Yesterday I made it back from my second trip over the summer, and I'm looking forward to not making another one for a while. I had a great time, but I'm also exhausted, and I'm looking forward to devoting the rest of the summer to finishing the Epics book (and, happily, I wrote every day that I was away). I do not have nearly enough time at the moment to get caught up on everything (I'm already behind on the Portugal trip I took three weeks ago), but let me toss in a few posts, which I might flesh out down the road.
Before I left for Alberta I finished Natsume Soseki's Kokoro. Janet had read it years ago, although I think I stumbled across it on my own. It was interesting to get her take on it (one of the many great strengths of our relationship is endless discussions about literature). I really liked Kokoro at the beginning and the end, although it wavered a bit in the middle, which was interesting but also went into more detail than it probably needed to do in order to fill in a backstory. Nevertheless, it had some wonderful moments, and makes me want to visit Japan even more. With that in mind, let me share the last couple pages, which seemed painfully Japanese. A character simply referred to as Sensei, is explaining in a letter to a younger friend why he had decided to kill himself:
It was two or three days later that I decided at last to commit suicide. Perhaps you will not understand clearly why I am about to die, no more than I can fully understand why General Nagi killed himself. you and I belong to different eras, and so we think differently. There is nothing we can do to bridge the gap between us. Of course, it may be more correct to say that we are different simply because we are two different human beings. At any rate, I have done my best in the above narrative to make you understand this strange that is myself.
I am leaving my wife behind me. It is fortunate that she will have enough to live on after I am gone. I have no wish to give her a greater shock than is necessary. I intend to die in such a way that she will be spared the sight of my blood. I shall leave this world quietly while she is out of the house. I want her to think that I died suddenly, without reason. Perhaps she will think that I lost my mind: that will be all right.
More than ten days have gone by since I decided to die. I want you to know that I spent most of the time writing this epistle about myself to you. At first, I wanted to speak to you about my life; but now that I have almost finished writing this, I feel that I could not have given as clear an account verbally, and I am happy. Please understand, I not not write this merely to pass the time away. My own past, which made me what I am, is a part of human experience. Only I can tell it. I do not think that my effort to do so honestly has been entirely purposeless. If my story helps you and others to understand even a part of what we are, I shall be satisfied. Only recently, I was told that Watanabe Kazan postponed his death for a week in order to complete his painting, Kantan. Some may say that this was a vain sort of thing to do. But who are we to judge the needs of another man's heart? I do not write simply to keep my promise to you. More compelling than the promise was the necessity which I felt within m to write this story.
I have now satisfied that need. There is nothing left for me to do. By the time this letter reaches you, I shall probably have left this world - I shall in all likelihood be dead. About ten days ago, my wife went to stay with her aunt in Ichigaya. The aunt fell ill, and when I heard that she was short of help I sent my wife there. Most of this long document was written while she was away. Whenever she returned, I quickly hid it from her.
I want both the good and bad things in my past to serve as an example to others. But my wife is the one exception - I do not want her to know about any of this. My first wish is that her memory of me should be kept as unsullied as possible. So long as my wife is alive, I want you to keep everything I have told you a secret - even after I myself am dead.
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