VOLUME 5
2022

Published by

National Institute of Japanese Literature
TokyoCenter for Collaborative Research on Pre-modern Texts,
National Institute of Japanese Literature (NIJL)
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Editorial Board
Chief Editor
Watanabe Yasuaki
渡部泰明

Director-General/Professor, National Institute ofJapanese Literature

Guest Editor
Bonaventura Ruperti

Professor, Università Ca’ Foscari Venezia

ボナベントゥーラ・ルペルティ Project Leader, International Collaborative Research(NIJL-NW Project): “Arising from Words andImages: The Body in Traditional Performing Arts”

Editors
Saitō Maori

Professor, National Institute of Japanese Literature

Unno Keisuke

Professor, National Institute of Japanese Literature

Didier Davin

Associate Professor, National Institute of Japanese
Literature

Yamamoto Yoshitaka

Associate Professor, National Institute of Japanese
Literature

Jeffrey Knott

Assistant Professor, National Institute of Japanese
Literature

齋藤真麻理
海野圭介

ディディエ・ダヴァン
山本嘉孝

ジェフリー・ノット

Advisory Board
Jean-Noël Robert

Professor, Collège de France

X. Jie Yang

Professor, University of Calgary

Shimazaki Satoko
嶋崎聡子

Associate Professor, University of California, Los
AngelesMichael Watson

Professor, Meiji Gakuin University

Araki Hiroshi
荒木浩 	Professor, International Research Center forJapanese Studies

ジャン＝ノエル・ロベール
楊暁捷

マイケル・ワトソン

Contents
Special Feature
International Collaborative Research Project“Arising from Words and Images: The Body in Traditional
Performing Arts”
Intertextuality and Corporality in Chikamatsu Monzaemon’s
Shutendōji makurakotoba
Bonaventura Ruperti  1
The Water Mirror Motif in the Noh Play Izutsu: Continuation
and Variation of a Classical Theme
Sagiyama Ikuko
Translated by Michael Burtscher  27
Physical Imitations of the Deva King Statue: Performancesof Kabuki in the Seventeenth Century
Takei KyōzōTranslated by Tove Björk   47Textual Heritage Embodied: Entanglements of Tangible andIntangible in the Aoi no ue utaibon of the Hōshō School ofNohEdoardo Gerlini  55
Sakura Sōgorō between Kabuki and Kōdan: A Cross-Genre
Genealogy
Stefano Romagnoli  87
The Sound, the Body, the Classics: Nagai Kafū and Traditional
Theater
Gala Maria Follaco

107Articles
Sōgi’s Problem Passages: Exegetical Method and the Idea of
the TextJeffrey Knott 131
The Reception and Reworking of Empress Renxiao’s Book ofExhortations: Chinese Works in Japan as Mediated throughPrinted Buddhist Texts

Kimura Michiko
Submission Guidelines167

Studies in Japanese Literature and Culture 5 (March 2022) 1–25
© 2022 National Institute of Japanese Literature

Intertextuality and Corporality
in Chikamatsu Monzaemon’s
Shutendōji makurakotoba
Bonaventura Ruperti

Università Ca’ Foscari Venezia

The Development of the Shutendōji Legend
The Shutendōji 酒呑童子 legend prototype is believed to have taken shapeduring the Nanbokuchō 南北朝 period (1336–1392). The oldest known surviving text containing the legend is the Ōeyama emaki 大江山絵巻 (Illustrated Scrollof Ōeyama), produced in the latter half of the fourteenth century and now heldat the Itsuō Museum of Art 逸翁美術館. The legend was thereafter widely disseminated through numerous other later emaki versions (e.g., Ōeyama emaki,Ōeyama ki 大江山記, and Shutendōji ezōshi 酒顚童子絵草子).1 It was also presented informats ranging from Muromachi monogatari 2 室町物語 (i.e., otogi-zōshi 御伽草子) toillustrated manuscripts among the group of texts known as Nara ehon 奈良絵本
(e.g., Ōeyama 大江山). It is also one of the twenty-three short works collected in
the famous Otogi bunko 御伽文庫 series by Shibukawa Seiemon 渋川清右衛門,
published in illustrated woodblock-print editions during the early modern period.3
However, the Shutendōji story, which was reworked into various depictions in
illustrated scrolls and books, did not take only visual forms. It was also brought
to three-dimensional life through the performing arts, including noh, puppet
1
For primary sources listed in the notes, the holding institution is the National Institute ofJapanese Literature if none other is specified.
Shutendōji ekotoba, Kuchinashi Bunko 支子文庫, Kyushu University. Full-color images available
on the Kyushu University Library website. See fig. 1 below.
Shutendōji ezōshi, Shizuoka Prefectural Central Library 静岡県立中央図書館: https://doi.org/
10.20730/100065412.
Shutendōji emaki, Ōeyama kotoba, Osaka Otani University Library 大阪大谷大学図書館. Fullcolor images available at NIJL’s “Database of Pre-Modern Japanese Works.” See figs. 2a and 2b
below.
2
For example, Shutendōji: https://doi.org/10.20730/200006787.
3
Satake, Shutendōji ibun, pp. 1–246; Takahashi, Shutendōji no tanjō, pp. 1–234; Komatsu, Ikai to
Nihonjin, pp. 31–44.

1Ruperti2

theater (ningyō jōruri 人形浄瑠璃), and kabuki. In the latter, the image of the dark
world created by the medieval imagination eclipsed a number of the story’s earlier aspects, such as demon (yōkai 妖怪) exterminations, hero adventures, andfantastic tales with main characters carrying out heroic exploits; light was to beshed now also on the existence of various subversive characters. The drama of
the protagonist himself became more attractive material for these staged works,
in which engaging drama was combined with themes of power, cruelty, andgrief. As part of this trend, by way of noh dramas (particularly Ōeyama) and various old puppet dramas (kojōruri 古浄瑠璃, “old” jōruri, i.e., texts that predate theera of the playwright Chikamatsu Monzaemon), the Shutendōji legend—which
had by then incorporated elements of the Rashōmon 羅生門 legend as told in noh
and otogi-zōshi—came at length to be adapted as Shutendōji makurakotoba 酒呑童子
枕言葉 by the jōruri and kabuki playwright Chikamatsu Monzaemon 近松門左衛門(1653–1724).4
Chikamatsu wrote more than one hundred jōruri plays, two of which feature
the Shutendōji legend as their main theme:•  Shutendōji makura no koto no ha (Shutendōji makurakotoba), which premiered at
the Osaka theater Takemoto-za 竹本座 in 17095•  Keisei Shutendōji 傾城酒吞童子, which premiered at the Osaka Takemoto-za in
1718.
Shutendōji makurakotoba is a dramatic work that presents a story from the complex
and unique imaginary world developed by Chikamatsu, while also referencing
earlier works focused on the Shutendōji legend. Keisei Shutendōji, the latter work,
is a partial modification of the first. Based on the true story of Ibarakiya Kōsai
茨木屋幸斎, the manager of a house of courtesans in Osaka’s Shinmachi 新町
area who was punished in 1718 for his luxurious life, the play compares this real
person and contemporaneous events to the Shutendōji legend.6
In this article, I would like to focus on the puppet drama Shutendōji makurakotoba,
narrated at its first performance by Takemoto Gidayū 竹本義太夫 (Chikugonojō
筑後掾; 1651–1714) as main narrator. I would like to examine the relationship of
Chikamatsu’s work to earlier works and to other literary sources that interpret
the Shutendōji legend—focusing in particular on the noh Ōeyama and the key
themes and narrative elements which that work introduced. Finally, I would liketo analyze the distinctive characteristics of Chikamatsu’s Shutendōji makurakotoba
itself, especially its depiction of the protagonist, and consider the role of corporality in the work’s narrative and staging.

Uchiyama, “ ‘Shutendōji makurakotoba’: kaisetsu,” pp. 112–113; “ ‘Shutendōji makurakotoba
Onigajō taimen no dan,’ ” pp. 101–115.
5
Uchiyama, “ ‘Shutendōji makurakotoba Onigajō taimen no dan,’ ” pp. 101–115.
6Ōhashi, “Ibarakiya Kōsai ikken to Kaion, Chikamatsu,” pp. 17–30.
4Intertextuality and Corporality in Shutendōji makurakotoba

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The Components of the Shutendōji Story in Previous Works and in theNoh Ōeyama
There are many texts containing some version of the Shutendōji story, which
was widely disseminated during the Muromachi period (1392–1573). These
works can be grouped roughly into two lines of transmission, depending on
where the protagonist Shutendōji is said to live: (A) the Ōeyama 大江山 line (after
a mountain in the Tanba 丹波 region) and (B) the Ibukiyama 伊吹山 line (after amountain in the Ōmi 近江 region), which originated later. A famous Ibukiyamaline work is Kanō Motonobu’s 狩野元信 (1476–1559) Shutendōji emaki 酒呑童子
絵巻, in the collection of the Suntory Museum of Art.
Several noh dramas also feature the Shutendōji story. These generally fall into
the “living noh” (genzai nō 現在能) and “dream and apparition noh” (mugen nō
夢幻能) categories. The work that seems to have the deepest relationship with
Chikamatsu’s work, however, is the still-currently performed noh Ōeyama.7 Said
to have been written by Miyamasu 宮増 (dates unknown), Ōeyama seems to beclose to the Ōeyama line, especially the Katori-bon 香取本 manuscript ofŌeyama ekotoba 大江山絵詞 (Itsuō Museum of Art).8
Amano Fumio 天野文雄 has summarized the basic elements of the Ōeyama
play’s overall plot as follows:
1. Minamoto no Raikō 源頼光 (or Yorimitsu, 948–1021), having received anorder from the Emperor to exterminate the Mt. Ōe demon, heads with his
more than fifty vassals to Mt. Ōe, all of them disguised as mountain ascetics,
or yamabushi 山伏.
2. The group encounters a woman washing clothes in a mountain river, andwith her guidance, they find Shutendōji.
3. Shutendōji recounts his personal history to Raikō and his men, including:(a) the origin of his name, (b) his pursuit by the Buddhist monk Dengyō
Daishi 伝教大師 (Saichō 最澄, 767–822) and subsequent flight from Mt.
Hiei 比叡, and (c) his wandering through the mountains of various provinces.
4. R
 aikō and Shutendōji’s banquet, including the episodes of: (d) “child first,
Sannō second” (ichi chigo, ni Sannō 一稚児二山王), (e) the “enumeration ofgrasses and flowers,” and (f) the poem “red (complexion) is the work of thesake, not my sin” (akaki wa sake no toga zo 赤きは酒の咎ぞ).
Various texts of this play (under various titles) can be consulted online:
Shutendōji (nō no hon 能の本), Yamanouchi Bunko 山内文庫, Kōchi Castle Museum of History
高知城歴史博物館: https://doi.org/10.20730/100104625.
Shutendōji (nō no hon), Yamanouchi Bunko, Kōchi Castle Museum of History: https://doi.org/
10.20730/100078305.
Ōeyama (nō no hon): https://doi.org/10.20730/200001192; https://doi.org/10.20730/200002472.
Ōeyama (nō no hon), Ukai Bunko 鵜飼文庫, National Institute of Japanese Literature: https://doi.org/10.20730/200017937.
8
Amano, “ ‘Shutendōji’ kō,” pp. 16–17.
7

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4

5. Shutendōji becomes drunk and falls asleep. (This is followed by an intermission, or nakairi 中入).
6. Raikō and his vassals, with the help of the women being held captive by
Shutendōji, enter the demon’s sleeping alcove and defeat him.9
Within this general plot scheme, the focus of the play is on elements 3 and 4.
It omits episodes found in other versions, such as the divination by Abe no Seimei
安倍晴明 (921–1005), which occurs between elements 1 and 2, as well as Raikō’s
propitiatory visits to the Hachiman 八幡 and Sumiyoshi 住吉 Shrines, and theassistance given to Raikō by various gods in the mountains. It also excludes thesecond half of the narrative as told in the Muromachi monogatari version, withepisodes such as Raikō’s triumphant return to the Capital, which takes place afterelement 6 in the plot outline above.
Regarding the noh Ōeyama’s theme, Nogami Toyoichirō 野上豊一郎 has stated,“It is a tale of heroic military exploits whose protagonist is Minamoto no Raikōand which deals with the demon extermination on Mt. Ōe; but this piece’s distinctive feature is that it places greater emphasis on the humanity of the main
character (shite シテ) rather than on making that character a demon.”10Ōeyama focuses on these main scenes: Raikō (the secondary character role, or
waki ワキ) and his companions, the “Four Heavenly Kings” (Shitennō 四天王)—
including Hōshō 保昌 (or Yasumasa, in the role of waki attendant, or wakizureワキツレ)—enter the scene, all disguised as yamabushi, and leave for Mt. Ōe, travelingthrough an autumn landscape (as presented in the journey scene, or michiyuki 道行).
Along the way, they meet the aforementioned woman washing bloodied clothes.
They meet Shutendōji (the shite role), in the form of a human child, and Raikō
begins to converse with the demon. Their conversation unfolds over several
climactic high-tension moments (a, b, c; then d, e, f): Shutendōji tells Raikō theorigin of his name, but having revealed his background, nature, and place of refuge,
he feels afraid that he will lose his power and asks Raikō not to reveal his refuge
to others. In trusting Raikō and the others with his secrets, Shutendōji relies on
the belief that yamabushi, like monks, treasure “boy first, the god of the mountain [Sannō] second” 一稚児二山王 (a saying based on a legend that when Saichōfirst climbed Mt. Hiei, where he founded a Buddhist temple (Enryaku-ji 延暦寺),
he encountered there a boy before he met Sannō Gongen 山王権現). Shutendōji
therefore believes that the apparent “religious visitors or pilgrims” will venerate
and respect him, an apparent boy (chigo). Finally, Shutendōji, with the words “red(complexion) is the work of the sake, not my sin,” confides that his redness isdue to a passion for sake and not because he is a demon. When the banquet gets
lively, Shutendōji starts to dance, with uncertain steps, but then the effect of thesake makes itself felt and he retires to his sleeping alcove.
9

Ibid., pp. 16–17.
Nogami, Yōkyoku zenshū, p. 499.

10

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During the nakairi, while the actor playing Shutendōji is offstage (or hidden in
the alcove on stage), Raikō and his vassals, wearing armor, prepare for the assault. Meanwhile, in the interlude (aikyōgen 間狂言), a certain low-ranking vassal(the primary kyōgen role, or omoai オモアイ) courts the woman who guided them(the secondary kyōgen role, or adoai アドアイ)—whom he already knows—andthe two flee and return together to the Capital.
In the second part of the play, Raikō and his vassals enter the sleeping alcove
and attack Shutendōji, who during his sleep has assumed the appearance of ademon, showing his true nature. They then strike the demon down, aided by thepower of Sannō Gongen.
Looking back over the above synopsis, we can emphasize the following points:(1) Raikō and his vassals disguise themselves as yamabushi and enter “anotherworld.” (2) They meet a woman (the one later appearing in the aikyōgen) washingbloody clothes, who then guides them to the abode of a child/demon (aside fromthe depiction of washing bloody clothes, Ōeyama does not include any scenes ofcruel violence). (3) Shutendōji does not show hostility toward the yamabushi andwelcomes them without resistance. (4) Even though he possesses a special
power, he talks about himself and his fears of losing that power. (5) He explainsthat he was exiled from Mt. Hiei after Saichō established Enryaku-ji Temple. (6)He recounts how he subsequently wandered through the mountains and took
refuge in many places. (7) He expresses his worries and his sadness that revealing
his true nature and weaknesses will cause him to lose his strength. (8) However,
because Enryaku-ji monks consider children to be more important than the godof Mt. Hiei (“child first, Sannō second”), he trusts that the yamabushi, as “religious men,” will have consideration and pity for him. (9) There is a pronounced
contrast between Shutendōji’s appearance in the first part of the play, when heappears as a child (the actor wears one of the dōji 童子, daidōji 大童子, or jidō 児童masks, used for boy roles, along with a black-haired, kurogashira 黒頭 wig), and in
the second part, when he appears as a demon (the actor wearing one of the shikami
顰 or shishiguchi 獅子口 masks used for demon or deity roles, together with a redhaired, akagashira 赤頭 wig). (10) He feels betrayed by the deceitful yamabushi, inwhom he had trusted and confided, and he succumbs to their attack.
Shutendōji is a creature that must be defeated and conquered as a dangerous
demon, but he resists conquest by the central government. Despite his demon-like nature, he is eternally a young boy (dōgyō 童形, literally “child shape”)
who does not age. Shutendōji is a land-protecting deity (jinushi no kami 地主神),
like the territorial guardians and gods who had settled on Mt. Hiei before Saichōconstructed Enryaku-ji Temple, and perhaps now he also represents something
like an outcast (senmin 賎民) who lives in the mountains, an outsider who lives
outside of civilization, feared or despised by the people of the Capital.11 Such
11

Kanai, Nō no kenkyū, pp. 348–352.

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figures are manifestations of a “different world,” and everything that is different
and hostile must be exterminated—all opponents are evil. Even disorder ingovernance is regarded as the work of some demon-god, in the eyes of central
powers and rulers (in this case, the Kyoto imperial court).12 Therefore, many primordial land gods, earth spirits, or other fallen deities who have become troublesome suffer discrimination, exclusion, and conquest: “Since both the earth
and the trees are our Great Lord’s land, wherever there could be refuge fordemons.”13
In the noh drama, however, Shutendōji is depicted as a human being, rather
than as a demon or a villain. He is portrayed as a creature that makes others feel
his sincerity. Shutendōji is not an evil monster but a good and sincere “demon”:
he confesses his fate of continuous exile and discrimination, showing resistanceagainst oppression. The final aspect of his depiction that would have impressed
the audience is Shutendōji’s indignant and enraged verbal counterattack against
Raikō and his men, in whom he had confided his heart and by whom feels betrayed.
It can be said that even sacrificed animals (the most emblematic example being
in Zeami’s Nue 鵺) and demons destined to be subdued could become the main
characters in noh drama: placed at the center of the drama as its protagonists,they have the opportunity to express their deep suffering and sorrow, as creatures whose hearts are full of sadness.
Shutendōji in the Early Modern Period
In the Edo period (1603–1867), the legend of Shutendōji’s demon extermination—a story well known from illustrated scrolls and otogi-zōshi since the Muromachi period, although set in the Heian era—came to be depicted in numerous
formats, such as illustrated books14 and nishiki-e 錦絵 woodblock prints, gaining
wide popularity, in particular through the genre of popular illustrated fiction
known as kusa-zōshi 草双紙.15 The mysteriously charming legend spread also toearly modern theater, specifically to jōruri (starting with the narrator Satsuma
Jōun 薩摩浄雲, 1595–1672) and kabuki, where the plot developed greater
breadth and complexity.
Ibid., pp. 350–351.
Nogami, Yōkyoku zenshū, p. 517.
14
For example, Ōeyama Shutendōji (ehon 絵本). Images available at NIJL’s “Database of
Pre-Modern Japanese Works.” See fig. 3 below.
Shutendōji (Muromachi monogatari), Ukai Bunko, National Institute of Japanese Literature. Fullcolor images available at NIJL’s “Database of Pre-Modern Japanese Works.” See figs. 4a and 4b
below.
Shutendōji yuraiki: https://doi.org/10.20730/200020048.
15
Arakawa, “Kusa-zōshi ni okeru Shuntendōji setsuwa no riyō,” pp. 47–82. For example, thereis the work Raikō Ōeyama iri 頼光大江山入 by Chikuyōsha Kinpei 竹葉舎金瓶, images of which
are available at NIJL’s “Database of Pre-Modern Japanese Works.” See fig. 5 below.
1213Intertextuality and Corporality in Shutendōji makurakotoba

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Here I list just a few examples of kojōruri plays based on the legend:16 (1)Shutendōji wakazakari 酒典童子若壮 by Edo Satsumadayū 江戸薩摩太夫 (1660)
tells the story of Shutendōji’s childhood and upbringing; (2) Shutendōji (in fivesections, or dan 段), narrated in 1676 by Yamamoto Kakutayū 山本角太夫 (later
Tosanojō 土佐掾), contains texts and chapters that are almost identical to those ofanother kojōruri play; and (3) Shutendōji tsuketari Raikō yamairi 酒顚童子付頼光山入
by Itō Dewanojō 伊藤出羽掾 (dates unknown, active around the years 1658–1681). Tosanojō’s Shutendōji text also corresponds to this same genealogy and to thee-iri jōruri Raikō yamairi 頼光山いり(in six dan, published in 1721) by Satsumadayū.17
The story in (2) the Yamamoto Kakutayū text is as follows:
In the first dan, Watanabe no Tsuna 渡辺綱, Raikō’s vassal, cuts off one of thedemon’s arms at Rashōmon Gate, but the demon disguises himself as Tsuna’s
aunt and returns to take back his severed arm.
In the second dan, Shutendōji’s ally, the demon Ishikumadōji 石くま童子, taking
advantage of the conflict between Ikeda Chūnagon 池田中納言 and the Fujiwara
藤原 clan, disguises himself as a messenger of the rival Nijō 二条 family andkidnaps Ikeda Chūnagon’s princess daughter.
In the third dan, on the emperor’s orders, Raikō and his five friends (Hirai
Yasumasa/Hōshō 平井保昌, Usui Sadamitsu 碓氷貞光, Urabe Suetake 卜部季武,
Watanabe no Tsuna, Sakata no Kintoki 坂田公時)—known as the Five Heroes—
disguise themselves as yamabushi and head off to exterminate the Mt. Ōe demon.
In the fourth dan, Raikō and his companions arrive at Shutendōji’s fortress andare greeted with a big banquet where, in order to dispel the demon’s suspicionsof them, the men drink the blood of human women and eat their flesh.
In the fifth dan, Raikō and his colleagues rescue the women and brilliantly exterminate Shutendōji with help from three deities.
In this manner, as a further evolution of the plot, the Ōeyama legend wasmerged with the Rashōmon legend (first dan), beginning around the Kanbun 寛文
era (1661–1673).18 Furthermore, in kojōruri plays, the fourth act involves a large
banquet where both the demon and the heroes drink blood and eat women’s
Shutendōji (jōruri), Hirosaki City Public Library 弘前市弘前図書館: https://doi.org/10.20730/
100193239.
Shutendōji (jōruri), Tōkyō Daigaku Kokubungaku Kenkyūshitsu 東京大学国文学研究室:
https://doi.org/10.20730/100018424.
Shutendōji (jōruri), Ninchōji Bunko 忍頂寺文庫, Osaka University Library 大阪大学附属図書館:
https://doi.org/10.20730/100080782.
Shutendōji (jōruri), Okimori Bunko 沖森文庫, Hiroshima Bunkyō University Library 広島文教大
学図書館: https://doi.org/10.20730/100048675.
Shutendōji 酒顚童子 (jōruri), by Tosanoshōjō 土佐少掾, Okimori Bunko, Hiroshima Bunkyō
University Library: https://doi.org/10.20730/100048677.
17
Torii, “Tosa jōruri no kyakushokuhō,” pp. 115–119; “Kojōruri ni okeru yōkai henge taijimono,” pp. 23–38.
18
Sakaguchi, “Shutendōji,” p. 298.
16

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flesh. Such a spectacle of cruelty and horror is not found in noh, but it became
one of the highlights in puppet theater works.
We see a similar plot in the otogi-zōshi version of the legend: Raikō, ordered todefeat Shutendōji, disguises himself as a yamabushi and infiltrates the Onigajō
鬼が城 (Fortress of the Demons) on Mt. Ōe. He gives the demon poisoned sakeand kills him. He then rescues the princesses whom Shutendōji had kidnapped,
including the daughter of Ikeda Chūnagon, and returns to the Capital in great
triumph.
Kabuki was another popular genre for dramatic renditions of the Shutendōjilegend. For example, Shutendōji was among the ceremonial performances (wakikyōgen 脇狂言) performed by the Nakamura-za 中村座 theater in Edo. The works
selected to be presented as waki kyōgen—which were performed early in themorning on the day of each kabuki performance—were those popular at thetime of a theater’s establishment, that is, old plays from kabuki’s earliest days.
Furthermore, the “world” (sekai 世界) of tales centered on Minamoto no Raikō
was established as a kaomise (“face-revealing”) kyōgen 顔見世狂言. Shows of thistype were used to introduce a new acting troupe after they had been contracted
by a playhouse for the coming year, and were staged in a production beginningin the eleventh month of the lunar calendar. Regarding, however, the story of
Shutendōji itself—i.e., the core of the drama—a shift in focus seems to have occurred in order to highlight the adventures of the Four Heavenly Kings becauseof their popularity.19
The abovementioned works and sources of imagery constitute the varied
foundations on which Chikamatsu built his play.
Chikamatsu’s Shutendōji makurakotoba: The Plot
In Chikamatsu’s play, Taira no Yasumori 平保盛, assistant governor of Hitachi
Province, recommends Chūnagon Takafusa’s 中納言高房 daughter, San no Kimi
三の君, as consort to the retired emperor Kazan 花山, who is in mourning forthe death of his beloved consort Kokiden 弘徽殿. Yasumori hopes to attain theposition of chinjufu shōgun 鎮守府将軍 (commander-in-chief) as a reward for arranging this match. Yet San no Kimi, who hopes rather to marry Torikai no
Shōshō 鳥飼少将, escapes. She seeks refuge at the residence of Watanabe no
Tsuna, her go-between (nakōdo 仲人), but is subsequently kidnapped by demons.
This case of San no kimi, however, occurs against a series of similar incidents
in which many young women have disappeared from the city, leading to investigations and trials conducted under Minamoto no Raikō’s supervision. From thewords of Kokiden’s ghost, Raikō learns that the disappearances are the work ofa demon called Shutendōji, who lives on Mt. Ōe. Raikō and his vassals set out toannihilate the dangerous being.
19

Art Research Center Virtual Museum, “Kabuki no Shutendōji.”Intertextuality and Corporality in Shutendōji makurakotoba

9

Thus while the rivalry between the Minamoto clan and the Taira clan may provide the setting for Chikamatsu’s drama, its main plot revolves around Raikō’skilling of the demon Shutendōji.
The plot unfolds as follows:
In the first dan, Watanabe no Tsuna cuts the arm off of a demon he meets at
the Rashōmon Gate in the Capital. The demon, however, manages to retrieve hisarm (cf. the Ibarakidōji legend, the Zen Taiheiki, the noh Rashōmon, and the “Tsurugi
no maki” episode in Heike monogatari, also in the Taiheiki, vol. 23).
In the second dan, the climax is the appearance of Kokiden’s ghost, in the hermitage where Kazan has retired due to the pain of the loss of San no Kimi.
Kokiden holds a grudge against the lady-in-waiting Ukon 右近—who has taken
San no Kimi’s place as Kazan’s consort—because of certain unfounded accusations about Kokiden communicated by her to the retired emperor (on Taira no
Yasumori’s instigation). From the words of the ghost of Kokiden, whose spirit
speaks by taking possession of Ukon’s body, we learn that San no Kimi has been
kidnapped by Shutendōji. (This dan also incorporates scenes from the 1673 kojōruri
play Kazan-no-in kisaki arasoi 花山院后諍 (Quarrel Between Imperial Consorts of
the Retired Emperor Kazan)).
In the third dan, we see unfold the tragedy involving the poor widower Katō
Hyōe 加藤兵衛 and the masterless samurai (rōnin) Hirobumi/Hirobun 広文, as
well as their respective daughters, Yokobue 横笛 and Kotoji ことぢ. As young
women in the Capital go missing one after another, and as complaints and investigations continue under Raikō’s supervision, it turns out that a man named
Hirobumi, in need of money, took advantage of the confusion ensuing from the
kidnappings and has sold Katō Hyōe’s daughter Yokobue to a house of prostitution. Even as Katō is accusing Hirobumi, however, the latter’s daughter, Kotoji,
decides to sacrifice herself: she offers to take Yokobue’s place to save her father,
who only committed such a crime out of poverty. Yet when Kotoji, her mother,and the two fathers rush to the house of prostitution, they find Yokobue near
death, having just completed her suicide attempt. To make atonement, Hirobumi
tries to commit suicide himself along with Kotoji, but Yokobue, before dying,
begs her father to save Kotoji’s life: a deeply moved Katō changes Kotoji’s nameto Yokobue and makes her his own daughter. Hirobumi, immensely grateful,
thanks Katō and then kills himself, but only after revealing that he was formerly
a vassal punished by Taira no Yasumori, and also bequeathing to Katō the treasure sword used in the demon extermination at Mt. Togakushi 戸隠 (cf. the noh
Momijigari 紅葉狩), inherited by the Taira family generations ago. (This act introduces
the legend of the demon extermination at Mt. Togakushi.)In the fourth and fifth dan, Raikō and his vassals, who have headed to Mt. Ōe toexterminate Shutendōji, enter the mountains there (“Raikō yamairi” 頼光山入).
They pretend to be yamabushi who have lost their way, and guided by a woman
whom they encounter washing blood-stained clothes, they enter the demon’s
fortress. Shutendōji confides in Raikō and the others and reveals his origin story:

10

Rupertihe has been changed from a human being into a demon. He expresses sadness at
having committed terrible deeds and grieves that he cannot stop himself fromcommitting the sin of killing people. After drinking the poisoned sake that Raikō
has offered him (this sake, which Abe no Seimei prepared for Raikō, is poisonous
only to the demon), Shutendōji falls into a deep sleep. Later in the night, Raikō andhis vassals, with the help of a child messenger of the Iwashimizu Hachiman 石清水
八幡 god, defeat the demon and rescue the captured women, including San no Kimi.
The Overall Composition and Subject of Chikamatsu’s Work
[This is a] work of the period when jōruri had lost the temporal and spatial
unities and presented dramatic scenes in each dan that were almost independentof one another. The first and fifth dan present the main plot of the story andthe play’s conflicting beginning and end: it is a manner of composition that concentrates dramatic scenes in the second, third, and fourth dan in the middle, andall of these dan display a pattern of focusing on stories of familial love, such as
between husband and wife, father and daughter, or mother and child.20

Among Chikamatsu’s works, however, as Uchiyama Mikiko 内山美樹子 points
out,21 Shutendōji makurakotoba is in fact well-organized, with consistent throughlines and connections visible in the dramatic scenes of each dan.
As mentioned above, Chikamatsu’s work incorporates various legends about
Minamoto no Raikō and the Four Heavenly Kings, based on other demon extermination stories which feature Raikō and the Five Heroes as the main charactersand which come to form the prototype of a hero-adventure series.
In the first dan, the confrontation and debate between Watanabe no Tsuna andHirai Yasumasa shows affinities with previous kojōruri, in particular the genealogy of works known as Kinpira jōruri 金平浄瑠璃 (a sub-genre of puppet dramas
named after a popular protagonist called Sakata no Kinpira 坂田金平) originally
popularized by the narrators Izumidayū 和泉太夫 (dates unknown) in Edo andInoue Harimanojō 井上播磨掾 (d. 1685) in Osaka (such as the play Raikō atomeron
頼光跡目論 written by Oka Seibee 岡清兵衛 (dates unknown) and others). And
it is works such as these, together with the noh Rashōmon, that seem to be themain sources of inspiration for Shutendōji makurakotoba. In addition, the first andsecond dan of Chikamatsu’s work incorporate scenes from Kazan-no-in kisaki arasoi, especially the gripping scene in which Kokiden’s ghost, in her resentment
against her rival Ukon, comes to life out of an image.22 This ghost, moreover,reveals Taira no Yasumori’s conspiracy—to attain the position of chinjufu shōgun(commander-in-chief)—and the real nature of the spate of kidnappings, ofwhich San no Kimi was also a victim.
Aoki, “Shutendōji makura no koto no ha,” p. 298.
Uchiyama, “ ‘Shutendōji makura kotoba Onigajō taimen no dan,” pp. 101–102.
22
Suwa, “Chikamatsu seinenki no jussaku,” pp. 133–137, 142–143.
20
21

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The third dan combines the story of a disgraced and impoverished bushi father
and his daughter involved in the sale of humans with the legend of the noh
Momijigari, in which the protagonist Taira no Koremochi 平維茂 (early eleventh
century) is granted a magic sword by the divinity Takeuchi no Kami 武内の神.
In the fourth and fifth dan, Chikamatsu resumes and rewrites the tale of theheroic feats accomplished by Minamoto no Raikō and the Four Heavenly
Kings—along with the noh Ōeyama—intertwining his lyrics with an abundanceof intertextual references and images. Combining earlier works of fiction and noh
and jōruri plays, Chikamatsu weaves his web of intertextual quotations into a wellcrafted new story.
In particular, in the fourth and fifth dan, the story has been rewritten, and endowed richly with allusions to other works, along the lines of the noh Ōeyama.
Following the prototype’s story and Ōeyama’s plot-structure, Raikō and his vassals are transformed into yamabushi. A beautiful kind of michiyuki (which was very
popular in Chikamatsu’s time)23 then unfolds: while the journey scene depicts
nature, painting the landscape in autumn, it leads to a different world. Elementsof the natural world gradually take on an air of danger suffused with images ofpower: rocks and metals—especially iron—appear in the form of a bastion, withrock ramparts, a fortress, and castle portals, all of which are juxtaposed with thefamiliar and natural world.
Accessing the world of demons, however, requires the presence of intermediary figures. Raikō and his vassals meet an old man, an inhabitant of the mountains, who gives them information about the path leading to the mountain where
the demons’ fortress is. They are then guided by a certain woman to Shutendōji’s
refuge, as in Ōeyama. In the end, the men are helped by divine powers in opening
the iron-rock door that guards access to Shutendōji’s alcove. Indeed, during thefinal assault on Shutendōji, the gods of the three shrines (gods and buddhas
appearing in various forms), to whom they address their prayers, manifest themselves in the guise of a boy messenger of the divinity Shōhachiman 正八幡,
patron and divine protector of warriors and the Minamoto 源 family, who ultimately helps Minamoto no Raikō and the heroes.
This is the context in which Raikō’s encounter with Shutendōji takes place, after
a perilous journey. In the given scene, even the dialogue between the two protagonists is comprised of material rewoven by Chikamatsu from different sources.
It alternates between, on one hand, a feeling and attitude of hospitality suffusedwith welcome trust and confidence and, on the other, an undercurrent of suspicions and doubts, which are gradually dispelled by Raikō’s rhetorical skills incunning and deception. Shutendōji, in his child form, questions Raikō about
how he and his company arrived at his home, what drove them there, and so on.
Raikō replies that they had become lost while on pilgrimage and busied with performing austerities, demonstrating that he can always find a suitable answer.
23

Uchiyama, “ ‘Shutendōji makura kotoba Onigajō taimen no dan,’ ” pp. 103, 112.

12

RupertiThis scene then develops like a thriller, oscillating between tension and surprise, suspenseful horror and pathos—yet it is also a drama of deception. Whenthe reception banquet begins, a description of the most cruel and atrocious,
violent and bloody scenes is given. When the yamabushi manage to remain impassive
even in the face of these brutalities and indeed accept the blood sake they are
offered, Shutendōji’s surprise is tremendous. Once again faced with Shutendōji’s
skepticism, Raikō explains their reaction and behavior through Buddhist philosophy.
However, the “child,” in the face of the justifications with which Raikō explains their participation in the bloody banquet, drinking human blood as if thatwere perfectly normal behavior, reacts with words full of surprise, astonishment,
and sadness, and warns them against the sort of escalating violence that once
weighed down upon, and ultimately overwhelmed, his own destiny. And so begins Shutendōji’s story, the reenactment of his life up to that point—thus it isthat the “child,” in the grip of alcohol, pours out his heart to Raikō and talks
about his past. As in Ōeyama, he recounts having been on Mt. Hiei, which had
been his home for generations, when Saichō founded Enryaku-ji Temple. Although he resisted the invasion with all his strength, he was at length forced toleave, wandering from place to place among many vicissitudes: the fact that he
was a human being, that he once served as a chigo at a Buddhist temple in the
Echigo 越後 region (as in earlier jōruri), how he came at length to be a demon,
etc.
Although Shutendōji has been convinced to confide in Raikō, doubt again
arises when San no Kimi enters the scene and he sees the way Raikō’s eyes lightup upon the princess’ appearance. However, Raikō once again succeeds in deceiving him through skillful words.
In the fifth dan’s finale, the warriors, along with the women who hope to be
freed, address their prayers to the gods. Their prayers are answered, with divine
protection being granted to the warrior-heroes sent by the central government.
At last the heroic deed, and the killing of the demon “child,” with the sacredmagic sword given by Hirobumi to Katō and by Katō then to Raikō, is accomplished.
This drama represents a dramatic shift, transition, and epochal change in therelationship between various divinities. A new order is created, with the rise andestablishment of some gods who, possessing new powers and offering potent
help and protection, become the new reigning deities, and with the downfall—indeed the extermination—of other ancient/primordial gods who become demons or monsters.
It can also be said, however, that Chikamatsu’s work at the same time highlights the drama of Shutendōji, who has, in spite of himself, become now ademon, a monster, but who began life likewise as a fellow human being.

Intertextuality and Corporality in Shutendōji makurakotoba

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The Portrait of Shutendōji
In Shutendōji makurakotoba, a demon inherited from an earlier source-work appears as the protagonist, but different aspects taken from other earlier works canalso be recognized. A fearsome and dangerous demon, Shutendōji is defeated by
Raikō, but Chikamatsu goes beyond Ōeyama in developing a sense of sympathy
for the demon. He digs deep into the sadness of Shutendōji, who as a man fell,
against his will, into the abyss of having become a demon/monster.24
From the standpoint of folklore, as hypothesized by Yanagita Kunio 柳田國男,
yōkai (demons/monsters) are “fallen gods.” According to this theory, “Many of
the gods are deities whose cults have been lost and have decayed and declined”25
but have also since developed and deepened.26 By this same theory, Shutendōji
can be recognized as having once been a primeval divinity on Mt. Hiei before
Saichō settled there and built Enryaku-ji Temple.
Looking at it this way, we can see some similarities between the Shutendōji legend
and the ancient Greek myth of Polyphemus, son of the sea god Poseidon andthe sea nymph Thoosa. He is a one-eyed giant of a lower god-clan, the Cyclopes,
who being hated by their father Uranus, the primordial deity personifying thesky, were cast by him into the abyss of Tartarus. But Polyphemus is a particularly
famous figure in the voyage taken by Odysseus in Homer’s epic the Odyssey,
where the Cyclopes are described as uncivilized shepherds who live in caves, andPolyphemus as a violent monster that eats travelers. In the Ninth Book of thatwork, Odysseus stops at the Cyclopes’ island on his way home from the Trojan
War, where he and his twelve men enter Polyphemus’s cave only to becometrapped inside. In fright, as two of his subordinates are eaten, Odysseus gives
Polyphemus the wine he had brought with him. When Polyphemus becomesdrunk and falls asleep, Odysseus and his men together crush the giant’s eye.
Then, hiding themselves under the bellies of Polyphemus’s sheep, they escapethe cave and return to the ship to leave the island. On the point of doing so,
however, a crowing Odysseus ridicules Polyphemus and reveals his true name,which he had cunningly concealed until then. Polyphemus prays to his father topunish Odysseus, and Poseidon subsequently hinders Odysseus’s return home. In
this case, as in the Shutendōji story, Odysseus uses intelligence, cunning, and rhetoric to gain advantage over the brute strength of Polyphemus, who violates every
rule of welcoming and hospitality toward travelers and foreigners and every idealof humanity known to Greek civilization. In other words, both Polyphemus andShutendōji are not only fallen divinities but also negative (barbaric) manifestationsof the concepts of humanity held by, respectively, the ancient Greeks and Japanese: that is, they are presented as antisocial and antimoral “human beings.”
Kamakura, “Chikamatsu Monzaemon no oni,” p. 24.
Yanagita, Minzokugaku jiten; Yōkai dangi, pp. 105–106.
26
For example, Komatsu, Yōkaigaku shinkō, pp. 184–187, 193.
24
25

Ruperti

14

In the world of opera, the Polyphemus myth is frequently rewritten and combined with a myth narrated in Ovid’s Metamorphoses in which the giant, whose
love is unrequited by the sea-nymph (Nereid) Galatea, kills the shepherd Acis,
Galatea’s beloved. Particularly famous are the following works: in French, Acis etGalathée (Acis and Galatea, 1686), by Jean-Baptiste Lully (1632–1687), libretto by
Jean Galbert de Campistron (1656–1723), and in Italian, Gli amori di Polifemo(The Loves of Polyphemus, 1702) by Giovanni Bononcini (1670–1747), libretto
by Attilio Ariosti (1666–1729?), who incorporates also the unfortunate lovestory of Scylla for Glaucus. One magnificent version is Polifemo (1735) by Nicola
Porpora (1686–1768), libretto by Paolo A. Rolli (1687–1765), which combines
the myth of Odysseus with myths of the tragic loves between Acis and Galatea
and between Odysseus and Calypso. The serenade Aci, Galatea, and Polifemo(1708), libretto by Nicola Giuvo (1680?–1749?), set to music by George Frideric
Handel (1685–1759), focuses in contrast only on the Polyphemus-Galatea-Acistriangle: an angry Polyphemus, having suffered Galatea’s repeated refusals, tears
away a piece of mountain and throws it at Acis, killing him. Galatea appeals to
her father, Nereus, who turns the blood flowing from Acis’s body into a river so
it will forever rejoin the sea, thereby making the lovers’ bond eternal. The tracesof Polyphemus’s horrible crime remain as the rock stacks in the bay of Aci
Trezza, where the nine villages there bearing Acis’s name stand guard over the
relics of his body now torn to pieces. Handel followed this serenade with a very
famous expanded version in English: Acis and Galatea (1718, 1731).
In these musical works based on the Polyphemus myth, the origin story of aplace is joined to the theme of love, as in Ovid’s Metamorphoses. This, in someways, attenuates and softens (sometimes with comic results) the brutality andcoarseness of Polyphemus, making him a more multifaceted dramatic characterin the boundless pains of his love.
By contrast, Mt. Ōe, where Shutendōji and his demons have settled, is a placethat is neither fully part of, nor subject to control by, the human world—it is aworld altogether different. The existence of such another world is seen as a danger to the central powers and rulers (the imperial court in Kyoto), one that must
be exorcised and eliminated. The central government, which is trying to expand
its political and religious control over the territory, does everything it can to depict as evil any entity that might constitute a hostile opposition. And the turmoils in the Capital, which can no longer be governed, are regarded as the workof the demon-gods, rebels against the legitimate order of the sovereign.27 Primordial land gods/earth spirits who originally dwelt in this land come to be seenas the most dangerous beings and were subjected to discrimination, exclusion,and conquest. Shutendōji, who was once the god of this land, becomes for thosein power a villain, and must therefore be exterminated.28
27
28

Komatsu, “Shutendōji.”Kanai, Nō no kenkyū, pp. 347–350.

Intertextuality and Corporality in Shutendōji makurakotoba

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However, it seems that the noh drama Ōeyama, and Chikamatsu’s jōruri play
Shutendōji makurakotoba, try to shed light not only from the central government’s
point of view, and not merely in celebration of its political domination of thepeople and lands around the Capital: apparently they try also to show thingsfrom the demon’s point of view—through Shutendōji’s eyes—to underscore his
own personal tragedy and drama. The humanity that emerges, even in this demon-monster-former god, helps to create a dramatic character. The psychological recognition of the demon who was once a human being, of his horror andhis sadness, impress the audience, giving life to the play itself. As a result, theplay is no longer simply the story of a victim and a hero-protagonist of courageous exploits.
Changes in Mind, Changes in Body
Yet what stands out from the body language and the illustrations that we haveseen in relation to these dramas?
In the dramas we have examined, the descriptions and illustrations of his body
point to an important quality about Shutendōji: he is a double figure. He has two
sides to his nature and appearance. As depicted in illustrated scrolls and otherillustrated works of fiction, Shutendōji is at first beautiful and talented, but after
he gets drunk and falls asleep, a different body is revealed: an enormous, ugly
demon with fifteen eyes and five horns (figs. 1a, 1b, 2a, 2b, 3, 4a, 4b, 5). The
figure of Shutendōji has thus become the incarnation of a fearsome, ugly demon,with the terrifying attributes of superhuman strength, ruthlessness, and cruelty.
Shutendōji has, in other words, two physical states: the incarnation of an eternal
child-deity on the one hand, and, on the other, the degraded form of a demon,
due to the evil that arises from his anger, fear, and jealousy. In the noh Ōeyama,
the child figure—the shite in the first act (mae-shite 前シテ)— dramatically transforms while sleeping in an alcove into the figure of the demon—the shite in thesecond act (nochi-shite 後シテ). Despite, however, this extreme transformation in
the noh drama—altering the child’s appearance, with the resulting appearance ofthe demon—the perspective is not limited to the mere contours and confines
typical of works in the “ending noh” (kirinō 切能) category—spectacular and impressive dramas of non-human creatures. The noh drama also conveys the humanaspects of the “child” in the banquet scene, producing an extreme effect of contrast with the terrifying and imposing stage presence of the demon in the finale.
The demon extermination legends are at the core of each dan of Chikamatsu’s
play as a unifying element. Yet if we focus on the character of Shutendōji, another theme emerges: the substitution, replacement, exchange, and sale of human beings; the tragedy of human beings (namely women) who are kidnapped,
replaced, or sacrificed, one in place of another.
Indeed, it can be said that the main theme of Chikamatsu’s drama, along with thecharacter-image of Shutendōji, is the fate of humans beings subject to substitution

16

RupertiFigure 1a. Shutendōji ekotoba 酒呑童子絵詞 (3 kan 巻), vol. 2 (chū 中). Kuchinashi Bunko
支子文庫, Kyushu University.
http://hdl.handle.net/2324/1445911 (image 17).

Figure 1b. Shutendōji ekotoba (3 kan), vol. 3 (ge 下). Kuchinashi Bunko, Kyushu University.
http://hdl.handle.net/2324/1445912 (image 8).

Figure 2a. Shutendōji emaki 酒呑童子絵巻 (3 kan), vol. 2 (chū). Osaka Otani University
Library. https://doi.org/10.20730/100313935 (image 38).

Intertextuality and Corporality in Shutendōji makurakotoba

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Figure 2b. Shutendōji emaki (3 kan), vol. 3 (ge). Osaka Otani University Library. https://doi.org/10.20730/100313935 (image 48).

Figure 3. Ōeyama Shutendōji 大江山酒呑童子 (ehon 絵本). National Institute of Japanese Literature.
https://doi.org/10.20730/200007676 (image 8).

18

RupertiFigure 4a. Shutendōji しゆてん童子 (Muromachi monogatari). Ukai Bunko 鵜飼文庫,
National Institute of Japanese Literature. 
https://doi.org/10.20730/200019890 (image 29).

(migawari 身替り, also translatable as “self-other exchange” or “exchange of
person/body”). In the drama, certain human figures are forced to take the placeof other more important characters: this characterizes the tragedy of thewomen who are sold to human traffickers, who are kidnapped, killed, andforced to sacrifice themselves, and who ultimately die. We can see this in Ukon,
the lady-in-waiting who comes to Kazan’s hermitage to replace San no Kimi
(kidnapped by Shutendōji’s vassals), and who is thereupon tormented by thespirit of Kokiden. We also observe this pattern in Katō’s daughter, Yokobue,
who is sold to a house of prostitution by Hirobumi, and who, pessimistic about
the future, ultimately commits suicide. It is even observable in Hirobumi’s
own daughter, Kotoji, who decides herself to become a prostitute—taking
Yokobue’s place—in order to save that same father. Yet the two fathers themselves also become tragic victims as a consequence: Hirobumi dies by seppuku,
and Katō loses his daughter, although he finds another in Kotoji. In otherwords, Chikamatsu’s play is both the perpetrator’s drama and the drama of his
victims.
The migawari theme or motif is a very important element in the historicaldevelopment of puppet theater. It became a decisive and recurrent device

Intertextuality and Corporality in Shutendōji makurakotoba

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Figure 4b. Shutendōji (Muromachi monogatari). Ukai Bunko, National Institute of Japanese Literature. 
https://doi.org/10.20730/200019890 (image 40).

in Chikamatsu’s theater29 and grew increasingly more varied up until the dramatist
Namiki Sōsuke 並木宗輔/Senryū 千柳 (1695–1751), whose works made it vain
and useless, something without efficacy as a solution on the dramatic level, sothat deaths and sacrifices are almost emptied of meaning, becoming charged instead with pessimism.
If the leading theme of the play is a series of migawari, the theme of corporality, of the person and his body, is together entwined with the migawari theme andappears even at its roots. Noh and ningyō jōruri may equally be genres among theperforming arts. However, the scenes of cruel violence and depictions of atrocities and horrible actions that find no expression in noh are seen to powerfullyconquer the stage in the puppet plays, and have a strong impact in the Edo period.
In the banquet scene where some kidnapped girls are victims of acts of quartering, laceration, live limb-dismemberment, and full-body compression, bloody
violence is presented three-dimensionally on the stage. The physicality and the

29

65.

See, for example, Mukai, Chikamatsu no hōhō, pp. 7–22; Uchiyama, Jōruri no jūhasseiki, pp. 60–

20

RupertiFigure 5. Raikō Ōeyama iri 頼光大江山入. National Institute of Japanese Literature. 
https://doi.org/10.20730/200016651 (image 4).

brutality of people being killed, their bodies eaten, their blood drunken—all of
it is shown to the audience. Performed by the puppets, such scenes become almost a Grand Guignol, or even a grotesque, but their impact remains for all thatno less striking or intense.
However, in Chikamatsu’s play, these violent and grotesque scenes are not justspectacles or freak shows (misemono 見世物). The atrocious actions taken by
Shutendōji and his demons are the result of the sadness and loneliness of a child
who, since birth, has fallen ever deeper into certain physical sensations driving
him increasingly to excess, in greedy crescendo towards a corporality pervaded
by sensuality and cruelty. This escalation and growing perversion from an early
age are highlighted in Shutendōji’s account of his background and upbringing.
He is nursed for years with his mother’s milk, and excessive maternal doting andadoring affection result in an addiction that gradually pushes him to tragedy,
even after he is accepted by a Buddhist temple. His preference for his mother’s
milk evolves into one for blood—human blood.
It is worth noting that Chikamatsu’s interpretation also sharply highlights thedark side of eros, which manifests as terrible behavior and relentlessly, increasingly gruesome “habits.” Chikamatsu mines the deepest, most painful, and hidden folds of Shutendōji’s character and the other characters involved in thisIntertextuality and Corporality in Shutendōji makurakotoba

21

drama. He portrays Shutendōji as possessing a tender and helpless humanity andfragility. The demon forms thus a stark contrast with Raikō, who demonstrates
a shrewd, ruthless, and calculated cunning in his deception and refined argumentation, and who can immediately grasp the weaknesses in the strange creature.
Shutendōji’s terrifying behavior, which causes him to feel miserable, is manifested in his condition and appearance: it has changed his very nature and modified his feelings, indeed thereby causing the demon’s despair and “ugliness.” It
leads to his “perverted” sensations and to actions not condoned by society.
Shutendōji sadly warns the false yamabushi (Raikō and his vassals) not to fall into
the dark abyss that he himself has plummeted into.
Mediation and Representation by Puppets
Chikamatsu’s dramas are conceived and written to be represented by puppets.
In such a setting, the corporality of the puppet, which is made of wood andcloth and is not a human actor in the flesh, is foregrounded: it becomes the element that supports and enables the staged drama. With the recognition of thepuppet-body’s unique characteristics, it is possible to portray fantastic, magical,
and otherwise unreal narrative elements, situations, and actions, including those
involving the body.
A puppet represents a human figure, a human body—or possibly the body ofa non-human (such as an animal, a monster, or a ghost) or some other fictional
creature. But unlike humans, puppets are manipulated by puppeteers, and they are
not limited by human corporality. In the context of a puppet play, their actions,
their bodily movements and body parts, their appearance and transformationsof appearance, indeed all of the actions exerted on the body (such as cutting off
the head or an arm and so on) seem to have almost no limits. This creates almost
endless narrative possibilities. A figure can freely transform and fly into the sky
to express a mysterious world that exceeds the bounds of physical laws. A varietyof illusions, conflicts, transformations, and metamorphoses can be portrayed,and every scene-setting and situation can be changed quickly and relatively
easily.
During Chikamatsu’s time, as is well known, the puppets used on the stage
were still simple in their structure, operated by a single puppeteer. The stage,
however, even while centered on single-person puppets, also made abundantand skillful use of mechanized puppets (karakuri からくり), which, thanks tovarious mechanisms and tricks, were able to entertain, amaze, and generate astonishment and emotional participation in the audience.30 In addition, just as in
kojōruri, plays produced during this period extensively and actively incorporated
strange wonders, fantastic scenes, and multiple characters of different natures(such as animals and fictional creatures)—all of these being elements best portrayed
30

Yamada, Takeda karakuri no kenkyū.

22

Rupertiby puppets. These can, moreover, be represented and portrayed in an almost palpable manner, in a way at once grotesque yet also moving.
As a device for staging stories involving humans, puppets—as a form of
doll—bring additional connotations to the drama. Such dolls have a primitiveand primary ancestral meaning as “substitute forms or representations of a sacred object” (katashiro 形代). They can be worshipped in place of deities and canbe used as substitutes for people undergoing purification. As images of gods
and humans, dolls can easily become substitutes for people or living beings—
they can serve as amulets that provide protection, or as objects capable of attracting spirits, of offering spirits and deities a natural lodging place (yorishiro 依り代).
Dolls can thus replace the actions and roles of human beings, deities, animals,
and spirits, including plant spirits.
Furthermore, in the world of a puppet drama and on its stage, each part of thehuman body can “act” even if it becomes separated from the whole. Even if
body parts (in particular, the head and arms) are cut off, disassembled, or dispersed, the nature of puppets allows those separated parts to perform dramatic
actions and other various functions as part of the character. And it is this fantastic and imaginative dimension, this theatrical world, that Chikamatsu seeks andpursues: a dramatic world that makes the most of the physicality and potentialof puppets.
In the Chikamatsu repertoire, there are many works in which a severed headbounces up and soars into the sky and then plays an active role in the narrative—
something only made possible by the corporality of puppets. The indigenous
belief that the head of a being with superhuman power is animated by spiritualstrength and energy—a belief that goes back to the legend of Taira no Masakado’s
平将門 (?–940) head—emerges in many of Chikamatsu’s plays. For example, we
see it in the second dan of Tenji tennō 天智天皇 (Emperor Tenji, 1689) and in thesecond or fifth dan of Taishokan 大職冠 (1712). It seems that this motif—a belief
in the magical force of a fearsome being’s head—runs through all these sources.
As Komatsu Kazuhiko 小松和彦 has pointed out, “The head of Shutendōji, thehead of Ōtakemaru 大嶽丸31 . . . were symbols of the ‘outside’ that threatened
the power of the sovereign” and the worship directed towards these heads, venerated and exorcised in special tombs, was a sign of contemporary recognitionof the magical, powerful, and violent energy of the spirit/vital nucleus that animated them—to the point that they were even kept as precious treasures, becoming “one of the sources of the vitality of the power of the sovereign.”32This can also be seen in the legend of Shutendōji.
Yet in Chikamatsu’s play, as we have tried to explain, this world of ancient, medieval, and then early-modern imagery becomes a vital source and soil for the31
32

A demon who is said to have lived in Suzukayama 鈴鹿山.
Komatsu, Shutendōji no kubi, pp. 47–53.

Intertextuality and Corporality in Shutendōji makurakotoba

23

realization of a dramatic show in which the itinerary of the heroic deeds ofRaikō, and the destiny of the character Shutendōji, give life to a masterpiece, one
transfigured by the powerful tragic potential of the protagonist (Shutendōji) andhis victims.
And it is precisely the representation of humans, animal- and plant-spirits,
gods and buddhas, monsters (yōkai), and other beings through puppets that enables
Chikamatsu’s dramas to be embodied, that makes possible their extraordinary
imaginative world, the dramatic and human situations found therein, their scenic
solutions and representations—in short, all their complex evolution on the stage
as living things.33

The demon extermination scene in this Chikamatsu jōruri (fourth and fifth dan) was revived
and performed in 1961. In 2005, thanks to the efforts of Professor Uchiyama Mikiko, the scene“Onigajō taimen no dan” 鬼が城対面の段 (The Face-to-face Encounter at the Fortress of theDemons) was reenacted in the form of a “pure narration” (sujōruri 素浄瑠璃) in the COE (Centerof Excellence) for classical theater research course (Ningyō Jōruri Bunraku) at Waseda University’s Tsubouchi Memorial Theatre Museum. Here I would also like to express my thanks to Professor Uchiyama and the bunraku artists for the wonderful opportunity granted to all of us then.
33

24

Ruperti
References

Amano Fumio 天野文雄. “ ‘Shutendōji’ kō” 「酒呑童子」考. Nō: kenkyū to hyōron
能：研究と評論 8 (1979), pp. 16–27.
Aoki Masatsugu 青木正次. “Shutendōji makura no koto no ha” 酒呑童子枕言葉.
In vol. 3 of Nihon koten bungaku daijiten 日本古典文学大辞典, ed. Nihon Koten
Bungaku Daijiten Henshū Iinkai 日本古典文学大辞典編集委員会, p. 298.
Iwanami Shoten, 1984.
Arakawa Shin’ichi 荒川真一. “Kusa-zōshi ni okeru Shuntendōji setsuwa no riyō”
草双紙における酒呑童子説話の利用. Gobun 語文 161 (2018), pp. 47–82.
Art Research Center Virtual Museum. “Kabuki no Shutendōji” 歌舞伎の酒呑童子. Nihon no densetsu: ikaiten 日本の伝説：異界展. http://www.arc.
ritsumei.ac.jp/lib/vm/jl2016/2016/11/post-80.html.
Kamakura Keiko 鎌倉惠子. “Chikamatsu Monzaemon no oni: jōruri no baai”
近松門左衛門の鬼：浄瑠璃の場合. Geinō no kagaku 芸能の科学 24 (1996),
pp. 65–77.
Kanai Kiyomitsu 金井清光. Nō no kenkyū 能の研究. Ōfūsha, 1969.
Komatsu Kazuhiko 小松和彦. Ikai to Nihonjin: emonogatari no sōzōryoku 異界と
日本人：絵物語の想像力. Kadokawa Shoten, 2003.
Komatsu Kazuhiko, “Shutendōji” 酒呑童子. In Asahi Nihon rekishi jinbutsu jiten
朝日日本歴史人物辞典, Asahi Shinbunsha, 1994.
Komatsu Kazuhiko. Shutendōji no kubi 酒呑童子の首. Serika Shobō, 1997.
Komatsu Kazuhiko. Yōkaigaku shinkō: yōkai kara miru Nihonjin no kokoro 妖怪学新考：
妖怪からみる日本人の心. Yōsensha, 2007.
Mukai Yoshiki 向井芳樹. Chikamatsu no hōhō 近松の方法. Ōfūsha, 1976
Nogami Toyoichirō 野上豊一郎, ed. Yōkyoku zenshū: chūkai 謡曲全集：註解. Vol. 5.
Chūō Kōronsha, 1984.
Ōhashi Tadayoshi 大橋正叔. “Ibarakiya Kōsai ikken to Kaion, Chikamatsu”
茨木屋幸斎一件と海音・近松. Kinsei bungei 近世文藝 27/28 (1977), pp. 17–30.
Sakaguchi Hiroyuki 阪口弘之. “Shutendōji” 酒呑童子. In vol. 3 of Nihon koten
bungaku daijiten, ed. Nihon Koten Bungaku Daijiten Henshū Iinkai, p. 298.
Iwanami Shoten, 1984.
Satake Akihiro 佐竹昭広. Shutendōji ibun 酒呑童子異聞. Iwanami Shoten, 1992.
Suwa Haruo 諏訪春雄. “Chikamatsu seinenki no jussaku” 近松青年期の述作.
Kenkyū nenpō 研究年報 26 (1979), pp. 131–167.
Takahashi Masaaki 高橋昌明. Shutendōji no tanjō: mō hitotsu no Nihon bunka 酒呑童子の誕生：もうひとつの日本文化. Chūō Kōron Shinsha, 2005.
Torii Fumiko 鳥居フミ子. “Kojōruri ni okeru yōkai henge taijimono” 古浄瑠璃における妖怪変化退治もの. Jissen Joshi Daigaku kiyō: kokubungaku, eibungaku 実践
女子大学紀要: 国文学・英文学 7 (1992), pp. 23–38.

Intertextuality and Corporality in Shutendōji makurakotoba

25

Torii Fumiko. “Tosa jōruri no kyakushokuhō 6: onitaijimono” 土佐浄瑠璃の脚色法 6：鬼神退治もの. Tōkyō Joshi Daigaku kiyō ronshū 東京女子大学紀要論集
36:1 (1985), pp. 115–144.
Uchiyama Mikiko 内山美樹子. Jōruri no jūhasseiki 浄瑠璃の十八世紀. Benseisha,
1989.
Uchiyama Mikiko. “‘Shutendōji makurakotoba’: kaisetsu”「酒呑童子枕言」：解説.
http://www5f.biglobe.ne.jp/~hallelujah/hana/wasedakaisetu.html.
Uchiyama Mikiko. “‘Shutendōji makurakotoba Onigajō taimen no dan’ 2005-nen,sōen to kenkyū”「酒呑童子枕言葉 鬼が城対面の段」二〇〇五年、奏演と研究.
Engeki Kenkyū Sentā kiyō 演劇研究センター紀要 7 (2006), pp. 101–115.
Yamada Kazuhito 山田和人. Takeda karakuri no kenkyū 竹田からくりの研究.
Ōfū, 2017.
Yanagita Kunio 柳田國男. Minzokugaku jiten 民俗学辞典. Tōkyōdō, 1951.
Yanagita Kunio. Yōkai dangi 妖怪談義. Kōdansha, 1977.

Studies in Japanese Literature and Culture 5 (March 2022) 27–45© 2022 National Institute of Japanese Literature

The Water Mirror Motif in the Noh Play
Izutsu: Continuation and Variationof a Classical Theme
Sagiyama Ikuko

Università degli Studi di Firenze
Translated by Michael Burtscher

1. From Ise monogatari to Zeami’s Noh Play Izutsu
The celebrated noh play Izutsu 井筒 (The Well Curb) is widely considered to be
one of Zeami’s 世阿弥 (1363?–1443?) masterpieces. In general its underlying
story is based on Episode 23 of the Ise monogatari 伊勢物語 (The Ise Stories, lateninth–mid-tenth century), yet scholars have long recognized that the play also
departs significantly from the original. For example, the play’s setting in Isonokami
石上 in Yamato 大和 Province, as well as the identification of the main character(shite シテ) as Ki no Aritsune’s 紀有常 (815–877) daughter, are both derived frommedieval commentaries on the Ise monogatari, and not the Ise monogatari itself.
Also, the play cuts Episode 23’s last scene, which focused on the figure known
as “the woman in Takayasu” (Takayasu no onna 高安の女), the secret lover of themale protagonist.
Furthermore, the plot of the play reverses the narrative’s time axis, ending witha scene focused on the shite’s childhood. In Act 1, as the main female character
reminisces about the past, it is revealed that her husband, Ariwara no Narihira
在原業平 (825–880), had desisted from further visits to his lover after clandestinely overhearing his wife’s poem. The Ise monogatari gives the poem as follows:
kaze fukeba
okitsu shiranami
Tatsuta yama
yowa ni ya kimi ga
hitori koyuramu

風吹けば
沖つしら浪
たつた山
夜半にや君がひとりこゆらむ1

Ise monogatari, p. 137. In the noh play, the wording of the last line of this poem is slightly different (hitori yukuran 独り行くらん) but without significant change in sense. Zeami, Izutsu, p. 291.
1

27

Sagiyama

28
When the wind rises
the white waves from the offing
Mount Tatsuta’s Pass,
In the deepest midnight dark,
Do you cross there all alone?2

The scene then returns to the couple’s childhood, and the time spent together
around their neighborhood well, where they became engaged through an exchange of poems.
In Act 2, after the shite has identified herself as “the woman who waits” (hitomatsu onna 人待つ女), she proceeds, while clad in her husband’s gown, to relive
the couple’s childhood play. As she does, she sees her beloved reflected in her own
reflection in the well. With this, the play reaches its climax. Upon her entry in Act
1, the shite’s worldly passions and yearning for deliverance had been expressed, buthere the play’s climax eventually finds her led, not to salvation from earthly attachments, but rather to immersion in memories of a happier past.
The narrative device through which this effect is achieved—the water mirror—is not found in the Ise monogatari episode but is original to Zeami’s play. The
shite’s embodied presence, as reflected in the water over which she leans peering,creates a dramatic effect.
Already in Act 1, the shite’s reminiscences refer to the “wooden well, aroundwhich the young children played, conspiring in friendly ways, peering at their reflections in the water mirror, heads together, sleeves o’erlaid, bosom friends,
hearts fathomless as the water.”3
Act 2 then overlays the movements of the shite, peering into the well, with thefollowing words:
sanagara mimieshi
mukashi otoko no
kamuri naoshi wa
onna to mo miezu
otoko narikeri
Narihira no omokage

さながら見見えし
昔男の冠直衣は女とも見えず
男なりけり
業平の面影

mireba natsukashi ya

見ればなつかしや

ware nagara natsukashi ya

われながらなつかしや4

CHORUS:
Thus we saw each other, he,the man of old,
Yasuda, Masterworks of the Nō Theater, p. 215.
izutsu ni yorite unaiko no / tomodachi kataraite / tagai ni kage o mizukagami / omote o narabe sode o kake /kokoro no mizu mo sokoi naku 井筒によりてうなゐ子の友だち語らひて互ひに影を水鏡面を並べ袖をかけ心の水もそこひなく. Brazell, “Izutsu,” p. 151; Zeami, Izutsu, p. 291.
4
Zeami, Izutsu, p. 296.
2
3

The Water Mirror Motif in the Noh Play Izutsu

29

his court cap and gown
now conceal the woman,
it is indeed a man—the image of Narihira
SHITE:
seeing it, I yearn,
CHORUS:’tis my own self, yet I yearn.5

The woman’s ghost, by reenacting her childhood play with her beloved, causes
his reflection to appear. She becomes absorbed in his image, even as she realizes
that the reflection is but her own.
The noh play Matsukaze 松風 (Pine Wind) features a similar scene in which amale actor playing a woman puts on a man’s cloak and cap, as if possessed. In
Izutsu, however, this motif is intensified by the additional layer of the shite recognizing her lover in the image reflected on the water mirror. A male actor playing
the role of a woman dresses as a man, only to create the illusion of a woman
thinking of her reflection in a mirror as that of a man. Multiple layers of gender-switching are piled up, one on top of the other, to produce a moment thatyields the play’s most impressive scene.
However, as we have seen, this water mirror motif, while playing a pivotal rolein Izutsu, is not found in Episode 23 of the Ise monogatari. This invites the question of whether this motif can be attributed to another source.
2. The Water Mirror Motif in Japanese Medieval Literary Tradition
The water mirror motif as such has a long history. The Baishi wenji 白氏文集
(Jp. Hakushi bunshū; Collected Writings of Bai Juyi, 845), a widely popular work in
Heian (794–1185) Japan that left a profound mark on its literature, contains multiple poems in which such a water mirror motif appears. The poem “An Evening in
Early Autumn” (新秋夕, vol. 9) includes the line “The autumn pond shining
brightly with the harvest moon” (秋池明月水). Likewise, the poem “Farewell Banquet in a Pavilion by the Yangzi River” (江楼宴別, vol. 16) includes the line “The cold
stream, floating the moon on its surface, lay clear as a mirror” (寒流帯月澄如鏡).
And the poem “A Night by the Pond” (池上夜境, vol. 52) includes “The clear
sky’s stars and moon fell onto the pond and its banks” (晴空星月落池塘).6
Among collections of Chinese poetry composed by Japanese authors, one encounters other titles with similar motifs. These include “Suichū no kage” 水中影(Reflections in the Water) in the Bunka shūreishū 文華秀麗集 (Anthology of
Splendid Literary Flowerings, 818) and “Suichū no tsuki” 水中月 (Moon in the
Brazell, “Izutsu,” p. 156.
Baishi wenji, vols. 9, 16, 52. These can be found, respectively, in Shinshaku kanbun taikei 117, 99,
105.
5
6

Sagiyama

30

Water) in the Kanke bunsō 菅家文草 (The Literary Works of Sugawara [no Michizane],
900).7
However, in all these cases, the objects whose images are reflected by the water
are natural features, primarily the moon, or flowers and grass. The “reflectionsin the water” addressed by the aforementioned poem of the same title are offlowers, leaves, a bird, and a shrub, in addition to celestial bodies.8
Such an association with natural elements holds true also for Japanese waka 和歌
composed around the same time. The Kokin wakashū 古今和歌集 (905), in Book
1 (Spring 1), contains a poem by Lady Ise 伊勢 (c. 877–c. 939) in which flowers
are reflected in the water:
toshi o hetehana no kagami tonaru mizu wa
chiri kakaru o ya
kumoru to iuran

年をへて
花の鏡と
なる水は
ちりかかるをや
くもるといふらん9

Are we to call themclouded—stream waters where formany years we saw
the blossoms mirrored—now are
hidden by fallen petals.10

Another poem, by Ki no Tsurayuki 紀貫之 (d. 945), describes the reflection of
autumn leaves:11
minasoko ni
kage shi utsureba
momijiba no
iro mo fukaku ya
narimasaruran

水底に
影しうつれば
紅葉葉の色も深くや
成まさるらん

Turned autumn leaves
reflected into the depths
of a water’s ground––their scarlet hue must then too
be cast in still deeper tone.12

Yet further poems by Tsurayuki employ, among others, images of wisteria, or
kerria, as natural features reflected in water.
Bunka shūreishū 2:125; Sugawara no Michizane, Kanke bunsō 2:116.
For an English translation of this poem, see Rabinovitch and Bradstock, No Moonlight in My
Cup, p. 125.
9
Kokin wakashū 44.
10
Rodd and Henkenius, Kokinshū, p. 61.
11
Tsurayuki shū 26.
12
Here and elsewhere, unless otherwise indicated, all translations of original sources are byMichael Burtscher.
78

The Water Mirror Motif in the Noh Play Izutsu

31

However, in the Tosa nikki 土佐日記 (Tosa Diary, c. 935), Tsurayuki includes thefollowing verse in which the water reflects an image different from those foundin the poems described above:
kage mireba
nami no soko naru
hisakata no
sora kogi wataru
ware zo wabishiki

かげ見れば
波の底なる
ひさかたの
空漕ぎわたる
われぞわびしき13With a forlorn heart
I gaze into the moonlight
where beneath the waves
stretches a limitless sky
to be traversed by this boat.14

This waka is one of a number of rarer poems in which the reflection in the water
is the poet’s own. It responds to the Chinese couplet below, which the Tosa nikki
quotes immediately before as follows:
Sao wa ugatsu nami no ue no tsuki ofune wa osou umi no uchi no sora o棹は穿つ波の上の月を舟は圧ふ海の中の空を15The oar strikes through the moon on the waves;
The boat presses against the sky in the sea.16

In the few cases where a reflection produced by a water mirror is portrayed as
the poet’s own, the image conveyed is usually negative. An example is Episode155 of the Yamato monogatari 大和物語 (Tales of Yamato, mid-tenth century). The
Dainagon’s 大納言 (Major Counselor) daughter, who has been confined to asmall hut on Mt. Asaka 安積 in Mutsu 陸奥 Province after being kidnapped by acertain man, sees her reflection in a mountain spring, only to realize that her erstwhile beauty is now gone. Overcome by shame about her dreadful appearance,
she recites the following poem and dies:
Asakayama
kage sae miyuru
yama no i no
asaku wa hito oomou mono ka wa

あさか山
影さへ見ゆる
山の井の
あさくは人を思ふものかは17Tosa nikki, p. 31.
The English translation, with “sea” in the fourth line corrected to “sky” (sora 空), by
McCullough, Kokin Wakashū, p. 275.
15
Tosa nikki, p. 31.
16
McCullough, Kokin Wakashū, p. 275. On Jia Dao’s 賈島 (779–843) Chinese poem, see also
Hasebe, “Ka Tō.”
17
Yamato monogatari, p. 390.
13
14

Sagiyama

32
Asaka Mountain—
In a shallow mountain springa clear reflection
not so shallow are my thoughts
as I long and think of him.18

This poem is clearly a variation on poem 3807 in the Man’yōshū 万葉集 (Collectionof Ten Thousand Leaves, completed after 759):
Asakayama
kage sae miyuru
yama no i no
asaki kokoro o
wa ga omowanaku ni

安積山
影さへ見ゆる
山の井の浅き心を
我が思はなくに19

Asaka Mountain—
In a shallow mountain springa clear reflection
not so shallow in the heart
where my thoughts have mirrored you.20

The motif of a poet’s persona suddenly realizing, upon seeing their reflection
in a water mirror, that she or he has aged follows a long tradition of poetic expression in which a mirror impresses on its beholder the inescapable reality ofold age. As discussed below, Zeami himself also employed this motif to express
a feeling of impermanence.
The motif of a water mirror showing a loved one’s reflection has precedents
as well, even if not many. An early example appears in poem 4322 of the
Man’yōshū, one of the songs of the sakimori 防人 soldiers:
wa ga tsuma wa
itaku koi rashi
nomu mizu ni
kago sae miete
yo ni wasurarezu

我が妻はいたく恋ひらし飲む水に影さへ見えてよに忘られず 21

My wife misses me—
See, with how sore a yearning:in the very waterthat I drink her face appears;
I can never forget her.22
18
In the English translation, the first three lines are taken from Cranston’s translation of Man’yōshū
3807 in A Waka Anthology, Volume 1, p. 752, while the fourth and fifth lines are translated by Michael
Burtscher. For an English translation of the Yamato monogatari, see Tahara, Tales of Yamato, p. 109.
19
Man’yōshū 3807, p. 102.
20
Cranston, A Waka Anthology, Volume 1, p. 752 (capitalizations changed).
21
Man’yōshū 4322, p. 384.
22
Cranston, A Waka Anthology, Volume 1, p. 630.

The Water Mirror Motif in the Noh Play Izutsu

33This motif derives from the folk belief that seeing one’s beloved reflected in water was proof that the latter was thinking of oneself. In Heian poetry, however,
we occasionally also encounter love poems where the poet’s persona actively
searches for a beloved’s reflection. Take, for example, poem 189 from the Kanpyōno ōntoki kisai no miya no utaawase 寛平御時后宮歌合 (Poetry Contest Held at the
Residence of the Consort in the Kanpyō Era, between the years of 889 and893):
hito shirezu
shita ni nagaruru
namidagawa
seki todomenamu
kage ya miyuru to

人知れず
下に流るる
涙川
せきとどめなむ
影や見ゆると23

Unbeknownst to her
streaming with no end beneath,a river of tears.
Its rushing flow I must halt
to see her countenance clear.

In the poem above, the medium producing the reflection is not actual water but
the imaginary water of a river of tears. The image of such a lachrymal river becoming a water mirror is also found in the “Winter Poems” (fuyu no uta 冬歌)
section of the same poetry contest (poem 139). Both poems were later selected
for inclusion in the first volume of the Shinsen Man’yōshū 新撰万葉集 (Newly
Compiled Man’yōshū, 893–913), where they were paired with poems in Chinese.24
The image of a river of tears as a water mirror is not derived from Chinese poetry,however, but is original to Japanese literature.
A further example featuring this motif is the following poem from the Shūiwakashū 拾遺和歌集 (Collection of Waka Gleanings, c. 1005–1007):
namidagawa
nodoka ni dani monagarenan
koishiki hito nokage ya miyuru to

涙河のどかにだにも流れ南
恋しき人の影や見ゆると25
なんMy river of tears,oh, how I wish for its flow
to slow to a calm!
The image of my beloved
will find its reflection here.

Kanpyō no ōntoki kisai no miya no utaawase 189, p. 480.
As poem-pairs 189–190 and 227–228. See Shinsen Man’yōshū, vol. 1:2, pp. 381–387 and 510–
514.
25
Shūi wakashū 875, p. 252.
23
24

Sagiyama

34

In this next poem, also from Kanpyō no ōntoki kisai no miya no utaawase, in particular its “Love Poems” (koi no uta 恋歌) section, the water mirror likewise consistsof tears, but here the beloved’s reflected image has already appeared:
shiratama no
kiede namida tonarinureba
koishiki kage osoko ni koso mire

白玉の
消えで涙と
なりぬれば
恋しき影を
そこにこそ見れ26

Glistening white pearls
clinging to my forlorn sleeveas but trailing tears.
My beloved’s countenancecasting forth an image here.

The water mirror motif in Zeami’s play had thus a long literary tradition behind
it. But Zeami’s motivation for introducing that motif into the Izutsu story from theIse monogatari, where it is not found, cannot be sufficiently explained by literary tradition alone. As is frequently pointed out, noh plays on stories from classical literature were often based less on the original work itself than on contemporaneouscommentaries explaining that work. In the case of Izutsu, Ōtani Setsuko 大谷節子
has remarked that the Waka chikenshū 和歌知顕集 (Collection of Manifest
Knowledge about Poetry, eleventh century) contains commentary according towhich the two children playing by the well “observed with envy how grown-up
men and women could peer into the well and see its bottom.” They began measuring their heights against the well because “they were desperately awaiting thetime when they would be grown up” themselves. Ōtani further discusses thesubtlety with which the shite’s act of peering into the well in Act 2, by alluding to
the children’s ardent desire to glimpse into the well in days gone by, connects backthrough time to their childhood play and thus assumes multiple layers of meaning.27
Another possible influence on the water mirror motif in Zeami’s play was contemporaneous illustrations of this story. The Bonjikyō-zuri hakubyō Ise monogatariemaki 梵字経刷白描伊勢物語絵巻 (Plain-Ink Ise Stories Illustrated Scrolls Imprinted with Sanskrit Letters, early Kamakura period),28 the oldest extant set ofIse monogatari illustrated scrolls, depicts from behind two children leaning on adjacent sides of the well curb. The left figure appears to be peering into the well,while the other appears to be looking at the first. The Ihon Ise monogatari emaki 異本
伊勢物語絵巻 (Variant Ise Stories Illustrated Scrolls)29—a late Tokugawa-period
copy of a picture scroll from the Kamakura era which is thought to preserve andKanpyō no ōntoki kisai no miya no utaawase 158, p. 474.
Ōtani, Zeami no chūsei, pp. 67–71.
28
Ise monogatari emaki ehon taisei: Shiryōhen, pp. 16–17.
29
Ibid., pp. 62–63.
26
27

The Water Mirror Motif in the Noh Play Izutsu

35

convey the earlier style—again depicts the two children leaning on adjacent sidesof the well curb, with the figure to the left peering into the well, while the figure
to the right again looks towards the other. Unfortunately, other early illustrations
are not available, therefore this vector of influence must remain within the realmof speculation.
Ise monogatari, Episode 27, sometimes known as “Tarai no kage” たらひの影(The Reflection in the Wash Basin), offers an especially interesting comparative
case for the superimposition, in water, of a man’s reflection onto the reflectionof a woman. In that episode, a certain woman, lamenting that a man who visitedfor one night has never returned, recites the following poem upon seeing her reflection in her washbasin:
わればかりもの思ふ人はまたもあらじ
と思へば水の下にもありけり30

ware bakari
mono omou hito wa
mata mo araji
to omoeba mizu noshita ni mo arikeri
No one, anywhere,
could be as miserable
as unhappy me,
I assure myself, yet spy,beneath the water, one more.31

The man, who happens to be standing nearby, overhears this and answers withthe following poem:
minakuchi niware ya miyuramu
kawazu sae
mizu no shita ni temorogoe ni naku

みなくちに
われや見ゆらむ
かはづさへ
水の下にてもろ声に鳴く32

I must be the one
you have glimpsed there by the spout,for even a frog
may, from beneath the water,
join in when another cries.33

In his own poem, the man assumes that the woman has seen his reflection in thewater, not her own. By switching the reflected subject, he turns the woman’s
grudge against him back against herself. The situation differs entirely from that

Ise monogatari, p. 141.
Mostow and Tyler, The Ise Stories, p. 77.
32
Ise monogatari, p. 141.
33
Mostow and Tyler, The Ise Stories, p. 78.
30
31

Sagiyama

36

found in Zeami’s play, but there is some similarity in the subtle effect achievedby overlaying the reflections of a woman and a man in a water mirror.
3. The Water Mirror Motif in Zeami’s Other Works
It bears mention that Zeami employs the water mirror motif quite frequently
in his other works. The play Yōrō 養老 (Fostering Long Life), for example, quotes
the lines “In a shallow mountain spring / a clear reflection” from the “Asaka
Mountain” Man’yōshū poem mentioned above, alluding simultaneously to a linefrom a Ki no Tsurayuki poem in the Kokin wakashū (Book 1)—sode hichite / musubishi mizu 袖ひちてむすびし水 (waters in which we once dipped / cupped hands
drenching summer robes)34—in a scene where the shite sees himself reflected in
the mountain spring: “My aged figure seems to me as young as this rejuvenatingwater” (oi no sugata mo wakamizu to miru 老いの姿も若水と見る).35
In the play Nomori 野守 (The Watchman’s Mirror), the pool of water in which
the Kasuga Plain 春日野 watchman (the shite) sees his reflection day-in and day-out
is called “the watchman’s water mirror” (nomori no mizukagami 野守の水鏡) in thecourse of the following lament:
ge ni mo nomori no mizukagami
kage o utsushite itodo nao
oi no nami wa mashimizu noawarege ni mishi mama no
mukashi no ware zo koishiki

げにも野守の水鏡
影を映していとどなほ
老いの波は真清水の
あはれげに見しままの昔の我ぞ恋しき36

The watchman’s water mirror
throws back his reflection, ah, so much older now,creased by such wrinkling waves!
The unerring surface makes plain the sad truth:
O how I miss those looks, once mine when I was young!37

In the play Higaki 檜垣 (The Cypress Fence), a former shirabyōshi 白拍子 dancer
seeing a reflection of her aged self in a well is accompanied by the following
chorus:kōgan no yosooi
bujo no homare mo ito semetesamo utsukushiki kōgan no
hisui no kazura hana shiorekatsura no mayu mo shimo furite
mizu ni utsuru omokage
rōsui kage shizunde

紅顔のよそほひ舞女の誉れもいと迫めてさも美しき紅顔の翡翠の鬘花萎れ桂の眉も霜降りて水に映る面影
老衰影沈んでKokin wakashū 2; Rodd and Henkenius, Kokinshū, p 49.
Zeami, Yōrō, p. 231.
36
Zeami, Nomori, p. 314.
37
Tyler, To Hallow Genji, p. 152.
34
35

The Water Mirror Motif in the Noh Play Izutsu
midori ni mieshi kurokami wa
dosui no mokuzu chiriakuta
kawarikeru
mi no arisama zo kanashiki

37

緑に見えし黒髪は
土水の藻屑塵芥
変はりける
身の有様ぞ悲しき38

Fair and rosy cheeked, bright in costumes,
as a dancer highly praised at the least is she;so superbly beautiful, fair and rosy cheeked
with the long kingfisher’s wig, but as flowers wilt
so her crescent eyebrows too whiten with the frost;on the water mirror old and feeble
is her form reflected, sunken deeply,
and her hair that once appeared flowing raven-black
looks like the weeds and rubbish in the muddy pool.
Altered, indeed, are
all her old appearances sorrowfully.39

A work that is especially remarkable for a character lamenting his feeble, oldappearance, while remembering the dashing young figure he once cut, is the play
Sanekata 実方, about the poet Fujiwara no Sanekata 藤原実方 (d. 998). He reminisces how, as a young man, he had enjoyed the emperor’s favor and once danced
at a special festival on imperial command; captivated by the beauty of his own
reflection in a nearby basin, he unwittingly halted his dance. But now, seeing hiscompletely changed appearance reflected in water again, he laments:
waga mi nagara mo
utsukushikarishi yosooi no ima wa
mukashi ni kawaru rōsui no kageyosuru wa oinami
midaruru hakuhatsu
kamuri wa take no hamayuhige wa sanagara
shimo no okina no keshiki wa tadaodoro ni yuki no furu ka to miete

我が身ながらも美しかりし粧いの今は昔に変わる老衰の影
寄するは老波乱るゝ白髪
冠は竹の葉
眉鬚はさながら霜の翁の気色はたゞ
おどろに雪の降るかと見えて40

Even as it was myself
I was beautiful to see thus artfully made up.
But now the image of a feeble old man has replaced what was.
Creases of old age like pressing waves,white hair in tangles,
a cap made of bamboo leaves,brows and beard as so much frost
on an old man, like a landscapecovered in a snowstorm.
Zeami, Higaki, p. 285.
Yasuda, Masterworks of the Nō Theater, p. 321.
40
Zeami, Sanekata, p. 704.
38
39

38

Sagiyama

In the noh play Sanemori 実盛, by contrast, it is not the shite himself who peers
into the water. When Sanemori’s ghost appears as the nochi-jite 後シテ, the priest
Taami 他阿弥—in the supporting character role (waki ワキ)—sees an old warrior dressed in armor on the surface of a pond.41
In all of the above-mentioned plays, the person seeing their reflection in a water
mirror is someone already old. And with the exception of the auspicious playYōrō, these characters are confronted with an image of decay, one so overflowing
with a sense of life’s impermanence that it awakens in them the desire to be delivered from it.
The play Izutsu, however, is distinct in this regard. In the water mirror scene in Act
2, the climax of the play, the shite becomes absorbed in the illusion that her reflection
is an image of her lover of bygone days. She thus denies the reality of impermanence
for the time being, and her behavior is not linked to a yearning for salvation. Herethe water mirror, which in the other plays discussed above confronted its beholders
with the reality of their aging, causes instead a nonexistent object of longing toappear. The water mirror, in this case, serves as a conduit for the display of anil­l­usionary other world, a transcendent dimension of ardent desire. Yet the shite also
remains conscious of the fact that the image in the water mirror is but a mirage, asattested by the lines “’tis my own self / yet I yearn”. Nonetheless, the figure of awoman immersed in nostalgic memories conveys a sense not so much of impermanence and yearning for salvation as of a past that lingers on, creating a sensation of deeply felt pathos. Even as Zeami carries forward an existing tradition, inother words, he succeeds in imbuing that tradition with an altered emotionalcharge by skillfully shifting the basic idea at its core.
4. T he Influence of Zeami’s Play on Tokugawa-Era Ise Monogatari Illustrations
While various factors, such as an existing literary tradition, medieval commentaries, illustrations—and also Zeami’s own literary tastes—together formed Izutsu’s
background, the altered structure of his play, produced by its superimpositionof a woman’s real image with a man’s illusionary one, had a profound impact also
on the subsequent reception of the original Ise monogatari story. This is clearly evidenced by representations of the Ise monogatari in illustrated scrolls and books.
Such texts of the late-Muromachi (sixteenth century) and early-Tokugawa periods(seventeenth century) that show the scene of the two children playing by thewell almost always depict them as peering into it. In the Saga-bon 嵯峨本 edition,
the earliest printed version of the Ise monogatari, published in Keichō 慶長 13(1608; fig. 1), the two figures are depicted opposite each other, looking into thewell. This composition, which shows a dwelling in the back, a barrel on top of
the well curb, and a stream to the lower right, in addition to props such as a wellbucket, was widely taken as a visual model from that time on.
41

For an English translation of this play, see Smethurst, “Sanemori,” pp. 147–168.

The Water Mirror Motif in the Noh Play Izutsu

39

Figure 1. Ise monogatari 伊勢物語 (Saga-bon 嵯峨本),Keichō 13 (1608). Tesshinsai Bunko 鉄心斎文庫,
National Institute of Japanese Literature.
https://doi.org/10.20730/200024817 (image 37).

The Ise monogatari edition printed about two decades later, in Kan’ei 寛永 6 (1629;
fig. 2), appears to have been especially widely disseminated. This is suggested by
the fact that the kana-zōshi 仮名草子 parody Nise monogatari 仁勢物語 (Fake Stories),
published during the Kan’ei era (1624–1644), was based on that edition’s text. Its
illustration of the well curb scene closely follows that of the Saga-bon.
As far as I can see, other illustrated editions evince slight differences in how
they depict the dwelling in the background, the tree next to the well, the barrel,
and the well bucket. The well’s form and composition (with or without the curb)
are also subject to variation, as is the positioning of the two figures, either side
by side or opposite one another. Moreover, the clothing and hairstyles of thetwo figures frequently make them appear more like adults than children, with
their styles perhaps also reflecting contemporary fashions (fig. 3).

40

Sagiyama

Figure 2. Ise monogatari, Kan’ei 6 (1629). National Institute of Japanese Literature.
https://doi.org/10.20730/200024958 (image 27).

Such variations notwithstanding, the two figures are almost always depicted as
peering into the well, their hands placed on the curb. In the original story, however, they are described only as having played by the well. Furthermore, thenature of their play is not specified beyond the man’s reminiscence in his courting poem that they used to measure their heights against the well curb when they
were children. That it became standard to depict the two figures peering into thewell most likely stems, therefore, from the lines “peering at their reflections in
the water mirror, heads together, sleeves o’erlaid” in Zeami’s play.

The Water Mirror Motif in the Noh Play Izutsu

41

Figure 3. Kaisei Ise monogatari 改正伊勢物語, vol. 1 (jō上), Hōreki 宝暦 6 (1756). Publisher: Minoya Heibee
美濃屋平兵衛. National Institute of Japanese Literature.

https://doi.org/10.20730/200007225 (image 17).

Especially interesting in this regard is the “black book” (kurohon 黒本),Utagaruta うたがるた, published in Hōreki 6 (1756; fig. 4).42 The illustration of
Episode 23 of the Ise monogatari in this work does not depict the male and female
figures peering into the well. But in this work’s commentary on the love poems thatlead to the pair’s engagement, the female figure is identified as “Ki no Aritsune’s
daughter.” Furthermore, even though the illustration does not show the figuresin a peering posture, the commentary quotes the line “peering at their reflectionsin the water mirror” from Zeami’s play. By this point in the history of the Ise
42

For an English translation and detailed analysis of this work, see Moretti, Recasting the Past.

42

Sagiyama

Figure 4. Utagaruta no hajimari 続松紀原, Hōreki 6(1756). National Institute of Japanese Literature.
https://doi.org/10.20730/200012536 (image 15).

monogatari story, its interpretation appears to have become based entirely on its
reworking by Zeami.
In other words, these illustrations suggest a process by which Zeami’s Izutsu,
which had been informed less by the original story in the Ise monogatari than bylater medieval commentaries on the work, had itself come to serve as a reference
point for interpretations of the original text.
This article has discussed continuations of and variations on the water mirror
motif in an attempt to trace the reception and transformation of a classical text.
The water mirror motif is found in still other works as well. One example is thefamous scene in Chapter 12 of Kyokutei Bakin’s 曲亭馬琴 (1767–1848) Nansō
Satomi hakkenden 南総里見八犬伝 (The Lives of the Eight Dogs of the Satomi ofSouthern Fusa, also the Eight Dogs Chronicles, 1814–1842). Therein, Princess

The Water Mirror Motif in the Noh Play Izutsu

43

Fuse 伏姫 sees her reflection in water only to realize that her head has turned into
the head of a dog, suggesting her impregnation by the qi 気 of the dog Yatsufusa
八房. This motif—of a woman and a man (or male dog, in this case) ensconced deepin the mountains; of a woman seeing her reflection in water and being suddenly
faced with the reality of her changed appearance, causing her and, in turn, theman’s death—distantly recalls, moreover, the scene from Episode 155 of the
Yamato monogatari, described above. A classic text thus sets into motion a dynamic
process in which it is continuously reproduced through a sequence of creative
rewritings.

44

Sagiyama
References

Bai Juyi 白居易. Baishi wenji 白氏文集. 16 vols. Shinshaku kanbun taikei 新釈漢文大系 97–109, 117–119. Meiji Shoin, 1988–2018.
Brazell, Karen, trans. “Izutsu.” In Traditional Japanese Theater: An Anthology ofPlays, ed. Karen Brazell, pp. 143–157. Columbia University Press, 1998.
Bunka shūreishū 文華秀麗集. In NKBT 69.
Cranston, Edwin A. A Waka Anthology, Volume 1: The Gem-Glistening Cup. Stanford University Press, 1998.
Hasebe Tsuyoshi 長谷部剛. “Ka Tō ‘Tō sen ha tei getsu sen atsu sui chū ten’ noseisei to ruden ni tsuite” 賈島「棹穿波底月 船壓水中天」の生成と流伝について. Kansai Daigaku Chūgoku bungakukai kiyō 関西大学中国文学会紀要 42(2021), pp. 19–37.
Ise monogatari 伊勢物語. SNKZ 12.
Ise monogatari emaki ehon taisei: shiryōhen 伊勢物語絵巻絵本大成：資料篇. Kadokawa
Shoten, 2007.
Kanpyō no ōntoki kisai no miya no utaawase 寛平御時后宮歌合. In SNKZ 11, pp.
443–480.
Ki no Tsurayuki 紀貫之. Tsurayuki shū 貫之集. In vol. 19 of Waka bungaku taikei
和歌文学大系, pp. 3–175. Meiji Shoin, 1997.
Ki no Tsurayuki. Tosa nikki 土佐日記. In SNKZ 13.
Kokin wakashū 古今和歌集. SNKZ 11.
Man’yōshū 万葉集. Vol. 4. SNKZ 9.
McCullough, Helen Craig, trans. Kokin Wakashū: The First Imperial Anthology ofJapanese Poetry—With ‘Tosa Nikki’ and ‘Shinsen Waka’. Stanford University
Press, 1985.
Moretti, Laura. Recasting the Past: An Early Modern Tales of Ise for Children. Leiden:
Brill, 2016.
Mostow, Joshua, and Royall Tyler, trans. The Ise Stories: Ise Monogatari. Universityof Hawai‘i Press, 2010.
Ōtani Setsuko 大谷節子. Zeami no chūsei 世阿弥の中世. Iwanami Shoten, 2007.
Rabinovitch, Judith N., and Timothy R. Bradstock, eds. No Moonlight in My Cup: Sinitic
Poetry (Kanshi) for the Japanese Court, Eighth to Twelfth Centuries. Leiden: Brill, 2019.
Rodd, Laurel Rasplica, and Mary Catherine Henkenius, eds. Kokinshū: A Collectionof Poems Ancient and Modern. Princeton University Press, 1984.
Shinsen Man’yōshū chūshaku 新撰万葉集注釈. Vol. 1:2. Izumi Shoin, 2006.
Shūi wakashū 拾遺和歌集. SNKT 7.
Smethurst, Mae J., trans. “Sanemori.” In Like Clouds of Mists: Studies and Translations of Nō Plays of the Genpei War, ed. Elizabeth Oyler and Michael Watson,
pp. 147–168. Cornell University East Asia Program, 2013.

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Sugawara no Michizane 菅原道真. Kanke bunsō 菅家文草. In NKBT 72.
Tahara, Mildred M., trans. Tales of Yamato: A Tenth-Century Poem Tale. Universityof Hawai‘i Press, 1980.
Tyler, Royall. To Hallow Genji: A Tribute to Noh. Blue-Tongue Books, 2013.
Yamato monogatari 大和物語. In SNKZ 12.
Yasuda, Kenneth. Masterworks of the Nō Theater. Indiana University Press, 1989.
Zeami 世阿弥. Higaki 檜垣. In NKBT 40.
Zeami. Izutsu 井筒. In SNKZ 58.
Zeami. Nomori 野守. In NKBT 40.
Zeami. Sanekata 実方. In Yōkyoku sanbyakugojū ban shū 謡曲三百五十番集. Vol. 29
of Nihon meicho zenshū 日本名著全集. Nihon Meicho Zenshū Kankōkai 日本
名著全集刊行会, 1928.
Zeami. Yōrō 養老. In NKBT 40.

Studies in Japanese Literature and Culture 5 (March 2022) 47–54© 2022 National Institute of Japanese Literature

Physical Imitations of the Deva King
Statue: Performances of Kabukiin the Seventeenth Century
Takei Kyōzō

National Institute of Japanese Literature (Emeritus)
Translated byTove Björk
Saitama University

Introduction
Noh and kyōgen 狂言, which developed in the fifteenth century, alongside
kabuki and the ningyō jōruri 人形浄瑠璃 puppet theater (known also as bunraku),
which developed in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, are generally taken
to be the representative traditional performance arts of Japan. In addition, numerous street performing arts (daidō-gei 大道芸) and parlor performance traditions(zashiki-gei 座敷芸) also existed. Both of these latter arts drew upon and inspiredby turns the four representative genres, and both have moreover maintained performance traditions that continue up to the present day.
This article investigates one instance of kyōgen’s influence on kabuki. Specifically, it discusses how the physical acting involved in the mime act “Deva King”(Niō 仁王) was incorporated into the kabuki repertoire by the specialist comedic
actor Yūnan Saburobee ゆうなん三郎兵衛. This article also explores the act’s relationship to the medieval kyōgen play of the same name, as well as its relationship to various other performance genres.
The Kyōgen Play Deva KingThe kyōgen play Deva King is depicted in one of the illustrations found in the
document Kyōgen-e 狂言絵 (Kyōgen Pictures; fig. 1). What is happening in thisscene can be explained by consulting the script for the kyōgen play Deva King as itis performed today.
A small-time thug, the stock kyōgen character known as Suppa すっぱ, who has
here lost his money gambling, pretends to be a statue of the Deva King in orderto steal alms and offerings from visitors to a certain temple. The play is based on
47

48

Takei

Figure 1. Scene from the kyōgen play Deva King (Niō 仁王). From Kyōgen-e (Kyōgen Pictures),a collection of such generic illustrations. National Institute of Japanese Literature.
https://doi.org/10.20730/200017952 (image 12).

the Japanese belief that sick people can be healed by touching, on the statues ofgods and deities, that particular part of the body corresponding to the site of
their own illness. In the play, a man who has hurt his leg thus touches the leg ofthe false Deva King statue, who jumps in surprise. The man becomes suspicious
and begins to feel his way up the length of this Deva King statue, moving up theleg until he reaches the crotch, which he tickles. At this point, Suppa cannot contain himself and breaks out laughing. His deceit being discovered, he is chased
off the temple premises by an enraged crowd.
Figure 1 shows Suppa mimicking the Deva King with a bared upper body.
Two temple-goers are tickling him with their fans, and Suppa is doing all he can
not to burst out laughing. This act is the highlight of the play.
It is unclear exactly when this act was created and first performed. The program for the actor Shichidayū’s 七太夫 performance in 1620 (Genna 元和 6) ispreserved in the document collection Edo Shoki Nō Bangumi Hikae 江戸初期
能番組控 (Collection of Early Modern Noh Programs, no. 6/25) at the Nogami
Memorial Noh Theater Research Institute of Hōsei University. Because kyōgen
pieces were performed as interludes to noh plays, this collection also includes
kyōgen programs. Among these, we find Deva King. This shows that the play was
clearly in the kyōgen repertoire by at least the early seventeenth century.

Physical Imitations of the Deva King Statue

49

In addition, we can read the lines of the two temple-goers mentioned above ina number of seventeenth-century kyōgen scripts. In Ōkura Toraakira’s 大蔵虎明
(1597–1662) kyōgen script book, included in the published script collection Ōkura
kaden no sho kohon nō kyōgen 大蔵家伝之書古本能狂言 (Old Kyōgen Scripts of theŌkura School), one of the temple-goers has the following line:
The eyes of this Deva King statue move! Very suspicious . . . I think I will try
to tickle it.1

From the pictorial evidence, in combination with the programs and script
books, we can know to some extent how this act was performed in the seventeenth century, and deduce that the tickling part was indeed the highlight of the act.
The Enactment of Deva King in Kabuki
The kyōgen play Deva King migrated to the kabuki repertoire early on. In 1667
(Kanbun 寛文 7), the diary of Matsudaira Naonori 松平直矩 (also called Yamato
no kami 大和守, 1642–1695), the kabuki-loving lord of Echigo 越後 domain(present-day Niigata Prefecture), notes in its entry for the second day of the fifthmonth that a banquet was held at Naonori’s mansion in Edo, at which he had
invited ningyō jōruri puppeteers to perform.
During this period, short skits performed by kabuki actors were often inserted
between the acts of a puppet play, and, on the occasion of Naonori’s banquet,
an interval play called Tickled Deva King (Kosokuri Niō こそくり仁王) was performed as an interlude between the jōruri’s second and third acts. This record ofa puppet play performance shows us that the kyōgen play Deva King had been assimilated into the kabuki repertoire already by this time.
Yūnan Saburobee and His Imitation Acts
Yūnan Saburobee was a popular comic actor, active during the second half ofthe seventeenth century, who was famous for his imitations. He appears morethan ten times in various documents between 1657 (Meireki 明暦 3) and 1701
(Genroku 元禄 14).
According to the ukiyo-zōshi 浮世草子 novel Kōshoku shiki banashi 好色四季咄
(Amorous Rumors of the Four Seasons, Genroku 2 [1689]), “Yūnan was famousfor his art of imitation, being known for his skills not only in Kyoto and Osaka,
but even as far away as Edo.” In the ukiyo-zōshi novel Kōshoku yurai zoroe 好色由来揃(Selection of Amorous Legends, c. Genroku 5 [1692]), Yūnan Saburobee is listed
under “Famous Imitators,” where he is placed before Umenoka Jiroemon 梅香次郎右衛門, Kiyari Rokurobee 木やり六郎兵衛, and other celebrated performers.
Generally speaking, there are two major types of imitation. One is vocal imitation; the other is physical imitation. The art of imitation as practiced by Yūnan
1Ōkura, Ōkura kaden no sho kohon nō kyōgen, vol. 3, p. 106.

50

Takei

Figure 2. Yamato no kami nikki 大和守日記 (Diary of Yamato no kami). Northern Culture
Museum, Niigata Prefecture. Photograph by author.

Saburobee is also depicted in Matsudaira Naonori’s diary, in the entry for thetwentieth day of the eighth month, 1662 (Kanbun 2). On this day, several actors
and entertainers had been called by Naonori to his Edo mansion.
Here, let us take a closer look at the entry itself. The diary’s original manuscript
is presumed lost to fire, but figure 2 shows the relevant diary page from the copy
closest to the original, a late nineteenth-century manuscript housed at the Northern
Culture Museum.
Here we first see the name Yūnan Saburobee, and five lines later, we learn thecontent of his imitations: “He imitates the calling of the barkers in front of themouseholes of the Sakai-chō 堺丁 quarters.” The Sakai-chō entertainment quarter
was an area with many theaters. “Mouseholes” here refers to these theatres’ small
entrances, in front of which barkers would stand on small stages, advertising thecontents of the various plays with small skits and boisterous calling. From this description we know that Yūnan Saburobee performed an imitation that was a vocal
art. He also performed acts like “The Three Changes of the Tokoroten Seller’s
Voice” (Tokoroten-uri no sandan ni henka suru urigoe ところてん売りの三段に変化する売り声). Tokoroten 心太 is a kind of thin noodle dish eaten cold in summer,
whose street peddlers would use a particular “sales jingle” in which they changed
their vocal tone three times.
“The Laughter of the Newly-wed Woman” (Niizuma no iroiro na waraikata 新妻の色々な笑い方) was another one of Yūnan’s acts. Here it seems it was thelaughter that “changed”: one imagines the woman reacting to someone asking
impertinently about her wedding night, to which she laughs now with embar-

Physical Imitations of the Deva King Statue

51

rassment, now sensually, now vulgarly, all in quick sequence. This act is probably
connected to the stock figure of the bordello matron feigning embarrassment,
which frequently appears in early seventeenth-century kabuki skits.2
All of the above acts are vocal imitations, and indeed Yūnan Saburobee evenimitated birds and the sounds of various animals. Yet he was also skilled at physical imitation, with contemporary documents describing him as a master of “allkinds of imitations.”
In the diary entry above, towards the end, we find the skits “Deva King Imitation,” “King Enma Imitation,” and “The Sixteen Arhats,” all of which involved
the imitation of Buddhist statues. Yūnan Saburobee would physically imitate theposes and posture of these statues, which were frequently seen at popular temples. They were therefore familiar to spectators, who would visit such temples
both as a part of their religious practice and for leisure.
Soroma Shichirobee’s “Deva King” Imitation
Pictorial evidence of how seventeenth-century kabuki actors performed “Deva
King” can be found in Ihara Saikaku’s 井原西鶴 (1642–1693) Shoen Ōkagami 諸艶
大鑑 (The Great Mirror of Beauties, Jōkyō 貞享 1 [1684]; fig. 3).
This picture shows a banquet at a bordello in the licensed pleasure quarters.
Courtesans entertain the customers. In addition, male performers called taiko-mochi
太鼓持 (also called hōkan 幇間) who specialize in comic skits have been hired forthe occasion. At this particular banquet, Ihara Saikaku recounts, a popular puppetplay narrator named Geki 外記 narrated the traveling section (michiyuki 道行) of
the play Heianjō 平安城 (The Imperial Capital), while the puppeteer Oyama Jinzaemon おやま甚左衛門 manipulated a female puppet. This scene is depicted on theright-hand side of the picture below; the narrator Geki is the man holding a fan,and Oyama Jinzaemon is the seated man with a puppet. The puppet wears a traveling hat and a staff, indicating that it is indeed the traveling scene being performed.
Saikaku also tells us that a performer called Soroma Shichirobee そろま七郎兵衛
regaled the guests with his “Deva King” imitation; this is depicted on the lefthand side. Shichirobee is shown with a naked upper body, extending one leg forward and flexing one arm upwards. If we look closely, we see that Shichirobee
has his mouth closed, while the spectators’ mouths are open. This depiction suggests the respective postures of the paired Deva King statues commonly foundflanking temple entrances, the one with mouth closed, the other with mouth
open. These postures are usually described with reference to the syllables a 阿 andun 吽. The “a” Deva King stands with an open mouth and spreads his fingers andtoes wide, symbolizing outgoing energy, whereas the “un” Deva King presents amouth tightly shut, with closed fists and curled toes, symbolizing incoming energy.
2Takei, Kabuki to wa ikanaru engeki ka, pp. 28–29.

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Takei

Figure 3. Shoen Ōkagami 諸艶大鑑 (The Great Mirror of Beauties, Jōkyō 1 [1684]). National
Diet Library.
https://doi.org/10.11501/2544910 (image 15).

Soroma Shichirobee appears in the document collection Nakamura zakki 中村
雑記 (Nakamura’s Miscellaneous Notes, Genroku 16 [1703]). He is therefore

clearly a historical figure and not a figment of Ihara Saikaku’s imagination. If welook closely at figure 3, we can observe that the fingers on Shichirobee’s left
hand are missing. The many various implications of a handicapped actor imitating a Buddhist deity cannot be discussed here in detail, but let it suffice to saythat this illustration can be an entry point for reevaluating how the body has
been perceived in the history of Japanese performance arts.
Soroma Shichirobee performed in the parlors of the pleasure quarters, but justlike Yūnan Saburobee, he was also often invited to the mansions of various domain lords; and as seen in the documents presented above, both actors included“Deva King” in their repertoire. It is likely that Shichirobee was Saburobee’s student, or that they otherwise had a reason to work closely together. In any case,male performers such as these, specializing in performances for private venues,
may be considered the forerunners of the male taiko-mochi professional party
entertainers in the pleasure quarters.
A few taiko mochi entertainers are still active today, and “Deva King” is stillPhysical Imitations of the Deva King Statue
performed by them. Therefore, we can also
see in photographs how the act is performed(fig. 4).
The Deva King statue imitations performedby Yūnan Saburobee and Soroma Shichirobee
were adopted into various kabuki performances in the late seventeenth century, andwe can see their legacy still in plays of the kabuki
repertoire today. Take, for example, Sugawara
denju tenarai kagami 菅原伝授手習鑑 (Sugawara
and the Secrets of Calligraphy, 1746), one of
the most famous plays in both the puppet
theater and kabuki repertoires. The names of
the two main protagonists are Matsuō 松王(“Pine King”) and Umeō 梅王 (“Plum King”),
which may represent a play on the Japanesename for the Deva King: Niō (literally “twokings”).
There are numerous pictures of the enactment of “Deva King,” but I will close this53

Figure 4. Tomimoto Hanpei 富本
半平 II performing the “Deva King”
imitation. From Fujii Sōtetsu 藤井
宗哲, Taiko mochi (hōkan) no seikatsu
たいこもち
（幇間）
の生活 (Yūzankaku
Shuppan, 1982), frontispiece, p. ii.

Figure 5. “Naniwamaru’s Deva King Imitation” (Naniwamaru Niō no mane なには丸仁王のまね). From the illustrated kyōgen play book Yamato (provisional title). Imanishi Yūichirō,

private collection.

Takei54

investigation into the physical imitation of this Buddhist deity’s statue by presenting a late-seventeenth century document discovered by Imanishi Yūichirō 今西祐一郎 (fig. 5).
I have previously argued that such imitations of the Deva King statue led
eventually to the development of the famous stylized poses in kabuki known as
mie 見得.3 Since then, several counter-arguments have been raised, notably in the
publication Geinō-shi kenkyū 芸能史研究 (History of the Performing Arts) in thespecial issue “Kabuki no mie” 歌舞伎の見得 (Mie Poses in Kabuki), no. 223, October 2018. For those further interested in the topic, I recommend reading bothpublications and forming your own opinion.

ReferencesŌkura Yatarō 大蔵弥太郎. Ōkura kaden no sho kohon nō kyōgen 大蔵家伝之書古本
能狂言. Kyoto: Rinsen Shoten, 1976.
Takei Kyōzō 武井協三. Kabuki to wa ikanaru engeki ka 歌舞伎とはいかなる演劇か.
Yagi Shoten, 2017.
Takei Kyōzō. “Kyōgen no Niō, Yūnan no monomane, aragoto no mie” 狂言の仁王、ゆうなんの物真似、荒事の見得. In Takei Kyōzō, Wakashū kabuki, yarōkabuki no kenkyū 若衆歌舞伎・野郎歌舞伎の研究, pp. 152–180. Yagi Shoten,
2000.

3

Takei, “Kyōgen no Niō.”Studies in Japanese Literature and Culture 5 (March 2022) 55–85© 2022 National Institute of Japanese Literature

Textual Heritage Embodied:
Entanglements of Tangible andIntangible in the Aoi no ue utaibonof the Hōshō school of Noh
Edoardo Gerlini

Università Ca’ Foscari Venezia

1. “Missing Heritage”: Literature, UNESCO, and Heritage Studies
The word heritage has been the object in recent decades of growing interest
both from the general public as well as from policy makers and local and national institutions. Specifically, the concept of cultural heritage has assumed an
implicitly positive meaning among the public. This positive view has been furthered by the popularity of UNESCO’s World Heritage List, instituted in 1972
with the Convention Concerning the Protection of World Cultural and Natural
Heritage.1 Attracted by the possibility of reinforcing their symbolic capital and soft
power, a growing number of countries have ratified the convention, investing aremarkable amount of funding and other resources into heritage safeguarding.
Nonetheless, because the parameters for inscribing a site on the UNESCO World
Heritage List are based overwhelmingly on European and Western values andprinciples, the struggle to have one’s items inscribed therein has always been biased infavor of Western countries. As of this writing, more than half of all World Heritage
List sites are located in Europe or North America. This imbalance and unfairness
in the UNESCO rules has been criticized by non-Western countries, as well as bypostcolonial scholars, especially since the mid-1980s.2 Partly as a consequence of
this criticism and largely as a result of non-Western countries’ demands for a fairer
and more inclusive definition of heritage, UNESCO promoted the new categoryof intangible cultural heritage through the Convention for the Safeguarding of theIntangible Cultural Heritage (hereafter the ICH Convention) in 2003.3 With the
Available at: http://whc.unesco.org/archive/convention-en.pdf.
One of the earliest and more influential critics of the UNESCO model was David Lowenthal, in his The Past Is a Foreign Country, a revised version of which was published in 2015.
3
Available at: https://ich.unesco.org/doc/src/2003_Convention_Basic_Texts-_2018_versionEN.pdf.
1

2

55

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Gerliniestablishment of two new lists—(1) the Representative List of the Intangible
Cultural Heritage of Humanity and (2) the List of Intangible Cultural Heritagein Need of Urgent Safeguarding—followed in 2009 by a Register of Good Safeguarding Practices, the Convention aimed to safeguard the various practices,
representations, skills, knowledges, and associated objects and spaces that communities (or sometimes individuals) identify as their cultural heritage.
Japan played an important role in promoting this convention. In 1994, it had
hosted the Nara Conference on Authenticity in Relation to the World Heritage
Convention4—usually considered as a sort of prelude to the 2003 ICH Convention—which recognized the importance of intangible forms of cultural heritage
alongside long-recognized tangible forms: “All cultures and societies are rooted
in the particular forms and means of tangible and intangible expression whichconstitute their heritage, and these should be respected” (Art. 7).
The new category of ICH helped to counterbalance the hegemonic positionsome Western countries such as France or Italy had held in the original World
Heritage List. Today, nearly two decades after the ICH Convention, the countries
with the greatest number of recognized ICH—China, Japan, and Korea—are all
non-Western. As early as 2008, Japan succeeded in having three of its most important theatrical forms—noh, kabuki, and bunraku puppet theater—inscribed
into the ICH Representative List. Since these early inscriptions, new entries forJapan have followed almost annually, leading to twenty-two items today.
Increasingly, the ICH List has come to include a wide array of cultural practices, from festivals to food, from traditional and modern dances to horse riding,agricultural techniques, falconry, and so on, making the category of ICH evenmore flexible and rather dazzling in its diversity. Curiously, however, cultural
practices connected with writing and the creation of literary works or written
documents have remained thus far underrepresented. The inscription of traditional calligraphy, for example, has been pursued only by China (“Chinese calligraphy,” 2009) and Mongolia (“Mongolian calligraphy,” 2013), and most recently
by Turkey (“Hüsn-i Hat: traditional calligraphy in Islamic art in Turkey,” 2021)
and by a consortium of countries in the Islamic cultural sphere (“Arabic calligraphy: knowledge, skills and practices,” 2021)1. This lack of attention toward theliterary and toward written culture in general may be due to the ICH Convention
itself, which clearly defines intangible heritage as being, above all, “oral traditions
and expressions, including language as a vehicle of the intangible cultural heritage” (Art. 2.2). Since its focus is the living and performative aspects of culture,
as well as the safeguarding of endangered and fragile oral cultural practices (e.g.,
4
The Nara Document on Authenticity (International Council on Monuments and Sites, 1994),
Article 7: https://www.icomos.org/charters/nara-e.pdf (accessed 3.30.2021).
1
2021 is also the year in which Iran added its “National Programme to Safeguard the Traditional Art of Calligraphy in Iran” to the UNESCO Register of Good Safeguarding Practices, aseparate list instituted in 2009.

Textual Heritage Embodied

57

endangered languages), it seems logical that written texts have—at least to thepresent—received less attention.
On the other hand, the UNESCO ICH Convention does not completely exclude objects. Its official definition of intangible cultural heritage is as follows(emphasis added):
The “intangible cultural heritage” means the practices, representations, expressions, knowledge, skills—as well as the instruments, objects, artefacts and cultural spaces associated therewith—that communities, groups and, in somecases, individuals recognize as part of their cultural heritage (Art. 2.1).

The problem therefore seems to be that literature and texts are usually not regarded as “instruments, objects, artefacts” produced and associated with “practices, representations, expressions, knowledge, skills.”
The majority of items currently inscribed on the UNESCO lists were, or are,produced by “communities” or “groups”—examples include historical cities
and buildings, as well as traditional festivals and dances—rather than by a single
individual, as is often the case for literary works. This long-standing practice isnot, however, sufficient reason for excluding single literary works—or even literary genres or practices—from the UNESCO ICH lists. Indeed, the UNESCOICH Convention itself recognizes heritage creation to be not just the act of producing culture but rather the long-span process by which a community orgroup—or even a set of individuals!—recognizes some specific cultural expression or item “as part of their cultural heritage.”
It is evident that literary works like the Tale of Genji (Genji monogatari 源氏物語),
the Divine Comedy, or Faust are much more than just three cultural products composed by their authors at a given time: they are acknowledged by three welldefined national communities—the Japanese, the Italians, and the Germans—aspart of their cultural and linguistic identity. In light of this, there is no doubt that
we can consider them literary heritage, as indeed these works are often called. In
1990 Edward Said strongly stressed the association between heritage and literature, with reference to the role of literary texts in the ex-colonies: “Literature has
played a crucial role in the re-establishment of a national cultural heritage, in the
re-instatement of native idioms, in the re-imagining and re-figuring of local histories, geographies, communities” (emphasis added).5
Even so, literary (cultural) heritage has, thus far, been almost completely missing from the UNESCO heritage lists. Investigating the reasons for this missing
heritage, therefore, is a necessary prelude to any discourse about literature as heritage.
One can argue that literature—and texts in general—have been omitted because they do not fit into either of the two categories of heritage defined so far:tangible and intangible. I will show in this article how this problem is connected
5

Said, “Figures, Configurations, Transfigurations,” p. 1.

58

Gerliniwith the sheer intimate nature of literary sources, and with what exactly we meanby the word text. Let us consider, for example, the Tale of Genji. We can agree that
it is undoubtedly a literary heritage of Japan and the world, but which version of
the Tale of Genji should be indicated if it is ever someday inscribed on the list? A
selected and verified set of scrolls, manuscripts, or prints of particular value related to the literary work? Since the original copy of the Genji supposedly written
by Murasaki Shikibu 紫式部 (late tenth–early eleventh century) is now long-lost,which manuscripts and which version of the text are we talking about? Should
we consider any copy of the Genji as part of the literary heritage? And to what
extent? Should we include also translations, parodies, or other adaptations likemanga and movies? In this case, what could possibly be the meaning of “listing” it?
The UNESCO Memory of the World (MoW) Programme, started in 1992 tosupport the preservation of, and access to, documentary sources that are vitalfor people’s collective memory, seems to offer a solution for this impasse. Scanning the MoW Register’s more than 430 items, submitted by (cumulatively) morethan 520 countries (52 percent from Europe and North America), we find manuscripts, printed books, photos, films, paintings, musical scores, woodblocks forprinting, inscribed stones, and historical records as well as entire archives andcollections that are explicitly described as the “documentary heritage” of humanity. We also find therein items identifiable as literary works, but the list largely
comprises documents and records of historical value: registers, letters, maps,
diaries, and so on. The focus of the MoW Programme has been on access toand digitization of these resources6 rather than on representing the world’s
cultural and literary diversity.
Moreover, even if a central criterion for the acceptance of a submission is adocument’s “authenticity,” this requirement does not necessarily indicate an“original work” but rather the integrity of a specific material item. For example,“The Wizard of Oz” was inscribed on the MoW Register in 2007. However, thisentry does not indicate Frank Baum’s original 1900 novel The Wonderful Wizard ofOz but rather “the original Technicolor 3-strip nitrate negatives and the black andwhite sequences preservation negatives and soundtrack” of the movie produced
in 1939 by Metro Goldwyn Mayer and now owned by Warner Bros. Pictures.7 Inother words, what the MoW Programme recognizes as humanity’s documentary
heritage, and therefore as worthy of preservation, is not the literary work itself,
nor its “expressions” or “representations”—as these terms are defined in the
Functional Requirements for Bibliographic Records (hereafter FRBR) by the International Federation of Library Associations and Institutions.8 What is recognized
Prodan, “The Memory of the World,” p. 142.
See: http://www.unesco.org/new/en/communication-and-information/memory-of-the-world/
register/full-list-of-registered-heritage/registered-heritage-page-8/the-wizard-of-oz-victor-fleming1939-produced-by-metro-goldwyn-mayer/.
8
The report is available at: https://repository.ifla.org/handle/123456789/811.
6
7

Textual Heritage Embodied

59

rather are specific items that embody a work: physical copies, manuscripts, anddocuments in their authentic and material form.9 This is the most noticeable difference between texts included in the MoW Register and literary works included
in anthologies and textbooks of literature.
Japan offers a very clear example of how the authenticity criterion can be controversial. In 2013, Japan succeeded in having inscribed on the MoW Register
the Midō kanpakuki 御堂関白記, the diary of Fujiwara no Michinaga 藤原道長
(966–1027), the most influential political figure of eleventh-century Japan. In
the very same year, the Japanese National Commission for UNESCO decided toabandon the candidacy of the Tale of Genji, Japanese literature’s most famousand canonized work. Written around the same years as Midō kanpakuki, the Taleof Genji is, notably, one of the first works of Japanese premodern literature to be
canonized in world literature anthologies. Yet even if its cultural and historicalvalue is undisputed, the committee’s submission of the work was rejected because Murasaki Shikibu’s original handwritten copy has been lost. By contrast,
the Midō kanpakuki’s fourteen scrolls are recognized as the authentic manuscripts of Fujiwara no Michinaga.
The Tale of Genji is therefore a perfect example of a firmly canonized work ofworld literature that cannot be consecrated by UNESCO as an example of “heritage of humanity” because of the absence of an “original” and authentic text,
namely Murasaki’s autograph manuscript—despite the fact that many valuable
handwritten copies produced since the late Heian period (794–1192) are today
registered as official National Treasures in museums and libraries across Japan.
Authenticity is actually one of the most debated problems among heritage
scholars10 because many submissions to the UNESCO lists do in fact mobilize thisconcept to reinforce the connection between antiquity and a territorially-rooted
community, with the aim of distinguishing between “real” heritage practices and“inauthentic” revivals, or practices that have merely been restored.11 In any case,even when a literary work’s original copy does exist, it is unlikely that any literary
masterpiece would be inscribed on the MoW Register simply because its literary
qualities were acknowledged by scholars of literature. Anne Frank’s diary and the
Gutenberg Bible—if we accept the Bible also as a piece of literature—have been
selected primarily for their symbolic or historical value: the first, as a dramatic
account of one of the darkest pages of human history and the second, as proofof a revolution in printing technology and the spread of books in Europe.
It is therefore clear that the criteria followed by literature scholars when designating—through its inclusion in anthologies and textbooks—a particular literary
9
UNESCO is putting efforts in including also documents in digital format, as in the project of“Software Heritage,” but this has led to a number of contradictions I will not discuss in this paper.
10
See, for example, Akagawa, “Rethinking the Global Heritage Discourse”; Labadi, “World
Heritage, Authenticity and Post-Authenticity.”
11
Bortolotto, “Authenticity,” p. 76.

60

Gerliniwork as worth reading and teaching are quite different from the criteria followed
by UNESCO. In other words, a text may be recognized as an important piece ofliterature, without necessarily being nominated as “heritage,” and vice versa. In
more technical terms, we can say that the canonization of a literary work does
not necessarily correspond to its heritagization.
The case of noh theater is quite interesting. Japanese literature scholars often
consider noh to be also a literary genre. However, the presentation we find on the
UNESCO website12 scarcely mentions noh’s literary or textual aspects, such as
the transmission of libretto texts. Nor does it emphasize the artform’s connection
with classical works of literature, such as the Tale of Genji. Even Zeami 世阿弥(1363?–mid-fifteenth century), usually credited as the author of about ninety
plays in the noh repertoire, remains unmentioned. These peculiarities may beseen as a way of accommodating the ICH Convention’s own criteria, whichemphasize the oral aspect of heritage. However, as I show in the second part ofthis article, it is also possible that the conservation of texts is not considered apriority in the logic of noh practitioners, which emphasizes the transmission oforal and intangible teachings.
In this article, I analyze the relationship between the contemporary practice ofnoh and the textual sources that inform it, in order to shed new light on themeaning of heritage and the possibilities offered by the new paradigm of “textual heritage” as applied to traditional performing arts.
The Need for an Interdisciplinary Approach: Literary Heritage Studies
If it is true that texts in general and literature in particular do not perfectly fit
present definitions of heritage per the UNESCO conventions, it is also important to underline the fact that UNESCO’s is not the only available definition ofheritage, which remains a very controversial and elusive concept. Even if under
different names, cultural assets from the past have been protected and evaluatedsince long before modern nation-states began regulating and administrating themanagement of the past through institutions like national museums, libraries,
and archives. In recent times, the term heritage has been increasingly mobilized toquestion the relationships that social groups and communities imagine and create
with “their” pasts, and to understand how those knowledges and practices aretransmitted to subsequent generations as a core asset of the cultural identity ofgroups and individuals.
At least since the mid-1980s, and increasingly since the 1990s, the interdisciplinary field known as heritage studies has gradually developed, drawing from awide range of disciplines, including archeology, history, law, sociology, anthropology, geography, economics, and management. Especially since the first decadesof the twenty-first century, the tendency to abandon the Eurocentric and universalist idea that defines heritage as something of “outstanding universal value”—
12

See: https://ich.unesco.org/en/RL/ngaku-theatre-00012.

Textual Heritage Embodied

61

as first stated in the 1972 Convention, which established the World Heritage
List—has led to a redefinition of heritage as a social practice, rather than as an
object, in a framework that emphasizes its intrinsic intangible nature. Some of
the contributors to this new approach, which goes generally under the name“critical heritage studies,” have defined heritage as follows:This book explores the idea of heritage not so much as a “thing,” but as a cultural and social process, which engages with acts of remembering that work tocreate ways to understand and engage with the present.13
Heritage is not a passive process of simply preserving things from the past thatremain, but an active process of assembling a series of objects, places and practices that we choose to hold up as a mirror to the present, associated with a particular set of values that we wish to take with us into the future.14
Starting from a position of seeing “heritage” as a mental construct that attributes “significance” to certain places, artifacts, and forms of behavior from thepast through processes that are essentially political, we see heritage conservation not merely as a technical or managerial matter but as cultural practice, aform of cultural politics.15
Increasingly, the view has been that, alongside any intrinsic value heritage may
have, ultimately meaning resides in the “intangible” relationships it provides between people and things.16

This emphasis on the implicitly intangible side of heritage that informs thework of many heritage scholars may be one reason that literature scholars ingeneral have been discouraged from engaging with heritage as a topic of study.
This is especially true for those committed to particularly conservative disciplines
like philology—defined by Edward Said as “the least with-it, the least sexy, andmost unmodern of any of the branches of learning associated with humanism.”17
As such, key terms such as literary heritage and textual heritage remain at present
mostly undertheorized and undefined, owing to text and literature experts’ lackof engagement with the challenge that heritage studies presents.
Even if indeed, as Rodney Harrison reminds us, “heritage as a concept is constantly evolving and the way in which the term is understood is always ambiguous and never certain,”18 the contributions of literary criticism, literary theory,and philology are still missing in this puzzle. How can it be possible to trace a“history of heritage,”19 namely the history of heritage discourse in premodern
times, without considering the contributions of the history of literature? How
Smith, Uses of Heritage, p. 2.
Harrison, Heritage, p. 4.
15
Logan, Kockel, and Craith, “The New Heritage Studies,” p. 1.
16
Akagawa, “Intangible Heritage and Embodiment,” p. 81.
17
Said, Humanism and Democratic Criticism, p. 57.
18
Harrison, Heritage, p. 6.
19
Harvey, “Heritage Pasts and Heritage Presents,” p. 320; “The History of Heritage,” p. 19.
13
14

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Gerlinican we understand the processes of heritage-making and textual re-creation
without the eye of the philologist, one specifically trained to follow the slenderthread of intertextuality?20 There is a good chance that the contributions of literature scholars—and textual experts in general—to the heritage debate would
benefit all of those working in this interdisciplinary field. They could offer newcase studies and evidence to validate the theoretical bases of heritage studies,and help extend the range of its discourse analysis to longer time-spans and different cultural and linguistic contexts.
On the other hand, literature scholars, especially those interested in premodern texts or the so-called classics, should take advantage of the very timely andflexible theoretical category of heritage. The never-ending debate about why theclassics should still be read today, about their claimed —or rejected —effectiveness in fostering and cultivating critical thought and civic values, could surely
gain new visibility and develop in unexpected ways if connected to questions
about the uses and safeguarding of heritage. During a keynote lecture at a recent
symposium,21 Wiebke Denecke expressed her disappointment at Japanese scholars’
fatalistic uninterest in the progressive and relentless decline of literacy in Sinitic
letters, or literary Chinese (kanbun 漢文), among not only contemporary Japanese people at large but also among Japanese experts of literature. One reason forthis trend may be that, independent of their professional interest, many Japanese
today see kanbun as a cultural heritage that is not really (or completely) Japanese,
unlike kabuki or Japanese cuisine (washoku 和食). Rethinking literacy—even in an
old and “dead” language—and the ability to read premodern texts, and moreover reinterpreting both skills as forms of cultural heritage at risk of extinction,
might well shake the consciousness of many in the literary field.
An interdisciplinary dialogue about texts, literature, and heritage is also essential today to call into question the fallacious promises of digital technology enthusiasts, who avow that everything can be saved and archived. Even if we grantthat one day, every text ever written by humankind will be digitized and madeaccessible on the internet, there will remain a need to distinguish which texts really matter and are worthy of knowing, and which not.
Reflecting on what a text is, and on what textual heritage might mean today,
has also the potential to foster a global rethinking of fundamental assumptionsin the theorization of heritage, among them the rigid divide between tangible
and intangible.

Two initial attempts in this regard related to Japanese literature are Gerlini, “The Awarenessof Past and Present” and “The Legitimation and Heritagization of Vernacular.”21
Denecke, “ ‘Textual Heritage’: Déjà-vu or Catalyst for History Making and Writing?”
20

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63

The Limits of the Tangible/Intangible Divide and a Rethinking of Embodiment
Processes
Critical heritage studies begins with the premise that “all heritage is intangible.”22 This critical posture has the declared intent of “deprivileging and denaturalizing it [the tangible] as the self-evident form and essence of heritage.”23 In
other words, “What makes these things valuable and meaningful—what makes
them ‘heritage’, or what makes the collection of rocks in a ﬁeld ‘Stonehenge’—
are the present-day cultural processes and activities that are undertaken at andaround them, and of which they become a part.”24 This position has become
increasingly mainstream in the academic discourse on heritage over the last fifteen years, even if it is still not universally accepted.
Many heritage scholars and professionals still “believe” in the intrinsic and universal value of old masterpieces that are recognized and appreciated as heritage.
Those who espouse such “heritage belief,” according to Christoph Brumann,
may be “tacitly or explicitly committed to cultural heritage in general or to
speciﬁc heritage items of whose intrinsic value they are convinced and whose
conservation they endorse.”25 In contrast to this position, “heritage atheism” is
the “fundamental doubt about the value of speciﬁc heritage items or heritage as
such. In this view, heritage is not a naturally positive force and instead serves all
kinds of dubious or outright objectionable purposes that, however, are not immediately obvious.”26
As an alternative to these oppositional positions, Brumann proposes a middle
path of “heritage agnosticism”:[This position] does not posit a priori that heritage is an empty signiﬁer, an entirely arbitrary and socially determined ascription, but takes people’s heritage
experience and beliefs seriously. It also accepts the idea that some of the qualities employed for the ascription of heritage value may be based on veriﬁable
facts, such as age, provenance, or rarity, or may rest on universal human tendencies (such as possible commonalities in the perception of beauty). And while itrejects the idea that heritage value is intrinsic to the objects and practices so labelled, it still considers the possibility that the latter’s materiality constrains theirsocial interpretations and uses.27

This heritage agnosticism offers a way to rethink the importance of the materiality of heritage while eliding the question about where precisely its “value”
resides. The solution proposed by Brumann is useful in defining textual heritage,and not least because with the application of sociocentric approaches to the field
Smith, Uses of Heritage, p. 3.
Ibid.
24
Ibid.
25
Brumann, “Heritage Agnosticism,” pp. 173–175.
26
Ibid.
27
Ibid., p. 180.
22
23

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Gerliniof literary production—from Pierre Bourdieu onward—some long-standing
assumptions about the universal value of literary “masterpieces” have comeunder challenge. Moreover, it is especially useful when we try to rebalance ourunderstanding of the role texts play as things and not only as intangible cultural
practices.
The a priori exclusion of things from the analysis of heritage processes—or asignificant reduction of their role therein—seems inappropriate also because, as
the archaeologist Ian Hodder explains, “there are very few dependencies between humans that do not involve things in some way. For example, power relations in which one human dominates another are often concerned with the control
of property or rights to property in some form. . . . Many of these HH [human-human] relations in which things are involved lead to entanglements.”28This concept of human-thing entanglement elaborated by Hodder offers new
insights into how heritage, as both practice and as thing, regularly informs andinteracts with humans. In particular, the idea that humans and things do not justinfluence each other but are indeed “dependent on each other in ways that are
entrapping and asymmetrical”29 may inform our understanding of traditional
performing arts such as noh.
Hodder’s rethinking of “things,” in fact, goes even further and in an unexpected direction. He understands things, not as stable and permanent, but rather
as fluid and mutable:
But in reality the things are themselves just flows of matter, energy or information. Things are unstable and unruly. Material things decay and erode, institutions crumble, ideas and thoughts pass fleetingly. Some appear to stay, to have
duration, but looked at from sub-atomic or long-term perspectives, all is in flux.
There are physical, biological, chemical, informational, social, ideological processes that occur at different rates and rhythms, jumbled up and tumbling overeach other.30

This theoretical rethinking of the complex relationship between human society and the environment is, of course, very timely now, when environmental issues have become a twenty-first-century global priority. For the purpose of thisarticle, however, it helps also to introduce a very similar topic which is alreadybeing questioned by heritage studies, namely the embodiment of heritage.
Although the broader category of heritage has been described as an “embodied cultural performance of meaning-making,”31 the term embodiment has specifically been used to define ICH: “heritage that is embodied in people rather thanin inanimate objects.”32 Embodiment itself has been explained as an intangible
Hodder, Studies in Human-Thing Entanglement, p. 3.
Ibid., p. 9.
30
Ibid.
31
Smith and Campbell, “The Elephant in the Room,” p. 443.
32
Logan, “Closing Pandora’s Box,” p. 33.
28
29

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process,33 but the same has been said about tangible heritage. As suggested by
Henry Jatti Bredekamp, “Museum objects are not ends in themselves. Even
though they may have intrinsic value, they are manifestations of intangible relationships between people and things. They are tangible embodiments of intangible
ideas and practices”34 (emphasis added).
In this article, I adopt a middle way that is close to Barbara Kirshenblatt-Gimblett’s understanding of intangible heritage as “not only embodied, but also inseparable from the material and social worlds of persons.”35 That is, I suggestthat both people and objects may equally be embodiments of intangible practices and values, being reciprocally entangled in human-thing relationships.
Moreover, to reconsider tangible objects as embodiments of intangible cultural
practices may also suggest an answer to the key question of this article: “Whatkind of heritage is textual heritage?”
Attempting a Definition of Textual Heritage
As I noted in an earlier section, texts and literature do not perfectly fit current
definitions of heritage, especially those made official by the UNESCO conventions. If the principal reason that heritage lacks proper theorization is literaturescholars’ limited engagement with the topic, a more concrete reason might bethat (literary) texts are fundamentally different from other genres of heritage.
A clue to this difference is the fact that, unlike ancient buildings or endangered
languages, the majority of literary works produced by humankind—“work” here
meaning the contents of a given book—are today rarely considered at risk, anddo not need official institutions to offer a particular endorsement for their safeguarding. Even before the advent of digital technologies, the growth of the publishing industry and the proliferation of libraries and archives around the worldprovided books—even in the case of less canonized works—with a high chanceof being widely distributed and preserved in different copies and locations. Consequently, accidents and natural disasters—fires, floods, earthquakes—that
might well destroy a single archive or library, are unlikely to lead to the definitive
loss of any specific literary work.
This is all the more true in today’s digital world. Not only can a new book live
completely in the digital dimension—going from a text file on the author’s computer to the digital copy edited by the publisher and then to an e-book downloaded by the reader—but even rare printed books and manuscripts are being
continually digitized, which grants to them—or, to be more precise, to the digitalcopies of their pages—an even higher probability of surviving any risk of loss
or destruction. Barring a disaster of massive scale that compromised the survival
Taylor, “Embodiment Unbound,” p. 73.
Bredekamp, “Transforming Representations,” p. 79.
35
Kirshenblatt-Gimblett, “Intangible Heritage as Metacultural Production,” p. 59.
33
34

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Gerliniof humanity itself, it would be almost impossible for the works of Shakespeare,
Goethe, Dante, or Murasaki to be lost in the future.
At the same time, in the case of old books and manuscripts, even the mosthigh-quality digital copy will never completely replace the original document.
These books and manuscripts often contain a great deal of extratextual information—like the quality of the paper or ink, the kind of bookbinding, hidden or
excised parts, or other physical and material characteristics. Such information,
which is often crucial to new discoveries by philologists and librarians, cannot beproperly digitized. This is why a program like UNESCO’s MoW is fundamental
to preserving rare and fragile documents even if it does not take into accountliterary works per se.
Historical documents like manuscripts always combine both material (thepages, the physical medium) and information (the contents, the text); but in thecase of a modern book published exclusively in digital format, all we have is the
text. In the case of digital texts, the problem of authenticity I discussed earlier
carries a totally different meaning. This is true also in the pre-digital world of
mass printing: Which of a best seller’s thousands of copies is the authentic original? Is a hardcover copy more authentic than a paperback edition? Or is the text
file saved on the author’s computer the most authentic version? It is obvious thatthese questions, as well as the problem of authenticity itself, have lost much of
their meaning ever since the publishing industry and digital technologies freed abook’s content from its material embodiment.
Therefore, if we want to define textual heritage, we must first redefine text. A
text—meaning the contents inscribed on a page, a wooden tablet, or a stele—isnothing more than an aggregate of pure information, a chain of signifiers—thecharacters—assembled according to a language’s specific and preexisting lexicon, syntax, and rules of grammar. The result is a unique, recognizable, andreadable code, ready to be “executed” (i.e., read).
It is precisely here that we find another, deeper reason for why a text mightseem essentially poorly-suited to current definitions of heritage. We may saythat a text is intangible because it is not tied to a unique and specific object inthe material world. Indeed, the same text can be copied an infinite number oftimes on a wide array of “surfaces”—woodblocks, paper, papyrus, SMS,
e-books—potentially without any loss of information or integrity. At the sametime, the text can be considered something tangible in the sense that, as a set
chain of letters and words, it is unique, fixed, and recognizable. In such cases,
the text’s “authenticity” may endure for as long as the material embodiment
itself survives. There is no need for a continuous process of reiteration andtransmission of the accompanying cultural practice as is the case (for the mostpart) with examples of intangible heritage. If we exclude a text’s more artistic
and analog aspects—in the case of Japanese writings, calligraphy is the obvious
example—we can say that, in most cases, a written text is just a code of lettersthat is infinitely replicable. As long as I can recognize the characters, I can copyTextual Heritage Embodied

67

any text—even those written in a language I do not know!—without any loss of
information.
Because of this replicability, access to textual products and other similar cultural goods differs in nature from access to heritage sites or even intangible performances. The ways in which a text can come to fruition are physically unlimited, thanks to the unlimited number of copies that can be created, especially inthe digital age. Therefore, texts are not affected by problems of overexploitationof the sort that plague the historical centers of tourist cities. Regardless of how
many copies of a text have been produced or how many people are reading it at
the very same moment, no one will ever be deprived of the possibility of enjoying that same text simultaneously.
Of course, texts, especially the most important and widely canonized ones, undergo a continual process of reconstruction and modification. This results indifferent versions of the “same” text—or to be more precise, of the same
work—aimed at satisfying the needs of new readers, much as pagan temples ofancient Rome were converted into Christian churches during the Middle Ages.
But unlike with buildings, texts and literary works may be reconstructed, updated, and translated without destroying or modifying their originals. We canmake “backup copies” of each variation or edition a given literary work has undergone over the course of its “life,” and read any of these again whenever wewant. By contrast, we cannot have different “editions” of the same building at
the same place and time, once it has been modified or destroyed. To give just one
example, we cannot visit the Cathedral of Notre-Dame de Paris in its medieval
shape prior to Eugène Viollet-le-Duc’s restoration of 1864, nor visit it again
with the same roof that was lost forever to fire in 2019. We can, however, havea copy of every version of the Bible authorized by the Roman Catholic Church
across the centuries, all on the same bookshelf.
I want to underline the semiotic nature of text, which I consider a “natively
digital” cultural product, and to stress its contrast with the “analog” qualities oftangible artifacts, such as a painting made with canvas and paint. The natively
digital quality I have in mind is not necessarily linked to digital technologies andcomputers—but is rather a quality of any text, even the oldest manuscripts or
inscriptions. A recent article in Japanese by Inaga Shigemi 稲賀繁美 explains thisquality. He reminds us that the original meaning of text was tied to textile, a fabric.
He states, “The loom is the very first digital device invented by humans.”36 No
matter who operates the loom, as long as the individual follows the pattern provided, the result will be the same, exactly like executing a computer program.
This same relationship exists between the text—the immaterial code—and its
various embodiments—written, inscribed, printed, engraved.
One might argue that storytelling, music, dance, and even some figurative arts
could, to some extent, also be considered “texts,” as definitions of text and textuality
36

Inaga, “Ko no sōshitsu.”

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Gerlini

may vary considerably.37 In this article, I limit my analysis to written texts, bywhich I mean sequences of characters and words inscribed on any kind of surface, material or immaterial. I do so because the intimate nature of texts vis-à-vis
other kinds of cultural products is one of the reasons why texts are not easily
included in modern definitions of heritage and in preservation programs likethose of UNESCO.
The definition of textual heritage that I propose here is based on the fact thattexts are digital cultural products, in the sense that they are both intangible—orto be more precise, immaterial—as well as tangible, in the sense that they are
constituted by fixed and measurable chains of signifiers (characters and words).
Applying to texts the idea that heritage sites and artifacts are the “tangible embodiments of intangible ideas and practices,”38 we can therefore state that texts
are embodiments of the cultural practice of writing and its derivations like copying,editing, translating, correcting, abridging, and so on. A literary work’s various
different manuscript versions are just the many embodiments of the “original
text.” And indeed, such ur-texts have often, especially in the case of premodern
works and the so-called “classics”—from the Odyssey to the Analects, from theTale of Genji to the Divine Comedy— not managed to survive in those “original”
and physical forms that their “authors” themselves touched and produced.39
This is perfectly consistent with the hierarchy of work-expression-manifestationitem given in the FRBR I mentioned before, which indeed defines manifestation as“the physical embodiment of an expression of a work,” and expression as “theintellectual or artistic realization of a work.”
The point I want to stress here is that textual heritage does not dwell in things
but in the re-creative, reproductive process itself. To re-create and transmit a text
implicitly means adding (new) value to that text. Texts are never produced or reproduced by chance but are always the result of a voluntary effort; this was especially true in premodern times. And in many cases, especially when a text is reproduced, that process itself may be seen as a form of heritage. When a medieval
copyist of the Bible or a Chinese translator of a Buddhist sutra produced theirown copy of the text, they implicitly contributed to its heritagization, that is, to theconservation of textual contents charged with a new social and symbolic value.
37
I explored the possible extension of text and textual heritage in the curated session “Defining‘Textual Heritage’: Multidisciplinary Approaches to the Heritagization of Texts, with a Focus on
Japan,” presented at the 5th Association of Critical Heritage Studies Biennial Conference (University College London, August 26–30, 2020) with the contributions of scholars of musicology,
ethnography, architecture, urban planning, history, comparative literature, and digital humanities.
38
Bredekamp, “Transforming Representations,” p. 79.
39
The problem of authorship in classical or premodern texts is another complex issue, especially when related to cultural heritage. I tried to foster a discussion about authorship, as well as
ownership and authenticity, in the workshop “Textual Heritage: Uses and Re-creations: Ownership, Authorship and Authenticity in Premodern Japanese Literature” (Waseda University, July18, 2020). The results of this workshop have since been published: see Gerlini and Kōno, Koten
wa isan ka.

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On the other hand, these “productive” practices of writing the text could notexist without a preexisting set of “receptive” or “performative” practices accompanying them, such as reading, understanding, or performing—in a word,
not without various ways of using the text. When a jester performed a troubadour’s canso in medieval southern France, he contributed to the heritagization—
namely the survival—of that text, fostering and stimulating further practices ofwriting: for example, the vernacular canzone in Italy. When a Confucian scholar inmedieval Japan lectured upper-class samurai with a self-annotated copy of a Sinitic
primer containing Chinese historical anecdotes, he contributed to the conservation of those texts and the Chinese stories narrated within them, making them
part of the shared memory of the Japanese upper classes. Using a text, commenting on it, teaching it, but also criticizing it, are all part of textual heritagization. This process may seem very close to what literary scholars call canonization. However, I argue that heritagization has a wider—and sometimes evencontradictory—meaning because it may occur also independently of the will ofpolitical and cultural elites, and at different levels of society.
In this sense, the embodiment of textual heritage, or more precisely, textual
heritage intended primarily as a process of embodiment, may happen in both
directions. It can be embodied into text, namely through the inscription of living
practices and knowledges—but also feelings and memories—in physical or digital media. It can also be embodied from text into people, as in the case of thereenactment of an old theatrical piece, as sometimes happens with less famousnoh plays, or in modern performances based on the reconstruction of ancientmusical scores, as in the case of Japanese gagaku 雅楽 music.40
The production of a text is a cultural practice, but a text per se is not a practice. This
is why inscribing a traditional performing art, such as noh, on the ICH list canomit any reference to the librettos or the textual tradition. Librettos are fixed
textual records of the play as performed on the stage; and one could even compare them to video recordings of a play. In this kind of theater, the intangible
heritage is not the written text itself but the practice of performing—and continuing to perform—that text.
What I propose in this article is a new, non-oppositional configuration of tangible and intangible that reflects the relationship between object and practice,thing and human. A tentative definition of literary or textual heritage should focus
not only on the performative side of writing but also on the tangible presenceof the text. Indeed, there cannot be any cultural practice related to text without
the text itself. A simple example: the religious practice of copying out a sutra(shakyō 写経), frequently performed in many Buddhist temples, cannot be carriedout without the tangible existence of the sutra itself; and at the same time, sucha practice also generates a new physical embodiment (copy) of that text.
See, for example, Giolai, “Hearing the Past, Sounding the Text” and Terauchi, “Beyond the
Court.”
40

70

GerliniDefining textual heritage, or even merely trying to do so, has therefore themerit of fostering reflection about material culture and the preservation of documentary sources. It also invites us to question the deeper meaning of why andhow we conduct efforts to create digital copies and representations of culture
and texts, and how these digital embodiments will affect—whether enriching or
impoverishing—the cultural and social life of people in the twenty-first century.
A tentative definition of textual heritage—one that does not claim to be definitive—may be the following:
Textual heritage indicates both the texts of the past and also the various cultural
practices involving the use and re-creation of those texts. “Texts” here is meant
to include the immaterial contents as well as the material medium. “Practices”
likewise is meant to include the receptive, the performative, and the creative: forexample reading, copying, collecting, rewriting, quoting, translating, annotating,commenting, teaching, correcting, performing, collating, restoring, and so on.
The ultimate significance of textual heritage lies in the transmission both of thetext and of the knowledge associated with that text, in order to make it meaningful in the present through the accumulation of new values, meanings, andinterpretations.

The study of textual heritage necessarily has a different aim from that of philology, at least in the latter’s more conservative approach, which considers a classical text a priori a subject worth studying. Philology’s ultimate goal is the reconstruction of a version of the text that is as close as possible to the lost archetype.
By contrast, the goal of textual heritage studies should be instead to understandthe various processes that historically took place around a text, how its reception
and understanding, its interpretations (and misinterpretations!), and the conscious or unconscious process of adding, subtracting, or changing values associated with that text—how all of these had particular meanings for a certain groupor community in a certain period. Such studies can be oriented toward understanding the past—by, e.g., writing the history of a specific textual heritage, butalso toward the present or future, by inquiring into contemporary practices ofmanaging, understanding, and reproducing the texts of the past, as well as into
questions of how to transmit those texts to future generations. The study of textual heritage may adopt approaches typical of heritage studies, like discourse
analysis within or around a specific text, and should address many of the questions with which heritage scholars are usually engaged: Who is the owner of thatheritage, and how do they demonstrate that ownership? What political meaning
does the heritagization of this text carry? How might the safeguarding of thistextual heritage contribute to social well-being and the promotion of humanrights or, on the contrary, be aimed at reinforcing nationalism and populism?
The texts suited to analysis in textual heritage studies are therefore not necessarily those usually studied by philologists, nor are they necessarily the mostwidely canonized. Moreover, the focus of this analysis remains on the culturalprocesses taking place around a text, rather than the meaning of the text itself.

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71

The analysis of an annotated noh libretto (utaibon 謡本) that I present in the second part of this article is intended to be explanatory in this sense.
This tentative definition of textual heritage is undoubtedly close to the idea of
intangible heritage as something constantly “re-created”—a form of continual
replacement of the heritage itself, as stated by the ICH Convention:
This intangible cultural heritage, transmitted from generation to generation, isconstantly recreated by communities and groups in response to their environment, their interaction with nature and their history, and provides them with asense of identity and continuity, thus promoting respect for cultural diversity
and human creativity (Art. 2).

Although I do not aim in this article to develop successful strategies for inscribing a textual cultural asset onto the UNESCO lists, I suggest that the paradigm of textual heritage could become an effective tool for promoting a particular textual practice as an intangible heritage. The recent efforts, promoted by aconsortium of Japanese associations, to inscribe haiku poetry on the ICH list isa good example.41 Haiku is both a tangible corpus of texts—the poems composed by poets like Matsuo Bashō 松尾芭蕉 (1644–1694) since the sixteenth
century up to modern times—and also a lively creative practice that survives today. Regarding the latter, schools, clubs, and associations of amateur and professional poets in Japan and around the world are engaged in producing new embodiments (i.e., new poems) of the aesthetic ideals that characterize this poetic
genre and have produced numerous publications in Japanese and other languages. As a corpus of texts, haiku is the object of scholarly practices (reading,understanding, analyzing, translating). It is also the indispensable basis for contemporary poets’ practices of active production—the composition of new poems—which in many cases appear to inherit this centuries-old and unbroken
literary tradition, even if unconsciously. From this point of view, the initiative to
inscribe haiku on the UNESCO list has a reasonable chance of success. Anotherinteresting initiative aimed at the UNESCO ICH list is the “Appeal on Behalf of
the Latin and Greek Intangible Heritage of Humanity,” promoted by a group ofclassical studies institutes in Italy and elsewhere in Europe.42 The most interesting aspect of this initiative is that it proposes reconceiving of classical and literary languages of the past as endangered languages and knowledges, worthy of
institutional and political safeguarding.
If one of these attempts to receive official UNESCO recognition succeeds,
literature will have gained its place within the realm of authorized heritage. Yet
even if this does not happen, the paradigm of textual heritage may challenge
present assumptions and understandings of heritage among the heritage studies
community.
41
42

A description of these efforts is available at: https://www.haiku-hia.com/special/unesco_en/.
The appeal is available at: https://vivariumnovum.net/it/unesco/appello.pdf.

72Gerlini

2. Embodiment of Heritage and Personification of Texts in Traditional
Performing ArtsThe Hōshō School of Noh and the Textual Heritage of Aoi no ue
As I discussed in the previous section, it is somewhat curious that noh theater—which is often understood as a literary genre, just as Shakespeare’s plays
are considered literary works—has been accepted into the UNESCO ICH list,
whereas other literary products have not. Even if the production and development of noh scripts (nōhon 能本) is strictly tied to the development of the performing art itself,43 the official documentation about noh’s inscription as ICH
usually does not stress its ties with Japanese literature or the existence of written
and canonized texts—the lyrics—that are sung during the play. For example, as
noted earlier, the UNESCO ICH official website’s page on noh44 does not contain the name of Zeami, recognized as the author of an important part of therepertoire. This separation between written texts and their enacted performancereflects a slightly rigid distinction between literary production and the performing arts. On the contrary, Japanese literature scholars are well aware of the factthat many Japanese literary products are the result of collaborative endeavors ina public or semi-public space, like poetic competitions (utaawase 歌合) or linked
verse (renga 連歌) poetry gatherings, often regulated by a hierarchical relationshipbetween master and disciples. This master-disciple hierarchy is, of course, atwork also in traditional performing arts such as noh, where the leading role isusually passed down through a family’s succession of firstborn sons.
In the following pages, I describe the textual embodiments of a specific noh play,
Aoi no ue 葵上 (Lady Aoi), in the repertoire of a specific noh school—the Hōshō
宝生 school—with the aim of analyzing the relationship between this kind of
traditional performing art and its own textual heritage. The body that emerges fromthis analysis is both that of the actor, which embodies the characters described in
the text, and that of the text itself—particularly the annotations relating to kata 型(movement patterns) and dance—which embodies in written and tangible form
the experience accumulated through generations of performance practice.
Among the many plays in the Hōshō noh repertoire, Aoi no ue is a well-known
one in the genre of “vengeful spirits stories” (shūnenmono 執念物), which is included in the canonical “fourth category” of “miscellaneous plays” (zatsunō 雑能). The story draws upon the plot of one of the Tale of Genji’s most dramaticand thrilling chapters, titled “Aoi” 葵. In this chapter, Lady Aoi, wife of the protagonist Hikaru Genji 光源氏, is possessed and tormented by the living spirit(mononoke 物怪) of Lady Rokujō (Rokujō no Miyasudokoro 六条御息所). One
of Genji’s lovers, the latter woman is also the widow of a crown prince and ishumiliated by Genji’s growing lack of interest in her. The noh play enriches the43
44

Yokomichi, Nishino, and Hata, Nō no sakusha to sakuhin.
See note 12 above.

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73

story with a bitter fight between Lady Rokujō’s vengeful spirit and a Shugendō 修
験道 priest, summoned to appease her wrath. The climax is represented by theprayer (inori 祈) dance that the priest performs to bring rest to the defeated Lady
Rokujō’s tormented soul.
In the following pages, I analyze two copies of the utaibon for Aoi no ue, ormore precisely two particular items (to follow the FRBR terminology): (1) an undated manuscript titled Hōshō-ryū nō-zuke 宝生流能附,45 housed in the archives of
the National Institute of Japanese Literature and digitized in the Database of
Pre-Modern Japanese Works; and (2) a modern edition of the utaibon, titledHōshō-ryū utaibon: “Aoi no ue,” 宝生流謡本 葵上, in particular a copy personallyowned and annotated by the twentieth Hōshō school head (iemoto 家元), Hōshō
Kazufusa 宝生和英. The analysis focuses almost exclusively on the annotations inthese two documents and their re-creations, namely the copying of some ofthese annotations by disciples and heirs.
Annotations in the Hōshō-ryū nōzuke Manuscript
The Hōshō-ryū nōzuke is a four-volume manuscript contained in the National
Institute of Japanese Literature’s general collection. The same institution’s database does not present detailed records of the manuscript’s provenance or dating.
In each of its volumes, the only information given in what may be considereda colophon (okugaki 奥書) is the name Kenmochi Kurō Sadanushi 釼持九郎治主,
allegedly the author of the manuscript’s extensive interlinear and header annotations in vermillion (shu 朱) ink. The identity of this individual is not clear, as thisname does not appear in reference books on noh and kyōgen 狂言. Without suchinformation, it is hard to date these manuscripts, which are in good condition(apart from some insect damage) and do not appear to be particularly old.
What is interesting to underline here is the massive presence of annotations invermillion ink on almost every page, indicating the choreography (katazuke 型付)
and movements of the dance. Especially meaningful for our discourse is how
many of these annotations have been deleted and modified at many points (fig.
1). Even at a superficial glance, it is clear that the owner of this utaibon used it asa private memo-book for training and performance. Furthermore, it was probably not intended to be read primarily by others—except perhaps the author’s
heir or disciples.
Aoi no ue is the fourth play in the first volume of Hōshō-ryū nōzuke and occupies
three full folios, in addition to two “pasted slips” (harigami 貼紙). A detailed transcription of this manuscript and its annotations is not within the scope of thisarticle. However, from even a general perusal of these pages, we can imagine thecreative process as it relates to the vermillion inscriptions. These indications relating
to dance and movements reflect an iterative process of corrections vis-à-vis the
Full-color images available at NIJL’s Database of Pre-Modern Japanese Works. See fig. 1
below.
45

74

GerliniFigure 1. Hōshōryū nōzuke 宝生流能附. National Institute of Japanese Literature.
https://doi.org/10.20730/200012481 (image 14).

performance. This text is thus evidently not simply an accurate copy—a new
item—of a previous text. It is also the embodiment of the work into a new representation, with original solutions adopted later, probably through direct experience of
onstage performance. We can thus see this manuscript as a specific embodimentof continually changing representations and performing choices.
The first of the two pasted slips is dedicated entirely to the inori dance (fig. 2).
It is also notable that instructions for the inori, one of the most important partsof the entire play, were added on such a separate slip, probably because of theirlength. There was not enough space to inscribe the instructions in the marginsof the original page, alongside the lyrics.
The other added slip is a copy of the original page to which it is attached, reproducing the original text underneath it, running from the middle of the fourthcolumn, urameshi no kokoro ya 恨めしの心や, up to the tenth column, uchinose
kakureyukō ni うちのせかくれゆかふに (figs. 1 and 2). Here, the reason for theslip’s addition is clear, as we can see that its own interlinear annotations differ
slightly from the original ones.

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75

Figure 2. Here one can see the “pasted slips” (harigami 貼紙) bearing later annotations.
Hōshōryū nōzuke. National Institute of Japanese Literature.
https://doi.org/10.20730/200012481 (image 13).

It is therefore clear, as is typical of utaibon, that the inscriptions in black ink indicating the lyrics—which are a fixed, highly canonized, and almost unchangeable part of the play—were copied entirely into this manuscript before theowner started to add his annotations in vermillion. During the copying of the
lyrics, no consideration was given to leaving space for future annotations, as theneed for the addition of the inori slip demonstrates. We can also observe that the
annotations were modified two or more times, making it necessary to recopy apart of the lyrics altogether and then attach this to the original folio. Moreover,since the style of the handwriting is exactly the same in both the pasted slips andin the original manuscript, we can also conclude that the amendments and additions, as well as the copied lyrics and the annotations, are all the work of the same
hand. This reinforces the hypothesis that this manuscript was a self-produced
copy for an exclusively personal use.
A detailed analysis of these annotations could reveal how this specific nohpractitioner performed movements and dances in Aoi no ue, thus allowing comparison with the styles of noh performers of different periods; but again, this is not
the aim of this article. What is important to underline here is the conspicuous

76

Gerlinipresence of a layer of text (the vermillion annotations) that is easily added,
modified, or deleted. Though the practice of annotating and glossing a text is
also common to other—if not all—Japanese traditional performing arts, thismanuscript is material proof of the active practice of interpreting and performing the noh libretto’s “original” text: a play originally written by Zeami was performed and re-elaborated in a very flexible and creative way, while maintaining
the integrity of the creator’s lyrics. We may consider this annotated manuscript asort of recording of that specific representation of Aoi no ue, a textual embodiment of the work that at the same time is also an embodiment of this specificactor’s stage performance.
Hōshō Kazufusa’s Handwritten Annotations in Hōshō-ryū utaibon: Aoi no ue
The same process of reciprocal embodiment between text and actor, thing andhuman, may be found with contemporary noh practitioners and their utaibon,
with the difference that since the twentieth century, we can also watch video recordings of the performance. Moreover, we have the chance to directly question
and interview noh practitioners and the “legitimate” heirs of this tradition. I did
so for this research with Hōshō Kazufusa, the Hōshō school iemoto, whom I interviewed at the Hōshō Noh Theater (Hōshō Nōgakudō 宝生能楽堂) on November 25, 2019.
As in many Japanese traditional arts, the transmission of knowledge in nohfrom master to disciple was a strictly controlled process that mixed oral teachings with written materials.46 The transmission of written sources was often accomplished by manually copying out one’s master’s books and annotations—insome cases even imitating the calligraphic style —and this practice continued to
be predominant long after printing technologies had been introduced to and developed in Japan. The Hōshō-ryū nōzuke manuscript (supposedly an early-moderncopy) seems to follow this trend, and a more accurate study of this manuscript’s
dating may shed light on how long these copying practices have continued to be
mandatory in the Hōshō school.
According to Hōshō Kazufusa, the continual production of handwritten utaibon
copies is a practice that today has been almost completely abandoned, at least in
the Hōshō school. The utaibon personally owned by Kazufusa and used during
his training for Aoi no ue is not a manuscript, but a printed edition published in2005 by Wan’ya Shoten わんや書店—the Hōshō-ryū utaibon: Aoi no ue. In the colophon, Hōshō Kurō 宝生九郎 is indicated as the author (chosakusha 著作者).
Kurō, the traditional name passed down by members of the Hōshō family, refersin this instance to the seventeenth Hōshō school grandmaster (sōke 宗家), Hōshō
Shigefusa 宝生重英 (1900–1974)—as Kazufusa himself confirmed during ourSee, for example, the transmission of secret commentaries on the Kokinshū as explained in
Unno, Waka o yomitoku, pp. 131–227.
46

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77

interview.
As noh practitioners know well, even if the utaibon used today are, in mostcases, printed versions, the main text reproduces a calligraphic text, one using
historical kana orthography (rekishiteki kanazukai 歴史的仮名遣い) and written
moreover in cursive (kuzushiji 崩し字), with its many alternative forms of kana andkanji. According to Hōshō Kazufusa, the use of this complex style of writing—hardly readable without a certain amount of practice, even for Japanese readers—is an integral part of noh performance, and it is perceived by beginners as
a fascinating aspect of the art.47 Reading an utaibon transcribed in modern typographic characters (katsuji 活字) would, rather, confuse anyone accustomed tothe traditional calligraphic style. This is certainly another interesting aspect of
the text’s use and reproduction that, as I explained in the first part of this article,
may be labeled “textual heritage.”
According to Hōshō Kazufusa, the calligraphic original reproduced in the
mass-printed version is neither particularly old nor in Shigefusa’s handwriting.
Rather, it is a photographic reproduction of a Shōwa-period (1926–1989) handwritten copy made by a disciple of the school. The custom of copying utaibon
with ink and brush had continued throughout the Edo period (1603–1867) but
ceased in the modern era for many complex reasons, not least of which was thefact that noh became an art that anyone, independent of birthplace and status,
could learn and practice at will. Thereafter, once noh teaching had been extended and opened to everybody, it probably became impossible to produce a
handwritten copy of every text for each new disciple. Printing a photographic
reproduction of the handwritten text was supposedly the only reasonable solution from an economic and practical point of view.
Even if modern utaibon editions are no longer handwritten copies, the choice
to exactly reproduce a handwritten text, instead of creating a typographic transcription, is proof that the connection with the textual tradition is still considered
important by practitioners. The same may be said about the historical kana orthography and grammar used in the headnotes of each page (fig. 3). These notes
are basically the modern version of the interlinear annotations in vermillion ink
that we saw in the Hōshō-ryū nōzuke manuscript itself. The identity of the authorof these printed headnotes is uncertain, as these utaibon lack the bibliographicaland philological details of a critical edition. A possible candidate may be Hōshō
Shigefusa, who is indicated as the text’s “author” in the colophon, even though
the original text is—obviously—attributable to Zeami. Identifying the author ofthese annotations is an almost unsolvable puzzle.
In concluding a keynote lecture discussing the necessity of kuzushiji education (“Naze‘kuzushiji kyōiku’ ga hitsuyō na no ka” なぜ「くずし字教育」が必要なのか) at the conference
Koten kyōzai kaihatsu no kadai to kanōsei 古典教材開発の課題と可能性 (Ritsumeikan University,
March 28, 2021), Iikura Yōichi 飯倉洋一 suggested that kuzushiji literacy itself is a kind of textual
heritage and may be tied to the future of historical texts in Japan and their use.
47

78

GerliniFigure 3. Hōshō-ryū utaibon 謡本 of the play Aoi no ue 葵上, with handwritten annotations.
Hōshō Kazufusa 宝生和英, private collection.

Moreover, what is important for the practitioners is not exactly which masterfirst wrote those notes, but rather that they are clear and coherent with the restof the utaibon. If the use of specific terms to indicate the various movements(kata 型) is indeed obvious and necessary, the use of a simplified and codified
form of classical Japanese may be understood more as a stylistic choice, designed
to make the annotations consistent with the language—one might even say withthe mood—of the noh, making the annotations also implicitly more authoritative.
For example, the language of the last headnote on page 3 (fig. 3, upper left)
has a clear “classical” flavor:
次第うき世は牛の小車のは氣をかへて調子をヲサメてうたふshidai ukiyo ha ushi no woguruma no ha ki wo kahete chōshi wo wosamete utahu48[shidai] “ukiyo wa ushi no oguruma no”: when singing this phrase, change the intensity and reduce the tone.

In order to exphasize the use of historical kana orthography, I have exceptionally adopted
here a more mechanical one-to-one transcription (e.g., kahete for かへて, rather than kaete).
48

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79

Figure 4. Hōshōryū utaibon of the play Aoi no ue, with handwritten annotations. Hōshō
Kazufusa, private collection.

The use in a book published in 2005 of “old form” kanji (kyūjitai 旧字体), suchas 氣 instead of 気, which are now officially deprecated in modern writing, is another example of how a conservative approach to the tradition also involves thetransmission of its paratextual apparatus. The character 氣 probably felt more
traditional and “authentic” here than 気.
Such attention to the formal rules of noh language can also be witnessed (andis indeed inherited) in the annotations of the most recent Hōshō family heir,
Hōshō Kazufusa. Looking at his personal copy of Hōshō-ryū utaibon: Aoi no ue, we
can see three kinds of handwritten annotations (figs. 3 and 4), all in Kazufusa’s own
hand. The vermillion notations were already present in the utaibon of Kazufusa’steacher, Sano Hajime 佐野萌 (1928–2009), and Kazufusa transcribed these exactly. The annotations in black represent further indications transmitted orally to
Kazufusa during his training, which he wrote into the utaibon. The annotations
in pencil are mostly Kazufusa’s own original additions and reminders.
Therefore, in this specific item—Hōshō Kazufusa’s individual copy of the
Hōshō-ryū utaibon: Aoi no ue—we can find at least five layers of overlapping texts,
in large part copied or reproduced from previous manifestations of the work

80

GerliniAoi no ue: (1) the “original” text with the lyrics by Zeami (the main part inkuzushiji); (2) annotations instructing about how to modulate the singing andabout which kata to perform for the dances, supposedly by Hōshō Kurō Shigefusa (both as handwritten annotations and typewritten text in the headnotes); (3)annotations hand-written in vermillion ink by Kazufusa, exactly reproducing
those found in Sano Hajime’s utaibon; (4) annotations in black ink that inscribe(i.e., embody), for the first time, instructions and indications of the sort passedon orally to Kazufusa; and (5) Kazufusa’s original annotations and considerations, written in pencil.
We can see a sort of hierarchy between these strata of text. The original textof the lyrics is, of course, the most canonized and unchangeable part. The annotations, however, on how to intone those lyrics—that is, the very thing thatcharacterizes the Hōshō school’s style of singing—are also not subject to majorchanges. Indeed, these latter are visually incorporated—using traditional cursive
script—into the lyrics themselves. To change this part of the text—the vocal execution—might eventually undermine the performance’s sense of authenticity,and possibly even the school’s and its current master’s authority and legitimacy.
For a very clear and exhaustive reflection about the strain between renovationand conservation in Japanese traditional arts, see Sano, “Bunka wa dare no mono
ni sareyō to shite iru no ka.” In contrast, annotations indicating certain details of
the dance or movement are more easily subjected to change and amendment.
Even a quick and superficial comparison between the vermillion annotations in
the Hōshō-ryū nōzuke manuscript and the annotations in Kazufusa’s personal
copy of the text shows clear discrepancies in the contents of their annotations
and in their choices of which parts of the song (utai 謡) to annotate. It is noticeable that, even within the same school, two utaibon annotated about (supposedly)
100–150 years apart can attest to totally different executions of the same play.
Here it becomes clear how utaibon are not aimed at preserving a historically accurate record of the various versions of the same play, as it is almost impossible
to discern if the vermillion annotations Kazufusa accurately copied from Sano
Hajime’s text were Hajime’s original notes or were themselves copies of previous texts. By the same token, Kazufusa’s “original” annotations in pencil, written
in the same style (i.e., using historical grammar and kana orthography), will eventually become indistinguishable from the previous ones, once they are copied
again, in the future, by Kazufusa’s disciples or by the next iemoto.
We can therefore conclude that the approach to textual sources in modern nohpractice follows rules quite different from those of modern philological practices. While the philologist tries to reconstruct the oldest archetype supposedly
closer to the original work, utaibon preserve only a play’s most recent version,usually the one taught and practiced by the current master. There is no need—and no space—for a more detailed and philologically-informed edition of theutaibon. This does not mean that older textual sources are entirely ignored or dismissed. According to Hōshō Kazufusa, since not all plays in the repertoire wereTextual Heritage Embodied

81

performed by the preceding generation, if one decides to stage an older play, it
is necessary to read older utaibon to find indications about the kata and other aspects of the noh performance.
Whether to include more or less information on an utaibon page is, in the end,
decided by the owner of that specific copy of the utaibon, based on that individual’s
judgment and needs. In the case of Kazufusa’s Aoi no ue, a detailed descriptionof the inori was added on a detached page. As he explained, he did so the firsttime he interpreted the piece because he felt the need to accurately record in theutaibon all the movements he had learned.
In theory, all knowledge about noh techniques should be transmitted only
orally—but, of course, this may result in unintended loss of information. For
example, song lyrics transmitted in a solely oral manner would eventually lead tosmall modifications that would be cumulatively significant after decades or centuries. Therefore, knowledge transmission through textual copies, annotations,and reproductions—or in other words, through the practices of textual heritage—is performed as a useful support to the transmission of the art as a whole.
At the same time, given the way ancient manuscripts are handled and preserved
within noh schools and institutions, it is possible to conclude that texts as physical items are charged with a relatively less symbolic importance and value in noh
when compared to the preservation and transmission of other elements, whether
tangible—the masks, etc.—or intangible—the various oral teachings.
Given this, it is unsurprising that the utaibon used every day for trainings andperformances, even by the Hōshō school iemoto himself, are not manuscripts ofparticular value but are rather printed editions, with annotations written using acommon pen or pencil. It is clear that a more conservative approach to the use
and production of those texts—for example, requiring that annotations be
made using a brush and ink, or that an utaibon text be copied entirely by hand—is considered superfluous, and not fundamental for guaranteeing the school’s
aura of legitimacy and authenticity in the eyes of both members and outsiders.
Conclusions
In the first section of this article, I proposed the idea that processes of heritage embodiment can be understood in a double and reciprocal way: from intangible practices and ideas into tangible objects, and from tangible objects into
living performances and people.
The example of utaibon and their relationship with the living practice of noh in
the Hōshō school confirms this theory. A play’s performance is informed andregulated by the (tangible) presence of a specific canon of texts, whose contents—the story, the characters, the dialogue, the songs, the dances, and so on—
are embodied by the actors onstage. At the same time, the living and intangible
experience that comes from the everyday practice of performing the plays may
be eventually embodied in new annotations that, in turn, will inform again the

82

Gerlininext generation of actors and their performances, in a sort of spiral between
text and actors, an entanglement of things and humans.
This does not mean that this relationship between performances and texts isfree from breaks, which arise of course in any kind of entanglement. According
to Ian Hodder, it is always possible to “disentangle” something through the actof creativity.49 It is thus also possible to imagine a future for noh that does not
involve a relationship with and the use of written texts but rather involves only
oral transmission, even if this option is quite unrealistic.
The custom of copying utaibon by hand has faded, and one day, the use of
kuzushiji for the printed versions of utaibon may also be abandoned. Even if it
seems now only a remote possibility, it is always possible that textual heritage(defined in this paper as the sum of cultural practices that operate on texts andthe material media of texts) will be abandoned. It is true, after all, that any kindof cultural practice or cultural product may eventually perish. Already during
the twentieth century, the Japanese have experienced a general loss of literacy inSinitic (kanbun), which for more than a millennium had been a powerful tool forshaping, transmitting, and transforming thoughts, knowledge, and culture fromboth Asia and the world at large. Yet it is also possible to revert this tendency
through the rediscovery of new and old values associated with texts, for example
through the use and knowledge of kuzushiji. In the end, heritage is somethingpeople create and perform in the present to answer present needs. The study of
textual heritage has as its goal the facilitation of a deeper understanding of thesesocial, cultural, and historical processes.
The paradigm of textual heritage proposed in this article has the potential toenable a wider view on a complex set of cultural practices, like the transmission
and preservation of a traditional performing art such as noh. In so doing, it
stresses the role and the interdependencies—the entanglements—that texts,
here understood as things and as practices, have with people.50
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Sakura Sōgorō between Kabuki and Kōdan:A Cross-Genre Genealogy
Stefano Romagnoli

Università degli Studi “La Sapienza” di RomaIntroduction
The playbill for the Zenshin-za 前進座 Company’s annual performance at the
National Theater in May 2019 features the actor Arashi Yoshisaburō 嵐芳三郎 VII(b. 1965) against a snowy background, dressed in travel attire and a snow-covered
sandogasa 三度笠 sedge hat.1 His portrait here alludes to an iconic scene in the
kabuki play being staged, Sakura giminden 佐倉義民伝 (Tale of the Peasant Martyr of
Sakura). In the scene in question, the protagonist, Kiuchi Sōgorō 木内宗五郎,2
having resolved to appeal directly to the shogun on behalf of his fellow peasants—an act regarded as insubordination and punishable by death—is making
his way back from Edo to his village in the Narita 成田 area (modern Chiba Prefecture) to bid a final farewell to his family. The sandogasa hat, which conceals thewearer’s face, betokens the covert nature of the hero’s return. Pursued on the
one hand by the authorities of the local Sakura 佐倉 domain, who wish to prevent him from such a direct shogunal appeal, Sōgorō also intends to divorce hiswife and disown his children, in the hope that at least their lives will be spared
the fate that awaits him—a hope that will be dashed at the end of the play.
As the image selected for the playbill confirms, the scenes depicting the hero’s
homecoming—which unfold over the second and third acts—are considered especially representative of the play and are featured also in other performance
genres, such as jōruri 浄瑠璃, kōdan 講談, and rōkyoku 浪曲.3 While the storyline is
The playbill can be accessed through the Zenshin-za website at the following address: http://
www.zenshinza.com/stage_guide4/2019kokuritu/index.html (accessed 2.22.2022).
2
The name Sōgorō is sometimes written 惣五郎.
3
Jōruri, also known as bunraku 文楽, is a form of puppet theater in which the narrative and dialogic sections are interpreted by reciters (gidayū 義太夫) to the accompaniment of a shamisen, astringed musical instrument. I introduce the genre of kōdan below, which involves the recitationof war chronicles, heroic episodes, and revenge tales by storytellers. Rōkyoku, also known as
naniwabushi 浪花節, is another genre of storytelling that developed at the end of the Edo period
and which capitalized on the kōdan repertoire; its performers not only recite stories but also perform sung sections of the narratives, again to shamisen accompaniment.
1

87

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Romagnolibased on the account of a seventeenth-century “peasant martyr” (gimin 義民)4—
as passed down in the chronicle genre known as “veritable records” (jitsuroku
実録)—the homecoming subplot is not actually part of the source material. It
could therefore represent a later addition for which the kabuki play is the firsttextual evidence. The influence of this subplot on later retellings of the Sōgorō
story has been substantial, however, to the point that it was not only included inlater “veritable records,” but even came to serve as the main theme of the performance, as it also did in the rōkyoku narratives.
In this article, I survey dramatizations of the Sakura giminden story across performance genres, focusing in particular on kabuki and kōdan storytelling, in
whose repertoires the story appeared around the middle of the eighteenth century. By examining the relationship between those genres and the jitsuroku narratives, I establish a genealogy for these texts. Given their significance as innovations with respect to the original chronicles, I focus my analysis on two
episodes in particular—the scene at the ferry crossing (watashiba 渡し場) andthe scene of the hero’s farewell to his family (kowakare 子別れ, literally “farewellto children”), both of which featured in kabuki drama and kōdan. Together,
these episodes represent a watershed moment in the transmission of the tale of
Sakura Sōgorō.
1. The Story of Kiuchi Sōgorō in the Jitsuroku Narratives
Transmitted in several jitsuroku texts, whose lineages I consider below, the folkloric tale of “Sakura Sōgorō” is set in the seventeenth century and centers on apeasant uprising led by the eponymous character. Sōgorō is the headman, or
nanushi 名主, of the village Kōzu 公津 in Inba 印旛 County, a region of Shimōsa
下総 Province then within the Sakura domain. The peasants are rebelling against
the rule of the domain lord, Hotta Masanobu 堀田正信 (1631–1680), who is often
referred to by his court title, Kōzuke no suke 上野介. The main story, which hassome variations, is as follows.
Burdened by the heavy taxes levied within the domain, and after several failed
attempts to negotiate with administrators, more than three hundred nanushi havegathered in Edo to petition Hotta at his residence, but to no avail. Sōgorō—
who originally was unable to accompany his fellow village leaders because ofillness—later joins them, and they resolve to petition Lord Kuze Yamato no
kami 久世大和守, a member of the shogunal council, which they do by tossing a
document into his palanquin as he passes by on his way to Edo Castle.5 Yamato4
For a critical discussion of the cultural significance of the gimin image, see Walthall, “JapaneseGimin.”
5This practice, known as “petition to the palanquin” (kagoso 駕籠訴), was a last-chance meansof placing a matter before high-ranking government officials or domain lords, access to whom
was tightly restricted.

Sakura Sōgorō between Kabuki and Kōdan

89

seems to accept the petition, and the headmen, pleased with the result, return totheir villages, leaving Sōgorō and five other representatives in Edo. However,when Yamato summons them to his residence sometime later, he returns the petition, leaving their complaints unacknowledged.
Left now with abandoning his effort to help the peasants as his only other real
option, Sōgorō resolves to appeal directly to the shogun, Tokugawa Ietsuna 徳川家綱 (1641–1680, in office 1651–1680), even though doing so will cost him hislife. And indeed the decision is a grave one: such an act of “direct appeal” (jikiso
直訴) to the highest authority—i.e., without following the prescribed administrative procedures—was treated as insurrection, and was punishable with crucifixion. Knowing that the shogun is planning to visit Kan’ei-ji 寛永寺 Temple (hisancestral funeral temple in the Ueno 上野 area) on a specific day, Sōgorō hides
himself under a bridge at the temple’s front gate on the night before Ietsuna arrives. The next day, as the shogun crosses the bridge, Sōgorō emerges and, using
a long bamboo pole, manages to deliver the petition to Ietsuna’s palanquin. The
shogun’s entourage receives the document, and Sōgorō withdraws. Returning tothe other five delegates, he tells them that the petition has apparently reached the
shogun, and they drink together in celebration.
The shogun, in fact, refuses to read the petition, but he has another vassal,
Inoue Kawachi no kami 井上河内守, deliver it to Hotta. Having thus lost face
before the other daimyo as a result, Hotta is furious but compelled by the shogun’s
action to lower the peasants’ taxes. As feared, he commands that Sōgorō andhis wife be crucified and their four male children beheaded. The execution
takes place on the eleventh day of the second month of the first year of theMeireki 明暦 era (1655). Tied to the crosses on which they will die, Sōgorō andhis wife watch in horror and anger as their children are killed, and they swear
vengeance. Soon they make good on their threat, returning as evil spirits (tatari祟り) to terrify and bring about the deaths of Lord Hotta and his pregnant wife.
While most of the veritable records present this basic story, the dates, details,
subplots, ending, and, in particular, the narrative structure differ to some extent
across the various versions.6 Kodama Kōta 児玉幸多, in a seminal essay, provides
evidence that Sakura giminden was not entirely fictional. He demonstrates that a
wealthy peasant named Sōgorō was, indeed, executed together with his children,
albeit in the eighth month of the second year of the Jōō 承応 era (1653).
Kodama also distinguishes three different categories among the texts that narrate the tale of Sōgorō.7 The first includes Jizōdō tsuya monogatari 地蔵堂通夜物語
6
The two existing English translations—one by A. B. Mitford in his Tales of Old Japan (1871)
and another by Anne Walthall in her Peasant Uprisings in Japan (University of Chicago Press,
1991)—are clearly based on two different chronicles. Mitford did not specify his source text, but
Walthall’s translation is based on a text discovered in Aizu-Wakamatsu by the scholar Hosaka
Satoru 保坂智.
7
Kodama, Sakura Sōgorō.

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Romagnoli(The Story of a Vigil at the Jizō Hall, mid-eighteenth century) and various similar
texts. These texts all use the literary technique of a frame-story. In some versions,the keeper of the Jizō Hall at Shōin-ji 勝胤寺 Temple, located at Ōzakura 大佐倉
in Inba County, narrates the tale of Sōgorō to an itinerant monk who has
stopped there for the night. In other versions, a pair of visitors, a husband andwife, take the place of the keeper, sometimes revealing themselves to be the spiritsof Sōgorō and his wife. The second of Kodama’s categories includes texts basedon Hotta sōdōki 堀田騒動記 (Chronicles of the Hotta Strife, second half of theeighteenth century), and similar manuscripts that diverge from the Jizōdō tsuya
narratives both in their lack of a frame-story device and in their focus on the
Hotta family after Sōgorō’s death. Kodama notes that the texts in this group arequite inconsistent in terms of dating. The third and final category includes texts
with titles referring, more or less explicitly, to Sakura giminden, most of them
printed after the beginning of the Meiji period (1868–1912).
Japanese scholars have long debated the genealogical relationship between the
Jizōdō and Hotta sōdōki texts without reaching any consensus. Despite the difficulty of establishing the origins of the extant manuscripts, Kodama affirmed,
through correlations with historical records, that both texts emerged after the
Hōreki 宝暦 era (1751–1764).8 Furthermore, he proposed that the subplot ofthe vengeful ghosts, since it appears in both sets of texts, had taken shape earlier,being propagated as a folk tale before its incorporation into the jitsuroku narratives.9 On the other hand, Aoyagi Yoshitada 青柳嘉忠 has proposed that Jizōdō
represents a dramatization of Hotta sōdōki, with the latter being thus the original
narrative.10 More recently, Ogihara Daichi 荻原大地 has introduced into the discussion a previously unconsidered text called Sakura kajitsu monogatari 佐倉花実
物語 (Tale of Glory in Sakura, mid-nineteenth century) and proposed a textual
genealogy of Sakura Sōgorō tales, one essentially confirming the parallel lineages proposed earlier by Kodama.11
A detailed discussion of these genealogies is beyond the scope of the present
article, but it is noteworthy that most of the texts in Kodama’s third category
are similar in narrative structure to the Hotta sōdōki. Kodama’s third category
8
According to Kokusho sōmokuroku 国書総目録 (General Catalog of Japanese Books, 1989)
published by Iwanami Shoten, the earliest Jizōdō tsuya monogatari narrative dates to the tenth yearof the Bunsei 文政 era (1829) and the earliest Hotta sōdōki narrative to the third year of the Kōka
弘化 era (1846). The manuscript titled Sakura sōdōki (Chronicles of the Sakura Strife), housed in
the Chiba Prefectural Library 千葉県立図書館, is dated in Kokusho sōmokuroku, to the Keian 慶安era (1648–1652), making it, apparently, the earliest among extant manuscripts. However, as an
example of the interchangeable nature of titles, the title on the manuscript’s original cover, according to the library’s catalog, is Jizōdō miyagomori monogatari 地藏堂宮篭物語 (The Story of a
Fervent Prayer at the Jizō Hall), while the title given inside the book is Hotta sōdōki.
9Kodama, Sakura Sōgorō, pp. 58–66.
10
Aoyagi, Kenkyūshi Sakura Sōgorō.
11
Ogihara, “ ‘Sakura Sōgorō mono’ jitsuroku no keifu.”

Sakura Sōgorō between Kabuki and Kōdan

91

also includes the subplot with Sōgorō returning to his village and saying farewell to his family before his petition to the shogun; this does not feature in either the Hotta sōdōki or the Jizōdō text. This subplot represents an innovationthat seems to have passed from the kabuki play into other narratives of
Sōgorō’s story.
2. Kabuki and Jōruri Dramatizations
Sōgorō’s story was first staged as a kabuki drama in the eighth month of 1851
at the Nakamura-za 中村座 Theater in Edo, and featured the famous kabuki actor
Ichikawa Kodanji 市川小団次 IV (1812–1866) in the leading role. The playwright, Segawa Jokō 瀬川如皐 III (1806–1881), gave his work the ambiguous
title of Higashiyama sakura Sōshi 東山桜荘子 (Zhuangzi and the Cherry Trees in
Higashiyama).12 While in fact basing his play on the Sōgorō story, to avoid censorship from the shogunal authorities, Segawa had changed the setting to thesecond half of the fifteenth century, placing it in the Higashiyama 東山 periodof the Muromachi era (1336–1573). To further weaken the connection with theoriginal tale, he also renamed the main character Asakura Tōgo 朝倉当吾 andadded elements taken from Ryūtei Tanehiko’s 柳亭種彦 (1783–1842) work ofparodic fiction Nise Murasaki inaka Genji 偐紫田舎源氏 (The False Murasaki and
the Rustic Genji, 1829–1842).13 The result was a play in seven acts and twentyeight scenes that—despite its uncommon peasant hero and the misgivings ofthe theater owners, who had scorned the work as a “rustic drama” (momen shibai
木綿芝居)—enjoyed enormous success, running for three months.14
Success followed in Osaka as well. Having heard of the play’s long run in Edo
and of its particularly effective scenes—those showing the hero’s farewell to his
family (kowakare 子別れ), his torture (semeba 責め場), and the appearance of theghosts—the actor Arashi Rikaku 嵐璃珏 II (1812–1864) had it rewritten andstaged at a small local theater called Kado no Shibai 角の芝居 in the third monthof 1852.15 Titled Hana no kumo Sakura no akebono 花雲佐倉曙 (Clouds of CherryTree Flowers: Dawn in Sakura) and featuring Rikaku in the leading role of
The title plays on the fact that the word sakura 桜 (cherry tree) is a homophone for Sakura,the domain in which the original story is set. Similarly, Sōshi 荘子—the name of a Chinese philosopher of the fourth century BCE with no connection with the play—is a homophone forboth 壮士 (“brave and heroic man”) and 草子 or 草紙 (a type of story written in the kana syllabary). Segawa’s title therefore has the sense of “The Story of the Brave Man of Sakura in
Higashiyama,” which is descriptive of the Sōgorō’s story.
13
Inaka Genji was a literary parody of Murasaki Shikibu’s 紫式部 (late tenth–early eleventh century) The Tale of Genji (Genji monogatari 源氏物語, early eleventh century). Ryūtei transposed theoriginal story, set in the Heian period (794–1185), to the Muromachi period. This work, spanning
thirty-eight chapters (152 vols.), remained incomplete at the author’s death in 1842, but it becamea bestseller and was still popular ten years later when Segawa wrote his play.
14
Kokuritsu Gekijō Geinō Chōsashitsu, Kokuritsu gekijō jōen daihonshū, p. 120.
15
Atsumi, Ishin kyōgenshū, p. 300.
12

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Romagnoli

Sakura “Tōgo” 佐倉藤五, the play proved successful yet again, as shown by thefact that it was restaged three times in the following eight years.16
Furthermore, some months after Hana no kumo Sakura no akebono was staged asa kabuki play, a jōruri version was produced under the same title. This work was
the combined effort of the playwrights Sakuma Shōchōken 佐久間松長軒(1800–1864)—who also performed as a reciter (gidayū 義太夫) under the nameof Takemoto Nagatodayū 竹本長門太夫 III—and Toyoshima Gyokuwaken 登与島
玉和軒 (dates unknown). Shōchōken staged it himself in the ninth month of1852 at the Takeda Shibai 竹田芝居 Theater, and once again, the production enjoyed great success.
The following year, in the ninth month of 1853, a printed libretto (shōhon 正本)
was issued by publishers in Edo, Kyoto, and Osaka under the title Hana no kumo
Sakura no akebono: shinrei kaidan 花雲佐倉曙：神霊怪談 (Clouds of Cherry-Tree
Flowers, Dawn in Sakura: A Ghost Story about the Soul of the Deceased), andfeatured images by the ukiyo-e artist Hasegawa Sadanobu 長谷川貞信 I (1809–
1879). In addition, a number of color woodcuts featuring Ichikawa Kodanji
IV, Arashi Rikaku II, and other actors in the role of Sōgorō/Tōgo were produced between 1851 and 1880, proof that the play continued to enjoy popularity in the three decades after its debut. Even later still, the celebrated artist
Tsukioka Yoshitoshi 月岡芳年 (1839–1892) would choose the scene of Sōgorō’s
farewell to his family as the subject of a woodcut in the series Shinsen azuma
nishiki-e 新撰東錦絵 (A New Selection of Eastern Brocade Pictures) printed in
1885.17After Segawa’s Higashiyama sakura Sōshi premiered, ten years passed before thestory was again staged in Edo. This time, the actor Kodanji relied on the playwright Kawatake Shinshichi 河竹新七 II (later known as Mokuami 黙阿弥,
1816–1893) to revise the original play. The resulting narrative eliminated theparts related to Inaka Genji and added new scenes, giving a greater consistency tothe peasant hero’s story.18 Titled Sakura Sōshi gonichi no bundan 桜荘子後日文談 (ALiterary Discussion of the Aftermath of the Brave Man of Sakura Incident) andstaged at the Morita-za 守田座 Theater from the eighth through to the tenth
The three restagings occurred in the fifth month of 1853 at the Takeda Shibai 竹田芝居 Theater, in the ninth month of 1856 at the Chikugo Shibai 筑後芝居 Theater, and in the sixth monthof 1860 at the Minami Shibai 南芝居 Theater in nearby Sakai 堺. See Kokuritsu Gekijō Geinō
Chōsashitsu, Tōshi kyōgen Sakura giminden, p. 3.
17
Some of these woodcuts can be viewed on the websites of the Philadelphia Museum of Art
and the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston.
18
In particular, Kawatake wrote a subplot about Kōzen 光然, Tōgo’s uncle and abbot of
Bukkō-ji 仏光寺 Temple. After praying for leniency for thirty-seven days and receiving news of
the merciless execution of his nephew and the latter’s family, Kōzen drowns himself in the Inba
Marsh and becomes a vengeful ghost who haunts the Hotta family along with the spirits of Tōgo
and his wife. Despite the prominence of its author, this scene has only rarely been included incontemporary stagings of the play.
16

Sakura Sōgorō between Kabuki and Kōdan

93month of 1861, this play, also in seven acts and twenty-eight scenes, would form
the basis for stagings of the Sōgorō story from the Meiji period onwards.19
3. The Hero’s Encounter with the Ferryman and His Farewell to His Family
While the structure and staging of these plays about Sōgorō varied over time,
performances almost always included a core set of scenes: the petitioning ofLord Hotta at the gate of his Edo mansion (monso no ba 門訴の場), the hero’s return to his village across Inba Marsh with the help of the ferryman (watashimori
渡し守) Jinbei 甚兵衛 (watashi no ba 渡しの場), the hero’s visit to his home andfarewell to his children (kowakare no ba 子別れの場), the hero’s petitioning of the
shogun (jikiso no ba 直訴の場), and, less frequently, the haunting of the Hottamansion (kaii no ba 怪異の場). Since these scenes mark the turning points in
Sōgorō’s story, their continual inclusion in performances of the play was only
natural.20 Among these, the ferry scene and the scene with the hero’s family havebeen, by far, the play’s most popular, as reflected in surviving woodblock prints,
which depict them more than any of the other episodes in the story.
In the first of these two scenes, Sōgorō (or “Tōgo”),21 having resolved to appeal directly to the shogun, and aware that doing so will bring about his own
death, is worried that this punishment will extend to his family, as we have seen.
On the advice of his comrades, he returns in disguise to his village, bringing
some money and a divorce letter (rienjō 離縁状) for his wife, Osan おさん. On thesnowy night represented in the 2019 playbill cited at the beginning of this article,
he reaches the ferryman’s hut and calls for him, asking to be taken across themarsh. From within the hut, the ferryman refuses, citing recent orders from thedomain authorities that say crossing is not to be permitted between dusk anddawn. Sōgorō recognizes the voice as that of Jinbei, an old peasant, and the two
finally meet face to face. Sōgorō enters the hut, and in the secrecy that it affords,
Jinbei brings him up-to-date about the situation then in the village: most of his
fellows have been arrested, and the authorities are watching his family closely sothat they can arrest him too when he returns. Indeed it is precisely to prevent
Sōgorō from crossing the marsh unnoticed that they have ordered the ferry toremain idle during the night.
Sōgorō seems to have no choice but to return to Edo without achieving his
purpose. Nevertheless, he reveals to Jinbei his plan to make a direct appeal to thePart of the play has been translated into English by Anne Phillips as “The Tale of the Martyrof Sakura.”20
The number of acts varied over the years from two to ten. Occasionally, the story has been
staged in its entirety, in which case the performance is described as a “full-play” performance(tōshi kyōgen 通し狂言), one recent example being the 2019 Zenshin-za production.
21
In the plot summaries, I have referred to the characters as they are named in the play. Here,however, for the sake of clarity, I use Sōgorō instead of the actual Tōgo. The names of the supporting characters also vary to some extent across the various plays.
19

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Romagnoli

shogun and asks him to deliver the divorce letter and money to his wife. The oldman is deeply moved by Sōgorō’s selflessness and declares that he cannot denyhim a final farewell with his family, especially since he is sacrificing his life for thepeasants of the domain. Although Sōgorō protests, fearing for the ferryman’s
own safety, Jinbei takes a hatchet (nata 鉈) and breaks the chains shackling theferry to its berth, and then conveys the hero across the marsh.
The following scene is set in Sōgorō’s house, where the hero’s wife welcomes his
return, as do his sons, Hikoshichi 彦七 and Tokumatsu 徳松, and his daughter, Otō
おとう. Osan also presents to Sōgorō their infant boy, to whom she has given birthduring his absence. She also has him don a cotton kimono that she has sewn forhim. While talking to his family, Sōgorō realizes how destitute the village has become,his own household included. He calls for a cup of sake, pretending that he intends tocelebrate his homecoming, while knowing that this will in fact be his parting toast.
There is, however, no sake in the house to be had—the nearby seller having moved
away because of the village’s difficulties—so they instead share cups of tea.
Then, while the other characters are otherwise occupied, Sōgorō furtively tucks
the money, the divorce letter, and a parting message to his wife into the newborn’s
bedclothes. But Osan finds and reads the message before Sōgorō can depart andangrily confronts him. Eventually she grasps the purpose of the divorce but refuses
to accept it, declaring that her duty as wife is to follow him even to the underworld.
She implores him to tear up the letter, which he does.22 Their children then surround
Sōgorō and cling to him in an effort to prevent him from leaving. When the bell
for the hour of the ox (1 to 3 a.m.) tolls, however, he reluctantly leaves the house—
as Osan watches from a window, holding the newborn in her arms.
From a narrative point of view, the homecoming subplot is particularly effective,emphasizing as it does the themes of abnegation and loyalty to show precisely
what Sōgorō is losing by continuing to advance the peasants’ interests. Moreover,since the story—at least after the play’s first staging—was widely known, audiences, when taking in the familial scenes, were already aware of the fates of
Sōgorō and his family, and therefore able to empathize with the defeated hero.
4. The Kabuki Play and “Veritable Records”
The Fujiokaya nikki 藤岡屋日記 (Fujiokaya Diaries, 1804–1868), a major source
for Edo history and culture of the first two-thirds of the nineteenth century, relates that, when Ichikawa Kodanji and Segawa Jokō were planning to stage a playabout Sōgorō at the Nakamura-za Theater, they went to Sakura to visit various
temples and ruins there and to inquire into the origins of Sōgorō’s story.23 In the
In Sakura no akebono, it is Osan who tears up the letter.
The Fujiokaya nikki is a massive diary kept from 1804 to 1868 by a merchant and bookseller
named Sudō Yoshizō 須藤由蔵 (b. 1793) under the pseudonym Fujiokaya. It is a major source of
information about life in Edo at the time, covering topics as varied as crime, scandals, cultural
events, and even military affairs. See Fujiokaya nikki, pp. 437–439.
22
23

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95

opinion of scholar Ōno Masaharu 大野政治, when Kodanji visited the Mt. Narita
area three years before the play was staged, he managed to locate a copy of
Jizōdō, which he brought back to Edo.24 It is, therefore, likely that Higashiyama
sakura Sōshi derives from the jitsuroku narratives.
Nonetheless, as Ogihara has shown, the episodes of the hero’s encounter withthe ferryman and his farewell to his family do not appear in any text from either
the Jizōdō or the Hotta sōdōki lineages prior to the kabuki play. To be sure, somejitsuroku contain a farewell scene between Sōgorō and his family, but only as aninterlude and, crucially, at a different point in the narrative—before he departs
to join the other headmen in Edo. In these brief scenes, the hero reads his will,
shares a cup of sake, and departs. The parting drink is the only detail shared withthe kabuki play. In the jitsuroku, however, the scene is a restrained one, while in
the kabuki play the emotions are overwhelming. Moreover, in the former, there
is no divorce letter since Sōgorō leaves his family before making the petitioneven to Hotta, and thus before he has any inkling that he will later feel compelled
to sacrifice his life to ensure that the petition is read by the shogun.
Segawa appears to have reworked the parting scene, moving it to the center ofthe play and adding elements and dialogue to increase its dramatic force. The
addition of the ferryman scene highlights this subplot’s liminal nature. This reworking of the original storyline seems to have been at least partly responsible
for the play’s remarkable success. My analysis has already touched on the staging ofa similar play in Osaka and the story’s dramatization in a jōruri play. The Fujiokayanikki makes it clear that Segawa’s achievement in this respect was such that eventhe kōshaku 講釈 [kōdan] storytellers in Edo were moved to include the Sakura
Sōgorō story in their performances.25
Before I analyze Sōgorō’s story in the kōdan genre, it is worth noting that only
jitsuroku texts published after the staging of the Higashiyama sakura Sōshi kabuki
play include the homecoming subplot. This inflection point is especially evident
in “reading books” (yomihon 読本) derived from jitsuroku, which included illustrations (sashi-e 挿し絵) that, along with their storytelling, had become the preferredmedium for the popular consumption of historical narratives. Ogihara hascontrasted the Jizōdō and Hotta sōdōki texts with Chūyū Asakura nikki 忠勇阿佐倉
日記 (The Diary of the Brave and Loyal Asakura), a yomihon in three parts published between 1852 and 1855, which includes both the ferry and the farewell
episodes.26 The Asakura nikki is also by no means an isolated case. Thus, forinstance, the entire homecoming subplot is included in Asakura Tōgo ichidaiki
朝倉当吾一代記 (The Life of Asakura Tōgo, 1855), a book by the renowned popular fiction (gesaku 戯作) writer Dontei Robun 鈍亭魯文 (also Kanagaki Robun
Arashi, Koike, and Takahashi, Teidan Sakura giminden no sekai, p. 27.
Fujiokaya nikki, p. 438.
26
Ogihara, “ ‘Sakura Sōgorō mono’ jitsuroku no keifu,” pp. 36–39.
24
25

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Figure 1. Scene of Sōgorō’s meeting with his family, from Asakura Tōgo ichidaiki 朝倉当吾一代記. Through the window, the reader catches a glimpse of the ferryman Jinbei. National
Institute of Japanese Literature.
https://doi.org/10.20730/200014718 (image 15).

仮名垣魯文, 1829–1894).27 The episodes were also illustrated by Ochiai (orUtagawa 歌川) Yoshiiku 落合芳幾 (1833–1904), who not only skillfully merged

the two scenes (fig. 1) but also alluded to the kabuki play in their visual composition. Furthermore, upon close examination, the illustration of the parting scene
in Tōgo ichidaiki (fig. 2) closely resembles a woodblock print by Ichiyūsai (orUtagawa) Kuniyoshi 一勇斎国芳 (1798–1861), in which he represents the same
scene enacted by Kodanji in Higashiyama sakura Sōshi.28

The National Institute of Japanese Literature’s copy of this work is available in its “Databaseof Pre-Modern Japanese Works.”
28
The print can be viewed in the database of the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston: https://collections.mfa.org/objects/463408/actors-ichikawa-kodanji-iv-as-asakura-murashoya-togo-foregr (accession no. 11.38079).
27

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Figure 2. Scene of Sōgorō’s farewell to his family, from Asakura Tōgo ichidaiki. National Institute of Japanese Literature. 
https://doi.org/10.20730/200014718 (image 17).

Yomihon printed from the Meiji era onward incorporate into the Sōgorō narrative
either the ferry, the farewell scenes, or both.29 The same can be said of jitsuroku-likeworks, which contain fewer images and more detailed narrative text (usually
printed using a non-cursive script). One example is the fifth title in the series
29
Specifically, the following works include only the farewell scene: Sakura Sōgorō ichidaiki 佐倉
宗五郎一代記 (The Life of Sakura Sōgorō, 1877) by Ōnishi Shōnosuke 大西庄之助 (dates unknown), Sakura Sōgo ichidaiki 佐倉宗五一代記 (The Life of Sakura Sōgo, 1879) by Takeshita
Rokutarō 竹下六太郎 (dates unknown), and Sōgo jikki 宗吾実紀 (The Veritable Records of Sōgo,
1882) by Iida Kōtarō 飯田孝太郎 (dates unknown). Both scenes are included in Sakura Sōgo den
佐倉宗吾伝 (The Legend of Sakura Sōgo, 1878) by Shōmonsha Fukurai 笑門舎福来 (dates unknown), Sakura Sōgo jissetsuroku 佐倉宗吾実説録 (The Veritable Records of Sakura Sōgo, 1879)
by Takeuchi Eikyū 竹内栄久 (1848–1920), Sakura Sōgorō ichidaiki 佐倉宗吾朗一代記 (1881) by
Miyata Kōsuke 宮田孝助 (dates unknown), and Sakura Sōgorō ichidaiki 佐倉宗五郎一代記 (1882)
by Yamamura Seisuke 山村清助 (1847–1899). All these texts are available in the online digitalcollections of the National Diet Library.

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Kinko jitsuroku 今古実録 (Veritable Records of Past and Present Times)—Sakura
giminden 佐倉義民伝 (The Tale of the Peasant Martyr of Sakura, 1882), which
was reprinted in the following years under various titles.30 There is, however, aslight difference between the yomihon-style and the jitsuroku-style texts: in the latter, the ferryman is called Tahei 太平; in the former, he has the same name as in
the kabuki play, Jinbei. Arguably, then, two different lines of publications developed after the staging of the kabuki play. On the one hand, the yomihon-style
books recast Sōgorō’s story for a broader audience, usually in the form of abooklet consisting of a few pages of text and numerous images. With few exceptions, such books presented the story in a manner similar to that of the kabuki
play, narrating only the key episodes. Jitsuroku-style books, on the other hand,emphasized the text rather than the images, with the narratives following the tradition of the chronicles predating the kabuki play; they included numerous wellknown episodes and subplots as well as the new scenes that the play had introduced. Books derived from kōdan oral performances follow the latter pattern interms of presenting detailed descriptions, but differ in the greater emphasis theyplace on the dialogue.
5. Sakura giminden in Kōdan Storytelling
Tracing the emergence of the Sōgorō story in the context of kōdan storytelling—which until the Meiji period was known by the name kōshaku—is problematic
because of the medium’s intrinsically oral nature. Originating in spoken comments about, and interpretations of, canonical Buddhist texts as a kind of public
performance, kōshaku (literally “lectures”) depended on both oral and written
texts. Thus, as Matilde Mastrangelo has observed, while kōshaku developed as aform of public recitation rather than as a form of storytelling,31 in its evolution
as a performance genre, the source narrative came to be hidden from the audience’s view. A script (daihon 台本) remained, but it was kept private for the exclusive use of the performer. Even the transmission of stories (hanashi 噺) frommasters to disciples was accomplished orally, with written notes being employed
merely as an aide-mémoire.
This tradition was partially—but drastically—altered in the Meiji period with
the introduction of phonetic shorthand, which made it possible to transcribe
The kabuki play has been staged repeatedly under various titles up to recent times. The first
known occurrence of the term gimin was in 1887, when the play Giminden Sakura kikigaki 義民伝
佐倉聞書 (Things Heard and Written about the Story of the Peasant Martyr of Sakura) wasstaged at the Kado no Shibai Theater in Osaka. As discussed below, this was at a time when theterm gimin had been appropriated by the Freedom and People’s Rights Movement. In 1891, theplay was staged in Tokyo under the title Sakura gimin bimei no homare 佐倉義民美名誉 (Honor to
the Good Name of the Peasant Martyr of Sakura), which was often used for subsequent productions.
31
Mastrangelo, “Japanese Storytelling,” pp. 207–208.
30

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such performances on paper and, consequently, to disseminate in printed form
stories which had previously been accessible only orally.32 The popularity in the
1890s of books with edited phonetic transcriptions of actual performances (sokkibon
速記本) prepared the way, beginning at the end of the Meiji era, for the print
production and circulation of kōdan that were not derived from existing performances (kaki-kōdan 書き講談). Drawing on the kōdan repertoire of historicalnarratives, the publisher Tatsukawa Kumajirō 立川熊次郎 (1878–1932) launched
the Tatsukawa Library (Tatsukawa Bunko 立川文庫), a series of 197 kakikōdan
volumes published from 1911 to 1924. Likewise, the publisher Kōdansha 講談社
launched the magazine Kōdan kurabu 講談倶楽部 in 1911 to present kōdan transcriptions and, soon thereafter, also kakikōdan. Together the magazine and thelibrary series catalyzed the emergence of the new historical novel (jidai shōsetsu
時代小説) genre and the establishment of the so-called popular literature (taishūbungaku 大衆文学) genre.
The foregoing discussion has provided necessary context for tracing the evolution of the Sōgorō story within the kōdan genre. Several scholars, beginningwith Kodama, have suggested that it was indeed kōdan performances, and not
only jitsuroku, that helped to spread such narratives. However, the earliest extant
text of a kōdan performance dates to 1896, when the magazine Meika dansō 名家
談叢 (Compelling Stories by Accomplished Masters) began to serialize transcriptions of Momokawa Joen’s 桃川如燕 (1832–1898) version of the story under thetitle Sakura gimindan 佐倉義民談 (The Story of the Peasant Martyr of Sakura).
According to Nakamura Yukihiko 中村幸彦, kōdan performers might well havecontributed to the development of Sakura giminden during the Bunsei 文政(1818–1830) and Tenpō 天保 (1830–1844) eras.33 In his informative essay on
kōdan history, Sano Takashi 佐野孝 observes that Sakura giminden was the specialty of Ishikawa Ichimu 石川一夢 (1804–1854), whose narration was so popular that, reportedly, at one point when he was experiencing financial difficulties,
he pawned his brief (twenty-page) original script for a hundred ryō 両, a significant amount of money demonstrating the marketability of his performances.34
The only extant text of Ichimu’s Sakura Sōgorō is a woodblock-printed book(hanpon 版本) titled Sakura giminden, the preface to which bears a date of 1858.
However, not only is this date four years after Ichimu’s death—with his name infact being preceded by the term kojin 故人, i.e., “the deceased”—but moreover
its text, in terms of content, resembles rather a jitsuroku narrative than a kōdan
script. Nobuhiro Shinji 延広真治 has suggested, accordingly, that Sakura giminden
This practice began in 1884 with the publication of the ghost story Botan dōrō 牡丹灯籠 (ThePeony Lantern), based on the performances of the rakugo 落語 master San’yūtei Enchō 三遊亭
円朝 (1839–1900). For an innovative discussion of the introduction of phonetic shorthand inJapan and its application to storytelling, see Jacobowitz, Writing Technology in Meiji Japan.
33
Nakamura, “Sakura giminden,” p. 49.
34
Sano, Kōdan gohyakunen, pp. 66–67.
32

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Figure 3. Scene of Sōgorō’s parting from his family in Sakura giminden 佐倉義民伝 (woodblock edition) by Ishikawa Ichimu 石川一夢. Author’s personal collection.

was not actually authored by Ichimu.35 While the scene of the hero’s farewell to
his family is included in the narrative and represented in an illustration (fig. 3),
the fact of the book being dated to seven years after the kabuki play’s premiererenders the connection between the two opaque. Furthermore, the book’s sashi-e
is similar to many other illustrations and prints based on kabuki staging, andtherefore hints at the latter’s influence on the former rather than vice-versa.
However, an episode reported by the performing arts critic Nomura Mumeian
野村無名庵 (1888–1945) helps to clarify this point. In the miscellany titled Honchō
wajinden 本朝話人伝 (Lives of Storytellers of Our Country, 1944), Nomura mentions that three kōdan masters—Ishikawa Ichimu and two contemporaries,
Shōrin Hakuen 松林白円 (1812–1855) and Shōryūsai Nangyoku 正流斎南玉(1770–1846)—engaged in a casual competition at the end of a performance by35

Nobuhiro, “Ishikawa Ichimu,” p. 128.

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Takarai Bakin 宝井馬琴 II (dates unknown) at a theater near Kyōbashi 京橋
Bridge. Asked to narrate a scene of parents and children parting to determine
which of the three could generate the most emotion, Hakuen chose the parting
between Sanada Nobuyuki 真田信之 and Yukimura 幸村 from their father
Masayuki 昌幸, from the kōdan titled Sanada sandaiki 真田三代記 (The Lives of
the Three Sanada). Ichimu chose the parting of Sōgorō from his children fromhis Sakura giminden. According to Nomura, that scene. . . moves [audiences] to tears irrespective of who performs [it], but the performance by Ichimu was unrivaled; it was just like seeing the scene before one’seyes, except that there was no one whose eyes were not full of tears. He descended from the stage to thunderous applause.36

Nangyoku, however, won the contest by narrating the parting of Kusunoki
Masashige 楠木正成 and his son Masatsura 正行 at Sakurai 桜井 Station from the
Taiheiki 太平記 (Chronicle of Great Peace, fourteenth century).
Nomura provides no date for the contest, which he could not have witnessedsince it took place before his birth. If we take him at his word, however, theevent must have occurred before Nangyoku died (thus making 1847 a terminus
ante quem), which is at least five years before the premiere of the kabuki play.
There is, therefore, reason to conclude that the kōdan narratives were well established before 1851 and could indeed have influenced the kabuki play, at least
with respect to the scene of Sōgorō’s farewell to his family. The ferryman episode, on the other hand, might be an original addition by the playwright.
To be sure, the kōdan transcriptions published in the mid-Meiji period present
both scenes. There are at least four transcriptions of performances by Meiji-era
storytellers: the aforementioned Sakura gimindan (1896) serialized in Meika dansō
and a different version published as a standalone book under the title Sakura
Sōgorō (1897), both by Momokawa Joen; Sakura giminroku 佐倉義民録 (Recordsof the Peasant Martyr of Sakura, 1896) by Murai Hajime 邑井一 (1841–1910);
and Kōdan Sakura Sōgorō (1902) by Kyokudō Nanryō 旭堂南陵 (1858–1911).
These books testify to the popularity of Sōgorō in both the Tokyo area and in
Kansai.37
Among the story’s three versions, Joen’s is probably the earliest since he wasolder than Hajime and Nanryō. Furthermore, Joen trained in the Itō 伊東 school
under Itō Enshin 伊東燕晋 II (1801–1855) before a quarrel with Itō Chōka 伊東
潮花 (1810–1880) prompted him to found his own Momokawa school. The Itō
school was renowned for warrior tales (gundan 軍談), under which Sakura giminden
was included. Nomura quotes from a rankings billboard (banzuke 番付) of gundanstories printed in the summer of the fifth year of the Ansei 安政 era (1858)
in which Sakura giminden is linked to the narrator Itō Enryō 伊東燕凌 (dates
36
37

Nomura, Honchō wajinden, p. 87. The English translation is my own.
The Kyokudō school was based in Osaka and performed kamigata 上方-style kōdan.

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unknown).38 Joen’s version of that kōdan could, therefore, have been derived
from the Itō school, though there exists no definitive proof that this was indeed
the case.39
In 1894, Momokawa Enrin 桃川燕林 (1846–1905), who in 1899 took the name
Momokawa Minoru 桃川実, published a book titled Tōyō gimin Sakura Sōgorō 東洋
義民佐倉宗五郎 (Sakura Sōgorō the Peasant Martyr of the East). Enrin’s versionof the story is not a transcription but rather bears the label of “notes” (shuki 手記).
As a matter of fact, it is closer to jitsuroku-style books than to kōdan, with its text
recalling the style and wording of the aforementioned Sakura giminden as included in the Kinko jitsuroku series, though its dialogic portion is conspicuous. In
this respect, Tōyō gimin Sakura Sōgorō seems to resemble the book attributed to
Ichimu, inasmuch as either or both could have provided the plot outline on
which later storytellers would build their narratives.
Interestingly, the inclusion of the words Tōyō gimin in Enrin’s title alludes to theappropriation of the Sōgorō character by the Freedom and People’s Rights
Movement (Jiyū Minken Undō 自由民権運動) in the 1880s. A comprehensive
discussion of this appropriation is beyond the scope of the present study, but,in short, at a time when many disenfranchised Japanese were demanding recognition of their civil rights, Sōgorō came to be seen as an archetypal self-sacrificing
righteous man (gimin), a development that shed new light on the hero and gave
new meaning to his abnegation.40 Thus, the Meiji intellectual Fukuzawa Yukichi
福沢諭吉 (1835–1901) praised Sōgorō in his An Encouragement of Learning (Gakumonno susume 学問のすゝめ, 1872–1876),41 and the activist Komuro Shinsuke 小室信介
(1852–1885) described him in the introduction to Tōyō minken hyakkaden 東洋民権百家伝 (One Hundred Biographies of Eastern Advocates of People’s Rights,
1883–1884) as follows:
Those are people who, for the sake of their society, or their country, or forothers, or for a principle, considering their life less than dust, do not bend, anddo not break in the face of oppression; they are firm as a rock, careless of theirglory, profit, wealth, or offspring. . . . Perhaps the number of persons who sacrifice themselves for the sake of the people and who have been hidden from
history is not very large. Maybe Sakura Sōgorō was the only one. However, I
38
A banzuke is a billboard-size document listing rankings, such as of artists or sumo wrestlers;see Nomura, Honchō wajinden, p. 89.
39
The identity of the Enryō mentioned by Nomura is unclear since the latter did not specify
his source materials. The first Itō Enryō passed away in 1830, while Enryō II (a disciple of theformer who took his name after his master’s death) died in 1856. The banzuke could, therefore,
refer to an Enryō III, records of whom have been otherwise lost.
40
For a discussion of the transformation of the Sōgorō story within the context of the Freedom and People’s Rights Movement, see Ōkubo, “Gimin denshō to Meiji-ki.” For an insightful
account of nationalism and political issues in the context of performance during the Meiji period, see Hyōdō, Enjirareta kindai.
41
Walthall, “Japanese Gimin,” pp. 1088–1089.

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have searched the traces and the names of those hidden persons, which I makepublic. . . . These are people who will not be inferior to the Sakura Sōgorō ofthe plays.42

In the conclusion to his own book, Momokawa Enrin mentions the temple in
Narita dedicated to the hero, there deified as Sakura Sōgo Daimyōjin 佐倉宗五
大明神:
Being an advocate for the people’s rights in the east, when members of theparty or, needless to say, people like Count Itagaki 板垣, come to stay, they holdbig celebrations and, probably, Sōgo himself jumps for joy under the ground.43

These narratives are more or less consistent, except when it comes to the ferryman and farewell scenes, in which some striking differences are apparent. To
begin with, most kōdan provide an account of the ferryman Jinbei’s death: as
Sōgorō proceeds from his house back to the ferry, he is assaulted by a gangster(usually but not always named Maboroshi no Chōkichi 幻の長吉), who has recognized him and wants to claim a reward by turning him in to the domain authorities. The gangster succeeds in tying up Sōgorō and asks Jinbei to help, but
the latter kills him (fittingly, with an oar). Aware that he faces prosecution forviolating the ban on operating the ferry—and for murder—Jinbei proceeds tokill himself once Sōgorō leaves. In the jitsuroku-style texts, such as Kinko jitsuroku,
the ferryman hangs himself, while in all of the kōdan that include the scene, hedrowns himself. In the Nanryō kōdan, the suicide is alluded to but not dramatized. In two of the texts (the Meika dansō text by Joen and the one by Murai),
however, the scene concludes with the parting between Sōgorō and Jinbei, offering no hint that the latter will commit suicide.
Another interesting detail relates to the divorce letter that Sōgorō delivers to
his wife. As mentioned, in the kabuki play, Osan tears up the letter, refusing toaccept the divorce. Such is the fate of the letter in most kōdan texts, but there aresome exceptions, beginning with Enrin’s Tōyō gimin Sakura Sōgorō: there his Osan
accepts the divorce gratefully, reassuring Sōgorō that their bond will bring them
together in the next life. Similarly, in Murai’s text, Osan accepts the letter and reassures Sōgorō that she will take care of their family.
The kōdan by Nanryō, on the other hand, has two unique distinguishing details.
First, it makes no mention of the snow that visually characterizes the ferryman
and the farewell scenes. Moreover, in his text, Sōgorō’s farewell to his family ismuch reduced, while a prominent role is given to his mother-in-law: waking tofind him in the house, she berates and drives him out with a broomstick because
Komuro, Tōyō minken hyakkaden, pp. 3–4. The English translation is my own.
Momokawa, Tōyō Gimin Sakura Sōgorō, p. 241. Itagaki Taisuke 板垣退助 (1837–1919) was astatesman who led the Freedom and People’s Rights Movement and the Liberal Party. He received the title of count in 1884, making that year the terminus post quem for Enrin’s compositionof this text.
42
43

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his return to the village, where the domain authorities are waiting for him, is too
risky. Since the fate of a great number of people depends on his delivering thepetition, she insists, he is foolish to risk his life only for the few members of his
family. After she chases Sōgorō from the house, she confesses to her daughterthat she acted out of concern for him, and in order to encourage him to act as
he, in fact, does, and she expresses regret for her harsh manner toward him.
Conclusions
The passage of kōdan from an intangible medium (performance) to a tangible
medium (books), then, marked their evolution into a textual genre that eventually merged with the novel. Sakura Sōgorō’s story was part of this trend: in 1912,
it was published as the twenty-seventh volume in the Tatsukawa Library under
the title Gimin Sakura Sōgorō.44 Further kōdan-style texts appeared in the 1910s
and 1920s, such as Chōhen kōdan Sakura Sōgorō 長編講談佐倉宗五郎 (Sakura
Sōgorō: A Full-Length Kōdan, 1916) by Momokawa Minoru, and Sakura Sōgorō
by Takarai Kinsō 宝井琴窓 (1898–1972), which was included in the sixth volumeof the Kōdan zenshū 講談全集 (Kōdan Collection) published in 1929 by Kōdansha.45
A parallel evolution took place in rōkyoku, with performance scripts (or similar
texts) being published as books in the 1910s and actual performances recorded
and marketed as record albums as well.
I have limited the scope of my analysis here to the relationships between the
kabuki and kōdan versions of Sōgorō’s story and the preexisting jitsuroku narratives. In particular, my focus has been on the episodes of the hero’s ferry-crossingof Inba Marsh and his farewell to his family, which have become hallmarks ofthe story. The inclusion of these two episodes marked a watershed moment, inthat the texts produced after the kabuki play almost invariably featured either orboth of them. As a consequence, scholars have regarded this storyline as an innovation introduced by the kabuki playwright, whose success led to its incorporation in kōdan narratives, as Fujiokaya nikki reports.
Extant kōdan texts related to Sakura Sōgorō’s story prior to 1896 are absent
because of the oral nature of the medium. Thus no direct evidence is available
that might either support or disprove the scholarly consensus in this regard.
However, the episode reported by Nomura Mumeian suggests that at least the
farewell scene was already being narrated by kōdan performers before the kabuki
play was staged. While far from constituting definitive proof, this finding nevertheless sheds some light on a matter that is complicated by the absence of primary
A certain Sekka Sanjin 雪花散人 is credited with composing most of the titles in the series,
but this is probably a pseudonym representing several different authors.
45
The latter text became the standard edition and was included in the 1954 reprint, the 1971
revised edition Teihon kōdan meisaku zenshū 定本講談名作全集 (Masterpieces of Kōdan, the Standard Edition)—albeit erroneously there attributed to Momokawa En’yū 桃川燕友—and the1976 pocket edition of the latter, Kōdan meisaku bunko 講談名作文庫.
44

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sources (i.e., kōdan texts) prior to the mid-Meiji period. As the cases of kōdan andkabuki make clear, the evolution of the transmission of Sōgorō’s story occurred
through a combination of different media. Further research is needed to unravel
the relationships among the various genres, including their political nuances andsocial implications. The tale of Sakura Sōgorō, I suggest, constitutes a starting
point for the exploration of these issues. It is, therefore, my hope that this article
will contribute to our understanding of how these complex and intertwined textual and performance traditions developed.

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Nobuhiro Shinji 延広真治. “Ishikawa Ichimu” 石川一夢. In vol. 1 of Nihon koten
bungaku daijiten, p. 128. Iwanami Shoten, 1983.
Nomura Mumeian 野村無名庵. Honchō wajinden 本朝話人伝. Kyōei Shuppansha,
1944.
Ogihara Daichi 荻原大地. “‘Sakura Sōgorō mono’ jitsuroku no keifu: ‘Sakura kajitsu
monogatari’ no ichizuke o megutte” 「佐倉惣五郎物」実録の系譜：『佐倉花実物語』の位置づけをめぐって. Kinsei bungei 近世文芸 107 (2018), pp. 31–42.
Ōkubo Kyōko 大久保京子. “Gimin denshō to Meiji-ki ni okeru sono hensen ni
tsuite” 義民伝承と明治期におけるその変遷について. Bukkyō Daigaku Daigakuinkiyō 佛教大学大学院紀要 42 (March 2014), pp. 37–52.
Phillips, Anne, trans. “The Tale of the Martyr of Sakura.” In Kabuki Plays on
Stage, Volume 3: Darkness and Desire, 1804–1864, ed. James R. Brandon andSamuel L. Leiter, pp. 220–247. University of Hawai‘i Press, 2002.
Sano Takashi 佐野孝. Kōdan gohyakunen 講談五百年. Tsuru Shobō, 1943.
Walthall, Anne. “Japanese Gimin: Peasant Martyrs in Popular Memory,” The
American Historical Review 91:5 (1986), pp. 1076–1102.
Walthall, Anne. Peasant Uprisings in Japan. University of Chicago Press, 1991.

Studies in Japanese Literature and Culture 5 (March 2022) 107–129© 2022 National Institute of Japanese Literature

The Sound, the Body, the Classics: Nagai
Kafū and Traditional Theater
Gala Maria Follaco

Università degli Studi di Napoli “L’Orientale”

Introduction
As the preamble to a study on the place of traditional theater in Nagai Kafū’s

永井荷風 (1879–1959) work and poetics, Takahashi Toshio’s 高橋俊夫 comment

about having to write on Kafū and the arts of Edo—above all ukiyo-e—is particularly fitting: “It is a difficult task. Many things I want to write about. And that I should
write about. An entire book, maybe. What can I do?”1 To be sure, Takahashi’s
worries were exaggerated: the contribution of his ongoing research on Kafū andthe traditional arts ranks among the most fruitful and influential in the field.
Nonetheless, Takahashi’s stature makes his despair no less relatable. Among
those literary figures who tackled the issue of tradition in their work, Nagai Kafūis indeed one of the most complex. Whoever sets out to unpack the meanings
associated specifically with the notion of “Edo” in Kafū’s oeuvre will most likely
feel discouraged by the vastness and density of his commitment to this segmentof Japanese tradition and cultural history. Often labeled a “nostalgic” because of
his interest in the recent past, he was nonetheless modern, and quintessentiallyso, in his approach to tradition and in his overarching meditations on the relationship between past and present.
More recently, however, as scholars have conceptualized—in increasingly
complex ways—Kafū’s uses of the past in his writing, the nature and the qualityof his ideas about Edo have moved closer to the center of scholarly interest.
Tada Kurahito 多田蔵人 has stressed how, in Edo geijutsuron 江戸芸術論 (Essays
on the Arts of Edo, 1920), Kafū’s speculations about the arts of the former capital city look at Tokugawa society through a present-day lens, that is, through theconcerns and assumptions of his own time.2 Shindō Masahiro 真銅正宏, writing
about Hiyori geta 日和下駄 (Fair-Weather Clogs, 1915), another essay collectionthat Kafū published just a few years before Edo geijutsuron, has pointed out thatwhen Kafū, as a flaneur, strolled through the traditional shitamachi 下町 (low-city)
12Takahashi, “Nagai Kafū to kaiga,” p. 37.
Tada, Nagai Kafū, p. 3.

107

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Follaconeighborhoods of mid-1910s Tokyo, he was not so much searching for the vestiges of Edo as he was trying to look at his hometown from a closer distance, in
an attempt to fully comprehend it.3
Endorsing Tada’s, Shindō’s, and other recent scholars’ research on the subject,
I reexamine in this article the corpus of work that Kafū devoted to traditional
theater, and which he wrote in the late years of the Meiji period (1868–1912) andthroughout the Taishō period (1912–1926). I hope this endeavor will add a new
dimension to how scholars understand, on the one hand, Kafū’s appreciation ofmodernity and, on the other, the diverse contexts in which the idea of the theater itself was being negotiated and reformulated during these crucial decades.
As I try to show, his idea of kabuki in particular can be used as a lens, allowing
speculation on the nature of modernity and the place of the classics in modern
times—as well as on what in many ways can be considered Kafū’s attempt to
re-canonize certain works and practices holding only marginal significance incontemporary discourses and theories. Building on Takahashi’s argument that
Edo geijutsuron is sustained primarily by Kafū’s keen sensitivity to sound and colorand by his sense of place,4 I try to demonstrate the extent to which the most exterior aspects of theatrical performance embodied, in Kafū’s conceptualizationof the arts’ social function, a discernible marker of the artistic experience’s highest value.
My working assumption is that Kafū’s meditation on kabuki was perfectly consonant with what I consider his trademark modernity—that is, the tendency tointerrogate and manipulate the past rather than rejecting it altogether. For example, the emphasis he places on space, color, and sound foregrounds the materiality of the performative act and downplays its literariness. In doing so, he ultimately opens theater up to the multiple allegiances and possibilities of the modern.
Furthermore, by focusing in particular on the audience, he stresses the needboth for a communal mode of artistic reception and for an idea of the theater—whether conceived to be a cultural tradition or a corpus of works—as an environment and a community unto itself. He rejects the principles of Meiji-era theater modernization and instead calls for separate standards to be used whenevaluating Western and Japanese theater, arguing moreover for a social function
for art—for its ability to provide the audience with a mental break, a distraction
from daily preoccupations, an escape from everyday life. I therefore address,
first, Kafū’s personal experience of theater—on and offstage, both at home andabroad. After this, I touch upon Meiji-period theater reform, highlighting a setof issues that Kafū tackled, either directly or implicitly, in his various writings. I
then proceed with a textual analysis of three particular works, the abovementioned Edo geijutsuron and the hitherto understudied early pieces Hyōshigi monogatari
拍子木物語 (Clapper Stories, 1900) and Gakuya jūnitoki 楽屋十二時 (A Day in the34

Shindō, “Sansakuki to iu bungaku janru,” p. 89.
Takahashi, “Nagai Kafū to kaiga,” p. 42.

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Dressing Room, 1901), occasionally digressing into Kafū’s other works and experiences.
Nagai Kafū and Theater
Theater always held a special place in Kafū’s life. It is well-known that his fascination with the arts of Edo was most likely due to his mother’s influence when
he was a child. Kondō Tomie 近藤富枝 has stressed also how Kafū’s early appreciation of kabuki’s sounds and rhythms may have had to do with his intimate
acquaintance with the koto and the shamisen, which his maternal grandmotherused to play.5 Yet kabuki took on a whole new meaning for Kafū in 1900, when
Enomoto Torahiko 榎本虎彦 (1866–1916) introduced him to Fukuchi Ōchi福地桜痴 (1841–1906) at the Kabuki-za 歌舞伎座, giving the young man reason
enough to believe that a career in theater was possible for him. Up to that point,
he had already toyed with the idea of becoming a painter, and had then associated with novelist Hirotsu Ryūrō 広津柳浪 (1861–1928). He had even debuted asa rakugo 落語 storyteller with Asanebō Muraku 朝寝坊むらく VI (1859–1907)
under the pseudonym San’yūtei Yumenosuke 三遊亭夢之助, before his father
found out and forbade him from performing again. In fact, his father had neverallowed him to pursue any artistic ambitions, convinced that a governmental position or a career in finance would be a safer choice for his eldest son.
At the Kabuki-za, Kafū gained first-hand experience of the world of the theater and actors, but his primary goal was to become an author. His first job, however, had less to do with writing than one might expect: his apprenticeship beganwith wooden clappers (hyōshigi 拍子木). He put a great deal of effort into learning how to strike the clappers properly, and his writings on the subject reveal thathe acknowledged their importance as signals, as well as this particular training’s
relevance for his desired career as a kabuki playwright.
Despite his determination to achieve this dream, he quit the Kabuki-za only
ten months after joining. He made this decision out of loyalty to Fukuchi—
apparently, the latter did not appreciate Ichikawa Danjūrō 市川團十郎 IX’s
(1838–1903) experiments with realist drama (katsureki 活歴).6 Kafū followed
Fukuchi to Yamato shinbun 大和新聞 to work as a journalist. When Yamato shinbun
dismissed him a few months later, Kafū tried to return to the Kabuki-za; but
having published works that broke an extremely important rule in the world of
kabuki—that one must not reveal publicly what happens behind the scenes—he
was not allowed to do so. This, incidentally, was probably the main event thatdrove him to the novel, ultimately leading to his career as writer. The works thatcost Kafū his return to kabuki were in particular his Hyōshigi monogatari and
Gakuya jūnitoki.
5
6

Kondō, Kafū to Sadanji, pp. 22–24.
Ibid., p. 18.

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FollacoKafū’s disappointment, however, did not keep him away from kabuki. He
would always associate with kabuki playwrights and actors, always trying to enlarge his circle of acquaintances in that milieu. For instance, in 1909, after becoming friends with Osanai Kaoru 小山内薫 (1881–1928), he was introducedby the same playwright to Ichikawa Sadanji 市川左團次 II (1880–1940), justaround the time Osanai and Sadanji founded the Jiyū Gekijō 自由劇場 (Freedom
Theater).7
Kafū’s interest in theater went far beyond kabuki, however, as he proved
during his sojourn abroad between 1903 and 1908. While in the United Statesand France, and especially when he was in New York, he visited many theaters.
We know from his travel diary, Saiyū nisshishō 西遊日誌抄 (Journal of a Journeyto the West, 1919), that he attended Broadway performances almost every day,staying up late to read librettos in restaurants and coffee shops when performances were sold out—or after he had attended a play, to linger on the emotions
it had aroused.8 Minami Asuka 南明日香 has distinguished several patterns in
Kafū’s strolls around New York, one of which revolved around theaters andconcert halls.9 Most of his evenings were spent in theaters. He became a veritable habitué, who would watch the same show more than once, as he did with
Carmen,10 and who managed to see Sarah Bernhardt (1844–1923) on the stage
three times in less than ten days. He wrote in his journal that a great part of his
fascination with Western countries was rooted in his desire to know about their
theater,11 and indeed, during his sojourn in New York, he appears to have been
eager to watch as many plays as possible. I have argued elsewhere that a note
written on March 24, 1906, after a show that moved him deeply, testifies to aradical change in his life and especially in his attitude toward art. He wrote: “I
can no longer watch plays with the detached eye of the critic, as I used to dowhen I was in my country. Did America entirely transform me into a lachrymose
poet?”12 This statement can be considered an acknowledgment of his artistic
maturation, the transition from a more derivative approach, inspired by the“tragic novel” (hisan shōsetsu 悲惨小説) and by French naturalism, among otherinfluences, to adopt a more personal and more original attitude.13
Kafū’s interest in theater—especially opera—never flagged during and after
his time abroad. It acquired moreover an additional dimension during the lastpart of his travels when, according to Mitsuko Iriye, he felt, as intensely as neverbefore, a “preoccupation with the question of how to try to disentangle andAkiba, Kōshō Nagai Kafū, p. 168.
Nagai, Saiyū nisshishō, p. 316.
9
Minami, Nagai Kafū no Nyū Yōku, Pari, Tōkyō, p. 95.
10
Nagai, Saiyū nisshishō, pp. 314, 335–336.
11
Ibid., p. 315.
12
Ibid., p. 319.
13
Follaco, A Sense of the City, p. 78.
7

8

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111

reconcile two different cultures which [were] both true and dear to him butwhich [could not] be artificially fused or superimposed upon one another.”14
At the time, Kafū was pessimistic about the possibility of expressing his feelings, as a Japanese, through music in Western European style. Just a few years
earlier, however, he had held a different view. In 1904, when he was living in
Tacoma, Washington, he had written to his friend Ikuta Kizan 生田葵山 (1876–
1945) that he wished to introduce musical drama to Japan, and not by translating
Western works, but by creating original Japanese pieces.15 Yet he was not to pursue this project immediately after his return to Tokyo. Indeed, at the time he purposely avoided the opera performed in Japanese at the Asakusa Opera House,
which experimented with musical drama during the mid-Taishō period, seeking
forms of expression that could reach a broader audience and thereby dislodge
the rather elitist image associated with Western European opera. Kafū opted instead for the Imperial Theater’s presentation of traditional opera sung in European languages.16 Nearly three decades later, however, he had come to feel that“perhaps the time was ripe for doing opera in Japan,”17 and wrote his only opera
piece, Katsushika jōwa 葛飾情話 (Romance in Katsushika, 1938), which was performed in the late spring of 1938—at the Asakusa Opera House.
Meiji-Era Theater Reform
The three early Kafū works that I examine in this article are of interest because
they were published at two different moments in the history of Japanese theatrical culture: Hyōshigi monogatari and Gakuya jūnitoki are based on the juvenile
Kafū’s experiences at the Kabuki-za and were written soon after his theater apprenticeship ended, while Edo geijutsuron is a more complex work, publishedwhen he was already a renowned writer and a respected intellectual. Despite thisdifference in the state of the author’s career, however, both of these works’ respective composition dates—the turn of the century and the mid-Taishō period—proved to be times of transition in the history of Japanese theater.
In 1893, Tsubouchi Shōyō 坪内逍遥 (1859–1935) published his essay “Wagakuni no shigeki” 我が邦の史劇 (The Historical Drama of Our Nation). In it, hepraises the emotional abundance and intensity that he considered typical of Japanese traditional theater as well as the charisma of its actors. Yet he also argued
that real modernization in theater could be achieved only by a “new” kind ofdrama whose works focused on a single core idea and realistic characters rather
than on the narrative element.18 In the same year, Kitamura Tōkoku 北村透谷
Iriye, “Quest for Literary Resonance,” pp. 106–107.
Nagai, Danchōtei sekitoku, pp. 7–8.
16
Shindō, Nagai Kafū, pp. 194–196.
17
Akiyama, Shōwa no sakkyokukatachi, p. 437.
18
Tsubouchi, “Wagakuni no shigeki,” pp. 33–42.
14
15

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Follaco(1868–1894) wrote “Gekishi no zento ikan” 劇詩の前途如何 (What Lies Ahead
for Dramatic Poetry?)19 for the literary magazine Bungakukai 文學界, in which hestressed “symmetrical harmony” as traditional Japanese drama’s most distinctive
characteristic:
In music, sound effects, speeches, movements and behavior, dance, chanting,and in many other things, harmony is the core. Song is accompanied by movements of the legs and gestures by the hands, followed by various complicateddemands. One part cannot be the whole, and the whole cannot be expressed by
one part. Thus, our plays are in the service of symmetrical harmony. . . . I havecome to realize that there is no way to eliminate the defective convention ofsymmetrical harmony in Japanese drama. [Therefore,] Japanese drama will havemuch difficulty in the future.20

Kitamura lamented how both the actors and the public failed to appreciate aplay’s real essence because they were far more absorbed in its conventional andunchanging form.
At the center of these authors’ preoccupation lay their ambition and desire tolocate drama within the realm of literature—hence their concern with elementsof the play that fell outside the realm of performance. M. Cody Poulton associates this attitude with the Meiji period’s radical transformation in literary andaesthetic standards. He identifies this shift’s most remarkable feature as “the rise of
the notion that all literary forms should be devoted to the portrayal of a modern,
privatized self,” which brought with it “an essentially anti-theatrical element.”
Poulton singles out two main devices used for the expression of modernity in
the Meiji period: confession (in the realm of fiction) and dialogue (in the realmof drama). “The eventual victory of the monologic expression over the dialogic
imagination is an important reason for the literary precedence of fiction overdrama,” he states, concluding that “as a consequence, fiction (shōsetsu 小説) began
to replace the play (shibai 芝居) as the paradigm of cultural expression.”21
These two ideas, a privatized self and realistic representation, are the grain
against which Kafū seems to be adjusting his own theory of drama in the 1920s.
In what follows, I demonstrate that his position was firmly grounded in his
own experience of kabuki at the Kabuki-za, and that it drew in equal measure
upon that theatrical practice’s most material elements and upon these elements’emotional and intellectual reverberations. At the same time, one should not underestimate modern drama’s didactic tendency, which, according to Poulton,“became even greater as theater became politicized in the 1920s and 1930s, as if

19
M. Cody Poulton stresses the fact that Kitamura used the word gekishi 劇詩 (dramatic poetry)rather than gikyoku 戯曲, whose use was then more customary for “drama.” See Poulton, A Beggar’s
Art, p. 241n43.
20Mori, “Introduction,” p. 11.
21
Poulton, A Beggar’s Art, p. xi.

Nagai Kafū and Traditional Theater113

to regain by ideological means the sociality theater had naturally lost in its march
to modernization.”22 Indeed, theater’s sociality is at the core of Kafū’s meditation, and it comes as no surprise that this meditation took place during the
Taishō period, a time of change, during which many new theater companies andhalls emerged, many new magazines were founded, and theater’s influence cameto reach far beyond its own performance venues and the play-going public: it
was “a time when modern theater and drama became major players in the risingbourgeois culture.”23
In his own work, Kafū advocates an utterly different approach to theater. He
believed that excessive concern with the social dimension of drama could undermine its ability to provide a space—both physical and imaginary—for people
to momentarily disengage from their everyday preoccupations. He believed, inother words, in art—and especially in drama—as a mental break, as an opportunity to explore life at its fullest or to face larger-than-life projections of humanemotions, before returning to reality.
Edo geijutsuron: The Value of “Exteriority” (and a Digression into Opera)
Edo geijutsuron is a collection of ten essays published in a single volume by the
Nihonbashi 日本橋-based publisher Shun’yōdō 春陽堂 in 1920. Kafū was fortyone years old at the time. He had experienced by this point an early fascination
with French literature (especially naturalism and especially Émile Zola among
the naturalists), long sojourns in both the United States and France, and then aso-called “returnee” period (kichō jidai 帰朝時代), during which he overtly criticized Japan’s uneven path toward national modernization. After this, he entereda phase that mainstream scholarship has often called his “return to Edo” (Edokaiki 江戸回帰), a term which, although effective in evoking his love for Edo-period arts, I nonetheless find rather misleading because it fails to highlight sufficiently the critical perspective that Kafū brought to his narrative elaborations
and aesthetic considerations.24
Even though Edo geijutsuron was published in 1920, Kafū had begun to write
some of the essays it contains in 1913, seven years earlier, making the volume
effectively contemporaneous with another non-fiction work, the above-mentioned
Hiyori geta. These two collections deal with distinct aspects of late-Meiji and early-Taishō life—traditional arts and urban spaces, respectively—but they alsoboth reveal their author’s acquaintance and fascination with woodblock prints,
albeit in very different ways. Kafū’s interest in the topic is more obvious in thecase of Edo geijutsuron, which is mainly a work on ukiyo-e, whereas in Hiyori geta
Ibid., p. xii.
Ibid., p. 31.
24
This critical perspective is at the core of Evelyn Schulz’s work on the urban dimension of
Kafū’s “returnee” works. See Schulz, Nagai Kafū.
22
23

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Follacothe same interest is revealed through Kafū’s multifaceted use of “famous places”(meisho 名所) in the text, whose main references are to pre-Meiji woodblock
prints and to old maps of the kind he mentions in the work’s opening section.25
This familiarity with meisho is certainly also due to his knowledge of ukiyo-e,
which he had expanded throughout the 1910s.
Only one essay in Edo geijutsuron deals specifically with theater: “Edo engeki no
tokuchō” 江戸演劇の特徴 (Main Features of Edo Theater), written in 1914. The
fact that his essay collection on ukiyo-e also includes an essay on theater indicates just how closely the two art forms, for Kafū, were related to each other.
In “Edo engeki no tokuchō,” he goes through the most salient moments in theprocess of theater modernization. He begins with the contributions of Tsubouchi
Shōyō and Mori Ōgai 森鴎外 (1862–1922) in 1896, listing the names of thosewhom he considered to be the main figures of the modernization process: Yoda
Gakkai 依田学海 (1833–1909), Fukuchi Ōchi, Morita Shiken 森田思軒 (1861–1897), Ishibashi Ningetsu 石橋忍月 (1865–1926), and Okano Shisui 岡野紫水
(dates unknown).26 Here the opening paragraph sets the mood of the entire text
by juxtaposing the words “today” (konnichi 今日) and “old drama” (kyūgeki 旧劇),
foregrounding the main opposition with which he grapples in the essay. Kafū
explores the meaning of traditional theater, focusing on its presumed obsolescence, its being “old.” He compares past and present, old and new dramatic
forms, and puts forward his idea that as long as the audience is entertained andis not bored, as long as they feel a connection with the play—that “affection for
the theater” (kōgekishin 好劇心) which he saw as providing the critical nexus between spectator and performance27—then there was hardly any reason for traditional theater to be sacrificed for the sake of modernity.
The most interesting aspect of Kafū’s approach to the problem of theater
modernization is his apparent determination to view kyūgeki not as something
opposed to the “new,” Western-inspired drama of his age, but rather as something radically different and, as such, hardly comparable. He calls for separate
standards in drama criticism. He challenges the dominant paradigm establishedby his forerunners in drama theory in Japan who, eager to find analogies between Eastern and Western cultural traditions, situated the entire discoursearound drama within the broader redefinition of culture that took place in thewake of the Meiji Restoration. “As of today, I wish for Edo drama to remain theway it is rather than to be radically modernized,” he writes, deeming it “unnecessary to dissect the theater of Edo to evaluate it according to Western aesthetic
principles.”28 In other words, Edo theater should be judged according to its own
standards, rather than in comparison with the drama of the West.
Nagai, Hiyori geta, p. 109.
Kafū, Edo geijutsuron, p. 258.
27
Ibid., p. 263.
28
Ibid., p. 258.
25
26

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Edo theater’s most striking and distinctive characteristic, as noted by Kafū’s
predecessors, was the preponderance of sound and music in the performance,
to the point that these often overshadowed the script. A play’s rhythmic patterns,
its particular sounds and noises, were far more important than its plot, and by
the same token, the meaning of the words the actors pronounced were far lesssignificant than their voices. To be sure, Kafū does not fail to stress the importance of visuality, nor to mention the physical presence of the actor himself andhis ability to captivate his audience, body and soul—to stir their kōgekishin. Yet
sound seems to hold a special place in Kafū’s understanding of drama, and thisclearly has to do with his first-hand experience striking wooden clappers at the
Kabuki-za.
It should be noted, however, that the aural and visual dimensions of a play are
the most straightforward markers of its materiality, although Kafū does not use
this term. He speaks instead of “exteriority.” Yet it is quite clear from his words
that he believes an act’s value should be measured above all by the feelings it inspires through the things and the bodies onstage, which can be seen and heard. Heemphasizes sound and color in particular. Early in the essay, he claims that his“interest in Edo theater lies entirely in its exterior form,” that is, in its “music andsound,” “its unique colors and tone,” and in “the actor’s style of recitation, basedon traditional schemes, and the costumes he wears”—these ultimately conjure
the “musical harmony” of the play.29 Although he refrains from using the adjective “symmetrical,” it is clear that Kafū’s fascination with traditional theater liesin that very feature which Tōkoku considered to be the main obstacle in modernizing the Japanese theatrical arts. Stressing repeatedly in his essay that a distinction ought to be made between Japanese and Western drama, Kafū eschews
addressing the material, or exterior, dimension of the play as something thatmight influence the transformation and modernization of national drama. Not
admitting of comparison with Western theater, Japanese traditional theater
should not be judged by the same standards. Its tendency toward harmony,
therefore, should not be seen as necessarily hampering its advancement as aform of art.
This attitude should not lead us to conclude that Kafū’s stance toward theater
was merely nostalgic, nor that his fascination with Western theater had waned assoon as his interest in the Edo arts began to deepen after he returned to Japan.
This observation necessarily draws us into a digression on the author’s idea of
opera and his later, one-time-only experience as an opera playwright. As I noted
earlier, when he returned to Japan after five years in the United States andFrance, Kafū was convinced that something similar to the European operatic

Kafū, Edo geijutsuron, pp. 259–260. It is worth mentioning that the Japanese term he uses for“exterior form,” gaikei 外形, is the same one that Tsubouchi Shōyō applies in his discussion of
traditional theater in “Wagakuni no shigeki” (pp. 40–41).
29

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Follacotradition could never exist in Meiji Japan. He lamented this through the voice of
one of the I-narrators in Furansu monogatari ふらんす物語 (French Stories, 1909):“I belonged to a nation that had no music to express swelling emotions and agonized feelings. . . . Meiji civilization has given us endless anguish but no song toconvey it. Our emotions are already too far removed from the feudal past to
cling to its music, yet we find, however partial our attachment to the West, thatdifferences of climate and manners cannot be easily overcome.”30
This pessimism about Japanese music’s ability to express emotions explains, atleast in part, Kafū’s contrasting positions regarding the possibility of an original
Japanese opera, views that he expressed during and after his sojourn abroad.
However, when he came to write his own opera in 1938, it fulfilled a twofold objective: to convey emotions common during the era of the 1930s and to generate
a linguistic realism that might yield a work the public would consider familiar.
This last point is particularly noteworthy. In Katsushika jōwa, Kafū made a number of lexical choices that enhanced the symbolic meanings of the text, such as
the profusion of terms of foreign origin, like sutā スター (star) or basu バス(bus). These choices reproduced the living language of the time, but also highlighted the need to create a new language for the late 1930s’ new reality.
Kafū’s interest in living speech was not limited to word-choice. He also madesure that the recitativo’s sonorous quality faithfully reproduced the language actually spoken in Tokyo, which was then a destination for many from the provinces.
Ono Shōko 小野祥子 has noted that in 1940, only two years after he wrote his
opera, Kafū observed in his journal that more than half of Tokyo’s population
came from other regions of the country. He was aware of the linguistic diversityof Japan’s capital, and engaging performers born elsewhere was yet anotherstrategy to ensure his piece’s realism and familiarity.31 Thus Katsushika jōwa expresses a topophilic sense of belonging, being a work whose associations relate
to both the imagined space of the Tokyo suburbs where the story takes place
and the real, lived space of the very district where the piece was itself performed.
Many critics and commentators who watched the show also stressed the factthat it was performed in Asakusa, drawing a parallel between the story’s moodand the audience’s taste in performance. Drama critic Ozaki Hirotsugu 尾崎宏次
(1914–1999) described the work’s scenario as immature but praised it for being“perfect for Asakusa”; he added that the words and music worked well together,producing the agreeable impression of a natural “sung Japanese.”32 In his positive statement, Ozaki does not fail to notice what Akiyama Kuniharu 秋山邦晴
has considered Katsushika jōwa’s greatest merit: its being an experiment, the first
opera written in a flowing, native-sounding Japanese, with Japanese commoners
As quoted in Iriye, “Cultural Uprootedness,” p. 169.
Ono, “Opera ‘Katsushika jōwa’ to iu dekigoto,” p. 52.
32
Ongaku shinbun 音楽新聞, 6.5.1938.
30
31

Nagai Kafū and Traditional Theater117

as its characters, being moreover a work targeted to a specifically localized audience.33 This originality was noticed also by music critic Ashihara Eiryō 蘆原英了
(1907–1981), who praised Katsushika jōwa as an outstanding piece of “popularart” (shomin geijutsu 庶民芸術) firmly placed in a local context: Tokyo. This quality,
according to Ashihara, set it apart from previous works of opera excessively derivative of European models; and that quality, he surmised, would exert influence on later Japanese opera.34 More recently, Suenobu Yoshiharu 末延芳晴 has
observed that Kafū’s short piece incorporates traditional European operatic
themes, such as estrangement from one’s original community, ambition, betrayal,and self-sacrifice, while nonetheless stirring a strong sense of familiarity among
Japanese viewers.35
This familiarity can also be seen as reflecting a deep sense of belonging, one
which both Kafū and Sugahara Meirō 菅原明朗 (1897–1988)—who wrote themusic for Katsushika jōwa—sought, in their different ways, to achieve while working on the piece. Sugawara did this, for instance, by experimenting with rhythm
and using a 6/8 metrical pattern perceived as “of the people” because of its similarity to the nostalgic tempo of traditional folk songs (min’yō 民謡).36 Furthermore, he advised Kafū about the differences between written and sung words.
He guided the writer toward a form of verbal expression that, on the one hand,
was less complex and elusive but that, on the other, could better fit the music
and serve the function Kafū himself had felt to be crucial at the beginning of
his career: that of creating a “Japanese song” able to express the “present sentiment” of the Japanese individual.
Kafū, for his part, managed to inscribe a quintessential early Shōwa (1926–1989) popular narrative into the thematic repertoire of traditional European opera.
Katsushika jōwa recounts the heroine Yoshiko’s ambition and disillusionment; herdeparture from the “nest,” represented by the suburbs; her subsequent estrangement from the community to which she belongs; and her ultimate tragic fate. It
further details her reencounter with a former lover, now married to someone
else; and her act of self-sacrifice, through which community bonds are reestablished and order somehow restored. These elements strongly resemble those ofmany operatic works, most notably Cavalleria Rusticana, one of Kafū’s favorite
works ever since his years abroad.
Yet despite Ashihara’s enthusiasm for it, Katsushika jōwa did not represent aturning point in the history of Japanese opera. It did, however, successfully portrayan alternative narrative of early-Shōwa Tokyo popular history and represented a
Akiyama, Shōwa no sakkyokukatachi, p. 461.
Ibid., p. 466.
35
Suenobu Yoshiharu 末延芳晴, “ ‘Maboroshi’ no Kafū saku opera saien: nakaseru kahin‘Katsushika jōwa’ ” 「幻」の荷風作オペラ再演：泣かせる佳品「葛飾情話」, Asahi shinbun 朝日
新聞, 8.19.1999.
36
Akiyama, Shōwa no sakkyokukatachi, pp. 452–453.
33
34

Follaco118

first attempt to put into music the diverse, fascinating array of emotions thatcharacterized people’s everyday life in wartime urban Japan. Consistent with
Kafū’s poetics, and timely in its deeper implications, this operatic work weaves
together narratives of urban transformation, class difference, and cultural stratification, trying moreover to provide this tapestry with a poetic framework composed of traditional themes, diction, images, and topographies through which toengage in dialogue with the present time.
Kafū’s experience as opera writer, and especially the contemporary public reception of his piece, demonstrate that, by the late 1930s, he had at length founda way to unravel the East-West conundrum behind his own operatic aspirations.
Yet what is of particular interest is the fact that he had found the key to this unraveling in these same “exterior” and “material” features of drama that he considered most distinctive and valuable in traditional theater. The linguistic realismthat he strove to achieve in Katsushika jōwa aimed to create for the public a senseof familiarity that was supposed to be attained not through the meaning of thewords but through their intonation. In other words, Kafū had addressed the dilemma which had confronted him at the end of his sojourn abroad, the questionof how to devise a strategy to express new and changing emotions through asemiotic system as effective as Western musical drama had been for Europeans
and North Americans. He found his solution in the very principle upon which
Japanese traditional drama was founded: sonorous harmony.
Thus the strategy he adopted in the 1938 opera can be considered the outcomeof a long reflection on the value of drama that embraced both a play’s material
and abstract features but assigned the highest significance to the former. For
Kafū, performance was what mattered most. Yet if it does not come as a surprise that he held such a view in 1900, when he was still a young aspiring kabuki
author at the Kabuki-za, it might seem more unexpected from him in later decades, when his literary activity had grown more and more removed from his
juvenile fascination with the theater and his voice as novelist had become more
and more influential.
Such a perspective had indeed been foretold in “Edo engeki no tokuchō,” inwhich he describes what he finds most appealing in a play:That feeling I get when I hear the sound of the clappers, and the music accompanying the beginning of the play, as the curtains undulate and finally open
and a solo anticipates the performer’s appearance on the hanamichi 花道 [a projection from the main stage extending out into the audience]; or when I watch
the stage revolving until it disappears from sight while listening to the various
instruments: all these features give me a pleasant feeling that can hardly be experienced elsewhere and that I do not find in anything but in Edo theater. The
same applies to silent scenes [danmari だんまり], trap doors [seridashi 迫出], andfight scenes [tachimawari 立廻り].37
37

Nagai, Edo geijutsuron, p. 259.

Nagai Kafū and Traditional Theater

119

This passage clarifies the nature of Kafū’s fascination with kabuki, which isrooted in admittedly “exterior” features, all appealing to either sight or hearing.
His idea of Edo theater is foregrounded in his appreciation of its most exciting
elements and is centered upon the emotional response that he as audience directs
toward the performance. The performance, in other words, should be valued forits material dimension and for the emotions it elicits in the audience. Such a connection between the performance’s materiality and the emotional sphere of its
reception is the cornerstone of Kafū’s theory of theater.
His emphasis on these exterior elements does not, however, imply any lack of
insight or depth. On the contrary, he assigns to kabuki’s aesthetic experience asignificance that extends far beyond the spectator’s mere viewing of the play’s
story. In “Edo engeki no tokuchō,” he names two plays from the kabuki repertoire that he finds especially effective and fascinating, mainly for their exteriorfeatures: Honchō nijūshi kō 本朝廿四孝 (Twenty-Four Paragons of Filial Piety of
Our Country, 1766; figs. 1 and 1a) and Kiichi Hōgen sanryaku no maki 鬼一法眼三略巻(Kiichi Hōgen’s Book of Strategy, 1731). He praises in particular the “Jisshukō”
十種香 (Ten Varieties of Incense) scene from the former and the “Kikubatake”
菊畑 (Chrysanthemum Garden) scene from the latter. In both cases, Kafū emphasizes visual and aural features that, from his point of view, affect the spectator’s experience of the performance. With respect to “Jisshukō,”38 he praises theelegance of Katsuyori’s 勝頼 costume (“In Honchō [nijūshi]kō, at the beginning ofthe ‘Jisshukō’ scene, the beautiful sight of Katsuyori’s long hakama 袴 trousers
spreading over the palace stairs is simply unforgettable”).39 And in the case of“Kikubatake,” he praises the beauty of the play’s accompanying music, the way
it effectively arouses all kinds of feelings (“In ‘Kikubatake,’ that moment when
Torazō 虎蔵 tries to hide in the inner garden and the music accompanies his
movements—one truly realizes then the importance of the musicians.”)40 This
last scene, in particular, persuades him of the value of Edo theater even when set
against the European operatic tradition. He observes that “just beating on the big
drum will give you the illusion of hearing the sound of water, or of the wind, asimplicity of technique unattainable in the far more complex Western operas.”41
38
Unfortunately, it is not easy to determine precisely which performance it was that Kafū attended, nor the precise costumes (and performers) to which he was referring when he mentioned these plays. For instance, as regards Honchō nijūshi kō, it should be noted that the work is
a very important play in the kabuki repertoire, and that it was performed repeatedly during
Kafū’s lifetime. There was, however, a performance that he may have found particularly impressive because it featured his good friend and mentor Fukuchi Ōchi, alongside Nakamura Shikan中村芝翫 V (1866–1940). This performance was held at the Kabuki-za on January 9, 1902, andShikan played Katsuyori. Ōchi, together with Enomoto Torahiko and others, was responsible for
writing the script. See Utei and Yoshida, Kabuki nendaiki, pp. 97–98.
39
Nagai, Edo geijutsuron, p. 260.
40
Ibid., pp. 260–261.
41
Ibid., p. 261.

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FollacoFigure 1. The “Jisshukō” 十種香 scene from Honchō nijūshi kō 本朝廿四孝. National Institute of Japanese Literature.
https://doi.org/10.20730/100017824 (image 8).

Figure 1a. Detail of Figure 1 (upper left), showing Katsuyori 勝頼 in his long hakama 袴
trousers.

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121

For him, Edo kabuki’s most distinctive feature is this simplicity, alongside theprinciple of musical harmony that undergirds the entire performance, and which
includes not only musical elements but also staged sounds and clappers. These
qualities are achieved by the play only as a whole and demand a long apprenticeship from all those involved in the performance. His overall aim, in comparing
this tradition with that of European (or “Western,” as he terms it)42 opera, was
not to determine which was more valuable but to substantiate his claim that thetwo were not comparable, that they were based on different principles. He alsosought to assert that the latter’s complexity did not establish it as the more sophisticated of the two, but was instead only one of its characteristics, placing it
at a pole apart from the apparent simplicity of the former.
To sum up, in “Edo engeki no tokuchō,” Kafū stresses the importance of theater as performance, as a composite product whose ultimate aim should be to
produce feelings, to provide aural and visual impulses powerful enough that theviewer feels emotions, possibly together with the rest of the audience. His work
as an opera librettist more than two decades later shows that, even when he embraced a mode of composition which he regarded as based on other, different
principles, he still relied on the same “external” features that he considered distinctive of Edo theater. From this perspective, the problem of how to reconcile
the difference between Japanese and Western forms seems solved. This view explains why he finally thought the time was “ripe” for writing Japanese opera.
Kafū developed this conceptualization of theater, however, much earlier thanthe publication of his essays on Edo-period arts. Indeed, in writing about kabuki
in his early twenties, when the category of Edo was far from the center of his
horizon and when traditional theater was a much closer reality for him, he introduced a number of topics and perspectives that shed further light on his relationship to the performing arts, and which anticipate the critical positions hewould take later in his career.
Hyōshigi monogatariLess than a decade after the publication of Tsubouchi Shōyō’s and Kitamura
Tōkoku’s writings, Kafū began his apprenticeship at the Kabuki-za and wrote
the essay that would cost him his (potential) career in theater: Hyōshigi monogatari.
I do not consider Kafū’s use of the term Western (seiyō 西洋) rather than European for opera
as a symptom of self-orientalization, or “occidentalization.” Although he was aware of the factthat the plays he enjoyed watching had been composed in Europe, his personal acquaintancewith performed opera took place mostly in the United States, more precisely in New York City;
just like the consideration mentioned above, that “America” had turned him “into a lachrymose
poet,” his referring to opera simply as “Western” further clarifies how important the performed
text rather than the libretto itself was for him. Some of his French stories show that, once inEurope, he strove to associate the spaces he saw with the information he had gained from opera
scripts (and obviously from literature), but overall opera would always be a broader concept
comprising text and performance, being therefore European and American. In a word: Western.
42

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FollacoThis text, which appeared in the December 10, 1900 issue of the literary magazine Bungei kurabu 文藝倶楽部 (Literary Club), is a brief (just about three pages)
but straightforward account of his experience behind the curtain, thoroughlyimbued with the desire to highlight the features of kabuki that he found mostappealing and meaningful.
The essay can be roughly divided into three sections. In the first, Kafū explains
why he considers clappers so important and lists a number of notable kabuki
playwrights of the past, stressing the fact that each had played the hyōshigi when
they were young.
In the second section, he compares the past with the present, complaining
about the scant enthusiasm among people of his age for hyōshigi. He defines his
present day as a “time when the way things are done no longer matters.” He thenjuxtaposes this present to a past when clapper-beating “had become a form ofart,” corroborating this opinion by providing many examples of famous hyōshigi
players, praising their styles, and describing their most distinctive characteristics.43
In the third section, he relates several anecdotes from his time at the Kabuki-za
and touches upon the relationship between clapper-beating and acting. He suggests that the hyōshigi player may not be as important (or as popular) as the actor,
but he is nonetheless expected to discipline himself, and especially his body, to“feel” like the latter.
From the start, it is clear what Kafū aims to bring to the fore. Adopting in his
writing the same structure as a play, he entrusts the clappers with the task of
opening the text and setting the mood for what follows:
In theater, clappers play a role that is somehow similar, let us say, to that
played by the trumpet for the armed forces: if the clappers do not sound, thecurtain will not open, therefore no play will take place, just as the props onstage
always wait for the clappers to sound before they move or stop. In short, if theclappers do not sound, there will be no theater at all. The audience may see theclapper-beater as a trivial, even a vulgar role, but it is nothing like that. Those
who play the clappers are called kyōgen kata 狂言方, and they are on their way to
becoming playwrights.44

This opening paragraph shows that Kafū took pride in his duties as a kyōgen
kata, and that he was determined to emphasize the importance of clappers; italso very clearly demonstrates that he considered the play’s aural dimension to
be as significant as the script. He explicitly addresses the public and wants themto notice a part of the performance often too easily overlooked. He challenges
the (presumed) assumption that clappers are useless, pointless, and unrefined,
something somehow disconnected from the rest of the play, in the course of43
44

Nagai, Hyōshigi monogatari, pp. 373–374.
Ibid., p. 373.

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123

which objection he interestingly resorts to what was then regarded as the play’s
most important feature: the script. In other words, he acknowledges the recent
and still ongoing debates about theater reform and, by arguing for a connection
between hyōshigi and writing, he invites his readers to question the notion of theater as a performance based mainly on texts—a notion recently established at
the time Kafū was writing. Although he does not deny the script’s importance,
he draws a direct parallel between a playwright (sakusha 作者) and a kyōgen kata,suggesting that whoever aspires to become a kabuki playwright (as he did then)cannot avoid playing the clappers first.
Kafū continues stressing how noises and sounds, alongside tools, costumes,
and other material elements of the scene, all contribute not only to the beauty
but to the very existence of the play. The work’s value, he seems to imply, is inscribed in its long, tangible history, and therefore does not need to be renewed
or reformed according to the changing sensibilities of the time.
While rough and mostly anecdotal, this short essay anticipates to a great extent
Kafū’s stance on theater in the 1920s and 1930s. By the time he wrote “Edo engeki no tokuchō” in 1914, the theatrical field had long overcome the opposition
between script and performance. A play’s literary character, and thus the script’s
artistic dignity, was now essentially unquestioned. The focus of Kafū, therefore,
is on the polarities of new and old, the realistic and the anti-realistic (or more
precisely, the not necessarily realistic), and the abstract and the material—in thecourse of setting forth his argument that traditional forms should be judged fortheir intensity and power as performance, and for their effectiveness in captivating the audience, rather than for the literary quality of their scripts. Conversely,
Hyōshigi monogatari, written in 1900, belongs to a time when such opposition was
still in effect. These circumstances explain Kafū’s emphasis on the relationshipbetween the play’s ultimate material element—the clappers—and the imaginative act of writing.
The anecdotes which Kafū included in his essay were the main reason for the
Kabuki-za not welcoming him back. Yet he did not include only episodes that hehad experienced himself during his short apprenticeship. He also recounted stories he had read about or heard during that time, some of which had been circulating in the theatrical milieu for decades. He mentioned, in particular, a text thathe clearly considered compulsory reading for anyone interested in traditional
theater: Hyōshiki 拍子記 (Records of Wooden Clappers, date unknown), written
by Sakurada Jisuke 桜田治助 III (1802–1877). Kawajiri Seitan 川尻清潭 is one ofthe very few scholars who have examined this book, and he has described it assomething in the way of a written audio recording, an “album” that performers
could consult when preparing for a role.45 It is, in other words, a text focused on
the soundscape of kabuki theater, devoting considerable attention not only to
45

Kawajiri, Shibai oboechō; quoted in Maeshima, “Edo chūki Kamigata kabuki,” p. 15.

124

Follacovoices and musical instruments but also and especially to wooden clappers,
which explains Kafū’s interest in it. He describes Hyōshiki as “a book that offers
detailed descriptions of different ways of clapper-beating” and notes that it includes lists of “famous clapper-beaters.”46
In this essay, Kafū attempts to reassess the role of hyōshigi in two ways, delving
deeply into its history to do so. In the first place, he draws connections between
clapper-beating, writing, and acting, removing the kyōgen kata from the background and placing him closer to the core of the performance. Far from considering clapper-beating as a mere step along the way to the more prestigious activity of writing, or as an activity that stands poles apart from acting, he asserts thatthe occupation possesses a prestige of its own. In other words, he does not view
wooden clappers (or their sound) as a mere function or mere tool of the performance: rather, in addition to measuring duration and providing the play’s
rhythm, hyōshigi are an essential part of life for those involved in theater. Clappers marked rules, modes, and times related to performances and to performers’
own daily lives. Thus, they contributed actively to those community-building
processes that Kafū would praise as crucial components of the art of the theater.
Kafū introduces clappers as an essential element of the play, comparing themto the trumpet that indicates and accompanies particular moments of military
life. This comparison further clarifies his idea of hyōshigi as a signal that is shared
among the people who work in a theater, and also between them and the audience. In other words, it is a signal shared within a community, one that acts evenas a binding agent. By the same token, he implicitly introduces the notion oftheater as a community in which feelings of belonging and sharing are evoked
for all by the beating of clappers. When he writes, “If the clappers do not sound,
there will be no theater at all,” he does not mean merely that the act will not takeplace, but that the clappers as signal are a key feature of, an indispensable precondition for, the fulfillment of the theater’s social function.
Although he touches upon the few theater companies, based in Osaka, that
perform “clapper-less acts” (ki nashi no maku 木なしの幕),47 and whose playwrights do not begin their careers as kyōgen kata, he praises companies from Tokyoand stresses the fact that renowned artists such as Tsuruya Nanboku 鶴屋南北
IV (1755–1829) and Kawatake Mokuami 河竹黙阿弥 (1816–1893) used to beatclappers when they were young (which, he seemingly suggests, contributed totheir excellence).48 Of course, this emphasis on hyōshigi and on illustrious figureslike Nanboku and Mokuami also reveals the young Kafū’s desire to dignify thework with which he was entrusted at the Kabuki-za, and to chart a path thatwould hopefully lead eventually to a playwright position.
Nagai, Hyōshigi monogatari, p. 373.
Ibid., p. 375.
48
Ibid., p. 373.
46
47

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125

His desire to reconsider hyōshigi’s status within the performance manifests invarious ways throughout the text—for instance, when he recounts a story involving Mokuami. Asked by a kyōgen kata for advice, the eminent artist is said tohave responded that the reason the young clapper-beater could not perform up
to expectations was due to “just standing there, looking at the actors” instead of“rehearsing the script in your belly” and “measuring your breathing before youbeat the clappers.”49 In this episode, Kafū juxtaposes acting with clapper-beating,shortening the distance between the two. Rather than watching the actor, thekyōgen kata must become the actor, and he must do this, not in his mind, but inhis belly, carefully measuring his breathing—in short, with his entire body. Sucha pairing of breathing and clapper-beating invites a metaphorical reading that
establishes the hyōshigi’s clap (chon チョン) as one of the vital, and arguably mostbasic, functions of the theater world.
Gakuya jūnitoki
Every work revolving around Kafū’s experience at the Kabuki-za subsumes his
fascination with theater as community and his aspiration to actively participate
in that community. The text where these feelings emerge most strikingly is probably Gakuya jūnitoki, published in the April 1901 issue of the literary magazine
Shinshōsetsu 新小説. Gakuya jūnitoki is a composite narrative consisting of a set of
micronarratives, mainly in dialogic form, structured as an hour-by-hour account of
a day behind the curtain. The overall atmosphere, marked by a sense of camaraderie
between the people involved in the text’s various episodes, is carefree and upbeat.
The dialogic flow is often interrupted by onomatopoeia that imitate the distinctive sounds of the hyōshigi and other musical instruments. These provide thenarration with rhythm and enhance the realism of the scenes described. Most
sections, each one corresponding to a given moment of the day, end either withsound-words, such as doron doron ドロンドロン, pata pata パタパタ,50 and (ofcourse) the chon of the wooden clappers, or alternatively with direct speech. Thisconfiguration enables the reader to engage with the text on at least two levels.
First, she can follow the narrative as if she were herself a character: placed within
the scene, she listens to the conversations going on, sees with her own eyes what
happens in front of her, is startled, taken aback, relieved, agitated by the manydifferent sounds she hears. Second, she watches the scene as if the spectator ofan actual play: sounds, dialogue, and movements conjure a veritable representation of a day behind the scenes, fulfilling a fantasy that many theater-goers most
likely nurtured. Both these modes of reception are based on the assumption thatthe reader is familiar with the semantic codes of the theater, which enable her tointerpret and understand not only what happens onstage but also what happens
49
50

Ibid., p. 374.
Nagai, Gakuya no jūnitoki, p. 391.

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Follacooffstage. It is assumed that she can grasp immediately the meaning of a specificchon resounding at a particular moment, that she is able to decode the (mainly
aural) signals disseminated in the text because she is part of the greater community that is the theater writ large, and that, as such, she can share moods andemotions with the other subjects involved. All this is possible, in short, because
she is attuned to them.
The kyōgen kata and his aural marker, the onomatopoeia chon, appear repeatedly
in these pages both to measure time in the “dressing room”51 and to stress specific actions and habits. Kafū’s enthusiasm for being part of such a circle pervades the text, whose main interest lies in representing theater as an authentic
expression of humanity inspired by a sincere respect for both the arts and theaudience. The stories he narrates and the characters he describes converge in acommon theme of theater as a community, whose life, in its most sophisticatedas well as in its most mundane practices, is based on a set of rules and rituals thatrevolve around the audience and their pleasure.
Gakuya jūnitoki lends further support to the idea that traditional theater, forKafū, should not be assessed against new and mostly foreign standards of art
criticism. Moreover, he does not seem concerned at all with the problem of determining traditional theater’s artistic value. He does not look at kabuki throughthe lens of art or of literary criticism, nor does he concentrate upon the script,
but rather encourages the reader to focus on an emotional response to the performance—to measure its worth by the pleasure gained. For Kafū, in otherwords, traditional theater is neither “art” nor “literature.” It is instead a form ofartistry that is grounded in age-old conventions and practices, one whose ultimate aim is not the achievement of some abstract standard of aesthetic beautyor the realistic representation of some subject or idea, but lies rather in an alternative creation of life, one that remains based nonetheless on a re-elaboration oflife itself. This “alternative creation of life” is indeed the imaginative space
where the audience can escape momentarily from their real life. Yet in a seeming
paradox, this escape from reality is attained through live interaction and involvement with the play—above all with those features of the play that are most material (and thus most grounded in reality). This explains Kafū’s insistence on theordinary in Gakuya jūnitoki: by claiming his own place in the everyday life of the
dressing room, he was trying to secure his own place in society at a time of uncertainty, when he was very young and still torn between his family’s expectations
and a genuine desire to pursue an artistic path.
Conclusion
Sound as a constitutive feature of narrative occupies a firm position in Kafū’sliterature. In the nomenclature of soundscape studies, the term signal indicates
Kafū uses the word gakuya 楽屋 (dressing room) as a sort of umbrella term for the entire
range of offstage spaces and activities.
51

Nagai Kafū and Traditional Theater

127“acoustic warning devices,” sounds that must be listened to and which are often“organized into quite elaborate codes permitting messages of considerable complexity to be transmitted to those who can interpret them.”52 Those who “can”
interpret signals are members of the community that generates them. This istrue in the theatrical community, which is composed of performers and spectators and which shares a system of codes and symbols enabling each individual
to interpret the chon of the wooden clappers and all the other characteristic
sounds. And it is indeed through their response to these signals that a community can identify itself as such.
Gakuya jūnitoki shows how Kafū seeks his own place in the space of the everyday life of kabuki playwrights and performers. By contrast, in Hyōshigi monogatari,
he attempts to dignify the most basic “signal” of traditional theater by setting it
firmly in the material dimension of the performance, and also by evoking abodily metaphor—the image of clappers as a play’s respiratory system. This intertwining of materiality and communality underscores the notion of traditional
theater that he displays in “Edo engeki no tokuchō,” where kabuki is seen as an
art-form whose value lies in its ability to stir a sense of belonging in the audienceand to help them escape their everyday lives by entering alternative realities.
Kafū’s keen sensitivity to sound and to the most exterior features of theater isthus rooted in his conviction that traditional arts can bring people together andgenerate spaces and patterns of communality. Through the most immediate,
spontaneous modes of interaction and sharing between those who perform andthose who attend their performance, modern subjects can put aside for a moment their individualism, their “privatized” self, and feel together for a while. This,
for Kafū, is the ultimate goal of theater and its most fascinating quality, the onethat established kabuki and the other arts of Edo as classics. Indeed, this is the1914 essay’s titular “main feature of Edo theater” that he intended to celebratewith his writing.

52

Schafer, The Tuning of the World, p. 10.

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FollacoReferences

Akiba Tarō 秋庭太朗. Kōshō Nagai Kafū 考証永井荷風. Iwanami Shoten, 1966.
Akiyama Kuniharu 秋山邦晴. Shōwa no sakkyokukatachi: Taiheiyō sensō to ongaku
昭和の作曲家たち：太平洋戦争と音楽. Misuzu Shobō, 2003.
Follaco, Gala Maria. A Sense of the City: Modes of Urban Representation in the Worksof Nagai Kafū (1879–1959). Leiden: Brill, 2017.
Iriye, Mitsuko. “Cultural Uprootedness: A Japanese Case. Nagai Kafū: Twilightin the Mediterranean.” In Modern Asia and Africa, ed. William H. McNeill and
Mitsuko Iriye, pp. 167–169. Oxford University Press, 1971.
Iriye, Mitsuko. “Quest for Literary Resonance: Young Nagai Kafū and French
Literature.” PhD dissertation, Harvard University, 1969.
Kawajiri Seitan 川尻清潭. Shibai oboechō 芝居おぼえ帳. Kokuritsu Gekijō Chōsa
Yōseibu Geinō Chōsashitsu, 1978.
Kondō Tomie 近藤富枝. Kafū to Sadanji: kōjō mitsu no gotoshi 荷風と左団次：交情
蜜のごとし. Kawade Shobō Shinsha, 2009.
Maeshima Miho 前島美保. “Edo chūki Kamigata kabuki no hayashi meimoku tosono yōhō: ‘Kabuki daichō shūsei’ oyobi gekisho o tegakari ni” 江戸中期上方
歌舞伎の囃子名目とその用法：『歌舞伎台帳集成』および劇書を手がかりに.
Tokyo Geijutsu Daigaku ongaku gakubu kiyō 東京藝術大学音楽学部紀要 44(2018), p. 1–16.
Minami Asuka 南明日香. Nagai Kafū no Nyū Yōku, Pari, Tōkyō: zōkei no kotoba 永井
荷風のニューヨーク・パリ・東京：造景の言葉. Kanrin Shobō, 2007.
Mori, Mitsuya. “Introduction: The Prelude to Modern Drama in the Meiji Era(1868–1912).” In The Columbia Anthology of Modern Japanese Drama, ed. J. Thomas
Rimer, Mitsuya Mori, and M. Cody Poulton, pp. 1–14. Columbia University
Press, 2014.
Nagai Kafū. Danchōtei sekitoku 断腸亭尺牘. In vol. 27 of Kafū zenshū 荷風全集, ed.
Inagaki Tatsurō 稲垣達郎, Takemori Ten’yū 竹盛天雄, and Nakajima Kunihiko
中島国彦, pp. 3–60. Iwanami Shoten, 1994.
Nagai Kafū. Edo geijutsuron 江戸芸術論. In vol. 10 of Kafū zenshū, ed. Inagaki Tatsurō,
Takemori Ten’yū, and Nakajima Kunihiko, pp. 143–333. Iwanami Shoten,
1992.
Nagai Kafū. Gakuya jūnitoki 楽屋十二時. In vol. 1 of Kafū zenshū, ed. Inagaki
Tatsurō, Takemori Ten’yū, and Nakajima Kunihiko, pp. 390–397. Iwanami
Shoten, 1992.
Nagai Kafū. Hiyori geta 日和下駄. In vol. 11 of Kafū zenshū, ed. Inagaki Tatsurō,
Takemori Ten’yū, and Nakajima Kunihiko, pp. 109–189. Iwanami Shoten, 1992.
Nagai Kafū. Hyōshigi monogatari 拍子木物語. In vol. 1 of Kafū zenshū, ed. Inagaki
Tatsurō, Takemori Ten’yū, and Nakajima Kunihiko, pp. 373–376. Iwanami
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Nagai Kafū. Saiyū nisshishō 西遊日誌抄. In vol. 4 of Kafū zenshū, ed. Inagaki Tatsurō,
Takemori Ten’yū, and Nakajima Kunihiko, pp. 299–345. Iwanami Shoten,
1992.
Ono Shōko 小野祥子. “Opera ‘Katsushika jōwa’ to iu dekigoto: Nagai Kafū,miburi to hyōgen no rakusa o megutte” オペラ『葛飾情話』という出来事：
永井荷風・身振りと表現の落差をめぐって. Kokugo to kokubungaku 国語と国文学
78:9 (2001), p. 46–59.
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Schulz, Evelyn. Nagai Kafū: Tagebuch eines Heimgekehrten—Der Entwurf ästhetischer
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1997.
Shindō Masahiro 真銅正宏. Nagai Kafū: ongaku no nagareru kūkan 永井荷風：音楽の流れる空間. Kyoto: Sekai Shisōsha, 1997.
Shindō Masahiro. “Sansakuki to iu bungaku janru: Nagai Kafū ‘Hiyori geta’ to
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Yuri Flores Urushima, Raquel Abi-Sâmara, and Murilo Jardelino da Costa,
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をめぐっての一、二の掌論. Kokubungaku kaishaku to kanshō 国文学解釈と鑑賞
67:12 (2002), pp. 37–42.
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早稲田文学 55 (1894), pp. 33–42.
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Hōbunkan, 1926.

Studies in Japanese Literature and Culture 5 (March 2022) 131–166© 2022 National Institute of Japanese Literature

Sōgi’s Problem Passages :Exegetical Method and the Ideaof the Text
Jeffrey KnottNational Institute of Japanese Literature

Introduction
Problem Passages in the Tale of Genji (Genji monogatari fushin shōshutsu 源氏物語不審抄出, 1494?–1500, fig. 1) represents the latest extant work1 of commentary on
the Tale of Genji (Genji monogatari 源氏物語) left to posterity by the commonerorigin renga master Sōgi 宗祇 (1421–1502), universally recognized as one of themost important figures in that tale’s thousand-year exegetical history.2 Despite1
Of nine extant MSS, all but one end with the following colophon by the nobleman Tominokōji Toshimichi 富小路俊通 (d. 1513) (punctuation added):

此一冊宗祇法師抄出之所也。命可一覧由、其後下向関東、於相模国卒去。尤可歎而已。
かたみともその世にいはぬ心まてふかくかなしき筆のあとかな
富小路俊通 在判

This volume of passages was selected and excerpted by Monk Sōgi. Having allowed that I
should peruse it, he then left on a journey for the Kantō, and in Sagami Province expired. One
can only deeply mourn.
katami to mo sono yo ni iwanu kokoro made / fukaku kanashiki fude no ato ka na
For a keepsake, then, to trace in sadness a pen unfathomable
as those thoughts left forever unsaid to the world beyond.
Tominokōji Toshimichi [signature here]
Notably, the base-text here quoted (see note 5) additionally provides its colophon with an exceptional—and exhaustive—set of glosses (fol. [80r], fig. 1b), all of which I have omitted above.
2
As a cultural figure writ large, Sōgi 宗祇 himself is the subject of a truly extensive literature,
beginning with a steady stream of biographies going back almost a century, the most recent of
which in Japanese is by Hiroki Kazuhito 廣木一人 (see Hiroki, Muromachi no kenryoku) and themost accessible of which is probably still that by Okuda Isao 奥田勲 (see Okuda, Sōgi). A very
useful survey in English of Sōgi’s cultural position (above all in renga context) is given by Steven
D. Carter in his recent study and translation of one of Sōgi’s most important renga treatises,
A Solace in Old Age (Oi no susami 老のすさみ, see Carter, “Readings from the Bamboo Grove”).
Passing over what might be cited in connection with Sōgi’s work in renga, waka, or even studies

131

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Knott

Figure 1a (right) and 1b (left). Kuyō Bunko 九曜文庫 MSkō (“kō-hon” 甲本) of Sōgi’s 宗祇
commentary Problem Passages in the Tale of Genji (Genji monogatari fushin shōshutsu 源氏物語不審抄出). Used in this article as base-text. Waseda University Library.
Figure 1a: Inner title, Entry #001 (from “The Paulownia Pavilion”), fol. [2r]. See p. 141.
Figure 1b: Colophon, fol. [80r]. See p. 131n1.

the great strides made in recent decades by scholars of that history, however,even among Sōgi’s own body of philological work, his Problem Passages (as abbreviated hereafter) stands out as a text distinctly understudied.3
There are several reasons why this might be surprising. On the most superficial
level, Problem Passages is not only the longest of Sōgi’s three Genji commentaries,4of The Tales of Ise (Ise monogatari 伊勢物語), with respect to his Genji studies, the starting point
must be with Ii Haruki’s 伊井春樹 groundbreaking volume on the history of Genji commentary(see Ii, Chūshakushi, pp. 243-338), though Ii’s helpful and more recent précis of his thinking on
Sōgi should also be mentioned (see Ii, “Sōgi no kotengaku”). Much about Sōgi’s activity as ateacher and scholar of the Genji in high literati circles can be gleaned from Miyakawa Yōko’s
宮川葉子 study of his great aristocratic disciple, Sanjōnishi Sanetaka 三条西実隆 (see Miyakawa,
Sanjōnishi Sanetaka). A recent summary of Sōgi’s career can also be found in Knott, “Medieval
Commentaries,” pp. 118–123.
3
It is the only of Sōgi’s Genji works not to appear, for example, in Musashino Shoin’s multivolume commentary collection Genji monogatari kochūshaku sōkan 源氏物語古註釈叢刊.
4
At roughly 30,000 characters, longer than his substantial (and far more well-known) commentary on the Genji’s second chapter, Hahakigi betchū 帚木別注, by about 25%.

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but the most wide-ranging, covering 42 of the tale’s 54 canonical chapters.5 Moreuniquely still, as faithfully indicated in the work’s customary title (not necessarily
Sōgi’s own), by and large its 124 entries (table 1) address passages of particularinterpretive difficulty: its selective principle is the textual crux, or in commentaryargot, the text’s fushin 不審. As such it embodies a judgment of what constituted—for either Sōgi himself or his students—textual questions both difficult
and worthy of consideration, recording additionally the efforts made towards
answering these by one of the Genji’s most celebrated interpreters to date.
It is true that the text per se does not appear to have circulated widely. And if
Problem Passages has seemed to invite far less attention than it looks to reward inboth scope and content, the vagaries of transmission go some distance towards
explaining the fact. Against the twenty-seven extant and often divergent textual
witnesses to Sōgi’s more famous commentary on the Genji’s “Broom Tree” chapter,6 his Problem Passages has been found to survive in no more than nine copies,
all but one of which are reported to belong to the same narrow textual line.7 Indeed throughout the Edo period, to which by far the lion’s share of extant manuscripts belong, Sōgi’s influence as a whole—while hardly forgotten—tended to
be felt indirectly, experienced rather through the work of disciples and the succesNo full-work Genji commentary by Sōgi is known to have existed. However many the students who may have heard from him extensive lectures on every chapter, by his own hand only
three works of very partial commentary are known. Preceding the Problem Passages are:(1) Shugyoku’s Reordering (Shugyoku henjishō 種玉編次抄, 1475–1481): a consideration of thecomplex ordering (henji 編次) of the overlapping timelines of the Uji 宇治 chapters(broadly conceived here to include the full last 13). Shugyokuan 種玉庵 was the name of
Sōgi’s residence in the Capital.
(2) The Broom Tree Commentary (Hahakigi betchū 帚木別注, 1485): an unusual commentary dedicated exclusively to the second chapter of the Tale of Genji, containing extensive remarksby Sōgi reflecting his conceptions of the tale, its significance, and its proper interpretation.
For a brief review of all three commentaries’ textual contents and history, see Knott, “Medieval Commentaries,” pp. 123–135.
6
As confirmed by the author to date as part of a study in preparation.
7
This article is deeply indebted to Korenaga Yoshimi 伊永好見 for her survey—the fullest to
date—of the work’s nine extant MSS (see Korenaga, “Sōgi-chū”, pp. 2–3). I follow her organization (and nomenclature) here. Her division of the nine MSS by their distinctive colophons(okugaki 奥書) into two groups is as follows:
5Group A: Toshimichi 俊通 Colophon MSS (8)—see colophon in note 1 above(1) Waseda U. Library, Kuyō Bunko 九曜文庫 MSkō (“kō-hon” 甲本) [Bunko 30/A0114]
This is the base-text from which all examples are transcribed. See table 1 for summary of contents.
(2) Shimabara Library, Hizen Shimabara Matsudaira 肥前島原松平 Bunko MS [104–6](3) Tokyo Central Library, Kaga 加賀 Bunko MS [913–M–16](4) Tōkai 東海 University Library, Tōen 桃園 Bunko MS [桃 9 109]
(5) Waseda U. Library, Kuyō Bunko MSotsu (“otsu-hon” 乙本) [Bunko 30/A0113](6) Nishio City, Iwase 岩瀬 Bunko Library MS [Bunko 512.1](7) Tohoku U. Library, Kanō 狩野 Bunko MS [4–11423–1](8) Tenri Central Library MS [913.36–イ281]

Knott134

sors of disciples. And while Sōgi’s unique position at a watershed moment in theTale of Genji’s history—the post-Ōnin boom in classical scholarship—makes amore detailed account of his contributions a pressing desideratum, it is certainly
unsurprising if in modern research priorities the textual environment of more
recent premodernity has played the more determinative role.
Just as certain, however, is Problem Passages’ long-neglected promise as an objectof study. Above all it has this value as Sōgi’s most fulsome—and final—statement on one of the prime occupations of his literary life, yet the commentaryalso has particular value by virtue of its own chosen research subject. For an important condition of fulfilling said pressing desideratum is the elucidation of
exactly that to which Problem Passages most directly speaks: Sōgi’s exegeticalmethod. Over the course of its hundred-strong entries, whose knotty fushin themaster himself felt challenged his interpretive powers, the commentary offers us
an unparalleled glimpse of the method by which those powers were exercised.
Precisely because, moreover, Sōgi’s influence on later Genji scholarship—and
thereby ultimately on Genji readership—is often so sublimated, an understanding of his developed method is all the more critical. It is this understanding thatthe author, by examining a judicious selection of these entries, hopes here to advance.8
Group B: Myōyū 明融 Colophon MS (1)(9) Notre Dame Seishin 清心 Women’s U., Kurokawa 黒川 Bunko MS [H-196]
This is the only manuscript to contain instead the following colophon by Myōyū (d. 1582):
此抄出宗祇法師註也。

		

桑門明融

This book of excerpted passages is a commentary by Monk Sōgi.
Monk Myōyū
Seemingly an autograph copy by Myōyū himself, while its colophon gives no date, Korenaga has
demonstrated that the Kurokawa Bunko MS reflects an earlier stage of the commentary’s composition than the text underlying the MSS of Group A.
8
As the base-text for this article I have adopted the Kuyō Bunko MSkō, influenced by Korenaga’s
evaluation of it as relatively complete and undamaged in its text among manuscripts of GroupA (Korenaga, “Sōgi-chū,” p. 2), but also by its accessibility. Of the total nine MSS extant (seeprevious note for numbering), the following four can be consulted either online or in publishedtranscriptions:(1) Downloadable from Waseda’s Kotenseki sōgō dētabēsu 古典籍総合データベース at: https://www.wul.waseda.ac.jp/kotenseki/html/bunko30/bunko30_a0114/index.html.
(5) Downloadable from Waseda’s Kotenseki sōgō dētabēsu at: https://www.wul.waseda.ac.jp/
kotenseki/html/bunko30/bunko30_a0113/index.html.
(6) Transcription by Yoshizawa Yoshinori 吉澤義則 available: see Iwase Bunko Library MS,
pp. 347–382.
(9) Viewable on NIJL’s Database of Pre-Modern Japanese Works (Shin Nihon kotenseki sōgō dētabēsu
新日本古典籍総合データベース) at: https://doi.org/10.20730/100214107. There are alsoa transcription by Korenaga (Kurokawa Bunko MS, pp. 28–44 (pt. 1) and pp. 38–52 (pt. 2),
and a facsimile edition from Shirai Tatsuko 白井たつ子 (Shirai, Genji fushin shōshutsu).

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1. Modern Research on Problem Passages and Sōgi’s Place in Commentary
History
While current understanding of the textual history of Sōgi’s Problem Passages isincreasingly clear,9 understandings of its textual substance remain, by contrast,
much more imprecise. It is probably easiest to illustrate this by consideration ofan example entry from the commentary itself.
Tamakazura 玉鬘, the daughter of Hikaru Genji’s 光源氏 friend Tō no Chūjō
頭中将 and the ill-starred late Yūgao 夕顔, has quietly spent her childhood far
away in Kyushu, raised in the family of Yūgao’s old nurse. Now at twenty, however, and in headlong flight from a demanding local suitor, she finds herself suddenly brought back by said nurse to the Capital of her birth. Joining Tamakazura
and her nurse are the latter’s eldest son—the Bungo Deputy (Bungo no Suke豊後介)—and youngest daughter. The group’s situation upon arriving, however,is fairly desperate, and they turn to a higher plane for succor. After a pilgrimage
to nearby Yawata 八幡 Shrine is completed, the Deputy decides (“Next . . . ”)
that they should visit the famous Kannon 観音 of Hasedera 長谷寺 Temple in
Hatsuse 初瀬, quite a bit further removed to the East in Nara—and on foot.
Here he tries to reassure his companions (as it will turn out, correctly), that thejourney will be worth it (fig. 2):“Next there are the buddhas, among whom Hatsuse is famous even in Cathay for vouchsafing themightiest boons in all Japan. Hatsuse will certainly be quick to confer blessings on our lady, since forall these years she has lived in our own land, however far away.” He had her set out again.10

See, above all, Korenaga, “Sōgi-chū.” Also the kaidai 解題 in Shirai, Genji fushin shōshutsu,
pp. 1–8, and tangentially in Izume Yasuyuki’s 井爪康之 edition of Ichiyōshō, pp. 522–536.
10
Tyler, Tale of Genji, p. 414; Genji monogatari, vol. 3, p. 104.
Throughout this article, for quotations from the Genji text—above all in the lemmata that headeach of Sōgi’s commentary entries—I have relied on the easily-consultable translation of Royall
Tyler, whose faithfulness to the original language makes it by far the most suitable among existing (English) translations for close work. (Translations of the comments are my own). At times,
Sōgi’s quotations of the text—albeit reflecting the same Aobyōshi-bon 青表紙本 recension—dodiffer on minor points from the various modern editions used by Tyler (cf. his note on “Manuscripts and Texts,” p. xviii), though of course these latter also differ on minor points from one
another. In passing it is worth noting that this closeness is a hidden witness to Sōgi’s continuing
influence today: while medieval commentators before him had largely used the alternative
Kawachi-bon 河内本 recension, Sōgi—and after him his students and ourselves—adopted the
Aobyōshi-bon line (i.e., the text of Fujiwara no Teika 藤原定家, though modern research hascomplicated this identification, see e.g., Sasaki, Shoshigakuron, pp. 284–315).
As at the beginning of this note, though I have not given quotes from the Genji text here in theoriginal, I have footnoted references to the corresponding SNKZ text.
In those cases where Tyler’s distance from the text on an important point seemed too great, I
have modified his phrasing and noted the change in the footnotes. One such case occurs here:
for “since for all these years she has lived” Tyler has “since she has always lived,” eliding thesense of year upon year in obscurity that Sōgi found so poignant.
9

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Knott
此こと葉のうち、「まして我国のうちにこそ」とは、日本の心也。「とをき国のさかひとても」、おなし日のもとにおはしませは、「わか君おはしましてめ
くみ給てん」11といへり。「としへ給つれは」といふうちに、かなしひをつくす
やうの心あるへきか。又、そのあいたにくはんをんをたのみたてまつる心もあるへし。されは、「我君をはましてめくみ給はん」といふにや。
『河海』に、
はつせは房前卿のちからにてこんりうあれはといへり。それならても、こと12
はり侍るへきにや。

In this passage, “in our own land” is a reference to Japan.13 “[H]owever far
away” it may have been, because [Tamakazura] has always lived in the same Japan, [the Bungo Deputy] says that [Hatsuse] “will certainly be quick to confer
blessings on our lady.” Perhaps in the phrase “since for all these years” lies asense of the extremes of [Tamakazura’s] sadness. There is likely also somesense of her beseeching Kannon for aid throughout the same period. Perhaps
this is the reason he says “will certainly be quick to confer blessings on ourlady.” In the River and Sea [commentary], [Yotsutsuji Yoshinari] says that thereason is because [the temple at] Hatsuse was founded through the efforts of
Lord [Fujiwara no] Fusasaki. Yet even without this, [the passage] seems to
make sense on its own.
—Problem Passages #033 (from “The Tendril Wreath”)

Sōgi’s entries follow the usual commentary format: each entry begins with its
lemma (a quotation from the Genji text of the passage to be discussed, here
given in italics), then continues at a vertical indent (usually 1–2 characters) withthe text of the comment corresponding to that lemma. This division is not perfectly imporous: bits of quoted Genji-text (here marked in gothic type) may also

11
Here わか君おはしまして is likely an error (which I have not reproduced in my translation)
for わか君をはまして, the reading reflected in the (here suppressed) lemma and also below in
Sōgi’s in-comment second quote of the same phrase. The error is not unique to the Kuyō Bunko
MSkō, however, appearing also in the Kanō Bunko MS (fol. [21v]), though there it has been afterwards amended. Cf. fig. 2a, line 2 from right, and fig. 2b, line 7 from right.
12
Kuyō Bunko MSkō, fols. [30v–31r].
As explained above in note 8, I have adopted what Korenaga Yoshimi has named the Kuyō
Bunko MSkō as a base-text throughout. My transcription differs from the manuscript page inthe following points: (1) I have ignored line and page breaks; (2) I have normalized all now nonstandard kana-character variants (jibo 字母), but otherwise preserved the original orthography;(3) I have normalized most Sinitic characters (e.g., 部 not 阝) while retaining customary exceptions (e.g., uta 哥 is left as such, not transposed to 歌); (4) for ease of reading I have (indeed quite
liberally) added punctuation marks (though not vocalization marks—any found here are original
to the text); and (5) where the body of a comment re-quotes the Genji text to make a point (quite
frequent in Sōgi), this text is set off by means of gothic type.
13
It will be noted that the rearrangement of phrases and clauses necessary for a fluid translation has here made it difficult to find exact equivalents for Sōgi’s snippet-quotes in Tyler’s English (e.g., “in our own land” does not entirely render まして我国のうちにこそ, and “certainly”
is not equivalent to まして). In such cases, I have done my best to balance the demands of translation with my sense of the drift of each commentator’s remarks.

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137

Figure 2a (right) and 2b (left). Comparison of two different MSS of Problem Passages
at entry #033 (from “The Tendril Wreath”). See p. 136.
Figure 2a: Kanō Bunko 狩野文庫 MS, fol. [21v]. Tohoku University Library. Photo byauthor.
Figure 2b: Kuyō Bunko MSkō, fol. [30v]. Waseda University Library.

come up for mention within the body of the comment itself. The degree towhich such a format was already standardized can be glimpsed in figs. 3 and 4.
With some exceptions—occasional non-lemmatic excurses, diagrams, etc.—byand large a Genji commentary text is simply a long chain of such lemmacomment dyads from start to finish. The format is not, of course, unique tocommentaries on the Genji. Nonetheless the degree of standardization even
within the subfield is some index of the already developed stage of Genji studies
which formed the context from, and against which, Sōgi’s own contributions
emerged.14
Two works of commentary in particular—for their contemporary influence,for their enduring centrality to the tradition in after-ages, for Sōgi’s deep engagement with them15—dominate this context, representing the backdrop against
It must be remembered, however, that the Edo provenance of most surviving manuscripts
can often produce an illusion of more standardization than actually obtained at earlier periods.
15
Sōgi himself produced an abridgement of the two for student use that survives in multiple
manuscripts today.
14

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which scholars have evaluated what makes Sōgi’s own approach unique. The
first, from the previous century, is (1) the River and Sea commentary (Kakaishō
河海抄, 1367) of Yotsutsuji Yoshinari 四辻善成 (1326–1402), the great-grandsonof an emperor though himself a “common” nobleman (of a newly-minted yet
at length ill-fated line).16 The second, completed during Sōgi’s own lifetime, is (2)the Lingering Florescence commentary (Kachō yosei 花鳥余情, 1472–1478) of Ichijō
Kaneyoshi 一条兼良 (1402–1481), a nobleman of far loftier status, who ascended the heights of court office even as he held sway as one of the great cultural figures of his generation.17 The social gap between men such as these andthe commoner Sōgi—whose origin is obscure enough at least that no attempts
to clarify it have yet succeeded—hardly needs emphasis, but this can be misleading. In part this is because the gap proved to be no barrier: not only was Sōgiable to associate, even collaborate with Kaneyoshi a generation above, but a generation below he himself became teacher to the nobleman Sanjōnishi Sanetaka
三条西実隆 (1455–1537). More importantly, however, the distinction simply lacks
explanatory power: while not uninfluenced by their stations in life, the respective
commentary approaches of Yoshinari and Kaneyoshi are neither reducible topersonal station, nor predictable from it, and it is against their approaches—not
against their biographies— that Sōgi’s own work is judged.
The crux of the above fushin seems to be why, precisely, the Bungo Deputy is
so very confident that “Hatsuse will certainly be quick to confer blessings on ourlady [Tamakazura].” According to Sōgi, the River and Sea commentary “says thatthe reason is because [the temple at] Hatsuse was founded through the effortsof Lord [Fujiwara no] Fusasaki.” This is in fact incomplete. More precisely
Yoshinari’s explanation is that the foundation of said temple was in part to ensure the prosperity of the Fujiwara clan, and that “The present Tamakazura is amember of the Fujiwara clan—this is why [the Deputy] says ‘will certainly [bequick to confer blessings].’ ”18 Nothing further is added, though preceding thisYoshinari offers a great deal about the phrase “Hatsuse is famous even in Cathay
for vouchsafing the mightiest boons in all Japan.” Beyond historical information
about Hasedera itself, he even mentions (in brief) two stories that might fulfill
this condition of “even in Cathay.”
In Lingering Florescence, there are two lemmata for this passage. The comment to
the first considers the reason for which Kannon, “though really a bodhisattva, ishere called a buddha.”19 The comment to the second lemma begins by more orless rehearsing Yoshinari’s theory about the Fujiwara connection, but then offers
For detail on Yotsutsuji Yoshinari’s 四辻善成 life, see Ogawa, Nijō Yoshimoto, pp. 556–581.
For Ichijō Kaneyoshi 一条兼良, a full biography exists in English (Carter, Regent Redux);
especially for his role as a scholar in contemporary context, see Tamura, Ichijō Kaneyoshi.
18
今ノ玉鬘君、藤氏なれは、「まして」といふなり。 Kakaishō, pp. 387b–388a.
16
17「仏」といふは、神に対して「神ほとけ」といひならはしたれは、まことは菩薩なれともほとけといへるにや。 Kachō yosei, p. 151b.
19

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another: “If they only pray fervently, [Hatsuse] works miracles even for the people
in China. This means there is no doubt that favor ‘will certainly’ be shown to ourlady, who was born in Japan and makes a pilgrimage to Hatsuse even now.”20 Substantially this agrees with the thrust of Sōgi’s “‘[H]owever far away’ it may have been,
because [Tamakazura] has always lived in the same Japan, [the Bungo Deputy] saysthat [Hatsuse] ‘will certainly be quick to confer blessings on our lady.’ ”
The differences in Sōgi’s analysis are easy to inventory: (1) he pauses to weighthe implications latent in the Bungo Deputy’s phrasing (“since for all these years
she has lived in our own land, however far away”)—“perhaps,” Sōgi muses, inthis passing remark “lies a sense of the extremes of [Tamakazura’s] sadness”; (2)he posits a backstory of particular devotion to Kannon on Tamakazura’s part tojustify the Deputy’s certainty of divine intervention—“There is likely also somesense of her beseeching Kannon for aid throughout the same period”; finally (3)while not challenging the historical angle brought to bear by Yoshinari (andechoed in part by Kaneyoshi a century later), he questions, if not precisely its
relevance, at least its necessity here in clearing up the fushin—“even without this,[the passage] seems to make sense on its own.”
In the light of such differences, the way modern scholars have characterized
the Problem Passages is easy to understand. In an early, brief summary of the text,
in 1938 Yamagishi Tokuhei 山岸徳平 described its approach to the 120-odd lemmata as “above all dealing with the meaning of the language.”21 In 1961, in thecourse of a longer account discussing it together with Sōgi’s other commentary
works, Shigematsu Nobuhiro 重松信弘 echoes the assessment, judging that “Inthe passages it deals with, the analysis is above all about phrases, the meaning of
the language, and context, with past precedents, court lore, and questions ofmodels featuring only seldom, making it, like his Broom Tree Commentary, a very
detailed, explanatory work of commentary.”22 More recently in 1980, in again
similar terms, Ii Haruki 伊井春樹 described Problem Passages as essentially sharing
the approach of Sōgi’s Broom Tree Commentary,23 for which he provides the summary: “Kaneyoshi’s systematic method of interpreting the tale was taken to aneven deeper level by Sōgi, who tried to make clear even the subtle movements of
its characters’ psychology and the structure of its literary expression,”24 noting
20
もろこしの人たに、祈請渇仰すれは、そのしるしをあらはし給ふ。「まして」わか君は、わ
か日の本にむまれ給て、しかもはつせへまうて給へは、利生にあつかり給はん事、うたかひな
きといふ心なり。 Ibid., p. 152a.
21
文義を主として取扱つて居る。 Yamagishi, “Kenkyū,” p. 249. The collection containing it

dates to 1970, but as made clear in the collection’s afterword, the substance of the piece itself
dates to an earlier incarnation published in 1938 (see p. 430).

22
取扱つた所は故実・有職・準拠等は少なく、語句・文意・文脈の解説が主となつてをり、帚木別註同様の精しい解説的註解である。 Shigematsu, Kenkyūshi, p. 213.
23

Ii, Chūshakushi, p. 289.

兼良の体系化した物語の読みの方法は、宗祇によってさらに深められ、人物の微細な心理の推移や、文章表現の構造などまでも明らかにしていこうとした。 Ibid., p. 285.
24

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also Sōgi’s attention to passages of authorial intervention (sakusha kainyū no kotoba
作者介入の詞). The marked accord of the three assessments across three generations is indeed striking.
At first sight, at least as a descriptive characterization of the above entry, there
is little in this mutual agreement to disagree with. Even where Sōgi’s interpretation overlaps with Kaneyoshi’s, the way he walks the reader (or more likely, listener at lecture) through the passage step-by-quoted-step truly is remarkably“explanatory.” Sōgi does in fact show keen interest in character psychology, andonly weak interest in Yoshinari’s historical gloss—though he did take the trouble
to reference it. And rather than the background to the temple’s construction, he
prefers the context of Tamakazura’s personal religious devotion. All told, whilea bit abstract in their formulations, the impressions of scholars to date seem tobe reasonable enough.
Yet here we should pause: is there such a context of childhood devotion to
Kannon to be found? Certainly Tamakazura’s nurse is frequently shown praying
in this chapter, and before flight from Kyushu came to seem the only option, her
first line of defense against unwanted suitors had been, in fact, to declare that
she intended to make the girl a nun. Moreover, directly after the fushin passage,
making her way on foot to Hatsuse, Tamakazura herself is shown praying in-text:“ . . . she did as she was told and walked on in a daze, calling out to the buddha,What sins burden me, that I should wander this way through the world? If you
have pity on me, take me to where my mother is, even if she is no longer on
earth, and if she still lives, show me her face!”25 That as a young girl under sucha devout nurse Tamakazura would have prayed to Kannon habitually is not an
absurd idea to entertain. It is, however, not a find from Murasaki Shikibu’s own
text, but one of Sōgi’s imagination.
Nor does it quite do justice to Yoshinari and Kaneyoshi to dismiss their references to the temple’s Fujiwara connection as something not directly concernedwith text and context. Later in the same chapter, Ukon 右近 (once in Yūgao’s
service), after rediscovering Tamakazura, engages a priest at Hasedera to pray forthe young woman—under the name of “Fujiwara no Ruri-gimi” 藤原の瑠璃君.26
River and Sea is not particularly “explanatory” in its style, to be sure, but it isprobably mistaken to confuse methods and goals. While the relevance of the
Fujiwara connection might be debated, the notion at least has clear grounding in
the Genji text, Sōgi’s musings about Tamakazura’s childhood, not. The “meaningof the language”—bun’i 文意 or bungi 文義, in the formulations of Yamagishi or
Shigematsu—can plausibly be seen as the concern of many different methods,
the under-explained mere citation of relevant historical background certainly
among them.
Tyler, Tale of Genji, p. 414; Genji monogatari, vol. 3, p. 104.
Tyler, Tale of Genji, p. 418 (without the genitive no); Genji monogatari, vol. 3, p. 112. Kaneyoshi
in fact makes this connection explicit, see Kachō yosei, p. 152a.
25
26

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141

It is also possible to overlook our own assumptions. Ii Haruki has characterized the method of Problem Passages as one which, transmitted from Sōgi to his
disciple Sanetaka, thereafter eventually “led to the development of a more modern
type of commentary.”27 This has the ring of truth, yet if it is not a concern withthe text’s meaning per se that unites us with Sōgi against earlier commentators,
what does? We should entertain the question: does the passage above truly “evenwithout this” (i.e. historical context), “make sense on its own”? It is argued herethat the answer depends, not upon the presence (or absence) of one’s concern
to explain the text’s meaning—which all commentators presumably share—butrather upon one’s working theory of textual meaning. Where does meaning lie?
Understanding Sōgi’s method in Problem Passages requires us to observe with thisquestion in mind.
To thus reformulate the problem: scholars have described Sōgi’s method empirically, defining it by those elements of the Genji text that it can be observed tohighlight. In other words, Sōgi’s method has been defined by the targets of its
application. But just as, e.g., the dry forensic report is every bit as proper a comment on the “lemma” of a crime scene as the moving eye-witness account,(most) targets of explanation are open to any number of very different commentary methods. Yet if we do eschew empirical definitions, by what motivating
principle can Sōgi’s method then be explained? Can we identify in Sōgi’s commentary any consistent theory of meaning? This is the question we will seek toprobe below, while reexamining in particular those elements of Murasaki Shikibu’s
work towards which Sōgi has been deemed uniquely attentive: (1) authorial intervention in the text; (2) character psychology; and finally, (3) “the meaning of
the language.”
2. Authorial Intervention
The presence in the Tale of Genji of a voice more active than the omniscient
third-person of the folk tale is not everywhere subtle. From the initial line of the
opening chapter (also the first entry in Problem Passages), at times it emerges as abrute fact of the work with which all readers and commentators must reckon.
Previous scholarship is not wrong to see Sōgi as sensitive to these manifestations. To begin at the beginning:
In a certain reign (whose can it have been?) someone of no very great rank, among all His Majesty’s
Consorts and Intimates . . .28
此「いつれの御時にか」とかけるは、伊勢か家の集のはしめに「いつれの御時にかありけむ、おほみやす所おはしましける」とかけり。七条の后宮の御ことなり。伊勢は、その 官 女たるによりて、我ことをわれとは書いてすして、后 宮の御ことをまつかけり。わか身のことをも、むかしのやうにかきなせり。
くはんぢよ

きさいのみや27
28

近代的な注釈の確立へと繋がったのである。 Ii, Chūshakushi, p. 296.

Tyler, Tale of Genji, p. 3; Genji monogatari, vol. 1, p. 17.

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その心をむらさき式部思ひけるなるへし。そうして此物語をは、我かきたり
29とみえぬやうに作なしたる物なり。寔につくり物語の本意なるへし。
マコト

ほん い

Regarding this expression “In a certain reign (whose can it have been?)”: at the
beginning of [Lady] Ise’s personal [poetry] collection, she wrote “In a certain
reign (whose can it have been?), there was a certain Imperial Haven.”30 Thisrefers to the Shichijō Imperial Consort. Ise, being a woman in her service, did
not use “I” to begin her personal account, but wrote first about the Imperial
Consort. Even when writing about herself, she wrote as if about someone
long ago. No doubt this is the idea Murasaki Shikibu had in mind. Generally
speaking, this tale has been written so as not to reveal that she herself wrote it.
Truly this is the essence of what a tale is.
—Problem Passages #001 (from “The Paulownia Pavilion”)

There is much that might be said about this rich analysis,31 and indeed, Ii’s
mention of “authorial intervention” reflects one of the most developed lines ofinquiry into Sōgi’s philology to date, centering around the technical term sōshiji
草子地 (lit. “story texture”), which Sōgi seems to have been the first in Genjischolarship to employ (in his Broom Tree Commentary).32 The term is often taken
to refer to a “narrative interjection” distinct from the baseline of impersonal
narrative description, but this is an understanding of the term that postdates
Sōgi, or at least seems not to be the sense intended in his one recorded use of it.33
In any case the term does not appear here or anywhere else in Problem Passages.
To the contrary, as we see here, Sōgi does not identify an independent narrative
voice in the text at all: the voice is that of Murasaki Shikibu, merely masked,
whose “tale has been written so as not to reveal that she herself wrote it.” Thisreading of Sōgi’s intent is quickly supported two entries further into the commentary, within his comment on the famous beginning of the subsequent Broom
Tree chapter, where the tale almost seems to reset itself, jumping over Genji’s

Kuyō Bunko MSkō, fols. [2r–2v]. This is one of the few passages in the manuscript presenting
examples of phonetic glossing. In most entries that follow, the copyist opted rather for a somewhat sparing use of kanji, often writing in flowing kana even unambiguously Sinitic vocabulary
like tennō 天皇, emon 衛門, saigū 斎宮, and once (#017) even Genji 源氏, thereby heightening—perhaps intentionally?—the graphic resemblance between Sōgi’s own commentary and lemmatic
quotations from the Genji itself. See figs. 2 and 5 for comparison with other Problem Passages
MSS.
30“Haven” is Tyler’s translation of miyasu(n)dokoro 御息所, an honorary appellation reserved forthe recognized mothers of children born to the imperial family.
31
Discussed at length in Knott, “Medieval Commentaries,” pp. 144–152.
32
The (single) occasion of this usage can be found at Amayo danshō, p. 619a.
33
This is the conclusion of Izume Yasuyuki’s thorough survey of the term’s use-history inGenji studies (see Izume, Chūshakushi, pp. 399–408; 467–487). It must be noted, however, that
this is not Ii Haruki’s understanding: in his more recent “Sōgi no kotengaku,” he even raises (inpassing) the putative use-distinction between sōshiji and “Murasaki Shikibu’s words” as one of
Sōgi’s most significant contributions to Genji studies (pp. 50–51).
29

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143

half-orphaned childhood to rejoin him as a very young man with certain very
“deplorable” habits34:
Shining Genji: the name was imposing, but not so its bearer’s many deplorable lapses, and considering
how quiet he kept his wanton ways, lest in reaching the ears of posterity they earn him unwelcome
fame, whoever broadcast his secrets to all the world was a terrible gossip.35〔前略〕「いとゝかゝるすきこと」ゝは、かうしよくのこと也。
「すゑの世にきゝつたへて、かろひたる名をやなかさん」とは、源氏のかゝるかたのなを忍ひ給ふことなから、されとなを其名きこゆることをいはんとて、「かくろへことを語つたへけん人の物いひさかなさよ」と紫式部かいへること葉也。
〔後略〕36. . . “His wanton ways” refers to [Genji’s] amorous behavior. And while “lestin reaching the ears of posterity they earn him unwelcome fame” refers to
how Genji would nonetheless keep such affairs of his quiet, “whoever broadcast
his secrets to all the world was a terrible gossip” represents Murasaki Shikibu’s
own words, with the sense that in spite [of all those efforts] such a fame has
indeed endured to the present. . . .
—Problem Passages #003 (from “The Broom Tree”)

Here Sōgi does not even mention the mask: this disapproval of a “terrible gossip,” though putatively put into the mouth of (following Lady Ise) some nominal“someone long ago,” is unambiguously characterized as “Murasaki Shikibu’s
own words.” Such a focus also suggests a possible purpose to this section of entry #003. At least in part, the fushin to be unknotted seems to involve not only
identification of the author’s presence here (obvious enough), but also the import—the function? the motivation?—of her words, which bear “the sense thatin spite [of all those efforts] such a fame has indeed endured to the present.”Indeed, it is not impossible to see entry #001 in this same light: the opening’s
debt to (the after all quite well-known) Lady Ise’s collection was noted already in
the River and Sea commentary over a century earlier,37 and upon reflection, identification alone of the link does not seem to be in that entry either the fushin’ssole concern. Again, at least in part, the purpose of such an authorial pose is also
deemed to be of significance. One entertains the doubt: is authorial intervention
as a phenomenon itself the subject of Sōgi’s interest—more concretely, thekernel of the fushin—or is it the technique’s purpose that occupies him? Let us
The end of this entry directs the reader to Sōgi’s earlier Broom Tree Commentary, an internal
index of Problem Passages’ later composition (Kuyō Bunko MSkō, fol. [5r]): 此まきは、始終ともに、其心をえかたし。しかる間、一冊、別註之ものあり。 Incidentally, the language of this reference, bechi ni kore o chūsuru mono ari, weights somewhat in favor of calling that work (as I do here)
Hahakigi betchū 帚木別注, as opposed to its alternative name of Amayo danshō 雨夜談抄.
35
Tyler, Tale of Genji, p. 21; Genji monogatari, vol. 1, p. 53.
36Kuyō Bunko MSkō, fols. [4r–4v].
37
Yoshinari is clear on the allusion: “ . . . Or in Ise’s [poetry] collection, where it has ‘In a certain reign (whose can it have been?), there was one known as an Imperial Haven.’ Cases like these
seem to be the precedents.”〔前略〕伊勢集始云、「いつれの御時にかありけむ大宮すところときこえける」と云々。是等の例歟。Kakaishō, p. 189a.
34

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examine a further entry considering this technique from the “Twilight Beauty”
chapter, here not a beginning but an ending. At length, the vices mentioned at
the beginning of the Broom Tree chapter with a deceptively lighthearted disapproval have shown themselves to be quite serious, after an amorous excursion
with Yūgao, the eponymous twilight beauty herself, ends with only one of them
alive and Tamakazura a child orphan bound for Kyushu: “No doubt he understood by now how painful a secret love can be.” Directly after this summation,
the intervening voice continues more openly, closing the chapter (fig. 3):
I had passed over Genji’s trials and tribulations in silence, out of respect for his determined efforts toconceal them, and I have written of them now only because certain lords and ladies criticized my story
for resembling fiction, wishing to know why even those who knew Genji best should have thought him
perfect, just because he was an Emperor’s son. No doubt I must now beg everyone’s indulgence for myeffrontery in painting so wicked a portrait of him.38「かやうのくた〳〵しきこと」ゝは、源氏の君のかうしよくの道のいろ〳〵のことなり。あまりにはいかてともらせは、また「物ほめかちなり」と世人のいへは、かきとむるよしをいへり。世中の人の心のわりなきをいへり。これも大かたこゝろえかたけれは、しるしをけるはかりなり。39

Here “trials and tribulations” refers to various episodes connected with Genji’samorous pursuits. It is an explanation of why she recorded [such things]: were
she to leave them out as going too far, then people would say she “ha[d]thought him perfect.” She is speaking of the senselessness of people’s hearts
in general. Here, too, I make note of this only because the sense [of the passage] is as a whole difficult to understand.
—Problem Passages #007 (from “The Twilight Beauty”)

Absence of an evidenced interest is only weak evidence of its absence, especially in a commentary of only 124 entries, but the note that this entry exists“only because the sense [of the passage] is as a whole difficult to understand” isstriking. At the least it weakens the argument for narratological issues per se being
the target of Sōgi’s attention to such moments of reader-directed speech. We
notice the same pattern as in entries #001 and #003: identification is here, too,accompanied by explanation of the discourse’s purpose. It is interesting to contrast articulation of “the senselessness of people’s hearts” with Kaneyoshi’snear-contemporary and quite different sense of the passage:
此一段は、物語の作者の詞也。御門の御子なりとも、よき事はよき事、あし
き事はあしき事にてあるへきを、一かうにかきもらせは、わたくしあるやう
なれは、ありのまゝにしるしをきたるとなり。〔後略〕40

Tyler, Tale of Genji, p. 80; Genji monogatari, vol. 1, pp. 195–196.
Kuyō Bunko MSkō, fols. [7v–8r].
40
Kachō yosei, p. 45b. Kaneyoshi continues here with an interesting consideration of a significant end-chapter variant characteristic of the Kawachi-bon recension of the Genji text (cf. Katō,
Kōi shūsei, p. 45). Though the variant is not unknown in texts of the Aobyōshi-bon recension (cf.
Ikeda, Kōi-hen, 0146:5–6n), it is not quoted in Sōgi’s lemma here (which, as seen above, is lengthy
38
39

Sōgi’s Problem Passages

Figure 3a (above) and 3b (below). Comparison of Problem Passages #007 (from“The Twilight Beauty”) with the corresponding entry in Ichijō Kaneyoshi’s 一条兼良
commentary Lingering Florescence (Kachō yosei 花鳥余情). See p. 144.
Figure 3a: Lingering Florescence, vol. 3, fols. [18v–19r]. National Institute of Japanese
Literature. From line 9, left.
https://doi.org/10.20730/200016469 (image 93).
Figure 3b: Problem Passages (Kuyō Bunko MSkō), fols. [7v–8r]. Waseda University Library.
From line 1, right.

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This whole passage is the author of the tale speaking. It says that she recorded
things just as they were, because even in the case of an emperor’s son, right isright and wrong is wrong, and to consistently leave things out of her accountwould give the impression of partiality. . . .
—Lingering Florescence, vol. 3 (from “The Twilight Beauty”)

Noting in passing the reminder that such authorial effusions are a basic featureof the text and hardly the concern or discovery of Sōgi alone, on this passage
Kaneyoshi’s comment has quite a different take. It is tempting to dismiss this as
moralizing—which undoubtedly it is—but it should not go unremarked that in
Kaneyoshi’s analysis this is presented as the author’s internal reasoning. Nor is
his reading of an “interlinear” message here as something intended by the author without its arguments. Was not “No doubt he understood by now how
painful a secret love can be” plausibly such a case of message? Nonetheless it isa reading very much between the lines: “because . . . right is right and wrong iswrong” does not surface in the text. In contrast the sequence “I had passed
over . . . out of respect . . . I have written . . . now only because certain lords andladies criticized . . . No doubt now I must beg everyone’s indulgence for . . . sucha wicked portrait” can very reasonably be described as the plaint of one feeling(even if without justification) plagued by the inconstant “senselessness” of public opinion: the theme is clearly present in the text. The readings are even compatible, but the exegetical methods they represent are regardless distinct.
Problem Passages contains one final consideration of such a technique, at the beginning of the “Bamboo River” chapter, long after Yūgao’s death and Tamakazura’s
successful return to the Capital—indeed, the “successor Chancellor” here mentioned is her husband. Hikaru Genji too has passed, Genji’s tale becoming now
that of his descendants:[This is gossip volunteered by certain sharp-tongued old women, once of the successor Chancellor’s
household, who lingered on after him. It is nothing like the stories about Lady Murasaki, but] theyheld that some things told of Genji’s descendants were wrong, and hinted that this might be because
women older and more muddled than they had been spreading lies. One wonders which side to believe.41「あやしかりける」といふは、いまの「わるこたち」かあやしかりけるなるへし。「いつれかまことならん」とかける、むらさき式部か心なり。此まきのはしめ、こゝまてさらにふしんをはるけかたき也。これまては、紫式部かわ
か身はよからぬことにしるせる詞ともなり。42

and spans in full the characteristic Aobyōshi-bon ending). With no direct comparison possible,
I have here omitted it, though as Sōgi was undoubtedly aware of the variant, and indeed makes
explicit reference to (more minor) variants elsewhere in Problem Passages (e.g., #060/fol. [44v],#113/fol. [72r]), his silence here is intriguing.
41
Tyler, Tale of Genji, p. 805; Genji monogatari, vol. 5, p. 59. For this entry Sōgi’s lemma begins
only after the bracket: making an exception, I have here quoted the preceding sentences for clarity.
42
Kuyō Bunko MSkō, fols. [58r–58v].

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147

In “hinted at” here, the ones doing the hinting are the just-mentioned “certain
sharp-tongued old women.” The one writing “One wonders which side to believe” is Murasaki Shikibu. When the beginning of this chapter reaches thispoint, the confusion only gets harder to clear up. Up to this, the passage has
consisted of Murasaki Shikibu making herself out to be someone bad.
—Problem Passages #086 (from “Bamboo River”)
此巻のはしめより今の詞にいたるまて、いたく何の故ともきこえさるにや。
さためて意趣ある歟。若、此物語の時代、人の准拠なと、其人とはみゆれとも、一篇ならさる事おほし。仍、其難をのかれんために、如此書之歟。43

From the beginning of this chapter up to this passage, it seems to make nosense at all. Yet there is likely some intent behind it. Maybe it was that, for theera of this tale, when it came to characters, etc., being based after various
models, accurate as they might be, there were still many points on which that was
not the case. Perhaps it was to avoid such criticisms that [Murasaki Shikibu]
wrote like this.
—River and Sea, vol. 16 (from “Bamboo River”)〔前略〕さりなから、たしかに人のしらぬ事なれは、人のひかおほえにやなとおほめきてかきなせり。この一たんのことは、心詞あひかねて、凡慮およひかたし。『〈◦河〉海』の説、あやまれりといひつへし。44. . . All [those family secrets] notwithstanding, since certainly people would
have no way of actually knowing [the truth], [Murasaki Shikibu] wrote here insuch a way as to hint that it might all be groundless suspicion. This paragraphas a whole, in its meaning as much as in its language, is beyond the reach of
the average mind. The theory of the River and Sea [commentary] is to be rejected as wrong.
—Lingering Florescence, vol. 24 (from “Bamboo River”)

Truly a passage worthy of the word fushin, it seems to have roused all three ofour commentators to fall back on methods broadly considered typical of each.
Famous for his reading heuristic of seeing historical models ( junkyo 准拠) sublimated beneath the era, events, and characters of the Genji surface, Yoshinari
wonders in the River and Sea if this narrative voice represents, straightforwardly,
a mid-compositional authorial response to (anticipation of ?) criticisms of model
inaccuracy. The abbreviated beginning of the Lingering Florescence comment omitsa lengthy consideration by Kaneyoshi of precisely which “things told of Genji’s
Kakaishō, p. 539a.
河Kachō yosei, p. 279a-b, whose transcription has: 凡慮およひかたし◦海の説あやまれり. The
above notation〈◦河〉represents a compromise between punctuation-assisted readability (seenote 12) and text-faithful transcription. At issue is a case of textual repair. Ii Haruki’s transcription reveals that at this point in his base-text, we find a brief interlinear suppletion (河), whose
point of insertion into the main column-line of text is indicated there by a small circle (◦)—anextremely common method of manuscript correction. While adopting this emendation into mypunctuated text above, I have retained the circle to indicate the suppletion’s existence, and added
brackets〈〉to mark its precise extent.
43
44

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descendants were wrong,” which he takes quite literally to refer to incorrect public perceptions about descent—e.g., the belief that Kaoru is Genji’s son (though
actually Kashiwagi’s), that Reizei is the Kiritsubo Emperor’s son (though actually
Genji’s), etc. All in all, he sees the author as “wr[iting] in such a way as to hint”(obomekite kakinaseri おほめきてかきなせり). There is something similar in this tohis “interlinear” reading of entry #007 above, though here the intended message
is of a higher order, “beyond the reach of the average mind (bonryo oyobigatashi
凡慮およひかたし).” If he explicitly rejects Yoshinari’s theory, he does not reject
the latter’s principle: “Yet there is likely some intent behind it” (sadamete ishu aru
ka さためて意趣ある歟).
Most importantly, while neither earlier commentator mentions Murasaki Shikibu
by name, it is nonetheless clear that they understand this intervention in thestory as her own voice. Sōgi cannot be distinguished from them on this point.
Indeed, Sōgi’s comment here is somewhat difficult to parse, and harbors an important variant.45 It seems to mean that up until “One wonders which side tobelieve,” Shikibu wrote in the persona of “someone bad” (as in entry #001 in the
persona of “someone long ago”), but that in this final line “The one writing . . . is
Murasaki Shikibu” (kakeru, Murasaki Shikibu ga kokoro nari かける、紫式部か心也).
This much can be concluded: Sōgi does not depart from the text in his explanations, a point on which one clearly can distinguish him from his interlocutors.
This, and not a particular interest in narrator voice, is the clear thread running
through the four examples examined here. Accepting Sōgi’s judgment that all
constitute fushin, while four out of 124 entries does mark a high visibility for thetechnique of direct narrative voice in his commentary, the concentration just as
plausibly represents simply the particular difficulty of such passages for his students (cf. Kaneyoshi’s “beyond the reach of the average mind”), rather than acharacteristic of Sōgi’s method itself. The most consistent and unique characteristic in his method seems to lie rather in its closeness to the text.
3. Character Psychology
How does this closeness to the text in Sōgi’s method—as Sōgi’s method?—connect with the concern for character psychology and context which earlier
scholarship has discovered in his work? Unlike the case of authorial intervenThe Kurokawa Bunko MS has here: これまては、紫式部か我身はかゝぬ事にしなせる詞共也(Korenaga’s transcription, part 2, p. 42, has 詞の也, which I have corrected against the facsimile
edition; see Shirai, Genji fushin shōshutsu, fol. 50r). Instead of “making herself out to be someone
bad,” this would yield “making it seem as if she is not the one writing [the tale].” Such a reading
would echo entry #001 above, though is perhaps suspect for just that reason. The Iwase Bunko
Library MS transcription by Yoshizawa (p. 373a) has ふかゝらぬことに, which is hard to makesense of (“making herself out to be someone shallow”?), but further investigation will have toawait confirmation of the Iwase Bunko Library MS itself, and beyond that a collation of all extant manuscripts.
45

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149

tion, such a concern does seem more characteristic of Sōgi in comparison toother commentators. An illustrative example is the fushin about the color of
Hikaru Genji’s mourning robes when the great love of his life, Lady Murasaki,
dies (fig. 4):
He wore a rather darker shade than when he had spoken of “light gray.” 46
これは、あふひの上、その巻にうせ給ひし時、源氏の君の御ふくの時の哥に、「かきりあれはうすゝみ衣あさけれと涙そ袖をふちとなしける」。「かきりあれは」とは、はつとのこと也。いま、紫上のうせ給ふときに、「うすゝみ」なるへけれと、心さしのせつなるにより「こまやかに」そめ給へり。さるにより、「うすゝみとの給ひしかと」ゝはかけり。47

This [is] in the “Heart-to-Heart” chapter, after Lady Aoi dies, in the poem
Lord Genji composes when donning robes of mourning: “I may do no more,
and the mourning I now wear is a shallow gray, / but my tears upon mysleeves have gathered in deep pools.”48 “I may do no more” is a reference tothe law (i.e. prescribing the mourning garb appropriate for, e.g., a father, awife, etc.). Here on the occasion of Lady Murasaki’s death, while it should be,again, “a shallow gray,” [Genji,] given the depth of his feelings for her, hasdyed [his mourning garb] “a rather darker shade.” This is why [the author]
wrote, “than when he had spoken of ‘light gray.’ ”—Problem Passages #073 (from “The Law”)〔前略〕葵巻に葵上うせてのち、六条院、「われさきたゝましかはふかくそゝ
め給はまし」とありし此事也。哥に、「かきりあれはうすゝみ衣あさけれと」ゝ
あり。49. . . [This] is that occasion in the “Heart-to-Heart” chapter, after Lady Aoi’s
death, where Rokujō-in (i.e. Genji) [thinks] “her gray would have been still
darker if she had outlived him” (i.e. Aoi’s, as a wife in mourning for a husband).50 In the poem there: “I may do no more, and the mourning I now wear
is a shallow gray[, / but my tears upon my sleeves have gathered in deep
pools.]”—River and Sea, vol. 15 (from “The Law”)

In the broadest sense, there is complete agreement about the interpretation:“when he had spoken of . . .” refers to Genji’s poem on the occasion of thedeath of his first wife, Lady Aoi 葵. On closer inspection, however, while theRiver and Sea commentary seems interested to give the prose context for thepoem referenced from the “Heart-to-Heart” chapter—possibly merely as an inTyler, Tale of Genji, p. 762; Genji monogatari, vol. 4, p. 516. As can be gleaned from its re-quotein the following comment text, Sōgi’s lemma has not “than when he had spoken of ” (の給ひしよりは, as in the SNKZ text) but “though he had spoken of ” (の給ひしかと, see fig. 4b, fromthe right, line 5). I have kept to Tyler’s translation here despite the discrepancy it produces.
47
Kuyō Bunko MSkō, fols. [50v–51r].
48
Tyler, Tale of Genji, p. 178; Genji monogatari, vol. 2, p. 49.
49
Kakaishō, p. 522a.
50
Tyler, Tale of Genji, p. 178; Genji monogatari, vol. 2, p. 49.
46

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Figure 4a (above) and 4b (below). Comparison of Problem Passages #073 (from“The Law”) with the corresponding entry in Yotsutsuji Yoshinari’s 四辻善成 commentary River and Sea (Kakaishō 河海抄). See p. 149.
Figure 4a: River and Sea, vol. 15, fols. [19v–20r]. National Institute of Japanese Literature. From line 1, right. https://doi.org/10.20730/200003419 (image 585).
Figure 4b: Problem Passages (Kuyō Bunko MSkō), fols. [50v–51r]. Waseda University
Library. From line 5, right.

Sōgi’s Problem Passages151

dex to its location, possibly as an aid to interpretation (an explanation of thereason for Genji’s musing “I can do no more”)—Sōgi’s method takes an altogether
different turn. The difference is highlighted further by what I have omitted:
Yoshinari begins here with a kanbun 漢文 citation of mourning codes entirely
missing from Sōgi’s considerations. The Lingering Florescence commentary’s statement
here consists entirely of such a quotation (albeit one different from Yoshinari’s).51
Nor should this be dismissed as a merely ancillary concern. However laconically,a bare citation of mourning customs remains an implicit comment on Genji’srefusal to here follow them. It represents neither disinterest in his actions, nordisinterest in character. Nonetheless, it stands as a method dependent on theleverage of extra-textual sources.
Sōgi in fact notes these sources (“this is a reference to the law”). Yet just as in his
explanations of the authorial voice, here he shifts to the implication of linking
these two scenes of mourning: “given the depth of his feelings.” Genji “has dyed
[his mourning garb] ‘a rather darker shade.’” Where his earlier poem’s “I may do
no more” had protested a deeper feeling lamentably restrained by the law, here his
actions stand as witness. In fact, to convey such a difference “is why [the author]
wrote” thus. There is every reason to believe that earlier interpreters were sensible
to the meaning of Genji’s defiant “darker shade” of mourning, and the argument
might well be made that citation of the substance of the law to which Sōgi only
gestures is the better, more helpful explanation. Yet his method remains here
entirely within the text. Such contrasts with his predecessors are precisely why his
discussion of character emotions has seemed so characteristic of his work—where others cite, Sōgi seems to give attention to the personages on stage.
There is a difficulty in this for us: unlike with clearly extra-textual documents
like these mourning codes, when an interpretive question turns entirely on elements internal to the text, the motivation for a given reading is not always easy
to distinguish: does it lie in the exegete’s concept of a given character, or in theturn of a given phrase? Yet there are examples where the distinction can be
made. One fushin in particular, on its face seemingly concerned entirely with the“subtle movements” of psychology, may serve as demonstration. It involves
nothing but the shadow-play of a moment’s vacillation. In the wake of a frightful typhoon, Yūgiri 夕霧 accompanies his father Genji on a round of visits tocheck in on the latter’s various ladies in the aftermath, all the while himself delayed in writing an inquiring letter to his own beloved Kumoinokari 雲井の雁,
whose father’s opposition makes a visit impossible. With the day well past hefinds himself at the chambers of his little half-sister the Akashi Princess. Chatting with her women, impatience prompts him to ask suddenly for writing paper
and an inkstone:

51

Kachō yosei, p. 267a.

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One went to a cabinet and took out a roll of paper that she gave him in the inkstone box lid. “Oh,no,” he said, “I would not presume.” Still, he felt a little better when he considered where the lady inthe northwest stood, and he proceeded with his letter.52
これは、野わきのあした、明石のひめ君のかたに夕きりの君おはしたるつゐてに、ふみかき給てむとてこひ給へるに、とりいてたるを、「いな、これはかたはらいたし」とは、ひけの心也。されと、明石のうへの是をきゝて、いたした
るかみにかき給はすは、ふみやり給かたの人、させる人にてもなきやとおほさん、とおほす心也。「北のおとゝ」は、あかしのうへのおはするかたなり。又いはく、「かたはらいたし」とは、すこしれいきの心也。されとも、あかしのうへのほとをおほすに、「なのめ」におもひなしてあそはしけるにや。53This is the morning after the typhoon when Yūgiri, while paying a visit to thechambers of the Akashi Princess (i.e. Genji’s daughter by Lady Akashi), takes
the occasion to ask [for paper and ink], to write, he says, a letter then andthere. The sense of his “Oh no” “I would not presume” when these arebrought out to him is [a gesture of] self-effacement. Should, however, [themother] Lady Akashi hear of this, and he himself forgo using the paper
brought out to him to write, then she will think, he thinks, that the letter’s addressee must not be anyone particularly important. That is the sense here. “[T]he lady in the northwest” refers to where Lady Akashi lives. Others say thathis “I would not presume” is a bit of politeness, but that he decided he “felt alittle better” when he considered Lady Akashi’s position.
—Problem Passages #040 (from “The Typhoon”)

The paper comes directly from his half-sister’s own cabinet (mizushi 御厨子):
should he refrain? “[H]e considered where the lady in the northwest stood, andhe proceeded with his letter.” The River and Sea commentary does not even have anentry on the passage. Kaneyoshi offers only: “He says this comparing Kumoinokariwith the standing of Lady Akashi.”54 This aligns with Sōgi’s final, tentative, but
probably also correct interpretation.
The root of the first, much more involved interpretation seems to lie in what
underlies Tyler’s “considered where the lady in the northwest stood”: kita no otodo
no oboe o omou ni 北の大臣のおぼえを思ふに. The fushin seems to stem from thequestion of how to construe no oboe, whether as a subjective genitive (the Lady
Akashi’s thoughts of . . . ) or objective genitive (people’s thoughts of Lady
Akashi). Translations like Tyler’s “standing” remove the syntactic ambiguity, but
in the original it remains, and this longer interpretation flows from adopting theformer construal. It is a valiant attempt to consider what “[Yūgiri] thinking
about what [Lady Akashi] is thinking about . . .” might mean, and why considering this might make Yūgiri “feel better” (nanome naru kokochi なのめなる心地, lit.
“feel slack”, i.e. be at ease) about writing. Sōgi’s solution involves Yūgiri thinking
that his reticence to use the stationery offered will give the Lady Akashi the
52
53
54

Tyler, Tale of Genji, p. 494; Genji monogatari, vol. 3, p. 283.
Kuyō Bunko MSkō, fol. [34v–35r].

雲井の雁をあかしのうへのおほえになすらへての給ふなり。Kachō yosei, p. 196a.

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153

wrong idea about his correspondent: “she will think, he thinks, that the letter’s
addressee must not be anyone particularly important.” If nothing else, precisely
Lady Akashi’s lack of exalted status makes such a supercilious view seem unlikely on her part, but while the explanation may misfire, the direction of themiss is only thereby all the more revealing: Sōgi’s “she will think, he thinks, that”(obosan to obosu) tracks extremely closely the original (oboe o omou ni). The driving
motivation for his elaborate reading of Yūgiri’s hesitation is above all to makethe text itself make sense. That his imagination turned to character psychology
in a pinch is no doubt a reflection of his interest in, and comfort with, that aspect of the tale (perhaps a natural predilection for an interpreter inclined to staywithin the text), but Sōgi’s exegetical point of departure lay elsewhere.
One final such example, another case of mourning: here Kaoru 薫 effectively
locks himself away to brood over the death of his great unrequited love, Princess Ōigimi 大君. The crux of the fushin lies in a close combination of two poetic
allusions in a single phrase, one Chinese, one Japanese (fig. 5):. . . at last a twelfth-month moon, the one they always call so dreary, shone forth in cloudless splendor,
and he rolled up the blinds to look out. A temple bell yonder rang out faintly, as when one lay withpillow raised and heard it announce the close of another day.55〔前略〕「遺愛寺鐘欹枕聴」といふ詩のことはと、「いりあひのかねのこゑことにけふもくれぬ」といふ哥とをもつてかけり。「むかひの寺のかねのこゑ」に月さし出たる時分、「けふもくれぬ」とくはんし給ふ心なるへし。宇治のひめきみのうせ給ふて後、つれ〳〵とこもり給ふ、そのあはれを思ひつゝけ給ふおりなり。まへのことはに「ひねもすになかめくらして」とあり。56. . . Here what [the author] wrote uses both words from the Chinese poem
“Propping up my pillow, I listen to the bell of Yiaisi Temple . . .”57 and also
the waka poem “At each and every cry of the bell tolling dusk . . . ”58 The
sense is that, with the moon shining down as “[the] temple bell yonder r[ings]
out,” [Kaoru] ruminates over “the close of another day.” This is when, after
the Uji Princess’ (i.e. Ōigimi’s) death, he is hiding himself away in melancholy,
brooding ceaselessly on the tragedy. In the passage just before this it says, “allday while he gazed and dreamed.”59—Problem Passages #102 (from “Trefoil Knots”)
55
Tyler, Tale of Genji, p. 910; Genji monogatari, vol. 5, pp. 332-333. Tyler has simply “the close of day”
for the underlying 今日も暮れぬ, to which I have restored the elided も (i.e., “another day”).
56
Kuyō Bunko MSkō, fol. [67r].
57
The first half of a couplet taken from a poem by Bai Juyi 白居易, anthologized in the Wakan
rōeishū 和漢朗詠集 (554): 遺愛寺鐘敧枕聴 香鑪峰雪巻簾看 (Wakan rōeishū, p. 292). The translation is
Helen McCullough’s: “Propping up my pillow, I listen to the bell of Yiaisi Temple; / Rolling up theblind, I gaze at the snow on Incense Burner Peak” (McCullough, Classical Japanese Reader, p. 424n27).
58
A partial quote of Shūi wakashū 1329, found also (like the kanshi just referenced) in the
Wakan rōeishū (585): 山寺の入相の鐘のこゑごとに今日もくれぬときくぞかなしき (Wakan rōeishū,p. 307). “At each and every cry of the bell tolling dusk for the mountain temple, / ‘The close ofanother day…’—the very sound brings sadness” (translation by author).
59
Tyler, Tale of Genji, p. 910; Genji monogatari, vol. 5, p. 332.

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Figure 5a (right) and 5b (left). Comparison of two different MSS of Problem Passages atentry #102 (from “Trefoil Knots”). See p. 153.
Figure 5a: Kuyō Bunko MSotsu (“otsu-hon” 乙本), fol. [72r]. Waseda University Library.
Figure 5b: Kuyō Bunko MSkō, fol. [67r]. Waseda University Library.

At first glance, the focus of this entry seems to be Kaoru’s mournful emotions
themselves, but this is not the case. The fushin centers around a question of time,in whose resolution Kaoru’s feelings have been marshalled as supportive evidence. Said question involves a contradiction between one of the poetic allusions identified and the time-setting of the story. This is a nighttime scene, as isclear enough from Tyler’s translation, but clearer still in the original, which has
not “a twelfth-month moon,” but “a twelfth-month moonlit night” (shiwasu no
tsukuyo 師走の月夜). In contrast, the poem to which “the close of another day”
is said to allude is clearly a twilight verse, ringing out “the bell tolling dusk” (iriai
no kane 入相の鐘). Indeed, even the “close” of the day is etymologically here its
hour of kure, or “darkening.” In an age of endless electric light the sense is perhaps difficult to recover, but here in merely moonlit full darkness, Kaoru seems
to think of a poem to the effect of “and so the sun sets on another day.”
The difficulty is not insuperable, and Sōgi uses Kaoru’s emotional state toclamber over it. The bell makes Kaoru “reflect” or “ruminate” (kanzu 観ず) overthe day spent. This spending of it involved him “brooding ceaselessly on thetragedy,” as “all day . . . he gazed and dreamed.” “Day” here is not day by theshifting sundial, but a counting measure of mourning time. This subjective senseSōgi’s Problem Passages

155

of a “day” appears in the commentaries of Sōgi’s disciples in an even more developed form. The younger renga master Shōhaku’s 肖柏 (1443–1527) Triflings with
Flowers commentary (Rōkashō 弄花抄, 1510) has “He thinks of the sense of the oldpoem in the bell of nighttime.”60 Sanjōnishi Sanetaka in his commentary work
Rivulet (Sairyūshō 細流抄, 1510–1520?) takes it even further: “To say this after it isnighttime is interesting. It has the sense of him thinking both ‘today too is [now]darkness’ and ‘today too has [now] passed.’”61 The vector of development is moreover clear: outward from questions first of text to questions of then character.
Character psychology is clearly a forté of Sōgi’s interpretive practice—many
more entries in Problem Passages replicate the pattern above of Sōgi discussing
character subjectivity where previous commentaries are silent. Yet as we haveobserved, while these discussions may feature in the course of his arguments:
they do not motivate. This was the case even in our first entry here (#073). Sōgi
is not struggling to determine what Genji’s mourning attire says about his feelings—that is not the fushin in question. Those feelings serve, rather, to explain
the significance of an oblique color reference involving an earlier chapter. It is
more than a heuristic of closeness to the text. The text leads.
4. “Meaning of Language”
Yet what can it mean for the text to “lead” in the case of questions specificallyon the significance of the text’s own language? Paradoxically this may be the easiest distinction to make. Let us consider a passage of (waka-discourse mediated)natural description of the Uji 宇治 Bridge. Kaoru and Ukifune 浮舟 view it together from the veranda, each alone in their darkening thoughts: Kaoru frustrated in the progress of his replacement-affair for the still-mourned Ōigimi,
Ukifune at a loss in cross-pressured despair between Kaoru and Niou 匂.
The hills were veiled in mist, and magpies stood on a sandspit, giving the scene a perfect touch . . .62「かささき」とは、からすのこと也。いま、こゝにかけるは、つねのさきの事なりとみゆ。かきたかふる事にや。また、「さき」といふへけれと、何となく「かさゝき」といへはこと葉のおもしろくきこゆれは、なすらへて物かたりのさくしやかきけるにやとみゆ。いかん。63
60
61

古哥の心を、夜の鐘に思給也。 Rōkashō, p. 271a.
夜になりていへる、おもしろし。けふもくれ、又けふもくれぬ、とおもふ心あるへし。

Sairyūshō, p. 381a. Alternatively, taking both instances of kure verbally, the double meaning here
proposed by Sanetaka might involve instead a perfective distinction: “today too is [now] passing”(lit. “darkening”) vs. “today too has [now] passed.”62
Tyler, Tale of Genji, p. 1023; Genji monogatari, vol. 6, p. 145. Tyler has “crested herons” here, perhaps
because—there is no explanatory note—he takes the underlying かさゝき (usually understood as
鵲, or “magpie”) to mean instead kasa-sagi 笠鷺. I have amended to reflect Sōgi’s understanding, but
it is worth noting in passing that some manuscripts (outside the Kawachi-bon and Aobyōshi-bon
recensions) do in fact have the reading sagi 鷺 (heron) here (see Ikeda, Kōi-hen, 1887:12n).
63
Kuyō Bunko MSkō, fol. [74r].

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The word kasasagi means karasu (i.e. “crow,” a relative of the magpie). What is described here on this occasion seems to be the common heron. Perhaps this is a
mistake by the writer. Alternatively, though it really should have sagi (heron) here,
it seems that the tale’s author might have—for the somehow appealing effect,
perhaps, of the word itself ?—[merely] written (i.e. of herons) in the guise ofkasasagi. Uncertain.
—Problem Passages #116 (from “A Drifting Boat”)

The fushin in question is one of birds—magpies (or crows) on a sandspit where
herons should be. Prior commentators essentially reject this. The River and Sea
commentary mentions a text that solves the problem by simply having the reading sagi instead: “There are texts that have ‘and herons stood on a sandspit.’ If one
were to truly go by the sense of this sentence, this would probably be the mostappropriate [reading] . . . . If there happens to be a text that reads sagi, perhaps
that is the one to use.”64 Lingering Florescence, while not reaching for alternative
texts entirely, argues instead that while kasasagi clearly does mean “crow,” “[n]onetheless, in this tale, sagi are called kasasagi . . . .” For this he offers no evidence, but does then offer the example of a waka where kasasagi are, he opines,
described as white (i.e. like herons).65 In either case, one perceives a rebellion
against something so discordant with artistic conventions (and observed nature?) that the text cannot be taken at face value. Either the text is itself to be
deprecated, or it must not mean what it seems to mean.
At face value, however, is exactly how Sōgi tries to take this passage. He does
admit the possibility of mistake—by Murasaki Shikibu herself, no less—but also
forwards a reading to salvage the reading kasasagi. Alluding to what might
be called the poetic heft of the word (in waka), he suggests that a metaphoricuse might be involved: it is not that herons are actually called kasasagi, as per
Kaneyoshi, merely that they are here “written in the guise of ” (nazuraete . . .
kakitaru) magpies. The “appealing effect” here referenced is uncertain, but the
motivation for Sōgi’s reading is not: to make sense of the text as-is, come whatmay. This goes beyond “faithfulness” to a text, which frequently, even in terms
very similar to Yoshinari’s and Kaneyoshi’s solutions here, might sacrifice aword, a phrase, a line to reasoned arguments from a principle of text-wide
coherence, or coherence even with other contemporary texts. Sōgi’s approachhere is far more stubbornly text-committed.
It is not an approach without benefits to recommend it. Emendation of the“more difficult reading” (lectio difficilior) runs the risk of arbitrariness, and no
doubt many of Sōgi’s explanations of the “meaning of language” that have so
impressed scholars going back a century stem precisely from the focused attention
64「すさきにたてるさき」とかける本もあり。誠に此句の心によらは、尤可然歟。〔中略〕たま〳〵「さき」とある本あれは、可用之歟。 Kakaishō, pp. 583b-584a.
65「かさゝき」といふは、先は鵠のからすなり。しかれとも、この物語には、鷺をかさゝきといへり。〔後略〕。 Kachō yosei, p. 326b.

Sōgi’s Problem Passages

157

such “text-firstism” promotes. In some cases, a reading proposed by Sōgi—basedon nothing but a talented will to make the text make sense—has been so compelling that it can be found in a commentary of the present day without theslightest sustaining evidence.66 Here Ukifune, having survived the suicide towhich scenes like that of the previous entry had driven her, finds the peace of her
new anonymous life at the mountain retreat of Ono 小野 disturbed, again, by
unwanted pursuit. Fleeing the attentions of a certain “Captain,” she takes desperate
shelter in the old nuns’ room, only to find unreasoning terror there as well:
The terrified young woman wondered whether tonight was the night when they would eat her; not that
she much valued her life, but, as timid as ever, she felt as forlorn as the one who was too afraid to crossthe log bridge and had to turn back.67
是は、手ならひの君、小野にて、大あまのふしたる所に、ね給へる時、としよりのをそろしけなるか、あまたゐて、此君をみやりたるなとを、おそろし
くおほす時、このことを思ひ出給へり。
「一橋あやうかりて帰る」とは、むかし身をなけんとするもの、川をわたるにひとつはしのありけるを、わたるか
あやうけれは、立かへりしことあり、となり。それを我身によそへおほす心なり。此ふることしるせる物なとはみえす。此物語に侍るうへは、うたかひ
なき事にこそ。此手ならひの君は、うち川に身をなけし人のおほえすなから
へておはする人也。一たひ身をなけし人の、いま「此ものにやくはれむ」とおそろしくおほす時、一はしの事おほしいてたる也。68
はしAs for this, this is something Lady Writing-Practice (i.e. Ukifune) remembers
when, in Ono, as she lays herself down where the old nun is sleeping, shefinds herself in the midst of so many terrifying old women, whose glancesalone fill the young woman with fear. What “the one who was too afraid tocross the log bridge and had to turn back” [refers to] is [the story] where once
upon a time, there was someone on his way to throw himself in the river, butwhen he came to a certain log bridge crossing the river, he decided instead toturn back, because the crossing seemed too dangerous. The sense here is her
thinking of the parallel [in the story] to herself. Nothing can be found that records this old story. Yet given that it appears here in this tale, there seems noreason to have doubts about it. This Lady Writing-Practice is one who did
throw herself in the Uji river, but to her surprise ended up surviving and living
on. When she thinks of how she, someone who has already thrown herself ina river once, now felt “terrified . . . they would eat her,” she remembers thestory about the log bridge.
—Problem Passages #123 (from “Writing Practice”)“Nothing can be found that records this old story,” Sōgi admits. Yet because it
is “in this tale,” he feels there is no room for doubt. Strictly speaking, all that the
The interpretation below can be found in SNKZ 25, p. 329n29, where the lack of any evidence is granted, though there the source quoted is that of Sōgi’s disciple Shōhaku, from thecommentary Trifling with Flowers (see Rōkashō, p. 324a). Shōhaku duly identifies it as shisetsu 師説(“my master’s theory”).
67
Tyler, Tale of Genji, p. 1096; Genji monogatari, vol. 6, p. 329.
68
Kuyō Bunko MSkō, fols. [78r–79r].
66

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Knott

tale contains is the phrase “forlorn as the one who was too afraid to cross the log
bridge and had to turn back”—no mention of the wish of that one to commit
suicide, much less in a river, without which crucial point Ukifune has no reason
to “remember” it as a parallel to her current situation. It also seems difficult to
see this as a tradition, as a story Sōgi brought to the tale from some other source:
his reasoning against doubt is, again, explicitly “that it appears here in this tale.”
There is moreover no discernible precedent in previous Genji scholarship—both
Yoshinari and Kaneyoshi mention it only as a problem for further research, offering no theories of their own. The only source seems to be Sōgi’s will to interpretation.
And indeed the reading is an arresting one. A former suicide here ironicallyafraid of death recalls another proverbial figure. To imagine in this unidentified
proverbial an equivalent combination of suicidal intent with physical timidity,
whose own proposed method of suicide moreover coincided with Ukifune’s
own—for her to recall such a figure here, now, would introduce to this scene anelement of critical self-awareness that wholly alters its import. Yet even if we callit genius, we may not call it careful philology. We cannot even call it an interpretation of the “meaning of the language,” which requires the evidence of a substantial textual support. It is simply Sōgi’s method: the mining from within the text
of meaning it is assumed to contain—a close-reading textual maximalism.
Conclusion
The textual record of commentary dedicated to elucidating the Tale of Genji ischaracterized above all by its surprising continuity over many centuries of otherwise insistently dramatic social, political, and cultural upheaval. This continuity
is all the more remarkable for its antiquity, the earliest extant example of the tradition, Sesonji Koreyuki’s 世尊寺伊行 (d.1175?) work Genji Explanations (Genjishaku 源氏釈) dating back to at least the mid-twelfth century, when the youngest
grandchildren of Murasaki’s own generation were still on the edge of living
memory. Nor does the tradition display the pronounced foreshortening so familiarfrom cultural histories of the West, where—reasonably or not—intellectual genealogies often skip through the millennium from “ancient” to “modern,” from
Greco-Roman antiquity to the Renaissance, in a few brisk steps. Quite the opposite:
across the woodblock-printed pages of the grand, synthesizing Moonlit Lake
(Kogetsushō 湖月抄, 1673) commentary of Kitamura Kigin 北村季吟 (1624–1705),
which remained standard well into the Meiji period (1868–1912), exegetes of the
fourteenth, fifteenth, and sixteenth centuries remain central voices in a voluble
debate, one audible still in the footnotes of annotated editions today.
Among the most influential voices in that dialogue is Sōgi, though he is notoften cited—indeed has not left behind enough material to be much cited—in
the Moonlit Lake by name. Throughout this article he has been frequently comparedwith the voices of Yotsutsuji Yoshinari and Ichijō Kaneyoshi, for several reasons

Sōgi’s Problem Passages

159

explained above. Yet here one further reason might be raised: because Genji studies in Sōgi’s aftermath were so dominated in commentary record by his students(and by their students and students’ students in ever-lengthening chains), thesetwo predecessor commentaries remain the better comparanda until the emergence—well into the Edo period—of newer schools. That Genji studies was able
to continue on so serenely while accommodating such a change, and why it
proved willing to do so—or perhaps, why its core constituents, interested educated Genji students, willed it to do so—is a mystery that remains unsolved. ThatSōgi, and other renga masters from whom even less commentary material survives, are yet so incompletely understood, is a major reason for this unsolvability.
This article has tried, through examination of roughly 8% of the Problem Passages
corpus (see table 1)—as it survives in one of nine extant manuscripts—to better
understand the exegetical method by which Sōgi was led to such different resultsfrom previous commentators. As a provisional conclusion, he appears to have
had a very different concept of the Genji as a work, combining a maximalist
commitment to the letter of its text with a maximalist idea of that text’s meaningfulness. Because no interpretive stance exists in a vacuum, this cannot betaken too categorically—Sōgi was restrained above all by the intertextual natureof the Genji text itself, and secondarily by its hoary exegetical history, of which
he was no dismissive rebel. Nonetheless this conclusion seems to this author tohave some explanatory power. On the one hand it identifies a common thread
uniting what have been, empirically speaking, taken for discrete hallmarks of the
Sōgi approach, and not only by those scholars herein cited: attention to thework’s narrativity, concern for psychology, dedication to fine-grained explanation. All such elements come plausibly more fully into coherence in the light ofa maximal fixation on details of the Genji text itself. On the other hand, and inbroader view, it does not seem impossible that such a novel approach, with its
axiomatic insistence on the text’s inexhaustibility, might indeed prove to be so
attractive—and so productive—a critical practice for so many for so long. At thevery least, even Sōgi’s own few, partial commentaries remain themselves a resource far from exhausted, and for yet greater clarity on the Genji studies transformation whose aftermath remains with us still, the prospects of future research seem hopeful.69

Note: This article represents in part the results of research supported through a Grant-inAid (21K12939) for Early-Career Scientists from the Japan Society for the Promotion of Science(JSPS), for the project Sengoku-ki kotengakushi no kisoteki kenkyū: rengashi no Genjigaku o chūshin ni
戦国期古典学史の基礎的研究：連歌師の源氏学を中心に (“Basic Research on the History ofClassical Studies in the Warring-States Period: The Genji Studies of Renga Masters in Particular”).
The author would also like to thank the anonymous reviewer for their constructive feedback.
69

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Knott
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163

Table 1
Contents of Problem Passages in the Tale of Genji (Kuyō Bunko MSkō)“Taisei Number” refers to the corresponding location (page:column) of each entry’s lemma
within Ikeda’s variorum edition, Genji monogatari taisei: kōi-hen 源氏物語大成：校異篇.
Tale of Genji Chapter (No of Entries)
1. The Paulownia Pavilion 桐壺 (2)""2. The Broom Tree 帚木 (1)3. The Cicada Shell 空蝉
4. The Twilight Beauty 夕顔 (4)""""""5. Young Murasaki 若紫
6. The Safflower 末摘花 (2)""7. Beneath the Autumn Leaves 紅葉賀 (1)8. Under the Cherry Blossoms 花宴
9. Heart-to-Heart 葵 (5)
""
""
""
""
10. The Green Branch 賢木 (3)""""11. Falling Flowers 花散里 (1)12. Suma 須磨 (3)""""13. Akashi 明石 (3)""""14. The Pilgrimage to Sumiyoshi 澪標
15. A Waste of Weeds 蓬生
16. At the Pass 関屋
17. The Picture Contest 絵合 (1)18. Wind in the Pines 松風 (2)""19. Wisps of Cloud 薄雲 (1)

Entry
#001
#002
#003

Folio
02r
02v
03v

Taisei Number
0005:010023:110035:01

#004
#005
#006
#007

05r
06r
06v
07r

0120:140132:080140:05
0146:02

#008
#009
#010

08r
09r
10v

0213:090226:130251:08

#011
#012
#013
#014
#015
#016
#017
#018
#019
#020
#021
#022
#023
#024
#025

11r
12v
13v
14r
15r
16v
17r
18r
18v
20r
20v
21r
21v
23r
24r

0292:05
0309:080309:06
0311:09
0311:140336:040340:030369:01
0388:070426:110428:140433:110447:110460:03
0477:07

#026
#027
#028
#029

24v
25v
26v
27v

0564:100585:120594:030629:13

164
20. The Bluebell 朝顔 (1)21. The Maidens 乙女
22. The Tendril Wreath 玉鬘 (3)""""23. The Warbler's First Song 初音 (2)""24. Butterflies 胡蝶 (3)""""25. The Fireflies 蛍
26. The Pink 常夏
27. The Cressets 篝火 (1)28. The Typhoon 野分 (2)""29. The Imperial Progress 行幸
30. Thoroughwort Flowers 藤袴 (4)""""""31. The Handsome Pillar 真木柱 (2)""32. The Plum Tree Branch 梅枝 (3)""""33. New Wisteria Leaves 藤裏葉 (3)""""34. Spring Shoots I 若菜上 (4)""""""35. Spring Shoots II 若菜下 (9)
""
""
""
""
""
""
""
""

Knott
#030

28v

0649:05

#031
#032
#033
#034
#035
#036
#037
#038

29r
29v
30r
31r
31v
32r
32v
33r

0726:100726:140731:03
0775:110776:06
0781:01
0782:120785:04

#039
#040
#041

33v
34r
35r

0857:120877:06
0877:13

#042
#043
#044
#045
#046
#047
#048
#049
#050
#051
#052
#053
#054
#055
#056
#057
#058
#059
#060
#061
#062
#063
#064
#065
#066

36r
36v
37r
37v
38r
39r
39v
40r
40v
41r
41v
41v
42v
42v
43r
43v
44r
44r
44v
45r
45v
45v
45v
46r
46v

0920:100920:130923:110923:130935:080938:140977:06
0981:090983:05
1002:09
1003:05
1004:06
1038:101109:021109:04
1109:071139:101140:03
1150:08
1156:01
1160:06
1160:071163:08
1180:091189:01

Sōgi’s Problem Passages
36. The Oak Tree 柏木 (2)""37. The Flute 横笛
38. The Bell Cricket 鈴虫
39. Evening Mist 夕霧 (2)""40. The Law 御法 (3)""""41. The Seer 幻 (6)
""
""
""
""
""
42. The Perfumed Prince 匂兵部卿 (2)""43. Red Plum Blossoms 紅梅 (2)""44. Bamboo River 竹河 (10)
""
""
""
""
""
""
""
""
""
45. The Maiden of the Bridge 橋姫 (2)""46. Beneath the Oak 椎本 (3)""""47. Trefoil Knots 総角 (4)""""""48. Bracken Shoots 早蕨 (2)
""

165

#067
#068

47r
48r

1264:03
1252:07

#069
#070
#071
#072
#073
#074
#075
#076
#077
#078
#079
#080
#081
#082
#083
#084
#085
#086
#087
#088
#089
#090
#091
#092
#093
#094
#095
#096
#097
#098
#099
#100
#101
#102
#103
#104

48v
49r
49v
50v
50v
51r
52r
52v
53v
54v
55r
55v
56r
56r
56v
57r
57v
58r
58v
58v
59v
59v
60r
60v
60v
61r
61v
62r
63r
63v
64v
65r
65v
66r
67v
67v

1359:081359:101386:101387:091396:131404:141408:04
1414:06
1415:091416:05
1414:121432:05
1437:14
1447:01
1458:08
1463:01
1463:021463:03
1466:04
1490:12
1497:06
1497:07
1499:09
1500:101501:06
1516:05
1519:14
1573:12
1574:01
1574:04
1611:101612:03
1625:13
1664:071682:09
1685:08

166

Knott

49. The Ivy 宿木 (7)
""
""
""
""
""
""
50. The Eastern Cottage 東屋 (2)""51. A Drifting Boat 浮舟 (3)""""52. The Mayfly 蜻蛉 (6)
""
""
""
""
""
53. Writing Practice 手習 (1)54. The Floating Bridge of Dreams 夢浮橋 (1)

#105
#106
#107
#108
#109
#110
#111
#112
#113
#114
#115
#116
#117
#118
#119
#120
#121
#122
#123
#124

68r
69r
69r
69v
69v
70r
70v
71r
71v
72v
73v
74r
74v
75r
75r
75v
76r
76v
78r
79r

1701:01
1702:03
1704:04
1708:02
1718:071726:09
1778:12
1825:06
1839:13
1864:04
1869:11
1887:11
1946:10
1977:14
1978:02
1978:03
1978:06
1981:042023:132057:02

Studies in Japanese Literature and Culture 5 (March 2022) 167–186© 2022 National Institute of Japanese Literature

The Reception and Reworking ofEmpress Renxiao’s Book of Exhortations:
Chinese Works in Japan as Mediatedthrough Printed Buddhist Texts
Kimura MichikoSpecial Researcher (PD) of the Japan Society for the Promotion of Science

Introduction
The early modern period in Japan (approximately the seventeenth to the
mid-nineteenth century) was an era during which a lively publishing culture
flourished, and books produced then enjoyed an avid readership. Texts introduced from China and Korea also came to be re-printed in Japan, first in old
moveable-type editions (kokatsuji-ban 古活字版) and later in woodblock-printed
editions (seihan 整版) with glosses added.
A notable standout among all this mass of publications is the morality book
Dai-Min Jinkō kōgō kanzensho 大明仁孝皇后勧善書 (The Ming Empress Renxiao’s
Book of Exhortations, hereafter called Book of Exhortations), which was originally published in China in 1407, during the Ming dynasty (1368–1644). This
twenty-volume Chinese work opens with a collection of edifying passages (kagen嘉言) selected from Confucian, Buddhist, and Daoist scriptures; these are thenfollowed by a number of illustrative stories featuring various characters, adventures, and experiences.
Sakai Tadao 酒井忠夫1 was the first scholar to write about the appreciation ofBook of Exhortations in Japan. Since then, Hwang Soyeon 黃昭淵 and Hanada Fujio
花田富二夫 have also published comprehensive discussions relating to Book
of Exhortations. Hwang pointed out that the original Chinese version of Book ofExhortations influenced the development of ghost stories in Japan, as can beseen in Otogi-bōko 伽婢子 (1666). However, he states that it is doubtful whether
the Japanese reproductions of Book of Exhortations had such a direct impact
themselves:

1

Sakai, Chūgoku zensho no kenkyū, p. 19.

167

Kimura168

From what Sakai has demonstrated regarding those locations where copies of
it were held, it seems that the Chinese original was indeed available to a limited
circle of people; nonetheless it is difficult to accurately judge whether the receptionof Book of Exhortations was based on Japanese reproductions, on the Chineseoriginal itself, or on some other text(s).2

For his part, Hanada states that he believes Book of Exhortations had only a tangential
influence on early modern Japanese Buddhist stories about fate and karma.3
It should be stressed that both Hanada and Hwang, as commentators, consider
Book of Exhortations to have been disseminated in Japan mostly through Chineselanguage versions of the book, but nonetheless believe that its reception was
also positively affected by other Chinese texts on morality. Furthermore, it
should be noted that Hanada, Sakai, and Hwang all make mention of the factthat a domestic woodblock-printed re-production of Book of Exhortations was
published in 1663 (Kanbun 寛文 3). As Sakai says, “A Kanbun 3 [1663] woodblockprint reproduction of Excerpts from the Book of Exhortations was being circulated
among the public.”4 He seems to overlook, however, the fact that this text had
been preceded by an earlier moveable-type edition of the Kan’ei 寛永 era (1624–1645).
The 1663 work discussed by Hanada, Sakai, and Hwang is not an edition of
the original Empress Renxiao’s Book of Exhortations, but rather a domestic reproduction, with glossing points (kunten 訓点), of excerpts from that original in five
volumes. Titled Dai-Min Jinkō kōgō kanzensho bassui 大明仁孝皇后勧善書抜萃 (Excerpts from the Ming Empress Renxiao’s Book of Exhortations, hereafter referred to as Excerpts), this shorter work was published in Japan during the Kan’ei
era as a woodblock-printed edition. One copy of Excerpts can be found in
Waseda University Library.5 The edition represented by this Waseda copy, which
was printed with the name of its publisher, reveals that the text was first published in 1663 by Nishida Shōbee 西田勝兵衛 in Kyoto. Another copy—of an
edition without the publisher’s name—is found in Ryukoku University Library’s
Shajidai Bunko 写字台文庫 collection.6 A further copy still is owned by Taisho
University Library,7 though the full details of its publication remain unknown
because the final fifth volume is missing.
The Kan’ei-era moveable-type edition of Excerpts is referenced only in Kawase
Kazuma’s 川瀬一馬 evaluation below:
漢籍は酒井氏が所蔵されている所を示しているように限定された範囲の人達が受容したようであるが、『勧善書』の受容が和刻本、漢籍、またはその他の書物によるものか正確に判断するのは容易なことではない。 Hwang, “Chūgoku zensho no juyō to kaidan,” pp. 188–190.
2

3
4

Hanada, “Kinsei shoki sangyō shisō no ichi-shiryō,” p. 123.

巷間には寛文三年の翻刻本『勧善書抜粋』が流布している。 Sakai, Chūgoku zensho no kenkyū,

p. 19.
5
Call number: ロ09 03328 1-5.
6
Call number: 354-33-W-5.
7
Call number: 109/210/1–4.

Reception and Reworking of Book of Exhortations

169

Though the [underlying] work itself is one compiled in that land (=China),
because this [text] represents a collection of extracts selected from that work—and then annotated—by one of our own countrymen, I include it here. The text
in question is an (excerpted) Book of Exhortations. It was probably printed in
Kan’ei 1 [1624], seeing that it makes use of the same moveable typeset used toprint Denpō shōshūki, Hon’yaku myōgishū, and other works published in Kan’ei 7[1630]. . . . According to its afterword, dated to the fall of Eiroku 永禄 1 [1558],[the text] was put together by Master Yōgyō 要行 (Ichiu Nittō 一卯日統), a monkof Kenjitsu-ji 顕実寺 Temple at Hōjō-shō Matsuzaki 北条庄松崎 in Shimōsa 下
総 Province, during a period of temporary residence in Izumi 和泉 Province at
Chōgen-ji 頂源寺 Temple in Sakai 堺, and using selections from Book of Exhortations upon which he had given lectures.8

From Kawase’s research, the following two points become clear. First, themoveable-type edition of Excerpts has long been overlooked. Second, this edition
contains a postscript written by the text’s editor, Nittō, which is not to be foundin any of the woodblock-printed editions.
In this article, I discuss the following points regarding the reception and reworking of Book of Exhortations in Japan. First, I begin by pointing out the strong
likelihood that the moveable-type edition of Excerpts was created as a result ofsignificant interventions by the Nichiren 日蓮 sect. Second, I show why Excerpts
did not influence the reception of Book of Exhortations in Japan, and also why incontrast the later compilation Dai-Min Jinkō kōgō kanzensho kinrinshō 太明仁孝皇后
勧善書錦鱗鈔 (The Ming Empress Renxiao’s Book of Exhortations in Brocade
Scales, Kyōhō 享保 15 (1730)) is an example of a text that may indeed have hadsuch an impact. With these points in mind, I reconsider Book of Exhortations’ reception by introducing a new aspect of its Japanese publication history.
1. Background and Contents of the Moveable-Type Edition of Book ofExhortations
There are two known copies of the Kan’ei-era moveable-type edition of Excerpts,
which has been overlooked in previous research. I have confirmed one copy in the
Nagasawa 長澤 Bunko collection of Kansai University Library (hereafter referred
to as the Kansai University copy)9 and another in the library of Taisho University.
The Kansai University copy is a complete text. It contains, moreover, a postscript by Nittō, the editor of the Excerpts collection, one which is not found in8
なほこれは彼の地の編著をわが国人が抄出して注記を添へたものであるから、ここに附載する。それは「勧善書（抜書）」である。寛永七年刊伝法正宗記・翻訳名義集その他と同種活字印本で寛永初年の印行であらう。〔中略〕永禄元年仲秋の跋文に拠れば、下総国北条庄松崎顕実寺の住侶、要行律師（一卯日統）が泉州堺の頂源寺在住の際抜書きして講じたものを纏めたといふ。 Kawase, Zōho kokatsuji-ban no kenkyū, pp. 834–835.

The Kansai University copy (call number: L23＊＊C＊3048–50) bears a slightly different title:
Dai-Min Jinkō kōgō kanzensho nukigaki 大明仁孝皇后勧善書抜書.
9

170

Kimurathe Kanbun 3 (1663) reproduction or other editions afterwards. The postscript
reads:
余、和泉堺の頂源寺在津の砌、春より秋に至るまで、勧善書二十巻、時時管見を加へ、節節之を披閲す。漸次周覧し畢はり、全部書写せんとすれば、且つは広博にして為に遅筆に堪へ難く、且つは緩縵にして為に博覧に及び難し。愚意の思ふ所、短慮の及ぶ所、抜書する所の者五冊なり。近年、都鄙の間、学者翫ぶ所の章疏伝記数多有りと雖も、［1］此の書未だ流布せず。尤も
珍敷物語等、之有るか。蹔く之を秘蔵し、［2］聊かも他見に及ぶこと莫れ。
仮令秘密深法と為すと雖も、漏れ散じて多く人口に有るは頗る無念なる者なり。秘する所は唯だ此に在るのみ。旹に永禄元年稔（戊午）仲秋中旬終なり。下総州北条庄松崎郷顕実寺住侶要行律師一卯日統誌す。

When I was staying at Chōgen-ji Temple in Sakai in Izumi Province, fromspring to autumn, I would often pore over the twenty volumes of Book of Exhortations, occasionally adding my own observations [to the text]. Once I had
finally finished my reading, I attempted to copy the whole thing, but it was an
onerous task with my slow writing skills because of [the text’s] sheer size, a difficult task with so much [text] to cover given my own slothful character. In theend, to the best of my limited understanding and bounded wisdom, I made acollection of excerpts in five volumes. Even though in recent years, both in the
Capital and in the Provinces there are many commentaries and biographies indeed for scholars to amuse themselves with, [1] this text (=Book of Exhortations)has not yet been widely disseminated. Still, can there be any stories even moreunusual [than the ones in this book]? For the time being, it is something to keep
hidden, [2] and we should certainly not show it to anyone on the outside. However cryptic and esoteric it might well be, [this text] is still something it would
be extremely regrettable to see leak out, and be bruited about by the masses atlarge. This (=the temple) is the only place where it can be kept secure.
As written by Master Yōgyō Ichiu Nittō, a monk of Kenjitsu-ji Temple at Hōjōshō Matsuzaki-gō 北条庄松崎郷, Shimōsa Province, at the end of mid-autumn inEiroku 永禄 1 [1558].

From this postscript—especially the clauses “[T]his text has not yet been
widely disseminated” and “We should certainly not show it to anyone on theoutside”—it is clear that Book of Exhortations had indeed already been introduced
to Japan by Eiroku 1 (1558), but had also not yet been widely disseminated, being kept in secret in the Nichiren-sect Chōgen-ji Temple. In other words, it isclear that the original text of which Nittō speaks here was not easily available toanyone outside of a restricted circle. Furthermore, it is hard to imagine that evenpotential readers at that time who enjoyed such access could have actuallybrowsed the original text as needed and according to their interests, given thatthe text in this form was a large twenty-volume manuscript with a dauntingly
vast amount of content. Book of Exhortations would probably therefore havebeen enjoyed through Excerpts, or through other morality books that it inspired.
Simply put, it should be presumed that the Japanese reproduction of Excerpts,
being the most easily available version of the original work, played a central role

Reception and Reworking of Book of Exhortations

171

in that work’s dissemination. In spite of this, as Hwang has pointed out, the influence of Excerpts on later generations seems to have long been underappreciated by scholars. This is no doubt owed to the fact that, while there are many
examples of Book of Exhortations itself being used in publications of the earlymodern period, the same cannot be said in the case of Excerpts.
One reason for this lack of recognition afforded to Excerpts derives from thecircumstances surrounding its compilation. In the postscript to Excerpts, we are
told that its editor, Nittō, compiled it from a copy of Book of Exhortations thatwas held at Chōgen-ji Temple in Izumi Province (currently the city of Sakai,
Osaka Prefecture). At the time, Nittō was a well-known Nichiren-sect priest,
while Chōgen-ji Temple—where Book of Exhortations was held—had been constructed by the Nichiren priest Nisshū 日祝 (1427–1513) in 1533, and functioned
also as a school for the sect. According to the Nichirenshū jiten 日蓮宗事典(Nichiren-Sect Encyclopedia), Nittō, after studying at Mt. Hiei 比叡 during the
Genki 元亀 (1570–1572) era, was assigned to Chōgen-ji Temple, where he edited
the work Nichiren shōnin ibun 日蓮聖人遺文 (Documents on the Venerable
Nichiren) together with monks Nichikō 日珖 (1532–1598) and Nichikō 日航(dates unknown).10 It seems, in other words, that while in residence at that temple, Nittō was both working on compiling Book of Exhortations and editing
Nichiren shōnin ibun at the same time.
Even from the postscript alone, therefore, it becomes quite apparent that Excerpts
is a text closely associated with the Nichiren sect. The text’s relationship with the
Nichiren sect can also be inferred by analyzing the details of its compilation. To
begin with, Excerpts was not assembled from Book of Exhortations in any mechanical fashion. This is clear from the fact that there are significant differences in thenumber of stories that Excerpts selected from each volume of Book of Exhortations(table 1).
Since Nittō advises in Excerpts, “We should certainly not show it to anyone on
the outside,” it is not likely that the stories were selected with the intention of
making them widely available. The selection appears, instead, to have been determined by the degree to which Nittō found the stories of personal interest or ofutility in promoting the values of his sect.
The editing process that produced Excerpts therefore reflected both Nittō’s
own interests and his Nichiren sectarian purposes. This is made clear by differences in the number of selections taken per volume from the Book of Exhortations
source text.
The most eye-catching numbers here can be found in connection with theeighth and twelfth volumes. Excerpts selected thirty-six stories from the twelfth
volume of Book of Exhortations but only one story from the eighth volume. Why
did such an imbalance occur?
10

Nichirenshū jiten, p. 683.

Kimura172

Table 1. The Selection Policy of Excerpts from the Ming Empress
Renxiao’s Book of Exhortations: Breakdown per Volume
Excerpts Volume
1

2

3

4

5

Book of Exhortations (original)
Source Volume Number of Stories Selected
1
9
2
25
3
16
4
19
5
24
6
4
7
10
8
1
9
14
10
5
11
30
12
36
13
11
14
16
15
16
16
25
17
7
18
13
19
20
20
8

When I reviewed volume 8 of Book of Exhortations to determine the reason forsuch a disparity, I found that 108 of the 130 stories there included were related
to the Diamond Sutra (Kongōkyō 金剛経). Significantly, the only story from volume
8 that was selected for Excerpts—Episode 103—contains the words “In front of
the Buddhist altars, [the monk] burned incense and read the whole Lotus Sutra as
well as the whole of the Diamond Sutra.”11 Clearly, in order to be chosen for inclusion in Excerpts, the selected story required, at the very least, some mentionof the Lotus Sutra.
Indeed, the focus Nittō places on the Lotus Sutra overall is striking. For example,
seven of the ten episodes chosen for Excerpts from volume 7 of Book of Exhortations have their ultimate source in the Lotus Sutra. Moreover, if we compare thenumber of selections made from volumes 7 and 8 of Book of Exhortations, Nittō’s
degree of preference for the Lotus Sutra is stark. This is in line with the predilections
就仏前焚香持誦蓮華経一部金剛経一七巻。Vol. 8, Episode 103. Though here the original has
一七巻 for the one-volume Diamond Sutra, I have translated above as if it read 一巻.
11Reception and Reworking of Book of Exhortations

173of the Nichiren sect—also known as the Hokke 法華 (or Lotus) sect—whichfavored the Lotus Sutra over all others. We can therefore conclude, quite correctly
in my opinion, that Nittō was actively biased in his selections to the extent that
he downgraded episodes taken from the Diamond Sutra out of his preference forthose relating to the Lotus Sutra.
I believe it would also be fair to say that Nittō’s selections from Book of Exhortations were motivated above all by his desire to reflect the interests of the
Nichiren sect, to which he belonged, rather than reflecting any overwhelming
desire on his own part to make Excerpts available to a wider public.
One reason for the confusion that has developed around this work can betraced back to the facts of its publication, which was undertaken without thepermission of its editor. It remains unknown how the manuscript itself was spirited out of the temple and thereafter commercially printed; however, it can bepresumed that this first edition—what is known as the moveable-type version—
still had Nittō’s postscript accompanying it, allowing its background to be inferred by anyone who might read it. This postscript, however, was omitted fromthe woodblock-version reprint of Kanbun 3. My presumption is that this happened because the new edition’s publisher, Nishida Shōbee, hoped thereby toresolve the contradiction that would arise from his publication of Excerpts witha postscript that essentially said, “Do not show this to outsiders.” And indeed, asa result of that postscript’s deletion, most readers of Excerpts, even to this day,remain unaware of the work’s deep connections to the Nichiren sect.
Previous studies have posed the question of why early-modern Japanese ruisho
類書—encyclopedia-style books in the Chinese tradition that classify and collate,by topic, information taken from a variety of sources—do not often use themoveable-type edition of Excerpts as a direct source. Per the results of my investigation, however, as noted previously, it would have been clear that this Japanese
reproduction of the work, compiled by a Nichiren Buddhist monk, had certainly
not been even-handed in its stance toward the “Three Religions” (sangyō 三教):
Buddhism, Daoism, and Confucianism. Consequently, it is unlikely that intellectuals at the time, who preferred to use Chinese books in their original form fromthe continent, would have enjoyed a text with such a skewed background. As aresult, it is rare to find references to Excerpts in early-modern ruisho.
2. Empress Renxiao’s Book of Exhortations in Brocade Scales: The Translation
In the previous section, it was made clear that Book of Exhortations had foundfavor in early modern Japan without having to rely on Excerpts. More important
was the 1730 reworking of Excerpts into another domestically-produced edition—a translation—in seven volumes, entitled The Ming Empress Renxiao’s Book
of Exhortations in Brocade Scales (hereafter Brocade Scales).
By referencing the catalogue of the Kansai University Library Nakamura Yukihiko
Bunko 中村幸彦 collection, I was able to confirm that the copy of Brocade Scales

174

Kimurathey possess contains all seven of the work’s volumes, but lacks the original title
on the cover.12 Conversely, the Bukkyo University Library copy, though indeed
lacking volume 4, includes—according to the library’s bibliographic information—the cover title Kange innen kanzen kinrinshō 勧化因縁勧善錦鱗鈔 (Karmic
Admonitions: Exhortations in Brocade Scales).13
The preface to Brocade Scales indicates its year, place of completion, and author:“In the middle of the ninth month of Kyōhō 15 [1730], by Hōzui at the Raigidō
in Kyoto.”14 The beginning of the text also bears the attribution “Hōzui of
Raigidō, Kyoto” 神洛 来儀堂 鳳瑞, so there can be no mistaking the authorship.
The edition provides, moreover, the details of its publication: “Co-published by
Namikawa Jinzaburō, Kuriyama Uhee, Arakawa Genbee, Yagi Hachirobee, andHirai Goroemon on the fifth day of the ninth month, Kyōhō 15 [1730], in theImperial City.”15
Furthermore, it should be noted that Brocade Scales was listed in a book catalog(shojaku mokuroku 書籍目録) published in Hōreki 宝暦 4 (1754), under the section containing texts relating to the Pure Land sect (Jōdoshū 浄土宗; fig. 1). In
the modern Kokusho sōmokuroku 国書総目録 (General Catalogue of JapaneseWritings), it is also listed as a text of the True Pure Land (Jōdo shinshū 浄土真宗)
sect, and likewise in the database built upon that catalogue text, the “Union Catalogue of Early Japanese Books.”16This wealth of data can be considered strong evidence of a heretofore unimagined aspect of Brocade Scales: namely that the work should, perhaps surprisingly, yet nevertheless unequivocally, be regarded as an example of a kangebon
勧化本 text—i.e., as belonging to that category of popular Buddhist books
aimed at proselytization, which represented an important source of income forreligious orders.
Ushiroshōji Kaoru 後小路薫 was the first scholar to identify kangebon as a distinct type of popular Buddhist text that appeared in the early modern period.
Ushiroshōji went on to compile Abbreviated Chronology of Kangebon Publications of
the Early Modern Era (rev. and exp. ed.) 増訂 近世勧化本 刊行略年表.17 In the process of doing so, he concluded that the first kangebon was Shūmon kōkaku 宗門綱
格 (1602), and that it was written by Nichiken 日乾 (1560–1635).

Call number: ナ2-98-1.
Call number: 旧247.4 124. Details on the text can be viewed at: https://bukkyo.userservices.
exlibrisgroup.com/discovery/openurl?institution=81BU_INST&rfr_id=info:sid%2Fsummon&rft_dat=ie%3D21301624100006201,language%3Dja&svc_dat=CTO&u.ignore_date_coverage=true&vid=81BU_INST:Services&Force_direct=false.
12
13時に享保十五年九月中澣神洛来儀堂において鳳瑞自叙。
旹享保十五庚戌稔九月五日／皇都書鋪／并河甚三郎／栗山宇兵衛／荒川源兵衛／八木八郎
兵衛／平井五郎右衛門／同刊。
16
Given there as Kange kinrinshō 勧化錦鱗鈔. See: http://dbrec.nijl.ac.jp/KTG_W_4352072.
14

15

17

Ushiroshōji, Kangebon no kenkyū, p. 607.

Reception and Reworking of Book of Exhortations

175

Figure 1. Page from a 1754 (Hōreki 4) shojaku mokuroku 書籍目録 (book catalogue) listing
Hōzui’s 鳳瑞 compilation The Ming Empress Renxiao’s Book of Exhortations in Brocade Scales(Dai-Min Jinkō kōgō kanzensho kinrinshō 太明仁孝皇后勧善書錦鱗鈔). Here the text appears
in the second column from the right, where its title is given as Kange kinrinsho 勧化錦鱗鈔.
National Diet Library (call number: 856–35).
https://doi.org/10.11501/2539882 (image 19).

However, the full count of kangebon as Ushiroshōji defines them gives, I believe, an inflated total. In reality, most writers of kangebon were Pure Land-sect orTrue Pure Land-sect priests. A representative example is Asai Ryōi 浅井了意
(d. 1691), who also worked on popular Buddhist commentary texts (kusuimono
鼓吹物) such as Zen’aku inga kyō jikige 善悪因果経直解, published in 1666. It isappropriate, therefore, to regard kangebon—in general—as a type of text closely
connected with the Pure Land or True Pure Land sects. As I have discoveredfrom my own research, as a general rule, kangebon usually actually include theword kange 勧化 in the title.
In the case of Brocade Scales, the Bukkyo University Library copy was titledKange innen kanzen kinrinshō on its cover. It can therefore be regarded as a kangebonin the narrow sense, by which I mean literally having the term kange in its title.
The preface states the book’s purpose as follows (emphasis added; fig. 2):
然に永楽二年垂簾の余、三教の嘉言・勧懲の典故を輯略し、『勧善書』廿巻を撰で修身斉家の金鏡に備玉ふ。予、平日この編を閲毎に、一唱三嘆すといへども、黄口の児、其の理味を嘗めざるを憾み、平俗勧化の一助に充るの精要を撮り、五件の標題を立、聊か俚諺を傭ひ、巻を七に分て『錦鱗鈔』と名け、一、二の童蒙に与んと筆を馳の刻み、書肆来て梓に登んと乞ふ。頻りに三辞すといへども、肯ぜず。敢て以て其の需に応ず。

176

KimuraFigure 2. Preface to Empress Renxiao’s Book of Exhortations in Brocade Scales. Nakamura Yukihiko
Bunko 中村幸彦文庫 Collection, Kansai University Library (call number: Na 2-98-1).
https://doi.org/10.20730/100060984 (images 3–4).

Thus it was that in the curtained leisure of Yongle 永楽 2 [1404], [Empress
Renxiao] made her selection of edifying passages and stories to exhort andchastise from [the writings of] the Three Religions, compiling the twenty volumes of Book of Exhortations to fashion a “golden mirror of morals,” as an aid
to man in preparing himself and his family for life. Whenever I read this bookmyself, at every recited passage I sigh three times, and have yet felt deep regretthat the youth still green in experience remained unable to taste and savor its
wonders. I undertook, then, to extract its essence, that it might serve as teaching material to improve the religious beliefs of commoners. I set up five
broad topics, employing the vulgar parlance here and there, and divided thewhole into seven volumes and named it Brocade Scales, intending to give it to one
or two young men still wet behind the ears. Yet just as my pen was thus speeding
along, a publisher came and asked me if he might publish the thing. Three times
I declined again and again, but he would not give up. I ultimately had no choice
but to acquiesce to the request.

Per the underlined text, which states that the work is “teaching material to improve the religious beliefs of commoners,” the author, Hōzui, makes it clear thatthe book’s purpose is kange—that is, to proselytize—but also to provide funding
for the sect itself. Because these details suggest that Brocade Scales can be considered a kangebon, i.e., a type of text associated with the Pure Land or True Pure
Land sects, it has been widely thought that Hōzui too was closely connected to
one of these sects himself.

Reception and Reworking of Book of Exhortations

177

3. The Contents and Publishers of Brocade Scales
Even if Brocade Scales is a kangebon, however, it should not be immediately regarded as a work associated exclusively with the Pure Land or True Pure Landsect. In fact, the original text and sources for this work, together with the detailsof its publication, suggest quite the opposite: to wit, that we should view it, infact, as a text closely related to the Nichiren sect of Buddhism.
Let us consider, then, the sources for Brocade Scales.
First, I would like to describe the original text of Brocade Scales. Unlike Excerpts,
on which it was based, Brocade Scales does not make use of selections from Book
of Exhortations strictly in their order of appearance in that source text, beginningwith volume 1. What is more, it makes an effort to ensure that its sources areclearly indicated, including references for each story. For example, the end of
one volume notes, “See volume 4 of Book of Exhortations.”18 Additionally, as we
can locate a full 106 of Brocade Scales’ total 110 episodes in Excerpts, there can be
no doubt that the former owes the majority of its lifeblood to the latter.
The problem, and some of the confusion around Brocade Scales’ provenance,
arose because of that very feature of source-indication, whose details are often
incorrect. As is clear from table 2, which shows cases of erroneous attribution
in listed sources, such mistakes can be found in eight different stories. Amongthese, only Episode 32 in the “Karma” section (hereafter Brocade Scales episodes
are cited in the format “Karma 32,” etc.)—described as “A story about being
gored by a cow because of a lodging fee not paid” and found in volume 2—waslisted correctly as coming from volume 19 of Book of Exhortations. Since the errors delineated here involve not only Book of Exhortations but also Excerpts, it
seems that the author of Brocade Scales did not actually see the originals of either
text. We might speculate that he quite possibly received Excerpts in an incorrectly
copied manuscript form. Furthermore, the notes putatively accompanying sucha manuscript probably contained an account to the effect that the various stories
were recorded only in Book of Exhortations; leading him to write his own manuscript in reference to that information.
I would like to emphasize that it has been said that the reception of Book ofExhortations in the early modern period did not depend on the availability of theJapanese reproduction in Excerpts. Moreover, it is also puzzling that Brocade Scales
has been considered a kangebon connected only to the Pure Land or True Pure
Land sect because, as I have already pointed out, Excerpts was a Nichiren-sect
text.
Next, I take a closer look at the contents of Brocade Scales.
It should be noted that even the ten episodes mentioned as being suppliedwith incorrect references in table 2 include at least three episodes relating to
merit or beneficence in connection with the Lotus Sutra. Were it the case that18

勧善書巻之四ニ見タリ。Vol. 1, Episode 10.

Kimura178

Table 2. Attribution Errors in The Ming Empress Renxiao’s Book of Exhortations in Brocade Scales
Brocade Scales Episode(volume, category: heading)Vol. 1, Karma 9: A story about money saved by awife that became a bug and flew away because ofstinginessVol. 1, Karma 10: A story about a wife who becamea large snake because she despised her husband
Vol. 1, Karma 11: A story about a family being
eradicated because they cut down a sacred treeVol. 2, Karma 31: A story about a mother andchild dying because they killed a sheep and cooked it on
their birthday
Vol. 2, Karma 32: A story about being gored by a
cow because of a lodging fee not paid
Vol. 3, Miracles 9: A story about a pheasant being
reborn as a human being thanks to listening to the
Lotus Sutra
Vol. 3, Miracles 10: A story about lotus flowers
emerging from a skeleton after death, thanks to the
Lotus Sutra having been readVol. 3, Miracles 11: A story about a woman who
read the Lotus Sutra being saved from a boat accident
Vol. 4, Miracles 21: A story in which problems allover the country were mysteriously resolved thanks to a
profound sense of compassion
Vol. 4, Miracles 26: A story about a poor woman
who lived in a place without spring water being
supplied with it through the Grace of Heaven

Source as
Listed in
Brocade Scales“Keishinroku”

稽神録

Book ofExhortations,vol. 4
Book ofExhortations,vol. 4
Book ofExhortations,vol. 19
Book ofExhortations,vol. 19
Book ofExhortations,vol. 12Book ofExhortations,vol. 12Book ofExhortations,vol. 12Book ofExhortations,vol. 12Book ofExhortations,vol. 13

Actual Source
in Book ofExhortations(not included,
sourceunknown)Vol. 15

Presencein
Excerpts——

Vol. 15

2–5

Vol. 20—

Vol. 19—

Vol. 9

1–7

Vol. 9

1–8

Vol. 91–9Vol. 11

2–3

Vol. 12

3–23

Brocade Scales and its author, Hōzui, had a close relationship to either the Pure
Land or the True Pure Land sect, this would be unusual, given that the Lotus Sutra
is not associated with those sects. The basic Pure Land- or True Pure Land-sectscriptures are rather the three major Pure Land sutras (Jōdo sanbukyō 浄土三部経):
the Larger Sukhāvatīvyūha Sutra (Muryōjukyō 無量寿経), the Shorter Sukhāvatīvyūha
Sutra (Amidakyō 阿弥陀経), and the Amitāyurdhyāna Sutra (Kanmuryōjukyō 観無量寿経). In both Pure Land and True Pure Land Buddhism, devotion to Amitabha(Amida 阿弥陀) is the first priority, and accordingly, in kangebon the main focus isReception and Reworking of Book of Exhortations

179

generally on the merits of Amitabha. However, none of the stories in Brocade
Scales mentions Amitabha, providing yet further indication that its affinities with
the Pure Land or True Pure Land sects are extremely slight. On the contrary, thecontent of Brocade Scales plainly indicates its deep affinities with the Nichiren
sect. It is clear, therefore, that it cannot be regarded as a book connected witheither the Pure Land or the True Pure Land sect.
Finally, I note the publishers of Brocade Scales. If we consider the character ofkangebon in general, it seems natural to imagine that publishers who had alreadyproduced Pure Land- or True Pure Land-sect kangebon in the past would havebeen engaged to work on Brocade Scales should it, too, have been a book associated with either of those sects. However, none of Brocade Scales’ five publishers had
worked on kangebon before. Nor is this all: Namikawa Jinzaburō, a publisher wellknown to be connected with the Nichiren sect, is described as the publisher19 ofBrocade Scales in 1730, in publication records of the time in Edo (i.e., the wari-inchō
割印張). Not only, then, is the leading publisher of Brocade Scales positively identified, but so too, by association, is the work’s connection to the Nichiren sect. A
survey of Namikawa Jinzaburō’s publications is shown in table 3.
Of Namikawa’s eight publications, five of which were clearly published before
Brocade Scales, all were written by Nichiren Buddhist monks. In addition, the 1699
publication Hokke gisho, which is considered to be the earliest of his publications,
was actually a commentary by the Chinese monk Ji Zang 吉蔵 (549–623), andone dedicated moreover to the Nichiren sect’s fundamental scripture, the Lotus
Sutra, as the title clearly indicates. Six of the remaining titles can also be regarded
as related to the Nichiren sect. This alone makes the depth of Namikawa’s relationship with the Nichiren sect unmistakable.
Another clue is to be found in the titles in the list attributed to Nichidatsu 日達(1674–1747), who was a well-known scholar of the Nichiren sect at the time. He
was appointed head of Honkoku-ji 本国寺 Temple in Kyoto in 1720, and evenafter retiring in 1728, he pursued vigorous disputes in print not merely against
the Pure Land, True Pure Land, and Kegon 華厳 sects but also in opposition to
Shinto and Confucianism. As one of the printers who helped publish Nichidatsu’s
texts, Namikawa Jinzaburō’s cooperation in these attacks means that his relationship with their author was hardly a superficial one.
In addition, of Namikawa’s publications, three were co-published with Yagi
Hachirobee 八木八郎兵衛, who also co-published Brocade Scales. It is moreover
known that another of the work’s printers, Kuriyama Uhee 栗山宇兵衛, was likewise himself a publisher for the Nichiren sect.
In summary, therefore, I believe that Excerpts was used as the foundation for
Brocade Scales. This seems reasonable because Brocade Scales employs stories from
Excerpts that focus on merit; these stories are themselves derived from the Lotus
19

Asakura and Yamato, Kyōhō igo Edo shuppan shomoku shinteiban, p. 18.

Kimura180

Table 3. Namikawa Jinzaburō’s Publication History and Collaborators
Year
1699

Title
Hokke gisho

AuthorJi Zang

Co-publishers
Yagi Hachirobee 八木八郎兵衛

1710

Jippu nimon shiyōshō shūkō

Nichikan

Katsura Jinshirō 桂甚四郎
Yamato Shōjirō 山戸勝次郞
Yoshida Kichibee 吉田吉兵衛

1712

Min’yu keshuroku

Nichidatsu

1716

San’in zatsuroku

Nichidatsu

Hasegawa Chōemon 長谷川長右衛門

1720

Shogaku shinanshō

Mōri Teisai

Yagi Hachirobee

1720

Shinbutsu myōōron

Nichidatsu

Yagi Hachirobee

Yōhō guntan

Nichidatsu

Yagi Hachirobee
Kimura Ichirobee 木村市郎兵衛
Uemura Tōzaburō 植村藤三郎
Yasui Kahee 安井嘉兵衛
Yagi Hachirobee
Kuriyama Uhee 栗山宇兵衛
Hirai Goroemon 平井五郎右衛門
Arakawa Genbee 荒川源兵衛

1723
1729

法華義疏

十不二門指要鈔集考

愍諭繋珠録
山陰雑録

初学指南鈔
神仏冥応論
鷹峰群譚

吉蔵
日観

日達

毛利貞斎

Zōshi

象志

1730

Kanzensho kinrinshō

Hōzui

1732

Shugen koji binran

Nichiei1733

Ken’yō shōriron

Nichidatsu

Ketsumaku myōgenron

Nichidatsu

Ju fuju ketsugishō

Nichidatsu

Hokke honjaku setsubō

Nichidatsu

Hinoya Rokubee 日野屋六兵衛

1746

Kashaku bōhōshō

Nippō

Hinoya Rokubee

1750

Goshaku shōbōshō

NichikenYao Seibee 八尾清兵衛

1794

Kōyōgi

Nichiken

1736
1738
1743

勧善書錦鱗鈔

修験故事便覧
顕揚正理論
決膜明眼論

受不受决疑鈔
法華本迹雪謗
呵責謗法鈔
護惜正法鈔
光揚義

鳳瑞

日栄

日芳
日顕

Reception and Reworking of Book of Exhortations

181

Sutra, which, conversely, does not mention Amitabha. There is also the fact that
Brocade Scales was printed by publishers known to be deeply involved with the
Nichiren sect. There can be no doubt, therefore, that Brocade Scales is a Nichiren-sectpublication and thus cannot, in any sense, be regarded as a Pure Land- or True
Pure Land-sect kangebon.
4. Brocade Scales as an Example of Buddhist Syncretism
Although Brocade Scales uses the term kange in its title and preface, there is analmost overwhelming body of evidence proving the work’s strong Nichiren-sectcharacter, both in its publication background and in the nature of its content.
I consider this book to be an example of what we might call a syncretism between different sects, which occurred as a result of early modern publications.
But what is syncretism? As I pointed out in another article,20 the second principal of the True Pure Land-sect Nishi Hongan-ji 西本願寺 School, Chikū 知空(1634–1718), for example, wrote a manuscript titled Jōdo wakumon kōin 浄土或問
鉤隠 (1657), a commentary on an earlier work, Jōdo wakumon 浄土或問 (established in the fourteenth century), itself a commentary by the Ming-dynasty Chanpriest Zhu Hong 袾宏 (1535–1615). However, Jōdo wakumon kōin was probably
used and referenced, published, and propagated as a so-called headnote book(i.e., with annotations at the top of the text) without Chikū’s permission.
The problem of correct sect attribution thus lies in the publication history of
Jōdo wakumon. At the time of its printing, the publisher had the Pure Land-sectpriest Taizen 諦全 (dates unknown) write a supplement to this work. Since
Chikū’s name and his True Pure Land-sect connections and annotations are notspecified as such, the book was—incorrectly—received as a commentary with astrong Pure Land-sect character. This can, therefore, be regarded as a case of
syncretism between Pure Land- and True Pure Land-sect teachings that arose in
the course of publication.
Publishing, which can be considered a major characteristic of modern culture,thus not only freed the original text and its attributes from being restricted to thesole domain of its traditional recipients, but also played a role in propagating thetext to a completely different community. Books that had been viewed as documents unique to each denomination or sect up through the medieval period were
no exception to this trend. Once such a property had been caught up in the tide of
the wider world of mainstream publishing, books quickly became the propertyof other readers.
It is in this manner that formerly sectarian doctrines, for a while, realized a degreeof syncretism. The fact that, for example, Brocade Scales, a Nichiren text authoredby a Nichiren priest, was put on the market as an ostensibly Pure Land- or True
Pure Land-sect text—coupled with the appellation of kange—meant that it was
20

Kimura, “Kinsei zenki no butten chūyaku,” pp. 74–79.

182

Kimuraconsequently broadly accepted by an audience that otherwise would have been
hesitant to have been seen reading it. This can surely be considered a prima facie
example of syncretism.
With this theme of syncretism in mind, I would like to follow, as far as possible, the actual path that the publication of Brocade Scales took.
It seems likely that the publication process was influenced by that of otherkangebon. The earliest early modern example of kangebon in the narrow sense of
the term—that is, publications with kange or kangebon in the title—is Jōdo kangehyōmokushō 浄土勧化標目章, written by the Pure Land-sect monk Shinkai 真海(dates unknown) in 1683. As I have pointed out in a separate article,21 it seems
that Shinkai’s work was originally published as Jōdo kange kōin 浄土勧化鉤引
during the Kanbun era (1661–1673). We thus have in this work an example of a
Pure Land-sect publication with kange in its title from as early as the 1660s.
Following this publication, other kangebon appeared one after another in rapid
profusion. In 1685, the True Pure Land-sect monk Gentei 玄貞 (dates unknown)
produced Jōdo shūyō bentaishō 浄土宗要弁対鈔, having added the appellation Seppō
innen jōdo kange bentaishō 説法因縁浄土勧化弁対抄 to the cover. The following
year, Jōdo kange shūjinshō 浄土勧化衆人鈔 was published, although its author remains unknown. The year after that, the same Gentei wrote Ōjō ronchū kangekōshaku 往生論註勧化講釈. Thereafter, this work was serially published in 1689 as
Jōdo kange sangoku ōjōden 浄土勧化三国往生伝, in 1691 as Goden kangeshō 御伝勧化鈔,then in 1692 as Kange innen kannon kyō kusui 勧化因縁観音経鼓吹, and again in
1693 as Anrakushū kange kōshaku 安楽集勧化講釈. After that, kangebon were published annually, to the point that notably in 1695 and 1700, three such books
per year were published. The proliferation of kangebon in the twenty years fromthe end of the Tenna 天和 era (1681–1684) to the end of the Genroku 元禄
era (1688–1704) is tremendous, with even a cursory count revealing at least
twenty-one such publications. By 1730, when Brocade Scales was published, atleast thirty-eight texts of this category had made their appearance.
Thus, after appearing at the end of the seventeenth century, kangebon had become established as a major genre within the space of half a century. The reason
that publishers actively solicited kangebon was because these books were anticipatedto become best sellers. This is clear from the fact that all of the then newlyemerging publishers, who would have still been few in number, had begun publishing these religious texts. It is no wonder, then, that publishers from otherdenominations took notice. Indeed, publishers related to the Nichiren sect, suchas Namikawa Jinzaburō, even became thriving participants within this expanding field.
Yet in the early days of this new venture, it would surely have been appropriate to
anticipate risks. In the first place, this was because the main customers for
Nichiren-sect publishers would mainly have been people associated with that
21

Kimura, “Genshin haha, kangen no waka,” p. 146.

Reception and Reworking of Book of Exhortations

183

sect. Moreover, since kangebon were originally connected with the Pure Land andTrue Pure Land sects, Nichiren monks did not initially view these works in apositive light. There would have been every reason to believe that, at first, even theterm kange would lead to readers’ rejection of a text. Even so, the trend toward
kangebon was so strong that Brocade Scales was eventually successfully published.
It does seem, however, that publishers were thorough in their risk management. Brocade Scales was thus shouldered not by one printer alone but was
co-produced by five publishers. Standard practice would rarely see as many asfive different publishers jointly produce a kangebon. Co-publishing was not often
used as a means of risk-management for such religious texts, which were expected, at the time, to sell quite reliably. Thus it seems that Brocade Scales was considered a possible money loser. And this riskiness was because it was a kangebon
published by Nichiren-sect publishers.
Risk-mitigation also seems to have extended to its reputed author, Hōzui. I believe it can be reasonably assumed that he was connected with the Nichiren sect.
We may assume so, first of all, because, as mentioned above, if Hōzui had beena Pure Land- or True Pure Land-sect monk, it would have been uncharacteristic
not to include references to Amitabha in the text. In addition to this, the circumstances surrounding Brocade Scales’ publication offer another clue to its pedigree.
Of course, it is well known that publishers of texts for one religious denomination often asked monks of another denomination to produce books for them.22
There was, therefore, no fundamental aversion to having texts written by Pure
Land- or True Pure Land-sect monks being printed by Nichiren-sect publishers.
At the same time, however, insofar as the preface makes clear, the Nichiren monk
Hōzui seems to have drawn up plans to have the book published prior to any
request from the publishers to produce it.
Furthermore, the text that was used as source material for Brocade Scales was
Nittō’s Excerpts. While this latter work may not have been widely available at thetime, we can presume that its manuscript may have been in the possession of
Nichiren-sect officials who were prepared to use it.
Another detail worth noting is that, in its preface, the term kange is explicitly
used, such as in heizoku kange no ichijo ni ateru 平俗勧化の一助に充る (“as teaching material to improve the religious beliefs of commoners”). Even if I do findthe preponderance of evidence to be such that we should assume Hōzui was a
Nichiren Buddhist priest, we must nevertheless recognize that it would havebeen uncomfortable for a priest of that sect to use the term kange in the title,
given its association with other sects. Therefore, I believe we would be correct in
For example, the famous kana-zōshi writer Asai Ryōi was a priest of the Ōtani 大谷 school of
the True Pure Land sect, yet he wrote Mitsugon shōnin gyōjōki 密厳上人行状記 (1672), a biographyof Kakuban 覚鑁 (1095–1143), the founder of the Shingi 新義 school of the Shingon 真言 sect.
He moreover went on to see this published by the Shingon-sect publisher Maekawa Moemon
前川茂右衛門. See Kimura, “Asai Ryōi.”
22

184

Kimuraconsidering the given author’s name as appended to the title—Raigidō Hōzui—to be a pseudonym. Hōzui is not unusual as a name for a monk. However, thenames Raigi and Hōzui in combination are reminiscent of the phrase hōō raigi
鳳凰来儀 (“the advent of the phoenix,” i.e. of peace and stability), which is drawn
from the Classic of Documents (Shujing 書経, Jp. Shokyō). It seems that the intention
was to avoid risk for the actual author by making use of an ingenious pseudonym.
In combination, these facts make it apparent that the publisher was meticulous
in his arrangements for the successful production of the very first Nichiren-sectkangebon: Brocade Scales. It was, at the time, an unprecedented publication for thesect, which was attended no doubt by a mixture of both apprehension and highhopes. At the same time, Brocade Scales is also, I believe, important as an exampleof the contemporary syncretism of Buddhist denominations, which came to bea frequent characteristic of early modern Buddhist books.
5. Identifying Brocade Scales in Book of Exhortations
Earlier in this article, I looked at how Book of Exhortations was reworked andhow its views were disseminated through interactions with, and through the intervention of, the Nichiren sect.
The subsequent phase in the effort to expand the audience for morality texts
came with the creation of Excerpts, which resulted from the editorial work of the
Nichiren priest Nittō at Chōgen-ji Temple. Brocade Scales emerged next and reflected a syncretism of Pure Land, True Pure Land, and Nichiren preferences,with the exception that in the case of the Pure Land and True Pure Land sects,
it was an unwitting collaboration. With Brocade Scales’ publication and introduction to an audience wider than that of just its monkish adherents, Book of Exhortations took on a new, more influential dimension than it had ever been able tothrough Excerpts. Furthermore, the appreciation for Brocade Scales is also considered to have been accelerated by the dissemination and reception in Japan ofBook of Exhortations itself.
In the Brocade Scales preface, Hōzui describes Book of Exhortations as encapsulating the “Three Religions” and states that the stories collected in Brocade Scales area celebration of the essential values revered in Book of Exhortations: “edifying
passages . . . from the Three Religions” (sangyō no kagen 三教の嘉言) and “stories
to exhort and chastise” (kanchō no tenko 勧懲の典故). In light of this, Hōzui’s fullawareness of the existence of Book of Exhortations is no mere matter of conjecture. However, when Hōzui edited Brocade Scales, he divided the seven volumes
into the five parts of: Karma, Miracles, Familial Unfaithfulness, Filial Duty, andSelflessness. In other words, he did not adopt the scheme used in Book of Exhortations (and Excerpts), which classified episodes according to the Three Religions.
Thus, as a result of the publication of Brocade Scales, which presented the contents of Book of Exhortations in such an easier-to-understand format, the values
contained within that original work become obfuscated.

Reception and Reworking of Book of Exhortations

185

In light of this, it becomes clear that Brocade Scales, which was a collection of
extracts stemming from Book of Exhortations, was able to gain widespread acceptance, despite the ideological bias of the Nichiren sect, which oversaw its publication. It can be said that this acceptance was achieved also because Brocade Scales
was intended to be a text for proselytization: as the preface clearly states, thework could be used as “teaching material to improve the religious beliefs ofcommoners.”
We now need to consider views on morality. Brocade Scales is an interesting example in that the reception history of texts on morality would come to take avery different course following its release. This is because prior to Brocade Scales,
the Three Religions had been recognized as the basis for discussion of morality
in early modern Japan. As Nakano Mitsutoshi 中野三敏 has noted, “[The Three
Religions] were the sources for the precepts of the common people throughout
the Edo era [1603–1867].”23
In fact, the reception of a Chinese book in a Japanese reproduction that deviated from the original text was not limited to Brocade Scales. And indeed, in booksof every Buddhist sect, when making proselytizing arguments, it was quite common
to draw on Chinese texts for novel topics to illustrate their doctrines. Such books
allowed for a direct appeal to the common people and had no need, therefore,
for any interfering intellectual filter as had previously been the case.
Conclusion
In this article, I have discussed how Book of Exhortations was received, and reworked, by monks of the Nichiren sect. In this vein I have presented Brocade
Scales as the premier example of how the original work was adapted in order toachieve its popularization. The resulting latter work can be seen not only as an
outstanding example of syncretism within early modern Buddhism, but also as
an example of the kind of text that served to encourage the reception of works
from China. We need to fully understand the acceptance and reception of a wide
variety of Chinese books in the early modern period in order to better appreciate
the impact they had on society and on Japanese literature. Further elucidating
this process, and achieving a deeper understanding of its workings, will be thetasks of future research.24

23

江戸期を通じてその通俗教訓の主意となる所であった。 Nakano, “Edo jugaku-shi saikō,” p. 55.

This article is based on a presentation delivered at the 44th International Conference on Japanese Literature on May 8, 2021. I would like to express my deep gratitude to Iriguchi Atsushi
and Dong Hang for their comments then. I would also like to thank the Kansai University Library for allowing me to view and use their books in preparing this article.
This work was supported by JSPS KAKENHI (Grant Numbers JP19K13049 and JP21J00295),
and by the National Institute of Japanese Literature 2019 Program for Joint Research by Young
Researchers.
24

186

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The National Institute of Japanese Literature (NIJL) is engaged in a number ofinternational collaborative projects, many of which have their origin in the earlier“Project to Build an International Collaborative Research Network for Pre-modern Japanese Texts (NIJL-NW Project).”
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