Pathway to Japanese Literature

Penguin Associations

A snow-covered plain stretched as far as the eye could see.
It appeared to be part of an iceberg.
Across that vast plain advanced a naturally formed slender procession—those figures clad in morning coats—disappearing beyond the low hills ahead; thousands in number perhaps.
The black morning coats fit snugly against their bodies though their trousers were white.
Their steps aligned with clear musical marches as they advanced.
This was in fact part of a documentary filmed in Antarctica titled “Visiting the Penguins’ Habitat.”

Today, there existed numerous large groups of penguins amidst the icebergs and snowfields of Antarctica.
Their ecology remained largely unknown even to most zoologists, yet the camera had pursued and documented it on film.

Among all living creatures, those standing over four feet tall and walking upright on two legs were likely limited to penguins outside of humans.
Cranes and herons might have been like that too, but they didn’t give the impression of walking upright on two legs.
In any case, their appearance resembled formal black morning coats, and what was amusing was how their gait resembled Charlie Chaplin’s.
Watching them advance in perfect formation, marching in step with the music, one almost blurted out, “How impressive!”
“They understand music,” one nearly let slip.

Now, these penguins lay eggs once a year, and the parents incubate and warm them.
However, the parents must continue moving while incubating them.
Moreover, they lack both suitable arms to hold and chests properly equipped for incubation.
When they keep the egg warm within something like the inner lining of a feathered coat, in due time a small bird emerges from beneath the hem and, protected by its parent, toddles unsteadily as it walks.
Various protection methods have developed collectively or individually.
One might call it instinctual.
Blizzards strike without warning; external enemies invade; some get wounded, some collapse.
The corpses become prey for strange bird-like creatures and other animals.
In other words, without parental protection, small animals cannot survive.

When a year had passed, they became adult birds; the parent-child relationship drifted apart, and they achieved independence.
They also developed heterosexual love.
And thus they formed a single moment in the eternal flow of time.

When observing these colonial animals—standing over four feet tall, perpetually walking upright on two legs, practicing monogamy, and producing only a single chick—it felt remarkably like a pointed commentary directed at us humans, forcing us to recall our own family lives whether we wished to or not.
While praising how "adorable the penguins' parent-child bonds appeared," we found ourselves self-mockingly concluding that in our own instinctual blindness, we didn't lag too far behind the birds.
At the same time, when I introspected the various psychological phenomena existing between father and child, I found myself inhabiting my own world—one that seemed foolish yet precious.

In other words, when viewed from others' perspectives, it appears as the former; when calmly observed from one's own standpoint, it seems to be the latter.
It seems to be an unconscious folly, and yet this very quality likely connects to human instinct.

When I look back now, it seems my mind entered a turning point when I had my first child. Even now, after experiencing various twists and turns and accumulating life’s lessons, there remain things that cannot be neatly resolved psychologically or morally. In short, while moving passively according to the omnipotent force governing all creation, I seem to dream of this motion being my own active doing. Herein arises a kind of folly, it would seem.

Separated living entities

When I married and first saw the baby's physical form through the ordinary course of events, the shock carried a peculiar sensation.

In the hospital room where weak winter sunlight was further softened by frosted glass and window drapes, when they placed in my hands this pale red, pliant body—born that very morning—that seemed to lack any bones whatsoever, I truly felt a peculiar sensation.
This was a living human being.
The resolve that I must take responsibility and mold this creature into a genuine unit of humanity appeared to well up from that muted sunlight and bear down upon me.
This was the anguish of an undiscovered heart.
A concern for humanity's eternal nature became self-apparent.

However, as the number of children increased, those youthful pure-hearted feelings gradually dulled. And biologically, I began to wonder which of my own characteristics this next child would inherit. Therefore, even in bestowing a name, I found myself praying wishes into it. But it remained a vague hope—one that merely expressed the wish for them to become ordinary people first and foremost.

To give an example, for those who looked as weak as mice, I gave names that sounded strong like lions; for girls who resembled tiles or clumps of earth, I bestowed names like Ruri or Hari—that sort of approach.

As they gradually grew, I strove not to impose any deliberate intentions in their education.
It was the same calmness one maintains when observing for a scientific experiment.
Yet strangely enough, they began exhibiting their individuality.
You'd think melon vines should bear melons—that children ought to resemble their parents—but it never worked out that way.
I know nothing of genetics, but children aren't born resembling their parents like dogs or horses.
They were nothing but children unlike their parents.
However, when viewed from another angle, they did seem to resemble us.
Strangers would see a child and say they closely resembled their father.
Even when I looked back at myself—though there were many traits I'd hate for them to inherit—fortunately they might only take after me in part, while the rest perhaps came from ancient ancestors.
This partial resemblance meant that if I were to possess traits A/B/C/D, the children inherited these separately—sometimes even amplifying them in the process.

When I saw them inheriting my flaws in rather exaggerated fashion, I felt unpleasant; yet when they exaggeratedly displayed the virtues that lay hidden within me, I secretly felt reassured, thinking, “I’m not entirely worthless after all.”
Therefore, having maintained near-complete laissez-faire parenting and observing the results, I saw there were those who professionally embodied my youthful desire to become a scientist, some attempting to develop my abandoned artistic aspirations, and others sharing in great measure that konjac-like tendency toward evasive nonchalance.
In some, there seemed to remain an attitude of resolutely rejecting social conventions through an intense awareness of resistance against power and injustice.

Children are not merely offspring of their parents, but are connected to a vast lineage spanning grandparents and great-grandparents—they are, so to speak, children of heaven. In that sense, I feel they exist to critique, educate, correct, and even assail their very parents.
Therefore, I can feel somewhat relieved.
If most of what parents are were transmitted directly to their children, not only would parents have no excuse to offer their children, but they would also be tormented by pangs of conscience; however, since they bear only about a tenth of the responsibility, they seek understanding by saying, "Do not resent us too much; do not be angry."

Given this state of affairs, I lacked the courage to decisively command my children with orders like "Right face! Left face! Become a doctor! Become a musician! Become an actor!" or to offer firm guidance. At best, I could only manage lukewarm advice. I found myself wanting to declare: "Chart your course through your own responsibility and judgment—life's trials are like wisdom teeth, unseen by parents."

Therefore, I am generally passive when it comes to "disciplining children." While minimal discipline is empirically necessary, when today’s schoolteachers and parents adopt an attitude of strict enforcement, or when those who consider themselves enlightened declare as if stating universal truths that “in foreign countries they discipline children properly,” I inevitably end up subjecting every word of their disciplinary norms to rigorous criticism and engaging in contrarian behavior. Can a snake educate an eel? Only the eel knows its own heart—that’s how I tend to think.

Nevertheless，I was trembling with anxiety inside.
I worried whether this would truly ensure their happiness，but since balance through moderation existed，I steeled my courage—or perhaps recklessness—determined to let them chart their own course while rigorously avoiding the excessive meddling of guiding their every step.
If there were a fine stone freely sculpted by an artist into Buddha statues，deity figures，warrior carvings，or heroic forms，I would pity the stone—yet could never endure subjecting living humans to a father’s tyrannical rule.
Fate—all I could do was plead for your benevolent smile upon my approach.

Last-born.

Children experience great gains and losses depending on their birth circumstances.
Yet even a father must live gasping under fate’s weight—there’s no helping it.

I currently have five children: boy, boy, girl, girl, boy.
The phrase “to have,” strictly speaking, feels unpleasant as it likens humans to objects; it would be more accurate to say “bestowed by heaven.”

The first expresses my worldly aspect.
The second represents my scientific aspect.
The third is a girl who embodies my artistic aspect.
The fourth girl reflects my bookish habits and evokes my leisurely indolence and stubborn streak—yet she remains neither fish nor fowl.

Therefore, the fifth child was a boy—this went without saying being the last-born. Even watermelons and cucumbers had their last fruits priced cheaper than usual; particularly due to changes in the times and our circumstances that had caused this last-born child to wander through life’s storms—from a father’s perspective, this deepened one’s sense of responsibility.

Would this last-born child, who had grown amidst these tempests, find happiness in the future? Though he had seemingly passed through safely until today, with us parents growing considerably weary and past our prime, there remained some worry—and being an indolent father, I could only watch over him while harboring these thoughts. In Émile Zola’s voluminous serial novels, the genetics of the Rougon-Macquart family spanning several generations had been described. This likely contained some exaggerations influenced by the theories of the time, so I didn’t think it worth worrying overmuch about—yet even so, as the child’s eyes and nose came to resemble mine considerably, this father couldn’t help but reflect on himself and feel somewhat uneasy. I found myself hoping that in some sense he would become a child unlike his parents, but with no means to intervene, I could only offer prayers to nature.

February 26 Incident

Around Showa 10 (1935), I was Director-General of the Cabinet Legislation Bureau.
The system at that time differed from today's—the Director-General was considered a position of considerable importance, and his selection became a significant issue whenever cabinets changed.
In other words, it was regarded as a high-ranking official post.

In reality, this perception stemmed from historical superstition—both from the fact that many past Directors-General had been remarkably vigorous politicians, and from the bureau's role as the cabinet's brain trust in earlier eras of bureaucratic politics.
However, circumstances had changed, and their actual influence may not have matched their outward appearance.
Nevertheless, considering that wartime Directors-General were naturally purged after defeat, there may have persisted a kind of superstitious reverence for the position.

I, as that Director-General, was vigorously denounced as a "traitorous subject" in certain newspapers from around the beginning of Shōwa 10 (1935).
The Imperial Military Reserve Association also echoed this condemnation en masse.
And from all directions, they began keeping sharp-eyed watch over me.

That was because the Emperor Organ Theory controversy had emerged at that time, and I came under attack as one of its proponents.
When a political issue arose regarding Dr. Minobe’s Organ Theory and I remarked in a parliamentary committee that academic matters should not be debated in parliament, from the very next morning onward I found myself savaged by newspapers across the country as a leading advocate of the theory.

This matter had expanded far beyond my understanding.
What I learned over a decade later was that a certain minister had threatened to resign from the cabinet unless I was dismissed, pressuring the Prime Minister to that end.
The gravest problem lay in how the Director-General of the Cabinet Legislation Bureau—charged with making authoritative statements on legal matters—found his academic theories questioned, thereby becoming branded a traitorous subject.

Fortunately, my colleagues within the ministry knew me well, understood reason, and supported me; but beyond those gates, I found myself surrounded by hostility on all sides.
Officials from the Home Ministry’s Police Affairs Bureau were scrutinizing the books I had published, insisting they should be allowed to go quietly out of print.
At the Ministry of Education, they had compiled an investigative report categorizing academic theories—my publications appeared among them.
Even when observing the faces of those attending cabinet meetings, I saw no one who actively supported me.
They wore expressions that seemed to mutter, “What a troublesome man.”
My entire surroundings, including my residence, remained under guard by five police officers.

After living for a year under the strange fate of having written my resignation letter and carried it in my pocket while being unable to submit it due to various circumstances, I was finally able to tender my resignation peacefully in the New Year of Showa 11 (1936).
The reason I have stated the above was that I wanted to convey how my mind had become caught up in a kind of struggle and self-defense.
And though I was calmly performing my duties at the time, what I wanted to express was that beneath the surface there lay harbored resentment.

Having resigned from office and with my bodyguard police officers withdrawn, just as I stretched out my limbs in relaxation and felt pleased with myself, on the morning of February 26, amidst falling snow, a group of police officers in trucks came to catch me in my sleep.

“An incident has occurred,” they said.
In other words, that February 26 Incident had broken out.
By around ten o’clock, I understood the situation.
“Given the nature of the incident, there is absolutely no chance your family will be harmed—you alone should make yourself scarce,” they said.
Thus I nonchalantly made my way to Tokyo Station, departed the capital under ominous black clouds, informed no one of my whereabouts, and remained missing for approximately a month and a half.
In truth, I had gone to my hometown of Nagoya and stayed at my elder brother’s house.

By the way, a minor incident had occurred at our former residence in Tokyo where I had disappeared as master of the house.
This was no separate matter—a physiological change had manifested in my wife’s body.
At that time I was fifty-one and my wife forty-two; she seemed to have developed an unease about conceiving a child during her husband’s flight.
With uncertainty about how events might unfold—the possibility of delayed delivery, anxieties over whether I would survive at all—even obtaining something like a “certificate of assurance” felt precarious.

Fortunately, after a month and a half, I returned to Tokyo and lived what one might call "farming in fair weather and reading in rain"—tending to plants, reading books, occasionally playing Go—maintaining an outwardly peaceful existence.

When the time was ripe, on October 17th of that year—the day of the Kannamesai Festival—a boy was born, not as beautiful as a jewel, but as round as one.
The timing of it all had been well judged by God.

However, here too crept in something akin to a masterless samurai’s existence.
The previous day, a friend had come to visit, and we had begun playing Go.
The night deepened until dawn approached.
Go proves a most vexatious pastime.
The maid eventually fell asleep while my wife brought tea and sweets.
Her expression grew positively thunderous.

As the Go game took precedence, I had simply dismissed it as inexplicable, but upon quietly inquiring in the morning, it seemed her time was approaching.
Thereupon, I accompanied her to Juntendo Hospital as previously arranged.
As a result of the diagnosis, it was said there would likely be a delivery that afternoon.

However, unfortunately, I had made plans to play mahjong at a certain senior’s house that very afternoon.
I thought this troublesome, but as one of the four players, I couldn’t afford to be absent.
Reluctantly adopting the pretense of sacrificing parental duty, I went with an air of feigned innocence.
Under normal circumstances, it had been agreed there would be no need for a phone call.

Even as I played matches with men sporting impressive beards and balding heads at the senior’s house, my mind was elsewhere, constantly on the verge of making a misplay.
Even when I heard the telephone ring, my stomach quivered deep inside at the thought of some emergency.

In the evening, I returned home and felt relieved upon hearing that all was well. However, considering this child was born amidst parents who—persecuted by society—vented their pent-up frustrations through various contests, I thought this one might develop a rebellious spirit and that we would have to take great pains in his upbringing.

Now, a few days later, we had to give him a name.
Including our hopes, we named him Hiroo.
It was meant both to commemorate our suffering at the hands of bigots and to symbolize our admiration for Ito Hirobumi.

It was common in this world for a 900-momme lump of flesh to gradually increase in size; what differed was that I remained constantly at home.
With my previous children, since I had been out during daylight hours, they were largely left to others’ care—I had seldom held a child with such intimacy.
This time, I held him for the first time.
I held him and took walks.
Though incapable of performing those deft acts of soothing like ordinary parents do, I nevertheless carried him cradled in my arms on these strolls.

I was an utter idler.
I had no interest whatsoever in looking at law books.
I would either tend plants fiddle with Go.
Thus dressed in slovenly kimono I wandered about carrying both roles - an idle father accompanied by his own idol child.
Through newspaper incident branding me traitorous subject people came know me abstract concept.
That was me moving through streets bearing dual mantles.
They must have gazed intently thinking What carefree fool of parent.

In front of the house was a slope.
At the bottom of the slope stood a rice cracker shop.
The shop had about two automatic candy vending machines.

It was a device where you’d insert a one-sen copper coin into the slot, snap the metal part with a click, and out would come a single caramel.
At times, something slightly better would emerge.
They resembled five-generation ancestors of the pachinko machines that had become so popular in recent times.
The sight of Kanpu squatting before the machine while having Kanji insert a one-sen coin made for a peaceful scene.

As for this backdrop, no one knew that society as a whole bore a sinister aspect.
And Kanpu gave no particular thought to whether the baby would imitate Hirobumi or not.
However, this scene was deemed too unsightly by the family and consequently prohibited.
And they criticized him, saying that this child was fortunate or that he was his father’s good toy.
I would hum phrases like “The highest good is like water” and take my leisure, but within that lay considerations—such as the need to account for the element of time—alongside various other things.

Educator’s Countenance

Kanji had grown.
He remained Kanpu’s good friend and at times his good teacher.
Of course, to be a teacher here meant that the child was the father’s teacher.
For Kanpu—whose worldly activities had been curtailed—cultivating plants and sensing the inexorable logic in their growth made him feel like some minor deity; yet in the same way, he found boundless joy in seeing a human child thrive and grow according to nature’s laws.
And I thought that if humanity was indeed inherently good, I wanted to let Hiroo grow as he pleased without scolding or reprimanding him.
I believed those who follow should surpass those who came before.
There was no logic to it—this was pure parental folly laid bare.

The time came for him to go to kindergarten.
There had been worries that he might become a rebellious child, but perhaps thanks to the kindergarten teacher's competence, no major incidents occurred.
On the flip side—or perhaps one could call him blindly obedient—he neither expressed joy nor sorrow, simply flowing along with the current.
He takes after me, I thought, recalling my own childhood.

However, when I reflect on my own childhood, outward obedience did not necessarily mean heartfelt compliance.
Inwardly, I affirmed what was right and condemned what was wrong, considering myself quite critical.

At kindergarten, they taught them games.
They taught simple dance-like movements to music.
For example, things like “The Golden Beetle Is a Rich Man.”
In a certain sense, it was graceful and adorable.
It must have value as moral education.
At home too, if you flattered a child and said “Let’s see you do one,” the children would usually become pleased, moving their legs, clapping their hands, and swinging their arms.
However, for some reason, Hiroo showed no attachment whatsoever to such graceful activities.

He would pester us to buy him a paper toy train conductor’s bag.
When he slung it over his shoulder, he became extremely pleased and would gleefully use the ticket punch.
“Ding-ding, we’re moving out!”
Phrases like “We’re turnin’ here, please mind yourselves” were tolerable, but when asked “Where to?” and expected to issue transfer tickets, this Mr. Conductor became dreadfully bothersome.
“Ueno? Yesh, comin' right up!” would have been tolerable enough, but he would go around pestering even his wife, who was darting about the house sewing, and the maid doing laundry, asking each of them individually.

I too was a victim of this. He would come to my desk and ask for his destination countless times. When I said “Hell” to shut him up, he cheerfully responded “Hell it is!” and handed me a ticket. When I said, “To London, please,” he replied, “I’m terribly sorry, but we don’t run over the sea.” Any child would enjoy playing conductor, but in Hiroo’s case, the phase lasted remarkably long. And he would faithfully replicate even the minute details of the conductor’s demeanor that escaped our notice, recreating them for us. He was a kind of genius.

At last, it was time for him to start elementary school.
Thanks to the fortunate circumstance that my house was located near Takehaya Higher Normal School in Takehaya-chō, without exception, my older children were enrolled in its affiliated elementary school during their primary years.
Many were also enrolled during their junior high school years.
While there may be debates over what constitutes a good school, when honestly considering the actual circumstances, it seemed to bring exceptional happiness for the children.
We submitted an application hoping by any means possible to have him admitted there, but regrettably, admission was denied.

Even before this, within the household, this foolish father and mother had been discussing how—given that the parent’s occupation was unemployed and that he, according to the newspapers, was a traitorous subject—admission would be difficult; yet when this result came to pass, they both nodded in agreement.
It was neither criticizing the school’s internal circumstances nor deeming them unjust, but merely accepting it as a kind of coincidence.
However, my wife could not easily resign herself to this.
She submitted applications to a few other normal school affiliates and tried her best, but all of them were rejected.
They resigned themselves to it being unavoidable and could only silently apologize for how the parents’ karma had come to be visited upon the child.

However, thankfully, ordinary compulsory education elementary schools never rejected even the families of traitorous subjects.
I felt fortunate to have been born in Japan.
Just when I thought matters would proceed smoothly, the war within grew increasingly fierce.
Child evacuations became insistent, and Hiroo’s school too decided to evacuate to Tazawa in Nagano Prefecture.

The time was around April 1945 (Showa 20).
This was because public sentiment had become extremely unsettled following the March bombing.
Hiroo was eight years old at the time and had never been away from his parents' care.
Because he was the child of a man without a position, he had hardly ever traveled.
Would he truly be able to endure the evacuation?
Even if there were an air raid, wouldn't staying at this house be safer?
My wife worried about various things, but under the school's prevailing sentiment, one had to evacuate the children or be branded unpatriotic.
The child evacuation was even compulsory.
Moreover, since teachers would accompany them and provisions were guaranteed, it was said there remained nothing at all to worry about.

Finally steeling herself through the mother’s fervor, she packed clothing and blankets into a small bamboo trunk and a single furoshiki cloth.
Amid the material shortages of the war’s final days, seeing the mother prepare meager belongings—and even those within strict quantity limits—late into the night, even a carefree soul like myself couldn’t help but grow somber.
The danger of air raids was growing more imminent by the moment, yet I, a carefree soul, made no preparations whatsoever.
Even if I had evacuated books and such, I maintained a grand posture that it would amount to nothing should the country perish.

However, my ominous premonition of uncertainty proved true when the great air raid of April 14 arrived. In the blink of an eye, flames surrounded us on all sides. The house contained my eighty-five-year-old mother with limited mobility and several young girls. Hiroo too was just eight years old. Once engulfed by fire, there would be no path of escape. So while escape remained possible, I made them seek shelter immediately. The house—I alone stayed behind to guard it.

When all hope of avoiding the flames vanished, I started digging a hole in our front garden. Not to bury silver or rare volumes. This was to safeguard Hiroo’s evacuation luggage. Though I swung the hoe while lamenting my aged weakness, I kept digging regardless. My arms went numb from exertion until I collapsed prostrate on the earth to rest. The neighbor’s garden hinoki caught fire and burned down like a spent matchstick.

Our house’s shutters had apparently grown hot, and fire’s children clung persistently.
It’s hopeless.
I had also completed my duties as town council chairman.
On the soil where Hiroo’s trunk had been buried, I piled more earth on top, poured water over it, and stood up with a lightened heart, feeling everything was now complete.
The real day of the child evacuation was still two or three days away.
The next morning, they made the long journey to impose upon relatives in Shimokitazawa.
Placing the elderly mother on a cart, the wife and children walked through the town of scorched earth while pushing it.
This was the advance party.

I fulfilled my duty as town council chairman and walked through the devastated town with just Hiroo and myself, when I was struck by the illusion that only this lone child and I existed between heaven and earth.
In fact, in an instant, the world transformed into one consisting solely of isolated individuals.
Fortunately, this father and son existed; I secretly thought that if luck was on our side, we might help shape the rebuilding of the world.
Not knowing the advance party's fate, I became this strange mix of weakness and resolve.
This thought was certainly pathological, but it also brought comfort.
To soothe the frail child, I bought old sumo magazines from a surviving used bookstore and gave them to him.
Looking back, I was reminded of exiles from China's Warring States period.

Several days passed, and the day of Hiroo’s evacuation arrived. From deep in Setagaya, they returned to the scorched ruins of Sugamo; carrying the aforementioned luggage they had dug out from underground together with his wife, they gathered at the vast scorched ruins of the school grounds. The faint-shadowed children, aware of their fate, set out on their journey aboard the barely operational train. This parting, accompanied by various unknowable factors, stirred profound emotions within him. Seeing off his own thin-legged, thin-necked child was by no means a pleasant experience.

A month passed, then two; though likely letters written at their guardians’ urging, they occasionally brought news of his safety and contentment with life at the evacuation site.
From reports by parent representatives who visited the evacuation site, I heard that the children were living vigorously and felt reassured.
However, on one occasion, when someone else went to visit, he secretly entrusted a letter to be delivered.
When I opened it, there were a few faltering pencil-written lines asking to be called back because life there had become unendurable.

Since I am generally someone who respects order, I felt strong antipathy toward this letter.
I inwardly fumed at this lack of endurance.
Nevertheless，the fifteen-year-old elder daughter began to worry.
She decided to go and check.
The thought of sending a small girl out alone on that crowded train departing from Ueno felt unsettling, but I sent her off.
However, the next day，my elder daughter unexpectedly returned dejectedly with Hiroo in tow.
To my shock upon seeing him，Hiroo had turned ghostly pale，as if all pigment had drained from his face—exactly like a parasitic plant known as the ghost flower.
His arms were thin; his head was large and conspicuous.

According to my daughter, she could no longer bear the situation and took immediate steps to bring him home.
However, the authorities had apparently shown strong opposition.
I could do nothing but instinctively commend her decision.
Though she was just a young girl, I marveled at how well she had managed it all.
While the school’s measures were undoubtedly considerate, I believed it was Hiroo’s passive nature that had driven him to this point.

The next day when we took him to the sweet potato field in Koganei, the vines had grown about three feet long.
Such was that time.

When I had him help with weeding, he pulled them with orderly precision as if trained.
He was more skilled than his parents.
His speech became textbook-perfect.
In just three months he had transformed into what seemed a remarkably well-behaved child—but this proved an artificial alteration that stripped away his humanity.
He turned obedient like an automaton.
He was enslaved.
Thus a collision with his essential nature must have occurred.

Within days he regained his wildness; as his speech coarsened, his complexion improved.
I too felt relieved.
Yet children returning from evacuation sites in such states found themselves barred from all schools.
There might have been punitive intent.
They placed him in a makeshift temple-school facility where paradoxically he began thriving.

In Setagaya, he encountered an air raid, but wearing his air raid hood, he remained surprisingly carefree.
From this, I thought he must have had a timid disposition that could withstand natural pressures but could not endure human ones.
This father too understood it well, for he possessed that trait in abundance.

Amidst all this, the war came to an end, and the social climate underwent a complete transformation.
I too wandered as far as Setagaya-Daita.
Hiroo was enrolled in the public elementary school there.
The teachers went to the Imperial Palace Plaza with red flags held high, full of vigor.
The children at the school gate cheered this on.
In their hearts, they must have been delighted that school was being canceled.
It’s a troubling matter, but not one a lone tree can bear.

The neighborhood children all had cheerful, common-folk appearances.
Barefoot and covered in mud, they played together every day.
Before long, Hiroo’s pockets were filled with game cards and marbles.
He might have been surprisingly good at them.

When I watched these children’s interactions, they seemed truly cheerful, but there were certainly aspects that gave cause for concern. However, before long, the father’s circumstances also became extremely hectic; though bearing his aged body, he had to keep pace with vigorous men, and inevitably there was no choice but to cut corners with the children. In 1946, Hiroo should have been a fourth-year elementary school student, but until completing sixth grade, he enjoyed his school life and, I believe, felt happy from his perspective.

In this life where six family members lived in a single room of less than eight tatami mats, where rain leaked through and moonlight could be seen through the roof, I believe he was fully satisfied.
The parents too, while truly cherishing the carefreeness of this life in their hearts, also had aspects where they worried about the teaching of Mencius’s mother moving three times.

This was because, while they approved of raising him as a child of nature, they were wary of him sinking into the mud.
In theory, I cherished compulsory elementary education; however, in concrete cases, I sensed there were problematic circumstances.
In truth, I did not know what Hiroo’s school grades had been like.
Considering that he had been afflicted by various misfortunes and keeping in mind our family tradition of late bloomers, I never examined the matter deeply.
That he became less neurotic thanks to his environment was an unexpected blessing.

When it came time for him to transition to junior high school, we managed to have him enrolled at the junior high school affiliated with the University of Education.
We were also able to construct a hut on our original burned-out homesite.
By around summer of 1949, we could finally live in our own house, meager though it was.
Before long, several tree frogs that had inhabited the area in former times reappeared, and I took delight in their endearing antics.
All the ornamental trees and shrubs had been completely removed, but when I tended to what little lawn grass remained, it began spreading somewhat.
When I looked more closely, I noticed that wild onions and dwarf herbs we'd once gathered from mountain fields still survived—precisely because they were considered worthless.

The subsequent six years passed relatively uneventfully.
Hiroo too passed through three years of junior high school and three years of high school without incident, graduating from the affiliated high school on March 20th of this year.
Looking back, the four siblings at any rate finished their schooling and became those receiving modest monthly salaries.
Although our parental responsibilities didn’t particularly lighten, the sense of responsibility we felt toward those soft newborn bundles became somewhat easier to bear.

However, Hiroo was now set to enter university—he had indeed taken the entrance examinations—but the situation remained entirely uncertain. While he maintained a calm exterior, his inner self seemed to contain something unusual.

Having settled somewhat myself, I tried imagining what thoughts other parents might hold toward their children in such circumstances. Observing a few cases, parents indeed seem to contemplate their children deeply—from future plans to matters of marriage prospects, housing arrangements, and even financial inheritances. While I don't disregard the nobility of such concerns, whether from innate restlessness or emotional reserve, I find myself incapable of mustering that degree of attention. All I can earnestly wish is that they live healthy lives—that they achieve something humanely worthwhile—since we parents can likely do little beyond this, hoping they'll advance through life supporting each other as siblings. My own meager capacities cannot be wholly devoted to my children either—a portion must be dedicated to society's welfare, meaning all living beings' happiness; another portion reserved for myself; with various other claims besides.

I might seem this cold-hearted in one respect, but fortunately the mother was different. Whether it was morality or instinct—I didn't know—but she devoted selfless love to the children. When I looked at how mother lived during those times of food scarcity, something came to mind. The painting on the National Treasure Tamamushi Shrine depicted a practitioner willingly offering his own flesh to a starving tiger for ascetic practice, but maternal love possessed an aspect that gave no thought to sacrificing one's body for a child's happiness. Setting aside all reason, I felt secure for my children.

As for myself, observing the various traits emerging within my children, I find myself dreaming a vague dream—that perhaps we can not only pass down to future generations what we have received from the Creator in its original form, but also gradually nurture and develop it to transmit to later eras.
Expecting children to bear the responsibility of passing down the merits received from the Creator with added interest may indeed be foolish, yet in truth, I harbor such expectations.
When I let this tendency grow too strong, I become an all-too-common object of society’s ridicule—but perhaps it’s permissible to hold some expectation.
And steering my attitude toward my children, including that aim, remains a quiet joy.

Observing Hiroo

When comparing heights with a child, the parent certainly won. However, as they gradually grew, it became possible for the parent’s height to be surpassed. In the mental realm as well, there were certainly many such aspects. It was the way of the world for the younger generation to advance beyond their predecessors; without this, there could have been no progress in society. In a comprehensive sense, the father might still surpass the child. Moreover, through socially developed traditional authority, a father could exert some degree of oppression upon his child. However, fundamentally speaking, when a child reached a certain age—say, approaching adulthood—there arose occasions where a parent had to pay considerable respect to their intellectual capacity and discernment. It was irrational for parents to divert their economic power and attempt to disregard the intellectual abilities their child possessed.

When observing Hiroo, he far surpassed his father in artisanal aptitude.
Artisanal aptitude—as the term literally suggested—referred to individual miscellaneous skills.
It encompassed abilities like driving nails, constructing boxes, assembling radios, and operating phonographs.
Alongside this emerged the budding dexterity required for performing small sleight-of-hand tricks.
What would this aptitude prove suitable for in the future?
A dragon’s offspring never becomes a dragon—might this sort of artisanal proficiency merely produce a jack-of-all-trades poverty?
I couldn’t claim it failed to concern me altogether.

By nature, I myself possessed a constitution that could neither become a great figure nor remain a minor one—a man of no practical value unless placed in exceptionally fortunate circumstances. Whether Hiroo's particular possession of this minor-figure constitution should be considered superior to his father's remained a question for the future.

Hiroo possesses a kind of self-assertive rebelliousness.
This trait isn’t particularly pronounced, but he exhibits what might be called a fairly strong contrarian streak.
When magazine companies come to take family group photos, for instance, he adamantly refuses to participate.
He likely considers involvement in profit-driven ventures dishonorable.
I understand this sentiment perfectly.
Yet since the act itself isn’t inherently wrong, one could compromise when social harmony requires it.
While a young man’s love of justice is commendable, fixating on petty righteousness lacks Mahayana magnanimity.
Perhaps he’ll change somewhat if he cultivates greater respect for society.
A fish with too many small bones makes for poor eating.

Hiroo seemed tolerant among his friends. It was said he interacted with childlike kindness and faithfulness, which his friends accepted. This appeared contradictory to his aforementioned rebelliousness, making it all the more complex. There was prospect for future improvement—after all, if the rebellious consciousness latent in his father’s mind before Hiroo’s birth had cast its shadow, then it was the father’s responsibility.

Hiroo seemed to have developed strong comprehension in mathematics and physics. While this was an ability favored in modern people, when combined with his earlier artisanal aptitude, his father worried whether their combined potential might not reach great heights. There was no helping it—this stemmed from the father having been a jack-of-all-trades quick study who lacked mastery in any single skill.

Hiroo did not seem to possess any particular enthusiasm for art.
He showed no special interest in pursuits like passionately loving music, composing poetry, or painting pictures.
One might say this made him rather prosaic.
The real question was whether he possessed understanding without affection—but extrapolating from matters like his food preferences, there lingered a concern that his thinking might be overly simplistic.

As I muddled through these thoughts, it became apparent that his suitable path lay at least in the realm of science. Like the adage "A gentleman is not a utensil," unless some mutation occurred henceforth, it would likely be for his happiness to proceed straight ahead. And though it might have been a parent’s delusion, there seemed to be breadth in how his interests were developing, making his future look quite promising to observe. If paired with a daughter-in-law skilled in cooking and deeply attuned to art, he would likely be even happier. And when I lived out my declining years, I wanted him to single-handedly repair all the radios, phonographs, and televisions.

Hiroo's university admission was finally confirmed.
Here I can rest my pen with peace of mind, but this is a clear symptom of being a doting parent.