kafka-24grammata.com-free-e-book.-pdf

"You're exactly right," Miss Saeki says, beaming. "But at the time, he was
an unknown, so perhaps it couldn't be helped. There are many things we only see
clearly in retrospect."
"You got that right," the husband pipes in.
After this Miss Saeki guides us around the first floor, showing us the
stacks, the reading room, the rare-books collection.
"When he built this library, the head of the family decided not to follow
the simple and elegant style favored by artists in Kyoto, instead choosing a
design more like a rustic dwelling. Still, as you can see, in contrast to the bold
structure of the building, the furnishings and picture frames are quite elaborate
and luxurious. The carving of these wooden panels, for instance, is very elegant.
All the finest master craftsmen in Shikoku were assembled to work on the
construction."
Our little group starts upstairs, a vaulted ceiling soaring over the
staircase. The ebony railing's so highly polished it looks like you'll leave a
mark if you touch it. On a stained-glass window next to the landing, a deer
stretches out its neck to nibble at some grapes. There are two parlors on the
second floor, as well as a spacious hall that in the past was probably lined with
tatami for banquets and gatherings. Now the floor is plain wood, and the walls are
covered with framed calligraphy, hanging scrolls, and Japanese-style paintings. In
the center, a glass case displays various mementos and the story behind each. One
parlor is in the Japanese style, the other Western. The Western-style room
contains a large writing desk and a swivel chair that look like someone's still
using. There's a line of pines outside the window behind the desk, and the
horizon's faintly visible between the trees.
The couple from Osaka walks around the parlor, inspecting all the items,
reading the explanations in the pamphlet. Every time the wife makes a comment, the
husband chimes in to second her opinion. A lucky couple that agrees on everything.
The things on display don't do much for me, so I check out the details of the
building's construction. While I'm nosing around the Western parlor Miss Saeki
comes up to me and says, "You can sit in that chair, if you'd like to. Shiga Naoya
and Tanizaki both sat there at one time or another. Not that this is the same
chair, of course."
I sit down on the swivel chair and quietly rest my hands on the desk.
"How is it? Feel like you could write something?"
I blush a little and shake my head. Miss Saeki laughs and goes back to the
couple. From the chair I watch how she carries herself, every motion natural and
elegant. I can't express it well, but there's definitely something special about
it, as if her retreating figure is trying to tell me something she couldn't
express while facing me. But what this is, I haven't a clue. Face it, I remind
myself--there're tons of things you don't have a clue about.
Still seated, I give the room a once-over. On the wall is an oil painting,
apparently of the seashore nearby. It's done in an old-fashioned style, but the
colors are fresh and alive. On top of the desk is a large ashtray and a lamp with
a green lampshade. I push the switch and, sure enough, the light comes on. A black
clock hangs on the opposite wall, an antique by the looks of it, though the hands
tell the right time. There are round spots worn here and there into the wooden
floor, and it creaks slightly when you walk on it.
At the end of the tour the Osaka couple thanks Miss Saeki and disappears. It
turns out they're members of a tanka circle in the Kansai region. I wonder what
kind of poems they compose--the husband, especially. Grunts and nods don't add up
to poetry. But maybe writing poetry brings out some hidden talent in the guy.
I return to the reading room and pick up where I'd left off in my book. Over
the afternoon a few other readers filter in, most of them with those reading
glasses old people wear and that everybody looks the same in. Time passes slowly.
Nobody says a word, everyone lost in quiet reading. One person sits at a desk
jotting down notes, but the rest are sitting there silently, not moving, totally
absorbed. Just like me.