I Am a Japanese Writer

A SUNDAY IN THE PROVINCES

MY BODY IN the bath. My mind on the ceiling. Once in a while they unite. And I come to the surface at the point of drowning. A spasm of life. I gasp for breath. Rub my thighs, arms and face hard, awakening the waterlogged cells. I have left the world of water; now I am in the world of air. Bent, my hands over my face, I try to recover my spirits before joining Basho on the road. I write the word “road” and immediately think of Kerouac — an automatic response. Basho did it centuries before he did, and on foot. But now he is on his own, without his friend Sora.

Sora, recovered now, was waiting for him in Osaki.Basho was so celebrated in Osaki that he felt as though he were attending his own funeral. Etsujin danced. The young disciples were joyful. Everyone at the samurai Joko’s house.Basho seemed to have regained fresh strength. It’s always strange to see someone in such good health when you know they’ve been dead for so long: the triumph of the mind.

I watch a sunbeam’s progress across the floor. The telephone close by. I like to read in the bath. I’d always rather read than write. I see myself walking the sunny streets of my childhood, holding my grandmother’s hand. A Sunday in the provinces. A man sitting quietly on his gallery in front of a large table covered with books, all of them open. He was leaning over them, as if contemplating a rich and varied buffet. He moved from book to book with equal excitement, a gourmand. Nothing around him seemed to matter, nothing outside of those appetizing dishes. He seemed so far from us, so beyond our reach — we could see him, but he was obviously elsewhere. My grandmother whispered to me, “He’s a reader!” Right away I thought, “That’s what I’ll do when I grow up. I’ll be a reader.” In the few photos from my teenage years, I always have a book in my hand. Even in the pictures of me talking with my classmates. The ones I run into now remind me of that habit of mine. There was no way, it seemed, to communicate with me. I always had my nose in a book. I have a photo that shows me lying on the floor, reading, with my mother in the background, ironing my school uniform. It must have been a Sunday afternoon. My mother must have urged me to go out, to the square or to the movies with my friends, but I wanted only to read. Back then, neither the sun nor the moon nor girls interested me. Only the journeys that books could provide. I could never get enough. I dreamed that, one day, I would enter a book and never come out. It finally happened with Basho.