guess so."
"I'm not refusing to go to school. I just decided not to."
"Very calmly, all on your own, you stopped going to school?"
I merely nod. I have no idea how to reply.
"According to Aristophanes in Plato's Symposium, in the ancient world of myth there were three types of people," Oshima says. "Have you heard about this?"
"No."
"In ancient times people weren't just male or female, but one of three types: male/male, male/female, or female/female. In other words, each person was made out of the components of two people. Everyone was happy with this arrangement and never really gave it much thought. But then God took a knife and cut everybody in half, right down the middle. So after that the world was divided just into male and female, the upshot being that people spend their time running around trying to locate their missing other half."
"Why did God do that?"
"Divide people into two? You got me. God works in mysterious ways. There's that whole wrath-of-God thing, all that excessive idealism and so on. My guess is it was punishment for something. Like in the Bible. Adam and Eve and the Fall and so forth."
"Original sin," I say.
"That's right, original sin." Oshima holds his pencil between his middle and index fingers, twirling it ever so slightly as if testing the balance. "Anyway, my point is that it's really hard for people to live their lives alone."
Back in the reading room I return to "The Tale of Abu-l-Hasan, the Wag," but my mind wanders away from the book. Male/male, male/female, and female/female?
At two o'clock I lay down my book and get up from the sofa to join the tour of the building. Miss Saeki, leading the tour, is a slim woman I'd guess is in her mid-forties.
She's a little on the tall side for someone of her generation. She's wearing a blue half-sleeved dress and a cream-colored cardigan, and has excellent posture. Her long hair is loosely tied back, her face very refined and intelligent looking, with beautiful eyes and a shadowy smile playing over her lips, a smile whose sense of completeness is indescribable. It reminds me of a small, sunny spot, the special patch of sunlight you find only in some remote, secluded place. My house back in Tokyo has one just like that in the garden, and ever since I was little I loved that bright little spot.
She makes a strong impression on me, making me feel wistful and nostalgic.
Wouldn't it be great if this were my mother? But I think the same thing every time I run across a charming, middle-aged woman. The chances that Miss Saeki's actually my mother are close to zero, I realize. Still, since I have no idea what my mother looks like, or even her name, the possibility does exist, right? There's nothing that rules it out completely.
The only other people taking the tour are a middle-aged couple from Osaka. The wife is short and pudgy with glasses as thick as a Coke bottle. The husband's a skinny guy with hair so stiff I bet he needs a wire brush to tame it. With narrow eyes and a broad forehead, he reminds me of some statue on a southern island, eyes fixed on the horizon. The wife keeps up a one-sided conversation, her husband just grunting out a monosyllable every once in a while to let her know he's still alive. Other than that, he gives the occasional nod to show he's properly impressed or else mutters some fragmentary comment I can't catch. Both of them are dressed more for mountain climbing than for visiting a library, each wearing a waterproof vest with a million pockets, sturdy lace-up boots, and hiking hats. Maybe this is how they always dress when they go on a trip, who knows. They seem okay—not that I'd want them as parents or anything—and I'm relieved not to be the only one taking the tour.
Miss Saeki begins by explaining the library's history—basically the same story Oshima told me. How they opened to the public the books and paintings the umpteenth head of the family had collected, devoting the library to the region's cultural
"I'm not refusing to go to school. I just decided not to."
"Very calmly, all on your own, you stopped going to school?"
I merely nod. I have no idea how to reply.
"According to Aristophanes in Plato's Symposium, in the ancient world of myth there were three types of people," Oshima says. "Have you heard about this?"
"No."
"In ancient times people weren't just male or female, but one of three types: male/male, male/female, or female/female. In other words, each person was made out of the components of two people. Everyone was happy with this arrangement and never really gave it much thought. But then God took a knife and cut everybody in half, right down the middle. So after that the world was divided just into male and female, the upshot being that people spend their time running around trying to locate their missing other half."
"Why did God do that?"
"Divide people into two? You got me. God works in mysterious ways. There's that whole wrath-of-God thing, all that excessive idealism and so on. My guess is it was punishment for something. Like in the Bible. Adam and Eve and the Fall and so forth."
"Original sin," I say.
"That's right, original sin." Oshima holds his pencil between his middle and index fingers, twirling it ever so slightly as if testing the balance. "Anyway, my point is that it's really hard for people to live their lives alone."
Back in the reading room I return to "The Tale of Abu-l-Hasan, the Wag," but my mind wanders away from the book. Male/male, male/female, and female/female?
At two o'clock I lay down my book and get up from the sofa to join the tour of the building. Miss Saeki, leading the tour, is a slim woman I'd guess is in her mid-forties.
She's a little on the tall side for someone of her generation. She's wearing a blue half-sleeved dress and a cream-colored cardigan, and has excellent posture. Her long hair is loosely tied back, her face very refined and intelligent looking, with beautiful eyes and a shadowy smile playing over her lips, a smile whose sense of completeness is indescribable. It reminds me of a small, sunny spot, the special patch of sunlight you find only in some remote, secluded place. My house back in Tokyo has one just like that in the garden, and ever since I was little I loved that bright little spot.
She makes a strong impression on me, making me feel wistful and nostalgic.
Wouldn't it be great if this were my mother? But I think the same thing every time I run across a charming, middle-aged woman. The chances that Miss Saeki's actually my mother are close to zero, I realize. Still, since I have no idea what my mother looks like, or even her name, the possibility does exist, right? There's nothing that rules it out completely.
The only other people taking the tour are a middle-aged couple from Osaka. The wife is short and pudgy with glasses as thick as a Coke bottle. The husband's a skinny guy with hair so stiff I bet he needs a wire brush to tame it. With narrow eyes and a broad forehead, he reminds me of some statue on a southern island, eyes fixed on the horizon. The wife keeps up a one-sided conversation, her husband just grunting out a monosyllable every once in a while to let her know he's still alive. Other than that, he gives the occasional nod to show he's properly impressed or else mutters some fragmentary comment I can't catch. Both of them are dressed more for mountain climbing than for visiting a library, each wearing a waterproof vest with a million pockets, sturdy lace-up boots, and hiking hats. Maybe this is how they always dress when they go on a trip, who knows. They seem okay—not that I'd want them as parents or anything—and I'm relieved not to be the only one taking the tour.
Miss Saeki begins by explaining the library's history—basically the same story Oshima told me. How they opened to the public the books and paintings the umpteenth head of the family had collected, devoting the library to the region's cultural
Similar Books
