So I do not think I am claiming undue credit for my younger self if I suggest my actions that day were a manifestation of a quality I came to be much respected for in later years - the ability to think and judge for myself, even if it meant going against the sway of those around me.Set in the years immediately after WW II in Japan, Ishiguro's novel bears down upon a Japanese painter, Ono, now middle-aged, who has totally renounced his art, who decided (some years before) to make no more. We were also quite aware that the essential point about the sort of things we were commissioned to paint - geishas, cherry trees, swimming carps, temples - was that they look ‘Japanese’ to the foreigners to whom they were shipped out, and all finer points of style were quite likely to go unnoticed. But it is necessary to remember the climate of those days at Master Takeda's – the feeling amongst us that we were all battling together against time to preserve the hard-earned reputation of the firm. You may perhaps think I am taking too much credit in relating this small episode after all, the point I was making in the Tortoise's defence seems a very obvious one - one you may think would occur instantly to anyone with any respect for serious art. But then to be fair, I cannot recall any colleague who could paint a self-portrait with absolute honesty however accurately one may fill in the surface details of one's mirror reflection, the personality represented rarely comes near the truth as others would see it. If the Tortoise's modesty forbade him to disguise his timid nature, it did not prevent him attributing to himself a kind of lofty intellectual air - which I for one have no recollection of. But then each of us, it seems, has his own special conceits.

The earnestness and timidity written on the face are certainly true to the man I remember, and in this respect, the Tortoise has been remarkably honest looking at the portrait, you would probably take him to be the sort you could confidently elbow aside for an empty tram seat. It shows a thin young man with spectacles, sitting in his shirtsleeves in a cramped, shadowy room, surrounded by easels and rickety furniture, his face caught on one side by the light coming from the window. I have still in my possession a painting by the Tortoise - a self-portrait he painted not long after the Takeda days.

An artist of floating world