Pathway to Japanese Literature

First aboard the ship—a journey blessed by May.

I

Staff　　　　　　　　　　　　50 yen Sedge Hat　　　　　　　　　　330 yen Bentō Trunk　　　　　　　　55 yen Luggage Trunk (ohizuru)　　300 yen Neck Pouch　　　　　　　　　　80 yen Bell　　　　　　　　　　250 yen Prayer Beads　　　　　　　　250 yen Talisman Box　　　　　　　　　　50 yen Talisman　　　　　　　　　　20 yen Stamp Book　　　　　　　　100 yen Gaiters　　　　　　　　　　150 yen

White Robe　　　　　　　　　　450 yen

All of the above pilgrimage attire and tools—we procured them at Asano Buddhist Goods Store before Ryōzenji Temple, the first Shikoku pilgrimage site in Awa. On the previous afternoon—the moment we disembarked from the *Akitsumaru* at Komatsushima, having boarded in Kobe—there in the steamship terminal’s waiting room we spotted an advertisement… Through it, we learned of this unexpectedly resourceful establishment called Asano Buddhist Goods Store. This meant we naturally understood—if we simply went there, all pilgrimage attire could be procured then and there.

That is— “You’ll be fine.” ……There was nothing to worry about……

With that, I glanced back at my travel companion, Mr. Yoshinosuke Ikeda.

“Ah… That’s how it is…” “I’m relieved… Now that…” At this declaration from Mr.Yoshinosuke—who had fretted ceaselessly since our Tokyo departure about procurement logistics—his lips parted in an artless smile of pure relief. Yet greater delight came from notices flanking that advertisement: directives from Komatsushima Security Bureau officers and Kansai Steamship Company staff warning passengers against rigged gambling aboard ships.

Why?

“Please refrain from engaging in fraudulent gambling aboard the ship. “Not only will you absolutely not win, but it will also constitute a criminal offense...”

because we had found this particular passage of text within them. “Not only will you absolutely not win…” They can’t just state it so bluntly… Ah, how splendid Shikoku... I secretly murmured to myself.

II

That evening, we entered an inn called Seifūsō along Tokushima City’s Shinmachi River, where we gathered various informative accounts about Tokushima from Mr. Matsumoto and Mr. Fukushima of the Tokushima Newspaper, as well as local historian Mr. Hayashi Korō—but before this, “I am from Bungeishunjū Shinsha...” With that, Mr. Yoshinosuke Ikeda introduced himself while presenting his business card to Mr. Hayashi. Then, “Are you Mr. Ikeda Yoshinosuke?” The moment he saw this, Mr. Hayashi suddenly let out a voice tinged with surprise.

“Huh?… Wha…”

Mr. Yoshinosuke Ikeda was momentarily taken aback. Then he blinked his large eyes rapidly. "Why, Ikeda Yoshinosuke—you were one of the key members when Sudō Sadanori first launched his *Shōshi Kabuki* troupe…" said Mr. Hayashi. "Was that really so?"

Though he responded in such a way, I had no memory of that name at all. "I know of Yokota Kinma and Kasaï Eijirō at least, but…" "He was part of that group." "...Initially, he went by Ikeda Yoshizō, but later became Yoshinosuke." "That simply won't do." "My name is…" With that, Mr. Ikeda clutched his head. "I’m always getting grilled about this and that…" But thanks to Mr. Yoshinosuke, I gained new knowledge about Sudō Sadanori. That is, in December of Meiji 21 [1888], Sudō Sadanori—a native of Okayama Prefecture—had organized what he called the “Great Japan Patriotic Reform Theatre Association.” With support from Nakae Chōmin and others, he launched their banner at Osaka’s Shinmachi-za theater. After touring regions from Kinki to Kyushu and piling failure upon failure, they finally reached Tokushima—only for Sudō to instigate an assault incident there, resulting in his detention by police for over a month. It was from Mr. Hayashi that I heard these details in full. …When I return, I thought, I must immediately convey this to Yanagihara Eijirō, author of *Sixty Years of Shinpa*.

Even so, Mr. Hayashi’s storytelling was so masterful that it gave me the feeling he himself had once been part of that very circle. Given he was only one or two years older than me at most, this couldn’t possibly be the case—and yet so vividly did all those figures dance upon his tongue……There, I found an instance where the fantasies of a certain “research” method could be made reality with surprising ease. Incidentally, the historical Ikeda Yoshinosuke had apparently been a female impersonator……The present Mr. Yoshinosuke Ikeda—who embarked on this pilgrimage with me—was a Tokyo University graduate and scholar specializing in modern German history.

However, Sudō had died in January of Meiji 40 at age forty-two. If that were so, then when he first raised the banner at Shinmachi-za—being merely twenty-three at the time—the troupe members under this young leader must have been younger still. If he had indeed been a female impersonator, then the historical Ikeda Yoshinosuke would necessarily have been seven or eight years younger then than the present-day Mr. Yoshinosuke Ikeda was now.……And yet here stood this current Mr. Yoshinosuke Ikeda—fair-faced and earnest, a fine youth sporting an impeccable bow tie—who, once having donned his pilgrim vestments,

"Well, a student pilgrim..." that at Muroto Misaki, passing maidens had exchanged whispers about him...

This was a story from three days after that...

III

The next day—though it would’ve been better left undone… Pilgrims do not lie—I truly thought so afterward… Along the way, we were shown trifling sights: Yoshino River Bridge here, the ruins of Awa Jūrōbei’s residence there, the whirlpools coiling around Ōgeshima’s Naruto… No, “shown” isn’t quite right—we were made to take this unforeseen detour, and by the time we reached Ryōzenji Temple at last, the sunlight had already swung fully westward. Its pale rays tinged the eaves of two or three quiet pilgrim lodges lining the temple gate—leaning roofs turned wan and lonesome, as if chasing after spring’s reluctant departure.

The moment I passed through the grand temple gate flanked by massive Nio guardian statues, I realized: calling this place "the First Pilgrimage Site of Shikoku" fell short—"sacred ground" rang truer, carrying both resonance and depth of feeling. In the vast temple grounds, the air of years upon years lay damply chilled. There was a bell tower, a Tahōtō pagoda, and at the front—the main hall elevated to a fitting height by stone steps—a plaque reading "Jakkōden" hung above a pale yellow curtain emblazoned with a circular swastika.

Should I call it the manner of its pale yellow's fading, or perhaps its weathering? Either way was fine—in that manner of fading, in that weathering, I sensed a world I had never known before... The sorrow of Buddha's realm I had never glimpsed until now... I bought incense sticks and lit them myself. Smoke streamed from my hands. Having completed my worship, I descended the stone steps. Mr. Yoshinosuke was nowhere to be seen.

“Hey… where have you gone off to, Mr. Yoshinosuke?…” I asked and looked around. “Well…” Neither Mr. Matsumoto nor Mr. Fukushima—who had once again come along today to take my photographs—knew either. In any case, we decided to exit through the temple gate and turn back to where the car was waiting. ...And then—what do you know—before we even reached there, at the entrance of a shop we found him: a wide-fronted, deserted establishment whose business was unguessable at first glance, sitting primly at its threshold...

“Mr. Yoshinosuke…” And I involuntarily came to a halt. “Sensei…”

With that, Mr. Yoshinosuke immediately stood up, “Here it is, here...” With that, he pointed into the shop.

That shop was none other than the Asano Buddhist Goods Store advertised in Komatsushima steamship terminal’s waiting room. And so Mr. Yoshinosuke, upon reaching Ryōzenji Temple, had already located the shop and properly ordered two full sets of pilgrim attire with all necessary implements—all while I wandered through the temple grounds pausing before the Tahōtō pagoda and gazing up at the bell tower. But since changing clothes there and then was out of the question, we decided to bundle everything together for transport to our lodgings. While they prepared the parcel, I—now holding one newly acquired component, the stamp book—reentered the temple gate with Mr. Yoshinosuke once more. This was to have the seal certifying our visit imprinted on its pages at the stamp office.

The stamp office was located just inside the temple gate where the path immediately turned right. A priest likely in his fifties—presumably the head priest with an unkempt beard—stood waiting there. At the second page—leaving the very first one untouched—he placed the stamp book we had presented.

Dedicated Sutra / Principal Deity Shakyamuni Buddha / Ryōzenji Temple he wrote this and stamped it thickly for us. ...apparently reserving the very first page for when we would visit Kōyasan... As a fee, we each paid ten yen—twenty yen in total. The second pilgrimage site, Gokurakuji Temple, was in the same Itano District of Itano Town—I had heard it was about ten chō from there—but based on knowledge I had acquired the previous night, I expressed my desire to visit Kokubunji Temple instead, the fifteenth pilgrimage site in Kōfu Village of Myōdō District. Though not particularly historic, it was said to be greatly dilapidated now, and we had the car take us in that direction.

Passing through several towns, skirting villages, traversing wheat fields slightly tinged with yellow—and then more wheat fields—for a little over an hour... This was partly because we had lingered too long at Ryōzenji Temple—by the time we reached our destination, a faint twilight had already enveloped Kokubunji’s temple gate, bell tower, main hall, and its other small buildings, seeping in like water with quiet persistence, settling like mist with gentle solemnity. Moreover, nowhere yet were any lamplights shining.

I stood amidst it all, fixing my gaze upon the plaque hanging in the main hall... I could just barely make out the characters for *Ruriden*. “I see.” “...This way...” And then Mr. Yoshinosuke, who had gone to search for the stamp office, returned and said. “Where?” And I followed Mr. Yoshinosuke.

But where Mr. Yoshinosuke had dragged me was not the stamp office—it was a room facing a broad garden, what was likely the sitting room before the head priest’s quarters. And there, without doubt, was the head priest himself—an old monk of sixty-one or sixty-two with gentle brows and a serene countenance— “Come... Come now, please...”

With that, he amiably brought out zabuton cushions to the veranda.

IV

The 1934 Ministry of Railways-compiled *Japan Guide: Shikoku Volume* states about this temple: "Founded during the Nara period as Kokubunji Temple, it was destroyed by war fire in the Tenshō era (1573–1592) but rebuilt in Kanbō 1 (1741). The temple grounds retain foundation stones from its former era." … Those very stones I found not far from the veranda where I had settled myself—I had been informed by Mr. Fukushima. But for me, rather than focusing on those fragmentary stone indentations—marks left by pillars from an era so impossibly remote it defied belief—it was the garden’s entirety,

――Indeed, this was truly dilapidated……

Though heaving a deep sigh at this decay, I simultaneously contemplated how these tree branches must have once been celebrated for their "wabi-sabi" beauty through meticulous arrangement and care... Yet observing this sorrow—an elegance with indelible dignity, ingrained through marrow-deep nostalgic beauty now cradled by twilight as it slipped into tonight's tranquil slumber—pierced my heart far more profoundly. Before long—the head priest’s— Dedicated Sutra / Principal Deity Yakushi Nyorai / Kokubunji Temple After receiving the stamp book where he had written this, we took our leave and exited through a nearby back gate.

There too lay another vast expanse of wheat fields beneath a sky where the second-day moon's light had emerged...

“Well, what do you think of that?...” And so I found myself stopping short.

Just then, somewhere, a dog was barking incessantly.

V

――Can there really be such disparity within the same sacred site?…

And then, on the afternoon following our visit to Kokubunji Temple—after passing through Yakushiji Temple’s cherry-lined path (the twenty-third pilgrimage site in Hiwasa Town, Kaifu District), threading through the Niō Gate, and climbing the thirty-three steps of Women’s Calamity Slope plus forty-nine steps of Men’s Calamity Slope—a total of eighty-two-odd stone steps surmounted—I found myself murmuring.

Even just the paving stones of the cherry-lined path made clear the temple grounds' every orderly arrangement and facility... To put it another way—rather than there being an Ema Hall at the top of Women’s Calamity Slope, it would be more accurate to say that the space between Women’s and Men’s Calamity Slopes itself had become the Ema Hall, or perhaps that this interstitial void had been ingeniously repurposed into one. At this architectural vision—which permitted not a single gap or waste—I found myself considerably astonished. Moreover, this concept immediately extended to management practices as well—for example, stone steps were created with thirty-three for women’s calamity years and forty-nine for men’s calamity years carved into them, and through this, even methods for “calamity-averting prayers” like the following were devised.

“First acquire new sandals and proceed to the base of the calamity slope (men to Men’s Calamity Slope, women to Women’s Calamity Slope). Don the sandals, ascend while offering coins at each stone step, then remove them upon reaching the top.” Beneath the stone steps of calamity slope lie enshrined one thousand copies of the Medicine Buddha’s Original Vow Sutra—each character inscribed upon a separate stone—bestowing efficacy to ward off calamities for both men and women. Next take the pestle from the powdered incense mortar in the Ema Hall and pound it the number of times corresponding to one’s age. Proceed to visit all halls then go before the Zuikyū Pagoda and strike the ritual bell placed there as many times as one’s age. “Furthermore at the Main Hall dedicate calamity-averting ten thousand lights receive a calamity-averting talisman and at the temple office apply for calamity-averting prayers.”

This prayer service—I had thought it was held once a year, but that wasn’t the case; it seemed to be conducted frequently during the old calendar’s first month, fifth month, ninth month, and twelfth month. Not only that—upon examining a pamphlet titled *Yakuōji Guide*, I saw that beyond these events, they had arranged to hold something every month without fail: February’s Nirvana Ceremony, March’s Shōgoe Memorial Service, April’s Flower Festival for Śākyamuni, May’s Great Prajñā Assembly, June’s Celebration of Kōbō Daishi’s Birth, July’s Obon Festival, and so on. And as for how these events demonstrate this temple’s prosperity—take the New Year’s inaugural ceremony on the twelfth day of the old calendar’s first month, which drew tens of thousands of attendees, filling Hiwasa Port with ships large and small bearing fluttering banners—the *Yakuōji Guide* declared it “truly southern prefecture’s premier grand market,” a claim that must surely hold truth. I took it at face value. …For indeed, this temple had burned down in Meiji 31 [1898] and been rebuilt in Meiji 41 [1908]. The newness of the container naturally led to the renewal of its contents, and they even had the radium content in the “spiritual water” that sprang forth near the temple certified by the Osaka Hygiene Testing Institute—thereby witnessing the establishment of Hiwasa Mineral Springs Co., Ltd. If that’s how things stand, then—suppose I were to appear in these precincts with a staff in one hand, a bell in the other, clad in pilgrim attire—would that ultimately be a tragedy or a comedy? ...With these thoughts lingering, standing atop the eighty-two stone steps I had climbed, I let my gaze fall upon the vista of Hiwasa Bay bathed in sunset—the towns of Hiwasa appearing bright and crisp, yet with indigo and green blending harmoniously within that expanse.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” said Mr. Yoshinosuke as he returned from the stamp office. “Is Yakushi Nyorai also the principal deity here?” I asked, opening the stamp book I had received from him. “That’s correct—it’s the same as Kokubunji,” he answered.

Ah, Kokubunji... ...O light of the second-day moon... And once more I murmured quietly to myself.

VI

We departed Hiwasa at 4:50 PM...

Passing through Mugi, Yasa Yahama, and Shishikui, when we reached Kōnoura, day had completely fallen. The reason this became clear was precisely because we found ourselves near the bus company’s garage, where the last buses bound for Tokushima and Muroto Misaki converged—and even without them, the narrow road grew narrower still—leaving our car immobilized. And then, at that moment, the fishing village scenery—where rows of pachinko parlors spilled their evening lights brilliantly toward the dark sea—came into our view. ……I felt a touch of traveler’s melancholy.

After about ten minutes, the car started moving. Kōnoura… Nobe… Sakihama… The car just… simply, just plunged into the darkness and ran.

We who were riding along could not tell at all where or through what kind of places we were being carried. We couldn’t even tell for certain whether we were indeed heading toward Muroto Misaki without error. All the more reason why, whenever we encountered the headlights of a lumber-laden truck barreling toward us through the darkness, we felt an inexplicable relief.

But even so, once they passed by completely, that was the end of it. After that, it was once again the same indistinguishable darkness as before. Then, in the distance, lights began to appear—one by one.

"That was Muroto Misaki’s town—or so we thought…"

“That’s Muroto Misaki’s town—or so we thought...” the driver said. But those lights soon vanished. They had been fishing fires out at sea.

“The truth is, I’ve only traveled this road once before,” the driver confessed. “...Especially since it’s a night road, I’m just...” With that admission, the anxiety was no longer ours alone to bear. The driver too wanted his share of it. I entrusted my fate to heaven and closed my eyes. Suddenly, a violent wind surged through the trees—or so I thought. What I had mistaken for [...] was in fact frogs’ voices spreading across the expanse of rice paddies.

What... Ah...

I, Mr. Yoshinosuke, and the driver all continued our silence.

Thus we arrived at Muroto Misaki’s Misaki Hotel at 10 PM.

The people from Kōchi Newspaper had apparently come and been waiting since evening, while it was still light... However, I was immediately allowed to take a bath. It was a Goemon-buro.

Muroto Misaki suffered from water shortages; a notice had been posted saying "Conserve water" and "Do not use towels in the bathtub."

When I emerged from the bath and entered the tatami room, there upon the large dining table was already laid out—so soon—an array of dishes. The vivid crimson of an enormous spiny lobster seared into my eyes.

When I thought about it, we had left after eating breakfast in Tokushima that morning and hadn't so much as put half a piece of bread into our mouths since. We had endured remarkably well.

And so, once again, I greeted the people from Kōchi Newspaper—specifically Mr. Matsuda and Mr. Hamada.

If that's the case, then—

The fire moths had departed—2 AM at Misaki Hotel.

Even if it came to be referred to that way, there should be nothing strange…

VII

What follows are two or three pages from my notebook…

May 17th, 10 AM—having prepared myself in pilgrim attire, I departed Misaki Hotel and headed toward Pilgrimage Site No. 24: Saikō-ji Temple.… The sky lay slightly cloudy, wind utterly absent; Muroto Misaki’s sea stretched perfectly calm, vainly gleaming ash-white—no marvels whatsoever. (Two verses) Rocks clustering, relentlessly clustering—mild summer heat. Balmy wind— / one immense rock Having secured that rock, I opened my lunchbox. Neither morning nor noon… (two verses) Balmy wind— / staff and sedge hat left on the rock

The bento's simmered udo—mild summer heat. Seaside lilies not yet in bloom; among yellow irises, a butterfly flutters quietly. (Two verses) Seaside lilies not yet blooming— / ah, the wind carries their fragrance. This town— In Awa, the wheat was still just tinged with yellow; in Tosa, it had already turned bright gold. Plans gone astray— Awa in late spring, Tosa in early summer—… Late spring, early summer—still remain the genge fields.

Mr. Hayashi from Tokushima spoke of Sudō Sadanori and turned fantasy into reality. By attiring myself in pilgrim garb, I transformed reality into fantasy...

At Asano Buddhist Goods Store I had prepared my pilgrim attire, but only the hand guards hadn’t been ready in time; they were easily sewn for me at a Tokushima inn. I had them purchase tabi socks at Muroto Misaki Hotel. As for straw sandals—they were nowhere to be found. I had no choice but to fasten straw sandals, though these days most pilgrims apparently wear tabi socks…

When leaving home, I instructed them to place a new hand towel in my bag. Since I was becoming a pilgrim, I thought that even when wearing a sedge hat, a towel would prove inconvenient. At Misaki Hotel, having fully prepared myself, I took out that hand towel from my bag. “Ah!” I involuntarily let out a cry. For that hand towel was one distributed by the rakugo artist Sagara at his retirement announcement. No—had that been all, it would have meant nothing. But he retired not merely from the rakugo stage, but suddenly from this world altogether—regardless of whether he distributed those towels or not.

Having never met him in life—without any connection—I felt an odd sensation. ...When I return, I'll tell his beloved disciple Bunraku right away.

Saikō-ji Temple, also known as "Tō-ji," stood atop a mountain. Clambering over tree roots and jagged rocks, I made the forty-five-minute ascent. How indispensable the staff and tied straw sandals must have proven. Donning pilgrim vestments had not been in vain after all... Beneath the Niōmon Gate, a kitten cried plaintively. I hurried to its side and scooped it up. ...For the first time since setting foot on Shikoku, thoughts of home stirred within me.

Pilgrim and cat. If I were a painter, I would render this scene…

□ This temple could be described in one word: rustic. And unassuming. Yet Head Priest Mr. Shimada Nobuyasu—still young in his early forties—served not only temple duties but also roles like Vice President of the Tourism Association, Chairman of the Child Welfare Council, and Probation Officer. This temple had apparently been so overgrown that no one could approach it—to bring it to its current tranquil state, he must have endured various hardships. I should have asked more about that...

□Nobe Manjū. ...fingertip-sized and bearing what looked like a stone-like coating—it was rare...

Eight

Earlier, at Ryōzenji Temple’s stamp office, I bought a book titled *Seiseki o Shitau* the moment it caught my eye, without much thought.

Having bought it without much thought, I read it without much thought... And upon reading it, I felt ashamed of my ignorance—why hadn’t I known about such a good book sooner?

*Seiseki o Shitau* is, namely, a detailed account of over seventy days in Meiji 39 (1906) when the author was twenty-eight years old and made pilgrimages to all eighty-eight sacred sites of Shikoku alongside a senior he respected as an elder brother—but I shall write of that later. For now, first and foremost following what is indicated in the essay "The Significance of Pilgrimage" appended to its main text, I will answer your fundamental question: "What is a pilgrimage?"

“When we speak of *junrei*, it refers to Kannon pilgrims of the Saigoku Thirty-Three Sacred Sites; when we speak of *henro*, it denotes Daishi pilgrims of the Shikoku Eighty-Eight Temples.” “Today, within Buddhism, these two have become the most prominent groups of popular ascetic practitioners undertaking pilgrimages.” This article—which begins with such an opening passage—lists five religious significances of *junrei* and *henro*.

1. Returning to nature. 2. Always being with Buddha. 3. Devoting oneself completely to love for humanity. 4. Eliminating physical and mental afflictions.

5. Experiencing the significance of religious life. All these points become convincing when explained—or even without explanation—but particularly regarding the second item, “being with Buddha,” through the explication of “Traveling with Two” invariably inscribed on pilgrims’ sedge hats and the verse “Delusion builds castles across three realms; awakening reveals ten directions’ void—originally no east or west, where could north or south exist?,” I was able to receive living knowledge gushing forth from the author’s very soul. To also convey the author’s literary style, I shall excerpt that passage here.

“Pilgrims of Shikoku and Saigoku dwell with Buddha day after day. That 'Traveling with Two' is inscribed on the sedge hats they wear serves as proof of this. They collect temple stamps at every sacred site they visit, place those principal deity statues into their pilgrim satchels, and carry them on their backs—this is the manifestation of Buddha dwelling together with us. “Delusion builds castles across three realms; awakening reveals ten directions’ void—originally no east or west, where could north or south exist?” This phrase inscribed on sedge hats and vajra staffs serves as an admonition: realize that you dwell in Buddha’s realm—free yourself from all social evils, leave behind the delusions of human existence that torment with profit and loss, gain joy unhindered in all directions, and live each day in a world where every day is a good day.

Already we are children of Buddha who dwell with Buddha; people too are children of Buddha who dwell with Buddha; thus, the companions with whom we journey are both human and Buddha. The pilgrim henro approaching from afar too are Buddhas in human form. Therefore, they regard all people they encounter along the way as Buddhas and without fail join their hands in worship. To their traveling companions too, they join hands and bow morning and evening. Here, both others and I escape from the streets of strife that persisted until yesterday, stroll leisurely like Bodhisattvas and holy beings, and bring forth the Pure Land before our very eyes.

By day I recited sacred mantras while traversing mountains and rivers; entering villages, I chanted hymns aloud to receive hospitality. At each temple I visited, I worshiped the principal deity with ecstatic joy as though returning to my birth parents’ home. When arriving at lodgings in the evening, I first cleansed with pure water the Vajra Staff that had supported me on steep paths and guided me all day long, then reverently placed it in a corner of the room, pressing it to my forehead as if it were Buddha’s very feet. The Sedge Hat—regarded as a canopy bestowed by Buddha to shelter me—I carefully set beside the staff. Retrieving my stamp book from the pilgrim satchel, I laid it upon the floorboards and earnestly gave thanks for the day’s divine protection. I recited sutras to my heart’s content, refining my soul’s original essence until I entered the samadhi of Buddha-self unity.

While enrolled at Tokyo Philosophy College—where he joined Kōyō Sakaino and Beiho Takashima’s New Buddhist Comrades Association and studied the burgeoning socialist thought of the era—the author also devoted himself to poetry and haiku under Shiki Masaoka’s tutelage. In Meiji 36 (1903), at twenty-five, he became head priest of his hometown temple. Yet he found no satisfaction in the “venerable temple” life bound by layers upon layers of cobweb-like traditions, resolving even to renounce his priesthood. Aware of the author’s distress, a senior from his hometown recommended a pilgrimage to Shikoku’s sacred sites, and together they continued their journey across mountains and rivers for over seventy days. During that time, I sometimes encountered a man who had abandoned his home and family to become a pilgrim himself while searching for his father—a pilgrim who had vanished without a trace; sometimes heard the desperate voice of a mother praying ceaselessly to Buddha through the night on the veranda of the Daishidō Hall, reciting the sacred mantra *Namu Daishi Henjō Kongō* amid howling mountain winds for her two unfortunate children showing signs of leprosy; and sometimes met an elderly pilgrim on the road—his hair fallen out, face swollen, one eye gone, nose shapeless—whose grotesque appearance startled me into instinctively turning away. Yet this pilgrim then pressed his palms together most courteously before me, chanted the mantra, and began bowing fervently. The author, unexpectedly struck by his sincerity, immediately knelt before that pilgrim, pressed his palms together, chanted *Namu Daishi Henjō Kongō* in unison, and shed tears he couldn’t even wipe away.

Thus, the author's spiritual vision opened. ...he gradually forgot all about matters of home or worldly affairs; beyond seeking each day's provisions and lodging, he came to think solely of the Daishi's benevolence. "They say that to seek faith, one must become like an infant—and indeed, my own heart had begun to detach from worldly affairs, becoming so clear that not a speck of dust remained. The pleasure of this was beyond words. That the path of visiting sacred sites was left for us—allowing ascetics to spend these dozens of days removed from worldly affairs, traverse hundreds of miles of road, single-mindedly contemplate the Daishi's benevolence, and savor profound religious sentiment—is truly a most gracious expedient means."

Thus, the author explains.

That this author—Wada Fukatoku—was none other than the venerable Mr. Wada Seikai, former head priest of Kōyasan, was something I naturally did not yet know at that time.

Nine

The idealization of reality must not be prolonged. Having thought this, I boarded a car at the foot of Murotoji Temple bound directly for Kōchi, where I removed my gaiters, took off my hand guards, shed my white robe, and changed into Western clothes. Therefore, a little over three hours later, when we entered Kōchi and arrived at the Thirty-First Pilgrimage Site "Chikurinji Temple" in Godaisan Village, Nagaoka District, I was not using my vajra staff.

But that was for the best. I managed to avoid having unpleasant thoughts about propriety. ...that Chikurinji Temple stood atop Godaisan, a mountain seven or eight times taller than Tokyo’s Atagoyama. Moreover, a fully developed automobile road had been constructed, allowing even the largest tour buses to pull up right to the temple gate without hesitation. As for the modest car we rode in... However, we showed not a hint of surprise at this and even smiled as we passed through the temple gate.... The mountain’s dense woods enveloped us in a dark, damp, chilly air that felt suddenly all-encompassing.

Long ago, Emperor Shōmu had a dream in which he saw himself meeting Manjusri Bodhisattva at Mount Wutai in Tang China. He summoned Monk Gyōki and commanded: "Is there any sacred site in our land resembling Mount Wutai? If so, construct a temple complex modeled after that mountain."

Gyōki, in response to this, "This humble monk, having traveled proselytizing through various provinces, observed that in Tsuchi Province's Nagaoka District lies a wondrous sacred isle whose form differs not from China's Mount Wutai—its five peaks tower high like the five locks upon Manjusri's crown, while three deep pools manifest the Dharma gate of the Three Liberations. Tradition holds: Long ago it emerged overnight from the golden wheel's base; therefore they say this mountain remains unshaken by earthquakes. Truly this must be the pure land of the Great Sage Manjusri. I beseech you to establish a temple complex here."

reported. The *Chikurinji Engi* records that the Emperor, profoundly moved, immediately issued an imperial decree in the first year of Jinki (Kinoe-Ne) to construct the temple complex. Over subsequent eras, repeated repairs saved it from ruin—it never encountered any particularly large fires, survived the anti-Buddhist movement during the Meiji Restoration, and in Meiji 37 (1904), the Monjudō hall of its main building received designation as a Special Protected Structure from the Home Ministry, enduring to this day…

Above all else, how its precincts spread to every corner… And how slopes and stone steps provided fitting variation to that expanse… It truly evoked the sense of a “sacred site”… Something unfathomably deep, serenely quiet—a sacred site that felt authentically like a sacred site. I met Head Priest Ebizuka Yoshitaka. He was a large-framed man with thick eyebrows whose very presence exuded wisdom and courage. ...Indeed, I thought, this was exactly the kind of person who would plan something like that automobile road.

“Up until now, every temple we visited had an empty bell tower...” I questioned Mr. Ebizuka about my quick discovery. “No, this temple too had been ordered to contribute our bell, so we lowered it to keep ready for collection at any time. …Yet no matter how much time passed, they never came to take it.” “……Eventually, the war ended.”

Suddenly, Mr. Ebizuka laughed,

“Then this time, American soldiers came and said, ‘Why have you thrown the bell away here?’ “…It’s not that we simply abandoned it there, but when we explained it couldn’t be disposed of so easily, they muttered something—then eventually brought a whole group of comrades and restored it to its original place…” …The low fence before the entrance, covered in the delicate leaves of a red katsura, shone brightly and serenely beautiful.

Ten

The following are one or two pages from my notebook…

We left Chikurinji Temple and entered Godaisan Lodge at the foot of Mount Godai... The proprietor—truly a man who understood these matters—cleansed with pure water the Vajra Staff we had taken down from the car, then brought it to our room along with the sedge hats. Departing spring—the whispered exchange between staff and sedge hat.

Urado Bay. ...the second-day moon I had seen in Awa had already, swiftly become a five-day moon. The boat trails its wake—the glitter of water, ah, May.

In Takamatsu. (Two Haiku)

To Shidoji Temple—three ri, they said—this thistle blooms. Today again—unseasonable weather’s thistle blooms.

Having completed the seven-day journey, we returned to Kyoto. …At Daimonjiya.

Spring thunder—having trudged to arrive at a Kyoto inn