Pathway to Japanese Literature

To Auntie Kumano. I had been writing to you for forty-five long years now. But this was the first time I had written such dreary, fated characters on such stark paper. Always, I had written on Shinshu paper or colored art paper, with scratchy brushwork or in more playful, beautiful characters—no, perhaps that was presumptuous of me. But you had always liked my handwriting. —And so, I had written to you. Did you understand why I chose this paper? The truth was, with a heart relying on you, I was determined that this time—truly this time—I would seriously commit to writing my final work. This would probably pass into Mr. Fuji Masaharu’s hands. And through his will or pity, it would be printed in the coterie magazine VILLON or VIKING. I thought that printed text would reach your hands. Because Mr. Uno, a member of VIKING, knew you. I intended to make this—the stage piece titled *Scissors, Cloth, and Patterns*, which I had written on the 22nd, just six days prior—my final work once again, properly this time. This had nothing to do with you, Auntie, but if that play were to be performed, I wanted it staged at the Modern Drama Research Institute—where I had once been registered, however briefly, and had already grown attached. For the role of Mannequin: Ms. Kawamoto—she possessed a musical sensibility and could dance. While I was at it, if I might add my own wish: I would have liked them to include some comical action. For the designer, Suwako—I wanted Maeda-san, who had done *Heron’s Longing* for my first play about women—and for the music, I wanted Mr. Tokunaga. And as for the direction—if Mr. Kitamura of Kurumiza would do it, I very much wanted him to. I had been the one planning to do it. He would probably do it for me.

This manuscript (the play’s), too—Mr. Fuji will probably publish it in VILLON or VIKING.

Auntie. All of this manuscript may hold no interest for you, but please just read it.

It must be around 9:20 now. Today is December 28th. After visiting your house, I returned to Kobe, drank one cup of sake and ate four skewers of chicken skin at a yakitori stall called Meko-chan, then went home for seventy yen. At Meko-chan’s place, I had this conversation with strangers. There were three customers, and they gave me a cup of sake and two Peace cigarettes. “Do you know somewhere nearby where the snow’s piled deep?”

“Kannabe” “I’m not going skiing. I’m going to see the snow—somewhere with no people.” As I said this, I imagined the pure white piled-up snow and the roaring sound of a train rushing through.

One of the men drew a simple map for me. It’s near Kannabe. But since I found that area unappealing, I asked if there was a quiet snowy place near Lake Biwa. Another one of them— “Takeo’s a good spot.”

Takeo was apparently written as Tsuruga, and it’s past Maibara on the Hokuriku Line, I heard. I decided to go there. I had a cold, and my throat was parched. The uncles had come and were playing mahjong in the eight-tatami-mat room. I was in my room, lit the irori hearth, put a hot water bottle at my feet, and now wrote this. Auntie, we promised to meet again on January 4th, didn’t we? I’m sorry. Today was a good day. While the young disciple played sonatinas, I reminisced about the past. After all, they did play sonatinas. They were all pieces everyone knew. But it seemed I had been slightly better back then. And so, at the end, I played Albéniz. Having just obtained the sheet music at Sasaya in Osaka the other day—lacking practice and flustered by this unfamiliar piano with an overly sensitive soft pedal—I thought it turned out poorly. All three pieces were ones I truly loved. Tango had some memories attached to it, you see. After that, I was treated to a meal and played around. But I was utterly obsessed with other matters.

Auntie. The last time I came to see you, I had actually intended never to meet you again. You shook my hand at the gate, didn’t you? “Suffer greatly, and that suffering will keep you alive.” Back then, Auntie—we were sitting around the gas stove smoking, weren’t we? I remember those words. I had decided to go to Kurobe on the 22nd—about three days after that day?—to kill myself. Ah—the fire’s burning so well now.

Auntie. Auntie's words are cruel beyond measure. As for suffering—I've had my fill of it. I detest suffering. I said it, didn't I? About those three men. While feeling three distinct kinds of love from them, I tell myself I'm tormented by guilt. This March I swallowed pills in a botched attempt and returned to life. I loved a married man. I believe I mentioned this before? After reviving, I developed tuberculosis—during those six months bedridden, I agonized terribly over my love and hatred for him. And I despised him. Fiercely. I told people about him. Each time I spoke of him, I kept convincing myself my love was fading away. When I recovered and met him again, he'd only say cutting things with that icy expression. I've already placed a full stop on my feelings. Then around November—the 20th, yes—I met him to collect the four thousand yen I'd lent. He wordlessly took out the bills and murmured, "Put these away quickly." Before that moment arrived, I'd been spouting every manner of nonsense.

"I'm getting married." "Next year." I had impulsively blurted out such things. He kept staring intently at my face. And then, the following Thursday, it was he who suggested meeting again.

When we parted in front of the movie theater. When we shook hands. I kept ordering myself to despise him—despise him—yet gradually ended up acknowledging my own feelings of love. Auntie, that night I went to Kyoto and received another man's caresses. Let me tell you a little about him. He is someone I truly love now. During my illness, when he visited me several times bringing lemons, I began to feel not so much love as a vague, inexplicable emotion. He had a completely different personality, appearance, and mannerisms from the man of my past. So I wasn't trying to make him recreate that shattered dream I'd shared with my former lover. At first it might have been mere interest. But I found myself intensely drawn to him. In him I could discern no purity or innocence. He seemed stagnant in life. It may sound strange, but he wasn't like a mountain stream—rather, he resembled driftwood in a river near the sea, carefree and adrift amidst ship oil and floating filth. With each meeting, I felt myself pulled deeper. Though he likely only held curiosity or mischief toward me at first, he came to love me deeply. Was it around October—no, perhaps late September?—there came a time when I utterly detested him. That was when we drank with composer Mr. T and his wife, after which he played a cruel prank on an unknown woman on Toh Road. He committed a terrible insult. Being a woman, I couldn't calmly endure witnessing that.

In the end, I was even lectured by an officer of that detestable profession I loathe, and no matter how drunk we were, I could never forgive that act. That night, I felt like weeping. And yet, I found myself thinking I must still love the person from the past. But each time we met afterward, each time I received a letter, I could no longer contain my emotions. That person had completely begun occupying the greater part of my heart. That night in Kyoto, when I received his embrace and kiss, I felt such happiness. I resolved to forget the person from the past. I nearly succeeded. How simple-minded I am.

I am.

Auntie. But I am no good.

A week passed, and I met the person from the past. At the station, I waited for nearly an hour. I'll act cold. To him, I thought to part with just a passing greeting. But I—what a terrible woman I am. There had never been a night so filled with self-loathing. While drinking with him and chatting, I ended up acknowledging my love for him. I could feel his true affection. I had misunderstood him. After all, he had truly loved me. We pledged to love each other apart from reality and society. A child was born to him, and for that child—with whom I felt some invisible connection—I began maintaining a love that kept one step behind his wife. I spoke ill of him and felt ashamed of myself for having thought that way. The guilt was overwhelming. But he did not reproach me. He forgave me. I do not regret. I am happy now. At those words of mine, he rejoiced. We walked together.

Auntie.

We entered a room on a dimly lit side street along a shadowy road. I want your child. I cried out.

Auntie. I truly wished for that. But Auntie. I realized that the presence of this new person I'd come to love lay right beside me. He never spoke of parting. After saying we'd meet again and watching his retreating figure disappear from the car, when I found myself alone at last, terror engulfed me. I rushed home, grabbed stationery and pen, and wrote to this new beloved. (Or was it the next day?) What a sinful woman I am. That I'd met my former love. That though I still cherished him from those days, our past remained unsevered. A past flowing into the present. Whether it was the day my letter reached him or later that same night, he came to Kobe. And asked whether my love belonged to yesterday or still lingered now. I claimed it was the past. The past was certain. But the past connects to the present. I couldn't utter that I loved him still. To love two men with different hearts—what a despicable excuse. Yet this was my truth: one heart craving summer's blazing sun, another yearning for twilight's sunken blue. Therefore I resolved to take no more steps toward that man of yesterday.

Auntie. I cannot organize my mind. No—I cannot organize my heart. So as I slowly recall and write down these facts, I know there must be gaps. But I am not writing fiction. This is an honest confession—the truth laid bare. Therefore, everything written here is undeniably real. My true anguish and my true self-condemnation.

Auntie. I can't write in order, and my handwriting has grown wild. But I keep writing without stopping.

Auntie.

And then, there was still another man near me. Let us call him the Pale Colonel. I will leave the particulars for later. With him, in late summer, I had a strange matchmaking meeting. The words I let slip—that after recovering from my illness but finding no hope whatsoever for myself, *I’ll marry anyone*—were overheard by the Pale Colonel’s brother, who then arranged for us to meet in my room. However, since we couldn’t come to like each other, we ended up speaking bluntly without any reserve. When I heard he had been composing, we talked about music in a completely charmless way. After that, he would come to my house to listen to records or go out for tea with me, but I—while astonished by his talent—did not harbor even a shred of goodwill. Now, as the businessman Pale Colonel spoke of music and inner turmoil that couldn’t be dismissed as mere nostalgia, I smirked and watched him half in amusement. Looking at the quartet score of the composer I had introduced, he was probably not in a calm state of mind. In cafés and such places, whenever he encountered a pleasant sound, he became unbearably restless and chased after the flow of noise entering his ears. I spitefully observed his expression.

Auntie. The Pale Colonel hates me. He said he hated me. But he visited me often. Before long, I began to feel that marrying the Pale Colonel might bring me happiness. Since he's so mature, I thought he'd simply watch over me no matter what I said or did. I believed I wouldn't need to be guarded and could relax. And so the Pale Colonel and I finally became engaged. That was the bold part. We exchanged a contract. We pressed our thumbprints. But truthfully, I hadn't seriously considered marriage. Thus: buyer - the Colonel; seller - myself. The sold item shall match the seller's condition, though treated as new, with execution set for Showa 29 [1954]. The year after next. And so we settled these terms between us and concluded the contract with utmost simplicity. As for his feelings - I never pondered them, never even tried to imagine. This occurred around November 17th or 18th. We even added clauses stipulating contract annulment if either party spoke of it. Yet since I treated it half as jest, I told four or five people I was marrying. Even added we'd do it next year.

As for why the Pale Colonel set the marriage in Showa 29—I will leave that for later. So when I met my person from the past—I was getting married. That person had once been a composer, so when I said such things, it wasn’t entirely a fabrication. The Pale Colonel knew both that I was newly in love and that I still loved the person from the past and was suffering because of it. Even during that night in Kyoto, the Pale Colonel was by my side. But I was unfazed. Because with the Pale Colonel, there had been the condition that we would not fall in love with each other. Moreover, I was opposed to taking romance into marriage. A woman like me—radical, a veritable mass of passion—could not possibly fall in love and then simply marry. I cannot connect romance to daily life, you see.

Auntie.

Moreover, for me, there was the third-generation family by my side. He was one of the third-generation family. He had famous parents, a famous grandfather and great-grandfather, and a mother of noble birth. As for that tragedy, I would write about it in the continuation anyway, so let’s omit it for now. Because it would likely become one of the causes that led me to death. If I were to name the biggest cause—of course, it was neither misanthropy nor anything else—it would be the collapse of love, though.

Auntie. Just now, I recalled the atmosphere of those times spent with you and them. There were always flowers. Auntie is someone who loves flowers. In the works of Ms. Tanaka Sumie, a playwright, flowers appear as if invariably. But I think you and flowers share a connection that’s even more intimately intertwined.

Well, let me get back on track.

Auntie. I was not serenely watching as three people whirled around me like a merry-go-round within my heart. But that did not last long. I found my heart being entirely drawn toward the person with whom I had newly fallen in love. I often met with the Pale Colonel. But it was as if I was always thinking of other things. While joking that if a child were born, I’d make them a pianist, I knew there was no way I could bear his child. I had no desire to bear one. I thought to myself. But there was one thing that troubled me. Why he did not say we would marry immediately but set it for Showa 29. Ah, when I heard that confession, I shuddered so much. This matter—in the entire world, there’s only me and the Pale Colonel who know of it. So, after all, I cannot write it here. I will state only that a single woman is involved—one I know nothing about. When I heard that story, I thought he was unhappy. And for a sinful woman like me—since I was already then suffering from guilt toward the person from the past and guilt toward the person I had newly fallen in love with—I had told the person from the past that I would love him forever, confessed it, then fell newly in love and betrayed his affection. I felt as though I was betraying that faint affection for the person from the past—still lingering in some corner of my heart—by turning toward the new person. I even reconsidered whether it might be better for us to come together and console each other. A little before that, I had just begun to love intensely—let us call that person By the Railway.

Because he loved the damp air beneath the elevated tracks—there was an emotional entanglement between that person, By the Railway, and myself. While walking through the foreign quarter’s streets, upon parting, I heard about his past. Of course, he already knew about mine—without naming anyone specifically. By the Railway and my person from the past—let me call him Green Island—had become acquainted because he often played Okinawan folk songs for me. Setting that aside, his confession pierced my heart painfully. When I asked why their catastrophe had come, he answered that they’d simply grown to dislike each other. Could such a thing exist? Could such love exist? And as for that woman—I’d seen her before—she and By the Railway met face-to-face nearly every day. They probably even chatted casually. What was this? Utterly opaque. Exactly like some cozy complicity of affection. Though deeply prone to jealousy, I felt none this time—only that I’d heard something distasteful. In truth, my affection for him seemed to have shriveled somewhat. “I no longer recognize you,” I said when we met the next day.

Love ought to be something more earnest. Because of such shifts in my heart, I came to hold a certain emotion toward the Pale Colonel—namely, the notion that it might be good to be together.

Auntie. Bored? But please bear with me.

I will continue writing.

Now that the mahjong game seemed to have ended, the family members were loudly arguing over tallying points with scoring sticks. My heart was anything but calm. Restless, with nerves jangling—seeming perpetually hollow yet paradoxically overstuffed to bursting. Beyond matters of love, I couldn't work. Couldn't write. Family affairs. These likely exacerbated my frayed nerves, but regardless, there wasn't a moment's peace—daily life brimmed with obligatory tasks. The reason was that my play had been scheduled for performance. It was drawing near. Composing its music, having my younger brother play trumpet, arranging drums. Handling tickets, fielding complaints from the tax office. Five or six phone calls from morning onward. Being asked to write newspaper contes. The pottery I'd painted in Karatsu last February had been shipped off—when mailing payment by registered post, postal errors forced repeated confirmations—I was truly overworked. Because exhaustion rendered my nerves ever more acute, I grew irritable.

And so, the day of the stage rehearsal arrived. December 12th. I went to an acquaintance’s place to borrow a drum. Come to think of it, I also stopped by Auntie’s place. When I was wearing the kasuri-patterned kimono, you know. You fastened the obi I painted. At Mikage Station, I wrapped the drum in a large cotton wrapping cloth and carried it with me—then, despite having a mountain of crucial work piled up, I went to Osaka brimming with the desire to meet By the Railway. I went to the café I often frequented. I had a feeling he would be there. I pushed open the door. By the Railway was talking with a woman. I abruptly flared up. Looking back now, I was truly such a hasty person. But it would happen right away. Even if she had been his sister. I barely managed a nod. When the girl at the café I knew asked me, “What’s with that wrapping cloth?” and I answered “A drum,” I realized my own voice had gone hoarse. Sitting down in a separate compartment, I lit a cigarette and tried to calm the clattering within my chest. After a while—during which time I did not look at By the Railway even once—By the Railway came to my side. “I’ll come at five, so wait for me,” he said.

I nodded. But I had no intention of waiting. The door creaked as their tangled footsteps departed. I drank coffee and composed myself. The next act—I phoned Green Island. Purely on impulse, I picked up the receiver. Green Island happened to be there. "Are you busy?" I asked. "Free," he replied. "And I'll come out," he added. I told him my location. As it happened—using my composer friend who keeps reappearing as pretext—Green Island brought along one piece of work. We met for the first time in half a month since that automobile farewell. We conversed calmly. Music dominated our talk. Then matters concerning Green Island's work. The conversation flowed endlessly onward. But Auntie—we spoke quietly, you understand? Neither of us desired the other's heart. That romance had already ended, you see.

Auntie. It was indeed a love that had ended. That was for the best. I felt relieved. So I wished for him to return by five o'clock. After all, I found myself resolved to wait for By the Railway. However.

Five minutes to five. I asked for the time. The girl at the café informed me it was five minutes to five. At that moment, Green Island said, “Let’s go drinking.” What an ugly woman I am. Without harboring any feelings toward Green Island, I went out with him. I wrote a business card for By the Railway, making sure of course that Green Island wouldn’t notice. What a hideous sight I must have been. I wrote the disagreeable phrase—“I’m leaving because I want to leave”—on a business card. Filthy, muddied me.

Green Island and I went drinking. There as well, we talked calmly. There was a piano placed there, and we listened with mutual wry smiles to a woman—who claimed to be a part-time music school graduate—playing Chopin. Because it was bad Chopin. And then, we talked about a child. Both the Pale Colonel and I were saying we'd make the child a pianist, you know. Feignedly. As if addressing a problem that didn’t exist in my own heart. Nonchalantly. I thought that I should make myself utterly ugly and suffer by my own hand. The discrepancy between my heart, my emotions, and my actions only grew more severe. Placing myself in this unbalanced, unstable, revolting mood—spitting on myself, kicking myself—what a way to torment oneself.

Auntie.

Why must I torment myself to this extent? I said to By the Railway many times: 'Don’t make me miserable.' But when I think about it, I’m the one making myself miserable.

“Seems we’ve both had rather disastrous love affairs, haven’t we?”

Green Island and I shook hands and parted near the station.

I returned to Kobe. I returned home to change into a kimono and decided to go to tonight’s all-night stage rehearsal before eleven o’clock. Just before leaving,I received a call from the Pale Colonel,and after talking briefly at a café,went with him to the venue. Since I tell him everything,I informed him of today’s events. But even he likely failed to fully grasp my self-destructive,miserable,and repulsive behavior. He seemed to understand me well,but I believe he never truly comprehended me at my core. At the venue,I learned from our director that By the Railway had come to Kobe. I wanted desperately to see him immediately. And I resolved that I must confess my wretchedness at once and beg forgiveness. I discovered he had gone out drinking but would return later. Meanwhile,I drowned in work matters. Yet my mind found no space left for such concerns. I entered backstage,tried numbing my agitation with pills,inspected drum preparations—this being what Pale Colonel had been assigned—then ascended toward stage area thinking he must have returned by now. He stood there. He had been assisting with stage equipment. When I approached him,tapped my head once,and promptly resumed working. Then finally came dress rehearsal. By Railway and I sat side-by-side. He already appeared wholly consumed by theater matters. Even regarding this,I felt shame toward myself.

Now, he took my place and paid considerable attention to everything. And so, a minor conflict arose among the trainees, but putting that aside—just as the rehearsal of my play had ended (it was already morning)—another rehearsal began. He lay asleep in the audience seats. While covering him with a blanket, I was overcome by a wretched feeling that my ugliness no longer deserved his love for me. The Pale Colonel went out to handle some business.

An opportunity for me and By the Railway to be alone presented itself. The two of us went out for coffee around noon. At a café near the venue with a stove, By the Railway was in a foul mood. But I could no longer bear it and spoke of yesterday’s events. I told him about meeting Green Island. He remained silent. He remained silent the whole time. I had heard that he had come all the way to Kobe because he wanted to see me. “Fine then—as long as I helped with the play, that’s enough—” he blurted out at me. The two of us hadn’t seen each other in a long time. That is why I had sent him express mail the day before. I felt terribly anxious— that I wanted to meet him as soon as possible. And when we met at that moment, how entangled we became. He said he would go home. I tried to stop him while sobbing uncontrollably. I went to the station and still tried to stop him. Just then, I encountered a composer friend who also helped stop him. We entered a café. I was completely unhinged and didn’t know what I was saying. I did all the talking.

I was the one who did all the talking. Because he said there was no connection between us anymore. I was stunned. Now that my matters with Green Island had truly been resolved at last—now that I had come to want him to take everything from me—it was precisely because this feeling ran so deep that his words shocked me into desperately trying to rekindle his affection. He said there was no truth in my eyes. That might have been true. In some corner of my heart, I still loved Green Island—and since he had been properly making armchairs too—that must have been the Pale Colonel. It was heartrending. In response to my babbling, he snapped, “You planning to lecture me now?” And sneered. With the play’s performance nearly upon us, our composer friend left first while he and I kept snarling at each other. There was no time left. I went to see him off at the station. I begged him to marry me. Even while clutching that contract with the Pale Colonel. Of course, I’d meant to return it first. But now I think I should have told him after giving it back. He left wearing that troubled look. I rushed back to the venue by car—then came the performance. That my play is being performed brings me no simple joy.

To both the actors and director I was truly grateful, yet I couldn’t bring myself to watch it calmly. When the first performance ended and night fell, my mind overflowed not with thoughts of the play but of By the Railway. The Pale Colonel told me: "If you’re truly in love, go to Kyoto after the second performance ends. Abandon your work—everything." I considered it deeply. But I gave up. "Don’t you dare neglect the play," By the Railway had said when we parted ways. I resolved not to go. After that day’s performance, I drank glass after glass through convulsive sobs. I rambled endlessly. Yet my true heart brimmed with self-loathing—a clumsy script, sordid actions, this inability to write novels. These things shattered me completely. But through it all, I recognized how my love for By the Railway grew ever deeper. I wept until morning came. The Pale Colonel comforted me in the dressing room’s chill—grateful as I was for his shred of understanding toward feelings I couldn’t master alone, I simultaneously despised my own ugliness in relying on him.

The next morning, I sent a telegram saying "I'm sorry" to By the Railway. I even searched the audience seats, wondering if perhaps he might come to see my play’s performance. I continued drinking. I watched the final performance with a vague sense of sadness. My nervous agitation had subsided, but I thought this might perhaps be my final work, and found it strange—though I calmly dissected that strangeness, wondering what playwrights might feel about this—how the lines I’d written came echoing back to me. The play ended, and we took photographs.

At that time, I had already resolved to die. By no means was it mere sentimentality. I could no longer bear the weight of my own sins and decided I did not want to suffer any longer.

At that time. I went out for a brief drink with the Pale Colonel. I ate blowfish and such, and by then I was already in a calm state of mind.

The following morning, I spent a hectic day dealing with the aftermath of the play, and the next day, late at night, I received a call from my composer friend. I had received a letter from By the Railway. I instructed that it be delivered the following day. But I had no expectations for that letter. Due to various circumstances, I still felt that I should end my own life. But even so, I still wanted to see the letter as soon as possible. I tidied up around my desk, settled my financial (debt) accounts, and gathered items to burn.

It was on that day that a certain young lady friend of mine came to visit. She must have picked up something from my expression. Normally I would welcome her with a smile, but I remained sullen, her words going in one ear and out the other. She seemed to say something about me having changed, or words to that effect. What I did was truly awful—awful in the sense that I wasn't oblivious to her feelings. Yet I laid out the truth without softening it. She appeared to be weeping.

That night, at the institute, I received a letter from By the Railway. I could no longer write about that.

Auntie, it was an utterly sad letter for me. I crumpled it into a ball. But that night, I read it again. I discovered there was joy even within my own heart. He loves me. It’s because I was able to feel that. I was able to feel it.

Auntie.

A fire engine just passed by. A dog barked; wind howled; the blotting paper was now thoroughly soiled. My heart is calm. At peace. As I kept writing, I grew calm—it must be around three o'clock already? Auntie—there’s still so much more to tell—yes—Auntie.

The following day. I wonder if I visited Auntie’s house. And I think I probably inquired about the twentieth person. "I said I would play Albéniz, didn’t I?" That sheet music—I went to buy it with the Pale Colonel, and he wrote "Pale Colonel" alongside "Avec un pâle Colonel" on its first page, you see. That comes from a stanza in one of the poems of Milo’s song cycle. However, the song of this poem has been omitted from the record. (This record will be mentioned later.)

Auntie. Auntie, I briefly touched upon what we talked about that day when it was just us two. My suffering—at least that much, I let it out, didn’t I? Then family matters. The feeling of being unable to go on living. That day, afterward, I went to Osaka. To meet By the Railway, I called him.

No, perhaps it was the day after that when I went to Auntie’s house. I had grown a bit confused. The thing is, I seemed to recall having been with the Pale Colonel and Mr. Fuji Masaharu—but in any case, I found out where By the Railway was, and he said he had work until around eight. I simply said I wanted him to meet me because I wanted to see him. I decided to wait at that café I always go to—the one that plays records—until eight o'clock, and if it got any later than that, I resolved to meet him somewhere else. I had prepared paper, envelopes, and pens. I wrote a letter to By the Railway. ―I want you to feel the truth of things. But even if we meet, you won’t feel it. So I won’t see you anymore. I will take one action that will demonstrate what is true. I am happy. I feel your love, and my feelings of loving you are something I could proudly share with anyone—but not being able to have you feel that might be unhappiness—that’s the kind of letter it was. I was playing Debussy’s La Mer. I wrote a contract dissolution document to the Pale Colonel. I was prepared to return home without pasting it and put the contract in. Then, I wrote to Mr. Fuji Masaharu. The two manuscripts he had in his possession—the request was that he not publish them. And then, a kind letter to my friend’s daughter. When I finished writing all that, the café owner brought me a doodle pad.

“Please write something,” he said. I was drinking hot whiskey, and since my thoughts were somewhat connected to my death, I did some doodling. In the same manner as I usually draw on plates, swiftly sketching things of the sea and flocks of birds and flowers. Around 8:15, after leaving there, I sped by car to the café where the Pale Colonel was waiting at nine, left a note saying “I won’t meet you tonight,” and went to meet By the Railway. That was Green Island’s workplace. Moreover, it was the day when the composer I had commissioned completed his work, and both Green Island and the composer were there. I met Green Island’s gaze and exchanged a few words. As usual, I felt Green Island’s love for me in his eyes. But my eyes must have already become like someone else’s—directed at who knows what. And then, hearing a voice resembling By the Railway in the hallway, I think that was precisely when my eyes must have shone. I met him. As if thawing, I abandoned all obstinacy and smiled. I smiled naturally. After Green Island left the room, By the Railway entered. I handed him the letter. Just as he—the composer—had business requiring him to meet with the Pale Colonel, I called the café where the Pale Colonel was again and asked them to tell him to wait there. By the Railway and I did not speak. He was already reading my letter. In the company of the composer’s friend, the three of us crossed the street and went to where the Pale Colonel was waiting, you see.

“Please don’t say anything more,” I said to By the Railway. He nodded. About an hour later, we were driven out at closing time and went for a little drink. And we stayed until the last train. At the national railway station, the Pale Colonel, the composer, and I tried to detain By the Railway and invite him to go to Kobe, but in the end, he went up to a different platform. That night, I would try reading this letter carefully once again.

He whispered to me. But I felt we would never meet again. So I followed him up to the platform. "Why don’t you come to Kyoto?" he asked me. He asked gently. "I’ll go right now," I replied. Yet the one who stopped us so violently was none other than the Pale Colonel.

Auntie. I shook hands with By the Railway. Tears were about to spill. I went up to another platform and stared as the Kyoto-bound train departed. I even wondered if he hadn’t boarded the train. He returned. The train’s taillight had vanished into the distance. This is all so trivial, just like a cheap novel. But I really won’t be able to see him again. Because I had already resolved this in my heart, it became unbearable. That night, when I returned home and got into bed, I received a call from By the Railway. He asked if the plan was for tonight. My mother was awake, and the phone was in the center of the house. I said no. “Right, then good night,” he said. “Good night,” I said. With that—or rather, after exchanging a few more words—I hung up the receiver. I had already made up my mind completely. On the 22nd, I would go to Kurobe. The reason I settled on the 22nd was that I wanted to finish settling my remaining work.

Because I had to collect ticket money and also attend the play’s critique meeting.

Auntie. On the following day, there was something that further solidified my resolve. Since I had long promised to take the composer's little boy to the park, I told him—the composer—on the last train from Osaka that we would keep our promise to the boy come morning.

Auntie, I'll write about today's events tomorrow after I've slept once. Why? Because my arms have gotten too heavy. Today I practiced piano quite a bit in the morning, and with my cigarettes running low, I can't manage to finish writing tonight—(I can't work without cigarettes)—it's gotten cold.

Well then, I'll say good night for now. Auntie.

Did I sleep five full hours? In the morning, I awoke to loud clattering echoing through the house—old wooden structures amplify every sound so mercilessly. Lying abed, I found myself recalling that peculiar dream: something about driving a record needle deep into an object I can no longer remember, draping cloth over it, waiting before removing the covering to press my lips close and inhale sharply through gathered air—this ritual would birth a child apparently. Ms.N from S Newspaper had been earnestly instructing me thus in the dreamscape. What absurd nonsense, I mused with bitter amusement while drifting between sleep and wakefulness—until the telephone's shrill ring pierced through. My immediate thought: By the Railway calling again. Yet when I answered past nine o'clock, my brother's voice emerged instead—he who should have been long departed for his office by then.

Auntie. I found it necessary to postpone the park incident I had begun writing about last night and instead explain in detail here about my family. As I had written a little about before, family matters—this was still one of the important causes driving me to my death.

Auntie. My family was one envied by many people. Yet we siblings living there couldn’t fathom what deserved such envy. No—admittedly not being poor might invite some admiration—but let me continue more concretely. The call from my brother requested I come to his company that evening. I answered I’d go if possible. After hanging up, my parents cornered me. So much to write—so much—I can’t make sense of it. I set down my pen and stared at the sun awhile.

No good. I have to write it all down.

I will continue.

Auntie.

My brother had been in a very foul mood for about two months. He came home late at night and went to bed without saying a word. Such a routine had persisted. As you know, my brother had been afflicted with a lung condition and spent a long time in the hospital, so Mother was deeply worried about his health. My brother’s attitude kept the entire household irritated. Because he would just scowl without uttering a word. As for what the cause was, both Father and Mother tried earnestly to determine it. One factor stemmed from Father’s involvement at the company—matters like the shop manager’s son acting senior and occupying higher positions, which overwhelmed my timid brother. They all seemed to gang up and mock him, leaving my introverted, honest-to-a-fault brother saddled with an inferiority complex. A servile person might have endured it, while an arrogant one could have flaunted Father’s influence—but my brother’s temperament made him ripe for bullying, his position equally vulnerable. Father himself faced poor regard at work, his reinstatement after the purge having drawn widespread resentment. I learned this from my brother. Yet from his perspective, obligations cut both ways—gratitude for parental privilege (like entering the company exam-free due to poor health or receiving special treatment from superiors) clashed bitterly with its burdensome consequences. My brother would return home each evening, numbing his dreary workdays with alcohol on the commute. But company woes alone didn’t exhaust him. Mother claimed part of the blame lay with a certain bar madam who’d seduced him—my guileless brother dragged into entanglement until escape seemed impossible. That too amounted to little next to family matters. Now we approach what I myself am entangled in—what I feel firsthand. We children grew up peacefully when young. I alone occasionally rebelled against our family, though never significantly.

As for why it was peaceful—though this is solely my own opinion—I believe it was because I had misunderstood Father. When I was in sixth grade, my essay was selected, and Father was recognized through it. I loved Father very much. Father also seemed to cherish me twice as much as anyone else. This was likely because I alone had inherited Father’s interests. My passion for painting, ceramics, and even literature all stemmed from his influence. I believed Father to be an extraordinarily great man. However, as I grew older, I realized my past understanding of him had been a grand illusion. It seems Father strove to shape me into his own likeness. He tried to fit his daughter into the mold he had crafted. Father had apparently been a top student in school and would boast of this to us children endlessly. In my youth, this instilled deep reverence for him, but gradually that faded away. After the war ended and I began working as an office attendant—only when I had stepped even slightly outside our household—could I finally observe Father clearly. He was a man who guarded his narrow world with the conviction that being right justified all else. He drank no alcohol, smoked no tobacco. He was forever reading books. Father had always taken pride in the path he had walked. Thus, he judged people simplistically by his own measure and instantly scorned those who diverged from it. Father had no friends who were merchants. Because Father despised merchants. And he associated with scholars and artists.

He had concluded that scholars and artists were great. When I began writing novels, Father vehemently opposed it. Poetry or essays—those he deemed acceptable to write. He recommended them. Yet he remained convinced novels were disreputable. Of course Father read novels too. Being competitive by nature, he voraciously bought new releases. But whether translations or Japanese works, he’d sourly dismiss radical fiction or explicit human portrayals as trash, while effusively praising anything mirroring his worldview. Father adored Rohan. He wanted to mold me into another Kouda Aya. He pressed me to read her books—those tedious passages about dusting floors and papering shoji screens. “What did you think?” Father asked. “The binding is splendid,” I replied. Father flew into a rage. He’d apparently been confident in his childrearing methods. No wonder my novel-writing, my brother’s corporate humiliation, and my younger brother’s jazz-obsessed modern boy persona infuriated him. From my brother he demanded unyielding grit; from me obedience; from my brother academic diligence. Toward Father—clinging to his narrow world while forcing it upon us—I nursed profound hatred. Father and I argued constantly. He never conceded an inch.

He let out a sarcastic laugh—his fingertips trembling all the while—as he endlessly insisted he was right. For over half a year now, I had utterly abandoned any attempt at honest conversation with Father. It all felt so absurd. Father’s sensibilities were no more sophisticated than those of a middle schooler. That is—

I had written this far when a voice called out from the entrance. I went out. I wondered if it might be an express letter from By the Railway—but it wasn't. From him—nothing. That is to say—for instance—even when a newspaper questionnaire came addressed to Father instead of me, his delight was something to behold. I found such aspects of Father comical rather than hateful. And so I came to think I should just keep deceiving him entirely. Before I knew it, I had stopped showing anything but smiles at home. I would laugh off Father’s childish sarcasm and snide remarks—chattering amusingly about jokes and incidents seen in town—praising his paintings—in short—the moment I stepped through the entrance—I would completely wrap myself in a certain mask. That way—Father was pleased—and since it was something I could manage easily—it proved simple. Father was exactly as I had imagined.

“It’s fine because no matter what I tell you, you won’t get angry.” Father said. I gave a bitter smile. While hating Father, I sometimes pitied him too. Now, as for my mother—she was well-bred, easygoing, truly harmonious by nature, and loved by many people. But Auntie, my mother was like someone who knew nothing at all. It would have been unreasonable to expect that of her. The other day too, she spoke terribly ill of the bar madam who had feelings for my older brother—even though she’d never met her. I gave her a bit of a scolding. But from my mother’s perspective, it must have been something she didn’t understand at all.

Auntie, I don't love my mother. Yet I don't blame her either, nor do I ever look at other women and wish she were that sort of mother. I cannot recognize any connection between myself and Mother. With Father, I do acknowledge a connection. Like my brother, people say Yukako Hisaka only reached her current state through our parents' influence—no matter where I go, Father's name clings to me like a shadow. Were I to call this fate and accept it—then perhaps I could sever my ties to Father without hesitation. But so long as rebellion lingers in some corner of my heart, that connection remains. Indeed. I will likely live only three more days. It exists. I must write in proper order.

Well，the other day I met my older brother for the first time in ages. The two of us drank tea alone，and he earnestly told me that when at home，I had to act—that showing my true colors would be disastrous. And he said I had to take action. He said that while at home，I should deck myself out as a clown，plan thoroughly，and then leave the house. If I remained steeped in the stagnant third-generation blood，I would become tainted.

Father seemed to think himself a noble man, but that was an utterly mistaken notion. Childishness and integrity are not the same. He was rather impure. Using scholarship and intellect as shields, Father’s true self had become warped. I urged my older brother to leave home and told him he ought to quit his job. My brother appeared startled by my opinion. I too had resolved then to leave home—to begin living alone the following year. This followed my earlier decision about Kurobe; there’s some overlapping chronology and dates may seem confused. Auntie. Please endure reading this.

The noon siren had just sounded. I wondered if I had been writing for nearly ten hours since last night. Now then, I thought I should return the story to where we left off last night. No, wait. This morning, when I called my brother, I wrote that I had been summoned by our parents. At that time, Father became furious that I supported my older brother quitting his company and kept spouting incomprehensible things. I felt profoundly sorry for my older brother’s inferiority complex. I wondered why my older brother had developed such a personality. I said that perhaps it was necessary to consider it. Mother said something interesting—that when she was pregnant with my older brother and Father was abroad, the fear she felt had ended up influencing him. I wanted Father to reflect. The fact that Father—who believed anyone not from Ichi Middle School, First Higher School, or Tokyo University was human scum—had unwittingly become the cause of my older brother’s severe inferiority complex. For example, among my older brother’s friends, there was a genius who had graduated from Tokyo University. When that person came over, Father showed even more joy than he did toward my older brother, chatting happily about topics my brother didn’t know—stories of Tokyo’s Red Gate and professors. I wanted Father to reflect. But speaking bluntly to Father would have stirred up another quarrel, and I found it too bothersome and stopped. Father said again. He wondered why he came home and did not show his true colors to him. I blurted out.

“I advised my older brother, ‘Don’t show your true colors.’” “He’s showing his true colors.” “If there’s something unpleasant in his heart, he makes an angry face.” “That’s his true colors, I tell you.” “Dad, you’re contradicting yourself.”

But I immediately noticed Father’s expression growing stern, added a jest, and managed to deceive him.

Now then，I must at last return to what transpired at the park.

Auntie. I won’t say “Please bear with me.” If it grows tedious, feel free to skip ahead—you may even abandon it midway. It’s simply that I wished to write to you. Now, it was the Pale Colonel who accompanied me to take the composer’s boy to the park. I found myself intensely reluctant to meet him. Even without loving him, merely being together now felt unforgivable toward By the Railway. With the boy wedged between us in the car en route to Oji Park—my planned departure for Kurobe on the 22nd looming before me—that day being the 19th— My nerves had grown razor-edged. Then the Pale Colonel recounted an incident. He told me of what had transpired with By the Railway at Osaka Station last night. During my absence, he’d apparently spoken to By the Railway about that play’s stage rehearsals, disclosed having drawn resentment from trainees, and declared “I advocated on your behalf.” By the Railway’s response was:

“That must have been quite dramatic.” That was what he had said, I was told. The Pale Colonel was furious. Upon hearing this, I grew furious at the Pale Colonel in turn. Entering the park, I sat the boy on a wooden horse and let him play while, “The thing I hate most is when you say, ‘I did this and that for your sake.’”

“I said,” I told him. And I spoke of the Pale Colonel’s actions in an unfavorable light. I truly detest lines that make it feel like a favor. He insisted that what he had done was right. I fell silent. In the end, everything became too much of a hassle. Instead, I played with the boy to my heart’s content. I also rode the merry-go-round. By then, I had come to feel disgust toward the Pale Colonel. But I did not propose terminating the contract. It’s in the envelope. Together with the letter I wrote yesterday. But because explaining the reasons or anything else seemed too troublesome, I thought it would be simpler to leave it all somewhere and be done with it. That day came to an end like that.

The next day, I had no memory of how I had spent my time. Anyway, I must have been busy. Ah—perhaps that was the day I chatted with Auntie. No—maybe that wasn’t it after all. I went to the young lady’s friend’s place. And after having a pleasant talk—since I’d been invited to a cocktail party at the Kings Arms Hotel on December 21st—I invited her. Drinking among foreigners is something I’m terrible at, but she enjoys it. That’s right—I did end up going to Auntie’s place that day.

That night, the institute. I was fixated on death. With the talented people I liked—those who had performed my play—and the coterie members, I went to our usual Jyanjyan Yokocho and sang quite a lot. And then, I returned home.

On Monday the 20th, I completely forgot what I did during the day, but at night went out to the promised cocktail party accompanied by the young lady. On the way back from that, I found myself overcome with an irrepressible urge to see By the Railway. I thought about going to Kyoto. However, inside my handbag were only two 100-yen bills and a few 10-yen notes. Even if I were to go to Kyoto now, there were no streetcars running, and since I was wearing high-heeled shoes and silk attire, I couldn’t very well walk. I sent a telegram to By the Railway saying I wanted to meet him tomorrow at 3 PM at our usual café in Osaka. At any rate, I absolutely had to meet him one more time. Simply that alone—and after meeting him, I intended to depart for Kurobe. After sending the young lady home by car, I returned home. I tidied up the desk and such, took a bath, put on fresh undergarments, and went to bed.

Auntie. The 22nd was coming. It had come. I dispensed more charm than ever around the household, smiling all the while. Around ten-thirty, after playing with the Spitz I'd recently bought, I went out. Trousers. Two or three sweaters layered beneath a tattered overcoat, gloves riddled with holes. Inside my handbag lay the thousand-yen and hundred-yen bills I'd saved for this day. A thousand-yen postal order. Then a pearl necklace and a ring studded with diamonds and rubies. The furoshiki bundle held pen and manuscript paper—that morning I'd suddenly felt compelled to write, scratching out ten frantic pages of my play. The first draft I'd ever written: Scissors, Cloth, and Pattern. I'd abandoned it mid-sentence, planning to finish during my free time at a café before three. The bundle also contained two or three architecture books borrowed from the Pale Colonel. He'd been building a house—my designs entrusted to him. Perhaps it might have become a home we shared someday. And in the envelope lay our contract with its brief notice of termination. I'd written this earlier. These things filled the bundle. My first stop was the jeweler's.

At the first shop, I was told both would fetch three thousand five hundred yen. I had thought ten thousand yen would be safe, so I was disappointed. At the next shop—three thousand yen. At the next shop—what do you know—two thousand yen. I lost the will to sell. I have absolutely no attachment to these items. However, the amount offered in exchange was far too small. There would be travel expenses to reach Kurobe and lodging costs should train schedules necessitate waiting. I noticed I hadn’t received payment for my manuscript from Kobe Shimbun. I went to the record store I always frequented, made a phone call, and notified them in advance to come collect it. Now when I met the owner at that record store—he was my former lover. Auntie, you knew about that, didn’t you? He suggested we play Milhaud’s art songs. I’d often listened to them there and had said I would buy them. I thought it would be all right to give one to the Pale Colonel. I had them sturdily wrap a single record and paid three hundred yen plus some change. Just then, the owner of an interesting bar wandered over, and I decided to go have coffee with him. I spent about ten minutes talking about paintings and such. Encountering such a nostalgic person by chance felt pleasant. After parting with him, I boarded the streetcar and stopped at a small shabby jewelry store before heading to the newspaper company.

This time for sure, I thought, I must let go. I said I'd sell the ring for four thousand yen. At that shop, the pearls wouldn't do. The proprietor examined them with painstaking care. I pressed him to hurry since time was short. He agreed to buy. Had it taken fifteen minutes? I felt relief. But my shabby appearance against the ring's value made him suspicious. Your occupation. Your name. ID. Bankbook. Disgusted beyond measure, I walked out. Incoherent rage boiled within me. Then at quick march to Kobe Shimbun—collected eight hundred yen, exchanged trivialities—next to the post office. Yet there too came the demand: identification. My commuter pass held but one business card—Hisaka's. No seal either, and the postal order bore my legal name. Dejected I left—though I'd persisted stubbornly, refused haughtily by that middle-aged woman with unraveling hair—to the next post office. The station branch. They too refused the money order; the nearby office proved useless. A friend lived close by—since it was payable to bearer, I thought to have him cash it—but found him absent.

Finally, I went to the Central Post Office. There I pleaded repeatedly and was made to provide various explanations—namely, what the one thousand yen was for—before finally being able to receive it. That money was from the ticket sales of the recent Research Institute performance. It was money I had advanced earlier. I boarded the streetcar again and headed to Hankyu. And then, I boarded the express. I wasn’t particularly looking at the scenery; as usual, I was just dazed. I like riding in vehicles because during that time, I can rest. Now—the time was past one o’clock, I believe—I went to visit Mr. Fuji at Mainichi Shimbun—no, before that, I visited Green Island. He was not there. Why did I visit? It was simply to ask about my composer friend's matter. By now, I had no feelings whatsoever for him. And then, I had a conversation with Mr. Fuji at a coffee shop. I often blurt out that I’ll die. So, with a smile, I told him again that I was going to die. Right. Before that, I had bought a map of the Kurobe area and a timetable at Osaka Station. I, together with Mr. Fuji, looked at the map and chatted in a joking manner, and he said, "Do come again," before leaving. But why on earth hadn’t I bought the ticket in advance?

It was simply something that lacked any exercise of will. Whenever I traveled, I had always formed the habit of buying tickets haphazardly. Whether taking the Tokaido Line to Tokyo or heading west via the Sanyo Line, I had never once purchased tickets beforehand; if none were available, my method was simply to take the next train.

I found myself alone in the coffee shop, borrowed ink, and began writing my manuscript's continuation when By the Railway called through trembling wires. Three o'clock proved impossible—six became our compromised hour through lips feigning composure. His tender voice lingered after hanging up like smoke from extinguished incense. Time dissolved until door hinges screamed their protest—there stood Pale Colonel materializing from shadows as if conjured by my guilt-drenched thoughts later confessed through his words: how grotesque my features twisted when confronted with living proof of his premonition's accuracy. The contract document changed hands between us like radioactive ore—my declaration of Kurobe-bound intentions met with his conditional permission veiling desperation beneath pragmatic tones about return journeys while my throat constricted around flippant lies about travel plans made haphazardly like all things in this unraveling life where Brahms symphonies warp through cracked records and lovers become waystations along tracks leading only to dissolution.

He had taken my contract document with him. At that moment, for some reason, I suddenly felt the urge to pull back, yet at the same time seemed somewhat relieved. I once again wrote the continuation of my manuscript. From By the Railway came another call—he would be a bit later. Since I could order any record starting at six o'clock, I chose Brahms' Fourth. This symphony had been my most beloved.

Now, as the shop girl was about to begin playing [the record] at length, I set down my pen and closed my eyes. However, the first eight measures of the strings failed to sound. The needle must have been improperly placed. By then I had grown so irritated that I scarcely listened until the entire piece concluded. I even reached the point of thinking it was an unpleasant composition. When Brahms ended, my manuscript too was finished. Next came *The Marriage of Figaro* beginning to play. It was around then that By the Railway arrived. I could not lift my eyes to meet him seated across from me with calm composure. My determination to go to Kurobe and my love—no, my attachment—to him spun through my mind at terrifying speed. The impetus behind this Kurobe journey held another reason beyond conveying truth to him: I wished to sever myself from all mundane affairs. Family matters. Yes. I had already reached the limit of maintaining domestic pretense. I had grown weary. Moreover, my inability to produce good work—to write at all—contributed as cause. Were I to choose survival, they would come bearing down again. Those things. The weight of those things. I spoke to him.

“Please come to Kurobe with me.” Oh, dear Auntie. What have I gone and said? I must have let it slip. Upon his happiness, upon his future—it will be me, sinful and insignificant, who lowers the crossing gate.

We left the coffee shop. My belongings—in other words, my manuscript, Milo’s record, and the items I had borrowed to pass on to the Pale Colonel. I left them in storage. Our footsteps were heavy. We entered a street stall eatery and drank kasujiru. Then we came near the station. He said he would send a telegram. I interpreted this to mean he would go to Kurobe with me. However, he did not send it to his home address. The telegram stated that there seemed to be some gathering that night, so he couldn’t go. Even so, I believed he would go to Kurobe with me. There were still over three hours until the 10:30 train.

(Auntie, the nib of my favorite fountain pen broke.) He and I began walking in silence. We headed northward. We said nothing. And then we came to a large bridge. Below lay train tracks. Smoke was rising as an icy wind blew. He broke the silence. “I said something awful. I’m truly sorry,” he added. I hadn’t expected those words at all. I was startled. And in that instant— I feared I might lose my resolve to die. We started walking again. How many minutes had we walked? By the Railway suddenly spoke. “Will you marry me?” he said. This was what I’d longed for,yet never dreamed I’d hear. I thought I could cast everything aside and live for him alone. There was nothing but joy.

Anxiety, anguish—yes, Auntie, at that moment I had no guilt, nothing at all—no family matters, no work matters.

We walked for a long time. Auntie, on that day, I truly believed I was happy. I felt and trusted his affection exactly as it was, without any doubt or hesitation. "I'm happy," I said. I was truly happy. For a while, we had forgotten about time passing. Yet soon enough, I found myself imagining my return home that day with truly wretched feelings. "I don't want to go back," I told him. But By the Railway insisted I return. Before half past ten, we came back to Osaka Station. We could still catch the train. But of course, I never intended to go to Kurobe. I parted from By the Railway and turned toward Kobe. There I met an acquaintance who invited me to drink at a yakitori stall, and so I went before finally returning home.

Dear Auntie. But the moment I stepped inside the house, that unpleasant feeling returned—as though a heavy stone had been placed atop my head. I want someone to rescue me from this stagnant riverbed. I want someone to rescue me. I was completely exhausted.

Auntie, I cannot bring myself to ask By the Railway to save my current situation. He isn’t financially well-off, and given our present feelings for each other, how could we possibly address practical problems? That night too, my parents were muttering something about my brother, and I immediately went to bed, feeling terribly anguished. Without a moment's delay— I wanted to bring myself to the point where this weight would be lifted off me. I thought long and hard about many things that night. Things with him. And family matters. Even that day—I should have just gone straight home—but when I got off the train in Kobe, that awful feeling came over me again. I kept drinking until half past twelve. I wanted to escape from home. That method—living entirely on my own as an individual. Or marriage. However, with By the Railway, I had only given my consent—it remained unclear when it would come to pass. He might bring up ending it again. He had an elderly mother and brothers, so the third option was inevitably death. There was no other way but that to escape my current suffering and the constraints of home. I had thought a great deal about various things. And what finally came to mind, Auntie, was the Pale Colonel.

It had grown quite cold. It was probably past two o'clock. For now, I would end there today. During the day, Mr. Fuji Masaharu came by, and then we went out together. Not forgetting my promise with my brother, I went to his place—but since he couldn’t finish work by five o’clock—I returned home for the time being. In the evening when my brother returned home; my friends gathered—among them were two of those written about here—and we told jokes and drank in my room. After everyone had left and I had taken a bath; I wrote nearly thirty pages; so it must have already been three o’clock by then; I decided to leave the rest for tomorrow; That day; my brother had been very lively; which gave me some relief; but even as I chatted with everyone and worked on my manuscript; my mind remained consumed by thoughts of By the Railway; Auntie—there were still more events that followed; I had written up to the 22nd; Then up to the 28th; Six days’ worth;

Auntie, why must I suffer so? Well then—goodnight again until tomorrow.

I washed my hair and felt completely refreshed. It was the morning of the 30th. Today I thought there would be some contact from By the Railway. I had sent an express letter, and a reply about meeting tomorrow was supposed to arrive by ten o'clock today. I decided to leave this matter for later, as it would get chronologically tangled otherwise.

Continuation of last night.

Auntie, it seems both your year-end and New Year’s have been quiet.

Now, on the morning of the 23rd, as soon as I got up, I telephoned the Pale Colonel. He was not there. I immediately wrote a letter. I asked him to return the contract.

Auntie.

What a thing I have done! Yesterday, I proposed to By the Railway, and he accepted. But ah, I have no clear reason to justify that act. That night was the institute’s members’ meeting. I went drinking at three different places. And wanting to forget everything, I deliberately tried to get drunk. That’s right.

That afternoon, I got a perm. It was something the Pale Colonel had recommended. The frivolous lightness of my permed hair. But inside my heart, something foul had settled. I made myself increasingly ugly, hated myself more and more, and grew ever more miserable. The next morning—that being the 24th—I called the Pale Colonel again. He was not there. In my heart, things that conflict with my actions—the presence of By the Railway—were deeply engraved. Then why didn't I go to him right away?

I went to Osaka. And I met Mr. Fuji. But I did not telephone By the Railway. I called the Pale Colonel.

That night，Christmas Eve． I drank a little with Mr．Fuji and the Pale Colonel in Osaka． And I returned to Kobe together with the Pale Colonel． While coldly acknowledging my love for By the Railway and my own contradictory actions． But upon returning to Kobe，I immediately called home． I wondered if there was any contact from By the Railway． There was none． Precisely，that day was the institute’s final day． But I did not go． And I drank again with the Pale Colonel． He gave me a harsh scolding． “If you’re going to Kurobe，if you’re truly serious about dying，then why don’t you just go without a word？” “Is the reason for your resolve to go something that can be so easily dismissed？” I was hardly listening to a word he said． I was completely filled with thoughts of By the Railway． I said to the Pale Colonel when we parted，“Please do not read the letter I sent．” And I myself felt relieved． After all，I decided to throw everything away． I would love only By the Railway，single-mindedly and without reservation． I requested an acquaintance to let me rent a room in Sakasegawa．

I thought about leaving home to live alone. And I thought that if I could put an end to the suffering caused by family matters, I might even be able to work. The Pale Colonel promised not to read the letter. And then on the next day, the 25th, we met. He produced my sealed letter and placed it before me. I snatched it and tore it to pieces. The Pale Colonel brilliantly guessed what was written there. The contract. I answered, “That’s right.” The Pale Colonel did not inquire further about the reason. I parted with the Pale Colonel around three-thirty. I had resolved never to see him again. I resolved to discard my worthless, base disposition that had been seeking a comfortable territory. Because the Pale Colonel is an adult, I can feel at ease. Moreover, because there is neither romantic affection nor love, I can remain calm. However, no matter how anxious I felt, no matter how hard life was, I wanted to spend it with By the Railway. Now, Auntie. Since I had a debt at a bar and had just received my allowance from Father, I went to pay it off. Then, Auntie, the mama-san there said. Last night, By the Railway came by to drink alone.

I was startled. At home, they hadn't told me he'd called. I never imagined he'd come the previous night. I rushed to the station and sent a telegram: 24 HISUMANU ASASA DE NTANOMU.

After that, I attended the institute’s year-end party. I drank an enormous amount. I wonder if By the Railway happened to see me walking with the Pale Colonel. I returned home with my mood horribly darkened by a mischievous twist of fate. Because I drank so much unrefined sake, my head was pounding, and I immediately went to sleep.

The next morning, the 26th, I called Kyoto from here. He had already left. All day long, I kept thinking, “Will it ring now? Will it ring any moment?” and grew increasingly agitated. It did not ring. I had also mailed him that morning. That because they hadn’t told me at home about his call, I couldn’t meet him. And that I wanted us to meet as soon as possible. I want to spend all day with you. I scribbled hastily in pencil. I wrote too that on the 24th I’d gone back to Kobe and drunk alone. As an act, it must have been deceitful. But I can only think of one person. That one person can’t be a lie. There was no word from By the Railway all day on the 26th. I know he’s busy. So I tried telling myself he mustn’t even have time to send a telegram or write. Now then—that day with no morning call had me resolved for Osaka when my brother stormed out at dawn spouting “I’m never coming back” and “I’ll die,” throwing the house into uproar. By evening I’d been charged with tracking him down and bringing him back. There was no choice. I had abandoned Osaka.

That's right. That night was the institute’s year-end party. On the night of the 25th, I played Albéniz at home for three hours straight. Now, I summoned my brother at his company and went to a coffee shop. And I advised my brother to either quit his job or leave home. I said that I too would leave home next year. My brother muttered things like “Poor Mother,” but wore a gloomy expression. “You must plan and act!” I snapped. “And until you act,” I said, “I’ll keep up the charade. If you go home and chatter away smiling, that’s how our parents will be reassured.” My brother said he couldn’t do it. “If you can’t,” I said, “leave home this instant.” Then I asked, “Doesn’t it disgust you too—receiving these wretched misunderstandings at home?” “It does,” he answered. I grew exasperated with my brother. Yet he seemed partly swayed by my words, almost understanding. This was surely the exact opposite of consoling him as our parents had requested.

After that, I went to the institute’s year-end party. I wrote about that already, didn’t I? That night, I collapsed into bed still fully dressed.

The 27th.

I went to Osaka to meet By the Railway. A call came from the Pale Colonel, and I went to Osaka with him. I couldn't stand being with him anymore—it was unbearable. Even on the train, I deliberately pretended to be asleep. And from a certain coffee shop in Osaka, I called a place where By the Railway was likely to be. He was not there.

I parted ways with the Pale Colonel and went to another place where By the Railway was likely to be. He wasn’t there either. That was where Green Island stayed. I thought about trying to meet him. The movements of my heart were something I myself could not explain. It was something I could not resolve. However, Green Island was not there. I went to the usual coffee shop and called another place where By the Railway might be. He was there. His voice sounded terribly cold. I was told to wait. He gave the impression he would come soon. But how long did I wait? An hour and a half—no, perhaps two hours? He did not come. I could not stay calm. While listening to Francescaatti’s violin playing Paganini and Saint-Saëns—music I loved— My heart kept churning. Finally, he came around five o’clock. He looked terribly sullen. As the place was crowded with customers, we left immediately and began walking.

When I brought up what happened on the 24th, he said he hadn’t made any phone call. “I just wanted to go to Kobe,” he said, “so I went.” He added that he’d simply walked around drinking there. Then he snapped that he had some year-end party to attend. We went into another coffee shop and began talking, but he answered everything I said with sarcastic jabs. “Are you angry?” I asked. “Not at all,” he replied tersely. His mood remained foul throughout. I tried convincing myself it was work fatigue. Then somehow we started discussing my female friend. “I’ve been relying on her,” he said abruptly. My breath caught. He hadn’t written me a single letter in months. If he found time to write at all, why not to me? The mere fact of his correspondence with her—regardless of content—shook me deeply. But I kept silent. After a while, he called someone about being late to his party. Strangely grateful for this mundane act, I pushed aside my turmoil. Then we went drinking near the station.

Dear Auntie. I remember everything from that time in precise detail. But I don't have the mental composure to write it all down meticulously. After all, those events still feel too immediate. Still, I'll record them as faithfully as I can. He drank without smiling, talking more to the shop woman than to me. Yet simply being together made me happy. That alone sufficed. But after downing considerable liquor, he began directing sarcastic remarks at me again.

“Among all the women I’ve met in Kobe, you’re the absolute worst.” Unable to grasp his meaning, I asked him to repeat it. He clarified I was a low-quality woman. Then he added that while self-deprecation might be charming in men, it made women ugly. I kept silent and listened. He went on to claim I was the type who reveled in being waited on by men. This was a completely off-base interpretation. Dear Auntie. Could I really be such a woman? Though truthfully, no one’s ever waited on me. I don’t even desire to be waited on. I’ve always been more inclined to love than be loved—why would he say such things? Yet I stayed silent. Compared to the 22nd.

It is now 12:30 PM here—today’s the year-end party at home. First came the composer friend, and with that, the manuscript was abandoned.

It is now 11 PM.

A crowd came, drank, ate, sang.

Auntie, I'm digressing again in my account, but today, the 30th at 10 PM—it was such a painful hour for me. That being said—even so—my resolve hasn't wavered in continuing to write this. If I pick up the pen after ten o'clock, it remains just as before. Let's continue.

…What a difference compared to the 22nd. By the Railway had completely changed his attitude. We left the bar and entered a coffee shop. In his usual manner, he picked fights with me. "I'm simple-minded, so even if you tell me complicated things, I won't understand," I said. He snorted derisively. And then, he silently stared at my face. "What are you thinking?" I asked. He said, “Try to guess what I’m thinking.” “I don’t know,” I answered.

“You don’t look entirely displeased, you bastard.”

It was after looking at my face that he said it. "What exactly do you mean by 'not entirely displeased'?" I asked. Then he said I wasn't taking it simply enough and got angry again. I tried to convince myself that, in any case, it was the alcohol making him act so rough. We left that place and began walking unsteadily. He said he would take me by car until 1 AM. "I don't want to let you go home today."

After he said that.

Until nearly one o'clock, we embraced each other. But unlike on the 22nd, he was cold and cruel. "I refuse to go home like this," I declared. After getting out of the car again, we began walking. If I spoke even a word, he would snap at me, so I stayed silent. When I impulsively said, "I'm always thinking of you," he sneered, "Don't lie!" The truth was—whether alone or in crowds—I never stopped thinking of him. He fixated again on my novel: "Why can't you write truthfully?" Crossing that unmanned railroad crossing, I nearly wished to be crushed beneath a train. He kept muttering nonsense. Returning near Jūsan Station, I insisted, "I won't part like this." Then we entered another bar. Auntie.

And there, another incident occurred.

A young man was drinking heavily at a stand-up bar. So we sat down on chairs still simmering with resentment between us. Then the man started spouting nonsense. At first he cheerfully tried making conversation, which didn't particularly bother me, but then he began putting his hand on my shoulder. Let me explain - I was seated right next to him, sandwiched between him and my companion. I detest being touched by strangers. Even by acquaintances, truth be told. This made me snap. The man appeared to be either a rookie policeman or some lowlife - likely a patrolman given his demeanor. He had a bandaged finger. He kept rambling about himself - declaring "This is who I am!" - while demanding our names. To my dismay, my companion amiably engaged him in talk. Yet this very amiability struck me as profoundly lonely. Soon enough, the drunkard draped his arm around me again. "Who the hell are you?" he slurred. Earlier, when questioned, my companion had calmly written down his real name and address for him. My skin crawled with visceral revulsion toward men.

It suddenly came to me. There was an envelope under my handbag. That day, I had been asked by a folk craft shop to write a manuscript, and after writing about two pages, there were one or two sheets of white manuscript paper left inside that envelope which I had with me. I turned the envelope—you know, a sturdy one—inside out and thrust it before the man. It bore a seal stamped with “Hyogo Prefectural Police Chief.” The man’s expression changed drastically. That envelope normally contained a magazine called Ayumi delivered monthly to my home. Since it was durable and convenient, I often repurposed it as a manuscript holder.

Then all hell broke loose—the man panicked and in an instant became servile. I had been coldly observing his attitude at first, but feeling too sorry for him—and because he was being a nuisance—I said, “I’m sorry.” I was made to explain what my relationship with the Police Chief was, and in any case, it turned into a huge commotion. He was being very considerate toward the man. For over an hour, the man remained in a panic. I grew annoyed, told him we should leave, and finally rose from our seats. But he showed a gentle face. The man bought fruit at the neighboring fruit shop and made me hold it. I was unbearably uncomfortable. When we were finally alone together, he suddenly began to scold me. “You’ve done something cruel,” he said. “And he probably has a mother too—life must be hard for him.” I remained silent. But more than that, I found matters with him far more significant than my own actions or that incident. We ended up taking a car back to Osaka, but during that ride, I said I couldn’t return home feeling like this. He kept spewing whatever words came to him in the moment—telling me to go home or not to go home—due to the considerable amount he’d drunk. Even after getting out of the car, we still seemed to be quarreling. When I said I would send a telegram saying I wouldn’t return home tonight, he told me not to send any telegram and to stay without returning. And when I stayed silent, he said, “Then I’ll take responsibility for it later, right?” I found this mutual awareness of things called responsibility utterly detestable.

There's no obligation or responsibility in love, you know. Dear Auntie. When it comes to formal interpersonal relationships or work matters, I myself am very responsible. But I've never engaged in any mutual exchange of responsibilities in love. To feel something as a responsibility—I don't consider that love.

We wandered aimlessly around the hotel district, arguing all the while. In the end, he suggested I return home. I nodded. I went to the station and bought a ticket. Then we went back to a coffee shop. He was thoroughly drunk. And then he brought up that incident with the police officer. I was in no state to deal with such matters.

“You’re cruel.” He said to me. “Yes, I am.” “I can’t stand making myself endure unpleasant feelings,” I answered. I truly held no sympathy for men. Even now when I think about it, that’s still how it is. I hate servility. He was deeply sympathetic toward the police officer. “And the world is just like that.” He said that even in our world, it’s the same. Ah, I felt a spark of anger toward this resigned acceptance of living in servility. But I remained silent. He changed the subject—it wasn’t something to keep saying about not wanting to go home. “Don’t say that!” he shouted.

The coffee shop was packed. A crowd of people were watching us. But I didn't interfere with his behavior. I was utterly devoid of any tenderness. I had crumpled completely. So I said I wouldn't say it anymore. He dragged me along all the way to my platform. And as I entered the ticket gate, he shouted again loudly.

“Let’s kiss right now—you won’t dare, will you?”

And then, leaving behind a sneering laugh, he went home. At that moment, I suddenly remembered Green Island. Green Island too had been someone who drank often. We would often drink together. Yet we always parted with smiles and handshakes. Of course there were times I sulked and received lectures. There were times I grew irritated and angry. But when we separated, we smiled. I viciously berated myself for remembering Green Island. With a heavy heart, I boarded the train. I felt my connection to By the Railway had been utterly severed. Yet I still loved him. Even after returning home that day, I waited for his call. And sitting at my desk, I wrote him an express letter.

I can no longer feel your love. It seems it's already over. And since there are things I want to return and things I wish to give you, please contact me by 10 PM on the 30th. Because I had heard that the 31st was free all day. Any time or place would do. Five minutes would be enough.

Auntie, I've become utterly helpless and lost all will to live once more. That time when I thought I could find happiness lasted but a fleeting moment. It spanned from the 22nd to the 25th. I love By the Railway. Yet I possess nothing to prove this truth. If we cannot feel each other's hearts, then it must end. I realized I could never build a life with him. It would become an endless chain of doubts and misunderstandings. "Auntie," I plead, "Auntie—try living wrapped in solitude." You told me that once, didn't you? I cannot. I'd resolved to leave home come the new year and forge my own path, but in that imagined life—never solitary—By the Railway's presence always lingered. And I believed I could work.

Family matters. Work matters. And above all else—By the Railway. Having lost him, I lacked both the courage and resolve to continue working. Auntie. I may seem strong, but I’m truly weak. I don’t blame him. Though I blame myself plenty. How did it come to this? In the end, I believe it’s my sin. Yes. That letter—the one I sent by express mail. What I want to give him is a slap across the face. An expression of my love. I can’t say anything anymore. I can’t expect his embrace or kiss. I’ll slap his cheek with all my might. Then there’s what I need to return—one of two photographs he gave me. The one showing him with a former lover. I’m sure I mentioned that briefly earlier.

Even looking at the photograph makes me seethe with anger.

Auntie. The next day—the 28th—before coming to see you, I dropped it into the blue postbox’s express slot. The final letter to him.

Auntie. I don't need to write about what happened afterward, do I.

Auntie. It must be around one now, I suppose. The 30th, you know. No—1 AM on the 31st. Auntie, there was no word from him. By ten—no, even after that—up till now. It's over. Clearly over. I've lost all courage to act. Yet my mind still strains toward death. Right now, I'm struggling to make myself move. But what should I do? Though I love southern lands. Me—trying to go where cold snow falls. When will I die? Can I even take action? Though I've concluded things with him are finished, my heart still fights against ending it. What if a telegram or call comes slightly late? Or perhaps work kept him from seeing my letter? But no—it's hopeless after all.

Auntie. Tomorrow is—no, today is New Year's Eve. This year comes to an end. At the beginning of this year, I was passionately in love with Green Island. And because I misunderstood him, I took action to end my life, then revived only to contract tuberculosis. What a wretched woman I am. Now I cling desperately to my love for By the Railway. Auntie, I want to see you again. But it's impossible. Should I depart for Takefu tomorrow? I have the travel expenses for Takefu.

Auntie, I will not re-read this. I do not have the courage to re-read it. This is my final work. This is not a novel. Everything is true. It is the true confession of my heart. Therefore, if this is read to you, Auntie, or if it is published in a magazine, I will not be able to go on living. By the Railway told me to write only the truth, without fiction. This is it. I will die so that this may be published. Because it is my final work. And before sending it to Mr. Fuji, I will have By the Railway read it. And I shall leave it to his will—whether to destroy it, have someone bring it to you, Auntie, or have someone take it to Mr. Fuji’s place to be published in a magazine.

Auntie. I have attained a quiet state of mind. I have written it all. Completely. What a sinful woman. I’m bound for hell, aren’t I?

Auntie, please take very good care of yourself. The room where flowers are arranged. It is a nostalgic room.

December 31st, around 2:00 AM

(Written December 31, 1952; published in the joint issue of *VIKING 47* and *VILLON 4*, March 1953)