Basho’s poetry has both the eternal unchanging and the momentary ever-changing. These two aspects become one at the base, which is the truth of poetic art. If one does not understand the unchanging, one cannot truly understand Bashō’s haikai. The unchanging does not depend on the new or the old and is unrelated to change or trends; it is firmly anchored in the truth of poetic art.
When one observes the poetry of successive generations of classical poets, one can see that it changes with each generation. And yet there are many poems that transcend the old and the new, that appear no different now than when they appeared in the past, and that are deeply moving. One should consider these poems the unchanging.
It is the law of nature that all things undergo infinite change. If one does not seek change, haikai cannot be renewed. When one does not seek change, one becomes content with the current fashion and does not pursue the truth of haikai. If one does not seek the truth or guide the spirit in that pursuit, one cannot know change based on truth. These people are only imitating others. Those who pursue truth, by contrast, will move one step ahead, not being content to tread on the same ground. No matter how much haikai may change in the future, if it is change based on truth, it will be the kind of haikai advocated by Bashō.
Bashō said, “One should never, even for a moment, lick the dregs of the ancients. Like the endless changes of the seasons, all things must change. The same is true of haikai.”
As the Master lay dying, his disciples asked him about the future of haikai. The Master answered, “Since I have entered this path, haikai has changed a hundredfold. And yet of the three stages of calligraphy—the ‘stopping’ [shin], the ‘walking’ [gyō], and the ‘running’ [sō]—haikai has yet to move beyond the first and the second stages.” While he was alive, the Master would occasionally say in jest, “My haikai has yet to untie the opening of the straw bag.”53
[NKBZ 51: 545–546]
Perhaps Bashō’s most famous statement related to the issue of the “unchanging and ever-changing” is the following brief statement in “On Sending Off Kyoriku,” an essay written in 1693 in which Bashō alludes to a remark by Kūkai (d. 835), the founder of Shingon Buddhism.
Do not seek the traces of the ancients; seek what they sought.
[NKBZ 41: 542, translated by Haruo Shirane]
HAIBUN
Haibun, or haikai prose, was a new genre that combined Chinese prose genres, Japanese classical prototypes, and vernacular language and subject matter. Bashō wrote haikai prose throughout his literary career, but it was not until around 1690, shortly after his noted journey to Mutsu, the Deep North (Tōhoku), that he consciously strove to develop prose with a haikai spirit as a new literary genre and that he began to use the word haibun. Haibun in the broad sense existed before Bashō in the form of prefaces, headnotes to hokku, and short essays written by haikai masters. Prominent early examples include Kigin’s (1624–1705) Mountain Well (Yama no i, 1648), a haikai seasonal almanac whose prose style comes close to that of classical prose. Basho’s new notion of haibun, by contrast, is characterized by the prominent inclusion of “haikai words” (haigon), particularly vernacular Japanese (zokugo) and Chinese words (kango). In the preface to Prose Mirror of Japan (Honchō bunkan, 1717), an anthology of haibun edited by Shikō, one of Basho’s later disciples, the editor explains the significance of such prose:
From long ago, there have been four poetic genres: Chinese poetry, classical poetry, renga, and haikai. If Chinese poetry and classical poetry have prose, so too should renga and haikai. . . . But an appropriate style for renga has yet to be established. Instead, renga has been subsumed by the house of classical poetry, and its prose is marked by the slipperiness of The Tale of Genji or The Tale of Sagoromo. Renga has yet to create a graceful prose style. Thanks to Basho’s brush, however, the principles of haikai prose have been created for the first time.
THE HUT OF THE PHANTOM DWELLING (GENJŪAN NO KI, 1690)
The Hut of the Phantom Dwelling, which Bashō rewrote a number of times in 1690, is considered the first outstanding example of haibun literature. Earlier haibun tended to be extremely short and to function primarily as salutations. But The Phantom Dwelling, which was closely modeled on Kamo no Chomei’s prose essay Ten-Foot Square Hut (Hōjōki, 1212), is an extended prose poem in a highly elliptical, hybrid style of vernacular, classical Japanese and classical Chinese, with Chinese-style parallel words and parallel phrases. Bashō probably first wrote The Hut of the Phantom Dwelling to express his gratitude to Kyokusui, a disciple and patron, who lent him this dwelling where he could rest after his arduous journey through the Deep North. The essay is known as a poetic statement of Basho’s ideal as a recluse.
Beyond Ishiyama, with its back to Mount Iwama, is a hill called Kokubuyama—the name, I think, derives from a kokubunji, or government temple of long ago. If you cross the narrow stream that runs at the foot and climb the slope for three turnings of the road, some two hundred paces each, you come to a shrine of the god Hachiman. The object of worship is a statue of the Buddha Amida. This is the sort of thing that is greatly abhorred by the Yuiitsu school, though I regard it as admirable that, as the Ryōbu assert, the buddhas should dim their lights and mingle with the dust in order to benefit the world. Ordinarily, few worshipers visit the shrine, and it’s very solemn and still. Beside it is an abandoned hut with a rush door. Brambles and bamboo grass overgrow the eaves; the roof leaks; the plaster has fallen from the walls; and foxes and badgers make their den there. It is called the Genjūan, or Hut of the Phantom Dwelling. The owner was a monk, an uncle of the warrior Suganuma Kyokusui. It has been eight years since he lived there—nothing remains of him now but his name, Elder of the Phantom Dwelling.
I, too, gave up city life some ten years ago, and now I’m approaching fifty. I’m like a bagworm that’s lost its bag, a snail without its shell. I’ve tanned my face in the hot sun of Kisagata in Dewa and bruised my heels on the rough beaches of the northern sea, where tall dunes make walking so hard. And now this year here I am drifting by the waves of Lake Biwa. The grebe attaches its floating nest to a single strand of reed to keep it from washing away in the current. With a similar thought, I mended the thatch on the eaves of the hut, patched up the gaps in the fence, and, at the beginning of the Fourth Month, the first month of summer, moved in for what I thought would be no more than a brief stay. Now, though, I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll ever want to leave.
Spring is over, but I can tell it hasn’t gone for long. Azaleas continue to bloom, wild wisteria hangs from the pine trees, and a cuckoo now and then passes by. I even have greetings from the jays and woodpeckers that peck at things, but I really don’t mind—in fact, I rather enjoy them. I feel as though my spirit had raced off to China to view the scenery in Wu or Chu, as though I were standing beside the lovely Xiao and Xiang Rivers or Lake Dongting. The mountain rises behind me to the southwest, and the nearest houses are a good distance away. Fragrant southern breezes blow down from the mountaintops, and north winds, dampened by the lake, are cool. I have Mount Hie and the tall peak of Hira, and this side of them the pines of Karasaki veiled in mist, as well as a castle, a bridge, and boats fishing on the lake. I hear the voice of the woodsman making his way to Kasatori, and the songs of the seedling planters in the little rice paddies at the foot of the hill. Fireflies weave through the air in the dusk of evening, clapper rails tap out their notes—there’s surely no lack of beautiful scenes. Among them is Mikamiyama, which is shaped rather like Mount Fuji and reminds me of my old house in Musashino, while Mount Tanakami sets me to counting all the poets of ancient times who are associated with it. Other mountains include Bamboo Grass Crest, Thousand Yard Summit, and Skirt Waist. There’s Black Ford village, where the foliage is so dense and dark, and the men tend their fish weirs, looking exactly as they’re described in the Man‘yōshū. In order to get a better view all around, I’ve climbed up the height behind my hut, rigged a platform among the pines, and furnished it with a round straw mat
. I call it Monkey’s Perch. I’m not in a class with those Chinese eccentrics Xu Juan, who made himself a nest in a crab apple tree where he could do his drinking, or Old Man Wang, who built his retreat on Secretary Peak. I’m just a mountain dweller, sleepy by nature, who has returned his footsteps to the steep slopes and sits here in the empty hills catching lice and smashing them.
Sometimes when I’m in an energetic mood, I draw clear water from the valley and cook myself a meal. I have only the drip, drip of the spring to relieve my loneliness, but with my one little stove, things are anything but cluttered. The man who lived here before was truly lofty in mind and did not bother with any elaborate construction. Besides the one room where the Buddha image is kept, there is only a little place designed to store bedding.
An eminent monk of Mount Kōra in Tsukushi, the son of a certain Kai of the Kamo Shrine, recently journeyed to Kyoto, and I got someone to ask him if he would write a plaque for me. He readily agreed, dipped his brush, and wrote the three characters Gen-jū-an. He sent me the plaque, and I keep it as a memorial of my grass hut. Mountain home, traveler’s rest—call it what you will, it’s hardly the kind of place where you need any great store of belongings. A cypress-bark hat from Kiso, a sedge rain-cape from Koshi—that’s all that hangs on the post above my pillow. In the daytime, I’m once in a while diverted by people who stop to visit. The old man who takes care of the shrine or the men from the village come and tell me about the wild boar that’s been eating the rice plants, the rabbits that are getting at the bean patches, tales of farm matters that are all quite new to me. And when the sun has begun to sink behind the rim of the hills, I sit quietly in the evening waiting for the moon so I may have a shadow for company or light a lamp and discuss right and wrong with my silhouette.
But when all has been said, I am not really the kind who is so completely enamored of solitude that he must hide every trace of himself away in the mountains and wilds. It’s just that, troubled by frequent illness and weary of dealing with people, I’ve come to dislike society. Again and again I think of the mistakes I’ve made in my clumsiness over the years. There was a time when I envied those who had government offices or impressive domains, and on another occasion I considered entering the precincts of the Buddha and the teaching room of the patriarchs. Instead, I’ve worn out my body in journeys that were as aimless as the winds and clouds and expended my feelings on flowers and birds. But somehow I’ve been able to make a living this way, and so in the end, unskilled and untalented as I am, I give myself wholly to this one concern, poetry. Bo Juyi worked so hard at it that he almost ruined his five vital organs, and Du Fu grew lean and emaciated because of it. As far as intelligence or the quality of our writings goes, I can never compare with such men. And yet in the end, we all live, do we not, in a phantom dwelling? But enough of that—I’m off to bed.
mazu tanomu Among these summer trees,
shii no ki mo ari a pasania—
natsu kodachi something to count on
[NKBZ 41: 500–504, translated by Burton Watson]
NARROW ROAD TO THE DEEP NORTH (OKU NO HOSOMICHI, 1694)
In the Third Month, in the spring of 1689, Bashō and his companion Sora departed for Mutsu, or Oku (Interior), the relatively unsettled area of northeastern Honshū. Bashō traveled north to present-day Sendai; crossed west over the mountains to Dewa (Akita and Yamagata) to the Japan Sea side; then moved south, down the coast, through Kanazawa; and arrived at Ōgaki in Mino Province (Gifu) in the Eighth Month. Although often read as a faithful travel account, Narrow Road to the Deep North is best regarded as a kind of fiction loosely based on the actual journey. Bashō depicts an ideal world in which the traveler devotes himself to poetic life in a manner that Bashō himself probably aspired to do but found impossible in the busy world of a haikai master.
The text, selections from which are translated here, consists of fifty or so separate sections strung together like a haikai linked-verse sequence. They describe a series of interrelated journeys: a search for utamakura, or noted poetic places, especially the traces of ancient poets such as Saigyō, the medieval waka poet-priest to whom this account pays special homage; a journey into the past to such historic places as the old battlefield at Hiraizumi; an ascetic journey and a pilgrimage to sacred places; and interesting encounters with individuals and poetic partners, to whom he composes or exchanges poetic greetings.
The interest of travel literature, at least in the Anglo-European tradition, generally lies in the unknown—new worlds, new knowledge, new perspectives, new experiences. But for medieval waka and renga poets, the object of travel was to confirm what already existed, to reinforce the roots of cultural memory. By visiting utamakura, the poet-traveler hoped to relive the experience of his or her literary predecessors, to be moved to compose poetry on the same landscape, thereby joining his or her cultural forebears—as Bashō does here in regard to Saigyō, his spiritual and poetic mentor. The travel diary itself became a link in a chain of poetic and literary transmission.
In contrast to medieval waka poets, however, who attempted to preserve the classical associations of the poetic topics, Bashō sought out new poetic associations in utamakura and discovered new poetic places. In the passage on Muro-no-yashima, toward the beginning, Bashō suggests that Narrow Road to the Deep North will take a revisionary approach to utamakura. It will explore both the physical place and its historic and poetic roots in an effort to recast the landscape. A critical contrast is made between those utamakura in Mutsu or Michinoku in the first half of Narrow Road, which tend to be major utamakura—Shirakawa Barrier, Matsushima, Sue-no-matsuyama, Shinobu, and so on—and which bear the weight of the classical tradition, and those found along the Japan Sea side in the second half, such as Kisagata (Kisakata), which tend to be lesser utamakura or unknown in the classical tradition. Perhaps the best example of the latter is Sado Island, which appears on the Japan Sea side and which Bashō infuses with new poetic associations. In writing Narrow Road, Bashō sought a Chinese poetic ideal of “landscape in human emotion, and human emotion in landscape,” in which the landscape becomes infused with cultural memory and a wide variety of human emotions and associations, from the sensual to the spiritual. Bashō achieved this poetic ideal most dramatically with lesser-known poetic places like Kisagata, Sado, and Iro-no-hama (Color Beach) in Echizen Province.
A number of the early sections—such as Kurokamiyama (Black Hair Mountain), Urami no taki (Back-View Falls), and Kurobane—imply that the journey also is a form of ascetic practice. Indeed, the title of Narrow Road to the Deep North (Oku no hosomichi) suggests not only the narrow and difficult roads (hosomichi) of Mutsu but the difficulty of the spiritual journey “within” (oku). Pilgrimages to sacred places, to temples and shrines, were popular from as early as the Heian period and formed an integral part of travel literature, particularly those accounts written by hermit-priests, a persona that Bashō adopts here. Narrow Road, in fact, has far more sections on this topic than usually found in medieval travel diaries. A typical passage begins with a description of the place and a history of the shrine or temple, usually giving some detail about the founder or the name. The climactic hokku, which may be a poetic greeting to the divine spirit or head of the temple/shrine, usually conveys a sense of the sacred quality or efficacy of the place. For example, in the passage on the Ryūshaku-ji temple in Dewa, that quality is embodied in the word “stillness” (shizukasa). Another climactic point, which suggests a rite of passage, a kind of death and rebirth, is the difficult climb over Feather Black Mountain (Hagurozan), Moon Mountain (Gassan), and Bathhouse Mountain (Yudono)—the three holy mountains of Dewa Province—in which the traveler almost dies from exhaustion and cold before coming to Yudono, a place of sexuality and fertility.
Bashō wrote the account a considerable time after the actual journey, probably in 1694 at the end of his life, when he was developing his new ideal of haibun. Indeed, Narrow Road to the Deep North, which is marked by a great variety of prose style
s ranging from the allusive classical style in the Shirakawa section to the highly Chinese sections at Matsushima and Kisagata, may best be understood as an attempt to reveal the different possibilities of haibun in the form of travel literature. The resulting fusion of vernacular Japanese, classical Japanese, and classical Chinese, with its parallel and contrastive couplet-like phrases, had a profound impact on the development of Japanese prose. Of particular interest is the close fusion between the prose and the poetry, a salient characteristic of haibun, in which the prose creates a dramatic context for many of the best hokku that Bashō wrote.
Early Modern Japanese Literature: An Anthology, 1600–1900 Page 30
