Ride on Time
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When the Earthquake Hit
Japan Earthquake Charity Literature Fuminori Nakamura When the Earthquake Hit Translated by Michael Staley WasedaBungaku 2012 When the Earthquake Hit When the earthquake hit on March 11, I was in my apartment, in Tokyo, working. When I felt the first jolt, I knew it was going to be a big one, so I went over to the window to stop the speakers from falling off the ledge they were perched on. But soon the shaking grew, and grew, until finally it occurred to me that my life was in danger, that this was no time to worry about whether something would break. I had never experienced a quake this size before. I wondered if the building would collapse. I opened the door to go outside, and everything in the scene before my eyes was swaying. In that moment, in that storm of twisting and creaking, in that cage of hard concrete, I realized how soft, how fragile the human body was. All I could do was stand there, and just barely at that. The view from my floor, which I’d grown so accustomed to, looked different now, surreal even, as it churned and rumbled. My will and my thoughts were completely disconnected from the development of this phenomenon, and from the question of they had no bearing on the question of whether the shaking would get worseintensify or subside – a questionupon which; and yetmy life depended entirely on that question – would the shaking grow worse, or would it subside? The unusually long duration of the quake seemed too real to be real. -
Ride on Time
Japan Earthquake Charity Literature Kazushige Abe RIDE ON TIME Translated by Michael Emmerich WasedaBungaku 2011 RIDE ON TIME Another day of uninspiring waves. Nothing bracing about the wind, either – it just feels chilly. Occasionally a perfunctory gust springs up, as if it’s suddenly realized it should have been blowing all along, flapping the banners outside the seafood shops and the curtains hanging in the storefronts before head- ing elsewhere. In its wake, the salty pungency of the rocks and an image on the retina of billowing sand. The waves are always the same. It was like this yesterday, and doubtless it’ll be this way tomorrow, too. Bland, ordinary swells, unremarkable, average. Still, we know they’re not as bad as we say they are. Truth is, we’ve gotten used to them. Inured to their excite- ments. Having spent so many years on this coast, paddling out past the breakers day in and day out, all year long, we’ve become so familiar with the particular qualities of the wind and waves here that there are no surprises anymore, unless something well out of the ordinary comes along. Lucky enough to be served gourmet meals on a daily basis, we grumble about the cooks above the clouds. This isn’t good enough, do better! Blaming the weather bureau has gotten so old that we no longer even bother. We’re as passive as chicks in a nest, straining upward, opening our mouths, cheeping 2 RIDE ON TIME shrilly ever so often as we wait for our food. We’ve long since become bored with the whole situation, but that doesn’t keep us from staying on. -
Poola's Return
Japan Earthquake Charity Literature Hideo Furukawa Poola’s Return Translated by Satoshi Katagiri WasedaBungaku 2011 Poola’s Return Moments like these remind me of Poola. I may have used the wrong words. It may be best to cor- rect them by saying, “All I can remember now...” But what is “best”? Many images have changed meanings in many people after “that day”. In such a case, all I can do is remember truth- ful to this moment, to this now. All I can do is look back. I don’t think I have time to hesitate. I don’t think it is good to hesitate, either. The line between good and evil has disappeared. So I try to remember, and be true to how it happened. A girl once told me a story. Parts of it rang like a candid confession. It was true and personal. I’ve never forgotten her voice. I never forgot it but this now I remember it. Poola lives in a middle school that the girl once used to attend. Ten years passed since her middle school years, and she did not know Poola back then. “I don’t think it existed when I was there,” she said. I can almost hear her voice in my head. Her voice (indeed the voice) is what is pulling me back to memories. Poola lives in the school pool. Poola lives there until all the water is dried out for the win- ter. Poola never comes out during summer. 2 Poola’s Return Poola might be a nocturnal creature.