Osamu Dazai Best Short Stories E-Book

Osamu Dazai

• Herausgeber: Lebooks Editora
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 444

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Osamu Dazai Best Short Stories is a poignant and multifaceted exploration of human fragility, societal alienation, and the search for personal meaning amid postwar Japan. In One Hundred Views of Mount Fuji, Dazai blends lyrical observation with personal reflection, using the iconic mountain as a prism for memory and identity. My Elder Brothers offers an intimate portrayal of family bonds and rivalry, while Canis Familiaris transforms the perspective of a dog into a quietly profound meditation on loyalty and isolation. Eight Scenes from Tokyo captures the rhythms and contradictions of urban life, and Early Light contemplates the fleeting nature of beauty and hope. Together with other short pieces, these works reveal the breadth of Dazai's narrative voice, from sharply ironic to achingly tender. Since their publication, these stories have been celebrated for their emotional immediacy, psychological depth, and ability to merge the deeply personal with broader cultural commentary. Dazai's prose invites readers to confront uncomfortable truths about identity, mortality, and the fragile bonds that tie people to one another. His portrayals of Tokyo's landscapes, family relationships, and even canine companionship transcend mere description, becoming mirrors for the anxieties and yearnings of the human condition. The enduring relevance of Osamu Dazai Best Short Stories lies in its capacity to evoke empathy while resisting sentimentality. By intertwining the personal and the universal, Dazai offers an unflinching yet tender portrait of life in flux, where beauty and despair often coexist. In doing so, these works challenge readers to consider the ways in which memory, connection, and loss shape the intricate narratives of human experience.  

Leseprobe

Osamu Dazai

OSAMU DAZAI SHORT STORIES

Contents

INTRODUCTION

ONE HUNDRED VIEWS OF MOUNT FUJI

MY ELDER BROTHERS

CANIS FAMILIARIS

EIGHT SCENES FROM TOKYO

EARLY LIGHT

A SNOWY NIGHT’S TALE

A PROMISE FULFILLED

INTRODUCTION

Osamu Dazai

1909 — 1948

Osamu Dazaiwas a Japanese novelist, widely regarded as one of the most significant literary figures of 20th — century Japan. Born in Kanagi, Aomori Prefecture, Dazai is best known for his works that explore themes of alienation, self — destruction, and the search for meaning in a rapidly modernizing society. His deeply personal and often semi — autobiographical narratives reflect the turmoil of his own life, marked by repeated suicide attempts and a profound sense of existential despair. Today, his novels No Longer Human (1948) and The Setting Sun (1947) stand as classics of modern Japanese literature.

Early Life and Education

Osamu Dazai, born Shūji Tsushima, was the eighth child of a wealthy landowning family. Despite his privileged background, he felt alienated from his family and community from an early age. His upbringing was strict, and he struggled to connect with his authoritarian father and the expectations of his class. Dazai studied French literature at the University of Tokyo but never graduated, as his life began to spiral into instability due to personal and financial troubles, substance abuse, and his growing obsession with literature. During his youth, he became heavily influenced by Western writers such as Ryūnosuke Akutagawa, Anton Chekhov, and Franz Kafka, as well as by the Japanese I — novel tradition, which favored confessional, autobiographical storytelling.

Career and Contributions

Dazai’s work is characterized by its confessional style, blending fiction and autobiography to the point where the boundaries between the two become blurred. His writing often depicts disillusioned and self — destructive protagonists, mirroring his own struggles with depression and addiction. In The Setting Sun, Dazai portrays the decline of the Japanese aristocracy in the aftermath of World War II, capturing a nation in moral and social transition. No Longer Human, considered his masterpiece, is a haunting account of a man incapable of conforming to societal norms, descending into isolation and despair — a reflection of Dazai’s own inner turmoil.

His short stories, such as Run, Melos! and Schoolgirl, reveal his versatility, ranging from allegorical retellings of classical myths to sensitive portrayals of youthful innocence. Through his unique voice, Dazai merged traditional Japanese narrative elements with Western literary influences, creating a body of work that remains distinct in both tone and subject matter.

Impact and Legacy

Dazai’s work resonated deeply with postwar Japan, a society grappling with the collapse of its traditional values and the trauma of defeat. His candid exploration of human weakness, self — doubt, and alienation spoke to a generation struggling to find meaning in a changing world. His style, marked by irony, humor, and pathos, has influenced countless Japanese authors, including Yukio Mishima and Haruki Murakami.

Unlike many of his contemporaries, Dazai’s appeal endures strongly among younger readers, who find in his works an intimate reflection of personal insecurity and existential struggle. Internationally, his novels have gained recognition for their universal themes, and translations have introduced his voice to readers around the world.

On June 13, 1948, Dazai and his lover Tomie Yamazaki committed double suicide by drowning in the Tamagawa Canal in Tokyo. He was only 38 years old. His tragic death cemented his image as a romantic, tormented artist, forever linked to the confessional nature of his works.

Although his career was brief, Osamu Dazai left a lasting mark on Japanese literature. His ability to confront the darkness of the human psyche with honesty and lyricism ensures his place as one of Japan’s most compelling literary voices. His novels continue to be read, studied, and adapted, maintaining their relevance as timeless meditations on the fragility of identity and the struggle to belong.

About the work

Osamu Dazai Short Stories is a poignant and multifaceted exploration of human fragility, societal alienation, and the search for personal meaning amid postwar Japan. In One Hundred Views of Mount Fuji, Dazai blends lyrical observation with personal reflection, using the iconic mountain as a prism for memory and identity. My Elder Brothers offers an intimate portrayal of family bonds and rivalry, while Canis Familiaris transforms the perspective of a dog into a quietly profound meditation on loyalty and isolation. Eight Scenes from Tokyo captures the rhythms and contradictions of urban life, and Early Light contemplates the fleeting nature of beauty and hope. Together with other short pieces, these works reveal the breadth of Dazai’s narrative voice, from sharply ironic to achingly tender.

Since their publication, these stories have been celebrated for their emotional immediacy, psychological depth, and ability to merge the deeply personal with broader cultural commentary. Dazai’s prose invites readers to confront uncomfortable truths about identity, mortality, and the fragile bonds that tie people to one another. His portrayals of Tokyo’s landscapes, family relationships, and even canine companionship transcend mere description, becoming mirrors for the anxieties and yearnings of the human condition.

The enduring relevance of Osamu Dazai Short Stories lies in its capacity to evoke empathy while resisting sentimentality. By intertwining the personal and the universal, Dazai offers an unflinching yet tender portrait of life in flux, where beauty and despair often coexist. In doing so, these works challenge readers to consider the ways in which memory, connection, and loss shape the intricate narratives of human experience.

ONE HUNDRED VIEWS OF MOUNT FUJI

The slopes of Hiroshige's Mount Fuji converge at an angle of eighty — five degrees. Those in Bunchd's paintings converge at about eighty — four degrees. However, if you study survey maps drawn by the army, you'll find that the angle formed by the eastern and western slopes is one hundred twenty — four degrees. The angle formed by the northern and southern slopes is one hundred seventeen degrees. It's not only Hiroshige and Bunchd; most paintings of Fuji depict the slopes meeting at an acute angle, with a slender, lofty, delicate summit. Some of Hokusai’s renditions resemble the Eiffel Tower, peaking at nearly thirty degrees. However, the real Mount Fuji is unmistakably obtuse, with long, leisurely slopes. One hundred twenty — four degrees east — west and one hundred seventeen degrees north — south do not make for a very steep peak. If I were living in India and suddenly snatched up by an eagle and dropped on the beach at Numazu, Japan, I doubt I'd be impressed by this mountain. Japan’s "Fujiyama" is "wonderful" to Westerners simply because they’ve heard so much about it and yearned to see it for so long. But how much appeal would Fuji hold for someone who’s never been exposed to such popular propaganda? For someone whose heart is simple, pure, and free of preconceptions? Perhaps it would strike that person as almost pathetic as mountains go. It’s short. In relation to the width of its base, it's quite short. Any mountain with a base that size should be at least half again as tall.

The only time Fuji looked really tall to me was when I saw it from Jukkoku Pass. That was good. At first, I couldn’t see the top because it was cloudy. I judged the angle of the lower slopes and picked out a spot amid the clouds where I thought the peak was. When the sky began to clear, however, I realized I was way off. The bluish summit loomed up twice as high as I’d expected. I wasn't so much surprised as I was tickled, and I laughed out loud. I had to hand it to Fuji that time. When you come face to face with absolute reliability, you tend to burst into silly laughter first. You just come all undone. It's like — this is a funny way to put it, I know — but it's like chuckling with relief after loosening your belt. Young men, if the woman you love bursts out laughing the moment she sees you, consider yourself lucky. Under no circumstances must you reprimand her. She has merely been overwhelmed by the absolute reliability she senses in you.

From the window of an apartment in Tokyo, Fuji is a painful sight. In winter, it's quite clear and distinct. That small white triangle poking up over the horizon is Fuji. It's insignificant; it's like a piece of Christmas candy. Moreover, it leans pathetically to the left, like a sinking battleship. Three years ago, during the winter, a certain person caught me off guard with a shocking confession. I was at my wit’s end. That night, I sat alone in my apartment, guzzling sake. I drank all night without sleeping a wink. At dawn, I went to the toilet to relieve myself. Through the wire mesh screen covering the square window, I could see Fuji. It was small and pure white, leaning slightly to the left. That's one Fuji I'll never forget. On the asphalt street below, a fishmonger sped by on his bicycle, muttering to himself, "You can sure see Fuji well this morning. Damn, it’s cold." I stood in the dark little room, stroking the mesh screen and weeping with despair. It's an experience I hope never to go through again.

In early autumn of 1938, determined to rethink my life, I packed a small suitcase and set out on a journey to Koshu.

Koshu. The distinguishing feature of the mountains here is their gentle and aimless rise and fall. In The Landscape of Japan, Kojima Usui wrote that "to these mountains come many cross — grained, self — willed sorts to disport themselves like wizard monks." As mountains go, these are perhaps freaks. I boarded a bus in Kofu City and, after an hour — long, bone — shaking ride, arrived at Misaka Pass.

Misaka Pass is one thousand three hundred meters above sea level. At the top of the pass is Tenka Chaya, a small teahouse. In a room on the second floor of the teahouse, my mentor, Ibuse Masuji, had been holed up writing since early summer. I came knowing I would find him there. If it wouldn't hinder his work, I intended to rent a room in the teahouse and enjoy the mountains.

Mr. Ibuse was hard at work. I received his permission, settled in, and spent each day, whether I liked it or not, face — to — face with Fuji. This pass, once a strategic point on the road to Kamakura connecting Kofu and the Tokaido Highway, offers a view of the northern slope counted among the Three Great Views of Mount Fuji since ancient times. However, far from being pleased with the view, I found myself holding it in contempt. It’s too perfect. There's Fuji right before you, and at its feet is the cold, white expanse of Lake Kawaguchi, cradled by hushed, huddling mountains on either side. One look threw me into blushing confusion. It was like a wall painting in a public bath. Scenery on a stage. It was so precisely made that it was mortifying to behold.

One sunny afternoon, a few days after I arrived and Mr. Ibuse had caught up on his work, we hiked up to Mitsu Pass together. Mitsu Pass is one thousand seven hundred meters above sea level. It's a bit higher than Misaka Pass. To reach the top, you climb a steep slope on all fours for about an hour. As I half crawled toward the summit, parting the ivies and vines, I presented a spectacle that was far from lovely. Mr. Ibuse was dressed in proper hiking clothes and looked quite dashing, but I, lacking such gear, wore a dotera — a square — cut, padded cotton kimono — that the teahouse had provided. It was too short, leaving a stretch of hairy shin exposed on either leg. I was also wearing thick, rubber — soled work shoes that an old man at the teahouse had lent me, and I was acutely aware of how shabby I looked. I made a few adjustments, securing the dotera with a narrow sash and donning a straw hat I found on the wall. The result was that I looked even more bizarre. I'll never forget how Mr. Ibuse, a man who would never belittle someone's appearance, eyed me with compassion and tried to console me, muttering that it's not becoming of a man to concern himself with fashion.

At any rate, we eventually reached the top. No sooner had we done so than a thick fog rolled over us. Even standing on the observation platform at the edge of the cliff, we couldn't see a thing. We couldn’t see a thing. Enveloped in the dense fog, Mr. Ibuse sat down on a rock, slowly puffed a cigarette, and farted. He looked out of sorts. On the observation platform, there were three somber little teahouses. We chose one run by an elderly couple and had a cup of hot green tea. The old woman felt sorry for us. She said it was a stroke of bad luck that we couldn't see Fuji, but that it would surely clear before long. She said that normally you could see Fuji right there, looming up before you, plain as day. She then retrieved a large photograph of the mountain from inside the teahouse, carried it to the edge of the cliff, held it high in both hands, and earnestly explained that you could generally see Fuji right there, just like this — this big and this clear. We sipped the coarse tea, admiring the photo and laughing. That was a fine Fuji indeed. In the end, we didn't even regret the impenetrable fog.

Two days later, Mr. Ibuse left Misaka Pass, and I accompanied him as far as Kofu. There, I was introduced to a young lady whom Mr. Ibuse had suggested I marry. Mr. Ibuse was dressed casually in his hiking clothes. I wore a kimono and a thin summer coat secured with a narrow sash. He led me to the young lady’s house on the outskirts of the city. A profusion of roses grew in the garden. The young lady’s mother showed us into the parlor where we exchanged greetings. After a while, the young lady came in. I didn’t look at her face. Mr. Ibuse and the mother were having a desultory conversation when he suddenly fixed his gaze on the wall above and behind me and muttered, "Ah, Fuji." I twisted around and looked up at the wall. Hanging there was a framed aerial photograph of the great crater atop the mountain. It resembled a pure white water lily. After studying the photo, I slowly turned back around and glanced at the girl. That did it. I made up my mind then and there that, though it might be difficult, I wanted to marry her. I was grateful for that Fuji.

Mr. Ibuse returned to Tokyo that day, and I went back to Misaka Pass. Throughout September, October, and the first fifteen days of November, I stayed on the second floor of the teahouse. I pushed ahead with my work a little at a time, trying to come to terms with the great view of Mount Fuji until it nearly overwhelmed me.

One day, I had a good laugh. A friend of mine who was a member of "The Japan Romantics" and was lecturing at a university at the time dropped by the teahouse during a hiking excursion. The two of us stepped into the second — floor corridor to smoke and poke fun at the Fuji view through the windows.

"Awfully crass, isn't it?" It's like, 'Ah, Honorable Mount Fuji.'" I know.

"I know. It’s embarrassing to look at.”

"Say, what's that?" my friend said suddenly, gesturing with his chin. "That fellow dressed up like a monk."

A small man, about fifty years old, wearing a ragged black robe and carrying a long staff, was climbing toward the pass. He kept turning around to gaze up at Fuji.

“He reminds you of that painting, Priest Saigyō Admiring Mount Fuji, doesn’t he?” I said. “The man has a lot of style.” To me, the monk seemed like a poignant evocation of the past. "He might be some great saint."

“Don’t be absurd,” my friend said coldly. "He's just a common beggar."

"No, no. There’s something special about him. Look how he walks — he’s got style, I tell you! They say the priest Noin used to write poems praising Fuji right here on this pass.”

I was interrupted by my friend’s laughter. "Ha! Look at that. You call that ‘having style’?”

Hachi, my hosts’ pet dog, began barking at Noin, throwing him into a panic. The scene that ensued was painfully ludicrous.

“I guess you’re right,” I said, crestfallen.

The beggar’s panic increased until he began floundering about disgracefully, threw away his staff, and finally ran for his life. He had no style at all. We decided that our priest was as crass as his Fuji. Even now, thinking back on that scene, I find it laughably absurd.

A courteous and affable young man named Nitta, who was twenty — five years old, came to visit me at the teahouse. He worked at the post office in Yoshida, a long, narrow town at the foot of the mountains below the pass. He said he learned where I was by seeing mail addressed to me. After we talked in my room for a while and began to feel at ease with each other, he smiled and said, "Actually, I was going to come with two or three friends, but they all backed out at the last moment. I read something by Sato Haruo — sensei that said you were decadent and mentally disturbed, so I couldn't force them to come. I had no idea you'd be such a serious and personable gentleman." Next time, I'll bring them. If it's all right with you, of course."

"It's all right, sure." I forced a smile. "But let me get this straight. You came here on a reconnaissance mission for your friends, summoning every ounce of courage you could muster. Is that right?"

"A one — man suicide corps," Nitta replied candidly. "I read Sato — sensei’s piece again last night and resigned myself to various possible fates."

I was looking at Fuji through the window. He stood there impassive and silent. I was impressed.

"Not bad, eh? There's something to be said for Fuji, after all. It knows what it's doing." I realized that I was no match for Fuji. I was ashamed of my fickle feelings of love and hatred that constantly shifted. Fuji was impressive. Fuji knew what it was doing.

"It knows what it's doing?" Nitta seemed to find my words odd. He smiled sagely.

From then on, whenever Nitta came to visit me, he brought various other youths with him. They were all quiet types. They called me "Sensei," and I accepted it. I have nothing worth boasting about. I have no learning to speak of. No talent. My body's a mess and my heart is impoverished. The only thing I have is the fact that I have known suffering — enough to feel qualified to let these youths call me "Sensei" without protesting. It's the only shred of pride I can cling to. But it's one I'll never let go of. Many people have written me off as a spoiled, selfish child, but how many of them truly know how much I've suffered?

Nitta and Tanabe, a young man skilled in composing tanka poems and a reader of Mr. Ibuse's work, were the ones I felt most comfortable with and became closest to. They took me to Yoshida once. It was an appallingly long and narrow town dominated by looming mountains. Shielded from the sun and wind by Mount Fuji, the town was dark and chilly, much like a light — starved plant's spindly, meandering stem. Streams flowed alongside the streets. Apparently, this is characteristic of towns at the foot of mountains. In Mishima, too, there are steadily flowing streams everywhere, and people sincerely believe that the water comes from the melting snows on Fuji. Yoshida’s streams are shallower and narrower than those in Mishima, and the water is dirtier. I was looking down at one of them as I spoke.

"There's a story by Maupassant about a maiden who swims across a river each night to meet a young nobleman. But what did she do about her clothes? Surely she wouldn't have gone to meet him naked?"

"No, surely not." The young men thought it over. "Maybe she had a bathing suit."

“Do you suppose she piled her clothes on her head and tied them down before swimming?”

The youths laughed.

"Or maybe she swam in her clothes. When she met the scion, she'd be soaking wet. They'd sit by the stove until she dried. But then what would she do on the way back? She'd have to get her clothes wet again on the way home." I worry about her. Why doesn't the young nobleman do the swimming? A man can swim in just a pair of shorts without looking ridiculous. Do you think the young nobleman was one of those people who swim like a stone?"

"No," Nitta said earnestly. "I think it's just that the maiden was more in love than he was."

"You may be right. Maidens in foreign stories are cute like that — very daring. I mean, if they love someone, they'll swim across a river to meet them. You won't see that in Japan." Just think of that play — what was it called? There’s a river in the middle, and on one bank stands a man, and on the other, a princess. They spend the whole play weeping and moaning. There’s no need for the princess to carry on like that. Why doesn't she just swim to the other side? When you see it on stage, the river is very narrow  —  she could probably wade across it. All that crying is pointless. She won't get any sympathy from me. In the Asagao Diary, it's the Ofuna River. That's a big river, and Asagao is blind, so you feel for her to some extent. Even so, it's not as if it'd be impossible for her to swim across. What good does hanging on to some piling beside the river and ranting about the sun do? Ah, wait a minute. There was a daring maiden in Japan. She was something. You know who I mean.

“Who?” The young men’s eyes lit up.

“Lady Kiyo. She swam the Hidaka River chasing after the monk Anchin. She swam like hell. She was something, I tell you. According to a book I read, she was only fourteen at the time.”

We walked along the road, chatting about things like this, until we came to a quiet, old inn on the outskirts of town that was run by an acquaintance of Tanabe’s.

We drank there, and Fuji was good that night. At around ten, the young people left me at the inn and went home. Rather than going to sleep, I walked outside in my dotera. The moon was astonishingly bright. Fuji was good. Bathed in moonlight, the mountain appeared nearly translucent blue, and I felt as if I’d fallen under the spell of a sorcerer fox. Such a sparkling, vivid blue. Like burning phosphorus. Will o' the wisp. Foxfire. Fireflies. Eulalia. Kuzu — no — Ha, the white fox in human form. I walked a perfectly straight line down the road, though I could have sworn I had no legs. The only sound was that of my geta clogs, a sound that seemed to have a life of its own, reverberating with exceptional clarity: clatter, clop, clatter, clop. I stealthily turned to look back. Fuji was there, burning blue and floating in space. I sighed. A valiant Meiji Royalist: Kurama Tengu. That’s how I saw myself. Rather cockily, I folded my arms and marched on, convinced that I was an awfully dashing fellow. I walked quite a long way. I lost my coin purse. It held about twenty silver fifty — sen pieces. It was heavy and must have slipped from the folds of my dotera. I was strangely indifferent. If my money was gone, all I had to do was walk to Misaka Pass. I kept walking. At some point, though, I realized that I might find my purse if I retraced my steps. Arms folded, I ambled back the way I’d come: Fuji: The Meiji Royalist. A lost coin purse. It all made for a fascinating romance, I thought. My purse lay glittering in the middle of the road. Where else would it be? I picked it up, returned to the inn, and went to bed.

I’d been bewitched by Fuji that night and transformed into a simpleton — a mooncalf — completely without a will of my own. Even now, recalling it all leaves me feeling peculiarly weary and languid.

I only stayed in Yoshida for one night. When I returned to Misaka Pass, the innkeeper was all smiles, and her fifteen — year — old sister was standoffish. I found myself wanting to assure them that I hadn't done anything naughty. Though they asked me no questions, I told them in detail about my experiences the previous day. I told them everything: the name of the inn where I’d stayed, how Yoshida’s sake tasted, what Fuji looked like in the moonlight, and how I’d dropped my purse. The little sister seemed appeased.

“Get up and look, sir!” One morning not long after, the same girl stood outside the teahouse, shouting up to me in a shrill voice. I grudgingly got up and stepped out into the corridor.

Her cheeks were flushed with excitement. She said nothing, only pointing toward the sky. I looked up, and — ah! — snow. Snow had fallen on Fuji. The summit was pure and radiant white. Not even Fuji from Misaka Pass is to be scoffed at, I thought.

"Looks good," I said.

"Isn't it superb?" she said triumphantly, having chosen a better word. Squatting down on her heels, she asked, "Do you still think Misaka's Fuji is hopeless?"

I had often lectured the girl that this Fuji was hopelessly vulgar, and perhaps she had taken it more to heart than I realized.

"Let's face it," I said, adopting a serious demeanor. "Fuji is just no good without snow."

I walked about the mountainside in my dōtara, filling both my hands with evening primrose seeds. I brought them back to the teahouse and scattered them in the backyard.

"Now listen," I said to the girl. "These are my evening primroses. I'm coming back next year to see them, so I don't want you throwing your laundry water here." She nodded.

I chose this particular flower because an incident convinced me that Fuji goes well with evening primroses. The teahouse at Misaka Pass is remote; mail isn't delivered there. A thirty — minute bus ride brings you to the foot of the pass and Kawaguchi, a poor little village on the shore of the lake. It was at the post office there that my mail was held, and I had to make the journey every three days or so to pick it up. I tried to choose days when the weather was good. The female bus conductors don't offer much information about the scenery to the sightseers aboard. But, once in a while, almost as an afterthought and in a listless near — mumble, one of them will say something prosaic like: "That's Mitsu Pass. Over there is Lake Kawaguchi. Freshwater smelt inhabit the lake."

One day, after claiming my mail, I rode the bus back to Misaka Pass. I sat next to a woman in her sixties wearing a dark brown coat over her kimono. Her face was pale and nicely featured, and she looked a lot like my mother. Suddenly, the girl conductor said, as if it had just occurred to her, "Ladies and gentlemen, you can certainly see Fuji clearly today, can't you?" Words that could be construed as neither information nor a spontaneous exclamation. All the passengers — among them, young salaried workers with backpacks and silk — clad geisha types with hair piled high in the traditional style and handkerchiefs pressed fastidiously to their lips — simultaneously twisted in their seats and craned their necks to gaze out the windows at the commonplace triangular mountain as if seeing it for the first time, oohing and ahhing like idiots and briefly filling the bus with a buzzing commotion. However, unlike the other passengers, the elderly person next to me didn't so much as glance at Fuji. She looked as though she harbored deep anguish and stared out the opposite window at the cliff that bordered the road. I felt a sense of almost benumbing pleasure and a desire to show her that, in my refined, nihilistic way, I, too, had no interest in ogling some vulgar mountain like Fuji. Though she wasn't asking me to, I wanted her to know that I sympathized with her and understood her suffering. As if hoping to receive the old woman's motherly affection and approval, I quietly sidled closer and sat gazing vacantly at the cliff with her.

Perhaps she felt at ease with me. "Ah! Evening primroses," she said absently, pointing a slender finger at a spot beside the road. The bus quickly passed on, but the petals of the single golden evening primrose I’d glimpsed remained vivid in my mind.

Facing up admirably to all 3,778 meters of Mount Fuji without wavering, standing erect and heroic — almost Herculean — that evening primrose was impressive. Fuji goes well with evening primroses.

Mid — October came and went, and I was still making very little progress with my work. I missed people. At sunset, scarlet — rimmed clouds appeared, their undersides resembling the bellies of geese. I stood alone on the second — floor corridor, smoking cigarettes. I intentionally avoided looking at Fuji, instead fixing my gaze on the crimson autumn leaves of the mountain forests. I called to the proprietress of the teahouse, who was sweeping up fallen leaves outside.

“Good weather tomorrow, Missus!”

I was surprised by how shrill my voice sounded; it almost sounded like a cry of joy. She rested her hands on the broom for a moment, looked up at me dubiously, and knitted her brow.

“Did you have something special planned for tomorrow?”

She had me there.

“No, nothing.”

She laughed. “You must be getting lonely. Why don't you go mountain climbing or something?"

"You climb a mountain, and then you just have to come right back down again. It’s so pointless. No matter which mountain you climb, all you see is the same old Mount Fuji. Just thinking about it makes my heart grow heavy.”

I suppose it was a strange thing to say. The proprietress merely nodded ambiguously and continued sweeping the fallen leaves.

Before going to sleep, I would quietly open the curtains in my room and look at Fuji through the glass. On moonlit nights, it appeared as a pale, bluish — white figure, standing there like the spirit of the rivers and lakes. I'd sigh. Ah, I can see Fuji. How big the stars are! The weather will be fine tomorrow, no doubt. These were the only glimpses I had of the joy of being alive. After quietly closing the curtains, I'd go to bed and think that yes, the weather would be fine tomorrow — but so what? What did that have to do with me? The absurdity of it all would strike me, and I'd end up chuckling wryly to myself as I lay in my futon.

It was excruciating. My work... It wasn't the torment of dragging a pen across paper, since I take pleasure in writing. Rather, it was the interminable wavering and agonizing over my view of the world and art, the literature of tomorrow, and the search for something new. Questions like these left me writhing in anguish.

Taking what is simple and natural — and therefore succinct and lucid — and transferring it directly to paper was, it seemed to me, everything. That thought sometimes allowed me to see the figure of Fuji in a different light. Perhaps that shape was a manifestation of the beauty of "elemental expression." Thus, I'd find myself on the verge of understanding this Fuji, only to realize that there was something about it — something in its exceedingly cylindrical simplicity — that was too much for me. If this Fuji was worthy of praise, then so were figurines of the Laughing Buddha. I find those insufferable and certainly not expressive. The figure of this Fuji was somehow mistaken and wrong. Once again, I was back where I started: confused.

I spent the cheerless days gazing at Fuji in the mornings and evenings. In late October, a group of prostitutes from Yoshida arrived at Misaka Pass in five automobiles. For all I knew, it may have been their only day of freedom in the year. I watched them from the second floor. The girls fluttered out of the cars like carrier pigeons dumped from baskets. Not knowing which direction to head in at first, they flocked together. They fidgeted and jostled one another in silence until their nervous curiosity began to dissipate. One by one, they wandered off in different directions. Some meekly chose picture postcards from a rack at the front of the teahouse, while others stood gazing at Fuji. It was a dismal and nearly unwatchable scene. Though I, a solitary man on the second floor, felt for those girls, to the extent that I would have died for them, there was nothing I could offer them. All I could do was look on helplessly. Those who suffer shall suffer. Those who fall shall fall. It had nothing to do with me; it was just the way the world was. Thus, I forced myself to appear indifferent as I gazed down at them, but it was still painful.

Let's appeal to Fuji. The idea came to me suddenly. Hey, look out for these girls, will you? Inwardly muttering these words, I turned my gaze toward the mountain. It stood tall and impassive against the wintry sky, looking like the Big Boss squared off in an arrogant pose with its arms folded. Relieved, I left the courtesans behind and set out with the six — year — old boy from the teahouse and the shaggy dog, Hachi, for the tunnel down the road. Near the entrance to the tunnel, a skinny prostitute of about thirty stood silently gathering a bouquet of dreary wildflowers. She didn't turn to glance at us as we passed, but continued picking the flowers intently. "Look after this one, too," I prayed, casting an eye back at Fuji. I pulled the little boy along by his hand and walked briskly into the tunnel. Reminding myself that it had nothing to do with me, I strode resolutely on, feeling the cold water seep through the ceiling and drip down my cheeks and the back of my neck.

It was at that time that my wedding plans hit a serious snag. I was made to understand, in no uncertain terms, that my family back home was not going to lend their assistance. I fully intended to support my household with my writing once married, but I had been selfish and presumptuous enough to assume that, at this juncture, my family would come to my aid with at least a hundred yen, allowing me to have a dignified, if modest, wedding ceremony. After an exchange of two or three letters, however, it became clear that this would not be the case. I was at a complete loss as to what to do. Having come to terms with the fact that the young lady's family might call off the wedding, I decided to come clean about everything. I came down from the mountain alone and went to the house in Kofu. I was shown into the parlor, where I sat facing the young lady and her mother. I told them everything. At times, it sounded disconcertingly as if I were reciting a speech. But I thought I managed to describe the situation relatively straightforwardly and honestly.

The young lady remained calm. "Does that mean your family is opposed to the idea?" she asked, tilting her head to one side.

"No, it's not that they're opposed." I pressed softly down on the table with the palm of my right hand. "It just seems to be their way of telling me I'm on my own."

"Then there's no problem." The mother smiled graciously. "As you can see, we're not wealthy ourselves. An extravagant ceremony would make us feel awkward. As long as you have real affection for her and are serious about your work, that’s all we ask.”

I forgot to even bow my head in reply and gazed speechlessly out at the garden for some time. My eyes felt hot. I told myself that I would be a devoted and dutiful son — in — law to this woman.

When I left, the young lady accompanied me to the bus stop. As we walked, I said, "Well, what do you think? Shall we continue the relationship a while longer?" Sheer affectation.

"No," she said, laughing. "I've had enough."

"Aren't there any questions you want to ask me?" I asked. I was a confirmed fool.

"Yes."

I resolved to answer any question she might ask with the plain truth.

"Has it snowed on Mount Fuji yet?"

That threw me.

"Yes, it has. On the summit..." My words trailed off as I glanced up and spotted Fuji before us. It gave me an odd feeling.

"What the hell?" You can see Fuji from Kofu? Are you trying to make a fool of me?" I suddenly started speaking like a hoodlum. "That was a stupid question. What kind of fool do you take me for?"

She looked down at the ground and giggled. "But you're staying at Misaka Pass, so I thought it wouldn't hurt to ask about Fuji."

Strange girl, I thought.

When I returned from Kofu, I discovered that my shoulders were so stiff that I could hardly breathe.

"You know, you're lucky, Mrs. Misaka Pass is a pretty good place, after all. It’s like coming back home.”

After dinner, the proprietress and her little sister took turns pounding my shoulders. The woman’s fists were hard and effective, but the girl’s were soft and ineffective. “Harder, harder,” I kept saying until, at last, she grabbed a stick of firewood and hit my shoulders with it. That’s what it took to relieve the tension; I was so keyed up and intent on my purpose in Kofu.

For two or three days after that, I was distracted and lacked the will to work. I sat at my desk and scribbled aimlessly. I smoked seven or eight packs of Golden Bat cigarettes. I lay around doing nothing. I sang "Even a Diamond, Unpolished" to myself over and over. I didn't write so much as a page of the novel I'd been working on.

"You haven't been doing so well since you went to Kofu, have you, sir?" One morning, as I sat at the desk with my chin propped on my hand and my eyes closed, turning things over in my mind, the fifteen — year — old sister — who was wiping the floor in the alcove behind me — said these words with sincere regret and a touch of bitterness.

Without turning to look at her, I said, "Is that so? I haven’t been doing so well, eh?”

"No, you haven't," she said, still wiping the floor. "The last two or three days, you haven't gotten any work done, have you?" Every morning, I gather all the pages you’ve written and left lying around and put them in order. I really enjoy doing that, and I'm glad when you’ve written a lot.” I came up here last night to peek in and see how you were doing. Did you know that? You were lying on your futon with the quilt pulled up over your head.”

I was grateful to her for those words. This may be overstating it a bit, but her concern seemed to me the purest form of support and encouragement for someone trying to keep going. She expected nothing in return. I thought she was quite beautiful.

By the end of October, the autumn leaves had turned dark and ugly. Then, an overnight storm came and left behind only a bare, black winter forest. Sightseers were few and far between now. Business dropped off, and the proprietress would occasionally go shopping in Funazu or Yoshida, at the foot of the mountain. She took the six — year — old boy with her, leaving the girl and me alone for the day in the quiet, deserted teahouse. One day, I grew tired of sitting alone on the second floor, so I went outside for a stroll. I saw the girl in the backyard, washing clothes. I went up to her, flashed a smile, and said in a loud voice, “I'm so bored!” She hung her head, and when I looked at her face, I was quite startled. She was nearly in tears and obviously terrified. All right, I thought, doing a grim about — face and stomping off along a narrow, leaf — covered path. I felt miserable.

I was careful from then on. Whenever the girl and I were alone, I tried to stay in my second — floor room. If a customer came, I would lumber downstairs  —  partly to watch out for the girl  —  and sit in one corner of the shop, drinking tea. One day, a bride arrived in a hired automobile, escorted by two elderly men in crested ceremonial kimonos and haori coats. Since the girl was alone in the shop, I came downstairs, sat in a chair in the corner, and smoked a cigarette. The bride was decked out in full wedding regalia, including a long kimono with an elaborate design on the skirt, a gold brocade obi sash, and a white wedding hood. Not knowing how to receive such unique guests, the girl poured tea for the three of us and then retreated to my corner, as if to hide behind me. She stared silently at the bride. A day that comes but once in a lifetime... Undoubtedly, the bride was from the other side of the mountain, en route to marry someone in Funazu or Yoshida. She had likely stopped at the top of the pass to rest and gaze at Fuji. Even to a casual observer, it was a provocatively romantic scene. After a little while, the bride rose and quietly left the shop to stand near the edge of the cliff and enjoy the view. She stood with her legs crossed, a bold pose. I thought she was awfully sure of herself as I admired her and the view of Fuji. Suddenly, she looked up at the summit and yawned widely.

"My!" A small cry behind me showed that the girl had also quickly noticed. Soon, the bride got back in the car with her escorts and left, receiving scathing reviews.

"She's used to this, the hussy." It must be her second or third time. The groom is probably waiting for her at the foot of the mountain, but she made them stop the car so she could look at Fuji. A woman getting married for the first time wouldn't have the nerve to do that."

"She yawned!" the girl concurred eagerly. "Stretching open that big mouth of hers ... She ought to be ashamed of herself. Whatever you do, sir, don't marry someone like that."

It hardly befitted a man of my years, but I blushed. My wedding plans were progressing smoothly thanks to a mentor who was taking care of everything. The ceremony, a dignified yet modest affair with only two or three close friends and family members in attendance, was to be held at his house. I felt like a child inspired and encouraged by the affection of others.

Once November arrived, the cold in Misaka became hard to bear. A stove was set up downstairs.

"You must be freezing on the second floor," the lady of the house said. Why don’t you work down here, beside the stove?” the lady of the house suggested. However, I find it impossible to work with people watching me, so I declined.

However, she continued to worry about me. One day, she went to Yoshida and came back with a kotatsu for my room. Snuggling beneath the coverlet of that little footwarmer, I was grateful for the kindness of these people. But when I gazed at Fuji, already covered with two — thirds of its full winter cap of snow, and at the desolate trees on the nearer mountains, I began to see the meaninglessness of enduring much more of the penetrating cold at Misaka Pass. I decided it was time to head for the lowlands. The day before I left, I was sitting in the shop, wearing two dotera over each other and sipping cheap green tea. A pair of intellectual — looking young women in winter overcoats approached from the direction of the tunnel. I guessed they were typists. Shrieking with laughter about one thing or another, they suddenly caught sight of Fuji and stopped dead in their tracks. After consulting each other in whispers, one of them — a fair — skinned girl wearing glasses — came up to me with a smile on her face and said, "Excuse me, would you take a picture of us?"

This flustered me. I'm not good with gadgets, and I have no interest in photography. Moreover, I looked so shabby in those two dotera that even my hosts at the teahouse laughed and said I looked like a mountain bandit. So, I was thrown into quite a panic when those two fashionable young women from Tokyo asked me to take their picture. However, upon further reflection, I realized that despite my shabby attire, a discerning observer might discern a certain sensitivity and sophistication in me, indicating sufficient dexterity to operate a camera. Encouraged by this thought, I feigned nonchalance, took the camera, casually asked for a brief explanation of how to use it, and peered into the viewfinder, trembling inside. In the middle of the lens stood Fuji, large and imposing. Below, in the foreground, were two little poppies — or so the girls appeared in their red overcoats. They put their arms around each other and looked at the camera with sober, solemn expressions. The whole scene struck me as hilarious, and my hands shook uncontrollably. Suppressing my laughter, I peered through the viewfinder again, and the two poppies grew even more rigid and demure. I had a hard time aiming and finally swept the two girls out of the picture entirely, allowing Fuji alone to fill the lens. Goodbye, Mount Fuji. Thanks for everything. "Thank you!" they said in unison. They'd be surprised when they got home and developed the film: only Fuji filling the frame, with no trace of them.

The next day, I came down from Misaka Pass. I spent the first night at an inexpensive inn in Kofu. The following morning, I leaned against the worn railing along the corridor and looked up at Fuji. About one — third of the mountain was visible behind the surrounding mountains. It looked like the flower of a Chinese lantern plant.

MY ELDER BROTHERS

When my father died, my eldest brother was twenty — five and had just graduated from university. My second brother was twenty — three, my third brother was twenty, and I was fourteen. My elder brothers were so kind, grown up, and sophisticated that I scarcely felt the loss of my father. The eldest was like a father to me, and the second eldest was like a long — suffering uncle. I let myself be thoroughly pampered by them. No matter how selfish my demands were, they always smiled and let me have my way. They didn't tell me anything about what was going on, and they let me do as I pleased. But they could hardly have had an easy time of it themselves, looking after the millions my father left behind and trying to maintain the political influence he had accumulated. With no uncles or anyone else to rely on, my two eldest brothers had no choice but to join forces and struggle along as best they could. At only twenty — five, the eldest became town mayor. At thirty — one, after gaining experience in politics, he was elected to the prefectural assembly. He was said to be the youngest prefectural assemblyman in the nation. Such was his popularity that newspapers called him the "Prince Konoe of Aomori Prefecture" and featured him in cartoons.

Despite this acclaim, however, my eldest brother always seemed rather gloomy. His heart wasn't in politics. His bookshelves were crammed with the complete works of Oscar Wilde, Ibsen, and various Japanese playwrights. He wrote plays himself, and when he assembled all the brothers and sisters in one room from time to time and read a new work to us, his face would light up with genuine pleasure. I was too young to understand it all, but it seemed to me that most of his plays had the same theme: the sorrows of fortune. I can still clearly recall the characters in one of his long plays, The Struggle, down to their facial expressions.

When my eldest brother turned thirty, our family published a small literary magazine with the peculiar title Green Boy. My third — eldest brother, who was studying sculpture at a fine arts college at the time, acted as editor. He came up with the title himself and seemed quite proud of it. He also designed the cover, which was an incomprehensible, surrealistic mess coated with a liberal sprinkling of silver dust. My eldest brother contributed an essay to the first issue. He titled it "Rice" and dictated it to me rather than writing it down himself. I still remember it well. We were in the Western — style room on the second floor. My brother clasped his hands behind his back, peered up at the ceiling, and paced about, saying, "Ready? I'm going to start. Are you ready?”

"Yes."

"I'll be thirty this year. Confucius said that at thirty, he stood firm. But I, for one, am far from standing; I feel as if I'm about to collapse. I no longer have a tangible sense that my life is worth living. One might even say that except for when I'm eating rice, I'm not really alive. I use the term 'rice' here not as an abstraction or a symbol for life or the will to live, but as exactly what the word signifies: I'm referring to the sensation I have when I chew a mouthful of those fluffy white grains. It's an animal sort of satisfaction. There's nothing lofty about it.

I was only a middle school student, but as I wrote down my eldest brother’s feelings, I felt so sorry for him that I could hardly stand it. Despite all the mindless flattery — calling him the Konoe of Aomori, for example — no one really knew the loneliness inside him.

Though my second brother didn’t write anything for the premiere issue of Green Boy, he had a literary bent of his own. He had been a fan of Tanizaki Junichirō since the beginning and also admired the poet Yoshii Isamu. He had a great capacity for liquor and the generous spirit of a born leader. At the same time, he was a self — effacing, modest man who never let alcohol get the better of him. He was always prepared to advise my eldest brother and applied himself single — mindedly to solving any problems that arose. "He who goes off/to the red — light district/and never returns/Can it be that this/is the real me?" I wonder if it wasn’t the pent — up fire in Yoshii that my brother loved so well. He once published an essay about pigeons in a local newspaper. When it appeared with a photo of him, he showed it to us and jokingly boasted, "Feast your eyes on this! Quite the man of letters, eh? I look like Yoshii Isamu here, don't I?" He did have a splendid face, rather like the kabuki actor Sadanji. On the other hand, my eldest brother’s features were more delicate, and the consensus in our house was that he resembled the actor Shocho. Both my brothers were well aware of these comparisons. Occasionally, when they had had a few drinks, they would act out scenes from Love Suicides at Mount Toribe or The Ghost of the Plates in rhythmic, stentorian kabuki diction.

Stretched out on a sofa in the Western — style room on the second floor was my third brother, snickering derisively at these histrionics. Though enrolled in the fine arts college, my third brother, who was frail, put little energy or effort into his sculpture. Instead, he was engrossed in the literary arts. He had many friends with literary aspirations, and together, they published a small magazine called Crossroads. My brother drew the cover illustrations and sometimes contributed short stories. One I remember was entitled "It All Ends with a Rueful Smile." His pen name was Yumekawa Riichi. Yumekawa, written with the characters for "dream" and "river," struck the older siblings as appallingly mawkish and provoked a good deal of laughter among them. He once had calling cards printed with the name spelled out in Roman letters. When he handed me one with a flourish, I was startled to see that it read "RIICHI UMEKAWA." I asked if he had changed his pen name to "Plum River," perhaps in reference to the play about the geisha Umegawa and her lover Chubei.

"My God, you're right!" he cried, his face turning crimson. "It says 'Umekawa.' That’s not me!" He had already given the cards to friends and mentors and left them at tea shops he frequented. The mistake wasn't the printer's, either. It seems my brother had specified that the name be spelled this way. Since the letter u is pronounced “yu” in English, it’s a mistake anyone might make. However, this incident only served to increase the general hilarity regarding his nom de plume. We began referring to him as Professor Plum River, Doctor Chubei, and so on.

As I've mentioned, my brother had a frail constitution. Ten years ago, when he was twenty — eight, he died. He had an incredibly lovely face. My sisters read a monthly girls’ magazine that always featured a frontispiece drawn by a man named Fukiya Koji, if memory serves. The pictures were invariably of slender young girls with enormous eyes, and their features bore such a striking resemblance to my brother's that I would sometimes gaze at them dreamily and experience not envy but an oddly ticklish sort of pleasure.

He was by nature serious — one might even say austere — but his personal tastes led him to emulate les précieux, the literary dandies said to have once flourished in France. He also embraced the spirit of burlesque, mocking others even as he maintained an air of aloof indifference. No one was spared his barbs. My eldest brother had married, and his first daughter was born shortly before summer vacation, when all of her young uncles and aunts returned home from our various schools in Tokyo, Aomori, and Hirosaki. We'd gather in one room and boisterously contend for a chance to hold the baby. We'd say, "Come see your uncle from Tokyo," "Come see your aunt from Aomori," and so on. At such times, my third — eldest brother would stand apart from everyone else, disparaging his newborn niece with comments like "Her skin's still red. It’s disgusting." Finally, however, with a sigh of resignation, he’d stretch out his arms and say, "Come on. Come to your uncle from France.”