Anthology of Japanese Literature

From the Earliest Era to the Mid-Nineteenth Century

Donald Keene, Donald Keene

• Editore: Grove Press
• Anno: 2007
• ISBN:
  9780802198655
• Argomento: Letteratura
• Categoria: Collezioni letterarie asiatiche

A landmark collection of five periods of literature from the Land of the Rising Sun. The sweep of Japanese literature in all its great variety was made available to Western readers for the first time in this anthology. Every genre and style, from the celebrated N? plays to the poetry and novels of the seventeenth century, find a place in this book. An introduction by Donald Keene places the selections in their proper historical context, allowing the readers to enjoy the book both as literature and as a guide to the cultural history of Japan. Selections include "Man'y?sh?" or "Collection of Ten Thousand Leaves" from the ancient period; "Kokinsh?" or "Collection of Ancient and Modern Poetry, " "The Tosa Diary" of Ki no Tsurayuki, "Y?gao" from "The Tale of Genji" of Murasaki Shikibu, and "The Pillow Book" of Sei Sh?nagon from the Heian Period; "The Tale of the Heike" from the Kamakura Period; Plan of the No Stage, "Birds of Sorrow" of Seami Motokiyo, and "Three Poets at Minase" from the Muromachi Period; and selections from Bash?, including "The Narrow Road of Oku, " "The Love Suicides at Sonezaki" by Chikamatsu Monzaemon, and Waka and haiku of the Tokugawa Period.

MUROMACHI PERIOD
1333-1600

ESSAYS IN IDLENESS

[Tsurezure-Gusa] by Yoshida Kenkō

“Essays in Idleness” is a collection in 243 sections which range in length from a few lines to three or four pages. It was written about 1340. Yoshida Kenkō (1283-1350) was a celebrated poet and court official of his time, who became a Buddhist monk in 1324. In many ways “Essays in Idleness” seems to echo the delightful “Pillow Book” of Sei Shōnagon, but there is a melancholy tinge to its worldly wisdom which is perhaps due more to the tragic period in which the essays were composed than to Kenko’s religious convictions.

•

To while away the idle hours, seated the livelong day before the inkslab, by jotting down without order or purpose whatever trifling thoughts pass through my mind, verily this is a queer and crazy thing to do!

••

It is desirable to have a knowledge of true literature, of composition and versifying, of wind and string instruments; and it is well, moreover, to be learned in precedent and court ceremonies, so as to be a model for others. One should write not unskilfully in the running hand, be able to sing in a pleasing voice and keep good time to music; and, lastly, a man should not refuse a little wine when it is pressed upon him.

••

However gifted and accomplished a young man may be, if he has no fondness for women, one has a feeling of something lacking, as of a precious wine cup without a bottom. Admire the condition of a lover! Drenched with dews and frosts and aimlessly wandering; ever concerned to shun the world’s reproof and escape his parents’ reproaches; hither and thither pursued by doubt and distress; and spending his nights withal sleepless upon a solitary couch.

But it is well that a man do not become addicted to lewdness, a constant and familiar companion of women.

••

Were we to live on for ever—were the dews of Adashino never to vanish, the smoke on Toribeyama¹ never to fade away—then indeed would men not feel the pity of things.

Truly the beauty of life is its uncertainty. Of all living things, none lives so long as man. Consider how the ephemera awaits the fall of evening, and the summer cicada knows neither spring nor autumn. Even a year of life lived peacefully seems long and happy beyond compare; but for such as never weary of this world and are loath to die, a thousand years would pass away like the dream of a single night.

What shall it avail a man to drag out till he becomes decrepit and unsightly a life which some day needs must end? Long life brings many shames. At most before his fortieth year is full, it is seemly for a man to die.

After that age it is pitiful to see how, unashamed of his looks, he loves to thrust himself into the society of others and, cherishing his offspring in the evening of his days, craves to live on and on that he may watch them grow and prosper. So he continues, his heart set on nought but worldliness, and hardening to the pity of things.

••

Of all things that lead astray the heart of man there is nought like fleshly lust. What a weakly thing is this heart of ours. Though a perfume, for example, is but a transient thing, and though he knows full well that incense is burned to give an odor to garments, yet a man’s heart will always be stirred by a vague perfume.

The Magician of Kume, the legend runs, lost his magic power through looking at a maiden washing clothes. This may well have been, for here was no charm from without, but the real beauty of plump and glistening limbs.

••

There is a charm about a neat and proper dwelling house, although this world, ‘tis true, is but a temporary abode. Even the moonshine, when it strikes into the house where a good man lives in peaceful ease, seems to gain in friendly brilliancy.

The man is to be envied who lives in a house, not of the modern, garish kind, but set among venerable trees, with a garden where plants grow wild and yet seem to have been disposed with care, verandas and fences tastefully arranged, and all its furnishings simple but antique.

A house which multitudes of workmen have devoted all their ingenuity to decorate, where rare and strange things from home and abroad are set out in array, and where even the trees and shrubs are trained unnaturally—such is an unpleasant sight, depressing to look at, to say nothing of spending one’s days therein. Nor, gazing on it, can one but reflect how easily it might vanish in a moment of time.

The appearance of a house is in some sort an index to the character of its occupant.

••

Once in the month of September I passed over the plain of Kurusu and sought out a certain village among the hills beyond, when, threading my way far down a narrow moss-grown path, I came upon a lonely hut. There was never a sound to greet me, save the dripping of water from a pipe buried in fallen leaves, but I knew that someone lived there, for sprays of chrysanthemum and maple leaves bestrewed the shelf before the shrine, and “Ah!” thought I, “In such a place a man can spend his days.” But as I stood and gazed in wonder, I perceived in the garden beyond a great orange tree, its branches weighted down with fruit. It was strongly closed in on all sides by a fence. This broke the spell, and I thought to myself, “If only that tree had not been there!”

••

It is a joyful thing indeed to hold intimate converse with a man after one’s own heart, chatting without reserve about things of interest or the fleeting topics of the world; but such, alas, are few and far between. Not that one desires a companion who will sit opposite and never utter a word in contradiction—one might as well be alone. Far better in hours of loneliness the company of one who, while he will listen with respect to your views, will disagree a little, and argue, saying “Yes, that is so, but . . .,” or “For this reason such and such is the case.”

And yet, with those who are not of the same way of thinking or are contentious, a man can discuss only things of passing interest, for the truth is there must not be any wide gulf between bosom friends.

••

To sit alone in the lamplight with a book spread out before you, and hold intimate converse with men of unseen generations—such is a pleasure beyond compare.

••

It wakes one up to go away from home for a time, no matter whither. Exploring and rambling about the countryside you come upon a host of unwonted sights in rustic spots and mountain hamlets. You get a messenger to take letters to the capital, and you write and say “Do not forget to send me so-and-so at the next opportunity.” All this is in its way amusing. Of course you have a thousand things to think of in such a place.

Pleasant also to slip away and go into retreat in some mountain temple.

••

It is well for a man to be frugal, to abstain from luxury, to possess no treasure nor to covet this world’s goods. Since olden times there has rarely been a sage who was wealthy.

In China there was once a man called Hsü Yu. He had not a single possession in the world. He even scooped up water with his hands, until a friend gave him a gourd. But one day, when he had hung it from a branch, it rattled in the wind; whereupon, disturbed by the noise, he threw it away and once more took to drinking from his clasped hands. How pure and free the heart of such a man.

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A certain recluse, I know not who, once said that no bonds attached him to this life, and the only thing he w...