The Swamp
I walk along the swamp.
It is not known to me whether it is day or night. But when I thought of the cry of a blue heron, I could faintly see the dim sky above the tops of the trees covered in creeping vines.
The reeds, taller than me, silently close off the surface of the water. The water does not move. The algae does not move. The fish living beneath the water—I wonder if fish live in this swamp.
It is not known to me whether it is day or night. For five or six days, all I have been doing is walking along the swamp. The scent of the water and the scent of the reeds have enveloped my body, along with the light of the cold morning sun. When I thought this I also had a recollection of the croak of a tree frog awakening, one by one, the faint stars above the tips of the trees wrapped in creeping vines.
I walk along the swamp. The reeds, taller than me, silently close off the surface of the water. For a rather long time, I had known that there was a mysterious world beyond those thick-grown reeds. No, even now the faint strains of “Invitation au Voyage” drifted from there. Speaking of which, along with the scent of the water and the scent of the reeds, was there not that “Sumatran forget-me-not,” and a scent sweet like honey coming out?
It is not known to me whether it is day or night. For five or six days, I have been wandering around the creeper-choked trees in a daze, longing for that mysterious world. But, thought I wait here, beyond just the reeds and the water expanding out, I must progress into the swamp to search for that “Sumatran forget-me-not.” When I look, luckily, halfway from the center of the reeds, sticking out of the swamp, there stands a single aged willow. It is certain that I can effortlessly go into the world at beneath the water if only I jump into the swamp from it.
At last, from the top of the willow, I resolutely threw myself into the swamp.
The reeds, taller than me, babble something incessantly in perfect time. The water mumbles. The algae trembles. Even the vine-wrapped trees near the croaking tree frog appear to let out a concerned breath. While I sank to the bottom like a stone, I felt as though blue flames beyond measure danced around my body dazzlingly.
It is not known to me whether it is day or night.
My corpse settles onto the slick mud beneath the water’s surface. Wherever you look around the body, there is only perfectly blue water. My certainty that there was some mysterious would beneath this water of course just because I was lost. Depending on the circumstances, the song “Invitation au Voyage” could have been a trick played on my ears by the spirits of this swamp. But, while thinking such things, for some reason began to grow up from the mouth of my corpse. Just as it broke the surface of the water above my head, naturally, the flower of a white water lily, surrounded by tall reeds, in the swamp smelling of algae, blooms bright and brilliant.*
So that was the mysterious world which I had longed for: as my corpse thought this, the flower of the jewel-like water lily will stare up forevermore.
(March 1920)
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*During my research for my thesis I recall coming across a passage in which Akutagawa complains about something like “water-lily-in-mouth-endings,” so apparently this was a noted cliche at the time.