Annotated Readings of Shenyin Yu #05

These five lines of defense are not a checklist for whether institutions are properly designed. They form a framework for identifying where boundaries lie and whether those boundaries remain active. In environments where systems and technologies are highly developed, this perspective becomes more effective. When form is complete, internal failure is harder to detect.

In contemporary organizations, rules and procedures are often well defined. Documentation exists, processes are specified, and lines of responsibility appear clear in formal terms. Yet in practice, decisions are delayed, responsibility diffuses, and agreements lack substance. This does not indicate a shortage of institutional design. From Lü Xinwu’s perspective, it indicates that the distinction of roles is no longer functioning as a criterion for judgment. Roles exist, but they do not guide action. As a result, activity appears to continue, while decisions fail to translate into execution.

A common response is to add more rules or strengthen oversight. This does not restore the boundary. It often increases complexity and slows judgment further. The issue is not quantity, but whether the role functions effectively within actual decisions.

The same applies to relations with the outside. In a context where information and capital move rapidly, disengagement is not a realistic option. The question is not how much to connect, but under what conditions connection occurs. If these conditions remain undefined, external elements gradually alter internal standards. What was once external becomes normalized. At that point, judgment loses consistency.

This pattern appears in both corporations and states. When decision-making becomes unstable, it often reflects a shift driven by short-term incentives or external evaluation. Individual decisions may appear coherent, yet the overall structure no longer aligns. This indicates that the boundary has not been maintained.

At the level of the individual and the household, the elements of subtle restraint and the balance between principle and desire become decisive. Rules cannot govern every situation. Ultimately, control depends on internal regulation. Once that regulation weakens, external measures follow rather than lead.

The balance between principle and desire is particularly significant in the present context. With abundant information, justification can always be constructed. Data can support multiple conclusions. If the initial selection of premises is guided by desire, outcomes are effectively predetermined. Principle shifts from a controlling function to a legitimizing one.

This process occurs not only at the individual level but also within organizations. When short-term results are emphasized, long-term criteria recede. The change progresses gradually and often escapes notice. Once a threshold is crossed, reversal becomes difficult.

Here, the expression “once it is soaked” applies directly. Over time, the same mechanism appears in the continuity of values. Interpretations shift incrementally. When these shifts accumulate, identical terms refer to different contents. The transformation can proceed rapidly in environments where information circulates quickly. The issue is not which position is correct, but whether the point at which the standard changed has been identified.

Without this awareness, judgment becomes reactive to external flows. These five lines of defense are not to be treated independently. Individual judgment, household order, organizational function, external relations, and the continuity of values over time are interconnected. A breakdown in one area propagates to others.

When addressing a problem, the point of origin must be identified. Organizational disorder may stem from individual judgment, external pressure, or the transformation of standards. Without locating this point, corrective measures tend to reappear in altered form.

The strength of this framework lies in its capacity for clear differentiation. It serves primarily as a preventive instrument. It is not intended for use after problems emerge, but at earlier stages, to detect where instability begins.

If a boundary is restored while it is still unstable, collapse can be avoided. The function of this approach is to organize complex conditions into a form that can be grasped quickly. Regardless of the volume of information, attention can be directed to whether each boundary remains active.

The focus is not on external adjustment, but on whether internal lines are functioning. The ability to adopt this perspective significantly affects the precision of judgment. This is where the passage finds its use.

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Annotated Readings of Shenyin Yu #04

“There are five great safeguards under Heaven. Not one may be allowed to collapse, even in the slightest.

Once it is breached, rupture follows and cannot be repaired.
The safeguard within the realm lies in the distinction between superior and subordinate.
The safeguard at the boundary lies in the control of entry and exit.
The safeguard within the household lies in the subtle restraint between men and women.
The safeguard within the person lies in the balance between principle and desire.
The safeguard across generations lies in the purity or admixture of the Way.”

This passage reaches close to the core of the work. At a glance, it appears to present five categories. What it actually does is arrange points at which breakdown occurs.
天下の大防五あり。一も毫潰すべからざるなり。
一たび漬ゆれば、則ち決裂収拾すべからず。
宇内の大防は、上下の名分是のみ。
境外の大防は、夏の出入のみ。
一家の大防は、男女の嫌微是のみ。
一身の大防は、理欲の消長是のみ。
万世の大防は、道脈の純雑是のみ。

The opening two lines establish the premise. Do not allow even a single breach. Once a breach occurs, recovery is no longer possible. The emphasis is not on strengthening, but on whether preservation can be maintained. A slight relaxation at a critical point can bring the whole to an end.

This aligns with the notion that trouble arises in subtle form and calamity appears suddenly. The initial stage is small. If it proceeds unnoticed, it surfaces abruptly. The issue is not scale, but location and stage.

From there, the text divides into five.

The first concerns the distinction between superior and subordinate. This is not limited to hierarchy. It refers to positional clarity—where one stands. Without a fixed position, both speech and judgment become unstable. Orders fail to take effect because this layer has already weakened. Form remains, but substance is absent.

The second concerns entry and exit. This marks the boundary with the outside. The issue is not simply whether something is admitted, but whether the conditions for admission are defined. If those conditions become unclear, elements that initially feel out of place are gradually accepted. Over time, the criteria themselves shift. Breakdown at the boundary occurs when conditions fail, not when quantity increases.

The third concerns the subtle restraint between men and women. This is not a domain governed effectively by explicit rules. It relies on fine perceptions—hesitation, awareness, a sense of limit. As long as these operate, issues do not surface. Once they disappear, collapse follows rapidly. External regulation cannot easily compensate for the loss of internal control.

The fourth concerns the balance between principle and desire within the individual. The issue is which holds initiative. When desire overtakes principle, principle becomes a tool of justification. This is not a fixed state, but a point of reversal. Small concessions accumulate until control is lost. The progression from minor deviation to uncontrollable condition is clearly indicated.

The fifth concerns the purity or admixture of the Way across time. This operates on a longer scale. Change does not appear immediately. Yet with continued introduction of heterogeneous elements, the standard itself shifts. This type of change is difficult to perceive from within. By the time it is recognized, reversal is no longer feasible.

Taken together, these five are not independent. A deviation within the individual appears in the household, extends to larger structures, accelerates through external contact, and becomes fixed over time. Movement proceeds from the inside outward and into duration.

The reverse also occurs. External influences reshape the interior. The structure is not linear but interactive.

What this passage presents is not an ideal. It analyzes modes of breakdown and indicates where interruption is possible. The principle remains consistent. Intervention after expansion is ineffective. It must occur at an early stage, at the boundary where change begins.

For that reason, the language remains concise. It isolates boundaries—where the line lies and whether it holds. With this focus, complex conditions can be assessed in the moment. The passage is shaped less for extended reading than for recall during judgment, allowing one to identify where failure is emerging.
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Annotated Readings of Shenyin Yu #03

 In the late Ming, when Lü Xinwu was active, the age still appeared intact from the outside. The dynasty endured, institutions remained in place, and the administrative framework had not collapsed. Yet when set in motion, precision declined. The structure existed, but it did not function as intended. This was a period in which misalignment accumulated gradually, with weakening beginning internally before any visible breakdown of order.

The bureaucratic system had reached a high level of completion. Officials were selected through the civil service examinations, and governance extended from the center to the provinces. There were mechanisms based on documents and rules. However, the more complete the system became, the greater the weight placed on human judgment. Situations arose that could not be resolved by rules alone. Outcomes increasingly depended on decisions made in specific moments, and this is where divergence began to enter.

A prominent feature of the period is the gap between form and reality. On paper, there were no problems. In practice, nothing moved. Responsibility was assigned, yet in actual cases no one assumed it. Orders were transmitted, but altered along the way.

The cause of such conditions lies less in the system itself than in chains of judgment. Small deviations accumulate. At first they can be corrected, but beyond a certain point reversal becomes difficult. Lü Xinwu’s phrasing, “once it is soaked,” points precisely to this threshold.

There is also an intellectual background. The current following Wang Yangming emphasized the mind as the standard, giving greater weight to internal recognition than to external rules. This tendency had the capacity to dissolve rigid formalism.

At the same time, it introduced another difficulty. When the inner basis became unstable, the supporting structure weakened. Without reliance on external frameworks, any disturbance within could extend outward and affect the whole. Lü Xinwu observed this as well.

Economic movement during this period was also significant. Circulation expanded, and the movement of people and information increased. Boundaries between regions opened. With greater external contact, the question of what to admit and what to restrict became more pressing. This appears as the issue of entry and exit, a concrete problem in practice.

As society shifted, effects reached the household and the individual. When shared values dispersed, assumptions that had previously required no articulation no longer held. Relationships sustained by subtle mutual understanding became more unstable.

This is not a domain stabilized by adding more rules. It depends on fine-grained perception. Within such conditions, Lü Xinwu did not attempt to redesign institutions. His attention remained on the process of breakdown. Collapse does not occur as a sudden external event. It proceeds through incremental distortions in judgment that propagate through a chain. The question is where that chain can be interrupted.

One point stands out. He does not assess problems by scale. Large problems do not begin as large; they emerge from accumulated small deviations. What matters is not magnitude but position.

At which layer does the distortion occur? A deviation at the level of the individual spreads to the household. If the household destabilizes, the effect reaches organizations. When organizations are distorted, the consequences extend to the state. To arrest this process, intervention must occur at the innermost level.

This perspective is consistent throughout his work. The mode of presentation follows the same principle. He does not provide extended explanations. He isolates boundaries—where lines are drawn, and whether they are maintained. By focusing on these two points, complex situations can be handled in forms that allow immediate judgment.

What he achieves is not simplification in the sense of reducing complexity, but compression into forms that can be used. That is why his work remains applicable in practical settings.

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Annotated Readings of Shenyin Yu #02

 [Shenyin Yu takes the outward form of a moral cultivation text, yet its internal design diverges from that model. It does not present a neatly organized system. What it offers instead is a sequence of fragments meant to regulate daily judgment. The continuity of short statements is deliberate, shaped to match how they are used.

The structure makes this clear. Each line stands on its own and remains intelligible without surrounding context. It is not meant to be read as a continuous argument, but to be retrieved and applied in specific situations. At the same time, it is not random. As one reads, the same criteria for judgment reappear from different angles. A passage may address inner disposition, then shift to interpersonal relations, then move outward to circumstances. Through repetition and variation, the reader is prevented from settling into a single fixed view.

The term “shenyin” itself is tied to this design. It does not refer to abstract mental struggle. It points to the pressure of having to decide within reality. The expressions in the text align more closely with moments in the act of judging than with completed theory.

In terms of content, ethics and practice are not separated. Conventional moral texts often describe virtues to cultivate or patterns of conduct to follow. Here the emphasis shifts toward the points at which these break down. In discussions of relationships, attention is directed to where distortion begins and at what stage recovery becomes impossible. The orientation is practical.

The text also presumes use. The phrasing invites memorization, yet memorization is not the end. Each line is meant to be recalled in context and incorporated into decision-making. This explains both the brevity of the expressions and the openness of their meaning. The reader must extend them into particular circumstances.

What is tested is not correct interpretation, but application.

The range of topics is broad. It begins with the individual, extends to the household, moves into social relations, and reaches organizational and temporal dimensions. These are not treated as separate domains. They are brought together through a single viewpoint.

That viewpoint concentrates on points of rupture. Regardless of the domain, the structure of breakdown shows recurring patterns. With this perspective, different fields can be examined through the same criteria.

A strong sense of stages runs through the work. Small deviations accumulate until a threshold is crossed and reversal becomes difficult. Missing that point means that when the issue becomes visible, intervention is already constrained. The text functions as a tool for anticipating that shift.

The short form contributes to this function. In situations where there is no time for extended reflection, a line can be recalled immediately. This supports timely judgment and limits the tendency to defer decisions.

The aim is not to increase knowledge. It proceeds from the assumption that excessive information can dull judgment. What matters is not volume but the selection of criteria. The language is compressed to serve that end.

For the reader, the task is to expand what has been compressed. Each line must be unfolded in relation to one’s own situation.

Another notable feature is the non-fixed nature of meaning. The same line operates differently depending on context. This is not ambiguity in a negative sense; it broadens the range of application. The criteria remain usable across changing conditions.

Its durability lies here. It does not supply answers. It provides instruments for moving judgment.
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Annotated Readings of Shenyin Yu #01

Lü Xinwu is often described as a Confucian scholar, but in practice he was a government official. He lived in the late Ming and made decisions on the ground. Because of that, his words are not abstract reasoning worked out in books; they are framed by a question: “Will this actually function in real conditions?”

The period matters. The Ming system was highly developed. The civil service examinations were in place, the bureaucracy was staffed, documents circulated. Yet when put into motion, things stalled. From the outside, everything looked orderly; inside, the machinery jammed. He spent his time observing this gap.

For example, orders were issued but not carried out. There were supposed to be responsible officials, yet when problems arose, no one took ownership. Paperwork moved forward, but reality did not. Once this becomes normal, attention shifts away from how to design systems and toward why they break down.

At that point, the perspective changes. Lü Xinwu moves in that direction. As a local official, he encountered countless situations where rules did not hold. Even with regulations in place, outcomes diverged through human judgment. Those experiences became his language. So rather than stating ideals, he often describes what things look like just before they collapse.

Intellectually, he stands in the current of Wang Yangming’s thought, which places weight on the mind. It values internal judgment over external rules. This approach can counter situations where form remains but substance is empty, yet it can also drift into danger. If one becomes convinced that one’s inner judgment is correct, external norms may be treated lightly.

Lü Xinwu understands that as well. He values the inner dimension, but he does not leave it unchecked. He holds it in a way that connects it to action. That is why his language is concise. Instead of extended argument, he presents forms that can be used immediately. They can be pulled out in the field and applied. It functions less as a work to be read and more as a tool.

Another important aspect of his perspective is process. He is less concerned with what ought to be than with how things deteriorate. His view is not of gradual decline alone, but of thresholds—points beyond which change becomes abrupt. This is why expressions like “once” and “then” appear frequently.

This aligns closely with practical experience. Problems are not always visible. They surface suddenly, and by that point intervention is often too late. So he watches for where they can be stopped.

From there, the scope expands. He speaks about the state, observes society, includes the household and the individual, and touches on history. Yet he does not explain everything in detail. Instead, he gathers them at boundaries. Where is the line drawn? Where does breakdown begin? By focusing there, even complex matters can be seen through a single lens.

He also does not treat institutions as fixed. Effective systems can fail, and flawed ones can still function. The difference lies in the judgment of those who operate them. Because of this, his words are not confined to his own time. They can be brought directly into present conditions.

In summary, he is not someone who constructed a theoretical system. He continued to examine what to do when theory stops working. His words are not answers but criteria for use. For the reader, memorization is not enough; one must decide where to apply them. What he observes is not the system itself, but the human judgment operating within it—where it diverges, and where passing a certain point makes return impossible. Shenyin Yu takes shape as a work that captures and holds those points.
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Three Months After the Move

Three months after my mother moved into an assisted-living apartment, I decided it was finally time to clear out her house. As it turned out, there was more of our family’s belongings than hers.
As I sorted things into piles—what to throw away and what to keep—I kept running into things that made me stop. “Oh… I remember this.” My worst elementary school report cards, for one. All kinds of things surfaced..
While going through it all, I came across a bundle of my children’s belongings and photographs. Inside it, I found a letter I had written..
It surprised me..
I had not been much of a father who stayed at home. I was clumsy in that role. In our family, their mother did most of the work of raising them. Even so, my children never said things like “Dad, I hate you,” or “You smell,” or “You’re annoying.” Even in their teenage years, there was no real rebellion. I still think that was entirely because of her. But I was a father who was often away on business. I always carried the sense that at any moment, something could happen and I might be gone, cut off from them without warning..
So, without telling them, I wrote each of them a letter and slipped it into their photo albums..
And now, I had found one of those letters..
> “Your father’s greatest happiness is listening to your stories, and telling you stories in return. > If something happens to me and I can no longer talk with you, please—keep talking to me. > I will always be standing beside you, listening. > I love you. Always, forever, no matter where I am.”.
Yes..
Even now, I love you..

The River My Mother Faced, and the Blossoms That Returned

My oldest memory is of cherry blossoms in full bloom, and a storm of petals. I am standing inside it. The ground and the sky are swallowed in pale pink, the light dissolving, the world reduced to a single color. The violent swirl of petals frightened me, and I gripped the hand of the adult beside me. I had long believed it was my aunt and her husband. The memory always ended there..
That blizzard of blossoms returned to me again and again in dreams. The color of sakura, that pale red, became a symbol of something that blocked my way without reason. For years, I thought it was from the day I entered kindergarten in Ōfuna. I imagined that after the entrance ceremony, I had gone out with my aunt and uncle into the film studio grounds..
There had been a row of cherry trees just inside the main gate of the Ōfuna Studio. I was certain that was the place. The studio is gone now. I have no way to confirm it. I do not know if those trees still stand..
After my father died, my mother remained in Yokosuka, stunned and unable to move forward. My aunt took me in. Because of that, my earliest memories belong to Ōfuna, and most of them are tied to the studio..
My uncle worked there. Our house stood along the same row as the studio. Looking back, it feels as if everyone who worked there lived nearby. The older kids I played with were all children of studio workers. We slipped into the studio grounds and ran around. We were scolded if we caused trouble, but the vast open spaces absorbed us. Children running across them were part of the scenery. Sometimes, when we ran past, the men working there would call out to us and share bits of sweets from their breaks..
The one who paid us the most attention was the man who worked in the archive. I do not remember his name. We called him Gen-san..
“Gen-san’s been around since the Kamata days,” one of the older boys told me. I nodded as if impressed, though I had no idea what “Kamata” or “old-timer” meant..
When we were tired of playing, we would go to him. He was always blunt, never warm in manner, but when we showed up, he seemed pleased. He would give us drinks and snacks, then run leftover film reels for us..
Most of the footage was scenery. While it played, he would mutter explanations..
“Movies are a collection of small efforts by many people. Even the frames that don’t get used, none of them are wasted.”.
“Everything has meaning. Even if it wasn’t used, the meaning stays. That’s why I show them like this from time to time.”.
I do not remember hearing those words myself. I was too young. I learned of them later, from someone I happened to meet at the opening ceremony of Kamakura Cinema World. He had also grown up beside the studio and had been cared for by Gen-san..

We stood there, listening to speeches, watching the last breath of the Ōfuna Studio being turned into something else, and we talked endlessly about the place that had been our playground. Those stories were far more alive than the thinly constructed theme park around us. We exchanged business cards and promised to meet again. We never did..
Not long after, that place too collapsed. The studio vanished completely..

Some time later, while speaking with my mother, the conversation turned to my aunt in Ōfuna. In the middle of it, she said something unexpected..
“You didn’t attend the kindergarten entrance ceremony there.”
I was startled. At the same time, the storm of blossoms returned with absolute clarity.
After taking me in, my aunt and her husband had grown attached. They had wanted to adopt me.
“They said I couldn’t raise you,” my mother told me. “They said they would be better parents.”
My mother refused. On the day of enrollment, she came and took me back to Yokosuka. I cried, saying I wanted to go to kindergarten, as she pulled me along.
The hand I had held that day was not my aunt’s.
It was my mother’s.
“But in the end, it didn’t work,” she said. “I asked them to take you back. On the condition they would never bring up adoption again.”
To the child I was, my mother was a woman who visited from time to time. Home was Ōfuna. Even after I began living with her, I spent every school break with my aunt and uncle. My mother never objected, but something remained unresolved in her.
“When you waved and said, ‘Mama, come visit again,’ it was unbearable,” she said. “That’s when I decided we had to live together. Just the two of us.”
She did. She pushed forward. That effort left distortions. She carried more than she could manage. Part of that weight reached me. There was always a sense that I had to carry it as well. She did not say it directly, but it showed in fragments.
I resisted it. I thought it was her decision, her burden. From my late elementary years until the summer I left home in my final year of high school, that thought stayed with me.
“But,” she continued, “I wanted a child of my own. I wanted you to be born. After losing your father, I couldn’t bear losing you too. I know I caused you pain because of that.”
She smiled, old now, the years behind her.
“I wasn’t much of a son. Hardly home once I grew up.”
“That’s all right,” she said. “As long as you’re alive somewhere under this sky, that’s enough.”
She laughed.
More than eighty years. She had lived through upheaval and arrived here, in front of me. It felt as if she had given birth to me for this moment.
I saw the falling blossoms again.
They were no longer the sign of something that blocked my path.
They were flowers scattering in celebration, making way for what comes next.

The River of Forgetting My Mother Watched

**The River of Forgetting My Mother Watched** When my mother turned eighty, she told me she was going to close the bar. Her hearing had deteriorated badly. She could no longer catch the high-pitched alarms. People had begun telling her, “Miki-san, something’s ringing.” Sometimes it was the gas shutoff clicking in automatically. Sometimes the refrigerator door left ajar. Once, it was the smoke detector.
“I can’t risk causing trouble for others,” she said over the phone. “I’m closing.”
“Are you going to sell the place?” I asked.
“No. I want to leave it to you. Find someone to rent it.”
A tenant was found quickly. I flew back to Japan to handle the contract.
Still, I wasn’t sure she could really retire after working for sixty years. She had no hobbies to speak of except pachinko. I figured that once she stopped working, she would end up spending her days there.
That is exactly what happened.
When I returned again to rein in her spending, she said, “I know, I know. But if I stay home all day, I get restless. I’ll try to cut back.” It was only words.
“I’m sorry for the trouble,” she would add.
“There’s nowhere else you can trouble,” I told her. “If it’s me, that’s fine. But even then, keep it within some limits. I’m not telling you to stop what you like.”
She gave a faint, apologetic smile.
Just then, a dark shape crossed the corner of the room. A cockroach.
Instinctively, I grabbed a magazine to strike it.
“Don’t!” she said sharply.
“If the window’s open, they come in from the neighbors. Don’t kill it.”
“Why not?”
“When I ran the place, I hunted them down without mercy. No need to keep doing that now. That one has somewhere it wants to go back to as well.”
I said nothing. I scooped it up with a folded newspaper and let it go out the window.
That day, I had planned to ask her if she would consider moving into a care facility. Her legs were still strong, but it seemed better to move while she could still make friends and adjust. Better than waiting until she was bedridden.
But her words—“it has somewhere it wants to return to”—left me with nothing to say. Of course there is always somewhere one wants to return to. To spend the last years of life thinking only of going back must be hard.
Still, I lived outside Japan. If she was just passing time at pachinko parlors, that was one thing. But if something happened… In the end, I brought it up.
“I have no intention of making you take care of me like that,” she said. “I don’t want that. When the time comes, I’ll go somewhere that can handle it. But until then, I want to stay here alone. I know it’s selfish. I know you worry. But let me have this.”
“…All right. But at least let me arrange a helper.”
“If that helps you feel better, then do it,” she said, smiling.
That arrangement, however, turned out to be more troublesome than the pachinko.
Within a month, she would always tell them not to come anymore. Over the course of a year, I lost count of how many helpers were replaced.
Then she began to say, “When they come, things go missing. Money disappears.”
And yet, I was glad I had insisted on bringing them in.
If I hadn’t, I might never have noticed how quietly dementia had begun to approach her.

On our journey, we meet the OhKawa River again

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#oldginza #oldtokyo #oldjapan #showa It was on March 24, 1965 that the Sumida River came to be known collectively as the Sumida River, although it has changed its name to the Arakawa River, Senju River, Asakusa River, Miyato River, Ohkawa River, Sumida River, and Mimata River. This was the year after the Tokyo Olympics. Originally the main stream of the Arakawa River, it settled into the current Sumida River thanks to the Arakawa River discharge channel, which took 17 years to build, starting with the Tone-Gawa Eastwarden Project in the Edo period. This is called Sumida River. It has a long history, and the name "Sumida River/角田河" or "Sumida Stream/角田川" can be seen in the Manyoshu.It's not "in the corner". Manyojin used the word "horn". However, the area downstream from Azuma Bridge was called the "Oh River" by the people. It was a river that was very close to our lives. I didn't need a name for that. "River" is enough. But it's big, so it's a "OhKawa/big river." Actually, there is another reason why I don't want to call the river under the Kachidoki Bridge "Sumida River". My aunt, uncle, and mother all called me Ohkawa. But in elementary school, the kids used to say "Sumidagawa" because they learned it from their teacher. But at this age. After all, I can't help but think that OhKawa is good here. After a long journey, Kachidoki gazes at the riverside that he has returned to after a long journey, and it seems to me to be the "OhKawa" that my mother, aunt, and uncle gazed at. On our journey, we meet the OhKawa River again. "Tabinosue mata Ohkawani meguriau"

For me, Ginza and Yurakucho

For me, Ginza and Yurakucho belong to the years roughly between 1965 and 1970. That was after I entered high school, and then university. Before that, it was a place my mother would take me to—somewhere you dressed up a little to go out.

My mother had grown up as the daughter of a Western bookbinding shop in Kanda, one that specialized in foreign-language books. Born in the first year of the Shōwa era, she spent her formative teenage years in a time of upheaval. Perhaps that unusual environment—surrounded by foreign texts even in those years—shaped her tastes and character quite deeply. She spoke English with ease, enjoyed Western music and films, and was perfectly at home with Western food. Even after my father, who had worked for the GHQ, passed away, her Western-style way of living never changed.

When I was in junior high, a girl I was seeing asked me, “What kind of music do you like?” I panicked and blurted out, “J-j-jazz.” Right after saying it, I rushed to Yamano Music and bought Jimmy Smith’s album *The Cat*. I remember playing it on my mother’s record player, only for her to give a faint, amused snort and say, “Oh? That’s quite a stylish choice you’ve picked.” I had bought that EP out of sheer embarrassment, so I turned red on the spot. But after a while, she gave me some pocket money and said, “Why don’t you go to Yamano and get a different record? I’ll put this one in the jukebox at the bar.” And somehow, that’s how I ended up taking on the role of picking out EPs for the jukebox.

Looking back, the bar my mother ran at the foot of Kachidoki must have been a place frequented by people working in Ginza—musicians among them. She had worked for many years in a Ginza cabaret after my father passed away, so it made sense. Among the regulars, there was a foreigner who spoke remarkably fluent Japanese. I often overheard people calling him “Conde-san.” Only later, after I entered high school and started playing in bands at Ginza cabarets and clubs myself, did I realize that he was Raymond Conde. Our place had the bar on the first floor and our living space upstairs, so there was always jazz drifting up from below.

Not long after entering high school, I began frequenting a place called “Mama” in the Yurakucho Subaru Arcade. In a way, it felt like a natural path I was bound to take.

It really was a different time. A high school kid could walk into a jazz café straight after school, still in uniform, and no one would question it. In that smoke-filled space, I would sit for two hours and twenty minutes over a 130-yen cup of coffee, bathed in the powerful sound coming out of ALTEC speakers. At a cramped table, half-distracted by the small brown cockroaches scurrying about, I would jot down notes on the records being played, study for exams, or write down impressions of films I had seen at ATG.