The-Tatami-Galaxy.Pdf

The Tatami Galaxy by Morimi Tomihiko Mochiguma Translations Translators: koiabi and eerabbit Editor: Griffin The 4½-Tatami Third Wheel In the two years before the spring of my junior year of college, I accomplished not a single thing of practical use. Instead of building healthy relationships with the opposite sex, studying diligently, training my body, and undertaking other activities directed towards becoming a productive member of society, I isolated myself from women, abandoned my studies, and let my health fall to ruin. Yet, despite having struck out already, why is it that I continued to labor away hoping for the pieces to fall into place? I must inquire of the responsible party. Where is the culprit? It is not that I have always been in this condition. I was born pure as the driven snow and as charming as the infant Prince Genji; with nary an impure thought in my head, my radiant smile spread the light of love across the hills and valleys of my hometown. I am doubtful whether that is still the case today. Each time that I look in a mirror I fly into a rage, asking, “Why have you become like this? Is this the sum of your current existence?” There are those who say that I am still young, and that people are things that may yet change. How ridiculous. It is said that the child is the father of the man. And with this year, another one will be added to my twenty, and the end of my splendid quarter-century youth will soon approach. What outcome, then, would further clumsy efforts to change my personality bring about? At this stage, if I attempt to twist something that has already set and hardened, the most I’ll do is break it. At this moment, I must pull myself upward into leading a respectable life. I must not avert my eyes from the grim reality that lies before me. And yet, somehow, it is unbearable to look. ◯ Since it is said that those who interfere with the romance of others are fated to be trampled to death by horses, I stayed far away from the lonely stables at the north end of campus. If I were ever to approach the horse-riding grounds I would certainly be attacked by a band of rampaging horses, which would jump the fences and trample me until the leftover scraps of my flesh would no longer be fit even for sukiyaki. For the same reason, I was deathly afraid of the Kyoto mounted police corps. Allow me to explain why I was so afraid of horses. I was once notorious for being the Destroyer of Love. A Black Cupid dressed in the robes of a reaper, I traded my bow and arrows for a scythe, hacking apart the red threads of fate with laser accuracy. Countless tears were shed by young lovebirds as a result of my exploits. This was certainly the height of depravity; of that much, at least, I am aware. It’s possible that prior to entering university, I had trembled slightly with excitement at the possibility of rosy associations with members of the opposite sex. During the first few months of my college career, such things were hardly a stretch of the imagination, but nevertheless I earnestly pledged to myself that I would not become a beast, but would instead go forth, gently and politely courting beautiful maidens. At any rate, I thought myself prepared to overlook men and women throwing away reason to engage in experimental natural philosophy. Before I knew it though, I had lost all composure and transformed into a scoundrel, feeling nothing but joy at the sound of those fateful red threads snapping. It wasn’t long before I came to inhabit back alleys of broken love, where the scraps of those strings floated in puddles of bitter tears, and the one who was responsible for leading me down those pathways of desperation was a despicable man who was both my sworn enemy and closest friend. ◯ Ozu is a student the same year as I. Though he is a member of the electrical engineering department, he hates electricity, electronics and engineering. His first-year grades were so borderline that I wondered if there was any point to him being in university at all. He, however, wasn’t concerned in the slightest. Because he despises vegetables and adheres strictly to a diet of fast food, he has the extremely eerie look and complexion of someone from the far side of the moon. If you were to meet him the street late at night eight out of ten people would mistake him for a youkai. The remaining two people are certainly youkai themselves. Cruelly beating the weak, groveling to the strong, selfish, self-assured, lazy, a complete demon, neglecting studies, lacking a shred of pride, feeding off the unhappiness of others he was able to eat three square meals a day. There is not a single part of him that is praiseworthy. If I had never met him my soul surely would have been cleaner for it. Keeping that in mind, setting foot into the Misogi Movie Circle in the spring of my freshman year was most assuredly a mistake. ◯ At the time, I was still a sparkling freshman. The cherry trees had shed their flowers, clad now in an invigorating verdant hue. Upon entering the university grounds, each first-year was immediately pressed with club fliers, I with so many that they could not be processed by a single person. Among those sundry fliers, only four caught my attention: Misogi Movie Circle, a mysterious call for disciples, Honwaka Softball Circle, and the Lucky Cat Restaurant secret society. Each of these had its own air of suspicion, yet was its own doorway to a yet unknown campus life, and I was filled with inquisitiveness, thinking that no matter which I chose a fascinating future lay ahead. The only reason I thought this was because I was a hopeless fool. After lectures, I directed my steps towards the university clock tower. It seemed that many circles were holding new member information sessions in that vicinity. Around the base of the clock tower milled throngs of freshmen, their faces still blushing with springs of hope, as well as crafty circle members, eager to prey on those same hopes. Thinking that among these countless circles lay an entrance to the phantasmic illusion of the entrance to a rosy student life, I wandered around in a lightheaded daze. The first thing I noticed was a group of students holding a billboard displaying “Misogi Movie Circle”. It looked like they were screening a movie as a way of welcoming potential new recruits. In hindsight, I should not have continued beyond that point. My decision to join the club that day must be attributed to the fact that I was deluded by honey-laced slogans like “Let’s Have Fun Making Movies” into holding unreasonable expectations. In my excitement at the prospect of a rosy future making a hundred friends I forget myself, and from that day on I embarked upon the path of a beast, acquiring not friends, but countless enemies. Upon entering Misogi, I was completely unable to integrate into the irritatingly congenial atmosphere. I told myself over and over that this was merely a trial I needed to overcome, that by entering this abnormally cheerful group, I would attain a rosy student life, beautiful raven-haired maidens, and eventually the entire world. But in the end, my hopes were crushed. Backed into a dark corner, I suddenly noticed a face of ill portent appear beside me. I thought it was an evil spirit that only someone of my delicate nature could see. That was the first meeting between Ozu and me. ◯ After that fateful encounter, the next two years flew by. It was the end of my third May in university. I sat in my beloved 4½-tatami room, glaring at the despicable Ozu. I lived in a boarding house called Shimogamo Yūsuisō, which is located in Shimogamo Izumigawa. I had heard that the place had burned down in the chaos at the end of the Tokugawa shogunate, was rebuilt in exactly the same fashion, and had not been renovated since. If it hadn’t been for the light leaking out of the windows, one could be forgiven for mistaking it for an abandoned ruin. When I first visited this place during the co-op association tour after orientation I thought I had wandered into Kowloon Walled City. Just looking at its crumbling wooden frame was enough to induce anxiety, and it was probably sufficiently dilapidated that it could be placed on the list of Japan’s Important Cultural Properties. Yet if it were to burn down, I doubt that anyone would even bat an eye. Even the landlord who lives to the east would most certainly be relieved. That particular night, Ozu had come to my residence for a visit. The two of us gloomily gulped down sake. “Gimme something to eat!” Ozu demanded. I broke out my hot plate and grilled some fish burgers, but Ozu devoured his in one bite and then proceeded to make even more extravagant requests: “You got any real meat? I could go for beef tongue with leeks right now.” In a rage I shoved a sizzling hot fish burger into his mouth, but after seeing great teardrops roll silently down his cheeks I was obliged to forgive him. At the start of the month, after two years of relentlessly ruining every relationship we came across in Misogi, we had finally withdrawn from the circle.

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