In a Grove - Ryunosuke Akutagawa

Ryunosuke Akutagawa (b. Tokyo, 1892) published numerous short stories to great acclaim. His childhood was shadowed by the insanity of his mother, and in later years, he was troubled by his own declining mental health. He committed suicide in 1927, leaving behind "A Note to a Certain Old Friend, " which revealed his acceptance of death and some of his motives for suicide:

"Such voluntary death must give us peace, if not happiness. Now that I am ready, I find nature more beautiful than ever, paradoxical as this may sound. I have seen, loved, and understood more than others. In this at least I have a measure of satisfaction, despite all the pain I have thus far had to endure."

"In a Grove" is a compilation of testimonies in relation to the murder of the samurai Takehiko. The witnesses range from bystanders as the samurai and his wife travelled along the Yamashina stage road, to the spirit of the dead Takehiko himself. The story of the murder is based on a tale in the Japanese Konjaku Monogatarishū (The Past and Present Collection), an anthology compiled in the late Heian Period (794-1185). Because the accounts given by the witnesses in Akutagawa's story strongly contradict each other, the only facts clearly true are taken from the original tale: a samurai, travelling with his wife, is accosted in a bamboo grove, forced to watch as his wife is raped.

The contradictions hint that none of the witnesses are telling the truth, whether purposely or inadvertently. Akutagawa's story reveals that human perception is impressionable and flawed, that it is nearly impossible to entirely know and speak the truth. The characters prevaricate, proudly claiming actions they feel they should have performed. Takehiko's spirit tells that, according to samurai tradition, he committed suicide; Masago, his wife, claims to have attempted a noble suicide. Even the Buddhist monk, after describing Masago in great detail, states that, as a monk, he took little notice of her. The only conclusion that can be drawn from the testimonies is that preservation (of the self, of conventions, etc.) leads to the lies and mistakings.

A prevailing theme is the degradation of the traditional samurai. Not only is Takehiko tied up in a bamboo grove as his wife his violated and property stolen, but according to varied accounts, he is easily conned and bested in swordfighting by the theif Tajomaru, he is killed by his wife, and a gad fly sticks to his fallen body. This may be a reflection of the decline that traditional Japanese convention has experienced in the face of Western influence.

Narrow Road to the Interior - Matsuo Basho

"Hokku (seventeen-syllable poem) is like a tiny star, mind you, carrying the whole sky at its back. It is like a slightly-open door, where you may steal into the realm of poesy. It is simply a guiding lamp. Its value depends on how much it suggests." (A Proposal to American Poets, by Yonejiro Noguchi)

Haiku is an elusive form--it exists entirely aesthetically, more purely perhaps than conventional Western forms, and encourages its audience to pursue a subtle suggestion of experience. Meaning is evoked by the atmosphere which the poet breathes onto the page. Matsuo Basho (c. 1644-1694), a wandering poet of the Edo period, is traditionally considered the master of this form.

Basho, repelled by the middle class values he was born to, left a promising career in the military to pursue studies of Zen philosophy and poetry. He believed that the aesthetics provided a purpose in life, greater than the common striving for social or economic success. Basho gained early prestige as a poet, and a number of students vied for his instruction. As his disciples became more numerous and time consuming, Basho longed for the peace and lonely reflection that fueled his poetry. He embarked on a journey through northern Japan, to the quiet mountains. His travelogue is the "Narrow Road to the Interior," chronicling his visits to temples and communion with the austere, ancient country.


Summer grasses:
all that remains of great soldiers'
imperial dreams

Basho wrote this haiku upon reflection of the ruins of Yasuhira, a temple that was the site of a battle between the ruling families of Japan. The elite soldiers, though greatly outnumbered against their opponents, were held by their honor to protect Yasuhira. Their valor won them death--in death, they become mere grass, the fate shared by all men, noble or dishonorable.

Lonely stillness--
a single cicada's cry
sinking into stone

This is my favorite of Basho's haiku. The poem captures the heavy quiet of the ancient Ryushaku Temple. The image of sound pulled within the stone conveys the depth of solitude that Basho felt at the site. It's almost as though the writer (and thus, the reader) feels himself a stone, and hearing the cry of the cicada becomes an act of absorption, a part of that ancient process of uniting the soul with nature which is elemental in Japanese Shinto, Taoist and Buddhist philosophy. There is an enduring echo in the cicada's cry, retained forever in the stones of the temple ruins.

The Tale of Genji - Murasaki Shikibu

The Tale of Genji, written by lady-in-waiting of the 11th-century Heian Court, Murasaki Shikibu, has long been regarded Japan's greatest literary achievement. One of the world's first novels, its story revolves around the sophisticated and alluring Prince Genji, illegitimate son of the emperor, and his progeny. Its portrayal of the Japanese Court is a great historical artifact, and the writing itself shows an awareness not only of the complex aristocracy, but of the secret pangs and desires each character bears. It at once brings to life the rich intrigue of Heian society, and exemplifies the tenets of Buddhism.

Japanese in this era was regarded as the common vernacular--communications of an official nature were conducted in Chinese. Only men of learning and authority were taught Chinese, and it was deemed unseemly (perhaps subversive) for a woman to able to read or write in the language of governing. Japanese symbols based on the Chinese were adopted for private use at home and were utilized by early female writers. Though Japanese was initially regarded as inferior to Chinese, as nationalism became popular, men in Japan began to feel divorced from their own language. An anthology of Japanese poetry was commissioned in 905, essentially reclaiming Japanese symbols for the educated men who had previously rejected them. Because men were so late to adopt the language, however, this historical era is largely defined by women.

Murasaki Shikibu gives no precise dates or real names to mark the occurrences in her novel, but it is generally believed that the story mimics her own experience of the court and follows the royal Fujiwara family who were in power during her time. The novel begins with the emperor's unseemly preference for a concubine over the chief wife. The shared love between the two provokes the jealous Lady Kokiden, especially after the concubine gives birth to extraordinary son. The concubine dies shortly after the boy's birth, weakened by the spite of Kokiden and her followers. The emperor, ravaged by grief, and wishing to shield his illegitimate son from the hatred of the court, cuts him off from the imperial succession.

The Emperor's finds peace in Fujitsubo, a replacement who bears a strong resemblance to the woman he's lost--the theme of substitution is heavy throughout the novel, especially in regard to Genji, and his unending search for a mother figure. When he grows older, in fact, Genji is entranced by Fujitsubo, falling madly and blindly for her, enough to disregard the fact that she is his father's concubine. Eventually, Fujitsubo gives birth to Genji's son, though the emperor thinks it's his own.

When Fujitsubo appears unattainable, Genji finds solace in young Murasaki, who reminds him of Fujitsubo (we later learn this is her niece). Enchanted with the girl, Genji brings Murasaki into his own household. Genji at this point is much estranged with his wife, engaged in love affairs with several ladies at court, and with young Murasaki. His illicit affairs wreak havoc--he is at last discovered with the fiancee of the crown prince and exiled from the capital.

Genji's time in exile is spent in purifying his soul. The lonely coast depresses him, and he longs to return the court. He meets and steals the heart of a local priest's daughter, who returns with him to the court when the emperor retires. The emperor asks Genji to look after his son (who is actually Genji's son), and restored to the court, Genji's household prospers. The eventual death of the emperor and Fujitsubo reveal that Genji has matured--he now views himself as a patriarch, and busies himself with his sons' prospects rather than with ladies of the court.

Genji is convinced by the new emperor to marry his third daughter, the young Third Princess. Over the course of four years, Murasaki's jealousy causes her to become ill, and Genji must take her away from the capital.

The moment he leaves the Third Princess unguarded, she is expertly seduced by Kashiwagi, the son of Genji's childhood friend. The lovers are implicated by a letter from Kashiwagi which Genji finds. The true transgression here is the carelessness of the lovers which leads to their discovery. Weighed by guilt and shame, Kashiwagi slowly dies, and the Third Princess decides to take vows, once she gives birth to a son. This episode ages Genji--he begins to look back, recognizing that he has become his father. With the wisdom of age and experience, he becomes more withdrawn and reflective.

Murasaki soon falls ill again. Genji refuses to let her purify her soul by taking vows, and she dies in the autumn. Genji waits a year before retiring from the court. He is 52 at this point in the novel, and his first grandson has just been born. The remainder of the novel follows Genji's progeny after his death. The themes in these final chapters mimic those which came before, but the world has changed. There are two centers in the narrative, Genji's grandson and Kashiwagi's son (publicly known as Genji's son). Their lives and decisions shadow Genji's, but the consequences are much more tragic, and they are left empty and aimless.

The Buddhist themes of predestination and the tragedy of desire are constantly repeated in the novel. The children are destined to repeat the mistakes of their forbears, and cyclical themes (like Genji's substitution of various women for his dead mother) highlight this infinite pattern. Attachment to the world in the end brings pain to the characters--only taking vows, renouncing all attachment, and retreating from the court brings peace.

The paintings above depict Genji spying on a conquest, from the third chapter of the novel (link), and Murasaki Shikibu as she writes to Genji during his exile (link).

The Pillow Book - Sei Shonagon

Sei Shonagon served as lady-in-waiting to Empress Sadako. Her Makura no Soshi, or Pillow Book, is a collection of anecdotes, musings, and events that Sei Shonagon recorded during her time in the 10th century Heian Court. Sei Shonagon was a familiar rival with Murasaki Shikibu, author of The Tale of Genji, and servant to the Emperor's second consort. Little is known about her outside her writings, and she is removed from history the moment she leaves the court and ends her journal. Her work is valuable as a historical reference, but also as a piece of literature, due to the skill with which Sei Shonagon writes, and the attention she pays to Japanese aesthetics and form.

"A good lover will behave as elegantly at dawn as at any other time. He drags himself out of bed with a look of dismay on his face. The lady urges him on: 'Come, my friend, it's getting light. You don't want anyone to find you here.' He gives a deep sigh, as if to say that the night has not been nearly long enough and that it is agony to leave. Once up, he does not instantly pull on his trousers. Instead he comes close to the lady and whispers whatever was left unsaid during the night. Even when he is dressed, he still lingers, vaguely pretending to be fastening his sash...

"Indeed, one's attachment to a man depends largely on the elegance of his leave-taking. When he jumps out of bed, scurries about the room, tightly fastens his trouser-sash, rolls up the sleeves of his Court cloak, over-robe, or hunting costume, stuffs his belongings into the breast of his robe, and then briskly secures the outer sash--one really begins to hate him."

It is in Sei Shonagon's writing that one begins to realize the importance of propriety, etiquette, and ritual to the Japanese people. A good performance shows an appreciation for the audience; a hurried, tactless action implies lack of care. Sei Shonagon emphasizes beauty in appearance and comportment; her most pleasant moments are spent watching the moon, snow, and elegantly clothed people in the court.

The above image is a drawing of Sei Shonagon by Kikuchi Yosai.

The Manyoshu

The Manyoshu (The Collection of Ten Thousand Leaves) is the earliest collection of Japanese poetry. Most of the poems were written in the seventh and eighth centuries by poets who served the Nara and Heian courts. Divided into twenty parts, the collection comprises several popular Japanese forms and themes ranging from courtly love to death and the soul's destination. The Manyoshu is somewhat unique to Japanese literature for its use of one of the earliest Japanese writing sysems--a blend of Chinese symbols used with their original ideographic meanings and also to represent Japanese phonetics.



Kakinomoto no Hitomaro (662-710 C.E.) was one of the most popular court poets of his time. He is the most prominent single poet in the Manyoshu collection, and his work has been very influential on modern Japanese poets.

from On Leaving His Wife as He Set Out From Iwami to the Capital

In the sea of Iwami,
by the cape of Kara,
there amid the deep-sea miru weed;
there along the rocky strand
grows the sleek sea-tangle.

Like the swaying sea-tangle,
unresisting would she lie beside me--
my wife whom I love with a love
deep as the miru-growing ocean.
But few are the nights
we two have lain together.

Away I have come, parting from her
even as the creeping vines do part.
My heart aches within me;
I turn back my gaze--
but because of the yellow leaves
of Watari Hill,
flying and fluttering in the air,
I cannot see plainly
my wife waving her sleeve to me.
Now as the moon, sailing through the cloud rift
above the mountain of Yakami,
disappears, leaving me full of regret,
so vanishes my love out of sight;
now sinks the sun,
coursing down the western sky.

I thought myself a strong man,
But the sleeves of my garment
are wetted through with tears.

The placement of sea-tangle and miru-weed deep within the ocean bed (mimicking the man and his wife) makes the narrator's being torn away violent. Though his leave-taking may have seemed quiet and honorable, we see his emotions are passionate. As he turns his head to gaze upon his home, his view is blocked by fallen yellow leaves--these leaves are a sign of passing time, and a hint that soon old age will come. In many poems this hint would inspire the audience to seize the moment; it is a tragic realization for the narrator, however, for he cannot simply return to his wife. The moon and sun travel their courses through the sky, and the man must cope with the time he is losing. The final lines of the poem that his overwhelmed by his grief--the image of a wet kimono sleeve is frequently used in Japanese literature as a sign of immense sorrow.

Here, as in most Japanese art, the symbol is an extremely subtle guide to emotion. These symbols are often conventional, and Hitomaro uses elements of nature to create metaphors already familiar to the literate Japanese. These familiar symbols allow the poem to stand at three levels--the literal, the figurative, and the aesthetic.

Snow Country - Yasunari Kawabata

Yasunari Kawabata was born 1899 in Osaka, Japan to a prosperous middle class family. He experienced a great deal of loss during his childhood--he was orphaned at the age of two, and his grandmother and sister died before he was ten. This familiarity with loss and grief is palpable in the stark tragedies he writes. Kawabata was a popular fiction writer, and his works were serialized in several publications. Snow Country, published in installments from 1935-37, brought him a great deal of recognition and is considered by some to be his masterpiece.


Snow Country is the story of Shimamura, a westernized upper-class gentleman of Tokyo, and Komako, a traditional geisha who lived at the isolated hot springs of Japan's "snow country," the mountainous west coast of Japan buried in snow for long winters. Their affair is tragic, filled with misunderstandings between the two. Shimamura is a connoisseur of the aesthetic. He is translating French treatises about occidental ballet into Japanese throughout the novel. It is important to note, however, that he has never seen occidental ballet performed--he is enamored of his own imaginings. This preference to dream and ideal is the root of his misunderstandings with Komako.

"A ballet he had never seen was an art in another world. It was an unrivaled armchair reverie, a lyric from some paradise. He called his work research, but it was actually free, uncontrolled fantasy. He preferred not to savor the ballet in the flesh; rather he savored the phantasms of his own dancing imagination, called up by Western books and pictures. It was like being in love with someone he had never seen." (25)

The tragedy of the novel lies in Shimamura's inability to return Komako's unreserved love. He watches and criticizes her as one would a piece of art. He doesn't fully interact with her, though. Their conversations are merely small-talk. Shimamura's idea of depth is a clinical understanding of art, a collection of terms and critical theories. When he views the scene at the hot springs, he sees the beauty of the colors, feels a distant appreciation for the people who retain the traditional Japanese roles. But he doesn't become a part of the scene, or a functioning member of their society.

"He began to wonder what was lacking in him, what kept him from living as completely. He stood gazing at his own coldness, so to speak. He could not understand how she had so lost herself. All of Komako came to him, but it seemed that nothing went out from him to her. He heard in his chest, like snow piling up, the sound of Komako, an echo beating against empty walls." (155)

There are moments when Shimamura feels pulled by his emotion for Komako--especially when she is performing music or speaking of art--but he immediately distances himself from any real emotion. "As her voice rose higher, Shimamura began to feel a little frightened. How far would that strong, sure touch take him? He rolled over and pillowed his head on an arm, as if in bored indifference" (71).


The novel concludes with a fragmented scene. Shimamura and Komako are together in the evening, admiring the beauty of the Milky Way in the clear night sky when they hear that a fire has broken out in the town. Everybody rushes to assist with putting the fire out and making whatever rescues are necessary. Shimamura and Komako are torn between following the codes of propriety (separating so that their relationship is undiscovered) and being together through the frightening event. In the midst of this excitement, Shimamura continues to glance at the Milky Way. A young girl who lived with Komako dies in the fire, and scene culminates with Komako screaming. Shimamura is completely separated from Komako at this point, horrified by the scene: "He tried to move toward that half-mad voice, but he was pushed aside by the men who had come to take Yoko from her. As he caught his footing, his head feel back, and the Milky Way flowed down inside him with a roar" (175). He watches Komako plunge into the ashes, absorbs her grief and the greatness of the Milky Way in the same moment. It is in this moment that Shimamura realizes his smallness in the universe, his impotence and unimportance. The Japanese refer to this awareness as mono no aware, a beuatifully heartrending sadness at the transience of worldly things. Shimamura, who has placed so much value on ideal (and unreal) forms, now sadly realizes how many chances to embrace reality he has forgone.