of the month at the house. While he was away there would be just three of us in the rather imposing mansion—an elderly couple who looked after the premises and myself. I frequently cut classes, but not because I felt like sightseeing in Tokyo. (It looks as if I shall end my days without ever having seen the Meiji Shrine, the statue of Kusunoki Masashige or the tombs of the Forty-Seven Ronin.) Instead I would spend whole days in the house reading and painting. When my father was in town I set out for school promptly every morning, although sometimes I actually went to an art class given by a painter in Bongo, and practiced sketching for three or four hours at a time with him. Having been able to escape from the college dormitory I felt rather cynically—this may have been my own bias—that I was now in a rather special position. Even if I attended lectures it was more like an auditor than a regular student. Attending classes became all the more tedious. I had gone through elementary and high schools and was now in college without ever having been able to understand what was meant by school spirit. I never even tried to learn the school songs. Before long a student at the art class was to initiate me into the mysteries of drink, cigarettes, prostitutes, pawnshops and left-wing thought. A strange combination, but it actually happened that way.
This student's name was Masao Horiki. He had been born in downtown Tokyo, was six years older than myself, and was a graduate of a private art school. Having no atelier at home, he used to attend the art class I frequented, where he was supposedly continuing his study of
