An Artist of the Floating World

by Kazuo Ishiguro

At this point, I turned to the man and said: ‘Excuse me, you say the Hirayama boy’s been attacked? For what reason?’ ‘It seems he kept singing one of those old military songs and chanting regressive slogans.’ ‘But the Hirayama boy’s always done that,’ I pointed out. ‘He’s only able to sing two or three songs. It’s what he was taught.’

If one has failed only where others have not had the courage or will to try, there is a consolation – indeed, a deep satisfaction – to be gained from this observation when looking back over one’s life.

It’s hard to appreciate the beauty of a world when one doubts its very validity.’

When one holds convictions deeply enough, there surely comes a point when it is despicable to prevaricate further.

Indeed, I am sure he was thinking along these lines when he said to me that last time we spoke, a gentle smile on his face: ‘We at least acted on what we believed and did our utmost.’ For however one may come in later years to reassess one’s achievements, it is always a consolation to know that one’s life has contained a moment or two of real satisfaction such as I experienced that day up on that high mountain path.