You must cross the river, Ryūnosuke …
Calling to you, calling you. Over the bridge, over the river. Your school notebooks under your arm, your packed lunchbox under your arm. Crossing the Ryōgoku Bridge, crossing the Sumida River. After school and on holidays, over the river and along the streets. You are twelve years old, and you are on a mission. Mobilisation orders have been issued, lanterns outside the police stations. First to the Ōhashi Library on Kudanzaka Hill, then to the Imperial Library in Ueno Park. Among marching boots, under waving flags. Through the inviting used bookstores cluttering Jimbōchō Avenue, the blinding sun rising over Kudanzaka Hill. With the dawn, back by dusk. Two hours’ walk there, two hours’ walk back. Under sun and under moon. Whatever the season, whatever the weather. Through the spring winds, plum blossom then cherry petal. Through the summer rains, blooming hydrangea then flowering lotuses. On carpets of leaves, on carpets of snow. With returning boots, under victorious flags. In the Ōhashi Library, in the Imperial Library. They keep calling to you, keep calling you –
Waiting for you, we are waiting for you …
On your first visits, you are afraid. The high ceilings, the large windows. The iron stairways, the catalogue cases. The basement lunch room and the reading room. The numberless people, on numberless chairs. But on your next visits, you start to read. To read and to read, turning page after page. Turning and reading, book after book. In library after library, for year after year. The Ōhashi Library and the Imperial Library, then the Higher School Library, then the university library, the Tokyo University Library. Library after library, for year after year, borrowing and borrowing, book after book, hundreds of books, loving and loving, loving these books, these borrowed books, these borrowed books all loving you –
Please don’t take us back, Ryūnosuke, please …
The parting, these partings, tearing and tearing, tearing you apart: you want to keep these books, keep these books with you, these borrowed books, to hold and to cherish for the rest of your life, reading them over and over, again and again. Never taking them back, never letting them go. Never parting, never parting. So with your frugality, and with your guile. Your devotion and your discipline. You stay away from the cafés, and you teach part-time. Mathematics, even mathematics, for three days a week. You earn and you save. Then you buy, and you buy. On Jimbōchō Avenue, in its used bookstores. Book after book, second-hand book. Loving and keeping, cherishing and holding. Owning and possessing. Book after book. Your own books, your own library. Book by book. Building your library, your very own library. Book by book. But there are still so many books, so many more books you want. On Jimbōchō Avenue, the used bookstores. So many books, many more books. Inviting you, tempting you –
Take us home, take us, please …
Always so many books, still so little money. And so, but so. All else having failed, as the last resort. With your heart filled with pain, with your eyes filled with tears. Deaf to their protests, deaf to their screams. After all they have taught you, after all they have given you. Deaf to their protests, deaf to their screams. Your victims smothered with cloth, your victims strangled with string. As though to a funeral, an ancient tragedy. You cross the bridge, you cross the river. Tripping on a stone, falling in the road. You dust yourself down, you pick yourself up. With heavy feet, with slow steps. Along the streets, to Jimbōchō you go, you go, you –
No, Ryūnosuke, no. Don’t …
Enter the bookstore, the second-hand bookstore. You place the bundle on the counter, untie the string before the owner. You open up the cloth, take out the books. And you ask the woman, you ask, How much, how much for these? She offers you less than half of the price you paid for these books, even for books that are still quite new. You sigh, you nod. You accept her offer, and take her money. And you turn, you hurry. Deaf to their protests, deaf to their screams. Away from the crime, the scene of the crime. Their protests and their screams –
Why, Ryūnosuke …?
Because still there are so many books, so many more books you want. On Jimbōchō Avenue, in its used bookstores. So many books, so many more books. Inviting you and tempting you. So many books, now so many regrets. Regrets and lost loves:
Ryūnosuke?
Two months later, in the twilight. You are back on Jimbōchō Avenue, you are back among the used bookstores. Lightly dusted with snow, wrapped in your cape. From shop to shop, you’ve been making your way –
Remember me, Ryūnosuke?
On Jimbōchō Avenue, lightly dusted with snow. In your cape, stamping your feet. Outside each of the stores, the books on the street. Inviting you and tempting you. But before one shop, now among their books. This shop you know, these books you know. You find a copy of Zarathustra, but not just any
