Great Sadness --- In Memory of Hideo Kobayashi

Shōhei Ōoka

Great Sadness --- In Memory of Hideo Kobayashi

Shōhei Ōoka

He has finally passed away. Now I am simply immersed in grief. The achievements of the deceased and the man he was will be written about from various angles by many people on this occasion. The magnitude and scope of his achievements will become even clearer.

I met him for the first time in February 1928, which is almost as long as the Shōwa period, fifty-five years, making him, of course, the oldest senior in the literary world. At the time, I was about to turn nineteen on 6 March, and I was troubled about life, literature, and all other matters. Kobayashi-san was twenty-six, seven years older than me, and was about to graduate from the Department of French Literature at the University of Tokyo. I had been receiving private French lessons from him, and we were also struggling with the worries of youth. I could call him "Sensei" since he helped me to resolve my problems, but Kobayashi was a man who walked alone in everything he did, and he never wanted to get into a formal relationship with anyone, such as a teacher or disciple. Naturally, I was not supposed to play the role of disciple. Well, he would let me do whatever I wanted to do. I selfishly thought of him as a big brother I could rely on if need be.

Kobayashi-san was in good health until the year before last and played golf once a week. But he had become weaker since then. I was the one who suffered from cataracts and heart failure seven or eight years ago, and it was hard for me to keep up with Kobayashi's pace, visiting his new home in Yukinoshita and going to Izumi's house in Nikaido every day. Of our old friends, Kobayashi was the longest-lived, and I had no doubt that he would soon reach his nineties. That is why his recent fatal illness was so unexpected, and why I am so sad.

I knew Kobayashi-san before he entered journalism, so I always read his works and 'Bungakukai' magazine. I have never had to bring in a manuscript for anyone. This is such good fortune that it makes me crazy to think about it. After the war, when I had just been demobilised, it was Kobayashi who asked me to write 'Prisoner's Diary,' and it was also he who brought it out into the world. After that, by the way, I knew that the political tendencies of my writing were not to Kobayashi's liking. However, I believe that there was an emotional connection between us that was unrelated to all of that. I liked Kobayashi's quick judgment and straightforward temperament that did not get hung up on things. And also his indescribable kindness.

Seven years ago, when I was hospitalised after my second attack of heart failure and my condition became critical, I heard that he would come all the way to Tokyo to visit me. I telephoned from my hospital room and told him that I was cured already, so there was no need for him to visit me. He seemed to think that was a strange way of putting it and laughed and said, "Oh, well then, take good care of yourself." This was around the time that 'Motoori Norinaga' was published, and I read this magnum opus on my hospital bed, spread out on my chest.

When we first met in 1928, we were each reading Rimbaud, Baudelaire, and Valéry. It would be more accurate to say that I was reading them according to 'Rimbaud' and 'One Aspect of The Flowers of Evil,' which Kobayashi had published in Hakusuisha's 'French Literature Studies.' We were still young and busy taking in foreign literature. I never imagined that Kobayashi would go on to achieve self-completion in a very Japanese way in 'Motoori Norinaga' after 'Things Called Impermanence' and 'Saigyo.' This is the image of Norinaga as a mysterious loner. It seems to me that Kobayashi's youthful infatuation with the Western loner, 'Monsieur Teste,' has been brought to life in the Japanese tradition. This is a fine example of accomplishment for a modern literary figure.

When I heard that Kobayashi had been admitted to Kawasaki City Hospital, I thought I would go to visit him, but Mrs Kiyomi called to tell me that his mood was up or down depending on the test results. But if I kept thinking about that, there would have been no time to go. If he was in a bad mood, I would just go home without going to the hospital. Akiko was there.

I decided to go, so one day I took the plunge and went out with my family. Fortunately, he was fine and in a good mood, so I wanted him to go to Keio Hospital for a thorough examination. However, I was told that the Kawasaki hospital was reluctant to move him because it was referred by his family doctor and because it was close to Kamakura. However, when I went there, it seemed that Kobayashi was planning to move to Keio.

"I was irritated because they he wouldn't let me go home even though I was doing well, but it seems this is a rather troublesome illness. It can't be helped." I think he knew that it was a good thing. Kobayashi-san often said, "The friendship of gentleman is like that of a tree." After he became critically ill, I assumed that he only wanted his family around him. When Tetsutarō Kawakami died the year before last, I accompanied him when he sneaked out of the cancer centre and had dinner at his favourite restaurant in Ginza. (This was Kobayashi's way of telling me that he wanted to do this.)

"That was the end," I told him on the phone. I thought that Kobayashi probably would not see me again once his condition worsened. I decided in my heart that this day would be our final farewell, and so we parted ways. But on the way home in the car, I heard him say to his family as they were leaving the hospital room, "I'm counting on you to take care of Ōoka," and it really hit me in the heart.

After he was transferred to Keio University, details of his condition were communicated to me. I was not allowed to visit him. I said goodbye to him at the hospital in Kawasaki, but I wanted to be by his side once more. I was told that the hospital rooms were kept secret, so I went to the reception desk of the Keio Hospital and spent some time wandering around the spacious lobby. Hearing the news of his death on this earth was a great sadness.

(March 1, 1983)