A Personal Matter

Kenzaburo Oe

Well then, don't hesitate to let me know if there's anything I can do. Bird and the doctor bowed decorously and passed each other on the stairs with faces averted. Well, that's probably for the best! the doctor had said. To weaken and die before they could operate. That meant escaping the burden of a vegetable baby, and without fouling your own hands with its murder. All you had to do was wait for the baby to weaken and die hygienically in a modern hospital ward. Nor was it impossible to forget about it while you waited: that would be Bird's job. Well, that's probably for the best! The sensation of deep and dark shame renewed itself in Bird and he could feel his body stiffen. Like the expectant mothers and the women who had just given birth who passed him in their many-colored rayon nightgowns, like those who carried in their bodies a large, squirming mass, and those who had not quite escaped the memory and habit of it, Bird took short, careful steps. He was pregnant himself, in the womb of his brain, with a large squirming mass that was the sensation of shame.

We're a pack of vermin, Bird thought, a loathsome league of self-defenders. Nonetheless he delivered his report, his voice hushed, wary of the patients who might be crouching like mute crickets behind the closed doors that lined the corridor, their ears aflame with curiosity: The baby's milk is being decreased and he's getting a sugar-water substitute. The doctor in charge said we should be seeing results in a few days.

How the above quotations make you feel pretty much says it all about A Personal Matter.