My sister was eaten by my brother, but I
don't know whether mother realized it or not.
I think mother must have known, but when she cried she did
not say so outright, probably because she thought it proper
too. I remember when I was four or five years old, sitting
in the cool of the hall, my brother told me that if a man's
parents were ill, he should cut off a piece of his flesh
and boil it for them if he wanted to be considered a good
son; and mother did not contradict him. If one piece could
be eaten, obviously so could the whole. And yet just to
think of the mourning then still makes my heart bleed; that
is the extraordinary thing about it!
XII
I can't bear to think of it.
I have only just realized that I have been
living all these years in a place where for four thousand
years they have been eating human flesh. My brother had
just taken over the charge of the house when our sister
died, and he may well have used her flesh in our rice and
dishes, making us eat it unwittingly.
It is possible that I ate several pieces
of my sister's flesh unwittingly, and now it is my turn,
. . .
How can a man like myself, after four thousand
years of man-eating history—even though I knew nothing
about it at first—ever hope to face real men?
XIII
Perhaps there are still children who have not eaten men?
Save the children. . . .
