Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Tayama Katai

I

Although Saikaku is a man of Osaka, I believe he possesses a depth beyond that.
It must be acknowledged that Saikaku was a man who once immersed himself in an atmosphere of selfishness, calculation, and lighthearted play—such things as these.
Yet on another hand, he is also thought to have been a man who reveled completely in a jester-like frivolity.
However, it is certain that he was not a person who could find satisfaction there.
He positioned himself a step above the mundane affairs of the world, at times sighing, at times grieving, at times laughing.

From where did he gain this foothold? Did he acquire it from the unrestrained boldness of Danrin school haiku? Or did it arise from his inner turmoil toward the Genroku era’s prevailing trends? Or did it spring from the various tragedies and comedies he himself had personally experienced? One might say he was nurtured by all such sources, but beyond that, it was his intelligence—his disposition to immerse himself in worldly interests yet remain unbound by them; his state of mind holding cessation within life, life within cessation, existence within renunciation, and renunciation within existence—that enabled him to carve his unique creation, form, and spirit into the long history of Japanese literature.

He possessed an attitude typical of an Osaka native and was deeply immersed in life.
That attitude was on one hand that of a wise merchant, and also that of a so-called connoisseur.
However, he was by no means confined to the merchant’s self-interest.
Nor was he confined by the petty harmonizing perspectives of connoisseurs.
Compared to Chikamatsu, he was strikingly unadorned.
He was extremely uncompromising.
As Osaka natives, they were wise and shrewd in matters of profit and loss, yet they also harbored the dark, castle-like narrow self characteristic of Osaka people—utterly devoid of places where flowers might burst into bloom.

His biography had been lost to obscurity; much had not been passed down. According to one scholar’s research, Saikaku was merely a townsman who could compose haikai, devoid of ideals or any such thing. Moreover, haikai at that time had become popular primarily as a diversion, carrying an air akin to that of jesters, and one imagined he was a man who lived a life of drunken revelry—immersed in wine and dalliance with women—before meeting his end. They spoke of him in this manner. Even his death poem—“Fleeting Moon of This Floating World— / Two Years Left Unseen”—was cited as fine proof that he had been but a carefree haikai poet. Indeed, such a perspective might have contained a partial truth. If a complete biography had survived, there might have been many facts that further corroborated such criticisms. That emanated from his works and substantiated them. The odor emitted by his works was by no means a pleasant one. At times, its intensity was so overwhelming that one felt like covering their nose and fleeing. However, wasn’t it fascinating that this very fact splendidly proved he had not been merely a jester who amusingly wandered the floating world, nor merely a connoisseur?

II

His works were known to the world as *ukiyo-zōshi*.
*Ukiyo-zōshi* was indeed a fine name.
In an age when newspapers and magazines did not exist, it must certainly have been thought so.
Many people of the intellectual class in the Tokugawa shogunate left behind a great many writings called “essays.”
These were extremely numerous.
In figures like Ōta Shokusan, this was especially prevalent.
Even among masters of classical Chinese and those who did not disdain writing in Japanese, such essays existed.
These essays served both to present one aspect to others and as something akin to personal memos.
In Saikaku’s ukiyo-zōshi as well, I see that such a mood existed to a considerable extent.

The third-page articles on scandalous affairs currently featured in the *Miyako Shimbun*, the skillfully composed daily pieces on the pleasure quarters—this very atmosphere lingers somewhere within Saikaku’s prose.
Kōyō Sanjin once recognized this and endeavored to craft newspaper miscellany in Saikaku’s distinctive manner.
“If handled properly,” he mused, “even third-page gossip could become a splendid short story…”
“Just once a week would do—I want to gather material in that style,” he declared, experimenting with a few pieces in the *Yomiuri* and *Niroku*.
Yet it never quite succeeded.

Kōyō Sanjin discovered, to some extent, the concept of “social conditions” within Saikaku’s writings.
He attempted to link this to Zola’s realism.
That was what led him to attempt such an endeavor.
However, Zola was not a writer who engaged with “social conditions” as profoundly as Saikaku.
Rather, it was Maupassant who bore a closer resemblance to this.

The fact that Saikaku was a writer who depicted “social conditions”—today there can be no one unaware of this.
Saikaku’s works were not poetry.
They were not poetry like Chikamatsu’s.
It was through meticulous engagement with social conditions—through weeping and laughing at the world’s various human comedies and tragedies—that such memoranda came into being.

Consequently, because they lacked poetry—because they lacked subjective demands—his works were, in a certain sense, unadorned.
The author merely wrote what he had seen, heard, and felt.
And because his subjectivity remained unbound by particular constraints, his works could lay bare “social conditions” before the reader with relative clarity.

However, for a certain writer, "social conditions" meant nothing at all—they dangled in midair.
It was just talk.
Merely narrative.
The true essence lay deeper within.
No matter how much they wrote such things, it proved useless.
They appeared to engage profoundly with life yet fundamentally failed to grasp it.
A considerable number of writers and critics held such views.
I saw instances where even Maupassant had been criticized in this fashion.
And I believe this too contains one truth of art.
For in reality, relying solely on "social conditions," on mere gossip, on stories alone—or rephrased further, on externals alone—could never deeply touch the core; this remained an undeniable fact...

However, to what extent did this *other* align with the *self*? Had it not merely dug into particulars while leaving the self untouched? Such doubts arose in authors who prioritized 'poetry'. Yet there was no need to elaborate on this here. In the present case, it would suffice to examine how deeply Saikaku’s “social conditions” belonged to the “other,” or to what extent the relationship between self and other ran deep or remained shallow.

In his works, everyone saw that the self remained relatively chaotic. Therefore, it was naturally beyond young people’s comprehension. To those youths who could not be satisfied unless they turned everything into “poetry” or “self,” it was certain they felt no deep resonance beyond finding curiosity in the recorded facts. Yet his works were not mere photographs. To those steeped in the world’s comedies and tragedies, they could discover that what he wrote was neither gossip nor mere tale—but something physically experienced by himself; that it was a soul of that era violently shaken and disturbed; something that had writhed and sneered until subjectivity itself had to be cast off.

His self was by no means a dull self, nor was it an unfeeling self. Nor was it a self seized by gain and loss. One might not discover "poetry" within it, but this was decidedly not a weak self. It was a *self* that sought to touch the essence of things to the point of satiety—in stark contrast to the passive selves born of resignation seen in ordinary elders or connoisseurs, here lay formidable strength. He never wrote things for amusement. To perpetually wear this dark and bitter countenance—that was his *self*.

Compared to this, Chikamatsu was utterly the exact opposite.
Chikamatsu’s art was bright.
It was subjective and demanding.
It wept and laughed.
He sought poetry over truth.
Even when they wept, their weeping was swiftly wiped away, turning refreshingly clear; even when he laughed, it was an awkward laugh—I once remarked, “Chikamatsu was a man beloved by women; Saikaku was not.”
Saikaku did not possess an easy self that could turn “social conditions” into “poetry.”

III

When one speaks of Saikaku’s works, people immediately think of his erotic writings.
Erotic works—nay, even all of his art—are thought to be just that.

However, I do not think so.
I discovered, beyond his erotic works, a serious and true understanding of him unshared by others, and I always opened my eyes in astonishment.

What profound grief of his lies hidden within *Munasanyō*?
What pain of the wise and intelligent Osaka people lies hidden within?
He dealt with “money” within it.
He dealt with the difficult tragedies of “money.”
As for our wish as authors, we want to fully understand “women” and “money.”
We wish to depart from the simplistic realm of mind that views “money” as mere material substance, enter the realm where money is mind and money is women, advance further still into realms where matter itself is mind—to immerse ourselves in such realms.
Even thinking this way, we cannot easily reach that realm.
“Well, ‘women’ can be written about, but ‘money’ is not easily depicted.”
“Because there is ‘poetry’ in ‘women,’ but there is no ‘poetry’ in ‘money.’”
“To depict ‘money’ devoid of ‘poetry’ and have that reach ‘truth’ is no easy task.”
In *Munasanyō* and *Eitaigura*, Saikaku wrote of “money” more truthfully than what Maupassant or Chekhov ever penned.

In Chikamatsu’s art, there may be “money,” but ultimately, it is “money” as seen in plays. It is “money” that has been exploited. The “money” of Umekawa Chūbei is by no means “money” that has eaten deeply into the heart. It is not the “money” that equates to women. Compared to that, tragedies like “Found Money” in *Eitaigura* were delving deeply into psychological depths. In my view, within Japanese literary circles, there are no authors other than him who truly dealt with “money.”

The anguish of New Year’s Eve in *Munasanyō*—that still resonates within our hearts today. It has been driving our lives. All good things, beautiful things, all ideals—they are being disillusioned everywhere. Depending on one’s perspective, it might be said that the author, by adhering too closely to “social conditions,” negated things somewhat shallowly—yet his negation was by no means mere denial. It was not a denial born of mere curiosity or some such thing. However, it was not a weak negation arising from resignation either. It was a life set against the backdrop of nihility.

In *Munasanyō* and *Eitaigura*, these two works, in addition to this, “time” was written about quite extensively. It was a life of transience. It was a life of fate. Yet even concerning that fate, he never raised a voice of lamentation. He followed it manfully. There were even times when he seemed to confront “Time” with a laugh.

This was not limited to Japan alone. In foreign countries as well, there may have been no author who had depicted “money” to this extent. Zola had a work called *Money*, but even that was by no means thorough. Chekhov also wrote of it, but his works lacked the decisiveness seen in the two or three stories within *Munasanyō*.

IV

He who depicted “money” in *Munasanyō* and *Eitaigura* wrote of male homosexuality in *Honchō Wakafūzoku*—that is, *Nanshoku Ōkagami* and *Bushō Denraiki*—and penned strange karmic tales in works like *Honchō Nijū Fukō* and *Fumihōgu*.

As for writings addressing male homosexuality, even in foreign countries today, there are none said to have researched and problematized it as thoroughly as Saikaku did.
This matter of male homosexuality is treated as a subject of great interest even in places like England and Germany, where societies have been formed and voluminous books published on the subject—yet even so, when shown works like *Nanshoku Ōkagami*, they reportedly open their eyes wide in astonishment.

Moreover, when researching his perspective on female sexuality versus male homosexuality, one finds a markedly different approach evident. In depictions of male homosexuality, *bushidō* appears with striking frequency and intensity, deeply interwoven into the narratives. Confrontational scenarios persistently intertwine with these portrayals. Here too, driven by “social conditions,” we discern the foundational tendencies of his art that emerged from such observations.

Not limited to this, all his works appeared to clearly point to the “social conditions” of their time; among them, in *Nanshoku Ōkagami*, the state of samurai was skillfully depicted.
In *Munasanyō* and *Eitaigura*, he depicted townspeople; here, he depicted “samurai.”

*Honchō Nijū Fukō*—this too moved me profoundly.
I sensed a shallow irony in his attitude of parodying *Twenty-Four Filial Pieties* into *Twenty Unfilial Acts* for the title—yet on another level, it intriguingly revealed a form of rebellion against society, a defiance of social conditions.
They call it filial piety; they call it unfilial acts.
They are two sides of birth and destruction—in truth, one and the same.
Only in their manifestations do they differ; internally, they are the same phenomenon.

What is filial piety?
What is an unfilial act?
Whether the author had such thoughts... or perhaps lacked such profound considerations—regardless, precisely because he rooted them in "social conditions" and "reality," they made readers nod deeply in assent.

Moreover, these works positioned the fates of many characters between the vast expanse of the cosmos and human life itself—depicting the forms of humans living and dying, loving and hating; the overlapping shapes of sin upon sin; deception, the seeds of falsehood destined to resurrect; and further still, forms of human depravity so horrifying they merit trembling, forms akin to karmic tales. These manifold manifestations of "truth" pressed upon readers with a profundity distinct from what had been seen in *Munasanyō* or *Nanshoku Ōkagami*.

"This heart—this heart that dares to uglify—this is the path to religion." I often pondered such thoughts. And I considered to what extent Saikaku had directed his heart toward religion. However, nowhere could I discover such manifestations of the heart. Instead, I discovered something approaching "nihilism" there.

Yet does not this "nihilism" prove to be something akin to religion? One can reach religion through love, yet one can also reach it through hatred. And this "nihilism" constitutes a realm advanced one step beyond "hatred"—a threshold where, with but one more step, one might open the door to "the non-duality of birth and destruction." When compared thus, Chikamatsu’s art does possess elements resembling religious perspective—it binds lovers’ suicides to nirvana, as it were—yet in his refusal during his lifetime to tread such so-called Hinayana paths, there instead lies his quality as both warrior and sage, compelling us to acknowledge this Buddha-nature within him.

The dharma form in his surviving portrait could not be seen by me merely as that of a haikai poet or a jester.

When one turns to *Fumihōgu*, its karmic perspective deepens further; he who wrote erotic tales, wrote of money, wrote of commerce, wrote of samurai now arrived here to show a shudder before what might be called three-life karma—a primordial realm of unconsciousness. The tragedy of a man who replaced over ten wives; the tale of a samurai with eyes bared like a bird’s—who could read these without being seized by a profound, profound mystery? Unable to die and unable to live, people who finally pressed their hands together in prayer to Buddha were here and there. When one considers that he—who wrote of Oshichi, Osan Moemon, Osana Seijuro, and *The Life of an Amorous Woman*—had also ventured into such realms, one cannot help but nod at how he had poured his heart into so many directions within such a brief span of years.

I could not help but feel indignation at the blindness of those who called Saikaku frivolous, a connoisseur, or a jester.
It was already "nihilism"; thus, it could be said that Saikaku was a writer who dwelled in "the particular."
And it could further be said that he was an author who faced the door lying between "the particular" and "the whole."

V

In erotic works, I consider *The Life of an Amorous Woman* and *Posthumous Stories* to be the most outstanding.
Some say *Gonin Onna* stands as the finest achievement, but that pertains merely to formal composition—they have only observed the dimension where elements cohere through such packaging. In terms of depth or the degree of embodied experience conveyed by the author, it falls far short of *The Life of an Amorous Woman* and *Posthumous Stories*.

What had to be discussed here was sexual desire.
There were many who criticized Saikaku for treating this sexual desire superficially and somewhat frivolously.
The reason seemed equally applicable to Maupassant and others.
And those who engaged in such arguments invariably spoke of "sacred love in sexuality."
Moreover, in terms of age, they were predominantly young.
Many among those dismissing libertine literature as trivial belonged to this group.
Yet even for such people, libertine literature was not trivial.
To merely argue it was trivial paradoxically made it so.
They were in fact acknowledging its value.
They felt an internal demand at work.

Handled frivolously—this must be considered.
In sexual desire—within sexual desire itself—there fundamentally exists such a thing.
It can be called sacred love as well as beastly lust.
It was an extremely grave matter, and yet an extremely simple one.
Why was this so? Because there was no other way to put it than that it was made to be so.
Nature made it sacred love when it must be sacred love, and made it beastly lust when it must be beastly lust.
Nature had allowed for great leeway.
In other words, human beings—at the foundation of Nature—were something that could not be easily settled by labeling them as good or bad, beautiful or ugly.
Or rather, one might dismiss it as such—but that dismissal merely reflected one’s own position, age, or knowledge; Nature had allowed for such leeway that it could amply accommodate even those who would reduce it so.
Those who had dismissed it as mere beastly lust were no different.

In short, sexual desire is fundamental.
It is birth and destruction.
It is non-duality.
It is inexpressible.
Therefore, it was unavoidable that the sexual desire Saikaku depicted appeared frivolous and superficial.
There had been times when even someone like me saw it in such a way.
There were moments when I covered my nose at its stench being too intense.
Yet since sexual desire inherently contains such elements at its very foundation, there could be no alternative.

Thus, the problem became the question of whether there was a need for such handling. Was art that which halted at Chikamatsu's level, or that which stagnated and beautified at Turgenev or Daudet's level? Or was art that which—like people of younger generations—either separated or conflated love and sexual desire (this amounted to the same thing) to steer toward life's meaning? It was here that perspectives on Saikaku's erotic works diverged.

Saikaku's erotic works are said to view love as beastly lust.
However, I do not think so.
Saikaku neither views it as beastly lust nor as sacred love.
He unites them as one.
He is also entirely nihilistic.
He views it as weighty yet also as light.
Initially, I thought that Mōpatsusan and others saw sexual desire more deeply than Saikaku, but now I do not think so at all.
Works such as *The Life of an Amorous Woman* are creations exceedingly rare even in global literature.
In *Bel Ami*, sexual desire remains overly contrasted against society.
*A Woman's Life* presents a minor tragedy of uncultivated female sexual desire in its nascent stage.
*Shi no Gotoku Tsuyoshi* depicts sexual desire excessively fixated on trivialities.

Among Mōpatsusan’s works, being his final creation, *Nōtoru Kūru* most deeply reaches into the depths of sexual desire—(a certain foreign critic dismissed *Nōtoru Kūru* as mere technique, claiming there was nothing beyond its craftsmanship—what blindness!). Tolstoy had also made similar remarks, but even the author of *Anna Karenina* could never write sexual desire as profound as that in *The Life of an Amorous Woman*—) Still, it had not reached the mood of birth and destruction seen in a single story from *Posthumous Stories* or in *The Life of an Amorous Woman*.

In *The Life of an Amorous Woman*, there was a part where an old woman walked around viewing the Five Hundred Arhats.
That scene might indeed have struck young hearts as somewhat contrived and unnaturally constructed, but it was by no means so.
The author was not merely writing that part half in jest.
In that scene, the woman was depicted with exceptional vividness.
There was also a passage where she hallucinated the many children she had aborted; that part in particular portrayed the woman's heart with exceptional depth.
It concretely manifested the unfathomable depths of the heart, leaving people unable to escape trembling.

Sexual desire is said to be an everyday occurrence.
Such things already demonstrate that they are not mere everyday occurrences.
It is also said that sexual desire is the brink of life and death.
This demonstrates that it is not yet the brink of life and death.
It appears shallow yet is deep, appears deep yet is shallow.
For some, it becomes mere play; for others, a matter of life and death.
There is none who has depicted the mood of sexual desire—this paradoxical interplay of identity and separation within birth and destruction—as vividly as Saikaku.

Let us try comparing *The Life of an Amorous Woman* and *The Life of an Amorous Man*.
The author demonstrates considerable clarity in observing both female and male sexual desire there; the Five Hundred Arhats scene in *The Life of an Amorous Woman* stands unmistakably as the ultimate expression of female sexual desire.
The island crossing in *The Life of an Amorous Man* equally represents the definitive manifestation of male sexual desire.

Where *The Life of an Amorous Woman* maintains a passive and resigned tone throughout, *The Life of an Amorous Man* asserts itself vigorously—the author having fully internalized men’s archetypal role as “sowers of seed.”

In *The Life of an Amorous Woman*, there was a sentimental tone.
There was longing, there was deception, there was the triumph of one’s prime, there was flower-like splendor; following these came downfall, tragedy, and places where one clung to other-power.
In contrast, *The Life of an Amorous Man* had travel, a mentality of toying with women, places where anything went, an assertive boldness in pushing forward, wit, indulgence, and play.
It did not depict the downfall or sorrow seen in *The Life of an Amorous Woman*.

Moreover, in contrast to *The Life of an Amorous Man*, where ages are specified, one must also consider that *The Life of an Amorous Woman* lacks this.

However, if one delves deeper into it, I cannot help but feel that *The Life of an Amorous Woman* was indeed written by a man.
That can’t be helped.
The reason I thought *The Life of an Amorous Man* could excel even more in its degree of vivid realism was because I am male; conversely, the reason I found *The Life of an Amorous Woman* so well-drawn may be that I am not a woman—I do believe such biases exist—but in any case, the fact that he could observe women to such an extent served as proof of how exceptional his powers of observation and understanding were.

Whether we consider *The Life of an Amorous Man* or *The Life of an Amorous Woman*, I find their structure—being long-form works that are in fact accumulations of short stories—to be quite fascinating.

In *The Life of an Amorous Woman*, episodes such as when she worked as a sewing instructor, the story of her becoming a feudal lord’s concubine early on, and passages depicting her in old age feigning youth, putting on an affected voice, and peddling her charms were particularly compelling.

VI

The author also paid great attention to aspects such as the writing style in *The Life of an Amorous Man* and *The Life of an Amorous Woman*.
*The Life of an Amorous Man* was refreshingly straightforward.
*The Life of an Amorous Woman* employed resplendent prose.

In *The Life of an Amorous Man*, the mood of Yonosuke as he embarked on his journey was quite compelling.
It could well be said that this accounted for half of the work’s value.
The fact that the wanderlust of youth persisted from around twenty-five or twenty-six to nearly thirty years of age further proved that the author had keenly observed men.
A mood emerged where, bit by bit, they came to feel genuine love arising from mere dalliance.
The passage describing the area around Oiwake in Shinano was exceptionally outstanding.
The form of falling in love through the planks of a prison cell, the form of fleeing with her, the form of mourning her death—these too were particularly compelling.
Then, the description of the brothel in Izumozaki, Echigo Province, was written so vividly that one felt as though seeing the scene of that time with their own eyes.
When one compared Bashō’s *The Narrow Road to the Deep North* and other accounts of the same location, they could not help but be struck by the peculiarity of the contrast.
Then, the fact that the passage titled *Yume no Tachikaze* was suddenly mixed into such a sketch-like atmosphere was by no means meaningless; there, the author strove to manifest the earnestness of Yonosuke’s youth.

After returning from his journey came that excellent passage about the palace attendants; then the passage viewing erotic prints; followed by that chainmail episode—written comically yet devoid of humor.
Moreover, one sees how profound observation and understanding radiate brilliantly wherever they reach.

Moreover, in my view, I believe Saikaku was quite the traveler.
As an Osaka townsman, he appears to have journeyed by ship through various regions.
Not as a sightseeing excursion, but as commercial voyages...
Some may dismiss this as mere hearsay cobbled together from rumors, but I cannot accept such claims.
Without personally visiting and treading upon those lands—Murou, the Seto Inland Sea, Echigo—such vivid depictions could never have been achieved.
What particularly intrigues me is how meticulously he portrayed the conditions of wharves along shipping routes radiating from Osaka.
In those days, Japanese ships circumnavigated Hokuriku in vast arcs.
Ports like Mikuni and Kanazawa in the north; rounding Noto Peninsula to Nanao and Uozu; entering Echigo Province toward Izumozaki; then onward to Sakata Port in Ugo—these harbors remained ceaselessly connected to Osaka by maritime trade.
The prosperity of both Sakata and Izumozaki stemmed from their roles as hubs for these vessels.
Even today, journeying through northern Japan reveals traces of Kamigata culture—especially Osaka's distinctive ambiance—lingering everywhere.
Kanazawa bears this imprint; Niigata too.
Sakata as well.
Akita likewise.
Noto no less.
Osaka's cultural ethos—utterly divorced from Kantō and Tōhoku's Pacific-facing realms—permeated every corner of the Japan Sea coast.
Is it not remarkable how clearly this permeation emerges in *The Life of an Amorous Man*?
Furthermore, Saikaku authored works such as *Ichimoku Tamahoko*.

Moreover, it had to be noted that the difficulty of Saikaku’s prose stemmed from its being a faithful depiction of the Genroku era. He studied “the particular” exhaustively. He sketched. He depicted. The language used at that time—clothing, trends, customs—he incorporated all such elements into his works. People said *The Tale of Genji* was hard to understand due to the language and sentiments of the Fujiwara court, but Saikaku surpassed even that. He skillfully wove in puns and nursery rhymes too. Therefore, his prose could not be easily comprehended in full. There remained many things undeciphered even by those who had studied Edo-period literature deeply. Consequently, there were equally many points that served as valuable references for Genroku-era history. Compared to Chikamatsu and others, these were far more numerous.

In any case, it can be said that *The Life of an Amorous Man* and *The Life of an Amorous Woman* together are major works depicting sexual desire.

Here, before I say a few words about *Okumiyage*, I found myself wanting to touch upon the distinctions among erotic novels of the Tokugawa era.
Chikamatsu is a poet; he turned everything into “poetry” and beauty.
When attempting to discuss him in comparison to Saikaku, I feel he stands too far removed.
Bakin’s perspective on sexual desire proves remarkably narrow.
Moreover, it lacks freedom.
Sanba interpreted this with superficial understanding and remained content with that.
Tamenaga Shunsui alone seemed to have given some thought—however fleetingly—to matters of sexual desire—though not with Saikaku’s thoroughness, instead crafting his works in a manipulative manner meant to gratify popular tastes—yet even so, compared to other writers, I observed his work possesses a far richer sketch-like sensibility.

The genre of *sharebon*—such works should be discussed alongside Shunsui. Kyoden, Sanba, and Shunsui have also written on such themes, but their works pale in comparison to Saikaku’s depictions of sexual desire—nay, his entire philosophy of it. They are slipshod. The Yoshiwara atmosphere surfaces to the degree seen in the sentimental tales penned by today’s so-called libertine writers, but they never venture beyond that threshold. They have not pondered deeply. They have not truly absorbed it.

However, it was certain that *Ume-goyomi* stood a step above these sharebon authors. In Shunsui’s works, women were observed quite well. Though the lifelike realism in his dialogue sketches lacked depth and detail, there were aspects that could not be dismissed merely as pandering to trends or being laden with gaudy colors. Due to their tendencies to revel in frivolity, flaunt connoisseurship, or court feminine favor, these writers could not delve into the depths found in Saikaku’s *The Life of an Amorous Woman*, instead producing works filled with utterly conventional tropes. Yet while they occupied a distinction akin to that between Maupassant and some popular writer of his ilk, it remained undeniable that they captured an atmosphere of sexual desire more effectively than those minor sketches by sharebon authors. There existed a German translation titled *Treu bis in den Tod* of a work by Shunsui—whether it rendered *Ume-goyomi* or not I could not say—but for foreign readers, Shunsui’s works must have seemed peculiar creations indeed. How much more so in Saikaku’s case!

VII

*Okumiyage* was Saikaku’s posthumous manuscript.
And there I discovered short stories surpassing even *The Life of an Amorous Man* and *The Life of an Amorous Woman* in excellence.

Kōyō Sanjin also said:
“*Okumiyage* is truly excellent.”
“Both the prose and sentiment are completely parched through.”
“Within that austere simplicity lies hidden splendor.”
“I could never imitate that.”

Indeed, I too felt this way.
It makes one wonder—had Saikaku truly reached such depths?
“While *The Life of an Amorous Woman* and *The Life of an Amorous Man* still clung to sexual desire, with *Okumiyage* he becomes profoundly detached.”
It is cleansed of attachment.
The ten-odd short stories contained therein take as their principal themes love’s conclusion, love and life, money and romance—each one thoroughly compelling.
Particularly the tales of: the man who exhausts his sandal-money and trudges from Kyoto to Osaka; the kept lover who suddenly takes to squandering his fortune on courtesans; and above all, the story of *Bōfurimushi*—these could only have been written by someone who had tasted every sweetness and bitterness this world offers.
Not even among Maupassant or Chekhov could one readily find short stories of such caliber.

Regarding *Five Women Who Loved Love*, I did not say much, but there were indeed interesting elements within it. Osan Moemon and others stand out as particularly superb. Even when comparatively examining this against Chikamatsu's work of the same title, I believe the differences between the two would become clearly apparent. *The Tale of Oshichi* too proves itself an excellent short story.

In any case, Saikaku must have been an extraordinary marvel in his time.
He must have influenced his era even more profoundly than naturalism; it was only natural that he was called Gedō and Oranda Saikaku.
The fact that Japan too possesses such a writer must be an immeasurable source of strength for the Japanese people.
For my part, I suspect his works will never leave my desk throughout my life.
And he, Saikaku, accomplished this undertaking in just under ten years.