For jiyuuhonpou. You know what this is all about.
My grandfather isn’t much of a reader — the most reading he’s done is looking up the sports section of the newspaper, but even then most of the time he prefers to watch the news instead. Sometimes, he reads comics or a book or two in a year, usually, but he’s never been a fan of the written word — they confuse him too much, he says — much less a bibliophile.
And yet, in his den, just beside his enormous display of numerous basketball trophies and plaques and awards, is an imposing floor-to-ceiling bookcase filled top to bottom with books.
Most of the books are hardbound, some written in Japanese, some in English. They aren’t antique old — some of them look fairly recently published, with bright shiny covers and pristine cream pages; several date back two or three decades, yellowing and brittle and fragile with age. Their subjects vary — most were gripping mysteries or gritty detective novels or collections of heartwrenching, poignant short stories; a few are fantastical children’s books with shadow creatures, animals that talked and strange, magical children with hair the colors of the rainbow.
And all of them, all of these books, were written by one person.
And all of them, all of these books, always began with the same first line in the dedication:
To the person I love…