48 Letter
This letter is translated by Google. So there are ambiguous expressions.
I humbly beg your pardon.
I humbly beg your pardon.
48
I believe that Kenichi Yoshida was the one who said that time passes quietly when reading a book of letters, but that is probably the core of literature. So what I would like to add here is only in the vicinity. My conclusion is that literature is a defence. The defence is against what we call the heart, the hardness, the life, and so on.
The literature referred to here is not limited to the so-called literature represented by poetry and novels, but also sometimes extends to newspaper fragments and advertisements. When I heard that a soldier during the war read and re-read the efficacy of his medicine over and over again, I felt the misery of war mixed with a faint sense of peace, and at the same time, I felt a sense of peace amidst the chaos. I also sensed a literary defence.
I will use the word "heart" here. Literature protects the soul. I believe that people's hearts are easily hurt. If you don't have anything, it will probably get damaged easily. I'm not sure if literature can save a person's soul, but I think it can provide some protection to a vulnerable heart.
In Tetsutaro Kawakami's ``Yushu Nikki'', I have read and re-read the part where he talks about the poems of Mallarme and Lafarge. I replaced the words ``autumn like a cymbal bang'' with the clear autumn of Japan that I had seen, and contrasted it with the golden yellow leaves around me. It may be a silly thing to say, but Mallarme's words certainly lifted my sometimes depressed heart. However, even if my heart is still depressed, through these words, autumn has appeared before me, and its reality has created an impression in my heart that is on par with the memories of autumn I actually saw. We have continued to give to My sense of reality is not limited to this ``autumn'' experience, but through various words, it gives me a new sense of reality.
Was it Lafarge who said, "The rain falls with the kindness of angels?" Once these words were fixed in my heart, the rain always fell with such gentleness. It's as simple as it gets, but I'm sure everyone has had this experience. You could say that I viewed this as a joyous experience and have cherished it. No matter how many times I turned my pockets inside out, all that came out was dust. My few possessions were a collection of fragmented words.
I learned a lot from Tetsutaro Kawakami. They protected my youthful heart. The scene in Zenzo Kasai's ``Bring the Child'' where the father opens the glass door and enters the dining room with his child gave me an infinite sense of relief. Perhaps somewhere in that sense of relief there was a projection of "Christ the Son," but such self-analysis was hindered by its own logic, and ultimately failed to reach the deeper parts of my heart. It seems that. Logic is sometimes easily incorporated into a system, but the senses do not belong to any of them and sometimes do not stop making their claims half-heartedly. Literature has often played such a role in our hearts, and unlike the words of our parents who lecture us logically, they sink into our hearts like the familiar country and western songs we listen to when we go back to our rooms. did.
If Zenzo Kasai's ``Bring a Child'' had not been in my young heart, my heart might have been moved by any religion that came my way. I might have been happier that way, but I didn't take that direction and ended up wandering many times to get to where I am today. The scenery of ``Bringing a Child'' remains undifferentiated in my heart, and it continues to send me a deep sense of relief. Similarly, ``the rain falling with the gentleness of an angel'' transformed my cold, wet heart into a warm and gentle world.
Words are not magic, nor are they anything like magic. It is just a message to send. However, the message reaches people's hearts as a reality, just as the colours created by a painter shine with light from the depths of the painting. Often with a sense of reality that goes beyond what my inexperienced self has experienced. When several of these messages are combined, the vulnerable heart becomes like a strong beaver's nest, protecting the child from the big bears. You can feel the autumn sound of cymbals in the gloomy sky, and a lonely father with his child gives a gift of supreme kindness to those who read it from the light of a bare light bulb.
This is why literature has the ability to defend itself as an added value.
I believe that Kenichi Yoshida was the one who said that time passes quietly when reading a book of letters, but that is probably the core of literature. So what I would like to add here is only in the vicinity. My conclusion is that literature is a defence. The defence is against what we call the heart, the hardness, the life, and so on.
The literature referred to here is not limited to the so-called literature represented by poetry and novels, but also sometimes extends to newspaper fragments and advertisements. When I heard that a soldier during the war read and re-read the efficacy of his medicine over and over again, I felt the misery of war mixed with a faint sense of peace, and at the same time, I felt a sense of peace amidst the chaos. I also sensed a literary defence.
I will use the word "heart" here. Literature protects the soul. I believe that people's hearts are easily hurt. If you don't have anything, it will probably get damaged easily. I'm not sure if literature can save a person's soul, but I think it can provide some protection to a vulnerable heart.
In Tetsutaro Kawakami's ``Yushu Nikki'', I have read and re-read the part where he talks about the poems of Mallarme and Lafarge. I replaced the words ``autumn like a cymbal bang'' with the clear autumn of Japan that I had seen, and contrasted it with the golden yellow leaves around me. It may be a silly thing to say, but Mallarme's words certainly lifted my sometimes depressed heart. However, even if my heart is still depressed, through these words, autumn has appeared before me, and its reality has created an impression in my heart that is on par with the memories of autumn I actually saw. We have continued to give to My sense of reality is not limited to this ``autumn'' experience, but through various words, it gives me a new sense of reality.
Was it Lafarge who said, "The rain falls with the kindness of angels?" Once these words were fixed in my heart, the rain always fell with such gentleness. It's as simple as it gets, but I'm sure everyone has had this experience. You could say that I viewed this as a joyous experience and have cherished it. No matter how many times I turned my pockets inside out, all that came out was dust. My few possessions were a collection of fragmented words.
I learned a lot from Tetsutaro Kawakami. They protected my youthful heart. The scene in Zenzo Kasai's ``Bring the Child'' where the father opens the glass door and enters the dining room with his child gave me an infinite sense of relief. Perhaps somewhere in that sense of relief there was a projection of "Christ the Son," but such self-analysis was hindered by its own logic, and ultimately failed to reach the deeper parts of my heart. It seems that. Logic is sometimes easily incorporated into a system, but the senses do not belong to any of them and sometimes do not stop making their claims half-heartedly. Literature has often played such a role in our hearts, and unlike the words of our parents who lecture us logically, they sink into our hearts like the familiar country and western songs we listen to when we go back to our rooms. did.
If Zenzo Kasai's ``Bring a Child'' had not been in my young heart, my heart might have been moved by any religion that came my way. I might have been happier that way, but I didn't take that direction and ended up wandering many times to get to where I am today. The scenery of ``Bringing a Child'' remains undifferentiated in my heart, and it continues to send me a deep sense of relief. Similarly, ``the rain falling with the gentleness of an angel'' transformed my cold, wet heart into a warm and gentle world.
Words are not magic, nor are they anything like magic. It is just a message to send. However, the message reaches people's hearts as a reality, just as the colours created by a painter shine with light from the depths of the painting. Often with a sense of reality that goes beyond what my inexperienced self has experienced. When several of these messages are combined, the vulnerable heart becomes like a strong beaver's nest, protecting the child from the big bears. You can feel the autumn sound of cymbals in the gloomy sky, and a lonely father with his child gives a gift of supreme kindness to those who read it from the light of a bare light bulb.
This is why literature has the ability to defend itself as an added value.
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