八 2

He believed it completely. But it is a pity that, having no money, he was finally unable to carry it out and died. At the end, someone hit upon the idea that by imitating the ancients, inspiration might arise. This was an application of the theory that by mimicking another person's attitude and movements, one's mental state also comes to resemble that of that person. If you ramble on like a drunkard, before you know it you feel like a drinker; if you sit in meditation and endure for the time it takes one stick of incense to burn, you somehow acquire a priest-like mood. Therefore, if one imitates the comportment of famous masters of old who received inspiration, one will surely become inspired. I hear that Hugo would lie sprawled on a fast-moving ship and think up the ideas for his writings, so if you board a ship and gaze at the blue sky, you are guaranteed to be inspired. Stevenson is said to have written his novels lying face down, so if you lie prone and take up a brush, the blood will surely rush to your head. In this way various people thought up various schemes, but none has yet succeeded. For the time being, artificial inspiration is regarded as impossible. It is regrettable, but there is no help for it. There is no doubt that the time will come when inspiration can be summoned at will, and I, for the sake of humanity, earnestly hope for the early arrival of that day.

Thinking this explanation of inspiration should be sufficient, I will now at last turn to the incident. But before every great event, a small event is sure to occur. To speak only of great events and omit small ones is a fault historians have always fallen into. The master's inspiration was aggravated with each small event he met, finally bringing about the great event; thus, unless his development is related in some order, it is hard to understand how the master was inspired. If it is hard to understand, the master's inspiration will come to nothing, and the world may look down on it as surely not such a big deal. Even if he is inspired, it is no fun if he is not hailed as a splendidly inspired man. The events I now relate, great or small, are none of them honorable to the master. If the events themselves are dishonorable, I wish to make clear that at least his inspiration was the real thing, and in no way inferior to others. The master possesses no other quality in particular to be proud of before others. If he cannot even boast of his inspiration, there is no other material for me to take the trouble to write up about him.

The enemy forces massing at Rakununkan have recently invented a kind of dumdum bullet, and during recess or after school they furiously bombard the vacant lot on the north side. This dumdum bullet is commonly called a ball, and is contrived so that with a large wooden mallet one may fire it at will into the enemy ranks. However dumdum it may be, it is fired from Rakununkan's playground, so there is no fear of it hitting the master, who is barricaded in his study. Even the enemy must be aware that the trajectory is too far, but that is strategy. If in the war at Port Arthur the navy achieved great merit through indirect fire, then even a ball rolling into the vacant lot cannot fail to produce some effect. Moreover, each time they send a shot, the whole army joins in a great intimidating roar. As a result of his embarrassment, the master cannot but have the blood vessels in his limbs contract. At the height of his vexation, the blood wandering about there should rush backward to his head. The enemy's plan may well be called ingenious. In ancient Greece there was, I believe, a writer named Aeschylus. This man, I am told, had the head common to scholars and writers. By the head common to scholars and writers, I mean a bald head. Why does the head go bald? Surely because the scalp lacks the vitality to grow hair, due to insufficient nourishment. Scholars and writers use their heads the most, and are generally poor as can be. Therefore the heads of scholars and writers are all undernourished and all bald. Now Aeschylus, being a writer, was naturally bound to be bald. He had a smooth kumquat-like head. One day, the gentleman—since he has no hat or everyday clothes on his head, it must be that usual head—was walking along, swinging that usual head, lit by the sun. This was the source of the mishap. A bald head shone in the sun is very bright when seen from afar. High trees catch the wind; a shining head must catch something too. At that time an eagle was circling above Aeschylus's head, and I saw it still clutching a captured turtle in its talons. Turtle or snapping turtle must be delicious, but even from Greek times they have worn hard shells. However delicious, with the shell on there is nothing to be done. There is grilled shrimp in shell, but even now there is no stewed turtle shell, so of course there was none then. Just as the eagle was at a bit of a loss, far below it saw something glitter. The eagle thought,

“Stories of the world, in your language.”