In Closing

Thinking about sin is like thinking about life, or about the world.

In terms of wickedness, acts of creation are precisely equal with crimes worthy of the death penalty. Not only are all artists murderers, but they target indiscriminately, wallowing in pleasure and joy over killing the souls of anybody and everybody. It’s true. Within every work of art, from the very beginning, there is sin.

Art is the act of expressing the world we see with our own eyes in such a way that it becomes clear to the eyes of others. If an artist presents a single pebble as his work, it means that, to him, the world is a pebble. Should he present countless corpses, then the world is a pile of corpses.

The man with the black leather gloves murdered again and again for no reason, and before the heap of corpses, he still felt an unslakable thirst. All that was there was a vast, vague landscape of the imagination. Therefore, he was not an artist.

I enjoy having my works misunderstood. At the same time, I also take the position that there are no misunderstandings in this world. Misunderstanding is understanding. Let all my readers dramatically misunderstand this book as well. I welcome all accomplices. Therein lies a new world, a world transformed.

To my mind, the world must not simply exist, but must change constantly. The reversal of reality and appearance, in other words. If the world is not equal to this task, then that world is truly idle. Above all else, such a world is boring.

Sin, life, and the world form circles. Art, or creation, is nothing less than working to appropriate these circles for ourselves. No doubt I’ll kill the world someday, through sheer curiosity.

I contemplate original sin. What was the first crime committed in this world? Who passed judgment on that crime? Or rather, to begin with, were they able to pass judgment on it at all?

To debate, we must have definitions. As I mentioned earlier, the world is a work of art, and in that case, we may consider the first crime to have been the creation of the world. Thus, we who dwell in this world are with sin from the instant of our birth. If everyone bears the blame for a crime, there is no meaning to criminal acts. In other words, there is no meaning to art. This is precisely why people love it.

Creation, needless to say, is the act of destroying something. As we create, we destroy. In that case, destruction is creation. Therefore, I create, and I grow intoxicated on works created by others. I love art. Love, along with a kind of dread.

The murderer murders people, and the detective pursues him. There is a circle there as well. To join its ends, I used black leather gloves. Black is the color of night. Leather gloves signify that he is unable to touch the world with his bare hands. However, even cloaked in night, the world is far too hideous to touch with one’s hands. —Who was it that said its atrocity and cruelty are beautiful?

Those words may be true art.

Thinking about sin is like thinking about life. Or about the world. Or art. And, I trust, beyond that darkness sleeps new potential for mankind.

—ON A NIGHT WHEN THE CROW JEERS, BY EVIL B.

The knock at the door of his study came just as he finished writing the afterword.

It was late at night, and the whole Baskerville mansion was hushed and sleeping. The study was lit by the soft glow of candlelight.

“I’ve brought your tea, Master.”

The voice of his valet, Oswald, came to him through the door. Levi returned the quill pen he was holding to its stand, ordering him to come in.

The door opened quietly, and Oswald entered, balancing a tray on one hand. His expression held its usual reticence, but there was a hint of displeasure there as well. When he’d come up beside Levi, he set a steaming teacup down on the edge of the desk, which already held parchment and an ink bottle.

Oswald glanced at the parchment on which Levi had just finished writing, but soon averted his eyes, seeming disinterested. He looked at his master steadily.

“Although it is late at night, some servants are still awake. If you would like tea made, you could order them to make it.”

His tone held an unspoken reproach: Why me? Everyone in the Baskerville mansion knew Oswald wasn’t good at making tea.

“I wanted to drink your lousy tea to commemorate the occasion. I’ve just finished writing.”

As he spoke, Levi picked up the teacup and took a sip. He drank as if it tasted wonderful.

“Yeah, that’s awful. That’s it; that’s what I wanted.”

“……………………”

Morosely, Oswald was silent. Completely ignoring his valet, Levi merrily savored his tea, saying, “Nasty, nasty” over and over. When he’d drunk about half of it, he returned it to the desk. “Nn,” he sighed, raising both arms in a stretch.

Returning to his original position, he murmured, “Oh, that’s right.” From the chair where he sat, Levi looked up at his valet, who stood beside him. Oswald merely looked back at him.

“I was writing the afterword for a novel, and I was really on a roll this time. Read it through for me?”

Levi took the parchment from the desk—the ink wasn’t entirely dry yet—and held it out to Oswald.

As he took it, Oswald frowned slightly.

However, he didn’t refuse. He dropped his eyes to the document and silently began to read. It wasn’t very long; in a few minutes, he’d finished. When his valet raised his head from the parchment, Levi asked, “How is it?” He was intensely interested.

Oswald answered without the least hesitation:

“I don’t know.”

His tone was adamantine, something that would never shatter. With his mouth half-open, Levi murmured:

“I see…”

“Yes. I don’t know.”

“I see……”

Somewhere in the darkness of night, a crow cawed.