When the going gets tough, and when I can hardly think of anything but the ghastly toil ahead, I often remember the limpid death poem of the old admiral Onishi.

Addendum (January 28, 2017)

Admiral Onishi pops up at funny times in my life. Deep in my mind, he is the messenger of both death and rebirth. But the first time around he appeared in my magnum opus, I had just discovered him in a magnificent Italian translation of a selection of Marguerite Yourcenar’s writings (“Ultima poesia,” August 22, 1993). The second time, it marked the beginning of the end of my second marriage (“Homage to Admiral Onishi,” December 6, 1999). This particular haiku marked the onset of my struggle with Croatian crooked courts, which stretched for years. Well, it is far from over still. And the fourth time, it marked my passage through the proverbial door in the sky (“Admiral Onishi,” February 7, 2016). My liberation, that is. As he was known as the father of the kamikaze, I cannot but wonder about our surprising closeness. Am I a kamikaze, too? To my joy, this word stands for “divine wind” in Japanese. Just to my taste, I must admit.