"Bring me the two most precious things in the city,"
The Happy Prince－ Oscar Wilde
Prometheus took the fire from the heavens and gave it to humanity. For that, Zeus punished him. Both he and Jesus loved the human. In Greek mythology and in Jesus, the divine beings who gave their love to mankind were punished. The Happy Prince would be Wilde’s most Christian work, with the hope of converting him to Catholicism. Retarded on his way to Egypt, the swallow attempted to rest at the feet of the prince’s statue. Then the statue of the prince wept――.
The reason the swallow was 6 weeks after the others was because he was in love.
He asked her Shall I love you? She nodded yes. “Will you come away with me?” he said finally to her; but the Reed shook her head, she was so attached to her home. She was making out with the wind. The swallows said goodbye and went away.
Before his birth, the prince was beautiful like an angel. He was called the ” Happy Prince ” and became a statue. The prince, who did not know the outside of its walls, passed away happy.
When the prince found himself outside the walls, he despaired of the poverty and lowliness of the world. The prince asked the swallows to take to the poor the jewels and gold which decorated him.
At last, the prince had nothing left to give. The swallows were exhausted. The swallow finally kissed the prince and they both died. The prince’s body was melted, but for some reason his heart was not melted, so that he was discarded with the corpses of the swallows. God said, “Bring me the two most precious things in the city,” An angel picked the two souls and led them to the kingdom of heaven. In the picture books I read in my childhood, the love of swallows in the first half of the story and the Christianity of the last half were omitted.
The scene of poor people on a winter day reminds us of Andersen “the little match girl”, but the happy prince has a match-selling girl. The last person the swallows give the gold foil to is the matchgirl. Swallows are monogamous and raise their youngsters in couples. Swallows transport their food over 100 times, so this story makes ecological sense.
It is believed that the prince, who had never known outside the walls, died and never became an adult because he remained a prince, a title he held. Oscar Wilde also refers to children’s sacredness in his other book, The Selfish Giant. The giant had a lovely garden among its walls. With the giant gone, the children came to play. When the giants found them, they sent the children away. Then Spring stopped coming to the garden. The giants let the children in. This suggests a profound belief that children will go into the kingdom of heaven, as we have read in Matthew 18:3-5.
If you imagine a swallow flying around for the poor, the image recalls a street and a space. Time is a space, the analogy of Bergson appeared to indicate. Time is not linear, nor is it ephemeral. The flight of the swallows is repetitive, linear, planar. The swallows and the prince lived in an interior time different from the “exterior” time of the adults who had the prince who had lost his ornaments. Their kind-hearted deeds are different from the regular time. It is durée pure; They lived in the ambivalence of transmutation and preservation. How difficult and costly it is to love a human being. This is demonstrated by the description of the impoverished town and its inhabitants.
The prince was wealth itself. It was too big to share with the people. That’s why he needed the little swallows to get past a like needle hole. As it is more difficult for the wealthy to enter the kingdom of heaven than to go through the eye of a needle (Matthew 19:24), they begin their preparation for the narrow gate. (Luke 13:23,24) But the prince said to the swallows that misery was not a mystery. They will be carried by angels.
A most beautiful soul.
When the pure presence of the soul appears in the world of writing, a light comes into view.
It was as if, with the association of dawn in the mind, the beautiful sunrise revealed the presence of God. That the self-serving dialogue of the poor streets would fade into the distance；Our immersion rises into the kingdom of heaven.
When I was a little girl, I never wanted to be a stopped swallow；I wanted to be the swallow that ignored the prince and flew to warmer ground. But I realized what it meant to be a swallow that had nowhere else to fly but Sacred love．I thought of the Japanese words of prayer before Communion: Leaving you behind, who will I go to?
Oscar Wilde – The Happy Prince
Leaving you behind, who will I go to? Japanese Mass
my soul shall be healed English Mass
『Brief Lives: Oscar Wilde』by Richard Canning Hesperus Press Ltd.
ツバメが他のツバメよりも６週間も遅れたのは、ツバメは恋をしていたからだ。相手はReed（葦）でした。Shall I love you（君のことを好きになってもいいかい？）と始まった恋、彼女はうんと頷きました。一緒に遠くへ行かないか、というと彼女は首を横に振りました。風と浮気性の彼女、ツバメは彼女に別れを告げて旅立ちました。金の銅像の王子は生まれ変わる前は天使のような存在でした。塀の外を知らない王子は、幸福のまま死にました。彼は「幸福の王子」と呼ばれ、銅像になった。塀の外を知った王子は世の貧しさと卑しさに絶望していました。王子は貧しい人達に自分を飾り立てている宝石や金をツバメに運んでもらいました。
La vulnérabilité des choses précieuses est belle parce que la vulnérabilité est une marque d’existence.
Something of value is vulnerable and helpless, and it's beautiful. Because their weakness is a sign of their existence.
La Pesanteur et Grâce（Coincidences）
“The right way to write is to write like you’re translating…The right way to write is to write as though you were translating, without adding anything”, wrote Simone Weil in a letter to Gustave Dupont.
Just as there is always an idea in the world of writing, there is also an invisible beauty in the imagery that spreads out of writing. You must see what is unnecessary, even if it is painful，The evidence for existence is inside, the scraped remains.
However, it must seize one of God’s graces: the healing of time. This is a solitary task, but mixture of emotions there is a given. I did not think much of the fact that a certain monk asked for salvation from the Catholics before it was ordained. In her difficult circumstances, she first sought help from the church. So, in contrast to Catholic doctrine, it was rejected. After her ordination, the woman remained popular for her humorous vision of human Kleshas. An older man who respected her and was also a writer encouraged me to visit her. He said that she had written responses to a great deal of public criticism and that she would be tolerant and would accept. When I was there, I was told they would look at my manuscript, but since I was Catholic, they would not.
After the result, I kept asking myself wonder to oneself in the cold February air.
My soul crashed then, but day after day I became increasingly able to understand the situation in which I found myself in this difficult situation.
I wondered who had alienated her when the one she had asked for was not a man but a god.
Those who have not saved her in her time of need demand that the soul be reconciled.
In fact, as I did, a man in distress is in a very difficult situation, and the words that come out of his body are sometimes incoherent and You can’t judge what emerges from the body.
Can we open the door for one soul without being deceived by words and appearances?
It is not easy. People despair of being forsaken in a difficult situation because they think their soul has been forsaken. Last year the Catholic Church and the bishops helped me through a very difficult situation. If I look back, there was no benefit to them in accepting me then, but they did. When I think about what that means, I understand. I imagine myself in another parallel line, where I didn’t get the relief of being saved. Some will benefit from it and some will not.
A narrow gate, a door that rarely opens, a “crossing “.
It’s always in the fate. We would like to eliminate it as much as possible, but coincidences are created.
Always a series of “coincidences” becomes destiny.
We need the “theology of liberation” that originated in South American Catholicism.
Neither the clergy nor the laity should be the door which closes between a man in trouble and Jesus. In moments of distress, the soul makes its own record and Great reconciliation takes time for the soul.
This time is given by the Lord. The vaguely given time is inorganic, but the given time of God is sure. Knowing weakness and suffering the reconciliation of the soul, this is the time of God.
The image of a man, a thought that I, the other, cannot imagine from its trivial aspect，I think of words that I record time and thought. If I could understand every casual look, the light that comes through the window, the changing emotions, I would feel happy. So I realize what I think is beautiful and what it means to be born. I love everything I love. I hate it, but I love it.
Rilke’s “My darling”, Das ist mein Fenster, “This is my window”, starts with the inevitable awakening of her inner self and a look at the unconscious exterior. This is Eben bin ich so sanft erwacht… “I just woke up”, a gentle, relaxing moment, like a sprinkling of white powder.
“In the day-to-day life of a person like the window, “Bis wohin reicht mein Leben” (Where will my life reach?), and the eternity of the night and the universe, and the dream.
Ich könnte meinen, alleswäre noch Ich ringsum; (I feel that everything around me is still me), and thus loses the frontier between the interior and the exterior. Is both a bond and an obstacle to the outer world in this poem? She’s falling for him. and across the side world whereas his feelings and awareness of him as “objectivity from outside the window” But this is her reflection. Her existence is “inside” the window. Whether expectant or anxious, the waking ‘now’ is simply her being inside the open window.
I don’t know the details of the “I” relationship with that other person, but the fact that the other person is in my heart means that my beloved is not a quiet presence standing in the depths of my consciousness. My analysis of the poem is that it is a window on the outside world, without any intervention or controller (e.g. God) between ‘me’ and the ‘loved one’.
The original reality is the margin in which the poem ends. The world of empty margins, where nothing is written, exists for the poet independent of his own spirit, and when the poet enters into the spirit of a person, It means it changes the reader’s vison. If the window becomes special as of this day, it is a success.
It is beautiful to see the interior growth and the interior finesse.
I believe that a beautiful poem is beautiful, even in its borders.
That is my window. A moment ago
I woke up so softly.
I thought I would float.
To where does my life extend,
and where does the night begin?
I could think that everything
were still me all around;
translucent as a crystal’s
depths, darkened, dumb.
I could also contain the stars
inside me still; so large
does my heart appear to me; so gladly
it released him away again
whom I began perhaps to love,
perhaps began to hold.
Strange, as something never-described
my fate looks at me.
For what am I laid under this
fragrant as a meadow,
moved here and there,
calling out at the same time and afraid
that someone will hear the call,
and determined to find my downfall
R. M. Rilke
Die Liebende （ Rainer Maria Rilke ) 訳・Chris
Das ist mein Fenster. Ebenbin ich so sanft erwacht.
Ich dachte, ich würde schweben.
Bis wohin reicht mein Leben,und wo beginnt die Nacht?
Ich könnte meinen, alleswäre noch Ich ringsum;
durchsichtig wie eines Kristalles Tiefe, verdunkelt, stumm.
Ich könnte auch noch die Sterne fassen in mir, so groß
scheint mir mein Herz; so gerne ließ es ihn wieder los
den ich vielleicht zu lieben,vielleicht zu halten begann.
Fremd, wie niebeschrieben sieht mich mein Schicksal an.
Was bin ich unter diese Unendlichkeit gelegt,
duftend wie eine Wiese, hin und her bewegt,
rufend zugleich und bange, daß einer den Ruf vernimmt,
Welcher Lebendige, Sinnbegabte, liebt nicht vor allen Wundererscheinungen des verbreiteten Raums um ihn, das allerfreuliche Licht – mit seinen Farben, seinen Stralen und Wogen; seiner milden Allgegenwart, als weckender Tag.
Wie des Lebens innerste Seele athmet es der rastlosen Gestirne Riesenwelt, und schwimmt tanzend in seiner blauen Flut – athmet es der funkelnde, ewigruhende Stein, die sinnige, saugende Pflanze, und das wilde, brennende, vielgestaltete Thier – vor allen aber der herrliche Fremdling mit den sinnvollen Augen, dem schwebenden Gange, und den zartgeschlossenen, tonreichen Lippen.
My dear, I implore you, will not die. Blind affection, as it calls itself，If you die, your Vacancy will be at my side forever.
Osamu Dazai, The Defeat of Thought
Butterflies passing through the sea lie on the surface of the sea. And the wings, weighed by the water, fly away. Even if the little existence by the side of death disappeared, the ocean would only stir. The scent of the waves swallows you up, and Garcia Marquez compares the sea of dead bodies with the scent of roses. The smell of the tide is mixed with the smell of the rose and the perfume of the dream rose becomes thicker with the dark at sunset.
It falls asleep, the sun’s reverie.
Only the sound of the wave remains, and reverberation attempts. Nobody goes looking for the body of the butterfly.
Just the right amount of desperation, Debussy’s music called La Mer.
2018 was the centenary of Debussy’s death,
In the end, consciousness didn’t move a finger.
Psychology is the study of life and death, and the mechanism of mind has been proven and tested many times. Even what is natural to the mind is still at the research stage.
The research is released and then buried, In our epoch, Christianity was strong in its total affirmation of life. Doctrines existed as doctrines, the assumption that God’s love existed unchecked, and yet my heart was dry.
As for love, as far as human love is concerned, it is deduced in psychology through scores and circumstances. However, he may still be interested in me, he may still look at me sexually, but an inner love is unimpeded as faith. It was more certain that this supreme thing was God’s love than man’s ever-changing love.
Believe or not believe, the condition exists as a good response apart from consciousness.
Should I ask for the love of God to heal me, or the love of a man to heal me?
I couldn’t believe it either.
First of all, I couldn’t form words with my consciousness any more, if not in fragments.
Keeping it hidden, I kept quiet about how I couldn’t write my work anymore. In the middle of all this, I lied, thinking of my dried-up love.
I took a pill mid-way through the meeting，Another day I had to take a pill before I got to the hotel.
I paid extra for the water，The shell of the drug resembled this butterfly which was never searched. All secrets lie in my belly, devouring me alone.
There was an earthquake of magnitude 6 in June 2018. The earth quaked and I had no idea what had happened. I thought I could die, but I didn’t call the guy I was dating back then.
Because it would hurt me if he walked out on me，I avoided it because I was scared of the result. I should have said goodbye before.
Ugliness and malice exist in human love but love also includes believing. Love between human beings falls and becomes sinful, but the love of God goes beyond human understanding.
Human beings believe in protection，Human beings choose their own selves rather than the love of others, but God does not.
Psychology, philosophy, this unholy notion that without this ugliness, there would be no vitality in life. We are raised by fate, so we mix them together and, blushing through our enthusiasm, we are still precious today.
Each time I repeat a bit of despair, a smile fills my face and Little by little, we become increasingly convinced of our limitations.
――The angels come and mock us because we are not so happy in heaven.
Only today, 3 years later, did I read part of the suicide note. I was writing as if I didn’t hate anyone, when I really did. And the writing was terrible.
I can understand that my language was broken and that I could not write any more. It seems like I’ve been in a desperate situation, but I couldn’t write, not just today, I couldn’t write long ago.
It was in October, always warm and damp, the day of the International Mass. I was afraid of something, afraid of something, and hate spread from one form to another.
My friend cleaned the bloodstain and Adam the cat came. So I thought he was an angel. I remembered Lucifer that day, but he was missing. Adam had many blessings. Adam, why I need him forever brings me back to that day.
We often see people who have been victimized by others reveal their worst days when they succeed. People say” ” I took revenge on those who discriminated against me, I overcame the fact that I was oppressed” Well, people usually connect to their worst days and So we stay away from the best.
Quiet tames the bad days, but the best days are crushed by the bad days，Tranquility tames the worst days, but the best days are crushed by the worst days.
On this day in 2021, I did not dare choose any part of the Bible. I chose those words by Osamu Dazai, who says that if you die, I will miss the empty space. I was under the impression that his love for me was a divine word. Perhaps this is what I wanted to hear，But I couldn’t hear that.
I’ve been helped by so many people that I don’t know who thanks everyday.
I don’t know where I’m going since the most unwise day.
And that voice reading gave a beautiful voice to my long-lost world. It has been a long and thoughtful journey. I want to rest beside this beautiful voice now, so that the worst days are far away. I want to write something that will use that beautiful voice. The butterfly has awoken from sleep. I promised you a trip, and I’ll go someplace with you.
Readers and writers
To the poorest talent
2016 I called an ambulance for chest pains.
2017 I was constantly on stabilizers, anti-vertigo, and various medications.
2018 Words became choppy in my consciousness.
2021 Recovering on heart and liver medication.(Stop taking psychotropic medication and change to heart medication such as Vasolan )
It was Dazai Osamu who wrote this suicide note: “I can no longer write”
I had no awareness of the words, but I knew them.
It’s not that I couldn’t think about a story, it’s just that there was a time when my words went missing. I don’t mean whether it was a psychological problem or a side effect of the medicine，It took me a while to settle everything without it getting too heavy.
Even after my Catholic conversion, in some of the best days of my life but I got flash backs from that day.
For instance, when people succeed, they expose the worst days of their lives.
I declare that I am overcome.
In my best days, I can’t stop thinking back to my worst days. For me, in the past three years, there has not been one day that I have been able to really rejoice, except for Adam.
I want to reorganize my articles and, in a number of ways, reconstruct them.
Starting with him doing the readings.
I would like to thank everyone for their help. Thank you very much.
The poorest talent, from the gospel. ” Blessed are the poor in spirit”.
je suis la préférée de sa vie
I am his favourite part of life
L'histoire de ma vie n'existe pas. Ça n'existe pas. IL n'y a jamais de centre.
My life story doesn't exist, there is no such thing. There is no core to create a story.
Once the storm has passed, the last tense becomes beautiful. Love history is purified and unpleasant things disappear. Even the cruel and sorrowful parts vanish. Among them, the first love of a woman is most likely to fade away. Probably it is not even “forgotten”, as one would expect a form to be lying on the banks of a river, but it has disappeared as if it had never existed.I regret that I did not make a special note of the memory of the first love to writers, myself included. Duras’s “L’ amant” is his first love, but for a long time the protagonist is unaware of it. In my experience, men often remember the story of their first love. I don’t remember much, honestly. I don’t know when it was love, but then there’s a haze when I try to remember it.
I was dating a guy a few years ago and he asked me about my first love, but I have a semi-questioning narrative tone mixed with my English. I kept saying “maybe” as if it was not my experience. This usage is normally taboo in English-speaking countries. it’s strange to say “Maybe” when it’s your own memory. Nevertheless, when it comes to my memories, it’s “maybe”.
He remembered his first girlfriend so clearly. It seemed that just by listening to him, the woman would come to life. I could even see them kissing with the scent of aquanaut. I was watching the zoetrope-like afterimages he was showing me. His memories are untainted and in constant motion.
I said, ” good memory,” and he said, “Chris too?” I said, “Maybe”
When he kept asking me about the past, I said, “Is it such a big deal? I vividly remember the sound of my fork dropping on my plate. Up to this point, I had always smiled. But in the flow of words I recall, there is no smile. I guess this is my tone of voice now. The truth is that I was laughing and talking, but now I begin to feel sad.
On the metro train on the way home, I reflected on the beautiful afterimage of him. The ” Girlfriend ” he talks about loves him all the time, and it makes my own heart burn. It wasn’t jealousy, but perhaps a love for the way he remembered her. At this moment, I remembered “L’ Amant” written by Marguerite Duras. I felt defeated that she remembered her first love, with an overseas Chinese, which I suppose is a talent for a writer. The first time a woman is with someone, she probably doesn’t remember it. The “pure ego” is a difficult thing. Once a relationship has lost its way, its way of functioning, once it has been positioned as ” not to love “, it does not allow the conceptual manifestation of having loved to take place. I kept forgetting for the sake of the new guy. I had to forget as a break.
The characters in this novel world have no names. This man and woman seem to have expressed that they will not leave their names in history.
The girl’s family, tricked into poverty, lives in French Indochina. There she meets an older man, an overseas Chinese, with whom she has an affair. The man tells the girl that he loves her, even though he has been contracted to marry another woman. But the girl tells him that it was for money. After the wedding, the girl waits in the “common bedroom” for him to come again, but he never comes. Thanks to his “support money” she is able to return to her hometown and notices that his car is parked there.
She rests her elbows on the handrail, just as when she first met him.
When the girl realizes that she has loved an overseas Chinese, the scene on the ship enters the minds of many readers.
With the realization that “I have lost confidence that I did not love him”, She was on the ship, not with him. Chopin’s waltz No. 10 in B minor, OP69-2, played on the cruise ship, is the piece that led the protagonist to give up the piano, but it seems to have finally run its course for her.
It frustrates the performer to be unable to play the piano, even though there is a complete score. But in the world of writing, she has completed Chopin’s music. She has succeeded in making her readers listen. More than anyone else, more beautiful than any pianist, she has made Chopin heard.
The word “image” appears frequently in the book, and Duras uses it to describe all the glances and memories of her girlhood. In French, the word image can also mean a reproduction, an exact copy. The girl in the work is also a likeness of herself. In the film, a scene in which she puts her foot on the fence of a ship is very impressive.
Regardless of human sentimentality and the search for love, the Mekong River flows unchanged, passing trade and people. The water has no ego, no desire, it lives and it dies. The Mekong has always existed, without memory being able to contract eternity. As we grow old, we may forget. Remembrance, the ship, seldom departs. The ship is a symbol of substance. The girl’s elbows (or, in the film, her feet) on the fence of the boat are evidence of the reality of the image.
Why did Duras write about his memories as a teenager after all these years? Speculation and reader curiosity about why Duras wrote about his teenage memories after all these years became the wind in the girl’s hair.
She had succeeded in preserving her first love. Like the success of a long sea journey.
For the girl, God’s revelation was on the ships.
There is no scaffolding in the nature of immersion. Hiding from each other, a shady relationship was a world of disconnection between two people. We never introduced them to our friends, we never told our families. I was running down the stairs to the underground, avoiding the crowds, following the many open doors with wide eyes, when I heard a ring on my earpiece.
How happy I was to hear him say, “I had a great time”, and my feet moved away from the doors, as if to break away from the crowd. Leaning against the platform wall, my feet hot in my heels, and waited for his reply. ‘I’m worried about you, call me when you get home,” he said, so I got on the next train.
Pleasant memories become melancholic stories at the end of the relationship.
Like the girl who said, “I’m old at eighteen”
The first love I tried to tell him about was the tale of how I eventually became a woman. I wonder if there is a moment in a man’s life when becomes a man, I have never heard of it until now.
I had nothing to say except that I had become a woman.I couldn’t say, “I’d choke if I remembered the man “, and my hand slackened involuntarily and I dropped my fork.
That’s all I remember sometimes. Love between humans can hurt people to death .It gives and receives wounds, and when it is over, the tears are more for the good memories than for the sad ones.
Melancholy narratives are more than words, they are dreams.
Unbound by the confines of words, the heart is a dream that becomes an image.
I always dream that one day I will be able to tell a story that is only sad now, but that it was love. I keep dreaming about how a sad story can become love.
je suis la préférée de sa vie
L'histoire de ma vie n'existe pas. Ça n'existe pas. IL n'y a jamais de centre.
Do not grieve, do not mourn, Ananda. We have together taught. I have taught that all that is beloved and dear is a being that is parted and separated. How can we say, "O, don't tear it down," when it is born, exists, is formed, and is broken? It cannot be so. Thou hast done a good deed, O Ananda. You have done a fine deed. You will be pure in no time.
Today, the 17th of August, is the anniversary of the death of a friend. Sometimes I wonder if the soul of a friend misses this world, if he misses the world that we talked about as being boring together.
I sometimes talk to Buddhists, including him. “Do not grieve, do not mourn, Ananda. We have together taught”
We have preached this together.”
At that time, I tell them that I like the words of the Buddha. Ananda was suffering from separation from love and Buddha was enlightened. This contrast is typical of Buddhism.
He was sitting alone with his macbook in his favorite cafe.
He didn’t tell me anything about his physical weakness.
He didn’t tell me anything about his health.
After his death, the songs he wrote were not accessible by password.
I joined Mixcloud for his songs, but his songs had disappeared.
I still get Mixcloud notifications that I haven’t unsubscribed from.
I get Facebook birthday notifications and his age keeps increasing.
I had been posting on his timeline every year on his birthday.
I had to recreate the old account myself and I couldn’t find him.
When I was told that he had passed away, I tried to find traces of him as if in a panic, and I felt impatient that I couldn’t do it while he was still alive. There was not much to report this year.
In the years since he died, there has been nothing to report.
And even now I have nothing to tell him.
Because it was not the future he wanted.
We talked about the future of the world, of Japan, and I was pessimistic and he was hopeful.
The world was not what he had said it would be.
I wondered if his soul would still love this world.
I thought so.
In faith, it is the dead who know the facts about the gods and Buddhas with whom they have talked.
In my letter to him I wrote “In a letter to him I wrote: “You have gone to the answer“
More than the words of our prayers, more than the reach of our hearts and hands, the dead are always beyond the imagination of the living.
The dead are always beyond the imagination of the living. I remember him laughing and saying.
“I want a chance.”
I never thought that a few words could leave such a deep impression on me.
The everyday, always ordinary, can become a lifetime of scars and sayings in relation to others.
The cancer that had consumed him as a young man took him away as speedily as it could.
"Was the author of the Book of Revelation really not under the influence, so to speak, of a being who was in conflict with Jesus Christ? of the 'Schatten', as it is called in psychology" C. G. Jung, "The Aion".
A great sign appeared in heaven: a woman clothed with the sun, with the moon under her feet and a crown of twelve stars on her head. She was pregnant and cried out in pain as she was about to give birth. Then another sign appeared in heaven: an enormous red dragon with seven heads and ten horns and seven crowns on its heads. Its tail swept a third of the stars out of the sky and flung them to the earth. The dragon stood in front of the woman who was about to give birth, so that it might devour her child the moment he was born. 5She gave birth to a son, a male child, who “will rule all the nations with an iron scepter.”And her child was snatched up to God and to his throne. The woman fled into the wilderness to a place prepared for her by God, where she might be taken care of for 1,260 days.
Then war broke out in heaven. Michael and his angels fought against the dragon, and the dragon and his angels fought back. But he was not strong enough, and they lost their place in heaven. The great dragon was hurled down—that ancient serpent called the devil, or Satan, who leads the whole world astray. He was hurled to the earth, and his angels with him.
Then I heard a loud voice in heaven say:
“Now have come the salvation and the power
and the kingdom of our God,
and the authority of his Messiah.
For the accuser of our brothers and sisters,
who accuses them before our God day and night,
has been hurled down……
On August 15, 2014, Assumption of the Blessed Virgin，I was baptized as a Catholic. Most people are baptized in the spring at Easter, but this was the only year that the baptismal service was also held in the summer. I had planned to attend a baptismal course with my fiancé at the time, but I went to the church he had chosen in June, just to see what it was like. While I was taking baptism alone, I had to attend a year-long study group, but the priest in charge at the time said he could fit me into the baptismal service in August. I asked my fiancé to let me in without asking for confirmation. At that time I didn’t know if it was an invitation from God or a betrayal, but I didn’t know that my relationship with him would deteriorate.
He intended to continue to love the Bible without being baptized, But I was convinced that he would come later, and I found myself with a bunch of lilies on August 15.
When the Bible reading began, “The temple of God in heaven was opened, and the …… woman was pregnant, but because of the pain and suffering of giving birth to a child, the …… dragon wanted to give birth to a child,” I turned my head and began to I had the chills when the reading started. is Revelation 12, the maiden, and the dragon. The dragon is said to be a heretical being and the woman is the Virgin Mary. This world of Revelation is the end of humanity and is depicted in cryptic prose and lyricism. In this chapter alone, This prefigures the dream of Joseph in Genesis 37, and the Bible itself writes about the beginning and end of the world.
The reason why I was so moved by the story is that the maiden and the dragon is a Jungian archetype, which I also dealt with in my work “Pagaea Doll”, in which I compared it to the dragon legends of East and West. Like the protagonist “Shoko”, I have been pursuing the “virginity of the imagination” since I was a child. As in the story of Borges, one can imagine and still resemble someone else. Without sympathy and admiration, the imagination is wounded, flattered, thirsty and lonely, aging and dying.
When I was painting in my teenage years, I sometimes thought that when I was free to create, I couldn’t find what I wanted to paint because I couldn’t find what I wanted to paint. The world I wanted to paint depends on my capacity to describe it, and I couldn’t even approach it. What I found out, what I might have known if I had studied philosophy, Hadd was already a pioneer in philosophers. It’s always changing my mind, searching for new discoveries. The time when the eye blinks, or the time to fall asleep, the opportunity is unpredictable and even the notebook is not ready. Without any time to think, drawing assignments arrive, study assignments arrive, and I waste my time on dreams.
When I finally said that I wanted to make a religious painting, the adults did not agree with me, and I set off on a journey to concretize myself, without financial means.
Jung’s “archetypes” are even deeper than Freud’s unconscious: C.G. Jung remarked that Jesus and Mary do not appear directly in dreams as much as church people do. The Sun is Jesus, the Lilies are Mary, and they exist as symbols in the field of collective unconsciousness. Freud did not deny this statement from his own, but said he was having problems with it.I would later learn that Freud was right. Jung’s work is laborious for a man as exhausted as his patient. Myth and faith may have been a fading influence of 19th century science, but even if Jung’s theory was correct, it was probably obvious that neither theology nor religion, or more specifically myth and fable, would become stronger in the 20th and 21st centuries, and that the masses would no longer understand them. That is why the “archetypes” are so isolated from their patients.
I was in primary school when I wrote the story of the dragon. I already had an idea for the story of Shoko’s childhood in “PangaeaDoll”. I knew the book of Revelation chapter 12 from a Bible I found in a Christian friend’s house. I didn’t know what it meant, but it fascinated me as a fantasy story about the dynamism of this wriggling dragon and the obsession with a maiden (the Immaculate Heart of Mary).
What do I want to show? I was looking for a place for the significance of the “something” that was born. Eventually I quit painting because I no longer wanted to be understood, and I lived in my writing. I will live for my existence, even though no one in particular asks me to. In order not to be crushed by others, my thoughts go beyond my language and my imagery and become even more passionate. An inexpressible pain in my chest, my soul dreams of rising. For such a man, the dragon was a symbol of uncontrollable ” Sensation “. It followed the maiden Mary as she fled from the clutches of King Herod. It was such a struggle to have faith or not to have faith. There was doubt and a constant shadow of the Bible. Such is the world of the unconverted. It was always ridged like a serpent and moved with a lot of heat.
The dragon who wanted to eat the maiden (Jesus) seemed to me to be a conflicted baptismal candidate itself. Especially the dragon of chapter 12, which followed Mary, may be so. The Baptist is also a pagan.
Nevertheless, after his baptism in 2014, the maiden and the dragon were not read until today, in 2021. Even the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary festival was not attended after this. Even though they participated in other ordinary Masses and ceremonies. They were not there. For a long time, I never regained the sense of baptism.Part of the reason I wanted to write another track, and also because I had already lost the dragon to my heart. I never thought about grief, a pagan symbol.
Every time I went to mass, I wore a white veil, but after my friend died, I wore a black veil. I began to remove the veil in time, and although I always carried a Bible, I no longer do.
The world I saw after my baptism was a world of grace and solitude waiting for me. The soul of an artist can only live in his work, and with that revelation in my heart, I had been hopeful, only to find myself on the edge of a cliff.
In 2018, I was standing in front of suicide.
Sound is said to be uninformed, and so is the existential nature of language. The tongue is a background of symbols, on which concepts exist. A concept has a meaning as a word, but it is synthesized by a series of words. The linguistic world is a composite one. Languages are not by themselves. Although you need someone to understand it, it is often not understood.
It was Christianity that clarified why words existed, as John’s Gospel says: “In the beginning was the word, and the word was with God”. Just as in Russia, where there was no clear language in the beginning, language was created as Christianity spread.
The language is isolated. But it is to God, it is the mystery of the word. and I didn’t feel so alone.
Many have said to me, “Why won’t you write free?”
I’ve been asked by many people, but I’ve never answered. I don’t feel lonely with this question any more, because I realize that I don’t need to answer it in particular. What started as giving up is already “freedom”.
The beginning was a painful “freedom”. Baptism did indeed give freedom. The surrogate mother who wiped the holy water dripping from my hair, the priest who celebrated, all those who surrounded me, we will never gather in the same place again. They will never come together again. The bouquet of lilies that I carried at that time is still blooming in my memory, although it has vanished already. The people I loved then, the people I left, the people I met, the sight I saw when I looked up, where I smiled towards, the characters of this moment, my emotions, will never represent my “now” again, they will never come into my sight.
For a long time I wondered whether I should accept this disappearance or leave it as a memory of my baptism again.
After seven years of hesitation, I finally looked back on this time.
Indeed, at the time of my baptism, my soul was joyful.
Catholicism had yet to be philosophically organized.
There are many genres of fiction today, One of the things I love about literature is that it makes use of what is really only a record. A simple lost love can be embellished by a single word, a forgotten dead can have a meaning. The loneliness that people tell us to forget, the happiness that seems so ordinary, all depend on our own sensibility, and we can decide whether our life is just a record with oblivion or a shining life.
It is left to the sensibility of the writer to verbalize and leave behind the succession of moments that disappear from the world that no one picks up. Perhaps those who have such a point of view are those who are terrified of the moment disappearing as it is. Some people are happier to forget, others to talk about their misfortunes, so that their loneliness becomes cathartic through monologue.
For these people, the ability to speak their own language is important.
As for me, I create in the fictional world the heat that I did not live in the real world. There may be many emotions that I have killed for social reasons, but the emotions that I could not delete and the place where my faith lives is the fictional world. It is an introversion, but an extroversion that challenges the world. I’ve never been pessimistic about it.
Artists are left with only two choices: mere madness or genius. Van Gogh and Caravaggio are good examples. And Emilie Bronte, whose inner world was immeasurably darker than the one she wrote about in “Wuthering Heights”. A true artist does not look for “genius” to win the admiration of others. The poetic sentiment and the way of looking at things that he could not abandon is a God-given gift, and that is what he is in Christianity. The sensibility that almost killed me many times when I was urged to be social was never socially disadvantageous to me in life. What’s next is to find out if this really was a gift from God.
I want to know the answer to the question of whether it really was. Vladimir Nabokov’s “The Gift” is such a story, and it is also the story of Nabokov’s alter ego in exile in Russia.
One term I have coined is “Soar point”. It has taken me many years to get this theory down to an understanding.
I’m going to write about it in an irregular series.
In the fictional world, there is no standard height of land. It is a world of language.
I try to write about light, temperature, color and space. The writing is plain, sober, rhyming, It is pregnant with poetic sentiment，
The words are like music, even the spaces between the letters are meaningful, and the protagonist walks through the world I have created, manipulating them.
The first work, ‘Pangaea Doll’, is based on a real patient in a laboratory in England. She was a patient who was strange, but who did not know where she had gone in the real world. The intersection of dream and reality was a psychological and scientifically possible delusion. But the name of the disease was something I made up. It was my first fictional world.
In the second work, “Iconograph”, there is no prominent fictional object, but the clock tower of a mechanical clock becomes imaginary. The phenomenology of the “bird’s nest” is based on the 13th chapter of Matthew’s Gospel.
Jesus was at sea, on a boat where no plants could grow. So he compared the Word of God to a seed. Some seeds can be sown in one place, but the birds will come and eat them. Other seeds fell on stony ground, where the soil was not deep enough and they sprouted quickly, but when the sun came up, they were burnt and withered away because they had no roots. It is difficult for the plant, the Word of God, to grow. ”Listen if you have ears.“The boy who hears these words and The protagonist, Kawamura Koune, goes on a journey of thought to hear God’s blessing. In Japan, Christianity is frowned upon if you don’t like it, and the characters cross over from longing for faith to oblivion, to disgust, and back to blessing. If this were the only explanation, people would mistakenly believe that there is no romance in this novel. That’s the trouble. There is love and death in this story too.
But the first reason I don’t say this is because I believe that waiting for the assessment of a mediocre love affair or death is just an emotional assessment. It is a sad fact that the real world is the same way. Death is equal, but there are special graves for special deaths, and classes for the deaths of the unconscious and the body. But the soul is equal, and the literary world can save even the most unlikely of beings. Literature must have the fervor to express what the masses have ceased to say. Love and death cannot be conveyed by begging only for sympathy, even if it is true. The soul may live without emotional sympathy if it is metaphorically told how the world works and how God works in it. The external world is rarely captured. But the enrichment of the inner world can make even an empty life seem like a footnote.
Many times I have been opposed to adding philosophy or religion to literature, but I have never given in. Perhaps it is because I know how cruel it is to assess the feelings of others. It follows that one’s own words do not grow, and that the same is true of God.
If the Word of God is a plant, it is the bird that spins it into a nest that grows beautifully. The bird’s nest is not only a bird’s nest, but also a part of the human world that it picks up and builds.
My fictional world is such a phenomenology. It represents the formation of orientation, the world created by orientation, while waiting for the analysis of existence. My literature is thus an amalgamation of spins, and there is no such thing as a complete lie. The heat that did not live in this world becomes a fiction.
Just as a bird’s nest still does not know exactly how to nest with precision, so I weave my experiences, my fantasies. From the fictional “land” of the precise nest, uncertain of how it is completed, my story takes Soar. And the seeds dropped by these birds of fancy can grow or disappear. The reader’s understanding constructs a third world as a plant that grows. That image is both sad and hopeful.