Pathway to Japanese Literature

Stand firm, Sanjūroku! Will you crumble? Make those bastards in the world cheer your downfall? Get hold of yourself—you’re a chosen man! Now plant both feet square and meet hardship and poverty head-on! You’ve got that strength! Don’t forget—value yourself higher! And now—laugh! Kōki 2588 = Shōwa 3 = Age 25 (Residing in Urayasu Town)

Today was the temple festival at Hori’s Yakushi-sama. Since the Takanashi couple came to invite me, I went out. That Tome-san was also with us. The temple festival was extremely lively; the girls were bold—I was astonished. I saw a girl around fifteen who was pregnant. I wrote letters to my younger brother and "Kiku". I started writing a harsh letter of criticism to Ishii regarding They Dance but stopped. It would not amount to anything. I would leave it to God’s divine will. During this time, Tsu’s mother died. In the end, clinging to empty hopes, the poor mother died. "Tsu is truly a fraud." It was now past ten o'clock; young men and women singing Bon dance songs passed by incessantly. May blessings be upon their once-a-year liberated chance. May there be peaceful sleep; Shizuko, watch over Sueko and me.

(1928·8·12)

I skipped writing my diary for two days. The day before yesterday, I visited Sueko’s house. She seemed to already know. She watched me with eyes full of nostalgia. The engagement was nearly finalized. I must stay strong. I had been drafting plans for *Autumn Wind Chronicle*, but nothing would come together. Today I felt somewhat melancholy. Tonight I planned to stay up and watch the local Bon dance. Tome-san should be coming too; it was evening now.

I went to see the Bon dance. The dance had no fixed "steps." Men and women pressed close together to form a ring and circled while singing, their bodies pressing against one another. The songs lacked distinctive features—there were about three types of melodies that differed with each ring. What proved particularly fascinating was how vigorously the girls led the singing. It felt wildly intense and profoundly carnal—lust made manifest. Under moonless skies, neither girls nor youths showed restraint—they were utterly liberated. May blessings find whatever love unfolds in these dew-heavy grasses. Well then—to sleep. Sueko—may sweet dreams guard your night. (8/15)

The character "wo" had vanished from my diary. That was all there was to it. Yesterday, her brother met with "Wo". The matter was nearly settled.

Last night, I returned home late alone and saw the final Bon dance on Tōdaishima.

It was morning now. In the early morning, I went out to Hori’s beachfront, braving the rain. Along the way, as the rain grew too heavy, I stopped beneath a row of poplars on the fish farm’s embankment. In the fish farm’s wide pond, I saw cormorants diving into the water to eat fish. When I reached the beach, fishing boats were moored in the shelter of the seaside hut to avoid the strong wind. I sat down inside the hut and spent two hours watching the reeds rustle in the wind. When I returned home, I was told that O-tama-chan, the young girl from the basket shop out back, had been waiting for me. Well then, I shall play with O-tama-chan.

I was transcribing 'The Shattered Tamuran' neatly. It was tedious. But be that as it may，I had to earn money. Today had been another day of rain，just chilly enough to make one shiver；it was now ten o'clock．At the fishing tackle shop out back，customers who had come from Tokyo for whiting fishing had been making a racket until just now． However，they had quieted down． What fools they were． Sueko，may good dreams guard your night． Shizuko，watch over my sleep．(1928．8．19)

Today was the first anniversary of Madam Kobikichō’s death. I did nothing. I didn’t think of anything in particular.

The old woman at the house where I lodge was out again today due to her daughter’s affairs. The weather seemed to have somewhat recovered. However, it would probably rain again. I would write a letter to Wo regardless. That would be for the best. I did not fear becoming alone. Sueko, may you have sweet dreams. Shizuko, watch over my sleep. (1928.8.20)

I thought of nothing. Again, I did nothing. I wrote a letter to Ishii Shinji consulting about the location of "Shū."

In the evening, Takanashi came to visit. He talked about personal matters and left. He is a dear man. Today was a completely clear day. With no wind, it had been hot all day and remained hot still; the moon had been out. It was gone now.

Well, time to sleep. Sueko, may you find sweet dreams. Shizuko, guard my slumber.

(8/21)

I visited Dr. Andō Hirotarō. He was an approachable man. On my way back, I visited Tokuda Shūsei; a girl smiled bashfully at me. She was Mr. Tokuda’s youngest daughter—a sentimental girl. Mr. Tokuda seemed preoccupied with Urayasu. I left three one-act plays behind. I wondered if she understood. Sueko. Somehow I felt uneasy. Could it be that she would drift away from me again? Perhaps that was indeed the truth; in any case, I resolved to remain silent until some word came from Hi. I was now living listlessly. I was about to begin working on the novel Unmoving Piston. Night. I walked along the moat. Well then, I would sleep.

(8/22)

From evening onward, fierce lightning and thunder continued. I saw a pale pillar of fire rise two or three times. The incessant rain continued. I was cold. If the early autumn winds were to blow and scatter the blossoms then, people feared the rice would likely become nothing but empty husks.

Yesterday, a letter came from Ishii Shinji. Today I sent a reply. Hi was avoiding me. Is the story no good, Sanjūroku? Pull yourself together. Are you ready? This was Part Two of the novel Gostan: Noto Mono. The concept had taken shape; I would likely begin writing on Monday. Sueko. May I have sweet sleep.

(8/24)

I was away for two days. The day before yesterday, I visited my father and stayed at his house. Yesterday, I visited Ishii Shinji. I read *Shattered Tamuran*. The wife treated me to a meal. Today, with Tome-san as my companion, I spoke about Sueko’s country home. At Takanashi’s house, his cousin had come. She was a fair-skinned girl with resolute features and a gentle demeanor. I may move residences. There is something I am hoping for. I am slightly drunk.

(1928, 8/27)

Today I overslept. So I took the day off from work. I did work. I wrote fifteen pages of the novel Gostan. It would go well. I was now planning to select ten pieces from a single act and compile them into a single-volume book. I hoped it would go well, but thunder roared five or six times during the day. Acquaintances came and went all day long. It was now eight in the evening. The clear fourteenth-night moon shone down upon the tranquil town, relaxed after completing a day's work. Tonight, the moat area was bustling due to Fudō-sama's festival day. Today I saw magnificent clouds. The rain would probably stop. My life would become fulfilling. Oh, Aimu Rimaakaburu Feroo. Sueko, may you have sweet dreams.

(1928, 8/28)

I had just returned from watching the Bon Dance at Fudō-sama's precincts in Hori with Takanashi and Tome-san. The moon hung beautiful in the sky. Under its light, youths and maidens granted their final chance to dance whirled in frenzy. They performed the rice-pounding dance too. Near my house along the riverbank, six or seven bashful girls—those too timid to join the main dancing—had gathered to practice their steps; they would stop and giggle whenever passersby drew near. Their movements still faltered with newfound rhythm. Clouds reclaimed the sky once more. Intermittent lightning streaked through the darkness—a harbinger of midnight storms to come. Time to sleep now. Shizuko, guard over Sueko's slumber and mine.

(28, Night)

I neglected the diary.

On the night of the 27th, a meteor fell on Urayasu. I saw it. Yesterday (the 29th), I went alone to Ōtō no Hama to view the moon (it being the fifteenth night of the old lunar calendar). The cries of the first wild geese passing high above the reed-covered sandbar were heard, and red fishing lights dotted the blue sea surface as they drifted.

Today was August 30th. Today I met Fujita Reisai. He was human. A reply came from Sueko’s house regarding “Hi”—they expressed their intention to postpone the marriage for three or four more years. I had no intention of abandoning my resolve. The marriage would probably be held by next spring. I must stay strong. Today again, from morning onward, the sudden showers had come and gone without cease. The river had swollen. From evening, the moon became beautiful. Now it was cool. Sueko, may you have sweet dreams. Shizuko, watch over me and Sueko.

(1928, 8/30)

I was away for three or four days. During this time, I suffered from stomach and intestinal trouble and lay bedridden in Kobikichō. I am feeling better now. Last night I visited Takanashi and spent time there; his wife gave me eggs. It was a night when my throat burned with thirst. It was a beautiful moonlit night, and there were lightning flashes and thunder. It’s been a strange year—these past two or three days have had summer-like fine weather. In the river, children are swimming. I sketched three pieces early in the morning. It is now afternoon.

(9/3)

It was now ten o'clock at night. In the evening sky far to the northwest, I saw lightning flash beautifully through gaps in the gray layers of low-hanging clouds. The twilight felt intensely lonely and cold; its hue appeared cruel while the river's surface shone with a cold light like tarnished silver. As the wind grew stronger, waves surged from downstream. The sight of fishing boats silently making their way upstream felt particularly desolate. After nightfall, I spent time with O-tama and her mother. I had just returned from viewing the moon at the embankment of what they call "Steam Riverbank." On the distant horizon, I could see the sea where fishing lights twinkled. They were perhaps lights from Chiba's direction. At Steam Riverbank, some old captain had caught a large carp and caused a stir. The old woman from our house had gone out again to Yamanashi Prefecture searching for her daughter and still hadn't returned. It was a pitiful situation. Well—time to sleep. Sueko, may sweet slumber and fair dreams grace you tonight.

(9/3)

I went to show my sketches to Ikebe Kin. They were well-received. I did nothing in particular and thought of nothing. At night, I passed time drinking beer with the captain and Enjinaa at Takanashi's house. Stories about the Onagi guardhouse came up. I might be able to become acquainted with Sekiguchi, the female teacher at Urayasu Town's elementary school. Sueko, may you rest peacefully and have sweet dreams.

(1928, 9/4) Yesterday I did nothing. I spent the evening at Takanashi's house, was treated to chestnuts and grapes, and the scent of early autumn satisfied me.

Today again, I did nothing. A letter came from Ishii Shinji. It said that on the 9th, he and his wife would visit me in Urayasu. At night, I was copying "Tsubame". Ah, I forgot something important. I had now begun working on the plan for "Tanuma Okitsugu". It would be a voluminous work; this time, I seemed to have a grasp on it. A reference book was missing one volume, so I had to borrow it from Ishii. I intended to portray him as a petty official (what I call such) and also as a dissolver of capital's might, depicting him as an accountant. The crux lay in the following words.

×　　　　×　　　　×

Okitsugu. "Samurai Honor?" "Hmm... Fine characters - elegant words with resonance - but can that fill an empty stomach?"

×　　　　×　　　　×

Today was extremely hot. My stomach condition had completely recovered. This time I would take care. I thought of nothing else in particular. I would take a walk around Hori and then go to sleep. Sueko, may there be peaceful rest and good, beautiful dreams for you.

(1928, 9/6 9:30 PM) Today I caught a sandfish in the evening. Mi came from Tokyo but left without staying over. In the evening, I played magic tricks at Takanashi's house; his younger brother called Maro-san was amused. O good people. Today I thought of nothing and did nothing. Sueko, may blessings be upon you. Shizuko, grant me a good dream. Well, I'll sleep. "Sueko dear, may you have sweet dreams."

(9/7)

Tonight was the Yakushi-sama festival in Hori. Hori no Okō-chan called out to me. When I looked, she hid in the crowd—"Shall we go tomorrow?" she said. She would probably come tomorrow. What a peculiar girl. Tomorrow the Ishii couple and Sueko were supposed to come. "The plan for 'Tanuma Okitsugu' was progressing steadily." The day had been hot throughout. When night fell, the wind ceased. Well, early though it was, I would go to bed. Sueko, may you have sweet dreams and peaceful sleep.

(9/8)

The day was windless and remained hot throughout. Around noon, Ishii Shinji visited. I went to the beach, spent about an hour there, and returned. Sueko did not come. Hori no Okō-chan stopped by but left when her baby began crying. In the evening, I went to see a film. Takanashi came calling but found me out. The heat lingered still; I shall try to sleep now. Sueko—may sweet dreams and tranquil warmth grace your slumber.

(1928, 9/9)

Last night I stayed at the “Hi” house in Yoyogi. Sueko was there. She would return to her hometown. What would become of things? In accordance with God’s will，today my stomach was acting up again. I could start writing Tanuma Okitsugu right away，but I had no manuscript paper. How pitiful. I went to see the cinema. It was a night that offered no comfort. Sueko，may there be peaceful sleep for you，and may you be healthy and pure.

(9/10)

I neglected my diary for four or five days. During this time, I spent two or three days in Tokyo. "Even a chicken that lays golden eggs..." I structured one act. Today was hot throughout the day. During the day, Okō and the others from Hori came. However, when I called out to them, they ran away. In the evening, I crossed over to Kasai and walked down the embankment along the river. There were people fishing for crucian carp and goby. I made a single sketch. A south wind blew across the ripe rice plants. In Jūyonken, they had already cut and were drying the rice plants. It was now night. Takanashi came to visit and left. He was bored. Well, I'll go to sleep. Sueko, may you be happy.

(9/16)

I spent this entire week in Kobiki-chō. I just returned. Two days ago, I caught a cold. I was weakened by light nasal catarrh. It was gradually getting cooler. No letters came from anyone. I didn’t think of anything in particular. I did not write anything.

(9/22)

I neglected my diary quite a bit. I was now weakened by neurasthenia and a cold. It was slightly cold.

On the 24th, I met Lieutenant General Satō Tetsutarō. When the conversation turned to his work National Defense History, he became visibly excited, showing me materials and demonstrating great kindness. Upon my departure, he escorted me to the entrance and even concerned himself with arranging an umbrella for me. —Today I am feeling somewhat better.

I planned to move residences.

(1928, 9/26)

In Urayasu Town (moved to Yanagi’s house)

Today I moved residences through persistent rain. I settled into Yanagi's house. Takanashi and two ferryboat crew members helped me earnestly. From afternoon onward came wind and rain.

The new residence faced the river and overlooked Kasai and Myōken Island. The view also extended as far as the Great Triangle area downstream along the river. The housekeeper was a somewhat coarse woman with amorous tendencies. —I would go to the public bath now. Ah, yesterday I met Lieutenant General Ōshima Ken'ichi. The day before yesterday, I stayed at "Hi's" house. On this day, Prince Chichibu's wedding enlivened the Akasaka area with lantern processions. I also joined the procession.

(9/30)

A quiet rain continues; the new residence is extremely comfortable. Well, I shall go to sleep. Sueko, may you have sweet dreams and warm slumber.

(30th, 10 PM)

The new residence also shattered my tranquility. That is to say, I must live with a young carpenter; I intend to leave this house soon as well. I shall return to Tokyo. My work does not proceed smoothly. Today I visited Tokuda Shūsei but failed to achieve my objective. I had a headache all day, and my body felt feverish and uncomfortable. I shall go to sleep.

(10/1) Yesterday I procured a woman. The cough still has not stopped. I must change residence. I shall return to Tokyo. I will probably begin work on my novel *Nude Woman*. For a while, it’s back to transcribing—how foolish. I shall take Sueko as my bride. Ah, yesterday in Tokyo, I saw *The Dragnet*. I watched *Berlin*; *The Dragnet* was excellent. Bancroft is skilled; Stenberg is a splendid poet.

A quiet rain was falling continuously. Downstairs echoed a clattering noise. How annoying! I must return to Tokyo soon. And then I will work. Work, work.

Sueko, may peaceful sleep and sweet, quiet dreams guard your night. Well, I'll go to sleep. Shizuko, tomorrow marks your death anniversary—tonight I'll keep vigil alone. God, may Shizuko's soul rest peacefully.

(10/3)

On the fourth day came Shizuko’s third anniversary. In the house in Kōbikichō, I communed with her remains. I would keep my vow to Shizuko's remains. I had been away for two days. That night I spent at Takanashi’s house. Tome-san was dumped by a woman again. Women are terrible creatures. She had used seduction to squeeze twenty or thirty yen from Tome-san, then slept with another man right before his eyes. Tome-san declared before the Takanashis that he would never look at another woman again. Yet when I stopped by Edogawa-tei—where that woman stayed—on my return journey, there he sat being scorned by her and all present while drinking merrily. Pitiable—nay, rather a man deserving pity. He neither thought nor acted. I wanted to return to Tokyo soon.

(During this time, I stayed on the fourth floor of the company. I arranged eight leather chairs, spread a seat cushion over them, covered myself with a blanket, and slept—this would make for fine memories someday; today this ascetic practice was supposed to continue—how dreadful.) (10/6)

It rained all day. I felt terribly unwell. My tonsils were swollen and my throat hurt. Drinking sake with tempura at lunch must have been ill-advised. I slept through everything. By afternoon it had become a violent storm. The north wind made it bitterly cold. When night fell, the wind shifted southward and turned strangely oppressive. Disagreeable weather. The woman downstairs made me sugared water. I began writing the kyōgen play *Onigatōge* but abandoned it. The concept for my novel *Nude Woman* took shape—using Ōmori's Oshizu and her surroundings as motif. I resolved to depict the very depths of carnal desire. My Kobe-period novel *To Kinosaki*—particularly its focus on Nakai Tensei—also began coalescing. I wanted to work; I would return to Tokyo soon. If only this body would recover. Starting tomorrow I'd be sleeping on the company's fourth floor again—what absurdity. Shizuko—guardian of my sleep.

(10/7)

It was a downpour all day. The moment I boarded the ship for my return journey, a storm struck; the voyage became a perilous adventure. In Urayasu, people grew agitated, saying a tsunami might come. But since the tide had already begun to recede, there seemed no immediate danger. Should it arrive, it would be at the next high tide—around midnight. My cough had improved considerably. Still I needed to remain cautious; tonight I resolved to drink egg sake and sleep. May peaceful sleep find me—Shizuko, protect me. (10/8)

I missed that man. My cough still wasn't any better. Today was a clear autumn day with a south wind blowing throughout. I wanted to work. I wanted to work; I was reading De Curel's *The Lion's Prey*—there seemed to be something worth considering regarding its defense of individualism and capital power. However, my interpretation differed (I wouldn't elaborate now). In the returning ship, after the autumn sunset, I saw desolate reeds and sandbars, the old townscape, and the river embankment. Over the distant sea, a mass of red clouds glowed persistently. A pale evening star began to faintly glow. A bat flew about eating mosquitoes. Both the Arakawa and Nakagawa Rivers ran muddy and earthen from flooding, their currents swift with churning waves.

In the evening, I visited the old woman from the previous house; she was eating her evening meal alone in solitude. It was a lonely autumn day.

(10/9)

The day before yesterday, I stayed at the "Hi" House in Yoyogi; around midnight, there was a fire. To see it, I exposed myself to the cold night air and caught a cold—yesterday I suffered through a terrible fever. Around noon I returned to Urayasu and went to bed, but with a high fever exceeding thirty-eight degrees and no ice pillow, I endured tremendous discomfort. Fortunately, through the housekeeper's kindness, I drank sugared water; afterward came severe sweating and the fever broke. The housekeeper gave me sugared water whenever needed. Today there was no fever at all. I spent the day with buttered bread, canned fruit, and sugared water. For dinner, I ate a cutlet with rice and gnawed on an apple. Then I drank milk. The cough that had temporarily healed began again. This summer I ultimately spent in a state of minor ailments—how absurd it all was. Well then, I'll go to bed early again tonight.

(10/12)

Enough. The cough won't go away. I felt well all day. I took a bath. I got by on milk, apples, bread, and chocolate. For dinner, I ate at Takanashi's house. I had ochazuke with grilled sardines, a hearty vegetable soup, and dried foods. It tasted better than anything I'd had in ages. The grapes after dinner were delicious too. Today I made about three sketches. One came out particularly well. That's the one titled The Shell-Buying Boat. Potential novel material: The Man from the Ash-Burning Field. Mr. X; a naked man; the tale of cutting down an intrusive fellow; a comrade's wife—died in a cauldron. Others. I didn't accomplish anything noteworthy.

"Tanuma" I wrote out two pages—it wasn't going well. I'd manage once I returned to Tokyo. I should hurry back to Tokyo. And work—work. Ah—Ikeya Shinzaburō was living off borrowed money. And he'd declared: “If I can’t eat here, I’ll go anywhere—I’m Japan’s Shinzaburō!” When reduced to laughable poverty, everyone says that. Shinzaburō—have you too now become human for the first time? Be fortunate, young master. You’ll soon behold true life. Otherwise you’ll just end up becoming a teacher. Bring it on. Sanjūroku will by no means break! Just watch! Prosper, tomorrow.

(2588, 10/13)

In the morning, I went toward the sea. In the reed-covered sandbar, ducks were flying about. Wagtails were calling. After eating an apple for breakfast, I took a steamship to Gyōtoku. I sketched. With this, I had completely seen the town of Gyōtoku. I rested on the levee of the Edogawa Diversion Channel, crossed Gyōtoku Bridge and headed toward Hachiman, but stopped halfway. I saw one called Tokuganji. "On August 19, Bunka 4 [1807], the day of the Fukagawa Tomioka Hachiman Festival, a monument had been erected for those who drowned when Eitai Bridge collapsed." There was an old-fashioned bell tower and a pine tree of refined elegance. The Nio statues at the temple gate were inferior works, not worth seeing.

Tonight, I was invited to dinner at Takanashi’s house again. I ate ochazuke made with small fish called ainame, chestnuts, and fresh vegetable pickles—it was delicious. After dinner, I drank three cups of black tea at Tagawadō on the riverbank—a barbaric act. Ah, the lantern at Gyōtoku’s boat landing was built in Bunka 9 (1812).

Well then, I’ll go to sleep. From tomorrow, it’s back to Tokyo for a while. Soon I’ll be saying goodbye to Urayasu as well. In the evening, I took a walk toward Mizu Bansho. As I gazed upon the vast riverbed devoid of any sound, the wind stirring half-withered weeds into battle, the lonely reed flowers, and the quiet sunlight, life seemed so bleak and meaningless. What do we seek? What does life grant us? It’s all so absurd. Alcohol, women, commotion, honor—are these not all just means to forget? How absurd. I muttered this countless times. Ah, let me return to Tokyo soon, and let me work. O Sueko, may a peaceful life be upon you. O Shizuko, protect my health. Well then, I’ll go to sleep—may there be sweet slumber and pleasant dreams.

(1928, 10/14)

The day before yesterday, I stayed in Kobikichō. Yesterday, I slept at a seaside brothel with Fu・ko.

Today was a holiday for the Kannamesai Festival. In the morning I returned to Urayasu and took a nap. The housekeeper treated me to mixed rice. After eating I became terribly thirsty and ate two apples. When rain came I couldn't sketch; I went to bed early again that night. There would be good dreams—though given how last night had bled into tonight, this seemed doubtful. Sueko—sweet dreams guard your night.

Now the rain has stopped; it’s a quiet night.

(1928, 10/17)

I returned to my hometown with my younger brother for the third anniversary memorial of our late mother's passing. On the way back, I visited Ishii. His wife was asleep again. That day, through a notification from my workplace, I was dismissed from my position. It was a great blow; I was somewhat overwhelmed. Yamamoto encouraged me. Since sleeping alone was too painful, I visited a seaside brothel and slept with a woman.

On the 22nd, Hi and Ta held a farewell banquet for me; that night I stayed at Hi’s house. Also on the 22nd during daylight hours, I visited Mr. Tokuda Shūsei—now I must address him as “sensei”—and despite our shallow acquaintance, boldly asked about manuscripts and employment matters. He showed me great kindness. I am grateful. Last night—the 23rd—I again slept with a woman at the riverside brothel. Her name was Kobayashi Hikaru. She was a beautiful, delicate girl. I will not break. Nothing and no one can break me now. Is this finally my last stand? Ha ha.

(1928, 10/24)

Yesterday I visited Shin Kokugeki and met with Aoki and Mr. Takeda. They kindly welcomed me. I stayed at Hikaru’s house. Today I slept all day. (25th) Last night was a lovely moonlit night. The sound of night dew dripping from the eaves persisted through midnight; I fell asleep gazing at the pale bright sky. I ate breakfast at Takanashi’s house. I started writing "Tanuma" but failed. Today was cloudy from morning onward, with intermittent drizzle. The anglers who had come from Tokyo to fish went further and further out to sea, shivering cold in their boat. I rewrote "Tanuma" three times. This time I seem to have finally found a proper starting point. I didn’t dwell on anything significant—if money comes in, I think I’ll travel around Tohoku. Ah, last night at Engeikan I saw something billed as "Scientific Magic Tricks." They were recycling tricks from twenty years past—O pitiful travelers. Well then, I’ll sleep—I’m meant to move residence again soon. May there be good dreams.

(1928, 10/28)

In Urayasu Town (on the second floor of the boat inn Kasaishuku)

I had moved. It was the second floor of a boat inn. This time I was completely alone; I thought I could work calmly. I was utterly exhausted now; however, the sweet lethargy after my bath—soothing and relaxed—tingled pleasantly through my entire body. Come on, work! Work!

(1928, 11/1)

"The Tragedy of Tanuma Okitsugu and His Son" All six acts; the curtain rises.

(11/2, 9:00 AM) Today I went to Tokyo and watched Stroheim's *The Wedding March*. Pure naturalist cinema. Stroheim had aged; love beneath scattering apple blossoms was beyond any debate about sweetness—no matter how sweet. Yet the depiction of the old duke and his wife's bedroom at the curtain's rise was superb. In the afternoon it began to rain. I wrote several pages of *Tanuma*; at last it seemed to take shape as my own work. Hurrah! After nightfall, the house's daughter Okiyo and maid Otatsu—their hair freshly styled—came to my room saying they wanted to show me a Bon dance song. Otatsu fidgeted in nervous excitement. It reminded me of that scene from *The Wedding March* where a girl hallucinates after relations with Nicki and screams "O Iron Man!" A tempest now rages outside. In the neighboring room, Tokyo anglers here for fishing clamor noisily. The landlord holds forth with drunken eloquence. I might finally glimpse fishermen's lives firsthand tonight! Yet this weariness still clings to me unshaken! I shall retire early! Sueko—they say you return to Tokyo again soon! Let us meet swiftly! May tranquil dreams guard your nights! May my morrows flourish! Sanjūroku shall not falter! I'm...a remarkable fellow! (11/2)

This morning around half past midnight, a fire broke out in Horie. It burned ferociously through the storm before collapsing after over an hour—the Engeikan theater had been its source. The women performing Yasugi-bushi fled along the riverbank embankment, drenched and bedraggled by rain; the theater owner burned to death while his wife went mad. I wrote ten pages of Tanuma. A letter came from Ikebe Kin. I walked as far as the embankment—an autumn day though a strong north wind blew. Night now; the wind still continued blowing. I resolved to make a statement to him. My cough seemed finally to have stopped. Perhaps thanks to da capo.

(1928, 11/3)

Ah, I had forgotten something important. Last month, "Fuji of Nisshōtei" went all the way to Yamagata Prefecture to visit the cook from the same establishment who had been her lover, and together they threw themselves into the Mogami River to commit lovers' suicide. She was a plump woman with features one might call homely, yet there was an air of resignation about her—and an oddly endearing quality. The last time I met her was on the night of October 22nd. At that time, I had just finished the meager farewell gathering that Hi and Ta had arranged for me and was about to head home. When we stepped outside, we happened upon her there speaking with Okiyo. We believed the story that she had set up house with the man she loved and, rejoicing wholeheartedly, said things like, "Don't go spoiling your husband too much now!" ...and thoughtless congratulations such as, "You should've told us—we would've celebrated." How could we have known? At that moment, she had come to bid farewell resolved to die. The image of her—smiling uneasily and bowing courteously again and again—still lingers before my eyes. The origins of this tragedy defy simple explanation. I think I shall try writing about it someday. (Her: husband; husband's imprisonment; childbirth; separation from child; café work; impoverished upbringing; young cook; affair; pregnancy; young cook's illness and return home.) (Husband's release from prison; lovers' suicide.)

Today I wrote eight pages on "Tanuma". It turned out relatively well. Well done, Sanjūroku!

Last night I stayed at Takanashi's house; tonight there was a festival on Daitōjima with "plays" and kagura performances. The house's daughter Okiyo-bō and maid Osada-bō left all made up. They likely wouldn't return until late at night. It had been a quiet day; from distant Daitōjima came sounds of festival flutes and singing. May good dreams grace the young people. Sueko.

(1928, 11/4) "Tanuma"

The curtain fell on Act 1, Scene 1. (11/4, Midnight)

From tomorrow, may Act 2 proceed smoothly.

Today I went to Tokyo. I watched a film. After returning home, I opened the curtain on the second scene of "Tanuma"; it will probably go well. In the evening, after dinner, I went to the festival on Daitōjima and watched the shrine play. The so-called "young crowd" were rushing about in confusion, treating tonight as their grand occasion. I must work harder. Sanjūroku, stay strong!

(11/5) I wrote four pages of "Tanuma". In the afternoon I went fishing but didn't catch a single fish. A punishment for slacking off, perhaps. I was melancholy. Stand firm Sanjūroku—will you crumble? Do you want those bastards to cheer? To be mocked as some grand liar? Rally yourself—you're the chosen man! Don't forget! Listen—rise! Rise and plant both feet firmly to meet these hardships and deprivations! You've got the strength for it! You have it—don't forget—take even better care of yourself. And now, come on—laugh! Laugh from the pit of your gut!

(1928, 11/6, 11 PM)

I wrote six pages of "Tanuma". I wrote five pages of "Musashi no Tōbō". Around noon today, I walked down along the river embankment, following a path through withered grass that took me past rice fields and reeds toward the shore. The quiet simplicity of these withered fields brought me some comfort. In distant lotus fields here and there, farmers dug up lotus roots. A light rain fell while I walked, but I pressed on. In a thicket of dried reeds along a certain parched field's edge, a katydid chirped. The plump female crouched far below, gnawing at drooping reed seeds while weighed down by her ovipositor as she ate ripe fruit. The male katydid clung upside-down among blue-tinged leaves and stems above, trembling his wings to call her. A small love scene on this windless, overcast day. When I tried walking through reeds tall enough to swallow my back up to the embankment, I saw beyond them still stretched twenty chō of bleached withered reeds pushing the sea farther from me. Four dogs leapt about in the withered reeds. I resolved to hasten our marriage. Sueko—come quickly! (11/7)

Today I was in excellent form. I wrote eight pages.

"Tanuma" Act 1 was completed. (1928, 11/8, 8 PM) I wrote five pages of "Musashi".

All day downpour. Stand firm Sanjūroku—don’t lose, don’t lose—stay strong, stay strong—don’t forget you’re the chosen man. Shizuko, watch over my sleep. (11/8)

“Tanuma” The second act opened. It didn’t go well. Today I felt relatively unwell. In the evening, I worked the shark net from “boat.” I didn’t think about anything. Today I slacked off. You fool.

(11/9)

I wrote only one page of "Tanuma". "Musashi" I wrote four pages of "Musashi". I resolved to expedite the marriage. In the afternoon I went to Daitō Sea and spent half an hour contemplating the bleached reed shoals and sea's austere hue. Across the shoal, gray reed plumes swayed in the wind.

Today, the Emperor’s enthronement ceremony was held in Kyoto. In Urayasu Town, there was an evening lantern procession. Today was extremely bustling with people fishing. A man with three guests from the boat inn where I was staying went out to sea by boat, fell into the cold sea under a cloudy sky with a strong north wind, and returned trembling. While drinking sake and fishing, he tried to urinate. One person fell overboard after hitting the gunwale; then another tried to rescue him by grabbing his neck, but since the latter was also thoroughly drunk, he ended up in the sea along with the former. The other one, having gotten seasick from the boat, could not lend a hand and was groaning, it seemed.

Today I slacked off. Outrageous conduct. "Doing nothing is doing ill." Stand firm.

(11/10)

Today I slacked off again.

At noon I drank sake. I wrote one page of "Tanuma". No good, no good. At night there was a commotion when the landlord became enraged because his daughter had nearly been violated by a steamship crewman called M. Three captains from Tsuusen Company came to apologize over this incident, but as their discussions kept veering into matters of national polity, they eventually reached the pitiful conclusion of invoking even the august deities Izanagi and Izanami as examples. Consequently, while the captain of Ship No.26 was initially denounced as "that groveling imbecile," after their deliberations concluded and he departed, they adjudged him "a shrewd man essential to Tsuusen's survival." Thus did I have the honor of witnessing an evening's splendid farce. (I mean to document this affair more thoroughly.) (11/11, midnight)

"Tanuma" I hit a wall. In the afternoon I went to the Horie riverside embankment, lay down on the withered grass, and passed time basking in the autumn sun. At night I drank sake with dried goods at Takanashi's house. After returning I opened the curtain on Autumn Wind Chronicle. Tomorrow I will go to Tokyo; I think Sueko will be there. O God, grant that my sleep be protected tonight; O Sueko, may your dreams be peaceful.

(1928, 11/12, 11:30 PM)

The battle has begun. Come. Advance. Sanjūroku.

(1928, 11/13)

The town had been holding a festival since the previous day. I am weary like sand. Tomorrow I thought I would go by boat toward Matsudo Town. It had rained all day but cleared up at night. A strong south wind now blows lukewarm. I am being tormented by my tonsils. Last night's dust-laden fog had invaded my throat. It is now twelve o'clock.

(11/15)

Fool, fool, fool. Have some shame. (11/16)

Play, Sanjūroku. Don't rush. You can play as much as you like.

Last night from evening onward, I set out toward Matsudo. The boat boarded from "Ikkenya" made its slow way upstream across the dusk-cloaked river surface where the north wind blew. The crescent moon had hung shining in the western sky for a time, but sank below the horizon as we passed Gyōtoku.

(Discontinued)

I did not keep my diary for quite some time. In the meantime, I spent about four days touring around Minamibōsō.

Today is November 28, 1928. I returned from braving the moonlit north wind to hear naniwabushi ("Oh God") at Urayasu-tei. Alright—time to work. Shizuko. I will gaze into your eyes.

The sound of the wind continued desolately.

(11/28) Yesterday I was refused a loan at Yamamoto. I took the girls' novel to Hakubunkan. Iguchi showed me exceptional kindness. Today I made two sketches. I completed thirty-four pages of clean copy for "Cow". It was Reko-odo. The night lies quiet. Last night saw a crescent moon eclipse. I reconciled with Takanashi. His sister—mother of three—hovers near death. Those two daughters deserve pity. May God's grace descend upon all things.

Shizuko.

(1928, 11/30)

I wrote five scenes and eleven pages on "Urashima". A cold north wind had blown all day long. I went sketching with Chōtarō from home toward Jūman-tsubo. Chō was an interesting fellow. It would become a fine memento of my lifetime. That day I drank sake and ate tempura. "Thus I refuse." I would go to sleep now.

It was a fine moonlit night.

(1928, 12/1)

I wrote one scene and four pages of "Urashima". During the day, I bought a scoop net and went to catch small fish toward Horie. I caught Korean crucian carp, Japanese crucian carp called 'kin', gobies, and river shrimp. I sketched them. A misfortune had befallen Takanashi's household. His sister died. There were a ten-year-old eldest son and daughters aged eight and six. How pitiful. It is a quiet rain. I'll go to sleep.

(12/3) I wrote one scene and five pages of "Urashima". In the afternoon, I went to catch small fish with a net. Willow minnows, Okame, goma crucian carp, crucian carp, kin crucian carp, and others were caught; I sketched those. Today there was a naval review. A fishing boat sank due to the warship's waves; two airships swam through the pure white sky. Night brought a fierce northwest wind. It was terribly cold. Gorzu Ōjii was by no means a mediocre writer. Among British poets, he occupied a position that could not be overlooked.

(12/4)

A cold west wind blew all day long. "Urashima"

I wrote two scenes and eight pages. At dusk I went to catch small fish. I caught about thirty crucian carp and willow minnows. In the evening I drew a statue of Kura Naako. It remains terribly cold. I'll go to sleep. May there be good dreams.

(12/5)

"Urashima" I embarked on the second act and wrote one scene and fourteen pages. I was not satisfied.

Today was exceptionally calm and warm. In the evening, I visited Takanashi. At night, I drew a portrait of Kunaako.

I wrote three pages of Autumn Wind Chronicle. It might go well. Now it is twelve o'clock.

(12/6)

“Urashima” I embarked on the third act. It was now noon. It was a cloudy, cold day; my hands froze as I moved my pen between clapping them together and rubbing them for warmth. Having reduced myself to two meals a day, I starved—yet had grown somewhat accustomed to it. The previous night I drank sake with tempura. I felt unwell.

(12/13)

"I reached Act 3, Scene 5 of 'Urashima,' but got stuck—it had taken on a strange tone somehow." I read Tokuda Shūsei’s Mold. It was good. Tomorrow I would go to Tokyo. Would Hakubunkan give me the money? If that failed, I would finally have to take measures. I thought I would write a novel. I hadn't thought anything particular. In the evening I went offshore and sketched. "Chō" had become my life's sole comfort—oh lovable child.

(12/14)

Morning brought rain. It was bitterly cold, and my pen froze repeatedly. It fell from my hand. In the afternoon, I played with Chō. In the evening, I visited Takanashi and helped repair the grandfather clock. I wrote only three pages of "Urashima". The household daughter and the maid were utterly despicable, detestable; even touching them provoked disgust. I was shocked when the dried fish I had grilled for lunch was thrown directly onto the dining table. It was still cold. I shall become a shrimp and sleep.

(12/15)

Because it was raining and terribly cold, I did not go to Tokyo today.

The day before yesterday, I visited Hakubunkan. Iguchi showed me every kindness. I am grateful. Yesterday I met "Hi" and "Ta" and drank sake.

Today I lowered the curtain on Urashima. To mark the occasion, I raised a cup alone.

In the evening, I strolled toward the open sea, circled the long pier of the fish farm, and made a sketch. Across the desolate withered fields, dusk's north wind was blowing. At Benten Shrine offshore, three women who appeared to be teahouse workers were paying their respects. In the hundred-thousand-tsubo reed beds, the Hamaneko were mewing and flitting about—disagreeable creatures. Herons were also flying.

(12/20) My stomach condition flared up. It must have been the lack of exercise, alcohol, and fatty foods taking their toll. I must abstain for now. "Urashima" I embarked on revisions. I think I will start a new work as well. Tomorrow I plan to visit my father and Ishii Shinji. I wonder what reply will come from Hakubunkan. It would be good if things go well, but if that doesn't sell, I'll be in immediate trouble. I thought of nothing. I will not be defeated. The matter concerning Sueko has been growing increasingly uncertain. According to God's will.

(1928, 12, 23) The day before yesterday I visited my father and shared dinner with him; afterward I called on Ya at the house in Isechō. Her mother was overjoyed and treated me to all manner of hospitality. The sisters too welcomed me heartily. Yesterday I visited Ishii Shinji. His wife had developed peritonitis from a ruptured fallopian tube and lay bedridden. I read Urashima. I wish I hadn't read it. He remained wholly unbroken. After returning, I drank wretched sake at Takanashi's house. Today again I drank at Tentetsu. Now as I prepare to sleep, Hakubunkan still sends no word.

(1928, 12, 26)

Today I revised ten pages of "Urashima" and eleven pages of "Fox." It was cold. It was already twelve o’clock; I was writing one act of “Critics and Gout.” Starting from this deduction, I might be able to depict “Mamashi-ō.” If I were to write it, it would likely become a comedy.

There was a calm lull; though it was cold, heaven and earth were utterly still. May there be blessing upon the earth.

(1928, 12, 28)

The strong northern cold wind blew through.

Now there was good moonlight; I had finished revising the first act of Urashima. “Fox” The second act was about to end; I was tired. The wind still hadn’t ceased—tomorrow I would go to Hakubunkan—let it go well. I thought of nothing—work—work—I wouldn’t be defeated. (29th) But afraid of his own howl echoing in the house across the river，he kept crying endlessly. In Kobikichō，Kōche was sleeping.

I visited my father and borrowed money. I visited Yagi.

(1928, 12, 30)

The New Year's Eve bell of 1928 was ringing. This year had been exceedingly eventful. However, I had fully taken the first step. I had nearly completed sufficient work; particularly, my relocation to Urayasu in the latter half of the year would likely prove to be a turning point in my life. The New Year’s Eve bells—the five-colored bells from five temples—(just like that night in Suma in 2583) now visited my solitary, impoverished study. The people slept.

O sullied girl who angered me earlier—your spirit too was now buried in dreams. The New Year’s Eve of 1924 had been spent at Kobe Senkyūya Inn. In 1925 too I spent it in Kobe; then in 1926 in Tottori City; in 1927 at my home in Shinagawa; and now in 1928 I was seeing out the year in Urayasu Town, Chiba Prefecture. The steamships coming from Tokyo had also ceased. Now the fire watchman’s clappers patrolling the village of Kasai on the opposite bank came crisply to my ears. The bamboo leaves planted at the gate swayed quietly in the wind, making a sound—swish… swish….

This year I wrote *Geshi*, wrote *People and Life*, wrote *Shattered Tamuran*, wrote *Straw Hat*, wrote *Urashima*, and furthermore produced one three-act unfinished work, two one-act unfinished works, and one six-act historical drama unfinished work. In spring I met Haru Shizuko and immediately lost her. In early summer I met Sueko, and our engagement was nearly settled. I moved to Natsu Urayasu and severed ties. In autumn I lost my employment and barricaded myself in Urayasu. In early winter I traveled through the Minamibō region.

The sketches I began in the latter half of the year greatly comforted and nurtured me. This year too, I would give thanks to Strindberg. Well done managing it without exhaustion, Sanjūroku. May there be a good year. Things with Sueko will likely improve. Farewell, 2588. (12, 31, 00:10)

2589 = Showa 4 = 26 years old

The last of the New Year’s Eve bells finished ringing; it is 1:00 AM on January 1st, 2589.

Happy New Year, Sanjūroku. This year too, keep at it resolutely. It is exactly one o’clock now. I will sleep.

Last evening I played karuta at Takanashi’s house. I beat Maro-san. Tome-san shook his swarthy face while dancing the "Great Harvest Dance" and "Fool’s Dance".

This morning, ice flowed in the Ōkawa River all day. It was extremely cold; the Hokuriku region was, as usual, beset by wind and snow, and around Oyashirazu the railway was disrupted again. Today was “Urashima”. I wrote sixteen pages of Act II (revised). In the evening, I visited Takanashi and played karuta again with Maro-san.

It was now 2:30 AM; the Ōkawa River had frozen over completely. The sound of ice freezing and cracking continued. From time to time, a motorboat would pass through slowly, breaking the ice with sharp cracking sounds. The first rooster was crowing; a slight wind had risen. Tomorrow would likely be cold too. Goodnight, Sanjūroku. You'd worked hard. May there be good dreams. (2:35 AM. (1929, 1, 4)

Today was warm. I wrote six pages of Urashima. I was struggling considerably; I thought about rewriting Autumn Wind Record with multiple scenes. It was now 2:30 AM. The Ōkawa River had partially frozen. It grew cold; I began structuring the one-act play Takadono.

(1, 5)

On the seventh day of January, I visited Hakubunkan Publishing House but found neither Iguchi nor Yokomizo there. Having no money left, I sold four books and returned home. Today being the ninth day of January, I wrote twenty-five pages for Act III of *Urashima*. It progressed relatively smoothly without much trouble on my part—a rare stroke of fortune these days—and now it was three o'clock in the morning when I sat down again with pen in hand after visiting Takanashi earlier that evening where Captain Abiko from Boat No．26 had come seeking counsel about being torn between two marriage prospects：one being Ogin—a twenty-eight-year-old woman from Gyōtoku with whom he already shared some entanglement—and another girl from his hometown．Despite everyone around him advising against pursuing Ogin due to her deep affection for him complicating matters further，he seemed determined nonetheless．Once I finish revising *Urashima*，I plan on heading over to Kaizōsha Publishing next．“Perhaps I should pay Ogin herself a visit too，” thought I—though no word has come from her yet—before murmuring aloud： “You’ve done well today，Sanjūroku．Take your rest slowly now；may good dreams find you．” May blessings grace this earth beneath us． (1929，1，9)

It was now four o'clock in the morning. *Urashima* As it neared completion, it had become extremely difficult, but would probably go well. That day I wrote fifteen pages. I had nothing on my mind. The mistakes of my youth might have begun to punish my body. But I would face this formidable foe with composure. I would not yield. I wanted to unify *Tanuma* and *Morishita* into the same "multi-scenic" framework. During the day, I walked along the moat and made two sketches. In the evening, I visited Takanashi and sold a book. It was now four-thirty; well, I would sleep. May there be good dreams. Last night I had dreamed of Shizuko. May there be blessings upon the earth. (1929, 1, 10)

"Urashima" I completed all revisions.

(1929, 1, 11, 4 PM)

I will start on Tanuma tomorrow. Stand firm. Tonight I attended a performance by the Seibigeki troupe at the temporary theater built in Jikata. I shall write an account of these observations. Well then, I'll sleep here tonight—it's now nine o'clock. A fine calm. May there be good dreams.

(1929, 1, 12)

I visited Tokuda Shūsei and requested the return of the manuscript I had entrusted to him. I had already visited his house five times in vain for this purpose. He said to me: “Even if you take that thing around, it won’t sell.” And ultimately, the manuscript could not be found. “In that case, there should be Koppī at home, so that will suffice,” I said before taking my leave. After returning home, I considered writing a letter demanding accountability but stopped myself. The wise and the foolish do not change. My mistake had been entrusting such an important manuscript to someone like him. I lost faith in everything. I was completely alone. The housekeeper refused to lend me nail clippers. She refused to lend a razor. How cold and barren this world is—how utterly desolate and choked with dust. Now I am reading Strindberg’s *The Blue Books*. Strindberg has always been for me the greatest, most revered teacher and friend. I speak his name through tears. I visited Iguchi at Hakubunkan. My request went unfulfilled; today I sold several books to obtain money. (1929, 1, 15)

I began writing the manuscript steadily on the backs of scrap paper. (Due to a lack of manuscript paper) It was a long work titled *Professor Kose’s Experiment*. At the same time, to formulate plans for *Christ*, I was now reading Renan’s *Life of Jesus*. Today was extremely cold. It was still only nine o’clock. Strindberg’s *The Blue Books* greatly encourage and hearten me.

"Professor Kose" I wrote ten pages. The wind stopped. It was now eleven o'clock. Tonight I would sleep here.

(1929, 1, 16)

"Professor Kose" I wrote thirteen pages. Today was also cold with a north wind blowing all day. At night, I walked toward Hori. At Takanashi’s house, I was treated to a late-night meal of salted salmon roe and seaweed. May there be good sleep. May there be blessings upon the earth. It was now 1 AM; from this point I would read *Christ’s Biography* and sleep. The wind picked up a bit again. Shizuko, may you find peaceful eternal rest.

(1, 17)

I idled away two days drinking. Tomorrow I will go to Tokyo. The turning point of my fate is staked on tomorrow. Farewell—be it good or ill? If it brings misfortune, I plan to sell off my book collection and flee to Hokkaido or somewhere. O God as you like it. Shizuko. O eight million gods.

(1929, 1, 19)

My *Eve* settled into a calm. A chill seeped up from below; perhaps it would snow. Because I was drunk, I wanted you to forgive the messy handwriting. Hmph. Once more. (1929, 1, 19)

Today I met various people. I met Mitsuko Tamura. She had become a quiet and beautiful young woman. With a gentle, spring-like smile, she spoke while her cheeks flushed. When I left, she watched me intently. A flood of memories must have welled up within her. I met my brother. I met Shizuko from Kanagawa. Fumiko's friend "Ms. Tamura" The two girls called Ms. Matsuzawa delighted my eyes just as that person’s friends Ms. Yagi and Ms. Akamatsu had done, and because of that saddened me. I went to Hakubunkan but could meet no one. On the way back I drank sake with loach. After returning home I visited Takanashi. I wrote eleven pages of Professor Kose. It was now three in the morning and bitterly cold. Lately burglars had been appearing frequently in Tokyo City. What a wretched state of affairs. Well then—I would sleep.

(1929, 1, 20)

Keiko’s illness still hadn’t improved.

It was bitterly cold all day. *Professor Kose* I wrote seven pages. When night came, I wrote a fairy tale called "The Miser and the Demon" for Takanashi and transcribed eight pages of *Kose*. It was now 3:30 AM; when four o'clock came, I would go deliver the manuscript to Takanashi, then return home and sleep. That day I had sent a letter to Yokomizo at Hakubunkan. A letter of entreaty. Feel shame.

(1929, 1, 21)

Today was even colder. *Professor Kose* I wrote fifteen pages. Other than that, I did nothing else. In the afternoon, I went to see the women's sumo at Shōfukuji Temple in Horie. That was all. It is now one o'clock. Because I'm tired, I'll go to sleep now.

(1, 22)

The cold grew increasingly severe. "Kose." I wrote seventeen pages. For dinner, Takanashi's wife treated me to "potatoes, pork, and onions." It was delicious. I didn't think about anything. It is now 3 AM. I will sleep.

(1, 23)

Today was a good calm. “Professor Kose” I wrote sixteen pages. I drank sake with tempura. It was a fine moonlit night. In the afternoon, I went to Tōdai Island and sketched. Tomorrow will likely be calm too; I’ll go to bed right away. May there be blessings upon the earth.

(1, 24)

Today was windy all day; it was cold. *Professor Kose* I wrote twenty pages. Tomorrow I will take this to Hakubunkan; may there be good fortune. O Shizuko, my fate will likely be decided tomorrow. I didn't think about anything. Money—that bastard—truly debases human life. Takanashi is extremely kind to me; he is one of my benefactors. In these past four or five days, I have not truly confronted 'life' in earnest. Whether tomorrow’s fortune brings me good or not, this month of poverty was truly the opening of a new realm for me. I have plumbed the poverty of life’s lowest depths. I am now truly rooted in the earth. I have never seen myself as both so powerless and yet possessed of such greatest strength as I do now. I will gladly welcome anything; I have the greatest “your work” to do; nothing can break me. Farewell—the die is cast.

(25)

The die has driven my fate to its extremity. Thus my fate compels me to plunge my spade into new soil; I have yet to decide whether to cast myself to Hokkaido or settle for an ordinary life in Tokyo.

I am truly at the bottom of life. Now I am utterly isolated; I have come to keenly realize that in life, beyond myself, there is nothing I can rely on. What is a friend? If one needs friends—precisely when only a friend would suffice—and those friends turn their backs and leave, then for what purpose do friends exist? Indeed, what is a friend? In modern times, what meaning does the relationship called "friendship" hold? It is nothing other than that of "club members whose interests coincide." If in a friendship with A, B should fear suffering even the slightest harm, then the "friendship" between A and B is already over.

Very well, I abandoned modern "friends."

Today I went to the prefectural art museum to see the "Western Art Retrospective Exhibition." I saw three paintings by Kaidai, two by Sekine Shōji, several by Kuroda Seiki, and then works by Takahashi Yūichi. Sekine and Kuroda were magnificent. Kuroda in particular was extraordinary. After all, one must live long to complete one's work. In youth, works are mere affectation; even genius only shows fleeting sparks. One must reach fifty for true authenticity. Today I finished reading Strindberg's *The Blue Books*. The final words—"Suffer and labor, always suffer while holding hope, never seek permanent settlement—this world is pilgrimage"—lashed at me violently yet somehow brought solace. Ah Strindberg—my friend, my teacher, my sovereign. I shall continue my pilgrimage while worshiping you.

(2589/1/28)

Do you think a man's life's work can be done easily? Fool! Mushanokōji

O Sanjūroku, bow your head before these words.

(2589/1/29)

I had been further awakened today. Good—let them fall seventy times sevenfold! I would rise again and again. Today’s great harvest. It was now 2 AM. Sleep, O Sanjūroku—there would be a new day.

(1, 29)

My life in Urayasu Town came to an end. Within two or three days, I would leave this beloved town. Today I visited Hakubunkan; my manuscript was rejected. My father was suffering from neuralgia. I had been jobless for four months; finally desperate for money, I sold my book collection and had to step out anew. Moreover, my only friend had abandoned me, and the girl I was betrothed to had finally slipped from my grasp. Even the Kobiki-chō family, my sole patron, had now refused to provide me with financial assistance.

Now, at last, what remains to me is this sole thing—the "joy of creation"—and this alone. I clutch my final jewel—(a jewel equal to my own blood, one I cannot relinquish even in death)—and step onto tomorrow’s path.

“O Master,” (the disciple asked) “when should a person rest? Is it when one is starved of faith, hope, money, friends, and lovers?”

“No,” (the Master answered) “you must not rest until the last three beats of your pulse are severed.” “To make you complete, those hardships and trials are necessary.” “A most precious jewel must be polished without cease by the hardest of emery.” “For you are a most precious jewel.”

“O Master, when should one get angry—is it when they have been insulted?”

“No—when you yourself defile yourself,” answered the master. “Others can never insult you, for you are a jewel and they are sand; even if five hundred thousand of them were multiplied a hundred thousandfold and gathered to demean you, they could not destroy you.”

(1929/1/31)

Yesterday I invited a bookseller from Tokyo and sold off my book collection. Eighty yen came into my hands. If I paid off the debts, what remained would be scant. With this I could live in Tokyo for the time being. If there was work to be had I would take it; if not going to Shikoku would be acceptable. Today I took Chō out to Tokyo for fun. I showed him cinema rides on the subway and amused ourselves at the zoo with sea lions polar bears lions and monkeys. The excitement of my childhood welled up in my chest following Chō's excitement. It was a day rich with happy memories. I would now bathe then attend a farewell banquet held by Maro-san Akiha-kun the Takanashi couple Tome-san and others at their household. The day of parting now drew near. Tonight I intended to sing heartily once and for all.

(1929/2/2, 7:00 PM)

In Urayasu Town (at Bōya)

I ended up settling in Urayasu Town. It was an old, decaying Bōya with a thatched roof. The house had a two-tsubo-wide earthen-floored area and a single room of four and a half tsubo. I gathered cooking utensils and bought brown rice. I planned to cook it myself. Yūkage Tama and her mother visited and promised to give me pickled vegetables. My next-door neighbors were a poor charcoal seller's family. The master had been bedridden for two days with a suppurating jawbone, during which time his wife gave birth. The children were five, led by a fifteen-year-old boy. This is truly life's tragedy. At that moment, beyond the wall, the voices of the husband and wife continued their discussion about money.

(1929/2/7, Night) A large number of children came. I told them stories. I still had not begun my work—I could not find a "motif" that demanded my full spiritual devotion. Therefore, I was now terribly lonely. I wanted to start working soon. Work. Ishii Shinji was said to be coming on the tenth. At that time, a message had come that he would read Women and Automobiles: Eight Views; I was looking forward to it.

Tonight was the Hori Yakushi-sama temple festival. Hori was bustling. Ah—in the evening, O-tama's mother brought me pickled vegetables. Today I crossed the river and walked as far as Kasai Village. I thought nothing in particular. Ah—a small manuscript fee had come from Chūgai Shōgyō Shinpō. So I drank sake. It is now ten o'clock.

(1929/2/8) During the day, I drew one conte drawing. The children came frequently to play. “Kose Hirotaka” I began drafting plans for a duology. It owed much to Su Be’s Rutter. Having sold my book collection, I found things terribly inconvenient. Yet this very inconvenience proved a blessing—it meant I could focus wholly; I had to start working soon. To escape this poverty, this loneliness. Ishii would likely come tomorrow; I looked forward to it. It was now eleven o’clock. I would sleep now.

(1929/2/9) Tragedy "The Painter Hirotaka" Fifteen scenes. The curtain rises. (2/13) I finally seemed able to write the real thing. Money grew increasingly scarce. For the time being, I planned to get by on brown rice and potatoes. The day was cold. For dinner, I boiled udon noodles, treated the boy Suke to them, and ate some myself; I realized this had been an extravagance. The self-cooked udon I ate with Suke tasted delicious. If Mother were alive and heard about this, she would cry. I did not think about anything important. I wrote a letter to my brother. There would likely be no reconciliation with Wo again. As God wills. I would get up early tomorrow!

(2/13)

I was writing the novel *Doyō Landscape*. It was now twelve o'clock in the afternoon. (2/13) I was writing *Hirotaka*. The money had completely run out. "Urashima" I sent it to Kaizō; what would become of it, I wondered. Even if it turned out poorly, I resolved not to lose heart—though I dearly hoped it might bring some income. I thought nothing in particular. I drew a conte drawing at Egawa. That morning had been bitterly cold; the newspaper reported seven degrees below zero. It was now half past twelve. I read a book and went to sleep. (2/14)

I wrote *Hirotaka*. The first act ended and the second act was nearing its end. Takanashi's wife brought me a side dish for dinner. During the day I drew a sketch around Hori. Today I did sufficient work; it is now half past twelve. Tomorrow morning I will wake up early.

(2/15)

I was writing *Hirotaka*; today I did quite a lot. I wrote thirteen pages. It was now 4 AM. A small manuscript fee from Chugai Shogyo Shimpo had come in, allowing me to scrape by for two or three days. I was grateful to Takanashi. I did not think about anything. I bought ten sen's worth of sake, drank it, and went to sleep.

Today ((Sunday the 17th)), the children will come to have their portraits drawn; they must be looking forward to my stories as well. May peace be upon me.

(16)

Today I spent the whole day playing with the children. For dinner, I ate crucian carp caught by Nagai stewed in miso. It was delicious. It is now eleven o'clock. With this, I will sleep. May peace be upon me.

(17)

*Hirotaka* The fourth scene was difficult. Today I worked. I completed Act IV and completed Act V. I drank sake with tempura for the first time in ages. It is now twelve o'clock; I will now take my late-night udon and begin the sixth scene, the Hōryūji Golden Hall scene.

After the rain came a moonlit night of perfect stillness; a gentle west wind blew; Kasai Village's lights flickered upon the river glowing lapis blue beneath the moon's radiance. Come now—gather your strength and work! Until collapse overtakes me. Until collapse overtakes me. ——Then I wrote again. 1929/2/18, midnight As I boiled udon while listening to crucian carp soup simmering. (The moon sank shortly before three o'clock.) *Hirotaka* The sixth act concluded—what grueling labor! Five pages required tearing out and rewriting. Past five in the morning now; winds rose bringing bitter cold. Though facing the seventh act's Golden Hall scene—to bed I shall go.

Today I wrote three scenes and over thirty pages. I will now visit Takanashi, drink sake, and sleep. May peace be upon me!

1929/2/19, 5:10 AM.

The eastern sky was now tinged with the light of dawn. 5:30 AM. I drank sake with mirin-dried fish; it was now 6:30 AM. Now I would sleep. Shizuko, send me good dreams. 1929/2/19.

6:15 AM. It was now fully light.

Today I did nothing. I borrowed money from Takanashi. He took two photographs for me. (Maro-san). Tomorrow brother and Shōji will come. It is now twelve-thirty. I will sleep. May peace be upon me. (2/19)

I had not kept up my diary for quite some time. On the 20th, my brother and Shōji came. On the 26th, I visited Tokyo. On the 27th, the long-stalled *Hirotaka*— I completed Act VIII. Yesterday had been rain; today was rain again. It was now two o'clock in the morning. That noon, I rowed the Ōkawa River in a flat-bottomed boat with Nagai aboard. I went up to Myōken Island, lay down on the withered grass, and bathed my body in the warm sun of the gentle breeze. It had been good exercise, *Hirotaka*. I completed Act IX. It was grueling. I would sleep now. May peace be upon me.

(1929/3/1)

I completed Act X of *Hirotaka*.

(3/3)

I raised a celebratory toast for the Doll’s Festival at Takanashi’s house.

Today Sawada Shōjirō died. He came like a storm and left like a storm; I alone held a night's wake for him. He too had been one who proved useful to me. May peace be upon Sawada’s soul; may peace be upon Sawada’s soul.

(March 4)

This afternoon, I rowed a flat-bottomed boat all the way to Shin-Kawaguchi. I drew a conte sketch on Myōken Island. I raised the curtain on Act IV; it was grueling. (3/4)

I wrote the fairy tale "The Clock and the Octopus," which I was able to earn through Takanashi's efforts. My first original fairy tale. Additionally, I began writing the scenario *Spring Returns to the Hill*. It was now four o’clock in the morning. Today was cold, but I still rowed a flat-bottomed boat; I went as far as Imaibashi. From afternoon onward, nori-gathering flat-bottomed boats blackened the river’s surface. I was now reading Akutagawa Ryūnosuke’s collected works; what truly resonated with me remained his contemporary pieces rather than his historical scholarship. Compared to “The Nose,” “Rashōmon,” “The Yam Gruel,” and others, a single short story like “The Mandarin Oranges” might be immeasurably more precious. I must live in the modern age and vitalize it—even if that isn’t everything, it must form the foundation. Such were my thoughts. "The Frog" must be a masterpiece. However, if it was to be a paradox anyway, there should have been far more room to delve deeper; he may have cut through one layer, but his blade seemed to have struggled to reach the second or third layers—let alone the bone. This must clearly have come from the burden being too heavy and his lack of physical strength. I, for his sake, took the latter as the cause.

Akutagawa lived earnestly; this was particularly true in the latter half of his life. If he had possessed sufficient physical strength and unyielding mental fortitude, what a great harvest Japan might have reaped. He has now been liberated from humanity's greatest drudgery—(as he himself wished)—but has he indeed now been liberated?

(1929/3/5)

I began writing about the relationship between Oto and myself. It was titled "Oto and Myself"; it seemed likely to serve some purpose; once completed, I thought showing it through Ishii would suffice.

It was now five-thirty in the morning.

(1929/3/5—no, it was already the 6th—) I read Akutagawa’s collected works.

“The Cogwheel” was good. Today I did nothing. Today I was desolate and melancholy. I had no vitality. In the evening, I walked out to Benten Shrine offshore. I did not board the boat. I bought sake and drank alone. At Takanashi’s place, he gave me white rice. (6)

Today I went down the river in a flat-bottomed boat and emerged into the sea to the right of Ōsankaku. The sea was windless, its waves gleaming lapis lazuli, while carnation-pink clouds drifted across the sky. Far offshore, a steamship raced by, and beyond it, the mountains of Kazusa lay hazy in the distance. I advanced the flat-bottomed boat further out to sea until reaching the third channel marker, where I gathered nori. There I ate cream pans and anko-dama balls, stripped down to just a shirt, circled around Ōsankaku, and returned home by rowing upriver from the eastern mouth. I wrote a letter to Ishii Shinji. Captain Daigo and his wife—that alluring wife of his—had a terrible fight; she’d taken up gambling. The husband was jealousy incarnate. But it seemed they’d settled things peaceably. If we’re speaking of marital squabbles, the Kei couple’s were even more riveting—the wife with her eggplant-round face would make prime material for my *TELL’S OF Urayasu*. Today again I accomplished nothing. Tomorrow I mean to go to Tokyo. I’ll sell more books. It’s now one o’clock. Still no word from Iguchi.

(7)

In the case of Mr. and Mrs. Kei’s quarrel: the shop they currently ran as a small eatery had been purchased with his wife’s money, but the kitchen’s eaves extension was something Kei-san had built himself; therefore, Kei-san said he would tear off just that extension, load it onto a boat, and take it away.

At the very depths of my destitution came Iguchi’s compassionate notice; though it was a sum of less than thirty yen, through Iguchi’s efforts I was able to earn it. I received Iguchi’s letter at the time when I was about to bundle up some books and depart for Tokyo to obtain less than ten yen. I felt tears well up unbidden and fiercely clutched Iguchi’s letter. Iguchi too was one of my benefactors; my diary would inscribe his name in bold strokes. Today I did nothing. But from tomorrow—from tomorrow onward. It is now twelve o'clock. It is a quiet, warm night.

(1929/3/8)

Today I went offshore in a flat-bottomed boat. I read *Werther*; there was a slight wind. In the evening I listened to naniwabushi at Urayasu-tei. After returning I wrote a girls' novel; around twelve there was sudden rain and hail fell. Thunder rang out. It was the first thunder; it was quite severe. After the rain cleared completely came the repeated cries of migrating geese.

It was now 4:30 AM; I would sleep.

(9)

Yesterday I took the Achiya manuscript to Hakubunkan. On my way back I stopped by Kobikichō—the master looked well. In the evening I met Yūkei "Hi"; we drank sake and ate tempura. It felt nostalgic yet heartwarming. When returning, there were no boats left so I took the train to Imai and walked home from there. A fierce wind blew all night through. Today I did nothing—my mind grows dull. The scenario torments me. Yesterday brought a letter from Ishii Shinji. News of Yasuko-san's temporary remission. Tomorrow I go to Tokyo.

(12)

Today I went to Hakubunkan and received money. I settled the debts with Seiji and Takanashi. I drank sake with beef and sinew. I did nothing. Ah, I met Fumiko in Kobikichō. She had a nostalgic air about her. We talked about various things. She was studying with glasses on. I met Nobuharu. He was an amusing man. Nō-chan had also turned twenty. The wind was still blowing. I had finished reading *The Sorrows of Young Werther* the day before yesterday. It wasn’t of today; it was a tedious thing. I was not impressed. He had not the slightest need to commit suicide, I thought. Now I was drunk.

(1929/3/13)

I wrote approximately fifty pages of an uninspired manuscript through the day's span. It was now three o'clock in the morning. When dawn broke, I would depart for Tokyo. (15)

I bought goby and greenling and drank sake to go with them. It was delicious. The goby were just in their spawning period, and their roe was nearly ripe, but they were still delicious. In the evening, I visited Takanashi. It is now 2 AM; starting tomorrow I intend to finish *Kōkō* in one go—I hope it goes well. And then I will also write a novel. Today there was correspondence from Ishii Shinji. I replied immediately. Madam Yasuko is only out of bed during the day. And.

(16)

The death anniversary of my First and Second Mothers.

The Last Supper.

(1929/3/20)

March 21, 1929 (In Urayasu Town)

Since yesterday, the spring warmth intensified suddenly. Yesterday, Naga, Hisashi and I went to the weir to catch small fish. We took crucian carp, willow branches*, and okame**. Today we boiled them. I began writing *Nude*.

(3/22)

I scooped small fish with the children and also dug for loaches in the lotus field. The loaches were made into miso soup and eaten. *Nude* I wrote. The pen that had aided me in my work and shared hardships with me for three years up to today was lost. I was disappointed. Today I wrote *Nude* with a hard-to-use brass pen. I wrote about fifteen pages. Yesterday had been unusually warm—so much so that I broke a sweat during the day—but today was cold again. The charcoal ran out. Today, because I couldn’t cook, I bought a loaf of bread and made do with that. Poverty came again. It was an unpleasant thing—no word from anywhere. I kept thinking about traveling; I wanted to go to the Ōu region. I wanted money. Tonight I felt as though there might be a warm, quiet dream. I would sleep now. Peace be upon me.

(1929/3/25)

The rain that began last night continued—a quiet rain. Today I worked on *Nude*. I wrote up to twelve. A letter arrived from Ishii Shinji. He said he would come on the 29th.

A girl named Hide had come to Takanashi’s house—a brash sort raised in Asakusa. She chattered unabashedly about love and such matters with frank curiosity. Two lower front teeth—what they call buck teeth—thin lips with a nasal voice, staring at people with dark, round eyes. According to Takanashi’s wife, they were “eyes that had gained allure.” I bought charcoal. It is now twelve o'clock.

(1929/3/27)

Today Ishii Shinji came. His wife had nearly fully recovered. However, she still could not resume household duties. Domestic disturbances had surfaced. He too was suffering. Together we walked from Imai toward Kasai for about three hours. He had thought I was discouraged and came to check on me. Ah—under the guise of his wife's thoughtful gesture—he brought water mochi. *Nude* I began writing page fifteen but stopped. I'll do it from tomorrow. I'll go to bed early again tonight. Simmered carp arrived from Yoshino. It must be delicious.

(1929/3/31)

Today I worked on *Nude*. I wrote four installments; though I could still write more, I restrained myself and went to bed. I read Kyōka’s *Onna Keizu* and wept—and realized that if it was a novel meant to make people cry, I could write one effortlessly. Kyōka was a man from three eras past—if I considered that, there were some merits. I selected Osono, the most brazen woman in *Nude*, as its devoted reader. However, there could be no doubt that in terms of uniqueness, it occupied a singular position. May it remain well. I didn’t think about anything else. It was now 3:30 AM. There must be a good dream.

(1929/4/1)

*Nude*

I was writing; today had been somewhat difficult—the trip to Bōsō might have been a failure. I wrote ten pages three times. It wasn’t very appealing. But it would go well. Kozakai Fumiki died. What a waste. I had thought he was Japan’s Poe. Yokoyama Arisaku had also died, I heard. I must take care of my body. I wanted money.

It was now 4:30 AM. May there be good dreams.

(4/2)

*Nude* I was writing. It had become increasingly unclear. Today again I wrote about ten pages three times, but it was unsatisfactory; perhaps it would have been better to split yesterday’s and today’s portions. The trip to Bōsō had been a failure. Today, unusually, Takanashi came to visit. The plump woman from Edogawa-tei had set up a household with Mr. Okubo from the steam engine. I didn’t think about anything in particular. I sent a letter to father. During the day, I walked along the riverside embankment. The embankment was fully in spring. The sky was bright. The clouds were light. The wind was still cold, but it would probably become warm soon. I’ll keep at it. I decided to drink some sake and go to bed. I must regain my strength.

It was now 3:30 AM.

(4/3)

I hit a wall. Today I accomplished nothing. My mind felt clogged. During the day, I crossed to Myōken Island with Chō by flat-bottomed boat and picked horsetails. I also broke off willow branches and brought them back. It did not console me. I resolved to sleep.

(4/4)

I soaked horsetails in lye water overnight to remove the bitterness, boiled them in salted hot water with a pinch of salt, coated them in sugar and miso, and ate them. [A faint fragrance arose.] Today I went with Chō to gather field garlic. We gathered a whole bunch of small ones and brought them back. We will eat them tomorrow. Today I did nothing. *Nude* I struck out seven installments from the eighteenth to the twenty-fourth, totaling approximately twenty-five pages. Starting tomorrow, I will begin rewriting. May it go well. A letter came from Ishii Shinji informing me about "Tsūtenkaku". In the afternoon, I rowed a flat-bottomed boat.

Spring warmth; the wind still carried a chill; reed buds began to unfurl. I finished reading Kyōka [from the Kaizōsha edition of the Complete Works of Japanese Literature]. There had been something to gain. This too could serve as whetstone from another hill. Tonight I would go to bed again.

(4/5)

I currently had eight plays and four novellas in my head and inkwell. All of these would likely take shape within this year. I would proceed without haste, without wavering, steadily bringing them to life.

(5)

I was crushed. Younger brother fell ill and returned home. I had written nothing since the 5th. Today I went to Tokyo and sold books. In Kobikichō，I borrowed five yen. I was terribly worn out. It was pitch dark，but I could pull through. I would manage somehow. I lay exhausted now. When my spirits revived，I would rise again. Take it slow. Take care of your heart. Tend well these emotions. *Tajō Bushin* I read Satonji Tōsaku. A fine work. Do this thing. There was something gained. A quiet rain began falling. Cherry blossoms too began blooming.

(4/8)

Today I did work. *Nude* I wrote seventeen pages across five installments. It was now 4 AM. I drank sake with tempura. After the intoxication wore off，my output improved. It was a strange thing. Today was relatively warm. Now it was warm. I could still write，but forced myself to sleep. I took a short walk and then went to sleep. Tonight there would be good dreams.

(4/9)

Don't rush,

Don't rush,

If I do all I can do, The rest is up to God. Leave it [to God], When the proper time comes, God will surely declare, "Good", He will undoubtedly declare,

Well then, I'll go to sleep.

(1929, 4, 9)

*Nude* I was writing. Today I wrote seven pages. It was nearing completion. The day had been exceptionally warm. I changed into summer clothes. In the afternoon I walked along the shore. The willows were fully leafed out in tender green. Bush clovers and wrestler's knotweed bloomed along the path. Reed shoots had emerged from the mudflats. Cherry blossoms flowered too at Benten Shrine offshore. Those before Takanashi's house had also opened. Shellfish gatherers combed the tideline. Evening brought sudden showers that turned to steady rain through the night. The downpour had now ceased. A letter arrived from my younger brother. At dusk Takanashi treated me to a "shōjin-age" temple feast. Three o'clock now—time to sleep. There would be good dreams. (4/10)

*Nude* I was writing. Today I wrote twelve pages; it was nearly finished. It went surprisingly well. During the day, I spoke with a Korean student at the base of Yokogawa Bridge; I invited him to visit, thinking it might provide some stimulation. Today I boiled and ate field horsetail. It was delicious. For dinner, I cooked rice with field aster and ate it.

Today was bustling with visitors for clamming; however, frequent sudden rains came, and finally, around a bit past noon, it turned into a downpour, leaving the visitors in a pitiful state. Hiroyasu-kun, the stoker on Steamship No. 55, got himself a woman. They were sailing together on the steamship. "If we cannot be together, I will die," he declared. He was earnest. It was an old-fashioned romance. The woman seemed slightly mentally deficient. [I don't really understand] The cherry blossoms on the embankment were in full bloom. There was the lumber dealer’s plump and good-natured daughter. During the day, I quarreled with the troublemaker among the children. It was a foolish thing. It was now three o'clock in the morning. I thought I would go to Yokohama. When I finished *Nude*, I thought I would go. Today, I did good work. There must be good dreams, Shizuko.

(1929, 4, 12)

I sat firmly, With strength in my abdomen,

My head felt clear, I said, "Bring it on." When I reached that state of mind,

I wrote without hurrying. (4/12)

*Nude* I wrote fifteen pages and finished it all. I thought it was a considerable achievement. I borrowed money from Takanashi. The wind was fierce. It had been relatively warm. During the day I went from offshore to the end of the fish farm pier. When I went down to the shore, crabs scrambled about in great commotion - an amusing sight. There were sea crabs too. With spring tide now upon us, the sea had become an endless tidal flat. It looked possible to walk across to Chiba. The wind remained strong; there'd been a terrible squall around one o'clock. It had stopped by then. Today Akiha-kun dove into putrid water at Motojo's Kamaya River and cut wire tangled in a ship's propeller. His whole body reeked of ditch mud afterwards. Imagine diving headfirst into that black methane-belching water - barely tolerable work. It was four in the morning now. I decided against Yokohama - no money anyway. With recent work completed, this light pleasant agitation kept me awake. I considered drinking. Then sleeping.

Well done, Sanjūroku. Tonight of all nights, there should be good dreams. It is now April 13, 2589 [1929].

The night had completely broken; a strong south wind was blowing. I am now slightly intoxicated. I think I'll sleep soundly.

Smoke from the neighbor's morning cooking wafted in, making everything hazy; but since the town prospered, one ought to welcome this too. It was now six o'clock in the morning. (14) Tears would well up unexpectedly. While reading novels, tears came suddenly at passages that weren't particularly sentimental. My nerves had grown terribly fragile; lately my irritability had become severe. Even the most innocuous remarks from others stung sharply at my temper. I would flare up instantly. Loneliness had been gnawing at me.

I had a hectic day with all the low-tide visitors. In the evening，the Tsūsen and Kasai ferry offices made a huge commotion vying to poach each other’s customers. It finally escalated into a fight，but concluded without becoming a major incident. Ferry boats packed to overflowing with people went up and down the river by the dozens upon dozens.

I want to take Father to see Kyoto. If I get the money, I will probably carry it out. No word from anyone. I am writing *Journey to Noto*. It is now ten o'clock.

"I will throw my life into this work and let it be worn out in no other way."

“A lifespan won’t wait until I complete a great work.”

*Kōkō* Part 1, Chapter 1

I was rereading Kōkō. Good. I'll sleep now.

It is now April 14, 2589 [1929].

Today I went to Tokyo. I sold books. I saw the "Famous Treasures Exhibition" in Ueno - Tawaraya Sōtatsu's twin screens "Thunder" and "Wind" were excellent. The scroll "Landscape" by the foreigner Li Guang was a monumental work that truly overflowed with divine inspiration and ethereal beauty. The Kōzan-ji version of Chōjū-giga, attributed to Toba Sōjō, was great art to be cherished - undoubtedly one of Japan's foremost treasures. Kōrin's paintings were not suitable for me. I detested even acclaimed works like *The Painting of Taigong Wang*. "Calm," "Fragmentary Texts," "Poetry Contest Drafts," and such were simply too numerous, and I had no desire to look at any of them. I was struck seeing Third Rank Fujiwara and Yoshitsune writing things on the backs of scrap paper. One could say modern people are utterly lacking in piety on this point. Sōtatsu was an artist. He was a splendid painter. Whether Japanese or Western in origin, revisiting the classics proved laborious. I had nearly grown disappointed just from walking around the venue; my head felt tired as if filled with a bushel of sand. To appreciate the classics, we must first return our minds to a certain era - or if that phrasing seems improper, to that era's spirit. Since this intangible effort must be repeated for each work, the better the piece, the more one's mind tires. If it were bad, that itself would be disastrous. In contrast, modern works can at least be appreciated frankly through one's own feelings - if good, one can immediately grow excited; if bad, promptly discard them. Even when tiring one out, this fatigue stemmed solely from combustion between painting and appreciative effort - a peculiar sort of excitement.

Events like the "Famous Treasures Exhibition" should be held as infrequently as possible. In rotation. They should be exhibited at low admission fees. Otherwise, the core intent of widely disseminating these concealed "masterpieces" to the public will remain unfulfilled. Ah, Count Gotō Shinpei died about two days ago. *Kōkō* I have reread all of it; I must rewrite about four scenes entirely. But somehow I can manage it. I called "Hi" on the phone. I drank beer for the first time in a while. I will go to bed early again tonight.

April 15, 2589 [1929].

From tomorrow, I will begin revising *Nude*. May peace be upon me.

I had forgotten—yesterday, when going to Tokyo, I encountered a girl at Imai who closely resembled Sueko from Kitaura and Kiyoko from Azabu. Her lush, delicate lips strangely belonged to both Sueko and Kiyoko, while her small, narrow [at times glistening with moisture] gentle eyes were exactly Kiyoko’s own. Her eyebrows, often gently furrowed with subtle expressions, were Sueko’s; the entire face was astonishingly similar to both women. If I had to say which, she resembled Sueko more. She was short. Her hair was slightly brownish. She was carrying hand luggage with a woman who appeared to be her older sister—not particularly attractive—and was dressed in fine attire. They seemed to be setting out on a journey somewhere. At Imai, I boarded the train with them and rode both a car and a streetcar. About five times, steadily, with eyes resembling Sueko’s, she gave me a gaze reminiscent of Kiyoko’s. Where were they from, and where were they headed? I wondered, with a warm feeling—with a sense of love I hadn’t felt in a long time—about the sisters.

Today, invited by the Takanashi couple, I went to see the cherry blossoms at Shinozaki Embankment. The cherry blossoms were in full bloom. There weren’t many people out. On the grassland below the embankment, several groups of squalidly drunk men and women wrenched out their parched voices. An unpleasant affair. Today I will accomplish nothing and go to bed; tomorrow I will likely rise early and hurry with my revisions. The sixth-day moonlit night; the river lies still in the color of a silent night; the wind is a southerly one. It is warm. The voices of drunkards occasionally come from the direction of the embankment. May peace be upon me. (4/16)

I read Pierre Loti’s *Iceland Fisherman*. This was something I had seen at the cinema two or three years prior. Enveloped entirely in bluish cold mist, the modest romance between Yan and Goad unfolded beneath ceaseless winds that rustled through the air. The grassland on the slope of a cliff overlooking vast Paimpol Bay—there Yan and Goad met. At that moment they exchanged a silent nod and parted ways amid wind-swayed grasses. That single scene never left my mind. That my heart became drawn to fishermen’s lives—it would be fair to say this work indeed formed one origin of that inclination.

Having read the original work this time, I felt its excellence even more strongly. *Iceland Fisherman* is a fine work of art. If I can get the money, I want by all means to travel to the northernmost regions of Hokkaido. Ah, it was a good day. May peace be upon Loti’s spirit.

Today I did nothing again. It was a quiet, warm day. I went to the doctor for a sailor named Kōho who was ill. I walked around Oki with Boss. The embankment was fully in spring, and the bush clovers were in full bloom. In the evening, two sailors had a fierce quarrel aboard a steamship. One of them, a sailor named Yoshikō, wielded a long pole called a Hakka—a tool with a pickaxe head at its tip—in an attempt to bash the other to death, but failed; it was an intensely murderous scene.

Tonight was the seventh-day waxing moon, a hazy night. Let me sleep quietly and simply. I had been engrossed in travel talk with the Takanashi couple until now. It was a windless, silent night. May there be good dreams; O God, let Your will be done.

(2589, 4, 17)

Natsu contributed to *Modern Life* magazine as a member and vigorously published new works. O·KI began contributing to Kikuchi Kan’s magazine and started gaining recognition. I·SHI contributed to *Creative Monthly* magazine and published works monthly. And I—with thirteen sen now in my pocket— ate brown rice once a day, boiled wild plants while eating them, still alone and putting on airs, wrote manuscripts that wouldn’t earn money.

Father suffers from chronic neuralgia.

Younger brother had severe beriberi. I no longer had any books to sell, In Kobikichō, of course, they wouldn’t lend money, And I myself, was writing manuscripts that wouldn’t earn money, the value of my work When I tried to doubt I was engaged in work that was too serious,

I want money. I want money enough to eat, (1928, 4/17)

My heart was heavy． I had no energy． Rain fell． The day had been cold． From thirteen sen in my possession，eight went toward fried food and five for the bathhouse． Now I stood penniless． Driven by unbearable hunger，I trudged through rain to Takanashi’s house seeking a loan—only to find him already abed． My spirit felt flattened like pulped paper，utterly untrustworthy． That ceaseless whisper of chill rain proved most intolerable—its hushed patter slicing through silence． No hope remained．Nothing． Not even coins enough to respond to my ailing brother’s letter． Sleep then． Beyond this surrender，no recourse existed． Attempted revisions on “Nude” left me crafting tin trinkets—no spark touching heart’s core． Only restlessness floated there—shallow，disquieting，vile． Abandon it． Sleep．

(1928, 4, 18)

Lie down hungry， chilled by the spring night’s rain． Spring cold—lying down hungry，the chill in my feet [18]． Fairy Tale “Me and the Tree Frog” I wrote “Me and the Tree Frog．” I submitted it to Chūgai Shōgyō． Today was slightly chilly and remained cloudy throughout，making for a dreary day． I borrowed money at Takanashi’s and drank sake with tempura． I talked all night at Takanashi’s． Tome-san was deceived by that woman from Itako and set up a household． The notification for that manuscript that was supposed to earn money still hadn’t come． It probably wouldn’t work out． Let it be however it turned out． No matter what anyone did，I wouldn’t lose． I was gradually regaining my energy，somehow． It was 1 AM then．I would sleep． There would be good dreams．Tomorrow，I would work． The charcoal ran out．

(19)

Today was another day of rain throughout. During the day, I braved the rain and went to pick field horsetails in the 'Open' area. The cherry trees, the willows, and the poplars were all coming into young leaf. I accomplished nothing again today. But my energy was gradually returning. I thought I should be able to manage to get down to work somehow. Tonight again, I talked late into the night at Takanashi’s house. I would sleep.

(4, 20)

With rice scarce and spring cold, I cooked gruel by lamplight.

The sound of scraping the rice tub’s bottom, and spring rain.

Lonely rain—again today, a man picked edible greens [20]

Today was a violent storm. During the day, steamship navigation halted. The water rose—submerging parts of embankments in Kasai Village. In moats too, water reached under floors. Terrible waves formed on the river. They crashed against this shore with loud splashes. By evening it calmed. The moon emerged with no breeze. The river became flat as a mirror—utter stillness after the storm. At night I wrote a money-making manuscript. I’ll try taking it to Hakubunkan tomorrow. If only it could turn into cash. Today with no charcoal I survived on bread. A bit cold. It’s midnight now. Takanashi visited moments ago. Time to sleep. No complaints. Want sake. That’s all.

I'll sleep. Will there be any good dreams?

(4, 21)

Spring shows no mercy—the poor man cooks his vegetable gruel [21]

Today I went to Tokyo. At Hakubunkan, they rejected the manuscript. But Iguchi was kind to me. I also stopped by Kobikichō. Everyone treated me kindly. They’re all such good people. I met Hi. “My wife’s sister’s husband’s brother had died,” he said with a laugh. After being treated to tempura and drinks, we parted. After returning, I visited Takanashi. Everyone is truly such good people; I will reform my life. The wind picked up again. It’s a beautiful moonlit night. (4, 22)

Today I revised fifteen pages. A letter came from Ishii Shinji. It was an invitation to the wife’s home in Ōfuna. I sent a letter of refusal. I couldn’t go because I had no money. If only I had money, nothing would have pleased me more lately than this invitation. In the evening, Takanashi came and invited me to see a comedy. Thanks to Takanashi’s treat, I saw it. There was no wind. It was a beautiful moonlit night. (4,23)

I borrowed money from Takanashi. I am grateful. I am grateful to both Takanashi and his wife. Today was a day of hunger. I mustn't starve. I can't work or do anything. After all, to undertake significant work, one’s food, clothing, and shelter must be adequately secured.

I did not work. I drank alcohol. That's quite a contradiction. A letter came from my younger brother. Fortunately, he was exempted with Class 2B in the conscription examination. I'll start tomorrow. I will work. (24)

If you want water to flow The one who would make it flow Must dig lower than where the water lies

I must dig.

“Flow!”

Merely saying

The water does not flow. [24]

Focus unwaveringly, ceaselessly. Probe deep and sharp. From one to two, two to three— Like unwinding a silken cocoon Keep spinning steadily.—If

If I still couldn’t write even then— Just go to sleep. [24]

For the one who does this work,

Wealth, ease, fame— No love. Endless poverty and an insatiable creative desire—these alone exist.

Do you know? [25]

I talked late into the night at Takanashi's house. I was treated to drinks at Edo River Tei. I revised about ten pages. It's now 2:30 AM. I'll sleep.

I will live a true life. I will work.

(1928, 4, 25) Takanashi’s wife needed to undergo nasal surgery for sinusitis and treated me to mackerel miso pickle. I revised ten pages. Today was stormy all day. When night came, a fierce downpour joined it. Around ten o'clock, Takanashi came to visit. The electric lights went out, and Urayasu lay in darkness beneath the storm. I was writing by candlelight. I’ll go to sleep now. May Takanashi’s wife’s illness be mild. The wind remained terrible. It was now 1 AM. (26)

Today I revised twenty-five pages. During the day I went out to the sea and gathered shells. As I dug absentmindedly, ark shells, saxidomus clams, surf clams and hard clams kept emerging beneath my hands. Delighted with my haul, I was engrossed in collecting them when suddenly an imposing brute appeared blaring something like a tofu peddler's horn. About one chō offshore from my spot, men were fishing for small fish using a contraption called a korogashi. The brute kept blaring that horn-like device while roaring savagely: “You bastard! Keep working there and I’ll come beat you senseless by boat—get out! Head west!” Having grown somewhat exasperated myself, I respectfully approached him and inquired: “Might I be permitted to gather shells here?” The brute abruptly turned his rugged sunburnt face toward me and barked imperiously: “What damn shells you collecting?” When I replied “Various kinds,” he practically shouted “Show me!” before marching over to my spot. Upon seeing the ark shells and saxidomus clams, he roughly grabbed them and began scattering them everywhere. It was truly a “Shell Purge.” “Take stuff like this here and you’re in deep trouble [regrettably he never explained what exactly constituted ‘deep trouble’].” “You can take these hulking Ōnokai—tastiest goddamn shellfish around here—since you clearly don’t know shit. I’ll let it slide today.” Having thus intimidated me, the brute softened his tone slightly before departing with flattering advice: “Ōnokai’s prime eating now—grab all you want!” With no alternative, I gathered those bulky shells with a thud and headed home. I planned to eat them tomorrow. People say they’re vile—apparently like chewing dried squid.

Takanashi invited me for dinner. I was treated to simmered potatoes. It is now 4:30 AM. I'll take a short walk and then sleep.

I received a letter from my younger brother. (1928, 4, 27)

O man who seeks fortune,

Though you have done only three things,

While you hope for ten results, Fortune will never come.

O man who seeks fortune, For you to obtain two results, If you do ten things, then surely— Fortune will come! [27] Even in poverty,

Even if I fall behind friends advancing in the world

True work—

I work steadily— this strength— how termites gnaw through the central pillar to hollow it out— I know.

(28) I boiled and ate Ōnokai clams. I revised eighteen pages. Today was bustling with tide-gathering visitors. Over trivial matters, I am terribly agitated. I despise myself; Sanjūroku Shimizu of 2589-4-28 is a foolish greedy man. Let people pass by, spitting on the canal’s surface. It is now 2 AM. I drank beer and went to bed. Tomorrow will bring another good day, perhaps. I will reform my life. I will do true work. Now I fear nothing that may come. I will not break. If a stone crushes me, I will absorb even that stone as nourishment. Sanjūroku Shimizu is one such plant. May there be peaceful sleep. Tranquil night. It's a fine calm. May there be blessings upon the earth.

(4, 28)

I finished revising. A letter came from Ishii Shinji—he said he would come on the 12th, but I didn't know if I would still be in Urayasu by then. I went to Takanashi's and was treated to dinner; it was "bamboo shoot rice." The day was cold. Today was Tenchōsetsu. (29)

In the spring-chilling rain, I washed brown rice.

A five-foot man sleeps hungry; spring chill. [29] About five hundred yen came in. Today during the day, I went to the main house of the Takanashi family and viewed their collection of calligraphies and paintings. This I will record in detail separately. The mind is at peace.

That receiving a trifling sum could so transform one's state of mind struck me as laughable. I shall sleep.

(30)

I went to Tokyo. The master of Kobikichō said cheerfully, “Sanjūroku, you don’t have to eat brown rice anymore, I tell you.” He looked truly pleased. Everyone was pleased for me. I called Hikoyama and waited at the Kyōbashi intersection for about an hour at the appointed time, but ultimately did not meet him. After returning, I drank sake at Tentetsu and then had beer with everyone at Takanashi’s. It is now twelve o'clock; I am exhausted. I'll go to sleep.

(5, 1)

Because money came in, my feet floated off the ground. How foolish. I thought poverty was noble. I am reading Hayama Yoshiki’s "People of the Sea." Good. This must be considered. My own state of mind remains unchanged. The thing called Yotoboshi began. By the light of kerosene lamps, they walked through the rice paddies, spearing loaches. The swaying red lights scattered here and there were romantic. Tomorrow I go to Tokyo to collect money. From yesterday through today, I spent fifteen yen. You fool. Such a wretch deserves to be kept forever at the bottom of poverty. (5,2)

I drank yesterday; I drank today. I wrote "Kōchie" for the Chū-Shō Shinpō. I had not yet started on "Kōkō". I was constantly thinking about travel. The rain continued. Two or three days prior, the Duke of Gloucester had come from Britain to present the Order of the Garter. That day, a Japan-Britain Friendship Music Concert was held at Hibiya Park. A man named Adachi from C.S.社 labeled me a literary youth; this angered me. I was young—if this was how I lived, I might indeed be a literary youth. I wanted to work. It was now eleven-thirty. I would sleep. I felt cold.

(5, 4)

The day before yesterday, I met with "Hi". At "Asa," I drank sake. After parting ways, I went to Matsudo. I visited "Seki's" house. Yesterday I walked from Matsudo to Ichikawa, then came to Yawata, and returned by automobile. Today I slept until noon; the fatigue hadn’t completely lifted. I did nothing. I drew a picture. [I had started ink painting this time.] It was now twelve o'clock. I would sleep. Tomorrow I planned to start working. Now I would sleep.

(1928, 5, 8)

The first mosquito that comes to thin shins goes unswatted [5, 11].

On the 10th, I went to Kobikichō and stayed there. On the 11th, I visited Aoe and stayed there. On the 12th, I visited Ishii Shinji. His wife, having recovered from her illness, was beautifully graceful. Then I visited my father and stayed there.

In Urayasu Town (at the embankment house)

Yesterday I moved to the embankment house. A bright and well-ventilated house. My mind remains unsettled. The rain continues to fall. (5, 16)

Today I went to Tokyo. I saw the Kokuten exhibition. There were some good pieces. I was troubled by the vulgar paintings of Kōno Michisei and his disciples. Bad things are fashionable. I wasn't particularly impressed with Umemura Ryūzaburō either. Mushanokōji had three works displayed. The portrait of Senke stood out. Both the nude and Mishima Nisshun's statue were poor. They lacked refinement. To be blunt, it was an embarrassing painting. The works from Kōno Michisei's school were utterly dreadful. I stopped by Kobikichō. Mrs. Kanda had come. Her voice so strongly resembled that of Kobikichō's wife that I felt nostalgic. I will leave Tokyo tomorrow to journey to Hokkaido. I should gain something from this. I plan to go from Nemuro toward Abashiri. It's a quiet night. O God.

I give thanks for today's bread and well-being; you are worthy of praise. May there be good dreams.

(1928, 5, 17)

Today I returned from my journey. The long journey spanning twenty days had ended; now I was utterly exhausted. I ached with longing for Obun-san of Nemuro—it was just like that time when I first visited Suma, nestled in Suko’s warm embrace, then returned to the capital and wandered about like a fool, unbearably lonely. Obun-san was a good girl. I intended to write about the journey separately. (6, 6) I returned to my work. I had indulged myself considerably. Now I could sit calmly at my desk. During this time, the cabinet had changed. Tanaka had finally resigned, and Hamaguchi succeeded him. I hadn’t met Ishii Shinji for some time. At the beginning of the month, I had been afflicted with a cold and was hospitalized at the Ishii hospital in Urayasu. I had fully recovered now; some sputum came out. Tonight I would sleep early. From now on, I would go to bed early and rise early. I read nothing; I only read nonsense. I would begin work on Autumn Wind Chronicle and Kōkō. (1928, 7, 10)

"I am writing Autumn Wind Chronicle." Poverty has returned again. I swim every day. My lungs seem affected. So I take sunbaths. I cannot get nutrients. Because there is no money. Interactions with people remain nonexistent. Lonely. My mind grows heavy all too often. No word from Ishii. I will regain health. I want to obtain money and journey again.

(1928, 7, 24)

1928, 8, 3: I called on Ono Kinjirō at the Yomiuri Shimbun office. I found myself crying. “It’s good… It’s so good…” Kinjirō kept saying, refusing to release the hand I’d grasped. “We’ll never fight again in our lives.” My agonizingly lonely life had ended. From tonight my spirit would finally find ease—at last, the true work begins.

(8, 4) “Donkey: A Chronicle” I was writing. That day saw a tremendous thunderstorm from evening onward—a rare sight. The thunder still raged violently; beautiful lightning bolts darted across the vast sky in all directions. I wrote a letter to Ishii. The money ran out. My body had recovered health. When I grew weary from writing, I played the guitar to rest my mind. The work would probably proceed smoothly. (1928, 8, 13) “Donkey: A Chronicle” I was writing; it seemed to be going well.

Today, a chilly wind lingered from yesterday’s storm.

Urayasu was in the midst of Obon; it seemed the Bon dance had begun around the moat.The roar of songs drifted over rice fields; young men and women likely heading to dance along embankment sang as they went.The sound of frogs was also pleasant.May young people find fortune.No word from Iguchi.What could Ishii have been up to?Sandfish came up river;autumn is near.“Autumn Wind Chronicle”I intended keep writing.“I want work on 'Kōkō' soon well.”(8/13)

Rumors of melon thieves; the wind turns cold.

Sandfish ascend the river; lanterns drift upon the waters. The eggplant refuses to swell—sickness; the bride's brows sit unkempt.

Sake by the lamp; a grasshopper comes but does not sing.

Selling books to buy no sake—autumn wind [13]

With about forty yen having come in, I crossed Sasago Pass with Ono. I walked from Hatsukano to Saruhashi. In Hatsukari, I saw my great-uncle Midō’s Kogasawara. (17–18)

The Graf Zeppelin arrived from Germany. (19)

There's no money. (20)

There's no money. There's no money. The revisions for Kōkō were progressing smoothly. Yesterday I sold books; this payment of 1 yen and 80 sen—pathetic. Today some petty ruffians from the village came selling crucian carp—they wrung twenty sen from me. I can't pay the rent. Growing smaller—how laughable. (31)

I was writing Kōkō. That day I revised scenes six through nine and began scene ten—it was nearly finished. The morning had brought quiet rain. Urayasu bustled with a crab bonanza. A letter came from Father—he too was struggling with money. What should I do? Seven sen remained; I planned to walk to Tokyo on the seventh. I was finally pushed to the brink. (9,5)

"Kōkō" Act Five completed, September 6th, 4:00 PM.

It was cloudy.

The river ran with an earth-toned murkiness; the water overflowed; a flood might occur at any moment. Parts of Kasai Village were still submerged. Now I'm drunk. Time to sleep.

(9, 12)

All plans were ruined. I fled Urayasu like an otter; many jeers would be hurled at my back.

Minding the rain-threatening sky from afternoon onward, I descended along the embankment and wandered from offshore Benten Shrine through the moats, Egawa, and Nekozane. In the rivers and canals, children scooped up crucian carp; along the main river, people stood lining up to fish for sand sharks. The rice had ripened, nori-drying racks were built across the paddies. With a light heart I completed my circuit—this was my farewell.

Ono Kinjirō’s wife was suffering from a chest illness. I would return to Yokohama and begin anew. (9, 20)