Romaji Diary and Sad Toys

by Takuboku Ishikawa

  Lying in bed, I read the short stories in this month's Chūōkōron.

  Saturday, April 10

  I read in bed until past three o'clock last night, so it was after ten when I got up this morning. A wind from the south was raging in a clear sky.

  The fact that recent short stories have degenerated into a kind of new descriptive essay, or rather that we can't help regarding them as such when we read them—in short, that we are dissatisfied with them—shows how the prestige of naturalism as a view of life has been steadily declining.

  Times change. We can't deny that at first naturalism was a philosophy we pursued with the utmost zeal. But all too soon we perceived contradictions in its theory. And when we advanced beyond these contradictions, we found that the sword in our hands was no longer the sword of naturalism. At least I could no longer be content with the attitude of an onlooker. The attitude of a writer toward life must not be that of a spectator; a writer must be a critic. If not, he must be a man who designs his own life. Moreover....

  The positive naturalism I have arrived at is exactly a new idealism as well. For a long time we have treated the word "ideal" with contempt. We have discovered to our cost that the ideals we once cherished were indeed only a pathetic daydream. It was no more than a life illusion.5 However, we are living, and we have to live. The ideal we have again erected with our own hands after destroying everything to the full is no longer a pathetic daydream. And even if this ideal is after all only a life illusion, we cannot live without it. Were I to abandon this need, which comes from the innermost depths of my heart, there would be nothing left for me but to die.

  The last passage I wrote this morning does not really express what I mean. At least it's not of primary importance to me. I do not believe that man's projects, whatever they may be, can be great. It was when I didn't yet know what greatness was that I thought literature was greater and nobler than anything else. Can anything done by man be great? For one thing, man is neither great nor noble.

  I want only freedom from care. This I realized tonight for the first time. Yes, that's so. Quite definitely so. What I want can't be anything else!

  Oh, this freedom from care! The feeling of such peace of mind, what could it possibly taste like? For a long time, ever since I began to comprehend what was going on around me, I have forgotten what peace of mind is.

  Nowadays, it's only on streetcars to and from my office that my mind is most at ease. When I'm at home, I feel, for no reason at all, that I must be doing something. That "something" is what bothers me. Is it reading? Is it writing? It seems to be neither. No, reading and writing seem to be only a part of that "something."

  Is there anything I can do besides read and write? I don't know. At any rate, I do feel as if I must always be doing something. Even when I'm indulging in idle carefree thought, I always feel as if I am being dogged by that "something." Yet I can't concentrate on anything.

  When I'm at the office, I keep hoping time will pass as quickly as possible. It's not that I particularly dislike my work or that I feel my surroundings are unpleasant. It's that I am pursued by the feeling I must get home as soon as possible and do something. I don't know what I'm supposed to do; and still, from somewhere behind me I feel myself pursued by that "something I must do."

  I am keenly sensitive to changes in nature in terms of season. When I look at a flower, I feel, "Good heavens, that flower's come out!" That simple experience stabs me as sharply as an arrow.

  I feel, furthermore, as if that flower will open in an instant and its petals will fall as I'm looking at it. Whatever I see or hear, I feel as if I'm standing on the brink of a surging stream. I'm not at all calm. I'm not composed. For some reason or other, my mind can't stand still, as if it were being pushed from behind or being pulled forward, and I feel as if I must start running.

  Then what is it I need? Fame? No. Projects? No. Love? No. Knowledge? No.

  Then is it money? Yes, money is one of the things I need. But it's not an end—it's a means. What I am seeking for with all my soul is freedom from care. That must be so!

  In other words, I'm probably exhausted.

  A sort of revolution that erupted in my mind at the end of last year proceeded at an enormous rate. In spite of the fact that there was no enemy worthy of the name in front of my eyes, I spent those hundred days continually armed. Everyone, no matter who it was, seemed to be a foe. There were times when, without exception, I wanted to kill all the people I knew, from the most intimate on down. The more intimately I knew the person, the more I hated him. That "everything would be fresh and new" was the "new" hope which dominated every day of my life. My "new world" was a "world of the strong," that is, "a world dictated by power."

  At that time naturalism as a philosophy had abandoned the inner citadel of "passivity" and charged into the wide plains of "activism." "The strong one" had to cast off the old armor of restriction and convention and barehanded, without help from others, had to fight gallantly. With a mind like steel, without tears, without laughter, and without consideration for anything, he had to push on recklessly in the direction he had aspired. He had to discard like dust all the so-called human virtues, and he had to do in cold blood what a human being cannot do. And for what? He himself did not know. No, he himself was his own object and aim and also the object and aim of all mankind.

  Those one hundred armed days passed while I did nothing but shake with excitement. Whom did I conquer? How much stronger had I become? Oh God!

  In short, I became exhausted. Even without fighting, I had grown weary.

  There are two ways of going through the world, only two. One, all or nothing, is to fight against everything. This way means to win or die. The other way is not to fight against anything. That way means never to win but never to be defeated either. A man who is never defeated has freedom from care. The man who always wins has spirit. And neither one will ever fear anything. But thinking in this way doesn't make me feel the least bit cheerful, nor does it lift my spirit. It makes me sad.

  My character is ill fated.

  I'm a weakling. I'm a weakling even though I have a sword sharper than anybody else's.

  I can't restrain myself from fighting, but I can't win. In that event there's no other way except to die. But I hate death. I don't want to die! Then how am I going to live?

  I wish I could live like a peasant, knowing nothing. I have been too smart.

  I envy those who have gone insane. I am too healthy in mind and body.

  God! I wish I could forget everything, each and every thing. But how?

  The desire to go where no human being exists has tempted me quite often of late. For a week, for ten days, for even a day, even half a day, it would be superb to lie down just by myself in a place where there are no people, where at least no human voices are audible, no, where at least I hear nothing which has any connection to me, where there is little fear that anyone will want to see me.

  In order to put these thoughts out of mind, I often go to a place crowded with people—the movies. On the other hand, I also go when I have a yearning for human beings—for young women. But I can't find real satisfaction there. Only while I'm watching movies, especially those that are the most stupid and juvenile, can I forget everything by forcing my mind to revert to that of a child. But once the movie is over and the lights flash on to suddenly reveal innumerable figures swarming around, the desire to search for some livelier place, for some more exciting place, wells up all the more powerfully. There are times when I smell directly under my nose the fragrance of a woman's hair, times too when I am clasping a warm hand. But at just such moments I'm making a mental calculation of the contents of my purse. No, at that time I am considering how I can borrow money from someone! When I clasp a warm hand and smell the powerfuI fragrance of a woman's hair, I am not satisfied with that: I want to embrace a soft and warm and perfectly white body. Oh, the feeling of loneliness when I go back home without fulfilling that desire! It's not merely a loneliness ste
mming from unfulfilled sexual desire; it's a deep, terrible, despairing realization which forces me to see that I am unable to obtain anything I want.

  When I had money, I went, without the slightest hesitation, to those narrow dirty streets filled with lewd voices.

  From the fall of last year to the present moment, I have gone about thirteen or fourteen times and bought about ten prostitutes. Mitsu, Masa, Kiyo, Mine, Tsuyu, Hana, Aki.... There are some whose names I've forgotten. What I desired was a warm body, soft, perfectly white; what I desired was a pleasure that ravished both my mind and body. But all these women, some middle aged, some mere chits about sixteen years old, had slept with hundreds, with thousands, of men.

  Their faces without gloss, their skin cold and rough, these women are inured to men, are insensitive to all stimuli. For small sums of money the only thing they do is rent their privates to men for a while. There is no other meaning than that. Without even untying their kimono bands, they lie down as they are and merely say, "Go ahead." And without even the slightest shame they open their thighs. They don't care in the least if anyone is in the next room or not. (This, however, is an irony of theirs that interests me!) Those genitals, which have been pounded by thousands of men, are flabby, the contractile action of the muscles gone. In them mere discharge takes place. There isn't an iota of pleasure ravishing either body or mind.

  My itch for a strong stimulus was not allayed even when I was receiving that stimulus. Three or four times I stayed overnight with a prostitute.

  The skin of eighteen-year-old Masa's body was as dry and rough as that of a poverty-stricken, middle-aged woman. The narrow six-by-six-foot room did not even have a light. The room was so stuffy and close that it had only the odor of flesh. Before long the woman had fallen asleep.

  I was so unbearably irritated I couldn't sleep. I put my fingers in the woman's vagina and roughly churned around inside. Finally, I put my five fingers in and pushed as vigorously as possible. Even then the woman did not wake up. Perhaps she was so inured to men that her vagina had become totally insensitive. A woman who had slept with thousands of men! I was more and more irritated. And then all the more forcefully I pushed in my fingers. Ultimately my hand entered as far as my wrist. At that moment the woman awoke saying, "Mm, mm."

  Suddenly she was clinging to me. "Ah... ah... ah, that was good. More... more. Ah... ah... ah!" A girl of eighteen no longer able to feel pleasure from the usual stimuli. I wiped my hand against her face. I wanted to insert both my hands or even my foot into her vagina and rip it apart. And—and I wanted to see, even in a vision, her body covered with blood, lying dead in the darkness. Men have the right to murder women by the cruelest methods. What a terrible, disgusting thought that is!

  It's already clear that I can't go where there are no human beings, so not one thing gives me satisfaction where I am. And though I can't endure the pain of this life, I'm unable to do anything about that life. Everything is restraint, my responsibilities heavy. What am I to do? Hamlet said, "To be or not to be." But the question of death in today's world has become much more complicated than in his time. Oh, llya! The llya in Three of Them.6 His attempt was the greatest man is able to perform! He tried to escape from life. No, he did escape. With all his strength he dashed out of life, out of our human life—human existence—on to the endless dark road. And he died, his head smashed against a stone wall! God!

  llya was a bachelor. I've always thought it enviable that he was. That's the sad difference between him and me.

  I'm exhausted now. And I'm searching for freedom from care. That freedom from care, what's it like? Where is it? I can't, even in a hundred years, return to the innocent mind free from pain that I had long ago. Where is peace of mind?

  "I want to be ill."

  Lurking in my mind for a long time has been this desire. Disease! This word, detested by man, sounds as precious to me as the name of the mountain in my native province.7 Oh, for a life of freedom, released from all responsibility!

  "I wish my family would die!" Even though I've desired that, no one dies. "I wish my friends would regard me as their enemy." For that I wish too, but no one regards me seriously as their foe. All my friends pity me. God!

  Why am I loved by others? Why can't I hate men with all my soul? To be loved is an unbearable insult!

  But I'm tired. I'm a weakling!

  For a year, no, for even a month,

  Even for a week, three days even,

  O you gods, you gods, if you exist,

  Grant only, I beg, this one prayer:

  Damage some part of this body,

  Ever so slightly, painfully even.

  Of that I won't mind.... Oh, to be made ill!

  Oh, I beg!

  On a soft white bed

  To sink down and down,

  My body gently, lightly,

  Sinking to the bottom of the valley of content—

  No, if not on a soft bed, then on worn tatami in some home for the destitute,

  That too will do.

  Oh, to lie down at my ease,

  Without thought

  (And without regret should I die like that).

  Oh, for a sleep so sound without awareness,

  Even if one should come and steal this arm, this leg!

  And how would I feel if I removed this heavy garment of responsibility?

  Just that image brings on sleep.

  Oh, to remove this kimono I wear,

  This heavy robe, weighted with duty—

  Oh, the rapture of that!

  This body of mine hydrogen-light

  And gentle and soft,

  Perhaps in flight, high, high, in the great heavens.

  "A skylark," everyone below may say!

  Ah!

  ___

  Death! Death!

  My only wish!

  What! A real putting to death?

  Wait, merciful gods!

  For one moment wait!

  For bread, a slight sum,

  Five sen will do—five—five—

  If you are merciful enough to take the time to kill me,

  Please give me five sen.

  It's a night with a warm breeze hinting of rain. In the distance the croaking of frogs.

  A postcard from Mitsuko telling me that she's gone to Asahikawa. No matter what she calls what she's doing, my younger sister has become a parasite living off that foreigner! In the metropolis when the cherry blossoms are at their best, her elder brother wears an old padded kimono frayed at the cuffs. And in the heart of Hokkaido, my young sister buried in six feet of snow is singing hymns!

  At three in the morning a soft rain.

  Sunday, April 11

  I woke up at about eight. It was Sunday, and all the cherry blossoms in Tokyo were out, not a bud unopened, yet not a blossom beginning to fall. The sky was serenely clear, the day warm. It was a day in which two million Tokyoites would forget everything in order to spend their time enjoying flower-viewing excursions.

  For some reason or other I felt fresh, light-hearted, the spirit and joy of youth seemingly spilling from my body. I wondered where last night's mood had gone.

  Kindaichi, restless as a bridegroom, was diligently getting into his Western suit. The two of us left together around nine.

  We got off the streetcar at Tawarachō and walked through Asakusa Park. Though it was still only morning, the crowds were large. Just for the fun of it, I tossed in one sen for a fortune-telling slip. It said, "All will go well." That started me on my lark. We boarded a steamboat at Azumabashi and went up the Sumida as far as Senju-ōhashi. The long embankment at Mukōjima, which I was seeing for the first time, was buried under clouds of cherry blossoms. Beyond Kanegafuchi the view took on something of a pastoral effect. Mt. Tsukuba was not visible in the spring haze. As far as the eye could reach, plains of cherry blossoms!

  Just this side of Senju was a long steel bridge which had been painted red. On both banks were green willows. We disembarked at Senju and strolled around th
e area a while. With my kimono tucked up high and my hat at the back of my head, I gave my friend plenty to laugh at.

  We returned by boat to Kanegafuchi and walked toward Tokyo with countless numbers of people. The banks of the river had been transformed into a tunnel of flowers. At that time too I walked along with the bottom of my kimono tucked up and my hat tilted way back.8 It had no meaning whatever. I merely felt like doing that kind of nonsense. I was enjoying Kindaichi's embarrassment. Tens of thousands of people dressed in their best outfits were walking in succession under that tunnel of flowers. Some were already drunk, clowning around in various ways. We discovered a beautiful girl and trailed her a long time, sometimes actually going ahead of her. The rows of flowering cherry trees continued interminably, and the processions of people, these too were interminable.

  Again we boarded a riverboat, at Kototoi this time, and came to Asakusa. Then, after lunching at a sukiyaki restaurant, we went our separate ways. I had to attend a tanka meeting at Mr. Yosano's house.

  As I expected, the meeting was a bore. Hiraide said last night's Pan Society gathering had been a great success.9 Yoshii, who came late, kept on saying, "Last night a policeman reprimanded me for being drunk and urinating off Eitai Bridge into the river." Apparently all the Pan members had gone out on a drunken spree.

  As usual, we made tanka on the subjects proposed by the members. In all there were thirteen of us. It was about nine when we finished our selections. Since I don't feel like making any serious tanka nowadays, I wrote my usual comic offerings. A few examples:10

  Bristling over the way

  My moustache droops,

  So like the man's I now hate!

  ___

  On my nerves of late

  The eyes of that guy I always meet

  Strolling in his red coat!

  ___

  Creaking leather inside these shoes,

  I feel queer, uneasy,