Kim Kyung-uk
Translated by
Brother Anthony of Taizé
You are busy today. So
busy that you cannot reply even
briefly to each visitor’s comment. You were busy
yesterday, as well. So busy you
could not begin to think of changing the outdated
background music. You were
busy the day before, too. So busy you could not upload a
single new photo. It
was three days ago that you began to be busy. Three days
ago, the day a heavy
rain alert was issued for the central regions, a heavy
rain warning for the
south. The rain was accompanied by thunder and
lightning. I wonder where you
are now and what you are doing. If you have found a
new job, you won’t have had time to breathe. Or perhaps
you’ve cashed in a
savings account and gone traveling
abroad? Not with that boyfriend you said you were
breaking
up with, surely? Perhaps you’ve suffered some kind of
damage from the monsoon
rains? Have you managed to burn the bread you were
baking? Have you really been
busy? While I was daydreaming about your recent doings,
the books on my desk were
getting soaked by the rain seeping through a gap in the
window. Among the
rain-soaked books were some that you had once borrowed. In order to check the
damage I flipped through the pages and discovered a red
stain. A felt pen mark
had smudged in the rain. It had not been there before I
lent you the book, so
clearly it was you who had underlined something. Not
that I mind. It was I who had
suggested lending you the book and it was I who said you
may underline things.
The phrase you had underlined was: If you
gaze long into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into
you. Nietzsche of course.
As I gazed at the stain, I had the impression that the
stain was gazing up at
me, instead of me gazing at the stain. It was the last
book you borrowed from
me. Cancel that word “last.” “Last” is the last word
weak souls looking for
consolation should use. So this must be the last use of
“last.” The rain, that poured
down as if it would go on forever, was unable to keep it
up beyond the second
day and night; it abated, but there is no way your busy life can
loosen up. I am pained that you are so busy, and also
relieved that you are so
busy. Because your busy life may finally send you back
to me. The people who
visit me are either lazy, wallowing too easily in shame
at being
good-for-nothings,
or they are so busy that they have no time to enjoy the
satisfaction of being useful. If you ever decide to come
back to me, I shall
understand your neglect of me without a murmur. Did I
tell you when you
borrowed this book what Nietzsche cried out in Turin in
1889, as he suddenly
flung his arms around the neck of a horse that was being
whipped by its groom?
“I understand you.”
Likewise, I
understand your busy-ness. Even the red stain ― everything, I
understand everything. That’s my job, after all. “I have heard of
music therapists and art therapists, but I had no idea
there were book
therapists. You must have read an enormous amount.” Nine
out of ten people react this way upon
receiving my name card. “I’m not a book therapist, I’m a
reading therapist.” My
response to their vulgar curiosity is firm. There are
even people who ask,
“What book’s worth reading nowadays?” I reply with a
serious air, “Pay me
first, then ask.” A reading therapist ― I am someone who
heals the heart’s sickness with books. Just as a doctor
diagnoses then
prescribes treatment for his patients, I check my
client’s psychological state
then recommend a book that might be of help. Eighty
percent of the effect of
any medicine is placebo effect. When it comes to placebo
effect, there is nothing
to equal a book. And there are almost no side effects.
Addiction? So much the
better. There are two kinds
of people in this world: those who don’t read books and
those who cannot. My
clients are mostly the latter kind. I deal with people
who want to read a book
but cannot make up their minds, people who are at a loss
as to what book they
should read. If the fact of there being too many books
in the world is a
problem, it is considerably more of a problem for them.
Come unto me, all you
who resolutely enter a bookstore or library but then
turn back, overwhelmed by
all the books crammed into every shelf, or you who read
the books others have
read but cannot satisfy the hunger in your hearts. Come
and find peace, seek a
new life. “Is treatment by
books really possible?” you asked. You were one of those
clients who needed to be convinced they
have come to the right place. “At the entrance to the
library in Thebes there
was an inscription: ‘Medicine for the soul,’” I replied in a
voice full of conviction. You nodded like a meek
student. You even muttered
apologetically, “I’m sorry, asking a stupid question
when I don’t know
anything.” You looked as though you were on the verge of
tears. The
consultation didn’t
seem like an easy one. That was how I first met you, with no
special expectation or particular thrill. A book
discovered by chance on a
secluded, shabby shelf; a book that had never been
checked out and had only a
slender sense of existing. You were that kind of book.
When I asked why you came
to me, you replied, “I’m a complete good-for-nothing.
I’m useless.” When I first meet
clients, I have them fill out a reading card. Nothing
grandiose. Just
collecting basic information about their reading
preferences and habits. You
need only think of the medical history card you fill out
when you go to a
hospital. Why not, after all? The card where you write
down your blood type,
height, weight, medical history, and so on. Sometimes
the questions on a
medical card are so personal, you feel embarrassed as
you fill in the answers.
Some time ago I went to see a dentist for a cavity and
had to fill out a dental
record card. I could put up with the question whether I
brushed my teeth before
going to bed but had to throw up my hands at the
question whether my breath stank
and how badly. In comparison to that, the reading card
my clients fill out is exceedingly
tactful and decorous. What books have you read recently?
What book moved you
deeply? What books would you like to recommend to
someone you care about? What
books would you like to read in the future? The best
kind of questionnaire
encourages people to write the truth, not aim for
“correct” answers. For that
to work, you first have to overcome the distrust of the
person doing the answering. People involved in
counseling adolescents who have been removed from
society after committing a crime have
discovered that curiosity is the natural foil to
distrust. I once counseled a
young man who had systematically set fire to high-end
imported cars. After
three sessions, I had still not gotten that young serial
arsonist to say a
word. What finally opened his mouth, that I thought
would never open, was a
book I happened to have brought with me. That young man was found
guilty of a total of seven counts of arson and was
silently hanging back
without a sliver of hope, so what was it that made his
eyes light up? It might
have been the unusual title; it might have been the way
the cover design
reminded him of leaping flames; or it might have been
the dramatic biography of
the author who committed hara-kiri while
shouting
his defiance of the Self-Defense Forces. In any case,
what demolished
that young man’s distrust was a single book. That book
was like the wooden
horse that rendered powerless the massive defenses of
Troy. After reading the
novel, which depicted in beautiful language the inner
feelings of an arsonist
who set fire to an ancient temple, the young man gave
full vent to his own
feelings, which came pouring out. What the youth
discovered in that novel,
written by a foreign writer who chose a strange way of
dying, was his own sense
of self that he had never revealed to anyone and had
been busily denying. Because the fact of
not being understood by
other people had become my only real source of pride,
I was never confronted by
any impulse to express things and make others
understand something that I knew.
I thought that those things which could be seen by
others were not ordained for
me. My solitude grew more and more obese, just like a
pig.[1] The young man
confessed that as he read those words, he
experienced simultaneously the pain and the relief of
having pus lanced from a
boil. The pain will have originated from the encounter
with the monster that
was lurking within him, while the relief came from the
realization that the
monster was not all there was. You cannot change the
past by reading, but you
can learn to view the past correctly. The moment he
discovered that there was
someone in the world with the same thoughts as himself,
when he felt even
faintly the joy of being understood by someone else, the
monster that he had
been rearing without realizing it vanished completely.
The serial arsonist went
back to being a typical member of his age group while I
discovered a new life
as a reading therapist. If you tell me what
kind of books you have been reading, I will be able to
tell you who you are.
Your reading list is your autobiography and the
chronicle of your soul. Forget
the gossip that Rousseau, who wrote the classic treatise
on education, Emile,
sent his own children to an
orphanage. Give up as quickly as you can wondering
whether the Oxford don Lewis
Carroll who wrote
Alice’s Adventures
in Wonderland for
the daughters of the Dean of Christchurch would have
published the book if he
had not been a bachelor. What you have to discover by
reading is not some kind
of ideology disguised as the author’s cleverly hidden
private life or message;
it is your own self. I don’t say I’m doing anything wonderful. I
have not the least thought of putting on airs to impress
you or of telling some
stupid joke. I
tried some comical stuff,
but all I got was a dead pan, so that gag was out.[2] I am merely a guide
to reading. Whether you find Heaven
or Hell in a book is entirely up to you as the reader.
But the quantity of books
you had read was incredibly limited for a
thirty-year-old adult and your tastes
were unclear.[3]
In
other words you were a book without introduction or
table of contents, where
there was no sign of anything that might be termed help
for the reader.
Therefore, when I learned that you were working in the
library run by the
district office, I felt as though I had been hit on the
back of the head. What book should I
recommend to you? If you had been a
minor going out on inappropriate dates with a
middle-aged man, I might have
recommended Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita.
If your heart had been burning with unrequited love, I
might have recommended a
novel by the Colombian author, in order to keep you from
sighing the following
words as you fell asleep: “The only
regret I will have in dying is if it is not for love.”[4]
Suppose you had been feeling disillusioned with the
world, a precocious young
woman murmuring the pessimistic adage, “We
live, not because life is worth living but because
it’s not worth killing
yourself over,” I would have had you read J. D.
Salinger’s The
Catcher in the Rye. You were in many ways
a difficult book to read. Since you
did not know how to express feelings or ideas, you
always looked flustered.
Worse still, you seemed to have absolutely no idea what
kind of person you were
or what you wanted. Even when simply confronted with the
question whether you
wanted coffee or tea to drink,
you would hesitate for a while before blurting out,
“Whatever you’re drinking,”
looking relieved as if you had just cast aside some
heavy burden. When I asked your
impressions of a book I had recommended, you stared at
me with a startled
expression before mumbling, “How can I understand
something like that?” What
did you hope to gain by reading? You asked me
hesitantly, “I’m sorry, but is
there a book I could read that would teach me how to
make a clean break with my
boyfriend of the past seven years? How can I end it
without shedding messy
tears or feeling regret?” There are things
that, once past, never come back. All the things that we
label “the first” are
like that. Therefore, every first is, without exception,
a “last.” The Prague surgeon,
an incorrigible philanderer, embracing the unbearable
lightness of being says, What happens but
once might as well not have
happened at all. If we only have one life to live, we
might as well not have
lived at all.[5] If this reminds
you of Nietzsche, you can be confident
of having reached a considerable level as a reader. If
you get to the bottom of
the “eternal return,” so much the better. Everything
that exists always exists
as past. Because the past no longer exists, it exists
eternally. Therefore the
past is the future of the present. Is a one-time-only
life transient and
futile? Don’t worry. In the limitless time and space of
the cosmos, sometime,
somewhere your life will be repeated. There
was a successful real estate
broker. Together with his wife and their two
children, he was living a life with few wants. One day, he vanished. Money problems?
Woman
problems? He was squeaky clean. A private detective
hired to search for him was
able to find him, thanks to a tip about someone who
looked like him. The man
explained to the detective what had happened. The steel
frame of a building
under construction collapsed directly in front of him as
he was on his way to
lunch. The realization that his laboriously constructed
life could have been
brought to an end by the chance collapse of a building
had given him a shock.
So he abandoned everything and went away. After
traveling here and there, he
met a woman, settled down, and married her. He felt
satisfied with this new
life so he asked the detective to say he had not been
able to find him. Yet to
the detective’s eyes, the life the man was living now
looked almost identical with
his previous life.[6] If you want to become
a sagacious reader, you must forget about learning any
kind of lessons by
reading. What you need as a reader is not enlightenment
but empathy. Those who
are affected by a tale of obsession or post-traumatic
stress disorder will empathize
with that man, but you expressed antagonism toward him.
You went so far as to get
angry, which was just not like you. “He acted badly,
abandoning his wife and
leaving without a word like that. Not a single word. If
he loved her he would
never have done such a thing. If another building
collapses, he’ll be sure to
leave again. He was only looking for an excuse to
leave.” All your interest was
centered on the fact that the man had suddenly left. By
criticizing the man’s
action, what you were revealing was an obsession with
the past, and what you
wished to hide was a fear of breaking up. You were
unable to give a clear
answer when I asked, “Do you really want to break up
with your boyfriend?” You
were obviously dithering. I could not help wondering if
you had been joking
when you told me you consulted me in order to break up
with your boyfriend. If
so, your problem must not be in your relationship with
your boyfriend but in saying
you had come to me in order to settle things with your
boyfriend. The book
titled You
was beginning to get
interesting. Even then, it was only interesting from a
professional point of
view. A hoary misconception
common among ordinary readers is the idea that the main
protagonist in a story is
some kind of alter ego of the author. The harmful effect
of this way of reading
means that, like school children always keeping an eye
on their teacher’s
reaction, readers cannot immerse themselves freely in a
book because they are
always oppressed by the authority of the author. Is this
the writer’s personal
experience? Is this the writer’s imagination? You were
no exception, being so
aware of the author’s biographical presence that you
were unable to read your
own feelings. As if you thought
self-assertion was a sin, you were imprisoning yourself
in a naive modesty. The
desires and intentions you were unable
to translate adequately gradually grew blurred, and
turned
into a vague suspicion that such things might not exist
in the end. What you
needed was someone onto whom you could project freely
your repressed desires, someone
who would accept you as you were so you could respect
yourself. After some trial
and error with various volumes, I recommended Osamu Dazai’s No
Longer Human. Concerned, I said, “The
author’s intentions or real life are not important. Turn
the book into
something of your own. Let’s pretend the author’s dead.”
You replied, nodding,
“He drowned himself in a river in 1948, and in a double suicide. Poor guy.”
You had your nose plunged in the author’s biography. It might have been
clutching at straws, but I felt that you were reacting
strongly. Mine
has been a life of much shame. As
you read those words you seemed startled. Was it
acceptable to reveal one’s
inner self so overtly? What had disturbed you, I
thought, was not the contents
of the confession but the frankness of the confessional
form. I reckoned you
were feeling ashamed, like someone stealing a glimpse of
another person’s
private gestures. Then one day, while we were waiting
for a train at some
subway station, Chungmuro maybe, or Euljiro 3-ga, you compared your
feet with the footprints painted on the platform.
Probably they were marks from
a campaign urging passengers to stand in rows. You were
surprised to find that
your feet fit exactly into the painted footprints; I was
surprised at how old
your shoes were. You, who complained
of unnecessary stress caused by unaccustomed things and
clung to old shoes because
you disliked the stiffness of new ones, were unable to
discard the past even
when the boyfriend you had been going out with for seven
years sent a text
message to your closest friend saying, “I told her I’m
going to be away this
weekend on business. Make time for me.” Even the anger at your lover’s
infidelity could not cover up your guilt at having spied
on another person’s phone
messages. I suppose the fact of having to start the
process all over again,
meeting a new man, cautiously testing out one another’s
past, trying hard to
make your presents match, until at last you were
reluctantly sharing a future,
left you feeling frightened and appalled. You lacked the
nerve to give up
everything and leave for somewhere new, so the choice
you could make, when for
the first time in your life you encountered a sentence
that shook your very
soul, was simply to read this sentence: I
can't even guess myself what it must be to live the
life of a human being.[7] I too have no idea
what living the life of a human
being might be like but I can say with confidence that
the habit of hobbling
around wearing new shoes in order to give yourself a
hard time is not a
desirable one. With books that are
not easily forgotten, it is usually the early part that
matters most. Because
of a strange style, because new characters emerge every
time you turn a page, because
of insistent descriptions, one may give up reading.
Growing angry after
composing complicated family trees of people with
similar names, turned off by
tedious descriptions of the geography or customs of the
region used as the
setting, you may start wondering whether it has not been
made into a movie. In
the case of a movie, it does not seem to be a problem if
many characters
appear. The book You was not the kind to
arouse tension from the very first
sentence like Albert Camus’s L’etranger.
Neither
was it a book
that overwhelms by its sumptuous binding or exciting
illustrations. It was simply a book I
started to read casually with no particular
expectations. Since the book You did not
reveal itself at once,
several times I felt like giving up reading. However,
once past the first
introduction, I grew accustomed to the strange style,
the characters of the
people grew clear, and the story line began to go
somewhere. No longer a book
that annoys the reader, you were whispering: Read me.
Don’t hesitate; read me. I read you with
precision and care. You were born the fourth daughter in
a family where there
were already three daughters before you. For your father
or grandmother,
obsessed with having a son and heir, you were an
unwelcome presence. Your
mother, considering herself a sinner, refused to
breastfeed you even when you
cried, hoping to atone for her sin. Once you began to
toddle, you were
entrusted to your mother’s parents. A child that learns
early in life that even
crying at the top of its voice is not going to help it
get what it wants is
bound to live either killing others’ desires or killing
its own desires. Either
destroy the world or destroy yourself. Since you grew up
feeding on the neglect
of a mother who identified self-torment with atonement,
you naturally chose the
second option. But you did not identify fully with the
self-destructive
protagonist of No
Longer Human. My clients manifest
one of two kinds of reaction to a character in a book
who is exactly like them.
Either they are filled with wonder, like a child that
sees itself reflected in
a mirror for the first time, or they get upset, like a
person who bumps into
someone wearing exactly the same dress as one they just
bought. Identification
gives birth to self-pity, alienation produces
self-negation. By your constant
self-negation you had tried to prove that you were
worthless. I had the
impression that your latent fury might have been
directed toward your mother,
rather than your
father. The fact that the protagonist was not a woman
but a man might have gotten
in the way of your empathy. Despite that, you
sympathized with the protagonist
for his trouble with his family. It was as though you
too wanted to say: I never laughed at
home. I reckoned that
everything I was related to by blood, everything that
was deeply related to me
was unfamiliar.[8] I recommended that
you read another work by Osamu Dazai, The
Setting
Sun. I could not help adding, “The author and the
protagonist are
different beings. Okay?” “Yes.” “While you are reading
the book, you are the
author. Okay?” “Yes.” Fortunately, this time the main
character was a woman. The
novel is about the daughter of a fallen aristocratic
family who, after her
marriage has failed, tries to gain the love of a writer
who would not leave his
wife and family for her. You loved the protagonist, who
rejects the traditional
image of women who accept an unhappy life as their
destiny, and resolutely
pursues a new morality. “Kazuko’s courage is tremendous,
saying she will bear
the child of the man she loves and bring it up on her
own. I could never even
think of doing such a thing.” Interesting. Now you have
seen yourself reflected
in a character in a book. I began to look forward to
sessions with you. You were fascinated by the
idea of a scapegoat.
Reproaching Uehara for repudiating both the woman who
loved him and his own
child, you embraced Kazuko as a scapegoat sacrificed to
obsolete morality. A bastard and its
mother. We will live in
perpetual struggle with the old morality, like the
sun. The revolution is far
from taking place. It needs more, many more valuable,
unfortunate victims. In
the present world, the most beautiful thing is a
victim.[9] A scapegoat is not
something slaughtered because there
is sin; there is sin because it is slaughtered. In
worshipping the scapegoat
they have themselves killed, oppressors gain control of
the destructive
instincts that might otherwise destroy the community.
The secret mechanism of
desire to which the ancient Greeks gave the name
“catharsis” applies perfectly
to reading therapy. In thinking of yourself as the
scapegoat of ancient customs
you might have been hoping to compensate for a past full
of self-negation. In
offering up the unhappy past on the altar of oppressive
customs, what you were
casting off was a sense of shame and what you gained was
a sense of moral
superiority. At last you have become capable of
regarding yourself in a
positive light. While you were talking about Kazuko’s
decision to bear and
raise the bastard child, you once said, “The Talmud says
this. If everyone
agrees that a person should be punished, let him go. He
is undoubtedly
innocent.” Referring to one book in order to talk about
another! You were on
the way to becoming a great reader. I decided to give you a token reward for
earnest
reading. When I proposed giving you shoes as a gift, you
bristled, “Do I look that
pathetic?” It was not the response I had expected. If
you had laughed brightly
and asked, “How did you know my size?” I would have
answered that I enjoy
reading you. I would also have smiled, remembering how I
had measured the size
of the footprints painted on the platform of a crowded
subway station, ignoring
the stares of passersby. In fact I finally said, “My
wife wore them once then stuffed
them in the shoe closet; it’s a shame to throw them
away. There are lots of
shoes she’s worn just a few times then left to rot. She
can’t pass in front of a
shoe shop without going in.”
As our sessions went on, signs of a
change in you became perceptible. You began to look more
cheerful and your
habit of averting your eyes as you talked disappeared.
Your clothes, which had
been invariably black, became more colorful. The day you
arrived wearing the
shoes I had given you, you were no longer the you who
had first come to consult
me. You became more dazzling by the day. You had a habit
of saying you ought to
diet but your buxom figure was dazzling. Full of shining
vitality and bursting
with self-confidence, your phrases became elegant and beautiful. As if
unable to keep to yourself such a splendid transformation, you
purchased
the latest model of mobile phone, complete with camera.
You had inaugurated a
new personal home page some time before, but it was
boring. You said you had
already uploaded several photos and were planning to
include photos of bread
you had baked. I asked how you knew about baking bread.
“I started to attend
baking classes some days ago. I mean to learn seriously
so I’ve stopped working
at the library. My dream is to open a baker’s shop under
my own name.” Your
face shone as you spoke.
About the same time, you mentioned
a television drama that was all the rage. “A woman like
me, none too thin and
without any solid background, is playing the main role;
she’s awesome, so
vigorous! I want to live like that. She’s an expert
baker, too. And she’s
thirty, just like me, believe it or not. And her name is
so unusual.” You made
such a fuss, it was as though you had discovered your
other self. Since I do
not enjoy watching television dramas, I could neither
agree with your enthusiasm
nor add anything to it. When I said I had never watched
that drama, you looked
at me as if I were an alien. “The main character’s name
is so funny.” Seeing
that we could not share opinions of the fascinating
drama where the main
character had an odd name, you looked regretful while I
felt uneasy. When you
said you would not be coming again, the reason for my
anxiety became clear. I
could not simply let you go like that. There were still
a lot of books I wanted
to recommend. Finished?
But this is the point at which the reading of your true
self is about to begin in earnest. At a loss, I blurted
out, “How about a
beer?”
Was it because you were tipsy from
drinking early in the evening? Or because you thought
this was our last
meeting? You admitted to me that you had never slept
with your boyfriend. While
there is one category of women lacking in self-assurance
who set out to prove
their own insignificance by sleeping with any man, there
is another category
who try to show that they are good for nothing by not
having relations with any
men. What
have you been trying to prove by holding back from
having sex with your boyfriend
of seven years? And what on earth did you intend by
telling me that fact? What
you said left me perplexed. “Do you love your
boyfriend?” “He’s comfortable.
Like an old shoe.” “What did you do with those shoes you
used to wear?” I ought
not to have asked that. As a reading therapist, my
readings ought rightly to be
made by analysis, not feelings, but recently I had
become increasingly curious
about your private life. “I’ve just put them away in the
shoe cabinet for now;
I don’t know what to do with them. It’s a bother to keep
them and a shame to
throw them away.” You looked at me. The ball seemed to
be in my court. I did
not have the heart to tell you to get rid of them. “I
understand. These shoes
go well with your dress, though.” It was true, the new shoes
really suited you. “Why, just look what time it is,” you
exclaimed, looking at
your wristwatch. You meant it was time for the
television drama. I quickly
blurted out, “Can’t you watch a repeat broadcast? It
seems you can watch
programs again on the Internet.” Nowadays the
influence of the author has clearly diminished while the
influence of the reader
is growing stronger every day. The meaning of a book is
determined, not
according to the author’s creative ability but by the
reader’s tastes. Somebody
has said that there are many gaps in books, gaps that
the reader has to fill
in, and until they are filled in, every book is
essentially nothing but an
incomplete draft. Worse still, with popular television
dramas, it is the
viewers who decide what the ending will be. Your
preference can make a female lead character who is
dying of an incurable disease suddenly recover, or bring
back together lovers
who have become enemies by some irony of fate. I wonder what ending
you wanted that evening. You could have rushed out of
the bar, grabbed a taxi,
hurried home and ascertained the fate of the lead
characters. From your point
of view, that might not have been such a bad ending but
for me that was going
to be a disappointing one. No. Watching a repeat
broadcast of the drama would be better. Readers of
this story will surely agree. Another possible
ending has you accepting my request to stay and drinking
to the end. The end
everyone wants, except you. Even for you, it might not
be such a disagreeable
ending. If just one person wants something, that remains
a dream, but if everyone
wants it, then it becomes a reality, surely? Besides, I
am both your reading
therapist and your reader, so I have the right to choose
the ending. So that
evening you were unable to watch the drama. On the
whole, the atmosphere as we sat
drinking will have been pleasant. Let’s say that we
shared the kind of talk
usually exchanged at private parties when people let
down their guard. As the
evening wore on, barriers will have gone down lower,
discretion weaker. That
evening, though we drank a lot, let’s say that nothing
went wrong. Then you and
I went to a motel. At this point we need
some more details. Details provide the readers with
inspiration. Even absurd stories
depend on the skill with which the details are provided.
What if I were D.
H. Lawrence, who so boldly expressed
people’s sexual desires? Returning from the powder room,
you blew into my ear
as you whispered: I want to read you. At that you and I
left the bar and found
a motel. Or suppose I try the style of hard-boiled
Ernest Hemingway? We
staggered out of the bar. The city by night was noisy
and cunning as a rat. I
looked at your sharp lips and had a sudden thought.
There’s nothing I can’t do.
I grabbed your wrist and began to stride toward a motel.
Or what about
something in the style of James Joyce, who clings so
tenaciously to complex,
subtle human psychology? As the fifth taxi in a row
refused to take you and
went speeding off, I glimpsed your far from despondent
expression and started
to wonder if you did not have the same idea as I had.
When the sixth taxi
driver shook his head and drove away on hearing me shout
out your destination,
I gave up and decided to accept everything gladly. “What
about getting some
rest first and trying later?” You seemed neither willing
nor unwilling as I
grasped you by the wrist and headed for an alley lined
with small motels.
Hoping to disguise the excitement and guilt seething
within me, I tightened my
grip on your wrist. When I woke the
next morning, thirsty and with my head
aching, you were no longer beside me. Were it not for
the note lying on the
table, I might have doubted whether I had been with you
last night. You
were sleeping so soundly I couldn’t wake you. I reckon
I can break up with my
boyfriend now. Thanks for everything. Look after
yourself. BTW there’s a hole
in your sock so I bought a new pair in the store next
door, you should wear
them when you leave. You had completely
removed every trace of yourself, as if erasing the fact
that you had ever
entered the motel room, but had not been able to do
anything about the red
stain on the sheet. It was true; you had never slept
with your seven-year
boyfriend. After that, I was
unable to see you. You dropped out of sight like a child
who has gone off to
play after finishing some old homework. I longed to meet
you again at least
once but there was no way I could contact you. Your
mobile number was suddenly no longer valid. It seemed clear that you had
changed your number when you bought the phone with a
camera. There was no address
or contact phone number on your reading card. Not having
asked for the client’s
personal information, the reading card was no help in
finding you. So long as
you did not visit me or make contact, it looked like it
would be difficult to
meet you again. I was finally able to
find out about your current situation, thanks entirely
to the Internet. You
told me you had opened a personal home page and that
provided the clue. First I
joined the community in which your page was located.
Once in, so long as you know
a person’s
gender,
age and name, you can find whoever you are looking for.
The fact that your name
was one usually given to boys was a great help; there
were only two thirty-year-old
women with your name who had home pages. You were busily
baking bread, from baguettes and bagels, familiar names,
to rosetta and savarin,
that I had never even heard of. In the photos, that
either you yourself or
someone else had taken, you looked full of
self-confidence and really happy.
You also posted without hesitation notes about your
everyday feelings. That
would have been unthinkable until just
recently. The drama
you enjoyed seemed to have changed your life a lot. Now I have the
feeling that I know far more about you than during our
sessions. Without
phoning or meeting you, I am able to know everything ― what kind of bread
you baked that day, how you are feeling, who you have
met, where you have been.
So long as you keep uploading photos regularly, I even
know what clothes you
are wearing, what your face is saying. I am able to read
you again. I cannot
change your life as your favorite drama did,
but that is enough.
You are still my book, so even though you are busy
baking, watching dramas,
meeting some new man, you must not grow lazy when it
comes to uploading photos,
writing things that give a glimpse of your daily life,
changing your background
music. Then I realize I am dreading a
sentence,
since I am so curious
about your present doings. For the past two weeks
there
have been no new postings. [1] Yukio
Mishima, The
Temple of the Golden
Pavilion. I have deliberately not given page
numbers. Since deliberate
unkindness is not pleasant, the footnotes that
follow may be ignored. It is a
matter of digging a well for someone thirsty, so if
you are interested in the
exact source of a reference, you should get hold of
the book and start reading
at the first sentence and go on until you find the
sentence quoted, until you
verify that there really is such a sentence.
Compared to the effort involved in
seeking out a special bench or path, an island or
valley marked on no map, that
form the setting for some movie or drama, it’s like
swimming with one foot on
the bottom, so I hope your reading will set you
free. [2]
James M. Cain, The Postman
Always Rings
Twice. [3]
For reference, if I summarize the main contents of
the reading card you
completed, it would be: Book currently being read: Dieting: Let’s do it right. Book read
with deep emotion: Demian.
Book you would recommend to
someone you care about: The You inside
Me
Whenever I Shut my Eyes Alone. Book you hope
to read in the future: Twenty-seven
Reasons why Someone Baking
Bread is Beautiful. [4] Gabriel
García Márquez, Love in the
Time of
Cholera. [5]
Milan Kundera, The Unbearable
Lightness
of Being. [6]
If you want to learn more about this episode, read
Dashiell Hammett's The Maltese
Falcon. [7]
Osamu Dazai, No
Longer Human. [8] Annie
Ernaux, A Man's Place [9] Dazai
Osamu, The Setting Sun. |