I like literature, but sometimes I get doubtful about the meaning of literature as well. Because oftentimes it doesn’t help people to get through the hardest time of their lives.

I had a friend from the university called Yori. We were in the same drama club during my sophomore year. From the surface point of view, Yori and I didn’t have too many things in common; I was an extravert, she was an introvert. Yori was a typical literature major. Quiet, shy and reserved, always having a meek smile on her fair-skinned face. She liked to wear hand-made clothes and peculiar-shaped specs. I loved the mainstream culture, she was really into the subculture.

But I liked her. Maybe it is because we were so different. She often told me that she was impressed by how articulate and independent I am. I found her really sweet and caring.

One day, during the rehearsal of the upcoming performance, she said she felt under the weather and needed to rest for a while. I helped her to sit down outside of the playhouse.

She looked pale. She sat down on the steps and sighed deeply. I brought her a bottle of water and sat down next to her.

“Thank you. I’m okay.” She sipped water and exhaled. “It comes to me sometimes. It is kind of a mild panic attack. Or a fit of depression.”

Back then I didn’t even know what exactly depression was.

“Maybe you wanna go home?” I asked. She shook her head.

“I’m…  I’m sorry. I really didn’t want to disturb anyone.”

“No, it’s okay. Don’t feel sorry. Take your time,” I said.

She was sitting there in silence. She clenched her fist and patting her lap with it. It looked like as if she was stabbing herself with an invisible knife. I could see she was somehow angry at herself.

“Hey, are you really okay?” I was worried. She paused her movement and started to cry.

“I hate myself. I really don’t want to be like this. But sometimes I just can’t control my mood. It just swallows me and makes me feel so pessimistic.”

I couldn’t understand what was in her mind, but I could see that she was struggling with something.

“Hey, hey. It’s totally okay. Don’t be so harsh on you.” I tried to calm her down. She didn’t say a word. There was an awkward silence.

I tried to change the subject. I remembered Yori likes photography and poetry. She said she loves Shuji Terayama, a Japanese poet who was quite popular in 1960s.

“Hey, you said you liked Terayama, didn’t you?” I asked Yori.

She seemed to be a bit puzzled by my abrupt question, but she nodded.

“Yes, I am quite fond of him.”

“I know some of his Tanka poems but never really read his book. Can you lend it to me sometimes?”

“Oh, okay. Sure,” She looked somewhat pleased.

“Thank you.” I was relieved.

A few months later, I was informed the death of Yori. I thought maybe this world was too harsh for her innocent soul.

So I don’t like Terayama. His literary works didn’t save her. I wish I’d known any piece of poetry, or a novel, or an essay which saved her from taking her own life.