A sensation of helplessness, as if it were utterly impossible to go on living. Painful waves beatrelentlessly on my heart, as after a thunderstorm the white clouds frantically scud across the sky. Aterrible emotion - shall I call it an apprehension - wrings my heart only to release it, makes my pulsefalter, and chokes my breath. At times everything grows misty and dark before my eyes, and I feel that thestrength of my whole body is oozing away through my finger tips.
Of late a gloomy rain has been falling almost incessantly. Whatever I do depresses me. Today I took awicker chair out onto the porch, intending to work again on the sweater which I began to knit this spring.The wool is of a somewhat faded rose, and I am eking it out with cobalt-blue yarn to make a sweater. Thepale rose wool originally came from a scarf that Mother knitted for me twenty years ago, when I was stillin elementary school. The end of the scarf was formed into a kind of skullcap, and when I put it on andlooked at myself in the mirror, a little imp stared back at me. The scarf was very different in color fromthe scarves my school friends wore, and that fact alone sufficed to make me loathe it with an unreasoningfury. I felt so ashamed to be seen in it that I had refused to wear it again, and for years it had lain hiddenaway in a drawer somewhere. This spring it came to light, and I unraveled it. I decided to make it into asweater for myself, in the pious intention of resuscitating a dead possession. But somehow the faded colorfailed to interest me, and I had put the yarn aside again. Today, having nothing else to do, I took it out onthe spur of the moment and idly began to knit. It was only while I was knitting that I realized the pale roseof the wool and the grey of the overcast sky were blending into one, making a harmony of colors so softand mild that no words could describe it. I had never suspected that the important thing was to considerthe match a costume makes with the color of the sky. What a beautiful, wonderful thing color harmony is, Ithought to myself, rather surprised. It is amazing how when one unites the grey of the sky with the palerose of the wool, both colors at once come alive. The wool I held in my hands became vibrant withwarmth, and the cold rainy sky was soft as velvet. I remembered a Monet painting of a cathedral in themist, and I felt as if, thanks to the wool, I had for the first time understood what good taste is. Good taste.Mother had chosen the pale rose wool because she knew just how lovely it would look against the snowywinter sky, but in my foolishness I had disliked it. I had had my own way, for Mother never attempted toforce anything on me. During all this time Mother had not said a word of explanation but had waited thesetwenty years until I was able to appreciate the beauty of the color myself. I thought what a wonderfulMother I had. At the same moment clouds of dread and apprehension suddenly welled up within my breastas I wondered whether Naoji and I between us had not tortured and weakened Mother to the point ofkilling her. The more I reflected the more certain it seemed that the future had in store for us only horrible,evil things. The thought filled me with such nameless fears that I felt almost incapable of going on living.The strength left my fingers, and I dropped my knitting needles on my lap. A great sigh shook me. With myeyes still shut, I lifted my head. Before I knew what I was doing, I had cried, "Mother!"
"Yes?" Mother, leaning over a desk in a corner of the room, reading a book, answered with a note ofdoubt in her voice.
I was confused. In an unnecessarily loud voice I declared, "The roses have bloomed at last. Did youknow it, Mother? I just noticed it now. They've bloomed at last."
The roses in front of the porch had been brought back long ago by Uncle Wada from France - or wasit England? at any rate some distant country - and had now been transplanted here from our house inNishikata Street. I had been fully aware this morning that one of them had bloomed, but to cover myembarrassinent I pretended with exaggerated enthusiasm just to have discovered the fact. The flowers, ofa dark purple, had a sombre pride and strength.
"Yes, I knew," Mother said gently, adding, "Such things seem very important to you."
"Perhaps. Are you sorry for me?"
"No. I only meant to say that it was typical of you. It's just like you to paste pictures by Renoir on thekitchen match boxes or to make handkerchiefs for dolls. To hear you talk about the roses in the garden,one would think you were discussing live people."
"That's because I haven't any children."
I was quite taken aback by my own remark. I nervously fingered the knitting on my lap. It was as if Iclearly could hear a man's voice, a scratchy bass, like a voice on the telephone, saying, "What do youexpect - she's twenty-nine!" My cheeks burned with shame.
Mother made no comment but went back to her book. For some days now she has been wearing a gauzemask over her mouth, and that may have been the cause of her exceptional taciturnity of late. She wore themask in obedience to Naoji's instructions.
Naoji had returned a week or so before from the South Pacific, his face sallow. One summer evening,without a word of warning, he had burst into the garden, slamming the wooden gate behind him. "What ahorror! What atrocious taste for a house! You should put out a sign 'China Mansions: Chow Mein'!"
These were Naoji's words of greeting on first seeing me.
Mother had taken to bed two or three days before with a pain in her tongue. I could not detect anythingabnormal about the tip of her tongue, but she said that the slightest movement hurt her unbearably. At mealtimes she could only get down a thin soup. I suggested that the doctor examine her, but Mother shook herhead and said with a forced smile, "He would only laugh at me." I painted her tongue with Lugol, but ithad no apparent effect. Mother's illness unnerved me.
Just at this juncture, Naoji came.
He sat for a moment by Mother's pillow and inclined his head in a word of greeting. That was all - heimmediately sprang to his feet and rushed off to inspect the house. I followed behind him.
"How do you find Mother? Changed?"
"She's changed all right. She's grown thin. It'd be best for her if she died soon. People like Mama arenot meant to go on living in such a world as this. She was too pathetic even for me to look at her."
"How about me?"
"You've coarsened. Your face looks as if you've got two or three men. Is there any saké? Tonight I'mgoing to get drunk."
I went to the village inn and begged the proprietress to let me have a little saké, in honor of mybrother's return, but I was told that they were unfortunately just out of stock. When I repeated thisinformation to Naoji, his face darkened into an expression the like of which I never before had seen, andwhich made him a stranger. "Damn it! You don't know how to deal with her." He got me to tell him wherethe inn was and rushed out. That was that. I waited for hours for his return, but in vain. I had made bakedapples, one of Naoji's favorite dishes, and an omelette, and had even put brighter electric lights in thedining-room to add some cheer. While I was waiting, Osaki, the girl from the inn, put her head in at thekitchen door and whispered urgently, "Excuse me. Is it all right? He's drinking gin." Her pop-eyes bulgedeven more than usual.
"Gin? You mean methyl alcohol?"
"No, it's not methyl, but just the same. . . ."
"It won't make him sick if he drinks it, will it?"
"No, but still. . . .
"Let him drink it then."
Osaki nodded as if she were swallowing and went away
I reported to Mother, "He's drinking at Osaki's place."
Mother twisted her mouth a little into a smile. "He must have given up opium. Please finish the dinner.Tonight we'll all three sleep in this room. Put Naoji's bedding in the middle."
I felt as if I could weep.
Naoji returned late that night, thumping loudly through the house. The large, room-size mosquito netwas spread open, and the three of us crept inside.
Lying there I asked him, "Why don't you tell Mother something about the South Seas?"
"There's nothing to tell. Nothing at all. I've forgotten. When I returned to Japan and got on the train therice fields looked unbelievably beautiful from the train window. That's all. Turn out the light. I can'tsleep."
I turned out the light. The summer moonlight flooded into the mosquito netting.
The next morning Naoji, lying in bed and smoking a cigarette, looked out at the sea in the distance.
"I hear your tongue hurts you." He spoke as if he had noticed for the first time that Mother was notwell.
Mother merely smiled feebly.
"I'm sure it's psychological. You probably sleep at night with your mouth open. Very careless of you.You should wear a gauze mask. Soak some gauze in Rivanol solution and put it inside a mask."
I exploded, "What kind of treatment do you call that?"
"It's called the aesthetic treatment."
"But I'm sure that Mother would hate wearing a mask."
Mother dislikes putting anything on her face, even glasses or an eye-patch if her eyelids are inflamed,let alone a mask.
I asked, "Mother, will you wear one?"
"Yes, I will." Her voice was earnest. I was quite taken aback. Mother was apparently resolved tobelieve and obey anything that Naoji said.
After breakfast I soaked some gauze in Rivanol solution, as Naoji had directed, folded it into a mask,and took it to Mother. She accepted it without a word and meekly tied the strings around her ears. Shelooked as she lay there pathetically like a little girl.
That afternoon Naoji announced that he would have to go to Tokyo to see his friends. He changed to abusiness suit and set off with 2,000 yen from Mother.
Almost ten days have gone by since his departure, and as yet there is no sign when he will return.Every day Mother wears her mask and waits for Naoji. She has told me that the medicine is very effectiveand that wearing the mask greatly relieves the pain in her tongue. I can't help feeling, however, thatMother is not telling the truth. She is out of bed now, but her appetite remains poor and she seldomspeaks. I am worried about her, and I wonder what can be keeping Naoji so long. No doubt he is amusinghimself with that novelist Uehara and is at this moment being sucked into the frenzied whirlpool of Tokyo.The more I let my thoughts run along such lines the bitterer my life seems. It is a sure indication that I amat last losing control of myself when I burst out for no good reason with a report on the activities of theroses or mention the fact I haven't any children - lapses I would never have believed myself capable of.
My knitting fell as I stood up with a cry of dismay. I felt at an utter loss what to do with myself. Withshaking limbs, I climbed the stairs to the foreign-style room on the second floor
This is to be Naoji's room. Four or five days ago Mother and I settled this, and I asked Mr. Nakai tohelp me move in Naoji's wardrobe and bookcases, five or six wooden crates stuffed with books andpapers, and various other objects-in short, everything that had been in his room in our old house inNishikata Street. We decided to await his return from Tokyo before we put the wardrobe and bookcasesin place, not knowing where he would like them. The room was so cluttered that there was scarcely spaceenough to turn around. Aimlessly I picked up one of Naoji's notebooks from an open crate. The words"Moonflower Journal" were written on the cover. The notebook seems to have been kept while Naoji wassuffering from narcotic poisoning.
-----
A sensation of burning to death. And excruciating though it is, I cannot pronounce even the simplewords "it hurts." Do not try to shrug off this portent of a hell unparalleled, unique in the history ofman, bottomless!
Philosophy? Lies. Principles? Lies. Ideals? Lies. Order? Lies. Sincerity? Truth? Purity? All lies.They say the wisteria of Ushijima are a thousand years old, and the wisteria of Kumano date fromcenturies ago. I have heard that wisteria clusters at Ushijima attain a maximum length of nine feet,and those at Kumano of over five feet. My heart dances only in those clusters of wisteria blossom.
That too is somebody's child. It is alive.
Logic, inevitably, is the love of logic. It is not the love for living human beings.
Money and women. Logic, intimidated, scampers off precipitously.
The courageous testimony of Dr. Faust that a maiden's smile is more precious than history,philosophy, education, religion, law, politics, economics, and all the other branches of learning.
Learning is another name for vanity. It is the effort of human beings not to be human beings.
I can swear even before Goethe that I am a su-p-er-b-ly- gifted writer. Flawless construction, the properleavening of humor, pathos to bring tears to the reader's eyes - or else a distinguished novel, perfectof its kind, to be read aloud sonorously with the deference due it, this (shall I call it runningcommentary on a film?) I claim I could write were I not ashamed. There's something fundamentallycheap about such awareness of genius. Only a madman would read a novel with deference. In that caseit had best be done in formal clothes, like going to a funeral. So long as it does not seem as affected asa good work! I will write my novel clumsily, deliberately making a botch of it, just to see a smile ofgenuine pleasure on my friend's face - to fall on my bottom and patter off scratching my head. Oh, tosee my friend's happy face!
What is this affection which would make me blow the toy bugle of bad prose and bad character toproclaim, "Here is the greatest fool in Japan! Compared to me, you're all right-be of good health!"
Friend! You who relate with a smug face, "That's his bad habit, what a pity!" You do not know thatyou are loved.
I wonder if there is anyone who is not depraved. A wearisome thought.
I want money.
Unless I have it. . . .
In my sleep, a natural death!
I have run up a debt of close to a thousand ye-n-w-i-th-the pharmacist. Today I surreptitiouslyintroduced a clerk from the pawnshop into the house and ushered him to my room. I asked, "Is anythinghere valuable enough to pawn? If there is, take it away. I am in desperate need of money."
The clerk, with scarcely a glance at the room, had the effrontery to say, "Why don't you forget thewhole idea? After all, the furniture doesn't belong to you."
"Very well!" I said with animation, "just take the things I have bought with my own pocket money."But not a one of all the odds and ends I piled before him had any value as a pledge.
Item. A hand in plaster. This was the right hand of Venus. A hand like a dahlia blossom, a pure whitehand, mounted on a stand. But if you looked at it carefully you could tell how this pure white, delicatehand, with whorl-less finger tips and unmarked palms, expressed, so pitifully that even the beholderwas stabbed with pain, the shame intense enough to make Venus stop her breath; in the gesture wasimplicit the moment when Venus' full nakedness was seen by a man, when she twisted away her body,flushed all over with the prickling warmth of her shock, the whirlwind of her shame, and the tragedy ofher nudity. Unfortunately, this was only a piece of bric-a-brac. The clerk valued it at fifty sen.
Items. A large map of the suburbs of Paris. A celluloid top almost a foot in diameter. A special penpoint with which one can write letters finer than threads. All things bought by me under the impressionthat they were great bargains
The clerk laughed and said, "I must be leaving now."
"Wait!" I cried, holding him back. I finally managed to load him down with an immense stack ofbooks for which he gave me five yen. The books on my shelves were, with a few exceptions, cheappaper-bound editions, and at that I had bought them second-hand. It was not surprising that theyfetched so little
To settle a debt of a thousand yen-five yen. That is approximately my effective strength. It is nolaughing matter
But rather than the patronizing "But being decadent is the only way to survive!" of some whocriticize me, I would far prefer to be told simply to go and die. It's straightforward. But people almostnever say, "Die!" Paltry, prudent hypocrites!
Justice? That's not where you'll find the so-called class struggle. Humanity? Don't be silly. I know.It is knocking down your fellow-men for the sake of your own happiness. It is a killing. What meaninghas it unless there is a verdict of "Die!" It's no use cheating.
There aren't any decent people in our class either. Idiots, specters, penny-pinchers, mad dogs,braggarts, high-flown words, piss from above the clouds.
"Die!" Just to be vouchsafed that word would be far more than I deserve.
The war. Japan's war is an act of desperation.
To die by being sucked into an act of desperation . . . no thanks. I had rather die by my own hand.
People always make a serious face when they-t-el-l-a-lie. The seriousness of our leaders these days!Pooh!
I want to spend my time with people who don'-t -lo-o-k-to be respected. But such good people won'twant to spend their time with me.
When I pretended to be precocious, people sta-r-te-d-t-he rumor that I was precocious. When I actedlike an idler, rumor had it 1 was an idler. When I pretended I couldn't write a novel, people said Icouldn't write. When I acted like a liar, they called me a liar. When I acted like a rich man, they startedthe rumor I was rich. When I feigned indifference, they classed me as the indifferent type. But when Iinadvertently groaned because I was really in pain, they started the rumor that I was faking suffering.The world is out of joint.
Doesn't that mean in effect that I have no cho-ic-e-b-u-t suicide?In spite of my suffering, at the thought that I was sure to end up by killing myself, I cried aloud andburst into tears
There is the story of how on a morning in spri-n-g-a-s-the sun shone on a branch of plum where two orthree blossoms had opened, a young student of Heidelberg was dangling from the branch, dead.
"Mama, scold me please!" - - - - -
"What for?"
"They say I'm a weakling."
"Do they? A weakling. . . . I don't think I need scold you about that any more."
Mama's goodness is unsurpassed. Whenever I think of her, I want to cry. I will die by way ofapology to Mama.Please forgive me. Just this once,
please forgive-me.-
(New Year's Poem) - - - - -
The years!
Still quite blind
The little stork-chicks
Are growing up.
Ah! how they fatten!
Morphine, atromol, narcopon, philipon, pantopon, pabinal, panopin, atropin.
What is self-esteem? Self-esteem! - - - - -
It is impossible for a human being - no, a man - to go on living without thinking "I am one of theelite," "I have my good points," etc.
I detest people, am detested by them.
Test of wits.
Solemnity=feeling of idiocy. - - - - -
Anyway, you can be sure of one thing, a man's got-to fake just to stay alive.
A letter requesting a loan: - - - - -
"Your answer.
Please answer.
And in such a way that it will be good tidings for me.
I am moaning to myself in the expectation of humiliations of every sort.
I am not putting on an act. Absolutely not.
I beg it of you.
I feel as if I will die of shame.
I am not exaggerating.
Every day, every day, I wait for your answer; night and day I tremble all over.
Do not make me eat dirt.
I can hear a smothered laugh from the walls. Late at night I toss in my bed.
Do not humiliate me.
My sister!"
Having read that much, I shut the "Moonflower-J-o-ur-n-al" and returned it to the wooden crate. I walkedto the window, threw it open, and looking down on the garden smoky with white rain, I remembered theevents of those days
Six years have already passed since then. Naoji's drug addiction eventually led to my divorce. No, Ishouldn't say that. I have the feeling that my divorce was settled from the moment I was born, that even ifNaoji had not been addicted to drugs the divorce would have occurred sooner or later for some othercause. Naoji was in difficulties about paying the pharmacist and frequently importuned me for money. Ihad just been married and could not be entirely free about money. Besides, I felt strongly that it was mostimproper for me to slip furtively into the hands of my brother money I had received from my husband.After talking the matter over with my maid Oseki, who had come with me from my mother's house, Idecided to sell my bracelets, necklaces, and dresses. Naoji had sent me a letter concluding, "I feel suchanguish and shame that I can't bear to meet you or even to talk to you over the telephone. Please send themoney with Oseki to the apartment [he gave the address] of the novelist Uehara Jiro, whom I'm sure youmust know, at least by name. Mr. Uehara has the reputation of being an evil man, but he is not actually likethat at all, and there is no need to worry about sending me the money at his address. I have arranged withUehara to let me know immediately by telephone when the money arrives, so please do it that way. I wantto keep my addiction from Mama, at least. Somehow I intend to cure myself before she learns of it. If I getthe money from you this time, I will pay back the pharmacist all that I owe him. I may go afterward to ourvilla in the mountains to recuperate. I really mean it. The day I pay back my whole debt I intend to give updrugs completely. I swear it to God. Please believe me. Please keep it a secret from Mama, and send themoney to Mr. Uehara's."
That is more or less what was in the letter. I followed his directions and had Oseki take the moneysecretly to Mr. Uehara's apartment, but the promise in Naoji's letter was, as always, false. He didn't go tothe villa to recuperate. Instead, his drug taking seems to have turned into a kind of poisoning and grownsteadily more serious. The style of the letters he sent imploring me for money took on an anguished tonewhich was all but a shriek. Each time I read his words "I promise to give up drugs now," followed by anoath so heart-rending that it made me want to turn my face away from the paper, I realized perfectly wellthat he might be lying again, but 1 would nevertheless send Oseki out to sell a piece of jewelry and to takethe money to Mr. Uehara
"What sort of man is Mr. Uehara?"
"He's a short, dark, disagreeable man," Oseki answered, adding, "but he's seldom at home when I call.Usually there's just his wife and a little girl about six years old. His wife is not particularly pretty, but sheseems a sweet, intelligent person. You don't have to worry about entrusting your money to a lady like her."
If you were to compare what I was like then to what I am like now-no, I was so different that nocomparison is possible - I had my head in the clouds and was always very easy-going. All the same, Ibegan to be terribly worried what with one sum of money after another being extorted from me, and thewhole thing gradually assumed the proportions of a nightmare. One day, returning from the theatre, I sentback the car and walked by myself to Mr. Uehara's apartment.
Mr. Uehara was alone in his room reading a newspaper. He was dressed in a Japanese costume whichmade him look old and young at the same time. I received a strange first impression as if from a rare beastthat I had never before seen.
"My wife has gone with the child to collect the rations." His voice was slightly nasal, and he clippedhis words. He seemed to have mistaken me for a friend of his wife's. When I told him that I was Naoji'ssister, Mr. Uehara barked a laugh. A cold shiver went through me; I don't know why.
"Shall we go out?" Scarcely had he uttered these words than he threw on a cloak, stepped into a newpair of sandals, and dashed out ahead of me into the hallway.
An early winter's evening. The wind was icy. It felt as if it were blowing in from the river. Mr. Ueharawalked in silence, his right shoulder slightly raised as if against the wind. I followed behind him, halfrunning.
We entered the basement of a building behind the Tokyo Theatre. Four or five groups of customerswere sitting around tables in a long narrow room, quietly drinking.
Mr. Uehara drank his sake from a tumbler, instead of the usual little cup. He asked them to bringanother glass and offered me some. I drank two glassfuls but did not feel anything.
Mr. Uehara drank and smoked, still without uttering a word. This was the first time in my life that I hadever come to such a place, but I felt quite at home and rather happy.
"Liquor would be better, but still. . . ."
"Excuse me?"
"I mean, your brother. It would be a good thing if he switched to some kind of alcohol. I was once adope addict myself, a long time ago, and I know what a poor view people take of it. Alcohol is the samesort of thing, but about that they're surprisingly indulgent. I think I'll make an alcoholic of your brother.How does that suit you?"
"I once saw an alcoholic. I was about to set out on New Year's calls when I noticed a friend of ourchauffeur's with a hideously red face asleep in the car and snoring loudly. I was so surprised that Iscreamed. The driver told me the man was a hopeless alcoholic. He dragged the man out of the car andslung him over his shoulders. The man's body flopped about as if he hadn't any bones, and all the while hekept mumbling something. That was the first time I ever saw an alcoholic. It was fascinating."
"I'm also an alcoholic, you know."
"Oh, but not the same kind, are you?"
"And so are you, an alcoholic."
"No, that isn't true. I've seen a real alcoholic, and it's entirely different."
Mr. Uehara for the first time gave a genuine smile. "Then perhaps your brother won't be able tobecome an alcoholic either, but at least it would be a good idea for him to take up drinking. Let's go. Youdon't want to be late, do you?"
"It doesn't make any difference."
"To tell the truth, this place is too crowded for me. Waitress! The bill."
"Is it very expensive? If it isn't too much, I have a little money with me."
"In that case, you take care of the bill."
"There may not be enough." I looked inside my bag and told Mr. Uehara how much money I had.
"With that much you have enough to drink at two or three more places. Don't be silly." He spoke with ascowl, then laughed.
"Would you like to go drinking somewhere else?"
He shook his head. "No, I've had enough. I'll get a taxi for you. You had better go back."
We climbed up the dark stairs from the basement. Mr. Uehara, who was one step ahead of me, turnedaround suddenly and gave me a quick kiss. I took his kiss with my lips tightly shut. I felt no specialattraction for him, but all the same, from that moment on my "secret" came into being. Mr. Ueharaclattered up the stairs, and I slowly followed, with a strangely transparent feeling. When I steppedoutside, the wind from the river felt wonderful against my cheek.
He hailed a taxi for me, and we separated without saying anything
I felt, as I was tossed in the decrepit old taxi, as if the world had suddenly opened wide as the sea.
One day, when I was feeling depressed after a quarrel with my husband, I suddenly took it in my headto say, "I have a lover."
"I know. It's Hosoda, isn't it? Can't you possibly give him up?"
I remained silent
Whenever there was any unpleasantness between my husband and myself, this matter would always bebrought up. "It's all over now," I thought. It was like buying the wrong material for a dress - once youhave cut it you can't sew the material together again, and you'd best throw the whole thing away and startafresh on another piece of material.
One night my husband asked me if the child I was carrying was Hosoda's. I was so frightened that Ishook all over. I realize now that my husband and I were both very young. I did not know what love was. Idid not even understand simple affection. I was so wild about Mr. Hosoda's pictures that I used to tellpeople I met that every day of one's life would be filled with beauty if one were the wife of such a man,and that marriage was meaningless unless it were to a man with taste like his. And so everyonemisunderstood, and I, who knew nothing of love or affection, would publicly say without anyembarrassment that I loved Mr. Hosoda. I never attempted to take back my words, which made thingsterribly complicated. That was why even the little infant then sleeping within me became the object of myhusband's suspicions. Although neither of us openly spoke of divorce, the atmosphere grew increasinglychilly, and I returned to my mother's house. The child was stillborn. I took ill and was confined to my bed.My relations with my husband had come to an end
Naoji, perhaps feeling a kind of responsibility for my divorce, bellowed that he would die, and hisface decomposed with weeping. I asked him how much he still owed the pharmacist. He mentioned afantastically large figure. Later I learned that Naoji had lied, being unable to confess the actual amount,which was close to three times what he told me.
I said, "I've met your Mr. Uehara. He's a delightful man. Don't you think it would be amusing if thethree of us went drinking together sometime? I was simply amazed how cheap sake is. As long as youstick to sake, I can always foot the bill. And don't worry about paying the pharmacist. It will be arrangedsomehow."
Naoji seemed enchanted that I had met and liked Mr. Uehara. That night, as soon as he had obtainedmoney from me, he rushed off to Mr. Uehara's place.
Addiction is perhaps a sickness of the spirit. I praised Mr. Uehara and borrowed his novels from mybrother. When I had read them, I told Naoji what a wonderful writer I thought Mr. Uehara. Naoji wasastonished that I could understand him, but seemed very pleased all the same, and made me read otherworks by Mr. Uehara. Before I knew it I had begun to read his novels in earnest, and Naoji and I gossipeda great deal about him. Naoji staggered off almost every night to drinking parties at Mr. Uehara's. Bit bybit, as Mr. Uehara had planned, Naoji was switching to alcohol. Without Naoji's knowledge, I askedMother what to do about the pharmacist's bill. She covered her face with one hand and for a while satmotionless. Presently she looked up and said with a smile, "I can't think of anything to do. I don't knowhow many years it may take, but we'll have to pay back a little each month."
Six years have gone by since then.
Moonflowers. Yes, it must have been painful for Naoji, too. Even now his path is blocked, and heprobably still has no idea what to do in what way. His drinking every day must be only in the hope ofdeath.
I wonder how it would be if I let go and yielded myself to real depravity. Perhaps that might makethings easier for Naoji
"I wonder if there is anyone who is not depraved," Naoji wrote in his notebook. Those words made mefeel depraved myself, and my uncle and even Mother somehow then seemed depraved. Perhaps bydepravity he actually meant tenderness.