Goodbye, Christopher Robin
This story comes from Genichiro Takahashi’s (高橋 源一郎) 2012 short story collection also titled Goodbye, Christopher Robin /さよならクリストファー・ロビン ( Sayonara kurisutofaa robin) , a collection of stories centered around the theme of losing one’s childhood imagination and innocence. This story, while initially filled with apparent non sequiturs, eventually focuses on that as well.
Takahashi is one of my favorite Japanese authors, and his only novel that has received an English translation, Sayonara, Gangsters/さようなら、ギャングたち (Sayonara, gyangutachi), stands as one of my favorite works of Japanese literature. He reminds me quite a bit of Richard Brautigan, deftly mixing black comedy, satire, and a sense of whimsy into his writing. It baffles me that his work has yet to see further translation into English. Consider this my attempt to help remedy that, even if only a little. There’s another story in the collection that I also adore and might take a stab at translating eventually, but it’s over 60 pages, so posting it on here seems like it might be a hassle...
Anyway, here’s “Goodbye, Christopher Robin.”
Long ago, it was rumored that we lived in the pages of a story someone had written. We didn’t really exist, or so the story went. Such rumors spread quickly.
“Well, what’s that to me!” said the old fisherman when he heard of this from some sea turtles he had saved from the children who were beating them with sticks. He was famous for being invited by the sea turtles to their castle under the sea, where they told him about the rumor. “Let’s suppose the rumor is true. I’m a man who takes pride in the things he’s done, so whether or not we live in a story, I can tell you, if I ever see some turtles getting beaten with sticks on the shore, I’ll help them. Same as I did before.”
And so that weathered old fisherman, cane in hand, walked the wet, sandy shore every morning, on the lookout for sea turtles. However, the only things that ever washed up on the beach were plastic refuse and bottles with random labels printed on them. To say nothing of sea turtles, no trace of anyone could be seen, not even a single youngster, looking for turtles to torture.
He turned towards the sky, and cried out, “When the smoke met the sky and turned into nothing, so too did my youth and home along with it, but I don’t have a single regret. I’ve only done exactly what I was supposed to do.” Not a soul was there to respond.
He paused for a while, muttering to himself, the hems of his greasy clothing fluttering in the wind as he walked to and fro along the shore.
Then one morning he suddenly disappeared. All that remained of him were two sets of prints in the sand, those of his long, messy stride and his walking stick, headed towards the sea.
Some said that the old fisherman was fortunate enough to return to the castle below the sea that he held so dearly and reunite with the sea turtles. Others said that to be sure, the old fisherman had seen the sea turtles, and as it called to mind memories of that wonderful encounter when he was younger, so did he return to the sea. Others said that he was indeed a character living in a story that someone else had written after all, and he had vanished after playing his role. The people who spoke of this did so in hushed tones, reflecting the fact that they themselves were no exception to this rumor. Deep in their chests they felt something cold, and soon fell silent.
Around the same time, deep in the forest not too far from the shore on which the fisherman had disappeared, a wolf was in the throes of anguish. Until that point, this wolf had never known suffering of any kind. Knocking on the door of the little goats while they were house-sitting and hearing their funny voices as they regarded him with suspicion, going around and blowing down the straw houses that the Three Little Pigs had built, it had all been great fun. Even that time he sought refuge on the night of a terrible storm and ended up befriending a goat with whom he subsequently went on travels with was great fun. He would frolic in a field without a care until he grew tired, then curl up into a ball under the shade of a small tree. But now, unfortunately, that rumor had reached the wolf’s ears.
The one who told him was another wolf, one who loathed him. This wasn’t always the case. She had once held this wolf in high regard, but possibly due to her feelings not being returned, she came to resent him. In any event, she was successful in planting the seed of this rumor in his mind.
“That fool,” the wolf thought to himself. “Saying I’m living stories someone else wrote…!”
The wolf hunkered down and began sniffing around with all his might.
“I, the one standing here, am me, and I’m the one controlling my actions, you hear me!”
However, the sense of doubt gnawing at him did not disappear. The wolf felt like no matter what he ate, none of it had any flavor. It was beginning to seem as if he truly did not exist after all.
One day, the wolf tricked a little girl. He arrived at her grandmother’s house before she did. It was supposed to be a bit of fun, but the cloud of doubt had not lifted from his heart, not even a little. In an instant, that black cloud began to rise within his heart, and he devoured the grandmother. He tore into her body with his razor-sharp fangs, and a terrible screaming could be heard. The stench of blood hung in the air as it spilled from his muzzle. Having lost his mind, the wolf devoured her flesh as she writhed in agony. He choked on her innards, which caught in his throat.
I’ll never forget this stench, and this awful texture, not for as long as I live, the wolf thought. But why have I done such a thing? Because I want to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that I exist? Nonsense!
The girl arrived shortly thereafter. The wolf, lying in the grandmother’s bed, made conversation with her. Being quite foolish, she was easily deceived. He then ate her too. The first time was truly terrible, but this time, he felt no emotion whatsoever. He only felt something like a scream from deep in his throat, and delicate fingers and their nails clawing at him from the inside. A thought came to him, unbidden, as he was on the verge of vomiting: to be consumed like this was simply the fate of all living things.
The hunter who opened the gate and was confronted by this ghastly scene felt his breath catch in his throat. The wolf stared at him, wearing a vacant expression, viscera scattered at his feet. Flies hung around him like a black cloud. The wolf tottered to his feet with no apparent regard for his blood-soaked visage.
“What am I, I wonder? I don’t know. But one thing’s for sure. I’m becoming a monster. And I find this terrible. Why didn’t you leave me alone? I wish I had said how much I disliked eating honey and carrots back when I was eating such things, but that just isn’t in my nature. It was all an act. Now I’m playing the role of a wolf, and wolves need to eat. So I ate. This is the result!”
The wolf took a wider stance and drew closer to the hunter.
“Go ahead and kill me. My heart is right here. Even if you split my belly open, the girl and her grandmother won’t be coming back. I’ve already digested them. So what are you waiting for? If you don’t kill me, this will just become the story of how I ate you too.”
So the hunter struck the wolf down. He stood over his corpse, looking at the filthy fur, stained with blood. He leaned in and lifted the wolf’s head.
“What were you saying! What’s all this about! My hands…are stained with blood…”
It was all the hunter could do just to speak these words.
An astronomer once noticed that the number of stars was decreasing. Owing to the vast amount of stars in the sky, an accurate count had never been taken, as there had never been any such commendable fellow to enumerate them. That is, until this astronomer, with his incredible zeal, dedicated his whole life to this cause.
Stars are a thing that are born, grow, and go on to die. As it is so, sometimes, their number increases, and at other times, their number decreases. The phenomenon the astronomer discovered, however, defied explanation. The number of stars was continuing to decrease at a fixed rate from a certain point. No matter how many calculations he tried, after counting the number of stars captured in the photos many times over, the number remained the same. The astronomer once more used every observational machine to reexamine it, then returned to his foundation in astrophysics, starting again from step one. He even went as far as to reconsider the hypothesis, and in earnest attributed the phenomenon to a lunar eclipse. He then once again, with an eye free from bias, made use of the finest, most thorough scientific observational devices in the world, and fixed his gaze upon the edges of the sky.
The result did not change.
“The sky is continuing to disappear from its very reaches! The universe was an absolute thing, yet its existence is now tenuous, being consumed by the void.”
The astronomer figured he ought to tell the world of this astonishing truth, but even other astronomers disregarded the theory.
“That’s impossible. The universe has always been a mixture of existence and the absence thereof. To say that existence is being consumed by this void is a nonsensical fallacy.”
Even so, the astronomer continued. “If you make the observations, you’ll see. Just look into it. You’ll see just what’s going on.”
Another astronomer soon bent his ear.
“Let’s suppose your theory is true. What of it? What will become of us? You’ll merely plunge the world into a state of unprecedented chaos, and to what end? There’s nothing to worry about. Before this void consumes the universe, well, we’ll be swallowed up ourselves.”
The astronomer, despondent, destroyed all of his equipment, and fled his lab. A while after, a rumor had spread that this astronomer was now frequenting a cemetery, and immersing himself in the research of disembodied souls.
Apparently, after seeing nothing around save for beggars, the man said “The secret to producing something from nothing lies here, if my calculations are correct,” while brandishing a butterfly net, with which he made futile efforts to capture these “disembodied souls.” His disciples lent him a hand, splitting into groups and searching high and low through every nook and cranny of the cemetery. However, there were too many graves, and they were unable to find their master.
Around the same time as the graveyard debacle, an elderly physicist found something strange during his pursuit of the fundamental truth governing matter: somewhere along the line, one particle of the group of which matter is comprised had disappeared. The physicist continued his research, employing various methods. That is to say, this group of particles, owing to their small size, were impossible to observe, but by dint of logical thinking and measurements, their existence had at long last been proven. Using every method at his disposal, the sole limit being human ingenuity, the physicist reached the same conclusion. It was the only conclusion that could be reached. One particle had indeed vanished. The physicist consulted the only friend he could count on, a biologist, for his opinion on the matter.
“Yes. That is to say, that which should be there, isn’t.”
“Supposing that is the case, why aren’t people losing their minds?”
“Because no one can feel it.”
“What exactly would happen if one of the particles forming all matter in the known universe were to disappear?”
“Hmm…I dare say that everything would shrink down just a tad, to compensate for the particle’s absence.”
“Would everything shrink at the same rate?”
“Precisely. And that’s not all. If I’m right, space should also shrink down at this same rate.”
“Because what we call ‘space’ isn’t exactly empty, but rather composed of the elementary particles and their corresponding antiparticles. These antiparticles are also vanishing at the exact same rate.”
“If everything around us were to be vanishing at this rate, could we observe it?”
“That would be impossible.”
“So without so much as being able to observe it, you’re making this declaration.”
“Yes. The proof is right here.”
So saying, the physicist showed him a torn piece of notebook paper. There were three formulas scribbled on it.
“These are numbers and symbols, aren’t they?”
“And they’re expressing how one of the building blocks of matter is suddenly disappearing, huh?”
“So, if this building block, or particle, rather, were to expand, and instead of just one, two or three or more were to suddenly disappear, what would happen?”
“It would be the same. After all, all matter and space are indeed going to shrink at the same rate.”
“And no one is any the wiser, right?”
The biologist hesitated for a moment, then said, “What does it mean? Rather, what has this got to do with us?”
The stunned physicist narrowed his eyes as if a brilliant light was shining, then said “I see...I hadn’t considered anything like that. What this may mean, how it relates to us…”
The physicist sat heavily in his seat, and the biologist followed suit. He weakly fell onto his chair, then spoke.
“Every day, living organisms go extinct.”
“What you’re referring to is, due to the destruction of their environment, species will continue to die out, until we cross a threshold from which there is no return.”
“There’s more to it than that?”
“There are species whose whole populations abruptly die out without any reason.”
“Surely there’s a reason, it’s just that no one has noticed it yet.”
“I thought the same thing, so I considered every possibility.”
“No matter the approach, it simply defies explanation.”
The two scholars sat there without uttering a word, lost in thought.
“Hey,” the physicist said in a voice tinged with loneliness. “We’ve spent our lives believing that we were doing what needed to be done, have we not?”
“Not just us, but our predecessors probably thought so as well.”
“Thus, ultimately, what we have learned merely serves as a barrier. No one else would understand. Am I wrong?”
But they did not yet know. The lonesome truth of the universe was already being discovered.
For years, a music enthusiast who collected music from all over the world had found that there were no new melodies being produced. A certain neuroscientist suddenly noticed that an anomaly was beginning to form in the weak electronic current that gives rise to our consciousness. One day, in the same country as the one the neuroscientist inhabited, the head nurse of a large hospital noticed that of all the dozens of newborns born on a certain day, not a one uttered so much as a single noise. Not even their first sound, that primal scream from deep in their throat that so signifies life, rang forth. Free of any abnormalities, these silent infants laughed among themselves. In fact, they seemed to be enjoying themselves more than the other infants.
Just in this manner, quietly but sure as anything, time passed. There should have been those people who feel the ominous presentiment of something, and should have been able to do something about it. However, they did nothing but cross their arms and wait for it to happen.
It’s said that it happened in the span of an instant. There are those who said there was an incredibly loud sound, and a terrible light could be seen during this instant; these stories all smack of being created after the fact. Some said said that it sounded like the striking of a match, which is impressive, as it had been years since anyone had seen something that so much as resembled a match.
There were also those who said it sounded like the creaking of opening an old wooden door. The building, of course, had no wooden doors. It must have been the sound of one of the doors of the houses that were destroyed over 50 years ago to make room for the building being opened, only to reach us all this time later. Someone else said it sounded something like the thud of a child accidentally dropping the cup from which they drink milk. This was apparently accompanied by the quiet murmur of a child apologizing. It had been centuries since a child had been present in that house, however.
The person who could have sworn that someone was setting off small fireworks in the garden reflected on how strange it was, what with it being winter and all, and besides, it was unthinkable that someone would be in the garden in the first place. Still, they had the definite impression that someone had been there until very recently. Of course, there was no proof whatsoever of there being anyone in the garden.
An abandoned kitten, put in a bag and tossed into a garbage bin, abruptly fixed its unseeing eyes on one spot in the sky—this happens all the time—mewed to itself, and the sweet sound of its purring could still be heard, or so someone else said of it.
A girl who had for years now been comatose in a hospital bed, dead to the world, suddenly opened her eyes. She looked at the doctors, nurses, and family gathered around her, confusion on her face. It was as if her pupils reflected nothing at all of her surroundings. She cried out “Welcome home!” in a delighted tone, and then ceased breathing. There are those who say that this girl opened her eyes at all is due to it happening.
Perhaps these incidents did occur in the moment that it happened. However, it’s more likely that these are little more than stories thought up by people trying to reconcile happenings that fly in the face of reality in an attempt to understand them.
A girl, napping in a field, opens her eyes. She stifles a small yawn, and stretches her arms. She can’t find the wet nurse who had, until now, been reading her fairy tales. She sees a rabbit walking—and he’s wearing clothes! The girl wonders if such a thing really happens, or if she’s dreaming. She’s boldly pursuing the rabbit when she finds herself falling down a large, deep, and dark hole that seems to go on forever…
She’s completely lost now. No, that’s not quite right. She’s somewhere she should not have come. The girl doesn’t meet anyone, though she can’t shake the feeling that she could at any moment. There’s a massive table, with all the makings of a tea party arranged on it. The water in the pot is on a rolling boil, and sweets have been placed on every plate. The girl continues to wait for someone who will play with her to appear. Eventually she grows tired of waiting and excuses herself.
No matter where she goes it’s the same: a small hut by the sea, filled with fragments of oyster shells and the stench of fish. No one’s home. In the next place, there’s a pipe, and it seems that until moments ago someone had been there smoking but there’s no one to be seen here either. Only the smell of tobacco remains.
The girl gets uneasy. Maybe there’s no one anywhere. But that’s not what has her worried. No, it’s the fear that something’s wrong. That something unthinkable has happened. That she doesn’t know what to do.
Finally, she arrives at a magnificent but empty palace. She notices playing cards lying on the ground. Each one guides her into a direction that leads into the palace. She follows them, heading deeper and deeper inside.
She finds herself standing in front of a gate, located deep in the palace’s basement. All that’s left to do is open it, she thinks. She feels it’s the only way she’ll find out what’s going on. Truth is, she feels that if she opens the gate something even stranger might happen. She’ll definitely meet someone—that’s what she’s anticipating, her chest pounding. But there’s no one here other than her, and nothing save for the gate in front of which she’s loitering. Maybe I ought to turn back. Find the spot where I fell down here. But even if I were to go back, no way could I climb back up that hole…
She feels a cold wind blowing through the gaps in the fence. She has no choice. She places her hand on the knob and, mustering all of her courage, turns it…
I’m gazing out my window. It’s dark outside, and I can’t see a thing. To be sure, that isn’t because it’s nighttime. What to call what I see there…? It’s like a monster, pitch black, quiet, and it’s staring fixedly at us. Who was it that told me the monster was nothingness, and that the world was slowly being consumed by it? More important than who it was is that they aren’t around anymore.
Right, Christopher Robin?
Even so, we did our best, didn’t we? We didn’t despair even as we knew the world was ceasing to exist. That’s because we found a way to fight back. We were able to turn that rumor around and put it to use.
“If it’s true that we’re nothing more than characters in a story that someone wrote, well, all we have to do is write our own stories!” someone said.
So we wrote a story, and decided to go to bed. The next day went exactly according to what we had written. Wow! We were so full of hope and vigor then, even in the face of the encroaching darkness.
As soon as it got dark, everyone returned to their homes immediately, and wrote a story. The following morning was just terrible. The stories everyone had written spread to the roads, forest, lake, mountain, and caves. The problem was everyone wrote their own story, so there was no consistency. Plot holes piled up halfway through the forest road, and everyone got lost. It reached the point that before writing any stories, a meeting had to be held the night before where everyone discussed what they would write.
Still, writing stories was fun, as was living in stories we had written. When was it that we started getting tired of it?
That night, Piglet wore a defeated look.
“I can’t think of anything anymore. I want to go to bed without writing anything tonight.”
“Piglet, you mustn’t. If you don’t write anything, your tomorrow will never come.”
“We don’t know that for sure.”
“We do at least know what happens if you go home and sleep without writing anything.”
“Oh, hush! Leave me alone!”
Piglet went home and was never seen again.
Do you remember, Christopher Robin? No, you’ve already forgotten, haven’t you. After you had a chat in front of the fireplace, Eeyore whispered this into my ear.
“Pooh, thanks for everything.”
“What are you saying, Eeyore?”
“I’m a no-good depressed fool, aren’t I? And I’m not hard-working at all. Writing even this much has been no fun whatsoever. That’s why I’ve decided to not write anything more.”
“Go? Where am I going? Everyone is talking about this “nothingness”, right?” Listen, Pooh. I’m already being consumed by this nothingness. Maybe all I want is to be embraced by it and go to sleep.”
Tigger was a bit different. He left me a letter.
“Pooh, you’ve been a good friend to me. Thank you. I’ve decided I’m not going home. Going back, sitting at my desk, writing yet another story, that’s just not me! I still have a little bit of forest left. The Hundred Acre Wood is already gone, but I’ve got this patch that I wrote about in advance. I’m going to head as far into my forest as I can. That’s the only place I want to be. Sorry for leaving ahead of you, Pooh. Ah, that’s right, I almost forgot. There’s one thing I need to apologize for that’s been bugging me: I don’t like honey.”
In the end, the only ones left are you and I, Christopher Robin. That’s why I continued writing stories for just the two of us. Nearly everyone I had loved was gone but we took each other by the hand, barricaded ourselves in this small room, and fought against the nothingness that was at the door. But the day where even you, Christopher Robin, were defeated and disappeared came. We had a talk, and it was when we were about to go back to our rooms. You said this to me, Christopher Robin.
“What is it, Christopher Robin?”
“I love you too, Christopher Robin.”
“I’m awfully tired, Pooh.”
“I bet. You’ve worked really hard.”
“Pooh, I think I’ll go to bed without writing anything. Is that bad?”
“If that’s what you want to do, Christopher Robin, then it’s better that you do it. Isn’t that how we’ve lived our lives?”
“Thanks. I’m sorry we won’t be together forever.”
“It’s okay, because until now, we’ve always been together.”
“Goodbye, Christopher Robin.”
And so you returned to your room. Will you forgive the actions I took after that? I sat at my desk, and wrote about tomorrow. In it, you stopped writing, and I wrote about you instead. I couldn’t predict what would come of me. I could only write about you.
The following day, Christopher Robin, I felt a happiness down to the bottom of my heart when you showed up. But the strange thing was, you seemed to have completely changed. You didn’t remember a thing, nor would you speak a word, and you had turned into an adorable young girl.
Ah, I must have drifted off. I feel like I do that all the time these days. I’ve gotten old, Christopher Robin. Most of my fur has fallen out, and my whole body aches. I’ve done my best to write about you, but I might have forgotten about myself. It’s okay. Hey, Christopher Robin. It’s okay to say “I’m tired”, right? I’m very tired. In your world, there were those who said they didn’t know what kind of world it was because something unthinkable had happened. That’s why I think we have to write our own stories. If that’s the way it is, it’s fine with me.
Are you looking outside, Christopher Robin, even though only the nothingness is there? Perhaps you’re seeing something else. I’m writing the final story tonight. Then I’ll have it all end; I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing. Still, I would be most grateful if you would think of me as a silly old bear who did his best.
The last story is a story about the Hundred Acre Wood that we always went to. Chances are, everyone we’ve lost won’t come back, and we can’t go to the Wood. If that’s the case, I’m sorry, Christopher Robin. But I’ll do what I can.
If just once we could go to the Hundred Acre Wood, if we could go to the bottom of that big tree on the edge of the Wood, if we could enjoy watching a beautiful sunset together, I would be so delighted.
We might be the only ones left in this world. That’s a terribly lonely thing, isn’t it, Christopher Robin. But, if we think of it as fate, then we have no choice but to accept it.
It’s already time. I’m going back to my room. You’ll go back to your room. Perhaps we’ll never be able to meet again. Even so, I intend to write about you and me one last time.
Goodbye, Christopher Robin. Even now, I would love nothing more than to meet you under that tree…
