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For the public benefit I’m going to explain what 全伽（ぜんが） means. You won’t find it in any dictionary, I know, because I looked in a lot of them.

It came up in the text for “The Second Night,” in “Ten Nights and Dreams” by Natsume Soseki. I was only able to find out what it meant by pulling the Natsume Soseki Zenshu at the Portland State Library. The Soseki Zenshu published by Iwanami from Showa 41, volume 8, page 541, note for page 37 line 3 defines it as:

全伽（ぜんが）　普通「伽」は「跏」と書く。結跏趺坐のことで、略して結跏とも言う。坐禅の際の坐り方で、足の裏表を組み合わせて安坐すること。半跏に対する称。

So apparently what happened was that a similar kanji was substituted for another, make a weird abbreviation and causing a lot of problems for me. And what does it mean? Sitting in the Lotus position.

This is a translation of “The Second Night” from Natsume Soseki’s 1908 work of short stories 夢十夜, also known as Yume Juuya, Ten Nights’ Dreams, and Ten Nights of Dream. I will refer to my own translation as Ten Nights and Dreams, to make it more original.

I had this dream.

I had left the priest’s room, and when I returned to my room via the passageway, the paper lantern was burning faintly. I fell to a cushion on one knee and when I poked at the wick, a flower-like clove suddenly fell to the vermilion-lacquered stand. At the same time the room burst into light.

The painting on the sliding screen door was Buson’s work. Here and there black willow trees were drawn with shades of light and dark, a cold looking fisherman with his bamboo hat askew was passing along the top of an embankment. A scroll of “Monju Crossing the Sea” was hanging in the alcove. The dark portion of the burnt remains of incense was still fragrant. The temple was large, so it was silent and deserted. As I looked up, the round shadow from the round paper lantern that shone on the black ceiling looked almost alive.

I sat with one knee upright and flipped the cushion over with my left hand. When I thrust my right hand into the cushion it was right where I thought it would be. If it was there it was a relief, so I put the cushion back and sat on it heavily.

“You are a samurai. There should be no reason why a samurai can’t attain enlightenment,” the priest said. “So if you try to carry that part of you that can’t reach enlightenment forever, you must not be a samurai. You’re human waste…Ha ha, you’re mad,” he said with a laugh. “If you regret it then bring back proof that you’re enlightened,” he said and abruptly turned his back to me. It was insulting.

I would surely reach enlightenment before the clock set in the alcove in the neighboring hall strikes the next hour. After I was enlightened, tonight, I would again enter the priest’s room to be educated. Then, I would exchange enlightenment with his neck. If I wasn’t enlightened then I couldn’t take his life. I had to become enlightened at any cost. I am a samurai.

If I couldn’t become enlightened I would commit suicide with my sword. There can be no meaning in living for a samurai that has been humiliated. I would die beautifully.

When I thought this my hand went again, unconsciously, under the cushion. I pulled out a dagger with a vermilion scabbard. I gripped the handle tightly. When I drew the scabbard off, the cool edge of the blade lit up the room at once. It made me think that some amazing thing was escaping from my hand. It would all gather at the tip of my blade, my thirst for blood concentrated into a single point. I looked at the sharp edge, unfortunately shrunken like the head of a needle, down twelve inches to where it inevitably came to point, and suddenly, I wanted to stab. My body’s blood started to flow to my right wrist and the handle became slimy. My lips quivered.

I put the dagger back in its scabbard and fixed it to my right side. Then I sat in the Lotus position—the Zen master Zhaozhou had said “Nothing.” What is nothing? “Damn priest!” I said gnashing my teeth.

Since I was strongly clenching my teeth, I violently exhaled hot breath from my nose. My temples cramped and hurt. My eyes opened at least twice as large as normal.

I could see the hanging scroll. I could see the paper lantern. I could see the tatami. I could vividly see the priest’s bald-kettle-head. I could even hear his sneering voice from his fat open mouth. Insulting priest! I must remove that kettle-head at all cost. I’d enlighten him! “Nothing, nothing,” I recited from the root of my tongue. And in spite of nothing the incense still smelled. Hateful incense!

I suddenly clenched my fist and hit myself in the head terribly hard. Then I gnashed my teeth. Sweat poured from my armpits. My back became like a rod. My knee joints suddenly became painful. I wondered what I would do if my knees broke. But it hurt. It was painful. Nothing wouldn’t come. When I thought nothing would come, it instantly became agony. I was getting angry. I was vexed. I was becoming extremely frustrated. Tears fell from my eyes. Once and for all, I wanted to throw my body onto a large rock, and smash my flesh and bones to pieces.

Yet I endured and sat still. I endured while an almost unbearable sadness filled my chest. That sadness was lifting up the muscles of my body and hurried to try to blow out of my pores. But it was completely blocked. It was like being in a state of the most extreme cruelty without escape.

While that was happening my head became strange. The paper lantern and Buson’s painting, the tatami and the staggered shelves looked there and not there, I could see them not there and there. But nothing didn’t appear at all. It was like I had just sat there half-assed. Then, all of a sudden, the clock in the next room started to chime.

I was startled. My hand went instantly to my dagger. The clock chimed a second time.

This is a translation of “The Third Night” from Natsume Soseki’s 1908 work of short stories 夢十夜, also known as Yume Juuya, Ten Nights’ Dreams, and Ten Nights of Dream. I will refer to my own translation as Ten Nights and Dreams, to make it more original.

I had this dream.

I was carrying a child of six on my back. I’m sure it was my child. Only, the strange thing was, before I realized it he was blind with a freshly shaven head. When I asked, “When did you lose your sight?” he replied, “What? Long ago.” There’s no doubt that voice was a child’s, but he spoke like he was an adult. Like an equal.

Green rice paddies were to the left and right. The road was narrow. The fleeting shadows of herons could be seen in the darkness.

“We’ve started toward the rice paddies, haven’t we?” he said on my back.

I turned my face to the rear and asked, “How do you know?”

“Aren’t the herons crying?” he answered.

Sure enough, when he said that, they cried out twice.

Although he was my own child, I became a little frightened. With him on my back I didn’t know what would happen from here on. I wondered if there weren’t some place I could just abandon him. When I looked out into the darkness and I could see a large forest. Just as I started to think “If over there…” a voice going “Hee hee” came from my back.

“What are you laughing at?”

He didn’t answer. All I heard was, “Father, am I heavy?”

“You’re not heavy,” I replied.

“Soon I’ll become heavy.”

I kept quiet and, with the forest as my guide, walked toward it. The road in the rice fields twisted irregularly. We couldn’t exit as easily as I had thought. After a while the path forked. I stood at the split in the road and rested.

The boy said, “There should be a stone standing here.”

Sure enough, an eight inch square stone stood about waist high. Written on the face, “Left Higakubo, Right Hottahara.” I could clearly see those red letters in spite of the darkness. They were like the red color of a newt’s belly.

“Left will be fine,” the boy ordered. When I looked left the forest was starting to cast dark shadows from the sky over our heads. I hesitated a little.

The boy added, “You don’t need to hold back.” Helplessly I started walking toward the forest. I was thinking that the boy seemed to know everything, even though he was blind. When the single road approached the forest, he said on my back, “Being blind is a real inconvenience.”

“But it’s okay, because I’m carrying you.”

“I’m sorry you have to carry me, but to be made a fool of by people won’t do. To be made a fool of by a parent, especially, won’t do.”

Somehow things had become unpleasant. I was thinking how I wanted to hurry to the forest and dispose of him, and I hurried.

“You’ll understand when we get a little farther.—it was just like this night,” he said on my back, like he was speaking to himself.

“What was?” I asked, with intensity in my voice.

“What was? You know, don’t you.” the child answered with a sneer. And then I got this feeling that I did. But clearly I didn’t know. It was just that it felt like it happened on a night like this. It felt like if I just went a little farther, I would know. Knowing would be very difficult, so while I didn’t understand I hurried to dispose of him. I had to feel relief. I hurried.

Rain had been falling for some time. Little by little the road darkened. It was almost like a dream. But this small kid was sticking to my back, and he illuminated my entire past, present and future, shining like a mirror that didn’t miss an ounce of the truth. Yet, he was my child. And he was blind. I couldn’t stand it.

“Here, here. Right at that cedar’s roots.”

I could clearly hear the kid’s voice. Unconsciously I stopped. Without noticing we had entered the forest. Just five feet in front of me was a black mass. Without a doubt, I could see it was the cedar tree the kid had spoke of.

“Father, it was at that cedar’s roots there, wasn’t it.”

Without thinking, I replied, “Yes, it was.”

“I think it was 1809, the year of the Dragon.”

Of course, I was made to think of 1809.

“From today it’s been exactly one hundred years since you killed me.”

As I heard those words, one hundred years ago, the year of the Dragon, on a dark night like this, by the roots of a cedar, the realization that I murdered a blind man abruptly burst into my mind. And as soon as I started to become aware that I was a murderer, the child on my back suddenly grew as heavy as a stone Jizo statue.

This is a translation of “The Fourth Night” from Natsume Soseki’s 1908 work of short stories 夢十夜, also known as Yume Juuya, Ten Nights’ Dreams, and Ten Nights of Dream. I will refer to my own translation as Ten Nights and Dreams, to make it more original.

In the middle of the wide dirt floor something like a bench had been placed, and around it small stools had been arranged. The bench shone with a black luster. In the corner, an old man with a small square table set before him was drinking sake alone. His appetizer looked like meat and vegetables boiled in soy sauce.

The old man was becoming quite red thanks to the fine sake. Moreover, his face had a bright complexion, and I couldn’t see anything that even looked like a wrinkle. The only way you could tell he was old was by the full white beard he had grown. As I was a child, I wondered how old he could be. And then the proprietress came in carrying a bucket of water that she had collected from the water pipe out back. While wiping her hands on her apron she asked, “How old are you old fellow?”

The old man swallowed the food he had stuffed in his mouth and gravely stated, “I’ve forgotten.” The proprietress took her now dry hands and stuck it in her thin obi, stood and watched the old man’s face from the side. He gulped down sake in a cup as big as a bowl and blew out a long breath from between his white beard with a sigh. Then the proprietress asked, “Old fellow, where is your home?”

The old man interrupted a long breath and said, “Deep in my belly button.” The proprietress, with her hands stuck in her thin obi, asked again, “Where are you headed?” Once again the old man gulped down hot sake from the cup as big as a bowl, and like before, breathed out a sigh and said, “I’m headed over yonder.”

When the proprietress asked, “Are you going straight there?” the breath the old man expelled passed through the shoji screen, under a willow tree, and headed straight toward the river beach.

The old man went out the front. I left after him. He had a small gourd hanging from his waist. From his shoulder, he had a square box hanging down under his armpit. He was wearing pale yellow fitted trousers and a pale yellow sleeveless coat. Only his socks were yellow. They looked, somehow, like they were made from leather.

The old man went straight until he was under the willow tree. Three or four children were under there. Laughing, he pulled a pale yellow hand towel from his waist. It had been twisted long and thin like paper string. He placed it on the ground, and then he drew a large, round ring around the hand towel. Finally, from the box hanging from his shoulder, he pulled out a candy seller’s flute made of brass.

“Let’s keep looking, let’s keep looking, soon the towel will become a snake,” he repeatedly said.

The children watched the towel determinedly. I also watched.

“Let’s keep looking, let’s keep looking, okay?” he said while he blew on the flute, and he started going round and round the ring. I looked only at the towel. But it didn’t move at all.

The old man whistled on his flute, and over and over he went around the ring. He went around like he was standing on the tips of his straw sandals, like he was walking on his tiptoes, like he was being deferential to the towel. It looked frightening. It also looked interesting.

Before long the old man abruptly stopped playing the flute. He opened the lid of the box hanging from his shoulder, picked up the neck of the towel slightly in his fingers, and threw it in.

“If I put it in, it’ll become a snake inside the box. I’ll show you soon. I’ll show you soon,” he was saying as he started walking straight. He passed under the willow tree and went down to a narrow road. I wanted to see the snake, so I followed him to wherever the road led to. Now and then, the old man said as he walked, “Soon it’ll happen,” and “It’ll become a snake.”

In the end, as he was singing, “Soon it’ll happen, it’ll become a snake, it surely will, my flute will sing,” we finally came to the shore of the river. Since there were no bridges or boats, I thought we might rest here and he would show me the snake in the box. The old man started to splash into the river. At first the water was only as deep as his knees, but then quickly from his waist, up to his chest, he became submerged and harder to see.

But even then, while he was singing, “It’s getting deep, it’s turning night, it’s becoming straight,” he walked straight to wherever. Then his beard, and his face, and his head, and his hood completely disappeared from sight.

I thought the old man would show me the snake when he came up on the opposite shore. He would be standing where the reeds rustled, waiting alone forever. But in the end, the old man never came up.

The lovely and talented Moira writes, “Is there any sort of analysis of these [Ten Nights and Dreams] stories? I would be interested in reading some kind of critical analysis.”

Well, it’s a minor work, so it has been more or less ignored, I think. There’s one analysis I know of on the web, in Japanese, at this site we can call Reading Natsume Soseki. I know that doesn’t help you at all, since you can’t read Japanese.

Donald Keene wrote of these stories in Dawn to the West that “most of them are disturbing and difficult for the lay person to analyze…Attempts have been made to analyze the dreams in accordance with Freudian principles, but they have proved elusive, suggesting to some a hatred of the dreamer’s father or his yearning for the ideal woman. One scholar, analyzing the components of the dreams, concluded that Soseki had actually dreamed them, though he may have added to or altered the materials for literary purposes.” (324)

He goes on to write, “It is surely significant that Soseki wrote this exploration of his subconscious soon after his approach to the stream-of-consciousness narration in The Miner; he was attempting to discover the ultimate truth about himself. Ochi Haruo believed that the dominate theme was associated with the Zen koan (riddle), ‘What did your face look like before your father and mother were born?’…The central theme of Ten Nights of Dream is the discovery of the source of one’s existence. In the dream of the third night, the most terrifying of the nightmares, a horrible blind child rides on Soseki’s shoulders and commands him to go to a certain spot where, exactly one hundred years before, he had killed the child, who was his own. The child is at once his descendant and ancestor, and its features are his own, before his parents were born.” (325)

But then I’ve also heard people saying that the third dream represents Soseki’s anxiety about the rapid changes that were taking place during his lifetime, as Japan was transforming from a feudalistic society, to a modern one.

“Soseki did not elucidate his reasons for relating these dreams, but they provide invaluable clues to his subconscious, and even if we disregard this scholarly consideration, they make consistently absorbing reading.” (326)

This book, Ten Nights’ Dream, probably has a very detailed analysis, since the stories probably don’t even take up half of its nearly 80 pages.

I don’t have my own analysis yet.