Strong westerly winds blew the previous day and rattled the doors and papered shoji sliding doors of N's house.
"Kanita is a windy town," I said tossing out my usual enlightened understanding. Today, Kanita enjoyed fine weather as if softly laughing at my absurd remarks the previous evening. There was no gentle breeze. The cherry blossoms of Kanranzan seemed to be at their peak and faintly blooming in silence. The description of full bloom misses the mark. I felt the flower petals were washed in snow and chiseled slightly open. I thought they may be a different type of flower. The blue flower of the poet Novalis was an indistinct flower that makes me wonder if he imagined this flower. We sat cross-legged under the cherry blossoms and spread out the multi-tiered food boxes. Of course, the food had been prepared by N's wife. Crabs and clams filled a large bamboo basket. And there was beer. Almost looking uncouth, I shelled the clams, sucked on crab legs, and even ate food from the boxes. The food in the boxes included transparent eggs packed into a squid's torso, toasted with soy sauce, and cut into round slices. They were delicious.
The returned soldier T mentioned how hot he was, took off his jacket, stood up half-naked, and began doing military exercises. Wearing a headband, he used a hand towel to wipe his dark face that bore a slight resemblance to the Burmese Chief Bamoo. The party gathered that day seemed slightly different from each other in their degree of enthusiasm. They appeared to want to draw out recollections about some novel from me. I answered what was asked. I followed the usual rules of pilgrimages by Basho of "A question must be answered," unless it conflicted with another important rule. Do not present the flaws of others and display one's own merits.
Disparaging others and taking pride in oneself is vile. I have done that vile thing. Many poets of other schools sniped at Basho but never behaved disgracefully. They did not make their eyebrows jump up, mouths turn down, square their shoulders, or abuse other novelists as I, an uncouth man, have done. My behavior has been unpleasant and shameful. Asked about the work of a fifty-year-old author in Japan, I thoughtlessly answered, "Not so good."
Recently, the past work of that author somehow provoked feelings close to awe in readers in Tokyo. Strangely, some came to call him God. A confession of liking that author offered a glimpse of the odd tendency to demonstrate the loftiness of the hobby of the reader and does a disservice. This may trouble the author who may force a smile. However, I previously looked from afar at the bizarre force of that author. From the silly heart of the typical Tsugaru man, "He becomes greedy, and simply got stronger by the fortunes of war at the time." I cannot be excited and docilely followed that trend.
By this time, I had reread most of that author's works and found them good but did not particularly feel the loftiness of the hobby. Instead, I wondered if this author found strength in greed. The world he described alternated between the joys and sorrows of the greedy petty bourgeois. Sometimes the hero of the work honestly reflected on his way of life. However, that aspect is particularly old-fashioned. If this sort of reflection is disagreeable, doing nothing is better and is separated from literary inexperience. Instead, it felt like being mired in stinginess. Strangely, many places appeared to be attempts at humor. Did he discard too much of himself? The reader does not docilely laugh because one trivial nerve is jittery. An immature criticism of the aristocracy was also heard but was ridiculous and a disservice. Can the aristocracy be thought of as untidy generosity?
During the French Revolution, the mob broke into the king's living quarters, but at that time, the French King Louis XVI went crazy, cackled with laughter, and snatched the revolutionary hat from the head of a rioter in the archery range and put it on his own head. Then he cried out "Vive la France!" The rioters hungry for blood were impressed by his perfect, mysterious dignity and joined the king in shouting "Vive la France!" Not one finger touched the king's body, and they obediently withdrew from the king's living quarters. A true aristocrat possessed this artless, unalterable dignity. The one who tightly closes his mouth and adjusts his collar often took the form of an aristocrat's servant. A pathetic word like aristocracy must not be used.
My companions drinking beer on Kanranzan in Kanita that day appeared to be ardent admirers of the fiftyish author and only questioned me about that author. Finally, I broke a rule of Basho and spoke abuse. I grew excited as I started to speak. As a result, my shoulders squared and my mouth drooped. The talk of aristocracy digressed at a strange place. The group did not express the least bit of agreement with my words. M, who came from Imabetsu, looking bewildered said, "We aren't saying aristocracy is stupid." He was embarrassed and looked like he was talking to himself. His words resembled careless remarks from a drunk. The others exchanged glances and smirked.
"In short," my voice seemed to shriek. Oh, I'm not criticizing a senior author. I got off track and said, "You can't be fooled by a man's appearance. King Louis XVI was
