For a person such as myself who was born and raised in the

countryside far beyond the end of the known highway

to the East, it might have been considered unusual

to have been so inclined, but for reasons I still cannot

quite understand, I heard somehow of the great novels

and began to covet them, wanting to read them at any cost.

My sister and step-mother told me, in the evenings,

about this and that novel, about the Prince whose name was

Genji, bits and pieces here and there for my delectation,

until I grew quite wild in my desire.

They would never be able to tell me enough to

quell my curiosity. I was so bitterly frustrated

that I had a figure of the Buddha made in life-size

to whose side I often went after my morning ablutions,

quietly so that no one else would bother me.

I would lie prostrate, my forehead to the floor and

pray with all the strength I had in my body:

"Please let me go quickly back to Kyoto. Put before me

all the novels that were ever written."

And then, when I was twelve, news came that

we would be going home. We left the residence

on the third day of the ninth month and went

to a place called Imatachi.

(Translation by KLR)