Kokoro

But while my chess-loving father failed even to entertain me, Sensei, whose acquaintance I had never sought for amusement’s sake, gave me far greater intellectual satisfaction as a companion. Perhaps I should not have used the word “intellectual,” for it has a cold and impersonal sound. I should perhaps have said “spiritual” instead. Indeed, it would not have seemed to me then an exaggeration to say that Sensei’s strength had entered my body, and that his very life was flowing in my veins. And when I discovered that such were my true feelings towards these two men, I was shocked. For was I not my father’s flesh?

Inwardly, I compared my father’s unaffected pleasure with the way Sensei had congratulated me that night at the dinner table. And I had greater admiration for Sensei with his secret contempt for such things as university degrees than I had for my father, who seemed to me to value them more than they were worth. I began at last to dislike my father’s naive provincialism.

“The trouble with education,” said my father, “is that it makes a man argumentative.”

He said no more then. But in that simple remark, I saw clearly the character of his resentment towards me, which I had sense before. Not realizing that I myself was being rather difficult, I felt strongly the injustice of my father’s approach.

We had become alienated by both distance and time. Nevertheless, when we met again after so long a separation, we found ourselves being drawn together by a gentle, brotherly feeling which seemed to come naturally from I know not where. No doubt, the circumstances of our reunion had much to do with it. We had, so to speak, grasped each other by the hand over the dying body of one who was father to us both.

Thus, in a desperate desire to act, I boarded the Tokyo-bound train. The noise of the engine filled my ears as I sat down in a third-class carriage. At last, I was able to read Sensei’s letter from beginning to end.

But while my chess-loving father failed even to entertain me, Sensei, whose acquaintance I had never sought for amusement’s sake, gave me far greater intellectual satisfaction as a companion. Perhaps I should not have used the word “intellectual,” for it has a cold and impersonal sound. I should perhaps have said “spiritual” instead. Indeed, it would not have seemed to me then an exaggeration to say that Sensei’s strength had entered my body, and that his very life was flowing in my veins. And when I discovered that such were my true feelings towards these two men, I was shocked. For was I not my father’s flesh?

Inwardly, I compared my father’s unaffected pleasure with the way Sensei had congratulated me that night at the dinner table. And I had greater admiration for Sensei with his secret contempt for such things as university degrees than I had for my father, who seemed to me to value them more than they were worth. I began at last to dislike my father’s naive provincialism.

“The trouble with education,” said my father, “is that it makes a man argumentative.”

He said no more then. But in that simple remark, I saw clearly the character of his resentment towards me, which I had sense before. Not realizing that I myself was being rather difficult, I felt strongly the injustice of my father’s approach.

We had become alienated by both distance and time. Nevertheless, when we met again after so long a separation, we found ourselves being drawn together by a gentle, brotherly feeling which seemed to come naturally from I know not where. No doubt, the circumstances of our reunion had much to do with it. We had, so to speak, grasped each other by the hand over the dying body of one who was father to us both.

Thus, in a desperate desire to act, I boarded the Tokyo-bound train. The noise of the engine filled my ears as I sat down in a third-class carriage. At last, I was able to read Sensei’s letter from beginning to end.