The Sound of the Mountain by Yasunari Kawabata, Edward G. Seidensticker Page B

considerable numbers whose luck, from the middle of the war on into the defeat, had not been good. Since they were already then in their late fifties, the fall was cruel and recovery difficult. And they were of an age to lose sons in the war.
    Kitamoto had lost three sons. When his company turned to war production, he was a technician whose services were no longer needed.
    ‘They say it happened while he was sitting in front of a mirror pulling out white hairs,’ said an old friend who, visiting Shingo’s office, told him of Kitamoto. ‘He was at home with nothing to do, and at first his family didn’t take it too seriously. They thought he was just pulling out white hairs to keep himself busy. It was nothing to be all that worried about. But every day he would squat in front of the mirror. Where he thought he had pulled them all out the day before there would be white hairs again. I imagine there were actually too many for him to get them all. Every day he would spend more time in front of the mirror. They would wonder where he was, and there he would be in front of the mirror pulling out hair. He’d be nervous and jumpy if he was away from the mirror for even a minute, and rush back to it again. Finally he was spending all his time there.’
    ‘It’s a wonder he didn’t lose all his hair.’ Shingo was on the point of laughter.
    ‘It’s no laughing matter. He did. He pulled out every last hair.’
    This time Shingo laughed openly.
    ‘But it’s no lie,’ said the friend, looking into Shingo’s face. ‘They say that even while he was pulling out white hair his hair would get whiter. He’d pull out one white hair, and two or three hairs next to it would be white. He would look at himself in the mirror with a sort of desperate expression on his face, and he would be getting whiter as he pulled out white hairs. His hair got thinner and thinner.’
    Shingo restrained his laughter. ‘And his wife let him go on pulling?’
    But the friend went on as if the question needed no answer. ‘Finally he had almost no hair left, and what was left was white.’
    ‘It must have hurt.’
    ‘When he was pulling it out? No, it didn’t hurt. He didn’t want to lose any black hair, and he was careful to pull out the white hairs one by one. But when he had finished, the skin was drawn and shriveled. It hurt when you ran your hand over it, the doctor said. It didn’t bleed, but it was raw and red. Finally he was put in a mental hospital. They say it was in the hospital that he pulled out what little was left. But think of the will-power and the concentration. They almost scare you. He didn’t want to be old, he wanted to be young again. No one seems to know whether he started pulling it out because he had lost his mind, or he lost his mind because he pulled out too much.’
    ‘But I suppose he’s better?’
    ‘Yes. And there was a miracle. A fine crop of black hair came out on his naked head.’
    ‘You can’t mean it!’ Shingo was laughing again.
    ‘But it’s true,’ said the friend, unsmiling. ‘Lunatics have no age. If we were crazy, you and I, we might be a great deal younger.’ He looked at Shingo’s hair. ‘There’s still hope for you. For me it’s too late.’
    The friend had lost most of his hair.
    ‘Shall I pull out one of my own?’ muttered Shingo.
    ‘Have a try at it. But I doubt if you have the will-power to pull them all out.’
    ‘I doubt it too. And white hair doesn’t worry me. I have no mad desire for black hair.’
    ‘You’ve had security. You calmly swam through while everyone else was going under.’
    ‘You make it seem so easy. You might as well have said to Kitamoto that he would save himself trouble by dyeing his hair.’
    ‘Dyeing is cheating. If we’re going to let ourselves think of cheating, then I doubt if we can hope for miracles like Kitamoto’s.’
    ‘But isn’t Kitamoto dead? Even though there was a miracle.’
    ‘Did you go to the funeral?’
    ‘I didn’t know of