Michizou Tachihara: Parting / 立原道造 別離
Parting
Michizou Tachihara
(Note from the translator: It seems that this piece of elegy is written in 1937 on the very day of the premature death of Chuya Nakahara. Albeit both contributing to the Shiki anthology/magazine, and having appreciated the latter's solitude, Tachihara holds other opinions apart from admiration towards Chuya.)
Every now and then, a scenery of vain unfolds itself in front of my eyes. It turns out, that we have been in the middle of a terrible hustle and bustle. Under such conditions, still, with nobody there, a scenery of ennui would pair and coincide with that of a chilling iceberg, and shall come into sight. We have been threatened, and yet we have also been soothed. "Songs of the Goat", as the title of a collection of poems, surely stands out of such a hustling crowd with its extraordinary beauty. However, we still see this anthology stuffed into the congestion -- that bruised purity of the Poet, that deep-down lethargy, that sorrow, that fantasy. I fear to remark that, give an anthology a name as such, and society as a crowd flicks it off with their fingers, in which case the very existence of this book amongst the mob is rendered ironic. The goat sings a rather fruitless song. Ennui sings on top of this similitude of irony. The way of a heart in ennui is to meditate upon all those pitiful rhythms and dances.
ときどきむなしい景色が眼のまへにひらける。僕らはたいへんに雑沓にゐる。しかし、そのときにすら、だれもゐない、倦怠と氷との景色は二重にかさなつて眼のなかにさしこんでゐる。僕らは脅かされ、そして慰められる。「山羊の歌」といふ詩集の題は雑沓にはふさわしくなく、たいへんに素朴に美しい、しかしその詩集もまた雑沓のなかにゐる。詩人の傷ついた淨らかさと、ふかい昏睡と悲しみと幻想と。そのような言葉で名づけられるものを群衆はおそらくはじき去る。そのとき、この本が雑沓のなかにあること、これはイロニイである。山羊の歌はたいへんにむなしい。このイロニイのようなところで倦怠がうたつている。倦怠といふ心のあり方は、その心の上でかなしいリズムや踊りを噛みしめてゐる。
We have come to read quite a few modern poems sung in the French language. And that being the words of France, behold the words of Japan. So sings the words of Japan, or shall I say, this one Japanese poet.
They the poets of France died way long ago; they died yesterday. Whilst you that belong to Japan, you die in front of us today. And by saying the word "today" I do not particularly mean anything. In such a birdbrained manner do I have today following yesterday; nonsensically do I write hereby. Somehow fruitlessly, someone takes revenge. Ahead of everyone and anyone, is what you are.
僕らはフランスの言葉でうたはれた近代の詩のいくつかを嘗て読んだ。あれはフランスの言葉で、これは日本の言葉である。日本の言葉がこんな歌をうたった、つまりひとりの日本の詩人が。
フランスのあれらの詩人たちが死んだのはずつと昨日のことである。しかし日本のあなたが死んだのは今日である。僕の今書いた今日といふ言葉は大変に無意味である。そんなばかばかしさで、昨日と今日とを並べて言ふようなところで、この文章を書く。何かしらむなしく、だれかが復讐する。だれよりも先に、あなたが。
It rains inside our hearts. And then there was the homecoming Poet. So this is his birthplace, this is where "The sun shines on the passageway", where "Bliss is in a stable and on top of straws". The goat is languid. "What does this come to be, what does that come to be, I would not care whatever they all come be," he says. So really, how deep stands that block of ice on which the prospects of this anthology depends? I have heard, that the volume of an iceberg below the sea level is seven times the volume above -- a saying one had better believe in. By the time I finish reading "Songs of the Goat", this saying came home to my heart. And the depth of the anthology, is equal to the depth of the Poet's open wounds. It is how fierce he takes he revenge. Somehow the world of man is unlikeable. Nevertheless, it is the world one lies in. Thus is "For the Tainted Sorrow" of you. The depth of your well of tears repulses me, as a way to destroy another piece of irony.
心のなかに雨が降つてゐる。そして、詩人は帰郷した。それゆゑここはふるさとであり、「縁側には陽が当る。」そして「幸福は厩の中にゐる、藁の上に。」山羊は倦怠してゐる。「これがどうならうと、あれがどうならうと、そんなことはどうでもいいのだ。」と。詩集のこの前景はどれくらゐの深さの氷にささへられているだらうか。氷山は海のなかに沈んだ部分に水の表面に浮んだ部分の七倍もの容積を持つと言ふ。信じられていい伝説である。このやうなことを伝説とおもはせるのは山羊の歌をよんだあとの心のやうすである。そしてこの詩集の深さは、詩人の傷のふかさほどと言ふ。つまり復讐のはげしさ。何かしらこの世の中は気にいらない。しかし、そのなかに寝ころんでしまつた。あなたの「汚れつちまつた悲しみ」。僕はこの涙の淵の深さに反撥する。イロニイのもうひとつのものの壊し方である。
Whilst you have sung out your heart the way it is, you have been obstinately blind towards all the "Why?"s and "Wherefrom?"s. The solitary spirit has not confessed. The solitude knew exactly how confessions come in vain. It is only that loneliness sickens him, and his suffering turns into songs, which is the reason why his songs are rather natural. However, it definitely does not hold a conversation with me. It is far from the solitary poems composed of my own words. (This points recalls the nonsensical wording of "the Poet dies today". "Today" implies so much ambiguity. Death of Verlaine's kind shall be of yesterday, and death of Carossa shall be tomorrow. If so, when shall be the deaths of Stefan George and Friedrich Nietzsche?)
心のあり方をそのままうたひはしたが、あなたはすべての「なぜ？」と「どこから？」とには執拗に盲目であつた。孤独な魂は告白もしなかつた。その孤独は告白などむなしいと知りすぎてゐた。ただ孤独が病気であり、苦しみがうたになつた。だから、そのうたはたいへんに自然である。しかし、決して僕に対話しない。僕の考へてゐる言葉での孤独な詩とはたいへんにとほい。（ここでこの詩人が死んだのは今日と、ばかばかしい言葉をおもひ出したまへ。今日という言葉はだいぶ曖昧になる。ヴェルレーヌなどは昨日死に、カロッサは明日死ぬ。ではリルケやゲオルゲやニイチエはいつ死んだか。）
This is "poetry". Yet by no means is this a "conversation", nor is this a "confession of the soul". Even if he managed to produce perfect pieces of art as they are, I am clearly bidding a farewell to Chuya Nakahara. For me, poetry is to ask all the "Why?"s and "Wherefrom?"s, so as to enquire for us the "How?"s and "Whereto?"s, since the human vocabulary is the only place where this conversation, deep down the roots, could come into being.
これは「詩」である。しかし決して「対話」ではない、また「魂の告白」ではない。このやうな完璧な芸術品が出来上るところで、僕ははつきりと中原中也に別離する。詩とは僕にとつて、すべての「なぜ？」と「どこから？」の問ひに、僕らの「いかに？」と「どこへ？」との問ひを問ふ場所であるゆゑ。僕らの言葉がその深い根源で「対話」となる唯一の場所であるゆゑ。
Our repulsion and our parting is going to happen once and again, on and on without an end. And it is not towards the hustling and bustling crowd, but only towards that once paired and coincided, uninhabited sceneries of ice, is our intimacy drawn. In addition, we are parted from the day of "what this and what that", since that superior sigh of yours is buried deep down the abysmal well, since your ennui has been passé parfait, since it has become a song without words.
僕らの反発と別離は、くりかへされてやまないであらう。そして僕らが親近するのは、雑沓のなかで、ただ一度二重にかさなつただれもゐない氷の景色のまへで出会ふときだけ。そして、その出会を無力にする、「あれかこれか」の日に僕らは別離する。なぜならば、深い淵をあなたの孤高な嘆きが埋めつくし、あなたの倦怠が完成するゆゑに、言葉なき歌となるゆゑに。
(From "The Complete Works of Michizou Tachihara" of Chikuma Shobo.)
（筑摩書房「立原道造全集」第５巻より。）
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