2021/10/22

I borrowed Tatsuro Dekune’s book “The letters of the teacher Souseki” from a library. As the title says, this book introduces us to the letters which Souseki Natsume had written. Reading it, I thought that writing letters is good. Dekune says “By writing letters, everybody can be a good teacher”. It’s an interesting opinion. I remember that I tried to learn something from various authors by reading books of letters. I read the letters Kafka had written to his lover Milena. I also read Herman Hesse’s letters and read Rilke’s ones which were to a young poet. These were as if they had written to me, and I had learned some kind of truth.

I am reading Takashi Hiraide’s book “To Donald Evans by postcards”. When did I start reading Hiraide’s proses? His proses are solid and very sensitive. Just like Walter Benjamin’s ones, his proses are cold and warm, talking to me something tenderly and not too flippant. I’ve read his works as “The Guest Cat” and “Looking for the bird” and they were also interesting. I want to write like him, but I don’t want to “copy” him. Then, how can I write my “original” articles?

In the morning, I was asked that “how do you choose your books to read?”. It’s difficult to answer. By reading the recommendation that my friends write on Twitter, or looking at the shelves at the library… I read the books guided by the voice of my inspiration. It’s just like hunting or fishing. I hunt the important books which appear in front of me, and I just read and catch various important things that are in the books. I can’t do such things by intention. Just like hunting and fishing depend on the weather and condition of my health, the chances control my reading. But I still search for the books.

Before starting my work, I thought if I couldn’t have done my work again. Finally, I had done my work without any certain reasons. I knew nothing… I thought so. The world around this autistic person is full of mysteries. I can’t see why I can work. I also can’t see why people accept my work. The phenomenon outside of me and the thought inside of me, both are quite a chaos and mystery. Why were these ideas born? And the other people can understand these “personal” ideas? I think about them following Wittgenstein.