Pathway to Japanese Literature

Yasunori Kamo inherited the family’s generational profession, becoming a Doctor of Onmyōdō and a Doctor of Astronomy, and as the head of the Kamo clan, he shone in their genealogical records. It was not that Yasutane had conceded this to his brother, but rather that he became a disciple of Fumitoki Sugawara—a Confucian scholar and literary giant of the time—entered the ranks of the Students of Literature, and altered the characters of his surname to “Keishige.” It was neither that there existed a surname called Keishige, nor that he had become an adopted heir to another family as recorded in old texts; rather, out of deference to his brother, he merely substituted the character *ka* (賀) of Kamo with *kei* (慶), and *mo* (茂) with *shige* (滋)—different characters but the same meaning—for Keishige was at its core still Kamo. It was a natural development that some came to read his name as “Yoshishige no Yasutane,” and later, when Tamenori—the son of Yasutane’s younger brother Yasuaki, a Doctor of Literature—altered the characters of his surname to “Yoshizane,” it followed the same logic; Tamenori himself was a Doctor of Literature and one of the authors of the *Continued Anthology of Japanese Literature*. Yasunori Kamo, Yasutane’s elder brother, was a prodigy in their family’s tradition—recounted as a genius who, even when he was a child of around ten years old, possessed such acute spiritual insight that he perceived spirits and demons and alerted his father to them. Moreover, Yasutane’s father Tadayuki was the teacher of Abe no Seimei, the great Onmyōdō practitioner later generations lavishly praised. Yasutane, having such a father and elder brother, a younger brother, and a niece, was naturally no ordinary man.

Fumitoki Sugawara, Yasutane’s teacher, was also no ordinary person. Whether it was Minamoto no Hideo or Minamoto no Tamenori—literary men of the time whose writings remain preserved in the *Honchō Monzui* and whose talents are still extolled by later generations—it is said that they all sought Fumitoki’s corrections for their prose and poetry. On one occasion, an imperial banquet was held, and the court poets were made to compose poems on the theme of *Palace Warbler’s Song at Dawn Light*. As His Majesty the Emperor had also deeply devoted His heart to the path of literary arts,

The dew lies thick and murmurs softly beneath the garden blossoms,

The moon has set; singing on high, beneath the imperial willow. Having composed these lines and privately pondered how well they resonated with His Majesty’s sentiments, Fumitoki too had fashioned his own verses: The western tower—the moon has set; a melody among the blossoms, The central hall—the lamp lingers; voices behind the bamboo. He presented them. The Emperor heard this and, though he had believed himself alone in mastering the theme, found Fumitoki’s composition equally excellent. Summoning Fumitoki close, he inquired, “Which is more fitting?” Fumitoki replied, “His Majesty’s work is peerless—the final seven syllables surpass even those in my own poem.” Deeming this deference hollow, His Majesty pressed again. With no recourse, Fumitoki answered, “In truth, the imperial poem and this subject’s verse are of equal merit.” Still suspecting false modesty, His Majesty—so fervent was his love for poetry—insisted, “If that be true, swear an oath.” At this, Fumitoki offered no vow but declared instead, “In truth, my poem stands a degree superior,” then fled the chamber. It is said His Majesty laughed and nodded in approval. These very poems of Fumitoki’s are still extolled today as works of Lord Sugawara, yet Yasutane was in fact the foremost disciple of this master of the age. In a year when pestilence raged—a time when men told of dreams where the plague god bowed before Fumitoki’s gate rather than enter—Yasutane studied beneath Lord Sugawara, so revered by his peers. Daily honing his talents and spreading his renown abroad, he passed every examination set before him and rose through office to become Senior Secretary of the Grand Council.

Prince Tomohira had a deep fondness for literature and frequently held audiences with the literati and scholars of the time as refined companions. Kino no Sanae, Ōe no Motokoto, and others were always in attendance, but among them, Yasutane was uniquely honored as a teacher. Yet Yasutane had long refrained from inclining his heart solely to the tumult of human affairs; though it was the custom of the time, his breast was steeped in thoughts of the transcendent purity of monastic life. Thus, even as he lectured what ought to be lectured for His Highness the Prince and instructed what ought to be instructed, once such matters were concluded, he himself would close his eyes slightly and seem to chant something faintly under his breath. He directed his thoughts to the Pure Land and seemed to be quietly chanting essential passages from Buddhist sutras. His manner as a teacher must have seemed quite peculiar, but since he was not neglecting his immediate duties—merely devoting his fleeting moments of leisure to the sacred path—it likely could not be deemed worthy of reproach. There can be no doubt that Yasutane affirmed the idea—akin to that of Bai Letian—of acknowledging frivolous words and ornate phrases, namely poetry, as a means to extol the Buddhist teachings.

As for Yasutane Keishiki, the Prince likely accorded him a different treatment than he did other poets who concerned themselves solely with ornate phrases. Nevertheless, it was only natural that His Highness would seek his counsel on matters of poetry and prose, and on one occasion requested Yasutane’s evaluation of contemporary literary figures. Thereupon Yasutane had no choice but to offer his answer. Regarding Sanae’s prose, he said, “It sounds as though a woman were playing the koto with refined grace within a somewhat aged cypress-bark-thatched house, its blinds partially drawn aside on a clear moonlit night.” When asked about Motokoto, he replied that it resembled the performance of the Ryōō dance beneath emerald pines in a garden of white sand. When asked about Ōe no Masahira, he replied that it resembled several fierce warriors donning armor, urging their steeds with whips as they crossed Awazu’s shore—their halberds imposing yet meeting no resistance. When the Prince became engrossed and inquired, “Then what of yours?” he replied that it resembled hearing the sound of a betel palm-fiber carriage once ridden by former high-ranking nobles. Without discussing relative merits or flaws, he had naturally presented the essence of his poetry as it was—truly surpassing even Sikong Tu’s *Poetic Grades* of Tang—and with such exquisite beauty in his response that the Prince was deeply moved, and people of the time marveled in admiration. The writings of Sanae, Motokoto, Masahira, Yasutane, and others all survive to this day; thus, whether these evaluations are accurate or not is something anyone may examine. Yet beyond their correctness or error, it is the manner of critique itself—imbued with such poetic grace, as though a celestial bird were uttering its ethereal cry—that I find intriguing, for it seems to reveal Yasutane’s very character.

Those who come to abandon worldly desires and dedicate themselves to the Buddhist path are often people who have encountered setbacks in life or fallen into failure and destitution, whereupon they achieve a sudden awakening, turn their heads around, and set out on a path opposite to the one they had been following. Yet with Yasutane, though such circumstances existed, it does not appear that he underwent such a shift from those circumstances. He was a man whose naturally gentle disposition and compassionate heart surpassed those of ordinary people; who sincerely accepted Confucian benevolence and Buddhist mercy as ideals to believe in and aspire toward; and who, as his scholarly study and spiritual practice gradually deepened, saw these inclinations grow ever more fervent with each passing day and month—unceasingly praying for their further intensification—for he held no doubt that this was the true path, the supreme path, the pure path, the path of peace. Thus, it may be that Yasutane—already innately strong in compassion—even strove to forcibly dwell within that compassion; such accounts have been passed down. On what occasion it was, Yasutane once stood at a crossroads on a bustling capital avenue. As it was a main thoroughfare, nobles went by, commoners went by, artisans went by, vendors went by; if elders went, women went too; if children went, able-bodied men went as well—some striding purposefully, others stumbling unsteadily. There was nothing out of the ordinary about it being a main thoroughfare. There was also an ox bearing an extremely heavy and towering load, panting heavily as it was yoked to a large cart, drooling and straining its legs to move forward. This too was nothing out of the ordinary in a world where cattle and horses were used. The ox was walking with all its strength. Moreover, the ox driver, still not satisfied with his exertion, was whipping it. The sound of the whip would rise and fade, fade and rise again. This too was the way of the world—nothing out of the ordinary. Yet as Yasutane observed this crossroads—resembling what Buddhism calls the intersection of the Six Realms—he likely thought to himself: *Ah, such is the secular world*, seeing those who strode proudly, those who shuffled alone, those toiling busily, those steeped in sorrow. But when he then beheld the aged ox straining with its last strength yet still enduring the whip—*Ah, weary ox! Cruel whip! The load is heavy, the road endless; the sun blazes and scorches the earth. How great must be its torment, thirsting yet denied even a drop!*—and when he perceived how its gaze—what men dismiss as “an ox’s stare”—stirred inscrutable intent, as though pleading some unspoken plea—*Ah, ox! Why were you born so wretchedly as a beast? What sin have you now committed to suffer so?*—the moment this thought arose, the crack of the whip rang out anew. At this, Yasutane’s tears streamed down as he chanted: *Namu… Save it, all Buddhas and Bodhisattvas! Namu Buddha! Namu Buddha!*—or so it is told. Such incidents were not merely once or twice; moreover, on occasions when direct expedient means were available, he would often relieve the immediate suffering of oxen, horses, and others—thus, such rumors have persisted even to this day.

The taming of oxen and riding of horses had been practices since antiquity, and from the perspective of secular norms, actions like Yasutane’s might have seemed foolish. Yet for those who believed such feelings—unfeigned and sincere—and such convictions constituted righteousness and virtue, judgments of wisdom or folly based on worldly laws were inherently powerless and ineffectual. Moreover, even from the perspective of Buddhism, such an exclusive intensification of compassionate thoughts was not necessarily commendable—indeed, certain sutras censured such states as having fallen into demonic realms depending on the circumstances—but since Yasutane’s heightened mercy and compassion had not led him toward wrongdoing in the slightest, there was naturally no basis for reproach.

However, secular laws cannot be sustained by benevolence alone—to call righteousness the “opposite” of benevolence would be somewhat odd—but righteousness is established, and it is said that righteousness lies in the harmony of interests. If one goes too far in benevolence alone and loses the harmony of interests, it becomes unruly and improper, ending in something rather chaotic. Therefore, with Yasutane’s tone of single-minded benevolence, it was only natural that troubles would arise to burden even Yasutane himself. However, for someone like Yasutane, who was overwhelmed by pure-heartedness, secular laws were as trivial as the realm of a lampwick—once stated, that was the end of it. On one occasion, Yasutane, in his capacity as Senior Secretary of the Grand Council, was summoned and was about to enter the Imperial Palace. The Emonfu was the bureau responsible for guarding the imperial gates, and there were left and right divisions. Near the Left Emonfu guardhouse, a woman stood weeping in evident distress. Yasutane, who did not spare tears of compassion even for oxen and horses, upon seeing the young woman weeping in distress, could not pass by indifferently. He promptly approached and, asking, “What has happened to make you weep so bitterly?” comforted her. The woman hesitated to answer but, moved by his kind inquiry, truthfully explained: “I was returning from an errand for my master, having borrowed a stone-inlaid belt from someone, when foolishly I dropped and lost it on the road. Though I searched everywhere, nothing resembling it could be found, and I see no way to remedy this. Were there a hole in the earth, I would bury myself to vanish from shame. I have failed my master’s task and lost another’s possession—whether I live or die, I see no path forward.” She sobbed haltingly through her tears. A stone-inlaid belt refers to an ornament made of stone affixed to the back of a black-lacquered leather belt, part of the ceremonial court attire worn as formal robes at the time. Regulations dictated its design according to rank—there were types like the Kii Stone Belt and Izumo Stone Belt—and the stones themselves varied in shape, some square and others round. Given that she had borrowed the stone-inlaid belt, her master must have been pressed to attend court and sought assistance from a friend; losing it was undeniably foolish, and her distress equally undeniable. Yet her master too would surely be at a loss—Yasutane wished to resolve this somehow but could do nothing for the moment. With no alternative, he concluded that lending her the stone-inlaid belt he currently wore was the only way. Amidst the fluster of being urgently summoned to attend [court], he had no time for deliberation. “Very well—take this stone-inlaid belt swiftly to your master,” he said, unfastening his own belt and smoothly drawing it out to hand to the woman. The woman felt as though she had met the Buddha and bodhisattvas. Rubbing her palms together in prayer, she rejoiced and took heart, then briskly ran off in an instant. Yasutane heaved a sigh of relief at having rescued someone from distress, but ah—now he himself was without the stone-inlaid belt. Without the stone-inlaid belt, he could not present himself where he needed to go.

Even Yasutane—a man of Buddha-like compassion and ascetic resolve—must have been troubled now by his own appalling act of withdrawal. Now, it is written in *The New Mirror* that “he hid beltless in a corner,” though which corner remains unclear—perhaps one at the Emonfu? One could well imagine him floundering in distress, utterly exhausted and at a loss. The very image was unbearably absurd to contemplate. As official duties were about to commence with Yasutane still absent, his subordinates—unable to endure further delay—came seeking him out. Upon discovering this state of affairs, they must have exchanged bewildered glances and grimaced at one another. Yet with imperial business pressing urgently, neither Yasutane’s humiliation nor their immense inconvenience could obstruct proceedings; swept along by duty’s paramount importance and aided by their ministrations, he borrowed a belt from minor court attendants, barely entered the palace, and fulfilled his obligations—or so it is told.

This story has its doubtful aspects, but it is not entirely baseless. In any case, it is quite an outlandish tale. However, even if greatly distorted, this tale lays bare without reserve how Yasutane—this man called Yasutane—lacked worldly wisdom and remained unfamiliar with secular laws. Given this, no matter how talented or virtuous one might be, it seems they could not navigate the world unscathed—how much more so would career advancement in the bureaucracy have been as distant as east from west?

If such was the man, then unless he had a wife of considerable worldly acumen, the household finances would no doubt have been in utter disarray. Now, if one were to say he resided in a mountain forest of aspirations and did not maintain a residence, it would sound quite admirable—but in truth, it was merely a rented dwelling with no means to do anything, and he spent many mornings and evenings lodging in the house of someone near the Upper East Gate. Even so, since it is human nature that as one grows older, they would at least wish to sleep and rise in their own home, Yasutane purchased an inexpensive plot of wasteland in Rokujō and constructed his dwelling. Undoubtedly, it was no splendid mansion, but after all, since he had managed to build it himself, he composed an account of this dwelling—the extant *Account of the Pond Pavilion*. The account first narrates the rise and decline of Kyoto’s eastern and western regions, stating that the prosperity north of Shijō—in both northwest and northeast directions—utterly precluded one such as himself from establishing a dwelling there. It then describes how he regarded it as fortunate to obtain over ten acres in the remote lands north of Rokujō: utilizing elevated areas to form small hills, digging a small pond in depressions, placing a modest hall west of the pond to enshrine Amida, opening a small pavilion east of the pond to store books, and building a low house north of the pond to house his family. The placement of the Amida Hall was so characteristic of Yasutane’s taste—though it was no doubt a modest structure—that his solemnity and gentleness in daily carrying himself there morning and evening, burning incense and offering flowers, bowing in worship and chanting sutras, quietly reciting the nenbutsu—what a truly good-natured person he must have been! The account states that roughly four-tenths of the land was buildings, three-ninths pond water, two-eighths vegetable gardens, and one-seventh parsley fields—so one can imagine the general layout—but what is charming is that one-seventh was parsley fields. Though there was not a single feature in the garden—neither the pine on the islet in the pond, nor the willows along the shore, nor the small brushwood bridge, nor the bamboo by the northern door—worthy of praise from a gardener; and though no trace remained of those massive stones that might have made the master frown at the thought of oxen hauling them in; still, the unadorned appearance of this garden could not be said to lack refined charm. As I approach fifty years of age and have come to possess a modest dwelling—though I liken myself to a snail content in its shell or a louse delighting in the seams of cloth—it may seem miserly, yet it does not stray from the truth. Though his duties lie at the pillar’s base, his heart dwells as if in the mountain’s midst. Official ranks and titles I leave to fate; Heaven’s workings are impartial. “Longevity and premature death rest with Heaven and Earth; how long have the hills prayed?” Though he speaks these words with a touch of inner fervor, they are not falsehoods, and thus cannot be begrudged. “In the morning, he temporarily devotes his body to royal duties; at home, he eternally returns his heart to the Buddha”—while Confucian scholars cannot admire such words, for this man, they are an honest statement. The statement that “he regarded Emperor Wen of Han as a ruler from a different age” does not sit well, but immediately following it is written that this was 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 he revered in his heart. Perhaps because he believed that a ruler who cherished frugality and brought peace to the people was truly one worthy of emulation, he could not possibly have harbored disloyal sentiments akin to viewing the sovereigns of his time as extravagant oppressors of the populace. Yet in highlighting the six-character phrase—“cherishing frugality and pacifying the people”—and thereby admiring Chinese literature for this reason, there lay an intention not entirely without purpose. The *Account* begins by stating that after over twenty years of observing the Eastern and Western Capitals, the prosperous districts—where lofty halls and interconnected pavilions reached values of tens of millions of coins for mere two or three acres—had grown thus. Yet this coincided precisely with the time, twenty-odd years prior, when Yasutane’s teacher Sugawara Fumitoki submitted his three-article memorial in December of Ten’en 11. By then, culture had daily advanced, and the winds of luxury had unmistakably swelled month by month. In his plea to prohibit extravagance, Fumitoki observed: “Nowadays, nobles and commoners alike magnify their dwellings with grand halls and pavilions; rich and poor alike indulge in lavish robes and fine garments. The wealthy exhaust their livelihoods [to build], while the poor lose their family assets”—thus already noting these excesses. Prices continued to rise, state finances gradually became insufficient, and even the selling of official positions to raise funds arose—this is seen in the second article of the same memorial—and Fumitoki vehemently urged that if one worries about state finances, then frugality must be practiced in all matters. In the more than twenty years that followed, as social conditions had increasingly changed and extravagance had likely grown more rampant, to someone of Yasutane’s gentle disposition, the virtues of frugality and pacifying the people must have seemed all the more worthy of yearning. Next, he records that he regarded Bai Juyi of Tang as a teacher from a different era, on account of his excelling in poetry and turning to Buddhism.

It was not only Yasutane who regarded Bai as a poetic master; all people of that time did so. However, Yasutane revered Bai not merely for his mastery of verse but also took into account his turn toward Buddhism. Yet Bai Juyi had measured his poetry against the standards of kitchen maids; while he may have regrettably reaped its benefits, he also suffered its drawbacks. Moreover, though Bai—following Tang custom—was likely a disciple of Maitreya Bodhisattva, it seemed peculiar that Yasutane followed Amitabha Tathagata. Next came his record that he considered the Seven Sages of the Jin dynasty friends from another age, for though their bodies remained at court, their aspirations lay in seclusion. The Seven Sages of the Bamboo Grove were undoubtedly refined men, but among them were calculating types who carried tally sticks in their sleeves—in which case Yasutane might have been the better father figure after all. Even narrated thus, it was but a literary mirage whose truth need not be questioned; yet they say Yasutane encountered such people daily. And so: In modern human affairs, there is nothing worth yearning for. Those who would be teachers prioritize status and wealth over literature—better to have no teacher at all. Those who would be friends act through power and profit rather than sincerity—better to have no friend at all. I shut my gate and close my door, reciting and composing alone—content within myself. Since the Ōwa era, people had delighted in erecting lavish homes with towering eaves—some reaching ornate pillars and rafters—costing vast sums yet inhabited barely two or three years. “How apt are the ancients’ words that none who build such things remain,” he scoffed. Then in his twilight years, having built his modest dwelling, he laughed at himself—“Like an old silkworm forming its cocoon!”—and chuckled again, wondering how long he would dwell there. Truly apt was this phrase “like an old silkworm forming its cocoon.” This account was written in the winter of Ten’en 5, when Yasutane is thought to have been forty-eight or forty-nine years old.

It is thought that Yasutane Keishiki authored the *Record of Rebirth in the Pure Land* during his time at this Pond Pavilion in Rokujō. The same book extant today bears the signature “Compiled by Junior Fifth Rank, Lower Grade, Chancellor of Literary Composition Keishiki Yasutane”; according to this, it is considered to have been compiled during the time when he had not yet resigned from his official post. In this text, Yasutane himself writes: *“From my youth, I have daily devoted myself to Amitabha Buddha. After turning forty, this resolve intensified: with my mouth I chant his sacred name, with my heart I visualize his form. Whether walking, standing, sitting, or lying down, I never forget him for even a moment; even in haste or distress, I am ever thus. Whenever I encounter halls, temples, or pagodas bearing images of Amitabha or depictions of the Pure Land, I never fail to bow in reverence. For monastics and laypeople, men and women alike—all who aspire to the Pure Land or pray for rebirth there—I form karmic bonds without exception.”* Thus after forty, his religious devotion grew daily and became irrepressible. Yet while still holding office, he compiled biographies of over forty individuals in our land who exemplified auspicious proofs of rebirth—recording these factual accounts to encourage faith in himself and others. Within the tranquil Pond Pavilion, between intervals of chanting Amitabha’s name before the Buddha, Yasutane Keishiki—quietly recording with brush in hand the pious deeds of devotees who had received the welcome of Buddhas and bodhisattvas—spent his days and nights. How pure a samadhi it must have been—one that transcended the dusty world! As noted in its preface, this *Record of Rebirth in the Pure Land* emulated the *Treatise on the Pure Land* by Shikaisai, a monk of Hongfasi Temple in Tang China, which records twenty individuals who attained peaceful rebirth. After Yasutane’s own rebirth, Ōe no Masafusa followed his predecessor’s example by compiling the *Continued Biographies of Japanese Rebirth in the Pure Land*. And since Yasutane too is recorded within this continuation, the karmic bonds of Dharma are profound—like interlinked jade rings. According to the preface to Masafusa’s *Continued Biographies of Rebirth*, which states that “during the Kanna era, Chancellor of Literary Composition Keishiki Yasutane compiled biographies of rebirth and transmitted them to the world,” Yasutane must have authored these biographies precisely the year before he cast off white robes for black—around fifty-one or fifty-two years of age—during his time at the Pond Pavilion in Rokujō.

When Yasutane built the Pond Pavilion, he himself wrote an account, declaring it was like an old silkworm forming its cocoon; yet the old silkworm could not remain long within the cocoon. In the winter of Ten’en 5, the house was completed and the account was written; yet in Eikan 1 of the following year, Minamoto no Jun—compiler of the *Wamyō Ruijushō*—passed away. Jun too was an erudite and literary man, but later, when Ōe no Masafusa discussed recent talents, he concluded that Tachibana no Zairitsu did not equal Minamoto no Jun, and that Jun did not equal Kiyohara no Motosuke and Yasutane Keishiki. Yasutane and Jun had no particular connection, but as the saying goes, “When the hare dies, the fox mourns”—the gradual passing of his seniors and dear friends must have only deepened the tender-hearted Yasutane’s devotion to Buddha. The world grew increasingly tense, and the people found no peace. Last year, bandits arose in various provinces, and this year, in the capital, a decree was issued to apprehend those who recklessly carried weapons. Not that anything in particular had occurred around Yasutane, but rather that his longstanding religious devotion had fully matured. Finally, in Kanna 2, Yasutane bit through the cocoon he had painstakingly spun and emerged, ending his days as a tonsured monk. As for who served as his ordination master—no records remain to tell—but for a man of such devout faith as Yasutane, even a cedar by the roadside or a stake in a rice paddy’s ridge would have sufficed as his preceptor. Thus, anyone would have been suitable. Priest Zōga of Tōnomine and Bishop Genshin of Yokawa—both eminent monks of the time, and moreover individuals connected to Yasutane—alongside many others qualified to ordain him likely existed in abundance. Yet given that it was hardly the case of some vegetable-selling old man grieving over a lost daughter shaving his own head to become a monk, the complete absence of rumors [about Yasutane’s ordination master] remains puzzling. In Masafusa’s *Continued Biographies of Rebirth*, it merely states that once his son’s coming-of-age rites were barely completed, he finally took monastic vows. According to this account, there was no particular catalyst; rather, once his son had become able to stand independently in the world, he likely fulfilled his long-cherished wish with utmost tranquility—when the time came, slipping out of the secular world as effortlessly as a melon detaches from its stem, becoming a man single-mindedly devoted to the afterlife. What manner of people Yasutane’s wife and child might have been remains entirely unknown. There is no doubt he had a child, but whether due to being a collateral line, it does not appear in the Kamo clan genealogy. One imagines that his wife and child were ordinary people—likely good—but appear to have perished alongside so-called worthless weeds.

Yasutane took monastic vows and became Jishin. In the world, they called him Naiki no Hijiri. Since even during his time as a layperson he had devoted his body and mind to Buddhist worship and sutra recitation, after becoming Jishin, he roused his spirit all the more and was never negligent in seeking the Dharma or performing good deeds. The biography states that he traveled through various provinces and widely engaged in Buddhist activities, though no accounts of austere pilgrimages or ascetic practices are recorded. Merely three years after renouncing secular life, he saved those who threw themselves upon him and bestowed upon them the name Jōshō. This Jōshō was later sent to Song China on behalf of Genshin, for Jishin and Genshin had been friends along the Buddhist path from the start. Genshin may have been slightly younger than Jishin, but regardless, from his youth he had studied with relentless diligence under Jichie of Mount Hiei, becoming a formidable figure who equally mastered both exoteric and esoteric teachings while harmonizing practice and understanding. This somewhat interesting anecdote between Genshin and Jishin—I cannot now confirm its exact source, but I believe I saw it in something rather old, perhaps *Companions in Seclusion* or the like. If my memory is mistaken, I must have it erased—though [I pray it is not].

One day, Jishin visited Eshin-in in Yokawa. The temple stood serenely quiet, devoid of any presence. Whether Genshin was away on other business, immersed in samadhi meditation, or engaged in visualization practice—Jishin could not discern—but as fellow practitioners who shared no conduct unfit for mutual observation, he surveyed the premises calmly and without restraint. Genshin was nowhere to be found. At length, Jishin slid open the door to what he presumed must be the chamber. What met his gaze defied expectation: a boundless desolation where nothing seemed visible—no, not nothing visible, but rather an oceanic immensity stretching endlessly like a great river, a vast lake, an infinite sea—rippling and lapping, swelling and surging, raging and seething—misty waves obscuring all distinction where waterlight met sky—a realm containing nothing but water itself. Jishin stepped back, seized the wooden pillow lying fortuitously nearby, hurled it into the watery expanse, then smoothly closed the door and departed the temple grounds for home.

From then on, Genshin felt bodily pain. When Genshin realized that Jishin had come and played an abrupt jest, he manifested water once more and had Jishin remove what he had thrown into it. Genshin returned to his original state.

To people today, this tale would likely sound like nothing but a nonsensical story. Moreover, there was no need to parse this into something comprehensible. However, this did not begin with Genshin and Jishin; in the sutras existed the tale of the Moonlight Child, which mirrored this event: when the child first achieved water contemplation, a heedless youth threw rubble into the water, causing him anguish—only once it was retrieved did he regain tranquility. In records remained an account of when Fajin of Tang China practiced water contemplation in a bamboo grove: a household member, seeing clear water upon a rope bed, placed two small white stones within it, after which he felt pain in his back until they were removed. In Japan too, when Priest Shōgyō of Daian-ji Temple achieved water contemplation, someone similarly threw a stone into it—an account of chest pain that was by no means rare. Whether clear water or raging flood, rubble or pebbles—it mattered not at all; whether such a tale between Genshin and Jishin held truth or none ultimately signified nothing—only that a story of this sort had been passed down. No—in truth, even that much remained uncertain. Yet given that Jishin’s disciple Jōshō later adopted an attitude akin to being Genshin’s disciple and journeyed to China, one could well imagine that Jishin and Genshin must have regularly exchanged discussions on sutras and precepts alongside debates on doctrinal interpretations. In literary style Jishin held seniority of a day; in dharma enlightenment Genshin likely led by several steps—yet Genshin too authored numerous works like *Essentials of the One Vehicle* and *Essentials of Rebirth*, being like Jishin a man devoted heart and soul to brush and inkstone.

Jishin was indeed a sincere Buddhist devotee who focused solely on rebirth in the Pure Land through Amida’s compassionate vow. Yet at this time, doctrines akin to the later Pure Land sect of Hōnen—which demanded abandoning all else to devote every hour solely to chanting *Namu Amida Butsu* in samadhi-like absorption—had not yet spread in the world. Thus, he did not cast aside all other matters wholesale. Instead, with reverent sincerity, he earnestly studied and practiced even those acts later generations would dismiss as secondary or miscellaneous, regarding them as proper paths and rightful deeds. When Priest Zōga of Yokawa lectured on the *Great Calming and Contemplation*, Jishin sought to receive its teachings.

Zōga was the son of Councillor Tachibana no Tsunehira. It is said that at the age of four, as if guided by a spirit, he declared his wish to ascend Mount Hiei and pursue learning. From the age of ten, he was sent up the mountain and studied the Buddhist path under Jichie. His intellect was astonishingly brilliant; his scholarship encompassed both exoteric and esoteric teachings, and he was said to be most profound in his mastery of calming and contemplation. He possessed the true temperament of a scholarly monk—utterly devoid of worldly taint, deeply detesting fame and profit, and conducting himself like a sheer cliff. The *Genkō Shakusho* records that when Emperor Anna issued an edict appointing [Zōga] as a court priest, [he] feigned madness, smeared himself in filth, and fled. Yet this was a man who lived as he deemed right—unabashedly committing absurdities, even if others loathed and shunned him. When his teacher Jichie was appointed Bishop, Zōga went to the imperial court to offer formal gratitude. On this occasion, the monks of the entire mountain temple formed an exceedingly grand retinue—indeed, they solemnly adorned themselves with dignified bearing and processed in meticulously arranged splendor. Fundamentally, monks ought to dwell under trees and upon rocks; yet even if granted imperial reverence, it was unseemly for them to rejoice to the point of disarray—adorned in finery like secular folk offering gratitude for court appointments—and process to the palace. Thus, none of the worldly monks’ deeds could have pleased Zōga. Just as a high-ranking official of the Emonfu would wear a splendid long sword, [Zōga] had strapped a large dried salmon to his waist like a *tachi*, mounted a gaunt cow in a near-naked and disgraceful state, and stood at the head of the vanguard with an air of self-importance. As he grandly led [the procession] through the capital’s thoroughfare under the gaze of all onlookers, the crowd was aghast, and the disciples—exclaiming “What madness is this?”—tried to remove him. But Zōga harshly barked, “Who but I should lead the Bishop’s carriage?!” The grand ceremony—everything—was reduced to utter ruin. Because he was this kind of man, when a certain prominent household held a Dharma assembly and invited him to attend, on his way there it occurred to him: *This assembly is for fame; acts done for fame are demonic hindrances.* He thus ended up instigating a scuffle-like dispute with the sponsor, reducing the long-awaited assembly to utter chaos before returning home. He was a monk who was troublesome, to say the least.

Given that he was a monk prone to such madness, when they sought to summon Zōga to serve as ordination master for the nun of Sanjō no Ōki no Miya, he rendered [the summons] into vulgarities like "Lao Ai's ilk" and "How dare you approach the imperial chambers!"—yet even this rendering failed to approximate [the original phrasing], losing truth in translation. It couldn't be helped.

It was not that Masafusa’s talent was deficient; let us simply say that Zōga’s madness was extreme. Among Śākyamuni’s disciples, there was one named Kālodayin who uttered vulgarities from the lectern—a tale still recounted today—but whereas Kālodayin’s were mere frivolous antics, Zōga’s—though already aged by then—could be said to have been a resolute, iron-clad refusal, a maddened cry to ensure he would never again be summoned to the imperial chambers. Truly an unapproachable sheer cliff; though a practitioner of Tendai Zen, he carried an air reminiscent of Patriarch Zen.

To this knowledge—sheer as a cliff’s edge—Jishin, whose nature resembled a tranquil stream with waters clear and jade-like, sought to study and receive the teachings of the *Great Calming and Contemplation*. The *Great Calming and Contemplation* contained the teachings of Great Master Zhiyi of the Tiantai school from the Sui dynasty, recorded by his disciple Guanding. Whether it was something that resonated in Tang China’s heart—its meaning, its sound, which chapter or verse—or whether it was the exposition or delivery itself—none of these details survive today. Yet perhaps it was not any particular passage but rather the entire atmosphere of that moment; Jishin found himself profoundly moved and rejoiced in sympathetic resonance. Unable to contain himself, he let tears flow freely and wept with muffled sobs. At this, Zōga abruptly rose from his seat, strode brusquely before Jishin, and—*What are you weeping for?!*—clenched his fist and struck Jishin’s face with such force that it contorted. *To strike those shedding tears of reverence while I disrupt them with my lecturing voice—* The assembly grew bitterly resentful; the gathering chilled into silence and dissolved unresolved. Since matters could not remain thus, Jishin stifled his tears while the others mollified Zōga, coaxing him to resume the lecture. Yet moved once more, Jishin wept again. Zōga struck him with his fist a second time. When Jishin’s weeping persisted through three such occurrences, even Zōga—finally sensing Jishin’s absolute sincerity—relented against his own nature and exhaustively transmitted the profound secrets of calming-and-contemplation from the depths of his understanding. Why he wept, why he struck—these remained mysteries known only to the two men themselves. The assembled monks understood nothing, nor need we of later times presume to know.

The *Continued Accounts of Rebirth* merely records that after Jishin renounced secular life, he journeyed through various provinces and widely engaged in Buddhist works—it includes no details of what specific events occurred. Yet all those who lack the courage to charge forth without hesitation, even if it wounds their tender hearts, end up loitering at this checkpoint, turning their steps sideways. In the realms of art, religion, scholarship, or life’s battles alike—whether ninety-nine out of a hundred or nine hundred ninety-nine out of a thousand—all retreat here in the end. Thus, if the path taken by the majority is deemed the correct and natural one, then beyond doubt, the deeds of these worldly tacticians who don paper crowns are righteous—a conclusion both reasonable and just. Jishin was abruptly brought to a standstill by this Venerable Priest’s unadorned, frank talk; yet his gentle disposition—which disdained employing clever stratagems and deemed it proper to extinguish all ambition—combined with his usual ascetic mindset of quelling such vigor, left him flustered and pushed back instead. “Ah, that—” He could not help but utter a phrase that retreated mid-sentence. But faith was faith, after all. “Well, be that as it may,” Jishin heaved a sigh. “How could one who studies the form of the Buddhas of the Three Periods dare wear such an unseemly secular crown upon his head? If you cannot endure misfortune and must act thus, then take all the materials I have gathered for building halls and pagodas—offer them to the Venerable Priest. To persuade even one person toward bodhisattvahood surpasses the merit of constructing temples!” So declaring, he dispatched his disciples to gather and deliver every last item collected for timber, bestowing them upon this monk who mimicked a yin-yang master. Then, unable to accomplish what he had resolved to do, he returned alone to Kyoto, nothing but his own shadow accompanying him. As for what became of the monk with the paper crown thereafter, I do not know—but this shows that Jishin was not a man capable of undertaking grand projects. It stands to reason that one has not heard of any halls or temples said to have been built by Jishin. Later figures like Mongaku of Takao and Tetsugen of Ōbaku were builders of grand projects, but Jishin was simply Jishin. Even so, there was nothing particularly wrong with this.

The fact that Jishin made a pilgrimage through Mikawa Province was evidenced by the existence of a short essay titled *Reflections Upon Passing Sanshū Yakushi-ji Temple in Late Autumn*, which served as proof of this. Of course, whether he had gone to Mikawa after renouncing secular life or while still a layperson remained unclear due to the absence of dates in the text. Though he had once been appointed Ōmi no Jō, Masafusa Ōe’s *Biography of Yasutane Keishiki* stated that “after [receiving] the scarlet robe, he did not alter his official post,” and since he had remained a capital official, it was thought that his journey to Mikawa likely occurred after he had become a monk. The essay stated: *“I am but a transient servant, a beast of burden; first visiting temples, then encountering monks; pacing before courtyards, conversing beneath lamplight.”* Thus, the two phrases “transient servant” and “beast of burden” seemed to describe his lay life, while “pacing before courtyards” and “conversing beneath lamplight” likely pertained to his pilgrimage training period. Yakushi-ji was an old temple in Atsumi District, established by Bodhisattva Gyōki. Why Jishin had gone to Mikawa—whether for fundraising to build temples or some other purpose—could not be ascertained at all. Yet even if he had gradually made his way there as part of his vigorous pilgrimage, it would hardly have been unreasonable. It was precisely during the first two or three years after Jishin had become a monk that Sadatoshi Ōe was appointed Governor of Mikawa.

Sadatoshi Ōe was the son of Saikō Ōe, and Saikō was a man who had risen to the rank of Councillor and Major Controller of the Left with Senior Third Rank, and was the son of Koretoki Ōe, posthumously awarded Junior Second Rank. The Ōe family had been a great school of Confucian and literary studies since Ōe no Otodo. Otodo’s sons—Gyokuen, Senri, Shuntan, and Chikoshi—all excelled at poetry. Senri was also skilled in waka poetry and is known for his inclusion in the *Ogura Hyakunin Isshu*. Gyokuen’s sons Asatsuna and Chikoshi, and Chikoshi’s son Koretoki, were all Doctors of Literature. Koretoki’s son Shigemitsu’s son Masahira Ōe was also a Doctor of Literature, Koretoki’s son Saikō was a Lecturer to the Crown Prince, and Saikō’s son Tameki was likewise a Doctor of Literature. To survey the Ōe family’s lineage is to see it adorned with Doctors of Literature and Heads of the University. Sadatoshi was Tameki’s younger brother and a cousin of Masahira. Thus, by virtue of his ancestors’ merits, Sadatoshi was swiftly promoted to Chamberlain and soon thereafter, in his twenties, appointed Governor of Mikawa. As one born into such a distinguished lineage, he was naturally well-versed in literature and skilled in poetic composition—a man of exceptional talent and vigor. While the Ōe family stood as a pillar of literary tradition, the Sugawara clan—which had greatly elevated its prestige since the time of Sugawara no Fuhito, particularly after producing Lord Michizane as Fuhito’s great-grandson—also shone brightly in that era. Fumitoki, whom Jishin had studied under, was in fact Fuhito’s sixth-generation descendant. Moreover, even someone of Masahira’s stature had reportedly sought Fumitoki’s guidance in editing literary compositions and poetic works. Thus, Sadatoshi—naturally belonging to the same current of scholarly refinement—would have been acquainted with Yasutane (that is, Jishin), and given their difference in age, it is evident he would have interacted with Yasutane as a senior mentor.

Governor of Mikawa Sadatoshi had been appointed to his post before even reaching thirty years of age—a promotion undoubtedly owed to his ancestors’ merits. Yet that he, a second son, had risen so high stemmed partly from his own exceptional qualities: a brilliant intellect, mastery of scholarship and poetic composition, fierce ambition, and courage. Moreover, his calligraphy would later be praised even by Chinese connoisseurs as rivaling the brushwork of the Two Wangs. Thus was he a man of profound inner cultivation—one who would stand resplendent above the crowd by sheer innate capacity even if left unattended.

This Sadatoshi Ōe—on the cusp of thirty, that age when life seems poised to begin—abruptly renounced the floating world. He cast aside his official regalia, severed ties to his illustrious lineage, and transformed into a green devotion as rough-hewn as wood shavings or bamboo scraps. Rushing to Jishin’s side, he became the monk’s disciple. To say this occurred through karmic conditions ripening to their due point would suffice as explanation—yet it differed starkly from Yasutane Keishiki’s path. For Yasutane had wandered worldly roads for decades, suppressing his religious yearnings, only withdrawing into Buddhism in old age. Sadatoshi’s act was instead guided by a distinct twist of fate’s loom. Sadatoshi, by both lineage and innate disposition, had from the outset been devoted to scholarly pursuits and literary composition, progressing day by day in accordance with his keen talents; yet being a man of bold temperament, he took delight in venting his pent-up sentiments through pursuits such as field hunts and galloping across the countryside during his intervals of leisure. Such was his nature that, had he remained in the world and aged with its ways, he would have become a pillar of the state—naturally rising to prominence and glory. Yet even fine pine and cypress trees, by some twist of fate, find their spirits broken or growth stunted; thus failing to reach full maturity and ending in distorted forms—such is the world’s wont. Sadatoshi Ōe unexpectedly encountered a beautiful woman named Rikiju at the residence of the stationmaster of Akasaka in Mikawa. The term “stationmaster” refers to the master of a post station; one who oversees the station house is precisely the stationmaster. The stationmaster of the land oversaw the station house, which had been established as a semi-official institution to provide lodging and rest for officials and persons of status during their travels. At some indeterminate time, through the natural course of events, stationmasters became female, and under such stationmasters, beautiful women had come to be treated like daughters of the household, such that it became customary for them to attend to the needs of visiting nobles. Thus, much later, when one spoke of a stationmaster’s house here or there, it had even come to carry the implication of a brothel; but initially, it was not so degraded, for history records numerous instances of distinguished individuals born from the wombs of women in stationmasters’ households. The name *Rikiju* does not appear in works like *Uji Shūi* and feels somewhat anachronistic, smacking of the later Genpei era—yet it hardly seems conjured from pure imagination, so we shall retain it as *Rikiju*. In any case, to Sadatoshi, she appeared as something wondrously beautiful and dear, a karmic bond from a past life perhaps, and thus his very heart and soul were utterly consumed. Indeed, she must have actually been a beautiful woman. Thus, being the Governor of Mikawa, Sadatoshi obtained Rikiju. For Rikiju too, this was the fruit of her karma; as the stationmaster’s daughter of Akasaka was cherished by the Governor of Mikawa, she must have served Sadatoshi with sincerity.

Had matters ended there, it would have been nothing more than a fleeting romantic episode of the time—but Sadatoshi already had a lawful wife. Had she comported herself like some stylish spouse of a Tokugawa-era wealthy man—*“I am this household’s pillar; let him arrange his flowers as he pleases”*—there might have been no quarrel. Yet such was not the case. Truly, there is nothing so prone to arrogance when spoiled by peace’s blessings as women—and nothing so pitifully diminished when times turn harsh. At the slightest hint of trouble, all elegance vanishes: no Edo hems or loofah sponges to be found—just monpe work pants clinging to their legs. They might appear pitiable—carrying buckets, panting breathlessly in their ragged attire—but when the sun shines eternally fair and the seas lie calm, all bearded men prostrate themselves before them to curry favor; thus, seated primly before decaying screens in twelve-layered court robes and some unknowably flashy finery, they reduce every last man to groans of intimidated awe. The Heian court was at the zenith of peace—moreover, this was an era when wise and talented women flourished splendidly: Murasaki Shikibu, Ebicha Shikibu, Sei Shōnagon, Kintoki Dainagon, and others of their ilk thrived with such brilliance that society deemed women worthy of reverence, tolerating no objections whatsoever. Thus, Sadatoshi’s wife could hardly accept this, likely seething with the fires of wrath. Ah, how fiercely—nay, terrifyingly—she must have stoked those flames. However, if one were to approach the flames, their beard would at least be singed—so everyone, begging pardon, kept their distance with wary aversion. If they avoid and distance themselves from this side, they will grow all the more intimate with that side. If they grow close to that side and distance themselves from this one, this side’s flames rise ever higher. The more they fled, the more fiercely it blazed. The Karura flame borne upon Fudō Myōō’s back is said to stretch its fiery tongues ever farther as demons flee, pursuing them relentlessly until they submit. Yet the fire of jealousy too possesses this chasing nature—while singeing one’s beard may yet be endured, when it chases to your back and blazes against your very spine like this, it is not as though one is receiving moxibustion treatment; thus, resolving to confront it directly becomes the world’s inevitable course. Thus, it became a tumultuous back-and-forth struggle. At this point, those who write novels—shallow yet sinful creatures that they are—seize the moment as if ordained by fate, wielding their brushes to depict all manner of falsehoods, both real and imagined, as though they had witnessed them firsthand. Having said that, I shall now proceed to describe a bit of nonsense—but I ask that you regard it as entirely fictitious. However, though made to seem like nonsense—that is, the tale of the Sadatoshi couple’s separation—it was in fact an event they themselves enacted.

What was the name of Sadatoshi’s wife? To which clan did she belong? None of this is known. It’s not that women of this era lacked proper names—even Murasaki Shikibu’s real name might have been Omura or Osato, yet no one knows; even Sei Shōnagon’s might have been Okiyo or Osei, yet no one knows. If asked to raise their hands if they knew, most would surely fold their arms and beg pardon. Of course, it’s not as if from infancy they were called “Murasaki Shikibu” or “Time for milk!”, “Sei Shōnagon” or “Go potty!”, “Here, doggy!”—this much is understood. But fabricating transparently flimsy answers like “the Queen of Immortals, Xi Wangmu—surname Hou, given name Wanjin” would prove more troublesome than it’s worth; better to leave things as they are. Whether she was a beauty or a plain woman remains unclear, but we may safely assume she was at least average in appearance. Yet her temperament—far from gentle, likely strong-willed—can be inferred from how she fought and parted ways with the one she married in the vigor of her youth. What this woman demanded of Sadatoshi was undoubtedly to distance his lover Rikiju, but as Sadatoshi was utterly infatuated with Rikiju, he could not possibly agree to this; moreover, being a man of direct disposition, he could not resort to evasive niceties or muddled pleasantries to placate his wife. Thus, gradually, the relationship between husband and wife must have grown increasingly hostile. However, it stands to reason that those who are hungry, upon seeing others partake of fine delicacies, would feel their pangs of hunger grow all the more acute. Those who are sated, when faced with others’ hunger, have all the more reason to feel pity well up within them. There existed Masahira Ōe, who was Sadatoshi’s cousin. Masahira Ōe was the legitimate grandson of Koretoki Ōe, and his family was of distinguished standing. Sadatoshi was the son of Saikō, the younger brother of Masahira’s father Shigemitsu, and moreover, he was the second son. Masahira and Sadatoshi were roughly of the same age, but even if their talents were equal in scholarly ability, Masahira had already gained great literary renown and was widely praised. Due to these various circumstances, Sadatoshi naturally found himself positioned to follow in Masahira’s wake. To compound matters, Masahira had also taken a wife around the same time as Sadatoshi. All of these events had occurred not many years prior. Masahira Ōe was said to have been a child prodigy who read texts at seven and composed poetry at nine. Having received his grandfather Koretoki’s teachings, he grew into an erudite scholar praised by the world as having left no field unstudied. The vigor of his literary compositions was such that it stood unparalleled in its time—so much so that Yasutane himself had praised it with the words, “Like hundreds of elite soldiers donning sturdy armor, whipping their steeds to gallop across Awazu’s shore.” This matter had already been recounted earlier. Moreover, he was skilled even in waka poetry. As for his masculine bearing—tall and lanky, with angular shoulders, as they say—he likely did not resemble the portly court nobles considered handsome men of the time. The term *sashigata* (angular shoulders) refers to the opposite of *bosatsu-gata* (Bodhisattva shoulders). *Bosatsu-gata* denotes the gentle shoulder contour seen in Bodhisattva statues—what we now call sloping shoulders—while *sashigata* refers to what is presently termed raised shoulders, known in Chinese-derived terminology as *enken* (“hawk shoulders”). Features such as hawk-like shoulders, wolfish eyes, a prominent Adam’s apple, and thin lips—these are marks often found in capable individuals or those of ambitious temperament, but they are not particularly endearing. Thus, while his masculine bearing could hardly be considered favorable, the wife Masahira had taken was none other than Akazome Emon—counted among the foremost female poets of her time. At that period, Masahira was still under thirty, and Akazome Emon in her twenties. Whether their son Koshū had yet been born remains unclear, but as a young couple in their prime—she with her beauty, he with his literary talent—they must have made a well-matched pair, living in harmony as intimate as zither and lute, an object of others’ envy.

Now, while Sadatoshi and his wife smoldered in mutual resentment—hissing, emitting smoke and sparks—beside them their cousins Masahira and his wife harmonized morning and evening through poetic sentiments and merry laughter. From Sadatoshi’s perspective, Masahira’s life would naturally appear enviable, rendering his own present circumstances all the more galling; conversely, from Masahira’s side, Sadatoshi’s situation likely seemed pitiable—and thus beneath regard. Moreover, from Sadatoshi’s wife’s perspective, it must have felt akin to a starveling beholding others partake of sumptuous fare—a sensation only natural, and one might readily surmise how her vexation would swell all the more.

Akazome Emon was a woman who had carried hardships from birth, and from before she even knew the color of things, she had been placed amidst heartless conflicts. The reason was this: Uemon’s mother—whether due to some circumstance or her social standing, details now lost to time—remains unknown. Yet Uemon came to bear the name Akazome because she was raised as the daughter of Akazome Tokimochi, Governor of Ōsumi. However, Taira no Kanemori—a poet of great renown—sought to claim a child born around that time as his own daughter and take her into his care. It became a matter for the Kebiishi. The Kebiishi-chō was an institution that investigated crimes, making it something like today’s police department combined with a court of law. The mother insisted that the child was not Kanemori’s offspring, while Kanemori argued that it was his own; ultimately, this could be interpreted as stemming from the mother’s innate maternal love, which made her unwilling to part with her child—yet it could also be understood as arising from the strength of rightful paternal love, driving Kanemori to claim the child of a woman who had left him. Therefore, when judged by the reason and sentiment of men and women, Kanemori had the stronger claim, while the woman’s was lacking. Moreover, Akazome Emon, having grown into adulthood, appears to have inherited the blood of Kanemori—a poet—for her scholarly talents were anything but ordinary, rendering her exceptional; nor does she seem the offspring of Tokimochi Akazome, a Kebiishi who rose to become Governor of Ōsumi yet remained an unremarkable official with no particular reputation for learning. Therefore, even in works such as *Kiyosuke Ason’s Excerpts*, compiled not long after that time, she is indeed recorded as Kanemori’s daughter and such. Upon careful consideration of the circumstances, it was an era when love reigned supreme—an age of indulgence where women could act on love’s dictates without self-deception, their conduct deemed acceptable. Thus, Uemon’s mother had conceived while involved with Kanemori, yet due to some karmic circumstance, she parted from him and returned to Tokiyo’s household. Kanemori was one of the Thirty-Six Poetry Immortals, a great-grandson of Prince Koretada, and a man granted the Taira surname due to his father’s merits—a figure of talent in both Japanese and Chinese letters. Yet he ended his career merely as Junior Fifth Rank, Upper Grade and Governor of Suruga, enjoying little worldly success; thus, owing to his age and other circumstances, he may well have been spurned by women. When examining Kanemori’s collection, one finds lines such as: “To the one with whom I began to speak—now so long ago—” “You give no reply at all,” “Even when I speak of things, to one so utterly cold—” “I go to the woman’s side and speak of things, yet she remains cold; even the birds do not cry—” “Woman, I shall never consider you beloved,” he had declared— “Since the woman offered no reply either,” “To the woman who remained so cruel,” “With bitter resentment,” There are many love poems with prefaces such as “Having begun to think of someone long ago, and upon hearing that their circumstances have changed…”

In *Gosen Wakashū*, Book 2 of Miscellaneous Poems, there appears a poem attributed to “Anonymous”: “Like the joints of reeds / along Naniwa’s shore—so tightly / does resentment bind / the heart of one who has grown distant.” Yet this is Taira no Kanemori’s work. In *Shinchokusenshū*, Book 2 of Love, there appears the poem: “Beneath the snow of white mountains, the grass—have I grown so accustomed? Burning yet beneath, as the years pass by.” This too is Taira no Kanemori’s work. In *Goshūi Wakashū*, Book 1 of Love: “Blame only the heart that began this love—while I make your cruelty my own,” and in *Shokugosen Wakashū*, Book 5 of Love: “You who seem so cruel—at the mountain’s edge, awaiting wind, clouds in a world of uncertainty”—these too are Taira no Kanemori’s poems. I could still list several more poems, but they are all sorrowful verses of defeat—defeat by circumstance, defeat by force—and moreover, there is an ineffably pitiable air about Taira no Kanemori appearing older than his beloved. This woman may have yielded to Taira no Kanemori for a time, but with their ages ill-matched and dispositions clashing, she ultimately ended up with the Akazome clan—could this have been none other than Emon’s mother? One cannot help but wonder. However, it is of course an inconclusive matter; even who this woman was cannot be ascertained. Even Taira no Kanemori—though descended from the imperial house and not far removed from royalty—had stubbornly pressed his claim out of sheer determination to obtain the girl, a tale that likely persists in rumor even now. Yet unfortunately, Akazome Tokimochi was then serving as a Kebiishi, making him an opponent Taira no Kanemori could not overcome. The girl and her mother were taken by the Akazome clan, bringing the matter to a close. Therefore, that daughter grew up and became Akazome Emon. Since the people of that time could not have been unaware of these circumstances, Emon must have endured considerable hardship before becoming Emon—a plight more than deserving of their profound sympathy.

However, Uemon was no mere grass or sedge to wither away under misfortune's oppressive frost. She served Rinshi, wife of Fujiwara no Michinaga—the era's paramount authority—and attained great renown for her talents. Rinshi, daughter of Left Minister Minamoto no Masazane, stood as Michinaga's principal consort bearing the rank of Junior Third Consort, renowned in society as Takatsukasa-dono. Though sheltering beneath Rinshi's wings surely brought Uemon happiness immeasurable, without her exceptional innate gifts she could never have become one woven into that brocaded world of ceaseless luxury—a realm of blossoms and bustling crowds—nor basked until life's end in Michinaga's radiant glow. Poets by nature comprehend human sentiment and commune with nature's rhythms, yet often bear peculiar eccentricities: even admirable ones may lack common sense, carry odd edges, or in extremes show absentmindedness. Uemon possessed none such—a woman of consummate balance and normalcy, distinct from Izumi Shikibu's unbridled passion or the mother of Michitsuna no Haha's overwrought nerves.

This was something that happened much later: when her child Koshū’s illness grew severe, she offered a sacred offering to Sumiyoshi no Kami and prayed, “For a thousand generations—since he was still a tender child—I have prayed only to the pine of Sumiyoshi.” “Having long placed my trust in you, O pine of Sumiyoshi—this time, show me a sign!” The fact that she composed three poems—including “Though I pray this life may not change, how bitter it is to imagine parting”—appears in various texts, marking her as truly a devoted mother. In her efforts to advance Koshū’s career, on the night the New Year’s appointments began—amid heavy snowfall—she visited Takatsukasa-dono to petition for his appointment. She composed the poem: “O my lord, brush the snow from your head—this heart that hastens ere it melts away.” When Michinaga heard this verse, he was moved with pity, and thus granted Koshū his wish, appointing him Governor of Izumi. “A sign remains where one brushed away—see how the spring emerges, parting the snow,” came the poem bestowed upon her, though whether it was Michinaga or Rinshi remains unclear. To this she responded by composing, “How delightful beyond others, this Izumi! / For its waters born of melting snow must surely surpass all”—a verse that, put kindly, revealed her deftness; put harshly, marked her as a woman well-versed in worldly cunning. But what was even more surprising was that whenever her husband Masahira Ōe returned home, he would wear a troubled expression and seem lost in thought. Finding this strange, she asked, "What manner of business have you been engaged in?" Pressed so relentlessly, Master Masahira—though his appearance was hardly imposing—finally confessed. In truth, Lord Kintō Shijō, the Middle Counselor, intends to resign from his position as Middle Counselor. Thereupon, the same lord requested Kino Sanena to draft a letter of resignation. Sanena wielded the brush and wrote. However, it was not to His Lordship’s liking. And His Lordship once again entrusted the task to Ōe no Iigen. Iigen also labored diligently to draft it. However, finding even Iigen’s draft unsatisfactory in His Lordship’s estimation, there ultimately came this request for Masahira to compose the document. Sanena’s prose was elegant and dignified; Iigen’s prose displayed novelty and showcased talent. Though their styles differed, both were dragons and elephants of the literary seas and mountains. However, as neither man’s draft met His Lordship’s approval, and with a fervent request now made to Masahira, how could he set his brush to a composition on the same theme—already two chapters of distinctive prose having been written? Though he had returned after finding it difficult to decline the request, reflecting on this, he said: “I fear that I too would merely compose phrases deemed unsatisfactory to His Lordship’s mind—a thought both mortifying and disquieting.” Though Lord Kintō had always excelled in scholarly and poetic arts, Uemon could offer no answer to her husband—now placed in such circumstances—as he agonized and struggled, for it was utterly reasonable that one whose standing depended on prose would falter here. She sank into contemplation, realizing that few indeed could interject in matters of this nature to aid their spouse.

Of course, Uemon did not merely excel at poetry; seeing how she composed verses from the twenty-eight chapters of the Lotus Sūtra and the ten parables of the Vimalakīrti Sūtra, there could be no doubt she was a woman of learning. Yet in matters of prose—her husband’s public craft—how could a woman’s meddling ever be permissible? However, being a woman of talent as she was, she knew the bitter and the sweet of the world. “You are quite right—I do not believe there is anything amiss with the compositions by Sanena and Iigen. However, Lord Kintō is a man of such august and lofty disposition. Should one write of his noble lineage from ancestral times and subtly convey an air of stagnation, it would likely align with his intent and meet his approval. What do you think?” she advised. There, Masahira nodded in understanding and, incorporating such intent into his composition, drafted a resignation letter that—though indeed a resignation—carried a somewhat self-important tone. Indeed, it met Lord Kintō’s expectations: the petition requesting his resignation from the positions of Middle Counselor and Left Gate Guards Commander was formally submitted, and Masahira, at least in Lord Kintō’s eyes, was acknowledged as possessing greater literary authority than Sanena and Iigen, thereby bringing him honor. That document remains extant today, which makes it all the more interesting. Upon reading it, within it was written: “I, your servant, though fortunate to hail from a family of generations of high ministers, have mistakenly attained an excessively prominent position. The passage reads: “My talent is meager and has brought me low; unable to follow the footsteps of those who came before beneath the sophora leaves, my illness grows grave as I linger in seclusion—yet a willow branch may yet sprout upon my left arm.” Here we see pride revealed within modesty, making it thoroughly delightful. Declaring “unable to follow in the footsteps beneath the sophora leaves,” he included a touch of sarcasm; then, invoking Zhuangzi with a pompous cough—“a willow branch may yet sprout upon my left arm”—one can well imagine how this would have coaxed a smile from the high-minded Lord Kintō. Then he added: “Having received the grace of being treated as an adopted child by Her Majesty the Empress Dowager, I have long served as Director of the Empress’s Household, where none could rival me in matters of medicine-tasting.” He continued: “Though I briefly succeeded to the dust of that retired emperor’s residence, Her Majesty’s heart must have been pained—and her poetry strained.” The poem oversteps itself; using cedar trees here feels painfully forced—it’s no masterpiece by any poetry immortal, just a song with uncertain rhythm, like a strained fart. However, chastened by this—the fox having seemingly been dismissed—from then on, even Lord Masahira Ōe, with his broad shoulders, towering stature, and unyielding pride, grew subdued and became a good father, or so the tale goes. This poem too is rather poorly crafted, and as it would be troublesome if people were to think it was likely made by later tale authors, I must preface this by stating that it does indeed appear in the Uemon Collection.

Akazome Uemon was such a woman. For such a woman—in the full bloom of youth, her body brimming with vigor and her heart ablaze with passion, 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 Sadatoshi due to a woman of lowly status, leaving his young wife weeping in tears, made it impossible to feign indifference as if it were another’s affair. Moreover, as the turmoil grew increasingly severe and Sadatoshi’s wife came to be tormented day by day, she may well have done something—perhaps sought aid from Uemon. It was not as though Uemon had set out like a lawyer, but it would have been natural for her to speak up on various occasions for Sadatoshi’s wife. The relationship between Sadatoshi’s household and Uemon was not merely one of familial closeness. This may be a slight overstatement, but Tameyasu—Sadatoshi’s elder brother—is recorded in genealogies as a poet, Doctor of Literature, Junior Fifth Rank, Lower Grade, and Governor of Settsu. Between this man and Uemon, there appears to have been no ordinary exchange of feelings. In books recording the idle talk of this period—as far as I am aware—there is no trace of a love story involving Uemon and Tameyasu, and whether such a romantic tale even existed remains unclear; however, clear evidence survives of numerous poetic exchanges between Tameyasu and Uemon. However, even if there had been such love between them, it may have ended with both parties remaining reserved; moreover, it is a fact that Tameyasu was sickly and died young. In any case, we shall set aside this matter and leave it as it is. However, that there later came to be mutual inquiries between the mother of Tameyasu and Sadatoshi and Uemon is also made clear by the fact that several exchanged poems remain. There were instances where Sadatoshi’s mother composed poems on plum blossoms and carnations, to which Uemon responded in kind; and another where Sadatoshi’s mother lodged at Uemon’s house, gazing late into the night at the moon amid the cries of insects, all others having fallen silent. There, she expressed the old woman’s sorrow: “Even gazing at the clouded heavens would suffice—must I now behold this moon dwelling in my sleeves?” It was not that Tameyasu and Sadatoshi lacked younger brothers like Nariyasu and Takayasu, but having been parted from those two she had relied upon, to gaze upon the moon dwelling in her sleeves—what a sorrowful poem this was. Uemon, too, overcome with emotion, responded: “As the moon at dawn flows into my sleeves—ah, the sound of insects in this sorrowful hour.” This poem is included in the Shoku Kokinshū. Since it was a family matter, their interactions must have been as frequent as this—there is nothing strange about it.

Such was the nature of their familial bond.

Such was Akazome Emon’s character. Sympathizing with Sadatoshi’s oppressed young wife and siding with his mother—who was unlikely to take Rikiju’s side—Uemon one day confronted Sadatoshi. She admonished him for his reckless infatuation with Rikiju, whose sole virtue was her beauty, and urged him to treat his wife with kindness. Truly, it was flawless in wording, masterfully blending logic and sentiment—a beautiful and skillfully presented argument. Those with wealth can lend their resources to support the poor; those with talent can lend their abilities to aid the inept—such occurrences arise naturally, for this is the way of the world. Thus, for someone of Akazome Emon’s caliber, when her son Kagemochi fell in love, she would compose waka poems—the greatest weapon in love—on Kagemochi’s behalf and have them sent to the woman in question on numerous occasions. Truly a reliable and admirable mother, and thanks to her, young master Kagemochi must have become quite the fine man. Since those poems remain clearly preserved to this day, it is neither a lie nor a fabrication. However, the woman in question was still young and found herself unable to craft a response to Akazome Emon’s skillfully composed proxy poems. Fortunately, she had an elder sister figure in the renowned poetess Izumi Shikibu, whom she entreated to compose a reply on her behalf. The proxy love poems composed by Izumi Shikibu also remain extant to this day. Since both women were skilled yet idiosyncratic practitioners, what began as nothing more than a splendid exchange of eloquent arguments between these two love advocates ultimately led to tales such as that of Takamutsu no Moronao—an odious old man who styled himself Governor of Musashi—commissioning amorous letters from Urabe no Kenkō, a monk of crude repute. The poem by Akazome Uemon included in the *Ogura Hyakunin Isshu*—"Had I not lain awake, / Ah, gazing at the moon until it tilted / Deep into the night—" is truly an excellent composition. However, that too did not spring from Uemon’s own emotions; she had composed it on another’s behalf, realistically capturing the circumstances of that time. It was an awe-inspiring masterpiece—its unbroken flow of emotion, its depiction of gazing at the moon until it tilted—and yet, even among the countless times *kana* has been used to this day, rarely has that particle resonated with such piercing clarity as in her “*kana*,” those two characters. When confronted with such a poem, a man would have become like a dragonfly ensnared in a spider’s thread—truly bound by *kana*. When confronted by none other than Akazome Emon—her abundant talents deployed against him, her words anchored in righteous logic—even Sadatoshi stood no chance. For the time being, he had no choice but to concede, forced to acknowledge how utterly reasonable she was.

However, it did not go that way. For Sadatoshi, Rikiju’s endearing charm had pierced him to the core. No—it was not merely that her endearing charm had pierced him to the core; his very soul had long since flown out and burrowed deep within the recesses of Rikiju’s bosom. His wife was no longer his wife; she held no more significance than a fleeting blossom on a sleeve or a fallen leaf beneath one’s feet. There may have been times when his wife resented him with a grave gaze, but to him, it seemed no more significant than fireflies beyond a hedge. He had likely been admonished by his mother with a loving gaze, but even that—though precious—was but the shadow of birds at the cloud’s edge, something that lingered in his heart only briefly. No matter how accomplished a poetess, how talented a woman, or how well-rounded in common sense and capable Akazome Emon might be, she was, after all, merely the wife of a cousin. No matter what such a person said this or that, it likely never entered Sadatoshi’s ears from the start. He neither rebutted nor counterattacked; instead dismissed her with an air of indifference, as though the sound of cicadas in the trees had reached his ears but failed to enter his mind. Even Uemon—her efforts rendered as futile as a shop curtain swaying in the wind—though being a woman of such caliber who must have ardently pleaded in every way—found herself unable to reach Sadatoshi in his towering folly; no semblance of response could take hold. In this world there are those who stand tall yet achieve nothing—in times of war they would be mown down like reeds and grasses; in times of peace they end up volunteering to become madmen, remaining mere nuisances to society. Sadatoshi was surely such a towering man. Thus Uemon found herself wounded in self-esteem and self-respect—a most unpleasant outcome—left at a loss, bringing shame even upon Sadatoshi’s wife and mother, her dignity somewhat diminished, her heart seething with displeasure. With little more than a plea of “Please consider this properly,” she had no choice but to retreat from Sadatoshi. Here one might wish to describe how Uemon skillfully pleaded her case—yet it would be as lame as expounding on a losing wrestler’s techniques—thus we shall omit it.

For Sadatoshi，he dismissed it as nothing more than unpleasant smoke passing by his nose，but what churned unresolved was within Uemon’s heart．For Uemon，it was not that there was no direct pain involved，but the fact that what she had thought vanished without any impact—like scattering a pinch of ash into the wind—was something frustrating to anyone．For those with considerable self-esteem，such an experience was more likely to evoke detestable，loathsome feelings than if they themselves had suffered a minor blow．Moreover，even toward oneself—with whom there should be mutual respect and no room for hatred or aversion—a man who would show such contempt or scorn now，toward his wife，whom he had come to actively despise or even abuse out of disgust，if one were to thoughtlessly express sympathy for the wife from the sidelines and make remarks condemning the husband，it would only intensify his loathing and mistreatment of her，and thinking this filled one with unbearable pity for his wife while revulsion toward him surged uncontrollably．It was not that the equilibrium of my heart was entirely lost，but like small bubbles forming and bursting，bursting and reforming again as thick porridge boiled，I could not escape the ceaseless rise and fall of some unsettled，formless thing within my belly．Thereupon，Uemon finally confided the details to her husband Masahira：she spoke of Sadatoshi’s recent misconduct，related his wife’s pitiable state，and pleaded that something be done．As for men，they are generally disinclined to involve themselves in such matters．Masahira initially sought to let it pass．However，Uemon skillfully recounted her case．If Masahira were to ignore this，he could not help but feel his wife would regard him as being as cold as Sadatoshi in similar circumstances．Therefore，acting more from concern for his own wife than Sadatoshi，he resolved to speak when time permitted．The relationship between Masahira and Uemon was truly harmonious．

There is nothing more dangerous than intervening in the estrangement between a man and a woman. If the relationship between that man and woman were to mend, they would have no reason to think well of that someone afterward—for that someone would be an outsider who knows both parties’ old wounds. And if they ultimately fail to reconcile, then of course there would have been no point in someone having spoken up in the first place—for that very reason. However, when it comes to matters between relatives, it is a different matter altogether. But both Masahira and Sadatoshi were at an age brimming with hot-blooded passion and ambition; both possessed learning and talent, and even in casual exchanges of banter, neither was one to concede defeat—thus it was only natural that discussions of this sort were unlikely to yield favorable results. However, since fortunately neither party was foolish or arrogant, the matter ended without becoming a topic of later gossip; yet their mutual affections grew estranged, and Masahira remained Masahira, Sadatoshi remained Sadatoshi—each standing aloof, likely ending in mutual alienation. Inferring this, one party must have pointed out the futility of being captivated by the beauty of roadside flowers and willows, thereby subtly admonishing the importance of self-cultivation and family harmony. Since there was no way to counter this, the other party must have remained silent. This silence was truly an awkward predicament with no room for negotiation, and furthermore, given that the Ōe family was founded on Confucianism, someone must have also pointed out that unless there were truly extraordinary circumstances, discord within the household leading to abandoning one’s wife would invite particular censure from society, placing the entire clan at a grave disadvantage. To this as well, the other party likely remained silent once more. They must have even discussed the articles of the Seven Grounds for Divorce. The Seven Grounds for Divorce are as follows: first, failure to bear a child; second, lewdness; third, failure to serve one’s parents-in-law; fourth, garrulousness; fifth, theft; sixth, jealousy; seventh, a grave illness. In response to this, Sadatoshi could have raised the two articles—garrulousness and jealousy—to argue his case; however, as he was not currently insisting on divorcing his wife, he likely remained silent without saying anything. No matter what was said, he remained silent. When even he himself, like his wife Uemon, came to be ignored and passed over in silence, Masahira must have been unable to endure it any longer. Finally touching upon the thought that Sadatoshi’s obsession stemmed from Rikiju being an exceedingly beautiful woman, he must have directed his spear toward the matter of her beauty. Invoking examples like Daji and Baosi—supernatural and fearsome beauties—might seem excessive, but given the association with the phrase “coveting beauty,” [he] likely recalled how Shen Gong Wuchen admonished King Chu of Chu when, after conquering Chen, he sought to take Xia Ji into his harem: “To covet beauty is licentiousness, and licentiousness merits severe punishment.” Thus, [he] must have also declared that coveting beauty was folly. The two characters “coveting beauty” are indeed words that cannot help but strike a chord with those who love the beauty of women. Xia Ji may have been an unremarkable woman, but there is no doubt she was exceedingly beautiful. King Zhuang accepted Shen Gong Wuchen’s admonition, and the matter was settled without incident; yet just as Wuchen had called her an ill-omened woman, she was one who sowed misfortune wherever she went.

It was not as though Rikiju had been likened to Xia Ji or anything of the sort, but a phrase such as “coveting beauty” must have struck Sadatoshi with particular force. For there was no mistaking that he had indeed been indulging in lust. No matter how harshly one is spoken to, if the words do not strike a vital spot, they can be brushed aside; yet if those words happen to strike a sore spot—that is, a vital point—one cannot help but grow angry. It is something that makes the flames of opposition and hostility flare up fiercely. Up to this point, even though he had been making an unpleasant face without opposing and half-listening, Sadatoshi now exploded. One reason was that he had been privately agonizing over what to do about his old wife—who had become like a grain of rice stuck to the sole of his foot—constantly wondering how to handle her. Another reason was akin to being troubled over how to resolve a tangled knot of silk threads: just as someone, albeit well-meaning, abruptly yanked one end from the side, making it even harder to unravel, he had reached a resolution within himself—like taking out scissors to cut through the nuisance once and for all. Suddenly, in a manner unbefitting his household, Sadatoshi began repeating, “*Such causes, such conditions; such causes, such conditions*,” and declared: “However one may judge it, karma appears beyond reproach. Even sages and wise men have precedents of parting with wives who displeased them—how much more so for the likes of us!” With this, he straightened his back defiantly. Masahira let out a “Hah!” and retreated slightly. Since it was a problem Sadatoshi had been handling for several months, the rest naturally came spilling out. As attested in the *Tan Gong* chapter, under the passage ‘When Zishang’s mother died and [he] did not mourn her,’ it is evident that Zisi—the grandson of Confucius—divorced his wife. Furthermore, according to that same chapter—where a disciple asked Zisi, “Did your late lord in antiquity mourn his divorced mother?”—it appears that Zisi’s father, Zibo Yu, also divorced his wife. “No—moreover, according to another passage in the same chapter: ‘When Bo Yu’s mother died, [he] mourned beyond the prescribed period.’ From this text, it is evident that Bo Yu’s mother—that is, Confucius’s wife—was divorced by our sage Kong Fuzi.” “For what reason would the Sage divorce a wife who had even borne him a child? This one, being unlearned, has yet to see or hear of such details—but Confucius married the Jianguan clan of Song at nineteen years of age and fathered Bo Yu, styled Liyu, in the following year.” “It is natural that Bo Yu wept beyond the mourning period upon his divorced mother’s death, but as for Confucius divorcing Lady Jianguan—beyond karmic discord, this one finds it incomprehensible.” “No one can claim that the Sage’s virtue was insufficient to bring order to his household.” “However, the Master himself is said to have stated that ‘the highest wisdom and the lowest folly are unmoved.’” “To be unmoved means that even virtuous transformation does not reach them, I should think.” “Even the Sage in his great virtue—in his youth—could not endure and thus cast her aside? Or perhaps there was something improper in Lady Jianguan herself?” “All matters of the distant past are difficult to comprehend or act upon now, but we mere mortals can only regard them as the inscrutable workings of karma—what else could one say?” he retorted, turning the tables with an unexpected counterargument. This was by no means because Sadatoshi surpassed Masahira in learning; rather, it was because Sadatoshi, from his current circumstances, had made such matters into actual problems and pondered them through various struggles.

Masahira could not help but retreat slightly. If this were sumo, there—had Sadatoshi’s initial charge been swifter—Masahira would have been effortlessly thrust from the ring. But as Sadatoshi had no intention of contesting victory, he refrained from pressing the attack. Yet Masahira keenly felt himself pushed back and overwhelmed. But Masahira too was a man of hawkish shoulders and unyielding spirit; he could not bear being edged out of a scholarly debate. Though clearly not here to quarrel, he loathed retreating in defeat. “Given your renown as a prodigy—one whose writings charge like elite troops across Awazu’s shores—you might argue Tan Gong hails from the Six States,” he conceded smoothly, “and though its chapter resides in the Book of Rites, its hearsay origins render it dubious.” A faint smirk surfaced. “True, even sages parted with incompatible wives. Yet after such partings, did they take another? Confucius sired only Bo Yu by Lady Jianguan—no siblings followed. As for a successor wife… this unlearned one remains ignorant.” His discourse achieved consummate diplomacy. This time, rather than resisting Sadatoshi’s thrust, he deftly diverted it sideways. Though unopposed, Sadatoshi found himself maneuvered askew. Even were he to leave his wife, came the argument, Rikiju ought not enter afterward. Invoking sages had been odd from the start—thus oddness begot odd conclusions. Their conversation about life’s realities became mired in ancient texts through roundabout speech—like grains caught between teeth. Yet this proved fortuitous: settled as scholarly banter, it ended without strife or rancor.

However, both parties must have privately understood that this was no ordinary exchange or scholarly debate. Thus, while Masahira thought Sadatoshi an obtuse man for failing to grasp his well-meaning advice, Sadatoshi—resenting the meddling—surely fumed inwardly: *First it was that meddlesome poetess, now this pedant—what are they even prattling about? No doubt that woman of my household has been blabbing something outside.* Such are karmic bonds—whether they turn good or ill—all unfolding thus: kindness becomes enmity; aid becomes obstruction; Sadatoshi grew ever more distant from his wife; his wife grew ever more resentful of her husband; their silent glares and jealous whispers clashed daily—until finally Sadatoshi, seizing upon some pretext, declared his intent to leave her at last. The woman indeed alternated between weeping and laughing, but no matter what she did, it was futile, and she ultimately left the house. While there is scant material today to know the exact formalities of separation at that time in detail, there could have been no such thing as parting with a beautiful smile. They must have separated after exhausting all manner of disgraceful and detestable acts—the man with his glaring eyes, the woman with her resentful aura. For without that, there would have been no way for them to part. For a woman especially, having her entire life blotted out with ink, Sadatoshi’s wife must have resented him, loathed him, scorned her former husband as though he were less than human, and cursed him: “May your end be wretched! 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 fragrance, nothing but a pitch-black, icy void—she must have been overcome with despair and dread beyond endurance.

In all the human world, there is none more deserving of sympathy than a woman parted from her husband. Since this could never arise from pure goodness, there can be no doubt that aspects exist which do not merit sympathy. For instance, even in the case of Sadatoshi’s wife—had her jealousy been but slightly less—no matter how deeply Sadatoshi had become infatuated with Rikiju, it is thought he would not have been driven to cast her aside. However things may be, for a woman whose entire life’s joys and sorrows depend on another, whether for better or worse, she cannot bear to part from the man fate assigned her. In contrast, men are 50% or even 100% better off. In extreme cases, they part with women in a mood akin to discarding a straw raincoat once the rain clears or abandoning a boat once the water runs dry, quipping with affected wit, “Ah, what a relief!” Yet given that such a man is not truly a villain, one cannot help but doubt whether morality even exists within love—so much so that in any case, women stand on unfavorable ground. Sadatoshi was, of course, not what one would call a villain; rather, if likened to a horse, he was a headstrong one, and as a person, he was likely uncompromisingly straightforward. After having expelled his wife, he must have felt truly relieved, pouring all his passion into loving Rikiju. As Governor of Mikawa—the highest position in his assigned province—he lived surrounded by subordinate officials and servants; his actions were unrestricted; his food and drink were of the highest quality; his duties in this peaceful era were tranquil; not a single thing weighed on his mind. He would gallop across mountains and fields during hunts to work up a pleasant sweat, or on days when the heavens were moist with gentle rain, he would sit by clear windows at spotless desks—incense burning, poetry scrolls unrolled—nourishing his temperament through recitation or calligraphy. In this manner, he must have enjoyed a life of complete freedom and comfort to his heart’s content. Yet such bliss could not endure forever—for no flower keeps its crimson bloom for a hundred days; jade trees too must wither. Such was life’s fixed course: how could the Creator pity this man alone? Perhaps the curse of the wife he had cast out had taken effect. Without any clear starting point, Rikiju fell ill. Although medical science was still in its infancy at the time, there were still appropriate methods to exhaust all possible means. There were Eleven-Faced Kannon rituals, Medicine Buddha rituals—this ritual and that—and countless prayer techniques as well. The illness was not one of great or intense suffering, yet like a beautiful flower wilting in a vase on a sunny day, or like a pristine melon—protected within its basket yet gradually losing its jade-like luster—it weakened little by little. Sadatoshi began to grow agitated. He increasingly redirected his anger toward others. He increasingly found himself savoring sorrow alone. In seeking a cure, he grew somewhat frenzied.

At times, as if her illness had somewhat abated and her vigor recovered, a faint blush would color her emaciated, translucent face—revealing a beauty so startling it took one’s breath away—yet this very phenomenon marked the disease’s relentless advance. The patient was deeply grateful for Sadatoshi’s love; even the bitter-tasting medicine she received from his hand, she forced herself to drink while feigning delight. For Sadatoshi, knowing this was truly agonizing. When he had her drink the sacred water from the ritual—the pure water offered before the principal image—its sweetness filled her with genuine delight. She drank it joyfully and smiled faintly at Sadatoshi. But when he thought that in this world she now found such happiness in mere water, Sadatoshi was overcome with unbearable sorrow, weeping silently within. The illness showed no signs of improving. Like a good horse advancing with surefooted steps, it progressed only gradually toward the worse. The fact that the bottomless valley of death—their final destination—had drawn near had become something Sadatoshi could now envision, and that Rikiju too seemed to have come to fully comprehend this—both realities had grown unmistakably clear to these eyes. However, both of them strove to let neither their hearts nor their words touch upon that abhorrent matter. They did not wish to abandon one another; it was because their clinging hearts grew stronger in inverse proportion to the reality of the world.

There can be no day when the sun’s shadow does not move. The time came, and its shadow flowed. Rikiju, as if perceiving that the tree leaves had ceased swaying and the wind had vanished, finally passed away peacefully. Sadatoshi felt as though he too had died alongside her—but this was fleeting, for that which does not die did not die. He indeed survived. They parted. The two souls that had become one—he abandoned his self; I could not follow him; he departed; I remained behind. I was only dazed and vacant.

There is a proverb: "In life, they pity one another; in death, they cast one another aside." If that proverb held true, Sadatoshi should have promptly invited monks to chant sutras and conducted the burial in the fields. However, Sadatoshi’s attachment was far too deep to advance such social conventions in accordance with ordinary customs; though Rikiju had died and indeed cast off her self, I could not bear to cast her aside. He left tasks such as changing the mat, arranging the desk, offering flowers, and burning incense entirely to the servants, but since he did not give the order to summon monks and enshrine her in the coffin, no one dared to take action. One day passed, then two. Was it due to the nature of her illness? Even now, several days having passed, her countenance remained as if she were still alive. Sadatoshi stayed by her side day and night, lying beside her in his unbearable grief. His body no longer under his own will, his heart no longer his own, he merely passed the time in a daze, lost between the realms of consciousness and oblivion. An old text narrates this scene thus: “Overwhelmed by grief, someone lay prostrate and kissed the mouth—but when a foul odor emerged from that mouth, aversion arose within them, and they shook it off with sobs.” Alive, she was a person; dead, she became a thing. Sadatoshi had, of course, felt attached to the person—not to the thing. However, since the thing still resembled a person, he must have remained by its side indefinitely. And then, at some point—without thinking—he must have brought his mouth close to the dead person’s mouth. The old text, which had simply written of someone kissing [the mouth], was truly splendid. It states, “A foul odor emerged from [her] mouth,” but this was truly a stench so repulsive that none could have imagined—indeed, it must have been a truly abominable smell. The breath of one nearing death emits a rare odor unlike any other—commonly feared and reviled as “reputed to smell of divinity”—but how much more unbearable must it have been to kiss the mouth of one who had been dead for days, no matter how deep the attachment. However, Sadatoshi was truly a man of spirit; love and obsession, having reached this point, had driven him to the very brink. At that moment, the decaying corpse—uttering *“How delightful, Lord Sadatoshi”*—wrapped its willow branch-like thin, cold hands around the man’s neck and clung to him. What manner of being this was remains unknown, but since the Dharma wheel of nature does not turn backward, Sadatoshi recoiled in terror from its abominable stench. Humans are strange creatures; they can taste, 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 as natural as can be—yet they cannot do so. If it had been a dakini, it would have devoured the corpse as a feast, but Sadatoshi—not being a dakini but a human—had no choice but to retreat. Regarding this passage, the monk Kokan wrote, “*Loss of a partner; mourning delayed by excessive attachment; through observing the Nine [Stages of Decay], profound renunciation arises*”—but his ornate prose overreaches, straying far from the facts. The Nine Observations expound the transformative stages of a corpse: the swelling phase, bluish discoloration phase, rupture phase, blood-smeared phase, pus-oozing phase, insect-devoured phase, scattering phase, bone phase, and earth phase. However, this does not mean that [Sadatoshi] prolonged the burial without conducting it until he could observe these Nine Observations, no matter how much he delayed mourning. The Major Counselor’s passage—“[he] kissed [her] mouth”—is a far better piece of writing.

Therefore, Sadatoshi buried Rikiju. The character for “burial” (葬) depicts discarding a corpse amidst grass—grass above and grass below—while the word *houmuru* (to bury) means to cast away, to throw it out into fields or mountains and be done with it. For those whose end cannot be avoided, it is only natural that they either bury others or are buried themselves. In life, they pity one another; in death, they cast one another aside—it is the way of things. Rikiju and Sadatoshi had at last cast each other aside in death.

What became of Sadatoshi after being cast aside by Rikiju and casting her aside in turn? There was no particular manner, no such way—there was only emptiness there. Sadatoshi, within that emptiness, passed his days adrift—his head did not bear the heavens, his feet did not tread the earth, knowing neither east nor west, discerning no north or south, unable to distinguish right from wrong, good from evil, fortune from misfortune, or righteousness from wickedness. Amidst this emptiness, April arrived, and the time came for the annual ritual known as the Wind Festival. To call it a Wind Festival was not to speak of the elegant kind found in Man’yōshū poetry—where one might dread storms scattering blossoms and plead, “Do not blow, winds! Cross over instead to the forest that bears your name, and hold your festival there.” In the rural Shinto rituals of Mikawa at that time, they would offer live sacrifices to the gods, praying that violent and ill winds would not ravage the rice crops. The intent was not inherently bad; it was a practice that had been conducted year after year. Sadatoshi was the governor of Mikawa; of course, he participated in the ceremony. However, the act of offering these sacrifices involved dragging live wild boars before the altar, where the men would mercilessly slaughter them. Even a dull creature like a wild boar cannot comprehend being slaughtered and submit; if it attempts to flee, it will resist. Finally unable to prevail, it let out a strange cry and ended up dying in sorrow and distress. Sadatoshi saw this and felt disgusted. However, since it could not be halted midway, he endured and let it proceed as it was. Though I do not know when the practice of sacrifices began, it seems that in our land, there were none in the pure ancient times of the Age of the Gods. It seems such practices had existed in China since antiquity, but the concept of sacrifice may have been transmitted to our Divine Land alongside the influx of Chinese thought and cultural artifacts. Already, The Tales of Times Now Past contains stories of human sacrifices, serving as the origin for far later martial tales such as those of Miyamoto Sōmonnosuke. In the midst of societal development’s progression, there may indeed be a trend toward accepting sacrifices as necessary; yet when one sees the trembling steps of livestock and such, even if they are offered to the gods, from the perspective of humanity’s benevolent side, one cannot help but doubt whether this is truly good or not. In other words, it is doubtful whether this societal good—which deems sacrifice permissible—is truly good at all, or whether it might not be so. From the perspective of heroism, of course, sacrifices offered to the gods are not even worth discussing—for to deny such things would dismantle the very fabric of the state. Thus, unless one dwells in solitude within a rocky cavern, one must not question sacrifice—such is the reality of the human world. Then, some time later. Since someone had until now taken pleasure in hunting and such, there were those who presented a live pheasant to Sadatoshi. Sadatoshi declared, “Let us prepare and eat this pheasant while it is still alive. The taste might be good—let us try it.”

Those among the servants with coarser hearts, who regarded their master as a god, said, “Certainly! Its flavor shall surely surpass all others,” while those slightly more discerning thought it cruel but did not go so far as to admonish or stop him. When they eventually had it plucked, the pheasant flapped wildly, but they caught and held it down, plucking it thoroughly. Because the bird could not endure it, it fluttered its tear-filled eyes and looked at the people around. Some, exchanging glances, could no longer bear the pity and withdrew, while others—finding amusement in cries of “It’s still alive!”—laughed and plucked on with resolve. When they finished plucking and had it slaughtered, the blood gushed out in droplets along the blade, and with an unbearable death cry, it died. When he said, “Roast it alive and see for yourself,” the heartless lowly men did exactly as told and declared, “This is unexpectedly splendid! A live-roasted bird far surpasses a dead one.” After all, they were the valiant ones of this world. Sadatoshi watched intently, but finally unable to endure it, he burst into tears and renounced his valiant nature. Casting aside his role as Governor of Mikawa and all else, without a moment to adjust his robes, he left the provincial capital for the capital like a leaf in midair swept away by the wind.

Of course, he resigned from all official positions and ranks. There were undoubtedly those who doubted and tried to stop him, and there were undoubtedly those among his clan and friends who condemned him. But now, recklessly and forcibly—regardless of anything—he had ended up becoming nothing more than a non-social, mere living creature. They regard the offering of sacrifices as righteous, and to neglect offering sacrifices is deemed grave disrespect toward the gods, immorality, and a great evil. The demand for sacrifice is the authority of the gods; it is their exalted virtue; it is the natural law of those most benevolent and gracious gods who illuminate all things. In certain cases, when one voluntarily becomes a sacrifice to the gods—offering their own flesh, blood, liver, and brains—this is deemed pure morality: the supreme, greatest, most beautiful, most magnificent manifestation of a majestic spirit to be accepted willingly. Thus it is through such means—through attaining unity with the gods—that society stands robustly established. Indeed, without that, a solid society could not be established. Society is established through the accumulation and continuation of sacrifices. To deny sacrifice is the basest, pettiest, and most inferior of spirits; those who coerce demands for sacrifice, who skillfully exact its offering—these are deemed heroes and sages. If one does not accept sacrifice, one cannot even obtain a single crucian carp or a single egg. What does it matter to prepare a pheasant or two alive for the sake of savoring them well? What does it matter to offer a wild boar or two as sacrifices to the wind god? It is said that Yi Ya roasted his own child as a dish and offered it to his lord. What manner of beings are these intermediaries who handle sacrifices—are they cowards or heroes? Since society is already established through the accumulation and continuation of sacrifices, there must be a vast number of sacrifice handlers; no—the true reality of this human world is that nearly all people become mutual sacrifices, take sacrifices, and act as sacrifice handlers. Among humans, willingly becoming mutual sacrifices is love; compelling each other into sacrifice is conflict; and the myriad forms of sacrifice that are neither—the self, others, and intermediaries—are the true reality of the sahā world. He had lost the world of love—now revealed as mere illusion—and become nothing more than a denizen of the sahā world, this realm of endurance and suffering. Yet even within this sahā world, he found himself neither seeking that phantom realm anew nor intending—sooner or later—to encounter again the stench of base desires. Thus he drifted—neither thinking nor not-thinking, neither grasping nor releasing—through days of drizzling early summer rains, passing time in a haze of unknowing. If one who had already transcended such boundaries were to speak, they would say that he had been engaged in what is called the work within the black mountain demon’s cave. At that moment, a servant suddenly appeared and came offering something in his hands—a thin, basket-like object of unknown nature.

“What is it?” he asked. The aged man’s reply was exceedingly calm. “A woman of no mean appearance—her bearing was truly fitting, yet she appeared greatly worn by poverty and sorrow—came earnestly beseeching that this mirror be purchased for a fair price. Though I could not bring myself to refuse her outright, and though I deemed it an unnecessary matter, I have brought it before your eyes.” What connection could a mirror have to Sadatoshi now? However, when Sadatoshi inquired further, it seemed she was likely the wife of a fifth- or sixth-rank official—whether due to her husband’s prolonged illness or some other circumstance that had left her in dire poverty, she had reached a point of desperation and was sacrificing her most treasured mirror to stave off immediate crisis. Mirrors were indeed still quite precious at the time. When Sadatoshi opened the basket to look at the mirror, he found that on the withered wrapping paper, written in faint brushstrokes, were the words: "Today alone, as I gaze—tears overflow. O mirror that has become my shadow, speak not of this to others." Though he did not fully comprehend the circumstances, the woman’s heart—her resolve to sell the mirror she regarded as her very soul—and her plight rose vividly in his mind. Sadatoshi closed his eyes darkly, tilted his head back, and was overcome with unbearable sorrow. Thereupon, he instructed them: “If I have no need for the mirror, return it to her. Whatever she requires—let her take anything of mine without hesitation. Show her utmost compassion.” Then he wiped his tearful eyes. What manner of woman had come to sell this mirror? Did she share some karmic bond with Sadatoshi? Had this been a Bunka-Bunsei-era novel, one might expect some elaborate backstory appended here—but none of this is made clear. It had likely arisen purely by chance. If one were to forcibly seek a logical path, it might be said that when a person seeks to depart the defiled world, circumstances miraculously arise to become karmic causes for their pursuit of enlightenment—a phenomenon attributed to the workings of the Pure Abode Deva, as per Hinayana doctrine. Following this reasoning, one could conclude that it was the Pure Abode Deva who summoned Sadatoshi forth. In order to rescue the woman from her plight, Sadatoshi gave her various of his own possessions, and afterward, he felt a strangely refreshed and pleasant state of mind. And at last, he finally abandoned his home and departed.

Of course, Sadatoshi’s mother must have shed tears of parental affection, but she was not one to attempt to obstruct or prevent this; rather, she likely pressed her palms together in reverence toward his retreating figure. The verse—“Abandoning worldly bonds to enter non-action; the true repayer of kindness”—must have been ceaselessly recited within Sadatoshi’s heart, and by Sadatoshi’s mother as well—through tears both of familial love and devout rejoicing.

Sadatoshi ran to Higashiyama Nyoirin-ji Temple. There resided Venerable Priest Jishin—the final form of Yasutane Keishiki, former Senior Secretary. Sadatoshi sat formally before Jishin and, pouring out the depths of his being, gazed up at the monk’s clear mirror of wisdom. Though only two or three years had passed since Jishin’s renunciation of worldly life, he now stood completely separated from the muddy waters of existence—serenely clear and luminous, free from worldly attachments or gilded Buddhist trappings, dwelling solely in samādhi of impartial compassion. What manner of conversation passed between them—whether any occurred at all—remains unknown. Yet through karmic alignment—being revered as teacher and accepted as disciple—Sadatoshi finally shaved his head, received ordination, and became a novice monk called Jōshō. This happened in Eien 2; if one were to speak of his age, he remained but thirty or thirty-one. How resolute he had been.

Since entering the Way, Jōshō held only the Way-Heart, practiced ascetic disciplines, and expounded the teachings of the Way—with no other thoughts beyond these—living in purity and tranquility. Before his eyes, each day grew brighter and clearer, until observing the great thousandfold world became akin to viewing a confection resting upon his palm; the future unfolded vividly moment by moment, and he came to believe that even a journey of ten thousand leagues lay before him as a single broad road, polished smooth. His training in the Buddhist teachings was not only guided by Jishin but also benefited from the instructions of Genshin—who was both a friend and teacher to Jishin—and he pursued this path with meticulous rigor, relying on his keen and sharp spiritual capacity. Since Genshin was by nature a man of meticulous and rigorous scholarship, Jōshō likely greatly benefited from following his guidance—which is why people came to speak of Jōshō as if he were Genshin’s disciple. Moreover, since Genshin also rigorously practiced ascetic disciplines, Empress Junshi of the En’yū-in at that time had new golden vessels crafted and offered in veneration. Genshin reportedly declared, "This is excessive," and even ceased his begging—a rumor that has been passed down in *Ōkagami* to this extent. Ascetic practices (tudou) refer to the twelve disciplines that Buddhist disciples must perform in proper observance. While begging for alms is not the sole practice among them, within the framework of two [practices] related to clothing, four to food, and six to dwelling—the third practice, that of constant begging—has naturally come to form the perceived core of these twelve disciplines. Thus, when one speaks of undertaking tudou practices, it has come to mean little more than begging for alms. Fundamentally speaking, ascetic practices mean striving to cleanse this sahā world—neither elegant, harmonious, nor pure. To this end, one becomes a Buddhist disciple and takes refuge in the Dharma: willingly donning ragged robes of indistinguishable filthy hues; eating contentedly from food not obtained through desire-driven professions or industries; settling oneself in dwellings that neither exclude others nor protect oneself; and with single-minded resolve aspiring to turn wholly toward the cool, unafflicted enlightenment of bodhi—this is what constitutes ascetic practices. The constant begging within these ascetic practices serves ten purposes: First, it serves as the process through which this body, born of karmic causes, is led to liberation. Second, it causes those who offer food to one to take refuge in the Three Jewels—the Buddha, Dharma, and Sangha. Third, it causes those who offer food to generate compassion. Fourth, it signifies that one has no self-mind but complies with the Buddha’s teachings. Fifth, it is an easy method to satisfy and sustain oneself. Sixth, it destroys arrogance—the root of all evils. Seventh, by practicing the most humble method, one attains perception of the supreme form. Eighth, it inspires others cultivating virtuous roots to emulate this practice. Ninth, it detaches one from all worldly affairs involving men and women, great and small. Tenth, because one begs progressively among all, it gives rise to a mind of equality and non-discrimination toward sentient beings. Given this, when excessively elaborate offerings were presented, it was only natural for Genshin to say of their resplendent array, “This is too distressing to behold”—and indeed, it was characteristic of Genshin to deem such glittering and sparkling things “distressing.” Jōshō was like a disciple of Genshin. This was the man who had been Governor of Mikawa just yesterday, yet today was a novice monk without a trace of his former self. Begging progressively—he likely did not consider it painful—yet it must have been quite trying. "Begging progressively" means not choosing between wealthy homes and poor ones; holding one’s bowl, one stands at each door in turn to beg for food. One day, Jōshō performed ascetic practices in the manner of his teacher Genshin. With a single alms bowl and three robes, he stood serenely before each house and begged for food. Then, he was summoned into a house. When he entered and looked, they had skillfully prepared food and laid out tatami mats in the garden, intending to make offerings. Without any particular thought, he sat on those tatami mats, chanted a prayer, and intended to eat. At that moment, someone rolled up the bamboo blind that had been lowered there, and when he looked, the figure of a woman in elegant attire gradually appeared. The bamboo blind was fully raised.

Who had told her? The woman said, “That beggar—I wanted to see if you would become like this.” Jōshō saw the woman. The woman also saw Jōshō. Their eyes certainly met each other’s gaze. The woman was none other than the one whom Jōshō—when he had been Governor Sadatoshi of Mikawa—had expelled. In the woman’s eyes were immeasurable things: something like resentment’s venom, something akin to triumphantly clinging to victory, coldness, profound contempt, what seemed like pity after scorning and reviling, what appeared to relive the agony of her own sinking into misfortune, and conversely, something resembling an icy blade crafted to endlessly mock and torment others—all seeking to gouge deeply into every part of Sadatoshi’s body. To dissect and explain each element would be one approach, but these were not separate entities; rather, all merged into toxic flames of blue, yellow, red, and white—devoid of radiance—that surged forth and engulfed him. And the woman laughed—an excruciatingly slow, dull laugh with a faint smile. Was this something to be called laughter? What it was remained unclear—something eerie and gruesome, found in no painting or sculpture.

Had Sadatoshi remained Sadatoshi—for a stone had been cast into pond water—the turmoil within his breast would have been cleansed. All manner of vicious weapons—swords, spears, blades, and halberds—that sought to cut, stab, and gouge me were about to strike when I saw their tips transform into wondrous lotus buds and fall to the ground. The alms given by her to me allowed her to perfect her dāna pāramitā, and because I received them from her and repaid her by imparting the Dharma, I perfected my dāna pāramitā—I observed the wondrous function of swiftly attaining results. Jōshō said, “Ah, venerable,” ate with composure, chanted a hymn of equal benefit for self and others, and quietly departed from that place. Precept Pāramitā and Diligence Pāramitā—Jōshō devoted himself ever more earnestly to the path. What became of her afterward remains unrecorded, but as she was likely a woman of the educated class of the time, she was probably guided to salvation through Buddhist connections.

Jōshō, positioned between Jishin and Genshin, studied under other eminent masters as well. His learning and virtue advanced daily until he came to be revered and relied upon by the monastic community, and within just a few years, he became a Bishop. Titles like Bishop or Archbishop were created for administrative convenience by the secular world to organize the religious community; fundamentally speaking, they are neither honors nor should inherently exist. Yet Jōshō’s appointment as Bishop is recorded in the *Akazome Collection*. Jishin appears not to have accepted any monastic official titles, though he naturally gained widespread veneration in his lifetime. Later, it was even said he had nearly bent the realm itself to his will. In the winter of the second year of Kannen (1018 CE), even Fujiwara no Michinaga—who, intoxicated with self-satisfied joy, had composed the rather petty poem “I deem this world my own; like the full moon, I find no flaw”—sought Jishin as his preceptor for ordination. It was not that Jishin gained significance because Michinaga received the Three Refuges and Five Precepts from him, but when one considers that Mido Kampaku—a man of immense fortune and utmost arrogance—took this emaciated, meek Jishin as his preceptor and sat humbly before him as a lay disciple in white robes, it strikes one as rather comical. Jishin departed this world in the tenth month of the fourth year of Chōhō (1002 CE) as though asleep, but on the forty-ninth day [after his passing], Michinaga performed almsgiving, and Masahira Ōe composed its memorial address. And that petition was written by Jōshō. That document still exists today, and Masahira’s text is dated the ninth day of the twelfth month of Chōhō 4. However, in *Zoku Ōjōden* (Continued Accounts of Rebirth in the Pure Land), Jishin’s passing into the Pure Land is recorded as occurring in Chōtoku 3, resulting in a difference of approximately five years. Since *Zoku Ōjōden* was compiled by Masafusa—the son of Narihira and grandson of Masahira—it too should be credible. Yet how did such a discrepancy arise? Since it concerns the death of an old man beyond the world, a discrepancy of five years or so poses no issue; one can only surmise that some error arose during the repeated copying and transmission of texts. Chōtoku might be correct. It is thought that Jōshō was not in Japan during the winter of Chōhō 4.

Whether it was Chōtoku or Chōhō, Jishin died peacefully. Of course, as he was no practitioner of secular endeavors, he left behind no great achievements. As for his literary endeavors during his time in office, they were limited to drafting such works as the imperial edict for the Eikan 1 era name change and those ordering the submission of memorials in Eikan 2, along with leaving behind around twenty texts including *Record of Rebirth in the Pure Land*; yet the influence this man had on the minds of people at that time became evident even when viewed through the single matter of Sadatoshi's spiritual awakening.

Therefore, regarding this person’s rebirth, there remained an interesting legend. For ordinary devout Buddhists and lay followers, it was customary for their end to be marked by the auspicious signs of a glorious rebirth in the Pure Land: the welcoming descent of holy beings amid purple clouds and celestial music. Thus, it was customary for them to simply relocate to some distant place—be it the Western Tusita Heaven or who knows where—and remain there; yet accounts of Jishin did not conclude with that.

After passing away in the usual manner at Higashiyama Nyoirin-ji Temple, someone dreamed. It was said that Venerable Jishin had returned from the Pure Land to once more dwell in the sahā world, in order to benefit sentient beings. These matters are clearly recorded in *The Biography of Venerable Jishin*. It is a rare occurrence for something like a dream—of uncertain time and from a person of unknown identity—to be recorded as a posthumous account. However, it is written vaguely and indistinctly—whether in that dream, someone heard Venerable Jishin himself appear and speak thus in their sleep; or whether they encountered what might have been his reincarnation, or perhaps a shadow-like apparition resembling a hermit; none of it is clear. What in the world is this supposed to mean? Why would one have such a dream? Long ago, it is said that Lü Dongbin—an immortal who, even after achieving mastery of the Taoist arts, did not ascend to heaven but remained in this world—manifested and roamed ceaselessly, enlightening men and women of all social standings in the dusty realm. From the Tang to the Song dynasties, he left behind poems and deeds across every region, and among the people of Song, belief in him became universal—so much so that he was even referenced in the writings of Su Dongpo. To this day, it is believed that if one cultivates the Dharma and calls upon him, he will appear. In our land as well, there exists a popular belief that Kōbō Daishi still abides even now, appearing at times among those who make ordinary pilgrimages to the master—not quite amounting to ascetic practitioners—and bestowing teachings to relieve suffering, grant joy, dispel delusion, and bring enlightenment. Indeed, there is no need to speak of such things, for even Shakyamuni has a teaching of passing through the sahā world countless times—explicitly stated in the Brahmajala Sutra or some such text. Fundamentally speaking, to rely on Amitābha or Maitreya or Śākyamuni, mumble some sort of incantation, and then try to relocate alone to the Pure Land while putting on a composed face is quite a self-serving notion—what the worldly proverb calls “eating *manjū* in the privy.” Calculations—filthy, petty things they are. If one attains the realm of wondrous fruits of enlightenment, then it is natural that this time, one should bestow those good things upon others, whether connected or not. For those who have become bodhisattvas and Buddhas, it is the natural law that they devote themselves to the work of guiding others; this is precisely what makes them bodhisattvas and Buddhas. Amida Buddha’s forty-eight vows, Kannon’s thirty-three manifestations—no matter what hardships they endure, no matter what forms they take—the very act of wishing to improve all the world, to save it, to enlighten it: this is what makes them Buddhas and Bodhisattvas. It is not at all the case that Buddhas and Bodhisattvas sit leisurely upon lotus flowers, sated by feasting on a hundred flavors of food and drink. Jishin was a person whose compassionate heart extended even to cattle and horses from his youth. When he renounced secular life and entered the Buddhist path, his realization deepened daily, and he came to perceive the Pure Land as closer than the neighboring house. In the end, he reached a boundary that could be crossed in a single step between this world and the other. Now that the Pure Land he had once yearned for so ardently had come within his grasp, he felt no desire to depart entirely for that realm. Instead, a resolve arose naturally within him: even if he were to traverse the sahā world, he would take up the work of guiding others. This intention inevitably seeped into the edges of his speech, and from this, perhaps, emerged someone’s dream and the rumors circulating in the world. Jishin, whose compassion had extended even to cattle and horses since his days as Yasutane—now that his own realization had grown ever deeper—how could he merely pass by with a sidelong glance at this world where people gasped and struggled, filled with every suffering?

Moreover, even during his time as Yasutane—as his discerning eye had already recognized and his writings expressed—the world was gradually becoming a harsher place: on one side, the blossoms of culture bloomed riotously while the winds of luxury grew stiflingly hot; on the other, people’s livelihoods reached impasses—violent storms of Eiso, epidemics of Shōryaku, bandits arising in various provinces—such that to Jishin’s gentle heart, how sorrowful this world must have appeared. Jishin grieved for the world, and the world yearned for people like Jishin. This must be the reason why the tale of Jishin’s return to the sahā world was transmitted. Of course, Jishin was not a solitary buddha.

Jōshō, who was a disciple of Jishin but likely studied under Genshin as well, is therefore also said to be a disciple of Genshin. Genshin compiled the *Tendai Sect’s Twenty-Seven Questions* and sought to submit them for commentary to Master Zhili of Nanhu in Song. Zhili must have been renowned at the time for his profound scholarly understanding. I cannot elaborate on this matter now, but one might think that someone of Genshin’s caliber need not have asked anything anew. However, it would not be unreasonable to generally interpret Genshin as a man who embodied both the virtue of humility and the discipline of confidence, coupled with a character that detested leaving even the slightest ambiguity in matters. According to legend, when this person compiled the *Essentials of the One Vehicle*, Bodhisattva Aśvaghoṣa and Bodhisattva Nāgārjuna appeared to touch his head in praise, and Saichō joined his palms and declared, “The teachings of our mountain now belong to you”—it is said he dreamed this. Though it was a dream, he had met Aśvaghoṣa and Nāgārjuna. It is also recorded that he met Kannon Bosatsu and Bishamonten in a dream. The fact of meeting in a dream and the fact of meeting in reality are not so different. A person who has such a trivial dream as being startled by a black dog biting their thigh is, even when awake, someone so trivial as to fuss over a flea stinging a boar’s eye. To have dreamed of encountering Nāgārjuna and Kannon is quite sophisticated; one must have led a refined daily life to see such things. In any case, Genshin compiled the Tendai Sect’s Twenty-Seven Questions. It was with the intent to present this to Master Zhili of China and obtain their answers. No—rather, it may have been that he intended to make the questions themselves into teachings. Therefore, to have someone carry this [the questions], using a young monk’s messenger would not do. As it happened, Jōshō had long held the intention to travel to Song China for pilgrimage to sacred sites, so [Genshin] decided to entrust this [task] to him. In those days, crossing to the continent was an even greater commotion than heading to the Antarctic Ocean today to hunt whales. However, since it was mutually convenient for both Genshin and Jōshō, Jōshō decided to depart after consulting his mother’s wishes. To send her child to that distant land beyond the vast, wave-tossed seas was no easy matter for an aged mother who knew not what tomorrow might bring. However, she was indeed Jōshō’s mother.

“No bond of affection runs deeper than that between mother and child. Though parting with you now brings me great sorrow, I too must rejoice that you journey to Song China for the sake of Dharma and the Path. How could I ever thwart your resolve?” she granted permission through tears. And so, Jōshō presented himself at court and received imperial leave; in Chōhō 4 [1002 CE], he was finally to depart for Song China. Jōshō had two younger brothers—Seiki and Sonki—and since Seiki had by then likely become Governor of Ōmi, this must have offered some solace to Jōshō as he departed, leaving his elderly mother behind. Yet that Jōshō left his aged mother behind, and that she did not detain him—that this devoted mother and filial son parted from one another—profoundly moved society at the time. Moreover, he was a disciple of Bishop Genshin—revered from court nobles down to commoners—and bore the bishop’s mission; he was also a disciple of saintly Jishin of the Office of Records, whose character was profoundly gentle; and with tales circulating about Governor Sadatoshi’s circumstances before and after his renunciation—for all these reasons, people young and old, men and women alike eagerly spread this news. When Jōshō composed a vow and conducted the eightfold Lotus Sutra lectures at Yamazaki’s Hōji Temple for his mother’s sake, finally preparing to depart his homeland, the Dharma wheel turned mightily; a great wind arose across the realm of sentient beings; countless crowds gathered in pious connection until carriages and horses choked all approaches; and when Lecturer Jōshō chanted texts and recited sutras in accordance with Dharma, none could withstand their emotion without weeping tears. Many took monastic vows that very day—among women, some even cut off their hair from their carriages to offer it to him. At this gathering, Masahira must have attended, as must Akazome Emon. As for whether his abandoned wife still lived and had joined this assembly—there was no way to know.

On June 8th of the year following Jōshō’s departure, Zōga—who had received the practice of *shikan* from Jishin—died. At that time, he was said to be eighty-seven years old. As death approached, he had his disciples compose poems and composed one himself—a poem very much in the style of Venerable Priest Zōga. “At over eighty years of age, how joyful to meet the bones of jellyfish in the waves!” he had said. Haruhisa Shōnin, a nephew who resided at Ryūmon-ji Temple, had come to attend to him. Zōga ordered an attendant monk to bring a Go board. Since Zōga was someone who had never played Go in his life, the attendant monk found it strange. Thinking he might be trying to place a Buddhist statue nearby, the monk brought the board and set it before him. Then Zōga said, “Prop me up.” When the attendant monk propped him up, he challenged Haruhisa to a game of Go. Though he found it perplexing, Haruhisa complied with the fearsome man’s words and began to play. But when they had placed about ten stones each, Zōga declared, "Enough—we need not continue," and overturned the board. When Haruhisa timidly asked why he had played Go, he replied that it was nothing—when he was a young monk, he had seen others play Go, and now while chanting the nenbutsu, it had come to mind, so he simply thought to play a game—and he said this with an air of nonchalance. Again, he said, “Bring me a single horse mudguard.” A horse mudguard was neither something a person nearing their end would need nor an item belonging to a temple, but when they brought one anyway, he had them prop him up, tied it around his neck, and said... When they reluctantly complied with his words, Zōga forcibly stretched out both his elbows, making them like wings upon his body. Wrapping himself in the old horse mudguard, he declared he would dance—fluttering it a few times—then said, "Take this away." After they removed it, Haruhisa timidly asked, "What was the meaning of this?" Zōga replied nonchalantly: "In my youth, I once peeked into a neighboring cell where many young monks were laughing and jesting. Among them was one who hung a horse mudguard around his neck and danced while singing, 'Butterfly, butterfly—though people call it so, I dance with an old horse mudguard around my neck!' I found it amusing but had forgotten it over the years. Today it came back to me, so I merely tried imitating it." It was an old monk nearing ninety who, draping an old horse mudguard over his emaciated, ailing body as wings, performed the butterfly dance. Those who have been on the brink of death all say this: when one is about to die, the trivial matters of childhood vividly return to mind. When the sun is about to set behind the western mountains on a clear day, even the surfaces of the eastern mountains become distinctly visible. In the far eastern mountains of Venerable Priest Zōga’s vision, things like a Go board of intricate detail and a comical butterfly dance—such innocent sights—must have appeared distinctly clear. However, he did not end his life merely beholding such things. When his final hour came, he sent everyone away; in the empty room, seated on his straw mat, he chanted the *Lotus Sutra* aloud, formed the Vajra mudra with his hands, and serenely entered nirvana. Figures like Hotei and Kanzan are called wandering saints, but should Zōga also be considered a wandering saint of the Heian period?

No—there was no need to append such labels or praises. Jōshō entered Song China, met Zhili of Nanhu, presented Genshin’s *Tendai Sect’s Twenty-Seven Questions*, and sought their answers. Zhili obtained the questions, perused them with admiration; he marveled, "Could there truly be one in the East with such profound understanding?" Thus he undertook to compose a commentary.

Prior to this, in Eikan 1 (983 CE), Chōnen, a monk of Tōdai-ji, made a vow to enter Song China and cross to India, arriving in that land. In the preceding year, that is, on the thirteenth day of the seventh month of Ten'en 5 (982 CE), Chōnen held a grand ceremony of merit-making for his mother. Though his mother was already aged at sixty years old, her son intended to journey far beyond ten thousand leagues; thinking their reunion would be difficult to foresee, she resolved to perform preemptive merit-making. It was the very year when Yasutane Keishiki, not yet having left secular life, had constructed a pond pavilion; yet Keishiki took up his brush for Chōnen and drafted that vow text. It was quite a lengthy text, flowing over thousands of words—exhausting emotion and reason—and was more than sufficient to move the society of the time. Furthermore, Yasutane composed the preface for the poems that people wrote to send off Venerable Priest Chōnen on his journey to Tang China. Now, Jishin had already passed away, but by a strange karmic connection, his disciple Jōshō alone journeyed to Tang China. Chōnen abandoned his plans to go to India and instead acquired the complete Buddhist canon of 5,048 volumes, statues of the Sixteen Arhats, and the Buddhist statues of what is now Saga Seiryō-ji Temple, returning to Japan in Kanna 1 (985 CE). Sixteen or seventeen years after that, Jōshō entered Song China. Yet in character and scholarship, he appeared superior to Chōnen in every regard, so the people of that land—as one would expect of them—revered him as a high virtue from the divine land. Zhili treated Jōshō as an honored guest, and the Son of Heaven came to grant him an audience. When the Song emperor summoned Jōshō and inquired about our Japan, Jōshō requested paper and brush, then expounded upon our sacred national polity and elegant folk customs. The composition flowed like a premeditated work without hesitation, and the brushwork was vigorous yet elegant, manifesting the excellence of the Two Wangs. This was only natural, for he had not fabricated or embellished anything in his account of our country. The eloquence was, of course, that of Master Jōshō, who hailed from the Ōe lineage, and the brushwork of his writings was not far removed from the style of Kūkai. Moreover, he belonged to an era that had lost Sari a mere four or five years prior. Thereupon, Emperor Zhenzong of Song could not withhold his admiration for Japan’s national polity; further moved by profound reverence for Jōshō’s dignified bearing and talent, he greatly rejoiced, bestowed upon him a purple robe and silk, had him remain at an upper temple, and granted him the title of Master Entsu. It is unclear whether through karmic connections from past lives or some other cause, but around this time, Jōshō came to know Ding Wei.

Ding Wei was a man terrifying in some ways yet not entirely so—in any case, he was undoubtedly an extraordinary figure. Yet the *Song Shi*’s biography tends to disparage him unduly. Since the emergence of Daoist and Buddhist teachings in the world, it holds true that history has largely portrayed their adherents as lacking virtue or uprightness. Ding Wei came to know Jōshō while still young, and historical records state that later, during his exile, he devoted himself solely to Buddhist doctrines of causality. Thus, precisely because Ding Wei had believed in these causal teachings from early on, his exile only deepened this conviction—or perhaps he had received spiritual guidance from Jōshō long before. Yang Yi’s *Tan Yuan* records that Ding Wei made ritual offerings to Jōshō. Though unclear how long this patronage lasted, without such a powerful benefactor, Jōshō could never have remained long in foreign lands—this much was undoubtedly true.

Ding Wei was a native of Changzhou, Suzhou. In his youth, he and Sun He visited Wang Yucheng with their writings tucked into their sleeves. Upon seeing their works, Wang was greatly astonished and praised them, saying, "For the first time in three hundred years since Han Yu and Liu Zongyuan of the Tang have such writings appeared!" It is said that they were referred to as "Sun and Ding" at the time, but their names have since been overshadowed by those who came slightly later—Ouyang Xiu, Wang Anshi, and the Three Sus—and now few know of them. In the third year of Chunhua (992 CE), he passed the jinshi examination and was appointed to office; through his political talent, he achieved merit and rose step by step 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 was the military governor of Suzhou, in the poem bestowed by Emperor Zhenzong,

His career achievements shone conspicuously; his counsel unfailingly bore fruit. A talent sublime aligned with sages of old; a vessel peerless embodied heroes of the age. With mastery he displayed statecraft’s art, swiftly ascending to a counselor’s honored station. Rejoicing in auspicious favor bestowed, he poured forth purest zeal without reservation.

There was such a phrase. Thus even when making someone as distinguished as Kou Zhun his political enemy, he could boast of victory for an extended period.

In governance, he prioritized employing wisdom over relying on force, valued statecraft over legal systems, compiled accounting records and presented them, and sought to establish standards for taxes and household registries. He excelled not only in prose but also in poetry, and was thoroughly versed in painting, Go, architecture, musical theory—indeed, all things. Tea culture advanced from this man to Cai Xiang; he was even skilled in kemari. His poems appear in Wen Gong’s Poetic Remarks and Poetic Remarks: The Great Compendium. After Emperor Zhenzong passed away, he incurred the empress’s displeasure, was charged with arbitrarily altering Yongding Mausoleum, and further censured for colluding with the eunuch Lei Yungong. He was exiled to Yazhou, transferred to Daozhou after several years, retired while residing in Guangzhou, and died there. In other words, he had been struck down by political enemies and cast into mortal peril. Such was the man Ding Wei.

Zhili’s commentary was completed. Jōshō was to return to his home country, carrying this with him. However—though it is unclear what exactly transpired—Ding Wei, whose power was then at its zenith, desired to keep Jōshō in China. He ardently extolled the beauty of Gusu’s mountains and waters, had Jōshō’s disciples carry the commentary back [to Japan], and placed Jōshō at Gumon Temple, ensuring he received the utmost preferential treatment.

Jōshō was already a disciple of the Buddha. Just as all rivers flowing into the sea become nothing but seawater itself, all clans entering the Buddhist order become members of the Shakya clan. Since there was no necessity to draw distinctions between East and West by returning to Japan, Jōshō ultimately remained at Gumon Temple. As people recognized Jōshō’s scrupulous adherence to precepts and his truly exemplary virtue, it is said that gradually many clergy and laypeople across Sanwu came to revere him, allowing his teachings to spread widely. Thus Jōshō remained in Wu for over thirty years until Jingyou 1 (1034 CE) under Emperor Renzong—Chōgen 7 of our sovereign Go-Ichijō—when he composed his final poem: "*High above the clouds rings distant music—do others hear it too? Or only these celestial ears?*" With a serene smile, he breathed his last.

Ding Wei had died a year or two prior during the Mingdao era; while Jōshō lived a peaceful life of roughly thirty years, Ding Wei had traversed a treacherous path of worldly affairs, rising and falling all the while. There were no discussions between Ding Wei and Jōshō during that time. Ding Wei was Ding Wei, and Jōshō was Jōshō. During the time when Ding Wei first frequently looked after Jōshō, Jōshō presented him with a black metal water bottle to which he had added a poem. A companion for three to five years; daily used, never parted.

The morning well draws the waning moon; the winter hearth melts the shattered ice. Poyin finds it hard to avoid extravagance; Laishi easily incurs flaws. This vessel is sturdy and true; to you, this should be known. There must have been a reply poem, but since I do not possess Ding Wei’s collection, I do not know. The only words of Jōshō’s that remain addressed to Ding Wei are these alone. The Yazhou to which Ding Wei was exiled was at that time a thoroughly barbarous island. Ding Wei’s work: Now I arrive at Yazhou—how lamentable this fate! In dreams, I am ever in the capital’s splendor.

The journey spans not merely ten thousand li; the households number no more than three hundred. At night, listening to a monkey’s distant cry upon a solitary tree; at dawn, watching tides rise beneath slanting miasmic mists. Officials do not observe the rites of the central court; deer sometimes wander into the county office.

To such a place he was exiled with the intent of causing his death. However, after residing there for three years, when he was able to return to the mainland, The roc once more emerged from the sea of ninety thousand li; the crane returned again to its nest of a thousand li.

he composed these lines. Not only that—though it was such a dreadful place—due to the karmic connection of being exiled to a land that produced aloeswood, he authored the treatise *Tenkōden* and bequeathed its benefits to posterity. Indeed, the first work to discuss and extol incense matters exclusively was *Tenkōden*, and it has been passed down to this day. And thus, the end of this man who devoted himself to incense is recorded in *Dongxuan Bilu* by the Song scholar Wei Tai. It is said that in the half-month before his death, Ding, Duke of Jin, had already ceased eating; he burned incense and sat upright in meditation, silently reciting Buddhist sutras. Using aloeswood decoction, he occasionally sipped small amounts. His divine consciousness remained undisturbed; he adjusted his robes and cap with care, then peacefully passed away.