Pathway to Japanese Literature

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In the Year of Kōshin, early summer, I moved my residence to Azabu. It was a two-story house painted in oil. Therefore, I named it Eccentric House. Inside, there were no shoji screens or sliding doors—solid doors stood in their place; windows lacked storm shutters but were glazed; floors eschewed tatami mats in favor of couches. There was no need to roll up bamboo blinds in the morning, nor any bother of closing doors at night. Even when winter came, I needed not summon a paperhanger; even during major cleanings, there remained no use for a tatami artisan. Eccentric House proved most convenient for solitary living.

Exiting the gate and walking along a narrow path for dozens of steps, I finally reached the street.
Because the narrow path first descended then ascended like a valley, there was no fear of noblemen’s cars kicking up dust; and since the addresses throughout the neighborhood were all identical, it served to bewilder visiting reporters.
Eccentric House proves most suited for seclusion.

Eccentric House measured a mere twenty tsubo; its garden too was narrow.
However, the house faced a southeastern cliff; lying there with nothing obstructing beyond the windows, I watched white clouds drift by.
A bamboo grove stood on the cliff.
The rain stroked strings as if caressing them; the wind resonated like a mountain stream.
Many of the houses below the cliff had gardens where flowers were planted.
The high pavilion atop the cliff blazed with light, its human figures resembling those in a revolving lantern.
Leaning alone at Eccentric House’s window, I felt little melancholy.

Behind the house, separated by a fence, it adjoined the neighboring house.
Though the neighboring house’s small building blocked the lingering summer sun’s slanting rays, one could still view the beauty of evening glows and dusk hazes amidst the treetops here.
Outside the gate, wealthy households’ towering trees stretched forth like clouds.
Cool breezes often came blowing through midday hours, yet at night the moon remained unobscured.
Eccentric House proved ideal for indulging in afternoon naps.
Though schoolchildren might occasionally clamor at the gate after classes, the vacant garden saw only rare instances of an elderly maidservant airing laundry—so sparrows and finches grew accustomed, never leaving the eaves.
With no one to sweep the stone steps, moss stayed slippery even without rain; insect cries made no distinction between day and night.
Eccentric House was ideal for gradually nursing one’s illness and reading books quietly.
My sole complaint was having no young maidservant skilled in brewing coffee.

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My love for flowers surpassed that of others.
Even during illness, year after year I had sown flowering plants and never neglected to water them daily.
When I moved my humble dwelling to Azabu this year, I learned that this area’s soil proved more suitable for modest flowers than the old land in Ōkubo.
Yet though I planted no flowers myself, I leaned alone by the window and found amusement in viewing the neighbor’s garden.

Wu Guren wrote in his *Autumn Visit Quatrain*: "Bean trellises, melon arbors—the summer heat does not linger."
The rustic’s fence claims the autumn glow.
The morning glories are those planted by the neighbor’s house.
A single stalk of slender bamboo climbs the wall.

My friend Aaako has a haiku:
“Summer chrysanthemums—
viewed from the privy,
someone’s garden.”

I responded in kind:
“Coolness—
the garden’s light
comes from next door.”

My reason for not cultivating flowers this year was not weariness of them.
Zhao Oubei wrote in his quatrain:
"A modest garden studio by the water’s edge,
Garden balsams and blue chrysanthemums blaze like rosy clouds.
Old age knows scenery speeds like a wheel—
I plant no prized blooms, only wildflowers."

When I consider these lines, my fondness for wildflowers has only deepened since falling ill.
Then why do I not plant them?
Because I know the great labor required to remove insects.
Not only the labor—there exists something about these pests’ appearance that makes men shudder.
To behold garden balsams and blue chrysanthemums blazing like rosy clouds,
I cannot avoid plucking caterpillars with bare hands and crushing grubs beneath my feet.
When I imagine caterpillars bristling their hairs,
grubs twitching their horns and writhing their bellies,
better no flowers in the garden at all.
No flowers—then no insects either.

Caterpillars and grubs did not merely devour young leaves; awaiting the autumn winds, they multiplied once more and grew ever larger.
Those that ate the leaves of gardenias, osmanthus, and trifoliate orange had no hair but possessed horns.
Their appearance resembled that of demons crowned with golden armor.
Those that devoured the leaves of celosia looked like lion heads with thick, bushy red beards.
Those that ravaged camellias clustered densely beneath the leaves like army ranks in formation; their bristles scattered with the wind to harm people.
Gardeners too feared them and did not approach.

There is nothing in this world that does not have insects.
In rice bales there are insects; in excrement there are maggots; in lions there are bodily parasites; in books there are bookworms; in nations there are traitors; in society there are newspaper reporters; in artistic circles there are backstage hawks; among patrons there are oily pests; among courtesans there are lice—all prove difficult to eradicate.
When things are beautiful, their insects grow ever uglier; when matters bring profit, the accompanying harm grows ever greater.
When a holy age esteems martial prowess, it produces harsh officials; when it esteems literary arts, households breed profligate sons—both outcomes prove unavoidable.
The amusement of geisha patronage sends men into raptures; the pain of chancre reduces stalwart men to tears.
How grateful is a wife! When awake she manages the household; when asleep she organizes carnal desires.
Though incomparably economical, she becomes vexatiously persistent yet absent-minded and inattentive—truly something unbearable.
Though children comfort their aged father and provide convivial pleasures, the shoji screens remain perpetually riddled with holes.
Zhuangzi long ago lamented the defacement of poetry and books.

Where there was profit, harm necessarily existed; where joy arose, sorrow could never be absent.
If one did not first know the method to eliminate harm, how could one ever attain true benefit?
Only when possessing the strength to endure sorrow could one properly obtain joy.
If carried away by economic booms while thinking solely of profiting, one would soon become like a ruined speculator.
If delighting in things being free and cheap, by the third month one would inevitably be at a loss regarding what to do.
Should they rest content in splendor without devising governing methods, all matters would become like Tokyo City's roads.

I was already ill and had long since aged.
Knowing myself unable to endure sorrow, I did not deeply seek joy either.
Though there were no flowers in my garden, I took pleasure in viewing them in the neighbor’s through the toilet window; though there was no wife in my house, I bought an affordable courtesan and thus never lamented my solitude.
If those who kept to their station and found contentment were deemed wise, then I might permit myself to be called wise—whom need I have hesitated before?

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From early summer this year, I began using reading glasses.
The publisher Shun'yōdō had been revising my old works for three years using what was commonly called 'point type' small characters.
Because proofreading the ruby text in point type consumed my eyesight greatly, I initially used a large magnifying glass like a street peddler.

This spring, having contracted the prevalent influenza, I remained bedridden for over sixty days and frequently read books until dawn.
When at last my illness healed and I sat again facing my desk, I found the lamplight had suddenly grown dim.
When I asked [the doctor], he said that when one idly engages with books during illness, this often occurs; one should promptly use reading glasses.
If one does not do so, one will instead impair their eyesight and develop neurasthenia.
Thereupon I went to Matsushimaya, the long-established shop in Ginza, purchased reading glasses, returned home, and upon experimentally opening a book on my desk found the characters remarkably clear.
I felt considerable refreshment yet experienced an ever-deepening lament of old age.

I happened to recall when Father Kaigen-sensei first began using reading glasses. At that time, our family was staying at our Shōnan villa, Bean Garden. Father leaned against the couch beneath the pine tree, frequently wiping his glasses while opening and closing Shiin Gan'ei. Having never seen Father use glasses before, I asked him the reason from where I sat beside him. Father laughed and said, "These are reading glasses." He then remarked, "Doesn't that ancient verse about 'the inconvenience of aging eyes reading fine print by lamplight' capture it perfectly?" Looking back, this occurred when I had just graduated from ordinary middle school—the very time Father reached early old age. I am forty-two years old this year. Having attained the same age at which Father first used reading glasses, is it not strange that I now take them up for the first time? Yet while our ages align, our perspectives on refinement and vulgarity differ fundamentally; in matters of daily conduct—one being prudent and disciplined, the other base and vulgar—we stand beyond comparison.

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One night I pursued the cool breeze through Ginza.
Shoulders jostled shoulder.
This very scene formed a curtain of interlinked hems, wove a tapestry of upraised sleeves, and created a rain of commingled sweat - truly a magnificent spectacle.
Youths from respectable families, arrayed in finery, flitted between cafés.
Their rouge resembled stage actors', their sashes courtesans' ornate belts, their haori more garish than geishas' underrobes.
The night stalls' gold-lacquered Kutani ware mirrored this modern gaudiness, together resembling some clumsily executed oil painting.
Leaning on my cane, I stood motionless for several breaths.
Suddenly there appeared a gentleman in white formalwear - stand-up collar immaculate - who strode boldly forward with his walking stick hooked through his trouser's waistband.
At each step, the stick's metal tip struck his boot heels and clanged against paving stones with ceremonial precision, like Lord Cha's ancient sword of office.

When Westerners took strolls, they often carried canes.
Some hung them from their wrists, others tucked them under their arms, and still others carried them with the handle down and tip up.
They all appeared to follow fashion with methodical precision.
In the streets of Paris, where one observed the customs of various nations, none had yet treated walking sticks as if they were swords.
Ginza was the thoroughfare of the Far Eastern Empire; its martial national character naturally manifested itself in walking sticks.

I have not carried a cane for a long time since returning to Japan.
When going to libraries, theaters or exhibitions, the clogs would be tied together with rough rope upon arrival, making them impossible to carry again when leaving.
Thus realizing that possessing useless burdens proved worse than having none at all, I substituted an umbrella for my cane—a practice maintained here for years.
At that time I wrote a book titled *Hiyori-geta: Strolling Through Tokyo*, vigorously arguing umbrellas' superiority over canes.
Yet after developing a stomach ailment that prevented long walks—rendering both umbrella and fair-weather clogs gradually useless—this year's hemorrhoids made walking altogether agonizing.
When trying the umbrella as cane again, its shaft proved too frail; choosing stouter handles grew unbearably heavy.
Never had I imagined the walking stick bought long ago in Lyon would now become my outing companion anew.
I could not suppress this tide of remembrance.
For this reason I set it down.

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I customarily did not purchase newspapers.
While waiting for streetcars, I would scrutinize evening paper headlines plastered on telegraph poles to gauge worldly affairs; upon boarding, I peered at adjacent passengers' readings to verify event particulars.
Having incidentally encountered an item about moving picture narrator examinations, I reflected: "Truly the police's harassment of vulnerable professions has reached perfection."
The exam questions demanded:
"What emerges from you returns to you"—explain this meaning.
"What does 'Do not adjust your hat beneath plum trees nor enter melon fields wearing shoes' signify?"
"Name Kansei era's Three Eccentrics."
It continued:
"What?"
Then:
"What next?"
Were one truly capable of answering such queries academically—who would ever stoop to becoming a katsuben?
Even ancients read Confucius without comprehension.
How much more so today's pedagogy that venerates Western learning while scorning Chinese classics?
Were we to test elementary instructors on classical allusions from Chinese texts—not one would score full marks.
Novelists too would assuredly fail.
The same held true for myself.

Though I had heard lectures and knew of the Three Masters of Kansei Horsemanship, I still did not know who the Three Eccentrics of Kansei were. When I considered it, this seemed akin to speaking of Takayama Hikokurō and others—yet merely bowing upon a bridge hardly warranted being called an eccentric. Eccentrics bordered on madness; designating loyalist patriots as eccentrics was surely not something the authorities would welcome.

There were union examinations at barbershops.
There were name-taking examinations for actors.
There were hand-showing examinations for geisha.
Yet all were conducted among their own circles.
The government must be fair.
Since katsuben already underwent police examinations, geisha, actors, rakugo performers, kōdanshi storytellers, and naniwabushi chanters should also be duly examined.
Novelists and newspaper reporters should likewise undergo this.

When examining geisha, what matters should they first inquire into? Should they inquire into the deeds of Tokiwa Gozen, the deeds of Dokyo, the matter of Yonehachi Adauchi no Kichi, or even the location of Ikeda Hospital?

When examining literary scholars, what matters should they first inquire into? Ask them what constitutes a frog at the bottom of a well and a fly upon rice. Ask what constitutes a monkey; ask what constitutes a horse. Ask what constitutes a stray dog from a house in mourning. Ask whether one can write characters without resting one's elbows.

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When laborers reeking of alcohol boarded trams with hammers in hand and a belligerent air, both passengers and conductors cowered in fear, allowing them to do as they pleased.
Bolshevism in practice could already be witnessed here on the trams.
Tenement troublemakers swung long poles to enter wealthy households’ gardens, chase cicadas, and steal flowers, yet people did not deeply censure this.
Students at a summer resort inn sang drunkenly through the night, tore apart sliding doors, and startled guests in neighboring rooms—yet the innkeeper made no move to restrain them.
Egalitarianism was already practiced everywhere—why then did they go to the trouble of violating national prohibitions to distribute leaflets?

When one called a boy "boy," the boy displayed a look of dissatisfaction. Only when addressed as "Mr. Boy" did he finally respond. If you called a rickshaw puller "rickshaw puller," the rickshaw puller grew angry. One should properly say "young master" or "attendant." It was akin to calling a police officer “patrolman.” The necessity of honorifics extended even to rickshaw pullers and grooms. It might well be said that the reality of class dissolution had long been accomplished.

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In the house there were maids and manservants.
A country could not exist without prime ministers and ministers.
Polishing rice and cleaning toilets were tasks beyond what a housewife could accomplish with her own hands.
Hence they paid wages to hire maids and manservants.
Stationing troops to defend against external threats and establishing laws to govern internally were not things the people could manage well.
Hence they paid national taxes to fund the salaries of ministers and prime ministers.
If one considered that officials were as essential to the state as servants were to a household, then the people had to be lenient when observing governmental failures and bureaucratic negligence.
Servants were hard to manage; they were uneconomical; they napped; they lacked attentiveness; they pilfered food.
Officials were useless; they were deeply greedy; they were eager to take bribes.
To blame was boorishness.
No matter how much they were replaced, it amounted to the same thing.
The replacement of maids was Keian’s virtue but the master’s loss.
Cabinet reshuffles were a benefit for politicians and had to be a loss for the people.

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Storm shutters that fit well are few. Toilets without foul odors are few. Cleaners who come on their appointed days are few. Wives who are considerate are few. Maids who do not nap are few. Prime ministers who are honest are few. Patriots who are not reckless are few. Clear skies on the fifteenth night are rare. Those who are long-lived and have little shame are rare. Literary scholars who know their characters are rare. Geisha who do not demand payment are rare. Journalists who possess propriety are rare. Actors who know themselves are rare. Contractors without gold teeth are rare.

Youths free of gonorrhea were rare.
Babies' buttocks without purple spots were rare.
Female students with clean teeth were rare.
Prostitutes' undergarments without stains were rare.
Train station lunches that were edible were rare.
Trams without power outages were rare.
Telephone operators who did not make mistakes with numbers were rare.
Waitresses who knew the menu were rare.
Female shop clerks who were quick at mental arithmetic were rare.
Printed materials without misprints were rare.
Lithographed covers where the ink did not stick to one's hands were rare.

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The police directed their interference toward Omoto-kyo. Because of this, the Tanba heresy would surely increase its followers. When one considered that Professor Morito had been punished and yet Kropotkin’s name instead spread throughout society, the ultimate method of propaganda and advertising was surely nothing compared to the interference of governmental authority. In antiquity, Han Yu had lamented how Buddhism was encroaching upon China, but he ultimately could not stop it. The shogunate attempted to eradicate all traces of Christianity and its followers but ultimately could not sever them completely. The will of a common man cannot be taken away. Senzoku-cho remained Senzoku-cho, while Kairagi-cho still had many small teahouses. Han Yu’s Memorial on the Buddha’s Bone is not an essay written to court popularity but one that stakes his life to admonish the sovereign. The shogunate’s deployment of troops to attack Shimabara had been motivated by a sincere desire to eliminate national calamities and bring peace to the people. It was not motivated by a desire to collude with government-contracted merchants and profit. Whether Han Yu's views tended toward narrowness or whether the shogunate's decrees were excessively harsh—it was impossible to know either. However, it became clear that both parties had desired to act upon their beliefs with sincerity. If the current officials’ intention to ban Omoto-kyo were as sincere as Han Yu’s or Matsudaira Mashu’s, why would one question their measures? If one deemed cruelty acceptable, there should be no allowance for it even a hair’s breadth. The rightness or wrongness of matters lies solely in the hearts of those who enforce the laws.

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Those devoted to statecraft may well despise poetry.
Poetry that does not indulge in excess will never ascend to greatness.
What cannot ascend to greatness were better left undone.
For poetry demands ten million sacrifices to yield one genius.

Poets need not favor wine.
Good verse may flow without drunkenness.
Yet drinkers must love poetry.
Know poetry and wine gains savor; excel at verse and wine grows noble.
Only with Li Bai’s genius could one sleep in Chang’an’s taverns.
When would-be statesmen drink at Matsumotoro, they retch on homebound trains.

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The roads of Tokyo City were exceedingly disorderly and filthy.
The entrances of the newspaper companies that attacked this were even more disorderly, resembling garbage dumps.
When one entered the gate and opened the door, even a beggar would still cover his nose.

The reformation of society was an extremely urgent task.
The reform of magazines that advocated this had to be an even more urgent task.

If she laments her husband’s misconduct and commits it to paper, women’s magazines and home magazines exist in the world through which she may earn money to buy an obi sash.

If one writes a novel using a wife’s jealousy as material, literary magazines exist in the world through which one may further obtain capital to purchase geisha.

If one becomes a literary person, one must advocate for social reform.
If one becomes a wife, one must expose her husband’s private conduct.
If one becomes a Diet member, one must confront the ministers.
All are paths to achieving fame.

In today’s world, all matters—great and small—must be attacked. To censure is easy; to commend is arduous. Is it not that poetic lament flows readily, while riposte resists composition?

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When a pilot fell from an airplane, newspapers invariably issued special editions and society collectively mourned this.
It was only natural for the bereaved families of the deceased to grieve.
Yet when society as a whole not only mourned but even deemed this heroic, one could not help but harbor doubts.
In former times, there existed a horseback riding instructor who fell from his mount and had his stipend revoked.
There were those who committed seppuku out of shame.
If botched attempts merited honor, then physicians prescribing wrong dosages should be called honorable; monkeys tumbling from trees deserved praise; Kōbō’s errant brushstrokes should command greater admiration; and novelists misspelling characters ought to be celebrated.
An actor’s blunder on stage should likewise be praised.
The foolish wife whose plate of fish was snatched by the cat should also be praised.
To have one’s kettle stolen on a moonlit night should equally be declared an honor.
All who acted carelessly and failed in their endeavors must without exception be commended.
It was said that in Yoshiwara, courtesans considered admission to a syphilis hospital disgraceful.
Yoshiwara was a realm apart from the human world.
Therefore, they did not commend those who invited disaster through their own carelessness.

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Among Mita-educated writers, the two—Matsumoto and Mizukami—were most commendable.
The reason I commended these two men lay solely in their character.
The Mita literary circle abounded with talented individuals; if one sought those skilled in composing texts, why would one wait only for these two men?
And so, if one took those who rose to prominence in the literary world of the day as successful writers, men like these two were rather to be pitied.

Matsumoto Yasushi was a senior among Mita graduates. Having completed his studies and traveled to Britain twice over the years, considerable time had now passed. In general, whenever contemporary officials, teachers, or journalists of this age traveled overseas and returned, they invariably recorded their observations and published them. Yet despite Mr. Matsumoto having traveled abroad twice, he had yet to publish a single book, merely contributing his poetic works occasionally to *Mita Bungaku* with an air of leisurely composure. Compared to contemporary literary figures who made self-promotion their business—becoming patrons for theater troupes or organizers of banquets and tea parties, delighting in seeing their names printed on return postcards—the difference was as vast as heaven and earth.

Mizukami Takitarou was a spirited man who did not hesitate to speak his beliefs. Once, while at Mita, he published a critical essay denouncing educators, and upon returning from America, he composed writings to admonish contemporary journalists. He now also critiqued *The Death of Ii Naosuke* at the Kabuki Theater in *Mita Bungaku*. Delicate in conception and incisive in execution. In today’s literary world, there was no criticism worthy of consideration. If it was not vicious slander, then it was nothing but fawning flattery. If it was not the quarrels of rickshaw pullers and grooms, then it only resembled the flattery of masters. Those who spoke boldly what they themselves wished to say were rare. Men must possess unyielding principles. Whether every word Mizukami spoke hit the mark was not something I cared to scrutinize deeply. I took pleasure in the man's spirited character.

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Eel and pickled plums must not be eaten together.
Soba with mud snails, agar jelly with raw eggs, crab with cucumber—all were ill-advised combinations; it was said that consuming duck eggs with grated yam would instantly alter one’s complexion and lead to death.
Octopus and black sea bream were forbidden for women as they disturbed the blood.
Food must be chosen.
What one read and observed must also be chosen.

If people, without considering the strength or weakness of their constitution, took all edible things and made it a rule to eat them, they would inevitably harm their bodies.
Even in reading and observation, there were many things one must cautiously avoid according to the path one pursued in cultivating them.
Those who wished to compose Chinese poetry and prose must not read works produced by Japanese hands; it was said by all who cultivated this path that if they did read them, they would inevitably fall into the taint of Japanese style.
It was said that Alphonse Daudet, the French literary master, desiring to write pure French prose, deliberately avoided engaging with foreign literature.

Some time ago, when I playfully drafted something called *Methods of Novel Writing* at someone’s request, I warned those aspiring to become novelists against exposing themselves to the sort of literary criticism published in contemporary newspapers and magazines.
If they were to read such things, they would unwittingly grow accustomed to vulgar and crude diction, ultimately becoming tainted by shallow and frivolous tendencies.
Literary scholars must cultivate their thoughts and hone their pens as a loving mother tends to her child.
The lesson of Mother Meng’s three moves remains common knowledge.
Those who wish to engage in superior artistic creation must never handle literary magazines.
Do not enter public exhibitions.
Do not watch the comedies of Masuda Tarō Kaja.

The time I saw Matsui Sumako on stage was at the unveiling of the newly built theater within Dr. Tsubouchi’s residence in Yonemachi, and that remains the only occasion before or since.
I have never once heard Kumoemon, do not know Yoshida Takeko, and have also never had the fortune to see the Soga Family Rakutenkai.
I do not wish to see Japanese people perform Shakespearean dramas, nor do I seek to listen to Japanese-language operas.

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As for instructors of performing arts who undertake anything and everything—from nagauta ballad singing to teodori hand dancing—they were what people scorned as Master Five-Trades.

In the past, Jōruri chanters did not handle the shamisen and considered doing so a disgrace.
Even today, it remained well known that chanters and shamisen players maintained separate professions and distinct schools.
Yet when it came to actors alone—seeing how they could perform anything from Western plays to period dramas to domestic tales—the audience proclaimed them masters and crowned them new artists.
The actors too appeared delighted to receive such public acclaim.

Geisha sell charm; that is their business.
It is splendid that they can perform whatever customers desire—be it dance, shamisen, magic tricks, vocal mimicry, or gesture games.
Since this is mere casual entertainment for the occasion, criticizing its eclectic nature would only invite charges of boorishness.
Geisha and actors are not the same.
Why should actors strain to imitate geishas' contrived affectations?
The natives of Edo value principled dignity.
How could those who nod at promoters' unreasonable demands as perfectly proper ever hope to portray Sukeroku Chōbei?

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A shop that displayed samples at its storefront and maintained product catalogs would, should a customer happen to come seeking an item, reply that it was presently out of stock with an “Awfully sorry about that”—a commonplace occurrence in any line of business. If one then asked when it might be ready, the staff mostly could not answer immediately; after inquiring with the manager and confirming with the owner amid much commotion, they ultimately declared, “We really can’t say for certain,” their vague apologies much like those of a telephone operator too occupied to respond.

The Tokyo City-managed water supply ran dry precisely when water was most needed during scorching heatwaves; electric lights went out indiscriminately, whether at dusk or midnight, entirely as they pleased.
Even when they went out, the company offered neither apologies like “How unfortunate” nor “We regret the inconvenience”—they remained utterly unperturbed, deducting not a single sen from the fixed nightly rate per lamp despite the hours lost to darkness.
Many automobiles got flat tires; trams always experienced power outages.
Airplanes crashed; telephones were hard to connect—and people did not find this strange.
The tools of civilization in Japan existed in name only, being in reality nothing but inconvenience.

Even in a house with electric lights, one must still keep oil lamps, candlesticks, and paper lanterns prepared.
Even where water mains exist, people cannot abandon their wells; even when gas lines are installed, they still need to stockpile firewood.
If one were to deem the dual Japanese-Western lifestyle uneconomical, then the provisions for lamps, water, and firewood are likewise by no means economical.

When someone entertained guests in a parlor and called for a geisha, if she did not come, the housewife would bow deeply and make excuses.
If one visited a brothel but did not employ a prostitute’s services, the madam might come and occasionally return the fee.
Compared to electric companies that calmly collected fees even when lights went out—with no one held responsible for tram power outages—one might say scoundrels instead possessed a sense of shame and valued responsibility.

Tomorrow never came for the dyer—this was common knowledge.
Sweet red bean soup shops lacked rice cakes for zōni; eel restaurants sometimes exhausted their loaches.
A shrimp shortage served as the tempura shop’s stock excuse, while tuna unavailability became the sushi shop’s standard apology.
Admittedly, waterfront market fluctuations and weather conditions lay beyond control—yet for a Western-style restaurant to run out of bread and coffee amounted to sheer inadequate preparation.
Geta shops with few ready-made medium clogs and shoe stores without overshoes were hardly rare sights.

Shortages and stockouts were characteristics of Japanese life.
Most arose from a lack of ordinary preparation.
Herein lay comical and ironic interest.
Western literature had no kyōka or senryū.

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The deft skill of plucking simmered beans with chopsticks and the feat of scaling slopes in high clogs remained arts beyond foreign imitation.
Though Japanese swords might fall into disuse, chopsticks and clogs still served their purpose.
Our national customs had not yet withered.

Those spreading Kropotkin's doctrines—mostly paupers lacking rainboots—distributed pamphlets in downpours wearing clogs, while the constables pursuing them sported Western suits and leather shoes.
Was this not a spectacle?

Striding in clogs with umbrellas slung over shoulders and congratulatory ledgers dangling—these were Otsu-e demons incarnate; the cat arriving in shibori-dyed summer kimono and clogs was pure feline.
Laborers commuted in pale blue cotton Western suits paired with clogs; lighting skylight candles while wearing triple-toothed clogs marked the Hour of the Ox pilgrimage.

If one wore high clogs, there was no need to lament muddy streets; even inside trams, one need not fear having one’s feet stepped on.

Though there existed high clogs and medium clogs among geta footwear, nothing was termed low clogs.
Those corresponding to these were termed *Hiyori-geta*.
*Hiyori-geta* was designated as men’s footwear; *Azuma-geta* denoted women’s.
Was this not akin to how a man’s loincloth became a woman’s waistcloth?
A man’s Etchū loincloth became a woman’s undergarments.
Were things that shared the same form yet bore different names truly limited to clogs alone?
Upon earnestly observing clogs, there were two teeth and three eyes—this was their unadorned essence.
It was only when adorned with thongs, leather caps, and accoutrements that they assumed their form.
Though they formed an inseparable pair like mandarin ducks—lacking yin and yang distinctions, for neither alone served any purpose—they were akin to tabi socks, which made no division between right and left.

To be driven out with but a single sedge hat marked the fate of the corrupt monk; to have one’s leather guards stripped and be cast aside signaled the clog’s demise. When reduced to a state where even dentures eluded one’s jaw, such a soul drifted with tattered sandals and watermelon rinds through twilight drainage ditches, vanishing without trace. With the frayed thong’s edges gone and three eyeholes left absurdly vacant, how laughable to claim they bore resemblance to some long-philtrumed visage. The paulownia box of Lion Dentifrice had transformed into tin piping—so what shape should these thumbprint-dented clog remnants take?

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Western women had underarm odor; Japanese women carried the scent of hair oil.
Those visiting the West for the first time would often grow nauseous from subway car stenches.
In Japan during rainy seasons, one frequently covered their nose in packed trains.
Westerners' mouths smelled of onions; Japanese mouths reeked of pickled radish.
Virtuous households exuded nursery mustiness; disreputable ones stank of dried fish.
The greasy stench of scalp dandruff clung to students' lodgings, while cheap tobacco's oily reek permeated ward offices and police stations.

Yamanote’s low-class prostitutes came to banquet rooms reeking of gasoline; café waitresses exuded the scent of Keiba Soap as they meticulously applied their makeup; Senzoku-cho’s white-haired elders did not even mind the stench of Albores Soap.
The leather stench of repaired *setta* sandals had been a thing of the past; now one had to avoid both soldiers’ leather belts and train conductors’ satchels reeking of their odors.

As the proverb goes, miso that smells of miso is not true miso.
In high-quality tanned leather, there was no odor.
Therefore, all things that had not shed their original odors might be deemed as not yet having attained perfection.
Those half-baked connoisseurs who put on airs of expertise were just as insufferable as recent performers who frequently adopted amateurish postures with stiffened shoulders—both utterly unbearable.
Writing began to enter simplicity after passing through ornateness, becoming worthy of recitation; as for geisha, true skill lay in being middle-aged women with understated makeup—this went without saying.
When discussing Suiyuan poetry, they approved of “the simplicity of great skill” and “the subtlety after intensity.”
This was truly a golden saying.

○

Magazine reporters frequently came to inquire about the issue of women refusing marriage.
At first I did not comprehend the literal meaning of "marriage refusal"; thus through subscribing to women's magazines I finally succeeded in ascertaining its intent.
Women from respectable families had made a pact to refuse marriage to men suffering from venereal diseases, naming it the Marriage Refusal Alliance.
Such folly could only be called excessive.
That wedding someone bearing a malignant disease defied reason required no argument.
Why must this apply solely to venereal diseases?
Even the games and jests of this peaceful world—where people now belatedly constructed logical arguments, wrote treatises, and delivered speeches about matters already thoroughly understood—had reached such a pitiable state that one could not but feel compassion for their plight.

When examining the literal meaning of “marriage refusal,” “refusal” signifies resisting after being pestered. That is to say, it carries the meaning of saying *No, stop!* rather than indicating an outright rejection from the start. Is this not women willingly positioning themselves below men? Great humiliation is great honor. Empress Kōmyō bathed alongside those suffering from leprosy and scrubbed their sores. Yet as one among them, no historian ridicules this.

Those bearing malignant diseases generally conceal them. When women are asked in marriage, by what means can they ascertain whether men have venereal disease? Calligraphy, paintings, and antiques are lifeless things. Yet distinguishing their authenticity proves no easy task. How much more so with living humans? Though one might examine lineage to detect tuberculosis or leprosy with relative ease, when discerning syphilis’s presence, even a nose avails nothing. How much harder still must it be to detect such afflictions?

○

To call one who combines the three roles of maid, prostitute, and nursemaid—yet still avoids paying wages—a “Hizazaeon” was the barbaric husband’s invective; to label as “wives” those who blamed tomboyish brides for their attendants’ indiscipline became the disillusioned gentlemen’s lament about modern spouses.
To call something pounded together from seven parts fool, three parts lunatic and sick person a “wife” became the utterance of husbands exasperated by hysterical spouses; to make her merely an ornament for the tokonoma alcove was what those who respected without love would say.
To view them as nothing but baby-making machines resembled the arguments of patriots.
To sigh “Present they’re bothersome; absent they’re inconvenient” was the refrain of those who knew better—and were tea-drinking companions not just aliases for those exchanging trivial chatter.

○

In recent years, officials who committed bribery and were arrested were too numerous to count.
It was as if there were no better course than to amend the Ningoku Code so that bribery went unpunished.

Morality changes with the times.
Should the nation’s laws and ordinances not also be amended?
In days of old, loyal retainers felt shame in serving two lords.
Now, this was not the case.
Palanquins had been meant for doctors and the sick; now even low-ranking courtesans rode automobiles.
Students unfailingly took trains when commuting to school, and janitors ordered from caterers without carrying boxed lunches at their waists.
Yet nothing people observed struck them as extravagant.
Wives from respectable households went to hairdressers’ establishments, sitting knee-to-knee with geisha to eat sweet bean soup—and their husbands permitted this without finding it strange.
Recently at a certain girls’ high school, there had been a teacher who read my novel aloud to students; though the principal and parents knew of it, none reprimanded him.
All these things allowed one to perceive the shifts in moral concepts.

The principal aim of punishment lies in reform—this goes without saying.
When neither discipline reforms nor punishment instills fear, one ultimately has no means left to employ.
Drinking and smoking are bad habits; people know this yet do not condemn them.
Akagaki Genzō left behind an admirable tale through his one-shō sake bottle, while Ōtaka Gengo conveyed elegance via his tobacco case.
In recent times, as bribery incidents continued unabated with alarming frequency, they compelled people to lament the moral decline of the age while fostering the perception that legal statutes remained ill-suited to both contemporary realities and human sentiments.
Just as those who do not wear glasses are deemed unworthy of being students, will we reach a point where those who do not take bribes are thought unfit to be officials?
This would be equivalent to declaring that a man untouched by venereal disease is no true man.

○

When examining essays and old records from the Edo period, one finds none that do not lament the drift toward extravagance in their times.
The elders of the Tenmei era lamented Tenmei’s extravagance while extolling Kyōhō’s austerity; the elders of the Bunka-Bunsei era resented their period’s frivolity while yearning for the artlessness of the An’ei-Tenmei years.
The old men surviving into Meiji praised Edo’s diligence and frugality, while the elderly of Taisho ceaselessly extol how the Meiji era surpasses the present age.
Though the eras and people differ, their writing style remains uniform.
Is not the era that later generations look back upon with nostalgia precisely the same era that their predecessors, in recalling even earlier times, did not particularly rejoice in?
When viewed through this lens, this old man’s sentiments prove entirely unreasonable.

However, when people grew old and could no longer endure the gradual desolation of their circumstances, they unconsciously let slip sighs of "how right things were yesterday, how wrong today" while reminiscing about their vigorous years.
Truly, natural human sentiment was not something to find strange.

Those accustomed to palanquins found no pleasure in rickshaws; those accustomed to rickshaws vehemently denounced automobiles.
In rickshaws too there were initially no hoods—how much more so for rubber tires, transparent hoods, mosquito net hoods, and acetylene lamps.
If my observations were not mistaken, rubber tires first appeared around Meiji 40 (1907) on hackney carriages in the Ginza area and within a year or two had been adopted by all suburban rickshaws.
The rickshaw pullers’ abandonment of straw sandals in favor of rubber-soled tabi appeared to have preceded the adoption of rubber tires by several years.
When riding through frozen midnight streets, the rubber-soled tabi clattered unbearably while the rubber tires made no sound as they ground against the gravel ruts; thus even initially the ride was far from comfortable—truly I thought the world increasingly saw unpleasant things come into fashion.
The practice of attaching gauze hoods to vehicles began around the Taisho era’s inception; I recall the trend first emerging from the private carriages of Imperial Theater actresses and such.

As for automobiles, it seemed all people of the present age considered riding them the pinnacle of splendor. However, automobiles still required many improvements and could hardly be called perfect. Particularly in how ill-suited they were to Japan’s roads and social customs—how numerous these shortcomings remained!

My proposed idea was to make automobiles serve dual purposes as both vehicles and tea rooms.
If one maximized an automobile's dimensions to the limits permitted by official regulations, one could construct a vehicle body capable of accommodating two tatami mats—sufficient for comfortably living, sleeping, and dining within.
First remove the chairs, lay tatami mats across the entire floor, place a kotatsu in the center, hang bamboo blinds on the windows—wouldn't it be exhilarating to speed along while sitting knee-to-knee with a geisha and sipping fine sake? Such pleasure would likely surpass even the roofed boats of the Edo period.

○

Last year, the two novelists Hanada and Shūsei found themselves lauded by publishers and magazine reporters for their services to the literary world.
This year came word that Shimazaki Toson too had been driven by his disciples to reluctantly host a fiftieth birthday celebration—an obligation he could no longer evade.
The literary upstarts never cease proclaiming personal freedom and demanding respect for individuality.
Yet beneath noble banners of gratitude and indebtedness, they shackle their elders’ wills without compunction—a most peculiar contradiction.
Literary affairs should know no fetters; the literary realm was meant to be a domain of untrammeled independence.
Still it remains yoked to these vexations.
How could one not lament this?

There was once an instance where a certain master of Chinese poetry, Mr. So-and-so, upon becoming a resident of the White Jade Tower, was abruptly posthumously awarded a Doctor of Letters degree at his funeral.
It is said this occurred because his friends and disciples, hoping to inscribe the four characters for "Doctor of Letters" on their late teacher’s tombstone, concealed his death and secretly campaigned for the posthumous conferral.
This remains mere hearsay; however, society often sees people dare such acts under the guise of kindness and public-spiritedness, only to disgrace the deceased’s name instead.
When a household head dies of illness today, it grows ever rarer for funerals to follow either the deceased’s wishes or the bereaved family’s intentions—friends and relatives typically become sacrifices to their own excessive kindness.
When the master of my house departed this world, relatives swarmed in and decreed the death notice must not be issued until word of court ranks and honors arrived from the authorities—thus thoughtlessly committing deception’s crime for vanity’s sake.
The master had desired no official rank in life; having entrusted his disappointed existence to poetry and embraced austere poverty since leaving government service, he spent half his days adrift amidst bureaucratic ledgers:
"Mirrors startle at tangled white locks,
Spring rain in the city wounds solitary nights,
Fallen blossoms on the river—how many winds?
Glory and decay—a fleeting dream; human bonds grow thin.
A millennium’s praise and blame—hollow worldly judgments.
They mock how swiftly poverty followed my dismissal."
This sentiment—"With whom does this heart commune today?"—stands clear through these very verses.
Yet among the relatives, one who had become a House of Peers member sought to engrave court ranks upon the tombstone, while another—a former prefectural governor—appeared privately entreated by a temple monk; despite knowing the master’s lifelong disdain for Buddhist ways, this relative insisted on a Buddhist funeral.
None disgrace the dead more than kin.
Many of my relatives feed on government rice.
Officials cannot rise without oily rhetoric and crooked cunning; thus even when meeting those I’ve spurned on roads, I turn my face away and withhold speech—a practice exceeding ten years now.
They likely twist their mustaches accordingly, thinking novelists mere ruffians.

Relatives serve no purpose beyond funeral rites.
Children shackle one through the three realms of existence.
Disciples carry lanterns under a full moon.
Better to be rid of them all.

○

Though stealing and not returning differ in name, their essence remains identical.
Stealing constitutes violence and ineptitude.
Borrowing without returning embodies baseness yet skill.
Items like umbrellas, wrapping cloths, clogs, and books—once lent—never find their way back.

Money flows freely through society, hence its lending and borrowing; artworks and antiques need only be viewed in others' collections.
With wives and daughters alone does one forbid both lending and visual appreciation.
Thus emerge women peddling allure in shadowed lanes.
Just as monetary transactions offer convenience, so do antiquities provide aesthetic diversion.
To ravish another's wife or daughter from carnal hunger is theft—its spirit violent, its execution crude.
Those coaxing cheap pleasures from these peddlers of charm—their hearts debased yet methods refined.
Thieves face punishment.
Borrowers-turned-keepers escape penalty.
Rogues stand equal to those appropriating umbrellas and wrapping cloths.
A thoroughly vexing state of affairs.

Rejection and oblivion bore a striking resemblance in their outcomes.
Rejection stood clear-cut while oblivion lingered vague.
Those skilled in worldly arts never refused outright but feigned forgetfulness to avoid action.
Pretending sleep was called tanuki work -
A technique wielded by silver-tongued rakes.
Those who cupped ears to feign deafness were dubbed old tanuki,
A retiree’s customary ploy when loan-seekers came calling.
Borrowers who never returned ranked among tanuki breeds too.
When accused, they’d claim forgetfulness rather than theft.
Foxes deceive through entrapment; tanuki through pretense - their methods differed slightly in execution.
How splendid! The wealthy never lied outright; they simply donned masks of oblivion and blank stares to evade income taxes.

○

I climbed up Akasaka Reinanzaka for two or three blocks.
On the right side of the road spread a vacant lot spanning over two to three thousand *tsubo*.
It was said to be Imperial Household Ministry land.
The grass stood green; the lofty trees as if painted.
Since my Eccentric House lay not far from this vacant lot, I would invariably pass by it during my strolls—on summer evenings basking in cool breezes under green shade while occasionally reading poetry, on winter nights treading moonlit fallen leaves and thinking of Su Shi as he prepared to return to Lingao.

The vacant lot faced a cliff, separated from Akasaka’s residences to confront the forests of both Sannō and Hikawa Shrines; through the trees one could gaze distantly upon Yotsuya Mitsuke’s ancient pines, while far beyond Mount Fuji pierced the cloud cover.
The view of sunsets amidst autumn foliage proved particularly splendid.
As evening glow scattered and twilight smoke in purple hues enveloped heaven and earth, the lamplights of houses too sufficed to comfort the eyes.
Thus were it not for those dreary three-regiment barracks rising behind Hikawa Shrine’s forest, this vacant lot might well have been counted among Tokyo’s most scenic spaces—a claim hardly excessive.
I have always enjoyed strolling through the city.
When I once wrote a book titled *Hiyori-geta*, I had explored vacant lots scattered throughout Tokyo and expounded on their charm, yet at that time knew nothing of this fairyland here and thus had left it unmentioned.
This omission now weighs heavily on me.

My teacher Ryūrō Sensei had a habit of frequently changing residences.
He once said: "Novelists should change residences whenever opportunity arises."
By moving homes, the neighborhood becomes novel; with a novel neighborhood, one's observational interests are stirred, yielding no shortage of material for literary works.
How splendid indeed that his masterpiece *Asase no Nami* emerged precisely because he once resided near Fukagawa Sunamura.
"*Kyōgen Musume* likely took form from residence in Nezu; *Kurotokage* from near Iriya; and *Hone Nusumi* from Meguro."
When crafting a novel, observations regarding the locale and landscape where characters reside must not be neglected by even a hair's breadth, along with their personalities.
It must be said there was indeed reason in how relocation aided literary creation.

Li Shangyin wrote in his miscellanies that those who delight in frequent relocation must necessarily face poverty.
There was also the worldly proverb that said, "Moving brings loss."
However, writers by nature had no ties to wealth.
Having moved to Azabu and realized there were many places—vacant lots, slopes, and cliffs—I had failed to describe in *Hiyori-geta*, I had yet to find time to regret the expenses of relocation.

○

When someone entreated me—"If you ever have time, please devise a plot for a movie scenario"—I promptly replied with this tale: A destitute old man was run over and killed by a tycoon’s automobile; his son, a factory worker, got falsely implicated in a strike-related crime and arrested; the bedridden mother left at home lacked even food, let alone medicine; the younger daughter abandoned her piecework box-making to sell herself as a geisha to support her mother, only to contract syphilis, lose both eyes, and starve to death alongside her family.
"How about this? With this plot, the audience will sob uncontrollably," I said, whereupon the requester widened their eyes and muttered, "Sensei harbors dangerous thoughts despite appearances," before leaving never to return.

○

It was the people of old who declared social obligations and loincloths indispensable.
In Saikaku’s ukiyo-zōshi illustrations, even bathhouse patrons fastened their loincloths.
Knitted underpants equaled Chinese calf-nose loincloths—yet Westerners reportedly reserved such garments for menstruating women alone.
Western attire required only long johns—no six-foot nor Etchu loincloths needed.
A world deeming calf-nose loincloths obsolete must naturally lack social obligations too.
What then constitutes social obligation?
Beyond year-end gifts came obligatory presents for every household celebration or funeral.
Students’ class reunions begat rickshaw pullers’ New Year parties.
Each friend’s departure demanded farewell banquets; each return necessitated welcome feasts.
Appreciation gatherings, discussion meetings—these compulsory banquets multiplied endlessly.
Theater audiences earned their epithet “obligatory viewers.”
Why then do modern folk—bereft of calf-nose loincloths—obsess so grotesquely over social duty?

I too was a man of that age.
Because I wore Western clothes daily, I did not fasten calf-nose loincloths.
Because I did not wear calf-nose loincloths, I gave not a fart's worth of thought to neglecting social obligations.
Though I received postcard invitations to banquets more than a dozen times monthly, I never sent replies.
The reply-postcard halves I turned into cat scratchers, making them a minor part of my economy.
Moreover, by treating membership fees as if attended and depositing them into savings boxes, I would gain no less than two to three hundred yen yearly.
I used this as funds to purchase nonessential toys and erotic books.
Ah—if a man dons a six-foot loincloth, how truly abundant his fortune and virtue must be!

○

The disheveled, grime-faced figures who once wandered kitchen entrances with dogs—cloaked in straw mats and rags, bowls in hand begging for scraps—had nearly vanished from sight. In their place swelled numbers of mustachioed men in Western suits, fountain pens peeking from breast pockets as they clutched leather briefcases, requesting directions with feigned gravity while soliciting donations for education or sanitation causes. Stray dogs would tuck their tails and flee at a splash of water. Beggars departed resentfully at the threat of policemen being called. But these fundraisers deployed Salvation Army-style street oratory and stammering rural accents, refusing to leave—sometimes brandishing the menacing air of extortionist reporters depending on one’s response. In older times, komusō monks would quietly withdraw from gates when told “No need.” When petitioners did not press too insistently, refusals maintained courtesy. To accept kindness was no disgrace. But those who spat while demanding donations in loyalty’s name had hearts aligned with jackals and wolves. Thieves who skulked about committed minor crimes; those who flashed blades committed grave ones.

I had discarded social obligations and calf-nose loincloths and was already at peace.
As for donations, regardless of their stated purpose, I refused them all without exception.
Donations were originally something the wealthy should undertake to atone for their sins. Ordinary people fulfilled their civic duty simply by not concealing their income and paying taxes honestly.
Yet did this world not contain those who even hid their taxes and failed to pay them properly?
Even throwing money into a ditch would at least produce a splash.
In an age when cunning people and corrupt officials now filled the realm, readily donating to public works stood as the height of folly.

○

A guest came and frequently discussed the ills of our nation’s family system.
I listened attentively while slowly observing that person wore a crested haori.
Before the guest could finish his heated argument, I abruptly inquired, “Your haori bears a crest—from what I see, it resembles the Hōmyōga crest.”
“The Hōmyōga crest is the family emblem of Lord Nabeshima.”
“The crest is none other than a vestige of the family system of yore.”
“For one who denounces the evils of the family system and advocates individualism to create a family crest seems rather self-contradictory.”
In this world, there are many who style themselves as Edokko, nitpicking over trifles and reducing weighty discussions to mere jest.
In matters both great and small, nothing compares to thorough preparation.
The guest gave a bitter smile and did not speak again.

○

Japanese-style theaters such as the Kabuki-za and Shintomi-za had recently prohibited audience smoking.
Though this prohibition undoubtedly stemmed from official directives, it remained an utterly nonsensical policy.
If they permitted patrons in the dirt-floor seating areas to carry hand warmers, drink sake, eat boxed sushi, and munch away all day on snacks like chestnuts, persimmon rice cakes, senbei crackers, and roasted beans without issue, then something like tobacco should have posed even less of a problem.
If they were concerned about fire prevention, the pit fires posed a far greater danger than tobacco; if they meant to fuss about hygiene, then they ought to have banned the food served in the theater’s cafeteria.

Today’s theaters deemed it essential to rely on support from the pleasure quarters under the guise of group viewings for every performance, without debating whether their architectural style was Japanese or Western.
Through this lens, today’s theaters were indeed indistinguishable from meeting-and-dining establishments.
Were they to properly set dining tables in upper-class seating areas and allow geisha to be freely summoned in the open—as in Shanghai’s theaters—the government would also have likely gained an unexpected amount of amusement tax.
Had they instead transformed theaters into refined amusement venues akin to art exhibitions, those department store sports arenas and famine-relief-style dining halls ought to have been swiftly closed down.
Bug-eaten salad leaves and coffee adulterated with dubious milk were likely more detrimental to hygiene than tobacco, while those who gorged themselves on soba, sushi, red bean soup, and peanuts only to belch in satiety proved ill-suited for watching so-called “thought-provoking plays” and engaging in deep contemplation.

○

If one wished to reform contemporary theater, before prattling on about artistry, they had first to prohibit these group viewings, then remove both the cafeteria and sports arena concessions.
Were this done, the audience's comportment would immediately transform, and the actors' artistic styles would be utterly renewed.

If one wished to reform the current literary world, before prattling on about doctrines, they needed swiftly to abolish monthly magazines.
Were there no magazines, superior works and rigorous criticism would naturally arise in the world.

If one wishes to reform contemporary society, before expounding on moral governance, one must first abolish the custom of selling women into servitude.
Were today’s society to reach a state where the pleasure quarters no longer existed, all antiquated customs and morals would be reformed, while societal mores and human relations would undergo complete transformation.
To target the aging streetwalkers of Asakusa while leaving Yoshiwara’s licensed quarters and Shinbashi’s geisha districts untouched is nothing short of a most egregious inversion of priorities.

○

In late November, I happened to pass by Sukiyabashi Bridge.
Beneath it lay seven or eight boats laden with gravel and river mud.
Each had bamboo poles stretched from deck to stone embankment, hung with swaddling clothes and ragged garments airing out.
The scene presented an utterly squalid aspect.
It brought to mind that line from Buson's Seven Anthologies—"Winter comes: evening crows above the filthy river"—now manifest as literal truth.
Suddenly a boatman appeared standing calmly on the gunwale; while gazing up at pedestrians crossing the bridge, he hitched up his front and urinated.
Though some leaning on the railings watched—showing not a flicker of shame—he quietly shook droplets from his fingers, wiped his nose on his hand, and withdrew into his shack.
Only at this extreme did such brazenness achieve perfect consummation.
They say public notices in China forbid urination with the phrase: "Gentlemen exercise self-restraint."
A true gentleman would indeed never piss before a crowd.

○

The willows along the streets shed all their leaves; Chinese narcissus bloomed before antique shops; sea cucumbers grew cheap while yellowtail and Spanish mackerel glistened with oily sheen; greengrocers displayed turnips and radishes blanched white; signs proclaiming "Fried Oysters Now Available" appeared on Western restaurant walls.
Winter had indeed arrived.
When rain fell, the capital’s muddy streets fully exhibited their character; before the mudguards of automobiles could dry, people waited in vain for trams that never arrived or came too full to board, and at the crossroads’ winds made even testicles shrivel up—winter had truly arrived.
With the Diet in session, the season when scuffles between police officers and gawkers in park gravel yards grew amusing drew near.
As snowy days accumulated, the season when conductors neglected their duties drew near.
At drugstore fronts, masks were lined up as the season of epidemic influenza drew near.
The year’s desperate close, bringing burglaries and arson, had arrived.
Rumors of city council members’ arrests were not particularly interesting.
Born of Nigorie as they were, next year would bring even more earth-shattering scandals in such matters.
Oh, how I yearned to witness spectacles too outrageous even for moving pictures!

Thus passes the ninth year of Taisho.

○

All Lord Inaris were Great Deities of the Senior First Rank.
As for Lord Inari, I had never heard of any instance where he had been called Junior Second Rank or Senior Third Rank.
Lately, specialized schools across Japan—regardless of being public or private—were competing to obtain university titles and frequently pressuring the Ministry of Education for approval.
Were all domestic specialized schools renamed as universities—with students donning square caps and gold buttons while every teacher became a doctor—their vaunted titles would be reduced to hollow honors, much like how every Lord Inari was uniformly elevated to Senior First Rank deity status.
Offering fried tofu to Lord Inari was not done because he held the Senior First Rank, but rather based on whether divine favor was present or absent.
Lord Inari already compelled fried tofu offerings through actual power rather than empty rank.
The desire of specialized school teachers to obtain doctoral degrees remained somewhat acceptable.
When students of the realm—whose futures stretched long before them—desired schools' hollow titles and empty honors no differently than nouveaux riches coveted aristocratic ranks, and when there existed those who delighted in being addressed as “Madam Conductor,” even one who was no idealist could not help but heave a profound sigh.
It was said that the global trend now sought to destroy class systems and obtain equal rights for all individuals.
Yet these students in the prime of their youth still clung to schools' hollow titles and empty honors—the vulgarity of their mentality and their failure to shed outmoded, stale ideologies truly deserved pitying laughter.
What distinction could there possibly be between what people called a commercial university and a commercial school?
Just because one became a university student didn’t mean female students or café waitresses would suddenly fall for them.
If one maintained impeccable conduct and academic excellence, there must be countless offers to become an heir to wealthy families.

○

A certain meeting’s notification recently arrived at my residence via the usual return postcard, stating something to the effect of “We earnestly request your honored attendance on account of Count So-and-so’s esteemed participation.”
Mr. Fukuzawa had refused aristocratic titles; Elder Itagaki had even advocated single-generation peerage theory—yet considering how today’s youth still penned such phrases to lure guests to banquets, I could not help but feel the world grew more backward with each passing year. Just then, I heard airplanes droning like horseflies across blue skies while voices clamoring for universal suffrage bubbled up like croaking frogs from muddy streets below.
So Japan wasn’t so backward after all?
Be that as it may, with Western hats crowning their heads and traditional clogs shod on their feet, the hearts of this nation’s people remained truly inscrutable—such was the nature of that so-called wisdom feigning ignorance of what it did not know.

○

When people knew they could not surpass others yet lacked the will to learn—merely seeking to deceive and gloss over the present moment—their actions became imitation.
The gentleman, knowing he could not attain sagehood yet modeling himself upon it—this was not imitation.
A disciple who, knowing they could not equal their teacher yet still learned—this too was not imitation.
Private emulation was not imitation; nor was yearning.
It arose from sincere intent.
It was not that one concealed what they could not attain in order to deceive others.

Among Japanese products, those deserving to be called imitations of Western goods were beyond counting. Among these, canned goods, biscuits, and cosmetics proved most egregious. Were one to visit Meidi-Ya in Ginza and purchase jam, they would discover canned goods whose appearance bore uncanny resemblance to products from the British CB Company. Should they enter Shiseido and buy eau de cologne varieties, they would observe bottles and caps strikingly similar to American products. Even table-grade baked salt existed that had pirated the triangular trademark of an English company. Though indistinguishable at first glance, once purchased and brought home—used once, tasted once—all would immediately recognize them as Japanese-made. Unlike British jams packed tight without gaps in their tins, domestic versions were carelessly filled with sugar's astringency pronounced. Biscuits shared identical shapes yet clung stubbornly to gums and damaged teeth; soap diminished differently—like hard charcoal versus earthenware pots. These imitation products generally used only foreign lettering on their packaging, eschewing Japanese script entirely. Among cosmetics could even be found misspelled items. I had often glimpsed these in barbershop mirrors and thought of foxes botching their transformations.

While such forgery of goods by unscrupulous merchants might not warrant deep condemnation, the psychology of those who purchased them could not be lightly overlooked.
The public bought Western imitations without concern likely because they resembled authentic imports while being cheaper.
Moreover, since every aspect of our modern society amounted to nothing but Western imitation, one might say there was no leisure to bother with trifling matters like these goods.
Imitation—regardless of scale—was something men of worth should disdain; this principle remained constant across all ages and regions.
Hence I declared again: though goods' imitation might be minor, it sufficed to constitute national disgrace.
Matters might differ in scale, but shame recognized no gradations.
Ah—why did these politicians singing laments of indignation only speak of anti-Japanese issues yet never taste the jam?
Were one to discard imitation soap and start anew washing their face with nightingale-dung cleanser or rice-bran pouches—who would dare call it too late?

○

In times past there were kumosuke who ran naked through public roads; in the modern age exist those called marathon runners.
Though clad in knitted undergarments, they left both arms bare and barely concealed their privates with nothing but a single loincloth.
These individuals would frequently form groups and race day and night along the city’s carriageways.
Yet police officers witnessing this did not reprimand them; passersby showed no surprise either; stray dogs on the streets joyfully chased after their heels.
Why was exposing thighs still forbidden inside streetcars while marathon runners’ seminudity on thoroughfares alone went permitted?
Marathon races were condoned because they were conducted under physical education’s pretext.
Because these were not impoverished souls running clothesless to fend off cold.
In former days there existed those who styled themselves “Hibariyama Yaseemon” and performed solo sumo to beg for coins within precincts like Asakusa Okuyama and Fukagawa Hachiman Shrine.
It was said authorities banned this due to public nudity in broad daylight.
Thus we come to know that righteous justification proves necessary not only when mobilizing troops or administering governance.
Geisha patronage should properly be conducted under social research’s guise.
When those gnawing their parents’ shins gather to stage farcical plays, they must call it “cutting-edge artistic research” or “experimental performances.”
When writing inept novels to greedily claim manuscript fees, they must declare it done precisely for humanity’s sake and justice’s cause.
When extorting wealthy men, they must adopt social reform as their banner.
Ah—does not the public delight in names while ignoring substance? Were there masters of pretext who borrowed loyalty-filial piety or hygiene’s names...
Making men crawl like dogs and dance like monkeys would prove no impossibility.

Recently, gang bosses and fixers gathered to organize a grand club and sought to grandly display the old-fashioned chivalry of swordsmen to the world.
Splendid indeed was this endeavor!
These chivalrous gangs treated their lives as lightly as feathers in service of righteousness—whenever they saw a wealthy man’s automobile kicking up mud on the road, they immediately dragged its occupant down and thrashed him; should a streetcar conductor act discourteously, they struck him with iron fists without inquiring into particulars; if a female journalist delivered an impertinent speech, they pinched her cheeks to chastise her; and wherever there existed a geisha grown arrogant from official patronage or actors and performers insatiable in their extravagance, they stirred up trouble to freeze their very livers—how delightful for us bystanders! Truly beyond words!
Indigestion recklessly subsided, and the world would thereby rid itself of stomach patients.
As for what the Shigotoshi Club actually did, we had yet to examine it thoroughly—but if it merely borrowed the name of national essence while in reality distributing hand towels to host flower-viewing parties, we could only marvel that even Bunshin no Aniki could not be relegated to the margins as one of this era’s talents.

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Gender equality was precisely where reason naturally led. If women desired to become legislators, officials, or soldiers, it was permissible to allow all of it. When permitting this, first physical education and sports should be made equally applicable to both men and women. Namely—should they strip women of their clothes and have them run marathons on main streets in broad daylight? All the men in the city would leap with joy and run after them. Indeed, the significance of such demonstrations—surpassing the discourse of women’s magazines in effectiveness a thousandfold—would here first attain clarity. When they climbed rooftops during fires to wave women’s waistcloths about, even Zhurong himself was said to hold his breath and quell the flames. Let them know where exactly women’s power lay concealed.

From Taisho 9 to 10