Free Death Sentences by Kawamata Chiaki

nerves were so thoroughly rattled that he had lost the will to make any decision.
    Breton cast a glance at the papers that he had just folded in two.
    In a rather weak voice he asked, "Was it really you who wrote ... this?"
    "I think it was me."
    He answered in a roundabout way. And then he added: "I know it was I who held the pen. But ... oh, please understand me ... I have the impression that at the time I was doing no more than taking down notes. Which is to say ... I don't really remember. It is so peculiar. I must be sick."
    Breton snorted. That was the only response that came to him. But then words escaped from his lips, laden with overtones of contempt.
    "If you think that you can impress me with your talent by deliberately adopting such a self-servingly poetic stance-"
    Drawing a deep breath, Breton resumed, as if determined to spill his bile.
    "Rest assured that it doesn't work with me. On the contrary, such posturing can only diminish your talent. That's really all I wish to say to you."

    Who May remained immobile, as if paralyzed with fear.
    He opened his mouth to speak but then dropped his head, blushing.
    His appearance troubled Breton's feelings.
    Clucking his tongue slightly, he withdrew a ballpoint pen from the pocket of his coat.
    He held out the pen and the manuscript to Who May.
    "Could you write your address or contact information somewhere in the margins? Or maybe a phone number?"
    Who May nodded.
    "You can reach me through the landlord of my apartment."
    "Fine. If you could give me the room number, too."
    In the same meticulous writing as in the first part of the manuscript, Who May wrote down the numbers.
    Once done, he turned his eyes to Breton, looking at him expectantly.
    "I would like to hold on to this manuscript, if you don't mind." Breton said to him. "I would like to read through it more carefully."
    "Of course. I would like that. But. .
    "But what?"
    "It's just ... that, well, what exactly are these words that I have written?"
    "Is this something to ask me?"
    "Oh ... I don't know. I don't really even know exactly who I am. I am ill. That must be it. Please tell me! What in the world should I do?"
    This time Breton really went into a rage.
"How on earth would I know?!"
    Breton nearly screamed in response.
    "Why is it so important to you, why? Of all things, this has nothing to do with me. It doesn't really matter to me who you are or whether you've fallen ill."
    "Please forgive me, it's just, I ..."

    "Enough! Not another word! I've had enough. This is it for me!"
    Breton snatched the bundle of papers from Who May's hands, waving it in the air as if to hurtle it to the ground.
    "This is already far too much. So I will tell you, if you really want me to. This thing, this work, is completely outrageous, nothing but exasperating. Until now no one has seen fit for words to be used in such a fashion. That's right, no one. What is this "dobaded, dobaded" shit? Huh? Where did you pick it up? This, this sort of ..."
    Choking on his own anger, Breton glared at Who May.
    "Oh ... I don't really know. I just happened on it. It's a sort of way of doing things. I just tried making poems in this way. And then it all became clear to me. That other world, precisely as written here, suddenly became clear to me, and I understood. But, but ... for me, it isn't yet ..."
    Shaking his head violently, Breton stopped Who May from continuing his account.
    "So you don't even understand yourself? So you can't even evaluate your own work? Well, it makes no difference to me. Do whatever the hell you please. Dobaded, humph!"
    Breton realized that he was becoming hysterical. He desperately tried to calm himself, but without success.
    He couldn't keep himself from taking out his frustration on Who May.
    "How can you, who writes this sort of thing, adopt such a superior tone? How?! It's unbelievable. A genius? Humph! Sure, there are lots of people who might hail you as a genius. But not me, not yet anyway. I still have to think