Shiki Novel Translations 7.6

[sinnesspiel]

6

Spreading out a fresh sheet of Japanese writing paper over the desk, Seishin hunched his upper body forward slightly over it. The chair that had been used since his grandfather's time let out a creak like a sigh into the still of the night. With a spaced out stare up to the aging grains of wood on the ceiling, his vacant attentions lingered on the past, cornered by a single word.

----What the hell happened?

(Nothing...)

---Mind if I ask why?

(There wasn't any reason or anything.)

He played with his pencil in his hand as he thought.

The hard lead was sharpened to a fine tip like the point of a sword.

When he had first started writing novels, for some reason or another he had it in his mind that he should write in pen, so he made use of a fountain pen that he never did get used to. That summer, fearing the way the ink smeared, he switched to pencil. His dorm room was so hot that the air trapped between the Japanese writing paper and his left hand warped under the heat.. Just leaning forward caused the sweat to pour endlessly, the ink becoming brown and blue halos.

The reason he had used slim, hard leaded pencils for each short story was because it no matter what the grit of the pencil would end up littering the paper. He tried a different hardness of the lead, a different maker, and about the time he had found his present model, an upperclassman who had graduated had come by the dorms to hang out. Tsuhara who had entered the publishing industry took Seishin's manuscript with him, then returned with orders for him to rewrite it. How many times did he fix it, as told? After some count of times, Tsuhara took the manuscript with him and, that night, there was a phone call. We're printing it, he was told, and he remembered not having any idea what he was talking about.

---Weren't you writing looking to go pro?

Remembering that conversation, even now a wry smile leaked out. It wasn't as if he'd by any means particularly thought about becoming an author.

---Then, why did you fix every little thing every time I told you to!

Becauset he was told it would be better to fix it; and the next time Tsuhara came by he would ask "Did you fix it?" and so for no other reason he showed it to him.

---You are a real piece of work.

Tsuhara's voice overlapped with the dorm adviser Muramatsu's.

---It's you we're talking about, how can you not know?

(Even now I still don't.)

As if mesmerized, Seishin stared at his left hand atop the writing paper. The cheap, boorish model of wristwatch. The reason he had started wearing it was, of course, to cover the scar that was there. Now there was nothing more to see of that scar than a white line but still, if he took off his wristwatch, he himself was suddenly taken aback by what a scar it was.

---There's no way you were drunk, is there? I heard you basically never drank.

(Indeed, I have no memory of drinking.)

---If it's hard to say, a letter or anything will be fine.

The first composition he wrote, intending to sound out his own heart, somewhere along the line became chaos, skipping from point to point, repeating itself. When he'd turned it in to Muramatsu, he appeared to be deeply, sincerely annoyed.

---I don't have any idea what you're trying to say. Isn't this a novel?

Looking at it again having been told that, it did indeed resemble a novel. The next time, he wrote from the beginning with the intent to write a novel. For Seishin who didn't particularly have anything like a hobby, it became the closest thing he had to one.

Why. Why, this of all things?

Why would you consent to sin thusly?

Why, he was asked by so many people, but Seishin couldn't answer. To tell the truth, it was because he didn't know the reason, himself. If truly pressed to say something, it was just that he wanted to try it. That was it. In his second year of college, at the end of the year party, he thought. Suddenly, he just felt like it. Vaguely, he knew that it wasn't enough to die from but, dying or not dying wasn't that important at the time, he thought now. He left the drinking party early, returning to the dormitory bathroom. It was the season of end-of-the-year parties, and the season for going home, so the community bathroom was unmanned. There, indifferent, he cut into himself.

In truth, no matter how he thought about it, Seishin couldn't think of anything that had happened for him to wish death on himself. He wasn't particularly unhappy, nor did he by any means have any particular self loathing. Because he knew that a person would not die from cutting their wrists, it was unlikely that he really wanted to die.Seishin had a feeling that at that time for himself the meaning was not in the result but in doing the act itself. It was not that he wanted to die, he didn't think it was anything other than wanting to try dying, but the origin of that impulse was one he didn't understand well even now.

Beneath the wristwatch, while hidden the scar was still evident. Everyone in the village knew about it. That was why they pretended not to see, and before Seishin knew it he was used to it. Just when, he thought, did it feel like something that people couldn't see?

(....It was not jealousy.)

Seishin gripped his pencil.

He was still possessed by something. The sudden murderous intent took him unexpectedly.

(No) Seishin murmured. He had just wanted to try it. With no murderous intent, he killed his little brother. (.... It's better this way.)

The hallway confined within grey stone was empty, dusk and dawn alike basking in its widths. The dark, dull grey pile up had no decoration aside from a glass window very high up in one corner, light shining down through it diagonally.

The light, donning a melancholy hue, glistened on the white linen cloth. Spread out above the cold stone paving, the reason for the rises and falls drawn by the white sheet was was that beneath it were laid out his little brother's remains.

He and the sage, with his little brother's remains interposed betwixt them, had a confrontation. And yet even so, he could not pry his eyes from the dull light of the linen cloth, and because of that very light shining down, he, in the dimmer still light, had the sensation of a singularly abandoned orphan.

----Why would thou commit such a sin?

The sage had been asking him such through dusk. And yet even so, he could not answer. If you wish to know why it was because him himself did not know the reason that he had killed his little brother.

He was the one who wanted to ask why.

His single blood relative, gentle and with a profound kindness, like an incarnation of splendor itself was his brethern. He did, in reality, love his brother, and liked living together with his little brother. As to why he had to kill his little brother, he had no sort of reason at all. Yet nevertheless, he took up arms against his brother.

It was an impulse of an attack. Surely, there was no murderous intent towards his brother. Yet raising a weapon against his brother certainly did bring about his brother's death as a result.

That little brother became a Shiki and trailed him across the wasteland. His futile stare seemed always to be asking, always, why? Had he a clear reason for murderous intent, if he'd had any grounds on which to criticize his brother, or had it been self defense, he would have to please forgiveness and yet, he had none of them and he could not. He could do not but hate that fleeting impulse, not but grieve that its result was his little brother's death. ----That wasn't its intention.

I definitely never hated you.

It wasn't like I'd wanted you to die. There wasn't anything I wanted to get revenge for or make you realize.

Forgive me, into the dawn he moaned, taking to his knees upon the cold wastelands. His brother's answer, of course, did not come.

Seeking a gust of wind into which he could fathom an auditory hallucination, he at last fell to sleep.

Comments

[airlynx]

Toshio and Seishin are such different people, too, that Toshio might just empathize, but not sympathize with him, and fail to understand the depth of Seishin's problems. He might understand what Seishin is going through, but they have such different personalities that he probably couldn't see himself going through the same as Seishin and therefore be somewhat emotionally removed from it all. Therefore, he'd feel bad that his best friend is going through a bad time, kind of like how people feel if they find out a coworker's friend got into an accident, like 'Oh, that's too bad. I feel really bad, poor person". However, he couldn't apply those same feelings to himself so there's that distance. I think that at the end when Seishin leaves, or maybe after, when Ozaki is wondering why he left, is when he finally understands Seishin. He said something like "yeah, that sounds like Seishin" which might mean that he realizes he has understood all along--but hasn't put the pieces together.

Personally, I would prefer people to disagree with me rather than being falsely kind. You can usually tell when someone's being fake, and that kind of patronizing is frustrating beyond all belief; it's most likely that Seishin feels the same way. Maybe that's why he stopped talking about his problems or drawing attention to how he feels, because he's tired of the false sympathy. If someone disagreed with him, that would mean that they hold his opinion in esteem, but don't find him fragile enough to avoid being open with their own take on it.


I think that there are and have been people around who are more deep than the people around them: the people who have gone down in history, like the philosophers, as well as those who didn't have as big of a voice and didn't leave their mark. This would indeed suggest that the rest of us aren't as deep, but maybe we are but aren't expressing it so clearly or unlocking it. Characters are constant like you said, and their actions and reactions make sense if you know the context and their personality. But real people are more fickle, and perhaps that makes them a bit more unpredictable as well. For instance, say a character does something mean to another one. In fiction, the other would be rightly offended, and remain righteous throughout (if that's the kind of person they are--if they're an extreme doormat, they would not). But maybe that's the point, too, because you would assume that only a total doormat would forgive the offense, and doing so would signify a weak will. But in real life, if this happened, the victim's feelings may fluctuate and eventually maybe even let the offense go--and they don't have to be weak-willed, either. Maybe the person has some past experience with it; maybe they can empathize with the aggressor; but at one point, they have to stop and say "Maybe there's more to it than if I just get mad. It might be worth it to let it go." And it would take a strong will, too, to battle yourself and your initial emotion of "I'm done with your bs" which calls for instantly getting mad. If you're jaded, then I guess I'm somewhat naive and idealistic about these kinds of things. I guess the bottom line here is that in my opinion, people are complex too because they are so versatile with ever-changing tempers and opinions that make them so unpredictable; just when you think they'll act one way, a previously unknown factor can jump in and influence them into going the opposite direction, and it would be very hard to imitate a character like this in fiction.