A Cage Called Maturity Yamakawa Ken'ichi

This is an excerpt from A Cage Called Maturity:A Critique of Puella Magi Madoka☆Magica by Yamakawa Ken'ichi. Yes, this is a literary scholar's analysis of a magical girl anime.

Original Title: 成熟という檻『魔法少女まどか☆マギカ論』

Here's a link to read a PDF version that keeps all the footnotes and formatting that I don't retain here. Read on after the jump.

The Accuracy of Death Koutarou Isaka

                                        

 This is entire short story The Accuracy of Death by Koutarou Isaka, from the novel of the same name.  I did as my final project for a translation seminar I took at a certain Midwestern university several years ago. I recently found out that there is actually an alternate translation (NOT by me) of this story that was published and is currently available at amazon.com.  
Original Title: 死神の精度

                                               The Accuracy of Death

                                                     1

            Some time ago, the proprietor of a barbershop told me that he had no interest in hair whatsoever. “I use scissors to cut the clients’ hair, right? From when I open shop in the morning until I close up at night, there’s no rest because I’m snip-sniping away. That is, it does feel good trimming the clients’ heads, I guess, but I don’t have any particular love for hair”

            In fact he would die five days later, stabbed to death in the stomach by a phantom killer. Of course at that time, having no expectation of death, his voice was lively and cheerful.

            “If that’s the case, why are you running a barbershop?” I asked again. With a crooked smile, he answered. “Because it’s my job”

            That was my exact thought and, if I exaggerated it, agreed with my philosophy.

            As for me, I have no particular interest in the deaths of humans. Traveling at 20mph on top of his personal parade car, the young President is shot; elsewhere, in front of Reuben’s painting, a boy together with his beloved dog freeze to death, and I have no interest.

            Come to think of it, that same barber also revealed to me that he was afraid of dying. In response to that I asked him “Do you remember things from before you were born? Before you were born, were you scared? Did it hurt?”

            “No.”

            “It’s because death is just like that, you see. It is only a return to a state of pre-birth. It is neither frightening nor painful”

            There is no meaning in a person’s death, nor is there any value. In short, if you think about it in reverse, anyone’s death becomes equal in value. That is why, to me, there is no connection between which human would die and when. However, in spite of all that, today I was also purposefully heading out in order to ascertain a human’s death. Why? Because it’s my job. Just like that barber said.

            I was in front of a building. In a spot that was separated from the front of the subway station by about 100 meters, was the twenty-story office building of an electronics manufacturer. A face of the wall was like a glass window, projecting a reflection of the pedestrian bridge opposite, and the building’s emergency stairs. I was standing at the flank of the main entrance while not knowing what to do with my folded-up umbrella.

            The black clouds overhead made me think of brawny muscles expanding. The rain was drooping. It was not intense but, in that instant, it made me persistently feel as if the rain would never end.

            Whenever I’m on the job the weather does not favor me. I understand that for “a job that manipulates death” bad weather is an accessory but, if you were to ask my other colleagues, it was as if this kind of thing is non-existent; that it’s just a coincidence, as it were, these days. So it can’t be helped that, when I mention that I’ve never seen a cloudless sky, my colleagues, more than humans, can cast eyes that look as if they want to believe that.

            I looked at my watch. It turned to 18:30.  Exactly as I was remembering that according to the schedule that I had been passed by the Information Department that it was around the time that a figure would soon appear, she came out of the automatic door, so I followed her.

            Holding a transparent vinyl umbrella while walking, her figure was not clear. Of middling height, and didn’t seem to be carrying any extra fat, that was the extent of her finer points. Because she was bent-backed and bowlegged, looking down as she walks she looked much older than her twenty-two years of age. Jet-black hair pulled back in a ponytail gave a dark impression, more than anything, something like a sense of fatigue, a sense of tragedy, a worn out shadow hung from her forehead to her neck. Looking as though wrapped in a dull lividity, it couldn’t have been just the fault of the rain-dampened earth. It wasn’t that make-up would have helped; it was as if the will to adorn oneself was absent to begin with, and the suit she was wearing was far from brand name.

            I advanced with long strides, following her back. The entrance to the subway should be about 20 meters ahead, contact should be fine there. I’m pointing this out. Even though I think it every time, it’s something I want to be allowed to finish quickly. Go about your business, and nothing more. Because it’s my job.

Welcome

This is basically a blog of my translations of various works of Japanese fiction and non-fiction. It should be noted that I do not hold the copyrights or the translation rights to any of the works on this site. The translations on this site are provided free of charge and are not to be used for any commercial activity. Please do not attempt to pass this off as your own work. If you would like to post them elsewhere please ask me first by emailing me at: montrevant@gmail.com.