An attempt at autobiography: from childhood to adolescence（３）


I believe it was during my first year of high school, between April 1969 and March 1970, when I received reading guidance from my modern Japanese teacher. (I was the one who went to him for advice.) I had always had a good impression of this teacher. After all, I still remember him, so I'm sure he has had a positive influence on my life. However, looking back at the time, there was a student movement going on at my high school, and in Kanazawa there were organizations called the Anti-War High School Federation and the Anti-War High School Association. This teacher was in a department similar to the student affairs office, and it seemed to me that he played a role in insulating students from politics. I've only just realized that his encouragement to me to read Shirakaba-ha literature and Romain Rolland could be interpreted in this way.


Modern Japanese classes were passionate, and I think he was a rather passionate teacher. I liked his simple way of speaking. He lovingly tried to shield our high school students from radical criticism of the government's involvement in the Vietnam War... I obediently followed his lead for about a year, but then I ended up going in the opposite direction. Perhaps it was because he tried to place me in an anachronistic state?


Now that I'm retired and can get by without an income, and my life of working and living is over, I feel like it's too early for my life to end, and that I'm creating space where I can drift away in this more lightweight present. I can't solidify an image of what life will be like after retirement. Even though one part of my life is definitely over, the future still feels so long that I can't see it. I should be able to live the way I want, but I can't start. Fortunately, my 72 years of life brought no particular challenges.


My father lived to be 83, so although he died in a minor accident, it wasn't particularly unfortunate. He didn't seem to have had any terrible experiences during the war. I belong to a generation that avoided war. I never experienced near-starvation, never pushed my body to its limits, never saw large amounts of blood or flesh scattered everywhere. Instead, strange as it may sound, I experienced more than enough of a lazy, everyday life that felt so peaceful and empty. Day after day nothing happened, and there were countless hours when I didn't feel like doing anything. There weren't many inspiring people around me. The student movement was pretty much the only inspiration I had in my life.

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An attempt at autobiography: from childhood to adolescence（１）

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In writing my autobiography, I have decided not to shy away from the dark reality of my own life, but to confront it head-on. Looking back, I must admit that my childhood and adolescence were extremely lonely. My father worked on Sundays, so he rarely took me out. In junior high, I became friends with a classmate named U. He felt sorry for me for not going anywhere, so he took me to his relatives in Ikoma during summer vacation. During elementary school, I went on "field trips" alone to the children's park or a small hill in the suburbs. Even during New Year's, the house was always gloomy, and I remember being trapped in a cold room, snowbound, and enduring the long winter ahead. On the rare occasions when I was taken to a department store, I was happy to receive Abekawa mochi (rice cakes) to eat when I returned home. The siblings next house each had their own celebrations for Hinamatsuri and Tango no Sekku , but my brothers had none. The toy gun I begged for was a w...
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When I was suffering from a sense of emptiness after retirement

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 As dawn breaks, I begin spending some time alone in the dimly lit room. Filled with time alone, even the simple routine of boiling water and making coffee feels exciting. Reading the newspaper or turning on the TV would ruin it. Being completely cut off from the outside world is a freedom. I loved the feeling of being enveloped in the room, neither cold nor hot, my body temperature and the air blending together. I briefly picture the lively morning atmosphere in Ulysses's "Tower," and mutter to myself that my wife is asleep, just like Molly. Listening carefully, I can hear the faint chirping of birds through the window. Morning hasn't yet begun. The children will soon be passing by my house on their way to school. Mr. Y's house, diagonally behind me, leaves early in the morning. My wife listens to the sound of their car in her slumber, but makes no attempt to wake up. It seems that slumbering is the best time for her. I woke up, got out of bed, and lingered in my...
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