Dazai Osamu -Oblique Sun 5-2

　I stood up and went to the room. I moved the couch in the room to the edge of the tatami room and sat down so that I could see her face. I sat down so that I could see her mother's face. Her face did not look sick at all. Her eyes were beautiful and clear, and her complexion was vibrant. Every morning, she would wake up regularly, go to the bathroom, do her hair on the three tatami mats in the bathroom, dress herself neatly, then go back to her bed, eat while sitting on the floor, sleep on the floor and wake up, read newspapers and books all morning, and only have a fever in the afternoon. She spent all morning reading newspapers and books, and her fever came on only in the afternoon.
She spent the whole morning reading newspapers and books, and her fever only came on in the afternoon. "Oh, my mother is fine. She must be fine.
　In my mind, I strongly dismissed Mr. Miyake's diagnosis.
　I began to doze off as I thought about October and the time when the chrysanthemums would be in bloom. I found myself at the edge of a lake in a familiar forest, a place that in reality I had never seen before, yet in my dreams I sometimes saw it and thought, "Oh, here I am again. I was walking together with a young man in kimono without hearing his footsteps. The whole landscape seemed to be covered with a green mist. Then I saw a crisp white bridge sinking at the bottom of the lake.
Oh, the bridge is sinking. We can't go anywhere today. Let's stay here at the hotel. I'm sure there's an empty room here.
　There was a stone hotel by the lake. The stone of the hotel was wet with a green mist. As I read the word SWI, I suddenly remembered my mother. I wondered what her mother would do. I wondered if she was coming to this hotel, too.　I became suspicious. So I walked with the young man through the stone gate and into the front garden. In the misty garden, large red flowers similar to hydrangeas were blooming like fire. When I was a child, I used to feel sad when I saw red hydrangea flowers scattered on the pattern of a futon mattress, but now I realized that red hydrangea flowers really existed.
Are you cold?
Yes, a little. Yes, a little. My ears are wet from the fog and they are cold behind my ears.
　He laughed and said.
I wonder what your mother will do?
　He laughed and asked, "How is your mother?
　The young man smiled with great sadness and compassion.
"She's under the grave.
　He is under the grave.
Oh!
　I exclaimed quietly. That's right. My mother was no longer with us. Hadn't she already been buried long ago? When I realized that my mother had already passed away, I felt an inexplicable shiver of sadness and woke up.
　It was already twilight on the veranda. It was raining. The green rustiness was still there, just like in my dream.
Mother," I called.
　I called out.
　In a quiet voice.
"What are you doing?
　I jumped for joy.
　I jumped up with joy and went to the room.
"Now, I was asleep.
"Oh, yes. I was wondering what you were doing. I was wondering what you were doing. You took a long nap.
　I was wondering what you were doing.
　I was so happy and grateful that my mother was still alive and breathing gracefully that I was moved to tears.
"What's on the menu for dinner?　Do you have a preference?
　I said in a slightly flirtatious tone.
No, thank you. I don't need anything. It's nine degrees and five minutes today.
　I was suddenly crushed to a pulp. I looked around the dimly lit room, at a loss, and suddenly felt like dying.
I wondered what was wrong with me. Nine degrees and five minutes?
It's nothing. It's just that I don't like it when I have a fever. My head hurts a little, I get a chill, and then the fever comes on.
　Outside, it was already dark, the rain seemed to have stopped, but the wind was blowing. It was getting dark outside.
"Don't turn on the light, it's too bright.
　It's too bright.
"Don't you want to sleep in the dark?
　I asked her while standing.
I stood up and asked him, "You must be tired of sleeping in the dark. It's the same. It's just that I don't like the glare. From now on, please don't turn on the light in the tatami room.
　He said.
　I turned off the light in the tatami room without saying a word, went to the next room, lit the lamp on the stand in the next room, and felt so shabby that I rushed to the dining room to eat canned salmon on cold rice.
　The wind blew harder at night, and around nine o'clock it started to rain, making it a real storm. The bamboo screen that I had rolled up a couple of days ago was banging noisily, and I was reading Rosa Luxemburg's "An Introduction to Economics" in the next room of the tatami room with a strange excitement. At that time, I also borrowed Lenin's Selected Works and Kautsky's "Social Revolution" without permission, and placed them on my desk in the next room. She looked at the three books, picked them up one by one, looked at them, gave a small sigh, gently placed them on the desk again, and glanced at me with a sad face. But the look in her eyes, while full of deep sorrow, was not one of rejection or disgust. Your mother reads Hugo, Deuma, Musset, and Dooyewe, but I know that even such sweet stories have the smell of revolution in them. People like your mother, who have a natural education, which is a strange word, may be able to face the revolution as a matter of course, without any difficulty. I know that reading Rosa Luxemburg's book makes me seem like an impish person, but I am still deeply interested in her in my own way. This book is supposed to be about economics, but if you read it as economics, it is very boring. It's all very simple and obvious. Or maybe I just don't understand economics at all. In any case, it was not at all interesting to me. It is an academic discipline that is completely useless without the premise that people are stingy and will always be stingy, and for those who are not stingy, the issue of distribution or anything else is of no interest. Nevertheless, I read this book and was strangely excited by something else. It is the courage of the author to destroy the old ideas without any hesitation. I can even picture a married woman running coolly and quickly to the person she is in love with, no matter how much it goes against morality. The idea of destruction. Destruction is pathetic, sad, and beautiful in its own way. The dream of destroying, rebuilding, and completing. Once it is destroyed, the day of completion may never come, but still, because of love, it must be destroyed. We have to start a revolution. Rosa is sadly and earnestly in love with Marxism.
　It was the winter of twelve years ago.
You are the girl from the Sarashina diary, aren't you? You're the girl from the Sarashina diary, and there's nothing more you can say.
　That was the friend who walked away from me. At that time, I returned Lenin's book to her without reading it.
"Have you read it?
"I'm sorry. I didn't read it.
　We were on a bridge overlooking the Nicolai Hall.
Why not?　Why not?
　My friend was a beautiful woman, a bit taller than me, who spoke the language very well, looked good in a red beret and had a face like Gioconda.
I didn't like the color of the cover.
She was a funny person. You're not, are you?　You're actually afraid of me, aren't you?
No, I'm not scared of you. I just love the color of the cover.
Yeah.
　And then he said I was a class diary, and then he decided that there was nothing he could say to make me feel better.