Pathway to Japanese Literature

There was recently Shinran Shōnin's grand memorial service, and I imagine tonight's gathering too brings together all of you with profound interest in—and devotion to—Shinran Shōnin. Yet I find myself utterly unqualified to address such an assembly.
Nevertheless, I once dared write a novel about Shinran, which later became a film where Mr. Nishikinosuke portrayed him.
To have composed such a work with pretensions of expertise—when I reflect now—was nothing but the blunder of youthful presumption....

When viewing the Shinran depicted in novels or portrayed by Mr. Nishikinosuke, one might envision an elegant youth who seems lovelorn even in the presence of Kujō Kanezane and his daughter Princess Tamahime—but this is completely inaccurate.

As for what kind of person he was—there exists an image at Honganji Temple that is rarely made public, I hear—and some time ago, I received a greatly enlarged copy from Mr. Tanaka Kazumatsu, which is apparently called the "Mirror Portrait." There is a portrait said to have been created when the Saint was seventy years old and still alive: Fujiwara no Nobuzane's son—a man commonly called Hakama-dono, also known as Sen Amida Butsu—was copying [the image] before the septuagenarian Saint when he sensed something extraordinary; holding his brush, tears kept spilling uncontrollably according to tradition.

When you look at this [portrait], he appears not at all delicately refined, but rather with rugged musculature and sturdy bones—his stature seemingly not particularly tall—but when examining images like those painted by Sen Amida Butsu, each strand of these eyebrows is rendered vividly, stroke by meticulous stroke. It is a visage that could be described as brimming with vital energy.

Now then, let us examine what kind of social conditions characterized the era in which Shinran was born and that ninety-year lifespan of his.

Counting ninety years back from his death in Kōchō 2, the year when the Saint first drew breath was Jōan 3.
This was around the end of the Taira clan's reign.
Even the once-prosperous Taira clan was now approaching its end.
The Saint was around nine years old when Taira no Kiyomori also died.
From his tonsure at age nine onward, the era names changed through An'gen, Jishō, and Yōwa—during this period occurred such historical events as Kiso Yoshinaka's insurrection, followed by the Taira clan's flight from the capital, their defeat at Dan-no-ura, and the clan's ultimate downfall.

It is said that he lived on Mount Hiei from the age of nine for twenty years, but what was Mount Hiei like during those two decades?
This was a place possessing military might beyond modern imagination—warrior monks wielding massive naginatas—while within the temple complex itself, various conflicts reflecting the times arose—what we might today describe as rightist versus leftist factional struggles.

When they held grievances against the Imperial Court, they would march down from Mount Hiei's Kirazaka slope to the capital like modern protestors.
Within this Enryaku-ji environment, young Shinran must have studied arduously from around age nine until his late twenties.

Why do humans so relish killing one another? Why do they clash instead of enjoying these seasons of spring, summer, autumn, and winter—why must blades alone glitter so? I think he must have witnessed countless blood-soaked scenes.

A French scholar named Richet (Note: Charles Richet—a physiologist and Nobel Prize in Physiology or Medicine recipient) published a book titled *Man the Fool* after World War I, in which he explored why humans had endlessly engaged in mutual hatred and slaughter. Humanity had now degenerated to the point of waging wars that dared to kill both those they did not hate and those they could not hate. He wrote something along these lines: "Civilization and science will likely advance further, but human degeneration will probably escalate in both the cruelty of massacring even those we do not hate and the foolishness of it all."

Wasn't that very situation—a scaled-down case, a backdrop made smaller—precisely what characterized Shinran's youth?
Shinran too must have wondered—why are humans so foolish?
I believe he must have lamented this karmic retribution and been tormented by it.
So to speak—regarding this instinct for conflict inherent in humans, this very instinct—must not Shinran have deeply contemplated and been tormented by it as well?

I think Shinran must have truly and intensely felt that conflict—the surrounding conflicts—within himself as well.
It was a battle of self against self.
The focus of this battle between self and self, when it comes down to it, is "sexuality."
Within the young Shinran—no, within the body of a Shinran more robust than most—young blood must indeed have been coursing.

No matter how deep in the mountains one might dwell, no matter how one might avert their gaze or refuse to listen—it was youth surging up from within oneself.
Since this was something Buddha and God had implanted within humans from the very beginning, I believe it lay utterly beyond our control.

It was not only Shinran who struggled with "sexuality." Myōe of Kōkōzan-ji—who could be considered roughly contemporary with Shinran—and even Jien Sōjō of that time had expressed similar laments in their writings. In Shinran’s "Dream Record," he wrote that although he had kept the monastic precepts from his youth and did not succumb to sin, one night he nevertheless saw a dream filled with mysterious yet beautiful colors.

A dream of mysterious yet beautiful hues—from works like Shinran Shōnin’s Tannishō and Kyōgyōshinshō, drawing forth the deep true wellspring of Shinran’s heart proves exceedingly difficult. But if young Shinran were to have had a dream tinged with mysterious hues one night—what that dream was, we understand well. "You all know perfectly well." "Everyone has experienced this."

That’s precisely it.
Even though Myōe suffered, Jien suffered, and Shinran suffered, there were also those who did not suffer, you know.
Within the monastic community, you see,
when examining records like The Acolytes of Daigoji Temple (Note: Located in Fushimi Ward, Kyoto City), it becomes clear that even then there already existed within monastic orders a custom of loving acolytes.
Moreover under cover of night, they would steal away to Higashi-Sakamoto yet still manage to keep silent come morning.
Therefore there were indeed those who did not suffer.

The fact that they did not suffer, however, was superficial. Those who had entered monastic life and lived in purity—while appearing untroubled on the surface—must have been tormented internally by an overwhelming sense of guilt when reflecting on themselves. Under such circumstances, Birth in the Pure Land would seem uncertain indeed. They could not help but feel ashamed before heaven and earth. And because Shinran could not do this—could not reconcile these contradictions—he suffered greatly. It is said he made pilgrimages from Mount Hiei to Rokudō Hall in Kyoto for a hundred nights. He must have kept vigil there for a hundred nights, don’t you think?

“What should I do?”—that was the crux of it.
“First of all—aren’t Buddha and God contradicting themselves?” That must have been his combative frame of mind.
“Why did the Buddhas and gods implant these urges within me before I was even born, only to demand they be bound by precepts’ ropes?”
“Is this acceptable?” he tormented himself. “No—that can’t be right.”
“Could the key lie in ancient Buddhist scriptures?” And so it was that on a night nearing his hundred-day vigil’s end, he reportedly received a revelatory verse from Prince Shōtoku in a dream.
In recounting this—“Hmm... ‘Practitioner’s karmic destiny’... something about female transgression? Ah—I’ve forgotten one character—”
“Ah! Thank you kindly.”
“Practitioner’s karmic destiny sanctioning female transgression”—that was it, I realized.

This had already been acknowledged by Prince Shōtoku—that Buddhist practitioners could take wives and love women.
However, that practitioner must carry karmic retribution.
To atone for this, one must perform karmic deeds.
If one can accomplish even this, it is what we call the law of cause and effect.
Well, my interpretation remains rather self-indulgent, I must admit.
I imagine if an eminent figure from Hongan-ji were to address this point, they could have expounded it with far greater clarity and profundity...

Well, that’s roughly how it goes.
It felt as though the clouds had parted.
And without returning to Mount Hiei, he visited Hōnen Shōnin at Yoshimizu-dera, where he laid bare his anguish and that matter before entering the meditation quarters at Yoshimizu.
If we were to seize that as an opportunity, we’d immediately go take a wife.
However, Shinran Shōnin seems to have been different.
For several more years, there was no trace of him having taken a wife.
This differs considerably from how it would be in a novel.
In the context of Practitioner’s karmic destiny and having taken a wife, Shinran must have been deeply contemplating something during that period.
Sexuality, sex—this is truly a difficult problem.

[Note] According to the *Honganji Shōnin Eden*, on the night of April 5th in the third year of Jianren (1203), the Guze Kannon (Savior Bodhisattva) of Rokudō Hall appeared in Shinran’s dream and declared: “Though a practitioner may commit female transgression due to karmic destiny, I shall become a jade woman to be violated, adorn him throughout his life, and guide him at death’s hour to be born in the Pure Land.”

The issue of sexuality that caused Shinran such profound anguish is treated with remarkable carelessness in every aspect of our lives today—in the printed words before our eyes, the media reaching our ears, and all other facets.
As for what this results in, every day—as you can see in the newspapers—all sorts of things come to light.
Just now, there was such an incident.

A waitress at some entertainment district near Tokyo was cohabiting with a lover when the man brought up that he had another marriage prospect and wanted to settle down.
Then that waitress gave 300,000 yen to a hitman in Shinjuku, you see. That hitman then divided it into portions of tens of thousands each, and the youngest eighteen-year-old hitman apparently received only 2,000 yen.
He had intended to do it for two thousand yen.
She asked him to eliminate that.
He did it.
He tried twice but failed.
And when it became known that he had a pistol or something, traces were left, the incident came to light, and it appeared in the newspapers.

As a hitman incident, it became an enormous front-page article—that alone would have sufficed—but what struck me most was that the money she gave to the hitman had been saved up by the boyfriend she loved through his work for her sake.
She had bought the pistol intending to kill herself if the matter came to light.
It was a peculiar mentality.
Incidents like these are not uncommon these days.
And when caught, the woman reportedly bawled, “I loved him so much! I loved him so much!”
The newspaper articles mocked and derided this with laughter, but I somehow felt it pitiable—a sense of pathos.
The man used money he had saved up for himself to buy a pistol and give three hundred thousand yen to a hitman in an attempt to kill another man.
This mentality—this very mentality—was how she loved within the limits of her intellect.
It is said she claimed to have loved him—and that was indeed true.
Could this be called love’s perverse extreme—distorted sexuality’s ultimate form?

"You must have all experienced this yourselves. Someone cradles another's child—this adorable little thing—nuzzles cheeks while cooing 'Oh how precious!', then exclaims 'These cheeks—I could just eat them up!' Or consider when a woman tells a man 'I could devour someone like you.'

This represents sexuality's ultimate form. It's animal instinct, pure and simple—transforming affection into this voracious urge to possess and consume what we love. Terrifying, isn't it? Though Shinran Shōnin's era differed vastly from ours, history shows how dangerous this can be—the heretical Tachikawa-ryū sect once spread like wildfire across Japan from eastern Tachikawa, twisting sexuality into something monstrous through their teachings. That's how frightening it becomes."

I think Shinran Shōnin must have perceived not only the beneficial aspects of "Practitioner’s karmic destiny sanctioning female transgression" but also deeply understood its dangers and how it must influence human society. I believe he must have observed this—commuting daily from Okazaki to Yoshimizu-dera, making that journey day after day.

The Eshinni whom Shinran Shōnin eventually chose seems to have been precisely the kind of person who—as the incarnation of Avalokitesvara Bodhisattva that granted him the dream revelation—had taken him in marriage as if fulfilling that divine role. This can also be inferred from the letters Eshinni wrote to her daughter Kakushinni.

As for sexuality—having once encountered it myself—I think what we call “Practitioner’s karmic destiny sanctioning female transgression” must be this: when two people embark on life’s journey not through casual dalliance but in a marital bond, both partners equally sharing joys, becoming one, dwelling brightly in the Dharma’s grace, and truly fulfilling their path together until life’s end in old age.

When it comes to fulfilling life’s end, I am reminded of something.

This was after the war ended. My wife—who had endured great hardship from wartime through the postwar period—had fallen ill, and wanting to comfort her during her convalescence, I took her all the way to Kansai.
The fighting had just ended, and society was in turmoil.
At Tamba City’s church in Tenri City, someone said: “If you’d give a little talk—if you give a talk, I’ll lend you a car for the day.”
“I’ll lend you a charcoal-powered car,” they said, so thinking this was also for my wife’s sake, I spoke for about an hour.
So I borrowed the charcoal-powered car, and since it happened to be the season of blossoms, I went to Yoshino Mountain.

Around that time, I had composed a clumsy verse: "Though battles cease not, bush warblers in thickets too—now sing forth!" Amid such scenery, everyone was making their way to Yoshino Mountain for cherry blossom viewing.
After finally ascending in the charcoal-powered car to what I believe was the Ichimoku Senbon area—where Nyoirin-dō Hall could be seen in the distance—we arrived at that cliff edge separated by the valley. When the driver remarked, "This spot seems rather nice," we stopped the car, and I took out a cigarette before stepping out lightly.
Then, having spread newspaper at the cliff’s edge under the spring sun, they opened an aluminum lunchbox placed on their laps and sat silently picking up their chopsticks as they gazed at the cherry-blossom peaks before them—a couple, an elderly pair around seventy years old.
At first, I merely noted the presence of an elderly couple around seventy years old.

Now, as I smoked a cigarette while observing from this side, both the old man and old woman—well, in those days, white rice was called Ginmeshi and considered precious—would take a bite of Ginmeshi like this into their mouths and then sit rigidly in silence, doing nothing but gaze at the cherry blossoms across the way. When I peeked into the aluminum lunchbox, there were grilled squid, fried egg, and something else inside. While I smoked a cigarette, the two of them remained silent.

As I watched them from behind, I gradually came to feel an indescribable emotion. This peaceful, content elderly couple—I thought—had not only somehow endured the ravages of war today, but had likely passed through forty years together since marrying, traversing life’s various hardships and peaks and valleys, making their way there through tremendous difficulty.

This old man must have had affairs in his youth; there must have been issues with his son; his business ventures must have failed. His wife must have fallen ill at some point. Or perhaps—it’s possible—these people might have lost one or two of their several sons due to the war. This elderly couple had reached this peak, where under the spring sunlight they sat perched quietly together, fixedly gazing at the Ichimoku Senbon cherry blossoms in utter silence. Though no voices could be heard, weren’t they already exchanging a lifetime of emotions between them? At the same time, when all is said and done—despite people spending their long lives chattering about this and that, fame and fortune gained—isn’t the most beautiful, most perfected form that human existence truly attains precisely this vision of an elderly couple?

“Ah, how remarkable that both of you have come here,” I nearly exclaimed—so deeply did those two reverent figures seep into my eyes beyond all words.

In my clumsily written Shin Heike Monogatari, I wrote about a man named Abe no Asatori and his wife Yomogi into their old age, but the chapter titled "Yoshino Hina" in the novel's final scene was in fact modeled after that elderly couple.
Though I used them as models, I haven't encountered them since then, nor have I expressed gratitude or shared any portion of the royalties...

They go on about this and that, but life is just that.
But these days, it’s different.
If you ask the family court, the most common among cases is the issue of marital separation.
Then there are what you might call advice columns in newspapers and such—people often air all sorts of grievances there too—but then the responders themselves write things like, "If you dislike it that much, you should just quit."

Regarding the trend of treating “sexuality” so carelessly these days, we in the literary world also bear significant responsibility.
We claim it’s freedom and churn out writings, but I find it utterly embarrassing.
This seems to be the logic that just as scientists direct their fervor toward atoms and electrons in an attempt to achieve nuclear fission, to truly write about and probe life and the depths of humanity, one must start from sexuality—from the forms of sexual love—but what exactly is being added here?
I must say, I still have doubts.
Have they truly become happy, I wonder.
In that regard, have the postwar young people who gained freedom—especially women more than men—truly been enriched?
Have they become happy? This is doubtful.

Fortunately, love has now become free.
In that respect, we were constrained in our boyhood days.
At most, we would timidly go back and forth before the gate of the house of a girl we liked.
But I believe I experienced better love and was better off during that time.

To speak plainly, I don’t think I’ve become happy.
This holds true even regarding sexuality.
"They say things like ‘Virginity holds no value anymore,’ but that’s absurd. As for sexuality—sexual love—I believe that since Buddha and God ordained it within human destiny, they must have bestowed it upon us with the intent: ‘You there—once born human, properly enjoy this throughout your life and imbue it with meaning.’"

But when it comes to today's young people, I must say.
They take this instrument called sexuality—bestowed by Buddha or God—and without knowing how to play it, lacking any understanding of how this instrument should be handled or what melodies it might produce along life's long journey, they go clattering away as if—to use a musical analogy—without first learning what notes even are, they intend to immediately play Beethoven or some grand composition, ultimately ruining the precious instrument given to them—or so I think.

It is an endlessly perilous thing, yet depending on how one handles it, one can play melodies of sorrow in times of sorrow and melodies of joy in times of joy throughout a long life—and that, I believe, is what true sexuality truly is.

When Shinran Shōnin took this matter to heart—unlike our trivial discussions here—he must have contemplated it exhaustively down to every minute detail.
Thus even after reaching conviction through Prince Shōtoku’s dream-revealed verse that Buddhist practitioners taking wives involved no shame, nothing unnatural, nothing contradicting Shakyamuni Buddha’s intent—still for several years during that interval, I imagine he refrained from taking a wife.
At last he came to be united with someone like Eshinni, whom I mentioned earlier.

Before long, this time upon Hōnen Shōnin himself came that great suppression known as the Ban on Nenbutsu practice.
Hōnen was exiled, and Shinran too was exiled.
This motive too stemmed from matters concerning men and women.
Afterward, he remained sent from Echigo to the eastern provinces around Hitachi through his final years, and it appears he could never truly return to the capital.

While there must have been various things weighing on Shinran Shōnin's state of mind regarding this, in Kyoto's affairs too, the Jōkyū War erupted—a social upheaval where Hōjō Yoshitoki exiled Emperor Go-Toba to Oki, Emperor Tsuchimikado to Tosa, and Emperor Juntoku to Sado. Given all this, I imagine Shinran Shōnin himself exercised some degree of caution.

Now, regarding the relationship between this saint and his children and disciples—did the saint explicitly acknowledge this disciple as his disciple?
Shinran reportedly said something like, "I have nothing that could save people."
That the saint told these disciples—who came to him with various consultations on sufferings and pleas from anguished hearts—"I possess nothing to teach you, nothing sufficient to save people," may seem quite cold and cruel at first glance, but this is precisely something that requires profound contemplation.

In this regard, Christ proclaims verses like "Believe through faith," while Zen practitioners instruct to "Hear the soundless sound."
Nichiren declares with conviction, "I shall become Japan's very eyes."

Amidst such proclamations, were people to hear Shinran Shōnin state, "I possess nothing that could save others," they would surely feel profound disappointment and perceive coldness—yet this interpretation would be mistaken.
Compared to Christ's teachings or Nichiren's bold pronouncements, I imagine those who heard these words might initially reel in bewilderment—yet from the very next moment, they would have sensed an entirely different kind of strength welling up within them.

When Shinran spoke such words—"No, no—you say things like 'I am evil,' 'I've done wrong,' 'I've made mistakes,' 'I've committed such acts,' but in truth, this Shinran is no different."
"There's not a speck of difference between you and me."
"Why would I possess anything to teach you?"—this was Shinran's genuine sentiment.
"I'm not lecturing from some elevated platform."
"When people entreat me like that, I descend even to their physical gestures and remain with them."
"I suffer right alongside you."

Considering the depth of this love, I must say that when it comes to affection—though history has seen many great religious figures—in matters of love, Shinran was the deepest. I believe he was the one closest to us. Thus, these lowland commoners—who had been left adrift under a Buddhism that until then had flourished only among nobles and the powerful—all gathered around Shinran. Yet from this very gathering arose envy and resentment—emanating even from Shinran’s own children, among his disciples, and within the Kamakura Shogunate itself—leading to political machinations that saw them subjected once more to the Ban on Nenbutsu practice.

But they were not subdued by it, appearing weak yet truly strong. When I saw how Shinran addressed Emperor Go-Toba’s exile through his unvarnished words at the edges of his candid speech, I was astonished at the sheer strength of this man. That Shinran passed away seven hundred years ago—and yet today, seven centuries later—no, I cannot believe he has truly departed. That someone as trivial as myself should borrow his revered name to speak, while in your hearts the name Shinran—the image—is being shaped in various forms, is precisely what proves that Shinran lives on. In that sense, I believe we Japanese hold a certain wealth within our hearts.

The fact that Shinran still lives within our hearts is, I believe, a treasure for us Japanese.
However, in recent times, whenever the Soviet Union launched a spacecraft or America followed suit, people look up and proclaim the space age as if humanity has conquered space.

Now, what has the space age brought to our lives and hearts?
That said, I am by no means dismissing science.
Human wisdom—so splendid—and the fact that I can address such a large gathering like this are also thanks to civilization.
That civilization and science progress is truly something to rejoice over with both hands raised.

But you see,
Moving their feet and opening their mouths to merely chant "space age"—I find this rather questionable.
Now, Japan is a fine country indeed, but when observing how its culture progresses, it tends to become a lame-duck culture.
This lame-duck culture—once people declare an era of spiritual culture, they proceed to utterly ignore science henceforth.
Conversely, when prioritizing material culture, science, civilization, and money-driven ventures for the future, people end up completely abandoning spiritual culture.
Precisely—this is our weakness as Japanese people.

Spiritual culture and scientific culture must indeed advance in parallel.
A nation's healthy development and culture cannot truly be considered sound.
Regarding this point, I heard that Mr. Hosono Gunji experienced such an incident—one evening in America, finding it an exceptionally fine night, he invited seven or eight people from the embassy and Japanese residents there with "Shall we go moon-viewing?" "Excellent idea!" They brought beer and sandwiches to a quiet spot in the suburbs, unrolled the straw mat they'd carried in their car, and drank through the entire night.

Then the police arrived and asked, “What are you doing?”
“We’re viewing the moon—moon-viewing,” to which they retorted, “And what exactly do you do when moon-viewing?”
“What do you do when looking at the moon?” “We enjoy looking at it!” “What’s enjoyable about looking at the moon?”

With this debate, it seemed their discussion with the police officer wasn’t getting anywhere.
In the end, they were told, “Are you gangsters? Or maybe plotting something?” and since night was growing late, they found it bothersome and went to the police station to explain things to the police chief, but even the chief didn’t really understand this business of enjoying looking at the moon.

Thereupon, they carefully explained: “In Japan, even poor farmers or people engaged in materialistic sales during the day—when they see the moon at times, think ‘How beautiful!’
“they become sentimental, compose a haiku while reminiscing about their youth, play on various emotions, and look at the moon—there’s a custom called moon-viewing.”
“This isn’t just something recent—it’s existed since ancient times,” they explained, and apparently finally managed to get through to him.

Even that single moon we view from this Earth—the way we see it differs fundamentally from how those across the Pacific perceive it.
Thus, it may be acceptable for people with such divergent cultural foundations to boast of their scientific advancements.
But what becomes of us if we merely chant "space age" with mouths agape like spectators?
Since airplanes were invented, I’ve often wondered—what percentage of Japan’s population has actually boarded one and reaped its benefits?
Conversely, if we count those harmed by such technology—beginning with Hiroshima’s atomic bomb—are they not beyond number?
Why do we stand slack-jawed applauding this science, when within us lies another Japan—rich with moons worth savoring, diverse environments, history, living conditions, and figures like Shinran—why not seek spiritual enrichment in this land?
To me, this seems like squandering buried treasure—a profound waste.
Ultimately, even speaking of today’s international climate or social equality—true parity where all enjoy everything equally remains unattainable.
And in this liminal space—not that humans are fools as Richet first claimed—we find ourselves in an era where even those without malice become snarled in senseless strife.

After all, in this era we find ourselves in—at this present moment—I believe that coming into contact with Shinran Shōnin’s seven-hundredth grand memorial service through dialogue, rethinking our perspectives, and self-reflection has held truly profound significance.

As I stated at the outset, I’m hardly suited for lecturing—when approached by the Shin Buddhist Youth Federation Alliance about this matter, I declined repeatedly.

But then it struck me—though it might be rude to phrase it this way—that in this most materially and commercially mammoth of cities, what Ms. Yamasaki Toyoko would call through her shop curtain a place of pure gritty determination—this Osaka where such thoroughgoing tenacity sits entrenched... Young people here taking an interest in Buddhism? Could this truly be possible?—that’s what I found myself wondering.

Could Osaka’s young people truly have created such a group and held thirty sessions? If that were indeed the case, I began to feel it would be somewhat improper to keep refusing—and thus I came here.

Today, you know, seeing the age range of everyone gathered here—all so earnestly listening to my trivial talk—there truly are so many young people... yes indeed... truly so...

This may be overstepping, but religion—religion in Japan—tends to become something like life's terminal station.

“When someone says ‘I’ve embraced faith,’ ah—so they’ve graduated and become retirees now, hmm….”
“That’s not right.”
“This is not right.”

Take foreign Catholics—not all of them, mind you—but in some schools there, before elementary classes begin each morning, students take turns reading a chapter from the Bible, say “Amen” in worship, and only then start their lessons. Isn’t that how it goes?
What are we to do if religion remains life’s final station?
Religion must be the starting station of life.

When I heard there was something called the Osaka Shin Buddhist Youth Association, I found that aspect particularly heartening.
I didn't know anything else about it, but that aspect alone delighted me.
When I was starting out too—I must have been around twenty at the time—after drifting through various jobs, I saw a newspaper ad recruiting copywriters for a pharmaceutical company and essentially begged, "Uh, please hire me."

There was already this mountain of application documents piled up here.
"This won't work," I thought.
Since I'd only finished elementary school, I figured it was hopeless and nearly gave up.
"Well anyway," I wrote simply, "No formal education. No commendations or penalties," and submitted my form.

Just as I was leaving, the third examiner called out: "You there—wait!" "Hah?" "Do you practice any religion?"
I froze.
My family's been Shin Buddhist for generations.
But when asked point-blank about my religion, nothing came out.
Just being born into a Shin Buddhist household didn't mean I could honestly claim it as my own faith.
"I don't have one," I answered.
The man glared and snapped with strange finality: "I see. Then you're unsuitable."

I had once made it all the way to the door, but being told so abruptly "I see. Then you’re out," I grew annoyed and turned back once more.
“It just came back to me,” I said.
“What did you remember?”
“I have no religion.”
“I have no religion.”
“But within my heart resides my deceased mother.”
“And as long as I have Mother here, I can never do anything wrong.”
“I can never be lazy.”
“I can never deceive people—is that not good enough?”
“Hmm,” he replied—that’s how it went.

And then, well, that interviewer must have been somewhat eccentric too.
"A special delivery arrived stating 'You are to report for duty starting tomorrow,' and I remained there for a year and a half."
It was called Yamazaki Teikoku-dō.
That company was known for selling syphilis medication.
I stayed there for a year and a half.
However, I still think even that was due to youthful recklessness.
I feel deep shame over it.
I simply phrased it that way.
There are moments even now when I want to say "If only I had my deceased mother in my heart"—but reality proves more complex.
There are multiple dimensions.
In all these varied circumstances, that alone proves insufficient.
With just that, I find myself desperately clinging to something alone—something small.
Rather, it feels like drowning in self-love confined to my petty ego.

As I've lived through various experiences in life—when I try recalling those bygone days and the image of Mother I hold in my heart—my father was an extreme heavy drinker.
Yes, he worked as a trader in Yokohama but was what you might call an absolute tyrant.
So while Mother must have endured countless hardships, during my boyhood when I'd suddenly think "Huh? Where did Mother go?" and search for her—there she'd be alone in the Buddhist altar room.
And then I would often see her sitting perfectly still like this—facing the family altar.

In Shinran Shōnin’s teachings, there is this passage where he spoke of always traveling with a companion—being two people together.
Now when this Shinran said he was always two people with his companion—if you wonder who one of them might be, that one is the Buddha.
That would be Shakyamuni Buddha, you see.

It was later that I realized—when Mother had been wrestling with her worries, you see, and suffering over Father’s ways—that whenever she left our sides as children and sat alone in the Buddhist altar room—ah! Of course! There was always someone else by Mother’s side.

And when I came to think how that faith—that love sustained through long years while raising seven children—had kept Mother enduring and persisting until we somehow made our way into the world, if I were to develop even a modest interest in Shinran, and through even half a verse of his teachings somehow convey his compassionate intent from that very benevolence, holding it in my heart together with Mother—then this would truly mean having Mother with me, and I came to believe it would also bring her joy.

Through Mother, I came to quietly harbor a special interest in this religion—and in Shinran as well.
However, modern people—particularly those in literary circles—tend to turn their backs on religion and such awareness.
They say literary artists cannot produce true writing when adhering to a single religion or unilateral stance.
That isn't actually true.
They simply cannot face up to it, I believe.

Every human being has the desire to share joy with everyone and to make someone happy.
So even when literary figures get worn out from playing golf and such, they’ll say, “You, this medicine really works—go ahead and try it.”
“What happened to that?” “Since it was on TV last night, I tried buying some today—hey, you, this is good! They say it really works!” they often say.
They tout something like medicine with great fanfare, and then if they hear about it themselves, they want to make others drink it too, I think.
If they can do such things, why is it that when it comes to the great joy of the heart—something like religion—they cannot share it?

In that regard, someone like Mr. Niwa Fumio—though he does come from temple lineage—is at least confronting Shinran head-on. When it comes to literary works themselves, they remain magnificent; even should such works prove crude or failed attempts, I consider them magnificent all the same.

Yet for one such as myself to speak of these matters—to grasp even a fragment of Shinran within life's context—remains profoundly challenging. That they would request someone like me to deliver such remarks—as though I've accumulated life experience or become some understanding person—reveals how gravely mistaken the organizer here was.
That's truly the case...

“If there are any among us here who have entered the Buddhist path, I would like to address this to them. Is that a person from the early years of Meiji? He was from Mikawa—Venerable Gasan—a man of the Zen sect. When Venerable Gasan realized it was no use—that his life was nearing its end—he said, ‘Gather here, all my disciples.’ Venerable Gasan adjusted his body—like an ancient tree—and then addressed his disciples, you see. ‘I too have walked the Difficult Path of Zen until reaching this age,’ he said. ‘I thought I had attained enlightenment.’ ‘But you see—when the welcoming party actually arrives… dying turns out to be quite a painful thing, I tell you,’ he reportedly said. ‘Dying’s no easy thing—it’s painful, I tell you, truly grueling. You young ones—study hard!’ With these words, he passed away.”

When it comes to people of the Zen sect, they are said to die splendidly as if fully attuned to space, but I thought this venerable’s death was rather unusual.
Even someone like Venerable Gasan was like that, I thought.
Not to mention us ordinary people—when we thought, “Ah, well, there’s no helping it,” we felt greatly relieved.
Now, when we reflect deeply on those words of Gasan Oshō’s—ultimately, you see—though he had traversed the Difficult Path, the final words he spoke to his disciples aligned with Shinran’s teachings about the Easy Path, even if unintentionally so.
——The Easy Path.

The words that Gasan Oshō of the Zen sect spoke to his disciples at the end were the Easy Path.
When you think about it that way—Zen, Shinshū, Jōdo—none of these are truly real.
People may divide things into Zen and this and that, but what has truly been accomplished is one.
That’s what I believe.
After all—well—at Kyoto’s head temple such things likely don’t happen—but go out to rural areas and they’re still spouting “West this” and “East that.”
There’s no such thing as West or East.
——If we keep talking this way, I fear religion may end up making even Hongan-ji its final stop.

Given this context, how truly splendid that you young people of Osaka organize such gatherings.
――That said, let me be clear—I’m not overlooking our elderly attendees in the slightest.
To our senior members—when the season comes, please go enjoy hanami at Yoshino Mountain together harmoniously, bringing your bento boxes.

Now if I say that, some might object: “But my husband passed years ago—who’ll take me to Yoshino?” To which I’d respond—doesn’t Shinran Shōnin teach us? “The journey is always walked by two.”
“So you see—you go there as two.”

(Shōwa 36 [1961] Lecture Transcript)