Chapter Eight:

Heian Literature and Related Cultural Forms

We have already taken a brief look at Heian literature (read it--#in Japanese# or #English#). This chapter expands on that earlier material, examining some of the more famous prose and poetry of the time with respect to what it reveals about social life and the aesthetic sensibilities of the Heian courtiers. Poetry, music, and prayer greatly overlapped in Heian times, so we also take a closer look at some of the music of this era. Some of the material we examine spills over temporally into the early Kamakura period, though its doing so is not significant for our purposes here. The main topics in this chapter are the Tale of Genji, poetry, popular Buddhist tales, and music.

The Tale of Genji

#Tale of Genji links#

#Read it# in classical or modern Japanese, or, in English (#click here# and scroll down).

#The tale of Genji Pavilion#

Although whether the Tale of Genji (hereafter simply "Genji") is the world's first novel is debatable (depending on how a novel is defined), it probably is the world's first novel to feature deep explorations of the characters' psyches. The author, Murasaki Shikibu, was a close observer of human psychology and emotions, and literary scholars frequently mention the substantial depth and sophistication of character development as her greatest accomplishment. Historians have also long been interested in Genji because it reveals much about social life in Heian times.

Read this *brief summary* of the novel and its structure and *this overview.* Then read the short text and examine the images that Gerald Figal has put together by *Clicking Here,*  then on "Engaging Visions" at the bottom of the page, and finally on "Aristocratic Visions." For a gallery of paintings illustrating each of the first sixteen chapters, #click here.#

The book is very long and the plot is so complex that today's high school students often rely on charts and diagrams to follow it. There are fifty-four chapters, in which over 430 different characters emerge (#major ones#). The novel itself covers approximately seventy-five years of time, and Murasaki wrote it around the year 1000, during the time of Fujiwara ascendancy at court. It was widely read from the time of its appearance (and Murasaki may have circulated it chapter by chapter in serial from) through modern times. Modern Japanese of today typically read the novel in modern translation, not in its original language, and often in an abridged form.

Genji is a long, complex romance. It describes the amorous activities of Hikaru Genji, an imperial prince, Genji's son Yūgiri, and, and Genji's grandson Niou. This plot enables Murasaki to explore emotions and thought in a wide variety of contexts because of Genji's many romantic associations with women of all walks of life and with a range of personalities. Genji has two official wives and a steady girlfriend, Murasaki (not to be confused with the books author, Murasaki, although, of course, it may be that author Murasaki placed herself directly into the book via the character of the same name). Owing to her relatively low court rank, Murasaki cannot become an official wife of Genji. Additionally, Genji has more or less steady relationships with about ten other women. Genji lives life vigorously and dies at age 52, before old age robs him of his charming appearance and personality.

What characteristics made Genji such a popular ladies' man? On the surface, he was the embodiment of the ideal man in author Murasaki's eyes (and, apparently, in the eyes of the many other court ladies who read the book). Genji was physically handsome, of course, but, as we have seen, one's aesthetic persona involved much more that just physical beauty. Here is one writer's concise description of ideal romantic character in Heian times:

The qualities most valued in a lover were quite similar regardless of sex: beauty and grace, talent and sensibility, and personal thoughtfulness. A gentleman is always considerate. The paragon, Genji, was ever gallant to one lady even though he discovered that she was very unattractive. He found himself in this predicament because Heian men often had no clear idea of the appearance of the women they were wooing, hidden as they were behind screens with only their sleeves showing. . . . Men fell in love with a woman's sense of beauty, her poetic talents, and her calligraphy. As in China, the latter was all-important, since it was thought to reveal a person's character. The Heian version of love at first sight was a gentleman falling hopelessly in love after catching a glimpse of a few beautifully drawn lines.1

And the converse was true in the case of women pursuing men. Genji was immensely popular with the ladies (and girls, since romantic life could begin as early as twelve or thirteen years of age) because he was the living embodiment of the Heian cult of beauty.

But as a character, Genji is complex. While indeed capable of playing the role of an ideal man, he was also capable of serious lapses. Though not the kind of man who would intentionally hurt anyone, his actions sometimes caused great harm. Though capable of great thoughtfulness, he was, at times, too wrapped up in his own feelings to notice those of others. Indeed, one could take select passages from the novel and make Genji out to be selfish and insensitive. I do not mean to suggest that he is either the ideal man or an inconsiderate blunderer. Instead, he is both. In other words, Genji often lives up to Murasaki's ideal model but sometimes fails badly.

The Yūgao Chapter

To get a more concrete understanding of the novel, let us consider one of its more famous chapters, *"Yūgao,"* literally, "evening faces," which is both the name of a flower that grows on a vine and the main female character. Here, I summarize the plot and provide some analysis along the way, for which I rely in part on the innovative work of Doris Bargen.2 We start with a listing of the main characters in the chapter:

#Click here# for a series of illustrations of the main characters and scenes from this chapter. For a summary of the plot in the context of a page explaining music composed to illustrate this chapter, #click here.#

Genji is out discussing women with Tō no Chūjō and finds out that Tō no Chūjō had a secondary wife who left him. Genji is unable to return home that night because of a directional taboo (travel in certain directions was unlucky on certain days--a type of belief widely held by the Heian aristocracy), so Genji decides to stay overnight at the mansion of the governor of the province of Kii (by this time in the Heian period, provincial governors sometimes resided in the Heian capital, not in their provinces). While there, Genji seeks to seduce the governor's stepmother, Utsusemi. Recall that the identity of aristocratic women was not always easy for men to ascertain. Genji ends up seducing the stepmother's daughter by mistake. He treats her badly and ends up regretting the whole incident. At this time, Genji is only a teenager. Why was he so interested in a much older women (the stepmother) and unhappy to be with a younger one? Furthermore, it turns out that the young Genji frequently sought out older women. One explanation is that he was looking for a substitute for his own mother, who died when Genji was very young and to whom he had formed a close attachment. Significantly, later in the book, Genji has an incestuous (by the standards of Heian court society) relationship with Fujitsubo, the wife of Genji's father.

The next day, Genji sets out to visit Rokujō. Rokujō is a strong-willed woman whose relationship with Genji has its ups and downs. Lately, it had not been going well, and Genji did not want to face her. So, by way of an excuse to delay seeing Rokujō, he detours to pay a visit to his former nurse. When he arrives, he notices that the nurse's gate is locked, but Genji notices what to him was a "strange fence" around a shabby, run-down house next door. The house has yūgao flowers growing on the vine creeping up its wall. The vine typically grows in such environments as run down buildings, and the yūgao flower has Buddhist overtones, similar to those of the lotus. Why is the nurse's gate locked? Because she is dying. Genji is about to enter unfamiliar terrain, both in a physical sense and psychologically.

He investigates further to see who might live in the dilapidated house and has one of the flowers picked. Being a sensitive guy by Heian standards, he would, of course, be interested in flowers. An attendant comes out of the house and delivers to Genji an intimate poem. Intrigued, Genji instructs his attendant, Koremitsu, to peek in on the house's occupants to see what is going on. Koremitsu reports that the woman of the house, Yūgao, had sent the poem to Genji by mistake because she thought Genji to be her former husband. Genji begins to suspect that Yūgao is the former secondary wife of his best friend, Tō no Chūjō. The thought bothers Genji briefly, but he soon puts it out of his mind. Genji writes a reply poem in which he attributes Yūgao's forwardness to a case of mistaken identity. Realizing her mistake, Yūgao lowers her shutter as a barrier to further contact.

This gesture aroused Genji's passion, and he made another visit soon, again on the pretext of visiting his ailing former nurse. He arrived in "disguise," and visited Yūgao. She knew it was the guy to whom earlier she had mistakenly sent the poem, and he knew that she knew, but the disguise provided cover for them to pursue each other. The two have an intense courtship initially, but soon begin to fear losing each other. Genji contemplates moving Yūgao to his official residence, but rejects the idea because of the likelihood that it would cause a scandal among the aristocrats. Why? Because Yūgao was of much too low an aristocratic rank to become a formal wife (or secondary wife) of Genji. And then, of course, deep down Genji knows Yūgao is Tō no Chūjō's former wife. The point? Yūgao has been seeking stability and security ever since leaving Tō no Chūjō, and now, with Genji, she cannot seem to get what she wants. To make matters worse for her, Genji wants to move her somewhere. Although at first fascinated by the rundown house in a remote part of town, Genji now finds the place unbearable--not just Yūgao's house, but all the shabby houses nearby and the constant presence of lower class people. Indeed, Genji feels vaguely afraid while residing in her place.

So Genji sets his mind on taking Yūgao to a deserted villa with which he is familiar. To try and reassure Yūgao of the wisdom of such a move, he formally pledges that their love will survive the ups and downs of this world. But doing so was a major blunder. Recall the directional taboo mentioned earlier. There were many other taboos among the Heian aristocrats. The night that Genji pledged his love was the night of the harvest moon, and on that night, such pledges were inauspicious. Naturally, Yūgao becomes even more anxious, and she writes a poem that invokes the Buddhist idea of a carryover of past karma causing problems in the future:

So heavy is the burden I bring from the past,

I doubt that I should make these vows for the future.

Nevertheless, Genji and Yūgao go to the villa, and author Murasaki uses a variety of symbolism to link the abandoned villa with the mansion of the Governor of Kii, where Genji had the unpleasant encounter with Utsusemi and her stepdaughter. Murasaki does a superb job of creating a sense of foreboding. Something terrible will surely happen.

As you might expect, Yūgao is unable to overcome her sense of anxiety at the villa, which Murasaki describes ominously as a place where devils appear. Yūgao realizes that she means much to Genji, for in taking her to the villa, he risks discovery of their relationship and thus and scandal (because of the great difference in rank). But she does not mean enough to Genji that he formally recognizes their relationship by moving her to his residence. The villa is neither Yūgao's past nor her future. It is a temporary abode in what for her is an unstable world. In the language of today's pop psychology, we might say that Yūgao suffers from low self esteem. Leaving Tō no Chūjō reduced Yūgao's social prestige and economic circumstances. She becomes increasingly distrustful of the strength of Genji's love for her writing, for example:

And is the moon unsure of the hills it approaches

Foredoomed to lose its way in the empty skies?

And right Yūgao is to be concerned, for deep down in his heart, Genji is romantically/erotically attached to Fujitsubo, his stepmother.

Later in the novel, Murasaki reveals that Genji acted on this attachment, forging a relationship with Fujitsubo so unacceptable that Murasaki cannot describe it directly, even in a work of fiction. The forbidden (albeit to a lesser degree of severity) love affair between Genji and Yūgao, says Bargen, functions as a preview for Genji's ultimate forbidden affair with his stepmother, a sort of psychological stepping stone in the direction of the forbidden. Again we see Murasaki's masterful exploration of the characters' psychological states.

Yūgao dies at the villa as a result of becoming possessed by a malevolent spirit. The standard interpretation is that it is Rokujō's jealous spirit that kills Yūgao. Bargen has argued that the "possession" is better interpreted as coming directly from Yūgao herself. In other words, it was a last-ditch attempt to call Genji's attention to her plight. The major problem with Bargen's interesting interpretation is that in Yūgao's case and elsewhere in Genji, spirit possession is fatal. Is it likely that Yūgao and others would willingly inflict suffering and death on themselves? Perhaps, but it seems unlikely (note also that Heian aristocratic society did not glorify suicide in any way). But we need not concern ourselves here with figuring out precisely what went on during Yūgao's deadly ordeal. (#Click here# for a discussion of spirit possession in the Tale of Genji by various academics in Japanese studies. #Click Here# for a stereotypical nō mask indicating a jealous women, of which Rokujō is the most famous example.)

How did Yūgao's death register in Genji's mind? During the possession, Genji becomes apprehensive about all the other women he had mistreated or neglected. Perhaps as if he were Yūgao's murderer, he is torn between the emotions of grief and terror. In the wake of Yūgao's death, Genji nearly suffers a nervous breakdown, but he saves himself by performing ritual penance. By so doing, he also acknowledges a degree of complicity in Yūgao's death. (Read *this poem.*)

Surely you can see from the basic plot of the "Yūgao" chapter that the young Genji was far from being an ideal man in the sense of being sensitive about the feelings of others. Indeed, in this part of the plot he thinks mainly about himself and how to attain what he wants. He will improve with age, however. Interestingly, in his latter years, Genji will come to feel a vague sense of emptiness and regret about the way he has conducted his life.

Poetry

Some links (all optional):

We have already seen the important social role of poetry among the Heian aristocrats. It was not only an art form but an essential mode of day-to-day communication. There are many ways to classify Japanese poetry, but here I would like to use two relatively simple distinctions based on language and content. First we can divide poetry into that which was written in classical Chinese and that which was written in Japanese. In general, only men wrote classical Chinese poetry; both men and women wrote poems in Japanese. The general term for Japanese-language poetry is waka, and the specific form of Japanese poetry most commonly written in Heian times was the tanka, a term meaning "short poem." Both Chinese-language and Japanese-language poetry conformed to rules concerning meter, length, and subject matter. Chinese-language poetry was also regulated by rules of tone harmony, which was particularly strange in the context of Heian Japan where very few people could actually speak Chinese. Indeed, except in the hands of a few highly skilled practitioners like Sugawara Michizane, Chinese poetry in Heian Japan tended to be formulaic and boring. It is in the Japanese-language poetry that most of the lyrical artistry of the time can be seen.

It is possible to make a general division of the waka into two types based on content and overall impact of specific poems. Most of the many extant waka tend to be formulaic. In other words, the arrangement of words fulfills all the formal rules but usually lacks a strong emotional impact. The most popular topics for such poems were the seasons of the year and the natural scenery associated with them. Some waka, however, do powerfully evoke one or more emotions. The topic of these poems is usually love/romance/sex, and the writers are usually women. Shūichi Katō provides a particularly good example of two such poems by Izumi Shikibu:

I lie with my hair disheveled,

But I do not even notice

As I long for the man who caressed it.

--and--

To make another memory

For my after-life,

How I wish I could see him once more!3

As Katō points out, these poems vigorously express the individuality of their author.

Although Katō sometimes claims that there was very little Buddhism in the waka poems of the time (more on this matter below), it is more accurate to say that there was little obvious Buddhist influence. A close reading of much of the waka in Heian times and later not only reveals Buddhist themes, but, in many cases, a sophisticated grasp of Buddhism. But why would Buddhist practitioners, especially monks, even write poetry? Would not such worldly pursuits hinder their spiritual development? These questions came up frequently in medieval Japan, and they were typically resolved in favor of monks pursuing painting, poetry and other artistic endeavors. The doctrine that permitted such a resolution was Skillful Means. The visual and literary arts, in other words, could be and should be a means for conveying Buddhist teachings and truths.

One result of this way of thinking was a high degree of didacticism in medieval Japanese literature. Didactic literature serves to instruct and edify--it teaches one or more lessons. In western academic circles since about the middle of twentieth century, the didactic function of the arts has been devalued in favor of the notion of art for art's sake. But to try and separate the didactic message from the poem, painting, or other work of art and distill "pure" art from it would have made no sense to learned people in medieval Japan. Such a practice, says LaFleur, "erects a false wall between ideas and art." It is better that we view such didactic elements not as faults but as an integral part of the art form, worthy of aesthetic evaluation.4

With these points in mind, let us now examine some specific poems. LaFleur provides two good examples. The first is by the Buddhist monk Saigyō (1118-1190):

Old field run to ruin

and in the sole tree starkly

rising on a bluff

sits a dove, mourning its mate:

the awesome nightfall.

The next poem is by Fujiwara Teika (1162-1241), who, like Saigyō, lived at the end of the Heian period:

Gaze out far enough,

beyond all cherry blossoms

and scarlet maples,

to those huts by the harbor

fading in the autumn dusk.5

What is Buddhist about these poems? The answer is not obvious. Perhaps, if forced to make them out to be Buddhist in some way, you might mention that the field in ruin, the cherry blossoms, scarlet maples, and, perhaps, the fading huts symbolically convey a sense of mujō, that is, impermanence. But such an interpretation may seem stretched. The second poem, for example, asks us to look beyond the blossoms and leaves as if to pay little or no attention to these conventional symbols of change and impermanence. Indeed, taken as a whole, both poems seem simply to paint a vivid picture of things as they are.

To understand these poems as Buddhist requires a knowledge of the major doctrines of esoteric Buddhism (Tendai and Shingon) and a knowledge of the broader context of Heian literature and thought. The typical Heian-period poem drew on a conventionalized set of symbols, many of which were Buddhist in origin or inspiration and expressed a sense of unease or sadness vis-à-vis worldly impermanence. Toward the end of the Heian period, we see Buddhist-inspired poetry undermining these conventionalized Buddhist symbols like the cherry blossom or autumn leaves. After all, although Buddhism is rich in symbols, the symbols--and the dualistic thinking of which they are a part--must ultimately be transcended to experience enlightenment. Furthermore, according to both Tendai and Shingon, enlightenment is part of us already and therefore we can "attain Buddhahood in this very body," that is, the one we now have. In a sense, all we need to do is open our eyes and really see, that is, really understand that we are all enlightened already. Notice, for example, that most depictions of the Six Courses (rokudō; in Tendai there were actually ten courses, but the overall point is the same) depict a *Buddha inside each course,* including those of starving ghosts and hells. Why? because the very distinction between samsara and nirvana is incorrect dualistic thinking.

Now, returning specifically to the two poems, notice that they are indeed descriptions of things as they are, without the mediation of symbols (or at least not the usual literary ones). Within the context of Heian poetic conventions, these poems express a rejection of conventionalized symbols. Within the context of esoteric Buddhism, these poems express the "thusness" of the Buddha nature in all things. Symbols are Skillful Means and therefore, while helpful in some contexts for advancing understanding, are ultimately false. Buddhist symbolism is "present" in the poems mainly by its absence. In other words, by describing the world as it is without obvious or conventional symbols, the poets are able, at least in part, to represent the more sophisticated doctrines of esoteric Buddhism. As LaFleur points out, poems such as these feature a reversal of the usual direction of mental movement. Instead of moving from the surface to seek inner essences, these poems move from essences to the surface of things as they are. And, speaking specifically of the second poem, the one by Fujiwara, LaFleur points out that it does represent the idea of impermanence, but in a much more sophisticated way than had been the norm in previous Heian-era poetry:

The voice adopted in the poem is of someone engaged in a perceptual act much more ambitious than usual, an attempt to look over and beyond things that by convention signify the ephemeral and transient--that is, everything expressed in the now hackneyed image of the phrase "cherry blossoms and maple leaves have all disappeared." Perhaps the speaker wants to see not only beyond conventional notions of beauty and transience but also beyond all impermanent things. If so, it is ironic, that, as he fixes his vision on things far off in the distance--the peasant huts by the harbor. . . --they have already begun to disappear from sight in the autumn dusk . . . . The wonderful irony lies in the fact that what is seen in the distance is quickly and presently disappearing. Although not conventional images of mujō, the huts are no less characterized by the radical impermanence of all existent things.6

These poems and others like them, therefore, do not lack symbolism. What they lack is conventionalized, formulaic symbolism. Furthermore, despite appearing rather simple at first glace, these poems are sophisticated representations of esoteric Buddhist concepts. By the end of the Heian period, many learned Japanese had mastered the fine points of Buddhist doctrine. Contrast this situation with the early Heian period, when Buddhism was mainly a powerful form of magic.

Popular Buddhist Tales

It might be said that Buddhism spread in two different directions during the course of the Heian period. One "direction" was greater depth and sophistication. As time went on, more and more learned Japanese began to grapple with the advanced doctrines of esoteric Buddhism. One result was poems such as the two we have examined above. The other "direction" was outward from a small group of learned people to wider audiences. It would be inaccurate to say that Buddhism was a religion of the masses in Heian times, but the stage for later mass propagation was being set. Perhaps the most common vehicle for popularizing Buddhist teachings was folk tales. One could take a traditional story and give it a Buddhist slant, or, one could create stories with Buddhist messages in the form of popular folk tales.

Perhaps the best example of this process is the book Miraculous Stories Told in Japan Concerning the Retributions for Good and Evil Acts in the Present Life (Nihonkoku-genpō-zen'aku-ryōiki--#image#). Fortunately, its title is usually abbreviated to Nihon-ryōiki, which is how it will appear in these pages. Who was the intended readership of the Nihon-ryōiki? It was probably not ordinary people who, in any case, would mostly have been illiterate. But indirectly, its tales were directed at ordinary people via the mediation of monks. The likely readership of the Nihon-ryōiki was Buddhist clerics, and the book provided them with a repertoire of tales to make their preaching more meaningful and convincing to ordinary people. Nihon-ryōiki appeared early in the Heian period, and its author was Kyōkai (sometimes called Keikai), who lived at approximately the same time as Kūkai, the founder of Shingon.

Read at least 3-4 tales from the Nihon-ryōiki (*English Translation*) to get a good idea of its contents.

In analyzing the Nihon-ryōiki, Katō gives the impression that most of the tales were indigenous folk stories with no connection to Buddhism. Furthermore, the Buddhist moral to each tale often appears tacked on and contrived. In other words, Katō emphasizes the non-Buddhist essence of the work (more on this matter later).7 LaFleur's view is substantially different. For him, the Nihon-ryōiki is a watershed work marking the start of "medieval" Japan and a revolutionarily new way of looking at the world and how it works.8 It was written at a time when basic Buddhist teachings were beginning to shape the thinking of aristocratic Japanese, but these ideas were still new and novel. That karmic energy drives the cycle of reincarnation was not yet self evident. For a large segment of Japanese society, such points of Buddhist metaphysics still had to be proved. As LaFleur explains:

The Nihon ryōi-ki is a watershed work. In arguing as it does for the Buddhist ideas of karma and transmigration, it reflects a time when these ideas were still novel, unacceptable, or unintelligible to large portions of the populace in Japan. In this way it contrasts sharply with the great literature of medieval Japan--the Tale of Genji, the great military romances, subsequent legendary literature such as the Konjaku-monogatari, the poetic anthologies beginning with the Kokin-shū, as well as the private collections of both clergy and laymen, histories such as the Gukan-sho, and the classical drama of nō. The critical difference is that in all of these works the taxonomy of rokudō and the operations of karma are simply presumed to be true, universally applicable, and intelligible. The Nihon ryōi-ki makes no such presumption. It stresses that they are not well known and therefore require demonstration and argument.9

It may well be that for this reason, Kato finds the Nihon-ryōiki lacking in literary merit. In a sense, the work is a collection of propaganda of varying degrees of persuasiveness. In LaFleur's view, however, this propagandistic feature is what makes the work so important in light of the subsequent overwhelming success of the Buddhist world view. Keep in mind also that, in general, Kat downplays the role of Buddhism in Japan's literary arts whenever possible.

To get a sense of its contents, read the following short tale from the Nihon-ryōiki:

In Kawachi province there was once a melon merchant whose name was Isowake. He would load huge melons on his horse, far in excess of what it could carry. Then, if it would not move, he would get furious and drive it on by whipping it. The horse would then move along with its burden, but tears would fall from its two eyes. When the man had sold all his melons, he would kill the horse. He, in fact, killed a good number of horses this way. Later, however, this fellow Isowake happened to be just looking down into a kettle of boiling water one day when his own two eyes fell out of his head and were boiled in the kettle. Manifest retribution comes quickly. We ought to believe in karmic causality. Even though we look upon animals as mere beasts, they were our parents in some past life. In fact, it is passage through the six courses and according to the four modes of birth that constitutes our real family. Therefore, it will not do to be merciless.10

Notice that the full title of the Nihon-ryōiki indicates that it contains tales about karmic retribution that happens within the course of one's current life. This emphasis does not mean that the work rejects the idea of karmic retribution from one life to another, as should be obvious from the passage quoted here. Instead, this stress on the possible immediacy of some degree of retribution was undoubtedly a rhetorical device to impart a sense of urgency on listeners to the tales.

As with our analysis of poetry above, here too we see the major change that took place during the Heian period. At the start of the period, Buddhism was a form of powerful magic controlled by a small elite. By the end of the period, Buddhism had become a comprehensive world view for nearly all upper-class Japanese. So obvious and common-sensical had the basic teachings of Buddhism become, that their correctness needed no argument at all. And, thanks to the dissemination of tales like those in the Nihon-ryōiki by monks in the countryside, by the late Heian period, Buddhism had begun to spread to the masses of ordinary Japanese.

Before taking a look at some of the musical forms of the time, let us consider one more point with respect to Buddhism and literature, a point that tells us something of importance about modern Japan. As we have already seen, in his history of Japanese literature, Katō is often at pains to minimize the role of Buddhist influences. To take another example, in the context of analyzing the Kokinshū, a collection of poetry completed in 905, he says:

This refined perception, this sensitivity to the passage of time and the subtle aesthetics which were founded on them matured in aristocratic society within the framework of the indigenous world view (and only within that framework) reaching a level of consciousness which never permeated to the Shingon or Tendai sects of Buddhism. Once in being, it became the entire fulcrum of culture for more than 300 years.11

There is more to this passage than you may think upon first reading it. Let us unpack it by listing Katō's claims. First, he judges many of the Kokinshū poems to exhibit a remarkably high degree of aesthetic subtlety. Next, he points out that these superior poems had no connection with Buddhism (both in this passage and elsewhere in his discussion). Instead, the poems were part of an "indigenous world view." Finally, this native, non-Buddhist world view allegedly served as the basis of aristocratic culture for the rest of the Heian period. Listing the claims is simple enough, but analyzing them will take more work, including some necessary digressions for background information. Press on!

What factors might be behind these claims? Simply stated, they reflect some of the common assumptions in modern Japanese cultural nationalism. The term "nationalism" is often misunderstood, particularly in public discourse in the United States. Properly speaking, nationalism is not the same thing as jingoism or fanatical patriotism (although it can contribute to jingoism or fanatical patriotism). I can assure you that Katō is not a fanatical patriot. On the contrary, he is a worldly, broad-minded scholar who can be and has been quite critical of many of twentieth-century Japan's actions. In the context of our discussion here, nationalism refers to the belief in an a-historical (i.e., unchanging) cultural essence that is uniquely Japanese (or French, Scottish, Chinese, . . . etc.). In this sense, Katō's work clearly reflects nationalism, which is common in humanistic scholarship the world over.

In 1868, Japan's new Meiji government decreed that Buddhism and Japan's native religion must be forcibly separated. Buddhism was seen as a corrupting, foreign import, and the alleged indigenous religion of Japan was called "Shintō." But wait! Was there a single, unified religion of "Japan" in ancient times prior to the arrival of Buddhism? Was there even a "Japan" in any modern sense of the term? The short answer to both questions is no. Of course, there was some sort of religion in the Japanese islands before the coming of Buddhism, but we know very little about it. Almost as soon as Buddhism arrived in the Japanese islands, it began to incorporate local deities into its pantheon (e.g., as local manifestations of Vairocana). Buddhism and native deities had become thoroughly intertwined by the end of the end of the Heian period. Called honji-suijaku, we examine this phenomenon in detail in a later chapter.

By the late date of 1868, nobody even knew what was "native" and what was "foreign" (i.e., Buddhist). As time went on, however, an official consensus gradually emerged. This process was not really a case of discovering Japan's ancient, indigenous religion, although it was presented as such. Instead, it was a process of creating an ancient, indigenous tradition for modern needs. And Japan is not the only place where such a process took place. Another modern development was the claim that Japan was home to a unique understanding of beauty, and that this sense of beauty was closely connected with indigenous religion (after all, if the sense of beauty came from Buddhism, now labeled a "foreign" religion, then it would not have been uniquely Japanese). Anyway, because of the modern need to create a uniquely Japanese cultural essence--always presented as a discovery, not a creation--one trend in modern scholarship has been to make an excessively sharp distinction between Buddhist-influenced and "indigenous" culture, which was allegedly free of Buddhism influence. And it is in this allegedly indigenous tradition that modern nationalists locate the unchanging essence of Japaneseness.

Is this discussion making sense to you? If so, great, if not, no problem. If you would like to explore this matter in some detail, take HIST 481, Modern Japan. Would you like me to make a simple, authoritative declaration about this whole matter to clear things up? OK, here it is: in medieval times, all aspects of Japanese culture--including "indigenous" religions---were influenced by Buddhism to a significant and often very high degree. Many scholars of Japan--LaFleur, for example--would probably agree with this statement, but some--like Katō--might not. We will bump into some of these issues in later chapters, so be on the lookout for them.

Music

Music and literature blended into each other in Heian times and later, especially in the case of poetry. Most poetry was singable, and the metric requirements of verse had counterparts in the world of music. As mentioned in an earlier chapter, music was an important part of an aristocrat's aesthetic persona. It was also an important part of official court life (typically connected with ceremonies) and Buddhism. There are many ways to classify the music of medieval Japan. For now, let us consider the following categories: Buddhist music, court music, and folk music. Before doing so, we should quickly survey the major kinds of instruments available in Japan at this time.

To start, read through *this introduction.*

Musicians in medieval Japan had access to several kinds of stringed instruments, the most common of which were the biwa, a type of lute, and the koto, a type of zither. "Biwa" is the Japanese pronunciation of the Chinese pipa. The instrument originated in the Arab Middle East, where it is known as the oud (#music sample#--long). The oud came into China went through some modification of shape and design, and became the pipa (not to be confused with the frog species of the same name). The pipa (short #music sample#--scroll down) made its way to Japan during the Nara period. Incidentally, the oud also traveled to Europe, where it eventually became the guitar, mandolin, lute, and related instruments. In Japan, the biwa is usually played be a seated or kneeling musician who stops large wooden or bamboo frets with the left hand (usually) and strikes the strings near the bridge with a large plectrum held in the right hand. The koto came to Japan from China. There are various kinds of koto, but most feature a long sound box on top of which silk strings are stretched across several movable bridges (*image*). The musician kneels near the instrument, stopping and plucking the strings, sometimes on either side of the bridges. Owing to its complexity, most Japanese have regarded the koto as the most difficult, and thus the most prestigious, of all instruments. (Listen to the koto: #sample 1#  #sample 2#  #sample 3#)

Percussion instruments included a wide variety of chimes, gongs, bells, and #drums.# Buddhist chanting, for example, typically employs one or more percussion instruments to keep the rhythm and for special effects. Many types of folk music featured singing to the accompaniment of one or more percussion instruments. Flutes and mouth organs were also commonly used in most forms of medieval Japanese music. Relatively simple but very effective flutes were typically made from bamboo, sometimes with a mouthpiece fashioned from some other material. Mouth organs featured a series of bamboo tubes of different sizes bound together and connected to a common air chamber into which the musician would blow. Unlike Chinese music, most forms of medieval Japanese music did not use metal horns, which produce a loud, brassy sound. Instead, the wind instruments in a classical Japanese ensemble tended to add a delicate, ethereal sound to the music.

In dividing medieval music into the categories Buddhist, court, and folk, I do not mean to suggest a sharp or radical difference between them. Buddhist music, for example, while distinct from other kinds of music, often utilized classical court scales, popular melodies, and folk instruments. Folk and court music, on the other hand, were influenced by Buddhist ideas, symbols, and chants. In short, there was much overlap. Still, it is useful to treat each category separately, and we start with Buddhist music.

Music can be a powerful tool in the training of the mind. But it can also be a powerful diversion, or, even worse, it can encourage mental grasping and the flourishing of desires. In original Buddhism, therefore, music was viewed with ambivalence. Properly used, it could be advantageous in religious practice. To help ensure proper uses of music, a number or rules developed in the early Buddhist sangha. For example, the following "Five Errors" must be avoided: 1) becoming infatuated with one's own tone and intonation; 2) beguiling others by the sheer beauty of a song; 3) annoying the heads of households; 4) obstructing meditation by attachment to or enthrallment with the timbre of a singer's voice; and 5) using music to tempt others to follow a bad example. If one can effectively guard against these errors, then music might have the following "Five Advantages" in religious practice: 1) the body remains relaxed; 2) the memory is enhanced; 3) energy levels remain high; 4) intonations are without fault; 5) obscure texts become more clearly intelligible. In practice, several specific rules developed to govern Buddhist music. One, for example, forbids large intervals between notes, which allegedly bring forth worldly and passionate thoughts. Likewise, the total range of notes should be narrow. Furthermore, there should be no fancy musical embellishment, melodic digression, or dwelling excessively long on a single syllable with the voice. And, of course, there should never be musical contests or competitions among serious Buddhists. In short, vocal and instrumental music should have a steady, strong rhythmic beat and a simple melody that gives equal or nearly equal time to each syllable of a sung or chanted text. Vocal or instrumental embellishments should be avoided.

Like much else in Buddhism, as time went on, musical forms often strayed from these guidelines and tended to become gradually more complex. In Japan, perhaps the most common and basic form of Buddhist music is chanting (much like the Gregorian chants of medieval monks in Europe), which is usually called *shōmyō* (#more details#). Sometimes certain ancient styles of chanting are further designated by the term bai. In Tendai and Shingon, the basic idea behind shōmyō is to tap into the magical power of sound (listen to at least a few minutes of this *Tendai example*). The earliest traditions of Buddhist chanting in Japan date from the ninth century. As the centuries passed Buddhist chanting evolved in several ways. Perhaps most important was a gradual merging with court music during the thirteenth century. More specifically, esoteric Buddhist chanting began to employ the standardized modes (scales) of classical court music, most of which consisted of five or seven notes in three different vocal registers. In short, the Buddhist chanting of today, or even of the thirteenth century, is/was probably significantly different from the original forms of chanting brought to Japan by the early founders of Tendai and Shingon.

In esoteric Buddhist musical theory, each note of the musical scales produced certain emotional responses in listeners. Furthermore, these notes and their resulting emotions were often linked with a wider variety of phenomenon. For example, in Tendai chanting, the second note in the basic five-note scale, called "shō," was thought to usher in a sense of mujō (impermanence) in the listener. Furthermore, this note and the sense of impermanence it engendered were associated in the larger order of things with the season of autumn, the direction of west and the agent "metal" (from the Chinese-derived Five Agents theory of cosmic change). Leaving aside the association with metal, the other two make good intuitive sense. The autumn is a time when change, especially movement toward the bleakness of winter (i.e., death), is apparent. The west is the direction of the setting sun and thus carried associations of old age, death, the waning of vitality, the approach of darkness, and so forth. Because of its emotional and cosmological associations, music, ideally, served as a complement to other forms of Buddhist practice such as meditation and the reading of texts.

OK, but what would Buddhist music actually sound like? There is no one answer because there are several different musical styles. Perhaps most common would be a group of monks, nuns, or lay persons chanting the text of a prayer or sutra to a rhythm marked by the beat of a percussive instrument, often a high-pitched chime. They might all chant in unison, or, more typically, there would be a division of labor in which subgroups divide up singing parts. These parts might be sung in an alternating manner or they might feature simple harmonies. In the case of a sutra, the individual syllables would typically be intoned in a very peculiar, rough imitation of their Chinese pronunciation. The resulting "words" would be unintelligible to an ordinary Japanese or Chinese listener, which is part of the overall mystique. In other words, religions often feature chanting or other vocal activities performed in a foreign or otherwise mysterious language (e.g., the former Latin mass in Catholicism or the speaking in tongues during the peak, frenzied moments of "testimony" in some forms of Pentecostal Christianity). In the Buddhist case, depending on their degree of training, the chanters themselves might not know the meaning of the words they utter, but that is not necessarily a problem. Chanting is not an intellectual act; it is more akin to meditation. The words and sounds carry mysterious power aside from whatever they may mean as ordinary language.

Listen to at least a couple of the following examples:  Example 1   Example 2   Example 3   Example 4   Example 5   Example 6   Example 7   Example 8.

Let us take a specific example of this type of chanting in the form of the Prajna-paramitahrdaya sutra, known in Japanese as Hannya shingyō, and translated into English by such titles as The Sutra of Perfect Wisdom or Heart Sutra. Come to class to hear a recording of monks chanting the text repeatedly at a fast speed and in a sophisticated manner (or #click here# to here it at a more stately pace). And what does the text mean? Here is a summary translation:

The Bodhisattva Avalokitesvara (Kannon), deeply immersed in the study of perfect wisdom said that there are Five Heaps which are, by their nature, empty. 'O Sariputra,' he said, 'Form is in fact emptiness; emptiness is in fact form. There is no difference between the two, and the same goes for perception, name conception, and knowledge [review earlier material on the Five Heaps]. Here, Sariputra, all things have the character of emptiness: no beginning and no end, they are faultless and not faultless, not imperfect and not perfect. Therefore, Sariputra, in this emptiness there is no form, no perception, no name, no concepts, and know knowledge. There is no eye, ear, nose, tongue, body or mind. There is no form, sound smell, taste, touch, or objects. . . . There is no knowledge, no ignorance, no destruction of knowledge, no destruction of ignorance. . . . There is no decay and death, no destruction of decay and death. There is no suffering, the origin of suffering, stoppage of suffering, and the 8-Fold Path for [i.e., the Four Noble Truths]. There is no knowledge or ignorance and no attainment of nirvana or non-attainment of nirvana. The Bodhisattva is indifferent to personal attachment and, having relied on the perfection of wisdom, dwells free of [the heap of] consciousness. He [she, it] is freed from fear, beyond the transformations of change, and ready to enjoy final nirvana. Therefore, one ought to know well and recite the great, liberating verse of truth that puts and end to all pain and suffering: "O wisdom, gone, gone, gone to the other shore, landed at the other shore. O what an awakening, all take heed!"'

This short sutra contains much that is at the core of Buddhist teaching. Notice the denial here even of the Four Noble Truths. Why? Hint: What was the first instance of skillful means? In other words, Buddhism itself, that is, Buddhism as a set of formal teachings and practices, is skillful means, albeit at a very high level. And the wisdom of the Bodhisattva sees Buddhism as the skillful means that it is. There is a more subtle point to this sutra and many other passages from Buddhist scripture like it: The truths of Buddhism are beyond comprehension (and thus accurate description or representation) through language and ordinary thought processes. Perhaps the act of chanting this sutra will enable the chanters to attain insights beyond the literal meaning of the words.

In addition to the chanting of sutras in their original language, the practice of singing Buddhist songs or poems in Japanese gradually developed in medieval times. Called wasan,  these songs are most closely associated with Pure Land Buddhism (#click here# for a massive collection), which, as we shall see, was the first form of Japanese Buddhism that appealed to the masses of ordinary people. These wasan often bear a close resemblance to local folk songs. We will look at and listen to an example later, when we study Pure Land Buddhism. Zen Buddhism also produced many wasan. In the Zen case, however, wasan tended to be short, closely resembling the Buddhist poetry discussed earlier. Let us defer examples of Zen wasan until a later chapter.

As a final example of Buddhist music, let us consider the case of Tendai sutra chanting and blind monks. During medieval times there gradually developed a close connection between the chanting of sutras to musical accompaniment and blind monks. The origin of this practice is in the Heian period. At this time, blind people often worked as sorcerers, doing such things as propitiating the spirits of the dead, casting spells, warding off spells, protecting against natural disasters, and so forth. They accomplished such deeds by means of entering trance-like states, chanting, singing or otherwise uttering secret formulas, and so forth. Although quasi-religious, these sorcerers were not originally part of Japanese Buddhism. As part of the general trend for Japanese Buddhism to absorb local native religious and quasi-religious practices (recall honji-suijaku), however, Tendai soon incorporated some of these sorcerers into its wide arsenal.

Specifically, in 806, Saichō invited eight blind sorcerers from the island of Kyūshū to participate in a major Tendai ritual. He then invited these sorcerers formally to enter the Tendai sect. Three of them remained in Kyōto to teach their arts and the other four established themselves at monasteries in different parts of Kyūshū. Even today, blind Tendai monks sometimes chant sutras to the accompaniment of the biwa at shrines to local deities on special occasions. This practice is especially common in Kyūshū, and is an excellent example of the merging of Buddhism and local Japanese religion.

Classical court music in Japan is usually called gagaku, a term that literally means "elegant music" (Listen to some samples: *sample 1* #sample2#.) Gagaku is of Chinese origin, though, by late medieval times, such music was no longer played in China (#gagaku details#). The Heian court created an office of gagaku to oversee formal musical activities. In 787, this office splint into two. One continued to oversee formal court music, and the other office concerned itself with a slightly less formal type of music and dance that featured percussion instruments and flutes. This type of aristocratic dance music is called bugaku (#sample#). It is perhaps best regarded as a dance-oriented subset of gagaku. By the late Heian period, the scales of court music had become fixed, as had the repertoire, instruments, and performance style. Classical court music sounds very strange to modern ears (I might play a sample in class), and it surely sounded distinctive to many medieval Japanese as well. It enjoyed great prestige, however, and exerted a significant influence on Buddhist music, popular music, medieval theatrical forms, and even some of the official school music early in the Meiji (1867-1912) period.

Popular music in medieval Japan took many different forms and varied widely from place to place. In general, popular music dealt with the agricultural cycle, the life cycle, local religious customs, and, in some cases, fear of the unknown. Chanting, singing, and dancing in a wide variety of styles mixed with whatever musical instruments were available and whatever musical training might have existed among the local population (which often included low-ranking aristocrats and local Buddhist monks). In medieval times, court music tended to become stilted and overly formal, but new forms of music outside the court developed and flourished. As Eta Harich-Schneider explains:

In contrast to the almost morbid historicism and the stilted conventions of court music circles, musical vitality and spontaneity were strong among the commoners and the rural population. With their growing wealth the cities had become powerful, and the citizens self-conscious. The city of Sakai became self-sustained like the Hansa cities of Europe; she was ready to create a culture of her own as a challenge to the haughty and overbearing aristocracy. Artisans, shokunin, took over the pastime, formerly strictly aristocratic, of uta-awase--song tournaments carried out between two groups, left and right. The improvised tanka [short poems] were sung to instrumental accompaniment. In the provinces, rural kagura [agricultural dance/drama] and dengaku [similar to kagura] flourished and a number of itinerant musicians' guilds . . . contributed to these performances. The favored song types were fuzoku and imayō.12

Harich-Schneider also points out that, paradoxically, written records of medieval court music are abundant, while written records for the flourishing popular music are relatively sparse.

Notice that in late medieval Japan, Buddhism (in the form of Pure Land Buddhism) spread from aristocratic circles out to ordinary people. In a similar manner, many non-aristocratic Japanese began to take music seriously as an art form and as popular entertainment, and in doing so, they created new form forms out of a mixture of elements. Particularly important in late medieval times were the non-aristocratic merchants and artisans in cities outside the capital. As a group, these people controlled vast wealth, and they began to use some of that wealth to promote cultural forms. During the Tokugawa period, wealthy urban dwelling "commoners" will emerge as the single most influential group in the realm of cultural production. It is to this rise of the urban merchants and artisans that Harich-Schneider refers in the passage quoted above.

To keep this section on music to a manageable length, let us examine the two song types of fuzoku (fūzoku in its modern, non-music-related pronunciaiton) and imayō before moving on to other matters. Fuzoku literally means "popular culture," and, as a musical term it indicates a simplified form of court music that became widely popular. More specifically, fuzoku music featured a strong binary rhythm and can be thought of mainly as dance music.13 Instrumentation could be as simple as clapping hands or as complex as a mix of percussion, wind, and string instruments.

The term imayō literally means "in the current manner," and refers to popular medieval songs, often sung by female entertainers. Imayō grew out of a mixture of several traditions, including chanted court poetry, formal Buddhist chanting, and songs connected with local deities and religious practices. Owing to the enjoyable, less formal character of imayō, such songs became popular even among the aristocrats (who often found formal court music boring, just as present-day aristocrats are more likely to listen to popular music than, for example, to opera--though they might well want to go to the opera to be seen there by others). Imayō included both religious and secular themes and tended to develop rapidly and in many directions. For example, some forms of imayō became associated with the sexually arousing dance and songs of prostitutes (who often advertised their services in musical ways during medieval times). More important, imayō songs combined with fuzoku dance music to form the basis of popular medieval theater, especially the nō drama, which we take up later.

Although there are numerous extant texts of imayō, in most cases we do not know the melodies or the details of other aspects of imayō as entertaining performances. The words of these songs can sometimes point to interesting intersections between the world of ordinary people and the world of the aristocrats. Perhaps the most famous master and patron of imayō was Emperor Go-Shirakawa (1127-92; r. 1123-41; ruled as in until his death), who was also a skilled political operative. Even before he took the throne, Go-Shirakawa pursued imayō singing and the study of several musical instruments. So enamored was he of imayō that he incurred the criticism of many court nobles--including his father, Emperor Toba. Viewing imayō as a relatively lowly art from, Go-Shirakawa's critics thought it unseemly for a person of such high stature to spend nearly all of his free time singing songs associated with common people. According to his memoirs: "Quartered at the Toba Palace, I passed as many as fifty nights singing" (p. 3). And he pursued his imayō interests without regard to social status: "I associated not only with courtiers of all ranks, but also with commoners of the capital, including women servants of various palaces, menial workers, the asobi [singers-prostitutes] from Eguchi and Kanzaki, and the kugutsu [another type of singer-prostitute] from different provinces" (p. 17--Page numbers refer to Yung-Hee Kim, Songs to Make the Dust Dance: The Ryōjin hishō of Twelfth-Century Japan [Berkeley: University of California Press, 1994].) No many of the elite nobles regarded Go-Shirakawa as a social/cultural embarrassment as emperor.

#Go-Shirakawa# persisted in his pursuit of imayō throughout his long life. Late in his life, he even employed an elderly woman of commoner who was widely regarded as the best imayō singer to teach him her art. She was quite demanding and required Go-Shirakawa to re-learn his entire repertoire of imayō songs in her style. Already an accomplished singer--not to mention the second most powerful person in Japan--Go-Shirakawa threw himself into the task of musical re-tooling, eventually mastering his teacher's art and compiling a lengthy book of imayō as part of his effort to preserve and pass the art on to future generations.

Because of Go-Shirakawa's nearly obsessive interest in imayō, this singing style gradually became accepted as legitimate art among the civilian aristocrats. In other words, although Go-Shirakawa's musical tastes were the object of much criticism early in his career, this was not the case toward the end of his career. On the contrary, because of his vigorous patronage and mastery of imayō, the genre became an acceptable cultural form among the aristocrats.

Further Reading

Here is about two-thirds of the text of an 11th-century short story, "The Lady Who Loved Insects." The author is anonymous, but is generally believed to have been a man. The tale is a rare example of fiction written by a Heian-period man that nevertheless has had lasting appeal to readers in later times. I have not tried hard to translate the tale with complete adherence to the original. Instead, I have used modern Japanese version and incorporated some of the parenthetical additions in that version directly into the text here.14 While reading, try to point out specific points about Heian society from the material we have seen thus far. Notice that the tale is a caricature of the female protagonist. Modern readers might well take the story to be a critique of Heian society and identify themselves with the insect-collecting lady. While it is fine to enjoy the story in this way, we should also keep in mind that virtually nobody at the time it was written would have found the woman admirable. Indeed, as the two men lament at the end, she seems to be a case of beauty wasted--no small matter in a society obsessed with the production of beauty. And yet it is not entirely clear just what the author's main point is. There is sufficient ambiguity for various interpretations, and, of course, this ambiguity may have been intended by the author.

Notice that the main reason the lady does not fit into aristocratic society is that she does not care for external appearances. Instead, she has an inquisitive mind that seeks to know the essence or inner workings of the world. In modern terms, we might say she has a scientific mind. In any case, and regardless of the author's intentions (which we can never really know with certainty), this tale illuminates key social values of the time very well through its use of a negative example.

"The Lady Who Loved Insects"

Next to the residence of a lady who loved butterflies was the household of Senior Counselor Azechi. The daughter of this household was well cared for by her parents and was thus a woman of rare beauty.

But this woman grew up to be very different from other people, saying "Isn't it absurd that people all sing the praises of flowers and butterflies. What is interesting to human beings is to investigate the inner essence of things with their rational minds"--while gathering together many insects and other disgusting creatures.

Saying "I want to observe the transformations these insects may go through," she put them in various boxes and kept them as pets. She would say things like "Caterpillars I find especially intriguing, for they appear to offer much for us to ponder," and would watch them crawling around morning and night, her hair tied back behind her ears without regard for her mundane appearance.

Her young servants feared caterpillars, so she found boys of low status who were not afraid of insects to go out and catch them for her. She would ask the names of the insects, and when she saw a new type of bug, she would take delight in giving it a name. She said that "it is wrong the way most everyone makes themselves up," and she would not pluck out her eyebrows or blacken her teeth, declaring such practices to be troublesome and dirty. She just tended her insects day after day, grinning all the while with a white, toothy smile. When her lady attendants would flee from the sight of her with an insect in hand, this white-toothed, eyebrowed lady would scold them in a terribly loud voice. "It is lowly behavior indeed," she would yell to them, "to flee in such panic at the sight of something like a caterpillar," while staring at them fiercely--thus causing them all the more consternation.

Her parents thought "Oh, how strange is her appearance and behavior!" But they also thought, "might it be that she has discovered something truly insightful? Whenever we criticize her behavior as odd, she refutes us in all seriousness. The more she talks the more upset she gets, which embarrasses us." Nevertheless, despite her rebukes, her parents would warn her that people would start to talk about such strange behavior. "What people want (in others) is a beautiful appearance. Should word get out about your love of disgusting creatures like caterpillars, society will look askance at you!"

"I couldn't care less about social reputation. What matters is looking into things deeply--starting at the root and exploring outward to the branches. The loathing of caterpillars is silly and childish. After all, they turn into butterflies you know!" She said this while showing her parents an example of a cocoon from which, at that very moment, a butterfly was emerging. Furthermore: "Silk, which people use for clothing, is produced during the worm phase of a silkworm's life. After it turns into a butterfly its silk thread-producing days are over and it is useless." To a rebuttal such as this there was nothing her parents could say, and they gave up.

Despite such a fiercely independent mind, being a lady, she had enough decorum not to display herself even to her parents. She would say that "devils and women should be invisible to the eyes of others." Thus would she make her insightful pronouncements from behind a screen of state, slightly rolled up.

Hearing such talk, the lady's young attendants would say "She certainly handles caterpillars with great skill, but whenever I look at one, I feel like I'm going to get sick. Pitiful indeed. Who would serve a lady who so admires butterflies?" One named Hyōe spoke the following poem:

[Poem expresses frustration at getting the lady to see the strangeness of her behavior.]

Another named Otayū recited the following poem while laughing:

[Sarcastically compares the joy of others who view blossoms and butterflies with the disgust of this lady's attendants who must live in a caterpillar-infested environment.]

"Too cruel" they said. "Don't her eyebrows look just like caterpillars? And what about her teeth and gums? They look just like caterpillars whose skin has been peeled off!" Then one called Sakon pointed out that although we all need coats in the winter, with so many furry caterpillars around, who needs to make winter clothing?

[Skip some of the middle section in which various people discuss the lady, most critically, some not. News of her gets out and a man decided to fashion a fake but realistic looking snake out of a sash, sent it to her in a bag, and see how she would react. When the bag arrives, her servants are terrified, but . . .]

The lady kept her composure and chanted "Namu Amida butsu, Namu Amida butsu (Praise be to the Buddha Amida)."15 "This snake may be a reincarnated relative," she said. "Don't panic." But though she said these words, her voice betrayed unease and she turned her face away from it. "Now, while it is still young and beautiful (i.e., in the prime of its life), I would like to get to know this relative. How terrible it is of you all to make such a commotion."

[The attendants rush about and tell her father of the snake. He rushes in with a sword, whereupon he discovers that it is fake.]

"What an awful thing for someone to do!" exclaimed her attendants. "But you should respond to him [via a poem] or you'll leave him in suspense." So she took a hard, unadorned piece of paper and, not able to write in hiragana (cursive script), she wrote her verse in katakana (angular script):16

"If our connection is deep, let us meet in [Amida's] paradise.

For it is difficult in this world for me to be involved with a snake-like creature

Thus [may we meet] in the Pure Land."17

When the man, who was Assistant Director of the Right Stables, saw it, he thought "What a most peculiar verse this is! For some reason, I'd really like to see her." So he and his friend, a Captain of the Guards, disguised themselves as lower class women and went to Counselor Azechi's residence while he was away on business. The looked in through lattice work on the north side of the lady's residence. Thereupon they noticed some boys walking around between this tree and that bush, doing nothing particularly unusual. Then, one of them said "On this tree there's a whole bunch of caterpillars crawling around. They're really interesting. Hey, take a look!" said a boy, raising high the blinds in the lady's residence. "Wonderful," she said, "bring them all here." "There are too many for us to sort them out. Won't you come over here and look at them?" said one of the boys, and the lady rushed outside.

The Assistant Director of the Right Stables watched her as she pushed aside the screen and burst on the scene, staring intently at a branch. Seeing her figure, the men noticed that she wore a silk cap on her head and her hair hung down on both sides to her shoulders, pretty, but unkempt, perhaps because of a lack of grooming. The black form of her eyebrows stood out starkly, crisp and cold. Her mouth was cute and pretty, but not at all conventional because her teeth were not blackened. If only she would make herself up in the normal fashion, she would surely be beautiful.

Though she had let her appearance deteriorate to this extent, it could not be said that she is ugly. She appeared distinguished, dignified, and glittering. How regrettable that she would be so strange. She wore pale yellow silk robes under an overcoat with a katydid design motif, and seems to like white trousers.

Wanting to examine the caterpillars up close, she went out of her room. "Marvelous," she said, "they're crawling this way to get out of the strong sun. Boys! Get every single one." As commanded, the boys began knocking the caterpillars off the tree, and they fell here and there. The lady took out a white fan onto which characters had been written in black ink. "Scoop them up and put them on this fan," she said. The two gentlemen were shocked and dismayed by what they saw. To see such a distinguished lady behaving in such a way made them exclaim "Isn't it terrible!"

[Omit some dialogue in which the boys see the two men ("disguised" as women) and tell the lady she is being watched. She doesn't believe it at first, but when she is sure the men are watching her, she scoops up the caterpillars, puts them in her sleeve, and rushes inside. The men watch her as she does so, and comment. . . . ]

Her overall proportions are excellent, and her hair thick and as long as her robes. Because her hair was not well trimmed, it did not hang down perfectly, but it was most attractive nevertheless. Because many women are not so well blessed as her, is it any wonder that they try to improve their appearance? Certainly not. And they pass for beautiful women. In this lady's case, one might properly be repulsed by her appearance, and yet she possesses beauty and refinement. It is only her attitude that makes her different from other women. "Ah, what a pity it is that she has such a contrary attitude! She looks so nice!"

[The men turn to go away, but not before passing on a poem to the lady indicating that they saw her. One of her attendants scolds her for her disgusting interest in insects, to which the lady says . . .]

"Upon deep reflection one realizes that there is nothing in this world of which we should be ashamed. In this temporary, illusory dreamlike world, who could possibly live long enough to sort through the myriad things and phenomena and say 'that one is good; this one is bad?'"

[As with previous such statements, her attendants shake their heads in a mixture of disbelief and regret. There is a brief poetry exchange in which the men liken her eyebrows to furry caterpillars. Then, laughing, they leave]

Notes:

1. Conrad Schirokauer, A Brief History of Japanese Civilization (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich College Publishers, 1993), p. 57.

2. Doris G. Bargen, A Woman's Weapon: Spirit Possession in the Tale of Genji (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1997). Some specialists in early Japanese literature have criticized this book for presenting a view of spirit possession that, while plausible to modern readers, would not have made sense to the people of Heian Japan. My own sense is that this criticism is accurate. However, in the process of crafting her unique reading of Genji, Bargen provides much new and useful insight into the novel--which some of her critics also acknowledge.

3. Shuichi Kato, A History of Japanese Literature, vol. 1 (New York: Kodansha International, 1979), p. 151.

4. William R. LaFleur, The Karma of Words: Buddhism and the Literary Arts in Medieval Japan (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1983), p. 18.

5. Quoted in Ibid., p. 24.

6. Ibid., pp. 94-106, quoted passage on p. 102.

7. Kato, Literature, vol. 1, pp. 105-109.

8. Remember that LaFleur's definition of medieval Japan is that it was a time when Buddhism dominated the intellectual and cultural landscape.

9. LaFleur, Karma, pp. 30-31.

10. Quoted in Ibid., pp. 34-35.

11. Kat, Literature, pp. 135-136.

12. Eta Harich-Schneider, A History of Japanese Music (London: Oxford University Press, 1973), pp. 411-412.

13. For those familiar with Western popular dance music, fuzoku pieces might be roughly comparable to lively fiddle tunes such as Soldier's Joy or Haste to the Wedding, two pieces routinely played at parties and dances in the British Isles. Today, of course, such tunes sound like music from a different era and are thus often called "old-time," but they were once wild and rowdy contemporary music for the hard partying crowd.

14. Yamagishi Tokuhei, trans., Tsutsumi chnagon monogatari (Kadokawa shoten, 1992), pp. 143-157.

15. This utterance comes from Tendai Buddhism which advocated as one of its many techniques, calling upon the name of the benevolent Buddha Amida. The custom of Amida-calling seems to have spread widely among the Heian aristocracy. Soon after this tale was written, an entirely new form of Buddhism (Pure Land) develops, with Amida-calling as its central practice.

16. In other words, she paid no attention to ladylike conventions of poetry writing such as using decorative, soft paper and writing in a flowing, cursive script.

17. The "Pure Land" is a paradise presided over by the Buddha Amida--as we will see later.