3 to 4

by 太宰治

But while I continued to indulge in such sentimental and old-fashioned worries, the world was spinning at an imperceptible speed. In Europe, the Nazis were completely annihilated, and in the East, after the Battle of the Philippines, the Battle of Okinawa continued, and American planes were bombing mainland Japan. I knew almost nothing about military operations, but I had a young, sensitive antenna. This antenna was reliable and could quickly sense the melancholy and crisis of a nation. There was no logic. It was just intuition. From early summer this year, this antenna of mine had been sensing the sound of an unprecedentedly large tidal wave and trembling. However, I had no plan. I was just panicking.

I devoted myself to farm work. Under the hot sun, I swung a heavy hoe, digging up the field soil and planting sweet potato vines. Even now, I don't quite understand why I continued farm work so diligently every day. It seems there was also a somewhat desperate feeling, a hatred for my own worthless body, and a desire to inflict pain upon it. There were days when I would repeatedly mutter, "Die! Just die!" with a low groan every time I brought down the hoe. In the end, I planted six hundred sweet potato vines.

“You should really stop working in the fields. It’s a bit too much for your body,” my father told me at dinner. Three nights later, in the dead of night, as I was half-asleep and coughing incessantly, I felt something rumble in my chest. Ah, this isn’t good, I immediately realized, and woke up completely. I knew from a book that my chest would rumble before I coughed up blood. The moment I lay on my stomach, it hit me. With the metallic taste of something in my mouth, I scurried to the toilet. It was blood, after all. I stood in the toilet for a long time, but no more blood came out. I tiptoed to the kitchen, gargled with salt water, then washed my face and hands before returning to bed. As I held my breath to prevent coughing and lay still, I felt strangely calm. It even felt as if I had been waiting for a night like this for a long time. The word “heart’s desire” even came to mind. Tomorrow, I will continue working in the fields in silence. There’s no other way. I am a person with no other purpose in life. I must know my place. Ah, it would truly be better if I died a day sooner. While I still can, I should overwork my body to help increase food production, and then bid farewell to this world, lightening the burden on my country. That is the least I, a worthless invalid, can do to serve. Ah, I want to die soon.

The next morning, I woke up more than an hour earlier than usual, quickly folded my futon, and went out to the field without eating breakfast. Then I worked like crazy in the field. Looking back now, it feels like a dream from hell. I, of course, intended to never confess this illness to anyone until I died. I intended to secretly let the illness worsen without telling anyone. This kind of feeling is probably what they call decadent thought. That night, I snuck into the kitchen and drank a cup of rationed shochu from a teacup. And in the middle of the night, I coughed up blood again. I suddenly woke up, coughed lightly, and it came gushing out. This time, I didn't even have time to run to the toilet. I opened the glass door, jumped barefoot into the garden, and vomited. It felt like blood was gushing out from my throat endlessly, and from my eyes and ears. I must have vomited about two cups of blood before it stopped. As soon as I dug up the blood-stained soil with a stick to hide it, the air raid siren sounded. Looking back, that was Japan's, no, the world's last night air raid. With a dazed feeling, I crawled out of the air raid shelter, and that morning of August 15th was dawning faintly.

But even on that day, I still went out to the field. You would probably give a wry smile upon hearing that. But you, for me, it was no laughing matter. I truly felt like there was no other attitude I could take. There was nothing else I could do. After much deliberation, I resolved to die as a farmer. It would be my greatest wish to fall and die as a farmer in the field I cultivated with my own hands. Oh, whatever, I just want to die quickly. Overwhelmed by dizziness, chills, and sticky cold sweat, I was on the verge of losing consciousness, lying on my back in the thicket of the bean field, when my mother came to call me. "Wash your hands and feet quickly, and come to your father's living room." My mother, who always spoke with a smile, had a solemn expression like a different person.

I was made to sit in front of the radio in my father's living room, and at noon, I cried at the divine voice, tears streaming down my cheeks, and a strange light shone into my body, as if I had stepped into a different world, or as if I had been put on a large ship. When I suddenly realized it, I was no longer my old self.

I'm not so conceited as to believe I've attained enlightenment where life and death are one, but isn't dying and living much the same? Either way, it's equally painful. Many who rush to death are poseurs. My suffering until now was merely the effort to embellish my own performance. Let's abandon old affectations. In your letter, you used the phrase "heartbreaking resolve," but to me now, heartbreak seems like the expression of a handsome actor in a cheap play. It's beyond heartbreaking. It's already a false expression. The ship smoothly pulled away from the pier. And there must always be some faint hope in a ship's departure. I'm no longer dejected. I'm not worried about my chest illness either. Receiving such a sympathetic letter from you, I was actually bewildered. I now feel nothing and intend to simply entrust myself to this ship. That day, I immediately confided in my mother. I confided with a composure that even I found surprising.

"I coughed up blood last night. The same thing happened the night before."

There was no particular reason. It's not that I suddenly became afraid of losing my life. It's just that the forced affectation from yesterday disappeared.

My father chose this "Health Dojo" for me. As you know, my father is a mathematics professor. He might be good at calculating numbers, but he apparently has no experience managing money. Since we're always poor, I shouldn't expect a luxurious recuperation. This simple "Health Dojo" is perfect for me in that regard. I have no complaints whatsoever. They say I'll make a full recovery in six months. I haven't coughed up blood once since then. Not even bloody sputum. I've completely forgotten about my illness. The director here said that "forgetting about the illness" is the shortest path to a full recovery. He's a bit of an eccentric person. He named a tuberculosis sanatorium "Health Dojo," devised a special method of fighting the illness to cope with food and medicine shortages during the war, and encouraged many inpatients. Anyway, it's an unusual hospital. There are many interesting things, but I'll tell you about them slowly another time.

Please don't worry about me. Take care of yourself too.

August 25, Showa 20