Two Types of Literature
Chōkōdō Shujin
For me, there are two kinds of literature and art: art that causes agony and art that is enjoyable.
Existence in which we seek the fulfilment of the ego by using all of our senses and all of our thoughts without the slightest doubt about our daily lives, and existence in which we seek the fulfilment of our lives by gaining as much experience and sensation as possible from whatever we see and touch - which is the proper course of action? This is life. And this is the effort to enrich the experience of daily life by accepting all the stimuli from the standpoint of the absolute experience of human life.
However, it is also possible to be dissatisfied with the above, and to doubt the only consciousness that reveals one's own existence, that is, the senses themselves. But when I think about how much power there is in my senses as a guarantee of life and as a fact of life, I cannot help but think that I am not the only one who has the power to do so. It is a clear fact that the physical body can only withstand the sting of the outside world for a very short period of time, from the age of twenty to thirty, and that with age comes physical exhaustion. Thus, no matter how much we may desire it in our thoughts, the sting of the outside world will not come to our senses as sharply as it used to. This is a sad state of affairs for the human senses.
On the other hand, how many experiences can we be aware of with regard to our senses? The sensations we feel in response to the almost uncountable number of external stimuli can only be seen as extremely monotonous. In short, it is a clear fact that the human senses are limited. And this is not only limited to our ability to feel alone, but also to a considerable limit in terms of time. In view of this, we cannot help but anticipate that the life of the senses will eventually die out.
As long as we are born as human beings, we all want to have as many experiences as possible, both physically and mentally, and I think this is a meaningful part of life. However, while we are satisfying our instincts, we cannot help but anticipate our own demise. This is why the question of "where to go from here" arises in our minds so acutely. We can also think of questions such as, "What is the purpose of our lives?" And finally, we cannot help but feel a sense of sorrow that we cannot find in anything an idol for which we are willing to sacrifice body and soul.
Of course, one can flee to religion, but from one point of view this religion would be nothing but a kind of asceticism, away from the human life - from this troublesome real life. To forbid specific desires and to place oneself above them is nothing short of a hard life. For the truly religious, it may be a pleasant and happy thing. But for me, a third party, it is a cold and sad thing. This, for me, seems to be the path where the two sides of literature and art diverge.
One is to seek experience and sensation in daily life, regardless of what the basis of life is, and to seek fulfillment of the ego, and the other is to appeal to the unbearable agony of the destruction and death of colorful and poetic life. And in all of these arts, the one thing that is consistent is sincerity. The heart that stands in this colorful, poetic world and enjoys it, there is also a sincerity and a lonely joy that sinks into our hearts. There is also the sad cry of sincerity in the fact that some are being baptised into darkness and destruction at every moment.
Finally, it is only natural that we should praise and long for death at last at this extreme. But to glorify death and to long for it is already a certain resolution; the time of agony has passed, and we are now in accord with religion. The true struggle must be the suffering while reaching this point.
The other thing that must be mentioned is reality. It would be intolerant to speak only of something very material and concrete. If there is no life to deal with, no matter how splendid a form it may have, we will never think of it as reality. On the contrary, even if there is no form of vertical order, if the author's subjectivity and nerves are present, it is reality. Therefore, it is not reasonable to say that the human sentiment, that is, the author's nerves and emotions - where all his efforts lead - are not in touch with reality. The writer's effort is the eccentricity of nerves and feelings, the invisible feelings that have never been reached by human beings before, and the boundaries that have never been reached by the ordinary.