Series Notes Contact Rehearsal Hotel
Series Notes Contact Rehearsal Hotel
62.
HELL OF SOLITUDE
Ryūnosuke Akutagawa
Translated from the Japanese
by Ryan Choi
Ryūnosuke Akutagawa (国立国会図書館 / The National Diet Library, Japan).
HELL OF SOLITUDE
Ryūnosuke Akutagawa
Translated from the Japanese
by Ryan Choi
* * *
* * *
An excerpt (care of Prototype Publishing) ...
* * *
This is a story that I heard from my mother. She first heard it from my great-uncle. I don’t know if it’s fact or fiction, but knowing what I know about my mother’s uncle I believe there’s a good chance that it’s real.
My great-uncle was one of the colourful figures who populated the district known as Main Street in the decline of the Edo age. His friends were among the famous artists and writers of the day—Kawatake Mokuami, Tanekazu Ryūkatei, Zenzai-an Eiki, Maki Tōei, Kudaime Danjūrō, Uji Shibun, Miyako Senchū and Kenkonbō Ryōsa in Mokuami’s play Kiyomizu Seigen and the Cherry Blossoms of Edo was said to have been based on him. For a time in his life—which ended at the age of fifty—my great-uncle was known as the ‘Modern-Day Kibun’ in homage to the character from this play, and today there are still people who remember him by this name. My great-uncle’s surname was Saiki, his first name was Tōjiro, and his pen name—with which he signed his poems—was Kōi, but the name by which he was known most widely was Tsutō of Yamashiro-gashi.
As the story goes, one evening Tsutō made the acquaintance of a monk at Tamaya—the Jewel House—a pleasure establishment in Yoshiwara. The monk, named Zenchō, was the head of a prominent temple in Hongō. Soon after meeting him it became clear to Tsutō that this Zenchō was no ordinary monk. He was a patron of the pleasure quarters and on intimate terms with one of the courtesans at Tamaya named Nishikigi. Since it was forbidden for monks to eat meat or partake in sexual relations at the time, whenever Zenchō was out and about he disguised himself in a yellow-striped silk kimono and a black silk jacket embroidered with white family crests on its chest, back and sleeves, giving him the appearance of a doctor. Tsutō’s first meeting with this eccentric monk was a stroke of comical serendipity.
The introduction in question took place on a summer evening when the lanterns were garishly strung about town for the Obon season. Tsutō was passing through the outer hall on Tamaya’s second floor, on his way back from the privy, when he saw a man leaning on the guardrails, contemplating the moon. He was a short, skinny man, with a shaved head, and in the moonlight, Tsutō mistook him for the quack doctor, Chikunai, another regular at Tamaya with whom he had a teasing camaraderie. Padding behind the monk, Tsutō reached up and tugged at his ear with the intention of squawking in his face as he turned. But when the man spun around, Tsutō, seeing his error, was even more flabbergasted than the monk. Piece by piece the stranger’s face entered into his bewildered stare—aside from the shaven head, the man standing before him looked nothing like Chikunai. His forehead was broader and flatter; his eyebrows sternly knit together, and his cheekbones arced steeply, splaying out to the sides; and the gauntness of his face, which had an unsightly mole bulging from his left cheek, accented the cavernous gape of his eyes.
‘Am I under arrest?’ the monk asked in an angry slur, his breath fuming with liquor.
I should mention here that Tsutō was not alone; he was accompanied by a geisha and a comedian, and it was they who had first mistaken the monk for Chikunai, setting the stage for Tsutō’s blunder. Neither the comedian nor the geisha could, in good conscience, afford to let Tsutō shoulder the blame. But before Tsutō or the geisha could speak up, the comedian stepped forward and fumbled an apology while Tsutō bowed in a fluster then pulled the geisha towards the parlour from which they had come. Even by the wild standards of Main Street, this was an inauspicious first encounter. However, upon hearing the comedian’s excuse for the mix-up, Zenchō let loose a hearty laugh and fell into good spirits about the mishap, which indeed was Zenchō the monk at his finest.
Later that evening, by way of apology, Tsutō sent a tray of sweets to Zenchō, who felt bad for Tsutō’s misfortune and went to thank him face to face, thus sealing their bond of friendship. Though they would become with time the best of comrades, keen on each other’s company, they only ever socialised on the second floor of Tamaya, and they could not have been less alike. Tsutō, a tall, round, ugly man with a half-shaven head, was a committed teetotaller who, paradoxically, ran a liquor shop, while Zenchō, the monk, was almost always drunk and lived for lust and luxury, to say nothing of the former’s comparatively modest style of dress, comprising a plain blue cotton kimono, a white cotton waistband, and a silver amulet, which prompted Tsutō to question which of them was the authentic monk.
One day, Tsutō ran into Zenchō, who was wearing Nishikigi’s haori and strumming a shamisen by himself. Zenchō, who already had a pallid complexion, looked abnormally drained. He kept losing his train of thought—his voice was weak, his eyes bloodshot, and the sagging skin around his lips twitched erratically. Worried that something terrible was afoot, Tsutō inquired about his well-being, but Zenchō was hesitant to open up, and Tsutō was left to attribute his wasted state to the toll of dissipation. Unlike other afflictions, fatigue from a life of wine and women cannot be cured by more wine and women. It was under these dire conditions that the two had their uncharacteristically sombre, almost funereal conversation, punctuated by long silences, until suddenly, as if recalling something important, Zenchō began to speak about the conditions of his existence.
He said: ‘The Buddha teaches us that the realms of hell are uncountable, yet they all fall into one of three categories: the Eight Greater Hells, the hells that exist on their periphery, and the “hells of solitude.” Since ancient times, hell has been described as a subterranean lair—“Five hundred stretches beneath the world of man lies his hell,” as the ancient saying goes. These words hold true only for the first two types of hell, but the third—the so-called hells of solitude—can materialise anywhere, “among the mountains, in the wilderness, under the trees, or in the air,” as the Buddha teaches. In other words, wherever you are, and as far as your eyes can see, a hell of solitude can manifest around you, enclosing you within its borders of suffering. I know this because two or three years ago, I myself fell into one of these hells, where I have been wandering ever since. Nothing in the world holds lasting interest for me now. Every day, I am driven relentlessly from one border of this hell to the next, faced with stretch after stretch of emptiness from which I cannot hope to escape. And yet, painful though this wandering is, it is even more painful for me to remain in place. This is why I live a life of wanton excess, to forget this daily purgatory. You might ask, “But what about death if the pain is so great? But death, I assure you, is no escape. I have always chosen the sufferings of the flesh over death. But these days, I...’
Tsutō could not hear his last words, for Zenchō had lowered his voice while tuning his instrument and began to play.
After this encounter with Tsutō, Zenchō was never seen at Tamaya again, and no one knew what became of the epicurean monk. The only trace he had left was in Nishikigi’s quarters—a book he had forgotten, an extended commentary on the Diamond Sutra. In his later years, following his own ruin and retirement to Samukawa in Shimōsa to live in seclusion, Tsutō kept this very book on top of his desk. Inside the front cover was a handwritten poem: ‘Forty years, just to feel the violet fields and dew.’ As with its last owner, no one knew what became of the book after Tsutō’s death, and today there is probably not a soul alive who has read the poem.
This story dates back to 1857, the fourth year of the Ansei era, as recounted to me by my mother, who was so obsessed with the concept of hell that she never stopped talking about it with me.
To someone like me, who spends most of his days cooped up in his study and has little interest in the art or literature of the Edo period, the world of my great-uncle Tsutō and Zenchō the monk seems entirely removed from the one I inhabit. It is only through this concept of a ‘hell of solitude’ that I can begin to sympathise with these men of the floating world, because after all, I recognise that, in some sense, I too am suffering in a hell of solitude.
(February, 1916.)
Order Akutagawa’s Hell of Solitude from Prototype direct.
Ryūnosuke Akutagawa (1892–1927), born in Tokyo, Japan, was the author of more than 350 works of fiction and non-fiction, including Rashōmon, The Spider’s Thread, Hell Screen, Kappa and In a Grove. Japan’s premier literary award for emerging writers, the Akutagawa Prize, is named after him.
Ryan Choi’s books include In Dreams: The Very Short Stories of Ryūnosuke Akutagawa (Paper + Ink, 2023) and Three Demons: A Study on Sanki Saitō’s Haiku (Open Letter, 2024). He is an editor at AGNI. His writings and translations have appeared in Harper’s Magazine, The New Criterion, Poetry, the Times Literary Supplement, and elsewhere. He lives in Honolulu, Hawaii, where he was born and raised.
*
For a prior iteration of this translation, first published via
the Catamaran Literary Reader (Winter 2022), see here.
Back to Rehearsal.
* * *
This is a story that I heard from my mother. She first heard it from my great-uncle. I don’t know if it’s fact or fiction, but knowing what I know about my mother’s uncle I believe there’s a good chance that it’s real.
My great-uncle was one of the colourful figures who populated the district known as Main Street in the decline of the Edo age. His friends were among the famous artists and writers of the day—Kawatake Mokuami, Tanekazu Ryūkatei, Zenzai-an Eiki, Maki Tōei, Kudaime Danjūrō, Uji Shibun, Miyako Senchū and Kenkonbō Ryōsa in Mokuami’s play Kiyomizu Seigen and the Cherry Blossoms of Edo was said to have been based on him. For a time in his life—which ended at the age of fifty—my great-uncle was known as the ‘Modern-Day Kibun’ in homage to the character from this play, and today there are still people who remember him by this name. My great-uncle’s surname was Saiki, his first name was Tōjiro, and his pen name—with which he signed his poems—was Kōi, but the name by which he was known most widely was Tsutō of Yamashiro-gashi.
As the story goes, one evening Tsutō made the acquaintance of a monk at Tamaya—the Jewel House—a pleasure establishment in Yoshiwara. The monk, named Zenchō, was the head of a prominent temple in Hongō. Soon after meeting him it became clear to Tsutō that this Zenchō was no ordinary monk. He was a patron of the pleasure quarters and on intimate terms with one of the courtesans at Tamaya named Nishikigi. Since it was forbidden for monks to eat meat or partake in sexual relations at the time, whenever Zenchō was out and about he disguised himself in a yellow-striped silk kimono and a black silk jacket embroidered with white family crests on its chest, back and sleeves, giving him the appearance of a doctor. Tsutō’s first meeting with this eccentric monk was a stroke of comical serendipity.
The introduction in question took place on a summer evening when the lanterns were garishly strung about town for the Obon season. Tsutō was passing through the outer hall on Tamaya’s second floor, on his way back from the privy, when he saw a man leaning on the guardrails, contemplating the moon. He was a short, skinny man, with a shaved head, and in the moonlight, Tsutō mistook him for the quack doctor, Chikunai, another regular at Tamaya with whom he had a teasing camaraderie. Padding behind the monk, Tsutō reached up and tugged at his ear with the intention of squawking in his face as he turned. But when the man spun around, Tsutō, seeing his error, was even more flabbergasted than the monk. Piece by piece the stranger’s face entered into his bewildered stare—aside from the shaven head, the man standing before him looked nothing like Chikunai. His forehead was broader and flatter; his eyebrows sternly knit together, and his cheekbones arced steeply, splaying out to the sides; and the gauntness of his face, which had an unsightly mole bulging from his left cheek, accented the cavernous gape of his eyes.
‘Am I under arrest?’ the monk asked in an angry slur, his breath fuming with liquor.
I should mention here that Tsutō was not alone; he was accompanied by a geisha and a comedian, and it was they who had first mistaken the monk for Chikunai, setting the stage for Tsutō’s blunder. Neither the comedian nor the geisha could, in good conscience, afford to let Tsutō shoulder the blame. But before Tsutō or the geisha could speak up, the comedian stepped forward and fumbled an apology while Tsutō bowed in a fluster then pulled the geisha towards the parlour from which they had come. Even by the wild standards of Main Street, this was an inauspicious first encounter. However, upon hearing the comedian’s excuse for the mix-up, Zenchō let loose a hearty laugh and fell into good spirits about the mishap, which indeed was Zenchō the monk at his finest.
Later that evening, by way of apology, Tsutō sent a tray of sweets to Zenchō, who felt bad for Tsutō’s misfortune and went to thank him face to face, thus sealing their bond of friendship. Though they would become with time the best of comrades, keen on each other’s company, they only ever socialised on the second floor of Tamaya, and they could not have been less alike. Tsutō, a tall, round, ugly man with a half-shaven head, was a committed teetotaller who, paradoxically, ran a liquor shop, while Zenchō, the monk, was almost always drunk and lived for lust and luxury, to say nothing of the former’s comparatively modest style of dress, comprising a plain blue cotton kimono, a white cotton waistband, and a silver amulet, which prompted Tsutō to question which of them was the authentic monk.
One day, Tsutō ran into Zenchō, who was wearing Nishikigi’s haori and strumming a shamisen by himself. Zenchō, who already had a pallid complexion, looked abnormally drained. He kept losing his train of thought—his voice was weak, his eyes bloodshot, and the sagging skin around his lips twitched erratically. Worried that something terrible was afoot, Tsutō inquired about his well-being, but Zenchō was hesitant to open up, and Tsutō was left to attribute his wasted state to the toll of dissipation. Unlike other afflictions, fatigue from a life of wine and women cannot be cured by more wine and women. It was under these dire conditions that the two had their uncharacteristically sombre, almost funereal conversation, punctuated by long silences, until suddenly, as if recalling something important, Zenchō began to speak about the conditions of his existence.
He said: ‘The Buddha teaches us that the realms of hell are uncountable, yet they all fall into one of three categories: the Eight Greater Hells, the hells that exist on their periphery, and the “hells of solitude.” Since ancient times, hell has been described as a subterranean lair—“Five hundred stretches beneath the world of man lies his hell,” as the ancient saying goes. These words hold true only for the first two types of hell, but the third—the so-called hells of solitude—can materialise anywhere, “among the mountains, in the wilderness, under the trees, or in the air,” as the Buddha teaches. In other words, wherever you are, and as far as your eyes can see, a hell of solitude can manifest around you, enclosing you within its borders of suffering. I know this because two or three years ago, I myself fell into one of these hells, where I have been wandering ever since. Nothing in the world holds lasting interest for me now. Every day, I am driven relentlessly from one border of this hell to the next, faced with stretch after stretch of emptiness from which I cannot hope to escape. And yet, painful though this wandering is, it is even more painful for me to remain in place. This is why I live a life of wanton excess, to forget this daily purgatory. You might ask, “But what about death if the pain is so great? But death, I assure you, is no escape. I have always chosen the sufferings of the flesh over death. But these days, I...’
Tsutō could not hear his last words, for Zenchō had lowered his voice while tuning his instrument and began to play.
After this encounter with Tsutō, Zenchō was never seen at Tamaya again, and no one knew what became of the epicurean monk. The only trace he had left was in Nishikigi’s quarters—a book he had forgotten, an extended commentary on the Diamond Sutra. In his later years, following his own ruin and retirement to Samukawa in Shimōsa to live in seclusion, Tsutō kept this very book on top of his desk. Inside the front cover was a handwritten poem: ‘Forty years, just to feel the violet fields and dew.’ As with its last owner, no one knew what became of the book after Tsutō’s death, and today there is probably not a soul alive who has read the poem.
This story dates back to 1857, the fourth year of the Ansei era, as recounted to me by my mother, who was so obsessed with the concept of hell that she never stopped talking about it with me.
To someone like me, who spends most of his days cooped up in his study and has little interest in the art or literature of the Edo period, the world of my great-uncle Tsutō and Zenchō the monk seems entirely removed from the one I inhabit. It is only through this concept of a ‘hell of solitude’ that I can begin to sympathise with these men of the floating world, because after all, I recognise that, in some sense, I too am suffering in a hell of solitude.
(February, 1916.)
Order Akutagawa’s Hell of Solitude from Prototype direct.
Ryūnosuke Akutagawa (1892–1927), born in Tokyo, Japan, was the author of more than 350 works of fiction and non-fiction, including Rashōmon, The Spider’s Thread, Hell Screen, Kappa and In a Grove. Japan’s premier literary award for emerging writers, the Akutagawa Prize, is named after him.
Ryan Choi’s books include In Dreams: The Very Short Stories of Ryūnosuke Akutagawa (Paper + Ink, 2023) and Three Demons: A Study on Sanki Saitō’s Haiku (Open Letter, 2024). He is an editor at AGNI. His writings and translations have appeared in Harper’s Magazine, The New Criterion, Poetry, the Times Literary Supplement, and elsewhere. He lives in Honolulu, Hawaii, where he was born and raised.
*
For a prior iteration of this translation, first published via
the Catamaran Literary Reader (Winter 2022), see here.
Back to Rehearsal.