clothing.
He said I should play a chic young woman
from Tokyo's old merchant district.
That's why he cast me in Tokyo Story
as a woman who owns a traditional eatery.
I don't remember him
ever giving me a hard time.
SHINICHI ROMIKAMI - ACTOR
And when I think about why,
I suppose he probably thought
it useless to try to train me.
But he did often invite me
to go drinking.
I think he probably thought
that was all I was good for.
On April 10, 1963,
Ozu was hospitalized with
a growth in his throat.
NURSING DIARY-  KEIJI SADA
July 1 , 1963.
SADA'S DAUGHTER, KIE NAKAI - ACTRESS
The 82nd day in the hospital.
After the operation on April 17,
he undetwent additional therapy
with cobalt and radium.
I've heard such therapies
are used for treating cancer.
''In all my 60 years,'' he said,
''I never thought time moved slowly.
But I have no words to describe
how long this last week felt
with this needle in me.''
After the needle was taken out,
he had lost so much weight
I hardly recognized him.
''No words to describe it,''
he repeated over and over.
September 5, 1963.
The doctors informed us
that Ozu is suffering from cancer.
Cancer. It really was cancer.
Several of us who knew him best
discussed what to do.
We were determined to help him
beat the cancer.
September 15, 1963.
I told Ozu I had no pictures
ofhim with my son
and used that as an excuse
to take his picture.
His gray beard had grown out,
and he looked painfully weak.
I steeled myself
and pressed the shutter.
September 20, 1963.
''There's no index for pain,''
he remarked.
''I can't say my pain today
is 100 or 112.
All I can say is that it hurts.
There is no other way
to describe pain.''
He sounded very frustrated.
November 14, 1963.
My daughter Kie's
Seven-Five-Three Festival.
I took her to the hospital
wearing a kimono Ozu had chosen for her.
He was asleep when we arrived.
I thought about leaving,
but I took her in anyway to let her
see his face, and he woke up.
''Well, if it isn't Kie,'' he said.
I lifted her onto a chair
so he could see her better.
I visited him once after his illness
had gotten much worse.
They were saying no visitors
at that point, but Ozu gave permission.
''I never did anything wrong,''
he said.
''So why do I have to suffer
like this when I'm still so young.''
And I saw a tear
spill down his cheek.
That turned out to be
the last time I saw him.
And I'll never forget
just how he looked.
On December 12, 1963,
at 12:40 p.m.,
Yasujiro Ozu died,
on his 60th birthday.
Ozu had a kind of loneliness
about him.
This loneliness showed in his films.
HIDEMI KON - AUTHOR
No matter how cheerful he acted -
and I don't mean he was putting it on,
because he had a truly bright side, too.
He enjoyed himself.
He liked to do fun things.
But at the same time,
there was always this loneliness.
That's why I believed in him.
Artists without an air of loneliness
are boring.
Many artists have this quality,
not only in Japan but in the West, too.
I saw this quality clearly in Ozu
and in all his works.
Perhaps he tried not
to show it too much
and that's what
his cheerfulness was about,
but there was always something
in his bearing that said, ''I'm an artist.''
I suppose you could say
he was a man among men.
I've met a lot of people in my time,
many of whom were truly accomplished.
But Ozu struck me as -
how should I put it? -
as incredibly grown up, I suppose.
I felt like he understood me implicitly,
without me ever having to say a thing.
When my theatrical group broke up
and my friends scattered every which way,
and I felt like everyone
was turning against me,
he and Ton Satomi sent me a wire.
''I'm with you. Satomi. Me, too. Ozu. ''
It made me so happy.
But then in the very year
of the breakup,
when we were feeling so completely
at sea about what to do next,
Ozu died.
I have had to part with many people
who were very dear to me,
but no parting was as