# Anthology of Japanese Literature/The Pillow Book

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​The Pillow Book of
Sei Shōnagon
[Makura no Sōshi]
“The Pillow Book” of Sei Shōnagon, written about 1002, is one of the most delightful works of Japanese literature. The author, a near contemporary of Murasaki Shikibu, was a woman of remarkable talent and wit, and her book is perhaps the closest approach to high comedy in Japanese literature. It is a work without precedent, filled with flashing impressions and delicate touches, if lacking in great depth. In this translation by Arthur Waley some of the most engaging episodes are given.
    Stray Notes
One writes a letter, taking particular trouble to get it up as prettily as possible; then waits for the answer, making sure every moment that it cannot be much longer before something comes. At last, frightfully late, is brought in—one’s own note, still folded or tied exactly as one sent it, but so finger-marked and smudged that even the address is barely legible. “The family is not in residence,” the messenger says, giving one back the note. Or “It is his day of observance and they said they could not take any letters in.” Such experiences are dismally depressing.
One has been expecting someone, and rather late at night there is a stealthy tapping at the door. One sends a maid to see who it is, and lies waiting, with some slight flutter of the breast. But the name one hears when she returns is that of someone completely different, who does not concern one at all. Of all depressing experiences, this is by far the worst.
Someone comes, with whom one has decided not to have futher ​dealings. One pretends to be fast asleep, but some servant or person connected with one comes to wake one up, and pulls one about, with a face as much as to say “What a sleep-hog!” This is always exceedingly irritating.
If someone with whom one is having an affair keeps on mentioning some woman whom he knew in the past, however long ago it is since they separated, one is always irritated.
It is very tiresome when a lover who is leaving one at dawn says that he must look for a fan or pocket-book that he left somewhere about the room last night. As it is still too dark to see anything, he goes fumbling about all over the place, knocking into everything and muttering to himself, “How very odd!” When at last he finds the pocket-book he crams it into his dress with a great rustling of the pages; or if it is a fan he has lost, he swishes it open and begins flapping it about, so that when he finally takes his departure, instead of experiencing the feelings of regret proper to such an occasion, one merely feels irritated at his clumsiness. …
It is important that a lover should know how to make his departure. To begin with, he ought not to be too ready to get up, but should require a little coaxing: “Come, it is past daybreak. You don’t want to be found here…” and so on. One likes him, too, to behave in such a way that one is sure he is unhappy at going and would stay longer if he possibly could. He should not pull on his trousers the moment he is up, but should first of all come close to one’s ear and in a whisper finish off whatever was left half-said in the course of the night. But though he may in reality at these moments be doing nothing at all, it will not be amiss that he should appear to be buckling his belt. Then he should raise the shutters, and both lovers should go out together at the double doors, while he tells her how much he dreads the day that is before him and longs for the approach of night. Then, after he has slipped away, she can stand gazing after him, with charming recollections of those last moments. Indeed, the success of a lover depends greatly on his method of departure. If he springs to his feet with a jerk and at once begins fussing round, tightening in the waistband of his breeches, or adjusting the sleeves of his court robe, hunting jacket, or what not, ​collecting a thousand odds and ends, and thrusting them into the folds or his dress, or pulling in his overbelt—one begins to hate him.
I like to think of a bachelor—an adventurous disposition has left him single—returning at dawn from some amorous excursion. He looks a trifle sleepy; but, as soon as he is home, draws his writing case toward him, carefully grinds himself some ink and begins to write his next-morning letter—not simply dashing off whatever comes into his head, but spreading himself to the task and taking trouble to write the characters beautifully. He should be clad in an azalea-yellow or vermilion cloak worn over a white robe. Glancing from time to time at the dewdrops that still cling to the thin white fabric of his dress, he finishes his letter, but instead of giving it to one of the ladies who are in attendance upon him at the moment, he gets up and, choosing from among his page-boys one who seems to him exactly appropriate to such a mission, calls the lad to him, and whispering something in his ear puts the letter in his hand; then sits gazing after him as he disappears into the distance. While waiting for the answer he will perhaps quietly murmur to himself this or that passage from the Sutras. Presently he is told that his washing water and porridge are ready, and goes into the back room, where, seated at the reading table, he glances at some Chinese poems, now and then reciting out loud some passage that strikes his fancy. When he has washed and got into his court cloak, which he wears as a dressing gown (without trousers), he takes the sixth chapter of the Lotus Scripture and reads it silently. Precisely at the most solemn moment of his reading—the place being not far away—the messenger returns, and by his posture it is evident that he expects an instant reply. With an amusing if blasphemous rapidity the lover transfers his attention from the book he is reading to the business of framing his answer.
From the beginning of the fifth month, it had been dark, rainy weather all the time. I became so bored that at last I suggested we ​had better go out and see if we couldn’t somewhere hear the cuckoo singing. This idea was very well received, and one of the girls suggested we should try that bridge behind the Kamo Shrine (it isn’t called Magpie Bridge, but something rather like it). She said that there was a cuckoo there every day. Someone else said it was not a cuckoo at all, but a cricket. However, on the morning of the fifth day, off we went. When we ordered the carriage, the men said they didn’t suppose that in such weather as this anyone would mind if we were picked up outside our own quarters and taken out by the Northern Gate. There was only room for four. Some of the other ladies asked whether we should mind their getting another carriage and coming too. But the Empress said “No,” and though they were very much disappointed we drove off rather hardheartedly without attempting to console them or indeed worrying about them at all. Something seemed to be happening at the riding ground, where there was a great press of people. When we asked what was going on, we were told that the competitions were being held, and that the archers were just going to shoot on horseback. It was said, too, that the officers of the Bodyguard of the Left were there; but all we could see, when we had pulled up, was a few gentlemen of the Sixth Rank wandering vaguely about. “Oh, do let us get on,” someone said; “there’s no one of any interest here.” So we drove on toward Kamo, the familiar road making us feel quite as though we were on our way to the festival. Presently we came to my lord Akinobu’s house, and someone suggested we should get out and have a look at it. Everything was very simple and countrified—pictures of horses on the panels, screens of wattled bamboo, curtains of plaited grass—all in a style that seemed to be intentionally behind the times. The house itself was a poor affair and very cramped, but quite pretty in its way. As for cuckoos, we were nearly deafened! It is really a great pity Her Majesty never hears them. And when we thought of the ​ladies who had wanted so badly to come with us, we felt quite guilty. “It’s always interesting to see things done on the spot,” said Akinobu, and sending for some stuff which I suppose was husked rice, he made some girls—very clean and respectable—along with others who seemed to come from neighboring farms, show us how the rice was thrashed. Five or six of them did this, and then the grain was put into a sort of machine that went round, two girls turning it and at the same time singing so strange a song that we could not help laughing, and had soon forgotten all about the cuckoos. Then refreshments were brought on a queer old tray-stand such as one sees in Chinese pictures. As no one seemed much interested in its contents, our host said: “This is rough country fare. If you don’t like it, the only thing to do in a place like this is to go on bothering your host or his servants till you get something you can eat. We don’t expect you people from the capital to be shy. These fern-shoots, now. I gathered them with my own hand.” “You don’t want us to arrange ourselves round the tray-stand like a lot of maid-servants sitting down to their supper?” I protested.
“Hand the things round,” he said … and while this was going on, in the midst of the clatter, one of the men came in and said that it was going to rain, and we hurried back to our carriage. I wanted to make my cuckoo-poem before we started; but the others said I could do it in the carriage. Before going we picked a huge branch of white-flower and decorated our carriage with it, great trails of blossom hanging over the windows and sides, till one would have thought a huge canopy of white brocade had been flung across the roof of the coach. Our grooms, throwing themselves into the thing, began with shouts of laughter squeezing fresh boughs of blossom into every cranny that would hold them. We longed to be seen by someone on our way back, but not a soul did we meet, save one or two wretched priests or other such uninteresting people. When we were nearly home we made up our minds it would be too dull to finish the day without anyone having seen us in our splendor, so we stopped at the palace in the First Ward and asked for the Captain, saying we were just back from hearing the cuckoo. We were told he ​had been off duty for some time and had got into easy clothes; but was now being helped into his court trousers. Wouldn’t we wait? We said we couldn’t do that, and were driving on to the Eastern Gate, when he suddenly appeared running after us down the road. He had certainly changed in a marvelously short space of time, but was still buckling his belt as he ran. Behind him, barefooted in their haste, panted several dressers and grooms. We called to the coachman to drive on and had already reached the gate when, hopelessly out of breath, he staggered up to us. It was only then that he saw how we were decorated. “This is a fairy chariot,” he laughed. “I do not believe there are real people in it. If there are, let them get down and show themselves.”
“But, Shōnagon, what poems did you make today? That’s what I should like to hear.” “We’re keeping them for Her Majesty,” I replied. Just then it once more began to rain in earnest. “I have always wondered,” he said, “why when all the other gates have arches, this Eastern Gate should have none. Today, for example, one badly needs it.” “What am I to do now?” he asked presently. “I was so determined to catch up with you that I rushed out without thinking what was to become of me afterward.” “Don’t be so ridiculous,” I said. “You can come with us to the palace.” “In an eboshi?” he asked. “What can you be thinking of?” “Send someone to fetch your hat,” I suggested. But it was now raining badly and our men, who had no raincoats with them, were pulling in the carriage as quickly as they could. One of his men presently arrived from his palace with an umbrella, and under its shelter he now, with a slow reluctance that contrasted oddly with his previous haste, made his way home, continually stopping to look back at us over his shoulder. With his umbrella in one hand and a bunch of white-flower in the other, he was an amusing sight.
When we were back in the palace, Her Majesty asked for an account of our adventures. The girls who had been left behind were at first inclined to be rather sulky; but when we described how the Captain had run after us down the Great Highway of the First ​Ward, they could not help laughing. Presently the Empress asked about our poems, and we were obliged to explain that we had not made any. “That is very unfortunate,” she said. “Some of the gentlemen at court are bound to hear of your excursion, and they will certainly expect something to have come of it. I can quite understand that on the spot it was not very easy to write anything. When people make too solemn an affair of such things, one is apt suddenly to feel completely uninterested. But it is not too late. Write something now. You’re good for that much, surely.” This was all true enough; but it turned out to be a painful business. We were still trying to produce something when a messenger arrived, with a note from the Captain. It was written on thin paper stamped with the white-flower pattern, and was attached to the spray that he had taken from our carriage. His poem said: “Would that of this journey I had heard. So had my heart been with you when you sought the cuckoo’s song.” Fearing that we were keeping the messenger waiting, her Majesty sent round her own writing case to our room, with paper slipped into the lid. “You write something, Saishō,” I said. But Saishō was determined that I should write, and while we argued about it the sky suddenly grew dark, rain began to pour, and there were such deafening peals of thunder, that we forgot all about our poem, and frightened out of our wits ran wildly from place to place, closing shutters and doors. The storm lasted a long time, and when at last the thunder became less frequent, it was already dark. We were just saying we really must get on with our answer, when crowds of visitors began to arrive, all anxious to talk about the storm, and we were obliged to go out and look after them. One of the courtiers said that a poem only needs an answer when it is addressed to someone in particular, and we decided to do no more about it. I said to the Empress that poetry seemed to have a bad karma today, and added that the best thing we could do was to keep as quiet as possible about our excursion. “I still don’t see why some of you who went should not be able to produce a few poems,” she replied, pretending to be cross. “It isn’t that you can’t; of that I am sure. You have made up your minds not to.” “The time has passed,” I said. “One must do those things when one is in the right mood.” “Right mood? What ​nonsense!” she exclaimed indignantly. But all the same, she did not worry me any more about it.
Two days afterward Saishō was talking about our excursion, and mentioned the fern-shoots that Akinobu had “plucked with his own hand.” The Empress was amused that Saishō seemed to have retained a much clearer memory of the refreshments than of anything else that happened during the expedition, and picking up a stray piece of paper she wrote: “The memory of a salad lingers in her head,” and bade me make a beginning for the poem. I wrote: “More than the cuckoo’s song that she went out to hear.” “Well, Shōnagon,” she said, laughing, “how you of all people can have the face to mention cuckoos, I cannot imagine.” I felt very crestfallen, but answered boldly: “I don’t see anything to be ashamed of. I have made up my mind only to make poems when I feel inclined to. If, whenever there is a question of poetry, you turn upon me and ask me to compose, I shall stay in your service no longer. When I am called upon like that, I can’t even count the syllables, still less think whether I am writing a winter song in spring, or a spring song in autumn. … I know there have been a lot of poets in my family; and it would certainly be very nice if, after one of these occasions, people said: ‘Of course, hers was much the best; but that is not surprising, considering what her father was.’ As it is, not having the slightest degree of special talent in that direction, I object strongly to being perpetually thrust forward and made to behave as though I thought myself a genius. I feel I am disgracing my father’s memory!” I said this quite seriously; but the Empress laughed. However, she said I might do as I pleased, and promised that for her part she would never call upon me again. I felt immensely relieved. …
TRANSLATED BY ARTHUR WALEY
* ↑ Of the year 995.
* ↑ Instead of walking to the Eastern Gate, the only one which the palace staff was supposed to use.
* ↑ The Kamo festival, in the fourth month.
* ↑ The Empress’s maternal uncle. The Empress’s mother came of a comparatively humble family.
* ↑ Fujiwara no Kiminobu, aged eighteen; cousin of the Empress.
* ↑ A soft, high-crowned cap.
* ↑ The bulls that drew it had to be unyoked at the palace gate.