Modernity vs. Tradition Theme Analysis

“The memory that you once sat at my feet will begin to haunt you and, in bitterness and shame, you will want to degrade me. I do not want your admiration now, because I do not want your insults in the future. I beat with my loneliness now, in order to avoid greater loneliness in the years ahead. You see, loneliness is the price we have to pay for being born in this modern age, so full of freedom, independence, and our own egotistical selves.”

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?

“I wonder if you are really being sincere,” he said. “Because of what happened to me, I have come to doubt everybody. In trust, I doubt you too. But for some reason I do not want to doubt you. It may be because you seem so simple. Before I die, I should like to have one friend that I can trust. I wonder if you can be that friend. Are you really sincere?”

“I have been true to you, Sensei,” I said, “unless my whole life has been a lie.” My voice shook as I spoke.

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.

I was moved by your decision, albeit discourteous in expression, to grasp something that was alive within my soul. You wished to cut open my heart and see the blood flow. I was then still alive. I did not want to die. That is why I refused you and postponed the granting of your wish to another day. Now, I myself am about to cut open my own heart and drench your face with my blood. And I shall be satisfied if, when my heart stops beating, a new life lodges in your breast.

I was already a misanthrope when I left home for the last time. That people could not be trusted must have already become a conviction deeply rooted in my system. It was then that I began to think of my uncle, my aunt, and all the other relatives whom I had come to hate as typical of the entire human race. On the Tokyo-bound train, I found myself watching suspiciously my fellow passengers. And when anyone spoke to me, I became even more suspicious. My heart was heavy. I felt as though I had swallowed lead. But my nerves were on edge.

I am sure that if I had spoken to her with a truly repentant heart—as I did always to the spirit of my dead friend—she would have forgiven me. She would have cried, I know, from happiness. That I refused to tell her the truth was not due to selfish calculation on my part. I simply did not wish to taint her whole life with the memory of something that was so ugly. I thought that it would be an unforgivable crime to let fall even the tiniest drop of ink on a pure, spotless thing.

Finally, I became aware of the possibility that K had experienced loneliness as terrible as mine, and wishing to escape quickly from it, had killed himself. Once more, fear gripped my heart. From then on, like a gust of winter wind, the premonition that I was treading the same path as K had done would rush at me from time to time, and chill me to the bone.

I turned to my wife, who had reminded me of its existence, and said: “I will commit junshi if you like; but in my case, it will be through loyalty to the spirit of the Meiji Era.” My remark was meant as a joke, but I did feel that the antiquated word had come to hold a new meaning for me.

Then, at the height of summer, Emperor Meiji passed away. I felt as though the spirit of the Meiji era had begun with the Emperor and ended with him. I was overcome with the feeling that I and the others, who had been brought up in that era, were now left behind to live as anachronisms.

My own past, which made me what I am, is 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.