Oh, goodness, what a truly extraordinary thing it is. In this world, there exist certain feverish presences that one simply cannot avoid. I wonder, do you happen to know the true nature of such a thing? No, you surely must. If you insist that you do not, then you are either locked away in a state of most enviable, blissful ignorance, or else you are a liar of the most magnificent proportions. I wish now to speak to you a little about a certain man—a master of deception, an incomprehensibly vivid charlatan by the name of Shuji Terayama.
To begin with, life itself is something like a worn-out old notebook, is it not? We do our very best just to scribble down the mundane facts of our existence—today’s menu, perhaps, or from whom we managed to borrow a bit of pocket change. But this man, Terayama, was different. He would suddenly rip those pages to shreds, scatter a deck of primary-colored playing cards in their place, and then, with the most serene expression imaginable, whisper to you, “Now then, your true homeland is hidden somewhere within these cards.” What an audacious, what a dangerously charming fraud. Have you never once dreamed that your own house is actually nothing more than a painted stage set, and that if you were to take a single step outside, you might find yourself in a boundless wasteland or perhaps some unknown harbor town?
Shuji Terayama did not use words merely as weapons. He transformed words into visible, tangible “matter.” For instance, take the word “tears.” When we use it, it is nothing more than droplets of water containing a bit of sodium chloride. But when he used it, it instantly became a blue flame that flickered to life the moment a match was struck, or perhaps a rusted nail hidden deep within a young boy’s pocket. He famously told us to “throw away your books and go out into the streets,” but that was no mere slogan. It was a grand conspiracy to escape from this prison of tedious everyday life using the master key known as language.
Tell me, have you ever been to a horse racing track? Or perhaps you have sat in a dark basement to witness a piece of avant-garde theater? If you have, then you have surely been bathed in the incantations Terayama set in motion. He refused to accept reality exactly as it was given. He believed without a shadow of a doubt that reality was a raw material to be processed, and that fiction was the only means by which the purity of truth could be distilled. It is easy enough to call this “lying,” but within those lies pulses a heart—a blood-dripping, living organ called “passion” that we have all but forgotten.
He encouraged running away from home. He told us to abandon our birthplaces. He did not mean that we should become cold-hearted. Rather, he was screaming at us to become free—free from the blood ties that bind us, free from local obligations, and most of all, free from the suffocating assumption that “I am this specific kind of person.” Are you satisfied with who you are right now? If you feel even the slightest bit of stifling breathlessness, perhaps it is because you are protecting the cage of your own self far too dearly. Terayama gently unlocks that cage for you. However, whether the path beyond leads to heaven or to hell, even he does not know. That is what it means to gamble. He turned life itself into one colossal, high-stakes wager.
By the way, there is a peculiar rhythm to Terayama’s prose. It is a strange melody—a mixture of the sharp, biting wind of a Tsugaru winter and the melancholy of a circus band’s jinta music. As one reads, one’s very gait begins to falter. No, it does not falter; rather, one feels as though they are being taught a new kind of dance. For those of us who have been taught that a correct life involves walking in a perfectly straight line, his steps are far too irregular, far too dizzying. Yet, if you follow those footprints, you will suddenly find yourself standing on a coastline you have never seen before. There, you will find a forgotten summer vacation, a cat that was supposed to be dead meowing softly, and your younger self, standing still and dreaming of a tomorrow yet to come.
Do you believe that a single match can set the whole world on fire? I am not speaking of a literal conflagration, of course. I am speaking of an arson of the spirit. Terayama always kept that match hidden in the palm of his hand. He mercilessly cast light into the damp, marshy recesses of our souls. And there, he affirmed everything—the ugliness, the cowardice—and called it all “beautiful.” How violent. And yet, what a salvation. We desperately try to wear respectable masks to hide our weaknesses, but Terayama laughs and says, “That mask itself is your true face.”
Think of his tanka poetry. Within that narrow cage of five-seven-five-seven-seven syllables, he packed an entire universe. For a young girl who had never seen the ocean, he lit ten thousand matches before her eyes. These are not things to be understood through logic. They are to be felt through the skin. It is an impact like having cold ice pressed directly against your heart, or having hot soup poured into your soul. Have you ever felt your skin crawl with goosebumps while reading a string of words? If not, you should open one of his poetry collections this instant. Within, you will surely find countless switches for emotions you have never once dared to use.
I feel as though Terayama even turned death itself into a work of art. Dying young of cirrhosis of the liver, he performed the play of language until the very end. Even on his hospital bed, he was likely conscious of his audience, meticulously refining his direction. He possessed such a thorough, absolute professionalism. He hated showing his bare face. He was always playing a role, always draped in some layer of fiction. Yet, what lay at the very center of all those overlapping lies? Was it not a desperate, unrequited love for this world?
The world is cruel, beautiful, and tedious. To distract from that boredom, he created a kaleidoscope. If you peer into it, reality shatters into geometric patterns, and vibrant fictions begin to dance. Once you have peered through that kaleidoscope, you will likely never be able to return to your monochrome world. That is perfectly fine. In fact, you must not return. Anyone who has ingested even a single drop of the poison known as Shuji Terayama must stride through this distorted world while carrying that poison within. For that is his final parting gift to us.
Ah, it seems I have spoken a bit too much. My chest feels flushed, and my throat is terribly parched. To speak of Terayama is to forcibly drag out the “boy” living inside oneself. It is a process accompanied by pain, and it is something very embarrassing. However, it is within that embarrassment that the true sensation of being alive resides. When was the last time you felt embarrassed from the bottom of your heart? If you say it was so long ago that you cannot remember, then perhaps you have become a bit too much of an adult.
Shuji Terayama is always waiting. On a street corner, in the shadow of a racetrack, or perhaps on a dust-covered shelf of a secondhand bookstore. He asks you, “Where is hell? It lies at the very limit of your imagination.” If you feel confined by your current life, try striking a match. If your own shadow reflected in that flickering light looks a little larger, a little freer than usual, then that is proof that Terayama’s magic has reached you.
Life is a one-act play; you are the lead actor, and at the same time, the director. If you do not like the stage set, rebuild it yourself. If the audience heckles, turn that noise into music. What Shuji Terayama taught us was that kind of reckless, nonsensical, yet magnificently refreshing “art of living.” Now, let us raise the curtain. The spotlight is already shining at your feet.
How was it? Was it of some use to you? No, I did not intend to tell such a moralistic story. I only thought that if, in this stifling air, you have begun—even slightly—to prepare for your “escape,” then this long monologue of mine has served its purpose. Where will you go now? In this city where Terayama is no longer present, yet where his words overflow, please perform your own play with everything you have.
Terayama conducted one great experiment with his entire life. It was the question: “Can words transcend the physical body?” While carrying a frail body, he used words to roam through infinite space, rewrite history, and converse with the dead. Your body may one day weaken and disappear. But the words you spoke, the lies you told to someone, the fire you lit in your heart—those will never vanish. Perhaps he wanted to say that this is the only true form of immortality.
Can you imagine what he was thinking as he gazed at the sea of Aomori? Beyond that sea, there was no America, no foreign land. There was only an endless “nothingness.” He tried to cover that nothingness with colored paper made of words. It may have been a futile effort. But is not the beauty of that futility the very essence of human dignity? If we do nothing, the world is merely a hollow void. But by weaving stories into it, the world finally becomes our own.
I, too, am trying to connect with you, an unknown friend, by stringing these words together. This, too, may be a small piece of theater. When you finish reading this, I hope that even a tiny fragment of Shuji Terayama—that piercing coldness and that searing heat—remains in your heart. The world isn’t so bad after all. Or rather, because it is something meant to be cast aside, it is worth picking up and polishing. I cannot help but feel that he is teaching us that with a faint smile.
Now, let us put down the pen. If I speak any more, even my own mask might begin to peel away. You go your way, and I shall go into my own labyrinth. Let us meet somewhere, perhaps in front of a circus tent. At that time, there will surely be a box of matches in your pocket. For that is our secret password. A toast to Shuji Terayama, the incomparable clown. And to you, in your youth, as you plot your “escape,” I offer my heartfelt solidarity.