by Donald Keene
7th April 1909
This morning a violent west wind was roaring through the sky. The windows on the third floor were all rattling, and a dustlike sand from the street below came blowing in the cracks. But in spite of the wind the scattered clouds were motionless.
A springlike sunshine was warming the windowpanes. It was the sort of day when you might be sweating if it weren’t for the wind. The old man from the lending library came in, wiping his nose with the palm of his hand. “Terrible wind,” said he. “Still, the cherry blossoms all over Tokyo will be opening today. Wind or no wind, it’s fine weather.”
“Spring has come at last,” I said, but of course he couldn’t understand my feelings. “Eh! Eh!” answered the old man, “Spring, you know, is a loss as far as we’re concerned. Lending books is finished for the season. All my customers would rather go out for a walk than read a book, and I can’t say I blame them. The few people who do read books naturally take their time over it.”
There is a five-yen bill in my wallet, the remains of what I borrowed yesterday of next month’s pay from the company. All morning long I couldn’t think about anything else. It must be the way people who normally have money feel when they are suddenly deprived of it. Both situations are funny, but though they’re funny in quite the same way, there’s a big difference in the happiness or grief involved!
Having nothing else to do, I tried to make a table of Romaji. From time to time the memory of my mother and my wife in Hokkaido leapt out of the middle of the table and took possession of me. “Spring has come. It’s April! Spring! Spring! The blossoms are opening! It’s already a year since I came to Tokyo. . . ! And still I haven’t been able to make any arrangements to send for my family.” That’s the problem that keeps tormenting me, I don’t know how many times a day.
Why did I decide to keep this diary in Romaji? Why? I love my wife, and it’s precisely because I love her that I don’t want her to read this diary. No, that’s a lie! It’s true that I love her, and it’s true that I don’t want her to read this, but the two facts are not necessarily related.
Am I a weakling then? No, my trouble comes entirely from the mistaken institution of marriage. Marriage! What an idiotic institution! What’s to be done about it?
Today the members of the tennis team from Kyoto University, who are staying in the next room, are having their last day of play. They went off in high spirits.
After eating lunch I went by streetcar as usual to the office, where I corrected proofs with the old men in a corner of the editorial room. About five o’clock in the evening the proofs for the first edition were finished and I went back home: this is my daily stint to earn a living.
On the way back I walked along a street in Hongō, intending to do a little shopping. The cherry trees of the university campus had half-opened their blossoms in just one day.
The world is now completely given over to the spring.
The sound of the footsteps of the people going back and forth crowding the streets somehow exhilarated me. I couldn’t help wondering where they had so suddenly appeared from, those beautiful people in beautiful clothes who were streaming by. It’s spring, I thought. Then I thought of my wife and little Kyōko.
I had promised myself that I would send for them by April and I haven’t—no, I can’t.
Oh, my writing is my enemy, and my philosophy nothing but empty logic that I myself ridicule. I seem to desire so many things, but don’t they boil down to one small one? Money!
When I got back after ten tonight there was a tremendous racket in the next room. One of the tennis players, having returned drunk from a dinner given in their honor, had smashed the light and was breaking up the frames of the sliding doors.
I met one of the students at the entrance to his room. He was a classmate of mine in high school and is now studying engineering in Kyoto. We carried on a childish conversation until about one in the morning. In the meantime the uproar in the next room had subsided. The spring night deepened, the night of a day which had opened the blossoms all over the city.
In the midst of a city quiet in sleep, I lay awake alone, and, counting the breaths of the calm spring night, I felt how dull and meaningless my life in this little room has been. What must I look like sleeping here all alone in this tiny room, overcome by an indescribable fatigue? The final discovery of human beings must be that the human being itself is not of the slightest importance.
I have lived a long time—over two hundred days—in this little room, filled with heavy uneasiness, and with the shallow hope that I may find something to interest me. How long will it last. . .? No!
I read in bed the Collected Stories of Turgenev.
8th, Thursday
They probably forgot because they were all confused by the turmoil in the next room (but to be forgotten is already an insult, an insult natural enough in view of my present circumstances: thus thinking, I can laugh off anything at all). Two full hours after I got up and washed they still hadn’t brought the breakfast tray.
I thought: up to now I have always kept quiet in such cases, and have never once got angry. But is that because I have an easygoing nature? Probably not. It’s a mask, or, if not a mask, comes from some crueler idea. I thought; then I clapped my hands and called the maid.
The sky was calm and clear. There is something buoyant about the streets in blossomtime. Every now and then the wind scattered sand and fluttered the blossom-viewing kimonos of the passers-by.
On the way back from the office I met Hinosawa, the engineer. He is a real dandy. When he sat down in his newly tailored Western clothes next to me in a padded kimono with torn sleeves, I felt that I had to say something sarcastic. “Have you been to see the cherry blossoms?” “No, I haven’t the time to look at cherry blossoms.” “Really? That’s fine,” I said. What I said was extremely commonplace. It was something that anybody could say. I made that commonplace remark to that commonplace man because I thought it made for wonderful irony. Of course, there was no fear of Hinosawa’s understanding my meaning: he is absolutely placid. That’s what made it amusing.
There were two old women seated opposite us. “I dislike the Tokyo old women,” I said. “Why’s that?” “It gives me a bad feeling just to look at them. It really does. There’s nothing motherly about them, like the ones in the country.” Just then one of the old women glared at me from behind her dark glasses. The people around were also staring in my direction. I felt somehow pleased.
“Is that so?” said Hinosawa in as soft a voice as possible.
“Of course, when it comes to young women, there’s no place like Tokyo. But once they get to be old, they all have a sour look on their faces.”
“Ha, ha, ha, ha.”
“I’m very fond of the motion pictures. Are you?”
“I haven’t yet made the effort to go.”
“They’re really interesting. You should go have a look. One minute it’s light, and the next minute it’s dark. It’s fun.”
“It’s bad for the eyes, isn’t it?” I could already read an awkward embarrassment on my friend’s face. I couldn’t help feel a faint triumph.
“Ha, ha, ha!” This time it was I who laughed.
I went out about eight in the evening to buy a needle and thread to mend the holes in my kimono. The streets were full of the bustle of spring. Besides the usual night stalls there were many little shops selling plants.
Everybody was walking about happily, shoulders rubbing shoulders. I didn’t buy the needle and thread. Although I could hear my heart shouting, “Don’t! Don’t!”, I ended up by taking out my wallet and buying this notebook, socks, underwear, writing paper, and two bowls of pansies. Why is it that even when I am about to buy something necessary I always hear that voice say “Stop!”? “You’ll be left without a penny,” the voice says. “They’re suffering in Hokkaido,” the voice says.
9th, Friday
The cherry blossoms are almost in full bloom: it is a warm, calm, perfectly springlike da
y; the sky in the distance is veiled in mist.
On the tram going back this evening I saw a child who looked just as Kyōko did when I parted from her last spring. She was making a squeak with a toy flute, and as she did so she looked at me bashfully, hiding her laughing face. She was so adorable I felt like taking her in my arms.
The face of the child’s mother looked the way I imagine my mother’s did when she was young. The nose, the cheeks, the eyes—the whole face was like hers. It wasn’t a very refined face!
It is a spring evening sweet as milk. In the distance a frog is croaking. The first frog of the year!
10th, Saturday
Last night I read until past three, and I got up today after ten. A wind from the south is blowing in the clear sky.
The fact that recent short stories have come to be no more than a kind of new form of sketches from life—no—the fact that we have stopped wanting to read them—in other words, the fact that we are dissatisfied with them—shows that the authority of Naturalistic philosophy as a view of life is gradually dying out.
How times change! It cannot be denied that Naturalism was the philosophy we sought out with the greatest eagerness. But before we knew it we had discovered the logical contradictions in it. Then when we had surmounted these contradictions and moved forward, the sword we held in our hands was no longer the sword of Naturalism. I for one am no longer able to content myself with an attitude of detachment. The attitude of the writer toward humanity cannot be one of detachment. He must be a critic. Or a planner for mankind.
The positive Naturalism I have reached is a new idealism. For a long time we despised the word “ideal.” As a matter of fact, the kind of ideals we were then holding were, as we discovered, no more than pitiful illusions—no more than a life illusion. But we are alive and we must live. The ideal of destroying everything and then building anew with our own hands is no longer just a pitiful illusion. Even if the ideal itself is just a life illusion, we cannot live without it. If this deep internal need must also be discarded, there is nothing left for me to do but to die.
. .
What I wrote this morning is a lie. At least in so far as I am concerned it is not a first principle. I do not consider that any human achievement, regardless of the field, is of consequence. I used to think that literature was more admirable and valuable than other things, but that was before I knew what “admirable” meant. Is it possible that anything done by a human being can be admirable? The human being itself is neither admirable nor valuable.
What I desire is peace of mind. I realized it this evening for the first time. Yes, it is exactly that, beyond any doubt.
I wonder what real assurance—the feeling that there is nothing to worry about—must be like. It has been such a long time since I experienced it—not since I became conscious of what was going on in the world—that I have forgotten.
Of late the most tranquil moments in my life have been the ones spent going back and forth to work on the streetcar. When I am at home doing nothing, I feel as if I should be doing something. But what? That’s the problem. Read? Write? But there seems to be nothing to read or write. No, reading and writing are only a part of that “something.” Is there anything else I can do besides read and write? That I don’t know. But I feel, anyway, as though I should do something. Even when I am thinking of quite carefree things, I feel as if I am always being pursued by that “something.” And as a result I can’t seem to put my hand to anything.
At the office I wish the time would pass more quickly. It’s not that there’s anything I especially dislike about the work, or that the surroundings are disagreeable: when I return home early I am pursued by that feeling that I must do “something.” I don’t know what it is I should be doing, but I’m haunted by that compulsion.
I feel keenly the changing of the seasons. When I see the cherry trees in blossom, this simple fact strikes me sharp as an arrow. It is as if before my eyes I see the blossoms opening, and even as I watch the moment for them to scatter approaches. Whatever I see, whatever I hear, I feel exactly as if I were battling a stiff current. I don’t have a moment of calm; I am not at peace. Am I being pushed from behind? Or am I being pulled from the front? Whichever it is I can’t be calm. I feel I must dash out somewhere.
Then, what am I seeking? Fame? No, it’s not that. Achievement? No, not that either. Love? No. Knowledge? No. Then, money perhaps? Yes, money. Not as an end, but as a means. What I am searching for with all my heart is peace of mind. Yes, that is it.
Does that mean I am tired?
The sort of revolution which took place within me at the end of last year progressed with tremendous force. Although I had no particular enemy in mind during those hundred days, I was always armed. Everyone, without distinction, seemed an enemy. Sometimes I thought that I would like to kill everyone I knew, starting with my closest friends. Anyone who was an intimate friend to me I hated because of his friendship. “Everything afresh” was the “new” hope which guided me each day. My “new world” was a world of the strong.
The Naturalism I held as my philosophy then abandoned its bastion of negativity, and charged out into the broad fields of Positivism. The strong had to strip themselves of all the shackles and the old armor of convention, and to fight boldly. They had to advance rapidly wherever their inclinations led them, their hearts like iron, unweeping, unsmiling, taking nothing into consideration. They had to discard as dust all the things which are said to be virtues of mankind, and then they must effortlessly perform deeds beyond human powers. And for what purpose? They themselves would not know—the very fact that it was their aim would make it the aim of all mankind.
The hundred days when I was armed were merely a period when I posed as a warrior. Whom did I defeat? How strong did I become?
In short, I’m tired. I’m tired without having fought.
One may cross the world by two paths and only two. All or Nothing! The one is to fight against everything. To win or else to die. The other is to fight against nothing. No triumphs, no defeats. There is a reassurance in never having been beaten. There is a vitality in always winning. And there is nothing to fear from either. . . . But even though I have these opinions they don’t cheer me or give me the slightest strength.
My character is an unhappy character.
I am a weakling, a weakling with a marvelous sword inferior to none.
I can’t stand it unless I fight, and yet I’m unable to win. That means that death is the only possible course for me. But I dislike the thought of death. I don’t want to die! Then, how am I to live?
I want to live like a farmer, ignorant of everything. I’m far too clever.
I envy people who go crazy. I’m too healthy in mind and body.
I wish I could forget this, that, everything. But how?
Of late I have been tempted from time to time by the desire to go where there is no one else. A place with no one else—or at least where no voices are heard, where nothing can be heard which has the remotest connection with me, a place where there is no fear of anyone coming and looking at me—oh, I would like to go there all by myself for a week, ten days, no, even for a day, even for half a day.
I should like to rest my body as I please in a place where no matter what expression I have on my face, no matter what appearance I make, there is no fear of being noticed.
Sometimes, trying to forget this thought, I go to places where there are many people, like the motion pictures. And sometimes, on the other hand, I go when I feel a yearning for people—for young women. But I can’t find any satisfaction there either. While I am watching the film, especially if it is the most stupid, childish kind, I do manage to return to the heart of a child, and I can forget everything; but as soon as the film is over and the lights flash on, and I see the countless swarming people, the desire to seek some gayer, more amusing place rises all the stronger within my breast. Sometimes I can smell right in front of my nose the fragrance of hair, or I can feel a warm hand in mine. B
ut at such times my mind is calculating the contents of my pocketbook—or, rather, thinking of how to borrow some money! When I hold a warm hand or breathe the strong perfume of hair, I have the feeling not merely of holding a hand, but of taking in my arms a soft, warm, white body. And how lonely I feel when I return home without having done so! It is not just the loneliness that comes from having been unable to obtain sexual satisfaction: it is the deep terrible despair at not being able to get everything I want.
When I have had a little money I have without hesitation gone, filled with the voice of lust, to those narrow dirty streets.
Since last autumn I have gone thirteen or fourteen times, and I have bought about ten prostitutes. Mitsu, Masa, Kiyo, Mine, Tsuyu, Hana, Aki. . . . I have forgotten the names of some of them. What I sought was a warm, soft, white body: a pleasure in which my body and mind would melt. But those women, the old ones and the ones of fifteen who were still children, had all slept with hundreds or thousands of men.
There is no luster to their faces, their skin is cold and rough, they are so used to men that they feel no excitement. All it amounts to is that for a little while they hire out their private parts to men, and receive a pittance in exchange. Without even bothering to undo their sashes, they say “All right,” and lie down just as they are, without the slightest embarrassment.
It doesn’t make the least difference to them whether or not there is anyone on the other side of the partition who hears them. All it amounts to is that an excretory process has been effected with thousands of men. They have no desire to heal themselves with a pleasure in which the body and mind melt.
The nervous desire to seek strong excitement did not leave me even when I was receiving the excitement. I have spent the night three or four times.
It is no longer possible for me to go off somewhere all by myself, and yet I can obtain no satisfaction from people. I can’t stand the agony of human life itself, but I can’t do anything about it. Everything is in shackles, and there is heavy responsibility. What should I do? Hamlet said, To be or not to be? But in the present world the question of death has become more complicated than in Hamlet’s time. Oh, Ilya!1 Ilya’s plan was the greatest plan that any human being could conceive. He tried to escape from life, no, he did escape, and then with all his strength he rushed from life—from this life of ours—into a limitless path of darkness. He dashed out his brains against a stone wall.
