FOREWORD
At a certain asylum there is a patient, number twenty-three, who will tell his story to anyone. He's at least thirty, but no one appears so youthful as a madman. His experiences the first half of his life -- well, that's not important. These days he just sits, arms around his knees, sometimes glancing out the window. Outside the iron bars is a single oak tree without leaves and the snow-clouded sky.
He told his long story to the director, Dr. S, and myself. He was expressionless for the most part, but if saying "I was surprised," for example, his head would jerk up.
I believe I’ve recorded his story accurately. If you'd like to know more, ask at S--- Institution in ---- neighborhood of Tokyo. Patient twenty-three will greet you politely, direct you to a wooden chair, and with a melancholy smile repeat his tale in a soft voice. When he finishes -- how his face changed is still stuck in my memory -- he leaps to his feet, hands in fists, shouting, "Get out, you villain! You're a stupid, jealous, shameless, stuck-up, cruel, selfish animal, aren't you? Get out of here!"
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