“Love”
by Kanoko Okamoto | translated by
Eric Margolis
Until I met him, I never thought I would meet
someone who strained me so much, who ground me to the bone. Upon reflection, I
much prefer my unfussy everyday life, anxiously awaiting my 3:00 tea. While you
might often think about the various phases of the human lifespan, from marriage
to child-rearing to preparing for old age, you never wilfully decide to grow
old. Thread slid easily through the eye of my sewing needle. The smooth lines
of the tatami mat slid comfortably under my bare feet. I placed the yellow
chrysanthemums I bought into the vase.
When I did meet that man, I had a hunch about
him. I found myself foolishly wondering if today really was no more than today,
and whether I myself was really no more than the person I was. Reflecting on
that feeling made me feel all the more foolish. The contradictory impulses that
ran through my breast flickered like late night neon. Restless advertisements, Ail-All
Pills, Jintan. In the midst of it, something inside me said that I
would see him again.
When I left the house, I dragged with me all
the heaviness and intensity an encounter with him entailed. He came into my
view, unexpectedly simple, pale. He brought to mind a soaked light blue color,
just like pear tree flowers, the kind of color I knew I would not be able to
ignore.
Carrying himself with great posture, he sat
down on a chair. He drew his knee to his chest and placed some kind of musical
instrument atop the knee. Then he began to play. At first, I could barely hear
it. My mother had asked me to deliver his kimono, so I placed it on the desk by
his side as he acknowledged me with his eyes. He then gestured for me to take a
seat across from him, and resumed playing the instrument. He never spoke. But
his gentle gaze shot out from his narrowed eyes, hitting the area around my
heart as he played. At that moment, I began to suffer in the most peculiar way.
A river coursed within him, one that I was
compelled to flow into. I began to chase after the flow. He seemed to be
suddenly armored in a skin of faux-leather, coated in enamel that crackles when
flicked. It was as if I was searching for an entrance into my own soul via his
body. I was running around brimming with bitter, pained thunderbolts, sizzling
needles pinpricking me where the electricity discharged all over. My confused
soul moved me to face his lips, his forehead, and tempted me to go rushing
straight at them. My soul continually slipped, fell, and wept, like cicadas in
the depths of a night thrust away by bright lamps.
I withstood my suffering for some time,
pressing my hands together and muttering some incomprehensible entreaty.
Meanwhile, he retained his good posture, continued to cast his soft gaze from
his narrowed eyes. He continued to play the music of an instrument I could
hardly hear. I felt the fangs of my heart aim in his direction. To tear him
apart.
When I came to my senses, it felt like I had
successfully plunged into his stream, melted into his waters. I could no longer
see the river. Had my body become the river? I swelled with some kind of vital
power. I could go bursting into any valley I chose. A bright valley brimming
with fragrance. I surpassed the hardships of marriage and aging.
If any other man were to touch me, I would
crumble into smoldering ashes. Part of me yearned to tell all the men in the
world. And yet that man—he continued as he was, playing his quiet music. Now I
was gazing at him from within him, like an onlooker inside the Great Buddha.
For the first time, I could hear the music clearly. It was a playful tune, like
tumbling rapids. Returning back to my own body felt almost impossible. I would
have to cross vast seas and mountains of loneliness.
To me, this miraculous person—a regular
customer of my mother’s cheap sewing, a junior employee at a confectionery who
walked around town selling biscuits—must have had riches far beyond his monthly
salary.
by Kanoko Okamoto | translated by Eric Margolis
Kanoko Okamoto (1889-1939) was an acclaimed Buddhist scholar, feminist
writer, and avant-garde poet in the 1910s, 20s, and 30s. She wrote lavish romantic poetry
and essays that explored motherhood and sexuality.
Okamoto was best-known, and often criticized, for her over-the-top
romantic sensibilities. This florid essay on falling in love is well
representative of Okamoto’s voice. It is a far cry from the cynical, ironic,
and disassociated representations of romance that are prevalent in 21st-century
literature, and understandably so: her transcendental approach to love truly
belongs to another era. But is there something we can take back from this work
about the value of romanticism and passion?
“Love” was published in a posthumous collection of Okamoto’s work.
