A childhood episode reveals Kakuei Tanaka’s extraordinary sense of generosity and leadership long before he entered politics. As described by Chikako Ogura, Tanaka’s instinctive understanding of “distribution” and his emotional depth contrasted sharply with the shallow formalism that dominates modern Japanese leadership. His resignation statement—“listen with the ears of the heart”—embodied his rare human capacity.

June 22, 2011.
I have already written that I regard Chikako Ogura as one of the finest thinkers of our time.
Bold text in the passage is mine.

“O-dai wa mite no okaeri ni” by Chikako Ogura.
If Kakuei Tanaka were alive today, he would be ninety-three years old.
Born on May 4, 1918, Tanaka passed away quietly in 1993 at the age of seventy-five.
Looking back now, it was a death far too early.
He suffered a stroke and spent nearly nine years unable to speak—a profoundly regrettable end.
More than thirty years have passed since his resignation in 1974.
One line from his “Resignation Statement” often returns to mind:
“When I contemplate the future of our nation, I listen with the ears of my heart to the torrential rain beating down upon the earth in the night.”
“Haizen” refers to rain falling in fierce sheets.
It is said Tanaka loved listening to the sound of rain.
He was fifty-six years old at the time.
He had become the youngest postwar prime minister at fifty-four, but two “money scandal” articles in Bungeishunju triggered a wave of fierce public denunciation.
Tanaka visited New Zealand, Australia, and Burma.
Masahiko Umayumi, then covering Tanaka for the Mainichi Shimbun, told younger reporters that “Tanaka’s political life is finished; he will decide after returning home.”
The word “heart” in “listen with the ears of my heart” was added by Masahiro Yasuoka, who lamented Tanaka’s resignation as that of a truly valuable man.
“To listen with the ears of the heart” expresses the presence of composure—even at the moment of resignation.
The wish that a prime minister possess composure is not because the current one is said to have “a problem with character.”
People simply cannot respect a leader—prime minister, CEO, or baseball manager—who lacks inner calm.

In Tanaka Kakuei on the Frontlines, Umayumi recounts Tanaka’s childhood.
After graduating from Niigata Normal School, teacher Kanai took charge of Tanaka’s fourth-grade class at Futada Elementary School in Nishiyama.
He lodged at a local temple.
The surrounding area was known for matsutake mushrooms.
One day during lunch break, Kanai casually remarked:
“I wish I could send some matsutake to my parents.”
When the break ended and class was about to begin, Class Leader Tanaka came into the staff room.
He and several classmates were carrying two large mikan boxes overflowing with matsutake.
During the break, Tanaka had gathered the entire class and said,
“Sensei is a filial son.
He wants to send matsutake to his parents, so let’s all help collect them.”
Fifty students immediately scattered into the hills and returned with a mountain of mushrooms.
Startled, Kanai said,
“This is far too many.
I appreciate it, but I have no idea how I could send all this home.”
Tanaka bristled.
“What are you talking about, Sensei?
Send all of it.
If your family can’t use it all, they’ll share it with neighbors.”
Taken aback, Kanai followed the boy’s instructions and shipped everything.
Later, when he visited home, his parents told him that the matsutake had indeed been far too much to consume, but—just as Tanaka predicted—sharing it with neighbors had delighted everyone.
“I felt like I had been taught a lesson by a child I carried on my back,” Kanai later said.

Tanaka understood the meaning of “distribution” in the fourth grade.
He possessed generosity, warmth, and firmness—something utterly different from merely handing out “committee titles.”