Someone put a live snake into the mailbox. Anger. Whoever it was must enjoy laughing at unsuccessful writers who go out to check mailbox twenty times a day. Start to feel bad and stay in bed all day.
"Don't sell your suffering" -- letter from a friend.
Condition terrible. Bloody phlegm. Sent word home, but they don't seem to believe me.
Peach tree is blossoming in corner of garden.
Inheritance from father was apparently 1.5 million yen. No idea how much is left. Was disinherited eight years ago anyway. Have only managed to live this long thanks to kindness of elder brother. But what about from now on? Have never even dreamed of earning own keep. Won't have any option but to die if this keeps up. On this day, man of corruption, that'll teach you, bad writer of terrible books. Dan Kazuo
came to visit. Borrowed forty yen from him.
Correct proofs of short story collection The Final Years
. Suddenly wonder if this might end up being my final work. No doubt it will.
Number of people who haven't bad-mouthed me this year: three? Less? Surely not.
Letter from my elder sister.
"I just sent twenty yen, so please go and collect it. You put me in a very difficult position by always asking for money. I can't tell mother, so it always comes from me, and it makes things most difficult. Mother doesn't have that much money either... You must be more frugal and stop spending so much. The magazine companies are paying you at least a little, aren't they? Stop borrowing from others and tighten your belt. Take better care of yourself. Look after your health, and stop going out so much with your friends. We are tired of worrying about you so much..."
Drowsy all day. Have begun to suffer from insomnia. Two nights so far. If I don't sleep tonight, three nights.
Visit to doctor at dawn. Remember Tanaka
If I forget
my journey, weeping, down this road
who will ever know?
Coerce doctor into giving me morphine.
Wake in early afternoon. Feel anxious and sad at light in young leaves. Decide that I need to get healthy.
Most livid, burning shame brought up with no hesitations by family. Leapt to feet. Put on geta
clogs. Home! Froze for a moment, looking like Deva King
. Kicked brazier. Kicked coal bucket into the air. Went into four-and-a-half tatami room and kicked kettle into sliding door. Door's glass rattled. Kicked tea table over. Soy sauce on wall. Cups and saucers. Scapegoats. Couldn't have gone on living without breaking all these things. No regrets.
________ _____th"Five feet eight and shaggy."
"Die of shame." Think back on phrases I wrote earlier, chuckle to self.
________ _____thYamagishi Gaishi
comes to visit. Enemies on every side, I say. Oh, no, only on two sides, really, he replies. Laughs handsomely.
When you aren't talking, you look fine. I just want you to listen to this. No, I've heard plenty. But-- ... Argued over one and a half yen with family for three hours last night. Absolutely mortifying.
Can't go to the toilet alone at night. Small-headed boy of fifteen or sixteen in a white yukata stands behind me. Looking back over own shoulder is taking life in hands these days. Definitely a small-headed boy there. Yamagishi Gaishi says it's because of "somethin' unspeakably cruel" one of my ancestors did five or six generations ago. Maybe so.
Finish writing next novel. Did it always make me this happy? Read through it again. Looks good. Send word to two or three friends. Can pay everyone back now. Title is The White Monkey Berserk.
), published 1936, written by Dazai Osamu
Aozora Bunko version entered by Tsuchiya Takashi (土屋隆) and proofread by noriko saito.
"If I were asked what that girl's good points are, well, I couldn't really give a simple answer, but..." -- so said A., an artist of my acquaintance.
The girl in question was employed at my studio as a model like any other. I hadn't paid any special attention to her. She was just another girl. Perhaps seventeen or eighteen years old, but -- because of her height, she said -- already wearing an adult's kimono, with the sleeves let down.
She seemed, then, a girl with nothing remarkable about her character or her nature. But when someone spoke to her or asked her a question, she had a habit of murmuring "oh, my," instead of answering, and returning their gaze with slightly smiling eyes.
Her eyes were not particularly coquettish, but she was after all a young and nubile lady, so those dark, liquid eyes of hers did give one a kind of vague, agreeable feeling.
Furthermore, this "oh, my" reply of hers sometimes came across as neither a yes
nor a no
, but rather a complete absorption and then skillful redirection of what her interlocutor had said. So at times she seemed a rather wise and talented girl. But sometimes it was simply a foolish, unhelpful "oh, my."
I was working on a two-week painting, with this girl as my model. I think it was a Sunday after the first week had passed. I had gone out to buy more paints, and when I came back, I saw her inside at the bay window. She was half turned away from me, showing me her profile, and sitting quite still.
When I ride the train, I often notice that women who are completely unaware of being watched have a kind of free, open beauty -- or, at the other extreme, their unconscious bodily disgust or modesty or shyness inverts itself into a sensual attractive force.
I also feel a wicked glee when I am able to spy on a person who is simply doing something by themselves, not suspecting that anyone is watching them. In particular, when that person is a woman, as long as she is not sleeping, I see in her certain mysterious beauty. This moment arriving back at my studio was exactly this kind of chance.
I walked up under the window from the garden, and watched the model through the glass door. She was deep in concentration, pulling at lock of her fringe with her fingers. I wondered what she planned to do with it, and she brought it down towards her nose and gazed at it. Her pupils naturally came together, and she was suddenly as cross-eyed as Nikki Danjô
using his evil magic.
I came dangerously close to laughing, but I was quickly struck by something mysterious, and began to grew serious at heart again.
What she was doing was not good for her eyes. Nor was it a natural pose. I grew unable to watch in silence, and so called "O-mitsu-chan!" from outside the window. O-mitsu was her name.
O-mitsu turned to me, surprised, and gave me a look with eyes that seemed to contain all of her affectionate feelings, as she stood up. Then she said her usual "oh, my!"
That instant of beauty, which showed its shape for only a flash before quickly vanishing -- I painted tirelessly for the rest of that two weeks, but in the end I was unable to capture it in the work itself. Source『ある眼』
), by Takehisa Yumeji
Aozora Bunko version entered by Watanabe Tsuyoshi (渡邉つよし) and proofread by Kadota Hiroshi (門田裕志).
All of the beggars one sees in Asakusa
have their own individual personalities, which is most pleasant. Indeed, it almost seems inappropriate to call these ladies and gentlemen "beggars" at all. In this essay I shall speak of their achievements as "artists of life", glorious flowers who give Asakusa its color. On the stage known as Asakusa, each of these characters appears and vanishes in their turn.The Man Who Plays Shamisen Without Any Fingers
He sits on the public benches. All four fingers are missing from his left hand. With the remaining thumb, he holds the mouthpiece end of a broken pipe, and by applying its bulging and sunken places skillfully, presses the strings against the instrument's neck. To pluck the strings, he uses not a pick but a matchstick.
If one listens from a distance, it sounds not the slightest bit different from regular shamisen playing. Crowds of people gather, follow the moving pipe with their eyes in wonder, and listen intently. Some of them sit down beside him on the same bench.
When he finishes playing "Tachiyama", he says, to no-one in particular, "Guess I'll play "Harusame" next. A cheerful song beats a gloomy one." He sounds as though he is enjoying himself immensely. If someone puts money by his side, he says "Oh my, thank you very much!" as cheerfully as you please -- for all the world as though he was greeting a close friend. And his voice is so pleasant no-one could possibly dislike it.
He does not beg. He tells no sob stories. He never, ever brings up the topic of his missing fingers. If an obstinate fellow insists on asking him about it, he simply says, "Oh, this? Happened in a factory. Nothing to be done about it. I was laid up for a while, thinking, 'Well, that's it; I'm a cripple now, no good for work any more,' and then I just had the urge to give this a try. Ha! all a bit pathetic, isn't it?"
Then he begins to play again, singing along quietly. The group that forms around him is completely free of ill-feeling. They simply listen, rapt, to the music his broken pipe-end and match bring to life, without once sneering at him him. And if someone puts some money down for him, he says "Oh, my, thank you!", as if they were old friends.The Old Man and the Organ
He was slender, and perhaps fifty years old. He wore an old, fraying cape. He was always sitting cross-legged at the base of the telephone pole by Shimousa-ya, the restaurant on the ward office road. He had an old-fashioned organ with bellows that he pumped and pulled as he sang along -- but the way he sang was quite startling.
"I'm withered pampas grass on the dry river bed," he would sing, then add, "goddamn!" He had two hats. One was a hunting cap, which he wore. The other one was a dirty school cap. He would place this before him, by his knees. It was for coins.
If someone tossed some change in, he showed his appreciation by bowing his head slightly as he sang. But if their donation looked silver, he would stop playing the organ entirely, doff his hunting cap, and bow so deeply that his head touched the school cap on the ground. Another dandy, he was. His face was clean-shaven more often than not.
"In lonely mountain ways of this world's trial and care..." -- sometimes he sang hymns. But then, with no warning -- "In a boar-tusk bo-o-oat
, yah!" -- he would return to "Fukagawa River Song".
Even when the cold winds blew harder and fewer people passed by, he was there, alone, watching the wind, working his organ and singing. He looked lonely. But he also seemed to enjoy his singing immensely.
Sometimes people made gentle fun of him, but to me he somehow seemed like a man who knew true loneliness and true happiness. But eventually he no longer showed himself in Asakusa. I wonder where he is now, and what he is doing there.
The old man and the organ -- sometimes I simply cannot help remembering them. Eating Compassion
In the hustle and bustle around the Kannon-sama temple
, a man drags his rags behind him. He is "sagebrush-haired and dirty-faced", as the saying goes, and he mumbles to himself as he wanders slowly around.
He is speaking. Moving. Then someone from the crowd abruptly thrusts a nickel coin into his hand. At this, person after person suddenly begins opening their purse to give him some small change. All at once, his hand is full of coins.
Dear readers, let us consider this carefully. This unpleasant-looking man is certainly not "begging". He is simply mumbling to himself as he walks along. Seeing this, some do-gooder -- or perhaps simply an absent-minded passer-by -- feels pity, and opens his wallet. Then everyone follows suit.
That is the pattern. A fine script to work from! This is an intelligent man, a man who has learnt how to "eat compassion".
A crippled beggar woman walks with her child through the bustle of the stalls outside the Shintô shrines. She wears a white robe covered with the stamps of the eighty-eight-shrine pilgrimage. For many years, she sat on Azuma Bridge, letting her child's tears do the begging, but she recently changed her costume and stepped forward into the glaring electric light of the Nakamise
Ringing her bell and singing her goeika
pilgrimage song, she walks to and fro along the Nakamise, like a stake driven into the flow of people.
A pretty geisha avoids the woman as she walks by.
A young gentleman gives her a silver coin.
After thirty or forty trips back and forth along the paving stones, she will have earned enough for tomorrow's rice, as well as some sashimi
and a nightcap. Her husband, who died four years ago, was a Godfather figure among the beggars. When new beggars come up from the countryside, they were sure to show their face at his house in Shimotani Yamabushi
Even though her husband is dead, she is still the "Godmother". The Begging Philosopher
The Begging Philosopher is a short man who wears a long rubber boot on one foot, and on the other a wooden sandal. Only one of each does not make for a good combination. His face looks like the actor Gokurô
's. He might be found anywhere. The edge of a pond, a bench, the corner of a house, an arbor -- any location can become his lectern. And when he begins to speak, an audience gathers in a ring around him.
"Nobody even knows yet whether the universe is round or square. So what's a human lie or two? 'Professors' and 'teachers' and people like that, they're
all just lying through their teeth. Newton, Einstein, they talk about 'gravity' and 'the theory of relativity' -- they just make up some complex-sounding name, knead in some logic, then make a living off of it. It's all bullshit. We didn't need Einstein to tell us this stuff -- we knew it all before breakfast! As soon as you fall behind on the rent, some trouble starts up. You get evicted or just plain kicked out -- that's
a phenomenon that depends on the observer! That's how we know about 'relativity'! Otherwise you wouldn't get into trouble no matter how many years you fell behind in arrears."Ha ha ha ha ha!
The circle of spectators surrounding him shakes with laughter. A passer-by mutters, "What the hell is he talkin' about?", and cranes his neck to see as he joins the crowd.
The philosopher picks up a half-smoked Golden Bat cigarette lying at his feet, and searches his pockets before finally asking, "Could someone possibly lend me a match?"
A man gives him a match. Then a woman who looks like somebody's wife says, "You like cigarettes, huh? Here, take these." And she gives him a box of Shikishimas.
"Much obliged," he says, pocketing the box. Then he lights the Bat butt and reopens the lecture as he smokes.
"Why can't we have even one Carnegie
in Japan too? You know I myself planned to become that man--" (the audience laughs) "-- No, really. I made a discovery, you see, but I couldn't do anything with it because I had no money. So I found a partner. And then, guess what: Huge success, huge hit. But he only gave me a tiny share of the cash. And now he's out there riding his bicycle every day, shoom shoom
--" (he makes bicycle-riding gestures here) "-- and the man who made
the discovery, by which I mean me, has ended up like this. Right. But I'm a big-hearted man. That's not even shit to me. If he likes riding bicycles so much, hey, let him ride them."
The ring chuckles, fufufufufu
. But the philosopher looks deadly serious.
"It's true! Begging, working at Mitsubishi -- there's no difference! Sleep, wake up, eat, hold your woman, drink -- nothing more anyone can do with their time than that, no matter how hard they try."
"Beggars don't have
women to hold!" a young man jeers.
"Are you kidding me? You don't know what you're talking about. I just don't feel
like doing that kind of thing. Everyone has a wife, even beggars, and some of us can even keep mistresses too. That guy right here in Asakusa who smacks time out with his walking stick while he sings naniwa-bushi
songs? -- he makes I don't know how many ryô
that way. He's a big cheese. You people can't see anything but the front
side of social phenomena. That's why you're in trouble. That's right... even begging is a fine career."
"Stop that! It's not a laughing matter! You must have serious problems if you get so happy over nothing at all. Like your novels and your story-telling, Higuchi Kuan and Mikkame Otokichi -- they're like brown sugar on hard candy, all sticky, and you eat them right up! Listen, the... the parade of life
, it's all about science. Learning the tricks. You're all going to have to become scientists. Otherwise you'll just have to drop out and become hermits... or maybe beggars in Asakusa."
"Give it a rest," a woman says as she gives him a handful of silver coins. He bows slightly, then continues. These crazy lectures of his can go on forever. The woman who gave him money leaves, talking to another woman that she's here with.
"That beggar was definitely from a good family," she says. "If not, he wouldn't be able to use so many big words." They leave while the second woman is still nodding at this unsuccessful attempt at piercing insight.
People don't call him crazy. They call him the Begging Philosopher.
Then there is the beggar who can bend his legs in peculiar, ugly ways, folding it up back to his posterior, offering his very self as a tourist attraction and claiming that his parents' sins have been visited upon him. Even as one watches, the wrapping paper he spreads out fills with coins thrown in by amused spectators.
These people are definitely not begging. But they are getting by just fine anyway. How pleasant a thing this is.Source『乞はない乞食』
), by Soeda Azenbô (添田唖蝉坊), 1872-1944.
Aozora Bunko version entered by Watanabe Tsuyoshi (渡邉つよし) and proofread by Kadota Hiroshi (門田裕志).