Well, now, the moon of my life span is sinking in the sky; the time remaining to me nears the mountaintops. Soon I shall set out for the darkness of the Three Paths.99 About what should I complain at this late date? The essence of the Buddha’s teachings is that we should cling to nothing. Loving my grass hut is wrong. Attachment to my quiet, solitary way of life, too, must interfere with my enlightenment. Why then do I go on spending precious time relating useless pleasures?
Pondering this truth on a tranquil morning, just before dawn, I ask my mind: one leaves the world and enters the forest to cultivate the mind and practice the Way of the Buddha. In your case, however, although your appearance is that of a monk, your mind is clouded with desire. You have presumed to model your dwelling after none other than that of Vimalakirti,100 but your adherence to the discipline fails even to approach the efforts of Suddhipanthaka.101 Is this because poverty, a karmic retribution, torments your mind,102 or is it that a deluded mind has deranged you? At that time, my mind had no reply. I simply set my tongue to work halfheartedly reciting the name of the compassionate Amida Buddha two or three times, and that is all.
The monk Ren’in wrote this late in the Third Month of Kenryaku 2 [1212], at his hut on Toyama.103
[Translated by Anthony H. Chambers]
TALES OF AWAKENING (HOSSHINSHŪ, CA. 1211)
Tales of Awakening, a collection of Buddhist setsuwa, or anecdotes, was edited by Kamo no Chōmei (1155?–1216), who also wrote the preface. It contains a little over a hundred stories set in Japan. According to the preface, the aim of the collection was to lead those like Chōmei, who were wandering in darkness, to salvation. As the title suggests, several of the stories are about awakening to the Buddhist truth (hosshin) and being reborn in the Pure Land. Some of the stories illustrate how and why the precepts of Buddhism are to be observed; others are about reclusion or the failure to be reborn in the Pure Land. Kamo no Chōmei’s career as a writer peaked around 1212, when he wrote his noted essay An Account of a Ten-Foot-Square Hut and when he became even more deeply committed to Buddhism. In the following story about Rengejō, Chomei suggests, as he does in An Account of a Ten-Foot-Square Hut, that the key to salvation and rebirth in the Pure Land is just a single issue: one’s prevailing spiritual state, particularly at the point of death. This position, in which the individual determines his or her fate, predates the type of Pure Land Buddhism advocated by Hōnen (1133–1212) and others that relies on the other and on the nenbutsu, intoning the Amida Buddha’s name as an expression of faith in his power to save.
Rengejō’s Suicide by Drowning
Not long ago there lived a rather well known holy man named Rengejō. He was on friendly terms with the priest Tōren, who over the years had now and then had occasion to be helpful to him in one way or another.104 This holy man, however, was now beginning to get on in years, and he spoke to Tōren, saying, “I now grow weaker with each passing year and have little doubt that my death is drawing near. As my most earnest wish is to pass away with a clear mind fully focused on rebirth in the Pure Land, I have resolved that I shall end my life by drowning myself while my mind is in a state of composure.”105
Tōren was astonished to hear this and remonstrated with him, saying, “You mustn’t do that! Your aim should be to devote yourself, if for even one more day, to accruing spiritual merit by reciting the nenbutsu, the name of the Amida Buddha. What you propose is the sort of thing the ignorant do!” But seeing that Rengejō was absolutely unbending in his determination, Tōren said, “Well, if you are this resolute, I suppose there is no stopping you. It may be that this was predestined by karma.” And he worked together with Rengejō, helping him make various arrangements in preparation for death.
When the time came, they went to a stretch of the Katsura River where the water was deep, and Rengejō began reciting the nenbutsu in a loud voice and, after a time, submerged himself and sank to the bottom of the river. By this time, word about Rengejō’s intentions had gotten around, and so many people were gathered there that it looked like market day. Their expressions of boundless admiration and sorrow for him went on for some time. Tōren was deeply grief-stricken. “And we’d known each other for so many years!” he lamented and returned home, fighting back the tears.
Some days after this, Tōren fell ill with a sickness that appeared to be the result of possession by some sort of malignant spirit. Those around him were just beginning to sense that this was no ordinary illness, that something strange was going on, when the spirit manifested and identified itself, saying, “I am he who was once Rengejō.” Tōren said, “I cannot believe that this is true. We were friends for many years, and to the very end I did nothing whatsoever to arouse your resentment. What’s more, the level of your spiritual dedication was extraordinary, and your end was most exemplary. So why would you come here in this totally unexpected form?”
The spirit replied, “That’s just it! Although you had tried so hard to stop me, I did not fully understand my own heart, and so I went and threw my life away. I wasn’t particularly doing it for anybody else’s sake, so I never imagined that when it came down to it I might have a change of heart; but through whatever trick of Tenma, at the very moment when I was about to enter the water I was suddenly assailed by misgivings.106 But with all those people there, how could I just feel free to change my mind? ‘Ah, if only you would try to stop me now!’ I thought, attempting to catch your eye; but as your face gave no indication of noticing, it seemed as though you were urging me, ‘Now, hurry up and get on with it!’ so I felt compelled to submerge myself—and in my bitterness at that, my mind held no thought whatsoever of Pure Land rebirth. Now I find myself in a rebirth that I had not bargained for at all. This was my own foolish error, so I have no business blaming anyone else for it; but because my final thought was of unwillingness to go, I have ended up coming back here like this.”
Now this affair may indeed be a matter of karmic seeds sown in a previous existence. Yet it still ought to serve as a warning to the people of this degenerate age. The hearts of others are difficult to fathom and are not always motivated by attitudes that are pure and honest. Caught up in competitiveness and ambition or driven by pride and jealousy, some foolishly believe that immolating themselves as human-offering lamps or drowning themselves in the sea will secure them rebirth in the Pure Land, and so they rashly take it into their heads to commit this sort of act. This is, in fact, identical to “the ascetic practices of the heretics” and should be labeled as a major perverse view.107 For this reason, such a person’s suffering on entering into the flames or water is by no means insignificant. If his resolution is not exceedingly deep, how will he be able to endure it? And due to that agony, his heart will not be serene. Not only begging for the Buddha’s aid but also maintaining a mind of unwavering conviction108 will be extremely difficult.
It seems that even among the silly prattlings of ignorant people, they say things like “I could never bring myself to become a human-offering lamp, but I could easily submerge myself in water.” No doubt this is because from an onlooker’s standpoint, it appears as though there is practically nothing to it; but in fact they have no idea what the experience is really like. One holy man relates, “I was drowning in the water and had already begun to die when somebody rescued me, and I just barely survived. On that occasion, so intense was the torment of the water’s assault as it came in through my nose and mouth that it seemed to me that the agonies of hell itself could not possibly be this excruciating. The fact that people can nevertheless believe that water is a soft and gentle thing is because they are not yet acquainted with water as a killer.”
Someone once observed, “All the various actions that we perform lie in the hearts of each of us. It is we alone who perform these actions, and we alone can know them. They are difficult for an outside observer to judge. In regard to past karmic causes, future karmic effects, and the Buddha’s protection, if we just concentrate on composing our own state of mind, it will become obvious
how to judge them. But let us at least clarify one thing.109 In order to practice the way of the Buddha, if a person secludes himself in mountain forests or dwells alone in open fields yet still cherishes an attitude of fearing for his body and clinging to survival, it is by no means certain that he will be able to depend on the Buddha’s protection. He should adopt the attitude that it is necessary to withdraw from the world, hiding himself behind fences and walls; and by protecting his own body and saving his own self from sickness, he should aspire to make gradual progress in his spiritual practice. If you regard your body as entirely consecrated to the Buddha—so that even if a tiger or wolf tries to harm you, you will not be overly fearful and so that even if you run out of food and are starving to death, you will not become disheartened—then without fail the Buddha will extend to you his protection, and the host of bodhisattvas, too, will come to protect you.110 Dharma-obstructing demons and venomous beasts will find no opening for attack. Robbers will have a change of heart and go away, and through the power of the Buddha your diseases will be healed. But if you do not realize this and allow your heart to remain as shallow as ever, yet still count on the protection of the Buddha, then you will do so at your own peril.”
And this, it seems to me, is indeed the truth of the matter.
[Translated by Herschel Miller]
ANECDOTES (SETSUWA)
Collections of setsuwa (anecdotes) existed from as early as the fudoki (provincial gazetteers) in the Nara period and the Nihon ryōiki (ca. 822), but the great period of setsuwa is the late Heian period, beginning with the Collection of Tales of Times Now Past (Konjaku monogatari shū, ca. 1120), through the Kamakura period (1185–1333), when several setsuwa collections were compiled. The most famous of the Kamakura-period setsuwa collections, at least today, is A Collection of Tales from Uji (Uji shūi monogatari, early thirteenth century). These collections, which were edited by aristocrats or priests of aristocratic origin, mark the emergence of a new, robust form of literature, reflecting new values and social groups, which ranged from commoners, warriors, and priests to aristocrats. They embraced a wide variety of topics, from poetry to violence to sex.
Yanagita Kunio (1875–1962), one of the founders of modern Japanese folklore studies, once defined setsuwa both as a narration that is spoken and heard and as written literature, as collections of recorded stories. All setsuwa now are in written form, though they reveal traces of their original oral transmission.
In contrast to monogatari, which admit to their fictionality, setsuwa present the narration as history, as a record of past events, even when these events tend to be about the strange, miraculous, or unusual, causing surprise. In the medieval and Tokugawa periods, setsuwa collections were considered to be a kind of historical record or vernacular Buddhist writing (hōgo), and it was not until the modern period that they were considered a type of literature (bungaku) comparable to the monogatari.
The setsuwa also differ from monogatari and military chronicles by their brevity. They tend to be action oriented (plot centered) and compact, often focusing on a single event, much like a short story. The collections or anthologies of setsuwa, however, can be very large, such as the Collection of Tales of Times Now Past and A Collection of Tales from Uji, and have their own complex thematic structure. Like the poems in a poetry collection, setsuwa can be read both independently and as part of a larger sequence or section.
The setsuwa genre is also marked by didactic endings. The editor of each setsuwa collection gives each setsuwa a particular function. Thus the same setsuwa may appear in one collection as a Buddhist setsuwa, in another collection as a secular setsuwa, and in yet another collection as part of a poetry handbook. About half the extant setsuwa collections are Buddhist, beginning with the Nihon ryōiki, reflecting the large role they played in preaching and teaching the Buddhist law. Although we sometimes know the editors, such as Priest Mujū (1226–1312), the editor of Shasekishū (Collection of Sand and Pebbles, 1279–1283), the setsuwa themselves, which were constantly recycled and reworked, are anonymous. In contrast to those in the early fudoki and the Nihon ryōiki, which are written in Chinese, the collections from the late Heian through the Kamakura period, the heyday of the setsuwa, are written in vernacular Japanese.
In the late medieval period, the setsuwa were replaced by otogi-zōshi (Muromachi tales), which are a longer narrative form that incorporates more elements of the monogatari. Both during and after their peak, setsuwa provided a constant and deep source of material for other genres, such as the literary diary (nikki), monogatari, warrior tale, historical chronicle, nō drama, kōwakamai (ballad drama), kyōgen, otogi-zōshi, and sekkyō-bushi. A closely related genre is the warrior tale or chronicle, which often integrates setsuwa into a longer chronological narrative.
A COLLECTION OF TALES FROM UJI (UJI SHŪI MONOGATARI , EARLY THIRTEENTH CENTURY)
A Collection of Tales from Uji is the most popular and widely read of the medieval setsuwa collections. The quality of the writing was considered to be unsurpassed among setsuwa collections, and it was widely printed and read in the Tokugawa period. Although the author and date of composition are uncertain, it is generally considered to be an early-thirteenth-century work. A late-Heian-period aristocrat, the senior counselor (dainagon) Minamoto no Takakuni, who lived in the twelfth century at the Byōdō-in at Uji, south of the capital, is thought to have written a work entitled Tales of the Senior Counselor (Uji dainagon monogatari), which was very popular but was lost. The attempt to reconstruct the lost text in the early thirteenth century resulted in Uji shūi monogatari. The Uji in this title refers to the Byōdō-in, and shūi (collection of remains) probably refers to collecting the remains of the Uji dainagon monogatari.
Uji shūi monogatari contains 197 stories, of which 80 also appear in the Heian-period Collection of Tales of Times Now Past (Konjaku monogatari shū), and a number appear in other setsuwa collections. The fact that so many of these stories appear elsewhere is an indication of how popular they were at the time. Fifty of the stories are not duplicated elsewhere, however, including humorous tales with sexual content and folktales, such as “How Someone Had a Wen Removed by Demons.”
The stories in Uji shūi monogatari are not arranged according to subject matter, as they are in Konjaku monogatari shū, nor does the collection seem to have any particular order or plan, except to include the most interesting stories. They are of many kinds: serious and humorous, Japanese and foreign (India and China), Buddhist (about one-third to one-half of the stories), and secular, with many of the most noted being secular. Unlike the Buddhist anecdotes in Konjaku monogatari shū, these Buddhist-related stories do not appear to be intended for immediate religious use. Instead, the interest is in looking at individuals and human society with an ironic eye and a love of good storytelling. Whereas in the late Heian and early Kamakura periods, setsuwa were collected as part of the attempt to preserve artifacts of court culture that was rapidly disappearing, in Uji shūi monogatari the point of view is not at all fixed, instead exploring different classes and social groups from different angles.
The stories in Uji shūi monogatari are not records of oral performances but are written narratives that assume the characteristics of such a performance. Accordingly, they open with set phrases like “Now, long ago” (Ima wa mukashi) and end with “so it has been told” (to ka, to zo, to nan). Both “Wen Removed by Demons” and “How a Sparrow Repaid Its Debt of Gratitude” finish with a didactic message, but these were probably added as part of the convention of storytelling.
“How Someone Had a Wen Removed by Demons” (1:3) is a variation on a folktale (mukashi-banashi) that reappears in myriad forms across the centuries. Although most of the oni (demons) that appear in Uji shūi monogatari are fearful in appearance, here they dance, drink, and enjoy themselves, so much that the old man joins them, an image that no doubt appealed to commoner audiences.
“How a Sparrow Repaid Its Debt of Gratitude” (3:16) is another variation on a folktale. T
he sparrows (like other creatures) provide rewards and punishments in accordance with actions of the humans. Like “Wen Removed by Demons,” this setsuwa draws on a familiar folktale pattern, of neighbors who stand in contrast to one another in moral character, in which the rewards and punishments directly reflect their contrasting moral character.
“How Yoshihide, a Painter of Buddhist Pictures, Took Pleasure in Seeing His House on Fire” (1:38), which also appears in the Jikkinshō (1:6), provided the basis for the famous short story “Hell Screen” (Jigokuhen), by Akutagawa Ryūnosuke (1892–1927). Although Yoshihide’s house is burning, he makes no effort to put out the fire and thus is able to create a great painting of the Fudōmyō Buddha in the midst of flames. In Akutagawa’s story, the author takes the story of absolute dedication to one’s artistic path one step further: the painter watches his daughter burn to death. “About the Priest with the Long Nose” (2:7), which also is included here, was adapted by Akutagawa as well, into a noted short story entitled “Nose” (Hana).
How Someone Had a Wen Removed by Demons (1:3)
Again, there was once an old man who had a big wen on his right cheek, the size of an orange. On account of this he avoided mixing with people and made his living gathering firewood. When in the mountains one day, he was caught in such a violent storm that he was unable to get home and had no choice but to stay where he was, out there in the wilds. Having no other woodcutter with him, he was scared out of his wits, so he got inside a nearby hollow tree and squatted down, though he made no attempt to sleep. Suddenly he heard in the distance a noisy crowd of people approaching. It put new life into him to find some signs of humanity when he was all alone in the wilds, and he looked out—only to find a swarm of some hundred creatures of all sorts and descriptions, red ones dressed in blue, black ones wearing red loincloths, some with only one eye and some with no mouth—the whole lot hideous beyond words. In a noisy, jostling throng, carrying torches that blazed as brightly as the sun, they seated themselves in a circle before the hollow tree where he was sheltering. He was almost beside himself with terror.
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