The Third riddle

On Sunday morning I was reading Michael Ende’s poetry collection for children.

There was a riddle.

The third riddle:

The most miserable person in the world has it,
and the one who has everything does not.
For a vigorous person it becomes a source of suffering,
but for the insatiable it is something worth having.

The utterly foolish know it through and through,
and even the stingy give it away eagerly.
For the healthy it works like medicine,
but for those who rejoice in it, their hearts remain empty.

Yet it can soften a cruel heart,
turn betrayal into a noble deed.
The one who can do it is the one who gains it,
and even a blind person can see it in the dark of night.

Whoever expects it may fall into despair.
It can confuse even the wise.
The devil inevitably obtains it,
for it belongs to those who love it.

Fools generally know this word—
it seems like the riddle of riddles,
for whether you solve it or not,
you always end up with the same thing.

( from The Mischief Book (Das Schnurpsenbuch), by Michael Ende  

I wondered if the answer might be “boredom.”
But then again, do the utterly foolish really know boredom through and through? Not so sure.

Maybe it’s “pleasure”?
But since this is a poem from Ende’s picture book for children, that kind of grown-up answer feels unlikely.

So I kept tidying my room, pondering.

Then the word “shame” came to mind.
That’s deep.
“Whoever expects it may fall into despair”—that could be shame.
It’s such a profound answer… maybe too profound, which makes me think it’s not right.

I was getting tired of it, so I asked Zoroku.
I only entered the first two lines, accidentally hit return too soon,
and instantly he gave me the answer.
And I think he was right.

Honestly, maybe humankind is done for.
We can’t win against AI, ever.
Perhaps Mensa members could still manage, but even if the top 2 percent of humanity could beat it—so what?

Anyway, I enjoyed that riddle. 

The answer is “nothing”! 

A Great Woman of the Meiji Era

As I mentioned in my previous blog, 

in fifth grade I moved from Chōfu to my grandmother’s house in Setagaya.
Just five minutes from the station, 

it was a spacious home with a garden as large as the house itself, 

comfortable enough for six of us including my grandmother.

Remarkably, my grandmother bought this house almost on her own.

It was about 8 times larger than my new home. 

Later my mother had to sell the house for financial reasons. 

It was so big that no one could buy it all at once—she sold it in halves.

You might say, “Well, houses and land were cheaper back then.” 

True, but remember: my grandmother was born in 1908, the 41st year of Meiji. 

How many women of that era bought a house with their own earnings? 

She had a university degree, worked as an editor at a major publisher, and eventually became an executive. 

I suspect she was among the best-paid women of her time.

This grandmother and I were not blood relatives; she was my mother’s stepmother.

In fact, I had four grandmothers, three on my mother’s side.

The first—my real grandmother—was a wild one who eloped with a painter, divorced, and later ran a mahjong parlor.

The second is the editor I’m writing about here.

The third was a famous actress, never married but said to have been my grandfather’s lover in his later years. 

We called her the “Ései-Ball's Grandma,” after the crumbly wheat cookies she often brought us.

She was stylish, sharp, full of outrageous jokes, and carried an unmistakable aura.

My mother used to say:

“Your grandfather had terrible taste in women—he only ever married monsters.”

Perhaps she felt that way because she grew up caught in the power struggles of three mothers.

The truth is, each of these women had a will of iron, 

fierce self-assertion, and values carved in stone. 

For women of that time, they were extraordinary. 

Today, women can earn like men because society allows it. 

Back then, to compete—and even surpass men—took more than effort, brains, or luck. 

It required an exceptional spirit.

My grandfather, a staunch liberal, loved such fiercely independent women. 

For a man of his generation, I assume, that was unusual.

As a child, however, I wasn’t fond of the “Sakurajōsui Grandma” (the editor). 

She rarely smiled, never joked, was strict—and, bluntly, plain. 

Well, looks didn’t matter; she wasn’t competing on those terms. 

Still, she resembled Yasunari Kawabata made even sterner and turned into a woman. 

You know Kawabata, right? 

He was a Nobel Prize–winning novelist—and he looked just like that.

Children are conservative creatures. 

Just like most men, 

they prefer young women who are pretty, healthy, and cheerful. 

My grandmother was the opposite.

Only later did I realize how cool she was. 

In a man’s world—or really, in human society—

she built a house on intellect alone, never leaning on feminine charm. 

With age, that achievement strikes me more deeply.

That said, my grandfather later fell in love with the actress, 

leading to a swamp of jealousy and resentment.

From the age of five or six, I knew never to mention one grandmother in front of the other. My mother often recounted their love triangle, and I loved the stories,  

like the time the editor grandma threw water in the actress grandma’s face! 

My mother once said:

“The first time I saw the Ései-Boru Grandma, I knew: 

 as a woman, the Sakurajōsui Grandma could never match her.”

At ten years old I nodded: “I get it. Makes sense.”

Unwilling to divorce, my grandmother expanded the house and built my grandfather a study so he couldn’t leave. 

As a child I didn’t understand. 

Now, after nearly making myself sick worrying over renovation costs and ultimately buying a place with bathroom and kitchen already redone, I do. 

Her ability to pull it off was remarkable.

Grandfather couldn't enjoy a fine study, even fit for meetings, 

the stress consumed him and he died. 

The grand, calculated battle suddenly lost all meaning. 

Almost literary in its futility.

When I think of my grandmother, 

I marvel: some women are truly extraordinary.

Well… whether I’d want to be like her myself is another matter.

a Tiny house like a matchbox

Back when my dad was still a Bunraku puppeteer, 
and my mom had quit acting to try writing,

we lived in an apartment in the small town of Chōfu called Second Hakuyo-sō.
I think it was written as 柏葉荘, but my memory’s fuzzy.
I was just a kid.

We had two six-tatami rooms—about 20 m² each.
So maybe 40 m² in total, less than 50 m² even with the kitchens and toilets.
No bath.
There were three kids—my brother, me, and my baby brother—
plus a big black cat named "Ships".
In that cramped space, three children screamed, fought, and cried all day long,
and my mum called our tiny apartment “Shut up, Second Hakuyo-sō.”

I sometimes wonder, what sort of spirit carried my mother through those years?
Now that I’m about to buy a home myself, I think of it often.
That apartment was far too small for five humans and a cat.
No bath, no air conditioning, not even beds.
We slept in futons on the floor, laid out each night in the old-fashioned Japanese way.

Both my mother and father had grown up in reasonably well-off families,
in houses much larger than this.

How they managed in that rundown little apartment, I don’t know.

Maybe they thought it was temporary,
but we ended up staying 12-13 years.

However, looking back on it now as a property, it maybe wasn’t so bad.

There was a park right out front, a veranda, even a garden.

Chōfu Station was five minutes away.
Now it’s all parking lots and condos,
but back then there were still fields.

My dad was rarely home, always traveling for his work
—performances in Osaka and Tokyo, and overseas tours.

So mostly it was just my mom and us three kids.

No bath, but two kitchens and two toilets.
That was handy.

I’m telling this story because I realized:
the size of the place you grow up in might stick with you.
For me, “comfortable” doesn’t mean new, modern, or spacious.
I’m used to small, shabby places, surrounded by people with little money.

I moved to my grandma’s big house in fifth grade. 
But I still carried with me the feeling that a small house was the default size of home.

And I’m not afraid of living like that.

This low threshold might be a strength, something I should thank my parents for, 

when you’re on your own in another country.

So when I found a little matchbox apartment,
I felt a strange calm.
It looked like a matchbox, so it was cheap,
and unlike other places, the price didn’t scare me.

Zoroku told me, “Check the neighborhood at different times of day.”
So one summer night around ten, I went.
In the half-light of the garden,
women in hijabs and colorful, flowing dresses were gathered together having tea.
In the nearby park, their children were running around.
And yet, the whole scene was strangely quiet, gentle, and peaceful.

So I decided: I’ll buy this tiny house,
right in the middle of the immigrant quarter.
Everything’s gone smoothly so far.
Small houses don’t put pressure on anyone—buyer or seller.

The move won’t be until winter. 

But when it happens, dear friends, come visit.