Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Hagiwara Sakutarō

1

On July 25th, I was staying at the Ochiai Ryokan in Yunohana Onsen.
When I sat down to breakfast, the maid asked in a casual manner.

"Do you know a novelist called Akutagawa?"

"Yeah, I know."
"What about it?"

"He committed suicide."

"What?"

I asked back in shock.
Suicide? Akutagawa Ryūnosuke? An impossibility!
Yet strangely, I sensed an undeniable certainty at the foundation of this report.
I ordered the maid to fetch the newspaper for confirmation.
But even before seeing it, some abnormal instinctual intuition had already affirmed the incident beyond doubt.

Something—an inexplicable anxious restlessness and an ashen terror-like emotion—raced like fire through all my nerves.
He—that very he with whom I'd conversed so intimately mere days before his planned journey—had truly killed himself.
What unforeseen calamity! What a thunderclap from clear skies!
Rather, I felt as though tormented by some preposterous dream.
Yet in one corner of my heart, it had been subconsciously anticipated; within some shadow of unaware consciousness, I felt I'd brushed against something clandestine.

"He did it!"

When I saw the newspaper photograph, I bit my lip and let out a low moan, my heart filled with grief.
I grew distressed—terrified even.
My brain suddenly became congested and I could no longer think of anything.
Somehow I thought this was a tremendous incident.
I thought this was no time to remain still.
And like a sleepwalker I stood up and made my way at a half-run to the inn upstream.
At that inn (Yumotokan) were staying Mr. Ozaki Shirō and his wife.
Mr. Ozaki was surprised, stood dumbfounded, then struck by intense emotion rose to his feet.
Recently Mr. Ozaki had come to know much about Mr. Akutagawa's character through me.

2

Why did Akutagawa Ryūnosuke commit suicide?
What was the true cause of the suicide?
Upon reflection, there were various complicated circumstances at play.
The deceased's many friends would likely express their respective opinions from differing viewpoints.
Speaking of myself, I was one of his many friends—indeed he had associated with many friends—and yet our friendship remained new, we being the least acquainted with each other.
And yet, the sole right I had to speak about him lay in the fact that among all his friends, I was the newest—the most recent.

In referring to this "newest friend," I ascribe particular significance to the term. For in his recent style, one could observe a remarkable transformation and leap. And this psychological tendency frequently hinted at a resonance with my own sensibilities. Why he—that literary titan Mr. Akutagawa Ryūnosuke—had shown special favor and friendship—at times even excessive respect—toward a poet of no talent or renown like myself was something I could only now comprehend.

3

Mr. Muroō Saisei was the closest friend of the deceased in recent times.
The friendship between Mr. Muroō and Mr. Akutagawa truly resembled what Confucius called "the friendship of noble men," bound together through mutual reverence for each other's character, humility and propriety, and admiration of virtue.
From Mr. Muroō's perspective, Mr. Akutagawa—a cultured gentleman embodying propriety, rich in education and erudition—must have manifested the supreme ideal of human virtue as a hero; conversely, through Mr. Akutagawa's eyes, Mr. Muroō—by nature unrefined and unbound by decorum, a natural child of direct emotion and action—would have appeared as a hero worthy of astonishment.
In other words, the friendship between these two was a quintessential example of what might be called "opposing personalities" bringing people together.

The friendship between myself and Mr. Akutagawa was even newer than that with Mr. Muroō, spanning only these past three years.
Before writing about the cause of Mr. Akutagawa's death, I wished to recollect the memorable fellowship we shared during those brief years.

4

When I was living in Tabata, one day a long-haired, emaciated man suddenly came to visit.

“I am Akutagawa.”
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

With these words, he offered a deep bow.
I had originally been meant to call upon him together with Mr. Muroō, and so found myself flustered by this unexpected visit—yet returned his courtesy with due formality.
What compounded my discomfiture was discovering, upon straightening up, that my visitor’s forehead still grazed the tatami.
In haste I supplemented my initial obeisance.
And thought:
Could one of my studentish manners ever hope to maintain relations with such a man?
A faint unease took root within me.

However, the astute visitor immediately perceived my unease.
When he saw my flustered and confused state, he immediately changed his attitude, suddenly adopting an easygoing and casual tone as he spoke unreservedly in his student-like manner.
From that time onward, I found myself overwhelmed by Akutagawa-kun.
At the very least, I felt overwhelmed by interactions with someone more skilled than myself, and was driven into a sort of rebellious mood.
And this servile rebelliousness persisted right until the very end, even in our subsequent interactions.
I always stiffened my shoulders before him, deliberately refusing to be bested.
(How miserable and foolish a wretch I was!)

5

When I visited him, he already knew everything I had intended to express. At that time, I was deeply tormented by ideological and artistic matters. I attempted to discuss them. But Akutagawa-kun, with his characteristic astuteness, had already foreseen this; before I could even open my mouth, he preemptively initiated the conversation. And with his signature wealth of topics, he would relate the discussion to what I was contemplating and agonizing over; then in conclusion, he would subtly steer me toward being inspired, consoled, and imbued with courage and strength.

Yet this too left me dissatisfied. For in Akutagawa-kun’s attitude, I sensed the lessons and pity that a senior shows to a junior. If Akutagawa-kun were truly my kindred spirit and fellow sufferer, then our conversations should have exchanged the handshake of close friends in the depths of our souls. Yet Akutagawa-kun’s attitude placed himself on a higher plane somewhere, viewing people through mere intellectual cleverness. Therefore, that sympathy could only be pity and insult.

This again never failed to stir up my rebellious spirit. The awareness that he—occupying the junior position—might be showing disrespect toward me, his senior, deliberately made me square my shoulders in his presence. More than anything, I detested his "cleverness." That he was merely clever—nothing beyond clever—constituted my dissatisfaction with Akutagawa-kun.

Ah! Yet today, how could I have been nothing but a blind fool! It was only much later that I finally began to understand Akutagawa-kun's true character, bit by bit.

6

Akutagawa-kun possessed an astute understanding of poetry as well.
He had thoroughly read through the poems of gentlemen such as Satō Haruo, Muroō Saisei, Kitahara Hakushū, Senke Motomaro, Takamura Kōtarō, Hinatsu Kōnosuke, and Satō Sōnosuke with faithful diligence.
Not only that, but he had also widely surveyed the works of so-called newly rising poets such as Hori Tatsuo, Nakano Shigeharu, and Hagiwara Kyōjirō.

He frequently held forth on the poetry world and offered critiques of verse.
And his discernment nearly always struck true.
In this impartial comprehension and judgment, he rivaled the most refined appreciations within poetic circles.
Akutagawa-kun would often voice opinions about my older poems and identify shortcomings in their expressive techniques.
He always declared to me without hesitation:
“Your poetry is unfinished art.”
And I acquiesced to this.
For through his critiques, my verse appeared before me as something truly riddled with defects.

7

One morning, having unusually risen early and begun tidying my bedding, I was unexpectedly visited by Akutagawa-kun who jumped into the room. The reason I used the word "jumped in" here is that it was truly meant literally. That very morning, he came to visit like a gust of wind and suddenly dashed up the ladder to the second floor. Always so polite, always exchanging courteous greetings with the household staff, Akutagawa-kun on this day alone barged briskly into my study without waiting for an usher’s guidance.

I felt somewhat suspicious.
This demeanor was entirely different from Akutagawa-kun's usual gentlemanly manner.
Moreover, for Akutagawa-kun to visit someone this early in the morning was unprecedented behavior.
I wondered what had occurred.

“In bed—just now, in bed—I have been reading your poetry.”

As soon as he saw my face, Akutagawa-kun began speaking without even offering a greeting.
Then realizing this, he offered an excuse.

"Ah, my apologies—I'm still in my nightclothes."

Indeed, when I looked, he was wearing nightclothes.
Then to me standing there flustered, he boldly began recounting the following matters.
That morning, he had been in bed as usual and looked through the mail piled by his pillow.
Among it was the poetry magazine *Nihon Shijin* (*Japanese Poet*) sent by the Shiwakai; as he read through from the beginning, he came upon my short piece titled *"Hometown Landscape Poems."*
It was a work that sang of scenes from my hometown—several impassioned pieces filled with pent-up resentment and rancor—yet as he read through those poems, an irrepressible surge of grievous emotion welled up within him until he could no longer contain his heart's agitation.
Thereupon he had abruptly kicked off the bedding and rushed straight to my place, he explained.
After saying this, he apologized for visiting in his nightclothes without washing his face or changing out of sleepwear.

This impassioned account filled me with profound delight.
That my trivial work could impart such visceral excitement to a strict critic like Akutagawa-kun was indeed an event of extraordinary significance.
I was deeply moved and rejoiced.
But at the same time, some peculiar doubt that failed to fully convince me began to sprout anew from the depths of my heart.

Regarding our poetry—regarding the poetry of the new literary circles—that Akutagawa-kun possessed an astute understanding and insight was, as previously mentioned, something I had always admired.
(Within literary circles, those who understood our free verse were limited to Muroō Saisei and Satō Haruo—poet-novelists—with Akutagawa Ryūnosuke being truly the sole exception.) In most cases, his critiques of poetry were correct.
I had always admired those "critiques."
However, his critical attitude was always remarkably objective.
Above all, he expressed opinions on the expressive effects of poetry.
Just as the critique of a novel’s value depends on the skill of its depiction (expression), so too did he seek the same effectiveness of depiction—that is, expressive technique—in poetry.
In other words, his critical stance was purely appreciative, intellectual, and an aesthetic contemplation devoid of subjectivity.

Therefore, I was always thinking about Akutagawa-kun. In short, he was an astute "connoisseur of poetry." Regarding which were good poems and which were bad, he correctly discerned and critiqued. However, that was all. He himself possessed no poetry. He himself was not a poet. Therefore, all poetry was for him merely "something to be criticized" and in no way "something to be moved by." Just as those so-called theater connoisseurs held interest toward drama merely to "critique" the art rather than truly enjoying or being moved by it like general audiences did. He himself remained outside the drama, objectively viewing it—nothing more than what was called a "critic." And from this point, I distinguished him from Muroō-kun and Satō Haruo-kun—those who were undoubtedly poets. They were connoisseurs of poetry and, at the same time, writers who themselves possessed poetry.—I distinguished them as such.

This interpretation of mine had begun to waver from that morning's incident. How could someone devoid of poetic sensibility in their very soul be moved to tears so subjectively by another's verse? On this day, Akutagawa-kun—burning with fervor—stood transformed from his customary role as an analytical aesthete into a true "poet drowning in poetry," having cast aside all critical detachment. I witnessed in his eyes a poetic passion I had never before encountered. And thus arose an insoluble doubt regarding this perplexing figure—a "mysterious enigma" charged with dreadful significance that would remain beyond my full comprehension even until the eve of his suicide.

8

Since that incident, my view of Akutagawa-kun had undergone new fluctuations and changes.
What manner of strange passion was spewing fire within the viscera of this man—known to all as a "man of intellect" and a "man of refined propriety"—after all?
The flame of that passion seemed to burn like hell's sulfur somewhere deep within the earth's crust.
My interest in my new friend was driven by friendship's ADVENTURE to explore its secret essence.

However, fate unfortunately drove us apart.
After that incident, before long, our family left Tabata and relocated to Kamakura.
And from the separation of distance, our friendship naturally grew distant.
Nevertheless, I still endeavored to perceive "the true Akutagawa-kun" and "Akutagawa-kun as a poet" through his works.
I read the monthly magazines.
And yet, the result left me dissatisfied.
In the works that emerged, Akutagawa Ryūnosuke remained a calm "man of reason," nothing more than an intellectual rich in common-sense judgment.
He saw through all true reality of nature with his transparent intellect.
But his glasses were always merely plain glass.
No shadow of anything could cloud his contemplation.
However, he merely "saw" it.
And he did not “feel.”
Therefore, the clearer his contemplation became, the more pronounced grew the absence of shadows in those transparent lenses.

Naturally, I was dissatisfied with such literature. As a subjectivist—and therefore a Romanticist—in literature, my position disapproved of Akutagawa-kun’s “all too literary” and “all too contemplative” attitude. Within my linguistic framework, the term “poetry” inherently connotes subjectivity. Therefore, literature devoid of subjectivity was not “poetry” in my definition; moreover, from my artistic standpoint, it had to occupy a position diametrically opposed and hostile. And Akutagawa-kun’s literature was precisely my enemy in this regard—and moreover the most formidable enemy, so formidable an enemy that one could feel the greatest honor in battling it. It was felt as such. Particularly his aphoristic writings (The Words of a Dwarf) published monthly in Bungei Shunju were malicious sarcasm typical of clever wordplay for wit’s sake—I could not help but feel dissatisfaction bordering on revulsion.

However, strangely enough, I always dedicated this contrary affection to the same author. For within him lay precisely the kind of "freshness" and uniquely sharp "sensitivity" that our poetry sought, and one could see an inexplicable acuity of nerves swimming amidst that vibrant language. Indeed, in today’s decrepit—excessively senescent and decaying—established literary world of Japan, one such as Akutagawa-kun who was “filled with youth”—there are no writers. Are there any other works filled with such poetic youth as his literary works? If one were to consider the word "poetry" as "the youth of the soul," then at the very least, Akutagawa-kun was a poet. (In actuality, a poet is an eternal adolescent in spirit. Akutagawa-kun himself says this same thing.)

Akutagawa-kun's literature was not only excessively literary but also remarkably marked by its boyishness—indeed, it stood out precisely in being boyish.
That today's new Japanese poetry world shares Akutagawa-kun's sensibilities lies entirely in this single point.
And the reason why established masters other than Akutagawa-kun do not engage with our new poetry also resides precisely here.
Indeed, Akutagawa-kun's literature was one of boyish restraint.
Just as his countenance suggested, there danced within it an utterly fresh, unparalleled sensation—childlike, vigorous, yearning for anything new or foreign.

Therefore, Akutagawa-kun was to me on one hand an "enemy," while simultaneously being on another hand a "beloved." If I were to alter my linguistic definition of "poetry," he would undoubtedly have been a poet—and indeed, a poet of the most youthful era. Yet I remained stubborn. The most subtle instinct within me obstinately insisted that he was not a poet, and therefore that his works were unsatisfactory.

9

It was during my stay in Kamakura that I visited Akutagawa-kun at the Higashi residence in Kugenuma by the sea, where he lay bedridden. Reduced to skin and bones from severe neurasthenia and hemorrhoids, Akutagawa-kun nevertheless conversed cheerfully. Strangely, I remember every word from that time. The patient sat up in bed and recounted the nearly invariably tragic ends of many geniuses. Through harrowing anecdotes, he affirmed that "if one is truly a genius, his life must inevitably be tragic." Then he revealed an even more anguished self beneath—speaking of his desire to cast off all worldly ties and emigrate to the distant reaches of South America.

Such conversations of Akutagawa-kun were imbued with an abnormally sorrowful air.
I often sensed in his works a kind of spectral aura—the very sense of pathos embodied by the Chinese character for "ghost" (鬼).
Indeed, I saw this spectral countenance everywhere:
in his appearance and demeanor,
in his unique script and calligraphy,
and above all within his works and conversations.

At that time—possessed by severe melancholic pessimism—I found myself in complete agreement with him on every essential point of our conversations, feeling a bond of kindred spirits.
But I could not clearly ascertain where the true cause of his pessimism lay.
I thought that probably the despair-inducing illness and the resulting decline in creative power were the main factors.
Moreover, I considered it might also stem from his characteristic consideration—born from that renowned cleverness in seeing through people’s hearts—that he happened to harmonize with me.
Indeed, this single misgiving had been rooted deeply within my breast from our very first acquaintance.
He conversed with everyone by matching his tone through all his cleverness.
But once that guest had left, he would nonchalantly stick out a sarcastic tongue.
And with the cold objectivity characteristic of a novelist, he observed how foolish the other person was and how they were driven by idiotic excitement.

This thought was indeed unpleasant.
But even toward Mr. Tanizaki Jun'ichirō, whom I had once befriended in Ikaho, I could not remain without harboring somewhat similar suspicions.
Indeed, I associated with no literary figures besides Muroō Saisei, and especially when it came to novelists, I belonged to a wholly unknown realm.
Novelists—all novelists—were to me “humans from the stars.”
They were.
Interacting with them was, for me, an observation of a different universe.
We poets among ourselves were all simple enthusiasts, possessing almost no objective insight.
Poets were always intoxicated, speaking only from the subjective realm of their drunkenness.
Yet novelists were always objective in all matters, possessing a calm eye for observation.
Therefore, when conversing with novelists, I sensed an atmosphere completely different from our club—one frozen to the point of ruthless coldness.
That different atmosphere, with its malicious eye of observation, stared intently at my drunken state.
There, precisely as a drunken person among those not drunk became aware of their antics being maliciously observed, an unpleasant self-consciousness arose.

When facing Akutagawa-kun, I always intuitively sensed such discomfort—the discomfort of being observed—in the subtle corners of my instinct. And so I often thought of him as a "spitefully sarcastic person." However, this was nothing more than my misinterpretation—I, who knew nothing about novelists—of the novelistic instinct (observational instinct) that had become a general habit, mistakenly applied to my first encounters with Mr. Tanizaki and Mr. Akutagawa. They were by no means engaging in such malicious observation. It was simply that their attitude—that novelistic attitude which had become a professional habit—merely impressed upon us people of a different world a certain cold, sober observational-instinct.

The conversation had digressed to incidental matters, but at the final moment of parting, he repeated the following words with an impressively ironic tone that seemed to retract everything previously stated.

“But anything said by pessimists who don’t kill themselves is bound to be lies!”

Then he laughed and said.

"You and I are both just fake pessimists anyway."

10

Akutagawa Ryūnosuke had increasingly become to me an inexplicable enigma—or rather, a mystical figure. He could appear as someone filled with empathy and friendship—a person to be loved and cherished—yet conversely gave the impression of being cold-hearted and spiteful. What proved most incomprehensible was how he could simultaneously be a man of supremely calm intellect while appearing as one whose inner being seethed with madness-like passion. Though a commonsensical person, he concealed within himself an astonishingly extraordinary anarchic instinctual sense. While his works presented themselves as overly commonsensical intellectual constructs—as clear-cut as two plus two equals four—they nevertheless mysteriously conveyed a spectral 'ghost' within certain hidden shadows of language.

Above all, his contradiction was that while being a "typical novelist" on one hand, he was a "typical poet" on the other.
And in my dictionary, the archetype of "novelist" and the archetype of "poet" belonged to utterly contradictory, incompatible antipodes.
Was he truly a poet?
Or did he belong to the so-called novelist category?

While I was parted from Akutagawa-kun, I repeatedly pondered this question.
And ultimately I arrived at the following definitive conclusion.

Akutagawa Ryūnosuke—he was a novelist ardently devoted to poetry.

Around that time, when I read his serialized essay "Literary, All Too Literary" in the pages of Kaizō magazine, this feeling grew increasingly profound.
In that essay, he persistently expounded on "poetry."
Of course, the poetry he meant was not formal poetry—lyric or narrative verse literature—but rather the essential quality that should underlie all literature, namely "poetic sentiment."
The meaning of "poetry" that I had frequently mentioned throughout this text was, of course, identical to this.
Anyone who read that essay of Akutagawa-kun’s, along with his many recent reflections, would know how desperately he argued that he was a pure admirer of poetry and that true literature could exist solely within the poetic.

Being unread, I did not know Akutagawa-kun's previous literary views. However, such profound engagement with poetry as seen recently—his yearning for the true spirit of the poetic and his near-penetration into the core of literary philosophy through it—was likely unprecedented. According to my conjecture, Akutagawa-kun had indeed reached a turning point. In all his past thoughts and emotions, there was a fundamental upheaval; one could sense his valiant yet tragic resolve to enter into a revolution of new life. And indeed, this revolution has manifested to some extent in his works as well—such as in that melancholy and nihilism-shadowed Kappa, and particularly in the recent heartrending masterpiece Spinning Gears.

However, I still harbored doubts about Akutagawa-kun's "poetry". For indeed Akutagawa-kun—according to my view—was nothing more than a typical novelist ardently devoted to poetry. To put it another way, he himself was not a poet, but belonged to a different literary category—one that strives to become a poet. To truly be called a poet, his works—with the exception of two or three pieces—are far too objective, rational, dispassionate, and commonsensical. When one looks at works like The Words of a Dwarf serialized in Bungei Shunju or what I call impressionistic prose-like short pieces, it makes one feel how the essence of his literature belongs to a temperament far removed from that of a poet. Moreover, Akutagawa-kun called himself a "poet" and insisted, "I create to perfect the poet within me."

This concept of Akutagawa-kun's undoubtedly contained an error in his view of poetry's essence.
At least in my convictions, my views on "poetry" diverge from Akutagawa-kun's.
Therefore, I resolved to find an appropriate opportunity someday to engage Akutagawa-kun in debate regarding this matter.
Around that time, there was a pipe-smoking gathering in Ueno hosted primarily by contributors to Roba magazine, with Muroō-kun and Akutagawa-kun as guests of honor.
I aimed for that opportunity.
But unfortunately, Akutagawa-kun was not able to attend, and on the return journey, I expounded my arguments at length to the Roba contributors.
"I do not believe poetry exists within Akutagawa-kun's art.
At times it possesses the most clever poetic expressions and poetic conceptions.
But it is inorganic matter.
It lacks a soul as living matter."
I publicly declared such things with considerable boldness.

11

Some time later, one night, Akutagawa-kun suddenly came to visit.
That night, unfortunately, there happened to be a large gathering at my place, so we were hardly able to speak.
Moreover, Akutagawa-kun was accompanied by a large group of young people, including Koana Ryūichi-kun and Hori Tatsuo-kun.
He left behind high-quality champagne wine as a gift and departed.
(Looking back now, this champagne was a memento from his lifetime.)

However, when Akutagawa-kun came to visit, he immediately shouted upon seeing my face.

"You said I'm not a poet, I hear."
"Why?"
"Let me hear the reason for that!"

Both his tone and bearing were ferocious.
Though the entrance stood dimly lit by electric light, the fury with which Akutagawa-kun advanced upon me as he spoke these words held truly dreadful force.
At that moment, his countenance had indeed transformed.
Irrepressible wrath burned through that combative tone.

An instant!
For but an instant—though truly just an instant—I shuddered without cause.
I felt the terror of some blade-like thing being coldly thrust into my chest.
Behind him stood many young stalwarts.
I thought they might all come lunging at me should matters turn dire.

“Revenge! He’s come for revenge!”
“He came here for revenge—damn him.”
Indeed, in that very instant, I conceived of it as such.

12

A few days later, this time I went to visit Akutagawa-kun myself.
He, who was conversing with a previous guest at that very moment, looked severely haggard.
His eyes somehow lacked vitality, appearing sadly worn.
But in my usual manner, disregarding his mood, I launched into an unceremoniously blunt discussion.
Gradually, within that exchange, his face began to show its customary bright vitality.
Never had I seen such boyishness in Akutagawa-kun's eyes nor such scholarly bearing in his demeanor as I did that day.
Indeed, within his sickly frame, he possessed a "valiant reserve of youth" overflowing with boundless energy.

After the previous guest had left, he repeated his sharp question from the previous day.

“You said I’m not a poet, didn’t you?”
“What’s the reason? Kindly explain it once more.”

But today he was very calm.
His voice had grown subdued, even somber.
Thereupon, I earnestly laid out my long-held thoughts.

"In short, you are the very model of a novelist."

When I delivered this conclusion, he shook his head sadly.

“You do not understand me. You don’t understand me at all. I am too much of a poet. I am not at all the typical novelist!”

After that, we engaged in prolonged debate about the essential differences between poetry and novels.
Finally I declared.
As I expounded my literary theories from my own position, Akutagawa-kun would ultimately come to stand at the enemy's arctic circle.
In our literary principles—regrettably—we were enemies.

"So... enemies?"
"I am your—"

With that, he smiled a lonely smile.

“On the contrary,”

And he continued further.

“I believe there’s no one in all the world as alike as you and I.”

“In terms of character... perhaps...”
“But our works are entirely different, aren’t they?”

“Different? Don’t be absurd!”
“They’re the same!”

“No— They’re different.”

We argued.
Yet ultimately, he grew weary of my obstinacy.
Then he spoke in a voice brimming with resentment.

“I understand you.
Moreover, you—you don’t understand me in the slightest.
No—
You don’t even try to understand.”

That day, he radiated profound sorrow in every aspect.
His very vocal tones carried deeply mournful reverberations.
He pleaded many things.
How intensely I yearn for anarchistic freedom.
In essential temperament, he was far more of an anarchist than I—the author—could ever be.
(Akutagawa-kun had published my critique in Mr. Shirakushi’s magazine Kindai Fūkei shortly before his death.
In that critique, he had labeled me a quintessential poetic anarchist.) Then came his desire to abandon wife and children and all domestic ties to join wandering nomads.
[His wish] to act freely and instinctively according to emotion, like Muroō Saisei-kun.
How he had pursued all such freedoms with desperate passion throughout his past.
And ultimately, in a voice heavy with melancholy, he entreated that nothing—no freedom whatsoever—remained for him but despair.

In the midst of hearing all these accounts, I grew tearfully sentimental.
And through all our past interactions, I became dimly aware—and was astonished—that a certain new discovery I had never before known lay hidden within the essence of this literary genius.
Truly, I had never before realized that Akutagawa-kun was such a genuine poetic enthusiast.
Foolishly, I had harbored petty suspicions regarding his "cleverness."
I suspected that he was deliberately aligning the topic of conversation with mine and engaging in insincere sentimental philosophizing about life just to speak with me.
More egregiously, I even imagined him as a sarcastic villain who would stick out his tongue after our conversations—a spiteful satirist.

How maddening—what an outrageous mistake I had made! Where can one find another soul as simple, as pure, as childishly uncompromising as Akutagawa-kun? From long before, the vague, inexplicable sense of admiration I had harbored toward this man resided precisely in this essential quality of his character. Now that I think of it, from the very beginning of our friendship, he had been pouring out his full-hearted passion to me with a pure and uncompromising heart, devoid of any pretension or affectation. Yet on my part, what base foolishness! I would puff up my chest unnecessarily, cast meaningless suspicious glances, and maintain absurd vigilance. When I received news of Akutagawa-kun’s death, I felt such shame before him that I could have bitten my tongue and died of mortification.

13

That night, I went out with Muroō Saisei-kun, and the three of us ate eel at a restaurant in Tabata.
At that time, Akutagawa-kun said,
“The friendship between Hagiwara-kun and myself is far more intimately compatible in character than my relationship with Muroō-kun.”
This remark of Akutagawa-kun’s seems to have somewhat wounded Saisei’s feelings.
When we parted ways on the return journey, Muroō, in his characteristically blunt manner, directed the following sarcasm at me:
“I absolutely detest people like you who try to court favor with two friends at once.”

“I absolutely detest fellows like you who straddle two heavens to visit friends.”

At that moment, something sorrowful flickered across Akutagawa-kun’s face.
Nevertheless, he remained silent and, wordlessly holding out an umbrella, accompanied me through the night rain to Tabata Station.
When I turned to look behind me, he stood alone dejectedly on the slope.
I grew lonely without reason and waved my hand in apology to him in the rain—and indeed, this became our final farewell.

14

Following this meeting, I immediately traveled to the hot springs of Izu.
And one morning, I received the unexpected news of the suicide.
My heart brimming with countless emotions, even now I find no words of mourning.
I imagine all friends of the deceased must share this same emotion.
However, my grief exists as something apart among those people.
For a truly long time, I had no true good friend with whom I could open my heart and speak.
The rare fortune of gaining Akutagawa-kun as a friend brought me, in my desolate and solitary life, truly immense joy and strength.

More than anything, Akutagawa-kun had understood me profoundly.
Moreover, he had tolerated all my selfishness and stubbornness.
(The reason I had no friends was this stubbornness and selfishness; even when I managed to grow close to someone, it would immediately lead to discord.) In this regard, Akutagawa-kun had always tolerated me, cared for me, and comforted me.
No matter what impertinent things I said, what logic I twisted, or how spitefully I lashed out, he would generously understand my sentiments and never once grow angry.
Truly, I felt resentful toward that tolerance, and at times felt anger at being pitied by him.
And in the end, I was fully satiated with even the pleasure of being cared for and indulged by him, of deliberately acting spoiled.
In other words, he was my most "beloved friend."
How lonely my life is without him!

When people lose one friend out of a hundred, the pain is slight. But to lose one from among only two or three friends is unbearable. I was taught by him, comforted by him, and through him gained a true understanding of art. With him dead, where could there be a second Akutagawa? Where now is there someone to critique my art, my poetry? Thus I, inherently lonely and unfortunate, will from this day onward grow ever more solitary and desolate.

O Fate!
I cannot help but cry out: Be accursed!

15

Now at last, I could form a definitive conclusion regarding Akutagawa-kun's suicide.
Of course, the reasons were entangled with various circumstances.
Yet according to what I believe, one of the "vague anxieties" in his suicide stemmed from feeling an indescribable exhaustion toward the impending psychological revolution within himself.
Truly, Akutagawa-kun's literary career had been a "battle against himself" staked on death.
It was.
He had desired freedom.
Or rather, he had craved Dionysian, uninhibited freedom.
Yet tragically, that freedom did not belong to his own cultivation.
His own cultivation remained rational in every aspect, commonsensical, courteous, and possessed the transparency of two plus two equals four.

The life of Akutagawa-kun.
It could be likened to the human tragedy of Zarathustra who sought to become an eagle yet fell.
In his suicide note, he satirized the philosopher who attempted to make himself a god.
Yet without becoming a god, who could truly and completely become master of oneself?
The true meaning of his literary view—that "my art exists to complete the poet within me"—comes to be understood only through this.
From one perspective, he was indeed a superhuman devotee of art for art’s sake.
Through suicide, he attempted to reach the realm of artistic perfection—the Zarathustra of beauty.
Yet another perspective simultaneously speaks of him as a fallen human tragedy.
How, as a human, did he suffer for the sake of "freedom through being overwhelmed by passion"?
Art—yes, art—was nothing more than a hypnotic for him.
(And ironically, that very hypnotic led him to death.)

16

All of his art, all of his expressions proved unsatisfactory to Akutagawa-kun himself.
What he had truly sought to write was not literature as hypnotic, but rather "poetry" in its essential sense—something pressing closer to life's raw immediacy.
Yet his cultivation and that crystalline intellect hindered his expression as a poet.
He rebelled against himself.
Enraged, he attempted a superhuman vault.
Works like Kappa, The Man of the West, Spinning Gears, and many recent creations revealed this—showing dawn-like premonitions of transition.

Yet here, his striking collapse became apparent.
The passion he sought to write always lay buried beneath other fault lines—those of temperament and cultivation—like smoldering embers, like faintly glowing shadows.
He often felt strength.
And for a truly long time, a battle both merciless to behold and tragic-heartrending was waged.

Why did Akutagawa-kun commit suicide?
I can no longer speak of anything beyond this.
However, there is one clear fact I can assert.
That is to say, his suicide was a suicide of victory, not a suicide of defeat.
Indeed, through death he completed that "art" and proved the "poet" within himself.
In every true sense, his life was Stoic—precisely what Nietzsche had desired—.
Even in his final testament, he maintained the composure of an artist, showed no signs of disarray anywhere, and never lost the peaceful equilibrium of his soul (the aesthetic symmetry of spirit).
He indeed is a hero—a hero of aesthetic art for art’s sake.

17

In daily life, the deceased had always referred to Mr. Kikuchi Kan as "my hero."
But in reality—in an entirely different sense—Akutagawa-kun himself was the hero.
Yet he was a hero born of unending battle, both anguished and heartrending.
Who during his lifetime—what manner of close friend—had glimpsed this tragic hero within him?
He died misunderstood, passing into a lonely and desolate grave.
And having taken poison himself, he maintained solemn composure without ever losing the Stoic tranquility of his spirit.

In him, I saw precisely the summit-like philosophy of the Greeks, the Stoics, Socrates, and art for art’s sake.
And from this philosophy—beginning inversely—I came to know the shudder-inducing concealed spirit of his art theory (literary, all too literary).
He was Nietzsche’s hero and art for art’s sake’s heartrending martyr.

And when I had contemplated this far, for the first time every nuance of that tragic conversation at Kugenuma became clear.
How at that time he had appealed in a grave voice about all geniuses' misfortunes, about artists' fateful solitude and misery!
Foolishly, I could not then grasp the true circumstances behind his sorrow.
To make matters worse, the final words he repeated—“Who would take seriously what pessimists who don’t commit suicide have to say?”—
I could not comprehend even the profound meaning of those words.
Indeed, at that very moment, he had already planned his death.

18

Behold!
On this sublime mountaintop, a new stone monument stands.
Having crossed several slopes, the distant "traveler of epochs" will ascend there.
And in the light of the waning autumn day, people will read the characters on the stone monument.
What is written there?

They will fall silent, nod, and all depart.
Time shifts, and winds and snows sweep across the sky.

Ah!
Who could prevent the corrosion of characters?
The mountaintop air grew thin, and birds sang mournfully through the trees.
Yet new seasons would come—ice would begin melting, people again passing through its foothills.
Then, ah, who would behold the tombstone atop the mountain?
Beyond multitudes' perceiving eyes—white as snow, shining through daylight—a single righteous being.