Sections 221–243221~243단

"In the years of Kenji and Koan, for the finery of the homen (放免) on the day of the festival, they made a horse out of four or five bolts of strange dark blue cloth, used rush wick for its tail and mane, hung it on a suikan (水干) painted with spider webs, and went by calling out the sense of a song and the like. I saw this again and again, and it had the feel of a thing done with real spirit." So the old doshi (道志) tell it again today.

These days the finery has grown more extravagant year by year, past all measure. They hang on a great many heavy things, have others hold up their left and right sleeves, and cannot carry even their own spear points. The sight of them gasping in distress is very ugly.

When Joganbo of Taketani went to Higashi Nijoin and was asked, "In the memorial rites for the dead, what brings the most benefit?" he answered, "The Komyo Shingon and the Hokyoin Dharani."

His disciples said, "Why did you answer so? Why did you not say that nothing surpasses the nenbutsu?" He said, "It is our own school, and I would have liked to say just that. But I have not seen a passage of scripture that plainly teaches that reciting the Name as a merit-offering for the dead brings great benefit. If I were asked again where it is written, what would I say? So I kept to what the sutras state for certain, and named this mantra and this dharani."

Tazu no Otodo's childhood name was Tazu-gimi. To say that it was because he kept cranes is a mistake.

The onmyoji Arimune Nyudo came up from Kamakura and called on me. The moment he stepped in he admonished me. "That this garden lies idle and wide is appalling, a thing that ought not to be. One who knows the Way puts his effort into planting. Leave one narrow path and make all the rest into fields."

Truly, to leave even a little ground idle is of no use. Food plants and medicinal herbs should be planted there.

O no Hisasuke said this. Michinori Nyudo chose the lively movements from among the dances, taught them to a woman called Iso no Zenji, and had her dance them. She wore a white suikan with a sayamaki sword at her side and an eboshi pulled down on her head, and so it was called the otokomai (男舞), the man's dance.

Zenji's daughter, called Shizuka, took up this art. This is the origin of the shirabyoshi. They sing of the origins of the buddhas and the gods.

After that Minamoto no Mitsuyuki composed many pieces. There are works by Retired Emperor Go-Toba as well. They say he had Kamegiku taught them.

In the time of Retired Emperor Go-Toba, Shinano no Zenji Yukinaga had a name for learning. He was summoned for his turn in the debate on the Gafu (樂府), and he forgot two of the virtues in the Dance of the Seven Virtues (七德). So he was nicknamed the Kanja of Five Virtues (五德).

He took this to heart, gave up learning, and left the world. The priest Jichin kept about him anyone who had a single art, down to his servants, and treated them kindly, and so he supported this Shinano Nyudo.

This Yukinaga Nyudo composed the Heike monogatari and taught it to a blind man called Shobutsu to recite.

And so he wrote of the affairs of the Sanmon (山門) with particular splendor. The affairs of Kuro Hangan he knew in detail and set them down. The affairs of Kaba no Kanja he seems not to have known well, and he left many things out.

As for the affairs of warriors and the arts of bow and horse, Shobutsu was a man of the eastern provinces, and so he asked warriors about them and had them written down.

The voice that Shobutsu was born with is what the biwa priests of today have learned to imitate.

The Rokuji Raisan was made by a monk called Anraku, a disciple of Honen Shonin, who gathered passages of scripture and made it his daily office.

After that a monk called Zenkanbo of Uzumasa fixed its melody and made it into shomyo (聲明). This is the beginning of the nenbutsu of a single thought (一念). It began in the reign of Retired Emperor Go-Saga.

The Hojisan (法事讚) was likewise begun by Zenkanbo.

The Shaka nenbutsu at Senbon was begun by Nyorin Shonin around the Bun'ei years.

They say that a good craftsman uses a slightly dull blade. Myokan's blade did not cut very well.

There was an uncanny creature in the Gojo Dairi.

The Major Counselor To told this. The courtiers were playing go in the Kurodo when someone lifted the blind and looked in. "Who is there?" they said, and turned to look. A fox was kneeling like a person and peering in. When they shouted, "There, a fox!" it fled in confusion.

It must have been an unskilled fox that failed at its change of shape.

"'Sono Betto Nyudo is a carver without equal. At a certain man's house a splendid carp was brought out, and everyone wished to see his knife work, but they hesitated, wondering whether it would do to say so outright. Sono Betto Nyudo, being the man he was, said, "For a hundred days now I have been cutting carp, and today is not a day I may let pass. Let me press my request and receive it." And he cut it, and it seemed to all so fitting and so lively.' So a certain man told it to Kitayama Daijo Nyudo.

Then he said, 'Such a thing I find tiresome in this world. If he had said, there is no one to cut it, so give it to me and I will cut it, that would have been better. What is this cutting of a carp of a hundred days?' It struck me as funny." So a certain man told it, and it is very funny.

In general, a thing that is plain and easy is better than a thing made lively by contrivance.

So it is with entertaining guests. To set things out in a pleasing way at the right moment is truly good, but simply to bring a thing out with no occasion at all is very good indeed.

So too in giving something to another. To say, with no occasion for it, "Let me offer you this," is true feeling. To act as if grudging it so as to be asked for it, or to make a pretext of a forfeit for losing a match, is disagreeable.

In all things a person should be without knowledge and without skill.

A certain man's son, not bad-looking, was talking with someone before his father and quoted a passage from the histories. It sounded clever, but before an elder it seemed a thing he need not have done.

Again, at a certain man's house they sent for a biwa so as to hear a biwa priest's tale, and one of its frets had come off. "Make one and fit it," someone said. Among the men there, one who looked not bad said, "Is there an old ladle handle?" When I looked at him, I saw he had grown out his fingernails. He must play the biwa himself.

For a blind priest's biwa, such a matter is not worth discussing. It was painful to watch, as if he meant to show that he knew the art.

"A ladle handle is made of himo wood, so they say, a poor sort of thing," a certain person said.

A young person is thought well or ill of by the smallest thing.

If you would have no fault in anything, there is nothing like being sincere in all things, being courteous to everyone alike, and speaking little.

Such a person is good, man or woman, old or young. But in one who is young and fair of face, speech that is well-ordered is hard to forget and draws the heart.

All faults lie in putting on a practiced air, playing the master, looking as though one has found one's place, and so making light of others.

When someone asks about a thing, it is not that you do not know it. Perhaps you think it foolish to say it as it is, and so you answer in a way that leaves them confused. That is not a good thing.

Even a thing one knows, one may ask about in order to be sure of it. And how should there be no one who truly does not know? To tell it plainly and clearly would sound like a grown person.

A person will take a thing the other has not yet heard and say only, as far as he knows it, "By the way, what happened to that man is shocking." Then the other must send back and ask what it was, and that is disagreeable.

Even a thing that has grown old in the world, one may happen to miss hearing. What harm can there be in telling it so that nothing is left unclear?

This sort of thing is done by people who are unused to the world.

Into a house that has a master, no stranger comes in as he pleases.

Into a place with no master, passersby step in at will, and foxes and owls, checked by no human presence, come in and live there as if they owned it, and uncanny shapes such as tree spirits appear.

Again, because a mirror has no color and no shape, every image comes and is reflected in it. If a mirror had color and shape, nothing would be reflected.

Empty space holds anything well.

That thoughts come and rise in our minds just as they please — is it because there is no such thing as the mind? If the mind had a master, so many things would not come into the breast.

In Tanba there is a place called Izumo. They moved a great shrine there and built it splendidly.

The land is held by one Shida, they say, and so in autumn Shokai Shonin invited a number of other people as well. "Come now, let us go and worship at Izumo. I will have rice cakes served to you," he said, and took them along.

Each of them worshipped and was filled with great faith. The lion and the koma-inu before the shrine stood with their backs turned, facing to the rear, and the Shonin was deeply moved. "How splendid! The way this lion stands is most unusual. There must be a deep reason for it," he said with tears in his eyes. "Well now, gentlemen, do you not notice this remarkable thing? How careless of you."

Each of them wondered at it and said, "Truly it is different from other places. Let us make it a tale to take back to the capital." The Shonin, wanting to know still more, called over a shrine priest who looked grown up and likely to know things, and said, "There must surely be some tradition about the way the lions of this shrine are set. I should like to hear it."

"That," said the priest, "is the work of mischievous children. It is an outrage." He went up, set them straight, and walked off, and the Shonin's tears of wonder came to nothing.

As for setting things in a willow box, should it be lengthwise or crosswise? Perhaps it depends on the thing.

"Scrolls and the like are set lengthwise, and a paper cord is passed between the slats and tied to them. An inkstone too is best set lengthwise, so that the brush does not roll," said the Minister of the Right of Sanjo.

The fine calligraphers of the Kadenokoji house never set anything lengthwise, not even for a moment. They always set things crosswise.

The imperial escort Chikatomo left in writing seven items that he called his self-praise. They are all trifling matters of horsemanship. Thinking of his example, I too have seven things to praise myself for.

One. While out with a number of people to see the blossoms, near Saishokoin I saw a man making his horse gallop. "If he gallops that horse once more, the horse will fall and he will be thrown. Watch a moment," I said, and stopped where I was. He galloped the horse again. At the place where he tried to pull up, he dragged the horse over, and the rider rolled into the mud. Everyone marveled that my words had not been wrong.

One. When the present Emperor was still Crown Prince, and Madenokoji was his residence, I went on an errand to the chamber where the Major Counselor of Horikawa was in attendance. He had the fourth, fifth, and sixth scrolls of the Analects spread open. "Just now at the palace there was a wish to see the passage that says he hates the way purple takes away the place of vermilion. His own copy was looked through, but it could not be found. The order was to search more carefully, and so I am looking," he said. "It is in the ninth scroll, at about such and such a place," I told him. "Ah, how welcome," he said, and carried it in.

A thing like this is common even among children, but people of old praised themselves greatly even for small matters. Retired Emperor Go-Toba once asked Lord Teika, "Would it be bad to use sode (袖) and tamoto (袂) within a single poem?"

Are they the tamoto (袂) of the grasses of the autumn field? The plume grass puts out its ears and beckons, and looks like sode (袖).

Since there is this poem, he replied, what objection could there be? And even that was set down grandly: "To recall the honka (本歌) at the very moment is the protection of the Way (道), it is high fortune."

In the kanjo (款状) of Lord Koremichi, the Chancellor of Kujo, too, titles of no particular note were set down and praised.

One. The inscription for the bell of Jozaikoin was drafted by Lord Arikane. Yukifusa Ason made the fair copy, and when they were about to transfer it to the mold, the lay official in charge took out the draft and showed it to me. There was a line: "When evening is sent beyond the blossoms, the sound is heard for a hundred li." "The rhyme appears to be of the Yoto (陽唐) class. Is 'a hundred li' not a mistake?" I said. "How well I did to show it to you. This is to my credit," he said, and sent word to the writer. The answer came back: "It was a mistake. Please correct it to 'several rows' (數行)."

As for 'several rows' (數行), what should it be? Perhaps it means 'several paces' (數步). It is uncertain.

One. I once went with a number of people on a pilgrimage to the three pagodas. In the Jogyodo at Yokawa there was an old tablet inscribed Ryugein (龍華院). "It is handed down that there is doubt whether it is by Sari or by Yukinari, and that it has not yet been settled," the temple monk said grandly. "If it is Yukinari, there will be writing on the back. If it is Sari, there will be none," I said.

The back was thick with dust and full of insect nests and looked unpleasant, but it was well swept and wiped, and when we all looked, Yukinari's office, signature, and the year were clearly to be seen. Everyone was delighted.

One. At Narandaji, when the holy man Dogen was expounding, he forgot the thing called the eight calamities (八災) and said, "Does anyone remember?" None of the students remembered, and from inside a room I said, "Is it not such and such?" He was greatly impressed.

One. I was attending Kenjo Sojo at the kaji kozui (加持香水) rite. Before it was over the Sojo went home, and the Sozu was nowhere to be seen even beyond the guard post (陣). Priests were sent back to look for him, and they said, "There are so many of the assembly all dressed alike that we cannot find him," and came out again only after a long while. "How wretched. You go and find him," he said to me. I went back in and came out at once with him.

One. On the night of the fifteenth of the second month, when the moon was bright and the hour had grown late, I went to the temple at Senbon, entered from the rear, and listened to the sermon alone with my face well covered. A graceful woman, whose figure and scent were beyond the others, pushed her way in and leaned against my knee, so near that her scent would rub off on me. Thinking this would look bad, I edged away. She moved closer again and did the same, so I got up and left.

Afterward, when an old lady-in-waiting of a certain palace was saying idle things, she brought this out: "There was a time when I looked down on you as a man with no feeling at all. There is someone who resents you as heartless." "I do not understand you in the least," I said, and it ended there.

This is what I heard later. On that night of the sermon, from inside one of the rooms, a certain person recognized me, dressed up a lady-in-waiting in attendance, and sent her out, saying, "If the chance is good, speak to him. Come and tell me how he behaves — it will be amusing." So it was contrived.

The fifteenth of the eighth month and the thirteenth of the ninth fall in Roshuku (婁宿). Because this lunar mansion is clear and bright, they are held to be good nights for enjoying the moon.

The fisherwoman of Shinobu Bay can hardly gather her seaweed unseen, and Mount Kurabu has many who keep watch. All the more, then, the color of a heart that goes back and forth in spite of everything is not shallow, and there will be many moments felt as dear and hard to forget.

To have parents and brothers give their consent and have her brought straight in and settled would be very awkward.

A woman who finds life hard may be drawn by wealth to an ill-matched old priest or some rough man of the east and say, "If there were water to invite me." The go-between makes each side sound attractive and brings in someone she neither knows nor is known by. What a tasteless thing.

What words could they bring out first? Only if they can speak together of the hard years, and of the mountains one of them crossed to come, will there be words without end.

In general, when another person has arranged everything, there will be much that is unpleasant and not to one's liking.

Even with a fine woman, a man of low rank, ugly and well on in years, will make others think less of her, saying, "Will she throw away a body worth something for the sake of one so poor?" And sitting face to face with her he will feel ashamed even of his own shadow. It would be very tasteless.

A man who cannot linger under a hazy moon on a night fragrant with plum blossoms, or long, in his own condition, for the dawn sky as he pushes out through the dew of Mikakigahara, had best not care for love at all.

The roundness of the full moon does not stay even a moment. It wanes at once. One who pays no heed may not see it change so much in the course of a single night.

So too a sickness grows heavy without pausing, and the hour of death is already near.

Yet while the sickness is not yet urgent and one is not yet going toward death, one is used to thinking that things will always be so, and means to accomplish many things in this life and then quietly practice the Way. Then, taken by sickness and standing at the gate of death, one has accomplished not one of one's wishes. With nothing to say for it, one regrets the years of sloth and vows that if this time one recovers and keeps one's life whole, one will join night to day and accomplish this and that without slackening. But soon the sickness grows heavy, and one loses one's senses and ends in confusion.

There are only people of this sort. This is the thing people should first put in their hearts without delay.

If you mean to turn to the Way when your wishes are accomplished and you have leisure, your wishes will never be at an end. In a life like an illusion, what is there to accomplish?

All wishes are delusion. When a wish comes into your mind, know that a deluded heart is leading you astray, and do not carry out even one of them.

When you let go of all things at once and turn to the Way, there is no hindrance and nothing to do, and body and mind are quiet forever.

That we are forever driven by what agrees with us and what goes against us is wholly for the sake of pain and pleasure.

Pleasure means what we like and love. There is no time when the seeking of it stops.

What we desire is, first, a name. There are two kinds of name: the renown of conduct and the renown of talent. Second is the desire of the flesh. Third is taste.

No other wish comes up to these three. They arise from a view turned upside down, and they bring troubles beyond counting. Better not to seek them at all.

In the year I turned eight, I asked my father, "What sort of thing is a buddha?"

My father said, "A buddha is what a person has become."

I asked again, "How does a person become a buddha?" My father answered, "One becomes a buddha by the teaching of a buddha."

I asked again, "And the buddha who taught — what taught him?" He answered again, "He too became a buddha by the teaching of a buddha before him."

I asked again, "What sort of buddha was the very first buddha, the one who began the teaching?" At that my father said, "Did he come down from the sky, or spring up out of the earth?" and laughed.

"I was pressed with questions and could not answer," he said, telling it to people and enjoying it.