Kokoro – My Parents and I – Parts 1 to 9
Natsume Sōseki – 1914
Book Two - My Parents and I
1
What struck me on returning home was how little my father’s health had changed in my absence.
“Welcome home. So, you’ve graduated. Splendid. Give me a moment to go wash up.”
Father had been doing something in the garden. He was wearing an old straw hat with a soiled handkerchief
tied behind to block the sun. The handkerchief flapped as he hurried round back to the well.
To me, graduation was nothing special. It was what one did as a matter of course. Father’s elation caught
me off guard.
“You’ve graduated. Splendid.”He repeated this time and again. In my mind, I compared my father’s elation with Sensei’s expression as
he’d toasted me that night at his dinner table after the ceremony. Sensei, who’d outwardly cheered mygraduation while inwardly disparaging it, seemed nobler somehow than my father, who was overly pleased
by something mundane. I began to fault him for his provincialism.
“A university graduation is nothing all that splendid. Hundreds graduate each year.”
When I finally voiced my thoughts, he looked at me in an odd way.
“It’s not just your graduation I’m calling splendid. Your graduation, no doubt, is splendid enough, butthere’s more to my words than just that. If you’d see things once from my perspective ...”
I tried to ask what he meant, but he was reluctant to continue. After a bit, he finally went on.
“Let me tell you what’s splendid. You’re aware that my health is failing me. When you were home last
winter, I wondered if I’d last even three or four more months. By whatever good fortune, I’m still here today
in sound mind and of able body. And now you’ve graduated. What more could I wish for? Can you not
indulge the joy of a parent at being alive, rather than dead, for his son’s hard-won graduation? I know you
have grand plans, and I know your graduation is only the start, so I suppose my fussing annoys you. Imagine
yourself in my shoes, though. Things are quite different. Your graduation is far more splendid to me than it
is to you. Can you understand that?”
There was nothing I could say. Too ashamed to even apologize, I merely hung my head. My father had beencalmly resigned to his own death. He had convinced himself, it seems, that he wouldn’t live to see me
graduate. I’d been too far the fool to see what my graduation meant to him. I took my diploma from my bag

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and presented it to my parents with due respect. Something in the bag had bent it out of shape. My father
carefully unrolled it.
“A thing like this should be kept rolled and hand carried.”“You should have set something in the center,” my mother advised.
After examining the diploma for a time, my father rose and carried it to the alcove, where he placed it inprominent view for all to see. I refrained from voicing my usual objections. I had no intention any more ofdefying my parents. I let my father do as he pleased. The damaged parchment, though, had a mind of its
own. As soon as it set in place, it wanted to pull in on itself and topple over.
2
I took my mother aside to ask after my father’s condition.
“Father was out in the garden. Are you sure it’s okay?”“He seems fine these days. I suppose, perhaps, he’s recovering.”
I was surprised how she took things in stride. Like any woman living a quiet life in the country, she wasutterly uninformed in such matters. Even so, I struggled to reconcile her current calm with her anxious
fretting in those days after Father’s initial bout.
“But didn’t the doctor pronounce his condition grave?”“The human body, it would seem, is truly a wondrous thing. Despite the doctor’s solemn words, yourfather’s still going and active on his feet. I was worried at first, and I did my best to keep him in bed, but
you know how he is. He tries not to overdo it, but he’s stubborn in his ways. Since he’s convinced he’s okay,
he has no more mind to heed me.”I recalled Father’s behavior on the occasion of my previous visit. He’d forced himself out of bed and shaved,
telling me the while that he was fine, and that Mother was making much ado of nothing. It wouldn’t be fair
to reproach my mother on his account. I wanted to tell her to at least caution him, but in the end I held mysilence. I did explain to her all that I knew of the nature of Father’s illness. Most of this was from Sensei
and his wife. Mother didn’t seem particularly moved by this new information. She merely nodded, expressed
pity, and asked how old the deceased had been.
The only thing to do, I decided, was to talk to Father directly. He listened more receptively to my counsel
than my mother had.
“No doubt, no doubt. You’re absolutely correct. However, at the end of the day it’s my body, and over theyears I’ve come to know it well. More than anyone else, I believe I know its limitations and its needs.”
My mother listened with a wry smile. “See what I mean?” she said.
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“Even so, Father’s resolved himself to what’s coming. That’s why he was so pleased to see me graduate andreturn home with my diploma. He told me himself he didn’t think he’d live to see the day, much less still
have his health.”“Don’t be fooled by what he says. Deep down, he knows he still has time.”“You really think so?”
“He intends to keep on. Maybe for ten years, maybe for twenty. Granted, he does worry me at times. He
tells me he doesn’t have long. Then he asks what I’ll do when he’s gone, if I can manage alone.”
I suddenly imagined my mother, minus my father, in this big old country house. Could she run things herself
with Father gone? What would my elder brother do? What would Mother’s wishes be? In light of all that,
could I leave this place for a comfortable existence in Tōkyō? As thoughts of Mother filled my mind, I also
recalled what Sensei had said - if there’s property involved, receive your due share now, while your father
is still of sound mind and body.
“Not to worry. The ones who say they’re dying never do. Who knows how many years he’ll go on,
pronouncing his own demise all the while. It’s the healthy ones, with nothing to complain of, who end up
going first.”
I listened in silence to my mother’s clichéd remark, defensible by neither rational thought nor statisticalevidence.
3
Mother and Father began to talk about inviting guests for a red-rice banquet in my honor. From the day of
my return, I’d been secretly dreading such a thing. I immediately begged off.
“Please, you mustn’t go to any great lengths.”
I hated these country guests. Their purpose in coming, betrayed by their behavior, was solely food and drink,never mind the occasion. Even from my childhood, I’d cringed at the thought of serving them at our table.
Far worse this time, they’d be coming on my account. I couldn’t tell my parents point blank to dispensewith this vulgar horde. All I could do was insist that they shouldn’t put themselves out.
“But we’re not putting ourselves out. Not in the least. How many times will our son graduate from college?
Don’t be so modest - it’s only natural to celebrate.”
My mother took great pride in my graduation. To her, it was no less an occasion than marriage.
“We don’t have to invite guests, but if we don’t then folks will talk.”This was my father’s view. He was concerned what people might say. It was indeed true that, on occasions
such as this, unmet expectations would invariably lead to whispers among the neighbors.
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“It’s not like Tōkyō. Folks around here are set in their ways.”“Your father has his reputation to consider,” my mother added.
I could argue my case no further. I decided to let them do as they best saw fit.
“I only meant that you shouldn’t go to great lengths on my account. If you need to placate the neighbors tostop their grumbling, then that’s another matter. Far be it for me to assert myself and put you in arrears.”“Don’t get so cynical on us.” Father looked annoyed.
“Father never said it wasn’t on your account, but I trust you have at least some inkling of what societal
obligation means.”
Mother pitched in her usual measure of female incoherence. In the same vein, she could easily outtalk both
Father and I combined.
“You educate a man and he comes back a cynic.”
Father said no more. However, in this single remark he’d laid bare his long-standing resentment. At the time,
I was oblivious to my own abrasive manner. I saw myself only as a victim of unfair judgments.
That evening, in a quieter mood, Father asked my preferences, if we were to invite guests, for a date. He
knew full well that I was biding time in that old house, and any day was as good as the next. Asking my
preferences was a conciliatory gesture on his part. In response, I lowered my head in deference. We talked
together and settled on a date.
As we awaited our chosen date, momentous news arrived. It was announced that Emperor Meiji had fallen
ill. News of this happening, which the papers immediately proclaimed to the nation, hit our country houseand blew asunder the plans for my party, those plans that we’d worked so to settle.
“Well, I guess we’d better hold off,” Father said as he perused the paper through his reading glasses. He
seemed to also be reflecting on his own health.
I thought back to my recent graduation, and how the Emperor had honored the occasion with his customary
appearance.
4
In the quiet of that old house, which was far too large for the few of us there, I unpacked my bags and began
to tackle my texts. For whatever reason, I struggled to concentrate. In that second floor room of my lodgingsin Tōkyō, where the great city had clamored and the rattle of distant trains had filled my ears, I’d matchedthe vigor of my surroundings, plowing my way through page after page.

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I caught myself readily dozing at my desk. At times, I would even grab a pillow and indulge in a full-fledged
nap. On waking, the sounds of cicadas filled my ears. Their chirping, which carried like a call from thegreater world outside, would suddenly overwhelm me. I’d listen intently, sometimes struck by a feeling ofloneliness.
I took up my pen and wrote to various friends. To some I penned brief postcards, to others lengthy letters.
Some of these friends were still in Tōkyō. Others had returned to far away homes. Some wrote back, andothers I didn’t hear from. I didn’t forget Sensei, of course. I decided to tell him all that had happened since
my return home, and I filled three pages with small print in the process. As I sealed the envelope, I wondered
whether Sensei was even still in Tōkyō. When Sensei left home with his wife, he always had the same
woman tend his house. She looked to be fifty or so, and she wore her hair loose in the style of a widow. I’donce asked Sensei about her, and he’d asked in return who I thought her to be. I’d assumed, incorrectly itturned out, that she was one of his relatives. Sensei informed me that he had no relatives. He’d severed allcontact with remaining relations back home. The woman I’d asked about, who tended his house, was of noconnection to Sensei. She was a relative on his wife’s side. As I posted my letter, I suddenly called her tomind, her narrow kimono sash tied comfortably in back. I wondered, should my letter arrive while Sensei
and his wife were away for the summer, if this elderly widow would have the foresight and consideration
to forward it on to them. I knew full well, of course, that there was nothing in it to warrant such handling. I
was simply lonesome and hoping for a return letter from Sensei. None arrived.
Unlike during my home time the previous winter, Father this time was uninterested in shōgi. The shōgiboard had been set aside in a corner of the alcove, and it remained there gathering dust. Especially since theEmperor’s illness, Father seemed lost in his own thoughts. Each day he waited on the newspaper, and each
day he read it first off. When done, he would seek me out, paper still in hand.
“Take a look. There’s lots again on His Highness.”
Father always referred to the Emperor as His Highness.
“It may be presumptuous of me, but I believe His Highness and I are suffering from the same thing.”
As he spoke, a dark shadow of concern clouded his features. I felt anxious myself at his words, wondering
when he might next be forced off his feet.
“He’ll be alright, though. If a common man like myself can manage ...”
Even as he sought to reassure himself, his words fell heavy with an imminent sense of foreboding.
“Father really fears for his health,” I told my mother. “He doesn’t share your confidence in ten or twenty
more years.”
Mother seemed at a loss.
“See if he’ll play shōgi with you.”

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I pulled the shōgi board from the alcove and dusted it off.
5
Father’s health slowly deteriorated. His old straw hat with the handkerchief tied behind, the one I’d been
alarmed to see him putter around in, in due course fell out of use. When I saw that hat sitting idle on thesoot-darkened shelf, I felt pity for my father. Before, when he’d move about easily, I’d worried he wasovertaxing himself. Now that he sat quietly, I felt he’d been right in keeping active. I often discussed Father’s
health with my mother.
“It’s all in his head,” my mother remarked. She believed Father’s suffering was sympathetic, in deference
to the Emperor.
“It’s not in his head. Do you believe he’s really not ailing? I think he’s wearing a brave face in spite of his
physical failing.”
As I answered, I was thinking to myself that I might call the specialist back to examine him.
“I’m afraid this summer’s been a disappointment for you. You’ve graduated from the university, yet there’s
no celebration. Your father’s in such a state, and then there’s the Emperor. -- We should have summoned
guests immediately on your return.”
I’d returned around the fifth of July. A week later, my mother and father had started talking about inviting
guests to celebrate my graduation. When we’d finally settled on a date, it was another week and some days
further out. From my perspective, the leisurely pace of country life, unfettered by time, had spared me thepain of unpleasant company. My mother still had no idea how I saw things.
When news of the Emperor’s death arrived, my father held the newspaper in his hands and let out a sigh.
“It’s happened. His Highness is gone. I suppose ...”He didn’t finish his thought.
I went to town for some black silk. I wrapped the ball on the end of the flag pole, tied a trailing strip justbelow it, and mounted the pole on the gateway pillar angled out toward the road. Both flag and black strip
hung loosely in the still air. The roof over that gateway of our old house was thatched in straw. Wind andrain had buffeted the straw over time and faded its color. It was now tinged an ashen gray and was noticeably
uneven in places. From outside the gate, I surveyed the black strip and the white woolen flag with its reddyed sun circle. I also viewed them against the weathered straw of the gateway roof. I recalled how Sensei
had once asked me about the construction of our house, wondering if it differed much from the houses in
his own home town. I’d wished I could show him this house where I’d been born. At the same time, I’dfeared I might feel shame in doing so.
I went back inside. Returning to the room where my desk was, I read the paper and let my thoughts drift off
toward Tōkyō. I conjured in my mind an image of the great metropolis. I imagined it dark and somber, yet
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fluid with restless motion. In that city that couldn’t stay still, that was steeped in anxiety, I imagined Sensei’s
house as a fixed point of light. I was yet unaware that this light would be swallowed in a silent maelstrom,that this lamp was confronting its fate and was soon to shine no more.
I took up my pen to update Sensei on recent events. I wrote ten lines and then stopped. I tore up my draft
and tossed it into the trash. (There was no point writing such things to Sensei, and there was no reason tothink that this time he’d write me back.) I felt forlorn. That was why I wrote. I was holding out hope for ananswer.
6
In mid-August a letter arrived from a friend. In it, he mentioned an instructor’s post at a provincial middle
school and asked if I was interested. This friend, spurred by financial necessity, had been seeking such a
position. When this offer had come to him, he’d already settled on something more favorable. Hence he’dbeen considerate enough to write and recommend it to me in turn. I immediately wrote back and declined.
An acquaintance of mine was struggling to secure a teaching post. I suggested this fellow would likely be
receptive to the offer.
After sending off my reply, I informed my parents. They seemed to have no objection to my declining theoffer.
“There must certainly be better positions that aren’t so remote.”
Behind these words, I could sense they harbored great expectations for my future. Uninformed as they were,
they anticipated that renown and fortune awaited me now that I’d graduated.
“Good positions are hard to come by these days. Things have changed since my brother’s time, and ourareas of expertise are different. You mustn’t assume a similar outcome.”“With degree in hand, though, you need to at least establish yourself. What will I say when people ask after
my second son and what he’s made of himself after graduating?”
Father made a sour face. With no experience in the broader world, he was fully provincial in his thinking.
The local folk were bound to ask about me. They’d want to know how much a university graduate earned,
whether it topped a hundred yen. If I didn’t arm him with a sound answer, his repute would suffer. My own
thinking had been shaped by the big city and was fully alien to that of my parents. No doubt they saw me
as an odd species, like a being that walked with its legs skyward. For my part, I sometimes felt I was sucha creature. The gulf between us was so wide that I largely refrained from sharing my thoughts.
“What about that man you call Sensei? If ever he’s going to help you, then isn’t this the time?”
This was the extent of Mother’s understanding of Sensei. The same Sensei who, on my return home to thecountry, had urged me to receive my share of the family wealth while Father still lived. Brokering a position
for me on my graduation was hardly within his purview.

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“What was it that he does?” Father asked.
“He has no occupation,” I answered.
I’d told my parents from the start that Sensei was not employed. My father, I expect, had not forgotten.
“How can he not be employed? He must do something to have earned your admiration so.”Father was goading me. The way he saw things, any man of worth should have established himself in theworld in a position of respect. A man of leisure, it thus followed, could be nothing but a wastrel.
“I don’t earn a paycheck myself, but I try to at least keep busy,” Father continued.
I held my tongue.
“If he’s the distinguished gentleman you describe him as, then certainly he can find you something. Have
you tried asking him?”“I haven’t,” I answered.
“You won’t know if you don’t try. Why not ask him? Write to him at least.”“Okay.”
I returned a reluctant response and rose from my seat.
7
Father was clearly apprehensive about his health. However, he was not one to pester the doctor withpointless questions. The doctor, for his part, refrained from belaboring the situation.
Father, it seemed, was considering our lives without him. At the very least, he was considering the fate ofhis household.
“Educating one’s children is both good and bad. You work to provide them with schooling, and it’sguaranteed they won’t stay home. Higher learning is an expedient for dissolving one’s family.”
My older brother’s education had drawn him far away. The result of my own education was a firm resolve
to reside in Tōkyō. Father’s grumblings on this account were not unjustified. The idea of my mother left
alone in this old country house to fend for herself clearly unsettled him.
Father firmly believed that his household was rooted in place. He also believed that my mother would remain
there for all of her days. He worried greatly for her, left alone to care for the large house without him. At
the same time, he urged me to secure a prominent position in Tōkyō. His inconsistency afforded me thechance to return to Tōkyō, and for this I was grateful.

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Before my parents, I did my best to feign an effort at securing a prominent post. I wrote to Sensei andexplained the situation at home. I asked if he couldn’t, through his connections, mediate any sort of position
on my behalf. Even as I penned my request, I didn’t expect he would act. Even if he wanted to, I thought as
I wrote, he had no network to draw on. I did expect, however, that this letter must certainly merit a response.
Before sealing and posting it, I turned to my mother and offered, “I’ve written to Sensei, just as you
suggested. Give it a look.”
As I’d imagined, she declined.
“If it’s ready then post it without delay. You should have done so sooner, without folks having to promptyou.”Mother still regarded me as a child. And I felt, in fact, like I was still a child.
“A simple letter, you know, won’t suffice. Come September or so, I’ll need to travel to Tōkyō.”“I suppose so, but you never know that there might not be some chance just waiting. The sooner you getyour request in the better.”“Agreed. Anyway, an answer is sure to arrive. Once it does we can talk about next steps.”
I had full faith in Sensei, who was always so meticulous in such matters. I looked forward to his response.
My expectations, however, were disappointed. A week went by with still no word.
“They must have gone off to escape the summer heat.”
I felt compelled to offer some explanation, not just for my mother’s sake, but for my own as well. To quell
my concerns over Sensei, I conjured up circumstances to explain his behavior.
At times I forgot about Father’s illness. All I would think of was getting back to Tōkyō. Father himself
seemed to also forget he was ill. He was concerned for the future, but his concern induced no action. Timewent by with no chance, as Sensei had advised, to talk through division of assets.
8
In early September I was finally ready to return to Tōkyō. I went to my father and asked for a resumptionof my educational stipend.
“Remaining here like this, I’ll never secure the kind of position you’ve suggested.”
I presented my return to Tōkyō as a quest to fulfill his expectations.
“Of course it’s only until I find a position,” I added.

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Inwardly, I held little hope of procuring anything remarkable. My father, though, who had little knowledgeof the ways of the world, saw things differently.
“I suppose we can manage for a while then. But don’t let it be for too long. As soon as you’ve found a
suitable post, you’ll need to support yourself. In principle, the day you graduate should be the last day you
rely on anyone else. Today’s youth are well versed in spending but give no thought to earning.”
Father voiced multiple grievances. Among them were statements like, “It used to be that children supported
their parents, but today’s children just take and take.” I simply listened in silence.
When the airing of grievances came to an end, I quietly moved to rise from my seat. Father asked when I
was planning to leave. From my perspective, sooner was better.
“Ask your mother to choose an auspicious day.”“I’ll do that.”
In those days I was uncharacteristically deferential toward my father. I hoped to take my leave without
upsetting him. Father stopped me again.
“When you leave for Tōkyō, the house will be lonely again. At any rate, it’ll just be your mother and me. It
would be one thing if I were healthy, but in my current state there’s no telling what may happen.”
I did my best to console my father and then went back to where my desk was. Sitting among my scatteredbooks, I replayed in my mind his forlorn look and rueful words. I heard again the chirping of the cicadas,
but the sound was different than before. It was now the “tsuku-tsuku” sound of a different variety. WheneverI’d returned home in summertime and sat quietly among the seething sound of cicadas, I’d been often struck
by a strange melancholy. It was a sorrow that, wrapped in the fervent cries of these insects, permeated mysoul to its core. In such times I’d remain still and think back on my life.
This summer, the sorrows I’d felt since returning had gradually shifted in tone. Like the voices of different
cicadas, one giving way to the next, I pictured the fates of those who were close to me, steadily treading a
grand cycle of death and rebirth. While reflecting on the lonely words and lonely look of my father, I also
thought of Sensei, who had left my letters unanswered. The impressions in my mind of Sensei and my father
were extreme opposites, but whether for purpose of comparison or through stream of consciousness, I would
often think of them together.
I was intimately familiar with my father. If I saw him no more, then my regret would be merely that of achild missing a parent. Sensei was largely unknown to me still. He’d promised to share his past but had notyet done so. In short, he was a figure in the dark. I couldn’t be content, I felt, until I’d pulled him into thelight. The thought of losing him distressed me greatly. I consulted with my mother, and we chose a day for
my departure for Tōkyō.
9

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As the day of my departure finally approached (I believe it was the evening two days prior) Father blacked
out again. I was securing my baggage, which I’d packed full with books and clothing. Father had just gonein to bathe. My mother, who’d gone in to scrub his back, cried out for me in a loud voice. I went and saw
my father, fully naked, supported from behind by my mother. By the time we got him back to the parlor, he
was insisting again that all was fine. Out of caution, I stayed at his bedside and cooled his head with a damp
washcloth. It was past nine when I finally finished a cursory dinner.
The next day, Father was in surprisingly good spirits. Despite our objections, he insisted on walking to thetoilet unaided.
“I’m fine now.”
Father repeated the same words he’d said to me after swooning late last year. At that time, true to his word,
he really had seemed fine. I thought maybe this time might be the same. The doctor, however, could not bepressed to give any definitive prognosis. He simply advised an abundance of caution. The day of mydeparture came, but I was too unsettled to bring myself to leave.
“Maybe I should wait a bit and see how he’s doing,” I suggested to my mother.
“Yes, please do,” she replied.
My mother, who had shown no concern before with Father puttering about in the garden or backyard, wasnow overly concerned and worrying herself sick.
“Weren’t you leaving for Tōkyō today?” my father asked me.
“Yes, but I’ve put it off for a bit,” I replied.
“On my account, I suppose?” he asked further.
I hesitated. If I answered yes, it would only confirm the gravity of his condition. I didn’t want to set his
nerves on edge. My father, though, could see what I was thinking.
“I’m sorry for this,” he said as he gazed at the garden.
I went to my room and surveyed the baggage left lying there. It was tied up tightly, ready to be carried out
at any moment. I stood before it, wondering vaguely if I should unpack.
I passed the next few days in a restless state, like one half risen from his seat. Then Father collapsed again.
The doctor ordered absolute rest.
“What do you think?” Mother asked me privately in a quiet voice, a look of discouragement on her face.

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I was ready to send out telegrams to my brother and sister. However, Father seemed to be resting
comfortably. From his speech and overall manner, one would hardly know he was ailing from more than acold. On top of that, his appetite was voracious. We cautioned him, but to no avail.
“I don’t have long anyway, so where’s the harm in a little indulgence?”
I found his use of the word “indulgence” both amusing and, at the same time, in some way pathetic. Father
had never lived in the big city, and he had no idea of true indulgence. In the evenings, he would have mymother grill rice cakes and chew them down greedily.
“What’s behind these cravings? Somewhere inside, his body must still be sound.”My mother was pinning her hopes in thin air. At the same time, her use of the word “craving” all but
acknowledged that Father was not his usual self.
My uncle came to visit, and only reluctantly did Father let him leave. Loneliness was the main reason, but
he also believed himself underfed, and he was looking for a sympathetic ear.

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