Pathway to Japanese Literature

Yasutane Yoshishige was born as the second son of Kamo no Tadayuki. His elder brother Yasunori inherited the family’s centuries-old profession, becoming Yin-Yang Master and Astronomy Master, and shone in their lineage as the head of the Kamo clan. Though it cannot be said that Yasutane yielded this to him, he himself became a disciple of Sugawara no Fumitoki—a Confucian scholar and literary giant of the time—entered the ranks of Literary Students, and altered the characters of his surname to Keishi. It was not that there existed a surname called Keishi, nor was it that he became an adopted child of another house as recorded in old texts and thereby took the name Keishi. Out of deference to his elder brother, he simply replaced the character 賀 (ga) in Kamo with 慶 (kei), and 茂 (mo) with 滋 (shi)—different characters with the same meaning—for Keishi was fundamentally Kamo. That readers came to pronounce "Yoshishige" for 保胤 was indeed a natural development, and later, when Tamenori—son of Yasutane’s younger brother Yasuakira, Doctor of Literature—altered the characters of his surname to Yoshishige, it followed the same principle. Tamenori himself became a Doctor of Literature and was one of the compilers of the *Continued Anthology of Japanese Literature*. Yasutane’s elder brother Yasunori was said to be a genius of their path who, as a child of about ten, already had his Dharma eye opened and could see spirits, warning his father of them; and also, Yasutane’s father Tadayuki was the teacher of Abe no Seimei—later widely praised as a great master of Onmyōdō. Yasutane—possessing such fathers, elder brothers, younger brothers, and nieces—was naturally no ordinary man.

Yasutane’s teacher, Sugawara no Fumitoki, was likewise no ordinary man. As for the literary scholars of the time—be it Minamoto no Hideaki or Minamoto no Tamenori—even those whose writings remain preserved in the *Anthology of Japanese Literature* to this day and whose talents are lavishly praised by later generations, all are said to have requested Sugawara no Fumitoki to correct their prose and poetry. On one occasion, an imperial banquet was held, and the Emperor commanded the court poets to compose poems on the theme *"Palace Warbler’s Dawn Song in Morning Light."* Since the Emperor himself was deeply devoted to the path of literary arts,

The dew lay thick, softly murmuring beneath the garden flowers, The moon had set, singing loftily in the shade of the imperial willow. When His Majesty had composed these lines and secretly deemed them harmonious with his august heart, Fumitoki too had fashioned verses,

The western tower—the moon had set; a melody among blossoms, The central hall—the lamp lingered; a voice beyond the bamboo. He strung them together. His Majesty deigned to hear the verses, having thought *“I alone have perfected this theme,”* yet judged Fumitoki’s composition also excellent; summoning Fumitoki close, He commanded: *“Which is more fitting?”* Fumitoki replied, “Your Majesty’s composition is splendid, yet the final seven characters surpass even this humble one’s poem.” Thinking he spoke out of deference, His Majesty pressed again with His inquiry. Fumitoki had no choice but to say, “In truth, Your Majesty’s poem and this humble one’s are of equal merit.” Still suspecting deference, His Majesty—so enamored of poetry that He pressed relentlessly—commanded, “If this be true, swear an oath.” When it came to this, Fumitoki did not offer any vow but declared, “In truth, this humble one’s poem occupies a tier above [Your Majesty’s],” before fleeing the scene. It is said the Emperor laughed and nodded in approval. Such literary works of Fumitoki’s are still praised today as compositions by Lord Sugawara of the Third Rank, but Yasutane stood as the foremost disciple of this titanic master. In a year when pestilence raged—when people spoke of dreams where the Plague God bowed before Fumitoki’s house without entering—Yasutane studied under Lord Sugawara of the Third Rank, so venerated by contemporaries. As his talents deepened daily and his renown spread through the world, he answered the call to examination, passed with distinction, and rose through official ranks to become Senior Court Archivist.

Prince Tomohira had a fondness for literary arts and frequently received the era’s literati and scholars as refined companions; while Kinori, Ōe no Michikoto, and others were in constant attendance, Yasutane above all was honored as a teacher. However, Yasutane had long since ceased to fix his heart solely on worldly turmoil; though it was the fashion of the time, his breast was steeped in thoughts of spiritual serenity beyond mundane affairs. Thus, while he would lecture what needed lecturing for the Prince’s sake and instruct what required instruction, once these matters were concluded, he would retreat into himself—eyes half-closed, lips faintly murmuring something under his breath—or so it is told. He directed his thoughts to the Pure Land and silently recited essential passages from Buddhist sutras—or so it appeared. His manner as a teacher must have seemed quite peculiar, but since he was not neglecting his immediate duties—merely redirecting his leisure during spare moments to the sacred path—it likely could not be deemed worthy of reproach. There could be no doubt that Yasutane affirmed the Bai Juyi-like philosophy which recognized literary vanities—that is, poetry—as a connection to praising the Buddhist teachings.

While Prince Tomohira likely bestowed upon Yasutane a treatment distinct from that accorded to other poets who dealt solely in ornamental verse, it was only natural that His Highness’s inquiries still turned to the path of poetry and prose—so much so that on one occasion, he requested a critique of contemporary literati. Thereupon, Yasutane could not refuse and humbly offered his response. “Kinori’s prose sounds like a woman playing the koto with composure within a somewhat aged cypress-bark-roofed house on a fine moonlit night, its blinds partially drawn,” he said. When asked about Michikoto, he replied that it resembled the performance of the Ryōō dance beneath verdant pines in a white-sanded courtyard. When asked about Ōe no Masahira, he replied that it resembled several fierce warriors clad in armor, whipping their steeds to cross Awazu Beach—their halberds imposing yet meeting no resistance. His Highness became engrossed and commanded to ask, “Then what of your own?” To this, he replied that it resembled hearing the voice of a former senior noble riding in a palm-fiber-covered carriage at times. Without discussing strengths and weaknesses, he naturally presented its poetic critique as it was—truly surpassing even Tang’s Sikong Tu’s *Poetic Critique*—and thus exquisitely and beautifully answered; the Prince was deeply moved, and people of the time marveled in admiration. The writings of Kinori, Michikoto, Masahira, Yasutane, and others all survive to this day; thus, whether these critiques ring true or false is something anyone may examine. Yet beyond their accuracy lies the critiques’ very manner—imbued with such poetic grace that they resemble a mystical crane’s ethereal cry—and it is this quality, mirroring Yasutane himself, that one wishes to call fascinating.

Those who come to abandon worldly desires and devote themselves to the Way are often those who have encountered setbacks in life or fallen into failure and destitution—then, once enlightened, turn about to walk a path opposite to their former course; yet in Yasutane’s case, there appeared no such catalyst prompting such reversal. By nature endowed with a gentle disposition and compassionate heart surpassing ordinary people, he unreservedly embraced Confucian benevolence and Buddhist mercy—believing this was how humans ought to be, aspiring himself to be so—and as his scholarly studies and spiritual realizations gradually deepened, these inclinations only grew more fervent with each passing month and year. That he ceaselessly prayed for their further intensification, convinced this constituted the True Path, the Supreme Path, the Pure Path, the Path of Serenity—of this there could be no doubt. Thus it may be that Yasutane—innately possessing profound compassion—even compelled himself through rigorous effort to dwell within that merciful heart; such accounts have been transmitted through time. On one occasion—though when exactly remains unclear—Yasutane stood at a crossroads along the capital’s bustling grand avenue. Being a main thoroughfare, nobles and commoners alike came and went: artisans and vendors passed through; elders and women, children and able-bodied men—some striding confidently, others stumbling along. Of course, there was nothing unusual about a grand avenue’s traffic. There happened also to be an ox bearing an immensely heavy load—panting laboriously as it strained against the cart’s yoke, drooling saliva while planting its hooves with effort—trudging forward. This too was but ordinary in an age when beasts of burden were used—nothing remarkable. The ox walked exhausting its last strength. Moreover, the ox driver—still finding his goading insufficient—lashed it with his whip. The whip’s crack arose and faded, faded and arose again—merely the world’s customary rhythm, nothing strange. Yet as Yasutane observed this crossroads resembling Buddhism’s Six Realms—watching the self-assured stride past, the solitary trudge onward, the ceaseless toilers and sorrowful souls—he must have thought: *Ah! The ways of samsara are indeed thus.* Then seeing the aged ox exerting its dying strength yet still whipped—*Ah! Weary beast! Cruel lash! Burden crushing, road endless! Sun scorching earth parched! Thirsting yet denied a drop—how fathom such agony?* Though people speak of an “ox’s gaze” as one they shun, what plea could those inscrutable eyes convey? *Alas! Ox—why were you born so wretchedly bovine? What sin condemns you to this torment?* At that very moment—as whip cracks echoed like loosed arrows—Yasutane’s tears fell freely. *Namu... Save it, all Buddhas and Bodhisattvas! Namu Buddha! Namu Buddha!* Thus did he pray, it is told. Such incidents occurred not once or twice; moreover, when direct means presented themselves, he would often relieve oxen’s immediate sufferings—thus these tales likely endured to our day. Harnessing oxen and riding horses being practices since antiquity—by worldly standards Yasutane’s deeds might seem foolish—yet for those believing such feelings genuine and such prayers righteous, judgments of wisdom from secular laws prove inherently powerless. Nor from Buddhism’s perspective was such intensification of compassion necessarily commendable—scriptures exist censuring this state as demonic realms under certain circumstances—yet Yasutane’s merciful thoughts intensified without leading him toward transgression; thus they could not fundamentally be condemned.

However, worldly laws cannot be sustained by benevolence alone—to speak of “the opposite of benevolence” would be somewhat odd—for righteousness exists as their foundation, and righteousness is said to be the harmony of interests. When benevolence alone is overemphasized and this harmony lost, matters grow improper and disordered, ending in mild chaos. Thus with Yasutane’s unwavering tone of pure benevolence, it was only natural that troubles would arise to burden even himself. Yet for someone like Yasutane—who pressed forward with guileless sincerity—to declare worldly laws as inconsequential as a wick’s boundary was to settle the matter entirely. On one occasion when Yasutane Yoshishige, serving as Senior Court Archivist, had been summoned and was about to enter the imperial palace— The Emonfu being the office responsible for guarding palace gates, divided into left and right divisions— Near the guard post of the Left Division stood a woman weeping in genuine distress. Being one who spared no tears of compassion even for oxen and horses, Yasutane could not pass by this young woman’s anguished weeping. He quickly approached and asked consolingly: “What has happened that you weep so bitterly?” The woman at first hesitated to answer, but moved by his kindness finally spoke haltingly through convulsive sobs: she had borrowed a stone-decorated belt for her master’s urgent court attendance but carelessly dropped and lost it on the road; though she searched desperately nothing resembling it could be found; with no recourse left she wished to vanish into a hole in the ground—having failed her master’s task and lost another’s property left her unable to see any path forward whether alive or dead. A “stone-decorated belt” refers to an ornament of stone affixed to the back of black-lacquered leather belts worn with formal court attire called ikansokutai—their designs regulated by rank including types like Kii and Izumo belts with stones square or round. Given her master had borrowed this belt for urgent court attendance through a colleague’s favor—and she having now lost it—her carelessness went without saying as did her distress; yet her master too would surely be at a loss. Though wishing to resolve this somehow Yasutane saw no immediate solution—with no alternative but to lend his own belt despite being urgently summoned himself—he unfastened it from his waist while exclaiming “Very well! Take this belt swiftly to your master!” and handed it over. The woman felt she had encountered living bodhisattvas; rubbing her palms in worship she joyfully scurried away. Yasutane sighed in relief at having aided someone’s crisis—then froze realizing he now lacked the belt required for official appearances.

Even Yasutane—with his Buddha-like heart and immortal spirit—must have found himself at a loss now, confronted by the dreadful consequences of his own impulsive actions. Now, it is written in *The New Mirror* that he hid himself in a corner without his belt, but as for which corner this refers to—whether it was a corner of the Emonfu or not—remains unclear. In any case, one can easily imagine how he must have been flustered and weakened to the point of losing all composure. The very thought of his appearance was unbearably amusing. With official duties about to commence and Yasutane yet to appear, his subordinates, unable to bear the delay any longer, came out to seek him, grumbling about his lateness. When they discovered him in this state, they must have exchanged astonished and strange looks with one another. However, with official duties pressing, matters could not remain as they were. Yasutane’s humiliation and everyone’s considerable troubles were swept aside by the imperative to proceed with their duties; bustling about to assist him, people borrowed a belt from a minor official of the Kuraryō, and thus he barely managed to enter the palace and fulfill his responsibilities.

This story may have its doubtful aspects, but it is not entirely without basis. In any case, it is indeed quite an outlandish tale. However, even if greatly distorted, this tale lays bare without fail Yasutane’s lack of worldly wisdom and unfamiliarity with societal conventions. Given this, one can see that however much talent one might possess or however virtuous a person one might be, they could not navigate society without peril—how much more distant, then, must success in officialdom have been, as far apart as east is from west.

If he was indeed such a man, then unless he had a wife of considerable practical talent, his household finances must surely have been unmanageable. If one were to say that he dwelled in mountain forests and maintained no permanent residence, it would sound most admirable—but in truth, he lived an impoverished rented existence, passing his mornings and evenings over many years in a house near the Upper East Gate. Even so, as people grow older, it is only natural to wish to live out one’s days in one’s own home; thus, Yasutane purchased inexpensive wasteland in Rokujō and built himself a dwelling. Of course, there can be no doubt it was no grand mansion; nevertheless, having managed to build it himself, he composed a record of this dwelling—the *Pond Pavilion Record* that survives to this day. The record first recounts the waxing and waning fortunes of Kyoto’s eastern and western sectors, stating that the prosperity of areas north of Shijō—in the northwest and northeast quarters—utterly precluded establishing a residence there. It then describes how he counted himself fortunate to acquire over ten acres in a remote, desolate tract north of Rokujō: mounding elevated areas into small hills, digging depressions to form modest ponds; placing a small hall west of the pond to enshrine Amida Buddha; opening a small pavilion east of the pond to store books; and constructing a low dwelling north of the pond where he settled his wife and children. The placement of the Amida Hall bore Yasutane’s unmistakable sensibility—though assuredly a modest structure, the earnestness and gentleness with which he must have carried himself there morning and evening to burn incense, offer flowers, prostrate in worship, chant sutras, and quietly recite invocations—what a good-natured man he was! The text states that roughly four-tenths of the grounds were occupied by buildings, three-ninths by ponds, two-eighths by vegetable gardens, and one-seventh by parsley fields—allowing one to envision the overall layout—but what intrigues is the one-seventh dedicated to parsley fields. The pine on the islet in the pond, the willows along the shore, the small brushwood bridge, the bamboo at the northern door—none were things that would earn praise from a professional gardener. And even without any grand stones—the sort hauled by oxen that might make Master frown—appearing in view, the austere garden’s aspect could not help but be thought possessed of refined charm. "I, now approaching fifty years of age, have come to possess this modest dwelling—a snail finding comfort in its shell, a louse delighting in its seams," he writes. Though it may sound miserly, it does not stray from truth. Though the householder’s position lies beneath the palace pillars, his heart dwells as if in mountain recesses. Official ranks and titles are left to fate; the workings of heaven are impartial. Longevity and premature death are entrusted to heaven and earth; how long have prayers been offered at this hill? That he slightly raises his inner vigor’s flame is not falsehood—thus it escapes reproach. The statement “In the morning, he temporarily follows royal duties with his body; at home, his heart forever returns to the Buddha” may not impress Confucian scholars, but for this man, it rings true. The statement that “Emperor Wen of Han is deemed a ruler from a different age” strikes one as unconvincing; yet immediately following this, it states that this is because he valued frugality and brought peace to the people. To speak of "a ruler from a different age" is indeed peculiar phrasing, but it likely refers to someone one reveres in one's heart. Was it because he believed rulers who cherished frugality and brought peace to the people were truly worthy of emulation? He could not possibly have harbored disloyal sentiments—as though viewing contemporary sovereigns as extravagant oppressors of the populace. Yet in highlighting the six-character phrase "frugality and pacifying the people" to justify esteeming Chinese literature, there lies no small measure of questionable intent. The text begins by stating that for over twenty years [Yasutane] had observed the Eastern and Western Capitals, describing how prosperous areas now boasted grand halls and interconnected towers whose value reached tens of millions of coins for mere two or three acres. Yet this coincided precisely with the time—just over twenty years prior—when Yasutane’s teacher Sugawara no Fumitoki submitted his Three-Article Memorial in the Twelfth Month of Tenryaku 11. By then, cultural refinement had progressed daily, and the winds of extravagance had grown stronger with each passing month—a fact made clear in Fumitoki’s petition to curb luxury. His memorial observed: “Nowadays, nobles and commoners alike make their dwellings magnificent with towering halls; rich and poor both indulge in lavish robes and fine garments. The wealthy expend their fortunes on such pursuits, while the poor deplete their household resources”—thus already revealing these excesses’ corrosive effects. The sustained inflation of prices, the gradual insufficiency of national funds, and even the emergence of selling official positions for revenue—all documented in the second article of the memorial—led Fumitoki to vehemently argue: “If one laments the state’s finances, then frugality must be practiced in every matter without exception.” In the more than twenty years since then, society had changed all the more, with extravagance likely having increased—so from the perspective of a gentle soul like Yasutane, he must have yearned for the virtues of frugality and pacifying the people. Next, he records taking Bai Juyi of Tang as a teacher from a different age, on account of his excelling in poetry yet ultimately turning to Buddhism.

It was not only Yasutane who revered Bai Juyi as poetry's supreme master; all people of that age did likewise. Yet Yasutane's veneration for Bai stemmed not merely from his poetic mastery, but equally from his ultimate turn toward Buddhism. However, Bai—a poet who measured verse by kitchen matrons' standards—likely reaped both benefits and flaws from this approach. Moreover, while Bai followed the Tang custom of venerating Maitreya Bodhisattva, it seems incongruous that Yasutane became a devotee of Amida Buddha. Next came his declaration: "I take the Seven Sages of Jin as friends across ages, for though their bodies dwelled at court, their aspirations lay in seclusion." These Bamboo Grove philosophers were undoubtedly refined, yet among them lurked men so calculating they kept abaci in their sleeves—making one suspect Yasutane might have been the better paternal figure after all. Though such literary mirages should not be scrutinized for truth, records claim Yasutane daily communed with these spirits of antiquity. "In modern human affairs," he wrote, "nothing merits longing. Teachers prize status and wealth above literature—better none at all. Friends seek power and profit over sincere bonds—better friendless. I shut my gates, close my doors, chant alone—and find completeness." Mocking Ōwa-era excesses—"mansions rivaling mountain pillars, costs swelling to millions, dwellers lasting barely three years"—he laughed at his own twilight dwelling: "Like an old silkworm spinning its final cocoon! How long shall I reside here?" This metaphor indeed proved masterful. He likely composed this record in Ten’en 5's winter, aged forty-eight or forty-nine.

It is thought that Yasutane authored *Japanese Accounts of Rebirth in the Pure Land* during his time at this Rokujō Pond Pavilion. The extant copy of this work bears the colophon *"Compiled by Yasutane Yoshishige, Junior Fifth Rank, Lower Grade, and Secretary."* From this, it is surmised that he compiled it while still holding office, prior to resigning his post. In this work, Yasutane himself writes: *"From youth, I have daily devoted myself to Amida Buddha. After reaching forty years of age, this resolve grew ever more fervent—reciting the sacred name with my lips and visualizing his auspicious features in my heart, never forgetting him whether walking, standing, sitting, or lying down, and always turning to him even in haste or adversity. I never failed to venerate any hall, pagoda, or temple housing Amida’s image or Pure Land depictions. Nor did I ever neglect to form karmic bonds with monastics and laypeople, men and women alike, who aspired to the Western Paradise or prayed for rebirth there."* Thus after forty, his religious zeal swelled uncontrollably. Yet while still holding office, he compiled accounts of successful rebirths—documenting over forty Japanese individuals—to strengthen both his own faith and others'. Within the tranquil Seikan Pond Pavilion, during intervals between chanting Amida’s name before the Buddha, Yasutane’s days and nights—quietly recording with brush in hand the past deeds of virtuous men and women who had received welcome from Buddhas and Bodhisattvas—how must they have been a state of pure samadhi transcending the dusty world? As stated in its preface, *Japanese Accounts of Rebirth in the Pure Land* was modeled after a section in the *Pure Land Treatise* by Shikakusai, a monk of Tang China’s Hongfau Temple, which recorded twenty individuals who attained rebirth in the Pure Land. However after Yasutane’s own rebirth, Ōe no Masafusa followed its precedent by compiling *Continued Japanese Accounts of Rebirth*. And since Yasutane too is recorded in this continuation, the dharma connections are subtle—like interlinked jade rings. According to the preface of Masafusa’s *Continued Accounts of Rebirth*, which states *"In the Kanwa era [985-987], Secretary Yasutane Yoshishige compiled and transmitted to the world a rebirth account,"* Yasutane’s compilation of his *Accounts of Rebirth* would have occurred precisely around the age of fifty-one or fifty-two—the year before he discarded white robes for black—during his time at his Rokujō Pond Pavilion.

When Yasutane built his pond pavilion, he himself wrote that it was "like an old silkworm spinning its cocoon," but the old silkworm could not long remain within its silken chamber. In the winter of Ten'en 5 [982 CE], his house was completed and his record composed, but in Eikan 1 [983] of the following year, Minamoto no Jun—compiler of the *Wamyō Ruijushō*—died. Though Jun too had been a man of erudition and literary skill, later Ōe no Masafusa, when evaluating recent geniuses, would declare: "Tachibana no Zairei does not measure up to Minamoto no Jun; nor does Jun measure up to Kiyohara no Motosuke and Yasutane Yoshishige." Yasutane and Jun had shared no particular connection, but following the principle that "when the hare dies, the fox mourns," the gradual passing of senior colleagues and friends—even absent any direct personal loss—must have further deepened the tender-hearted Yasutane's Buddhist devotion. The world had grown increasingly tense, the people restless; bandits had arisen in various provinces the previous year, and now in the capital a decree had been issued to arrest those found carrying weapons without cause. Though nothing particular had occurred in Yasutane's immediate surroundings, it must have been that his long-nurtured religious aspiration had finally ripened. At last in Kanwa 2 [986], Yasutane bit through the cocoon he had painstakingly spun for himself and emerged—a man who had taken the tonsure and abandoned secular life. As for who served as his ordination preceptor—no records survive—but for a devotee of such sincere faith as Yasutane, even a roadside cedar or a post marking rice paddy boundaries might have sufficed; thus anyone would have served. Zōga Shōnin of Tōnomine and Venerable Genshin of Yokawa—both eminent monks of the age with connections to Yasutane—stood among many qualified to ordain him. Yet given that this surely involved no vegetable-selling elder spontaneously tonsuring himself in grief over a lost granddaughter, the absence of any rumor regarding his preceptor remains puzzling. Masafusa's *Continued Accounts of Rebirth* states only that "when his son's coming-of-age ceremony had barely concluded, he finally took monastic vows." By this account—absent any particular catalyst beyond his child gaining independence—he likely entrusted himself to his long-held aspiration and slipped from the secular world as smoothly as a melon detaching from its vine, becoming one who sought rebirth above all else. As for what manner of people Yasutane's wife and children were—this remains unknown. He must have had children, yet perhaps due to their collateral lineage, they appear nowhere in the Kamo clan genealogy. One imagines his wife and children were ordinary folk—doubtless good-hearted, yet they seem to have perished like common weeds.

Yasutane took monastic vows and became Jakushin. In the world, they called him Naiki no Hijiri. Even during his time as a layperson, he had devoted both body and mind to Buddhist worship and sutra recitation; thus after becoming Jakushin, he roused his spirit all the more, leaving no room for negligence in seeking the Dharma and performing good deeds. The records state that he traveled through various provinces to widely perform Buddhist works, yet no tales of arduous ascetic pilgrimages are transmitted. Merely three years after taking monastic vows, he saved one who had cast themselves upon him and bestowed the name Jōshō. This Jōshō would later be sent to Song China on Genshin’s behalf, for Jakushin and Genshin had been friends in enlightenment from the very beginning. While Genshin may have been slightly younger than Jakushin, in any case, from childhood he had applied himself with relentless diligence under Jie of Mount Hiei, becoming a formidable figure who equally mastered both exoteric and esoteric teachings while harmonizing practice and understanding. This somewhat amusing anecdote between Genshin and Jakushin—though its source cannot now be precisely cited—is one believed to have been seen in some rather old text, whether from *Companions in Solitude* or another work. If this recollection were mistaken, it would have to be expunged—

One day, Jakushin visited Yokawa’s Eshin-in. The hall stood silent and seemingly devoid of people. Whether Genshin was away traveling, in meditative absorption, or practicing ritual visualization—Jakushin could not discern—but as fellow practitioners who shared no conduct unfit for mutual observation, he surveyed the surroundings without reservation. Genshin was nowhere to be found. Before long, Jakushin slid open the door to what seemed the most likely room. Yet what met his eyes? A vast indistinct expanse where nothing appeared visible—no, not that nothing was there, but rather an endless watery spread resembling a great river, a boundless lake, an immense sea—rippling and shimmering, surging and swelling, roaring and seething, its misty waves blending with the heavens until water alone filled existence. Jakushin stepped back a pace, seized a wooden pillow lying nearby, hurled it into the watery void, then smoothly shut the door and departed the cloister. Genshin subsequently felt physical pain. Upon realizing Jakushin had come and played this sudden jest, Genshin again manifested water and compelled him to retrieve the thrown object. Genshin then returned to his original state.

To people today, this tale would likely sound like nothing more than utter nonsense. Nor was there any need to attempt explaining it in terms comprehensible to modern understanding. However, this did not begin with Genshin and Jakushin; in the sutras existed the tale of Moonlight Child who—when first achieving water samadhi—had debris thrown into the water by an innocent child, causing him heart distress until its removal restored his peace. In records survives an account that when Hōshin of Tang practiced water contemplation in a bamboo grove, a family member seeing clear water on a rope-strung bed placed two small white stones within it, whereupon he developed back pain until their removal relieved him. In Japan too persists the account that when Venerable Shōgyō of Daian-ji Temple achieved water contemplation, stones were similarly cast in, causing chest pain—by no means a rare tale. Whether clear water or floodwaters, rubble or pebbles—none mattered. Whether such an event truly occurred between Genshin and Jakushin remained ultimately inconsequential; only this much survived—that a tale of this nature had been transmitted. No—in truth, even that remained uncertain. Yet considering Jakushin’s disciple Jōshō later journeyed to China with an attitude mirroring Genshin’s own disciples, one could imagine Jakushin and Genshin must have regularly exchanged discussions on sutras, monastic codes, and doctrinal interpretations. In literary expression Jakushin likely held a slight advantage; in Dharma understanding Genshin stood several steps ahead—yet Genshin too authored numerous works like *Essentials of the One Vehicle* and *Ōjōyōshū*, being a man who, like Jakushin, devoted himself to brush and ink.

Though Jakushin was indeed a sincere Buddhist who focused solely on rebirth in the Pure Land through Amida’s compassionate vow, doctrines like those of the Nenbutsu Sect—which would emerge after Hōnen—had not yet spread in this era. Thus, it was not that he practiced total renunciation, casting aside all else to spend day and night in single-minded recitation of *Namu Amida Butsu* through chanting samadhi. Rather, even toward practices later generations would dismiss as "karmic distractions," he studied and performed them with reverent sincerity, regarding them as righteous paths and proper deeds. When Venerable Zōga of Yokawa was expounding the *Great Calming and Insight*, Jakushin sought to receive [the teachings] by attending.

Zōga was the son of Councillor Tachibana no Tsunehira. It is said that at age four, as if seized by divine inspiration, he declared his intent to ascend Mount Hiei and pursue learning. From age ten onward, he was sent up the mountain where he studied Buddhist teachings under Jie. His intellect proved astonishing; his scholarship spanned both exoteric and esoteric doctrines, and he was said to have attained particular profundity in the Great Calming and Insight. He embodied the true scholar-monk temperament—utterly devoid of worldly taint, deeply despising fame and profit—conducting himself with the unyielding austerity of a sheer cliff face. The Genkō Shakusho records that when Emperor Anna issued an imperial decree appointing him as an attendant priest, he feigned madness and filthiness to escape. Yet he remained a man who lived solely to satisfy his own conscience—performing absurdities without hesitation even as others reviled him. When his teacher Jie received appointment as bishop, the mountain's monks proceeded to court with magnificent retinues, solemnly maintaining ceremonial dignity while arrayed in full regalia. Fundamentally, monks should dwell beneath trees and upon rocks; though honored with imperial reverence, to preen like court nobles offering thanks for official appointments—adorning themselves in silks to prostrate at palace gates—such conduct deserved no existence. Thus Zōga found every action of these worldly clerics thoroughly repugnant. Like a high-ranking guards officer bearing an ornate longsword, he fastened an enormous dried salmon to his waist as if it were a tachi. Nearly naked in his shocking appearance, he straddled a gaunt cow and led the vanguard procession with pompous grandeur through the capital's thoroughfares under public scrutiny. The masses stared dumbfounded while fellow monks recoiled—"What madness is this?" they cried, attempting to remove him—but Zōga roared ferociously: "Who but I should lead the bishop's carriage? Stand aside!" The grand ceremony—indeed all decorum—lay shattered beyond repair. Being such a man, when invited to an elaborate Buddhist service at a certain noble house, he conceived en route that "This rite serves reputation alone—to act for fame invites demonic hindrance!" Thus he provoked a brawl-like dispute with the patron, reducing the meticulously prepared ceremony to wreckage before departing. Troublesome monk? If troublesome be the word, then truly he was troublesome indeed.

Because he was such a monk given to madcap tendencies, when they sought to appoint him as ordination preceptor for the nun of Sanjō’s Ōkisaidō-in—who was to be made a nun—he rendered the summons with outrageous coarseness: “May Lao Ai’s ilk never approach Her Majesty’s chambers!” Yet even this translation failed to capture its essence, having lost truth in the rendering. It couldn’t be helped. It was not that Masafusa’s talents were deficient—let us simply say Zōga’s madness knew no bounds. Among Śākyamuni’s disciples was one called Kālodayin who uttered vulgarities from the lectern—a tale passed down even now—but while Kālodayin’s actions amounted to mere buffoonery, Zōga’s—though already advanced in years by then—could be said to have roared his ironclad refusal to ever again be summoned to imperial chambers or such places. Truly a sheer cliff face—unapproachable—though he practiced Tendai Zen, he possessed the aura of a Zen Patriarch.

To this sheer cliff face of knowledge, Jakushin—whose tranquil stream ran clear with waters like jade—sought to receive and study the Great Calming and Insight. The Great Calming and Insight were the teachings of Sui-dynasty Tiantai Zhiyi, recorded by his disciple Guanding.

Whether it was some passage that resonated like Tang-dynasty bronze bells in his breast, or the meaning itself—the sonority of its delivery—or which chapter or phrase it might have been—whether the exegetical precision or rhetorical force—none of these details had survived. Yet it must have arisen not from any singular passage or utterance, but from the totality of that moment’s spiritual atmosphere, for Jakushin was overcome with profound emotion and rejoiced. And then, unable to endure it any longer, he shed tears and sobbed. Then Zōga abruptly rose from his seat, strode briskly to stand before Jakushin, and barked, “What’s this? Why are you crying?”—clenching his fist before delivering a resounding slap that twisted Jakushin’s face. The others grew indignant—“If his booming voice already disrupted [the lecture], then to strike one who listened reverently with tears of devotion…”—and with that, the gathering turned awkward and simply dissolved. Since this was not how things should be, Jakushin composed his tears, and the others placated Zōga, persuading him to resume his lecture. And then, once again, Jakushin was moved to tears. Zōga once again struck Jakushin with his fist. In this manner did Jakushin’s weeping reach three occurrences, until at last Zōga—moved by Jakushin’s sincere devotion—even this formidable Zōga found himself bested. Then finally, drawing from the deepest depths of his being, he imparted to Jakushin the profound mysteries of the Great Calming and Insight. Why he had wept and why he had struck him—this was something known only to those two; neither the monks gathered there nor we who came after could know, nor need we seek to.

The *Continued Accounts of Rebirth* recorded only that after Jakushin had taken monastic vows, he journeyed through various provinces and widely conducted Buddhist affairs—yet it included no details of what specific events occurred. But those who lacked the courage to charge forth without hesitation, even at the risk of wounding their tender hearts, all turned their steps sideways at this checkpoint and ended up loitering aimlessly. In the realms of art, religion, scholarship, or life’s battles alike—where ninety-nine out of a hundred, nine hundred ninety-nine out of a thousand retreated from this point and turned back—if we deem the path taken by the majority to be the correct and natural course, then unquestionably the deeds of those paper-crowned worldly navigators were right; it was a conclusion both reasonable and inevitable. Jakushin found himself abruptly halted by this venerable monk’s unadorned frankness; from his own gentle disposition—which disdained handling matters through clever stratagems and deemed it proper to exhaust all vigor—his usual ascetic mindset of daily practice instead left him flustered and pushed back. “Ah, well…,” he could not help but utter a faltering phrase. But faith was faith. With a resigned “So be it,” Jakushin let out a sigh and rested. How could he who studied the forms of the Buddhas of the Three Ages dare don such an unseemly secular crown upon his venerable head? “If you cannot bear misfortune and must act thus,” he declared, “then all the offerings Jakushin gathered to build halls and pagodas should be presented to Your Reverence. To guide even one soul toward bodhisattvahood surpasses the merit of constructing temples.” Dispatching his disciples to gather all the materials and donations intended for timber, he bestowed them upon this monk who aped yin-yang masters. Thus unable to accomplish what he had resolved, he returned to the capital alone, a solitary shadow. As for what became of the monk who wore a paper crown afterward—that remained unknown—but this showed that Jakushin was not one who could manage such projects. It’s no wonder one never hears of any halls or temples that Jakushin supposedly built. Later figures like Mongaku of Takao and Tetsugen of Ōbaku were men of action, but Jakushin remained Jakushin. Even so, there was nothing wrong with this.

The assertion that Jakushin traveled through Mikawa Province is substantiated by the surviving short essay titled *Reflections on Passing Sanshū Yakushi-ji Temple in Late Autumn*. Of course, whether he traveled to Mikawa after taking monastic vows or while still a layperson remains unclear due to the absence of dates in the text. Though he had been appointed Governor of Ōmi, Ōe no Masafusa’s *Biography of Yasutane* states that “after receiving the scarlet robe, he did not alter his official position,” and since he was a capital official, it is thought that his journey to Mikawa occurred after he became a monk. The text states: "I was a traveling soldier, a servant of oxen and horses; first visiting temples, then meeting monks; wandering courtyard fronts, conversing beneath lamps." Thus, the two phrases about travel and draft animals seemed to describe his layperson days, while those about temple courtyards and lamplit talks likely pertained to his ascetic training period. Yakushi-ji is an ancient temple in Atsumi District, established by Bodhisattva Gyōki. Why Jakushin went to Mikawa—whether to solicit funds for building a hall-temple or some such reason—remained entirely beyond conjecture. Yet even if he gradually made his way toward Mikawa in the course of his ascetic wanderings, there would have been no particular issue. The first two or three years after Jakushin became a monk coincided precisely with the time when Ōe no Sadamoto was serving as Governor of Mikawa. Sadamoto was the son of Ōe no Nariakira, who had risen to the position of Councillor, Major Controller of the Left, and Senior Third Rank, and who was himself the son of Ōe no Koretoki, posthumously awarded Junior Second Rank. The Ōe family had been a great lineage of Confucian scholarship and literature since Ōe no Otodo. Otodo’s sons—Gyokuen, Chisato, Shuntan, and Chiko—all excelled in poetry. Chisato mastered *waka* as well, becoming known through his inclusion in the *Ogura Hyakunin Isshu*. Gyokuen’s sons Tomotsuna and Chiko, along with Chiko’s son Koretoki, were all Doctors of Letters. Koretoki’s son Shigemitsu had a son Korehira, also a Doctor of Letters; Koretoki’s son Nariakira became an Academician of the Crown Prince’s Household, while Nariakira’s son Tameki too was a Doctor of Letters. To survey the Ōe family lineage was to see Doctors of Letters and Heads of the Imperial Academy hung like bells across its branches—Sadamoto was Tameki’s younger brother and Korehira’s cousin. Thus, due to the merits of his ancestors, Sadamoto had been swiftly promoted to Chamberlain and subsequently appointed Governor of Mikawa in his twenties. As one born into such a distinguished lineage, he was naturally well-versed in literature and skilled in composition—moreover, a man of heroic spirit through and through. While the Ōe family stood prominent, the Sugawara family—which had greatly elevated its reputation by producing Lord Michizane, a great-grandson of their ancient ancestor Sugawara no Fuhito—also shone brightly in that era. The Fumitoki whom Jakushin studied under was in fact a sixth-generation descendant of that ancient ancestor. Moreover, even someone like Korehira was said to have sought Fumitoki’s corrections on literary compositions and poetic works. Thus Sadamoto—being unquestionably part of the same scholarly tradition—naturally became acquainted with Yasutane (Jakushin), and given their age difference, it was evident that he associated with Yasutane as his senior.

That Governor of Mikawa Sadamoto had been appointed to his position before even reaching thirty years of age was of course due to his ancestors’ meritorious service. Yet for a second son—rather than the eldest—to rise so high must also have stemmed from his own exceptional qualities: a brilliant intellect excelling in scholarship and literary artistry, fierce ambition, courageous spirit, and calligraphic mastery in the style of the Two Wangs—later praised even by scholars in China. Here was a man of sincere self-cultivation who would stand peerless even if cast aside—such was his caliber.

That this Sadamoto—not yet having reached thirty years of age, that threshold where life truly begins—should renounce the floating world, cast aside courtly accoutrements, depart his illustrious lineage, and become like a wood chip or bamboo fragment of raw monastic devotion by rushing to Jakushin and becoming his disciple might be called the fruition of karmic bonds reaching their natural end. Yet this differed from Yasutane’s path—Yasutane who had wandered worldly roads for years, suppressing his spiritual aspirations, only retreating from society and entering Buddha’s fold in his twilight years—for here was a destiny shaped by an altogether distinct turn of karmic circumstance. Sadamoto, by birth and disposition, had naturally devoted himself to scholarship and literature, progressing daily in accordance with his keen talents. Yet being a man of bold temperament, he found joy in venturing into fields and hunting during his leisure to lift his spirits. Such was his nature that, had he remained in this world and aged with its ways, he would have become a useful asset to the state through worldly experience, naturally achieving success and prominence. Yet even fine pine and cypress trees—by some karmic twist—often find their spirits broken or growth stunted, ending up as twisted forms without reaching full development: such is the world’s way. Sadamoto unexpectedly encountered a beautiful woman named Rikiju at the residence of Akasaka’s chief in Mikawa. The term “chief” refers to the station chief, for the one who manages the station inn is precisely the chief. The local chief managed the station inn, which had been established as a semi-public system to provide lodging and rest for officials and persons of status, thereby offering travelers convenience. Over time, through the natural course of events, station chiefs became women, and under these female chiefs, beautiful women came to be treated like adopted daughters of the household, establishing a custom of attending to the needs of lodging nobles and dignitaries. Thus, much later, the term “chief’s household” came to carry connotations of brothels wherever such stations existed. However, as they were not so degenerate in the beginning, history records numerous instances of distinguished individuals born to women of these households. The name Rikiju does not appear in works like Tales from Uji, and its faintly Genpei-period flavor makes it somewhat suspect—yet it seems unlikely to have been wholly invented. Let us retain it as Rikiju for now. Whatever the case, to Sadamoto she appeared as something wondrously beautiful and dear, a karmic bond from a past life—so much so that it utterly consumed his heart and soul. Indeed, she must have truly been a beautiful woman as well. Thus, as the Governor of Mikawa, Sadamoto took Rikiju as his own. For Rikiju too, this was her karmic reward—since she, as the daughter of Akasaka’s chief, had been favored by the Governor of Mikawa, she must have served Sadamoto with sincerity.

Had it been just this, nothing would have come of it—a mere romantic anecdote of the age. But Sadamoto already had a lawful wife at the time. Had she comported herself like some Tokugawa-era magnate’s sophisticated spouse—declaring, “I’m this household’s pillar; let his decorative vases arrange themselves”—there might have been no quarrel. Yet matters did not unfold thus. Truly, nothing grows more arrogant than women indulged by peace’s blessings, yet when harsh times come, they shrink pitifully small in an instant—and when minor troubles arise, neither elegance nor practicality remains, leaving them clad in work pants. Carrying buckets, disheveled and panting heavily—they become a pitiable sight indeed. Yet when eternal sunshine bathes the world and all seas lie calm, bearded men prostrate themselves before them to curry favor. Before decaying-wood screens, they sit composed in twelve-layered robes and unknowable finery, making men groan and cower in awe. The Heian court stood at peace’s zenith—moreover, this was an age when wise women flourished resplendently: Murasaki Shikibu and Ebicha Shikibu, Sei Shōnagon and Kintoki Dainagon, all commanding presence with their *shall we*s and *must we*s, their *indeed*s and *how now*s, their *I humbly*s and *I shall*s. In such an era mandating female reverence without dissent, Sadamoto’s wife could hardly remain composed—she must have burned with smoldering wrath. No—it must have been a blaze both formidable and dreadful. Yet approach these flames and one’s beard would singe—so all begged pardon and kept their distance. Avoiding this side makes them embrace that side all the more. Drawing close to that side makes this side raise its flames higher. The more they fled, the fiercer it blazed. The Garuda flame borne by Fudō Myōō pursues fleeing demons until surrender—so too jealousy’s fire chases its quarry. While singed beards may be endured, when flames lick one’s spinal pillars, this is no moxibustion to suffer passively. Thus worldly wisdom demands direct confrontation. Thus began the commotion of push and pull. Here novelists—shallow yet sinful creatures—seize their brushes as if destiny calls, depicting falsehoods real and imagined as eyewitness accounts. With that said, I shall now weave fabrications below—but know them as pure invention. Yet these fabrications feigning falsehoods—the tale of Sadamoto and his wife’s separation—were in truth their own enacted reality.

What was the name of Sadamoto’s wife? From which clan did she hail? None of this is known. Women of this era surely had given names, yet even Murasaki Shikibu’s—was it Omura? Osato?—none know; Sei Shōnagon’s—Okiyo? Osei?—none know either. Were one to demand, “Let those who know raise their hands,” most would fold their arms and beg off. We may safely assume infants were not addressed as “Murasaki Shikibu” or “time for milkies,” “Sei Shōnagon” or “go potty,” “here doggy”—but to answer with transparently contrived titles like “Queen of Immortals Xi Wangmu, surname Hóu, given name Wǎnjìn” proves more troublesome than simply leaving matters as they stand. Whether she was a beauty or an ugly woman remains unclear, but we may safely assume she was at least ordinary; that her temperament was not gentle but rather strong can be surmised from how she quarreled and parted ways with her spouse while still young. What this woman demanded of Sadamoto was undoubtedly to distance his romantic rival Rikiju—but Sadamoto, utterly infatuated with Rikiju, could not possibly consent to this. Moreover, being a man of direct disposition where matters concerning his wife were concerned, he likely lacked the means to obfuscate things through evasive ambiguities or brush aside the situation with muddy, stagnant pleasantries. Thus, little by little, the relationship between husband and wife must have grown hostile. However, it stands to reason that those who hunger only feel their pangs more acutely upon seeing others partake of sumptuous feasts. Those who are sated have all the more reason to feel compassion when witnessing others’ hunger. Here, there was Ōe no Korehira, who was Sadamoto’s cousin. Korehira was the legitimate grandson of Ōe no Koretoki, and his family’s standing was distinguished. Sadamoto was the son of Nariakira—younger brother of Shigemitsu, Korehira’s father—and moreover, the second son. While Korehira and Sadamoto were roughly the same age, and their talents and learning were on par, Korehira had already established a distinguished literary reputation that was widely celebrated. Due to these various circumstances, Sadamoto naturally found himself trailing behind Korehira like wild geese in formation. Adding to this, Korehira had also taken a wife around the same time as Sadamoto. All of these were events from not so many years prior. Korehira was said to have been a prodigy who read books at seven and composed poetry at nine. Having received the scholarship of his grandfather Koretoki, he grew into a man of vast learning whom the world praised as having no field he had not mastered. The vigorous spirit of his writing, which stood unparalleled in its time, was such that Yasutane had praised it in terms of “hundreds of elite soldiers donning sturdy armor, whipping their steeds to gallop past Awazu Shore”—a matter already recounted previously. Moreover, skilled even in waka poetry, his masculine bearing—lanky and tall with sloping shoulders, as they say—likely did not grant him the comely looks of those plump court nobles. The term *sashigata* refers to shoulders opposite to what are called “Bodhisattva shoulders”; Bodhisattva shoulders denote the gentle slope seen in Bodhisattva statues—what we now call “sloping shoulders”—whereas *sashigata* corresponds to what is presently termed “raised shoulders,” known in Chinese as *yuān jiān* (hawk shoulders). Raised shoulders, wolfish eyes, a prominent Adam’s apple, and thin lips—such features are often found in capable or ambitious individuals, yet they are not particularly endearing. Thus, while his masculine bearing could hardly be called handsome, the wife Korehira had taken was none other than Akazome Emon—counted among the foremost female poets of her time. At that period, Korehira was still not yet thirty, and Akazome in her twenties; whether their son Koshū had been born yet remains unclear. But as a young couple in their prime—she with her beauty, he with his literary talents—they must have made a well-matched pair, living in such tender harmony as zither and lute that others surely looked on with envy.

Now, while Sadamoto and his wife smoldered and flared at each other—their relationship billowing smoke and flames—their cousins Korehira and his wife passed dawn to dusk in poetic harmony, their days filled with ha ha has and oh ho hos of merriment. From Sadamoto’s vantage, Korehira’s circumstances naturally appeared enviable, rendering his own present situation all the more detestable by contrast; while from Korehira’s perspective, Sadamoto’s plight likely seemed pitiable—and thereby inconsequential. Moreover, through Sadamoto’s wife’s eyes, it must have felt precisely like watching sated banqueters while starving—a reaction both inevitable and intensifying her smoldering vexation beyond measure.

Akazome Emon was a woman who had borne hardships from birth; from a time when she could not yet even distinguish colors, she had been placed amidst pitiful conflicts.The reason being—though what circumstances surrounded Emon’s mother, what status she held, are now beyond knowing—Emon came to bear the name Akazome because she was raised as the daughter of Akazome Ōsumi no Kami Tokiyō.However, Taira no Kanemori—renowned as a poet—at that time attempted to take in a newborn child, claiming her as his own daughter.The matter was brought before the Kebiishi.The Kebiishi Office was an institution that investigated non-compliance and wrongdoing, akin to the present-day Metropolitan Police Department combined with a court.The mother insisted her child was not Kanemori’s offspring, while Kanemori disputed it was his own.This could be interpreted as arising from the very nature of maternal love—her reluctance to part with her child—yet might equally be seen as stemming from the strength of rightful paternal love, compelling him to claim a child born to a woman who had left his side.Therefore, judging from the natural principles governing men and women, Kanemori had the stronger claim, while the woman’s was lacking.Moreover, Akazome Emon—having grown to adulthood—appeared to have inherited the bloodline of Kanemori, a renowned poet, and thus possessed exceptional talent and learning far beyond the ordinary.Yet she could hardly be considered the offspring of Akazome Tokiyō, a Kebiishi official who rose to become Governor of Ōsumi but remained an unremarkable bureaucrat without any scholarly reputation.Therefore, even in works not long removed from that time—such as *Lord Kiyosuke’s Notes*—she is indeed recorded as Kanemori’s daughter and such.Considering the circumstances carefully, it was an era when romanticism prevailed—a permissive age where women acted as their hearts commanded, their self-deceptions deemed acceptable as long as they harmed none.Thus, Emon’s mother conceived while involved with Kanemori, but due to some karmic twist, parted from him and returned to Tokiyō’s household.Kanemori was one of the Thirty-Six Immortal Poets, a great-grandson of Prince Koretada, who had been granted the Taira surname due to his father’s devoted service, and possessed talents in both Japanese and Chinese arts—yet as he rose no higher than Junior Fifth Rank, Upper Grade and Governor of Suruga, enjoying little worldly success, it may be that women spurned him due to his age or other circumstances.When examining Kanemori’s collection, we find poems like: “To one with whom I began to speak so very long ago...”“No reply comes at all.”“Though I speak of matters, to one so utterly indifferent—”“I visit the woman’s dwelling and lament her indifference as I speak of matters—yet even the birds do not sing—”“O woman, though I may yearn for you, I shall never admit it,” he declared.“the woman offered no reply.”“to the woman who remained so cruel,”“Lamenting bitterly,”There are many love poems with prefaces such as "Having heard that the one I long for has now become someone else after all this time..."

In Miscellaneous Book II of the *Gosen Wakashū*, there appeared a poem listed as anonymous: "Like reeds thickly growing along Naniwa's shore—so does resentment swell within this aging heart." Yet this was Kanemori's work. In Love Book II of the *Shinchokusen Wakashū* appeared another of Kanemori's poems: "Beneath Shira Mountain's snow, the grass— / Have I grown so accustomed to smoldering / That years now pass unnoticed?" In Love Book I of the *Goshūi Wakashū*: "This heart that first stirred with love—/ Must I alone resent your cruelty / As though it were my own doing?"; and in Love Book V of the *Shokusenzai Wakashū*: "How harsh you seem, my lord—/ Like clouds awaiting wind at mountain's edge / In this world of uncertain fate"—these too were Kanemori's poems. Many more poems could have been cited, yet all were sorrowful verses of concession and overpowered defeat; moreover, there lingered an impression that Kanemori appeared pitifully older than his counterpart. Could it be that this woman had once succumbed to Kanemori's advances, but neither in age nor temperament did they align, leading her to finally settle with the Akazome clan—and might this not have been Emon's mother? One could not help but wonder. However, this was of course an inconclusive matter; one could not even begin to fathom what manner of person this woman truly had been. Though Kanemori himself had been no distant figure—having descended from imperial lineage—and had persisted vehemently in his single-minded desire to claim the girl, the rumors of this had likely endured to this day; yet unfortunately, Akazome Tokiyō being then a Kebiishi official had proved no match for him. The girl and her mother had been taken into the Akazome clan, and the matter had been settled. Thus, that daughter had grown up and become Akazome Emon. Therefore, as people of that time could not have been unaware of these circumstances, they must have felt profound sympathy for the considerable hardships Emon had endured before becoming the Emon she was known as.

However, Emon was no blade of grass or sedge to wither and rot away beneath misfortune’s frost and snow. She served Rinshi—wife of Fujiwara no Michinaga, that great authority of the age—and through this attained widespread renown for her talents. Rinshi was daughter to Left Minister Minamoto no Masazane, had long been Michinaga’s principal wife, held the rank of Jun-sangū (quasi-imperial consort), and was known throughout the realm as Takatsukasa-dono. That Emon became who she was under the sheltering wings of this Rinshi—one can scarcely imagine how profoundly this blessed her with fortune. Yet had her innate gifts not been extraordinary, she would never have become one woven into that life of opulent extravagance—like a flower amidst brocade—amidst the thronging crowds and ceaseless affairs, nor bathed till life’s end in Michinaga’s radiant glow. Poets and songwriters are by nature versed in human feeling and intimate with nature’s ways, yet they often bear strange peculiarities: even the finest among them may lack some common sense, exhibit odd quirks, or in extreme cases seem somehow unmoored. But Emon showed not a trace of such traits—a person of consummate balance and ordinary sensibility, setting her apart from Izumi Shikibu with her air of wild abandon or the excessively fretful Mother of Michitsuna.

This occurred much later: when my child Koshū lay gravely ill, I offered sacred cloth strips to the Sumiyoshi deity and prayed: “Since you were still a tender child, I have prayed only to Sumiyoshi’s pine for a thousand years to pass.” “Long have I relied on you, Sumiyoshi pine—this time show me a sign!” The fact that she composed three poems such as “How sorrowful to think of parting from this life I prayed to change, yet cannot hold dear”—which appear in various texts—showed her to be truly a devoted mother. In her efforts to advance Koshū’s career, on the night when the New Year’s official appointments began—amid heavy snowfall—she visited Takatsukasa-dono to petition for his appointment, composing the poem: “Consider this, my lord—the heart that hastens to brush away the snow from my head before it melts.” Upon hearing this poem, Michinaga too was moved to pity, and thus granted Koshū his desired position as Governor of Izumi. “A sign remains where it was brushed away— / Behold the spring that parts the snow to emerge!” came the poem bestowed by either Michinaga or Rinshi—it remained unclear which. To this she responded by composing: “How my Izumi overflows with joy beyond all others—surely its snowmelt waters must surpass them all!” Here indeed was a woman who, to put it kindly, was impeccably tactful; to put it harshly, well-versed in worldly cunning. But what was even more surprising was that whenever her husband Korehira returned home, he would wear a clouded expression and seem lost in thought. Finding this strange, she asked, “What troubles you, my lord?” Pressed too insistently, Master Korehira—though his demeanor was none too pleasant—spilled the beans. In truth, Lord Kintō, the Middle Counselor of Shijō, intended to resign from his position as Middle Counselor. Thereupon, the same lord respectfully requested Ki no Sanae to draft his letter of resignation. Sanae took up the brush and wrote. However, it was not to His Lordship’s liking. And His Lordship once again entrusted Ōe no Koretoki with the task. Koretoki also took great pains to draft it. However, finding even Koretoki’s draft unsatisfactory, His Lordship ultimately made the request for this Korehira to compose the document. Sanae’s prose was elegant and dignified, while Koretoki’s displayed novelty and unleashed talent; though their styles differed, both were dragons of the literary seas and elephants of the mountains. Yet as neither man’s draft met His Lordship’s satisfaction—and with him now earnestly entrusting Korehira—where could Korehira possibly set his brush to craft his own work, given that two chapters of a composition on the same theme but of distinct character had already been completed? He said: “Though I attempted to decline and returned home—when I consider this matter—if even my composition should merely string together characters deemed unsatisfactory by His Lordship—it fills me with both frustration and anguish.” Though Lord Kintō had always excelled in scholarly and poetic arts, Emon found herself unable to respond when faced with her husband—one who made his living through writing—being both troubled and tormented by this predicament. It seemed only natural for such a man to struggle thus, yet she sank into contemplation, for few indeed were those who could interject advice to assist him in such matters.

Of course, Emon did not merely excel at poetry—judging from her compositions of verses on the Lotus Sutra’s twenty-eight chapters and the Vimalakīrti Sutra’s Ten Parables, she undoubtedly possessed scholarly learning as well. Yet when it came to matters of literary composition—her husband’s very profession—how could a woman presume to interject? However, being the talented woman she was, she knew both the bitter and the sweet of the world’s ways. “Your reasoning is sound—I do not presume to say Lord Sanae or Lord Koretoki’s compositions lack merit,” she advised. “However, as Lord Kintō is a man of exceedingly noble disposition, were one to extol his ancestors’ illustrious lineage and subtly convey a sense of stagnation in the text, it would likely align with his intentions and meet approval. What think you?” Here, Korehira nodded in understanding and—incorporating such implications—drafted the resignation letter, albeit interspersing it with a somewhat self-important tone. Indeed, it met with Lord Kintō’s approval: the petition requesting resignation from the positions of Middle Counselor and Left Guards Commander was formally submitted, and Korehira—at least in Lord Kintō’s eyes—was acknowledged as possessing greater literary authority than Sanae or Koretoki, thereby bringing him honor. That text remains extant today, which makes it fascinating to examine. When reading it, we find within: “I, your servant, having fortunately emerged from a family of successive high-ranking generations, through error attained an excessively illustrious office.” The passage stating, “Though my talent is clumsy and I have fallen into decline—unable to follow Huaiye’s precedents—I linger in dwelling under heavy illness; a willow branch should grow upon my left arm,” reveals pride cloaked in humility, making it thoroughly compelling. By declaring “one cannot follow Huaiye’s precedents” with a touch of sarcasm before invoking Zhuangzi’s “a willow branch should grow upon my left arm” with pompous solemnity—such passages likely made the highborn Lord Kintō crack a smile of approval. Then came further praise for Her Majesty the Empress Dowager: “Having received the grace of being treated as an adopted child, she has long served as Overseer of Chōshū; in matters of medicinal tasting, none could rival her.” He continued: “Though temporarily inheriting the dust of that hermitage—surely Her Majesty’s heart too was anguished—even her poetry bears this hardship.” The verse ended up overstepping propriety; using cedar imagery proved quite pitiful—no song by a poetry immortal this, but a tonally erratic verse resembling a strained fart in its awkwardness. However, having been chastened by this episode—the metaphorical fox seemingly dismissed—from then on, even Lord Korehira, with his hawk-like shoulders, towering stature, and unyielding pride, became subdued and reportedly transformed into a model father. This poem too is rather ineptly crafted—and lest people presume it was likely composed by some later tale-spinner—I must clarify beforehand that it does indeed appear in verifiable form within the Emon Collection.

Akazome Emon was such a woman. For such a woman—in the full flush of youth when blood surged through her veins and the heart’s fiery heat burned fiercely, all while basking in the warmth of married life—to learn that cold rains and sorrowful winds had arisen in the household of her kinsman Sadamoto due to a lowly seductress, leaving his young wife weeping in tears, made it impossible to feign indifference as though this were another’s affair. Moreover, as the turmoil gradually intensified and Sadamoto’s wife came to be tormented day by day, she may well have done something to seek aid from Emon. It wasn’t as if she sallied forth like some barrister, but naturally, Emon would have spoken up on various occasions for Sadamoto’s wife. It seemed the relationship between Sadamoto’s household and Emon was not merely one of familial closeness. This may be stating it a bit too strongly, but Sadamoto’s elder brother Tamekoto—in genealogical records, he is noted as a poet, Doctor of Letters, Senior Fifth Rank Lower Grade, and Governor of Settsu. It appeared that between this man and Emon, there existed no ordinary exchange of feelings. In books of that era recording casual conversations, as far as can be ascertained, no romantic tales involving Emon and Tamekoto were to be found, nor was it clear whether any love story between them ever existed; yet clear evidence remained that Tamekoto and Emon had exchanged no small number of poems. Even if such love had existed between them, it might have ended with both parties remaining reserved; moreover, it remained a fact that Tamekoto was sickly and died young. In any case, this matter was set aside and left as it stands.

However, that mutual visits later came to pass between the mother of the Tamekoto and Sadamoto brothers and Emon was likewise clearly evident from the several exchanged poems that remained. There were instances where poems had been exchanged—Sadamoto’s mother composing verses on plum blossoms and pinks, to which Emon responded—and another time when Sadamoto’s mother lodged at Emon’s house. Late into the moonlit night, with only insect cries sounding as all others had fallen asleep, the elderly woman gave voice to her sorrowful sentiment: “Even gazing from the clouds’ abode would suffice—must I now behold this moon dwelling in my sleeves?” Though Tamekoto and Sadamoto did have younger brothers—Narikimoto and Takamoto—to be parted from those two stalwart sons and compose *“Ah, to behold this moon dwelling in my sleeves…”*—what a sorrowful poem that was! Emon too, overcome by sentiment, responded: “The moon at daybreak flows into my sleeves—ah, these insect voices of sorrowful times.” This poem is included in the Shokukokinshū. Since they were family, their interactions must have been as frequent as this—nothing strange about that.

Such were the familial ties between them. Such was the character of Akazome Emon. Sympathizing with Sadamoto’s oppressed young wife and siding with his mother—who naturally showed no inclination to support Rikiju—Emon one day admonished Sadamoto against becoming infatuated with Rikiju solely for her beauty, urging him to treat his wife with kindness. Truly, it was flawless in diction, masterfully blending reason and emotion—a beautiful and supremely skillful articulation of principles. Those who possess wealth can lend their resources to support the poor; those who possess talent can lend their abilities to aid the inept—it is the natural order that such things arise spontaneously. Thus when someone of Akazome Emon’s caliber had her son Kagemochi fall in love, she would often compose waka—the supreme weapon in romance—on his behalf and have them sent to the woman in question. Truly a reliable and admirable mother; young master Kagemochi must have become quite the fine gentleman through her aid. Those poems remain clearly extant today—their authenticity beyond doubt. However, the woman—still young herself—could not craft a reply matching Akazome Emon’s expertly composed proxy poem. Fortunately, she had an elder sister figure in the renowned poetess Izumi Shikibu, whom she asked to compose the response instead. The proxy love poems composed by Izumi Shikibu also remain extant to this day. Since both were seasoned practitioners of their craft, what amounted to eloquent arguments between two love advocates—presented as a splendid affair—eventually led to this outcome: an odious old man named Takamutsu no Kami Moronao commissioning Urabe no Kenkō, a monk reeking of raw vitality, to compose love letters. The poem by Akazome Emon included in the *Ogura Hyakunin Isshu*—*“If only I’d lain sleepless to see the moon sink low past midnight!”*—is truly excellent, yet that too sprang not from Emon’s own emotions; it was composed on another’s behalf, a realistic depiction of circumstances at the time. An awe-inspiring masterpiece—its continuous flow of emotion (“to see the moon sink low”)—the crisp resonance of its two-character *kana*, deployed as she did; among hundreds of millions of *kana* employed through history, such potency remains unmatched. When sent such a poem, a man would become like a dragonfly ensnared in a spider’s thread—truly bound by *kana*, one might say. When faced with an Akazome Emon of such caliber—her overflowing talents deployed on the opposing side, moreover speaking from righteous principle—even someone like Sadamoto stood no chance. At least temporarily, he had no choice but to concede with a “Most reasonable indeed.”

However, things did not proceed in that manner. For Sadamoto, Rikiju’s charm had pierced him to the marrow. No—it was not merely piercing to the marrow; his very soul had long since flown forth and burrowed deep into Rikiju’s bosom. His wife was no longer his wife—she had become less than flying petals on a sleeve or fallen leaves beneath one’s feet. There must have been times when his wife resented him with piercing eyes—but to him, it likely appeared as mere fireflies beyond a garden fence. There must have been times when his mother admonished him with a loving gaze—but even that, though regrettable, lingered in his heart no longer than the shadow of a bird at the cloud’s edge. No matter how much a poetess or talented woman she might be—with well-rounded common sense and considerable capability—even Akazome Emon was merely the wife of a cousin. No matter what such a person said, it likely did not enter Sadamoto’s ears from the start. Neither offering rebuttal nor launching counterattack, he dismissed it all with an air of “cicada voices among the trees—listened to, yet nothing entering one’s mind,” and that was that. Even Emon—being a woman of such caliber—must have passionately pleaded in every way possible, her efforts like strength misdirected against a shop curtain. Yet humans possess not only innate character and skill but also a stature of obstinacy; thus, Emon’s reach could not extend to Sadamoto’s foolishly towering obstinacy—no tangible response could arise. In this world exist those of towering stature yet utter incapability—in times of war, they are merely cut down like pampas grass; in times of peace, they end up as society’s nuisances, reduced to volunteering for madness. Sadamoto was assuredly such a man of obstinate height. Thus, Emon found herself reduced to a state where her self-respect and dignity had been wounded—a most unpleasant outcome. Left idle-handed, she now faced loss of honor before Sadamoto’s wife and mother, her reputation somewhat diminished. With profound displeasure churning within, she had no choice but to retreat after uttering to Sadamoto little more than: “I implore you to consider this matter properly.” Here one might wish to briefly set down how Emon skillfully pleaded, eloquently argued, and tenaciously wove her narrative—but to detail the grappling techniques of a lost sumo bout would be rather lame, so I shall omit it.

Sadamoto had dismissed it as no more than unpleasant smoke brushing past his nose, but what refused to settle was the turmoil within Emon’s heart. It wasn’t that there was no direct pain for Emon, but for her thoughts to vanish without any tangible effect—like scattering a pinch of ash into the wind—was something galling to anyone. For those possessed of considerable self-respect, such an experience was apt to evoke feelings more abhorrent and repugnant than suffering a minor blow oneself. Moreover, even toward me—with whom there should be mutual respect rather than hatred or aversion—this man who shows such contempt or scorn now proceeds from mere dislike to outright hatred or abuse toward his wife. If he were to hear even a hint of words from outsiders sympathizing with her and condemning him, I imagine he would only intensify his loathing and mistreatment of her. Not only does this make me unbearably sorry for the wife, but my own resentment toward the man surges forth uncontrollably. It wasn’t that my mental equilibrium was entirely lost—but like the small bubbles that form and burst, burst and reform, as hard porridge simmers, an unquiet, ceaseless churning arose and subsided without pause in the pit of my stomach. Thereupon, Emon finally related the circumstances to her husband Korehira, spoke of Sadamoto’s recent poor conduct, informed him of his wife’s pitiful state, and pleaded for him to do something about it. Men being men, they were reluctant to involve themselves in such matters. Korehira initially tried to let the matter pass as it was. However, Emon skillfully recounted. Had Korehira let this pass without intervention, he likely could not help but feel that he too would be perceived by his own wife as a man cold toward her, were he ever in the same position as Sadamoto. Therefore, acting more from his feelings toward his own wife than toward Sadamoto, it was decided that he would find an opportunity to speak with Sadamoto. The relationship between Korehira and Emon was indeed one of genuine harmony.

There was nothing more dangerous than intervening in the discord between a man and a woman. If the couple were to reconcile afterward, those who mediated would never be viewed favorably—for they were mere outsiders privy to both parties’ old wounds. Moreover, if reconciliation ultimately proved impossible, there had naturally been no point in speaking at all. Yet when it came to matters among relatives, it became a different affair. However, both Korehira and Sadamoto were at that vigorous age brimming with ambition; each possessed learning and talent, and even in casual exchanges neither would concede defeat. Thus it was only natural that discussions of this sort were unlikely to yield favorable results. Fortunately, since both men were neither foolish nor arrogant, the matter ended without becoming fodder for gossip. Yet their mutual affections grew distant—Korehira remained Korehira, Sadamoto remained Sadamoto—each standing aloof until they ended up estranged. One party must have subtly admonished about the futility of being captivated by transient beauties like roadside blossoms and wallside willows, emphasizing the importance of self-cultivation and family harmony. Since there was no way to oppose this argument, the other party must have remained silent. This silence created an awkward impasse; moreover, given that the Ōe family stood upon Confucian principles—unless truly extraordinary circumstances justified domestic discord leading to a wife’s dismissal—such actions would invite particular censure from society and prove highly disadvantageous for the entire clan. To this too, the other party likely remained silent again. They must have discussed even the specifics of the Seven Grounds for Repudiation. The Seven Grounds for Repudiation were: first, failure to bear a child; second, licentiousness; third, failure to serve parents-in-law; fourth, garrulousness; fifth, theft; sixth, jealousy; seventh, incurable disease. To this Sadamoto could have raised the two articles of garrulousness and jealousy to argue his case; however, since he was not currently insisting on dismissing his wife, he likely remained silent as before. No matter what was said, he kept silent. Having been disregarded like his wife Emon—passed over in silence—Korehira himself must have reached his limit. Finally broaching how Rikiju’s extraordinary beauty lay at the root of Sadamoto’s obsession, he must have turned his spear toward the very concept of physical allure. Though likening her to monstrous beauties like Daji or Baosi seemed excessive—given how aptly “indulging in lust” applied—he likely recalled how Shen Gong Wu Chen had admonished King Zhuang of Chu when he sought Lady Xia Ji after conquering Chen: “To indulge in lust is licentiousness; licentiousness invites grave punishment”—thus declaring such indulgence foolish. The phrase “greed for beauty” struck home inexorably to those who cherished feminine comeliness. Lady Xia Ji may have been baseborn beyond doubt she was exceedingly beautiful. King Zhuang heeded Wu Chen’s counsel and averted disaster—but just as Wu Chen had called her an ill-omened woman she became one who sowed misfortune wherever she went.

He may not have explicitly compared Rikiju to Xia Ji, but a phrase like "indulging in lust" must have struck Sadamoto like an arrow to the heart. For he had indeed been wallowing in carnal desires. All people might dismiss admonishments that miss their vital spot, yet when words chance to touch that reverse scale—the raw nerve of one's secret shame—anger inevitably flares. Flames of opposition and hostility would erupt. Though Sadamoto had maintained an unpleasant expression up to this point without overt resistance—listening with dismissive detachment—he now exploded. One reason lay in his private agonizing over his aging wife, who clung like a grain of rice perpetually stuck to his heel—constantly wondering *how* to dislodge her. Another resembled struggling with an impossible silk knot: just as someone yanked one thread with well-meant force, rendering all hope of unraveling void, he resolved inwardly—*Enough! Let scissors sever this bother!* Sadamoto suddenly chanted, unbefitting his house's dignity: "Such cause! Such condition! Cause begets condition! Karmic bonds admit no moral judgment! Even sages divorced displeasing wives—precedents exist! How much more for us!" He stiffened his spine defiantly. Korehira uttered "Hah!" and recoiled slightly. Months of pent-up frustration now poured from Sadamoto's lips: "As Tan Gong records—when Zishang's mother died unmourned—we see Zisi, Confucius' grandson, clearly divorced his wife. Moreover, when disciples asked Zisi 'Did your late father mourn his divorced mother?'—this shows Zisi's father Bo Yu likewise dismissed his spouse!" "No—the same chapter states: 'When Bo Yu's mother died, he wailed beyond mourning rites.' Thus Confucius himself cast out Lady Guan of Kai after she bore his son! What justification could exist? This unlearned one finds no sense in attributing it to mere 'karmic discord'!" "None dare claim the Sage lacked virtue to govern his household!" "Yet the Sage taught: 'Highest wisdom and lowest folly remain unmoved.'" "'Unmoved' implies even virtuous influence cannot reach them!" "Might youthful impatience have moved even Confucius to discard his wife? Or did Lady Guan harbor some hidden flaw?" "Ancient matters defy present scrutiny—we fools perceive only inscrutable karma!" he retorted unexpectedly. This eruption stemmed not from superior learning, but months of wrestling with his own marital snare.

Korehira could not help but recoil slightly. In sumo terms, had Sadamoto’s initial charge been swifter here, Korehira would have been effortlessly pushed from the ring. But as Sadamoto had no intention of contesting victory, he refrained from pressing the attack. Yet Korehira clearly felt himself being repelled and faltering. But Korehira too was a broad-shouldered man of obstinate character; he could not endure being ousted from a scholarly debate. Though plainly not having come to quarrel, he detested retreating like a defeated man. Being the prodigy he was—a man who composed prose as if leading crack troops across Awazu’s shores—he might have argued that while the Tan Gong chapter exists in the Book of Rites, its accounts of Zisi being a man of the Six States stemmed from hearsay and merited little credence. Yet rather than bluntly voicing such pedantry, he deftly parried Sadamoto’s thrust with an “Indeed…” before pausing briefly. Then, as if struck by sudden insight, he smirked faintly: “Doubtless the Sage did dismiss a temperamentally incompatible wife. Yet even after parting with her, he never took another woman as spouse—the proof being Confucius sired only Bo Yu through Lady Guan of Kai, with no younger siblings born thereafter. As for whether he welcomed a subsequent wife from some clan—this unlearned one has yet to encounter such accounts.” The discourse thus achieved consummate diplomatic finesse. This time, rather than meeting Sadamoto’s thrust head-on, it was as if he had lightly pulled back the proffered hand only to shove sideways. Sadamoto found no resistance, yet felt himself steered askew. Even were one to dismiss his wife, came the implication, Rikiju should not be installed afterward. From the start, invoking sages had been an odd gambit; thus did oddness beget oddness. Though their discussion had concerned life’s practicalities, their contest in stilted circumlocution transformed it into bookish antiquity. Yet this too proved fortuitous—the matter dissolved into scholarly trifling, settling without rancor or jagged edges.

Yet both men surely understood in their hearts that this was no ordinary exchange of scholarly discourse or social pleasantries. For Korehira—who had gone out of his way to offer well-meaning counsel—to think *What an obstinate fool!* while Sadamoto, for his part, fumed *What impertinence! First lecturing me about that upstart courtesan, now playing the pedant—all because some meddling woman from my household must have blabbed!*—this could only mean his resentment festered beyond repair. Such is the nature of karmic bonds—whether improving or deteriorating, all unfolds thus. Kindness turned bane, aid became hindrance; Sadamoto grew ever more distant from his wife, while she resented her husband all the more. Cold stares and muttered jealousies clashed daily until, in some impulsive moment, Sadamoto at last declared he would cast her out. The woman wept and laughed in turns, but with no recourse left, she finally left the house. We now lack sufficient materials to know in detail the formalities of separation at that time, but in any case, there could have been no possibility of parting with beautiful smiles. The man’s wrathful glare and the woman’s rancor—they must have separated in a manner as disgraceful and abhorrent as could be. For without that, there would have been no way for them to part. For the woman especially, with her entire life being blotted out with ink, Sadamoto’s wife must have resented him, loathed him, despised her former husband as less than human, and cursed him: *May your end be wretched! May you fall into hell! Become a beast! Suffer as an asura! Torment as a hungry ghost!* And as she gazed upon her own future—a world devoid of light, color, or scent, nothing but pitch-black, icy darkness—she must have been overwhelmed with sorrow and dread, unable to bear the anguish.

In all the human world, there was nothing more deserving of sympathy than a woman undergoing marital separation. Since this could never stem from pure virtue, one could not doubt that instances undeserving of sympathy existed. For example, even if Sadamoto had been infatuated with Rikiju, had his wife's jealousy been but slightly less intense, he might not have been driven to dismiss her—or so one might surmise. However, no matter the circumstances, since she was a woman whose entire life's joys and sorrows depended on another, whether for better or worse, she could not endure being parted from the man fate had assigned her. Compared to that, men had it fifty percent—no, a hundred percent better. In extreme cases, they parted with women in the manner of discarding a raincoat once the storm had passed or abandoning a boat when the river ran dry, then quipped with breezy nonchalance: "Ah, what a relief!" Yet despite this, since such men were not outright villains, it made one doubt whether morality truly resided within love—whatever the case, women stood on disadvantaged ground. Sadamoto was of course no villain—to put it in equine terms, he resembled a high-strung horse; as a man, he was likely one of unyielding principle. And now that he had managed to expel his wife, he must have felt truly unburdened, pouring all his passion into loving Rikiju. In his post at Mikawa as its first-ranking Governor—where all others were subordinate officials and servants under him, his actions unrestricted, his meals of the highest quality, his official duties in this peaceful era leisurely, with not a single matter failing to go as he wished—he must have delighted in a life of complete freedom and comfort to his heart's content: galloping through mountains and fields during hunts to work up a pleasant sweat on some days; on others, when heaven moistened the earth and rains fell softly, engaging in refined pursuits by bright windows and clean desks—incense burners, poetry volumes, recitations, and brushwork—to cultivate his temperament. Yet such favorable circumstances could not last forever—for no flower retained its crimson hue for a hundred days, and even jade trees must wither. Such was life's fixed course; how could nature's workings spare this man alone from pity? Perhaps the curse of the wife he had cast out had taken effect. Without any clear beginning, Rikiju began to ail. Though medical practice remained rudimentary at the time, there were still appropriate measures one could take. There were Eleven-Faced Kannon rituals, Medicine Buddha rituals, various other rites—this ritual and that—as well as numerous prayer techniques. The illness brought little acute suffering, yet she weakened like a flower wilting in its vase beneath fair skies—or a flawless melon sheltered within its basket, slowly forfeiting its jeweled sheen—fading by degrees. Sadamoto grew restless. He increasingly took out his anger on others. He had increasingly come to savor sorrow alone. In his pursuit of medical treatments, he grew somewhat frenzied.

At times, as though her illness had slightly abated and vigor returned, a faint blush would tinge her emaciated, translucent face—manifesting a beauty so astonishing it stole one’s breath—yet this very occurrence signaled the disease’s relentless advance. The patient felt profound gratitude for Sadamoto’s devotion and forced herself to drink the bitter medicine from his hand, feigning delight as she swallowed. For Sadamoto, knowing this truth was excruciating. When he offered her the holy water from rituals—the pure water placed before the principal image—its sweetness made her drink with genuine pleasure. She smiled faintly at him, and to think she now found such joy in mere cold water filled Sadamoto with unbearable sorrow that made him weep silently within. The illness showed no sign of abating. Like a steadfast horse advancing with measured strides, it progressed unwaveringly toward decline. That death’s bottomless valley drew near had become clear to Sadamoto’s mind; that Rikiju too perceived this truth grew evident before their eyes. Yet both strained to keep hearts and words from touching that abhorrent reality. They could not bear to relinquish each other—their clinging hearts growing ever stronger as worldly realities waned.

There could be no day when the sun’s course ceased. The time came, and its shadow flowed away.

Rikiju finally passed away peacefully, like one realizing the wind had died when tree leaves ceased swaying. Sadamoto felt as though he too had died alongside her, but this proved transient—what would not die did not die. He had indeed survived. They had parted. The soul that had been two made one—she abandoned herself; I could not follow her; she departed, and I remained. He was simply left in a blank, dazed state.

There is a proverb that says, "The living pity one another; the dead cast one another aside." Had he followed that proverb, Sadamoto should have promptly summoned monks to chant sutras and conducted the funeral rites at the fields' edge. However, Sadamoto's attachment was far too deep to advance such social matters in accordance with ordinary customs; though Rikiju had died and indeed abandoned her self, he could not bear to abandon her. He had left tasks like changing the woven mats, adjusting the desk, offering flowers, and burning incense entirely to the servants' discretion. But as he had not issued the command to summon monks and enshrine her in a coffin, no one dared undertake these final rites. One day passed, then two. Was it due to the nature of her illness that even now, after several days had passed, her countenance remained as though she were still alive? Sadamoto remained by her side day and night, consumed by helpless anguish, no longer in control of his own body or mind, passing the time in a dazed stupor. An ancient text describes this scene as follows: “Overwhelmed by grief, someone lay prostrate and kissed [the corpse’s] mouth—but when a foul stench emerged from those lips, disgust arose within them, and they wept bitterly as they pulled away.” In life, she was a person; in death, she became a thing. Sadamoto had of course felt attachment to the person; he had not felt attachment to the thing. However, since the thing still resembled a person, he must have remained by its side all that time. And then at some point—unexpectedly—he must have brought my mouth close to the corpse’s mouth. The ancient text that had simply written "when [someone] sucked [her] mouth" was truly splendid. It says, 'a dreadful stench emerged from [her] mouth,' but that was truly a loathsome stench beyond anyone’s imagining—indeed, the very essence of that which is called appalling. The breath of one approaching death emits a rare scent incomparable to any other—commonly feared and shunned as “smelling of Buddha”—but how much more unbearable must it have been to suck the mouth of one who had been dead for days, however deep the attachment. However, Sadamoto was, as expected, a man of true mettle—love and obsession having reached this point had driven him to the very brink. At that moment, the decaying corpse—*How delightful, Lord Sadamoto*—spoke these words as its toothpick-thin, icy hands coiled around the man’s neck and clung desperately. What manner of being this might have been remains unknowable, but since the Dharma wheel of nature did not reverse its course, Sadamoto recoiled backward, trembling in horror at the appalling stench. Humans are strange creatures—they will taste, savor, chew, and swallow the carcasses of bonito and tuna from distant seas with which they have no connection, so kissing the mouth of a beloved woman should be utterly natural. Yet they cannot do so. If it had been a dakini, this would have been a feast to devour the corpse—but Sadamoto was no dakini, being human, and thus retreated back. Regarding this passage, Kokan the monk writes, "Through bereavement of spouse, using profound affection to prolong mourning; through observing the nine phases, deeply cultivating renunciation," but this phrasing overreaches in literary embellishment, straying far from the facts. The nine phases expound the transformative process of a corpse: bloated phase, livid phase, ruptured phase, bloody phase, purulent phase, infested phase, scattered phase, skeletal phase, and ashen phase. However, no matter how much one prolonged mourning, one did not leave [the body] unburied long enough to observe all nine phases—the Major Counselor’s “when [someone] sucked [her] mouth” is far superior writing.

Thereby, Sadamoto buried Rikiju. The character 葬 depicts discarding a corpse amidst grass both above and below—abandoning it in a thicket. The word hōmuru means to cast away, throwing it out into fields or mountains to conclude. The end of a person beyond all help—whether one does such things or has such things done—is but natural. The living pity one another; the dead cast one another aside—Rikiju Sadamoto finally parted in death.

Having been abandoned by Rikiju and having abandoned Rikiju in turn—what became of Sadamoto? There was no particular form, no such state—there was nothing but emptiness there. Sadamoto, within that void—his head neither upholding heaven nor feet treading earth, unaware of east or west, unable to discern north from south, incapable of distinguishing right from wrong, good from evil, fortune from misfortune, righteousness from wickedness—understanding nothing, drifted aimlessly through his days.

Within this emptiness, April arrived, and the time came for the annual Wind Festival ritual. Though called a Wind Festival, it was not the refined sort described in the Manyoshu anthology—where one might dread storms harming blossoms and plead *"Do not blow, winds! Cross beyond this place—hold your Wind Festival in forests famed for bearing such names!"* It was a Shinto ritual of that time in rural Mikawa, where they offered living sacrifices to the gods and prayed that violent storms and ill winds would not ravage the rice fields. The intent was certainly not a bad one; the practice had been conducted year after year. Sadamoto was the Governor of Mikawa; he naturally participated in the ritual. However, the act of offering these living sacrifices involved dragging a wild boar alive before the deity, whereupon the men slaughtered it without mercy. Even wild boars, though dull-witted creatures, do not resign themselves to being slaughtered; if they attempt to flee, they will also resist. In the end, unable to prevail, they would emit strange cries and die in sorrow and distress. Sadamoto saw this and found it repulsive. But since he could not halt it midway, he steeled himself and saw it through to the end. He did not know when the practice of living sacrifices had begun, but in our land, it seemed absent in the pure ancient Age of the Gods. In China, this seems to have existed since ancient times, and it is likely that the concept of sacrifice was transmitted to our divine land alongside the influx of Chinese thought and culture. Indeed, the *Konjaku Monogatari* already contains tales of human sacrifice, which became the progenitor of later heroic narratives such as those of Miyamoto Saemonnosuke. In societies midway through their development, there may indeed be a tendency to justify sacrifices; yet when one sees the trembling steps of livestock, even if offered to the gods, one cannot help but doubt—from the perspective of humanity’s benevolent side—whether this constitutes a good act or not. To rephrase—is this so-called social good that deems sacrifices acceptable truly good? One cannot help but doubt whether it is so or not. However, from the standpoint of heroism, sacrifices offered to the gods are of course not even worth discussing; since denying such things would dismantle the very structure of the state, it is the reality of human society that none may question sacrifice unless they live in solitary seclusion among rocky caves. Now, it was a short while after that.

Since he had until now taken pleasure in hunting and such, someone presented a live pheasant to Sadamoto. Sadamoto declared, "I shall cook and eat this pheasant alive. How fine the flavor must be! I shall try it." The coarse-hearted ones among the servants, who regarded their master as divine, declared, "Indeed, my lord—the flavor would surely be all the more exquisite," while those with some understanding thought it cruel yet did not venture to dissuade him. When they finally had it plucked—grabbing and holding down the pheasant as it flapped wildly—they plucked it thoroughly. The bird, unable to endure, fluttered its tear-filled eyes and looked at the people around. Some, meeting its gaze, found themselves unable to bear the pity and withdrew, while others—amused by its continued cries—laughed as they kept plucking away. Once they had finished plucking it, when they had it slaughtered, blood gushed out in droplets following the blade, and it let out unbearable agonized final cries before dying. When he said, "Roast it alive and see for yourself," the heartless lowly man did exactly as told and declared, "This is unexpectedly splendid! Roasting it alive far surpasses cooking it dead." After all, they were this world’s so-called heroes. Sadamoto had been watching fixedly, but at last could no longer endure it; he cried out loudly, renounced his own pretensions of heroism, and—the Governor of Mikawa being now nothing more than a hollow title—without even pausing to straighten his court robes, departed the provincial capital for the imperial city like autumn leaves scattered by the wind.

Of course, he had resigned all his official posts and ranks. There were undoubtedly those who doubted and questioned him, those who tried to stop him; there were certainly those among his clan and friends who condemned him. But now, he had become—recklessly, forcibly, regardless of anything—a solitary, non-social creature, nothing more than a mere living being. To offer sacrifices was deemed righteous; to neglect offering sacrifices was regarded as grave disrespect toward the gods, an immoral act, and a great evil. The demand for sacrifice constitutes divine authority and noble virtue—the natural law of an all-encompassing, supremely benevolent deity. In certain instances, one may willingly become a divine sacrifice, offering one’s own flesh, blood, liver, and brain to the gods; this is deemed pure morality—the supreme, grandest, most beautiful, most sublime manifestation of a magnificent spirit. Thus does society stand robustly established through such alignment with divine will. Indeed, without this, no solid society could ever be established. It is through the accumulation and continuity of sacrifices that society as such is established. The denial of sacrifice represents the most base, petty, and inferior spirit; those who coerce demands for sacrifice, forcibly extract it, or skillfully contrive its necessity are heroes and wise men. If sacrifices are not accepted, one cannot even obtain a single crucian carp or an egg. What does it matter to prepare one or two pheasants alive for the sake of savoring them well? What does one or two wild boars sacrificed to the Wind God matter? Yi Ya roasted his own child as a dish and offered it to his lord, it is said. What manner of beings are these intermediaries who handle sacrifices—are they cowards or heroes? Since society is already established through the accumulation and continuity of sacrifices, there must exist vast numbers of those who handle sacrifices—but no, the true nature of this human world is that nearly all people become sacrifices to one another, take sacrifices from one another, and act as handlers of sacrifices. Among humans, willingly becoming sacrifices for one another is love; coercing sacrifices from one another is conflict; and the various forms of sacrifice that are neither—self, other, or in between—are precisely the true nature of this saha world. I had lost the world of love that was but an illusion and become a denizen of the saha world—the realm of endurance. Yet dwelling in this saha world, I had no desire to seek that illusory realm again, nor to encounter—sooner or later—the scent of wretched things once more. Thus aimlessly, neither thinking nor not-thinking, I passed days indistinguishable as the steady drizzle of the rainy season. If spoken by one who had already transcended such a state, he had been engaged in what might be called toiling in the demonic caverns beneath Black Mountain. Just then, a servant abruptly appeared there, holding something unknown—a thin, basket-like object—in his hands.

"What is it?" he asked. The aged man responded with utmost composure. He explained how a woman of respectable bearing—though worn by poverty and sorrow—had earnestly begged them to properly purchase this mirror she brought, adding that while he found it unnecessary, he could not refuse her desperate plea and thus presented it here. What relevance could this mirror hold for Sadamoto now? Yet when Sadamoto pressed further, it emerged she was likely a fifth or sixth-rank official’s wife—whether through her husband’s prolonged illness or other misfortunes, she had fallen into dire straits and now sought to sacrifice her most treasured mirror to survive. Mirrors remained precious objects in those days. As Sadamoto opened the basket to inspect it, faint brushstrokes on withered wrapping paper revealed a verse: "Let today be last I gaze upon this glass—my tears’ companion through mirrored days past. Speak not of shadows cast." Though the full circumstances eluded him, the woman’s anguish—selling what she deemed her very soul—rose vivid in his mind. Darkly closing his eyes, he tilted his face upward as unbearable pity overwhelmed him. "Return the mirror if I’ve no use for it," he instructed, wiping tear-damp eyes. "Let her take whatever she needs from my belongings without stint—show fullest mercy." Who was this mirror-bearing woman? Some karmic connection? A Bunka-Bunsei romance would weave intricate tales here—yet truth remained veiled. Likely mere chance had conjured this encounter. Yet forced to rationalize: when one seeks escape from defiled realms, causes for enlightenment mysteriously manifest—a Hinayana teaching attributes this to Jōjiten’s workings. By that logic, Jōjiten himself had come calling. By aiding her plight through generous alms-giving, Sadamoto found himself strangely refreshed and uplifted. At last he resolutely abandoned his home. His mother surely shed tears of parting love—yet being no obstructer of paths, she likely clasped hands in prayer at his receding form. The verse "Renounce worldly bonds for non-action; thus truly repay debts" must have echoed endlessly in Sadamoto’s heart—and through his mother’s tears, blending grief with pious joy.

Sadamoto hurried to Higashiyama Nyoirin-ji Temple. There resided Venerable Jakushin—Yasutane Yoshishige, former Senior Secretary, now in his ultimate monastic form. Sadamoto sat formally before Jakushin and, laying bare the depths of his being, sought the enlightened wisdom of Jakushin. Though only two or three years had passed since Jakushin left secular life, he now stood completely separated from the muddy waters of worldly existence—serenely clear and radiant. Having long shed both the adhesions of floating-world attachments and the gaudy golden trappings of Buddha-worship, he dwelled solely in the samadhi of impartial compassion. What manner of conversation passed between them—whether it even occurred—remains unknown. Yet when their karmic conditions aligned—he revered as teacher, the disciple accepted—Sadamoto finally shaved his head, received ordination, and became the novice monk known as Jōshō. It was Eien 2 (988 CE), and as for his age, he was still thirty or thirty-one. He had truly made up his mind.

After taking monastic vows, Jōshō lived in pure tranquility, holding fast to Buddhist devotion, striving in spiritual practice, and expounding the Dharma—with no other thoughts beyond these. Before his eyes, each day unfolded with increasing clarity until observing the great chiliocosm became akin to viewing a sweetmeat resting in one's palm; the future spread forth moment by moment in vividness, until he had likely come to believe even a hundred million leagues might pass like a single polished highway stretching straight ahead. The study of Buddhist teachings had likely involved not only Jakushin’s guidance but also instructions from Genshin—who was both friend and teacher to Jakushin—as he entrusted himself to his sharp and keen innate capacity to engage in meticulous and austere practice. Since Genshin was by nature a man of meticulous and rigorous scholarship, Jōshō likely greatly benefited by following his guidance—which is probably why accounts arose of Jōshō being spoken of as Genshin’s disciple. Moreover, since Genshin also strictly practiced ascetic disciplines, Her Majesty Empress Junshi of the En’yū-in had new golden vessels forged to make offerings to him. However, deeming this excessive, Genshin reportedly ceased his alms-begging—a rumor that has even been passed down in Ōkagami. The term "ascetic practices" refers to twelve disciplines that Buddhist disciples must properly observe. While these are not limited solely to alms-begging, the third practice among them—the method of constant alms-begging within the prescribed categories of two for clothing, four for food, and six for dwelling—has naturally come to form the core of the twelve practices. Thus when one speaks of undertaking ascetic practices, it has become equivalent to speaking of alms-begging. Fundamentally speaking, ascetic practices aim to cleanse this saha world—neither elegant, perfect, nor pure. To do so, one becomes a child of Buddha and takes refuge in Buddhist teachings: content to wear tattered robes whose filthy hues cannot even be discerned; to eat food not obtained through occupations driven by desire; to dwell in places that neither exclude others nor protect oneself; and single-mindedly aspire to attain the cool, unafflicted enlightenment—this is what constitutes ascetic practices. The constant alms-begging within these ascetic practices serves ten purposes: First, it serves as the process through which this body—born of karmic causes—may reach liberation. Second, it causes those who offer me food to take refuge in the Three Jewels: the Buddha, Dharma, and Sangha. Third, it evokes compassion in those who provide me sustenance. Fourth, it demonstrates my lack of self-attachment as I comply with Buddhist teachings. Fifth, it is an accessible method—easily sustained and nourished. Sixth, it destroys arrogance, the root of all evils. Seventh, by performing the lowliest practices, one attains supreme spiritual realization. Eighth, it inspires others cultivating virtuous roots to emulate this path. Ninth, it detaches one from worldly entanglements of gender and status. Tenth, through gradual alms-begging, one cultivates a mind of equality and nondiscrimination among all sentient beings. Thus, when excessively elaborate offerings were presented, it was only natural that Genshin would say of those resplendent meal arrangements, "This is too garish to behold." Indeed, it was characteristic of Genshin to deem such glittering, sparkling things "visually oppressive." This was Jōshō, who was like Genshin’s disciple. This was the man who had been Governor of Mikawa just yesterday; today, he was a novice monk with no trace of that former self. Gradual alms-begging likely was not deemed painful, yet it must have been rather trying. Gradual alms-begging refers to not selecting between wealthy or poor households but holding a bowl and proceeding from door to door to beg for food. One day, Jōshō undertook ascetic practices like his teacher Genshin. With a single bowl and three robes, he calmly stood before each house to beg for food. Then he was called into one of the houses. When he entered and looked inside, they had prepared food properly and were attempting to make offerings by laying out tatami mats in the garden. Without any particular thought, he sat on the tatami and, chanting, attempted to eat. At that moment, as someone rolled up the bamboo blind that had been lowered facing there and looked at you*,* *the figure of a woman adorned in fine attire gradually appeared*. The bamboo blind was fully raised.

“Who told you?” the woman said. “I wanted to see that beggar brought to such a state.” Jōshō saw the woman. The woman saw Jōshō. Their eyes met unmistakably. She was precisely the woman Jōshō had expelled when he was Sadamoto, Governor of Mikawa. In her eyes swirled immeasurable things— Something like resentment’s venom, something crowing in triumph, something icy, something of utter contempt, something resembling pity after scorn and abuse, something savoring anew the pain of her own sinking into misfortune, and conversely something like an ice-forged blade that sought to endlessly mock and torment—all seeking to carve deep, spiraling wounds into every part of Sadamoto’s being. To parse each element would be thus, yet none existed separately. All coalesced into a single toxic blaze—blue, yellow, red, white—flames devoid of true radiance erupting forth to engulf him. Then the woman smiled—a thin smile drawn slow and dull. Whether it could be called a smile remained unclear—something eerie and ghastly, found in no painting or sculpture.

If Sadamoto had remained Sadamoto, it would have been because a stone had been cast into pond water, thereby purifying the turbulent waves that had sullied his heart. I saw how all vicious blades and weapons—swords, spears, halberds—that sought to slash, stab, and gouge me transformed as they were about to strike; their sharp edges became wondrous lotus buds that fell to earth. The alms food he gave me allowed him to perfect his dāna pāramitā, while my receiving it from him and repaying with Dharma teachings enabled me to perfect my own dāna pāramitā—thus I witnessed the wondrous function of swiftly attaining fruition. Jōshō said “Ah, precious one,” ate with composure, chanted a hymn praising equal benefit for self and others, then quietly departed that place.

As for Śīla Pāramitā and Vīrya Pāramitā, Jōshō devoted himself ever more earnestly to the path. What became of her thereafter remains unrecorded, but as she was likely an educated woman of her class, she was probably guided by Buddhist connections to receive conversion. Jōshō, positioned between Jakushin and Genshin, studied under other eminent monks as well. His learning and virtue daily advanced until he came to be revered and relied upon by the monastic community, becoming a sōzu without many years passing. Titles like sōzu and sōjō were created by the secular world for administrative convenience in organizing the religious community; fundamentally speaking, they were neither honors nor should they have existed. However, that Jōshō was made a sōzu is recorded in the Akazome Collection. Though Jakushin apparently never accepted monastic bureaucratic titles, he naturally gained widespread veneration during his lifetime. Later generations even claimed he could bend all under heaven nearly to his will through spiritual influence. Yet even Fujiwara no Michinaga—who in winter of Kannin 2 (1018 CE), puffed up with self-satisfied joy after composing that truly paltry poem ("This world I deem my own domain; Like the full moon lacking any wane")—ultimately requested Jakushin to serve as his ordination master. Though Michinaga receiving the Three Refuges and Five Precepts from Jakushin did not particularly enhance Jakushin's prestige, one cannot help finding it peculiar that Chancellor Mido—that man of immense fortune and supreme arrogance—should have made this emaciated, meek Jakushin his ordination master, sitting before him as a white-robed disciple with such uncharacteristic humility. Jakushin departed this world in the tenth month of Chōhō 4 (1002 CE) as if falling asleep, but on the forty-ninth day memorial, Michinaga made offerings while Ōe no Masahira composed the commemorative text. And that petition was recorded by Jōshō. That document remains extant today, but Masahira’s text is dated the ninth day of the twelfth month of Chōhō 4 (1002 CE). However, the Continued Accounts of Rebirth records Jakushin’s death as occurring in Chōtoku 3 (997 CE), resulting in a discrepancy of about five years. The Continued Accounts of Rebirth was compiled by Masafusa, the son of Narihira who was Masahira’s grandson—so it too should be credible—but how did such a discrepancy arise? Since it concerns the death of an old man who had transcended worldly affairs, whether the truth lies with five years or thereabouts makes little difference; one can only surmise that some error occurred during the copying and transmission of texts. The Chōtoku date may be correct. This is likely because Jōshō was not in Japan during the winter of Chōhō 4 (1002 CE).

Whether Chōtoku or Chōhō, Jakushin died peacefully. Of course, being no laborer of the secular world, he left behind no remarkable achievements. As for literary works, during his official tenure he produced merely some twenty texts—beginning with drafting the imperial edict for the Eien 1 era name change and the edict ordering memorial submissions in its second year—alongside works like the *Accounts of Rebirth in the Pure Land*. Yet the shadow this man cast upon contemporaries' mental realms stood evident even when illuminated by the singular matter of Sadamoto's spiritual awakening.

Now, regarding this man’s rebirth in the Pure Land, an intriguing legend remains. For ordinary devout Buddhist disciples and lay followers at life’s end, it was customary for there to be the descent of the holy retinue accompanied by auspicious signs of purple clouds and celestial music—a glorious rebirth in the Pure Land. Thus it became established that they would permanently relocate to some distant realm—whether the Western Pure Land or Tusita Heaven none could say—but Jakushin’s account did not conclude there.

After he passed away at Higashiyama Nyoirin-ji Temple in the customary manner, someone had a dream. For the sake of benefiting all sentient beings, Jakushin Shōnin had returned from the Pure Land and once more abided in the saha world—such was the account. These matters were clearly recorded in the Biography of Jakushin Shōnin. It remained a rare occurrence for posthumous accounts to deliberately record such dreams—those of unknown individuals from indeterminate times. Yet the text described it vaguely—whether Jakushin Shōnin himself had appeared in that dream and spoken thus; whether the dreamer had encountered something like his reincarnation or an immortal's shadow figure; none could truly discern. What in the world could this mean? Why would someone have such a dream? Long ago, they said the immortal Lü Dongbin—though having attained mastery of the immortal path—never ascended permanently to heaven but instead manifested freely in this world for ages, playfully enlightening men and women of all ranks within the dust realm. From Tang to Song eras, he left behind poems and deeds across every region, his veneration becoming universal among Song people—already referenced even in Su Dongpo’s writings—and it was still believed today that proper rites could summon him forth. In our land too existed the folk belief that Kōbō Daishi still abided in this world, appearing even among those making ordinary pilgrimages unworthy of being called ascetic practitioners—bestowing teachings to relieve suffering and dispel delusion. Needless to say such things—even Shakyamuni had spoken of traversing the saha world eight thousand times, as explicitly stated in the Brahmajala Sutra or some such text. To put it fundamentally: relying on Amida, Maitreya, or Shakyamuni while mumbling prayers to relocate alone to the Pure Land with cool detachment was pure self-interest—what worldly proverbs called “eating manju in the privy.” Scheming, filthy, petty—that's what it was. If one could enter enlightenment’s realm of wondrous fruit, then naturally one should next strive to bestow these goods upon others—karmically connected or not. Therefore it followed as natural law that those becoming bodhisattvas and Buddhas devoted themselves to transforming others—this being their very essence. The Forty-Eight Vows of Amida Buddha and Kannon Bodhisattva’s Thirty-Three Forms—no matter what hardships endured or guises assumed—embodied this truth: their core lay in desiring to better all worlds and guide beings to enlightenment. Those merely sitting serenely upon lotus blossoms glutting on feasts were no Buddhas at all. Jakushin had been a man whose compassion extended to oxen and horses since youth. Having taken monastic vows and deepened his realization daily, he came to perceive the Pure Land nearer than neighboring homes. Ultimately he reached a boundary straddling this world and the next in one stride. Thus though the Pure Land he once craved now lay within grasp, he felt no urge to dwell there permanently. Undoubtedly his heart swelled with resolve to work for others’ transformation while traversing the saha world—an intention seeping into speech’s edges that birthed those dreams and rumors. How could Jakushin—who since his days as Yasutane showed compassion even to beasts—now with immeasurably deepened insight merely watch sidelong as people gasped through sufferings in this pain-filled realm?

Moreover, even during his time as Yasutane—as his discerning eye had already discerned and his writings intimated—the world was becoming an increasingly bitter place. On one side, cultural blossoms bloomed riotously while opulence's miasma thickened; on the other, people's livelihoods foundered amid Eiso-era tempests, Shōryaku-era plagues, and bandits rising through provinces. To Jakushin's tender heart—how sorrowful this world must have seemed. Jakushin mourned for the world, and the world hungered for one such as Jakushin. This was likely why tales arose of Jakushin's return to the saha world. Of course, Jakushin was no Pratyekabuddha.

Jōshō, who had been a disciple of Jakushin but had likely studied under Genshin as well, was thus also regarded as a disciple of Genshin. Genshin compiled the Twenty-Seven Questions on Tiantai Doctrine and sought to present them to Master Zhili of Nanhu in Song China for clarification. Zhili was then renowned for his profound scholarly understanding. Though I cannot elaborate on this matter now, one might think that someone of Genshin's stature had no need to raise such novel inquiries. Yet Genshin was a man who balanced humility with quiet confidence; moreover, it would not be unreasonable to conclude he possessed a character that abhorred leaving even the most minute matters unresolved. Legend holds that when compiling the Essentials of the One Vehicle, this man dreamed that Bodhisattvas Ashvaghosha and Nagarjuna appeared to pat his head in praise, while Dengyō Daishi joined his palms and declared, "The teachings of our school now belong to you." Though occurring in dreams, he did indeed encounter Ashvaghosha and Nagarjuna. It is also recorded that he met Kannon Bodhisattva and Bishamonten in dreams. The distinction between meeting in dreams and meeting in reality is not so great. Those who dream trivialities—like being startled by a black dog's bite—remain trivial people even when awake, akin to one who fusses over a flea stinging a boar's eye. To dream of being received by Nagarjuna and Kannon requires refined sensibility—such visions come only to those who cultivate refinement in daily life. In any event, this same Genshin compiled the Twenty-Seven Questions. He intended to present these to Master Zhili in China and obtain his answers. Or rather, perhaps he meant to use the questions themselves as instruction. To entrust such a mission required more than sending some novice monk. As Jōshō had long contemplated journeying to Song China for pilgrimage to sacred sites, they decided to entrust him with this task. In those days, crossing to the continent caused greater commotion than venturing to the Southern Ocean today for whaling. Yet since this arrangement suited both Genshin and Jōshō, Jōshō resolved to depart after seeking his mother's consent. For an aged mother unaware of tomorrow's fate, sending her child across distant stormy seas brought no ease. Yet after all, she was Jōshō's mother.

“No bond of affection runs deeper than that between mother and child. Though parting with you now brings me true sorrow, that you would cross to Song for the Dharma’s sake and the path’s sake is something I too should rejoice in. How could I obstruct your resolve?” she permitted through tears. And so Jōshō ascended to the court and received imperial permission, and in Chōhō 4 (1002 CE), he was finally set to depart for Song China. Jōshō had two younger brothers, Seiki and Sonkei. Since Seiki had by this time likely become Governor of Ōmi, this must have provided at least some reassurance to Jōshō as he departed, leaving his elderly mother behind. However, the fact that Jōshō left his elderly mother behind—and that she did not detain him—that a devoted mother and filial son should part from one another—profoundly moved the society of the time. Moreover, he was a disciple of Venerable Genshin of Eshin-in—revered from the imperial court down to commoners—and was carrying the venerable’s mission; he was also a disciple of the saintly Jakushin, former Senior Secretary, whose character had been exceedingly gentle; and because the tale of Governor Sadamoto of Mikawa’s circumstances before and after his ordination had spread far and wide—people of all ages and genders eagerly amplified this rumor. When Jōshō composed a votive text and performed the Lotus Sutra Eight Lectures at Yamazaki’s Hōji Temple for his mother’s sake—when he was about to finally depart our land—the Dharma Wheel turned vigorously while a great wind arose in the realm of emotions. Countless crowds came to rejoice and form karmic connections—carriages and horses choked the surroundings, forming walls on all four sides. By the time Lecturer Jōshō recited the text and read sutras in accordance with Dharma, none could withstand the emotion without shedding tears. Many took monastic vows that very day, with women even emerging who cut their hair from their carriages to offer it to the lecturer. Undoubtedly, Masahira was in attendance, and Akazome Emon was likely present as well. As for whether the wife he had left behind was still alive and had come to join this gathering—there was no way to know.

On June 8th of the year following Jōshō's departure, Zōga—who had received shikan meditation teachings from Jakushin—died. He was said to have been eighty-seven years old. As death approached, he made his disciples compose poems while composing one himself—a poem thoroughly characteristic of Venerable Zōga. "It brings such joy—these jellyfish bones met in the waves of old age beyond eighty years," he declared. His nephew Venerable Shunju from Ryūmon-ji Temple had come to attend him. Zōga ordered an attendant monk to bring a Go board. Since this was someone who had never played Go before, the attendant monk found it strange, but thinking he might want to place a Buddha statue nearby, he brought it over. When set before him, Zōga said, "Prop me up." When the attendant propped him up, he challenged Shunju to a game. Though perplexed, Shunju complied out of reverence for his fearsome uncle. After placing about ten stones each, Zōga declared, "Enough—we'll play no more," and swept the board clean. When Shunju timidly asked why he had wanted to play, Zōga replied casually: "No reason—when I was a novice long ago watching others play Go, that memory surfaced while chanting nenbutsu today. I simply felt like trying it." Then he commanded, "Bring me a mudguard." Though a horse's mudguard held no purpose for a dying man nor belonged in temples, they procured one anyway. When brought, he ordered them to prop him up and said, "Tie this round my neck." Complying helplessly, they watched as Zōga stretched his elbows wing-like beneath the aged mudguard. Fluttering them several times in dance, he commanded, "Remove this." After removal, when Shunju fearfully asked his meaning, Zōga explained nonchalantly: "In youth I saw novices mockingly sing 'Butterfly!' while dancing with mudguards round their necks. Amusing then—forgotten till today. I merely imitated it." The nearly ninety-year-old monk had danced a butterfly dance with an ancient mudguard hung on his emaciated frame as wings.

Those who have been on the brink of death all tell how at death's approach, trivial matters from childhood vividly revive in their minds. When the sun sinks behind western mountains on a clear day, the eastern slopes become sharply visible instead. In Venerable Zōga's distant eastern mountains—those seemingly significant Go boards and comical butterfly dances, such innocent things—must have appeared distinctly. Yet he did not end while beholding these visions; when his final hour came, he made people withdraw, sat upon his straw mat in the emptied chamber, chanted the Lotus Sutra aloud, formed the vajra mudra with his hands, and serenely entered nirvana—so it is recorded. They call figures like Budai and Hanshan wandering saints—might we name Zōga a Heian-period wandering saint? No—such appraisals need not be added.

Jōshō entered Song China and met Master Zhili of Nanhu, presenting Genshin’s Twenty-Seven Questions on Tiantai Doctrine and requesting his answers. Upon receiving the inquiry text and perusing it, Zhili praised it in admiration, struck by the thought: "Could there truly be one in the East with such profound understanding?" He then resolved to compose explanatory responses.

Prior to this, in Eikan 1 (983 CE), the monk Chōnen of Tōdai-ji Temple, having vowed to enter Song China and journey to India, arrived in that land. In the year before that—namely, Ten’en 5 (982 CE), seventh month, thirteenth day—Chōnen held a great meritorious assembly for his mother. Though his mother was already aged at sixty, as he was about to journey far beyond ten thousand miles, she thought how difficult it would be to meet again, and thus sought to perform preemptive merit-making. It was precisely the year when Yasutane Yoshishige, still not having renounced secular life, constructed his pond pavilion; Yasutane took up his brush for Chōnen and drafted that votive text. It was quite a lengthy text—sprawling thousands of characters—exhausting both emotion and reason, sufficient to move the society of that time. Furthermore，Yasutane also drafted the preface for poems composed and presented by people seeing off Venerable Chōnen’s departure for China. Now, Jakushin had already passed away, but through a mysterious karmic connection, his disciple Jōshō alone crossed over to China.

Chōnen abandoned his plans to travel to India and instead obtained the Buddhist canon in 5,048 volumes along with statues of the Sixteen Arhats and what would become the Buddha statue at Saga’s Seiryō-ji Temple, returning to Japan in Kanna 1 (985 CE). Some sixteen or seventeen years later, Jōshō entered Song China—appearing superior to Chōnen in both character and scholarship—so that even those foreign people revered him as a noble sage from our divine land. Thus did Zhili receive Jōshō as an honored guest with full ceremonial courtesy, while even the Son of Heaven ultimately granted him an audience. When the Song Emperor deigned to receive Jōshō and graciously inquired about our Japan’s affairs, Jōshō requested paper and brush before expounding upon our sacred national essence and refined customs. His composition flowed without pause as if precomposed; his brushwork displayed vigorous elegance embodying the mastery of Wang Xizhi and Wang Xianzhi. This stood to reason—he neither fabricated nor embellished his account of our land. As Master Sadamoto, he naturally inherited the Ōe family’s literary legacy; his calligraphy remained close to Kūkai’s style; he belonged to an era that had lost Sari barely four or five years prior. Thereupon could Emperor Zhenzong not but marvel at Japan’s sacred polity—indeed, developing such admiration for Jōshō’s dignified bearing and talents that he rejoiced greatly—bestowing purple robes and silk bolts while having him remain at an upper temple under imperial decree, granting him the title Entsu Daishi (Master Yuantong). Whether through karmic connections from past lives or other causes unknown—around this time did Jōshō come to know Ding Wei.

Ding Wei was a man who seemed fearsome yet perhaps not quite so—in any case, he was undoubtedly a figure of exceptional character; however, the History of Song's account of him appears to go too far in its disparagement. Since the teachings of Daoism and Buddhism appeared in the world, it stands to reason that those who rely on them are generally portrayed in history as lacking virtue or uprightness. Ding Wei came to know Jōshō when still young, and historical records state that later, while in exile, he devoted himself solely to Buddhist teachings on cause and effect. If so, it was precisely because Ding Wei had believed in the doctrine of karma from an early age that when exiled later, his faith deepened all the more—or perhaps he had already been spiritually awakened by Jōshō long before. According to Yang Yi’s Tanyuan, it is recorded that Ding Wei made offerings to Jōshō. I do not know from when to when he provided support, but without a powerful patron attached, Jōshō could not have remained long in a foreign land; thus, that account must indeed have been true.

Ding Wei was from Changzhou in Suzhou Prefecture. When young, he and Sun He visited Wang Yucheng with their writings tucked in their sleeves. Upon seeing their works, Wang was greatly astonished and proclaimed, "For the first time in three hundred years since Han Yu and Liu Zongyuan of Tang has such writing existed!" They were called Sun and Ding in their time, but those names have since been overshadowed by later figures like Ouyang Xiu, Wang Anshi, and the Three Sus—few know of them now. In the third year of Chunhua (992 CE), he passed the imperial examination and was appointed to office; through his political talents, he achieved merit and rose through successive promotions to become Chancellor, gaining the trust of Emperor Zhenzong until in the first year of Qianxing (1022 CE), he was enfeoffed as Duke of Jin. When he served as military governor of Suzhou, in the poem bestowed by Emperor Zhenzong,

His career achievements were all remarkable; he unfailingly accomplished his consultative duties. Exemplary talent accords with Nangyan; noble capacity penetrates Shiying. He ably developed the work of statecraft and rose to the glory of ministerial support. He rejoiced in the glorious favor bestowed upon him and exhausted his pure sincerity in devoted service.

there are these lines. Even having made someone as splendid as Kou Zhun his political enemy, he had been able to boast of victory for a long time. He prioritized the employment of wisdom over force in governance, valued economic management above legal systems, compiled accounting records and presented them, desiring to establish standards for tax levies and population registers. He naturally excelled in prose and poetry, and was well-versed in painting, Go, architecture, music, and all manner of arts; tea culture progressed from him to Cai Xiang, and he even mastered kemari. His poems appear in Wen Gong Shihua and Shihua Zonggui. After Emperor Zhenzong's death, he incurred the empress's enmity and was charged with crimes for arbitrarily altering the Yongding Mausoleum; moreover, being censured for colluding with the eunuch Lei Yungong, he was exiled to Yazhou. After several years, he was transferred to Daozhou, retired and resided in Guangzhou, where he died. In other words, he had been struck down by political enemies and placed in a deadly situation. Ding Wei was such a person.

Zhili’s explanatory answers were completed. Jōshō was to return to his homeland, carrying this with him. However, for some reason, Ding Wei—then at the height of his power—sought to keep Jōshō in Song. He earnestly extolled the beauty of Gusu’s mountains and waters, had Jōshō’s disciples take the answers back to Japan, and placed Jōshō at Wumen Temple, ensuring he received the utmost hospitality. Jōshō was already a Buddha’s child. Just as all rivers that enter the sea become naught but the sea itself, all clans that enter the Shakya’s gate become Shakya. Since there was no necessity to make a distinction between East and West and return to Japan, Jōshō ultimately remained at Wumen Temple. As Jōshō’s observance of precepts was meticulous and his truly splendid virtue was acknowledged by the people, the clergy and laity of the Three Wu regions gradually came to revere him in great numbers; it is said that his teachings were widely propagated. And so Jōshō remained in Wu for over thirty years. In Jingyou 1 of Emperor Renzong’s reign and Chōgen 7 of our Emperor Go-Ichijō’s reign, he left behind the poem *“Distant music sounds above the clouds—do others hear it too, or is it just these sky-attuned ears?”* and concluded his life with a gentle smile.

Ding Wei had died one or two years prior to this during the Mingdao era; while Jōshō had lived approximately thirty years of uneventful life, Wei had traversed a precipitous path through worldly affairs, rising and falling repeatedly. There were no particular discussions between Wei and Shō during that time. Wei remained Wei, and Shō must have remained Shō. When Ding Wei first began earnestly supporting Jōshō, the latter presented him with a black-gold water pitcher he owned, accompanied by a poem: For three to five years we worked together; day by day it was used, never once set aside.

At the dawn well, he draws the lingering moon; at the cold stove, he melts shattered ice. Poyin finds extravagance hard to avoid; Laishi easily forms deficiencies. This vessel is solid and true; you should rightly know this when I present it to you. There must have been a reply poem, but as Ding Wei’s collection is not extant, it remains unknown. The only remaining words from Jōshō to Ding Wei are just these. Yazhou, where Ding Wei was exiled, was at the time a severe barbarian island. Ding Wei’s composition: Now having arrived at Yazhou—how lamentable this affair! In dreams, it is as though I am ever in the splendid capital.

The journey measured not merely ten thousand li; the households numbered fewer than three hundred. At night he heard monkeys crying on solitary trees in the distance; at dawn he watched tides rise beneath slanting miasmic mists.

Officials did not observe the rites of the Central Court; deer would sometimes arrive at the county offices. To such a place was he exiled—to have him die there. However, after he had spent three years there, when he was able to return to the mainland— "The Roc of ninety thousand *li* once more emerges from the sea; the crane of one thousand *li* returns again to its nest." He composed these lines. Moreover, terrifying as that place was, through the karmic circumstance of being exiled to a land that produced aloeswood, he authored the treatise *Heavenly Fragrance* and bequeathed its blessings to later generations. Indeed, *Heavenly Fragrance* was the first work to exclusively discuss and praise incense matters, and it has been passed down to this day. The end of this person, who had thus devoted himself to incense, is recorded in the *Dongxuan Bilu* by Song scholar Wei Tai. It is said that in the half-month before his death, Ding Wei, Duke of Jin, had already ceased eating, burning only incense and sitting upright in meditation while silently reciting Buddhist sutras. He sipped small amounts of aloeswood decoction from time to time. His spirit remained undisturbed, his robes and cap properly arranged, until he peacefully passed away.