Traditional Japanese Literature

by Haruo Shirane

  The end appeared imminent. My father called to Nakamitsu, “Sit me up.” Nakamitsu, the eldest son of Nakatsuna, had been raised from childhood by my father and had always served at Father’s side. He lifted Father up and sat down behind him. The only other person present, a lady-in-waiting, sat before Father while I sat at his side. “Hold my wrist,” Father said. When I had taken it he asked, “Where is the surplice the priest gave me?” After I draped the surplice over the informal silk robe he wore without trousers, he instructed Nakamitsu to join him in prayer. Together they prayed for about an hour, and then as the sun began to shine into the room Father dozed off, leaning over to the left. Intending to rouse him and help him continue his meditation, I shook his knee. He awoke with a start, raised his head, and looked directly into my eyes. “I wonder what will happen,” he started to say, but he died before he could finish the sentence. It was eight o’clock in the morning on the third day of the Eighth Month of 1272. My father was fifty years old.

  Had Father died saying his prayers, his future would have been assured; but as it was I had uselessly awakened him only to see him die with other words upon his lips. The thought of this plagued me. So black was my own mood that when I looked up at the heavens I thought the sun and moon must have fallen from the sky, and as I lay on the ground sobbing, my tears seemed to be a river flowing out of me.

  When I was two years old I lost my mother, but at that time I was too young to realize what had happened. However, my father and I had spent fifteen years together—ever since the forty-first day of my life, when I was first placed upon his knee. In the morning, looking in my mirror, I was happy to realize whose image I reflected; and in the evening, changing my gowns, I thought of my indebtedness to him. The debt I owed him for my life and my position was greater than the towering peak of Mount Sumeru, and the gratitude I felt toward him for taking my mother’s place in raising me was deeper than the waters of the four great seas. How could I ever show my gratitude or repay him who gave me so much? Things he said at various times kept coming back to my mind. I could not forget them. Nothing I could ever do would erase the grief of this parting….

  [Introduction by Christina Laffin and translation by Karen W. Brazell]

  KENKŌ

  Kenkō (ca. 1283–ca. 1352) is thought to have been born in the Kōan era (1278–1288), in the late Kamakura period (1185–1333), and died in the Northern and Southern Courts period (1336–1392). Kenkō came from the Urabe, a noted Shinto family, but he did not enter the Shinto profession. Instead, during his teens, he served Emperor GoNijō (r. 1301–1308) as a sixth-rank kurōdo (chamberlain), in turn as an archivist or a secretary in charge of sundry affairs. In 1313, at around the age of thirty, Kenkō took the tonsure. He traveled a number of times to the east, to the Kantō area, and in 1319 his poetry was included in the Zoku senzaishū, a semi-imperial anthology. Kenkō became a poet of the Nijō school and was referred to as one of the “four kings of waka,” of whom the most notable was Ton’a (1289–1372). But in his treatise Comments on Recent Poetic Styles (Kinrai fūteishō, 1387), the noted scholar-poet Nijō Yoshimoto (1320–1388) disparagingly refers to Kenkō as below the other “four kings” in quality. In addition to Essays in Idleness (Tsurezuregusa), he left behind a collection of his own poetry, Collection of Priest Kenkō (Kenkō hōshi shū, ca. 1343). In the latter part of his life, Kenkō was closely affiliated with the Ashikaga house, which was in power, and interacted with waka poets, intellectuals, warriors, and nobility. In other words, Kenkō both lived in seclusion and continued to mingle with the most powerful figures of the time, including cultural luminaries like Nijō Yoshimoto, one of the founders of classical renga.

  ESSAYS IN IDLENESS (TSUREZUREGUSA, 1329–1333)

  Essays in Idleness now consists of a preface and 243 sections (dan). The shortest section is only one sentence long, and the longest one—“Are We to Look at Cherry Blossoms Only in Full Bloom?”—is about four pages. (These sections were created in the Tokugawa period, to make the text easier to read.) On the eve of the Northern and Southern Courts period, Kenkō, an intellectual who was neither completely secular nor completely a priest, casts a sharp eye on a chaotic, Taiheiki type of world. In 1331, when Kenkō probably wrote the bulk of Tsurezuregusa, Emperor GoDaigo’s second plan to overthrow the bakufu was discovered, and the Kasagi and Akasaka castles fell. The period of the Taiheiki was a time when friend and foe, outsider and insider, establishment and nonestablishment, war and peace, were constantly changing and replacing each other.

  Of the more than two hundred sections, about half directly reveal Kenkō’s views of life and the world, which were based on a strong sense of impermanence and impending death. Good examples of this type are “Determined to Take the Great Step” (sec. 59) and “Gathering Like Ants” (sec. 74), both of which are included here. Another third of the sections, which have the character of anecdotes, describe people from all walks of life who have caught Kenkō’s attention. These sections also provide information about court or warrior rules and precedents.

  It is not clear when Tsurezuregusa was composed. Today the dominant view is that Kenkō wrote most of the text in two or three years during the Gentoku era (1329–1331), when he was in his late forties. Scholars, however, point to significant differences in vocabulary, style, and content between the first and second parts, and many believe that Tsurezuregusa was written over a longer period of time. They believe that the first part, what might be called the original Tsurezuregusa, from section 1 through about section 30, was probably written as early as the Bunpō era (1317–1319), when Kenkō was young, immediately after he had left court life. This part reveals a strong yearning for Heian aristocratic culture, uses Heian aesthetic terms such as aware (moving) and wokashi (charming), and expresses great admiration for The Tale of Genji as well as The Pillow Book. In section 19, “Changing of the Seasons,” for example, Kenkō describes the beauties of the four seasons as they are embodied in Heian literature and poetry.

  The second part of Tsurezuregusa, the main body, sections 31 through 240, was probably written later, in 1330/1331. This second part makes more use of Sino-Japanese (kanbun kundoku) expressions, shows the influence of Daoism, advocates renunciation and reclusion, and confronts life and death. In contrast to the first part of Tsurezuregusa—in which Kenkō draws on his rich knowledge of Chinese classics, Japanese poetry, and Heian classical texts and discusses classical topics such as love and friendship—in the second part Kenkō gradually breaks away from classical aesthetics and includes more medieval anecdotes, focusing on eccentric, highly individualized characters.

  The inherent contradictions of Tsurezuregusa reflect the changes in Kenkō’s perspective between his youth and his middle years, as well as the larger tensions of the period, particularly between the court culture and the culture in the east (with its distinctive setsuwa and folk songs). Because Kenkō traveled frequently between Kyoto and Kamakura, he was exposed to both the imperial court culture of Kyoto and the new warrior culture. Despite his interest in the new eastern culture, Kenkō’s general preference was for the refined culture of the capital, as evident in the famous section 137: “Are We to Look at Cherry Blossoms Only in Full Bloom?”

  Today Tsurezuregusa is generally referred to as a zuihitsu (miscellany) and is regarded as part of a literary lineage starting with The Pillow Book and extending through An Account of a Ten-Foot-Square Hut (Hōjōki). Indeed, Tsurezuregusa bears certain similarities to The Pillow Book in that it reveals the author’s opinions and musings on a wide range of subjects, expressed in very short and independent passages. In contrast to Hōjōki, which is a unified essay on the theme of reclusion and salvation, however, Tsurezuregusa has no central theme or order. Tsurezuregusa can also be read as one of the last setsuwa collections, resembling such Buddhist collections as Mujū Ichien’s Collection of Sand and Pebbles (Shasekishū, 1279–1283) and Collection of Sundry Conversations (Zōtanshū, 1305), which is considered to be one of the later medieval setsuwa c
ollections.

  Tsurezuregusa consists of roughly three different worlds: the secular world in which most people live, the world of the Buddhist priesthood, and the world of the recluse (tonseisha). Although Kenkō apparently took vows, he did not belong to any particuiar sect or school, nor was he a lay person who lived in regular society. Instead, he moved freely among these three worlds, particularly enjoying that of the recluse. The term tsurezure, which means “idleness,” was usually used negatively. But in section 75, “A Person Who Complains of Having Nothing to Do,” Kenkō praises this condition as an ideal, since it allows solitude, avoids entanglements, and brings peace to the heart—ideals of the recluse. In contrast to the hijiri (holy man), as exemplified by someone like Priest Zōga and other Buddhist heroes, tonseisha, though wanting to separate themselves from the preoccupations of the secular world, cannot tolerate the kinds of hardships endured by these holy men, nor do they have their deep faith. Furthermore, tonseisha like Kenkō regarded reclusion as a means of devoting themselves to learning and the arts. Unlike Kamo no Chōmei in Hōjōki, Kenkō has little interest in being reborn in the Pure Land; rather, he is interested in this life, in the present. His intense awareness of impermanence turns his attention not to the next world but to this world, in an effort to make memorable every minute in this life.

  Preface

  What a strange, demented feeling it gives me when I realize I have spent whole days before this inkstone, with nothing better to do, jotting down at random whatever nonsensical thoughts have entered my head.

  If the Dews of Adashino Never Faded (7)

  If man were never to fade away like the dews of Adashino,167 never to vanish like the smoke over Toribeyama,168 but lingered on forever in the world, how things would lose their power to move us!169 The most precious thing in life is its uncertainty. Consider living creatures—none lives so long as man. The mayfly waits not for the evening, the summer cicada knows neither spring nor autumn. What a wonderfully unhurried feeling it is to live even a single year in perfect serenity! If that is not enough for you, you might live a thousand years and still feel it was but a single night’s dream. We cannot live forever in this world; why should we wait for ugliness to overtake us? The longer man lives, the more shame he endures. To die, at the latest, before one reaches forty, is the least unattractive. Once a man passes that age, he desires (with no sense of shame over his appearance) to mingle in the company of others. In his sunset years he dotes on his grandchildren, and prays for long life so that he may see them prosper. His preoccupation with worldly desires grows ever deeper, and gradually he loses all sensitivity to the beauty of things, a lamentable state of affairs.

  Leading the Heart Astray (8)

  Nothing leads a man astray so easily as sexual desire. What a foolish thing a man’s heart is! Though we realize, for example, that fragrances are short-lived and the scent burnt into clothes lingers but briefly, how our hearts always leap when we catch a whiff of an exquisite perfume! The holy man of Kume170 lost his magic powers after noticing the whiteness of the legs of a girl who was washing clothes; this was quite understandable, considering that the glowing plumpness of her arms, legs, and flesh owed nothing to artifice.

  Beautiful Hair, of All Things (9)

  Beautiful hair, of all things in a woman, is most likely to catch a man’s eye. Her character and temperament may be guessed from the first words she utters, even if she is hidden behind a screen. When a woman somehow—perhaps unintentionally—has captured a man’s heart she is generally unable to sleep peacefully. She will not hesitate to subject herself to hardships, and will even endure cheerfully what she would normally find intolerable, all because love means so much to her.

  The love of men and women is truly a deep-seated passion with distant roots. The senses give rise to many desires, but it should be possible to shun them all. Only one, infatuation, is impossible to control; old or young, wise or foolish, in this respect all seem identical. That is why they say that even a great elephant can be fastened securely with a rope plaited from the strands of a woman’s hair, and that a flute made from a sandal a woman has worn will infallibly summon the autumn deer. We must guard against this delusion of the senses, which is to be dreaded and avoided.

  A Proper Dwelling (10)

  A house, I know, is but a temporary abode, but how delightful it is to find one that has harmonious proportions and a pleasant atmosphere. One feels somehow that even moonlight, when it shines into the quiet domicile of a person of taste, is more affecting than elsewhere. A house, though it may not be in the current fashion or elaborately decorated, will appeal to us by its unassuming beauty—a grove of trees with an indefinably ancient look; a garden where plants, growing of their own accord, have a special charm; a verandah and an openwork wooden fence of interesting construction; and a few personal effects left carelessly lying about, giving the place an air of having been lived in. A house which multitudes of workmen have polished with every care, where strange and rare Chinese and Japanese furnishings are displayed, and even the grasses and trees of the garden have been trained unnaturally, is ugly to look at and most depressing. How could anyone live for long in such a place? The most casual glance will suggest how likely such a house is to turn in a moment to smoke.

  A man’s character, as a rule, may be known from the place where he lives. The Gotokudaiji minister171 stretched a rope across his roof to keep the kites from roosting. Saigyō,172 seeing the rope, asked, “Why should it bother him if kites perch there? That shows you the kind of man this prince is.” I have heard that Saigyō never visited him again. I remembered this story not long ago when I noticed a rope stretched over the roof of the Kosaka palace,173 where Prince Ayanokōji174 lives. Someone told me that, as a matter of fact, it distressed the prince to see how crows clustering on the roof would swoop down to seize frogs in the pond. The story impressed me, and made me wonder if Sanesada may not also have had some such reason.

  Changing of the Seasons (19)

  The changing of the seasons is deeply moving in its every manifestation. People seem to agree that autumn is the best season to appreciate the beauty of things. That may well be true, but the sights of spring are even more exhilarating. The cries of the birds gradually take on a peculiarly spring-like quality, and in the gentle sunlight the bushes begin to sprout along the fences. Then, as spring deepens, mists spread over the landscape and the cherry blossoms seem ready to open, only for steady rains and winds to cause them to scatter precipitously. The heart is subject to incessant pangs of emotion as the young leaves are growing out.

  Orange blossoms are famous for evoking memories,175 but the fragrance of plum blossoms above all makes us return to the past and remember nostalgically long-ago events. Nor can we overlook the clean loveliness of the yamabuki176 or the uncertain beauty of wisteria, and so many other compelling sights.

  Someone once remarked, “In summer, when the Feast of Anointing the Buddha177 and the Kamo Festival come around, and the young leaves on the treetops grow thick and cool, our sensitivity to the touching beauty of the world and our longing for absent friends grow stronger.” Indeed, this is so. When, in the Fifth Month, the irises bloom and the rice seedlings are transplanted, can anyone remain untroubled by the drumming of the water rails? Then, in the Sixth Month, you can see the whiteness of moonflowers glowing over wretched hovels, and the smoldering of mosquito incense is affecting too. The purification rites of the Sixth Month178 are also engrossing.

  The celebration of Tanabata is charming.179 Then, as the nights gradually become cold and the wild geese cry, the under leaves of the hagi180 turn yellow, and men harvest and dry the first crop of rice. So many moving sights come together, in autumn especially. And how unforgettable is the morning after an equinoctial storm!—As I go on I realize that these sights have long since been enumerated in The Tale of Genji and The Pillow Book, but I make no pretense of trying to avoid saying the same things again. If I fail to say what lies on my mind it gives me a feeling o
f flatulence; I shall therefore give my brush free rein. Mine is a foolish diversion, but these pages are meant to be torn up, and no one is likely to see them.

  To return to the subject. Winter decay is hardly less beautiful than autumn. Crimson leaves lie scattered on the grass beside the ponds, and how delightful it is on a morning when the frost is very white to see the vapor rise from a garden stream. At the end of the year it is indescribably moving to see everyone hurrying about on errands. There is something forlorn about the waning winter moon, shining cold and clear in the sky, unwatched because it is said to be depressing. The Invocation of the Buddha Names and the departure of the messengers with the imperial offerings181 are moving and inspiring. How impressive it is that so many palace ceremonials are performed besides all the preparations for the New Year! It is striking that the Worship of the Four Directions follows directly on the Expulsion of the Demons.182

  On the last night of the year, when it is extremely dark, people light pine torches and go rushing about, pounding on the gates of strangers until well after midnight. I wonder what it signifies. After they have done with their exaggerated shouting and running so furiously that their feet hardly touch the ground, the noise at last fades away with the coming of the dawn, leaving a lonely feeling of regret over the departing old year. The custom of paying homage to the dead,183 in the belief that they return that night, has lately disappeared from the capital, but I was deeply moved to discover that it was still performed in the East. As the day thus breaks on the New Year the sky seems no different from what it was the day before, but one feels somehow changed and renewed. The main thoroughfares, decorated their full length with pine boughs, seem cheerful and festive, and this too is profoundly affecting.