Pathway to Japanese Literature

The river’s flow never ceases, yet its waters shift and change without end.
The spray that forms in the torrent never pauses for even an instant; no sooner does it appear than it vanishes, only to emerge anew.
The fates of people in this world and the violent transience of their dwellings may indeed be likened to a river’s flow—or to spray upon a torrent that forms only to vanish—things of utmost fragility.
In the resplendent blossom-filled capital, houses stood densely packed, their beautiful towering roof tiles vying with one another.
These dwellings of diverse people exist in every age and never cease to be; yet among these houses of high and low alike, one finds nothing unchanging. Scarcely any dwelling persists unaltered from antiquity to the present, and discovering objects retaining their former beauty proves exceedingly rare.
In this area there once stood a splendidly beautiful dwelling—but when you look now, that house had already burned down and vanished last year.
And when you look upon a place where no such splendid dwelling once stood, the humble house that stood there before had burned away, replaced now by one of such magnificence.
Thus those who were once wealthy and lived in splendid dwellings now found themselves fallen into obscurity, dwelling in houses comparable to mere shacks against their former residences.
Such was the destiny people must tread.

When one looked to see if any old acquaintances remained, such people proved exceedingly hard to find. Though the places themselves were unchanged from former times, and though just as many people dwelled there as before, scarcely two or three out of ten could now be recognized. To witness how utterly inconstant was the path of destiny that people must tread—this stirred emotions beyond bearing.

When one deeply considered this human destiny—this ephemeral fate where we are born at dawn only to die by dusk, this endlessly shifting destiny—it seemed truly akin to bubbles upon flowing water: forming only to vanish instantly, vanishing only to form anew.
The fate of spray that formed and vanished in the torrent—that was indeed the destiny people must tread.

Truly, many people are born into this world—but where do these people come from?
And where could they be going?
When one considers such matters, there exists no one anywhere who can answer the questions of where people come from and where they go. Where they come from and where they go is an eternal mystery that can never be solved; people are born into this mystery, and thus they die.
Like bubbles that form and vanish upon the water.

What, then, do these people who must tread such an ephemeral and unsolvable destiny find joy in, and what do they suffer through while living in this world?

In this life that had to vanish like a bubble—if one were to seek answers from many people about what work they found engaging or what caused them suffering—the responses emerged endlessly varied, never converging into one. Thus did the question of what people suffered through, what they found joy in, and what they ought to do become an eternal mystery that could never be solved.

Over long years—through fires, earthquakes, or other sundry calamities—splendidly beautiful houses vanished, wealthy households became impoverished, and those who had held noble stations fell to humble status: the ceaseless transience of these people and their dwellings resembled morning dew upon a morning glory and the flower itself.
The flower was the dew’s dwelling.
The dew was the morning glory’s inhabitant.

Whether the dew falls to earth first or the flower withers away first, in either case both must ultimately fall and wither.
The dew does not linger until sunset’s hour—nor does the morning glory fare differently; when the morning sun climbs high, it too must fade.
People and their dwellings must inevitably trace the path of dawn’s dew upon the morning glory and share that flower’s fate.
Which will fall into ruin first remains unknowable—yet fall they both must in the end.

I had now spent forty long years in this world since my birth, and among the various matters of society I had observed and heard about since gaining awareness, there were truly numerous things that proved utterly mysterious.
I resolved to set down in writing some of these many things I had witnessed and learned.

Though the details remain unclear in memory—it is thought to have been around the 28th day of the fourth month of An'ei 3—there came a day when winds blew with terrible force, until at last they became a great storm.
In the southeastern part of Kyoto, a fire broke out from a certain house at an ill-fated moment.
For it was a time when fierce winds raged without respite.
In an instant, the flames spread northeastward.
And thus did they reduce all vital structures—the Suzaku Gate, Daigokuden, University Bureau, Ministry of Civil Affairs, and others—to ashes within a single night.

According to subsequent investigations, the source of this great fire had been a certain house in Higuchi Tomi no Koji—a dwelling where an invalid had lived.
The rising flames, whipped repeatedly by sudden gusts, took shape like an unfurling fan and spread ever wider as they advanced.
Dwellings far from the origin lay completely besieged by violent smoke; people gagged on the fumes, left wholly unable to draw breath.
Roads near blazing houses became entirely impassable to human traffic, blocked by overflowing flames.
The capital’s night sky burned crimson as a sea of fire under towering infernos, proclaiming both the conflagration’s ferocity and its insatiable hunger for homes.
Meanwhile the wind only strengthened without respite, now hurling flames to distant quarters where fresh blazes erupted, driving the disaster’s relentless expansion.

The people of Kyoto, surrounded by the very midst of storm and fire, were utterly half-crazed and unaware of what to do; all had lost any will to live, left with no choice but to resign themselves to watching events unfold as nature dictated.
Their minds utterly ceased to function; dazed and bewildered, they had no means to act.
People caught in the billowing smoke would have their breath cut off, collapse abruptly, and lose consciousness; meanwhile, those engulfed by the advancing flames would often have their precious lives robbed of them on the spot—a frequent occurrence.
Even those people who were fortunate enough to barely preserve their lives and safely escape amidst such chaos and danger found it utterly impossible to take out their precious household goods from their own homes, and they could only watch as all their precious belongings were reduced to ashes by the fire.
And yet, they could do nothing about it.

The various household goods, tools, and treasures that had thus been reduced to ashes—among which there must surely have been ancestral heirlooms passed down through generations—the total value of these items was likely so immense as to defy all calculation.

Given that sixteen noble mansions were reduced to ashes in this great fire, it stands to reason that the number of humble commoners’ houses lost to the flames must have been beyond reckoning.
This great fire reduced what amounted to one-third of the capital’s expanse to ashes in mere moments.

Countless people lost their precious lives due to this great fire.
Among them were surely not a few youths and boys who would have gone on to accomplish great deeds in the future—it was a tragic waste.
If even humans met such a fate, then how much more countless must have been the horses and cattle—mere beasts—that perished in the flames.
Humans by nature engage in all manner of pointless endeavors, but dwelling particularly within a city so fraught with peril that all may turn to ash in a single morning—to lavish vast sums upon one’s own residence, fretting over this detail and that while constructing it, utterly oblivious to its destined fate of becoming cinders by dawn—this I realized with piercing clarity: no folly could be more witless than such building.
Even if one builds with such effort, should flames strike one morning, it would immediately turn to ashes—yet there is no folly more witless than lavishing money and toil upon buildings.

In the fourth year of Jishō (1180), around April, there occurred another great whirlwind.
It arose at the edge of Kyōgoku and blew as far as the vicinity of Rokujō.
It was truly a thing of terrifying force; within the span of blowing three or four chō, whether large houses, small ones, or any kind of dwelling in its path, nearly all were overturned, shattered, or damaged.
Such was the terrifying force with which it raged.

Some were caught in the whirlwind and flattened where they fell, while others were left with only beams and pillars standing, their shoji screens and walls completely blown away.
In one instance it tore gates from their foundations and carried them four or five blocks away; in another, it ripped fences away to erase boundaries between neighboring houses, merging their gardens—creating absurd tragicomedies throughout the area.
All sorts of household goods from the houses were utterly ripped up and blown into the sky.
The types of cypress bark roofing that covered the roofs were blown into the sky, swirling chaotically like winter leaves caught in the wind.

Dust and ash swirled through the capital’s sky so thickly that smoke seemed to have shrouded it completely—so densely that sunlight grew dim.
People’s voices were utterly obliterated by the raging gale; what reached the ears bore no resemblance to human clamor.
In the capital’s streets, only the dreadful roar of the tempest could be heard.
The wind’s fury was such that one might have thought the fabled karmic gales of hell had begun blowing through the mortal realm.
Houses lay toppled, houses stood damaged—the wretched state of these dwellings proved unbearable to witness.
When people ventured out to mend their damaged homes, many met pitiful fates as flying debris struck them down, leaving them maimed.
Truly they were wretched souls.
The whirlwind then shifted southwestward, visiting equal ruin upon those dwelling there and spreading fresh sorrow.
Though winds blow through all seasons without cease, where ordinary breezes carry poetic charm, this tempest wrought terror and devastation upon the people.
Such a wind comes perhaps once in years—if at all—a rare exception indeed.
When pondering this calamity deeply, one cannot but conclude it must have been a divine warning from heaven’s gods to those who dwell on earth.

It was around the sixth month of the fourth year of Jishō when the capital was abruptly relocated to another place.
Because this relocation was executed with such sudden abruptness, the capital’s residents were both shocked and thrown into confusion.

The capital had originally been established in Kyoto during Emperor Saga's reign, and with over four hundred years having passed since then, altering this seat of power should never have been undertaken lightly without extraordinary circumstances.
Thus it was only natural that people grew anxious about what grave reasons might necessitate such a change, their very unease disturbing the peace that had prevailed in men's hearts.
Yet all their fears proved groundless when His Majesty the Emperor—along with his ministers and nobles—ultimately relocated en masse to the new capital at Fukuhara.
Not a single soul holding any position of consequence remained dwelling in the old capital of Kyoto.
Those who saw attaining high rank as life's sole purpose, and those craving imperial favor, devoted themselves wholeheartedly to abandoning the ancient city and hastening to Fukuhara with all possible speed.
But those left behind by the world—people without status, hopes, or aspirations—could not bring themselves to forsake the old capital and lingered on in desolation, grieving endlessly over this turn of events.

The state of the old capital, now that the high-ranking officials and wealthy people had departed, was far too desolate.
The grand dwellings that once vied in beauty row upon row gradually fell into ruin as days passed, with no one left to inhabit them and maintenance becoming impossible to sustain.
Moreover, among those dwellings, many were demolished, assembled into rafts, floated down the Yodo River, and sent off to Fukuhara.
The ruins of the destroyed mansions turned into fields before one’s very eyes.
There was truly no way to discern even a vestige of its former appearance.
Such a great upheaval could not help but leave profound impacts and changes upon the hearts and minds of the people.
In the blink of an eye, the elegant feelings they had as city dwellers were utterly lost.
This sentiment manifested itself in various ways; for instance, whereas court nobles once rode in ox-drawn carriages as of old, now they no longer used such conveyances but instead preferred to ride horses in the samurai style, valuing their swiftness.
Even seeing this, the elegant and leisurely atmosphere of old had vanished completely.
Moreover, even regarding landholdings, people now sought territories in the southwestern coastal regions where the Taira clan had many connections, but no one desired the northeastern manors that lay far removed from the new capital.
In this way, everything had changed completely.

By mere chance, I obtained an opportunity to observe the state of the new capital at Fukuhara in Settsu Province. When describing its condition, first its breadth—compared to Kyoto—proved truly narrow, to the extent that even attempting to grid-plan its streets in Kyoto’s fashion was impossible.
The northern area was mountainous and elevated, while the southern area faced the sea and lay low.
And being close to the coast, the sound of waves constantly resounded noisily.
The sea breeze blowing in from the ocean proved exceptionally strong here, making it a place that could hardly be called blessed land.
Now, the most important Imperial Palace had been built within the mountains.
When I happened to look upon that structure, it occurred to me that Empress Saimei’s temporary palace at Asakura—the Kino-maru-dono—might have been much like this; depending on one’s perspective, it could even be thought to possess an unexpected poetic charm, its very peculiarity lending it a certain refined elegance.
Such was the state of the new Imperial Palace and the condition of the new capital.

In Kyoto, people were busy moving every single day.
Many dwellings were demolished and assembled into rafts to be transported downriver, until even the vast Yodo River became so crammed with rafts that its width appeared pitifully narrow.
Though houses were being sent to Fukuhara in this manner, when considering the land there, not as many had been built as were dispatched, leaving numerous vacant lots still remaining.
The number of constructed houses was exceedingly small.
Given that so many houses had been sent downriver that the waterway seemed narrowed, there remained no indication of where they might be erected or where construction was actually underway.

Kyoto grew increasingly desolate day by day, and the new capital of Fukuhara still required many days to be fully equipped as a capital.
In such times as these, there was no reason for the hearts of those living through them to find peace.
Just as clouds floating in a blue sky drifted through gusts of wind—truly unstable—so too were people’s hearts darkened.
The people who had originally lived in Fukuhara were deprived of their land for the sake of the newly arrived officials accompanying His Majesty the Emperor, lamenting and grieving.
Moreover, those newly arrived officials had to build their own dwellings and were suffering due to that burdensome task.
In any case, none of these were pleasant things. Casting one’s eyes upon the people coming and going in the streets: those of noble status who ought to ride in ox-drawn carriages instead mounted horses; court nobles who should have worn ceremonial robes and plain garments now fawned over rising powers by donning samurai-style hitatare robes, discarding their elegant customs—until finally, the capital’s grace and refined traditions vanished altogether, leaving behind a truly pitiful state indistinguishable from coarse rural warriors.

From what is faintly heard and passed down, it seems that in the eras of the Holy Emperors of old, governance centered wholly on compassion for the common people. When subjects suffered through poverty or calamity, His Majesty—though of exalted station—gave no heed to his own Imperial Palace, leaving ragged thatch edges untrimmed at the eaves, and even exempted taxes when rice grew scarce among the people. These acts stemmed from His Majesty's reverent and august heart that sought to bring peace to the realm—deeds most worthy of gratitude. Yet what of our present state? With this clamor over relocating capitals and such matters, far from calming hearts, it has cast them into anxiety's depths—a condition revealing Kiyomori's extreme and lawless tyranny. When measured against those sacred reigns of old, this unbearable chasm between eras stands truly lamentable.

I recall it being around the Yōwa era—but being an old matter, the exact time cannot be clearly stated—that over a span of two years during that period, there occurred a truly terrible famine.
The situation had become truly deplorable.
Throughout the long span from spring to summer, not a single drop of rain fell, and under the unceasing daily sun, all the crops in the fields withered and died.
Then autumn arrived with its strong winds and torrential rains that brought great floods—truly a sight too dreadful to behold. The grains yielded nothing at all; people merely plowed fields and sowed seeds in vain labor, leaving them with no tasks during autumn's busy harvest time. Thus occurred a disaster entirely without precedent.
Thus, there was not even a year’s worth of rice, and no food to be had.

Life on ancestral land without food—that must have been an unbroken succession of hardships.
Therefore, people abandoned the ancestral lands they had inhabited for generations and took to roaming through various provinces.
Moreover, some people abandoned their homes and fields as if completely forgetting them and went to live deep in the mountains.
This was likely because the mountains still had nuts and other foods.

In such truly dire circumstances, even His Majesty the Emperor grew concerned that the people had no path but self-destruction, and thus ordered various prayers and special rituals—said to manifest potent divine efficacy—to be conducted. Yet no effect whatsoever came to pass.

Originally, the people of Kyoto received all their supplies of goods from the countryside regardless of the circumstances; since the countryside, being their supplier, could not produce any goods at all due to natural disasters, it was only natural that the people of Kyoto began to report shortages of goods.
Kyoto had now completely lost its suppliers of goods.
In this situation, it was the people of Kyoto who were troubled.
Firstly, they could not obtain food.

Thus, to obtain food, they finally cast aside all shame and dignity—selling off their household belongings to buy from those who had rice—but in these times of scarcity, precious rice would not be sold unless offered at exorbitant prices.
In such a state, no matter how much money or treasures one had, it was a situation where nothing could be done.
Thus, as days passed, the number of beggars increased until they crowded the roadside, their pitiful cries for food filling the streets.
However, the first year of Yōwa somehow drew to a close amidst such deplorable conditions.

With the arrival of Yōwa 2, people had hoped this year would bring a return to a peaceful world abundant in goods, but those hopes were utterly betrayed. This was because an epidemic broke out atop the misery of famine, as if layering suffering upon suffering. The people’s plight grew too dreadful to behold, worsening by the day. Where in the world had the peaceful era of old vanished?—it was enough to make one bitter.

The people, their bodies already weakened by famine, were struck by epidemic calamity, and many lost their lives.
Meanwhile, the shortage of goods grew increasingly severe, plunging people into the depths of hardship.
This state resembled placing many fish in shallow water—all were ultimately doomed to meet sorrowful ends.
Eventually, even those of considerable status wrapped their legs in gaiters, hid their faces under hats, and walked along house eaves begging for food while enduring shame.
Yet even as they begged this way—with no households likely to give—people reached utter exhaustion, until it became pitifully common to see someone walking one moment then collapsing dead the next, their precious lives extinguished.
Thus throughout the streets lay corpses of those who had fallen wherever one went.
Before earthen walls here, before gates there—the sights proved unbearable to behold.
Moreover, with none to clear these starved and fallen bodies, days passed as corpses gradually rotted away—forms crumbling while foul stench permeated every street.
With the city thus reduced, places like Kamo Riverbed overflowed with countless corpses until there remained no path for oxcarts or horse-drawn carriages to pass—a truly dreadful state.

The outcasts and woodcutters who went to the mountains to gather firewood and sold it to the people of the capital to sustain their daily lives could no longer perform even their everyday work due to the famine.
Because of this, the people of the capital began to lack firewood.
Therefore, those utterly destitute individuals—destroying their own dwellings to fashion firewood and attempting to sell this to those struggling for fuel—found that the proceeds obtained when they ventured into town to sell were insufficient to sustain even a single person’s life: such was the wretched state of affairs.
What proved even stranger—or perhaps more pitiable—was that among these materials meant to supplement the firewood shortage, there were occasionally pieces of finely lacquered wood or timber adorned with gold and silver foil.
When pondering this strangeness, it became clear that those driven to desperation by famine—having sold everything they could—had resorted to stealing Buddhist statues from temples and tearing fixtures from altars to sell as firewood.
That material scarcity could so befoul people’s hearts—this cast a pall of gloom.
Merely for being born into such a troubled world, to have to witness such depravity in what should be a joyous life—this stood as a truly pitiful thing.

Amidst the universal misery of the world, what was most pitiable was the fate of those who loved each other. As for mutually devoted couples—people who had husbands they deeply loved or wives they deeply loved—it was human nature that they themselves, regardless of their own circumstances, first gave what little food they had to their beloved husbands or beloved wives. For such people, it was all too clear that those they deeply loved must inevitably starve to death first.

This matter manifested most clearly between parent and child. Though there might be children in this world who did not love their parents, there could be no parents anywhere who did not love their children. Therefore, parents inevitably gave whatever food they obtained to their children, so they must inevitably starve to death first. Truly, the strongest love had to be said to be that of parents for their children. In times of such calamity, it became most clearly apparent. One could see children everywhere crying for their mothers’ breasts, yet there were infants—their mothers already dead—clinging to those corpses and weeping, their pitiful forms a sight that made one feel it would be no exaggeration to call this world a living hell. Truly, where had the peace of old gone from the streets of the capital? Now they presented a sight of enduring the torments of a living hell.

At that time, there was a monk called Ryūgyō Hōin at Ninna-ji Temple. Overwhelmed by the unbearable misery of the world and lamenting the daily deaths of so many people, he vowed to establish Buddhist connections for the deceased; each day he wandered through the streets, inscribing the Sanskrit "A" on the foreheads of every corpse he found while praying for their rebirth in the Pure Land. As for how many souls were thus guided to Buddhahood: within just two months—April and May—the number of corpses marked with this character in the capital's bounds alone (south of Ichijō Avenue, north of Kujō Avenue, west of Kyōgoku Street, east of Suzaku Avenue) reached an astounding total exceeding forty-two thousand three hundred. From this alone, one may grasp the scale of calamity. Given such deaths in mere two months, considering those who perished before and after would yield numbers so vast one might wonder if all capital residents had died. Adding deaths from riverbeds, Shirakawa, Western Capital—then all Japan's dead—would create limitless numbers beyond reckoning. I have heard of similar famines during Emperor Sutoku's Chōshō era long ago, but never witnessing them firsthand, I know nothing concrete. Yet this famine—its horrors seen with my own eyes—revealed true dreadfulness; undoubtedly an unprecedented disaster beyond description—a truly pitiful event.

It was around the same time that they were struck by yet another great disaster: a massive earthquake.
The earthquake proved stronger than any that had occurred before, and consequently, the damage it wrought differed entirely from ordinary disasters—truly dreadful in nature.
Great mountains collapsed from the quake’s force, burying the rivers that flowed beneath them, while seawater surged backward to inundate the shores and even flood areas where people’s dwellings stood.
Moreover, the land itself split open with water gushing forth from the fissures, and massive rocks came tumbling down into the valleys—a scene of such tremendous terror it defied description.
Ships that had ventured out to sea were tossed about like leaves by both the quake’s tremors and towering waves, while those walking along roads—people and beasts alike—staggered unsteadily before losing their footing and collapsing, creating utter pandemonium.

In the capital, not a single house—whether grand, large, or small—remained intact; all were toppled.
Shrines and Buddhist temples, too—many of their grand structures were toppled.
Around the houses that had been completely toppled or half-collapsed, dust and ash rose as if billowing smoke.
When the ground shook from repeated earthquakes and large houses were toppled, a thunderous roar like that of the Thunder Deity would resound.

People had nowhere to find refuge.
If they stayed inside, they couldn't remain still for fear the house might collapse at any moment; if they rushed outside, the ground would split open—there was nowhere left to go.
If only they could have fled to the sky—that would have been best—but alas, people had no wings and couldn't even do that; truly it must be said this became a state more pitiable than famine itself.
If in this situation they could have transformed into dragons, one might have considered riding clouds to ascend into heaven; but pitifully being mere humans rather than dragons, they found themselves powerless to act.

In this world there are countless other terrifying things, but I came to fully realize that none are as dreadful as an earthquake of such magnitude and force.
The earthquake—which shook so violently that people lost all places of stability—ceased after some time; yet the aftershocks that followed showed no sign of abating.
Even these aftershocks possessed a sheer strength that would astonish anyone under ordinary circumstances, occurring twenty to thirty times daily without fail.
However, as days gradually passed—ten days, then twenty—even those once-violent aftershocks decreased in frequency, coming at longer intervals.
They diminished from four or five daily occurrences to two or three, then once a day, until finally striking every two or three days—yet continued unabated for roughly three months in total.

Fire, water, and wind ceaselessly bring calamity upon people, while the earth rarely inflicts such disasters—yet this time it delivered a shockingly immense disaster quite beyond expectation.
Even when compared to the earthquake of the Saikō era long ago—which had caused such uproar by toppling the head of Tōdai-ji’s Great Buddha to the ground—this recent quake rendered that event a mere trifle not worth considering.
To that extent was this one severe.

When encountering various calamities in this manner, human life came to seem so trifling—existence itself so insipid—that people began to think: if only, while remaining in this world, they might live amicably, aiding one another without greed for personal gain.
People’s hearts, which had been somewhat clouded, may have cleared through these successive calamities.
Yet human hearts prove unreliable things indeed. As days passed into months and years, those great disasters came to be forgotten as if they had never occurred. The will to aid one another—to live amicably without avarice—vanished to who knows where. People returned to thinking only of personal gain, until gradually this world became an unpleasant place once more.
It is truly a pitiful thing.

As previously stated, the world in its entirety is heartless and an exceedingly difficult place to dwell; my own fate proves equally devoid of resolve and unreliable; and even one’s dwelling cannot escape being visited by disaster at any time—all are matters of the same nature.
Moreover, one cannot begin to know how much people suffer due to the constraints of worldly bonds—their dwelling places and statuses compounding their woes.
In this way, the world is a difficult place, hard to live in.
On one hand there are natural disasters; on the other, people live selfishly, each for themselves, without mutual love—such a world may well be called hell itself.

Even if one chose a dwelling place—should they reside in a cramped town where houses were densely packed—they would inevitably suffer calamity when encountering a fierce fire; and though fleeing far from the town might spare them the peril of flames, there remained the inconvenience of walking long distances along poor country roads even for brief outings; moreover, in overly remote areas, they had to steel themselves against frequent bandit attacks.
Under such circumstances, they could not possibly achieve a settled life.

Those in power were never satisfied with the authority they held; desiring even greater might, they underwent various hardships for its sake, while those devoid of status or influence suffered as objects of contempt. The wealthy lay awake fearing thieves, while the destitute fretted over daily sustenance—each circumstance proving profoundly trying.
Yet to depend on another’s care meant suffering treatment akin to a slave’s lot.
Even compassion became a snare—every act of mercy bred fresh hardship until all endeavors sprouted seeds of pain too bitter to endure.
To live by society’s laws left one hollow and restless; to abandon them brought contentment but branded one a madman in others’ eyes.
When I considered this—how every path in this world led to suffering—I found myself utterly adrift, knowing neither deed nor dwelling that might grant my heart lasting peace or true satisfaction.
What must I do? Where must I dwell?
Could it be that attachment to this sullied world still clings to me?
If so—perhaps casting off this mortal coil alone might bring my life fulfillment, serenity, and repose.

I inherited the headship of my paternal grandmother's household and took over its residence to live there, remaining long in the land where she had long resided. However, as family members passed away before me and various misfortunes struck one after another, I completely lost my vitality. Eventually, living there made me recall all sorts of past misfortunes, and growing weary of this, I finally resolved to abandon that land.
And so, finding that I could no longer attain any satisfaction in the secular world, I abandoned even this and resolved to build a small hermitage in a place where no one would come to dwell.
At that time, I was exactly thirty years old.
This hermitage, when compared to the house I inherited from my grandmother, was one-tenth its size and truly small.
Even so, within it I managed to create only a space for myself to live, but I could not construct what one might properly call a dwelling.
I built a modest fence but could not construct an impressive gate to adorn it.
I had built a place for carts to enter, using bamboo as pillars.
However, I grew anxious that even a moderately strong wind might blow this hermitage away, and furthermore, should snow rage fiercely upon it, there was no telling when it might be crushed—truly, it was a perilously precarious structure.
Moreover, being situated near the riverbed meant there was a danger of being instantly swept away should a flood occur, while its excessively remote location brought great concern about bandits.
Even having escaped the secular world in this manner, various worries never ceased.

The world was filled with nothing but worries and hardships—making it impossible to live in even a moment of peace—and though I grumbled ("What a truly unlivable world! What a wretched world!"), I had already endured this painful existence for thirty long years.
Through those years’ countless events—more sorrows than joys encountered—through unexpected calamities and personal failures—I came at last to grasp my fate’s pitiable essence.
Yet still I could not wholly abandon worldly ties; only when spring came in my fiftieth year did I cast off house and society alike—resolving upon true seclusion—and act upon that resolve.

Since I was by nature a solitary person with neither wife nor children, there was no possibility of being drawn by such familial affections, and thus I was never troubled by such matters.
Since I had no need for high ranks, esteemed offices, or abundant stipends, there was nothing whatsoever to bind me to the secular world, and thus I was able to renounce it with great ease.

Since I began living this life of complete seclusion in the snow-heavy depths of Mount Ōhara, far from any human settlement, a long time had passed—many seasons had come and gone.

When I had neared sixty and found myself with what little life remained, I built a new dwelling and lived there.
It was like a traveler who had finally lost his way at dusk managing to find lodging for the night and breathing relief; or an aged silkworm spinning its cocoon to enclose itself—something truly fleeting yet somehow heartening.
This new dwelling, compared to those I had built and lived in before, did not reach even one-hundredth their size; it was small.
As I gradually aged in this manner, even my dwelling grew narrower—somehow seeming exactly like my very fate, leaving me lonely.

As for what my current dwelling is like—if compared to what people ordinarily call a dwelling in this world—it has become such a ramshackle thing that one can no longer even speak of it as a dwelling.
Yet there is no doubt that this dwelling—truly suited and agreeable in feeling—is precisely what befits me alone.
In area it measures a mere three meters square, while its height correspondingly falls just short of seven shaku.
Since I had no fixed notion of where I must dwell—no thought of this place being good or that place being better—I simply laid foundations and constructed roofs wherever my spirit moved me, joining planks with metal clasps to create something quite crude; yet precisely because of this, it could be easily built wherever my inclination took me.
Therefore, even after completing construction, should anything about the place displease my inclination, I promptly dismantled it and moved to another location.

Even when relocating to another place, it required only minimal expense.
At most, just two carts would suffice; so long as I paid their rental fee—and since I could manage the labor myself—relocation became an exceedingly simple matter.

After building my current hermitage on Hino Mountain, I attached a crude yet serviceable eave measuring over three shaku to its eastern side to serve as a sunshade, making it easier to break firewood there. In the south I constructed a bamboo veranda; in the northern part, partitioning with a shoji screen, I enshrined a painting of Amida Buddha, hung an image of Fugen Bodhisattva beside it, and placed the Lotus Sutra before them. At the western end, I built an altar shelf for convenient placement of items and added various amenities to make it more dwelling-like. At the eastern end of my bed, I gathered bracken fronds and laid them out. In the southwest direction, I built a bamboo hanging shelf. This was for placing three jet-black leather baskets containing several books of waka poetry, volumes on music, and excerpts I had copied from works such as *Ōjōyōshū*. This serves for reading during idle moments and for solace. Beside them stood a koto named "Ori-koto" and a biwa named "Tsugi-biwa," each musical instrument leaned upright against the wall. The aforementioned constitutes my current dwelling.

As for the scenery surrounding my dwelling, to the south there was a suspended water channel constructed to draw water into a stone reservoir. As for firewood—a daily necessity—since there was a forest right nearby, I could gather it without any difficulty. Right nearby lay a mountain called Toyama; however, the path to this mountain was so thickly overgrown with thorny vines that they completely engulfed the way, making the ascent somewhat arduous. Though the valley felt somewhat dark with its luxuriant growth of trees and plants, the western direction lay clearly open; thus, it was truly a good place to sit facing that way and meditate on matters of the Pure Land said to lie in the west and on the Buddha.

In spring, wisteria flowers bloomed all over the valley like drifting purple clouds, creating an utterly enchanting view that could be seen to the west.

When summer came, the cuckoo sang ceaselessly in that plaintive voice; as people of old said, this bird’s cry—believed to guide souls on their journey to the afterlife—somehow sounded to me like a promise that when I died, it would surely lead me to rebirth in the Pure Land, and I felt truly gladdened.

In autumn, evening cicadas began to sing all over the mountain, letting me hear their mournful cries.
Their voices made me feel as though I were hearing an elegy for the fleeting fate of this world, somehow leaving me melancholy and lost in sorrowful thoughts.

When winter came, there were times when the entire mountain became covered in snow, allowing me to profoundly savor the beauty of the snow-clad mountains. When I watched the fallen snow gradually melt away or pile up anew, I could not help but recall how human sins too accumulated like this snow—now cleansed and dissolved through the Buddha’s great compassion, now committed again only to be purified once more.

Day after day I recited prayers to Buddha, yet inevitably there came reluctance; when sutra-chanting grew too burdensome, I found myself acting lazy. There were times I neglected both prayers and chanting altogether—but here existed no one to witness this indolence, no companion to shame me for laxity, and so in the end I slackened still.
Since I lived alone in these mountains far from human habitation, I naturally performed silent deeds; moreover, though it was not as if I strove of my own accord to uphold the Buddha’s precepts, in such mountains there were absolutely no temptations to violate them, and thus I naturally ended up observing the precepts.
It was not that I was striving to become a sage or noble man, but in a place like this with no one to talk to, one naturally ended up performing silent practices and following the Buddha’s path—this had come about through no effort of my own.

When boredom became utterly unbearable, I would watch boats passing near Okaya, observing the bubbles left in their wake appear and vanish as I pondered the fragility of human destiny. At times I mimicked the elegant pursuits of Manzei of old by attempting verse. When evening came and the dusk wind set the katsura tree rustling, I found myself envisioning Xunyang River's twilight scenery. Sometimes when I emulated Lord Kaden by playing "Autumn Wind" on the biwa, the pine winds seemed to harmonize perfectly with its notes. Playing "Flowing Spring," I heard valley waters echo its melody. My biwa skills could never be called accomplished, but since I played for none but myself, this sufficed. When the music refreshed my spirit, letting me settle into contentment with existence while easing mountain solitude's loneliness, nothing more was needed.

A short distance from my grass-thatched hut at the mountain's base stood a small cabin where the mountain keeper resided.
There was a child there who would sometimes visit my hermitage to converse with me.
This child might well be called my hermitage's sole guest.
When there was nothing particular to discuss nor anything to do, I wandered the surrounding mountains with this child as my companion. Though he was ten years old and I an old man past sixty, our difference in age posed no hindrance to walking these hills together in friendship.
At times while traversing the slopes we gathered wildflowers or picked rock pears.
Other times we collected yam bulbils or harvested wild parsley.
When these activities grew tiresome, we descended to foothill paddies to gather fallen rice ears and bind them into sheaves.
On exceptionally fine days we climbed peaks to gaze at distant skies over our former home, surveying Mount Kōbata, Fushimi Village, Toba, and Hatsukashi.
These mountains of surpassing beauty belonged to no one; thus we savored them without hindrance—a truly heartening thing.
When my spirits were light and legs unwearied, I sometimes ventured farther.
At such times I crossed Sumi Mountain beyond Kasatori to worship at Iwama Shrine and visit Ishiyama.
There were occasions when I journeyed to Awazu Plain—somewhat more distant—to console Semi Maru's spirit at his reputed hut's ruins or pay respects at Sarumaru Dayū's grave beyond Tanokami River.
Returning from these excursions seasonally—in spring breaking off a cherry twig or in autumn a maple branch—
I might gather bracken fronds or nuts in a basket to offer Buddha or sustain myself.

On nights when the moon shone with crystalline clarity, sitting by the window where its light streamed in pure, I would recall old friends from times past as we had kept each other company; then, hearing monkeys' mournful cries calling to the moon, tears would well unbidden in my eyes.

The lights of fireflies in the grassy thickets shone so vividly through the valley ravines—so reminiscent of Makishima Island's torch fires—that they comforted my lonesome heart; while the predawn sudden rain that roused me from sleep seemed somehow akin to a storm scattering tree leaves, leaving me strangely forlorn as I listened intently to its sound.

Whenever I heard the plaintive cries of wild birds, I found myself wondering—was that last call my father’s voice? Or perhaps my mother’s?—and fondly recalling life from when my parents were still alive.
When living so deep in the mountains, even upon seeing deer that also dwelled in these depths approach my hut with familiarity, it struck me as a revelation of how far removed I was from the mundane world—and I could not help but feel a certain loneliness.

Upon entering my sixties and advancing into old age, there were times when sleep eluded me at night; during such moments, my sole pleasure lay in stirring the charcoal fire and warming myself by its glow. In such times, even a charcoal fire became a precious friend. Though not so deep in the mountains as to harbor truly fearsome things, when I heard the mournful cry of an owl, I could not help but feel a loneliness that pierced the heart and a sorrow so profound it overwhelmed all sense.

In this way, the elements of the mountain scenery bestow their own delights with each passing season—spring, summer, autumn, winter—and prove inexhaustible.
If there were people of deeper introspection and keener perception than us, they might discover and take pleasure in delights beyond what I have felt; yet someone like myself can find enjoyment only in such things as these, and I cannot help but feel a certain pity for my own state.

Five years had already passed since I began living in these mountains thusly.
As time went on, my hermitage had weathered here and there; fallen leaves had piled deep beneath its eaves and were left decaying.
Moss had even come to grow thick across its floorboards.

From time to time I heard news borne on winds from Kyoto - how many nobles perished - yet equally I thought multitudes of lowborn souls must too have been fading from this world.

I heard that many dwellings had burned down in frequent fires, yet this humble dwelling of mine alone escaped the flames and remained truly peaceful.
However narrow it was, there was a place to sleep at night and a proper spot for reading during the day; thus I myself felt neither inconvenience nor lack in dwelling there.
The hermit crab dwells in a small shell surely because it knows its own measure; for the hermit crab, a small shell is a fitting dwelling. Likewise, the tern stays on rough-wave coasts where few approach due to its fear of people.
Like these creatures dwelling according to their nature within small abodes—knowing well this world's fragility and my own pitiable fate—I lived secluded in these mountains without seeking wealth or status or worldly connections; thus akin to how terns and hermit crabs find peace through solitary existence alone did I pass my days free from anxiety.

When all people in the world build houses, their purpose is almost never for themselves; it is common to say they build them for their parents, their spouse and children, or other family members.
Or they build them for show to others, or for their lords or masters.
There are also cases where they build to store property and treasures, but they never construct dwellings solely for themselves.
However, my current dwelling was built purely for my own sake.
Even if one were to build for others, in my case I have no parents left, nor even a wife or children; there are no friends to live with, nor any servants kept—in my present circumstances, there exists no one for whom I might build a house, and thus it has ended up being built for myself.
In today’s world, to become someone’s friend, one must first and foremost be wealthy and must grow familiar with that person; since being deeply sincere and honest is not necessarily required, if it comes to engaging in such shallow friendships, how much better it would be—beyond measure—to instead dwell in the mountains with nature and music as companions, living each day as it comes.

As for those who seek to become another’s servant—they first desire a high salary and will only go wherever money is to be made. Even if one treats them with affection and kindness, providing for their needs, should the wages prove meager, they will never consent to remain in service.
In this way, employing others only leads to suffering.
Therefore, not employing servants and making oneself the servant is truly the best course of action.
There may be some troubles in doing so, but I cannot tell how much better it is than the suffering of employing others.
If there is something I must walk to, I resolve to walk using my own feet.
If I do so, though it may be somewhat arduous, I cannot tell how much easier it is than riding in an oxcart or carriage and having to be mindful.
My body serves as two servants.
One is my hand, which serves as a servant, and the other is my foot, which acts as a vehicle; both satisfy me completely.
When my body becomes pained from such use, I cease using it and allow it ample rest; then, once it has regained strength, I resume use—thus never overexerting myself.
Even when I feel listless and have no inclination to walk or work, there is nothing to trouble my mind.
Moreover, working and walking every day become the utmost care for my body.
Therefore, I cannot afford to do nothing and remain idle.

Walking or relying on others for my own personal affairs must clearly be a sin.

In matters of clothing and food as well, I believed the same held true. Garments such as wisteria cloth and hemp bedding sufficed for covering oneself—anything beyond proved unnecessary. When I gathered field greens from the plains and rock pears from the peaks to eat, that sustained life adequately; more than this served no purpose. Having severed all ties with others, none remarked upon my threadbare appearance; in these mountains where provisions grew scarce, even the coarsest morsels became savory fare. To write thus of my present circumstances was not to preach this existence upon the wealthy—it merely served to contrast the life I now led with that earlier time when I still clung to worldly ways while dwelling among them.

This world transforms into either a realm of suffering or joy through one's state of mind alone.
Should the spirit fail to dwell in serene acceptance, neither wealth nor grand dwellings hold meaning—one must still endure hardship.
Now dwelling in this lonely mountain within a narrow hut barely three meters square, my spirit finds true tranquility, passing each day in profound contentment.

And yet, though this dwelling is so crude, I love it beyond measure.

Occasionally I would go out to the capital to beg alms; at such times, I sometimes felt ashamed at having become this beggar-monk—yet when I returned to my small dwelling and contemplated how people of the mundane world lived clinging solely to fame and gain in this floating existence, I even came to pity them.
Were I to speak such things, people might say you utter dreamlike nonsense—but it is worthwhile to ponder deeply the lives of fish and birds.
Fish spend their entire lives in water without ever tiring of it; birds desire nothing more than to pass their days among trees.
The hearts of these birds and fish cannot be known except by birds and fish themselves.
As for me too—this state of mind born from dwelling alone in mountains severed from the world—none may comprehend it without truly living such a life.
The joys and loneliness of mountain seclusion hold depths of flavor unattainable in the vulgar world—a savor none may know save those who have practiced it.
This savor—far surpassing the attainment of high office or worldly riches—is what I find preferable and delightful.

Now that my life nears its end and I must embark on death's journey, there remains nothing left to lament or grieve in this present moment.
The Buddha's teachings command us to hold attachment to nothing; yet even this mountain hut where I dwell in tranquil joy becomes sin itself—a manifestation of clinging.
From the vantage of Buddha's realm, I have squandered my days enumerating trivial pleasures of no worth.

Continuing to ponder these truths in the tranquil dawn and deeply reflecting on my state of mind, when I consider what my original purpose was in leaving the floating world and entering the mountains, it was to devote myself to the Buddha’s path; yet despite this, when I examine my way of life, though my outward appearance resembles that of a saint, my inner state remains far from sainthood, utterly muddied like that of a worldly person.
My hermitage was built in imitation of Vimalakīrti’s one-jo hut of old, but in my conduct and faith, do I not fall short even of Shuri Handoku, that disciple said to have been the most dull-witted among the Buddha’s followers?
And as for the cause—was it that I suffered such extreme poverty and hardship that I could not practice as I wished? Or was it that my worldly desires were too overpowering, driving my mind to madness? Thus I questioned myself again and again why I could not attain enlightenment, yet no answer was granted.
Thus, I can only borrow the power of my tongue to chant *Namu Amida Butsu* two or three times, reciting the Buddha’s sacred name, and pray for his protection.

In the second year of Kenryaku, around the end of the third month, Monk Ryūgyō wrote this at his Sotoyama hermitage.