Pathway to Japanese Literature

It was a worn-out notebook. On its cover was written: "Letters to My Teacher." When opened, on its frontispiece page appeared: "Reflect on mornings, and reflect again on evenings." The contents took form as letters addressed by a certain boy to "My Teacher." This too must have been one of youth's monologues. What follows are excerpts selected from among them. Teacher—it occurs to me that a hunting cap might suit you. I simply cannot shake this notion. Does voicing such abrupt thoughts make me seem strange? Yet whenever I imagine you, Teacher, I grow convinced beyond reason that a hunting cap would become you. I've always favored elderly gentlemen who wear hunting caps well. At this moment I feel such happiness— That I've finally managed to speak to you. I am hopelessly timid—a wretch who cannot properly exchange morning greetings. Only with you could I begin like this from our first words. I sense I might confide anything in you. I shall tell everything. In time you'll come to know what manner of creature I am.

During my middle school entrance exam, when asked about future aspirations during the oral examination, I answered that I wanted to become a doctor. There was a kind doctor among our relatives. As a child, I had wanted to become someone like that. My deceased mother had also hoped for this. After I began attending church, I came to wish to become a pastor. When I lost my faith, I even considered becoming an elementary school teacher. Now... incompetent and untalented—simply this single-minded feeling remains. I think it is the heart that speaks of "I" with candor—not embellishing appearances, not competing in looks, not mocking others—that belongs to a poet. Shall I tell you the name of a poet I admire? Hans Christian Andersen.

My deceased mother used to give me pocket money that exceeded our station. I would buy all sorts of books without properly reading them. The English translation of Andersen's autobiography was one such volume. I labored through it with my faltering language skills. The cover was pale yellow, bearing Andersen's portrait at its center surrounded by drawings of angels, animals, flowers, and toys. The spine shone deep green with gold letters at the top spelling "Andersen by himself." It was a fine little book. After Mother died, I sold it off along with the others. How bitterly I regret it now. ...If only I still had that book—that delicate, humble soul would soothe my heart and lend me courage. With monkish devotion, I would pour my soul into translating it. I still remember the first page by heart. When Andersen began writing his life's story, he opened with this line.

"My life is a lovely story, happy and full of incident."

“My life is a lovely fairy tale—happy and rich with memories.”

No matter what becomes of my end, if only I could but follow his example and leave behind a single poor autobiography and some fairy-tales at life’s close! Doctors, pastors, elementary school teachers… When I think back on them now, they seem the very picture of touching earnestness. What could someone like me possibly do for others? Even if I were to search every nook of my heart, I doubt I could find any proof that I’ve ever accomplished a single thing. I have never done a single thing in my life. I have never served my parents. I have never served a teacher. I have never done anything for my friends. I have never poured my heart into writing even a single letter. If I were merely inept by nature, I might find some solace in myself—but people, pity me, for I have no sincerity within me. If I were to liken myself to that lazy servant in Jesus’ parable and say, “I have had my one mina taken away,” would that be too foolish a thing? Will there ever come a time when even someone like me feels his youth welling up whole within his chest? Will I ever reach an age where I can look back upon the contours of my past?

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

Teacher, today I had a big fight with my family. I struck Grandmother's back. Oh, it was nothing—it started over something trivial. Because Grandmother spoke ill of my deceased mother. When Grandmother screamed, my older brother came running, and he and I grappled with each other. In the end, the neighbors came out and stopped us. In truth, this wasn't such an unusual occurrence. I do mess up from time to time. I've caused the neighbors quite a lot of trouble too. In this neighborhood, I've become a sort of transient figure. My older brother has also gained a reputation as a filial son. In truth, my older brother is filial.

“Teacher, this may sound strange to ask, but what is your astrological sign? I was born in the Year of the Boar. Ino Happaku—this is my fateful star. Somehow, the ring of it resembles Yabui Chikuan—like the name of an old-time doctor, don’t you think? In contrast to my real name’s feeble-sounding nature, how bold-faced my countenance is! O my fate—become as forceful and robust as Dr. Yabui’s healing hands!”

People say of me, “That shamelessly audacious fool.” “You have no sensitivity at all,” they say. I also tell myself, “You’re not a boar—you’re a pig.” I am utterly without shame. I may not possess the meekness that everyone else seems to find within themselves. When I turn shameless, I turn utterly shameless. In such moments, I do not flinch from any scornful gaze. They say a name reveals its bearer, and Ino Happaku might be one that fits me perfectly. In truth, I am quite fond of it. But Teacher, right now I am anything but unflinching. Right now I don’t want to have even a single finger pointed at me behind my back, nor do I want to hear even one whispered criticism. I am filled with the desire to live earnestly.

A meek, timid young man who might draw sympathy from women—and be quietly noticed by girls with similarly timid hearts—(Teacher, please don’t laugh)—I find myself wanting to become that sort of person. Somehow, I’ve become terribly withdrawn. 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 have no pride in anything. I have no confidence.

I lived and slept in a two-mat room on the second floor. It was next to Father’s practice room. (My father was a Jōruri teacher.) There was Mother’s chest of drawers and—as for my belongings—only one small desk, but adding me into the space filled the room to capacity. At night I laid out my futon there and slept. I slept quite well there. There I found a small measure of enjoyment in the nighttime hours—the two or three after the students who came for lessons had left. Harmonious hours. Reading books and talking with Teacher...

Midori Ame wrote such letters, didn’t he?

“Ah yes—when I recall on such fine days as this, if ever some matter leaves me somewhat dissatisfied, I always make my way to the Ayase embankment. There upon the flattened grass I lie sprawled, gazing at the blue that does not stir and the white that will not cease—the clouds—and find myself overwhelmed by tears without cause, I must report.” “When the boatwright’s child called out, ‘What are you doing there, mister?’ I, at that moment, became that ‘mister’… I must report.”

Because it was such fine weather today, after eating lunch, I took a walk toward Horikiri. The iris gardens were open, and sightseers could be seen. On the embankment where Kosuge Prison could be seen, I lay down on my back to rest, keeping some distance from the sightseers. As I was gazing at the balloon advertisement floating in the sky toward Asakusa, someone came to stand beside me. “What are you doing here, mister?” It was a police officer. It was an interrogation out of suspicion. He seemed to think I was some kind of delinquent. “Since women and children come here to play, there’s talk about bad guys showing up.” He said this. I also gave the name of my relative in Suijin. Then he said, “You didn’t come here to beg for money or something, did you?” As he was about to leave, he said, “Don’t you think you’re acting strange yourself?” and gave a scornful laugh. It could be taken both as an excuse for his own overreaction and as pity toward me. I felt as though I’d been punched in the chest. I reflected on my own appearance. I usually wear my middle school uniform and geta with magnolia wood teeth. “There’s nothing particularly suspicious about me,” I tried telling myself.

But there's something strange about me, isn't there? My features aren't favorable either, are they? I've been called out before, you know. Once at Asakusa Park—while blending into the crowd and peering at the movie stills outside the Katsudōkan—I got summoned to the police box across the way. I'd developed this habit, though I couldn't say when exactly, of getting transfixed by those display photos whenever I passed them. There were times I'd space out so completely that pickpockets slit open my sleeves. Another time, while browsing books at a shopfront, an acquaintance tapped my shoulder. "Keep glaring like that," they said, "you'll scorch holes through the pages." To any observer, my frozen stance before theater displays or bookstore windows must've looked downright pitiful—a shabby, peculiar figure.

After the police officer left, I squatted back down on the embankment and sat blankly gazing at the water and reeds, but gradually my spirits grew despondent. And indignation welled up within me. Toward that police officer moments before, I had felt no particular emotion and had answered him honestly—yet that very fact now felt unbearable. I am often subjected to unreasonable humiliation... At this moment too, I was seized by such emotions—and these were no longer directed at the police officer. And in the end, I had to endure once more the helplessness of returning to myself—this conviction that I am no good. I set out for home in a disheartened state. That baseless interrogation had stirred up my usual melancholy.

By the time I crossed Horikiri Bridge and reached Kanebo’s vicinity, my spirits had recovered somewhat. A longing for friends surged in my chest. Then, as if finding an outlet, my feelings poured into that longing. “I can have friends—I can have friends!” Thinking such thoughts, my heart grew light. At an antique shop I happened upon at Shirahige Bridge’s foot, I bought an old-worn frame and returned home. I came to like both the reproduced picture inside it and the frame’s old-fashioned simplicity. The painting shows a father, mother, and child. It’s likely the brushwork of some excellent ancient master from a foreign land—not that someone as ignorant as me would know. It probably portrays an upper-class family. From this scene of middle-aged parents and their son—a year or two younger than me—emanates what you might call respectable household decorum. A dignified father, gentle mother, and between them a fresh-faced youth bearing traces of both parents’ features. Quietness, correctness, warmth, gentleness—all these I sensed. This calmness I felt then drew me to the painting. Since the price was low too, I bought it and brought it home. That’s what now sits atop my chest of drawers. Earlier when my older brother saw it—“What’s this?”—I answered “A painting of a distinguished foreign family,” whereupon he put on a look of understanding.

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

When I opened my family’s newspaper first thing this morning, the horoscope section caught my eye.

Happaku: Visiting friends brings good fortune.

A delightful entry—there must have been those who, upon reading this, felt moved to visit someone. But I had no friends to visit. Perhaps it was a street fortune suggesting I go to the library—since I hadn’t visited in some time—and with such thoughts, I went to browse new book advertisements. Those brief introductory blurbs strangely drew me in. The way they conveyed the authors’ capabilities and dedication—well, I suppose that’s the impression one gets. Some even included quotes from the authors themselves: “I have written this book with a righteous conscience and flawless reflection.” It struck me as unbearably severe. “Righteous conscience” and “flawless reflection”—as I gazed at the advertisements, my own idleness became painfully clear, and every book seemed to hurl those very words at me. I felt a lonely desolation of being left behind. I grieved youth passing away in vain. These emotions coursed through my chest—irritating as incantations, aching like remorse. As I ate breakfast, I swallowed down my poverty whole. At that moment, a single missive borne on the wind fluttered in. Moreover, its jade-like letter bore traces of graceful brushwork, sincere and unaffected. I shall now present it.

“How have you been spending your days and nights?” “Aren’t you terribly troubled again?” “By nature you’re far freer than you think yourself to be, yet you end up brooding over every little thing.” “You seem to wear such a troubled look.” “Is there truly no one who tries to cheer you up?” “Even I possess both kindness and sweet words.” “But I am patient.” “Looking far ahead, I want to walk always with a childlike heart.” “That moon visiting Andersen’s solitary attic room each night, perching at his window to confide all things—that was me.” “I am your clumsy angel.” “How your faltering steps and my heart resemble each other.” “But more than anything, I want to hear your voice.” “I want to hear your voice endlessly narrating your life.” “You mustn’t fall silent.” “You must always speak your heart.” “Do not shrink from life.” “Remember how honest and brave young Hans was when he ventured alone into the world.” “When loneliness grips your heart and you crave aid, you may think of me.” “Know there’s one who never mocks your aspirations, who could never scorn you.” “You know, I believe we’ll surely meet someday.”

Please take care of yourself. “Goodbye.”

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

“Of course you can.” “You don’t need to worry.” “You have kindness in your features.”

“But I am hopeless.” “I have nothing.” “There isn’t a single grass sprout, no matter how small, that doesn’t have its time to bloom.” “There isn’t a single person born without something uniquely their own.” “Even people like Goethe and Tolstoy—isn’t it said they began by not neglecting what they already possessed?” “And isn’t it said that over their long lives, even what they exchanged with others became fully their own?”

"If people saw me playing with children, let them at least whisper behind my back—say it's because children know nothing. Because children know nothing. If I picked flowers, let them look upon me with scornful eyes. If I decorated my room with flowers—"

No.

“Just as Jesus loved children, I love children. Just as Jesus loved the lilies of the field, I am drawn to all lovely things.”

Teacher, I managed to write something like this. Please read it.

Younger Sister

My younger sister was going to turn six that year. She had been born late. Her neck was slender, her face so small it seemed you could cup it in one hand—I couldn’t help but worry she was fragile. In her red cotton jacket, there was something feral and childlike about her that called to mind a baby monkey. Holding my younger sister close to that furry collar, I felt a raw surge of affection.

Last summer, Mother died. Mother’s death was the first I had experienced since birth. With a chaotic mind, I confronted my mother’s death. By my side there was a younger sister who had lost her mother. But I could not know what Mother’s death meant to this young one’s life. Having confronted my mother’s death, I thought of my younger self who had seen off Grandfather’s passing and Brother’s death.

This spring, a new mother came to my younger sister. Younger Sister clings to her, saying, “Mommy, Mommy.”

Younger Sister had started playing with children her own age. She was a crybaby and would often be made to cry by friends younger than her. I often had to listen to my younger sister’s crying. I would also frequently see her having left the circle of play, contorting her small face. When at mealtimes my older brother would say, “John-kun’s better behaved and cuter than you,” she would cry, “He said John-kun’s cuter than me!” “No one loves me,” she would wail. When scolded harshly, she would sob, “You hit me!” It affected my younger sister terribly. The adults’ insensitivity remained oblivious to the sheer intensity of her crying. Having a brother like me, and even my younger sister beginning to show childish stubbornness... The more I sensed my older brother’s true feelings in his words, the more irritable I became.

My younger sister had grown frail... And I, under such circumstances, underwent the conscription examination this May. Those who hadn’t seen me for some time would say, “You’ve grown so much.” With a growing awareness as I lived my life, I worried about my younger sister’s well-being. ...What nurtures me is nothing but myself—even Younger Sister will learn to manage on her own.

In the evenings, under electric light where the household had gathered—holding my Younger Sister in my arms—I suddenly found myself worrying about her, Hurry up and grow up already.

Not even to my Younger Sister—I tried to voice my feelings like that.

My nerves are worn out as well. I even dreamt of the children's quarrels. In the dream, I came to my younger sister's aid and stamped on the other girl's face without hesitation.

Today has seen a light rain falling since morning. Amidst this tranquility, I compose my letter to you. Love winds—Ogiya’s Kanayama—the evening mist rises with fame…

From the neighboring practice room came voices rehearsing "Yoshidaya." The owner of the voice was someone called A-san—an old-timer among those who frequented our house. A-san had been coming since I was just a child. Because A-san had such a good voice, I made it a habit to listen whenever I was at home. Moreover, I’ve come to love this opening scene of *Yūgiri* that begins with *“Love Winds...”*

Teacher, do you like jōruri? I wanted to learn if Father would teach me, but I was in no position to do so. The other day when I asked him why he had taken up jōruri and such, he simply replied, “Because I liked it.” It was a perfunctory reply. Still, I—the son who aspired to be a poet—was happy and satisfied with just that.

Just now, I accompanied Father to the morning bath and returned. Because Father is blind, he makes sure to go to the bathhouse before noon when it’s not 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 two things became something of a daily routine we had recently started spontaneously. (I wonder how long this will last.) While reading, I asked, “How is it?” and he replied, “Yeah, interesting.” It seemed to have piqued Father’s interest. What state of mind was Father listening with? When I began this daily routine, I first read *Breaking the Precepts* aloud to him. Next came *A Heart of Buddha in Passion*. Father listened to each with keen interest. However, Father never asked for anything himself. I was always the one pushing it on him.

How long will this last?

Father will turn forty-seven this year—what state of mind occupies him? What manner of thoughts does he hold about me? My Father remains truly a man of silences. Toward me he maintains an obstinate indifference most times, rarely thawing into openness. Nor does he seem particularly fond of me, if truth be told. That I entertain such notions may owe itself to Father’s blindness—since childhood he has ever been tended by others, never needing to assume responsibility as household head nor parent, but rather existing as one perpetually tended.What sentiments might fathers harbor toward their sons? What dwells within those paternal hearts beating beneath roofs sheltering sons come-of-age? Teacher—does it seem strange that I ponder thus? Had I nurtured greater filial warmth toward Father, likely such musings would never have taken root.

My father is an extremely good person. He is kind-hearted and gentle. He has never socialized with others and knows nothing of the world. Though Father likely took up jōruri due to his blindness, I believe an innate passion for beloved things had always flowed through his veins. Our family surrounding him consists of theater and music enthusiasts too—yet apart from Father, all possess coarse dispositions. Had these hobbies been more deeply ingrained in their characters, our home might have been filled with softer, more easygoing warmth. The sole bearer of such qualities remains my gloomy, taciturn father. We now have a six-year-old sister at home, and Father will sometimes entertain her by playing with toy shamisens. In these moments, he reveals an artless, carefree nature. When I was young, I would crawl into Father’s futon at dawn and plead, “Tell me stories! Tell me!” He’d always respond “Mm—alright,” then recount rakugo tales and kōdan epics heard at vaudeville halls. My memories preserve his storytelling as remarkably humorous and skilled. Father would lie supine on tatami mats, press his aligned soles against my childhood obi, and make me wiggle limbs like a turtle. He’d also carry me piggyback while declaring “Thousand-Armed Kannon!” during play. Perched on his back, I’d demand “Worship me—Thousand-Armed Kannon!” Though I adored this game and constantly badgered him— Had Father been born with ordinary health, his true kindness might have radiated outward—wrapping our home in broad warmth—

Father began learning jōruri from around age thirteen or fourteen, it is said. Those around him must have made arrangements for Father's sake, and he himself must have possessed a boy's resolve. Now that he has walked this path for over thirty years—what state of mind must Father maintain as such a man?

I too was someone who, forgetting my own ineptitude, tried to advance along a path I could love. And yet I still wanted to see an artist within my father. If Father had been a predecessor in my path, I might have discovered his unwavering heart within his writings. Sadly, when it came to jōruri, I could find no self-sustaining passion within myself. I listened to Father’s storytelling and felt vexed. That Father’s artistry was excellent even I could recognize—which made it all the lonelier to sense a lack of confidence in him as an artist. I wanted to see a Father who had found his foundation by devoting himself more and more to jōruri. Otherwise, Father would have been far too lonely a person. The other day, I listened to Father’s senior discuss that path on the radio. That person said: “If one hears the Way in the morning, one may die content in the evening.” I sensed the depth of heart possessed by those who pursue art and confirmed that what my youthful heart desired from Father was never something adults would laugh at. Moreover, when I heard someone broadcast one of Father’s storytelling pieces I knew well, I couldn’t help but think Father’s version was more impressive. Father too had listened to it while talking with those present nearby, his tone carrying newfound confidence. From the neighboring two-tatami room where I listened, I thought—*So he can feel excitement after all*—and found it strangely comforting. Father was usually such an absent-minded good man that I felt both lonely and frustrated. I didn’t want grand stages or applause for Father’s sake. (Ah, but how happy I’d have been to hear that applause!) What I truly desired was for Father to maintain composure regarding matters of art and his own path. For matters of art and one’s own path were also the challenges lying ahead of me. Here were Philippe’s words.

“An artist is an enthusiastic worker who always listens to themselves and writes down what they hear in their own corner with an honest heart.” “I make no distinction between the village clog maker who works to create clogs exactly as he envisions them and the writer who narrates life precisely as they perceive it.” These words encourage me. In Father’s artistic path, I could find no way to support him, and whenever I thought of this, I was overcome with loneliness.

I have been thinking lately—that among us brothers, I resemble Father most profoundly. Were I to voice this aloud, it would surely invite scornful smirks from family and acquaintances alike... Yet still I return to this thought: that among us brothers too, none bears closer likeness to our departed mother than myself. That my eyes mirror her own unsettling gaze—this truth hangs ever-present in household whispers. These convictions take root unbidden within me—persistent saplings in barren soil—for I inherited neither Father's rare tenderness nor Mother's gentle heart save one stark legacy: this torrential sweat that plagues me as it did her. Mother sweated prodigiously—pearls cascading down her face each summer as she labored; sweat pooling in the creases of her earnest expressions; handkerchieps perpetually drenched beyond use. Teacher—though I fall short of her magnitude—this perspiration too claims me wholly.When others note my sodden state,I reply,"Yes—a family inheritance," finding peculiar joy in this unguarded truth.For one who sees himself as irredeemably sullen and unlikable,there lies comfort in possessing such an unconcealable trait.

Being prone to sweating isn’t such a bad thing. Father would often be alone in his practice room—biting his fingers, tapping his knees, rolling his sightless eyes, and groaning to himself about something. What did he find joy in? What made him lose himself? I too would often sit in my two-tatami room, gnawing at the backs of my fingers while sinking into endless musings. This might be where I take after Father.

Teacher, yesterday I went to the library for the first time in ages. There I read Sōseki's collected letters. Many were addressed from teachers to their disciples. The heart of an instructor guiding a young apprentice pressed vividly against my chest. As I read, one particular phrase suddenly revived itself in my mind. It was a saying recorded in memorial writings by a friend of Akutagawa Ryūnosuke—words Akutagawa had reportedly spoken to him during his lifetime. Akutagawa apparently told this person: "If you'd met Mr. Sōseki, things between us would have been quite different." The realization that I too had wanted to meet Sōseki surged through me.

Teacher, I cannot go on living as a shameless person. “You are wrong.” “Do this.” That is how it is. “There’s no need to fret.”

I want to hear a voice that scolds me. I want words that will cut through my doubt and hesitation.

The shadow is gentle like a younger sister.

Happiness walked side by side with me.

On my walks, reflecting on myself, I often found myself humming this poem and attempting to steady my pace. Happiness was not born from thinking of kind people; it did not dwell in my home where a beloved younger sister attended to me. It came when walking alone beneath trees’ shade, when pausing by the roadside—a heart growing calm that visited me unbidden… The sky’s hue, the stance of trees, the faces of passersby, even the gaze of a crouching dog. I tried to fix my eyes on everything that caught my attention, striving to attain a harmonious state of mind, but my wooden-clogged steps remained as awkward as ever.

The shadow is gentle like a younger sister.

Happiness walked side by side with me.

Ah, time of intimate hearts! As I chanted this poem like an incantation in my heart, I continued my unconsoled stroll.

Teacher, I've grown fond of this poem that seems to have spilled unbidden from my lips—what do you make of it? Do you know whose poem this is? I can almost see you tilting your head in contemplation. Now, whose poem should I say this is? "The shadow gentle as a younger sister"—this is a phrase Kiyoshi from "Too Forlorn" would suddenly recall and hum. "Happiness walked side by side with me."

This is a line from Verlaine’s poem. After reading *Too Forlorn* and coming across this phrase, when I kept repeating it over and over like Kiyoshi did, Verlaine’s poem rose in my heart. I lined up the two lines and tried humming them. “The shadow is gentle like a younger sister.” I don’t know who spoke this line, but arranging them like this makes me feel a certain emotion. Kiyoshi thought it was an excellent line—one spoken by someone who had truly known loneliness—but “Happiness walked side by side with me”... Verlaine too was an unfortunate soul, wasn’t he? That’s why these two separate phrases share an intimacy as if breathed from one person’s lips, don’t they?

The shadow is gentle like a younger sister. Happiness walked side by side with me.

One could sense that something peaceful, something secretive, something intimate—and joy—had visited that person.

Teacher, this morning at dawn, I had a dream. It was a dream where I walked down the street with my arm around a woman's shoulder. Just that sort of dream. I hadn't exchanged any particular words with that woman. But Teacher—in that moment, my heart was happy. Filled. I existed in a state I'd never known in reality. In the dream, I was perfectly happy. Even after waking, that emotion lingered. I tried to savor the aftertaste of that joy endlessly. Perhaps what I felt then ran deeper than anything evoked by that poem.

The woman resembled both a certain movie actress and a young woman who had once come to our house for lessons. I had never been attracted to that movie actress, nor had I ever given that young woman any thought. Yet I will never forget the sweet sensation I tasted in that dream. In reality, after all, I know nothing of it. Long before this, I had experienced a similar dream. In that dream, I walked side by side with a friend from my boyhood days. And then too, in just the same way, my heart had been steeped in unutterable happiness. Restraint, consideration—from such things my heart was wholly liberated, leaving only this unspeakable joy.

Teacher, why do I have such dreams? Why is it that what real life has never given me, I can experience in dreams?

In reality, my hands had never embraced even a single friend’s shoulder. Whenever I opened a book in my daily life and saw phrases like “bosom friends,” “kindred spirits,” or “lovers” printed on the page, I felt my heart flutter like that of an innocent young maiden. Moreover, when I saw middle school students engaging in intimate closeness on the streets or in trains, my heart would be struck by an indelible loneliness. Perhaps because I’d spent all this time without ever having the chance to make female friends, even now my heart yearned more for a friend’s companionship than imagining a lover. I seemed to have been born with a subordinate disposition, a follower’s nature—this feeling of relying on others never left me, no matter how much time passed. And yet for all that, I remained an arrogant fellow without a shred of charm. For a long time I had yearned for a good older brother figure, but now I found myself imagining not such a person, but rather a gentle friend my own age.

Teacher, please let me speak of this friend I hold dear. Now then—how should I begin to talk of him?

My friend was slightly shorter than me in height but had a sturdier build than mine. When people first met my friend, they sensed an odd constraint about him, but through continued observation came to recognize this impression as entirely mistaken. Upon closer inspection, his face revealed an unconstrained quality. While possessing a stern countenance that might intimidate at first glance, there was a youthful vitality about him—those fearsome eyes held unexpected gentleness. His overall presence evoked comparisons to rocks or bears, yet one invariably detected an underlying softness. People sensed not passionate fervor but quiet latent power when encountering him. Brilliance that dazzled crowds simply wasn't in his nature. He maintained a generous spirit that yielded readily in life's various matters, showing no interest in petty quarrels or belittling others. Thus when small-minded folk mistook his tolerance for weakness and acted disrespectfully, he refrained from crushing them underfoot. Eventually even meaningless teasing naturally faded from his surroundings. Though not particularly protective like an older brother might be, his gentle unblemished heart naturally inspired goodwill—a character inspiring such promise that elders trusted him more than peers. Moreover his heart harbored rare innocence and candor.

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

I studied third-year middle school twice. That second spring, amidst classmates who were all strangers to me, this friend who had transferred from a provincial middle school and I sat side by side as two new students. It was natural history class on the first day. When the teacher checking names in the register came to mine, he looked up and inadvertently exclaimed, "Oh! Did you fail a grade?" I forced an ambiguous smile. For an instant, laughter rippled through the classroom. I stole a glance at my deskmate's face. From the moment I'd seen that student's face in the schoolyard that morning, my heart had been drawn to him. Though his eyes remained fixed on his textbook, there was no trace of suppressed laughter in his bearing. What I sensed in that guilelessness was a keen intelligence.

Unlike lazy me, my friend studied seriously. However, there was no subject in which he particularly excelled. Yet my friend’s composed skill demonstrated at the kendo club’s autumn tournament surprised us all. That this unassuming new student possessed such excellence was something no one had anticipated. My friend’s likable character gradually became known among us. However, while my friend was by no means shy, his quiet disposition meant he wasn’t the type to quickly grow close with just anyone. He especially had no playmates. There was just one close friend. That was me. Shy and yet arrogant, I was one of my friend’s close companions. Having sat side by side as new students naturally brought us closer, and we quickly sensed something between us that allowed for honest mutual understanding. The intuition from our first meeting remained in our hearts and was never betrayed between us. Moreover, my friend’s sensitive heart quickly perceived my odd vulnerabilities. There were times when my friend’s gentle eyes took on a mature gleam toward me. That disconcerted me. However, because I liked my friend, and because there’s an honest part of me too, I didn’t put up any airs around him. There were times when I felt my friend’s heart envelop me. There was a time when we were made to draw an extremely detailed map for geography homework. Being lazy, I abandoned it halfway, but my friend stayed up all night to finish even my portion for me.

It was during noon recess one day. The three of us—Friend, me, and another classmate—were leaning against the window of the school building and chatting. Because the first afternoon class was military drill, we had gaiters fastened around our legs. Suddenly Friend looked at my legs and laughed at how clumsily I’d wrapped my gaiters. I was terribly unskilled and had never managed to wrap them properly. Yet Friend wasn’t particularly adept either. I noticed Friend’s gaiters and criticized their improper wrapping. Then an argument erupted between us about the correct way to fasten gaiters. For a moment we became completely absorbed. At that moment, the other classmate said, “You two always jump into quarrels right away. You fight because you’re close, huh?”

We hadn't really argued all that much, but upon hearing this classmate's words, Friend flushed crimson, pressed his back hard against the school building, and made a bashful expression. I understood. My friend had been happy that people said he and I were close. Though I was by no means a precocious boy, the conviction that I was a detestable person had already begun taking root in my heart from an early age. I seldom grew close with others and was accustomed to solitude. I looked at my friend's face and thought: Ah, this friend truly liked me as a person. At that moment, for the first time, I saw genuine goodwill toward myself in someone's face. Ah, I am nothing but a creature of reckless impulse. I am nothing but a shameless wretch.

Teacher, when I first faced this notebook, I was conflicted. Into whose heart should I send these words: "I... I..."? Within my heart dwell three people. To Teacher, to this friend, and one more—a certain woman. That woman is a close relative who has known me since infancy, someone with a heart that will forever nurture and watch over my growth. She is a large-framed woman with abundant hair, a knowing air about her, and a gentle, sorrowful countenance. I call that person "Auntie."

“You have to keep pushing yourself, boy. “Start walking even from the end.” She was at times stern and at times gentle—and please don’t laugh—but she even gave me spending money every now and then.

I was quite conflicted, but still my heart was powerfully drawn toward you, Teacher.

During my school days, I would sometimes escape classes and often climb over the boundary fence to slip into the neighboring naval cemetery. At the back of the cemetery was a wide grassy area, and I would make my way there to spend time alone. Azure water flows through the sky Clear air, cool— I stand in the shade of a single cherry tree Plucking its fruit / Crushing Grape-colored / Wetting my palm in delight.

I sat on the grass composing poems like these. And I would always think of Teacher, imagining him beside me. Teacher looked at me with a gentle gaze. And he quietly listened as I spoke. “You needn’t worry.” Teacher’s eyes turned toward me, seeming to say these very words.