grandfather’s,
Kokoro
by Sōseki Natsume. I love reading, as well you know, and it was only because of
Ojiisan.
I have told you about him, how we talked — or
Ojiisan
talked and I sat at the old man’s feet, listening. At least when I was younger I listened, when I still knew how to sit still and be obedient. Before I reached the age where I was in such a hurry to do things my own way.
I sat now on my heart-shaped island, cross-legged, and thought of him.
“A book called
Heart
?”
“Ah,” said my grandfather, “there are shades of meaning. It could refer to ‘the heart of things’ or ‘feelings.’” I remember how he patted my chest gently, where my heart was. “It can mean ‘Heart and mind’— many things.”
I remember frowning, shaking my head at this. What was the use of a word that meant many things? When you said “carburetor,” it meant carburetor. When you said “piston,” that’s what you were talking about. Even as a small boy, I was wild about automobiles and motorbikes — anything that roared and belched smoke. I remembered
Ojiisan
smiling at me kindly. “If only life worked as simply as an automobile. In books things can mean more than one thing, and that makes you
work
at the meaning.”
I stood and looked out at my new home. In honor of my
ojiisan,
and in honor of things not being as simple as automobiles, I called the island “Kokoro-Jima.”
It was in the cleft at the top of the heart that I discovered the lagoon. A wide barrier reef crossed the northern reach and turned the voluptuously curving V-shaped bay into a warm, sandy-bottomed shallow salt lake. I bathed there that night, tired from my trek along the island’s eastern flank. The moon was frozen in its fullness, heavy with light, and I lay on my back in the water staring up at the stars. I imagined you, Hisako, in my arms, the two of us naked in this paradise.
1 Isamu would seem to have tasted chocolate for the very first time. He had stumbled on a box of K rations, the “assault lunch,” by the sound of it, which also included caramels and chewing gum.
2 Probably water purification tablets!
I found other rations in the wreckage along the eastern beach of the heart-shaped island. The flat, brown-colored stick was a marvel, but some of the other food items made me wonder if the rumors were true about the Americans being monsters, for there were cans of vile, gelatinous meat, or so I supposed it to be, though the sight and smell of it made me retch. 1 There were also
bisuketto
I could barely crack with my teeth. 2 It was hardly food at all!
But, as I had known from the start, there was food growing on the island. And as I combed the beach, sifting through the debris of the war that I had slipped away from — drifted away from on a piece of broken ramp — I found a good sharp knife to cut down papaya and even a sword to open coconuts. I made a spade to dig up taro. The island provided.
Unfortunately, the island also provided food for the restless
jikininki.
These are not like the friendly children ghosts. No. I knew the
jikininki
for what they were, from the minute I laid eyes on them. Human-eaters. They were harmless to me as long as I stayed healthy, but they were repulsive and a reminder that death was here in this otherwise beautiful place.
“Here!” I shouted, hurling a can of the horrible meat at one of them that ventured too close. The ghoul recoiled and shuffled a few yards off, sniffing the air like a dog, although how it could smell anything with what was left of its decrepit nose was a mystery to me. The
jikininki
stepped from foot to foot as if the sand were too hot for its misshapen, cadaverous feet. “Eat up!” I yelled, pointing to the opened can at the ghost’s feet. The creature sniffed again, hissed, then turned and loped awkwardly away. I laughed and slapped my leg. This thing that ate putrid flesh — even it wouldn’t touch the canned meat.
It was the
jikininki
that led me to the
Kokoro
by Sōseki Natsume. I love reading, as well you know, and it was only because of
Ojiisan.
I have told you about him, how we talked — or
Ojiisan
talked and I sat at the old man’s feet, listening. At least when I was younger I listened, when I still knew how to sit still and be obedient. Before I reached the age where I was in such a hurry to do things my own way.
I sat now on my heart-shaped island, cross-legged, and thought of him.
“A book called
Heart
?”
“Ah,” said my grandfather, “there are shades of meaning. It could refer to ‘the heart of things’ or ‘feelings.’” I remember how he patted my chest gently, where my heart was. “It can mean ‘Heart and mind’— many things.”
I remember frowning, shaking my head at this. What was the use of a word that meant many things? When you said “carburetor,” it meant carburetor. When you said “piston,” that’s what you were talking about. Even as a small boy, I was wild about automobiles and motorbikes — anything that roared and belched smoke. I remembered
Ojiisan
smiling at me kindly. “If only life worked as simply as an automobile. In books things can mean more than one thing, and that makes you
work
at the meaning.”
I stood and looked out at my new home. In honor of my
ojiisan,
and in honor of things not being as simple as automobiles, I called the island “Kokoro-Jima.”
It was in the cleft at the top of the heart that I discovered the lagoon. A wide barrier reef crossed the northern reach and turned the voluptuously curving V-shaped bay into a warm, sandy-bottomed shallow salt lake. I bathed there that night, tired from my trek along the island’s eastern flank. The moon was frozen in its fullness, heavy with light, and I lay on my back in the water staring up at the stars. I imagined you, Hisako, in my arms, the two of us naked in this paradise.
1 Isamu would seem to have tasted chocolate for the very first time. He had stumbled on a box of K rations, the “assault lunch,” by the sound of it, which also included caramels and chewing gum.
2 Probably water purification tablets!
I found other rations in the wreckage along the eastern beach of the heart-shaped island. The flat, brown-colored stick was a marvel, but some of the other food items made me wonder if the rumors were true about the Americans being monsters, for there were cans of vile, gelatinous meat, or so I supposed it to be, though the sight and smell of it made me retch. 1 There were also
bisuketto
I could barely crack with my teeth. 2 It was hardly food at all!
But, as I had known from the start, there was food growing on the island. And as I combed the beach, sifting through the debris of the war that I had slipped away from — drifted away from on a piece of broken ramp — I found a good sharp knife to cut down papaya and even a sword to open coconuts. I made a spade to dig up taro. The island provided.
Unfortunately, the island also provided food for the restless
jikininki.
These are not like the friendly children ghosts. No. I knew the
jikininki
for what they were, from the minute I laid eyes on them. Human-eaters. They were harmless to me as long as I stayed healthy, but they were repulsive and a reminder that death was here in this otherwise beautiful place.
“Here!” I shouted, hurling a can of the horrible meat at one of them that ventured too close. The ghoul recoiled and shuffled a few yards off, sniffing the air like a dog, although how it could smell anything with what was left of its decrepit nose was a mystery to me. The
jikininki
stepped from foot to foot as if the sand were too hot for its misshapen, cadaverous feet. “Eat up!” I yelled, pointing to the opened can at the ghost’s feet. The creature sniffed again, hissed, then turned and loped awkwardly away. I laughed and slapped my leg. This thing that ate putrid flesh — even it wouldn’t touch the canned meat.
It was the
jikininki
that led me to the
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