It has been 27 years (as of 2015) since the death of Takeshi Kaikō, Japanese writer, novelist, essayist, journalist, and a recipient of many literary prizes. This essay comprises of correspondence between Kaikō and myself, which lasted for 14 years since I first wrote to him in 1972 from necessity to ask some questions on his novel “Darkness in Summer” (夏の闇), which I was translating. We became good friends. Many years later, his long-time editor and publisher commented that Kaikō evidently told me things that he never told his long-time editors. I told him that was because I was not a woman to Kaikō, just a friend. Kaikō is still an object of research and study among scholars and interested readers. I believe these letters will disclose a side of Takeshi Kaikō that cannot be learned from reading his published work.