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of flat land about four hundred yards wide. This in turn dives below sea level, to emerge abruptly from the water about forty miles out, in the form of Mayajima, a small island that I guess to be less than fifteen miles in circumference. Such is the geography of the Nakoi area. The hot spring inn is tucked in against the mountainside, its garden half-embracing the cliff face. The building is a two-storied one, but here at the back, owing to the slope, it becomes a single floor. If I dangled my feet from this balcony, my heels would brush the moss. It makes perfect sense that the previous evening I thought the place to be strangely devised, as I clambered in perplexity up and down its steep staircases.
    Now I open the window to the left. Before me is a wide rock, naturally hollowed out in the middle; the reflection of a wild cherry tree lies steeping in the still pool of water accumulated there from the recent spring rain. Two or three clumps of dwarf bamboo are elegantly positioned to soften the angle of the rock. Beyond stands a hedge of what looks like red-berried kuko bushes; the sound of occasional passing voices suggests that directly beyond the hedge lies the steep road that climbs from the beach to the hill. The gentle southward slope on the farther side of the road is planted with a grove of mandarin trees, and at the edge of the valley another large stand of bamboo shines white in the sun. I have never realized till now that bamboo leaves give off a silver light when seen from a distance. A pine-clad mountainside rises above the bamboo grove, with five or six stone steps leading up between the pines’ red trunks, so clearly visible I feel I can reach out and touch them. There must be a temple there.
    I next open the sliding door that leads off the corridor to my room and go out onto the porch beyond. The railing runs around four sides of an inner garden, and across it, in the direction from which I guess the sea would be visible, stands a second-floor room. From the railing, I can see that my own room is level with this second floor—a tasteful arrangement. Given that the bathing area is below ground level, I could be said to be ensconced in a room at the top of a three-tiered tower.
    The building is a large one, but aside from the room opposite, and another that is level with my railing around to the right, almost every space that looks likely to be a guest room (I know nothing of the living area or kitchen) is closed up. There must be virtually no guests here apart from myself. The outer wooden shutters remain closed over the sealed rooms even during the day, but once opened, it seems they aren’t closed again even at night. Perhaps the front door is not locked at night either. It’s an ideal place for me to happen upon in my journey to savor artistic “nonemotion.”
    By now it’s nearly twelve, but there is still no sign of my meal. I’m beginning to feel distinctly hungry, but I set about mentally identifying myself with the hermit poet in his words “vast empty mountains, no one to be seen,” and manage to induce a state in which I feel not the least regret at having to skimp a little. 3 Drawing a picture feels like too much trouble just now, and as for coming up with a poem, my mind is already immersed in the poetic—to actually compose something would be merely a waste of breath. Nor do I have any inclination to undo the box of two or three books that I’ve brought along, tied to my tripod, and read. I feel perfect happiness simply lolling here on the balcony in the company of the shadow cast by the blossoms, my back toasting in the warm spring sunlight. To think would be to sink into error.
    Movement seems perilous. I would cease even to breathe if I could. I want to live like this for a whole fortnight, motionless, like a plant rooted deep in the floor beneath me.
    At last footsteps are heard coming along the corridor and climbing the stairs. Listening, I realize that two people are approaching.