Pathway to Japanese Literature

It was a worn-out notebook. On its cover was written "Letter to My Teacher." When opened, on the page serving as the frontispiece was written: "Think of mornings, and also think of evenings." The contents took the form of letters written by a boy addressed to "my teacher." This too must have been one of youth's soliloquies. Below are excerpts from some of them.

Teacher, I suddenly thought—wouldn’t a hunting cap suit you? I couldn’t help feeling that way. Saying something so abrupt—do you think me a strange fellow? But whenever I think of you, Teacher, I inevitably conclude that a hunting cap must surely become you. I have always liked elderly people who wear hunting caps well. I was now truly happy— happy that I had finally been able to speak to you, Teacher. I am an utterly timid creature who cannot even properly exchange morning and evening greetings with others. It was precisely because you are my Teacher that I could begin writing in this manner from the very start. I feel you will listen to anything I might say, Teacher. I shall tell you everything. You will gradually come to understand what sort of person I am.

When I took the Middle School entrance exam and was asked about my future aspirations during the oral examination, I answered that I wanted to become a doctor. There was a kind doctor among my family's relatives. With a child's mind, I thought I wanted to become that sort of person. My deceased mother had also wished for that. After I began attending church, I came to wish to become a pastor. When I lost my faith, I even thought about becoming an elementary school teacher. Now... incompetent and untalented—only this single path connects my feelings. Without adorning edges, without competing in appearance, without mocking others—the heart that speaks of 'I' with candor is precisely what belongs to a poet. Shall I tell you the name of a poet I like? Hans Christian Andersen.

My deceased mother used to give me an allowance beyond my station. I would buy all sorts of books despite hardly reading them properly. Andersen’s autobiography in English translation was among them. I read through it with my halting command of the language. The cover was pale yellow, with Andersen’s head at the center surrounded by drawings of angels, animals, flowers, and toys. The spine was dark green with gold lettering near the top that read “Andersen by himself.” It was a fine little book. After Mother’s death, I sold it off along with the others. I now bitterly regret it. If only I still had that book—that delicate, humble soul would comfort my heart and give me courage; with painstaking devotion I would translate it, pouring my soul into every word. I can still recite the first page from memory. Andersen began his account of life with this line.

“My life isa lovely story, happy and full of incident.”

"My life is a lovely fairy tale—happy and rich in memories." No matter what becomes of my fate, if only I could manage to emulate him even slightly and leave behind a poor autobiography and some fairy-tales at the end of my life! Doctor, pastor, elementary school teacher… When I think back on them now, they seem so poignantly earnest. What can someone like me possibly do for others? No matter where I search within my heart, I will find no proof that I have accomplished anything. I have not done a single thing up until now. I have never served my parents. I have never served a teacher. I have never done anything for friends. I have never written even a single letter with heartfelt sincerity. If it were merely that I am clumsy by nature, I might find some way to console myself—but people, take pity: I have no sincerity within me. If I were to liken myself to that lazy servant in Jesus’ parable and say, “The one mina I possessed has been taken away from me,” would that be too foolish a thing to say? Will a time ever come when my own youth coalesces and rises within my chest, even for someone like me? Will I ever attain an age where I can look back and trace the contours of my own past?

Teacher, can someone like me become a poet?

Teacher, today I had a huge fight with my family. I scolded Grandmother’s back. It started over something trivial—because Grandmother spoke ill of my deceased mother. When she screamed, Older Brother came running, and he and I grappled with each other. Eventually, the neighbors came out and stopped us. Truthfully, this isn’t such an unusual occurrence. I cause trouble like this sometimes. I’ve burdened the neighbors quite a lot too. In this neighborhood, I’ve become something of a transient figure. Older Brother has meanwhile gained a reputation as a filial son. In fact, he truly is filial.

“Teacher, this may sound strange to ask—what governs your stars?” I was born under the Boar’s sign. Boar’s Happaku Saturn—this cursed constellation charts my course. Its cadence oddly recalls Yabui Chikuan, like some Edo-era physician’s name. What brazen defiance in this title, when set against my own frail given name! O fate—rage with Chikuan’s medicinal fury! They call me “shamelessly brash.” “Utterly devoid of feeling,” they sneer. I whisper to myself: “You’re no noble boar—just a grunting pig.” Shamelessness clings to me like sweat. That demure softness others wear? I lack its very thread. When shame deserts me, it flees entirely— In those moments, no scornful gaze makes me blink. They say names mold their bearers—perhaps Happaku Saturn fits this face after all. Truth be told, I’ve grown fond of its bite. But Teacher—now I waver terribly. Now I dread even a finger pointed behind my back, a single hissed rumor. This heart swells with yearning—to live earnestly, devoutly… To become that youth: quiet, timid—one who might draw women’s pity and flutter shy girls’ hearts (don’t laugh, Teacher)— Somehow… I’ve shrunk into myself like folded paper.

I have always been a coward at heart. If it meant reconciling with someone, I would not hesitate to brush the dust from their feet. I cannot take pride in anything. I have no confidence. I am currently living in a two-tatami room on the second floor. It is next to Father’s practice room. (My father is a jōruri instructor.) There’s Mother’s chest of drawers and—as for my belongings—only one small desk, but add me to that and the room becomes completely full. At night I spread my futon here and sleep. I sleep quite well. Here I find slight enjoyment in nighttime hours. The two or three hours after practice guests leave. Harmonious moments. Reading books, talking with Teacher…

Midoriu was writing such a letter, you see.

“Ah yes—on fine days such as this, I do recall: whenever some trifling discontent weighed upon me, I would always make my way to Ayase Embankment, lie upon the grass that bent beneath me, and gaze at clouds where blue stood motionless and white knew no rest—whereupon tears without cause would come pressing thick about me.” “If it be that the boatbuilder’s child called out, ‘Brother, what are you doing?’ then I was then addressed as ‘Brother’…….”

Because today was fine weather, after eating lunch I went walking toward Horikiri. The iris gardens were open too, and figures of pleasure-seekers could be seen. On the embankment where Kosuge Prison was visible, keeping some distance from the sightseers, I lay on my back and rested. As I gazed at balloon advertisements floating in the Asakusa sky, someone came to stand by my head. “Brother, what are you doing?” It was a policeman. This became an interrogation from suspicion. He seemed to think me some sort of delinquent. “Since women and children come here to play, there’s talk of bad sorts showing up,” he said. I gave him the name of a relative in Suijin too. Then he said “Didn’t you come here to beg money or something?” As he turned to leave he added “Don’t you think even you find this strange?” with a scornful laugh. This could be taken both as excusing his own overreaction and pitying me. I felt something pierce my chest sickeningly. I considered my own appearance. I usually wear my middle school uniform and magnolia-soled geta. “There’s nothing particularly shady about me,” I tried telling myself.

But I am somehow strange, you see. My features aren’t favorable. I had been reprimanded before. While mingling with crowds in Asakusa Park and peering at displayed photographs before Katsudōkan’s entrance,I was summoned to the police box across. At some point,I had developed this habit of becoming utterly transfixed whenever viewing Katsudōkan’s photographic displays. There were times my sleeve got sliced by pickpockets during these trances. Another instance found me reading at a bookstore’s entrance when an acquaintance tapped my shoulder. That person said, “Keep glaring like that and you’ll burn holes through pages!”

My figure standing rigidly in front of the Katsudōkan or at bookstore entrances—if people were to see it, they might find it quite shabby and strange, I suppose.

After the policeman left, I squatted back down on the embankment and gazed blankly at the water and reeds, but my spirits gradually sank. And bitterness welled up inside me. I harbored no particular feelings toward the policeman and answered him honestly, but that very fact became unbearable to me. I am often subjected to unreasonable humiliation... In that moment too, I found myself seized by such emotions—and these were no longer directed at the policeman. And in the end, I had to endure that sense of powerlessness in confronting myself—I am worthless—once again. I set off on my return journey with a crushed spirit. The fleeting interrogation out of suspicion summoned my usual melancholy.

When I crossed Horikiri Bridge and reached the area around Kanebō, my mood had improved a little. A longing for friends welled up in my chest. Then my feelings poured into that longing as if finding an outlet. I can make friends, I can make friends—thinking such things, my heart even grew light. At an antique shop I happened to spot near Shirahige Bridge, I bought one old frame and returned home. I liked both the reproduced painting housed within it and the old-fashioned simplicity of the frame itself. The painting depicts a father, mother, and child. It is likely the brushwork of an eminent ancient artist from a foreign land. But as someone unenlightened in such matters, I understand nothing of it. It is probably a depiction of an upper-class family. From the composition of middle-aged parents and a young son—probably a year or two younger than me—something one might call the propriety of a good family emanates. A dignified father, a gentle mother, and between them, a youthful young man bearing traces of both his father’s and mother’s features. A quietude, an uprightness, a warmth, a gentleness are sensed. The sense of calm I had come to feel at that time was what drew me to this painting. Since the price was also low, I bought it and took it home. That is the one displayed on top of the chest of drawers. “Earlier, when my older brother saw it and said, ‘What’s this?’ I replied, ‘It’s a painting of a distinguished foreign family,’ and he made a look as though he understood.”

The people in the frame will help me in my solitude.

This morning, upon waking, when I spread open my household’s newspaper, the fortune-telling column caught my eye. Happaku: Visiting friends brings good fortune. A delightful line—there must have been people who, upon seeing this, felt moved to pay visits. But I have no friends to visit.

Perhaps it was a fortune-telling urging me to visit the library—after all, I hadn’t been there in ages—so I found myself thinking such thoughts as I browsed through advertisements for new books. Those brief introductions hold a strange fascination for me. The authors’ skill and dedication came through remarkably well in those summaries—or so it seemed to me. Some even quoted the writers’ own words: “I have composed this work with an upright conscience and flawless introspection.” This struck me as unbearably severe for one such as myself. “Upright conscience... flawless introspection”—gazing at those advertisements, I contemplated my own idleness until every volume seemed to be proclaiming those very words at me. A lonely sensation took hold, as if I’d been left behind by something essential. My youth flows away fruitlessly—this I lament. Those emotions coursed through my breast like some incantation—or perhaps like remorse—stinging and sorrowful in equal measure. As I ate my morning rice, I felt compelled to swallow down my poverty whole. Then came a message borne on a wisp of wind. And what characters they were—flowing with artless grace, a veritable jeweled scroll. I shall now transcribe it.

“How have you been spending your days? Aren’t you terribly carefree again? Your nature is far freer than you give yourself credit for, yet you end up brooding over every little thing. You seem to have such a troubled look about you. Is there no one to flatter you? Even I possess kindness and flattery. But I am patient. Gazing into the distance, I want to walk on always with a childlike heart. That moon which visited Andersen’s window every night to confide all manner of things when he lived alone in his attic room—that was me. I am your clumsy angel. How alike your faltering figure and my heart are. But more than anything, I want to hear your voice. I want to hear your voice that keeps on narrating your own life without end. You mustn’t lapse into silence. You must always be able to speak your own heart. Don’t be timid in life. Please remember how honest and brave young Hans was when he went out into the world alone. When you feel lonely in your heart and desire help, you may think of me. Please remember that there is one person who does not laugh at your aspirations, who will never come to harbor a heart that shuns you. You know, I believe we’ll surely meet someday.”

“Please take care of yourself and live well.” “Goodbye.”

“Teacher, can someone like me become a poet?”

“Of course you can become one.” “There’s no need to worry.” “Your countenance bears kindness.” “But I’m worthless.” “I possess nothing.” “However small a sprout may be, none lacks its season to bloom.” “Nor does any person lack what they were born carrying.” “Didn’t even those like Goethe and Tolstoy begin by tending what they already held?” “And didn’t they say that through long lives, what they exchanged with others too became theirs in time?”

“If someone sees me playing with children—oh people—at least speak ill!” Because children know nothing. “If I pick flowers—look upon me scornfully.” “If I adorn my room with blooms.”

No. “Just as Jesus loved children, I love children. Just as Jesus loved the lilies of the field, I am drawn to all things delicate and lovely.”

Teacher, I have written something like this. Please read it.

Younger sister.

My younger sister will turn six this year. She was born late. Her neck was slender, her face so small—she looked like you could scoop her up in one hand, and I couldn’t help but worry how fragile she seemed. In her red little dress, there was something about her appearance that evoked a young beast—a childish creature reminiscent of a monkey’s offspring. Holding my younger sister close, I found myself stirred by a raw affection at her furry collar.

Last summer，Mother died. Mother’s death was the first I had experienced since birth. I faced my mother’s death with a chaotic mind. Beside me was my younger sister，who had lost her mother. But I could not know what Mother’s death meant to this young one’s life. I thought of my younger self who had sent off Grandfather’s death and younger brother’s death while facing Mother’s death.

This spring, a new mother came to my younger sister. My younger sister clung to her, calling out, “Mommy! Mommy!” My younger sister had started to play with children her own age. She was a crybaby and often got made to cry by her younger friends. I was often made to hear my younger sister’s crying. I would often see my younger sister, having left the circle of play, contorting her small face. When at the dinner table my older brother would say, “Jon-chan’s cuter since she listens obediently,” she would cry, “He said Jon-chan’s cuter!” “You don’t love me,” she said through tears. When scolded harshly, she cried, “You hit me!” It affected my younger sister terribly. The adults’ insensitivity failed to perceive the single-heartedness of my younger sister’s cries. With a brother like me, and even my younger sister beginning to show childish stubbornness—the more I sensed my older brother’s feelings in his words, the more irritation welled up within me.

My younger sister had grown frail... And I, in such a state, underwent the conscription examination this May. People who hadn’t seen me for some time would say, “You’ve grown big.” With a somewhat more conscious feeling about living, I worried over my younger sister’s well-being.... The one who nurtures me is none other than myself—even my younger sister would come to manage on her own. In the evenings, when the family gathered under the electric light, I held my younger sister in my arms—and a sudden anxiety for her welled up within me,

Please grow up quickly. Not to my sister or anyone else—I tried voicing my feelings like that.

My nerves are worn out. I ended up even dreaming of the quarrels of the young ones. In the dream, I came to my sister’s aid and, without hesitation, stamped on the other girl’s face.

Today，a light rain had been falling since morning． In this quiet，I composed my letter．

Ah, the winds of love—Ōgiya’s Kanayama—the name Yūgiri rises in the evening mist… From the neighboring practice room came voices rehearsing “Yoshidaya.” The owner of the voice was a man called Mr. A—one of the longstanding visitors to our house. He had been coming since I was but a child. Because Mr. A possessed such a fine voice, I made sure to listen whenever I was home. Moreover, I grew fond of this—the opening passage of Yūgiri no De that begins with “Koikaze ya...”

Teacher, do you like jōruri? If Father would teach me, I would want to learn jōruri—but as things stand, I cannot even begin to approach it. The other day when I asked Father why he had studied jōruri and such things, he merely said, “Because I liked it.” It was an indifferent reply. Yet even that sufficed to make this son who aspires to poetry feel gladness and satisfaction.

Just now, I accompanied Father to the morning bath and returned. Because Father was blind, he made sure to go to the bathhouse before noon when it wasn’t crowded. After returning home, I read *Ransai Bokugo* aloud to Father in the practice room. Going to the bath together and reading books aloud to him—these had become something like a daily routine I’d recently started on a whim. (How long would this last?) While reading, I asked, “How is it?” and he replied, “Yeah, it’s interesting.” It seemed I had captured Father’s interest. What frame of mind did Father have as he listened? When I began this routine, I first read aloud *The Broken Commandment*. Next was *Tajō Bushin*. Father listened to each with interest. However, Father never asked for anything himself. It was always I who imposed it. How long would this last?

Father will turn forty-seven this year—but what was he feeling in his heart? What did he think of me? My father was truly a silent person. Father maintained a stubbornly indifferent attitude toward me most of the time and rarely opened up. Moreover, Father did not seem to like me very much. The reason I came to think this way may also have lain in Father’s blindness—since childhood, he had always been looked after by others; as both head of the household and a father, he had never taken initiative in caring for others, being instead someone who was cared for. What kind of feelings do fathers hold toward their sons? What kind of hearts do fathers in the world who have sons of a certain age hold, I wonder? Teacher, was it strange that I thought this way? If I had felt more affection for my father, I probably would not have thought such things.

My father was an exceedingly kind person. He was a gentle, good-hearted soul. He had never engaged with people and knew nothing of worldly ways. Though Father likely took up jōruri due to his blindness, I believe his very being had coursed with passion for beloved things since birth. Our household too gathered theater and music enthusiasts around Father—yet all except him bore coarse dispositions. Had these family hobbies seeped deeper into their characters, a softer ease might have flowed through our home. The sole bearer of such grace was my gloomy, taciturn father. We now have a six-year-old sister at home—Father sometimes takes up a toy shamisen to playfully perform for her. In those moments, he revealed an unaffected whimsy. When I was still a child nearing dawn’s light, I would crawl into Father’s futon in the next room pleading, “Tell me a story! Tell me!” He’d always murmur “Mm… alright,” then recount rakugo tales and kōdan epics heard at vaudeville halls. His storytelling lingers in memory—skillful threads laced with humor. He’d lie supine on tatami, pressing aligned soles against my childhood obi while making me wiggle limbs like a hatchling turtle. Other times he’d hoist me piggyback facing skyward and jest “Thousand-Armed Kannon!” Perched there, I’d pipe up: “Pray to Thousand-Armed Kannon for me!” Though I adored this game and pestered him often… Had Father been made ordinary flesh, this kindness might have bloomed outward—warm currents embracing our home entire.

It is said that Father began learning jōruri around the age of thirteen or fourteen. Those around him must have made arrangements for Father, and he himself must have had the resolve of a boy. He had been devoted to this path for over thirty years now—but what state of mind was Father in at this moment? I too am someone trying to advance along a path I can love while forgetting my own clumsiness. Even so—still—I want to see an artist within Father. If he were my predecessor on this path I walk, I might have found his unwavering heart within his writings. Yet when it comes to jōruri, I cannot find any passion within myself that I can truly rely upon. Listening to his storytelling leaves me vexed, for though I recognize his artistry excels, this very recognition makes me feel desolate— how I wish to see him find solid ground through deeper devotion to his craft! Otherwise, he remains too lonely a soul. The other day, I heard one of his seniors speak about their path on the radio. The man said: "If one hears the Way at dawn, one may die content by dusk." Hearing this, I felt something true about artists' hearts— that my youthful longing for Father is no childish fancy adults would scorn. Later, when another performer broadcast one of his tales I know well, I couldn't help thinking how much finer Father's telling was. He listened too, talking afterward with those gathered there— his voice held unaccustomed confidence. From my two-mat room next door, hearing even he could grow animated, I felt gladness stir. Yet usually he drifts through days, a kind scatterbrain— leaving me lonely, frustrated. It isn't hinoki stages or applause I want for him—

(Ah, how happy I would be if I could hear that applause!) But what I want is for Father to maintain composure regarding his art and his own path. Art and one’s own path—these too are matters lying ahead for me. Here are Philippe’s words. “An artist is one who always listens to oneself—an earnest laborer who records what they hear in their own corner with an honest heart.” “I recognize no distinction between the village clog maker who works to fashion clogs exactly as he envisions them and the writer who narrates life precisely as he perceives it.” These words encourage me. In Father’s artistic journey, I find no way to support him, and whenever I think of this, I am always gripped by loneliness.

Lately, I’ve come to think—among us brothers, I resemble Father the most. Were I to voice this, it would surely draw bemused reactions from family and acquaintances. Yet I also think—among us brothers, I’m the one who most takes after our deceased Mother. That my eyes frighteningly resemble hers is something everyone remarks upon routinely. These thoughts come unbidden. Somehow I find myself thinking this way. I had not inherited the rare, gentle kindness of Father and Mother. There remains but one conspicuous trait passed down from them—this extreme sweat-proneness, so like Mother’s. My deceased mother was exceptionally sweat-prone. When summer came, she would shed jewel-like beads of sweat. As Mother spoke of her diligent nature and deep affections, sweat would brim and stream forth. Her handkerchief stayed perpetually drenched. Teacher—I too am sweat-prone. Though I fall far short of Mother. Whenever people remark, “You sweat quite profusely,” I always respond, “Yes—it’s an inherited trait.” To me, this brings joy. For though I consider myself a gloomy, unpleasant sort, having this one thing about me I cannot conceal fills me with fierce gladness.

Being sweat-prone isn’t such a bad thing, is it? Father would often be alone in his practice room, biting his fingers, slapping his knees, rolling his sightless eyes, and groaning about something. What did he find engaging? In what did he lose himself? I too would often sit in the two-mat room, biting the backs of my fingers as I lost myself in endless thoughts. This might resemble Father after all.

Teacher, yesterday I went to the library for the first time in a while. And I read Sōseki’s collection of letters. In there were gathered many letters addressed from teachers to disciples. The hearts of teachers with young disciples came vividly alive and pressed upon my chest. Then as I read, a certain word suddenly revived itself in my heart. It was a phrase recorded in memorial writings by a friend after Akutagawa Ryūnosuke’s death—words Akutagawa had reportedly told that person during his lifetime. It is said Akutagawa told that person thus: “If you had met Mr. Sōseki, the relationship between you and me would have been quite different.”

A longing to have met Sōseki welled up in my chest.

Teacher, I cannot live as a shameless person. "You are mistaken." "Do it like this." "That is how it should be done." "There’s no need to fret."

I want to hear a voice that scolds me. I want words that will cut through my doubts and hesitations. The shadow was as gentle as a younger sister.

Happiness walked shoulder to shoulder with me.

During my walks, whenever I reflected on myself, I often hummed this poem and tried to adjust my pace. Happiness was not born from thinking of kind people, nor did it dwell in my home where a beloved younger sister attended to me—it was the soothing heart that visited me suddenly when walking alone beneath the trees, when pausing by the roadside… the color of the sky, the stance of the trees, the faces of passersby, even the gaze of a crouching dog. I fixed my eyes on everything that caught my attention, striving to attain a harmonious heart, yet my clog-shod steps remained as clumsy as ever.

The shadow was as gentle as a younger sister.

Happiness walked shoulder to shoulder with me.

Oh, time of intimate hearts! While chanting this poem in my heart like a spell, I continued on my unconsoled walk.

Teacher, I’ve grown fond of this poem that seems to have spilled suddenly from my lips—what do you think of it? Do you know whose poem this is? I can almost see Teacher’s face tilting his head in puzzlement. As for this poem—well, I wonder who I should say this poem is by? "The shadow was as gentle as a younger sister"—this is a phrase that Kiyokichi from *Wabishisugiru* suddenly recalls and hums. "Happiness walked shoulder to shoulder with me." This is a line from Verlaine’s poem. After reading *Wabishisugiru* and discovering this phrase, when I repeated it over and over like Kiyokichi, Verlaine’s poem came to mind. I tried humming the two lines together. "The shadow was as gentle as a younger sister." I don’t know who originally wrote these lines, but when arranged like this, a certain sentiment is felt. "A fine phrase—one spoken by someone who truly knew loneliness," Kiyokichi thinks, while "Happiness walked shoulder to shoulder with me." Verlaine too was an unfortunate person, wasn’t he? That is why these two separate phrases evoke an intimacy as if spoken by a single person, don’t they?

The shadow was as gentle as a younger sister.

Happiness walked shoulder to shoulder with me.

One can sense that serene things, secret things, intimate things, and joy have visited that person.

Teacher, early this morning, I had a dream. It was a dream where I was walking along the road with my arm around a woman's shoulder. It was merely that sort of dream. I didn't exchange any particular words with that woman. But you see, Teacher, my heart felt joyous then. It was satiated. I existed in a state I had never tasted in reality. Within the dream, I was perfectly happy. Even after awakening, that emotion remained. I strove to savor the lingering aftertaste of that delight for as long as possible. At that moment, my feelings may have run deeper than what could be sensed in that poem.

That woman resembled a certain movie actress and also a young lady who had once come to our house for lessons. I was never drawn to that movie actress, nor did I ever give thought to that young lady. But I will never forget the sweet feelings I experienced in that dream. For in reality, I do not know it.

Long ago, I too experienced a dream similar to this one. In that dream, I walked side by side with a friend from my boyhood. And at that time as well, my heart was immersed in inexplicable joy. Restraint, concern—from all such things my heart was completely freed, and there was only an inexplicable joy. Teacher, why do I have such dreams, I wonder. Why is it that I can experience in dreams things real life has never given me?

In reality, my hands have never embraced even a single friend's shoulder. When I open a book in my daily life and see printed words like "close companions," "kindred spirits," or "lovers," I feel my heart flutter like that of an innocent girl. Moreover, when I witness middle school students engaged in intimate familiarity on streets or in trains, my chest is assailed by an ineradicable loneliness. Perhaps from having lived this long without ever gaining the chance for female friendships, even now my heart yearns more for a friend's supportive arm than it does to imagine a lover for myself. It seems I was born with the disposition of a subordinate and younger brother type—this urge to depend on others never leaves me. Yet despite this, I'm an arrogant fellow without a shred of endearing quality. For a long time I had wanted a good elder brother figure, but now I find myself imagining not such a person, but a gentle friend my own age.

Teacher, please let me speak of a friend I care for. Well now—how should I begin to speak of it? My friend stood slightly shorter than I did, yet his frame was sturdier than mine. When people first laid eyes on my friend, they sensed an odd unease, but upon continued observation, they came to realize this impression was entirely inverted. Looking closely, my friend’s face revealed an unconstrained openness. If anything, his features carried a stern demeanor—yet there pulsed a youthful vitality within him, and beneath those intense eyes lay gentleness. His whole bearing evoked words like “boulder” or “bear,” yet one always perceived an undercurrent of tenderness. In my friend’s presence, people sensed not blazing passion but a quiet potency lying dormant. Brilliance that dazzles crowds—such qualities were foreign to his nature. He possessed a magnanimous spirit that yielded in life’s myriad matters, disdaining petty quarrels or triumphs over others. Thus when small-minded folk mistook his forbearance for dullness and presumed him easily manipulated—committing their discourtesies—my friend refrained from crushing such provocateurs. In time, meaningless taunts dissolved like shadows from around him. Though no archetypal elder brother figure, his serene and unmarred heart naturally drew affection, inspiring that rare assurance which wins more trust from elders than peers—such was his character. Moreover, this heart harbored an innocence and candor seldom found.

Let’s imagine, then, that this friend and I met during our middle school days.

I studied the third year of middle school twice. In that second spring, amidst a group of unfamiliar classmates, this friend who had transferred from a regional middle school and I sat side by side at adjacent desks as two new students. It was during natural history class on the first day. When the teacher, who had been looking through the attendance register and calling out students’ names, came to my turn, he looked up and inadvertently blurted out, “Oh, did you repeat a grade?” I formed an ambiguous smile. For an instant, laughter arose in the classroom. I stealthily glanced at the face of the student next to me. From that morning in the schoolyard when I saw that student’s face, my heart had been captivated. The student had his eyes lowered to his textbook, but there was no sign he was suppressing laughter. I sensed something perceptive in that innocence.

Unlike lazy me, my friend studied diligently. However, he did not particularly excel in any subject. Yet my friend’s composed skill demonstrated at the kendo club’s autumn tournament surprised us. That this unassuming new student possessed such exceptional ability was something none could have anticipated. My friend’s amiable character gradually became known among us. Still, though by no means shy, his quiet disposition meant he wasn’t one to grow close with others quickly. He particularly lacked playmates. There existed just one close companion. That was me. Shy yet arrogant as I was, I became his sole intimate friend. Our shared desks as newcomers naturally drew us together, yet we swiftly sensed an honest connection between us. The intuition from our first encounter remained ever-present in my heart, never once betrayed. Moreover, my friend’s perceptive nature soon discerned my peculiar vulnerabilities. There were moments when his gentle eyes took on a disconcertingly mature gleam while regarding me. This unsettled me profoundly. But because I cherished him—and because some honest core persisted within—I never feigned composure in his presence. At times I felt his heart enfold mine. Once we were assigned an excruciatingly detailed map for geography homework. Being averse to tedium, I abandoned mine midway—whereupon he stayed awake through night to complete both our portions.

It was during lunch break one day. The three of us—my friend, myself, and another classmate—were leaning against the window of the school building and chatting. The first class in the afternoon was military drill, so we had put on our gaiters. Suddenly, my friend looked at my legs and laughed at how clumsily I had wrapped my gaiters. I had always been terribly awkward and had never managed to wrap them properly. Yet my friend himself was hardly skilled at it either. I turned my attention to his gaiters and criticized their improper wrapping. Then an argument broke out between us about the correct way to fasten gaiters. For a moment, we became completely absorbed in this debate. At that point, the other classmate remarked, “You two always jump into arguments right away.” “Must be because you’re so close,” he added. Though we hadn’t actually quarreled much before, upon hearing these words my friend flushed crimson, pressed his back hard against the school building, and made an embarrassed face. I understood. That someone had acknowledged our closeness—this had made him happy. I was no precocious youth, but within my breast had long stirred the conviction that I was fundamentally unlikable. Rarely did I grow close to others, being well accustomed to solitude. Looking at my friend’s face, I thought: Ah, this person truly cares for me as I am. This was the first time I beheld genuine goodwill directed toward myself in another’s countenance. Ah, though I am nothing but a creature of reckless impulses. Nothing but a shameless wretch.

Teacher, when I first faced this notebook, I was conflicted. To whose heart should I send these words: "I am... I am..."? Within my heart dwell three people. To Teacher, to this friend, and to another—a certain woman. That woman is someone close to me who has known me since I was a baby and has always had the heart to watch over my growth. A large-framed person with abundant hair, someone who seems to know everything, with a gentle, sorrowful face. I call that person “Auntie.”

“A boy must keep striving.” “Even from the end, keep walking forward.”

At times she was strict, at times kind, and then—you mustn’t laugh—she sometimes gave me pocket money.

I was greatly conflicted, but my heart was strongly drawn to Teacher. During my school days, I would sometimes escape from class and often climb over the boundary fence to enter the neighboring naval cemetery. At the back of the cemetery was a wide grassy area, and I would go all the way there to spend time alone.

Lapis lazuli water flows in the sky

The air, clear and cool—

I stand beneath the shade of a single cherry tree Plucking its fruits / Crushing them Grape-colored—delighting in soaking my palm. I sat on the grass and composed such poems. And I would always think of Teacher and imagine him beside me. Teacher looked at me with a gentle gaze. And Teacher quietly listened to me talk. “There’s no need to worry, you know.” Teacher’s eyes seemed to be saying this to me.