The Sound of Hammering Tokatonton

Dazai wrote this work in the fall of 1946, slightly more than a year after the Japanese surrendered to the Allied forces in World War II. At that time the nation had only begun the task of rebuilding, and extreme physical hardship was a daily fact of life throughout the society. Dazais story, though referring to material deprivation, focuses on such intangible problems as the collapse of will and the lack of purpose afflicting society in the wake of defeat.

The haunting symbol of these problems, indicated in the title of the story, was not the invention of the author. When a young fan wrote him about the sound he was hearing, Dazai recognized the literary potential of the phenomenon. In his reply he asked the permission of his correspondent to use the notion of this sound as a story motif while pledging not to borrow extensively from the letter. As Dazai went on to say, he was eager to evoke the traumatic effect that the war and the surrender had had upon the younger generation.

Disillusioned with his own age group and with the older generation too, Dazai emphasized in several postwar writings (though not in “The Sound of Hammering”) that a New Japan would arise only through the efforts of the young.

“The Sound of Hammering” consists almost exclusively of two letters: the first a long description by a young man addressed to an older writer as a moral authority, the second a brief response from this writer to the youth. The correspondent at first shows how closely he has read the author; in the end, he implicitly asks the writer to live up to his calling by advising him about his dilemma. Whether the writer measures up must be judged in accord with the answer he gives the young man in the coda.

Readers will probably differ as to whether the coda responds to the dilemma or amounts to a confession of failure. The persona of the older author virtually flourishes his biblical quote as a kind of panacea. However, the relevance of the quote is obscure, to say the least, and some readers will probably dismiss it as a mere rhetorical gesture. Given the serious, not to say desperate, tone that the author imparts to the youth’s plea, one expects a serious reply from the author within the story. It could well be that Dazai, with his self-mocking tendency, thought it more in keeping to disappoint such an expectation by denying to himself the role of moral arbiter.

Dear Sir,

Please advise me on a certain matter. I’m twenty-six years old and deeply troubled.

I was born in the Teramachi District of Aomori City. You probably don’t know the little Tomoya flower shop right next to Seikaji temple, but I’m the Tomoya’s second son. I graduated from Aomori High School and went to work in the office of a munitions factory in Yokohama. I worked there three years and then spent four years in the army. When the war ended, I came back home. But our house had been burned down, and my father, along with my older brother and his wife, were living in a shed that had been thrown together on the site. My mother had died during my fourth year of high school.

I might have squeezed into the shed, but that would not have been fair to the others. After talking things over with my father and brother, I took a job at a village post office about five miles up the coast from Aomori City. My mother’s family lives there, and her older brother is the postmaster. More than a year has gone by now, and I feel more trivial with each passing day. That’s why I’m deeply troubled.

I started reading you when I worked at the munitions factory office in Yokohama. I first read a short story in the journal Style, and then I got into the habit of looking around for your books. While reading them, I learned that you had gone to Aomori High School ahead of me and had lived in Mr. Toyota’s house during your school days. When I realized that, I was so excited that my heart nearly burst. If that’s Mr. Toyota the dry-goods dealer, why he lives in the same neighborhood as my family, and I know him well. Actually there are two Toyotas. Old Mr. Toyota is chubby, and his first name is Tazaemon. That’s just right for him, since the first syllable is written with the character for “chubby.” His son is also named Tazaemon, except that he’s thin and dapper. I’d rather see him named after some lithe Kabuki actor, Uzaemon for example. But all of the Toyotas are fine people, aren’t they.

It’s a shame that their house was one of those burned down in the last air raid. It seems that even their storehouse was destroyed. When I learned that you had lived in their home, I really thought of asking the younger Mr. Toyota for a letter of introduction. But I only dreamed of paying you a visit. That’s because I’m a coward. When it comes to doing something, I lose my nerve.

Well, after they drafted me, I was sent off to Chiba Prefecture. We were put to work digging fortifications along the coast, and that’s how I spent every day until the end of the war. It was only when I got a half day off now and then that I could go into town and look for your books. I took up my pen countless times to write you a letter. But once I wrote, “Dear Sir,” I was at a loss. As far as you were concerned, I was an utter stranger. And besides, I didn’t have anything particular to write about. I would simply hold the pen in my hand, totally befuddled.

Finally Japan agreed to an unconditional surrender, and I went back home to work in the post office. When I was in Aomori City the other day, I stopped by a bookstore and looked for your works. I found out that the war had uprooted you as well and you were back at your birthplace in Kanagi. When I read that, my heart seemed ready to burst again. All the same I still couldn’t work up the courage to pay you a visit. After considering all sorts of things, I decided to send a letter. This time I’m not at a loss after writing, “Dear Sir.” That’s because this letter has a purpose, a crucial purpose, too.

I would appreciate your advice on a certain matter. To tell the truth, I’m deeply troubled. I’m not the only one, either. Other people seem troubled by the same thing. Advise me for their saké as well. I felt like writing to you over and over—when I worked at the munitions plant, as well as when I served in the army. After waiting all this time, I hardly expected to be writing a letter that sounds so dismal as this one.

We were ordered into formation before the barracks at noon on August 15, 1945, to hear the emperor himself make a statement over the radio. But the static was so bad that hardly a word got through. When the broadcast finally ended, a young lieutenant promptly mounted the reviewing stand.

“You heard it?” he barked. “You see now? Our nation has accepted the Potsdam Declaration and surrendered. But that’s politics—it’s not our business. We’re soldiers, and we’ll keep on fighting till the very end. Then we’ll take our own lives, every one of us. That’s how we’ll make up to His Majesty for this defeat. I’ve been prepared from the beginning, so I want all of you to be ready too. Is that understood? All right, dismissed.”

Removing his glasses, the lieutenant stepped down from the platform, tears streaming down his cheeks as he walked away. I wondered if “solemn” was the word to describe the mood of that moment. As I stood at attention, the surroundings grew dark and misty, and a cold wind blew in from somewhere or other. My body seemed to sink of its own weight into the depths of the earth.

Should I take my own life? To die—I thought that alone was real. A hush had fallen upon the woods opposite the grounds, and the trees seemed like dark lacquer. A flock of small birds rose silently from the treetops and flew off like sesame seeds cast into the sky.

Ah, that’s when it happened. From the barracks behind me came the faint sound of someone driving a nail. Perhaps the biblical phrase describes what I felt then—And the scales fell from my eyes. Both the pathos and glory of military life disappeared in an instant. I felt utterly listless and indifferent, as though I had been released from a spell. I gazed across a sandy field in the summer noon without any feeling whatever.

Thereupon I stuffed my duffel bag to the seams and wandered back home.

That faint and distant sound of hammering was like a miracle, stripping me of every militaristic illusion. Never again would I become intoxicated by that nightmare with its so-called pathos and glory. And yet, that tiny sound must have resonated in my brain. For, ever since that day, I have become like one subject to ugly and bizarre epileptic fits.

Not that I ever become violent. Quite the contrary. Whenever I get excited or inspired over something, that faint sound of hammering arises from nowhere in particular, and I grow quite placid. The scene before me suddenly changes, leaving only a blankness in place of whatever images were present. I simply stare straight ahead, with a feeling of utter stupidity and emptiness.

When I first came to the post office, I thought I’d have enough freedom to work at whatever took my fancy. I decided to write a narrative of some kind and send it to you. During my spare moments in the post office, I worked hard at recording my memories of life in the army. By autumn the manuscript totaled almost a hundred pages, and I promised myself one evening that I would finish it the next day. When my shift at the post office ended, I went to the public bathhouse and soaked myself in the warm water. I was trembling with anticipation over getting to the last chapter that very night. Should I write it up as a grand tragedy in the manner of Eugene Onegin? Or end in the pessimistic mode of Gogol’s The Quarrel? While pondering this question, I looked up at the bare lightbulb hanging from the high ceiling of the bathhouse and heard in the distance the faint sound of hammering. At that moment a ripple arose along the surface, and I became merely another bather splashing about in a corner of the dimly lit pool.

Disheartened, I crawled from the bath and washed the soles of my feet. As I listened to the other bathers talk about rationing, Pushkin and Gogol seemed as uninspiring as the names of several foreign-made toothbrushes. I left the bathhouse, crossed the bridge, and went home. After eating my supper in silence, I went to my own room and thumbed through the nearly hundred pages of manuscript on the desk. It was terrible. So absurd, in fact, that I didn’t even have the strength to tear up the manuscript paper. I use it for tissue now. And, since that day, I haven’t written a line.

My uncle has a small library, and sometimes I would borrow a volume or two of collected stories from the Meiji or Taishō eras. I read purely for pleasure, liking certain stories and not caring for others. On evenings when it snowed, I’d go to bed early. Sometime during these listless days, I looked at a multivolume set on world art. I had once liked the French Impressionists, but this time I was unmoved by their work. Instead I gazed in wonder at the paintings of Ogata Kōrin¹ and Ogata Kenzan,² two Japanese artists of the Genroku period. To me, the azaleas of Kōrin seemed better than the work of any other painter, whether Cezanne, Monet, or Gauguin.

Once again my interest in things revived. Of course, I didn’t have any bold ambitions. I would simply be a village dilettante, not a master artist like Kōrin or Kenzan. As for a job that I could throw myself into—well, sitting from morning to evening at the post office window and counting people’s money was the best I could hope for. And for someone like myself without training or intelligence, this line of work was not degrading. Humility might have its own crown, and devotion to everyday duty could be the noblest life of all.

I was gradually beginning to take pride in my life when the conversion of the yen currency took place. Even in a village post office in the country—indeed, especially in such a place—everyone had to rush about since there were so few of us. We didn’t have a moment’s rest from early in the morning. No matter how tired we got, we had to receive deposits, stamp old currency, and whatever else besides. Aware that now was the time to repay my uncle for taking me in, I worked especially hard. My hands became numb, as if they were encased in steel gloves; after a time they no longer felt like my own.

Working like this, I would sleep through the night like a dead person. And the next morning I’d leap from bed the moment the alarm clock went off by my pillow, hurry to the office, and begin cleaning up. Cleaning was something the women in the office usually did, but my own working pace had so picked up during the hurly-burly of the yen conversion that I rushed to do any sort of chore, no matter what. I kept increasing the pace too—more today than yesterday, more tomorrow than today—as though I were half mad.

On the day this uproar over the yen conversion was to end, I rose as usual in the dim, pre-dawn light, frantically cleaned the office, and sat down at my assigned window. As the sun rose, casting its light on my face, I narrowed my sleepy eyes in a mood of utter contentment and recalled the dictum about work being sacred. Then, just as I breathed a sigh of relief, I seemed to hear in the distance the faint sound of hammering. That did it. In an instant everything appeared absurd. I stood up, went back to my room, crawled under the quilt, and fell asleep. When someone called me for breakfast, I refused to get up. I wasn’t feeling well—that’s all I said.

Evidently the office was busier that day than ever. And, with their best worker lying in bed, the others were sorely tested. Nonetheless, I dozed right on through till evening, an act of self-indulgence that increased the debt to my uncle. I simply had no interest in working and slept late the next day too. After I finally got up and sat down absent-mindedly at my place, I let out one yawn after another, leaving the work to the girl at the next window. The following day, too, and the day after as well, I was sluggish and morose. In other words, I had become your typical post office clerk.

“You’re still not feeling well?” my uncle inquired, a faint smile on his face.

“Oh, it’s nothing really,” I replied. “Perhaps I’m a little worn out.”

“Just what I thought!” he exclaimed. “It’s because of those books you read. They’re too hard for you. Dumb fellows like you and me shouldn’t try to think about things. It’s better not to.”

He smiled, and I tried to grin back.

My uncle supposedly graduated from some technical school. But he didn’t show any interest whatever in matters of the mind.

And then . . . You know, I seem to use that phrase over and over. It’s probably another indication of how dumb I am. And then—it just slips out, even though I’m bothered when it does. But I guess there’s nothing I can do about it.

And then I fell in love. Now don’t laugh about this. Well, I can’t help it even if you do laugh. Anyway, I was living in a trance, like an inert minnow near the bottom of a goldfish bowl. Then I felt quite awkward, as the minnow would if it were to find its belly suddenly full of eggs.

When you fall in love, music permeates the soul, doesn’t it? I think that’s the surest sign of this affliction.

She didn’t love me, but I was so crazy about her that I couldn’t help myself.

To all appearances she was not yet twenty years old. She worked as a maid at a small inn, the only one in this coastal village. My uncle the postmaster was a real drinker, and, whenever this inn had a party, he would certainly be there. He seemed to get along well with the maid. When she showed up at the post office to take care of her savings or insurance, my uncle always teased her with some stale joke.

“Things must be going well,” he would observe. “You’re really stashing it away, aren’t you? Capital! Capital! Haven’t found yourself a nice man, have you?”

“Don’t be silly!” she’d retort, looking as bored as a nobleman in a Van Dyck painting.

Hanae Tokita—that was the name written in her savings book. She must have been from Miyagi Prefecture, for there was a Miyagi address in the book with a red line running through it. Her new address had been entered next to the old one. According to the talk among the girl workers at the post office, Hanae’s home in Miyagi had been damaged. during the war. Apparently she was a distant relative of the mistress of the inn, and that’s why she came to this village just before the surrender. She was supposed to be clever beyond her years too, and her behavior was far from ideal.

Still, there wasn’t a single refugee here with a good reputation among the local people. That’s why I didn’t believe a word about her so-called cleverness. On the other hand, her savings weren’t all that meager. Postal workers aren’t supposed to reveal this sort of thing, but about every week Hanae would deposit a sum, even as the postmaster teased her. The amount would be two or three hundred yen each time, and so her savings grew quite large. I didn’t believe she was able to do this because of some nice man. Yet, every time I wrote down the sum of 200 yen or 300 yen and pressed my stamp onto the form, my heartbeat would quicken and my face would turn red.

Gradually I became more and more tormented over Hanae. It wasn’t that she was clever. No, every man in the village was after her—that was it. Wouldn’t they ruin the girl by giving her all that money? When this thought occurred to me in the middle of the night, I sat straight up in bed.

All the same Hanae calmly came in to make a deposit about once every week. As I said, my heartbeat used to quicken and my face turn red when she first started coming. On later occasions I got even more upset, my face turning deathly pale and my brow oozing sweat. Counting each of the soiled ten-yen notes pasted with stamps which Hanae smugly handed over, I would be assailed time and again by the urge to tear her money to shreds. I also wanted to quote for her the famous words from Kyoka’s novel: “Even if you die, don’t become his plaything!”³ But that would be going too far. A peasant like myself couldn’t speak such words. Still, being so serious about the matter, I could not help wanting to blurt out, Even if you die, don’t become his plaything! What does wealth amount to? Or material goods?

If you love someone, you will be loved in return. Isn’t there some truth to that? The middle of May had gone by when Hanae came demurely as ever to the post office window and handed me her savings book and money. With a sigh I took them both and began counting the bills. I was feeling depressed as I entered the amount and silently handed back her book.

“Are you free around five o’clock?”

At first I couldn’t believe my ears. She had spoken quickly and softly, and I first thought the spring breeze might have deceived me.

“If you’re free then, meet me at the bridge.” She smiled lightly and walked away, demure as ever.

I looked at the clock, but it was barely past two. I’m going to seem like a pushover in saying this, but I don’t remember how I spent the next three hours. I might well have wandered about the office, barely managing to look serious, and blurted out to one of the girls about how beautiful the day was. I might have glared at her surprised look (the day happened to be cloudy), then headed for the toilet. In short, I must have spent the afternoon like a fool; I left at seven or eight minutes before five. Along the way I noticed that my fingernails were overgrown. Even now I can remember how badly I wanted to cry.

Hanae was standing by the foot of the bridge in a skirt that seemed rather short. Catching a glimpse of her long bare legs, I lowered my eyes to the ground.

“Let’s go toward the shore,” she calmly suggested.

Hanae set out first, and I slowly followed five or six steps behind. Despite the distance between us, we presently fell into step with one another, much to my embarrassment.

It was a cloudy day with a breeze, and the sand swirled along the beach.

“This will do,” Hanae exclaimed. She slipped between two large fishing boats that had been pulled up on the beach and sat down right on the sand. “Come, you’ll be warm if you sit here. It’s out of the wind.”

I sat down some six feet or so from where Hanae had settled with her legs outstretched.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but I had to do this,” she began. “There’s something I’ve got to say. It’s about my savings account. You’re wondering about it, aren’t you?”

Here’s my chance, I told myself. My voice hoarse, I replied, “Yes, I am.”

“That’s only natural,” she agreed. Then, letting her head fall, she scooped a handful of sand and poured it along her leg. “You see, it’s not my money. If it were, I wouldn’t put it into an account. It’s too much trouble making a deposit every week.”

That made sense and I silently nodded.

“Don’t you see? The savings book belongs to the mistress at the inn. That’s a secret, so don’t tell anyone. I can imagine why she handles things this way, but it’s so complicated that I don’t want to explain right here. You realize how hard it is on me, don’t you?” She smiled, and then her eyes glistened strangely. I realized that she was crying.

More than anything, I wanted to kiss her. With Hanae I could undergo any hardship.

“The people from here,” she went on, “are all terrible, don’t you agree? I thought you might be mistaken about me too, so I wanted to have this talk with you. Today I made up my mind to do it.”

At that moment the sound of hammering came from nearby. I wasn’t hearing things this time. Someone had indeed begun pounding a nail inside Mr. Sasaki’s seaside hut. The sound echoed over and over, and I stood up trembling. “I see. And I won’t tell anyone about the account.”

A stray dog had left a sizable pile of dung just behind the spot where Hanae was sitting. I debated some moments whether to tell her.

The waves undulated slowly, and a boat with a bedraggled sail tottered through the shallows.

“Well, good-bye then,” I uttered.

A vast emptiness lay before me. What did I care about her savings? To me she was a mere stranger. So, what difference did it make if she became a man’s plaything or whatever. Stupid! Besides, I was hungry.

Hanae has kept up with her deposits. She makes one without fail every week or so. Her savings must amount to thousands of yen by now, but I’m not the least interested. Since it doesn’t make any difference to me, I don’t care whether it’s the landlady’s money, as Hanae claimed, or simply her own.

So, which one of us got jilted? I suspect it was me rather than Hanae, but I’m not particularly sad about that. It was a strange affair in any event, and, since then, I’ve gone back to being your typical, idle clerk.

This June I went to Aomori City on an errand and happened to see a workers’ demonstration. Far from being interested in social and political movements, I had felt in them something akin to despair. Regardless of the cause, those in charge always seemed to be seeking power and glory for themselves. It’s as if one boards a ship only to become the captain’s lackey. A leader pompously voices his own views without the least hesitation. Do as I say, he proclaims. Then you, as well as your family and your village and your country and the whole world too will be secure. Gesturing grandly, he roars on about how disaster will come from ignoring him. But then, as has happened time after time, his favorite prostitute gives him the cold shoulder, and this makes him cry out desperately for the abolition of her kind. Sometimes, after attacking his better-looking colleagues in a fit of indignation and raising a general ruckus, he receives his medal of distinction and races home on cloud nine to tell his wife. Mummie! he exults, Look here! Then, he opens the little box and gives her a peek inside. She is not fooled, however. What! Only a Fifth Degree. A Second or nothing, she insists, leaving her husband crestfallen. It’s half-crazed men of this kind, unable to tell one thing from another, who throw themselves into political and social movements. And so, when the clamor arose over democracy and whatever else during the general election in April, I wasn’t inclined to believe a word. The politicians of the Liberal and the Progressive Parties made plenty of noise, but weren’t they simply taking advantage of things? They gave one an indelible impression—of maggots feeding on the corpse of a defeated nation. On April 10, the day of the election, I was told by my uncle to vote for Kato of the Liberal Party. All right, I said, leaving the house. But I only went for a walk along the beach and then came back. I believed that the gloom of our daily lives could not be dispelled, no matter how much one declaimed about society and politics.

However, when I ran into the workers’ demonstration that day in Aomori, I realized how wrong I had been. Lively and vibrant—doesn’t that describe it? What a joyous event the parade was. I didn’t see even a hint of gloom, not one frowning face. There was only bursting energy, with young girls holding flags and singing labor hymns. My breast overflowed with emotion and tears began to fall. How lucky, I mused, that Japan had lost the war. For the first time in my life, I saw the figure of true freedom. If social and political movements gave rise to this, then people should begin by studying the ideas behind such movements.

As I watched the parade, I felt a great joy. It was as if the shining path I should follow had been made unmistakably real to me. Tears flowed pleasantly down my cheeks, and the green surroundings became blurred, just as if I had plunged into a pool and were looking at things underwater. In the middle of this swaying twilight, I saw the flags with their blazing red color . . . Ah, I wept over that color. Even if I were to die, I would not forget this scene. And then, distant and faint, the sound of hammering arose. And that was it.

What does that sound mean? It can’t be dismissed simply as nihilism or whatever, for the illusion of hammering obliterates even these things.

When summer arrived, the young fellows around here suddenly got excited about sports. I’m inclined toward the pragmatic view of things that comes with age. Maybe that’s why I can’t see stripping almost naked and then getting tossed about and badly bruised for no reason at all in a sumo wrestling match, or running a hundred meters with a contorted face just to find out who will win, especially when the sprinters all look as alike as a bunch of acorns. Sports were stupid, and I had never felt like getting involved.

This year there was a long-distance relay in August. The course made its way through every village along the coast, and many youngsters took part. One of the relay points, where the runners from Aomori City were supposed to be relieved by the next group, was right in front of our own post office. Just before ten o’clock, when the runners were due to arrive, the postal workers all went outside to watch, leaving the postmaster and myself alone to clear up some insurance accounts. I heard the crowd shouting, There they are! Over there! So I got up and went to the window. This must have been that “final spurt” one hears about. I saw the lead runner stagger in, clad only in a pair of shorts. His fingers spread out like the webbed foot of a frog, his arms flailing about as if to part the air, his chest thrown out and his head swaying, he collapsed before the post office with his face grimacing in pain. A companion of his ran up and shouted, Hurrah! You’ve done it! Then, he helped the runner up and brought him toward the window where I was watching. Even after the runner was splashed with a bucket of water, he seemed more dead than alive. But, as I observed him lying there, his body slack and his face terribly pale, I felt a strange thrill.

I would call his deed “touching,” but that sounds conceited coming from someone only twenty-six years old like myself. Perhaps a word like “heartrending” would be better. In any event there was something marvelous about this great waste of energy. Even though no one really cared whether the runner took a first or a second, he nonetheless went all out on that final spurt. He didn’t run for some high ideal, either. For example, he wasn’t trying to help his country raise its standing among the civilized nations. And he wouldn’t mouth any such ideals merely to win the favor of people.

He didn’t care about becoming a great marathoner. After all, this was only a country race, and he wasn’t going to set any record pace. Realizing that, he certainly wouldn’t feel like discussing the event when he returned home. On the contrary, he’d worry that his father might scold him. Despite all this, he had wanted to run, to give the race his utmost without being praised for his effort. He just wanted to run—to do something for nothing. As a boy he had recklessly climbed up persimmon trees to eat the fruit. But he wasn’t out to get anything in this grueling marathon. I suppose his passion was almost for Nothing. And that seemed close to my own mood at the time.

Eventually I got into the habit of tossing around a baseball with the other post office employees. I would keep playing until I was dead tired. And just when I felt as though I had shed something of myself, the sound of hammering would arise. That sound demolished even the passion for Nothing.

I hear it more and more frequently of late—when I opened the newspaper to examine each article of the new constitution; when a brilliant solution came to me as my uncle discussed a personnel problem in the office; when I tried reading your novel; when a fire broke out the other night and I leaped from bed to have a look; when I feel like another cup of saké while drinking with my uncle before supper; when I seem to be losing my mind; and, finally, when I think of suicide.

Last evening, while the two of us were drinking, I turned to my uncle and asked in jest, “Define life for me—in just a word or two.”

“I don’t know about life,” he replied, “but the world’s nothing but sex and greed.”

I hadn’t expected so sharp a reply. Should I act upon it and become a black marketeer? When I realized what a bundle I could make, however, the sound of hammering arose forthwith.

Please tell me, what does that sound mean? I’m paralyzed by it at the moment, so how do I escape? Please, answer my letter.

If you’ll allow me, I’d like to say one more thing. I began hearing the sound quite distinctly before this letter was half-written. Bored—that’s how I felt. Still, I kept going and wrote this much. I wrote in such desperation, though, that I now feel everything was a lie. There wasn’t a girl named Hanae and I never saw a demonstration. The rest of it seems to be mostly lies too.

Not the sound of hammering, though. That part alone doesn’t seem a lie. I’m sending you exactly what I’ve written, without even reading it over.

Yours sincerely,

The writer who received this queer letter was pitifully ignorant. He didn’t have a thought in his head either, but he still managed the following reply.

Dear Sir:

Agonizing, isn’t it? Well, I don’t have much sympathy for a hypocrite. You still seem to be avoiding an ugly situation that can’t be explained away, a situation others see and point a finger at. Real thought takes courage more than intelligence. As Jesus said, “And fear not them that kill the body, but are not able to kill the soul; but rather fear him that is able to destroy both body and soul in hell.” In this passage ‘fear’ means something like ‘to hold in awe.’ If you can sense the thunder in these words, you will not be hearing things anymore.