felt as though I had returned home. My trip to London seemed akin to having gone solely to reassess Paris. In the week since I’d last seen them, the horse chestnut blossoms had fully bloomed. I walked continuously from the Grands Boulevards to Saint-Martin, turned back toward the Champs-Élysées, and gazed tirelessly at the streets. When June came, I thought I would go to London once more and reassess England.

May 10 I went to watch the horse races at Longchamp. The horse racing here was just like going on a flower-viewing excursion. There were women lying on the green grass at the racetrack absorbed in reading novels. Since the betting tickets were inexpensive, starting at five francs, they didn’t lead to frenzied commotion, allowing one to pass a tranquil half-day. On the way back, I rested at l’Ombre on the Champs-Élysées.

Amidst the pure white flowers of horse chestnut trees with their panicles aligned in unison, a fountain sprayed mist that billowed and bent. The promenade descending from Étoile, being a Sunday, was a river of fashionable spring attire flowing down.

May 11 I went to Rosenberg to see Matisse’s exhibition. The main focus was on this year’s works. Matisse had changed again. When I saw Picasso’s gathering the other day, I had secretly wondered how Matisse would measure up against Picasso’s bold transformations, but in the end, I marveled that Matisse too was a great genius. The result of their competition seemed to be beginning to relegate Cézanne to third place. In contrast to Picasso’s pursuit of authenticity, Matisse’s richness gave a slight sense of leaning off-track, but in terms of beauty, he was undoubtedly first-rate. This year, Matisse’s dominant color was black. It somehow resembled the ornate black-collared kimonos of Japanese women, yet did not fall short in refinement.

May 12

Today, once again, I went to see Matisse. I became profoundly convinced that painting was no different from literature. In Japan, there was still no authenticity in either literature or painting. Therefore, there was a danger that anyone could immediately degenerate into superficial refinement. I thought it was something one should be mindful of. If artists were tripped up by this, it would spell their end. However, I decided to stop writing such things for now.

May 13 It was unusually clear that day. Once again I came to where Matisse's exhibition was being held. Though it was two ri to this part of town, there was a reason I felt compelled to come daily. This street stretching less than ten chō from Rue La Boétie to Saint-Honoré was where Parisian tradition emerged in its most concentrated form. Though there were few pedestrians and its beauty seemed ordinary and aged—with nothing particularly striking—the items displayed in shop windows were pure works of art down to every glove. It was likely the world's greatest street. Of all Paris, only this long narrow desolate thoroughfare truly revealed Paris to me. In Tokyo terms, it would correspond to the area stretching from Yagenbori to Ningyōchō's backstreets. I believed that while purely Tokyo-made goods were sold only there in all of Tokyo, here in Paris it was confined to this unremarkable stretch of less than ten chō between Saint-Honoré and Boétie. The rest were districts beloved by foreigners and the masses.

I too had a street I liked. It was Auguste Comte Street, running along the outer perimeter of Luxembourg Park. Few people passed through it, but at night its beauty held a divine austerity.

Along an iron fence over ten feet high, thick jet-black horse chestnut trunks stood in rows, and beneath the dense trees, the occasional figure walked methodically, remaining silent. The old gas lamps glowed blue, and as I walked silently through the buildings on one side with all their windows shut, the solitude was so beautiful it made my body tremble. When I suddenly touched the smooth granite stone wall, the sweet-sour petals beginning to decay clung to my fingertips. Before death, people likely resembled the desolate scenery of this street. Every time I passed through here, I thought that as long as Paris had places like this, it was already finished. Other towns could largely be imagined even without seeing them, but here alone was a world in its final days. A canyon within the city.

In Paris, the most vulgar yet—no matter who might see it—the most elegant place would have been l’Ombre des Champs-Élysées, I thought. Things positioned at culture’s pinnacle had to possess a vulgar quality; otherwise, they lost their value. I suppressed my preferences and recognized that place as supreme. After all, preferences ultimately stemmed from human weaknesses. As for Concorde Square, I considered it the ultimate expression of artificial beauty. The grandeur of countless fountains gushing from statues clustered across that flat, radiant square— If one sought its Eastern counterpart, it would be Beiling in Fengtian or perhaps the roof of Kyoto’s Higashi Honganji Temple. The awe of walking through Concorde’s vast artificial pinnacle would have far more excited people than the terror of midnight forest wanderings. There I felt true sentimentality. Nature was ultimately just natural.

Today I heard of Saburi Shin-kun's suicide. I had received three letters of introduction from him, though two still remained. He was a man who wrote in an earnest hand. Makino Shin’ichi-kun too had taken his own life recently, but in both cases, the last time I met them had been some four days before my departure. Though the days differed by one or two each time, without exception our meetings occurred before Ebisu Beer in Ginza. Even those encounters had been mere passing exchanges in night crowds where we simply raised hands to one another. Both had worn smiles of unearthly cheerfulness as they passed by, striking identical poses.

Each time I passed through the canyon-like Auguste Comte Street, I thought I should pray for the repose of those two.

May 18

I went to Bois de Vincennes with Higuchi-kun and Okamoto-kun. The heat that had continued since the day before yesterday persisted today. The vast forest was teeming with people. When we tried to enter the depths where there were no people to rest, couples of men and women lay sprawled out here and there among the mixed trees. We three men felt as though we might be defiling the forest. Huddled closely together, we simply gazed at the treetops, but no one spoke with any solemnity. Higuchi-kun would occasionally let out a sigh and say he wanted to return to Japan soon. Okamoto-kun remained sullenly silent, doing nothing but plucking off 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 ideal for men and women to come to the forest on Sundays. The suffering of Parisians who now desperately want to become barbaric again.

In Paris—having conquered primal nature, exhausted the techniques of secondary nature, and compressed thought, that tertiary nature, to its utmost limits—they now desperately don barbaric guises in their struggle to return to primal nature. This was the fourth nature. Realism was already gone here.

May 19

I went to see something called stereoscopic motion pictures. However, this had first appeared here just two or three days prior, but I heard that in Japan it had been released a month earlier. I couldn’t help but feel that an inventive country letting other nations take the lead in such matters was not to be underestimated.

There were no drunkards in France. They maintained the view that only those of low intelligence became intoxicated, and whenever such individuals appeared, they were promptly seized and dragged out of cafés. Yet even dozing off would get one seized and expelled. Napping and drunkenness had become proof of idiocy.

A place where every direction you face teems with beautiful women amounts to having no beauties at all. Nero set fire to Rome exactly because there were too many beautiful women. Among this country's drivers and attendants are many men bearing the stately appearance of a prime minister. Yet here, many ministers have faces as cold-looking as Japanese attendants. The quantity of muscle seemed inversely proportional to that of spirit. This was what they called culture.

In the evening, after finishing dinner, I walked around town and went to Bois de Boulogne around ten o'clock. From three directions, groups of automobiles streamed ceaselessly into the forest. It was unclear where those countless cars were heading as they scattered away. Only above the open-air café in one corner of the forest was it hazily bright, as if a crimson mist had been poured over it. We went out by boat to the lake in the forest. Crimson round lanterns swayed over the jet-black water surface. When I looked at the boats passing by, every one carried a man and a woman. In the faint light of the lanterns, their faces remained unseen. The moored boats were all those of guests who had abandoned them in the shade of the island's trees. The red lanterns of the empty boats waiting vaguely were seductive like curtained windows. A swan plunged heavily with a plop into the dark water surface. Drooping tree branches brushed past faces as they passed by. The smell of algae began to mingle with the scent of face powder. Occasionally, boats filled only with men would pass by silently. Somehow, it had an air of refined elegance. Okamoto-kun raised his hand as they exchanged mutual gestures of respect.

They circled the lake and went ashore on the island. They considered walking through the shade but, worried they might startle the waterfowl, abandoned the idea and entered the lakeside pavilion. At this lakeside pavilion, when they had drunk coffee the other day, they had been busy chasing the falling horse chestnut blossoms, but now only thick green leaves remained heavy upon themselves. When they split a lemon, the pungent aroma pierced them with memories of Japan’s season of fresh greenery.

May 20

I went to Rouen. This was where Chavannes and Racine were born. It was also the town where Joan of Arc was burned at the stake. Madame Bovary of Flaubert’s novel would come out from a nearby village and pass through here in a carriage with her lover.

It took three hours by bus from Paris to Rouen. As the countryside along the road lay within Normandy, it was filled with France’s characteristic bright sunlight. When Madame Bovary polished her shoes and walked through the village pasture—her boots mirrored in tiny grass seeds—the green horizon curved in a broad, gentle arc over the vast fields devoid of paths or ridges. A sea of soft grass formed valleys and swelled into hills; when the wind blew, it parted the grass, gathered sheep to move them along, and lifted island-like forests into view beside which stood a tilting church tower. The smooth road extended straight through the grass all the way to Rouen. Scattered here and there were villages of five or six houses. Every village was tranquil yet languid, and under the intense sunlight, people’s voices were low and heavy.

Crossing the hill revealed Rouen encircling the Seine River in a valley-like lowland. Both riverbanks bristled with nothing but cranes. Numerous ships had ascended from Favre. At the city’s heart rose several towering Gothic church spires. The vista from this descending slope was reputedly finest—Chavannes himself had painted it precisely thus. Night brought bitter cold contradicting days of prior heat. One couldn’t walk without an overcoat. Through darkened streets he reached the riverbank. Clouds raced above the water as cold intensified.

I was told that if I wanted to see pure French people, I should go to Rouen, but it was so cold that I couldn’t go out. However, the modesty of the people, the unworldliness of the girls, and the earnestness of those who restrained their smiles were evident even in a single outing.

May 21

I returned to Paris by train along the Seine River. Paris was a town where each time I returned, my mind settled and I felt at ease. It was no recent phenomenon that places with the most complete regulations were also the most free and comfortable. It was said that Beethoven had come to Paris and alighted by carriage at Brueghel Bar near my lodgings when he suddenly saw a lewd painting displayed in the shopfront; enraged, he promptly returned to Vienna the very next day. Lewd paintings were still displayed everywhere. However, displaying such paintings in shopfronts was akin to admonishing that all roads lead to Rome. The Indian Kama Sutra in French translation stood imposingly on the front line of a new bookstore’s shopfront. No one there saw this as an obscene book. The sincerity with which they treated it as a physiological text placed alongside scriptures more than sufficed to explain this nation’s complex history of public kissing without changing countenance.

In other words, things unsuitable to be shown to humans had already vanished from this land. A terrifying boredom and nihilism were assailing people. A driver spent his entire life as a driver without complaint, and the reason for the realism where a janitor ended his days as a janitor lay there. If this was the case, then happiness did not lie in the squandering of money. It lay solely in savings. The virtue of diligence stemmed from this. In this country called France, it was said that they would not accept bills unless directly exchanged for actual goods. In a credit-based society, this old-fashioned practice was also profoundly foolish. But what use could a mere slip of paper—a bill of exchange that showed no actual goods—possibly be to a person who had made saving their lifelong hope and sole happiness? The risk of trusting others and wasting one’s entire life ran counter to absolutely certain happiness.

Having cash hidden away in one’s home—there was nothing that filled the tactile sense so thoroughly as this. However, there was also nothing so free from desire as this. Nihilism once meant releasing all things. But now, it had come to mean holding onto things as securely as possible.

May 22 When in Paris, I find myself unable to compose haiku. My thoughts pile up relentlessly until my mind turns foggy. There’s a term among us Japanese here—“Paris fog”—but resisting it demands keeping one’s ears attuned to the clink of coins. Today arrived Mr. Mizuhara Shūōshi’s haiku collection *Katsushika*. At its opening: *A skylark’s cry—* This was a spring verse from Yamato’s Tōshōdai-ji Temple. I marveled at how utterly foreign its imagery felt compared to what filled my eyes each day.

Concorde goddess has aged in the spring rain Champs-Élysées—a donkey’s bells sink into the flower-haze A jockey falls—spring-cold field, sleet descends

Here, it does not become a haiku. The above are my haiku composed immediately upon arriving in Paris, but when creating haiku abroad, there is the difficulty of having to kill verses for the sake of invention. In the Indian Ocean, Mr. Takahama Kyoshi composed: Indian Ocean—moon in the east, sun in the west.

He had composed a verse that went, *“Indian Ocean—moon in the east, sun in the west,”* yet despite this being perhaps the most artless of verses, within its plunge into such childlike simplicity lay a pit of foreignness—insurmountable unless one were a master—where only those of skill could descend. I think novels are also like this. Authentic form refers to when one passes from form to form, utterly kills oneself, pushes aside, breaks through, and reaches great simplicity; I believe there can be no authentic form without this discipline.

Gathering only purity and attaining a high degree of purity is a form of vulgarity. This idea had now become a common problem across France’s literary circles, art world, and theatrical sphere. This was why Neo-Realism had arisen.

May 26

In France, among acts of non-payment for food and drink, only food incurs severe penalties. When it comes to drink, it poses no issue. In trials here, since the jury system wields decisive adjudicative power, even when beautiful women commit murder they are frequently acquitted. The notion that beauty alone constitutes national contribution has materialized as tacit societal irony. The French laugh exceedingly little. This stems from linguistic constructs that nullify any need for laughter. Japan must still laugh. Fortune arrives not while one laughs.

I hardly ever saw any fights. Even if someone bumped into another, it was the one who was bumped that said, “Excuse me.” I saw that when a blind person came to a main street intersection, all traffic stopped, and a police officer took their hand and slowly led them about a block to a safe place. The amount of money for which French painters’ artworks sold overseas far exceeded the total export value of all Japanese silk goods. There, art surpassed industry.

It is said that the majority of overseas travelers entering Spain go to see the paintings in museums. The amount of money these travelers spend has become the most important source of revenue for the national treasury. Thanks to the emergence of these four geniuses—El Greco, Picasso, Velázquez, and Goya—the people can live in leisure forever.

The greatest contribution Tokugawa Ieyasu made to Japan may have been building his own mausoleum in Nikko. I think Kabuki should be made state-operated and new theater entrusted to Shochiku and Toho. There can be no other method for the development of theatrical arts. As for literature, I think the government should provide study abroad funds to up-and-coming critics. Moreover, there's no need for any one person to stay long-term. Three months is sufficient. For those who stay in this land for more than half a year inevitably become fools in some sense. Here, anesthetic gushes forth from everywhere. Those who do not notice this are, in other words, none but those who have fallen asleep.

May 27

Japanese-made yardsticks had to be doubled in length when brought to Paris just to reach the bottom. Since arriving in Paris myself, I found few who had truly glimpsed that depth. Those claiming France remains incomprehensible without prolonged residence were precisely those attempting to rival French tradition itself - such people might as well die. On my first day walking these streets, whenever my eyes caught some curious trinket in shop windows, I burned with immediate desire to possess it. Yet a month later I'd inevitably regret those fevered cravings. Still I came to understand - those very objects that first caught our eyes upon arrival were exactly what we Japanese needed most.

Today, I went to see Cézanne’s exhibition. As it was the thirtieth-anniversary exhibition, masterpieces by Cézanne had been gathered from various countries; it was said that even those who had long been in France would never have seen such a collection. At the Chuilerii Art Gallery, there were a total of 140 pieces along with letters and related materials. The fountain in the outer garden glittered amidst fresh verdure.

The changes from Cézanne's early to late periods, I thought, paralleled transformations in literature. He chased imitation after imitation, layered metamorphosis upon metamorphosis, pursued realism, attained symbolism, and died. Sleeping on his journeys while dreams wandered through withered fields—once this realm was reached, the art world fractured endlessly. Many may call Picasso's agonized transformations in inner portrayal the work of genius, but I consider them the pathos of a blind man.

May 31

I tried reading Japanese novels. I was struck by their delicate and subtle beauty. Had I somehow come to have to apply this way of admiration to my own country’s literature? Yet everyone had unconsciously banded together imitating Proust—in other words, they had been practicing dying. Enough already; we must begin practicing living.

Above all else, one must live. New literature need not be interesting.

June 1 Each person carried a deafness within their heart. When in Japan, one seldom became aware of their own deafness. However, once one stepped into here, the dreadful deafness within bristled up and pierced into them. Ah, my ears began to hear, but the world was already too late. The day was growing dark. Even if I ran now, I could not catch up. Thus, unable to forget the pleasure of deafness and clinging desperately to Eastern things—this was salvation.

There is probably nothing that has belittled people as much as the beauty of Kabuki and Noh.

June 2

Before my departure, I often met with Mr. Ken’ichi Yoshida, who had spent much of his youth living abroad. This man was a young fellow who liked the Shiseido building in Ginza more than anywhere else. When I asked why you liked that place, he answered that it possessed an excellent Eastern quality. What we had believed to be the most European elements in Ginza now appeared Eastern. Nara and Kyoto, he said, did not look Eastern at all. This strangeness too became fully clear to me only after coming to Europe and seeing it for myself.

It wasn’t just Shiseido. Karuizawa and Hibiya too had an Eastern goodness about them. There was no helping it—foreigners in Japan had already become Eastern.

In literature, Kume Masao and Hayashi Fusao, these two gentlemen, appeared the most Eastern.

Nara and Kyoto are already a Japan with dead batteries.

June 3

The place called Paris belongs to no country; I think it is a special nation named Paris. Here, there exists only abundant knowledge and sexuality. The torment of being unable to resist imitating emotions—this is the cause of Paris's melancholy. At the restaurant I frequented, there was a man who had spent some time in Japan. Since I always remained silent, this man would approach and say: "How about it? Since Parisian women don't concern themselves with receiving money or keeping accounts, it must be uninteresting for Japanese people like you." "Japanese women are truly splendid when it comes to that." "For me, making money here and going to Japan is what I look forward to most."

In this land, there existed an established theory that the adverse effects of implementing the laws of liberty and equality during the French Revolution had caused the loss of the people's sentiment. Moreover, each person was aware of it. The sharp Catholic spires towering over the towns appeared like a bitter rebellion against liberty and equality. Gide’s journey to Russia had been a quest to seek out emotions. Strikes had broken out at two hundred factories since the other day. That spark had now spread across all of France, and strikes had even begun arising in dance halls and general stores. By last night, the number had reached 350,000 people, but since the government was left-wing, this dispute did not escalate into turmoil. It was as tranquil as a festival. However, even the newspapers were on strike.

The spirit of attempting to lean left without losing one’s own money—this manifested as individualistic communism, but in France this was what proved most popular. A leftward shift causing loss of personal wealth was something the law did not permit. Moreover—and beyond that—people’s very spirits refused to allow it. There likely existed no place that grasped the principle of left-leaning as insurance against monetary deprivation as thoroughly as here. Any logic more complex than this held no utility for the populace.

While selling printed materials on the streets that meticulously listed the addresses of twenty of France’s wealthiest families—over two hundred individuals—there were those everywhere who shouted that when the time came, they would crush this. The police and the people alike passed by nonchalantly and said nothing.

June 4 In Paris, whether one was American, Black, or British—it was all the same. There, humans held no validity. The only thing that held validity was money. To truly learn economics, there was no place like here. Therefore, even a sentiment equivalent to money could be clearly observed in its workings. In Japan, they would not accept it unless money and sentiment were kept separate. In other words, whereas France purchased sentiment with money, Japan purchased money with sentiment. As for which was more convenient—the world was certain to develop in the direction of convenience.

The cabinet was to be formed that night. That a major strike had broken out under a Socialist Party government would have been an unprecedented event. The Communist Party used this to demonstrate their power. The right-wing utilized it to attack the Socialist Party. When watching from the sidelines, people gradually came to appear as masses of gold. Meanwhile, gold bullion flowed overseas like blood in a steady stream. Though they flustered about with gauze in hand, the blood roared on unabated. There a surgeon appeared—and what intended to sever an arm became that night’s cabinet: Léon Blum’s cabinet emerged.

June 5 Clusters of white acacia flowers washed away by the rain floated atop the stones of the road. The traveler found respite even in such things. The rain fell heavily. A manuscript payment arrived from Bungeishunju-sha. Inside lay a letter from Sasaki-kun, yet not a single word about Japan was written. In Paris existed a mimeographed single-page newspaper called Japan-France Correspondence, published by Mr. Awatoku Saburō. This compiled reports and critiques of Japanese incidents from foreign and domestic newspapers, serving as a specimen of how interpretations of identical events diverged between East and West—a matter of profound interest. Europe advanced without understanding the Orient, while the Orient revolved without comprehending Europe. This mutual ignorance first transformed into foreign exchange, then into war. To truly know meant to enter its psychology. Literature arose from this point, becoming the sole weapon that would guarantee the world's peace.

June 6

The strikes continued to expand ever further. As for newspapers, only those of the far-left and far-right were barely managing to continue publication.

As I walked through the Latin Quarter in the fading daylight, a far-right vendor passed by, pressing newspapers sideways against his chest as he called out. A few moments later, the far-left came shouting as if to drown him out, and then a continuous back-and-forth of voices arose between the far-right and far-left vendors. They said even sugar would be unavailable tomorrow. Since they weren’t selling gasoline either, there were few cars.

As for electricity, gas, and water supply alone, it was said that the military guarded these. To be honest, it remained unclear to us which side's military this was here. At night, while resting in a restaurant, drivers who were idle because they couldn't buy gasoline crowded in. They talked only of politics. Last year, when we established a forty-hour workweek, America came to agree, but Britain remained silent. That was why, they said, Britain had now come to be in trouble.

Because all French workers had money, they were not troubled even as the strike continued. There were no bloody conflicts anywhere, but for that very reason, it would likely persist all the longer. The reliance on the natural force of a war of attrition proved useless as a tactic here. The far-right newspapers’ method of attacking the new cabinet—claiming an arsonist posed as a firefighter—evoked their signature high-level stratagems. Four hundred and eighty-one factory owners had lost. As a result, each worker’s wages rose by three hundred to four hundred francs. Moreover, holidays increased while wages were still paid on those days. Large stores across the city had mostly shuttered their shutters due to their employees’ strikes. That day, I walked from the Grands Boulevards to the Champs-Élysées and found not a single quarrel. Those who played kept playing; those who strolled kept strolling. The serene air of these idle days was gradually transforming into Paris’s Revolution.

June 7 The yen and the franc were engaging in a competitive devaluation. In these two countries, a violent storm seemed to be swirling into being.—That day, it rained. In the cemetery ahead, a red flag fluttered. At the crossroads, a police squad stood guard with rifles at the ready. When I asked what was happening, I was told that Léon Blum was holding a meeting. A graveyard became a venue not just for funerals.

June 8 Newspapers began appearing little by little. In their place, train dining cars and tourist facilities began shutting down. The governor of the Bank of France had been replaced. All large department stores had closed their shutters - once things reached this state, every shop would undoubtedly go on strike. As if conducting a long-neglected spring cleaning, stores that had finished sweeping began resuming business one after another. That not a speck of dust touched passersby's faces - this truly was France, I thought.

June 9

I thought of setting out on a trip to Spain or Italy but decided to wait until after seeing how the strikes in Paris would conclude before settling back in. People who came to Paris often spoke of its pleasure quarters, but even where such places existed, they were not pleasure quarters at all. These were all workplaces. They treated revelry as labor. Of course Tokyo was no different in this regard, but here it was serious work—which made the debauchery burn all the more intensely. If given time to think at all, their desperate machinations—useless for actual work—would scatter sparks as steadily as industrial production. This was no longer decadence. It was an operating theater seething with lethal intent.

June 10 The strikes continued to expand. Yet it seemed everyone had already forgotten. When great fires rage endlessly, people forget even the flames burning at their side. That France might Sovietize would have been an epochal event for Europe. Yet this land would not be so easily dyed. Rather, Germany—France’s very antithesis—appeared to me to have stolen the initiative, possessing conditions far riper for Sovietization. Between far right and far left lay but a sheet of paper’s difference. One embodied passion’s fervor; the other, intellect’s razor edge. Liberalism became a target riddled with thudding arrows, yet through its own murky tempering guarded thought’s primordial womb. What I sought most was to trace decadence’s course as it wrestled and roiled. Here still burned faintly a sacred flame never once extinguished.

June 11 The great fire of the strikes had finally reached the feet of us spectators. When I left my lodgings for a meal that day, every restaurant in Montparnasse sat silent with chair legs upturned. The foreigners who like myself had come seeking food merely wandered about laughing. I recalled a nearby dining establishment run entirely by White Russians and went to see whether it too had joined the strike. Upon arriving, I found this sole shop still open. Yet its window bore a union membership certificate conspicuously dated for that very day. After some time, a strike enforcement committee arrived to inspect, but seeing the posted document passed through without comment. At the counter's forefront however hung a donation box for the White Russian cause, tilting precariously as if mocking its own presence.

In the afternoon, I crossed the river from the boulevard, emerged at Opéra, turned from Madeleine toward Saint-Honoré, and walked from Champs-Élysées to Quartier Latin. I had circled nearly all of central Paris, but the hotels, cafés, and restaurants were all closed due to strikes. After walking five or six ri in my desperate search for dinner, even the Italian restaurant in Quartier Latin I had pinned my hopes on had its proprietress smiling cheerfully as she refused me. Hungry as I was, there was no help for it. I entered Luxembourg Park and sat on a cold iron chair. Gazing up at the darkening sky while thinking of Tokyo, I suddenly felt an old woman tap my shoulder demanding payment for sitting. Before me, Flaubert's stone statue stared vacantly at the sky, still watching tomorrow's weather.

June 12

Meals became possible.

In the evening, Mr. Tarō Okamoto invited me to join him on an outing since he was visiting a friend’s house, so I decided to go along. The destination was Tristan Tzara’s house. Tzara was the founder of Dadaism and progenitor of the Surrealist school, as well as a poet whose works had been translated into Japanese by Mr. Yamanaka Chiruō. The house stood atop Montmartre—an opulent structure. When I was on the terrace, eleven guests gathered. Among them were four or five women poets, a writer named Caillois, and the sculptor Giacometti. Mr. Okamoto spoke in astonishingly fluent French. This confident and equal interaction with renowned French figures and other foreigners spoke volumes about his capabilities and character as a man who had established himself abroad while still young.

The conversations of the gathered French people were all about the strikes. What drew particular interest was how everyone focused on this precarious balancing act—the government providing aid to prevent capitalists from collapsing due to the strikes while simultaneously advancing the workers' strike efforts. A story surfaced in whispers about Picasso leaning leftward to paint a mural of the Bastille uprising. This was something unknown to any Parisian: Picasso's friend, a woman poet seated beside me, had whispered this tale to Tzara that night—whether truth or fabrication lay beyond my knowing.

June 17

Departure from Paris. To Strasbourg. Though I had called it a solo journey from Tokyo to Paris, there had been many companions along the way. But this journey through five countries marked my solitary departure, and I felt keen interest in what might await in each land ahead. The railway line to Strasbourg showed little variation within France itself, but the twelve national borders beyond remained unchanged checkpoints of nations, now as ever before. The pale white hue of French soil gradually deepened to the red of salmon flesh. Red pines multiplied, coal deposits grew abundant, pastures transformed into factories.

At 7 PM, I arrived in Strasburg. The capital of Alsace—the Western legend that a crane brings human children from atop chimneys originates in this city. Germany and France had vied for it over time, and as the eternal festering wound of the Franco-Prussian War, what met the eye was a blend of German and French elements. If it had adopted only the finest aspects of Germany and France, it should have been called Europe’s premier capital—but given that it was not without an air reminiscent of Junkei Tsutsui’s Horaga Pass, one might also have sensed from time to time the swift opportunism of plucking eyes from living horses. No soldier—no matter from which country—could set foot in this city.

Bordered by mountain ranges, topographically speaking, this was Germany. However, the language was French. The cuisine was German-style, but the houses were a jumble of German and French.

From here all the way to the Belgian border, it was said that a vast underground city stretched beneath the surface. I heard they had constructed the defenses between Germany and France such that not even a single rat could slip through. However, at a glance, there was no particular difference.

June 18

Arrived in Munich. A quiet town, yet one where it felt as if a great machine rumbled deep beneath its surface. The hotel was large, and the room keys matched its scale. The water tasted remarkably pure. The next morning, even after rising, I found no renewed interest in touring the town. Chasing patches of shade beneath linden trees, I walked barely five blocks before retreating to the hotel.

The heat was intense. I tried drinking beer, but to me, Kirin Beer tastes slightly better.

June 19

I departed for Tyrol. At stations throughout Munich，modest women were standing on the platforms drinking beer. Men mostly had shaven heads，and women’s faces were red. The increasing beauty of the forests in this area was not entirely due to the forests themselves.

Passing through Garmisch and Partenkirchen, as we approached the border of Mittenwald, nature’s transformations and beauty reached their zenith. Jagged gray-blue mountain peaks surged upward as if boiling from the earth. The overwhelming flood of snowfields pressed against our foreheads. Mountains or valleys—it mattered not—all gave way to an unbroken succession of pastures brimming with flowers. Strange and jagged peaks materialized one after another in ceaseless metamorphosis. I could not help but sigh at the revelation that such a breathtaking plateau existed in this world. And still, it stretched endlessly onward.

Thistles, saffron, small yellow chrysanthemums, dry grass—large trees floated up from within the flowers, and the train cut through the blossoms as it advanced. Where glaciers also flowed down amidst the flowers, the soft grass of pastures with neatly trimmed tips continued for tens of miles without end. Through the rippling sea of flowers, a girl on a bicycle rode proudly. The entire mountain was a grand park. This beauty did not diminish no matter how far one traveled—marshes here, forests there, the dazzling snowfields, peaks newly revealed with each turn—and as it spread across the window and drew near, this place was called Mittenwald. Mist welled up from the valley, and below, an old castle sank quietly. From around here, we entered Austria.

The same day

Arrived in Innsbruck. This city was the center of Tyrol. Embraced by high mountains crowned with snow from the west, south, and north, it became a plain only to the east toward Wien. The streets of Innsbruck echoed back my own footsteps to a disconcerting degree. The clinking of bicycle chains could also be heard clearly. As it was Europe’s premier resort, there were many foreign tourists. The faces of the local men resembled those of monkeys, but the women possessed the rustic beauty of mountain dwellers, and the patterns adorned with pasture flowers suited their garments well. The water flowing down from the glacier was delicious.

When night fell, it rained. The beauty of lightning flashing along the snow line of the serried mountain ranges. The rain stopped; unable to sleep, I went out into the quieted town, sat alone on a bench, and gazed at the fountain. Not a single person passed by. The peaks of the mountains drew near, and the dense forests were terrifying. The loneliness of travel seemed to find its end in the nights of Tyrol. In the middle of the night, my eyes opened. Trying to sleep and then rise again, the rain began to fall once more.

June 20

This park was full of small birds. People rested on benches here and there, but not a soul spoke. Branches of trees drooped down to the ground. Above them towered glacier-clad peaks. Bird droppings fell. Underfoot, a squirrel and a tit were playing. The sunlight was intense. The air was clear. In such a place, I didn’t know what one should do.

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

On the mountain were cows with bells. The buzz of bees, the murmur of snowmelt streams, the clang of cowbells with each movement—the snow beneath my boots was muddy, so this place could not have been very high. The teahouse girl curled into a C-shape beside me, writing a letter in delicate script. Clouds drifted leisurely toward the Swiss sky. On the mountain, there were only this sun-scorched girl and me. The bells tolled endlessly. “Until saffron blooms in that pasture.”

In Mr. Kishida Kunio’s play *Autumn in Tyrol*, I believe there was such a line as well.

At night, it rained. It was a driving rain.

June 21

Departed for Wien. Along the line, limestone mountains abounded. The road was pure white because of it. When the wind blew, the dust blowing into the window all smelled like chalk.

Arrived in Vienna at 10:30 p.m. This was the capital I had long yearned for. Now that I had come here, I felt no charm at all. I knew it sounded rude, but this was harsh criticism still—even so, being the ancestral seat of the Habsburg dynasty through generations, one could distinctly sense traces where grease had seeped into the soil's gleam despite its decline. When it came to sculptures lining its streets too—this capital surpassed Paris itself. In particular, Stephansdom's Gothic splendor outshone Notre Dame in architectural design.

However, this squandering of power—positioned at Europe’s center, surrounded by formidable nations, perpetually compelled to subjugate them through displays of authority—could not endure indefinitely. When I looked at the faces of this country’s people, many bore a majestic demeanor that seemed to command their surroundings. Even in silence, their gazes were sharp; they possessed a composed dignity that naturally overwhelmed others. Yet upon closer inspection, this amounted to nothing. When matters came to a head, they appeared likely to be the first to sink beneath the surface. Even the station bento vendors had voices like mosquito buzzes, ill-suited to their sturdy frames. Still, the noble bearing exhibited by the elderly was something the people of Vienna regarded as first-class.

June 22

I departed for Budapest.

From Austria to the fields of Hungary, poppies grew everywhere, heedless of place. The Danube River swelled together with the poppies.

At 6 p.m., he arrived in Budapest.

Whenever the topic arose of which place in Europe had been most interesting during my travels，everyone would unanimously say Budapest．This was a city where Buda and Pest faced each other across the Danube．Of Hungary’s total population of eight million，1．06 million lived in this capital．Against Pest’s plain stood Buda－a hill on the opposite bank lush with green trees．Under this hill，along two kilometers of the Danube’s banks，there were 120 high-temperature natural hot springs．And all this lay right at the heart of the city．There was no reason every ethnic group would not vie for control of a city that so perfectly embodied this land’s ideals．This was why there had been unceasing contention over it for two thousand years．

Taken by Genghis Khan, taken by Turkey, taken by Austria, and now Italy’s grasp extends eight-tenths of the way. The wilderness of Hungary has crimson hollyhocks as its symbol. If one draws a circle around Europe with a compass, the center pierces Budapest. A people without a single coastline, who must wander uncertainly about which border to direct their concentrated military forces—as a result of their ceaseless sorrow—discovered in life’s pleasures their sole path. Just as the unceasing slaughter of the Warring States period forced ignorance upon the people of Japan, so too there, in place of naught, the path of amusement was compelled.

June 24

An evening moon hung over the Danube River. On the riverbank, a group of Gypsies played a song of Hungary’s wilderness. A boundless vista—a sorrow welled up in my chest. The ripples of the Danube River—those were Vienna’s joy at having taken Hungary. Yet these ripples here were ones that groaned under oppression, howled into the distance, resigned themselves, sank down, and grieved in desolation.

June 25

When it came to loving Japan, I doubted there were any people like those here. In Budapest, there was a large café named Japan that I thought might span an entire city block. A place rich in emotion, where lyricism abounded—here, in all of Europe, one found no equal. Moreover, not to be outdone by Paris, the magnificence of its cityscape, the orderliness of its facilities, the expansion of its roads, the beauty of its street trees—all put Tokyo to shame. I thought Tokyo City Hall should bring in more artists. In this city, they provided houses free of charge to groups of sculptors. There has never been a country anywhere that achieved cultural advancement without providing money to its artists.

It is said that when foreigners travel around the world and come to Kyoto and Nara in Japan, they feel a sense of relief for the first time. This is the story of Mr. Seligman, who recently finished his research and returned to Paris.

When traveling through cities of various countries, I found myself habitually wanting to leave immediately from places with few street trees. In recent years, ruins from two thousand years ago had been discovered underground in Budapest's suburbs. This site blended Persian, Greek, and Roman elements, yet one could immediately sense various features testifying to its ancient cultural sophistication. I received an oil flask from this excavation site. They said they were giving it to me specifically because I was Japanese.

June 26

According to the tickets, I would have had to return to Vienna once and then proceed to Venice from there, but since it was troublesome, I changed to a plane and flew to Venice. However, even by plane, I had to return to Vienna once. The plains of Hungary stretched endlessly like a continuous tapestry of brocade. The meandering of the Danube flowing through it resembled the capricious wanderings of an only daughter. The twisting, winding, unrestrained flow coiled and unraveled, circulating in a form that had forgotten its origin.

At the edge of the Hungarian plains, the Alps mountain range gradually drew near. The snow-crowned fangs of the mountain peaks suddenly aimed for the belly of the plane and surged upward in competition. The abundance of the earth’s power. On and on we went; snow accumulations embracing hollows surged forth in heaps. The sliding flow of radiating rocks. The wrinkles of the valley lay pitch-black and crystal-clear like the depths of the deep sea. Here, clouds resembled ships.

June 26

Arrived in Venice. I thought perhaps today was the 25th. ——I had heard that entering Venice through Austria and Hungary was considered the best route. Having chosen this path by chance—emerging abruptly into Italy’s sea from a land dominated by mountains and wilderness—it was only natural my impressions were vivid. “That evening，the Adriatic Sea was violet-colored.” I recalled that D’Annunzio’s short story *The Kitten* began thus. Indeed，while sunlight lingered，the Adriatic appeared bamboo-green，shifting to violet as dusk approached. In Venice—a city paved entirely with stone，without a speck of soil—deep，clear water lay still，woven intricately between eaves. Slender gondolas，their hulls lacquered black and prows adorned in silver，evoked Venice’s mercantile heyday. Alluring，bewitching vessels they were.

The hall of my hotel, Royal Daniel, was more beautiful than the Palace of Versailles. The sea was by the window, and a canal enveloping the hotel wound deeply around to the back of San Marco Temple. I think San Marco was listed as one of three representative beautiful temples in Mr. Takaho Itagaki’s “Italian Temples.” The dense gathering of pigeons in the square in front was no match for Asakusa Temple. The warmth of a flock of pigeons pressing close and alighting on an outstretched arm.

When night fell, beneath the bridges spanning from eave to eave, dancing girls sang as they floated their gondolas along. The chorus reverberated between the narrow buildings' stone walls and the water, and even several minutes after their figures had long vanished into the distance, it continued to resound as if near at hand. Here, the entire city was constructed as a single instrument. The piano of two thousand years ago was a “water piano.” Venice’s city designer, I imagine, must have envisioned this romantic instrument.

June 27

Today, as I was having breakfast before San Marco, the waiter whispered that he would give me an island tour ticket if I paid fifteen lira. Thinking this fortunate, I paid and received an afternoon ticket—but treating it like a secret, he kept emerging from behind pillars to hide the ticket I was examining under a napkin first, then under his hat. I’ve forgotten what islands we visited exactly but believe we crossed over three or four. Venice’s streets are all cobblestones without trees or grass, yet these islands were lush southern lands. One island had a glass factory. Another held communities of pure-blooded old Italians. On the farthest island lay a decayed temple amid tall grass. Inside were nameless masterpieces and Buddhist statues—but what startled me was how every window and door consisted of single thick slabs resembling cement stone. Here life’s hardships hadn’t encroached from Venice. Under bright sunlight grapes ripened while flowers bloomed wildly among roaming chickens. Peering suddenly through a building’s window I saw women—all dignified-faced—wearing soiled clothes and silently embroidering hemp.

June 28

Venice’s rain. —It had been drizzling since morning. In the afternoon, I had to leave the hotel for the station, but here where waterways replaced roads, not a single taxi could be found. Boarding the steamer went smoothly enough, but I remained utterly unable to discern where the station might lie.

The same day,

7:00, arrived in Florence. Before sunset, I walked around the hotel's vicinity. Here too, taxis were scarce; horse carriages fitting for the city were plentiful. With the shops closed, only stone walls seemed to remain. Exhausted yet unable to forget the chicken from my train boxed meal, I kept searching for more as I wandered.

June 29

The city of Florence lay in a basin surrounded by hills. The summits of the surrounding hills were all temples. Moved by the beauty of these temples seen in the distance through lush greenery, I felt compelled to go there and hailed a taxi. It became a continuous procession of scenes I had often witnessed in Italian masterpieces. Every masterpiece had sketching from life as its foundation. Even among the women passing by, many in Florence closely resembled the figures from Raphael and Titian's paintings.

I saw da Vinci’s *Mona Lisa* painting at the Louvre in Paris—he who was born in this land—but even regarding that Lisa, the critics who strained to find meaning in her smile had overestimated it. There was no way da Vinci would have endeavored to seek meaning from a woman’s smile. Having come to Florence and seen it, I believe I came to comprehend Paris with greater clarity. The Parisian Renaissance, arriving a century after the Italian Renaissance that had arisen centered on this land, proved entirely an imitation of Florence. Yet by the seventeenth century, Florence itself could no longer resist imitating Paris. The French never forgot to construct new traditions that ceaselessly overcame their old ones. This must have been the great cause behind Paris surpassing even Italy’s final beauty and, through successive layers of a rising new century, amassing and creating cultural splendor.

Valuing old traditions—this alone was not their sole virtue. The dignity of Florence resembled the sorrow of a beauty who had aged unnoticed. We could only pay our respects and take our leave. The city of Florence was a deluge of masterpieces. Yet reality's Florence far surpassed its painted depictions. Why then would one need enter museums? Had I such time to spare, I'd rather race through streets and hills by carriage.

The place where Dante was born—da Vinci, Boccaccio, Machiavelli, Giotto, Cimabue, Cellini—they were all born in this city. Passing by carriage along the banks of the Arno River flowing through Florence—a city where other geniuses emerged like clouds—I stopped the carriage just as we reached the bridge where Dante had seen Beatrice, but on the bridge, even Beatrice was now walking alongside a dapper military man. The river’s water did not move at all. The Arno River, as still as a swamp, reflected the antiquated buildings and clouds, appearing as though it were dead. There were no waves, no boats, and no people. The loneliness of the carriage horse’s hooves clattering against the stone was like nailing a coffin.

At night, I rode through again by carriage. Amidst the Marumo trees in the park, fireflies swarmed everywhere. The driver pointed at the statue at the crossroads and, chuckling, said it was George Washington. Indeed, George Washington’s statue was shining here, whatever it was meant to be. When I laughed, the driver roared with laughter even harder and swung his whip.

June 30 Before departure, I decided to tour the museum. The originals of the Italian masterpieces whose prints I had bought in Paris were all displayed there. However, when it comes to prints, each one is slightly better than the original. Canned sardines can sometimes be more flavorful than live ones.

Same day,

Arrived in Milan at 5:00 p.m.—Because the period for my reserved ticket at Hotel Regina had expired, I was driven out due to overcrowding and transferred to Hotel Maruno. However, when it was time to depart, they told me to come there to pay.

Milan is said to be a place of purple mountains and clear waters. However, here there was no water, no mountains, and what’s more, not a single tree.

After leaving Paris, I came to hold an insight regarding travel. It was this: upon arriving in a new town, I would check my luggage at the hotel and, above all else, walk to that town’s park. I would rest there for a while. When I did that, my disappointment with travel would begin to disappear. There was an old castle that seemed to have emerged from the Abbey of Parma. A brick castle encircled by a dried-up moat, with towering walls that surely must have housed princes or prisoners within—I had seen many castles, but this Milan Castle was the most splendid, resembling one straight out of a fairy tale. I leaned against the iron railing of the moat and, gazing up at the high castle walls, lost myself in reverie for a while, forgetting my fatigue. When a bell tolls once, you return to your origins; when it tolls twice, you return to singularity; when thrice, to nothingness.—That famed depiction of the Tower of London had been incomprehensible to me as a boy, but now struck me as rather absurd. On the headless, towering cylindrical tower, swallows were flying in a swarming mass like a pillar of mosquitoes.

I hailed a taxi from the park and said to go to La Scala. The taxi stopped beside La Scala, but all the gates were closed. Since there was no help for it, I decided to return to the hotel and ordered, "To Hotel Maruno." However, the driver suddenly began shouting loudly and refused to move. Since I had no idea what was happening, I stared blankly at his face—only to realize that we had already stopped in front of Hotel Maruno all along.

July 1

Departed Milan. When leaving, I took a liking to the hotel’s ashtray, so among all the hotels I had stayed at, I remarked that this one here had the best ashtray. When I said, "Then let me take it with me," they immediately wrapped it in paper. Impressed that such courtesy didn’t suit a foreigner’s expectations, I offered two lira as thanks. Yet they demanded ten lira in return. This pattern—not limited to Italy—plagues me at every turn. Once you reveal the slightest opening, something inevitably forces its way in. But since someone like me is riddled with vulnerabilities, they apparently can’t discern where to strike—so even foreigners hesitate to approach carelessly. Yet occasionally there are terrifyingly swift operators who, spotting an opening, pounce without hesitation. In an instant, I’ve already been fleeced. At such times, I pay up, regarding it as a tax.

The area around the border from Italy into Switzerland became so beautiful with its mountains and waters that one might mistake it for Switzerland itself. However, once he crossed the Simplon Pass into Switzerland proper, there emerged stark gradations of difference—the jaggedness of mountains, the purity of air, the boldness of glaciers. Descending further and arriving near Montreux, the landscape’s exquisite clarity and grandeur compelled him to straighten his collar reflexively. Passing through this area while looking down at Château de Chillon below, as he approached Lausanne along the lakeshore, his mind grew utterly empty, free of all thought—at last he was entering travel’s true essence. The beauty of mountains and fields stood at its zenith. Yet a place too splendid felt somehow vulgar. Without this vulgarity, beauty could not be genuine.

Arrived in Lausanne at 8:30 PM. I realized I had seen so many countries. There was no time for impressions to surface. I supposed this was because my head had become completely packed with something. Lao Tzu said that things will not turn unless their insides are empty, but my emptiness had become packed and thereby empty. Lausanne was like a small Paris with a lake placed in it. Each time I climbed slopes steep enough to pierce the chest, flat avenues multiplied alongside. Because the moon hung over the lake, when I looked down, the town was noisy.

July 2

As I climbed up through the town, sweat began to bead on my skin. As I descended, my feet grew cold and my sneezes multiplied. What a troublesome town. The lake was clouded by rain. Above the large-blossomed roses blooming on the observation deck, the glacier gradually disappeared.

Early summer rain— roses sharpening clearer within the clouds

In the rain, I departed from amidst the garden full of swaying flowers.

After traversing half of Lake Léman, I arrived in Geneva at 5:00 PM. Since it was the final destination of my journey and I wanted to buy a watch, upon arriving at Hotel Verébü, I immediately went out into the town. Geneva seemed to be a town of nothing but hotels and watch shops. Because cigarettes were displayed in the show window, I thought it was a tobacco shop—but then I noticed watches arranged in every corner among the cigarettes. Thinking it was a toy store because they sold children’s toys, I went inside—only to find genuine, expensive watches pouring out from beneath the toys. It seemed that imitation pistols were found in toy stores, but since I had no desire to buy them, I wandered the town looking for a specialized watch store—yet such places were nowhere to be found. Here, it seems it would be foolish to specialize solely in watches.

The watch shops here would immerse watches in water for about ten minutes, then take them out and sell them by declaring, “Look—they haven’t stopped at all.” There is nothing in this world as impartial as a watch. That this should be considered the finest specialty of the land was not without reason. That peace conferences convene here—to consider the relationship between watches and peace might seem foolish at first glance—but this labor of people who take pride in their privilege, who receive guardianship from all to preserve eternal peace in earth’s most scenic land, who gratefully dedicate themselves to gifting the world its most precise timepieces—could such work be ordinary? If such correspondences held no meaning, then what we call symbols would amount to nothing. Who would ever diligently trouble their mind over peace?

July 3

At 11:00 PM, I arrived in Paris. Each time I returned from a journey, the depth only grew deeper—such was the enduring mystery of Paris. The fact that all cities large and small in the five countries I had traveled through were without exception imitating Paris to the fullest—I realized this was not imitation. The closer things approach being genuine, the more their paths converge into one, and individuality diminishes. The intellectual design of city-states begun by Descartes robbed Europe of its individuality. The triumph of this geometry wielded tyranny even within the human heart into the modern era. People's hearts and minds, when pinched between the two legs of a compass, cannot move.

Once a strike occurred, Paris set ablaze and spread through every sector of labor, as if every road were linked to another. Just as the Place de la Concorde absorbed all of Paris’s roads, money converged all functions of Parisian hearts and minds. Every time I returned to this city, my mind quieted down, and I felt an even more immeasurable depth growing within me. This mystery. In other words, it was because I had been gradually losing that cumbersome thing called individuality.

Without realizing it, I too must have come to no longer recognize the value of things merely existing in their place. I had already ceased my distrust in myself. I lost any remaining spirit to fuss over empty smiles’ beauty.

July 9

I attended a lecture hosted by the Porza Association. The lecturers were just two people: Mr. Brallange, a botanist renowned at Sorbonne University, and myself. I spoke about the foundation of Japanese literature. The interpreter was Ms. Kikuko Yamada, but in Paris lectures, rather than the talk itself, the real challenge was said to be facing a barrage of questions from the audience and responding to them on the spot. I couldn’t quite discern what sort of people made up the audience, but from appearances, most seemed to be members of the Porza Association. The association’s president was the former Minister of Education, and listed among the advisors were names like Einstein, Paul Valéry, and about ten others.

After finishing the talk, the secretary-general faced the audience and said, “If anyone has questions, please go ahead.” No one had any questions. The only ones who came to shake hands with me were elderly people; the young men and women merely watched me from afar with vacant, strange expressions. Before long, someone from among the audience ascended to the podium and began to speak. The person next to me informed me that he was a famous sculptor.

July 13

Paris was bustling with preparations for the Bastille Day celebrations, but when I asked people, they said this festival grew more desolate each year—this year in particular was terribly lonely, they said. Even so, people were dancing wildly in the rain. Tomorrow was finally the day of the festival. This year, everyone was lying in wait, certain that clashes between right-wingers and left-wingers would erupt during the celebrations. Lately, nearly every day, I saw right-wingers being suppressed and beaten by police officers. The right-wingers here were mostly idealists. In Paris, where those who raised the tricolor flag and sang the national anthem were ordered to disband, everything seen and heard had already lost all traces of its former visage. Even though it was supposed to be summer, it rained incessantly and was bitterly cold.

July 13th night

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

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 walked through the Saint-Cloud forest. This was the forest I had once written about in my work *Napoleon and Taimushi*. Now treading through the actual site, I was astonished to find it far more beautiful than I had imagined. The other day I also visited the Jardin d'Acclimatation that I had described in ornate prose, yet that place differed little from my mental image.

The Saint-Cloud forest was a vast woodland. What set it apart from other forests was that it was a garden where large horse chestnut trees, untouched by sunlight, stood in orderly rows. Beneath them, the Seine flowed wide, and for some reason, cork stoppers floated about, forming islands. As night fell, while chatting in Mr. Okubo’s room, Mr. and Mrs. Matsudaira from the upper floor and Mr. Tsuruoka gathered, making the conversation grow even livelier. These were gentlemen who each loved and worried over their homeland. Just past two o'clock at night, a lantern procession accompanied by a band stretched on and on like a Nichiren-shū 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 home. Mr. Matsudaira drove his own car and took me all the way to distant Raspail. I had never before encountered such a kind, elegant, and cultured nobleman.

July 14th, Bastille Day—

It was said to rain every year on this day. Today, the sky was clear. Though normally every road would become impassable to cars and trams due to crowds dancing wildly, this year the Montparnasse area remained no different from any ordinary day. I went to Nation Square to see the crowds' festival. The square was a forest of red flags and tricolors. Into it marched group after group from across the nation, each hoisting their banners high. Women and children mingled within the processions. As I watched, their numbers might have reached hundreds of thousands. With right fists raised, they chanted in unison *The Internationale* and *La Marseillaise*, their voices echoing through the surrounding throng. At every intersection stood police armed with rifles, guarding against incursions by 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, and Romain Rolland under the Front Populaire banner. What manner of satire was this? Floats imitating queens of old followed one after another—while women costumed as attendants stood listless with bored expressions, only the solitary queen smiled brightly at the crowd.

The banner bearing the lengthy name of the International Association for the Defense of Culture—the one that had invited me the other day—came advancing. I couldn’t attend due to travel circumstances, but had these people also turned to the left wing? Or, even if not left-wing, were they participating in this procession? The color of the flags in this group alone was pure white. I surmised that this group must be a mixed one.

At night, I went to the Champs-Élysées.

It was pouring rain. The helmeted police had stationed themselves at key points, but nothing was happening. I immediately turned back to Montparnasse. There, in the downpour, they danced without umbrellas.

July 15th

Lately, it had become customary for it to rain five or six times a day. I read the borrowed Bungei Shunju. As I read my second correspondence, it described the time when I arrived in Paris. The way I had been so intensely excited and gasping for breath back then came back to me in various ways, and I felt a strong urge to look back and recognize that I, too, had crossed a high mountain pass. Even so, my recent solo trip through five countries gave me various practical benefits. I thought grand journeys should be undertaken alone. Handling every single thing oneself was incomparably good.

July 17th

After Bastille Day had passed, it was said that those remaining in Paris would be looked down upon, but the emptied streets, with their relaxed air of mutual recognition, had a sense of idle listlessness. From Foch Avenue where the wealthy strolled to the areas around the Champs-Élysées and Boulevard Haussmann, people indifferent to their appearance wandered about at leisure, seemingly unsure of what to do. It was said the local bourgeoisie all traveled by automobile rather than train. Even when crossing seas, since automobiles could be loaded directly onto ships, there was said to be a custom of motoring as far as Africa. On Sundays, one often spotted automobiles around the Champs-Élysées that had come over from England for overnight stays—this owing entirely to special ships equipped to transport vehicles. Though I couldn't imagine much happiness coming from wealth even if one became rich in Japan, Europe's wealthy kept devising new amusements one after another.

July 18th In my room alone, I was reading Mr.Mizukami Takitarō’s sumo essays from *Chūōkōron*. (I do enjoy reading sumo articles, but I was deeply impressed by the excellence of Mr.Mizukami’s essays.) Just as I was about to finish reading them, Higuchi-kun entered for the first time in a week and abruptly said, “Mr.Mizukami Takitarō has died.” The coincidence was so striking that I was left speechless in shock when he added that it had been a cerebral hemorrhage. Because I had been told by someone about this man’s suffering from drinking too much in his later years—and lost in various emotions over how my own father had been the same—I went out that day. On the way, I met Okamoto Tarō, and the three of us went toward the opera house． In the car, when I asked about Mr.Mizukami’s death，he said that he knew of Mr.Nanbu Shūtarō’s death but asked who Mr.Mizukami was． As the conversation grew increasingly confused，I thought perhaps it was Mr.Nanbu who had died． If it’s this person，he’s the one who had given me a letter of introduction when I came． As I wavered for about twenty minutes over which one of them had actually died，Higuchi-kun suddenly turned pale，clutched his side，and collapsed onto a bench beside the Madeleine． Gradually feeling as though death was drawing near，as Okamoto Tarō and I panicked together，Higuchi-kun said in a sorrowful voice，“Just leave me here like this．If you do，I’ll recover．” Greasy sweat dripped steadily from his forehead；he looked to be in agony． Then，after five or six minutes had passed，his face returned to normal，and Higuchi-kun said，“Alright，let’s go，”and started walking． As I helped Higuchi-kun into the car，I thought that given this situation，Higuchi-kun’s report of Mr.Mizukami’s death must have been mistaken．

In the evening, I attended Ms. Kikuko Yamada's invitation. After a lavish feast, we listened to records of Shiokumi and other songs. I found myself yearning intensely to see kabuki.

July 19th

I began preparing to return to Japan. Packing my luggage and sending it ahead by ship felt oddly enjoyable. Returning to the crackling midst of upright spears and folding screens also took courage.

July 20th My second correspondence titled *Disillusioned Paris* seemed to have caused a stir among the Japanese community here, though this title was not of my choosing. The purpose of my correspondence lay not in writing about Paris itself, but in observing without pretense the psychological transformation of myself—a solitary natural being—cast into this refined metropolis and gradually taking form. They say the painter Koide Narashige left Japan and, the very day after reaching Paris, announced his return. However his friends tried to dissuade him, he would not listen. The next day he retreated to Marseille, only to have his money stolen when attempting to board a ship, forcing him to linger there three days before finally going home. Mr. Takahama Kyoshi had been much the same. I too had felt similarly, yet each mountain pass crossed revealed another ahead, making it impossible to discern how many such passes one ought to scale. I came to believe Paris lacked realism altogether, and with each passing day this conviction only deepened. One need only examine this capital's novels to understand. In such a place as this, beyond criticism no novel could maintain its footing.

July 21st As I observed, every man had grown sick and tired of women, and every woman had grown sick and tired of men. Yet neither could do anything about it—men half-heartedly uttered sweet nothings to women, while women busied themselves with diligent work. In other words, this was likely the only city in the world so teeming with beauties that being beautiful held no value for a woman. Here too, talent was something only the talented possessed. In this dumping ground of beauty and talent, even these qualities people took such pride in emitted no brilliance. The melancholy of Paris remained unchanged whether one laughed uproariously or fell utterly silent. Maintaining one’s true calling—it was only natural this became the most exquisitely noble act here.

Human behavior where psychology and money constantly maintain equilibrium—rising and falling, shifting left and right—remained incomprehensible as Parisian beauty until one could perceive it as humanity’s beauty developed to its extreme. The difficulty of acquiring faith that money and human sentiment were entirely equivalent formed Paris’s first perplexing step. Then came the next complexity: ethics between men and women. Here it was not that notions of chastity had vanished. It was rather a means by which both parties—men unable to endure continuing love for one woman and women unable to bear continuing love for one man—sought others beyond their lovers so they might prolong their mutual affection more joyfully. In other words, this resembled Europe fortifying its core by establishing separate colonies elsewhere.

July 22nd

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

July 23rd

I bought a plane ticket departing for Berlin. That night, I encountered Mr. Saijō Yaso at Botan-ya. He had just arrived in Paris yesterday after touring America.

July 24th

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

Thinking this while fastening my luggage, Okamoto-kun suddenly appeared.

“Ah, I knew it.” “Just now, while I was sleeping, I had a dream where you came to me saying you were already going to Berlin.” “I was so startled I jumped up and rushed over—and sure enough, it was true.” “I was surprised, huh?” I was also surprised. I hadn’t particularly gone out of my way, but I felt somewhat unsettled. “Today is the day Mr. Akutagawa died, so hey, the plane might crash.” “Then don’t go.” “Quit? Not a chance.”

“Like I’d stop.”

The two laughed as they looked down at the city. The horse chestnut leaves were also beginning to shed their dead leaves. At that moment, Higuchi-kun arrived. A little later, Nishimura-kun also came. After having our photo taken, we boarded a car and headed to the Grand Boulevard Aviation Hall. Sagazenbei and Inoue Kiyoshi, both gentlemen, came to see me off. Since there was some time, we walked with everyone to the Opéra area for final shopping. A thin haze hung in the air, and there was no wind.

“I’m gradually becoming reluctant to return.” When I said that, everyone replied that this was precisely Paris’s charm. People who stay long in Paris are said to cry when it comes time to leave. That there exists such a city on Earth must indeed be a point of pride for humanity.

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 alone. “After you return, what am I supposed to do? I’ll be so lonely.” “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’ve said a truly kind thing.” “I’ll return soon too.” Higuchi-kun had come to Paris on a later ship than I, 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 toward me. However, my figure must not have been visible, for he showed no sign of noticing my raised hand at all. After a while, he finally responded with a sudden smile. The plane’s door closed. Then, the aircraft soared up into the sky.

The aircraft maintained an altitude of five hundred meters and gradually moved away from Paris. I had no idea where the border lay. It merely flew over forests and fields. The land where the most intense mutual slaughter of the Great War in Europe had occurred now lay below. That when humans strain every ounce of their wisdom, they end up doing something as foolish as that—beyond this thought, no other sentiment arose within me. Yet I, despite thinking that I would likely never fly over this place again, found myself suspecting my own composure.

Once I had taken flight—no matter where—all that remained was my heart’s desire to reach my destination as soon as possible. In other words, as long as I was aboard the aircraft, I had taken on a bird’s mentality. In the sky, humans seemed to need only sleep. Forests and fields—nothing but repetitions—yet with nothing else to see, I occasionally gazed down at the world below. “Ah,” I thought upon looking again. “How utterly monotonous it all was.”

There was a river. But it didn’t matter which river it was.—In this way, my heart grew utterly defiant, battling the tedious sky as I tried by any means to fall asleep. At 2 PM (written as 14:00 on the timetable), we arrived in Cologne. A brick-colored city with a sharp spire erected at the center of the plain. The smell of coal enveloped the entire city. To travelers who descended from the sky with flight fatigue, why did modern activities on the ground appear so pitiful? Unlike France, here one sensed a liveliness in people at a glance—but even that felt too earthy and, for a time, like another world removed from myself. When I saw people’s harsh movements before my eyes, I only wanted to become an airborne passenger again as soon as possible.

4:00 PM. A dark-red dragon with thick scales spread its wings and lay breathing fire. That was Berlin. If Paris were to be thrashed about by this, I thought it couldn’t endure.

I went by car from Berlin Airport to Leipziger Strasse. The buildings on both sides of the road were all five stories. The massive stone buildings were all identical and maintained a balanced harmony. Linden street trees with branches hanging low enough to graze one's head; whetstone-like roads stretching straight through the leaves; and in the windows of the buildings, rows of crimson geraniums in bloom. When walking among the buildings of Paris, there had been the feeling of gazing up at mountain peaks, but here in Berlin beneath the buildings, there was the sensation of walking through a rocky valley. The city had no undulations; wherever one went, it was nothing but the same kind of town. I thought I would try to pick out a familiar spot somewhere in the town, but with things as they were, there was nowhere that left an impression. It would surely be easy to mistake one's way in and out. The fact that there was not a single gap between buildings was the same as a human heart having no windows. Everything that caught the eye was stone and linden leaves' verdure; if this continued day after day, people's eyes would likely begin to pierce nothing but human skin on their own. In other words, there, the heart's window was human skin.

In the streets of Paris, our eyes wandered among the city’s sculptures, played with shop decorations, rested in the elegance of horse chestnut trunks, and found freedom to linger over the undulations of the streets and the people above them. However, here, what one first glimpsed continued endlessly. If things came to this, the method of tempering the human mind could consist of nothing but patience. It seemed only natural that the hearts of the people in this city acted in unity. If one was in a town where there was no need to use one’s eyes, it was best for studying. The town’s cleanliness existed precisely because it could not help but be kept clean. When considered from here [Berlin], how richly free Japanese cities must have been because of their very disorder!

July 25th

I lodged at Lützowstraße 33. Since all the hotels were full, I ended up staying at a woman doctor’s home. The landlady was a White Russian aristocrat from Kiev—a woman over fifty who retained the dignity and kindness of the imperial court era but had fled to Berlin penniless during the revolution with her elderly mother and two sons in tow. She had studied medicine with utmost diligence and strove to obtain her license, though in Germany this was notoriously difficult for physicians and doubly so for women doctors. When she finally passed the examinations, they say she collapsed from sheer physical and mental exhaustion. Moreover, life had grown particularly harsh for this family in Germany now that they were Jewish. Her husband was said to remain somewhere in Russia still, but since their separation during the revolution, there had been no word of him—his whereabouts entirely unknown. Such an event would be hard to imagine in Japan.

July 26th

After visiting the Olympic Village in Depelitz, I walked through the town. Flags hung from every window of every house. It was said there were many Japanese people about, but I encountered few. No sooner had it cleared up than rain began falling. No sooner had I thought it would rain than it cleared again. I peered into shop windows throughout the towns, but found only mechanical devices worth stopping to examine. The decorations along Tsou Station's busiest streets had apparently once matched Parisian styles, I was told, but were banned and altered to German tastes. Had this been attempted in Tokyo, one could only imagine how fiercely the government would have been criticized. Indeed in Japan, there seemed greater danger that traditional Japanese decorations might face prohibition.

When I found myself with nothing to do, my thoughts fixated solely on the weather. Foreigners here for Olympic sightseeing appeared to be multiplying steadily. In cities abroad, streets typically grow quiet after seven with scarcely a soul about—yet here, nightfall brought swelling crowds. I had come to distinguish races at a glance; even prostitutes could be identified by their gait alone. Berlin, Paris, and London all shared this undercurrent of sorrow in their streetwalkers. Yet were such women to visit Japan, I mused, they might well pass for noble ladies.

July 27th Nowhere was there a city as meticulously cleaned as this. If human hearts were to become as clean as this, perhaps there would remain no hope but war. As long as one lives on earth, by what are those who have thought and thought through everything moved? A person who had exhausted all means of organization would have no method left but to unite. Where unity led had to be either absolute peace or war; there could be no other course. In this country defeated in the Great War, the question of good and evil had long since passed. To consider something as roundabout as common human problems held no meaning there. There, Kant and Goethe had emerged a full hundred years prior. Now, in Germany, nothing but Fascism was permitted. Regarding the psychology that could not be understood without experiencing defeat, there existed an irrationality in how those who did nothing but win remained ignorant of 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 Specie Bank, go that way and turn to the side." I did as she said and went around to the side, but couldn't tell which building it was. However, it seemed she had still been watching me from behind, for the old woman came running up again,

"There, there. Go in there and up to the third floor," she said. Though her attire was rather plain for an old woman, receiving such kindness even once in a country makes one feel as though they've experienced something momentous. Whatever Germany might do, whenever I recall this old woman, I felt the nation's ill repute fading from my mind. I refused to believe this stemmed from ignorance. That simple truth—how a country differs from its people—proves stubbornly difficult to convey. In Paris, I had never met anyone resembling this old woman.

July 29th

The landlady seemed delighted because her eighteen-year-old niece was coming from Paris. "In Berlin, girls of eighteen are already doing the same as adults," she remarked, "but the niece from Paris is still just a child." In the room adjacent to mine were Mr. Kido Mataichi, Paris correspondent for the Nippi Shimbun, and his wife. Because Mr. Kido was occupied with his duties at the newspaper, I received every manner of assistance from his wife. She was truly an attentive and intelligent woman. She was a pleasant person who spoke excellent French, but despite having just arrived in Paris from Japan the other day, she said that while she had no intention of staying long in Paris, she could remain in Berlin indefinitely.

The perspectives of those who intended to stay in Europe long-term and someone like me who had wandered there aimlessly must naturally have differed.

July 30th The next Olympics was decided to be held in Japan. Japanese who encountered one another exchanged glances. Somehow, everyone was disappointed. "What should we do?" "What should we do?" said every last one of them. "It'll just be more fighting," said one. As for the Berlin Olympics about to begin, they now came to feel it didn't matter at all. The dining areas in streets where Japanese gathered also had a peculiar kind of excitement.

“It’s finally come, hasn’t it?”

“Hmm.” After such conversations, they all fell silent and said nothing. The gaze of every European nation simultaneously turned this way. Now, we Japanese exchanged glances with one another, but all we did was stroke our baffled faces, wondering where we could possibly dredge up a culture to rival Berlin’s. Their faces were all darkly flushed and damp with greasy sweat. They did nothing but frantically stuff themselves.

July 31st

Saga Zenbei arrived from Paris. In the evening, I went out to Tsou Station. The streets grew increasingly crowded. When we sat in the café, the waiter went so far as to place a Hinomaru flag on our table. The foreign guests all turned to look at us. Since yesterday, it felt as if we had been thrust onto a grand stage, making everything somewhat clamorous. Yet since people from every nation had comported themselves as gentlemen, the streets resembled a festival adorned with propriety, decorum, and magnanimity. The Olympics mattered less for the sports themselves than for this display of peaceful internationality and humility during its duration. One could not dismiss this as mere superficial pretense of beauty. It was precisely because it was an endeavor empty of purpose and substance that spiritual beauty could bloom so magnificently in this fashion.

August 1st

The Olympics began. At night, I wrote about the stadium scene. Mr. Kido typed this in rōmaji and sent it to Japan for me. Forty minutes later, this text was being rewritten exactly as my original manuscript on a desk in Japan. However, my head would not function as intended due to the fatigue from the day. Having finished writing, I went with Mr. Kido, Mr. Kitazawa Kiyoshi, and Mr. Honda Chikao to the nearby Victoria Terrace. Inside, the dance was in full swing, but no one entered; instead, we drank beer on the increasingly cold terrace, where not a soul remained, before each heading home. Victoria, commonly called Toria, is said to be the place that has been most helpful to Japanese people for generations. A Japanese man disappeared into the darkness with a woman in his arms.

August 2nd The Japanese athletes' poor performance left me unwilling to write about it. Though badgered by the newspaper company's incessant "Write! Write!" demands, I couldn't muster the will to take up my pen. The journalists were wretchedly overworked. They appeared to have no time even for meals. They didn't sleep properly either.

August 3rd When I finished shopping and was about to leave the store, the elderly shopkeeper said “Heil Hitler” instead of goodbye. Unlike French old women who ceaselessly reminisced about bygone days with nostalgia, the German ones held the present in reverence. For the citizens, this current system was likely preferable to the era of the Kaiser. The Kaiser, being fashion-conscious, had compelled towns to decorate their windows, patrolled the streets monthly, and granted awards for the most beautifully adorned displays—or so the story went. The sight of geraniums still blooming in competition remains a lingering trace of the Kaiser. Indeed, even a single habit of an emperor transforms into civic custom and endures through generations.

August 4th

The niece of the inn’s hostess came from Paris. Having been asked to accompany her to the stadium, I guided her there. It was the first time I spent a day with an eighteen-year-old Parisian girl. This girl, in her characteristically French attire, was light and beautiful. However, when it came to sports, she knew even less than I did. Among these four nations—England, Germany, France, and Japan—it was likely Japan that held the greatest admiration for sports athletes. This was because whereas many Japanese athletes were students, many of those from other countries were merchants. However, it was said that for German female athletes, victory or defeat had a significant impact on their marriage prospects. The reason for the German women’s team’s outstanding performance was not hard to imagine.

August 5th I went to have dinner at the Chinese restaurant where former *Mainichi Shimbun* Berlin correspondent Mr. Ōtsuka Torao had uncovered the hidden Ma Zhanshan, captured him, and first clarified whether he was alive or dead. "This is the room," said Mr. Kido. When I looked, it was a grubby restaurant. The food tasted bad. The walls—red-painted bamboo patterns with gold powder resembling stage flats—seemed so flimsy they might produce a hollow papier-mâché sound if knocked. Even Chinese people no longer came here. Ma Zhanshan’s life here must not have differed from that of ordinary people. Easterners who flee their homeland invariably lose their critical stance toward European culture. Is it truly that we have nothing to take pride in? Is it that we cannot exist without despising every last bit of our own culture?

I did not consider the value of three thousand years of Eastern history to be in vain. Japan’s intellectual class sympathized with those who recognized this value. The hues pervading Japan’s modern intellect rose to the surface, resembling the tawdry gold powder on the bamboo-patterned stage props in this room. However, even at that, I did not feel disappointed.

August 6th

I waver between returning to Japan via America or via the Soviet. When standing at this difficult pass of choosing between two options, I resolve to yield to whatever external force moves me. It is at such times that god appears. Above all else, I want to see my god. Having become utterly empty-hearted, I believe now is precisely when one should yield to natural forces. From which direction do these forces come to move me east and west?

August 7th I am now utterly hollow. The path I desire exists neither toward America nor toward Soviet Russia. What could possibly be felt - I had felt it all. Like an overinflated sack,I could only trust whatever forces assailed me from without. People’s criticisms and words meant nothing now. One moment you think it’s raining,the next clears completely. My greatest concern today became whether to take my raincoat when going out. Through city streets I wandered wherever my feet led. That psychological state of Dostoevsky’s in Berlin - him muttering “If I can just drink today’s coffee,I care not what becomes of this world” - held nothing strange after all.

Dostoevsky gambled here every day. How does this differ from my desperate deliberations about whether to take a raincoat when going out?

August 8th I had yet to visit even the museums here. If I could manage to eat even one delicious sausage rather than engage with Berlin’s history, then I would be perfectly content and smoke my cigarette. Outside this void within me, the Olympics raced ever onward toward their climax.

“How about it—will you go via America, or choose the Soviet?” inquired Mr. Kido.

“Well, I don’t know either. Which way it’ll go—that’s my own personal Olympics.”

Mr. Kido could only smile wryly. As I wandered aimlessly through the streets alone, I came upon a village shrine. Beautiful eyes.

August 9th When night fell, I was suddenly asked if I could take the marathon film back to Japan. The die was cast. I decided to comply. At Hotel Adlon, they would hold my farewell party. This hotel was the headquarters of the Olympic World Federation Committee. It was said to be Berlin’s foremost hotel, yet there was an air of grand theatrical splendor about it. During the meal, there was a phone call for me. I passed through a long hall to answer the phone—it was Mr. Wakimura. He was a scholar staying in London for petroleum research, but through an introduction from Mr. Ōmori Yatarō, we were now meeting for the first time in Berlin.

After the farewell party, I waited for Mr. Wakimura, and we walked through Unter den Linden and the Tiergarten. This park was a place where towering linden trees grew so thickly that it remained dark even at noon. There, as we drank beer, I listened to stories about Britain. Mr. Wakimura was a sincere and gentle man, completely free from scholarly affectation.

August 10th

To prepare for traveling around Siberia, Mrs. Kido and I went out into the city to shop, just the two of us. Today would mark my final day in Europe as well. But growing weary—this realization terrified me. I no longer felt any lingering attachment to Europe. I did not even ask myself whether I had come to know Europe or not. However, what I saw, I had seen for certain. I had not forgotten a single thing witnessed with my own eyes. I clearly remembered even the shadows of grass growing on Parisian rooftops. Now I considered myself fortunate not to have been nearsighted. It was only that expressing this proved difficult.

Even so, I feel astonishment that the human brain can contain such vast landscapes within its organization. I am astonished by the human brain. This kind of wonder is something I had never before experienced. When memories grow complex, human actions must inevitably grow correspondingly complex as well. When I return to Japan, how must I store away and conceal these memories to put them into words for others? Now that matters have reached this point, I can do nothing but close my eyes.

No one has ever measured whether expression captures even one ten-thousandth of what crosses one’s mind. The writer’s craft amounts to nothing more than expressing this two or three times better than others. People call natural forces—that is, physics—a social phenomenon. All existence depends on this single expression. Yet how many layers more vividly do human minds perceive the natural physics enveloping the self than this? "Why would such an eminent man utter such trivialities?"

Ultimately, even this youth’s question amounted to nothing more than humanity’s skepticism toward the natural sciences. The question of how powerless the natural sciences could become in the face of human physiology—this was the paramount question of our age. All social phenomena wandered ceaselessly through this question, tracing an endless destiny. What now shone piercing through this darkness was Bergson. In the world of thought, the unparalleled radiance of modern intellect embodied by him was precisely the eye that enabled us to survey our modern world. Moreover, the fact that this eye had advanced into the spiritual realm through spiritual power meant that European intellect and logic had finally come around to the East.

However, the knowledge of the modern East was that of materialists entirely opposed to this. They strove to expel anything other than European logic from the world’s intellectual sphere. The exchange rate of knowledge always constructed its framework by combining the highest elements of a nation. At this moment, Easterners pressed upon Europe with the boldness of discarding their own history. There lay intuition. The trajectory of this self-oblivious intuitive power was precisely the target of my interest.

August 11th

11 PM. Departure from Berlin’s Zoo Station. As the train began to move, a Japanese man over fifty suddenly entered. He seemed like a good-natured gentleman. “I am this sort 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 kindness,” he said.

Mr. Oyama—this man and I were to travel to Tokyo together from here on out. He was an eccentric who intended to return to Japan when four days of the Olympic swimming events still remained. 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. They want you to take it all the way to Manchuria. But yesterday I got a letter from someone at Nippi Shimbun asking me to take their film too, so I thought it was theirs—but now I see it’s Asahi’s. I can’t make sense of it. But well, I figured it doesn’t matter which one it is, so I’ve got it here. Shall we see what’s on it? It’s been sealed tight."

“I have Nippi Shimbun’s film,” I said. “Oh! So it’s you,” he replied. “This just keeps getting more baffling. How about it? Shall we secretly swap them?”

He was this kind of nonchalant person. When it came to the marathon, for both companies, it was the Olympics’ most important film. In truth, Mr. Oyama and I also had to race across Siberia together, but being on the same train made even that impossible.

August 12th

Before dawn had broken, something suddenly knocked at my door. It was the German-Polish border. The supervisor entered and inspected the currency we carried. Marks were strictly prohibited from being taken out. It must have been around three in the morning.

I fell asleep again.

I woke up and looked out the window at the scenery. It was around nine in the morning. Before I knew it, we had entered deep into Poland and arrived in a rainy Warsaw. Somehow it resembled a town in the Nōbi Plain. Between the rusty rails, grass was growing. Pastures stretched on. The grass in these pastures looked soft. Occasionally cranes would alight amidst the grasses. Remote forests and woods lay sodden and flat across abandoned grasslands. The color of a girl’s eyes watching the train from the grasses gradually grew bluer. Under a cloudy sky, the endless grasslands dotted with marshes made a dreary sight. As I gazed at a lone utility pole forgotten in the fields—a lonely scene—I suddenly thought of Chopin who had emerged from this land. Within this country there must exist some self-oblivious indolence that gives birth to genius.

“Does a lack of culture make things appear this pitiful?” Mr. Oyama said to me. Once a girl in this country shares a bed with a man, by ironclad religious rule, she must marry him no matter what may happen. However, someone who had lived long in this country once told me that married women typically abandon their sense of chastity like prostitutes. Another person also said there was no country with as many beautiful women as Poland.

I often spoke with young, beautiful Polish women in Paris. When I asked this woman, “I hear people from your country have many mathematical geniuses,” I remember her replying, “There’s simply nothing else here besides that.” At that moment, I thought that no matter how much you humble yourself, you should not speak ill of your own country. Since then, that Polish woman no longer looked beautiful to me.

I could not conceive of greatness in those who fail to cherish their nation’s distinctive virtues. In Paris, I had made the acquaintance of a woman from Berlin’s Communist Party who had been driven out of Germany. When I asked this woman where she loved most, she once answered, “Why, Berlin, of course.” Japan’s greatest cultural deficiency lies in its intellectual class harboring so many who despise their own country. More than anything, I believe what Japan needs most is self-assurance.

From the moment I opened my eyes 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 throughout the country. Whenever I considered the hearts of those living in such a country throughout my life, it seemed only natural that women would lose their sense of chastity. It was not hard to understand why one would say there was nothing here but mathematics. This monotony—and what a terrifying monotony of nothingness it was. In this land of nothing but monotonous plains, people had no means to engage their minds except by grappling with mathematics—that very embodiment of nothingness. Mathematics or meaningless music? If people did not incline toward one of these, a life that sustained the heart was impossible.

Gradually, larch trees grew more numerous. At 5:30 PM, we crossed into Russian territory. The two German diplomats beside me gazed at the border with anxious eyes. From the frontier station emerged vivid emblems of crossed hammer and sickle.

Is this the Soviet Union? I wondered. The birch trees gradually increased in number. The green of the primordial fields grew deeper. The complexions of the people along the railway line bore confidence and ideology as they watched our aged international train from Europe like a meaningless wind. The surrounding landscape was an incongruous collision of primeval forest lands abruptly invaded by modern science. Amidst this, the composed demeanor of the people presented a scene like a picnic that would never return home. In the log-stacked huts that resembled small cottages—were they immersed in simple contentment?—a certain fresh melancholy of quiet resignation and unsmiling faces lingered in the air.

At 6:00 PM, we arrived at Negoreloe. We had to change trains there. Passports were confiscated there. The luggage inspections were thorough. Dollars were exchanged for ten rubles. Monetary exchange rates—this was none other than the troublemaker disrupting world peace. If there were no fluctuations in these exchange rates, how happy the world would have been. The entire psychology of every people in the world was entirely contained within this. The difference between mathematics being used in astronomy and mathematics being used in monetary exchange rates was as vast as that between heaven and earth. It was the difference between hell and paradise. All the intellectual efforts of the world were being used to eliminate exchange rates—how futilely human intelligence was squandered on such endeavors! I gazed at the heavens and earth of Russia’s boundless plains and found myself contemplating the mysterious nature of exchange rates. All the history of the world—the earthly history of humans killing each other, trusting each other, hating each other—none of it could take a single step beyond these exchange rates. All ideologies likewise lost their voice here.

That I am Japanese—this alone I cannot doubt. The difficulty of believing this alone constitutes my sole truth. This is precisely what makes it hard to sense the mysterious nature of exchange rates. Here I want to ask Japanese who've never seen their own country's borders about this word "homeland." One flaw of us Japanese—encircled by sea—is surely our ignorance of the profound shudder contained in "homeland."

We changed trains. It was a dark green room. At first glance, it looked like peering into the inside of an old-fashioned silk hat. This was what would take me to Japan. Surely, it would creak and groan. I suddenly thought of my friends in Japan. These dear and wise people—whom I considered to be the world’s supreme honor because I had been able to become friends with them—continued to perpetrate the cruel act of not seeing what I had felt. What was I to report to these people? My friends would each imagine me as they pleased.

I gazed at the Soviet plains with numbness. The reason was simple—this was not Japan. To me, Russia’s plains were beautiful yet nothing beyond beauty. Communism meant absolutely nothing to me now. There appeared to be nothing left but love for Japan.

The joy of loving. This is life itself. When I think of Japan, my heart pounds uncontrollably. People who have never felt the visceral physicality of the word "homeland" will surely attack this love of mine as fascist. But that is certainly mistaken. I do not possess the sentiment that must make people feel resentment. However, I will face attack. I have learned the technique to extract any bullet that pierces my chest.

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

August 13

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

Russia was nothing but plains. A stretch of plains dozens of times larger than Japan. This was nothing but grass. The desolate grass's strangeness. I came to feel there was nothing that looked down on people as foolishly as grass. No highly advanced culture could rival grass. True nature could not be seen anywhere but Russia. Artifice was entirely absent there. The plains devoid of artifice could not be conjured in the minds of the Japanese. I was left standing there like a fool, utterly dumbfounded.

The immensity of Russian literature seemed locked in competition with its own native grasses. What could exist beyond such boundlessness? The field of vision attainable by a human standing on earth spans six ri square. Yet here stretched a six-ri space of forests and grasslands—flatly endless.

At 11:00 AM, we arrived in Moscow.

The city of Moscow had gentle undulations centered around a river. In the very midst of the great plains, the people who built a city there 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 the dusty, pale brown hill beyond the milky-white river, the gold-painted round dome of the Kremlin was visible. Could it be that the citizens there had no love for trees? The spindly, emaciated street trees were but in name. For residents who possessed abundant forests across their plains, efforts to make trees flourish in the city must have seemed a foolish endeavor. Indeed, given that Moscow was a city located in the midst of forests, they must at least not have wanted to plant trees there. In other words, within Russia’s beautiful nature, Moscow was the dirtiest place. This was also true of Tokyo in Japan.

The city’s abundance of construction projects rivaled that of Tokyo. These two countries were now in the midst of new construction. They cut down every obstruction that hindered the progress of work. The fact that their traditions had lacked a logical foundation was another similarity Moscow shared with Tokyo. As long as tradition lacked logic, one needed no restraint in what or from where they adopted. There was no need to make one’s culture equal to Europe’s, nor any vigilance required in doing so. If one was to do it, they had to go beyond—otherwise being an emerging force held no significance.

The architecture of the Kremlin had a strange aspect, as if one were looking at crimson-black embroidery. The area surrounding the Red Square that enveloped it was American-style architecture. He walked through Moscow’s Ginza district. Indeed, he realized, this was the workers’ state. As he traveled through various countries, he had gradually forgotten about things like their systems and institutions. The inconvenience of being unable to capture in writing even the sensation received when looking around with utterly vacant eyes—it was just like how there were neither shops nor cafés in this Ginza district. Such things were unnecessary. The many people walking through the streets were not idly strolling. There, the city was nothing but people streaming by.

Even if one were to call it vigorous and lively, if someone were to idle it away—when I thought of it that way, I came to understand why the sheer force of human desire does not destroy humanity. I was able to see a street without shops there for the first time. Compared to the cities of Europe where stores serve as the greatest ornament of the urban landscape, there’s no point in being surprised now by Moscow’s simple and unadorned state. There, if people wish to enjoy themselves, they go to the forests in the suburbs.

In front of Lenin’s Mausoleum stood bayonet-armed sentries. The mausoleum was a square of red marble that appeared polished to a shine, but today being a holiday, entry inside was not permitted. He went to what was called both the world’s premier grand hotel and a Soviet-designated hotel. Though not yet fully completed, the interior somehow gave the feeling of a city hall.

I had seen many Soviet films in Paris. The substantial military preparedness of this country could not be mere propaganda. From the difficulty faced by nations compelled to compete in armaments with it, people must find it an unexpected reality that this peculiar wind of military buildup begins to blow. When reality's chaos reaches such extremes, even ideologies cannot function without becoming chaotic. The weakness of believing that maintaining logic alone suffices lies in the impossibility of execution. The nobility of unexecuted beliefs has now transformed into a frivolity that cannot refrain from vilifying everything. Moreover, the fact that these frivolous individuals contemplate matters more deeply than anyone—already, people cannot live in this world without being lost.

In Russia, interactions between young men and women had grown increasingly strict. The adage "boys and girls shall not share seats after seven" was becoming Russia’s reality.

The first thing he felt when walking through Moscow’s streets was why people had such melancholy expressions. This must have been because their racial tradition had crawled up from within the boundless expanse of gigantic grass. He noted that in Chekhov’s *The Cherry Orchard*, the sadness of cherry trees being cut down differed fundamentally from that of cutting down identical trees in Japan. I was impressed that the Russian people had managed to endure these grasslands until now. From Japanese gardens—where mountains, valleys, rivers and fields intermingled in ceaseless variation, filled with seasonal blossoms and steeped in moonlit elegance—neither Dostoevsky nor Tolstoy could ever have been imagined. What I most wanted to show Japan’s youth was Parisian culture and Russian grass. As I gazed at Russia’s grasses, I found myself unexpectedly sensing Kant’s *Critique of Pure Reason*. I sensed that boundless wilderness of the spirit.

I think Japanese people can take pride in Japan. In Japan, the fortunate condition that one need only rejoice to be saved fills the air so abundantly that one need only look up. People will say you know nothing of workers' and farmers' hardships. But that's true of any country. The real issue lies elsewhere.

At 3:00 PM，they departed Moscow. The station they arrived at was different，but the train remained the same. Once again，the train ran through grass. The forest continued again. Moreover，there was absolutely no topographical variation.

August 14

Grasslands, forests, white birches—a continuous succession. Moreover, every single tree stood perfectly straight. The square room of about two tatami mats in size was my compartment; Mr. Oyama occupied the lower bed, while mine was the upper bunk suspended at a right angle to his. When I slept there, I would often feel like I was about to be shaken off, which woke me. The food in the dining car wasn't so bad. However, what brought me the greatest joy then was that I would soon be able to see Siberia.

The scenery was just the same as the previous day—white birches and larches. When white birches stretch on in great numbers, they no longer appear as trees but begin to look beautiful like supple, gentle creatures. I thought it remarkable how all these trees could stand so patiently straight. I wanted to see a single twisted tree. There, if a tree grew bent, it had fallen. When things reached this state, the whole roasted chickens sold at the station strangely came alive with a vividness that captivated the eye.

The train reached the Ural Mountains. Yet even as a mountain range, it differed nowhere from the flat grasslands.

August 16

The plains continued. The grass gradually grew shorter. “Well, there’s nowhere like this in Argentina or America!”

Mr. Oyama exclaimed in astonishment. I gazed at the narrow path clinging tenaciously beside the railway tracks and could only stare, wondering if this was where Dostoevsky had been swept along by sled. It was a horizon no different from when one finds oneself in the middle of the ocean, enveloped by horizons on all sides. As long as that persisted, no matter which way I turned, it continued endlessly. When I was in Paris, I had felt the sadness of humans having done too many things. But here, I felt the sadness that humans had done nothing yet.

“Well, whether you call it vast or not, it’s beyond words,” Mr. Oyama said. I had nothing left to say. No matter how much I tried to exaggerate, I was struck by the realization that this was the first place on earth where the power of exaggeration held no sway.

"Void." Saying this, I felt my face flush at the void I had been sensing until now. As I gazed at the dim glow far beyond the horizon, the scene of Raskolnikov and Sonya standing wordlessly rose before me. Japanese nihilism is something one might exhaustively search for with all their intellect, only to finally recognize their own foolishness; yet here before my eyes lay nothing but nihilism itself.

There were fields 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 control a nature that wasn't even particularly vast. Even if they had built something, it would have been nothing more than a single railway. There, the railway alone was the nation. Even if we were to assume this railway—this muscle—could move involuntary muscles, the outcome would have been evident. I wasn't looking down on anything. I was simply feeling humanity's powerlessness against nature.

When the clock accurately pointed to nine in the morning, the reality inside the train was around three in the afternoon. It was already nearing evening. This was because up to that point, they had kept using the time unchanged since Moscow without making corrections. If they corrected this to world-standard time, various malfunctions would arise while there weren't enough people to necessitate such adjustments. On the black soil, stations dotted here and there in great numbers. All were filthy, with surrounding houses forming settlements that could hardly be called villages. Yet at every station, one could sense a strictness between unmarried men and women. There wasn't a single indecent aspect anywhere. When our train arrived, old women and Kyrgyz girls came running from the houses, each holding eggs or milk in their hands. Among them were some carrying whole roasted bird legs.

On the station platform, a crowd of workers clustered together; none moved, squatting as they watched the train. I approached and offered a fine cigarette I had brought from Germany to one elderly man among them, but he neither reached out his hand nor smiled. When I reluctantly held out the cigarette until it made contact with his fingers, only then did he finally take it, merely pinching it between his fingertips. Had ideology permeated their minds to such an extent? Could this be a pride gone astray?

Because it was an international train that passed through no more than once every four days, all the villagers had turned out to gather at the station. Every station platform was bustling. Everyone wore expressions of pride that masked their joy. Europeans who had disembarked from the train walked among them, but the pride of culture and the pride of local ideology exchanged subtle glances, lamenting the fleeting festival. A small festival enveloped by endless horizons. Thought, money, love—all came to an end there. Intellect had nothing but prayer. As for all else, I knew nothing more. I knew merely that beyond here, when one digs through the snow, mammoths from five thousand years ago are being excavated with meat that can still be cut by a knife.

At every station, American newlyweds were taking photographs. People from other countries were all prohibited, but this couple alone was tacitly permitted. The two German diplomats carrying diplomatic documents from Berlin to Japan did not let go of the large briefcase tied with string even when they went to the cafeteria.

“What is that?” Mr. Oyama asked. “This is a most vital thing for Japan.”

With that, they laughed. The international train bound for Paris was stopped. The space of about three feet between my train and that one bustled with people at an unusual hour. A Japanese man among them approached and bowed. “I have just received word over there. You must have gone through considerable trouble,” he said. “I am with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs and will be heading to Warsaw now.” Such was his greeting. This man too was part of a two-person team transporting diplomatic documents, but since one could not leave their side, he remained inside the train. When Mr. Oyama relayed this to the German diplomats, they all burst out laughing together.

If they flaunted this as something truly important, then immediately no one would attempt to steal it. Even when Mr. Oyama and I talked in the room, our attendant stood outside listening. At night, there was no way to see outside at all. However, we would arrive at Manzhouli in two more days. A world where posing such rhetorical questions as "Just what country is this?" would not seem particularly unnatural continued to spread. I no longer felt any surprise at the sky's vastness. My mind had cleared completely.

August 18 We approached Lake Baikal. The mountains gradually grew more numerous. This was the first time since Berlin that I had seen anything resembling mountains. However, even those could hardly be called mountains yet. Even so, would it really matter if there were no mountains to this extent? It was precisely because of this that those winds must have swept across Russia.

The theory that one becomes a fool upon returning from abroad was common sense among Japanese people. However, in this situation, I truly had no choice but to become a fool.

The notion that a human being has ever completely traveled across the earth entirely alone has never once existed throughout all time. The intellect gathered from what might be called the world's narratives is, in other words, the logic we know. How much escapes from this logic that everyone believes in? No—rather, how much more there is that escapes than what we know? When one becomes aware of such things, this person becomes a fool. This is not some drawn-out intellectual exercise akin to skepticism—prolonged through linguistic psychology.

There exists a universal logic. This too is like an electric current generated from human imperfection. The proof lies in how its constant change demonstrates the peril of not knowing where intellect’s pole resides. A safety in which one becomes utterly incapable of understanding anything—from this very head alone emerges the intellect called dialectic. I am one who has traveled around Europe, and I question the minds of those who believe they have become wise.

August 19

Manzhouli was drawing near. The race that produced Genghis Khan was the race extending from Baikal through this region. The entrancing beauty of the gentle undulations across the yellow-green land. In the valley of gentle slopes where not a single house was visible, the movement of a flock of white sheep appeared like a cloud. No matter what happened, the calm and cheerful faces of Mongolians stood in the field, watching our train. The vivid shadows cast by the folds of landforms upon folds of earth—this was an extremely modern beauty. This expression was impossible.

Around midnight, we finally approached the border. There, the Russian side conducted a baggage inspection, and for the first time, our passports were returned to our own hands. One of the German diplomats had his 100 yen in Japanese currency confiscated. The reason was that upon entry at the Negoreloe Polish border, he had forgotten to make that entry in his passport. “Please return it. Because I need to use that 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 there. "How many days will you be in Japan?" "Two weeks." "In that case, we will return it when you come back." The German clenched his teeth, tightened his fist, leaned back, thumped the table with his fist, and continued glaring.

“Fine.” He simply walked away from there.

August 20

It was now just three hours to Manzhouli. I got into bed but couldn't sleep. I looked forward to seeing what Japan would look like. At 3 AM, we arrived at Manzhouli. It was dark and I couldn't make anything out. I remained seated in the train with no desire to move. I wondered if Japan's influence had spread even this far. Yet compared to how Russia had expanded from Poland all the way here, it seemed insignificant. I found myself contemplating the etiquette that demanded silence about matters anyone would naturally feel here—once again sensing how ideological terror shapes human destiny. Moreover, this was an uninhabited borderland. The mysterious reality that any attempt to enrich this land instead of sheep met such varied opposition—I earnestly wished I could speak just once with Japanese intellectuals at the border.

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

“Is Mr. Yokomitsu Riichi here?” Calling out like this, he entered the train corridor. “It’s me,” I replied. “Are you him? Do you have the marathon film?” “I do.” “Then let’s take 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 this is an important entrusted item in any case, kindly show me your business card." I replied.

Then, another kind young man now took out a Mainichi Shimbun reporter’s business card and,

“I’m the reporter.” “Thank you very much.” “You must be tired.” “I just arrived by plane from Hailar, but until a moment ago there was such a downpour that I might not be able to return tonight.” “It seems the Asahi folks are also having trouble.” he said.

Secondly, I saw competition at the border.

“This is Japan through and through,” I thought. In Europe, newspapers did not even put out extra editions. Next came a Tokkōka detective wearing Chinese-style clothing. “I’m with the Tokkōka, but please leave your luggage as it is. It will be dawn soon, so you’ll be fine. There are absolutely no thieves here. There’s nowhere to run. If your lodging isn’t settled, I’ll guide you. There’s hardly time left to sleep, but you should rest a little. There are still eight hours until departure.”

Whether it was the Tokkōka or anything else, as long as they were Japanese, I felt utterly secure at that moment. Let by the detective, I exited the station. This detective proved exceptionally kind and gentle. I refused to consider what hidden motives this person might harbor. Only someone driven by extraordinary curiosity or compelled by grave purpose would choose to live in such a remote place as Manzhouli.

When we descended from the station to the tracks, the faint morning sun began to shine. Mr. Oyama and I walked toward the lodging. “There are many Japanese military personnel here, but it’s ordinary Japanese civilians who often commit suicide.” “What could it be?” the detective said curiously. For the first time, I gazed intently at the undulating expanse of grass along the border, a place of dreamlike beauty. Indeed, as a final land of happiness granted to those who take their own lives, I think there is probably no place more beautiful than here. There was not a single tree. As far as the eye could see stretched overlapping soft, low hills covered in yellow grass. Bright light. As I fixed my gaze on the flowing clouds and the mountains, in this uninhabited borderland, the sky and earth seemed to intimately mingle and play together serenely. The land bore an expression somehow reminiscent of a bashful maiden.

The morning sun rose gradually higher. The beauty of the fields grew even more intense. However, precisely because this beautiful land was a border, everyone here was utterly deprived of their freedom. Those on this side of the mountain were not permitted to see the beauty beyond. Those on the other side were not permitted to see this beauty here. Between this side and that side, a beautiful border that no one had yet seen stretched on endlessly alone.

“Is that the border?” “Yes. Well, that’s just how we say it, you know. In reality, we can’t clearly determine where exactly the border starts and ends,” said the Tokkōka detective. Regarding this Japanese man’s professional dedication, I could no longer find any way to criticize him other than thinking that he too was doing good work. There was nothing more admirable than that. We would each do our part. I thought I wouldn’t complain even if bound by this person. I too would respect national law like Socrates.

At ten o'clock in the morning, I departed for Harbin.

Olympic Chronicle

July 24

I departed by plane on Akutagawa’s death anniversary.

Before I could grow nostalgic for Paris, we passed Cologne, and already the lakes of Potsdam came into view below, followed by the massive form of Berlin with its clustered reddish-black spires. Unlike summer Paris, desolate like an empty nest, here was a festival. The polished road stretching straight between linden trees with low-hanging branches, the windows—windows ablaze with red hollyhocks in full bloom, the rows of flags bearing reversed swastikas fluttering in the wind—this scenery made it seem as though a band of warriors from the Warring States era might come charging forth from some unseen quarter. What kind of war could each and every person be preparing for? The towns under the Linden Trees, with foreigners swarming about, were veritable international cities. The citizens of Berlin were humble, polite, clean, and kind in their hospitality. On a Sunday after the rain cleared, I visited the Olympic Village. Here was Döberitz, located far from the city—a place resembling a section of Tama Cemetery, surrounded by a grove of red pines. Upon entering through the back gate, there stood a Japanese flag on a house called Antwerp. Mr. Yoshioka, whom I had often seen in photographs, sat on a bench basking in the sun and gazing at an autumn-like cloudscape. Inside the building, there were no people, and a profound stillness reigned. In the corridor, there was nothing but a shot put lying about. In the birch forest was the American athletes’ lodging. The surrounding landscape resembled Karuizawa: white birch treetops with upturned leaves glittered in the sunlight, and a narrow path curved across a bright, open grassy hill. Metcalfe, alone in his linen suit with chest thrust forward, came down the slope. By the nearby pond, swans floated. Flower beds of pale red blossoms swaying gently in the breeze, flowing green fields descending into the distance, and cranes walking freely through the forest. As I moved step by step, the impending competition day grew as serene as a distant memory; my field of vision expanded, the air crystalline, sparse human figures allowing the red tiles of houses glimpsed through the trees to evoke a peaceful paradise. The stadium was located about four kilometers from Berlin's suburbs. At the base of a gray-white square, a red-tiled oval encircling green turf resembled a pool from which water had been scooped out.

On that lawn, Riefenstahl held a blue flag and was preparing for activities. Amidst the noise of construction, Messrs. Son and Nam were running. When comparing the three legs and spine of the iron fire bowl brought from Olympia, Greece, one still had to look up another *shaku*. Its majesty will endure for a thousand years to come.

Olympic Opening Ceremony

August 1

The streets from Unter den Linden to the stadium, under skies that had remained overcast since the previous day, were brought to an abrupt halt as the crowd stood perfectly still before the brown-uniformed ranks of stormtroopers. As we approached the venue grounds, the security changed into even more elite black-uniformed SS units. Directly over the straightened road, a giant Zeppelin glided smoothly while maintaining its equilibrium. When we looked up at the sky, it was as though we were at the bottom of the sea.

The next Olympics came around to Japan. Due to the previous day’s incident, the Hinomaru among the town flags suddenly appeared swollen and prominent. A single rope descending from the heavenly realm to Japanese culture—this had to be climbed with vigor and fortitude. When seats were taken at the ceremony venue, rain began spitting down. The Zeppelin again revealed its massive form above the stadium. The beauty of the airship’s form quietly crossing over the oval venue was as if the quintessence of mechanical culture had reached its zenith there. From the tower above, a peaceful trumpet sounded. In response, orchestral music began playing and cheers erupted as Hitler entered through the main entrance. The Nazi salute resembled spears with their tips aligned obliquely.

Within the solemn venue, the ceremonial bell began to toll softly at first, then gradually swelled in volume. As the bell’s toll faded, a group of Greek athletes marched forth in perfect step behind their flag bearer. Following this, groups from fifty nations streamed into the stadium one after another in alphabetical order. The spectators from various nations filling the stadium erupted in waves of applause each time a new group appeared. However, I thought that at this moment I witnessed firsthand the attitude of Europe—a whole composed of diverse peoples who, while swept up in a shared excitement, cheered and applauded each according to their own preferences.

The athletes from each country who had marched before Hitler had to perform their national salutes. However, the countries that received applause were those that performed the German-style oath salute. Among the countries that advanced while looking up sideways toward the front were Britain and Japan. No one broke the silence with applause for these two nations. Countries whose uniforms and complexions stood out clearly received applause for their striking appearance. While Austria and the United States saw waves of cheers overwhelm the venue as political statements, Costa Rica—which had sent only a single flag-bearing athlete—stirred a surge of goodwill through that solitary figure. France passed quietly and silently through under Germany’s watchful gaze. Just as the general audience observed this as entirely natural, the moment they suddenly came before Chancellor Hitler, 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 advanced while tossing the flag high into the air and catching it, letting out shrill cries to greet the crowd. Though it was unclear what etiquette this represented—it felt like watching an acrobatic performance—the solemn venue itself seemed to teeter on the brink of collapse from one corner because of this.

The Republic of China emerged all wearing summer hats, but the beauty of their synchronized hat removal conveyed the Republic’s elegance. When I saw the latter half of the Japanese athletes marching in disordered steps, treading upon grass they should not have trodden upon, I could not help but imagine the excitement that Japan’s Olympic bid had instilled in them, making one’s palms sweat with tension. This was especially true following Italy’s imposing march and the applause that surged forth like a wellspring. The last of the athlete procession was Germany. Among all nations, their marching was the most precise, their white uniforms strikingly vivid, seeming to tighten the ring of tension within the venue even further.

After the ceremonial address by Organizing Committee Chairman Lewald and Chancellor Hitler’s opening speech concluded, a cannon suddenly resounded. Thousands of doves flew up from the ground all at once, circling as they danced through the venue. Each time the cannon boomed deeply, they changed direction, rising higher into the sky before scattering away. At that moment, a single athlete arrived carrying a sacred flame torch from Olympia, Greece—resembling a bamboo sword—and rushed forward. The fire spread across the large iron dish. As the audience sat upright watching the billowing flames, the choir began to sing Richard Strauss’s Olympic anthem quietly, gradually building in volume until it swelled solemnly. The battle for peace among nations was yet to come.

August 3

The weather was bad yesterday (the 2nd) and remains poor today (the 3rd). When I leave home and see skies threatening rain, I always think Japan won’t do well today. We Japanese shrink like plants at the touch of even a single cloud’s shadow. The cone-shaped Berlin Stadium particularly had a base deeper than we’d imagined, its rim steeply sloped. On this plane where the sky seemed scarce, daily training proved useless. The fundamental reason why none of our athletes could match their records and kept losing lay in that narrow, clouded sky viewed from below. When Murakumo and Miss Yamamoto—the two who’d achieved relatively good results—made their appearance, the sun tore through clouds to bathe the grounds in rare brilliance. For humans to exceed their limits, they must rely on nature’s momentary grace. Miss Yamamoto’s javelin throw came within a hair’s breadth of success. Just at the crucial moment, roaring applause would erupt for the 800-meter race in another area. When she prepared to throw again, cheers burst forth from the high jump section. Under such conditions, performance became impossible. The sight of them defeated—clutching furoshiki-wrapped bundles as they trudged off—resembled divorced women returning shamefaced to their parents’ homes. The day’s climax came with Murakumo’s 10,000-meter race against the Finnish contingent. Of thirty-one runners, Murakumo led unchallenged from lap one through twelve. But glancing back at lap thirteen’s end—a fatal mistake—he was overtaken by a Finn at lap sixteen. With two laps remaining, three Finns scrambled ahead as Murakumo fell to fourth. He briefly regained lead position only to falter immediately after—on such days, only bodies speak truth. The larger nations had claimed nearly every victory.

The grand spectacle of witnessing the physical limits of a nation’s people could absolutely be seen nowhere but at these overcast Olympics. On days when Japan lost, I would feel as though I were in a large laboratory, occasionally picking up a telescope as if it were a microscope to examine people’s muscles—which became a source of enjoyment.

August 5

On the 4th and 5th, the Japanese delegation stood out. Among spectators from various nations until yesterday, there had been a sense that Black athletes and Germans were monopolizing the spotlight. As Germany waned and Japan ascended, support from all nations came surging toward Japan. Particularly, the waves of applause received by Murakumo two days prior and by Nishida and Ōe the previous day verged on engulfing the entire venue. By the pole vault finals, the sun had fully set. The audience gazing down at the illuminated field below ceaselessly chanted Nishida and Ōe’s names—yet when the two athletes finally assumed their jumping stances, silence fell as abruptly as still water. Only the clatter of typewriters dispatching reports to nations and the crackling of Olympia’s flame bursting across the firmament punctuated the void. As I watched these scenes, I could not cease hoping that when the Olympics came to Japan, our audiences might conduct themselves with such impartial and dignified beauty.

After returning from Paris,

Before departing for France, I received from Mr. Kenzo Nakajima his translation of Lamiel, and thinking to leisurely compare it with France while there, I took only this book along—yet returned having never read it. Now reading it, I find the opening passages describing the road from Paris to Normandy match exactly the route I took to Rouen.

The fact that this book mercilessly takes down Parisians—who would not even create a landscape without some calculated reason—holds value worthy of attack, even without considering that Stendhal himself was a native of Grenoble. Yet nothing makes us foreigners ponder more than this very "value worthy of attack." Paris stands as a target all foreigners should assail. Moreover, no matter who attacks Paris or how they do it, Paris itself silently strikes back—declaring that only through becoming this way, precisely this way, does one come to know oneself.

The place where, each time a person of talent from around the world strives to conquer new heights only to return to their homeland, their entire being transforms. Each time women venture out boasting of their beauty, they return home realizing it holds no value whatsoever. In such a place, men thoroughly despising women and women utterly mocking men gives rise to romance. This is perhaps the most novel form modern romance can take. What criticism could prove effective against this configuration of relations between men and women? The adage that theater is far nobler than life holds true.

French Prime Minister Léon Blum had once written a critique of Stendhal and novels in his youth, which appeared in *Paris-Soir*; but whereas the common belief in Japan holds that novels are written by fools, there it is precisely because one is a fool that it serves a purpose in life. I have never seen another country where literature guides life as much as here, nor where people so thoroughly enrich their lives through it. It is precisely why Gide's words come to mind: "Has there ever been anything great that did not become vulgarized?" Yet everyone inevitably reaches an impasse. At such moments, each person returns to themselves and becomes young again.

The foundation of the French attitude—beginning language studies at sixty or seventy, respecting sixteen- or seventeen-year-old boys as equals, acting independently without regard for age—must lie, I thought, in their constant effort to rediscover youth within their own advancing years. What I found most enviable during my stay in Paris was the beauty and vigor of this country's elderly. Does thoroughgoing individualism shape men thus? While I had persistently focused my observations on the aged, I came to understand that the Japanese practice of making elders behave according to their years no longer constituted cultivation that brings happiness in life. I too—keeping a sixteen-year-old youth in mind—resolved to begin studying anew, realizing through France's example that avoiding premature adulthood constitutes the primary principle of modern self-cultivation. This was no time for discourses on youth. What defines an adult? None would say.

I had once written a dispatch titled "Disappointing Paris" for Bungeishunjū. That dispatch caused problems among the Japanese in Paris and worried my friends back in Japan, but in truth, I was not the one who had written that title. Far from being disappointed with Paris, I in fact gained much there. Some time ago, a Japanese person in Berlin wrote about how terrible Berlin’s cuisine was and how it troubled them, but apparently they were subjected to fierce attacks from Japan, with a flood of letters demanding, "How could you possibly understand the taste of Berlin’s cooking?" Even in mainland Japan, among those who once went abroad, there still remain many people who harbor a spirit of guarding their sacred places and live regarding each other’s foreign countries as their spiritual homelands.

The ardent disputes among defenders of Paris, Berlin, and London were a common sight abroad, but the most vehement faction proved to be the Berlin loyalists. When Mr. Masamune Hakuchō arrived in Moscow and was guided by a compatriot, he spent his tour disparaging everything he saw—prompting his guide to remark that if he found it so disagreeable, he ought to leave Moscow promptly. This guide hadn’t particularly favored Moscow initially, but prolonged residence had naturally fostered an attachment—a universal truth unchanged for anyone. Yet when I encountered Mr. Saijō Yaso and Mr. Fujiwara Yoshie overseas, both men declared identically: “However you look at it, Japan remains best—I long to return soon.” I’d imagined even lifelong expatriates shared our sentiments, but veterans of over a decade abroad admonished us newcomers: “Unless you make a pilgrimage back to Japan periodically, you’ll turn into fools.” Studying their faces—indeterminate in age—I grasped how one’s native soil fundamentally shapes aging; yet those who emigrated young versus old differed starkly in adapting to foreign lands. To state it bluntly: youths grow aged by alien terrain faster than their elders. Though still counted among the young myself, abroad I felt severed from youth itself—boredom permeated everything.

Those who traveled abroad without purpose found that once they had seen what they wanted to see, nothing but inescapable boredom remained. Waking up in the morning and wondering, "Now then, where should I go today?" felt like the daily struggle of a housewife worrying 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 wherever I went, stone walls pressed down on me from above. More than the desolate landscapes of mountains and fields, it is the bleak verticality of stone walls that nurtures a beastly heart in humankind. Rather than the modest affection of gazing at things, the heart that prioritizes action above all else comes to the forefront. Action in evil, action in good—if this is the psychology born of stone walls, then Japan’s lingering contemplation must be the psychology born of plants, trees, wind, and moon. When it comes to what is called Oriental taste, I believe we Orientals can never free ourselves from it. Lately, a trend of scorning Oriental taste seems to have finally gained momentum in Japan, but I hope that the ideal of progressing toward a union of East and West does not become something as cheap as a serge kimono.

If I were to write ill of Berlin and Paris, I thought the inconvenience of facing various attacks would become even more intense upon entering Russia. Among the Japanese in Paris, the proprietor of Tomono Shōten—who had contributed more to Paris than anyone else, even receiving the Légion d'honneur from the French government—once gave a broadcast about France when returning to Tokyo, inadvertently touching upon the flaws of the French people. When he later returned to Paris, he was immediately summoned and, after severe reprimand, had his French medal revoked—but speaking candidly about one's true feelings now entailed various hardships, extending beyond matters of one's own country. Somehow realizing that the feudal hardships of the Tokugawa era had spread to places one would never have dreamed of, I was often deeply moved to think that even Europe, which had once boasted liberalism's golden age, had come to this state.

When I was in Berlin, people warned me not to talk about politics at all—for even a foreigner could be taken away and killed—but upon entering Moscow, not only was photography prohibited, I was made to feel no small degree of helplessness, as if my hands and feet had been bound. When you see someone, the notion that one must determine whether they are right-wing or left-wing has thickly permeated the entire world. The idea that humans can view things freely has now become society’s common belief. The turmoil in Spain and similar conflicts are now widely recognized as ideological battles, but even so, travelers have newly come to face the possibility of being viewed as spies in some sense—meaning no one can avoid being ensnared in this feudalistic error. Each time they slip through gaps, modern people find themselves pursued by new rope handles; to spend days with folded arms in passive observation is now but a dream.

In contrast, Japan still retained a single, natural attitude that was allowed to exist. In other words, the strange dojo known as *Okerano Uta*—which abandoned the self, stabbed others to death, and reduced everything to nothingness—continued to breathe like the mountain ascetic training grounds deep in Tanba. When a light was cast here, various faces indistinguishable as savages or cultured people sat cross-legged, not facing any particular direction, and snickered away.

When I crossed the Urals and entered Siberia, seeing the endless wilderness stretching thousands of miles before me, the intellectual culture of Europe I had left behind appeared as nothing more than a romantic, ephemeral castle—yet the perspective that renders all human endeavors futile seems inescapable to us. In disputes among European literati, they avoid striking their opponents' absolute vital points; but among Japanese literati, they will not strike unless it is an unavoidable vital point of their adversary. The custom that takes as its true purpose the elimination of vital points, like pigs, never ceases to cling to us. However, now there is no one anywhere who lacks a vital point. The prosperity of "Okerano Uta" is an auspicious sign praying for blessings and perfect virtue.

Study of Humanity

The fact that each person thinks about humanity—the intriguing great fact that people of every occupation, according to their profession, contemplate human beings—swirls and flows onward as the New Year arrives, creating a magnificent spectacle.

Once a year, when all people collectively reflected on their age and held a ceremonial occasion wishing for happiness in the coming year, the morning sun had already risen at its commencement. That such things were truly auspicious was something I had long forgotten. However, the custom of everyone secretly engaging in the study of humanity while suspending this study only during the New Year's pine-decorated days had continued unceasingly in this world since I was born. Among all that remained unchanging, it was only the New Year that would likely endure forever.

Since humans are born to hold festivals, Mr. Masao Kume’s statement that one should not disparage festivals struck me as an astute observation. For humans to forget their humanity is the essence of a festival. However, I think I will begin my study of humanity anew with the coming year. This marks the commencement of study.

While I was in Paris, I occasionally paid attention to events occurring in Japan proper. Then from among those printed words, my own slander became mixed in and entered my eyes. At the farthest reaches of a foreign land, when I was directing nostalgic thoughts toward my homeland, the emotion I felt upon unexpectedly encountering slander against myself was unbearably repugnant.

Having traveled through various countries and returned to Paris, when I tried to summon back memories of those visited lands, the nations began to appear as living beings—each with their own colors, voices, and rounded forms—yet when I envisioned that most cherished creature in such moments and reached out to touch it gently, there came that eerie discomfort of being suddenly assailed by slander. Yet undeterred by this uncanny unease, I raced through Siberia—like the Earth's spinal column—and collapsed into Japan as though sliding headlong. I couldn't tell which direction I'd fallen facing, but above my own head swirling with vertigo, only faint voices arguing "Safe!" "No—Out!" managed to reach my ears. When at last the dizziness subsided and I stood up to brush off the sandy dust before walking on, my legs still swayed unsteadily.

Just then, I was bombarded with questions, but the first one was invariably, "How are the women in Paris?"—that’s how it went. I received this question everywhere, and upon reflection, I could not help but feel disillusioned anew at the realization that above all else, the men of Japan were preoccupied with women. When I consider that the Simpson Affair stirred the hearts of people worldwide more than Chiang Kai-shek’s Xi’an Incident, I realize that people’s interest in Parisian women also has its reasons. More than politics, it is daily life that remains truly fascinating to human beings. The undiminished study of humanity has not changed from past to present. Rather than becoming merchants peddling ideologies, I believe writers should devote this year once again to cultivating original thought through the study of humanity.

"I do not want to escape from all that would utilize my true worth."

Like Gide, I now think that way. Whether it be safe or out, I do not know about such things.

It was unseasonably warm for winter. I extinguished the hibachi’s fire, took off my haori, and stood on the engawa to look. The white plum tree, its branches drooping under densely clustered blossoms, trembled in the wind.

Suddenly I thought of taking my wife for a walk around the vicinity. Since I hadn’t used the camera I bought in Germany, I took it and invited my wife out. Because all the children were out playing, the stroll with my wife felt like sneaking away, which was somehow intriguing. I had almost never engaged in this kind of pastime before. Now I truly understood why people did this, and as my house disappeared from view, I felt an unrestrained New Year’s spirit welling up inside me.

The strong sunlight beating down brought a languid, sweaty weariness to my body, yet gazing at the withered fields and clouds around me, I found myself growing calm. The interconnected treetops of winter woods appeared faintly blurred in pale purple, and with no sign of new buds emerging, no restless thoughts stirred within me. A quiet winter afternoon without passersby. Last year when I walked this same path, the camellias and holly bushes that had been densely clustered with flowers were gone, replaced now by a newly built house. From the forest came the sound of a large pine tree being felled.

As I strolled along the sunlit path, my desire to take photographs had waned, but 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 take my photo too, I stood there having mine taken and began to think this was quite a good pastime. As the real-life couple were recreating another reality together, logic aside, both found themselves newly struck by a subtle sensation they had never experienced before. The photographs we had taken could not be viewed on the spot, so we had no way of knowing how they had turned out, but the mutual sentiment of photographing each other had naturally grown more profound than before we began.

There are two kinds of couples: those who strain day and night to somehow shift the immovable life that is marriage, and those who resign themselves—since a couple is a couple—to feeling as though they have plunged to the abyss’s depths. But lately, I have often thought that the evolution of stagnant couples lies precisely where one would least expect it. In terms of studying humanity, observing the evolution between immovable couples proves most difficult. During my travels abroad, I encountered no temptations with foreign women and returned home just as I had departed—unchanged. Many others laughed at me, but since I maintain my own method of study, I cannot be carelessly swayed by others. Through this approach, I gained considerable insight.

Dostoevsky says that when one lives forty years, they become a peculiar sort of human. Indeed, I too have often thought I had grown into rather an odd sort of person. First of all, human beings had come to appear far simpler to me than before. It was merely that there were too many visible humans - like shogi pieces - their sheer numbers dazzling our eyes. In battle, it is always one against hundreds of thousands - in this alone, every person faces the same truth.

On streets, at venues, or in places where people gather, whenever I found someone intriguing, I had a habit of standing still and gazing at them until they vanished from sight. However, this was during leisure time. Even when abroad, since I had nothing but leisure, I always tried indulging this habit freely as I wandered about. When I spent my days doing nothing but observing people, there came a time when I felt an intense vehemence to do nothing but read books; yet if I endured this urge and continued watching people, it was my usual experience that my relationship with home became clearly understood.

It was the night of August 12th last year.

That night, I had an interesting experience. To go from Berlin to Moscow, I had to change trains at the Polish border. The train I had transferred to would take me all the way to Manchuria, so it stood to reason that we would become quite familiar with each other. Thinking this, I went into the dining car for dinner, where a distinguished gentleman who had finished his meal sat facing my direction, deep in thought. At first, due to my extreme hunger, I paid little attention to this gentleman positioned about two and a half tatami mats away.

Having satisfied my hunger, I began observing the dining car's occupants as usual according to my custom. Then the demeanor of that gentleman who had remained motionless since earlier seized my attention. He appeared about forty-eight or forty-nine years old. His attire consisted of a thick light-brown suit with matching golf trousers and vertically striped socks in the same hue—an ensemble of exquisite refinement. His facial features and neck were elegantly slender, forming a melancholy countenance that seemed never to have shown a smile. With his right hand placed sideways on the table, he kept his gaze fixed on the tabletop one or two feet ahead. Though unmistakably French at first glance, his physique appeared somewhat large for a Frenchman. His profession defied all conjecture. The thin recession of his hair went unnoticed as baldness due to his light-brown clothing. Moreover, his eyes—youthfully clear despite his age—possessed an intensely cold and willful sharpness that most characterized this gentleman. Though I had observed multitudes of foreigners day and night across nations during my travels, from the perspective of my human studies, here was a foreigner whose character eluded all prepared categories.

The gentleman did not drink the tea he had ordered and was gazing with a displeased expression, but now began staring intently at me. It was a truly beautiful face. Of course, its beauty surpassed that of ordinary handsome men—it was a keen-edged, razor-like beauty that had long ago lost any capacity to find interest in the world. I suddenly thought that if there were many such people in the world, I would surely come to loathe living. In the Orient, there exists not a single person of this sort. That remained fortunate. As I thought how this meant the Orient was preserved, the gentleman still kept his gaze fixed unwaveringly upon me. "Do as you please," I thought to myself and began drinking my beer. Whenever I considered that man now, despite feeling inexpressibly drawn to him, I found myself overwhelmed by the sense of witnessing culture's finality—my heart instead yearning for the wholesome vigor of ripened rice stalks. Compared to him, I still felt grounded in earthly happiness. Within me existed none of that cultural chill. This was fortunate. This alone I resolved never to shoulder—this I truly believed.

However, the person before me was none other than Gide, the world’s preeminent intellectual figure. I hadn’t known that in the slightest. I had seen numerous photographs of Gide before. The reason I hadn’t realized the man staring at me was Gide stemmed from having heard two months prior that he was already in Moscow. At the time, it seemed inconceivable that someone in Moscow would be traveling back there from the Polish border. Yet it was around when this gentleman left the dining car and vanished from sight that I began suspecting his identity. When he stood to depart with a French book in hand, I thought he might be a literary man—since Gide was French, I started believing he must belong to that lineage. This marked the beginning.

The next morning when I went to the dining car, the same gentleman appeared again, this time showing me his back, and I could see him reading at a table about three ken away. At this time, he sat with his legs crossed diagonally and wore glasses. At a glance, I clearly realized this was Gide. When I called the waiter and asked what sort of person that was, the reply came that he was a famous French literary scholar. If that was the case, there could be no more doubt. It was indeed Gide. Even so, how could this man appear so different when viewed from the front versus from behind? Seen from behind, he looked every bit the refined, kind, and cheerful old gentleman—one who had seen and known all. He occasionally made annotations in his book; with a slightly arched posture as if there were no greater joy in this world, tilting his head repeatedly, he moved his pencil with apparent difficulty across the swaying pages. Last night had been my turn to be observed, so this morning, determined to observe him properly, I ceaselessly gazed at Gide’s retreating figure. While reading, he would carelessly toss food into his mouth before hurriedly returning to his annotations. As I drank my tea while gazing at the beautiful morning wilderness approaching Moscow and observing Gide, I slowly ate my meal alone, thinking that among all the scenery one could enjoy in this world, none was as fascinating as this.

Gide would surely publish an account of his travels in Russia before long, and if that were the case, it seemed that by now some clear central theme concerning Russia must have already taken shape in his mind. Even so, a single doubt I found difficult to accept kept arising within me.

How is it that Gide—the greatest intellect of France, the world’s foremost cultural nation—is becoming a spiritual colony of Russia? Can this truly be considered the proper course of intellectual history? To me, this remained utterly incomprehensible. Of course, there should be no borders in the realm of intellect. Yet is not a cultural nation’s very essence rooted in its traditions? Beyond that, culture is nothing at all. Among all foolish discourses, nothing proves more meaningless than an intelligence that rejects culture. If this holds true, then what had French intellect become? And had France’s spiritual training within its traditional world grown so feeble?—From such thoughts swirling within me, yet more doubts began to arise. This stood as the paramount concern in my study of humanity.

When I finished my morning meal, Moscow was finally drawing near. I had to prepare to disembark. While thinking I would likely never meet Gide again, I returned to my compartment.

When I disembarked in Moscow, right after I was taken by the correspondent Mr. Mori to see the city. Around noon, when I was having my photo taken at the entrance of a large hotel called the Metropolis, Gide suddenly appeared there again. "Isn't that Gide?" I asked Mr. Mori. "Yes, this is his regular hotel," came the reply, but by the time this answer came, Gide had already vanished into the hotel.

I was treated to lunch by Mr. Mori on the hotel terrace. As I sliced into the poultry dish 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. Hatless and wearing traveler's golf pants, he wandered through the crowd while ambling across the square toward the street. The intense sunlight made his bald crown gleam conspicuously, rendering him unmistakable even amidst the throng at a single glance.

That marked my final encounter with Gide. I was taken by Mr. Mori and walked through the streets again to see the sights. When we reached the top of a square along the way, I saw a heavy, reddish-black building. “That is the GPU headquarters,” he said. “Once someone passes through that gate, none have ever come out.”

I could say I had never particularly harbored ill feelings toward Russia. However, whenever I heard of Russia heedlessly taking the lives of many talented individuals, I could not help but think Japan was different in this regard. I believe that culture's greatest virtue lies above all else in respecting human life. While standing before the GPU headquarters, I thought that if Japan were Russia, there would have been no room for issues like ideological conversion to arise. When I thought of the joy of having safely reunited with my many outstanding friends from before, I felt a sophistication in Japanese intellect that I had not yet noticed. With this sophistication, there was no reason Japanese culture should not rise.

When I looked through the January issue of *Chūō Kōron*, I found Gide’s *Russian Travelogue* published there. As I read it while recalling my two days with Gide in Russia, what most seized my interest was how he had become the first to articulate what no one else could yet express. After exhaustively praising Russia’s various forms of happiness and quality of life, he nevertheless stated that in Russia, the worst sometimes overtakes the best. This very statement strikes me as embodying French intellect. Here manifests the loftiness of France’s tradition. He writes:

“For me, there exists something far more significant than myself or even the Soviet Union.” “That is humanity; it is its fate; it is its culture.”

I shall refrain from writing about many other issues for now, but what stands as the foremost cultural and human imperative is this: above all else, we must respect human life. I believe that the strength of this awareness constitutes the intelligence of our species and forms the very foundation of all culture. I believe that present-day Japan must be permitted to endure its other evils for a time.