student’s work. Everyone called this the Blue Seal, and when you got the Blue Seal, you could go home for the day. Since I wanted nothing except permission to leave quickly and go to Mr. Tachikawa’s house, I applied myself with fervor to copying the teacher’s calligraphy. But you can’t love what you don’t like.
About half a year later I asked my father if I could quit the calligraphy lessons. With my brother’s assistance, I succeeded in getting permission to stop. I don’t remember my brother’s exact words, but he had a very logical understanding of the vague dissatisfaction I felt with the teacher’s writing. He came to the conclusion that it was perfectly natural I should feel as I did. I remember I sat in amazement and listened to him as if he were talking about someone else.
When I left the calligraphy school, I was still at the stage of writing four-character poems on large sheets of paper in block-style script. To this day I’m very good at that kind of calligraphy. But if I have to write anything smaller than that or write characters in cursive script, it’s no good at all.
In later years I was told by an older colleague in the movie world that “Kuro-san’s writing isn’t writing, it’s pictures.”
Murasaki and Shōnagon
WHEN I DECIDED to write this thing resembling an autobiography, I got together with Uekusa Keinosuke to talk about the past. On that occasion he told me about how, on the hilly street where Kuroda Primary School was situated, called Hattorizaka, I once told him: “You are Murasaki Shikibu and I am Sei Shōnagon.” I have no recollection whatever of having said this.
In the first place, it’s not possible that we—in primary school—could have been reading Murasaki’s
Tale of Genji
or Sei Shōnagon’s
Pillow Book
, both written around the middle of the Heian period (794–1185). But now that I think about it carefully, Mr. Tachikawa had told us a great deal about these classics of early Japanese literature during our visits, which took place after my calligraphy lessons. Uekusa was generally there, waiting for me, and we spent many pleasant hours with our former teacher. So I think this exchange between Uekusa and me could have occurred as we walked home together down the hill between Denzu-in and the Edogawa River.
Even so, the idea of comparing ourselves to Murasaki Shikibu and Sei Shōnagon was outrageously conceited. Yet I have some inkling of why this childish utterance might have taken place: At that time Uekusa’s compositions were long narratives, while mine were always very short descriptions of impressions.
In any event, when it comes to friends from that time of my life, Uekusa and I were together so much that he is the only one I remember anything about. But our home lives were entirely different: His was a townsman’s household, while mine had a samurai atmosphere. So when we sit back and talk over old times, the things he remembers well have a completely different character from those I recall.
For example, Uekusa retains a very vivid impression of the time he caught a glimpse of his mother’s white calves above the hem of her kimono. He also remembers that the prettiest girl in school was the girls’ group leader of our class, that she lived in the Ōtaki area on the Edogawa River; he remembers her name and tells me, “You seemed to be interested in her, Kuro-chan.” I have no recollection at all of these kinds of things.
What I remember has to do with getting better at kendō and becoming a sub-captain in my third term of the fifth grade at primary school. And how as a reward my father brought me a suit of black kendō armor. And I remember that in a fencing match I beat five opponents in succession with a reverse body twist. I remember that the captain of the opposing team was the son of a fabric dyer and when we were in close combat he gave off a terrific odor of dark-blue dye. For some reason, all of my recollections betray this martial
About half a year later I asked my father if I could quit the calligraphy lessons. With my brother’s assistance, I succeeded in getting permission to stop. I don’t remember my brother’s exact words, but he had a very logical understanding of the vague dissatisfaction I felt with the teacher’s writing. He came to the conclusion that it was perfectly natural I should feel as I did. I remember I sat in amazement and listened to him as if he were talking about someone else.
When I left the calligraphy school, I was still at the stage of writing four-character poems on large sheets of paper in block-style script. To this day I’m very good at that kind of calligraphy. But if I have to write anything smaller than that or write characters in cursive script, it’s no good at all.
In later years I was told by an older colleague in the movie world that “Kuro-san’s writing isn’t writing, it’s pictures.”
Murasaki and Shōnagon
WHEN I DECIDED to write this thing resembling an autobiography, I got together with Uekusa Keinosuke to talk about the past. On that occasion he told me about how, on the hilly street where Kuroda Primary School was situated, called Hattorizaka, I once told him: “You are Murasaki Shikibu and I am Sei Shōnagon.” I have no recollection whatever of having said this.
In the first place, it’s not possible that we—in primary school—could have been reading Murasaki’s
Tale of Genji
or Sei Shōnagon’s
Pillow Book
, both written around the middle of the Heian period (794–1185). But now that I think about it carefully, Mr. Tachikawa had told us a great deal about these classics of early Japanese literature during our visits, which took place after my calligraphy lessons. Uekusa was generally there, waiting for me, and we spent many pleasant hours with our former teacher. So I think this exchange between Uekusa and me could have occurred as we walked home together down the hill between Denzu-in and the Edogawa River.
Even so, the idea of comparing ourselves to Murasaki Shikibu and Sei Shōnagon was outrageously conceited. Yet I have some inkling of why this childish utterance might have taken place: At that time Uekusa’s compositions were long narratives, while mine were always very short descriptions of impressions.
In any event, when it comes to friends from that time of my life, Uekusa and I were together so much that he is the only one I remember anything about. But our home lives were entirely different: His was a townsman’s household, while mine had a samurai atmosphere. So when we sit back and talk over old times, the things he remembers well have a completely different character from those I recall.
For example, Uekusa retains a very vivid impression of the time he caught a glimpse of his mother’s white calves above the hem of her kimono. He also remembers that the prettiest girl in school was the girls’ group leader of our class, that she lived in the Ōtaki area on the Edogawa River; he remembers her name and tells me, “You seemed to be interested in her, Kuro-chan.” I have no recollection at all of these kinds of things.
What I remember has to do with getting better at kendō and becoming a sub-captain in my third term of the fifth grade at primary school. And how as a reward my father brought me a suit of black kendō armor. And I remember that in a fencing match I beat five opponents in succession with a reverse body twist. I remember that the captain of the opposing team was the son of a fabric dyer and when we were in close combat he gave off a terrific odor of dark-blue dye. For some reason, all of my recollections betray this martial
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