Pathway to Japanese Literature

I. The Eight Dog Chronicles and I

In times past, people were not as busy as they are now, and it seems everyone possessed some measure of leisure.
So-called popular works were indeed read with relative popularity, but between frugal living and having spare time, people would borrow from lending libraries rather than purchase books, copying entire texts or making excerpts of interesting passages.
In households with elderly members, manuscript copying served as one of retirement's tasks; while most such manuscripts have likely been destroyed by now, during my youth slightly older homes typically contained manuscripts copied by one's grandfather or great-grandfather.
These invariably consisted either of official records and government notices from that era or else popular works—that is, excerpts from certain chronicles or renowned gesaku.
Of course, these were hardly rare items found only in particular lending libraries; people copied them not merely to economize on book costs but also as a matter of personal interest.
In my great-grandfather's household as well—though most have since become linings for folding screens, wainscoting paper, dusters, or hand-wiping paper—there were four or five such manuscripts kept in a book chest.
Among them lay Bakin's *Bishōnenroku*, *Gyokuji Dōshi Kun*, *Asahi Meguri Shimaki*, and *Kyōkakuden*.
How they came to meticulously copy these unremarkable items scattered about, affixing handcrafted yet splendid bindings to preserve them—this truth eludes our modern understanding, save that it sprang from an overflowing passion for reading wholly devoted to Bakin.
My great-grandfather was by no means an enthusiast of gesaku.
He was a man slightly beyond common sense's bounds—various anecdotes about him survive—but since no tales remain of him being a gesaku devotee, he likely held little fondness for it.
Indeed, among my great-grandfather's effects there existed not a single novel in either printed or manuscript form apart from Bakin's works.
However, there were two or three additional works by Bakin—beyond those already mentioned—that he had personally transcribed.
Among printed volumes were *Mūsō Hyōei* and *The Eight Dog Chronicles*.
In essence, while generally disdaining gesaku, he made exception solely for Bakin—devotedly reading and even undertaking the laborious transcription of works as voluminous as *The Eight Dog Chronicles*. Though no bibliophile, he unfailingly acquired each new installment upon publication. This reveals how *The Eight Dog Chronicles* was studied with reverence equaling the *Analects*, *Mencius*, *Great Learning*, *Doctrine of the Mean*, *Records of the Grand Historian*, and *Zuo Commentary*—even as Bakin himself denounced gesaku.
Moreover, an elderly woman once recounted to me in my youth how she had overheard my great-grandfather mention during tea conversation that Bakin initially aspired to become a Confucian scholar but abandoned this path upon realizing he could never equal Shibano Ritsuzan—then Confucianism's foremost authority—instead joining gesaku's ranks.
However, while *Gesakusha Rokka Sen* records Bakin studying under Ritsuzan in youth, the exact period remains unclear.
He himself wrote of aspiring to medicine but scarcely mentioned Confucian scholarly ambitions.
Though its veracity remains doubtful, such theories evidently circulated among Bakin's devoted readers within scholarly circles.
At that time, while gesaku authors were collectively dismissed as frivolous and undisciplined rabble, Bakin alone commanded respect through the belief that his works possessed scholarly foundations.

The Eight Dog Chronicles that I was familiar with since childhood was precisely what had been passed down from my great-grandfather. They were delivered by the bookseller with each publication; while by provenance they should have been first editions issued contemporaneously, upon examining the physical copies, the first three or four volumes do not seem to be true first editions. As I mentioned earlier, my great-grandfather was a man of unyielding diligence with brush in hand—one who had copied even works like *Bishōnenroku* and *Kyōkakuden* in their entirety. Thus, he must have initially transcribed *The Eight Dog Chronicles* as well. However, finding himself unable to restrain his admiration for it any more than he had for previous works, he likely resolved to collect printed copies starting around the fourth or fifth installment. From then on, they were delivered with each publication, so he presumably supplemented the initial portions afterward. My great-grandfather was neither an enthusiast of gesaku nor a bibliophile—certainly no scholar nor one with refined literary tastes—merely an ordinary man, yet this very fact stands as testament to Bakin’s popularity at the time.

Under this influence, I became familiar with Bakin from childhood. From around six or seven years old, I had repeatedly pored over the illustrations in *The Eight Dog Chronicles* and memorized even obscure names like those of its dog warriors—Yoshitsune, Benkei, Kamei, Kataoka, Ise, and Suruga—by heart. The name of nine-year-old Shinbee—who had deftly outmaneuvered five grown men in the depths of Mount Toyama—was more familiar to me than even Momotaro or Kintaro. Therefore, I likely did not read it properly from start to finish until I was twelve or thirteen, but even before that, I had been sporadically dipping into it here and there. From ages fourteen to seventeen or eighteen—when I was most engrossed in my lending-library studies—I read it through at least three times. During that period, three or four volumes of *The Eight Dog Chronicles* were always at hand, so I cannot say how many times I revisited particularly satisfying passages. (Not that this was unique to me—every lending-library fan of the time did the same.) I had memorized every word of passages like Hamaji secretly visiting Shino on the eve of his departure for Koga; Dōsetsu and Sōsuke’s encounter at Otoe’s hidden dwelling on Arameyama; and Hinai lamenting her departed husband in Henpeki Village. But my deep devotion to reciting and rereading [*The Eight Dog Chronicles*] came to an end around Meiji 21 and 22 (1888–1889), and since then I have not read even a single line of it. When I returned to it decades later, I felt like a migrant worker returning from a dazzling city to a quiet rural village. When viewed through eyes accustomed to appreciating literature that depicts the clamorous noise and stifled anguish of modernity, it feels like a dream; yet one cannot help but sense in it a storytelling mastery that earned such popularity and, more distinctly, a solid, weighty power unparalleled in history.

II. The Eight Dog Chronicles: Completion After Blindness

*The Eight Dog Chronicles* was first published in five volumes during the spring of Bunka 11 (1814), when Bakin was forty-eight years old; it subsequently released five volumes annually or biennially—sometimes six to seven volumes at a time—until concluding in Tenpō 12 (1841) when he was seventy-five.
Over that span, it passed through twenty-eight years to reach the grand total of 106 volumes.
The magnitude of his perseverance defies comparison across east and west, past and present.
If one considers only the years between initial drafting and final completion, longer durations exist; yet none match *The Eight Dog Chronicles*, which continued its manuscript without interruption throughout those twenty-eight years.
While *Kamiine Suikoden* exceeds it in both years expended and volumes produced, only two parts comprising ten volumes came from Sadooka—its original architect—with the remainder being inferior continuations by writers scarcely acknowledged in our literary history.
To be sure, that such volume counts were amassed speaks to considerable popularity; however, being mere repetitions of hollow martial exploits, they cannot be mentioned alongside Kyokutei’s work.
Though *The Eight Dog Chronicles* shows some regretful weakening akin to “a spent arrow failing to pierce thin silk” as it concludes—one must concede narrative fatigue became inevitable when considering Bakin’s twenty-eight-year ordeal: a period nearing his seventy-seventh year, marked by anxiety over failing eyesight, eventual blindness, and the grueling dictation process.
At any rate, sustaining such vigor for twenty-eight years without faltering—following schedules to complete the initial design despite possible detours—stands nearly unheard of; rather, it constitutes an artistic labor without precedent in history.
Of course, art does not exist solely to amass grand structures through ant-like tower-building across long years.
Yet this monumental endurance and effort cannot be dismissed as mere calculation; for this reason alone, one must praise *The Eight Dog Chronicles* as a timeless masterpiece and extol Bakin’s majestic literary achievement.

Particularly when it comes to his post-blindness labors, the author overcame every obstacle beyond ordinary artistic toil to refine his craft with ever-greater dedication—the sheer grandeur of his artistic resolve truly inspires reverence beyond measure.
Kyokutei Bakin developed an impairment in his right eye around August or September of Tenpō 4 (1833), when he was sixty-seven years old; as there was presumably no accompanying pain at the time, he seems not to have considered it a significant issue.
However, having already been deprived of vision in his right eye—as inevitable as frost hardening into ice—it was expected that his left eye too might succumb to the same fate at any unpredictable moment; he could not have remained indifferent.
Nevertheless, sustaining his unparalleled vigor, he continued drafting not only *The Eight Dog Chronicles* but also *Bishōnenroku* and *Kyōkakuden*, sending numerous new editions to market year after year as before.
That his right eye’s blindness did not yet pose a significant obstacle at that time can be understood by examining the handwritten colophon dated autumn of Tenpō 5—the year following his blindness—on the unpublished draft manuscript *Kinkyō* held in the Iwasaki Bunko collection (though its main text was transcribed prior to his blindness).
The brushwork’s vigor shows not a trace of struggle—likely because the loss of his right eye posed no hindrance whatsoever.

In his youth, Bakin had aspired to become a physician, so it seems he possessed some degree of medical knowledge.
He likely wasn’t quite the proverbial physician who neglects his own health, but being robust by nature, he suffered little inconvenience even after losing his right eye—partly due to the lack of competent town physicians at the time, it seems he simply left it untreated without proper care.
However, while it is said he experienced no inconvenience, the fact that his eyes would at times grow dim or clouded—plaguing him with anxiety—is evident from the supplementary notes (*Kaigai Jōhitsu*) appended to later volumes of *The Eight Dog Chronicles*.
He writes: “By summer of Boe [Tenpō 9 / 1838], I increasingly noticed something amiss with my vision, yet still failed to grasp its cause—mistakenly attributing it to fogged lenses. Undeterred by the exorbitant cost of what commoners called *hondama* crystal lenses, I purchased many pairs, switching between them to manage… [omission]… until summer of Kanoe [Tenpō 11 / 1840], when my sight grew so dim and hazy I could no longer write small characters. I switched my manuscript to five-line large characters, continuing by touch until completing Volume 45 of the Ninth Installment last autumn.” These words betray his ordeal; though dictated, every syllable bleeds anguish.
In the continuation [he writes]: “When I attempted to inscribe the passage titled ‘A Wisdom Jewel Punishes an Arrogant General on the Road—Chapter 177 of the Ninth Installment’ in five or four lines of large characters, the rows of characters became tangled and disordered, with ink gaps rendering them illegible. Upon being told this, I had household members supplement the deficient sections. By November, it was as though I dwelled within clouds and mist, or stood beneath a moon dimmed by haze—unable to write a single character.”
Thus, not only did he struggle with brush and inkstone, but he could no longer see calligraphy or paintings—barely distinguishing day from night. With no recourse, he abandoned his desk and cast aside his brush. In a sighing lament, he composed this verse: “Though there is no worth in lingering, this world still crosses a river of unseen books.”
What a heartrending tragic history!
No one engaged in the same literary craft can read this without tears.
The manuscript—whose characters became tangled and disordered midway through this 177th chapter, rendering it utterly impossible for him to write any further—still resides in Waseda University’s library today, bearing stark witness to this literary giant’s anguished circumstances.
In the passage where Ōgigaya Sadamasa’s navy is annihilated and he barely escapes with his life, only to be pursued on land and finally rescued by Suketomo to flee to Kawagoi—up to the end of the page bearing the line “Even his horse was loaded onto the ship with the troops—” remains in Bakin’s own hand, albeit tangled and disordered; from the next page onward, it is continued by the brush of Bakin’s daughter-in-law, Sōhaku’s widow O-Michi.
This final autograph is tangled and disordered, making it difficult to read, yet considering it was written by touch, the characters are surprisingly well-formed and arranged in seven lines.
(When his vision was intact, he wrote eleven lines per page; O-Michi’s continuation after this point filled ten.) Among these, as noted in *Kaigai Jōhitsu*, some pages contain four or five lines of large, twisted characters—spacing irregular, radicals overlapping or drifting apart—so unmistakably a blind man’s handiwork that one nods in recognition.
Among these, some appear to have been written by groping on top of fingers, with finger marks left as white voids.
Many manuscripts of poets and literary figures from past and present still survive today, but none make one taste the poignant artistic anguish of a writer as profoundly as these.

However, the tragedy lay solely in the author’s inability to wield the brush himself—his vigor, perseverance, and prose showed not the slightest decline.
Bakin had lost the sight in his right eye around the time he began work on the ninth installment, yet despite frequently divulging personal matters in his writings, he never once spoke of his eyes—not during the initial period of monocular impairment, nor even after losing vision in both eyes.
Ordinary readers who had no involvement with the author’s private life likely remained entirely unaware that Bakin had gone blind until reading the final *Kaigai Jōhitsu* (supplementary notes).
He was tenacious in all matters, often belaboring even trivial daily minutiae to excess, yet curiously displayed admirable decisiveness regarding his blindness.
Even when recounting the process of losing his vision in *Kaigai Jōhitsu*, while allowing some emotion to surface, he avoided repeating effeminate complaints—instead revealing glimpses of his inherent stubbornness now burning with ever-rising vigor.

Even in works dictated after he became utterly unable to wield the brush himself, not a trace of despondency could be seen; he continued his usual practice of extensive citations and references, maintaining his intellectual fervor as ever.
Bakin’s pedantic tendencies had reached an incurable state; it was not uncommon even for ignorant peasants to expound on historical precedents. Yet even after he could no longer peruse multitudes of texts himself, he continued to cite Chinese and Japanese classics with ease—works like Luo Dajing’s writings and *Langya Daizui Pian* springing forth from his lips—thereby amply demonstrating that his encyclopedic knowledge was by no means hastily acquired.

Moreover, the plotting of *The Eight Dog Chronicles* was exceedingly complex, with its sequence of events intricately tangled.
Furthermore, as the characters were each bound by their own histories and karmic ties, readers swept up by interest might feel they grasped the overall outline when reading hastily; yet upon examining finer narrative connections, the threads became so entangled that distinguishing allies from foes proved difficult in places.
Even the author himself often became ensnared in his convoluted dramatizations, wandering lost through labyrinths of his own creation like one who forgets the exit.
It was common practice to resurrect characters who had died or make those presumed alive vanish inexplicably—devices necessary to prevent the narrative from unraveling.
To speak plainly, there were scarcely any authors who hadn’t pounded their own plots like glutinous rice cakes.
This very tendency accounted for why so many lengthy novels ended as abruptly as dragonflies’ severed tails.

That over twenty-eight long years he pursued the process exactly as initially planned without allowing a single contradiction or inconsistency in its dramatization stood as a rare example indeed, testifying to the author’s lucid and penetrating intellect. Even after losing his sight and being reduced to relying solely on memory, he maintained perfect clarity—untangling each narrative thread and bringing them all to resolution like a seasoned general marshaling his ranks and withdrawing his forces. Volumes 49 onward of the Ninth Installment, being dedicated to concluding the entire work, inevitably tended to drag and were often neglected; yet passages such as when Shino, having seen off his former lord Nariuji—released from captivity and returning to his domain—on the eve of their final parting, meets his lord once more. There, amid a drizzling rain, he comforts his lord’s disconsolate mood while presenting anew the treasured sword to fulfill his late father’s ambition—such episodes, akin to Ōtsuka Shōsaku and his son’s solitary loyalty or Hōryū Pavilion’s finale—possess a lingering poetic charm without equal. Furthermore, take for example the fossil of the fox-dragon at Kinkōji’s gate (Ninth Installment Volume 51) and the peony petal at Enmeiin Temple (same Installment Volume 52)—these exemplify Bakin’s signature theories of karmic inquiry; yet for Bakin himself, they served to provide resolutions to karmic cause and effect. Setting aside critiques of Bakin’s view of life and the cosmos, *The Eight Dog Chronicles* stands as the Bakin Sect’s fundamental scripture—a synthesized and concretized embodiment of the various aspects of his philosophy.

III. The Eight Dog Chronicles: Comprehensive Critique

But to state it plainly, he did not commence writing with the intention of spanning twenty-eight years from the outset.
It was gradually extended as it became dragged along by readers' boundless popularity; that no grand plan on such a scale had been devised became evident even from how the volumes were divided.
Traditionally, yomihon followed the general rule of publishing each installment in five volumes.
*The Eight Dog Chronicles* adhered to this five-volume standard through the fifth installment; however, the sixth installment increased by one volume to six, the seventh added another to make seven, and the eighth appended three at once to reach ten volumes.
When it came to the Ninth Installment, they planned three parts—upper, middle, and lower—with the upper part comprising six volumes, the middle part seven volumes, and the lower part further divided into two sections totaling ten volumes.
Even so, as completion remained elusive, they decided henceforth to continue adding volumes sequentially.
Had they planned from the outset to accumulate such a number of volumes, they would have strictly standardized five volumes per installment and proceeded sequentially through Tenth and Eleventh Installments—thereby avoiding the need for Ninth Installment's cumbersome subdivisions into upper-lower and lower-lower sections.
To split the entire work into two halves—the first spanning Installments One through Eight, and the latter constituting the entire Ninth Installment—such preposterous volume numbering exists nowhere but in *The Eight Dog Chronicles*.
This could only be seen as a case where they were incrementally dragged along by demands—"five more volumes," "three more volumes"—compelled to expand against their will.

For instance, episodes such as Shinbee’s mission to Kyoto were entirely superfluous elements that could have been omitted without any detriment. Apart from reintroducing Tokuyō and Kensaku—who had vanished after Yūki—to maintain a tenuous connection, it stood as an entirely independent tale of martial valor with no linkage whatsoever to the main narrative. In the opening of Volume 29 of the Ninth Installment, Kyokutei Bakin’s vehement insistence that this Kyoto narrative was by no means superfluous suggested that critiques deeming it unnecessary had already existed at the time. To begin with, Shinbee was the youngest member—more a young child than a youth—making it age-wise unreasonable to portray him as a heroic figure. Given the frequent appearances of the spirit jewels’ marvels and Princess Fusehime’s divine interventions, Shinbee’s tales of martial valor all too easily devolved into chronicles of Fusehime’s miraculous deeds. Compared to the stories of the other Dog Warriors, it was markedly lacking in humanity; particularly, the Kyoto narrative—save for the passage involving Tatsumine and Otoko—was an exceedingly hollow tale of juvenile heroics.

By all rights, *The Eight Dog Chronicles* should naturally be considered concluded with the 171st chapter’s full assembly of the Eight Dog Warriors. If we directly apply the narrative technique Bakin employed when criticizing Jin Shengtan’s seventy-chapter *Water Margin*—wherein he argued that without the later tale of the *Water Margin* heroes defeating Fang La and achieving merit for the Song dynasty, the work would have remained merely a bandit story—then *The Eight Dog Chronicles* too, had it concluded with the full assembly of the Eight Dog Warriors without extending to the great war against the two Kantō deputies, would have been nothing but a tale of wanderers; from Bakin’s novelistic philosophy, there would likely have been regret over failing to achieve a perfect conclusion. Such a moralistic view of novels holds no relevance today, but in an era when even Tamenaga Shunsui and his ilk used chastity and domestic harmony as protective coloration, a figure of Bakin’s stature could hardly justify to his scholar-gentlemen readership merely depicting a wandering life—hence his addition of military chronicles to perfect the work. However, given that *The Eight Dog Chronicles*’ narrative zenith arrives with the Hokuhoku meeting of four dog warriors, Funamushi’s quartering, and the Isago conflagration, even Bakin himself must have recognized that concluding at the eight warriors’ full assembly would have sufficed. Ultimately, might Bakin’s repeated criticisms of the Shengtan commentary on *Water Margin* not be an attempt to use *Water Margin* as a means of self-justification?

However, this battle chronicle with the two Kantō deputies—even accounting for its status as Kyokutei Bakin’s post-blindness dictated work—stood as *The Eight Dog Chronicles*’ most egregiously clumsy segment, so replete with blatant imitations of *Water Margin*, *Romance of the Three Kingdoms*, and *Strategies of the Warring States* that their traces glared unmistakably.
While Kyokutei Bakin was celebrated for his grand historical brushwork, he ultimately excelled more in emotionally nuanced human dramas than in broad, rough-hewn war chronicles.
Rather than bold-lined historical works, he demonstrated far more intricate and delicate technique in love suicide dramas like *Nanka no Yume* and *Shundō Jitsujitsuki*.
Even in *The Eight Dog Chronicles*, the praise for Hamaji and Hinaginu’s courtship scenes did not stem solely from the prose.
However, when it came to war chronicles, they completely fell apart.
Like inept battle scene narratives, they merely listed the props.
In battles such as the one centered at Kasai Kanamachi, while five or six generals from both sides busily engaged in heroic single combats, what exactly were the combined forces—Uesugi, Nagao, Chiba, and Koga—amounting to considerable troop numbers doing? They appeared not even to have raised a battle cry.
By that period, military tactics had already advanced considerably, but with each seasoned general taking independent action, whether there was even an army to speak of remained unclear.
The Satomi forces opposing them must also have numbered considerably, yet there was not a single line describing how they hauled such a massive contingent all the way from Awa Province to the battlefront near Sumida Riverbed—let alone when or by what means.
The naval stratagem had copied the Battle of Red Cliffs from *Romance of the Three Kingdoms* wholesale, with elaborate groundwork that even dragged out Satomi’s Tenkai Ō and Defense Commissioner Ōkaku—figures who could have been mere subordinates—to assign them minor roles. Yet the climactic battle’s sole moment of grandeur lay in Otooto setting Nitayama Shinroku’s ship ablaze; though claiming thousands of warships burned, it carried no more impact than a child’s water pistol.
Apart from Kobata Tōra—the Ōgigayatsu clan’s foremost warrior—performing Noto no Kami Noritsune-like feats, neither the Satomi nor Uesugi forces showed any fundamental movement.
Even Sadamasa darting here and there lacked the clever narrative devices seen in scenarios like Cao Cao being pursued by Zhou Yu—where each time he mocked Zhuge Liang’s supposed lack of wisdom, ambushes would arise.
As an author of war chronicles, Bakin ultimately lacked even the ability to hold a candle to the author of *Romance of the Three Kingdoms*.
That being said, it was precisely this war chronicle with the two Kantō deputies that gave *The Eight Dog Chronicles* its sense of grand scale; thus, as a scene to adorn the final act, it may not have been entirely without purpose.

However, as stated earlier, *The Eight Dog Chronicles* reached its zenith in the Eighth Installment and concluded with the full assembly of the Eight Dog Warriors in Chapter 131 of Volume 21 in the Ninth Installment.
Everything beyond that point constituted the Eight Dog Warriors' Later Tales and should have been excised.
(The reason my synopsis does not extend beyond that point is precisely this.) The main narrative path of *The Eight Dog Chronicles* traced a line that wound from Ōtsuka through Ichikawa, Gyōtoku, and Arageyama before reaching Hokuhoku.
The central points were Ōtsuka, Gyōtoku, and Arageyama.
The Yashū Road and Echigo Road served as its backroads, while Kai's Isawa and Musashi's Ishihama formed lateral paths.
Toyama and Kyoto belonged to entirely separate narrative systems; aside from Toyama being the birthplace of the Eight Dog Warriors, they shared no connection whatsoever with the main plot.
Geographically speaking, the triangular zone formed by stretching a cord between Ōtsuka, Gyōtoku, and Arageyama constituted *The Eight Dog Chronicles*' main stage; the three dog warriors—Inukawa (though Shinbee appeared in Gyōtoku as a child actor not yet fully realized), Inumura, and Inusaka—who never graced this central arena functioned as supporting roles.
Above all, Shino and Dōsetsu stood at its core; these two consistently performed the most profoundly engaging principal roles throughout *The Eight Dog Chronicles*.

Truly，the Eight Dog Warriors were too perfect．
"In *Water Margin*，even setting aside lesser figures like Shi Qian who excelled at stealing chickens，there were fools such as Black Whirlwind—men whose only merit lay in raging violence—yet all Eight Dog Warriors possessed literary and martial talents to excess，overly endowed with wisdom and discernment．
Among them，Dōsetsu stood out as short-tempered，careless，and most human．
Throughout his life，he twice failed in attempts against Sadamasa，whom he regarded as his lord and father’s enemy．
Even after becoming Satomi’s Defense Commissioner and facing foes openly，he was assigned bandit-like roles ambushing escape routes—yet let targets slip away，allowing minor figures like Kosuimon Mehai Jushi to gain renown．
Dōsetsu’s humanity lay precisely in his tendency to bungle every endeavor．
Excluding him，Inuta Kobungo sent off Hikite and Tansetsu only to lose them when their horse bolted；though commendably saving a hunter pinned by a boar，he was tricked by the ungrateful bandit’s wife and left absurdly bound—blunders befitting a witless rustic．
Above all，Shinbee epitomized this perfection．

*The Eight Dog Chronicles* contained numerous fascinating episodes.
Take for instance the life of Funamushi—it proved too rich a tale to be confined to a mere single episode.
First she served as the wife of a wicked hunter who preyed on weary travelers' journey funds; next became spouse to a cat-transforming samurai who tormented his daughter-in-law; third transformed into a robber’s wife working as a masseuse; finally as Orisuke’s spouse colluded in banditry as a nightwalker—a deviant character whose turbulent life met its end through lynching by quartering.
This alone sufficed as material for a standalone novel.
Take Sotō—though tedious when Myōchin intervened with illusions, his path from vagrant thief to castle lord nonetheless bore witness to a formidable leader’s cunning strategies.
While he became a foolishly arrogant commander through Myōchin’s orchestrated marriage proposal to the Satomi clan, her envelopment of nearby castle lords to secure his position revealed cunning surpassing ordinary bandits.
Kyokutei Bakin often lectured on loyalty and filial piety enough to be viewed as a moralist—one whom even fiction-detesting purists exceptionally admired—yet few realized he demonstrated greater mastery in depicting villains and adulteresses than virtuous paragons.
*The Record of a Beautiful Youth* (though unfinished) being more successful than *Crescent Moon Bow*—one of his representative works—served as a prime example of this.

IV. The Historical Geography of *The Eight Dog Chronicles*

Kyokutei Bakin was both praised and self-proclaimed for his encyclopedic knowledge and prodigious memory. He was particularly renowned for conducting exhaustive investigations into historical and geographical verification with erudite precision. In an era when even officially sanctioned historical texts routinely transmitted unexamined facts without raising suspicion, it came as no surprise that unofficial histories would list haphazard fabrications. It remains evident that Kyokutei Bakin never intended his novels to serve as historical reference works; thus, whatever historical inaccuracies they contain in no way diminish their literary value. To marvel at Bakin's works as models of meticulous historical research—complete in their geographical investigations—constitutes nothing but misguided overestimation, which would have been supremely vexatious to Bakin himself. Yet in those passages where Bakin's habitual voracious reading led him to investigate matters exhaustively, one finds both flaws and merits. The historical-geographical scrutiny seen in *The Eight Dog Chronicles*—which treats *Bōsō Shiryō* as its sole magician's prop box—is fundamentally erroneous from the outset. I refrain from expounding eccentric theories, but since the world contains unexpected cases of favoritism leading to folly, I shall voice one critical observation:
(Of course, such trifling audience jeers do not dim *The Eight Dog Chronicles*' radiance.)

Kanae Daisuke’s shooting of both Yatsufusa and Princess Fusehime with two bullets served as this lengthy tale’s opening salvo—a Sarajevo shot—though even elementary school textbooks note that firearms were introduced to Japan in Tenbun 12 [1543]. Admittedly, the Tenbun 12 [1543] theory remains questionable—historians had debated it several times in recent years—but even if firearms had arrived earlier, how on earth would Kanae Daisuke, a rural Bōshū samurai, have obtained a gun in Chōroku 2 [1458] (the year Princess Fuse died), approximately eighty years prior? To begin with, firearms appeared far too frequently throughout *The Eight Dog Chronicles*. When Dōsetsu was surrounded by Uesugi forces at Shirai Castle, matchlock foot soldiers leveled their barrels at him; when Hikite and Tansetsu fled Arageyama, bandits pursued them with firearms; at Amiō no Mozuhei Teahouse, firearms were mounted; and in the mountains of Kai’s Isawa, Awayuki Nashirō shot and killed Village Official Kisakurō with a firearm. The three-horse chariots in the grand war at the climax may have astounded readers, but the sight of six gunners atop this tank resembling a festival float, all aligning their gun muzzles, struck terror. While the Kantō deputies’ armies could plausibly import hundreds or even thousands of firearms before the Portuguese without issue, having bandits and highwaymen blasting away with guns stretched credulity to reckless extremes. If the Amiō mountain teahouse had firearms prepared to scare off wild boars, then it would have been far quicker for Dōsetsu to simply fire off a shot with a *blam* than to twirl his treasured sword, spout some iaijutsu-style bravado, and attempt to approach Sadamasa.

To say this would be to indulge in crackpot theories.
It’s a novel—whether Samezuchi dangles a shabby sake flask from Benkei’s long ceremonial robe while trying to lecture drunken nonsense at Iruka Palace, bringing historical details into every play and novel is the height of idiocy, and thus the firearms in *The Eight Dog Chronicles* hardly warrant scrutiny.
Yet lies that clearly seem like lies pose no issue, but lies that sound true become problematic—for even when recognized as fiction, they deceive.
Even if one were to claim that Benkei’s seven tools included a pistol, no one would bat an eye; but when told that a rural samurai in Awa possessed firearms during the Chōroku era, it makes one tilt their head.
Given that the storyteller in question is none other than Bakin—a man renowned for his exhaustive research and love of scrutiny—one cannot help but ponder this with a skeptical squint.

Setting aside firearms for now, the Chōroku era marks the year Ōta Dōkan constructed Edo Castle. In *The Eight Dog Chronicles*, Ōta Dōkan remains in the shadows, but his son Suketomo makes frequent appearances. Edo is the central stage of *The Eight Dog Chronicles*, and even excluding Ōtsuka—where Shino was born and Kakuzō was raised—place names such as Kanda, Yushima, and Hongō appear, yet the name "Edo" itself remains conspicuously absent. No castle suggestive of Edo Castle can be seen. In the great war against the two Kantō deputies, the Satomi forces captured four castles—Ishihama, Isago, Shinobuoka, and Ōtsuka—but their geographical positions do not suggest Edo Castle. Of course, whether Edo Castle existed or not bears no relevance whatsoever to *The Eight Dog Chronicles*’ main narrative—yet I find it strange that Kyokutei Bakin, with his famed obsession for verification, had the dog warriors crisscross this very region time and again while overlooking Edo Castle.

As I mentioned earlier, the central stage of *The Eight Dog Chronicles* lay not in Awa but in Edo; the fact that many events unfolded in Edo or neighboring regions familiar to its inhabitants constituted at least one reason why it had captured the interest of urban sophisticates. Particularly notable was how Shino—the most popular character—served as protagonist alongside five dog warriors whose exploits unfolded across a semicircular belt spanning Sugamo, Ikebukuro, Takinogawa, Ōji, and Hongō, with Ōtsuka as their main stage; our suburban residents’ walking routes corresponded precisely to *The Eight Dog Chronicles*’ famed landmarks. Where on earth had this so-called Ōtsuka Castle been located? To even pose such questions constituted the height of uncouth pedantry, but given that the castle’s lord Ōishi had been Sadamasa’s subordinate general, what was termed a “castle” was likely no more than an administrative outpost. It had been what one might call a castle only to the extent that “even Iimori could topple an administrative outpost”—a fortress on par with Iimori itself. Now, while one could not determine precisely where this so-called castle or administrative outpost had stood, Ōtsuka—where Shino spent his childhood—was noted by the author to be near Hikawa River’s Nekomatabashi Bridge, a structure purportedly named after the cherished cat of Shino’s aunt Kameshino, who had been bitten to death by the dog kept at Shino’s home. From this, we might infer proximity to the Hikawa fields; by modern geographical verification, it would likely have corresponded to the vicinity of what was now the Higher Normal School. Given that the Kōshinzuka execution grounds—where Shōsuke’s Kakuzō had nearly been executed—were nearby, and considering the historical fact of Shino’s mother making daily pilgrimages to the rock shelter in Takinogawa, it stood to reason that judging the location as being near the Higher Normal School was accurate.

Now, regarding Jingū River—the site where, on the eve of Shino’s imminent departure for Koga the following day, he went fishing only to be ensnared in Mambei’s scheme and nearly drowned in its depths, and where Samojirō attempted to swap his treasured sword—is this an ancient toponym, or a fabricated name with some other basis? What location does it truly denote?
Given that it was contrived to appear as though Shino had encountered it by chance on his return from worshiping at Takinogawa’s Benten Shrine, it must lie near Takinogawa—likely around Ara River’s Kodai Crossing.
Assuming this to be the case, he left Ōtsuka around dusk and trudged all the way out to the remote Ara River area; after staging a life-and-death struggle in the water, he returned home past the hour of the Boar—around ten o’clock.
Unless they treated the round trip as a marathon-paced ordeal and rushed through the underwater theatrics at breakneck speed, returning by ten would have been impossible.
Yet no river resembling Jingū River exists near Ara River.

Entsukayama, where Dōsetsu entered katei (fire meditation), was said to be Hongō’s Maruyama due to the similarity in names; there also existed a speculative theory that it referred to the palace area within the university grounds. Since this was fundamentally fiction after all, such arbitrary conjectures were permissible—it appeared that after kidnapping Namiji, Samojirō had rushed by palanquin from Ōtsuka straight along Koishikawa-dōri to Tomisaka before exiting via Kikuzaka toward Itabashi Highway. Entsukayama lay along this highway route, meaning the area where Enrakuken, Hakujūji, Paradise, and Hachinoki now stood in a row corresponded to the historical sites of Dōsetsu’s Solitary Ascetic Kenryū and Hamaji. To debate a novel’s historical landmarks resembled compiling guidebooks to Pure Land scenic spots or drafting Dragon Palace travelogues—yet even now, Orito’s Tsurubesushi site endured unbroken, Higuchi Jūrō Kanemitsu’s Sakaro Pine flourished, and Tsubosaka had recently conducted some several-hundredth distant memorial service for Sawachi. There might yet come a day when *The Eight Dog Chronicles*’ historical sites would be carved in stone and erected. (Rumor already had it that places near Ichikawa and Tomiyama in Awa were being passed down as relics of *The Eight Dog Chronicles*—or so the tale went.)

But setting aside such fanciful historical landmarks for now, there were often elements quite worthy of appreciation from a purely geographical perspective. It was in Torigoe that Kobungo trampled the wild boar to death, but Torigoe had been a rather densely populated town since I first became aware of my surroundings. Even if we considered the late Ashikaga period before the Tokugawa era—in an area with no nearby mountains—would wild boars have come leaping out? I wondered. (Admittedly, *Jippō-an Yūreki Zakki* contained an article stating that Mukōjima’s Kōfuku-ji Temple had desolate precincts where only the voices of wild monkeys could be heard—though these likely weren’t the cries of monkeys from remote mountain performances.) There was also an article claiming that the sea had been visible from this Torigoe. Since one could see the sea from the high ground of Yushima, it was possible that the sea had been visible from Torigoe of that era—when dwellings were sparse and nothing obstructed the view through the lush grasses—yet this struck me as somewhat incongruous.

Regarding the scene where Shino and Genpachi grappled on Hōryū Pavilion’s roof, tumbled into a small boat, and—from the impact of the mooring rope snapping—drifted toward Gyōtoku, there exists a theory asserting that one cannot flow from Koga (i.e., Koga) to Gyōtoku.
Since it was a single channel of the Tone River, during ebb tide it might not necessarily fail to flow toward Gyōtoku—but the distance from Koga to Gyōtoku was considerable, and the waterway meandered.
Moreover, since a checkpoint had been established at Sekiyado midway along the route—strictly controlling vessel traffic—most drifting boats would have been detained there.
Even if that were not the case, the river wound and twisted with reeds growing thickly, so small boats would get caught along the way.
They would never have drifted all the way to Gyōtoku unscathed.

Ise’s Tateyama (Sotō’s stronghold) would be present-day Tateyama, situated near Fuse Village and Kōnodai—places that still bear the same names. The distance to Inamura was considerable—even in *The Eight Dog Chronicles*, it required an overnight two-day journey—and while it would have made sense for Myōchin to kidnap Hamaji by riding a cloud through sorcery, she instead tucked her underarm and dragged her along with a squelching noise, only to be thwarted by Minami Yaroku and have Hamaji—whom she had gone to such lengths to abduct—reclaimed by Princess Fuse’s spirit. The mountain where Sotō initially hid after being captured while plotting his resurgence could not be pinpointed to any specific area; though Isumi County had mountainous regions throughout except along the coast, none of these peaks seemed particularly deep, high, or imbued with an air of being untrodden by human feet. The entire Bōsō Peninsula had terrain resembling a horse’s back, with mountain ranges running continuously through its central region, yet it lacked any towering peaks or grand mountains. Even a mountain like Tomisan (pronounced *Tomisan*, not *Toyama* or *Tomiyama*)—where Princess Fuse entered the mountains—was not the towering peak described in *The Eight Dog Chronicles*. The highest peak’s Kannon Hall was said to have been founded by Yoshizane according to *The Eight Dog Chronicles*, but temple records attributed its construction to Empress Kōken. Awa held considerable antiquity in national histories, but prior to the Tokugawa clan’s establishment of Edo, it had been a remote peninsula far from the central capital and thus possessed an extremely sparse historical record; consequently, beyond its recognition as a fishing region, it received little acknowledgment. Since Awa became famous entirely due to *The Eight Dog Chronicles*, it might be permissible to regard the novel’s historic sites as quasi-historic sites.

(The geographical framework of *The Eight Dog Chronicles* had been part of Bakin’s initial plan when drafting began; however, as there proved to be unexpectedly many details that could not be clarified without on-site investigation, I decided to defer all such matters to a future opportunity.)
(I had planned to include a map of *The Eight Dog Chronicles* as well, but for the same reason.)

5. Bakin’s Diary

Just as *The Eight Dog Chronicles* stands unparalleled among Japanese novels, Bakin himself emerges as an equally towering and singular figure.
Amidst all manner of criticism, none matched Bakin in the depth of his self-conviction or his self-appointed role as moral preceptor to the realm.
When surveying authors across eras by their voluminous output—particularly their wealth of major works, the grand scale of their compositions, the solemnity of their approach, and the loftiness of their intellectual vision—few could ever rival Bakin.

But when it comes to literary merit—much like how fresh sardines surpass sea bream in savor, or how rapeseed blossoms outshine peonies in rustic charm—there is generally little dispute once personal preferences are set aside; yet regarding character, few figures throughout history have been as universally disliked as Kyokutei Bakin. When a certain magazine solicited responses from modern literati under the title "Likes and Dislikes of Authors Past and Present," the majority concurred in their dislike of Bakin, with not a single respondent professing fondness for him. Not only by modern people, but even in his own time, Bakin was disliked. It was Keizan alone who openly voiced resentful challenges against Bakin, but given that Bakin remained isolated among authors and had little social interaction, one could infer that few held much goodwill toward him. The people with whom Bakin associated were not so much fellow authors as devoted readers—particularly those like Tonemura Shōsai who corresponded through documents from afar—and he did not frequent their homes to seek instruction. If one were to interact solely through written correspondence, even occasional inconveniences and bouts of weariness would not cut so deeply; yet face-to-face, he likely found such encounters unbearable due to their prickly and stifling nature. That he was so difficult to please and hard to handle—to the extent that even his own family did not welcome him warmly—should suffice to understand the nature of his character.

The true cause of Bakin’s falling out with Kyoden remains unclear, but when cross-referencing Keizan’s *The Spider’s Silk Reel*, Bakin’s *The Chronicle of Ihadennō*, and *Classified Authors*, their respective accounts—though tinged with some self-interest and socially polished self-justification—likely all contain elements of truth.
That Bakin moved from house to house as a dependent of Kyoden and Tsutajū, signing his debut work *Jinyū ni Bunkatsu Kyōgen* under the pseudonym "Daieisanjin, Disciple of Kyoden," remains undeniable.
Though older by a mere three years and having already established a fitting reputation by that time—so much so that he may have needed to rely somewhat on Kyoden’s influence to debut publicly as an author—it seems unlikely there had been much he could be taught regarding actual writing.
That he signed as “Kyoden’s disciple” was a courtesy extended to a senior who had provided him with livelihood support; their relationship likely involved no formal master-disciple tutelage.
It resembled a gatekeeping student calling his master “sensei.”
Admittedly, given the Confucian ethos of their era—where even a single character’s tutelage or a single meal’s charity warranted lifelong gratitude—Kyoden’s faction naturally grew displeased as Bakin’s fame threatened to eclipse his predecessor’s. Yet Keizan’s vitriolic denunciation—excavating private affairs from decades past when Bakin had relied on Kyoden, then posturing as a benefactor while declaring such conduct “scarcely human”—remained anything but temperate.
Though of humble origins, Bakin had served a samurai household and once aspired to become a physician.
Bakin—who disdained becoming an adopted son-in-law of a geta shop—entered Senkage’s school and became a calligraphy teacher.
By that time, though the *Kibyōshi* era had passed and he still wrote *gesaku*, his pretensions showed through Chinese-style prefaces and poetic encomiums for his own works—hardly praiseworthy for forgetting his roots—yet his refusal to join authors consorting with comedian-entertainers had not been unreasonable.
Not only Bakin but also the likes of Fūrai dabbled in *gesaku* without associating with fellow authors; those with discernment neither sought membership among contemporary authors nor escaped ostracization by them.

However, from the very outset of his career, Bakin had viewed Kyoden as a rival and competed against him; even while looking down upon minor authors, he could not help but acknowledge Kyoden’s superior creative talent.
In *Classified Authors*, even the prideful Bakin himself makes the surprisingly fair assessment: “In *kusazōshi* pulp fiction, neither I nor Kyoden excel; in *yomihon* didactic novels, neither Kyoden nor I excel.” This likely stemmed from Bakin’s capacity to concede ground where warranted.
Similarly, in *The Spider’s Silk Reel*, Keizan—representing Kyoden’s faction—surprisingly advances an equitable argument by praising Bakin as “a prodigy who surpassed his master” and declaring: “Though *yomihon* originated with Saikaku of Tenna [1681–1684], flourished through Jishō and Sonosaki in Hōei-Shōtoku [1704–1716], they must yield three stages to Bakin.” This likely reflects the era’s consensus that Kyoden and Bakin stood as two titans—neither inferior to the other—locked in peerless rivalry.
Even as the two glared at each other from afar, they must have mutually acknowledged that the only true heroes under heaven were Liu Bei and Cao Cao.
However, Kyoden preceded Bakin in death during Bunka 13 (1816), after which Bakin continued adding volumes to *The Eight Dog Chronicles* to further elevate his literary reputation; even in pulp fiction—a genre he himself admitted inferiority to Kyoden—he produced successive masterpieces like *The Courtesan’s Water Margin* and *The Konpira Ship*, until his renown had long ceased to be measured against Kyoden’s.
As for Bakin, even if he does not deign to acknowledge the petty criticisms of public opinion—transcending both praise and censure—he should be like the North Star in its place, with lesser stars revolving around it.
Nevertheless, that Bakin would so often adopt a tone elevating himself while disparaging Kyoden is precisely what Keizan meant by “the man and his flaw are inseparable”—and it is this very trait that calls into question the true weight of Bakin’s legacy.

To know the minutiae of Bakin’s character and conduct, there existed his diary—a record of his daily life.
It remained unclear when this diary had been begun or concluded, but what survived today were portions from his later years.
Judging from those writing habits, he must have kept it since his youth; however, among the collection of autograph documents that had passed from Bakin’s household to a certain individual’s hands some years prior, no diaries from his younger days had been found.
This portion had now been entirely transferred to Waseda University Library.
As for those from the Imperial University Library destroyed in the earthquake—though their acquisition source and provenance remained unknown—they appeared to have originated from the Takizawa family prior to that.
I believed there still existed other scattered materials somewhere, but their whereabouts remained undisclosed.
As for the Imperial University’s collection, one volume that had been fortuitously loaned out survived the earthquake fires and remained extant today.
This single volume and the Waseda University Library’s holdings now constituted the entirety of the extant Bakin Diary.
The Waseda manuscript had been previously excerpted and annotated by Mr. Aobi Kōson in *Bakin Nikki Shō (Excerpts from Bakin’s Diary)* before its transfer to Waseda University, while the complete reproduction of the Tenpō 2 (1831) portion had been accomplished by Mr. Wada Mankichi in *Bakin Nikki (Bakin’s Diary)*—the original now lost.

Anyone who has read Bakin’s diary through Mr. Aobi’s excerpted edition or Mr. Wada’s annotated edition cannot help but marvel at how meticulously every matter—great and small—was documented without omission.
In addition to standard diary entries such as daily weather conditions, temperatures, visitor arrivals and departures, and outings, he meticulously recorded—without omitting even the most trivial matters—ritual events, Buddhist services, gifts received, incoming items, purchases, correspondence among close relatives and friends, visitors’ business discussions and gossip, recent news from visiting merchants and craftsmen, changes in servants’ employment, advance payments and overdrafts of wages, misconduct by Keian and petitioners, troubles like mice clamoring in the ceiling, grievances such as the neighbor’s cat stealing food offerings, and every daily occurrence down to the smallest detail.
The original manuscripts in particular were written in minuscule characters of fifteen or sixteen lines per page, each hanshi-bound volume spanning one year and comprising approximately one hundred sheets.
The sheer strength of willpower required to produce that volume of writings while also meticulously maintaining such a diary daily without fail is nothing short of astonishing.
The diary itself speaks volumes about Bakin’s extraordinary energy.

Upon further examining its contents, one was astonished to find that Bakin was such a difficult man—one who would dig into every corner like scrutinizing a lacquer box’s seams as he enumerated petty quibbles over even the most trivial daily matters.
That might have been tolerable, but he never ceased his endless carping and nitpicking.
Merely reading it felt exhaustingly tedious; being ensnared by that curmudgeon would have been calamitous—while enduring a harsh scolding from the outset might have been bearable, suffering his relentless nagging like being slowly fried in simmering oil would have drained both spirit and resolve until every joint went limp with exhaustion, leaving one unable to resist feeling dread.
That Bakin—despite possessing such scholarly prowess, accomplishing such monumental work, and commanding such devoted readers and admirers—found so few approaching him and remained isolated stemmed entirely from that cantankerous disposition.
Bakin’s stubborn arrogance was legendary; contemporaries reportedly seethed at his exasperating demeanor—yet mere arrogance left to bluster might have been manageable. What proved intolerable was his tendency to provoke quarrels over trifles, nursing grievances down to their roots and leaves, or worse, tormenting others with the incessant needling of a malicious mother-in-law harassing her daughter-in-law.
Anyone reading Mr. Wada’s annotated edition would immediately notice how the frequent turnover of maids in Bakin’s household left him little time for social engagements.
Each instance inevitably involved advance wage payments and overdrafts.
One might have thought to simply hand over the paltry sum, but Bakin showed not an ounce of leniency.
He would summon each petitioner individually for stern reprimands.
Stinginess may have played a role, but what truly rankled this obstinate quibbler’s pride was the prospect of being disrespected by mere servant types—a notion even more intolerable than frugality itself.
To begin with, Bakin’s wife Omo was apparently quite formidable herself; combined with the master being a cantankerous old nag, it was little wonder the maids never stayed long.
Bakin’s household—as recorded in his diaries—appeared perpetually gripped by low pressure throughout the year, without a single day of tranquil ease reminiscent of a gentle spring breeze.
The triangular conflict between his elderly wife Omo and daughter-in-law Michi frequently erupted into issues; even absent moral failings in Bakin himself, when the household head concocted convoluted rationales over trivial domestic affairs, turmoil inevitably followed.
Kyokutei Bakin was a meticulous, cold-hearted curmudgeon disliked not only by others but even by his own family.

In short, he was a man of nothing but logic—cold, oppressive, and devoid of humor or warmth.
He was a blunt, unfriendly man, devoid of flattery or charm.
He had a fair number of admirers, and some even traveled great distances to meet him; however, subjected to his brusque attitude and forced to listen to tedious lectures—not to mention risking reprimands or having their words nitpicked should they misspeak—they would inevitably leave thoroughly discouraged after just one encounter.
In that meticulously kept diary, entries showing him cheerfully conversing with visitors are scarcely to be found.
Not only are there no entries documenting family outings for leisure, but even those showing him staying home and delighting in domestic gatherings are likewise absent.
Bakin would spend day and night either engrossed in writing or absorbed in reading, remaining almost perpetually at his desk without exchanging a single word of casual conversation with family or discussing worldly matters; it seems he seldom spoke except to issue reprimands.

Given that even toward his family he behaved thus, he certainly never uttered flattering words to outsiders.
*The Spider’s Silk Reel* condemns Bakin’s ingratitude: though he sent a mere pittance of incense money via proxy to his benefactor Kyoden’s funeral while refusing to attend personally, when hosting his own calligraphy exhibitions, admirers arrived bearing his handwritten fans to kowtow before him.
Yet setting aside the funeral matter, that Bakin—who loathed kowtowing even when advantageous—performed such obeisance was an exceedingly rare occurrence.
In essence, being socially inept and wholly unversed in flattery, one could not say he was entirely devoid of gratitude.

To put it simply, Bakin was socially inept.
It was less that he couldn’t speak flatteringly than that his inherent stubbornness forbade it.
Since he gave little thought to trampling on others’ emotions, clashing with people was no rarity in Bakin’s life.
In relation to this, there exists an example that illustrates the difference in character between Kyoden and Bakin.
Kyoden also possessed considerable insight and more than a few eccentricities; however, being a townsman by birth and naturally tactful—unlike Bakin, who understood both bitter and sweet experiences—he never did anything to alienate others.
When Kita Busei’s illustrations for *The Tale of Udonge* failed to resonate with readers and the work languished in obscurity, Kyoden commissioned Toyokuni for *The Complete Tale of Princess Sakura*, which became a sensation. Kyoden then humbly attributed his work’s acclaim entirely to the illustrations’ contribution, elevating Toyokuni by declaring “the pictures take precedence, the text follows,” even reversing their credit order in the colophon to “Toyokuni’s Art, Kyoden’s Work.”
In truth, while illustration quality undeniably affected the popularity of both *kusazōshi* chapbooks and *yomihon* didactic novels—unlike standalone picture books—their images not only remained subordinate to the text but typically required authorial direction regarding design and layout; thus illustrators properly belonged in secondary roles rather than primary ones.
Toyokuni’s pseudo-arrogance in trying to monopolize public acclaim for his own merit reads like a textbook case of an ignorant painter’s conceit.
Yet Kyoden let illustrators bluster as they pleased without concerning himself over matters like signature order.

Bakin, in stark contrast, never tolerated painters' self-indulgence.
Bakin initially collaborated with Hokusai, with Bakin's illustrations typically being drawn by Hokusai.
However, during either *Yumiharizuki* or *Suikoden Gaden*, Hokusai—likely in a fit of drunken bravado or something of the sort—arrogantly boasted that Bakin's books sold because his illustrations were superb.
Bakin refused to accept this—"Have you forgotten that it was only because I had you illustrate my books that people began criticizing you?"—and with that, the two turned their backs on each other.
Given that both were stubbornly prideful sore losers cut from the same cloth, their clash was inevitable.
Had it been Kyoden, he would have gracefully conceded, allowing Hokusai to take the credit.

But Bakin lacked the magnanimity to concede cleanly and completely.
Since he couldn’t even forgive his own servants—summoning petitioners over trivial oversights and lecturing them harshly to appease his irritation—he would clash with anyone not intent on currying favor with this lord of fiery temper.
One reason was that Bakin’s character did not conform to the mold of the townspeople and failed to harmonize with the sensibilities of his fellow gesaku writers.
While Bakin’s associations with Gamō Kunpei and Watanabe Kazan were likely not deeply intimate relationships, he seems to have found greater intellectual camaraderie with such scholar-class figures than with his fellow gesaku writers from the townsman class.
However, to infer from Bakin’s frequent correspondence with Kunpei and Kazan that he harbored loyalist sentiments is a forced theory concocted by his admirers to burnish his reputation.
Recently, a certain magazine also attempted to substantiate this, but such baseless assumptions are even more hasty than concluding someone is right-leaning because they enjoy naniwa-bushi ballads or left-leaning because they frequent small theaters.

VI. Character Poems from *The Eight Dog Chronicles*

However, that Bakin—whatever his personal flaws—stands as the greatest writer Japan has ever produced remains an indisputable consensus permitting no dissent.
*The Eight Dog Chronicles* is not only Bakin’s magnum opus but also stands as Japan’s supreme masterpiece—unparalleled in both scale and quality—a consensus that remains unshakable.
Though Kyoden and Bakin are conventionally paired for convenience’s sake, in truth they defy easy categorization as peers.
Shakespeare stands not only as Britain’s but the world’s greatest literary figure; his works are read universally across all strata, and the names Hamlet and Macbeth are recited even by those who have never read a single line of his biography.
In Japan, the figure comparable to Shakespeare in terms of the nature of their works is Chikamatsu Monzaemon; indeed, Chikamatsu stands alongside Bakin as Japan’s greatest literary figures.
However, the characters from Chikamatsu’s works became widely known because they were brought to the stage—not because his works themselves were widely read.
In contrast, because *The Eight Dog Chronicles* was so widely read and universally known, it naturally became adapted into jōruri puppet theater and stage plays.
Throughout all ages, there has likely been no parallel to a work being read so widely and disseminated so thoroughly.

Therefore, the characters of *The Eight Dog Chronicles* are entirely products of the author’s imagination—not historical or legendary names, nor those propagated through street gossip and ballads—yet they are recited even by children and commoners. Such cases are exceedingly rare, for the names of the Eight Dog Warriors and other characters—having created a history outside of history—are known to all people even more than the greatest names in historical annals. The twenty-four seven-character regulated poems that Old Master Hashimoto Yōtō once composed on these characters as poetic subjects stand precisely as a character commentary for *The Eight Dog Chronicles*. By compiling excerpts, they serve as a synopsis to bind together this renowned work.

On rainy days by the window, finding myself idle, I happened to hear my wife reading *The Eight Dog Chronicles* and playfully composed twenty poems.

Hashimoto Yōtō

Kaneawan Takayoshi

Winds and clouds brood darkly as battle flags unfurl;
Now is the hour to vanquish sworn foes.
Those who shamefully pledge fealty to two lords
Need not lament those who die for their true master.
Their deeds, though absent from Qilin’s hall of honor,
Shall first etch names upon leopard skins in death.
This man’s life-crowning act: condemning Wu’s ruin—
He executes Xi Shi, fixing blame where it lies.

Tamazusa

The fallen nation’s song lingers—jade trees stand barren;
The beauty’s sin mirrors radiant blossoms’ fate.
Crimson cuckoo-blood sprinkles spring castle rains,
White butterfly-souls chill in autumn grave-winds.
Life-death cycles—karmic bonds defy extinction,
Heart-heart, thought-thought—when will grievances end?
Pity Bōsō’s fair hills and streams—
All plunged ’neath demon clouds and choking mists.

Fusehime

A string of crystal prayer beads; bowing to the Western Heaven—what bounds could contain such sorrow? / They say "beneath the Way, fair lives are fated thin"; / Better to know the venomous woman's grudge lies unresolved. / Where karmic winds pass, blossoms fall in vain; / When bewildering mists part, guns abruptly roar. / How could the dog-child ever lack Buddha-nature? / Amid sutra-chanting, three lifetimes stand proven.

Inuzuka Shino

Hōryū Pavilion's soaring eaves scrape heaven's edge; / Facing strange calamity's abyss, none dare sound its depths. / Not a step taken without his benevolent father's creed; / Drifting rootless, yet graced by beauty's misplaced pity. / A single treasured sword seeks its worthy price; / Three lifetimes' bond attests the virtuous stone's pledge. / Though this world holds no lack of heroes grand, / To your twin perfections—loyalty and filial grace—all yield.

Hamaji

A gust of divine winds severed spring's farewell;
A famed flower lies abandoned to roadside dust.
Her cloud-coiled tresses cling to verdant earth's embrace,
While silent blood-rain soaks crimson silken cloth.
Though fated as a blade's-edge ghost she stands resigned,
Deep love persists—how could she forget her sworn beloved?
The jade flute's shared name proves fortune's kind design,
Resolving karma from that year left unfulfilled.

Inukawa Sōsuke

A loyal heart and righteous liver—rare among peers!
Who would know this slave bears a noble scion's name?
A wanton youth bestows bonds of shared resolve,
While fair-faced guests transform to vengeance-sworn foes.
Beneath the blade he swallows wrongs, awaits vain death,
No stratagem in prison cells dispels this grief.
Should execution grounds lack comrades' saving grace,
How then could mighty fame shake eightfold provinces?

Nuino

Flickering swordlight in the shadow of a dying lamp— / A battle of asuras manifests its scene. / The seat beyond death divides golden lotuses; / Hands from life embroider purple mandarin ducks. // The moon sinks into autumn waters—tears pearl-strung; / Fallen blossoms perfume spring mountains’ soil. / Know this: an untimely end need not mean a meager fate— / In the netherworld’s night, she long accompanies her soul’s beloved.

Inuyama Dōsetsu

The art of fire evasion proved wondrous, leaving no trace to track—
At Aragamine's edge, the sun sank toward oblivion.
Sword glare erupted earthward, steel blossoms scattering wild;
Killing intent swept through men, drenching them in blood rain.
This was no Yu Rang striking robes in hollow vengeance—
Could Wu Yuan ever have conceived such wrath when breaching tombs?
In Shinagawa they displayed the dragon-crested helm—
Behold the depth of rancor festering through those years!

Eshu · Tansetsu

By Arageyama’s slopes, forked paths take shape; / Galloping homeward, dusk claims the rider swift. / Crickets chant bleakly beneath the moonlit night; / Butterfly souls embrace autumn blooms’ cold grace. // A drifting spirit briefly dwells with gods; / From chaos-ridden husband’s house she flees. / Sustaining in-laws’ honor in twilight years, / Content in solitude, she spends her days.

Inuta Kobungo

Deep into night’s kalpa they act—what passions drive them? // In pitch darkness, blades find voice; // Traps set by cunning women prove hard to evade— // Yet confinement cannot tarnish the gallant’s name. // Facing oxen in the tower, they lament lawlessness; // At Shiba Beach’s edge, grievances spill forth. // Not merely roadside curs and rats meet their end— // In years to come, they’ll seize the East Sea’s great whale.

Funamushi

Flowers close, moon blushes at her artful guise— / She deceives all unseen through cunning guise. / No fixed abode like Zhang’s or Li’s doomed wives— / Eastward feasts, westward sleeps—such her life comprises. // Autumn frost executes with three-foot blade; / Night moon chills lone flute’s mournful serenade. / Though heaven’s net seems wide-meshed to the eye— / At Yama’s temple gates, her capture lies.

Inusaka Keno

In urgent haste—when did revenge ever slip my mind?

Inukai Genpachi

Leaning on his bow, he treads the womb-like cavern’s depths—
What mortal’s daring could rival yours?
Star constellations crowd the sky, casting dense shadows;
Ghostly phosphorescence flickers at midnight—soundless.
In martial arts, none stood before him as equals;
Future ages would marvel at his legend’s spread.
No wonder a thousand troops recoiled in dread—
Even mountain spirits shun his fearsome name.

Inumura Daikaku

Still linger travelers’ tales—Kōshin Mountain’s seen untold springs pass.
A virtuous wife lives on, sprinkling fervent blood;
A famed father lies dead, his dried skull left behind.
Had they known sooner of the ape-slave’s stolen name,
They’d ne’er have bowed to dog-spawned foes as sworn.
Let the treasured pearl stay buried deep below—
Nightly its essence pierces Dipper and Ox constellations.

Hinaginu

Sleeves soaked with tears blend bloodstains; / Dare I forget my lord’s grace even in the netherworld? / Drawing the treasured blade, I lament this untimely fate; / Flicking the spirit pearl, I repay ancient grievances. // Many bolts of silk skirts all transform into butterflies; / One bed’s embroidered quilt still cherishes caged mandarin ducks. / Beneath Kōshin Mountain’s unfeeling soil— / The undying soul of the beauty lies buried.

Inue Shinbee

For years he studied swordsmanship at sacred grounds; / With monstrous strength, he could lift ritual cauldrons. / Whistling arrows pierce clouds—roaring tigers fall; / Swift blades cleave waves—venomous dragons descend. / Emerging bare-handed from mountains, he captures mighty foes; / The staff-bearing youth serves a great nation’s cause. / Eight radiant pearls—all Chu treasures rare— / Yet one gem among them stands peerless beyond compare.

Myōchin

Yao Bikuni’s skills stand peerless—like a phantom deity summoning wind and rain.
The ancient tree by the shrine harbors spiritual essence;
Famed incense within the tent manifests a beauty.
Since antiquity, all turmoil follows ordained cycles;
How could this era’s spectral plagues lack cause?
For half a lifetime, she flaunted treasures clutched to her breast—
Now bestows jade pearls upon the spirit child.

The Eight Women of the Satomi Clan

A hundred matches govern royal princesses;
Each daughter returns to her rightful place.
Aging together, they await white-haired years;
Hearts united, red threads bind in one night.
The great house finally sees days of reunion;
How could renowned scholars lack their destined hour?
They dwell within Zhou Nan’s poetic verses—
Faces like blooming peaches, figures of grace.

丶大

When the eminent scholar turns his head, he becomes an immortal; / Kansai’s landmarks soar, their traces ethereal. / Shoes adorned with flowers, bamboo hats dusted by snow—three thousand *ri* traversed; / Decades spent bathing in rain and combed by wind. // Even if demons rise to obstruct his path, / The ancient Buddha’s karmic bonds stand unshaken. / All eight radiant pearls are gathered at last; / I envision your heart’s light—perfectly round where it rests upon the earth.

Satomi Yoshinari

Still commanding Kantō’s strategic might—none but the swordmaster dog warriors’ deeds secure this claim; / A hundred *li* of rivers and hills returned to firm control; / Across eight provinces, plants bowed beneath awe-inspiring sway. / The proud general’s defeat stemmed from chariot warfare’s folly; / Red Cliff earned renown through fiery stratagem’s blaze. / What art could subjugate such formidable neighbors? / The method lay solely in stirring heroes to raise!

*Poems on Reading The Eight Dog Chronicles: Supplement*

Oyuki Yoshiro · Otoe

Through disordered mountains—where does one mourn lingering spirits? / To beg for death became life’s truest impossibility. // Two ill-fated beauties, now widows twice bereft; / Two white-haired newlyweds bound by strange destiny. // Bridal chamber’s candles rekindled bygone dreams; / Immortal’s cave mists shrouded aged forms in seclusion. // Mercury refining and sand-ingesting toil—not done in a day; / The ancient tree would never meet spring again.

Kawagoi Gonnokami

Alas—what remedy when distant schemes invite calamity? Walls have ears; defenses crumble. Blood in the mound transforms into a thousand years of azure; corpses beyond nine days retain fragrance for three. This elder’s loyalty shines bright as noon sun; whose chastity stands stern as autumn frost? Now knowing the netherworld holds no regrets—the orphan bearing his coffin hastens to the battlefield.

Hikida Motofuji

He who styles himself the solitary sovereign of the south is but a bandit chief—his ilk resemble mirage halls spewed forth. A hundred years’ plants leave behind stench-covered mounds; leagues of mountains and rivers reduce to kalpa’s ashes. Defeated soldiers gathering in courtyards—truly phantasmal! Elite troops lurking in burrows—how bizarre! Who could know a single drop of golden water would instead flow poison toward the entire province?

Satomi Yoshizane

After a hundred battles, the lone fortress cannot hold its strength;
Where shall this drifting life find refuge?
Yet he commands three provinces’ linked domains—
A single campaign swiftly lays foundations for ten warriors’ rise.
A pact sealed by spirit doves’ missives flown—
When divine dragons churn seas beyond our ken.
He laughs at upstarts flaunting reckless greed—
Closed granaries prove the great commander’s breed.

The above twenty-four poems are masterpieces from the *Yōtō Collection*.
Among devotees of Chinese poetry, some can recite these verbatim; however, since few novel enthusiasts—particularly Bakin adherents—are aware of them, I have transcribed these works to conclude this digression.

(April 1928 [Shōwa 3], Buddha’s Birthday Celebration)