Pathway to Japanese Literature

I. Works

Bashō never authored a single book.
The so-called Seven Anthologies of Bashō too were all works compiled by his disciples.
According to Bashō’s own words, this was apparently because he disdained fame.

“Kyokusui asked: ‘To compose hokku and compile them into anthologies—is this not an obsession with this art?’”
“The Master said: ‘This arises from a base heart that seeks to have others recognize one’s skill and from fame that makes one forget oneself.’”

This claim was, in a sense, perfectly reasonable.
Yet when one read what followed next, a smile naturally rose unbidden.

"An anthology means selecting verses of that style to convey what is called my own style."
"I have no intention of compiling haikai anthologies."
"However, since Teitoku's time, those people had their styles, and up through Sōin they advocated haikai."
"Yet the haikai I speak of differs from that haikai. With Kakei, Yasui, and others as patrons, there exist [anthologies like] *Winter Day*, *Spring Day*, and *Wilderness*."

According to Bashō’s doctrine, to compile anthologies of the Shōfū style was to renounce fame-seeking, while to compile anthologies of Bashō himself was to pursue it. If that is so, then what is an independent poet who belongs to no school to do? Moreover, if we follow this theory, then Mr. Saitō Mokichi’s act of submitting poems to *Aragaki* would constitute renouncing fame-seeking, while publishing *Red Light* and *Aradama* would amount to “arising from a base heart that seeks to have others recognize one’s skill”!

However, Bashō also said this: “I have no intention of compiling haikai anthologies.” According to Bashō’s doctrine, supervising the Seven Anthologies was an act divorced from fame. Moreover, the fact that he disliked doing so must be considered to have stemmed from reasons beyond mere disdain for fame. Then what was this “something”?

Bashō is said to have even called his cherished haikai “a weed on life’s path.” Then did he not consider even supervising the Seven Anthologies as “emptiness”? At the same time, might he not have regarded even compiling anthologies as “emptiness” before deeming it “evil”? Han Shan inscribed poems on tree leaves. However, he did not seem to have been particularly enthusiastic about collecting those leaves. Wouldn’t Bashō, much like those tree leaves, have let his over a thousand haikai verses drift with the currents of transience? At the very least, would there not always have been such sentiments lurking in the depths of Bashō’s heart?

I find it only natural that Bashō never authored any books.
Moreover, in the Master’s lifetime, was there ever any need for royalties?

II. Book Design

Bashō apparently had various specifications when it came to publishing haikai books. For instance, regarding the style of the main text, he let slip the following words: “There may be various styles of writing. Only, there must be unobtrusive consideration. The calligraphy in Sarumino is masterful.” However, he added: “It is slightly too large. The author’s name appears rather undignified when written so large.” According to the teachings of Mr. Shōhō Katsumine, although haikai book design favored extravagance before Bashō’s time, after Bashō they came to value simplicity imbued with wabi. If Bashō had been born today, he would likely have devised elaborate plans—such as setting the main text in 9-point type or using cotton cloth for the covers. Or perhaps, like William Morris and after consulting with Petron Sugifu, he might have introduced innovations in typography.

III. Self-Interpretation

In his dialogue with Hokushi, Bashō rejected self-interpretation of his works by stating, “To explain my verses to others is like describing my cheekbones to them.” However, this does not hold water. Yet this same Bashō continuously attempted self-interpretation with other disciples. At times he spoke of having greatly struggled, not even refraining from self-aggrandizement.

“The salted sea bream’s gums too are cold—the fish shop.”
Regarding this verse, the Master said: “That which becomes a verse without deliberate effort is not worthy of self-praise.”
Moreover, composing ‘the first bonito emerging fresh from Kamakura’—this is precisely where mental exertion occurs, unknown to others.
He also said: “The verse ‘The monkey’s teeth gleam white; the moon over the peak’—that is Kikaku’s.”
“The salted sea bream’s gums are this old man’s verse.”
“‘Even simply writing “fish shop” below naturally becomes a verse,’ he declared.”

Truly, “To explain my verses to others is like describing my cheekbones to them.”
However, art cannot be understood by anyone as clearly as cheekbones.
The sentiment of Bernard Shaw—who always added self-commentaries to his own works—was likely one Bashō shared to some degree.

IV. The Poet

"Haikai too is but a weed on life's path—a most troublesome weed," were the words Bashō spoke to Izen. He seemed to have occasionally let slip other remarks belittling haikai to his disciples. This remained only natural for Bashō the recluse, who believed life to be a grand illusion. Yet there could be no doubt that few ever devoted themselves as earnestly to that "weed on life's path" as Bashō did. No—when one considered how passionately Bashō immersed himself in his craft, one might almost think it was he who had struck the pose in calling it "a weed on life's path."

“Tōhō recounted: ‘The Master said: “There is always something to learn.”’”
“When facing the writing desk, I allow not even a hair’s breadth between it and myself.”
“Express your thoughts swiftly; once you reach this point, have no hesitation.”
“There were also stern teachings such as: ‘If you lower the writing desk, it immediately becomes scrap paper.’”
“At times it is like felling a great tree.”
“The principle of cutting into the base of the sword guard is like slicing a watermelon.”
“The critical remarks about ‘pear-eating faces’ and claims that ‘all thirty-six verses are forced compositions’—these too are words meant to shatter the self-indulgence of skilled practitioners.”

The tenor of Bashō’s words here nearly resembled instruction in swordsmanship.
These were by no means the utterances of some recluse who treated haikai as mere diversion.
When observing the attitude with which Bashō himself approached verse composition, it blazed ever more intensely with passion.

Kyoroku recounted: “One year in Edo, someone invited the Master to a New Year’s celebration.” After staying at my house for four or five days, on that day snow fell, and he arrived in the evening. In his haikai:

Amidst the roar of voices—what could they be calling? Tōrin

A mouse—the boat creaks at dawn. The Master

When I later visited Bashō-an, the Master recited this verse. I said, “Well now! To hear such a precious word as ‘dawn’ in vain would be most regrettable.” When I likened his stillness to Mount Tai and spoke thus, the Master sat up and said, “Having heard this ‘dawn’ character attentively, this old man’s satisfaction knows no bounds.” This verse initially was—

"The sound of Suma’s mouse creaking the boat."

When he worried over this—since the preceding verse used the character for 'voice' rather than 'sound,' he had revised it—he had contemplated up to 'Suma’s mouse,' but declared the verse lacked cohesion.
I said, 'This far surpasses Suma’s mouse.'
"(Omitted) When I stated, 'The power of this “dawn” character defies all comparison,' the Master must have been pleased—for there was no one else who would listen so intently. Had it come from another’s mouth, they would have simply looked dumbstruck, unable to discern quality, like mud-drunk crucian carp. That night, though I apologized to those present for my delayed composition, he proclaimed with pride: 'Let this verse cure your hunger!'"

Gratitude toward kindred spirits, contempt for vulgar trends, passion for art—the true visage of Bashō the poet was vividly revealed in this anecdote. Particularly in the vigor with which he declared, “Let this verse cure your hunger!”—the recluse did not pause even briefly. It would have been fortunate if even today’s devout critics were not overwhelmed.

“The Master addressed Bonchō and declared: ‘Those who produce three to five masterpieces in a lifetime are poets; those who achieve ten verses are masters.’”

If even masters could only obtain ten verses after devoting their entire lives, then haikai too was no trivial pursuit. Moreover, according to Bashō’s own doctrine, it was ultimately nothing but “a weed on life’s path”!

"The eleventh day.
In the morning, it drizzled once again.
Unexpectedly, Kikaku of Tōbu arrived.
[...] He immediately visited the sickbed and beheld his emaciated form—he both grieved and rejoiced.
The Master too gazed upon him until at last he could only weep."

(Omitted)

Drawing lots, preparing vegetable rice—night vigil. Kisetsu

All are offspring—bagworms end their cries in the cold. Otsushū

Huddled by the medicine—the cold! Jōsō

From Fukui calling cranes—the first winter rain Kikaku

As Izen recited each verse in turn, the Master requested Jōsō’s poem once more. Jōsō presented it anew—whenever heard, its desolate tone stood perfectly wrought. “Marvelous! Marvelous!” he praised in a voice grown hoarse.

This was an event that occurred one day before Bashō's passing into nirvana.
Bashō's heart clung to haikai with a strength that seemed to surpass even death.
Had one recounted this episode to the authors of Noh plays—those who discerned sin in all earthly attachments—Bashō would surely have been cast as a traveling monk lamenting hell's torments in the role of the *nochijite*.

To witness such passion in a recluse was contradictory—if contradiction it could be called.
Yet even as contradiction, did this not attest precisely to Bashō's genius?
Goethe had said that when composing poetry, he was possessed by a Daemon.
Was not Bashō himself too buffeted by poetic demons to fully become a recluse?
In other words, was not the poet within Bashō mightier than the recluse within him?

I loved the contradiction of Bashō—he who could never fully become a recluse.
At the same time, I loved too how immense those contradictions had been.
Otherwise, I might have paid the same reverence to someone like Motozane of Fukakusa.

V. Future

“When the Master left Fukagawa in the year of his passing, Yaba inquired: ‘Will haikai continue to be composed in its present manner?’”
“The Master responded: ‘It shall maintain the current style for a time. Once five or seven years have passed, there will assuredly emerge a transformation.’”

“The Master said, ‘Haikai has produced three gō* in the world.’”
“‘Seven gō remain,’ he declared.”

When examining such anecdotes about Bashō, one might think he had clearly foreseen haikai’s future. Among his many disciples, some likely contrived plans to transform haikai out of mere obligation, while others grew conceited, believing none but themselves could fashion the remaining seven gō—various such comedies may have unfolded. However, this likely pointed to “Bashō’s own tomorrow.” That is to say, it meant Bashō’s own haikai would undergo a transformation after five or six years had passed. Or perhaps it signified that what he had already made public amounted to merely three gō of haikai, while the remaining seven gō lay within Bashō’s own heart. If so, then for others besides Bashō—let alone five or six years—even three centuries might not bring a single transformation. The seven gō of haikai followed the same principle. Bashō was not one to thoughtlessly imitate street diviners. Yet it remains certain that his own progress was continually evident.
I have never once doubted this conviction.

*Gō (合): A traditional Japanese unit of volume measurement, here used metaphorically to quantify artistic output.

VI. Colloquial Language

Bashō frequently employed colloquial language within his haikai.
Take for example the lower verse.

At Senma

A break in the rains—my own rain falls as clouds tear asunder.

“A break in the rains,” “my own rain,” “clouds tear asunder”—not one of these fails to be colloquial language.
Moreover, the emotional essence of this verse overflows with infinite loneliness.
(Indeed, when I write it like this, there is no task requiring less effort than extolling a once-in-a-generation genius.
Especially when praising a classical genius against whom no one raises objections!) One might say that examples of this sort are beyond enumeration within Bashō’s verses.
That Bashō himself proudly declared, "The benefit of haikai lies in refining colloquial language," must be called only natural.
To "correct" does not mean to rectify grammatical cases or kana usage like some grammar teacher would.
It means capturing the nuances of language with vivid sensitivity and then imbuing colloquial language with soul.

“If I sit carelessly, the evening grows cool.”
“Sōji.”
When compiling the Sarumino anthology, Sōji had entreated to have one of his verses included and recited several compositions, but none proved worthy of selection.

One evening, as he attended by the Master’s side, he said, “Please relax, you should unwind. I too shall lie down.”
“I beg your pardon—when one sits carelessly, it becomes cool,” he said, whereupon the Master declared, “This itself is a hokku!” and had it composed as the current verse to be included in the anthology.
(Mr. Kōmiya Toyotaka has added an interesting interpretation to this anecdote.)
(Readers should consult his studies on Bashō.)

The "jidakuni" used at this time was no longer mere colloquial language. To borrow Westerners' terminology, it became poetic language that vividly expressed the tremolo of Bashō's emotional cadences. To rephrase this differently: Bashō did not employ colloquial language simply because it was colloquial. He used it precisely because it could be transmuted into poetic language. Thus, needless to say, Bashō would use any words—whether Chinese-derived terms or elegant language—provided they could attain poetic quality. Indeed, he refined not only colloquial expressions but also Chinese phrases and classical diction.

At Sayo no Nakayama

Life—a brief respite of coolness under a hat.

Du Mu’s lingering dream of an early journey, Sayo’s...

Arriving at Nakayama, he is abruptly astonished.

Sleeping on horseback—the lingering dream, the moon distant—smoke from tea.

Bashō’s vocabulary traversed all eras and realms in this manner.
Yet his refinement of colloquial language was undoubtedly its most conspicuous hallmark.
Moreover, through this refinement of colloquial speech, one truly discerns the immense power of Bashō as a poet.
To be sure, the Danrin poets—nay, even Itami no Onitsura may have employed colloquialisms a step ahead of Bashō.
But it was precisely Bashō who performed alchemy upon so-called plain vernacular.

However, this striking feature seemed to have simultaneously given rise to misunderstandings regarding haikai as well.
The first was the misunderstanding that haikai was easy to understand, and the second was the misunderstanding that haikai was easy to compose.
That haikai had fallen into mediocrity—there was no need to belabor that point now.
The mediocrity of comedies had already been pointed out by Shiki Koji in Bashō Zatsudan.
Only the vivid brilliance of the colloquial language Bashō employed must still be vehemently asserted even today.
Otherwise, the so-called people’s poets would not hesitate to count Bashō among their predecessors alongside the unfortunate Walt Whitman.

VII. Auditory Rhythm

It was regrettable that those who loved Bashō's haikai did not open their ears.
If one were utterly indifferent to the beauty of "rhythm," one could grasp barely half of the beauty of Bashō’s haikai.

Haikai by nature was something that lacked "rhythm" compared to song.
To convey “the music of words” within the mere seventeen syllables of life and death required nothing less than a person of immense power.
Not only that, but to fixate solely on "rhythm" was to stray from haikai's true path.
When Bashō said to "defer rhythm," he was likely addressing this very dynamic.
However, Bashō’s own haikai rarely neglected "rhythm".
No—there were even instances where he entrusted a verse’s entire essence solely to "rhythm."

Summer moon—leaving Goyō, arriving at Akasaka

This employed the chromatic sensations imparted by place names such as "Goyō" and "Akasaka" to capture the summer moon. This method could not be called novel in the slightest. Rather, it was a technique that risked inviting criticism for being somewhat conventional. Yet its auditory effect brimmed with a serene beauty truly reminiscent of a traveler's heart.

Year-end market—I long to buy incense.

If we were to consider the "Summer Moon" verse as one where the score surpassed the libretto, then this verse served as an example of outstanding achievement in both domains. Though venturing out to buy incense at the year-end market might be called lonesome, it harmonized perfectly with nostalgic sentiment. Moreover, the buoyant rhythm of "I long to buy" seemed to reveal the very leaps of Bashō's own heart. When examining the lower verses, one could only stand dumbfounded before the supreme mastery Bashō demonstrated in wielding his rhythms.

Autumn deepens—the neighbor, what does he do?

The one who could capture such solemn rhythm in the vast span of three hundred years was Bashō alone.
Bashō instructed his disciples: "Haikai is the heart of the Man'yōshū."
This statement was not in the least an exaggeration.
This was precisely why those who loved Bashō’s haikai had to open their ears.

VIII. The Same

One of Bashō's haikai's distinguishing features was its exquisite beauty born from the delicate fusion of visual splendor and auditory resonance.
To borrow Western terminology, it possessed a unique subtlety arising from the marriage of words' formal and musical elements.
This was the one realm where even Buson's considerable skill ultimately proved unable to follow.
What follows are all the spring rain verses from the Buson anthology compiled by Kito.

Spring rain—people chatting as they go in straw raincoats and hats.

Spring rain—today too draws toward evening.

Shibazuke pickles—without even sinking in the spring rain.

Spring rain—a lingering moon at mid-sea.

Spring rain—a rope in the sleeve, a small lantern.

In Nishi no Kyō, monsters have dwelled for ages.

There was a house that met its end.

Now, its traces are gone,

Spring rain—people dwell where smoke seeps through walls.

Seed bags soaked through—spring rain.

Spring rain—wearing a hood against the falling drops.

Spring rain—small shells on the little shore soaked through.

At the waterfall's edge, voices called for lanterns—spring rain.

Nunawa grows—the pond’s water swelled with spring rain.

Poem Composed in a Trance

Spring rain—how poignant this self that does not write.

These twelve verses of Buson expressed with remarkable freedom the beauty that appealed to the eye—particularly a beauty reminiscent of Yamato-e elegance.
However, when listened to, they somehow lacked that same sense of unconstrained freedom.
Moreover, if one read all twelve verses in succession, one even felt the drawback of monotony from their repeated use of the same "rhythm."
But Bashō felt not the slightest stymied by such challenges.

Spring rain—mugwort lengthens the grassy path

At Akasaka

How abrupt—the spring rain stirred into being.

I sensed centuries of spring rain within these two verses of Bashō.
The high refinement of "the grassy path where mugwort grows long" went without saying.
Originating in "How abrupt—", the rhythm that swayed through "stirred into being" expressed a languor verging on coquetry.
In the end, one could only conclude that even Buson’s twelve verses proved no match for these two by Bashō.
In any case, Bashō’s artistic sensibility had undergone several degrees more refinement than those who are called modern people.

IX. Painting

Eastern poetry, whether Japanese or Chinese, often takes pictorial charm as its essence.
Westerners who derived poetry from Epos might post labels of heresy even upon these “audible paintings.”
However, “In the distant prefectural hall at night, frozen snow seals pines and bamboos; now comes a mountain monk, hanging his lamp to lodge alone” is truly a single hanging scroll of nanga.
Moreover, “Behind the rows of storehouses lies the swallows’ path” also naturally resembles a single ukiyo-e print.
That Bashō’s haikai possessed such masterful skill in expressing this pictorial charm remains yet another of its indispensable characteristics.

Coolness—the wild pine's branches form at once.

Evening faces—a drunkard's face peers through a hole in the window.

The mountain dweller's jaw closes—kudzu.

The first was a pure landscape painting.
The second was a landscape painting with figures added to the scenery.
The third was a pure portrait.
None of Bashō’s three types of pictorial charm lacked refinement.
In particular, "the mountain dweller’s" expressed an eerie grandeur in "the jaw closes."
To express such pictorial charm, even Buson had to yield a few steps.
(It was rather pitiable for Buson to be so frequently cited as a comparison.)
(We must consider this too as the karmic consequence of Buson having been a great master succeeding Bashō.) Not only that—even when expressing what might be called the quintessential Yamato-e charm most characteristic of Buson, Bashō still effortlessly achieved effects that rivaled his.

Tying a rice dumpling—one hand holds parted hair.

It is said that Bashō himself referred to this verse as being in a "narrative style."

X. Shudō (The Way of Male Love)

Bashō too is said to have favored Shudō—the way of male love—like Shakespeare and Michelangelo.
This discourse is not entirely without foundation.
The Genroku era was an age that produced Ihara Saikaku's great compendiums.
Bashō too may have cherished peach-dividing bonds in keeping with his time.
Indeed, the phrase "I too was once a shudō enthusiast—or so these wayward ears may have heard" appears in *The Shell Matching*, a work written by Bashō in his youth.
Among Bashō's other works there is also: "Even their forelocks still carry the scent of fresh grass—"
That said, it cannot be denied that some verses do celebrate beautiful youths.

However, I still found it impossible to consider Bashō’s sexual desires deviant. True enough, Bashō had clearly stated, “I too was once a shudō enthusiast.” But first, this phrase formed part of the critical commentary in *The Shell Matching*—a work that deftly wielded a jesting brush. Would it not then be somewhat hasty to treat this as some solemn confession? Second, even supposing it were a confession, the shudō enthusiasts of old might well have differed from those of today. No—had he remained a shudō enthusiast, there would have been no need to qualify it with “in the past.” Moreover, considering Bashō was merely twenty-nine when he published *The Shell Matching* in the first month of Kanbun 11, this “past” likely denoted a span of several years following “spring’s awakening.” Such Homo-Sexuality at this age was hardly extraordinary. Even we born in the twentieth century, looking back on our youthful sexual lives, had mostly stored away at least one ecstatic memory of a beautiful youth. As for theories positing homosexual relations between him and his disciple Tokoku—these remained ultimately nothing but fictional fabrications.

XI. Literature from Across the Sea

“When a Zen monk inquired about poetry, the Master said: ‘Poetry belongs to Sodō the hermit—a man deeply devoted to this path and known among men.’”
“He often says: ‘Poetry is a hermit’s poetry—elegance suffices.’”

“Masahide asked: In the *Kokin Wakashū*, there are three verses—‘snow falling unknown to the sky,’ ‘flowers blooming unseen by people,’ ‘flowers blooming unnoticed in spring’—selected for one anthology.”
“Are there such instances in a single anthology by a single author?”
The Master said: “These appear to be words favored by Tsurayuki.”
“Such matters that modern people ought to abhor—in times past, they appear not to have been disliked.”
“Are there such examples in Chinese poetry as well?”
“Some time ago, in Jōsō’s story, Du Zimei had that matter exclusively.”
“As for recent poets, in Yu Lin’s verses such things are said to abound—though I did hear his poems, I have forgotten them.”

Yu Lin was probably Li Panlong, one of the Jiajing Seven Masters.
The mention of Li Panlong—an advocate of classical prose—in Bashō’s discussions cast a clarifying light on Bashō’s reverence for Du Fu.
However, there was no need to dwell on that now.
For now, what I wished to consider here was Bashō’s own attitude toward literature from across the sea.
In Bashō as glimpsed through these anecdotes, there was not the slightest trace of a scholar-like countenance.
If we were to recast these anecdotes as contemporary news articles, Bashō’s attitude when questioned would be this supremely detached—

When a certain newspaper journalist inquired about Western poetry, Bashō answered the reporter as follows: “The one well-versed in Western poetry is Ueda Bin of Kyoto. According to what he often states, the works of Symbolist poets are supremely phantasmal.”

“…Bashō answered like this.”
“…Such things might exist in Western poetry as well.”
“When I spoke with Mori Ōgai the other day, he said Goethe apparently has many of those as well.”
“Also, there are many in the works of recent poets—what’s-his-name Itzuhi.”
“In truth, I did get to hear those poems as well, but unfortunately I’ve completely forgotten them.”

That he could even respond in this manner may have been rare among haiku poets of his time.
Nevertheless, it is certain that he was indeed unfamiliar with literature from across the sea.
Not only did Bashō not taste the profound essence of art that transcends words, but he also seemed to disdain those literati who merely read countless books to no purpose.
At least toward those who put on a scholarly air, he would immediately fly into a rage, showering them with his unique brand of sarcasm that demonstrated his satirical genius.

"In the mountain village—the New Year's dance comes late; plum blossoms."
In his response to Kyorai regarding this verse he had sent, the Master stated that it could be interpreted in two ways:
"In the mountain village—wind bitterly cold; at plum blossoms' peak, the New Year's dance arrives."
"Do you take both [interpretations] as 'late'?"
"Or perhaps there exists a Kyoto-nostalgic verse lamenting, 'Even as the mountain village's plums fade—still the New Year's dancers do not come!'"
The Master's response made no mention of that matter, but recounted an incident from last June when passing through Gojō: "There was a suspicious shopfront bearing a sign proclaiming 'Wondrous Remedy for Hakuran.'"
"My companions laughed derisively, jeering 'It must mean cholera medicine!' To which I retorted: 'No—this cures hakuran disease [of excessive reading].'"

This must have struck Kyorai—the erudite disciple from a lineage of scholars—more keenly than Tokusan's staff.
(Kyorai was a man versed in both Confucianism and medicine, whose father Mukai Reiran had published a translation of *Kengen Bensetsu*, and whose brothers included the renowned physician Motohashi and great Confucian scholar Motonari.) To add another observation: Bashō was at once a keenly rational and supremely caustic satirist.
The phrase "cure your hakuran disease" was undeniably severe.
At the Tōbu gathering, when he declined to interpret the tray through Buddhist doctrine, Ransetsu challenged this stance.
The Master retorted: "If we take the tray as Buddhist teaching, then must we assign New Year's to Shinto deities?"—such an anecdote survives.
Indeed, Bashō's sharp tongue seems to have frequently vexed his disciples.
Fortunately for us all, this satirist departed this world some two hundred years past from enteritis or similar affliction.
Otherwise, my *Bashō Zōki* would surely have been shredded by his merciless wit.

As stated above, Bashō was not particularly well-versed in literature from across the sea. Now, to say he was entirely indifferent to literature from across the sea—this was by no means the case. Rather, he had quite enthusiastically incorporated the expressive methods of literature from across the sea into his own arsenal. For example, let us refer to the following anecdote transmitted by Shikō:

"On one occasion, in the Master’s account: 'Having recently perused Bai Juyi’s Collected Works and found the phrases “old warbler” and “sick silkworm” intriguing,'"

Warbler—in the bamboo shoot thicket, it sings of age.

Early summer rain—silkworms fret in the mulberry fields.

He composed these two verses thus—the warbler, through "bamboo shoot thicket," masterfully contained lingering sentiments bridging youth and age.
As for silkworms, those ignorant of compound words could never perceive the heart's stirrings.
This was said to depict domestic sericulture through inclusion of the character for "straw mat."

Bai Juyi’s Changqing Collection was one of Bashō’s beloved books that was also listed in the Saga Diary.
Such borrowing and transforming of expression methods from poetry collections like these does not seem to have been particularly rare.
For example, Bashō’s haikai employs unique techniques in its verb usage.

A single cry lies over the river—ah, the cuckoo!

Risshakuji (preface omitted)

Silence—seeping into the rocks, the cicadas' voices.

Having secluded himself at Hōraiji Temple,

In the wintry wind, rocks blown sharp between cedars—

Is it not possible that these verb usages were learned from the diction of literature from across the sea?
Diction is that which, through the craftsmanship of a single character, renders an entire verse strikingly exceptional.
For example, let us refer to the couplet by Cen Shen quoted below.

孤燈燃客夢 寒杵搗郷愁

However, to assert definitively that he learned from them was of course extremely risky.
Bashō may have naturally grasped the same expressive methods as the poets from across the sea.
Yet can the verse cited below truly be considered anything other than a coincidence?

As the bell fades, the scent of flowers tolls the evening.

In my belief, this is clearly an instance of what Shu Inzan called inverted syntax being employed in haikai.

紅稲啄残鸚鵡粒 碧梧棲老鳳凰枝

The example cited above is a renowned couplet by Du Fu that employs inverted syntax.
If one were to read this couplet in ordinary sequence, one would have to invert the positions of the nouns: "鸚鵡啄残紅稲粒 鳳凰棲老碧梧枝."
If one were to read Bashō’s verse in ordinary sequence, it would invert the positions of the verbs: "As the bell is struck, the scent of flowers fades—an evening."
Thus, even though one is a noun and the other a verb, considering this as inverted syntax attempted in haikai would be difficult to dismiss as mere arbitrary assumption.

The fact that Buson learned much from literature across the sea had often been mentioned by predecessors. But as for Bashō’s case, few seemed to have given it much thought. (Had even one such person existed, they would surely have noticed this “As the bell fades” verse long ago.) However, as everyone knew of Bashō during the Enpō-Tenna periods: “Imitating Old Du—who is this fellow sighing in late autumn while his beard blows in the wind?” “The night robe is heavy; perhaps seeing snow in Wu’s sky.” He left numerous works adapting literature from across the sea thereafter. No—it went beyond that. Bashō signed “Bashōdō Tōsei” after the postscript of *Kyōguri* (published in the third year of Tenna [1683]). “Bashō-an Tōsei” was not necessarily an artistic pseudonym that evoked literature from across the sea. However, “Bashōdō Tōsei” embodied the poetic essence found in the verse “凝烟肌帯緑映日瞼粧紅”. (This was something Katsumine Shimpū also noted in the chronology of *Bashō Haiku Teihon*, stating, “One must not overlook the character ‘dō’ [洞].”) Therefore, we must conclude that Bashō—or at least the Bashō of the Enpō and Tenna eras—had been deeply enamored with literature from across the sea. If one were to venture even a modicum of risk, it might be said that what awakened Bashō’s genius—which had languished in the demonic abyss of the Danrin style—was literature from across the sea. That traces of literature from across the sea existed within Bashō’s haikai of this nature should, of course, have come as no surprise.

While reading *Bashō Haiku Teihon* by chance, I came to consider the influence of literature from across the sea, and thus decided to append this to *Bashō Zōki*.

Postscript.
It is said that Bashō studied Chinese classics under scholars such as Itō Tannan and Tanaka Tōkō from an early age.
However, the influence of literature from across the sea that Bashō received may rather have originated from Yamaguchi Sodō, who was fond of composing poetry.

12. The Poet

Discussions concerning the linking techniques of the Shōfū style were elucidated quite clearly in Mr. Kō Higuchi’s *Bashō Kenkyū*.
However, I cannot bring myself to believe—as Mr. Higuchi does—that the hokku, including those by the Shōmon school’s leading disciples and even Buson himself, were in any way inferior to Bashō’s.
Yet it remains precisely as Mr. Higuchi argues: Bashō’s linking techniques possessed an excellence unparalleled from past to present.
Nor can one deny that these techniques were reflected in the Shōfū-style linking methods of the Genroku literary revival.

Bashō was not in the least a poet isolated outside his time.
No—rather, he was a poet who devoted his entire being to the currents of his time.
The fact that this breadth did not manifest in Bashō’s hokku must also be attributed, as Mr. Higuchi had pointed out, to hokku having taken “private poetry” as their principal path.
Buson shattered these golden chains and liberated hokku into the undiscriminating great chiliocosm where self and others merge.
"The hand-beaten couple changes their robes."
“A sumo wrestler unlikely to lose becomes pillow talk—ah!” and similar works were products born of this liberation.
Bashō even gave the critique “This verse is the work of a great general; the verse’s author has no merit whatsoever” to Kyoroku’s “A fan viewing the underside of the bridge of a renowned commander.”
Had he seen Buson’s works such as "The Hand-Beaten Couple," he would surely have made a bitter face at the mischief of later upstarts.
Of course, the merits and demerits of Buson’s attempted liberation of hokku inherently had to be considered a separate matter.
However, to extol Buson’s narrative inventiveness as something unprecedented by predecessors without examining Bashō’s linking techniques was an egregiously one-sided critique.

To reiterate for clarity, Bashō was not in the least a poet isolated outside his time.
He was the poet who most profoundly grasped his era and most boldly depicted it among those after the Man'yōshū.
To ascertain this fact, one needed only glance at Bashō's linking techniques.
Bashō so thoroughly embodied the human emotions of Genroku—which gave birth to Chikamatsu, Saikaku, and Moronobu—that even claims of his fondness for ochazuke seemed suspect.
Particularly when looking at his love-themed verses, not even Kikaku appeared as an unromantic brute.
As for later talents, they were reduced to being suspected as either Kūya's emaciation, dried salmon, or perhaps young recluses who had lost their virility.

Beating the hunting robe on the master’s fulling block — Rotsū

Do you remember my childhood name? Bashō

Summoned to Miya—how shameful this floating name. Sora
Into the arm pillow—inserting a slender hairpin. —Bashō
The palace guard grows drowsy at dawnbreak — Senri
Hiding bristling brows—rustling silk Bashō

Geta unworn—dawn in the rain Etsujin

Rustling silk—exquisitely delicate, gorgeously alluring Bashō

Carving dried leaves under layered skies — Yaba

Days not venturing out with the horse—loving within. Bashō

A carnation blooms in tender hues — Ranran

In the four-fold futon, you curl up — Bashō

The Bashō who created these works was a somewhat different Bashō from the Bashō revered by modern worshippers.
For example, “Kinuginu ya amari kahosoku adeyaka ni” was not the work of some austere recluse.
It was a creation of a passionate Genroku native—one that quivered with acute sensitivity to the beauty of women and youths reminiscent of Hishikawa ukiyo-e.
“A Genroku native’s”—I deliberately said “Genroku native’s.”

The lyrical nectar of these works lay beyond reach even in the wildest dreams of those Bunka-Bunsei-era connoisseurs.
By years alone, they stood separated from Bashō—who had sung "Do you remember my childhood name?"—by a mere century.
Yet were they not worldly souls more estranged than even the Man'yōshū poetess who pleaded a millennium past, "Forget not the Hitachi maiden"?

13. Supernatural Themes

Bashō, like all geniuses, reflected the tastes of his age, as has been noted above.
One of the most striking examples would be the demonic charm found in Bashō’s haikai.
*Otogi Bōko* by Asai Ryōi—an adaptation of *Jiandeng Xinhua*—was published in the sixth year of Kanbun.
Since then, such ghost stories remained popular until around the Kansei era.
For example, Saikaku’s *Ōgeba* too was a work born of this trend.
Born in the first year of Shōhō, Bashō lived through the Kanbun, Enpō, Tenna, and Jōkyō eras before passing away in the seventh year of Genroku.
Thus, it must be said that Bashō’s entire life unfolded amidst the popularity of ghost stories.
Because of this, Bashō’s haikai—particularly in *Kuzu no Hana*, when the era’s interest in ghost stories was still fresh—
The haikai of earlier times occasionally dabbled in demonic charm, leaving behind ingenious works.
For example, one should refer to the following examples.

The night storm—scattered drops fall beneath the hall’s moon Nobutoku

The old monk vanished—dew Tōsei

An empty shell sinks where abysses dwell Nobutoku

In a narrow futon—the great serpent’s grudge scales patterned Tōsei

When the moon lures the madman—abruptly Tōsei

Dragging a tail through the forest undergrowth Shiharu
That is the mountain ascetics' and nuns' call — Nobutoku
Transformed by single-minded resolve into an eel, coiling sevenfold — Tōsei
Bone blade, earthenware hilt—how fragile they are — Kikaku
Striking the emaciated horse’s shadow — Tōsei
Yamabiko vanished, having taken a bride — Kikaku

The one lying hidden passes dawn at Jizō — Tōsei
The pot-wearing one slips away in stealth — Kikaku
Holding mallet and child—the phantom lord —Tōsei
Now—that lizard, golden king —Kyōsui
A dragon slips into the sleeve—pledged in dreams Tōsei

It cannot be denied that some of these works are comical.
But the eerie quality of phrases like "the emaciated horse's shadow" and "holding mallet and child" is rather more terrifying than the ghost stories of that time.
After establishing the Shōfū style, Bashō almost entirely severed ties with demonic themes.
However, works that allegorize impermanence, even if they do not belong to demonic themes, always carry an ineffable eerie aura.

In the painting of skeletons,

Evening breeze—Bon lanterns shedding their glue.

At Honma Shume's residence—skeletons' flute,

preparing drums and depicting them performing Noh,

[It] was hung on the wall (omitted).

Lightning—where faces were, susuki plumes.

(Taishō 12–13)