Writers In Kyoto

Page 32 of 65

Authors who belong to Writers in Kyoto

Self-introduction (Altoft)

August 11, 2020
William Altoft at home in Bristol

1) Please tell us something about yourself. 

I am a (nearly) 30 year old guy from Bristol, England. Aside from being a writer, I’m a tutor for kids of all ages across a bunch of different subjects, which is a wonderful and fulfilling thing to do in between writing poems in the same three or four cafes. It wasn’t until I was at least 25 when I started writing – that is, aside from classwork and homework in school. But it has been exponential ever since.

2) You live in Bristol, England, so why do you want to join Writers in Kyoto?

I would like to come and spend time in Japan, and Kyoto is such a well of modern and historical/traditional culture that I often dream of being there. In researching writing communities and poetry journals in Japan, I discovered Writers in Kyoto, as well as the Kyoto Journal, and it was obviously such an interesting, valuable community made up of English-language writers that I felt compelled to inquire about joining. I’ve never been part of any writing community or group before, and so it is exciting to be joining this one!

3) You write tanka and haiku. Why did you choose those forms, and which do you prefer?

I have definitely fallen in love with the tanka form! That and the sonnet are my favourite – both words mean “short/little song”. Like most in the English-speaking world, I was taught that Japanese pottery was haiku, and that haiku were three lines, with the syllable pattern of 5-7-5. So I was majorly confused when I discovered haiku that, though they were three lines, were definitely not 5-7-5. I started to study Japanese poetry and got to know haiku, senryu, tanka, choka and others. I had always tended to write very long, verbose, flowery sentences, whether in prose or poetry. I still do. But Japanese poetry was such a different way of writing – in fact, the complete opposite –  and I was drawn to it.

4) Your website is well-designed and original. Can you tell us how it was set up?

ありがとうございます! I had a free WordPress account originally, but I subscribed to their premium plan and played around with the templates and designs they had. I found a set-up that I liked the look of and which worked, and went with it. So really the compliment should go to WordPress… The images I use are sometimes my photos, but generally I find them online, and always put an image credit at the end with a link to where it’s from.

5) On your website you have a tanka about a Cafe Napolita in Japanese and English. Which language was it written in, and how do you find the task of translating yourself?

Well, it is a bit of a hybrid, in terms of which language it was composed in. The same goes for most of my poetry in Japanese so far. I have a tiny vocabulary, so I have to look words up and consult my little grammar book. However, I usually begin in Japanese, often trying out a new bit of grammar or set of words that I have recently learned, and adding in the words I have had to look up when needed – which is when it switches over to being half-composed in English. With all my Japanese poetry, the English translation is not what it would have been like had I just written it in English from the beginning. So I try to make the English somewhere between a translation and a literal, word-for-word accompaniment. It would be interesting to do the reverse, and to translate an English poem I have already written into Japanese… 

6) What is your proudest achievement in writing so far?

The proudest feeling I have ever had with writing was in June 2019, in a cafe on the Bristol harbourside, when I wrote the words: Fire and starlight. With those three words, I finished The Floating Harbour, my first novel/novella. I started it in January of 2016, and so it had been with me for about three and a half years by the time I wrote the final words. It had begun out of my interest in the history of Bristol and its port, but it became a deeply personal journey, even as it kept that harbour history foundation and backdrop. I’ve written much poetry since, and am roughly halfway through another harbour novel/novella – all of which I am proud of. However, that moment still stands out. (The Floating Harbour is available as a free PDF on my WordPress.)

7) How would you like to see your writing develop in future?

Into fluent, creative Japanese! On the English side of things, I never really have a goal of any particular stylistic development, though I do have ideas for things I want to write. I do, however, recognise, in retrospect, stylistic developments. For example, I blame Ulysses by James Joyce for how weird my second harbour novel is becoming. I want to share my writing more and more widely, and to have it be always freely available, even if it makes it into purchasable, published form. I would like to lead poetry workshops with kids as well, in both languages and in both countries, and write with and alongside them. I just want to write, hand it to the world, then go and write some more.

William Altoft’s website can be accessed here.


Writers in focus

Nicolas Bouvier in Kyoto

August 9, 2020
Nicolas Bouvier with his son Thomas, Kyoto 1964.
Courtesy of Bouvier family (all rights reserved). 
Bibliothèque de Genève,  Arch. Bouvier 17, env. 2, pce 3.

The World through the Magic Lantern – Nicolas Bouvier in Kyoto
By Robert Weis

‘Scent of pine tree. Soaring foliage, stiff and alive with cicadas. In a cemetery a priest in a raspberry robe recites the sutras on a tomb, and it is like the sound of a distant fountain.’*

Almost like an iconographic momentum, these words, from The Japanese Chronicles, accurately reveal the writer’s intimate appeal to different forms of art, including words and pictures. A poet at heart, and with the spirit of the eternal scholar who has seen and learned a lot about the art of life, Nicolas Bouvier is best known as a travel writer ante litteram through his widely acclaimed masterpiece ‘L’usage du monde’ (translated into English as The Way of the World).

In the book Bouvier narrates the voyage of self-discovery which he undertook in the early 1950s with his artist friend Thierry Vernet, starting from his native Geneva passing across the Balkans to Turkey, Iran, Afghanistan, then India and Ceylon, where, self-isolated, he got stuck in a physical and emotional void, an episode brilliantly reported in ‘Le poisson-scorpion’.  

Kyoto summer evening
(Yumi Nakano)

Redemption for Bouvier came in the form of a boat ticket to Yokohama, the gateway to Japan, where he would stay for over a year during 1955-1956. It is at this occasion that he encounters Kyoto for the first time, after a journey by foot from Tokyo on the Tokaido, which involved six to seven weeks of walking through country fields, following the vision depicted by Hiroshige:

‘…Nights spent beneath the roofs of little temples in the countryside, hamlets and lonely rice fields of the Ki peninsula: I arrived at the outskirts of the old capital an amazed vagabond, which is how you should approach a city of six hundred temples and thirteen centuries of history.’*

The old capital fascinated him, although he felt it difficult to enter into, at times surreal: ‘This city – one out of ten worldwide that are worth living in – has for me, despite its gentleness, something maleficent. Austere, elegant, but spectral. One would not be too much surprised to wake up and not find it anymore.’’**

In a letter to his friend Thierry Vernet on the July 12, 1956, he writes: ‘I believe that the country can’t give me more without asking me to lose all the rest. There are doors here that I could open only by closing others. I will therefore extract myself and leave, abandoning much fruit on the trees, but the orchard is still to be planted at home, in a fortress of quietness.’***

Nonetheless, Kyoto definitely became a central locus in his inner geography, and it was just a matter of time, in fact a decade later, before Bouvier would return to the city as a short-term resident, this time with his pregnant wife Eliane and his son Thomas: ‘In the interval between these two journeys, I feel I have somehow been absent from my life. I am curious to see which is more changed – this country or me.’*

The family stayed first in a house on Yoshida hill, and later in a building belonging to a subtemple of Daitoku-ji, the address of which translated as ‘Pavilion of the Auspicious Cloud, Temple of Great Virtue, Quarter of the Purple Prairie, North Sector, Kyoto’. Nicolas earned money with journalist articles, and in parallel worked on a book and photography project. His work as an iconographer, researching images in archives, was complementary to his writing work: both served the goal of illuminating the void with ‘the magic lantern’ of poetry, and thereby decoding the universe, a major theme in his work and life.

During his second residence in Kyoto, his fascination for the city remained unaltered, nourished by its elusiveness; Bouvier considered himself an observer at a distance, a role he was perfectly comfortable with:

‘Grey, pearly sky. The giant trees of Yoshida, swelled by the rain, gesticulate with nonchalance. There are really beautiful trees in Kyoto, but most of the time they leave you alone. From time to time, a warm wind chases the dust northwards. Took a taxi and drove along the river Kamo by swarms of school kids with heavy tresses, black uniforms […]. On the river banks, indefinite silhouettes walk dogs…I was struck by a doubt: after all, what if this country didn’t really exist?**

Bouvier was deeply impressed by the artistic and cultural density of the city, although he was aware that the abundance of academic specialists and critics also induced a lack of freshness and innovation: ‘Throw a stone, and you will hit a professor’.* On the other hand, in his everyday life he preferred the company of people he met while wandering around; the hard-working soup-shop tenant, the toothless peasant, the old landlady, the descendant of a ruined samurai family.

Not surprisingly, as a resident of the Daitoku-ji temple complex, Bouvier showed an interest in Zen and he coined his very own definition of it: ‘ Zen: a Buddhist vaccine derived from the Tao of fighting evil – or a secondary effect born from Buddhism’**.

Zen garden at Ryogen-in, Daitoku-ji (Robert Weis)

However, Bouvier was not eager to commit to the path of enlightenment: he remained in the position of an observer. For him, Zen was a house where he happened to be a concierge for a couple of months, watching his son grow up and catch butterflies in the garden: ‘ […] he was the most Zen of all; he lived, the others were searching how to live.’*

The final goal of writing and travelling, just as of life itself, is to accomplish the act of fading away. It’s in the absence of self that things come up. This attitude, including a fine sense of humour, inadvertently brought Bouvier to the essence of Zen:

‘I console myself by remembering that in old Chinese Zen it was traditional to choose the gardener, who knew nothing, to succeed the master, rather than one who knew too much. So I still have a chance.’*

Soon after the birth of his second son, and after finishing his book project, Nicolas Bouvier left Kyoto and went back to his native Switzerland. Later, he visited Japan on other occasions, for instance in 1970 during the World Expo in Osaka. The writings from these various journeys are condensed in the volume ‘Chroniques Japonaises’ (an enhanced version of the earlier ‘Japon’, and translated as The Japanese Chronicles). Here he reports historical facts about Japan, alternating them with sometimes melancholic, sometimes witty observations from his daily life. A more comprehensive excerpt from his personal diaries was later published in French under the title ‘Le vide et le plein’. Another volume, ‘Le dehors et le dedans’, contained poems written during his time in Japan, particularly with reference to excursions made to Miyama and Tango-hanto in the north of Kyoto Prefecture.

Asked what he admired most about Japan, he gave an answer that was as brief as it was categorical: women and graveyards. Symbols of life and death, the two extremes allow the unfolding of a miraculous in-between space of inner liberty, on a journey that Nicolas Bouvier embraced in his very own way, preferring to ‘rather be ashes than dust’ in the words of Jack London, one of the influences on his youth.

‘Like water, the world ripples across you and for a while you take on its colours. Then it recedes, and leaves you face to face with the void you carry inside yourself, confronting that central inadequacy of soul which you must learn to rub shoulders with and to combat, and which, paradoxically, may be our surest impetus.’ (from The Way of the World)

*excerpt taken from The Japanese Chronicles (English edition)

**original quotes from ‘Le vide et le plein’, translation from French by R. Weis

***original quote taken from ‘S’arracher, s’attacher’, translation from French by R. Weis

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Selected Bibliography:

-Nicolas Bouvier. The Japanese Chronicles. Eland Publishing, London, 2008. 205 pp.

-Nicolas Bouvier. S’arracher, s’attacher. Textes choisis et présentés par Doris Jakubec et Marlyse Pietri. Photographies de Nicolas Bouvier. Collection Voyager avec…Editions Louis Vuitton, 2013, 267 pp.

-Nicolas Bouvier. Le vide et le plein, carnets du Japon 1964-1970. Gallimard, 2009, 256 pp.

-Nicolas Bouvier. Le dehors et le dedans : poèmes. Editions Point, 2007, 128 pp.

-Nadine Laporte. Nicolas Bouvier, passeur pour notre temps. Editions Le Passeur, 2016, 238 pp.

Books set in Kyoto

The Voices in Rocks (novel)

August 6, 2020

This is the first chapter of a novel titled Kyoto Dreamtime being written by Everett Kennedy Brown.

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            Chapter 1        The Voices in Rocks

“Quietude in the temple grounds. Quietude in the surrounding hills and forests.  In the stillness you can hear them. The rocks. Listen to the way they murmur. Listen to how they chatter. They speak of Kyoto dreamtime.”

            Those were the first memorable words Junko and I heard after we moved to Kyoto. It was more than three years ago now. They were spoken by an old kimono designer.  His name is Yamamoto Sensei. He was to become my teacher, my sensei, as we started our new life in Kyoto.

             It was Junko’s idea to meet him. Her grandmother had several kimono that were made by Yamamoto’s ancestors. The kimono were important pieces in Junko’s collection of kimono that she inherited from her grandmother. For many generations, Yamamoto sensei’s family had been making kimono in Kyoto and Junko thought a visit with him would be a good person for us to meet. Junko’s intuition was right.

            As is the custom in Kyoto, we arrived a hair’s breath before the decided hour. Junko had brought a gift of carefully wrapped Parisian chocolates to present to Yamamoto Sensei. She had chosen a particular traditional chocolate because of the Paris World Exposition in 1867.  Junko knew her Parisian chocolates. She had studied classical flower arranging in Paris in her twenties. She had rented an apartment in the Seventh Arrondissement for a couple of years and knew the city and its people quite well. Junko came to understand a lot of similarities between Kyoto people and Parisians: their attention to detail; the importance of form in social situations; their insularity and mastery of innuendoes. She knew that Parisian chocolates would please Yamamoto Sensei. At the 1867 World Exposition his family’s kimono were a major attraction. Legend has it that the painter Monet had come to admire their vivid colors and intricate brocade silk designs.

            Just at the appointed time Yamamoto Sensei greeted us at the sliding wooden door of his atelier. He was a somewhat tall man. His facial features were delicate, almost feminine; not uncommon in men from old Kyoto families. The wrinkles in his forehead spoke of the many intricate social relations he had accumulated over a lifetime. With his long and graceful fingers he gently received the gift from Junko’s hands. As he glanced quickly at the box of chocolates, wrapped in a heavy paper ornate with 19th century Belle Epoque designs, he seemed to approve.  He then welcomed us inside his atelier. The coolness of the interior and the aroma of exquisitely fragrant cypress wood were comforting. In his guest room his assistant offered us matcha green tea with a traditional Kyoto sweet. It was a sweet bean concoction, shaped like a purple morning glory flower and presented on a little black lacquer dish. It was too sweet for me, but I still politely ate it. Over tea we talked. We talked of many things. Of Paris. Of his work. His latest project to revive the ancient design motifs that were popular in China during the time of the Silk Road. He even revealed his views on the sad decline of the fine weaving industry in Japan.

         Yamamoto Sensei took us to his back room, where his collection of rare and prized kimono were carefully stored. He showed us examples of kimono his family had been weaving for five generations of Japanese Empresses and the little tapestries commissioned by an A-list of European and Middle Eastern royalty.  On a large table by the wall we were able to touch his latest obi, a thick hand-woven sash worn over the kimono. It was inspired by ancient fabrics he had seen in Shoso-in, that great treasure house of Silk Road artifacts in the city of Nara, opened to the public only a few weeks of the year in late autumn.

         Junko loved the designs of the unicorns and mythical lions, and particularly the deer with bouquets of flowers in their antlers. “This is such an ancient design motif, much older than the Silk Road,” she suggested. Since moving to Kyoto, Junko had started writing about the beauty secrets of Kyoto women.  She had found a thousand-year-old Heian era text called Ishin-ho, which made references to the efficacy of deer antlers and certain medicinal flowers. The ancients would mix these to make a tonic wine for health and longevity.

         “That bouquet of flowers in the deer antlers is a design motif found throughout the ancient world. From Asia, to Persia and even Europe,” Yamamoto sensei explained.

         “It may perhaps be one of the most ancient designs going back to paleolithic times. Deer antlers and medicinal plants were some of the first commodities traded by our distant ancestors,” Junko suggested.

 In her research, she had discovered that before the advent of the Silk Road, way back into deep prehistoric time, there were medicinal trade routes that connected Asia with the Middle East and Europe. This so-called Medicinal Road was something researchers were only beginning to understand and explore.

         “If we understand the background of the kimono symbols and designs they can connect us with such deep cultural memory,” Yamamoto sensei pointed out.

         “My grandmother’s generation, all of this came so naturally to them, “ Junko added. “It was a part her family’s upbringing.  Since childhood she became familiar with all the many kimono designs and their connection with the seasons. As a child it was like a game to try to understand their meanings.”

“Yes, the kimono is a lexicon of cultural knowledge,” Yamamoto Sensei pointed out.  “With the cycle of the seasons the pages of that lexicon are revealed. The kimono styles and patterns announced the arrival of each new season. That is why it was fashionable to wear, say a plum blossom design, not during, but just before the plum blossomed. The kimono were references to time; to what was coming. They were also windows into the past. Even the very ancient past, like we see with this deer design.  Passed down from grandmother to granddaughter, the kimono connected us with our ancestors and with the culture that has nourished our hearts for countless generations. In this way the kimono intuitively connected us with the passage of time.”

         “In our modern lives, we are losing this sensitivity,“ I added. “Our sense of time has become so truncated, so linear. So the kimono is a way to reconnect intuitively with the cyclic nature of time?”

         Yamamoto Sensei paused. He gazed at me with a deep calmness and receptivity in his eyes. “Come, let me show you one more obi sash.”

         From a special cabinet in the back of the room he laid on the table a bundle. It was carefully wrapped in a thick handmade washi paper. From inside the bundle he unfolded a long piece of silk fabric. Thirteen meters of the most intricate silk weaving that Junko and I had ever seen. “This was woven by an unusual technique that came to us in ancient times. It is from Egypt.“ Yamamoto Sensei explained.  “To weave this fabric the artisans had to carefully file their fingernails into miniature forks.  They were then able to comb the minute weft threads with their fingers. This nearly forgotten technique that has continued for thousands of years is still preserved by a few Kyoto craftswomen.”

         Our afternoon went later than expected.  Feeling hungry, Yamamoto Sensei called his favorite Italian restaurant in the Gion geisha district and made reservations for the three of us. We took a taxi together, one of the black taxis with drivers in white gloves who rush out to open the door.

         Before ordering dinner Yamamoto sensei asked the waiter to bring a bottle of his usual wine. It was a very drinkable white sparkling wine. He said he only drank white wine.  Preferring white wines made from Koshu grapes.

         I was familiar with Koshu wine. It was an up and coming world class wine from Japan’s Yamanashi region, near Mt. Fuji. The Koshu grape has been cultivated in Japan for over a thousand years, Yamamoto sensei told us. The grapes were transported over the Silk Road from Western Asia sometime around the sixth or seventh century, he believed.

         Well into our second bottle, Yamamoto sensei leaned over towards me. We were both a bit wobbly, but after a momentary pause, he firmed up and whispered in my ear. “I have a secret. If you want to understand Kyoto,” he said. “I’ll show you how to listen to rocks.”

          I immediately thought of the famous rock gardens of Kyoto where zen monks went to meditate. I was also familiar with the tradition of listening to trees. I had hugged trees before. It’s one of those things you do in Japan after you’ve lived here a while. Especially the sacred trees in Shinto temple grounds that are designated with handwoven hemp rope tied around them.  In Kyoto there is one such famous tree. It is in a shrine, called Seimei Jinja, which was founded by an ancient sorcerer, named Abe no Seimei. On the shrine grounds is a large sacred oak tree with a special hugging deck where you can climb up to embrace and listen to the tree spirit.

         I looked at Yamamoto sensei with a childlike curiosity.  “I’ve listened to a few trees before, but tell me about the rocks.”

         Yamamoto sensei’s face was now rosy from the Koshu wine. He gazed back at me with his large and uninhibited glazed eyes. “Trees, their spirits are closer to us humans. That makes it easier to communicate with them. But if you want to understand the deeper story of Kyoto, the rocks, they can tell you much more.”

         I was getting more curious. Yamamoto Sensei said, “Lets have some dessert and then I’ll show you.”

         After a dessert of tiramisu infused with sweet sake, and a soothing cup of mint tea, Junko and I began to learn more about the rocks of Kyoto. “Oh they can be so chatty,” Yamamoto Sensei said. “The rocks can be so distracting sometimes that I can’t get on with my day! Walking down the street they call out to me, asking if I want to listen to the most outrageous stories. But I tell you, if you learn how to listen, they can tell you amazing things.”

         “Any kind of rocks?” I asked.

         “There are special rocks.  Rocks that were placed around the city a very long time ago,” he told us.

         “By whom?” I asked. He shrugged and didn’t say.

         “Kyoto is a place of many secrets,” he replied after a brief pause.  “We are forgetting the old secrets. That is why the rocks are calling us to listen.”

         Yamamoto Sensei paused again. He looked deeply into my eyes. “If you allow yourself to listen to the rocks, they will help you find your way through the city. You’ll need this knowledge if you want to make it here.”

         I felt as if Yamamoto Sensei was reading my heart.

         “Do you think Kyoto will accept me?” I asked.

         “For most people, here in Kyoto you’re only as good as your reputation. What people are saying about you can determine your success here.” Yamamoto Sensei explained. “But what most people don’t realize is that what the rocks are saying is even more important.”

         I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. The plan to move to Kyoto involved a scandal I’d created for myself and honestly my footing in the city’s social life was far from secure.  I needed to get deeper than the gossip that was going around the city about me. I knew I had to build a relationship with the city that went deeper, more spiritual, perhaps. There is no denying that a series of unexpected occurrences had brought Junko and me together here in Kyoto. Regardless of those undesirable circumstances we both felt that we were “called” to Kyoto.

         For me, it was time to let go, to retrieve a life I had almost forgotten. It was the neighboring mountains and the little known world of the Yamabushi that was calling my spirit “to return to Kyoto.”

         As we were leaving, Yamamoto Sensei insisted on paying the bill. Outside we hopped into a taxi and were ushered into the night. Our new friend and guide to Kyoto took us to a temple in the middle of the city. It was a temple I had often walked past on previous visits to Kyoto. In the darkness, behind the temple gate, Yamamoto Sensei showed us a rock. It was a rock like many of the other large rocks you see around the entrances of Japanese temples. But this one was different Yamamoto sensei said. He asked us to look carefully.

“Don’t stare at it,” he cautioned. “Just let your eyes gently gaze on it. Try to open yourself to its presence. Try to feel the shape of the rock with your eyes.”  Our rock was large and oval-shaped. It was almost breast height. In the dim light I could make out its pale green color. It had ripples of white granite that striated diagonally along its sides. Among the imposing trees that arched high above us in the temple grounds it was the kind of rock you could easily pass by without noticing. But if you looked closely, it was a rock that, one could imagine, had a story. Following Yamamoto Sensei’s directions, I let my eyes relax and try to feel the rock’s periphery.  Junko and I stood in silence and gazed at the rock for several minutes. The occasional thought in my head expressed dismay that I was submitting to this drunken whimsy.  But I respected Yamamoto Sensei. Both Junko and I felt he had a lot to teach us.  After a few more minutes I began to notice a shift in the rock’s presence. It was like some magnetic energy was beginning to radiate from the rock. Slowly, I began to feel my perception changing, expanding, somehow influenced by the rock’s seemingly magnetic pull that was reaching out towards me. “Do you feel it?” Yamamoto Sensei whispered. I sensed that he knew what I was experiencing. “Can you begin to hear the rock’s murmur?”

         I couldn’t quite understand what he meant. But I was definitely beginning to experience heightened sensory arousal.  There was some kind of animate quality emanating from the rock. If only I could allow my rational mind to let go, I thought to myself, and “believe” that the rock can, indeed, talk.

         “This rock can be your guide; your doorway into the city’s past,” Yamamoto Sensei said, touching my arm gently.

            Over the following weeks and months Junko and I met Yamamoto Sensei again for food and wine. Junko preferred not to drink, but she loved the stories as much as I did. He eventually invited us to his home, where his wife prepared traditional seasonal Kyoto cuisine served in small porcelain and lacquer dishes, and we drank the same white Koshu wine.

            I was curious why Yamamoto sensei preferred Koshu wine. I knew the wine well.  The Koshu grapes were grown in Yamanashi Prefecture, just a short drive west from Tokyo. The region was in the mountains and offered great views of Mt. Fuji. It was also known for its peaches, pears and grapes. There was good sunlight; the slopes were also rich in minerals and had excellent drainage. This made for good wine. It is why the Japanese government had commissioned the local landowners to plant vineyards in the 19th century to provide wine for official gatherings with foreign dignitaries in Tokyo.  I knew all this because my good friend’s family owned one of the region’s oldest wineries. I had spent many evenings there enjoying the ephemeral glow of moonlight over Mt. Fuji and the vineyards,  while drinking wonderful vintages; not only Koshu wine, but also formidable Bordeaux reds from the winery’s old stone cellar. 

            “It’s the taste, but also the story hidden in the Koshu grape that I love,” Yamamoto Sensei explained to us.  “This is a Silk Road wine. It came to Japan with the ancient weavers who brought with them their skills, and also their culture and stories of distant lands. Those stories are awakened in the taste of this wine. They are for us to enjoy.”

            “Yes, and many more ancient stories too, perhaps!” I added. “Scattered in the soil of those vineyards are fragments of ancient Jomon era pottery. Those shards of pottery must add some special flavor to the wine too!” I added. 

            “Yes, this is the wine of the Japanese gods! It is a marriage of the great cultures of antiquity and also Japan’s prehistoric past!” Yamamoto Sensei said. “Thousands of years of the most creative flowering of Jomon-era culture are in the pottery fragments scattered across the vineyards! And here we have the essence of that ancient fertile culture in our wine glasses!”

            With Yamamoto Sensei, this was how our conversations flowed. We shared a similar wavelength that was sometimes rarefied. Always liberating. Our talk felt like free jazz.  He was becoming more than just a teacher. We were developing a relationship that could no longer be defined.

            After dinner, we’d often go out into the night to meet new rocks. He’d introduce me to his favorites. I was beginning to get an idea of how many talking rocks there are in Kyoto. The city is full of rocks. You could call Kyoto a city of rocks. Yamamoto Sensei showed us rocks hidden in empty lots between tall office buildings. There was one special rock half buried in the asphalt beside a parking lot. Quite a few were placed at street corners in residential neighborhoods where they seemingly watched the busy passage of human life go by.

             This got me to start looking at rocks in Kyoto in a different way. Wherever I went I started noticing rocks, their shapes, their textures and striations. I began to distinguish their different characters and even dispositions. Some rocks did indeed seem more conversant than others, but I was still not quite sure.

            “The most profound rocks,” he would often say, “are the ones in the great rock gardens of the temples.”

             I must admit, I’m still only beginning to understand this world of rocks. There is a voice in my head that says this is all fantasy. Some part of me is stubborn and doesn’t know how to listen. I know it’s my education, my upbringing. Like most of us, I was trained to think rationally. This so- called animistic way of opening up our eyes and ears and other senses to the world around us, it seems so alien.

            From my time with Yamamoto Sensei I was beginning to realize that to be able to listen to rocks would require a lot of time and effort. Was going down this rabbit hole to communicate with rocks really worth the required investment of my time and energy?

            Regardless of these doubts, I was beginning to realize that what Yamamoto Sensei referred to as “listening” didn’t necessarily pertain to the voices we usually hear with our inner ear. It’s more of an intuitive hearing. I was beginning to wonder where all of this was leading me.

A Zen Romance

August 2, 2020

Book review by John Dougill

There’s often a mystery about why some books last and others fade from public awareness. That certainly applies in this case, because for some reason this reviewer fails to understand, A Zen Romance fails to come up in talk of best novels about Japan. Shamefully it was not even included in WiK’s initial listing of Kyoto books. Yet the book is an absolute gem.

Imagine The Lady and the Monk written from the Lady’s viewpoint. Imagine too that the induction into Zen is laced with lascivious monks and a rich sense of humour. Add to that an astonishing facility with language and you have something of the measure of Deborah Bollinger Boehm’s memoir. Set in 1970, it’s written from the perspective of the 1990s when the book came out – five years after Pico Iyer’s The Lady and the Monk.

The story follows a well-worn path. An innocent outsider arrives in Kyoto, finds a room by chance in a subtemple, and is attracted to ‘the supernal serenity of the Sodo’ (meditation hall). As she grows to love the ‘aesthetics and atmosphere and aesthetics’, the reader is taken with her to learn about life inside a Zen monastery. Along the way there are side excursions into the tea ceremony, the firing of a Raku bowl, and even a visit to David Kidd‘s house in Ashiya.

By the end of her stay in Kyoto the heroine has learned a lot about Zen and is changed by the experience. The twist here is that, unusually, the main character is a sensual female with a fascination for Japanese males, particularly monks – though remarkably she remains a virgin throughout. The romance of the title is thus both for the Gion-located monastery of the humorously named Zenzenji, as well as for the monkish figures who attract her attention.

But the storyline is almost incidental, since centre stage is taken by the brilliance of the language. There are moments when you want to put down the book and applaud the virtuoso writing. Serpentine sentences of seductive prose sit alongside sensuous lists of food, clothing, smells, tastes and sights, all depicted with a dash of irony. Eisai, founder of Rinzai Zen, is called aptly but archly, ‘the avatar of tannic enlightenment’.

In keeping with the title, romance colours the writing throughout. A Kyoto early morning is described as ‘a glorious abalone dawn, pearlescent pink and blue with a river of silver along the horizon, like spilled mercury from the thermometers of hypochondrical gods.’ The similes, strikingly original, always seem to hit the mark, as when on the edge of sexual excitement the heroine feels like ‘a cabbage leaf in a rushing river, powerless to stop the romantic momentum.’

If the command of language is impressive, the range of vocabulary is astounding. Terpsichorean, ligneus, kelpie, eidetic, burlap, nacreous, vermiculate, cenobite, kibble, sigmoid flexure, supraliminal, emphaloskepsis – words tumble off the page as if out of a dictionary, yet such is the sumptuous nature of the prose that none of it feels forced. On the contrary the sheer bravado skill bears testimony to a master writer. In an explosively erotic first chapter (which surely deserves renown as one of the best openings ever), the panty-less heroine is ravished by a kimono-clad monk on the floor of the meditation chamber (‘our bodies stuck together like caramel apples’) – only for it to be revealed afterwards as a dream.

Rather than austere and martial, as most people find monastical life, the heroine regards it as ‘a constant voluptuous treat for the senses’. What’s more, it’s a ‘cosmic cookie jar, filled with everything I wanted in those days: beauty, serenity, simplicity, wisdom, ritual, mystery, style, and the company of fascinating men.’ Her tale of discovery is laced with Zen quotes, Zen insights and Zen witticisms – ‘What is the sound of one hand waving goodbye?’ she quips as she takes her leave at the end.

And so the mystery remains: how did this book disappear from the shelves? Was it poor marketing? The female perspective? The humour? The lack of earnestness towards Zen? And what of Deborah Boehm – Wikipedia reports that though she followed a career as a writer, she only wrote one other book. For myself I found this one such a triumph of fine writing that like Jack Nicholson in As Good as it Gets, I started reaching for the best compliment I could think of – this book made me want to become a better writer.

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Review
“A highly entertaining, vital and utterly convincing account of the author’s immersion in the world of Zen.” — Lucien Stryk, author of The Awakened Self
Review
“A triple quest–artistic, erotic and humanely curious–that no serious Zen student should ignore. The tale is funny, too.” — Janwillem Van de Wetering, author of The Japanese Corpse
Review
“Boehm is one of the wittiest observers of the Japanese scene that I have read.”–Ian Buruma, New York Review of Books
Review
“Sometimes sharp and sometimes delicate, sometimes meditative and sometimes sensual, … always beautifully written.” — Edward Seidensticker, author of Low City, High City
Review
“The most delectable travel account of the area [Kyoto] that I’ve read.” — Pico Iyer, Kansai Time Out

Writers in focus

The wandering Nanao Sakaki

July 29, 2020

Nanao Sakaki (1923-2008) was not a Kyoto writer, but a wandering poet who belonged to everywhere and nowhere.  By all accounts he led a remarkable life and wrote remarkable poems.  Some folks in Kyoto had the pleasure to know him, particularly Ken Rodgers who accompanied him on a tour to Australia.  Thanks to Ken for supplying the piece below by Robert Lee, which first appeared in the Kyoto Journal.

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Extracted from Robert Lee’s tribute to Nanao Sakaki ‘Transnational Poet Wanderer’ in Kyoto Journal, no. 78, p.127ff;

There was the first meeting with Snyder and Ginsberg in Kyoto in 1963 and then Snyder’s invitation to him to visit America in 1968 (California and the West Coast of mountain and ocean, Manhattan and Greenwich Village). Subsequent visits include poetry readings with Waldman, Ginsberg, and others, notably at Naropa in 1981. In June 1988 he asked Ginsberg, Snyder, McClure and Waldman for help in raising money to protect the blue coral reef in Ishigaki-jima against becoming a new airport landing-strip. Their poetry reading in San Francisco served as publicity and a fund-raiser. Sakaki’s message to this Beat consortium he included in his Japanese collection CHIKYU B (1989), with a translation into English under the title “Save Shiraho’s Coral Reef” in Nanao or Never (“this Kamikaze project” he calls the planned landing strip).

In an interview with Trevor Carolan, Sakaki explained very succinctly what kind of Zen he adheres to: “ Most Zen is uninteresting to me …It’s too linked to the samurai tradition – to militarism. This is where Alan Watts and I disagreed: he didn’t fully understand how the samurai class with whom he associated Zen were in fact deeply Confucian: they were concerned with power. The Zen I’m interested in is China’s Tang dynasty variant with teachers like Lin Chi. This was non-intellectual. It came from farmers—so simple. Someone became enlightened, others talked to him, learned and were told, Now you go there and teach; you go here, etc. When Japan tried to study this it was hopeless, the emperor sent scholars, but with their high-flown language and ideas they couldn’t understand.” (Nanao or Never).

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The following is taken from this webpage: http://www.cuke.com/dchad/writ/Japan%20stories/here%20and%20nanao.html

Nanao’s reputation spread and in the sixties when Allen Ginsberg went to Kyoto to visit Gary Snyder, they were told they had to meet Nanao so they did and they all became fast friends and they invited him to go to America which he did. He spent about ten years in America – in San Francisco and New Mexico and in the mountains and desserts. A friend of mine who knows Nanao says that Nanao walked from New York to California and back and forth a number of times and up to Alaska and so forth. All the walking stories I’ve heard about Nanao seem to me to add up to more miles than one could cover in a lifetime. But whatever he’s walked, it’s been one whole heck of a lot.

Folks at the SF Zen Center got to know Nanao because he never had a place of his own or any money so one of the communal houses near Zen Center would take him in as an honored guest. But he just wrote poetry and philosophized and didn’t tend to do the dishes so, after a while, he’d be passed on to another Zen Center house or hippy commune. And he’d write poetry and publish books and go to events like be-ins and concerts. He didn’t always get his way. Kyokes in Kyoto was working at an environmental center on Yoshida mountain by the Yoshida shrine on the West side of the city – the same place where landscaper and Nanao buddy Sogyu is now. They were running a little hostel there a few years ago at quite reasonable rates and Nanao showed up and wanted a room for free and thought his name would do for legal tender but she said he’d have to pay like everyone else so he went off and found somewhere else.

“His poems were not written by hand or head, but with the feet. These poems have been sat into existence, walked into existence, to be left here as traces of a life lived for living…”
Gary Snyder, Foreword, Break the Mirror

If you have time to chatter

Read books

If you have time to read

Walk into mountain, desert and ocean

If you have time to walk

sing songs and dance

If you have time to dance

Sit quietly, you Happy Lucky Idiot

[ Kyoto, 1966]

(Bob Arnold webpage http://longhousepoetryandpublishers.blogspot.jp/2013/02/earth-nanao-sakaki-if-you-have-time-to_23.htm)

(The below is an oral transcription of Nanao put into poetic form by Steve Brooks)

ENVIRONMENTAL CASE: NUCLEAR POWER PLANTS
 AND EARTHQUAKES IN JAPAN

Fifteen nuclear power plants north of Kyoto, I visit there
many times
I stay at Shingon or Zen temples that are anti-nuke.
Mostly Japanese Buddhists very conservative, they never
talk about nuclear power issue
but the monks at those temples shout, “no nukes, no nukes!”
Kyoto is so close to the plants, only 100 miles
and wind always blowing: Kyoto to Osaka to Kobe
Because of wind course if something happens millions of
people must die.
Already the government thinks 5 million will die if some-
thing happens to a power plant. Like an earthquake.

Writings about Kyoto, whether by Japanese or foreign observers

ZOOMING GION

July 24, 2020

ZOOM TALK ON GION FESTIVAL BY CATHERINE PAWASARAT ( July 19)

A reminder of what Kyoto has missed this year
(Photo by Catherine Pawasarat)

This year, sadly, Kyoto’s Gion Matsuri is not taking place. A festival founded to prevent epidemics has been cancelled because of an epidemic. It’s an unfortunate irony, but as Catherine Pawasarat pointed out in her two hour presentation it is by no means the first time in the festival’s long history that it has not been held. Founded in 869, the festival suffered its longest disruption for over 30 years after the Onin War devastated the city in the late fifteenth century. From being an imperial sponsored event, it morphed into one funded by patronage by Kyoto’s kimono merchants.

The talk covered numerous aspects of the festival, indicative of just what a rich heritage it represents. The main points included:

– the speaker’s personal involvement, which began 30 years with work for the festval shrine, Yasaka Jinja, as professional translator, followed by personal friendship with many of the key figures.

– her realisation that the festival was in essence a grand shamanic event to draw down spirits through tall spires and into the chigo (young boys who act as receptors or vessels; there used to be one on each float). Hypnotic music, humid heat and overcrowded conditions promote a change of consciousness in participants.

– the festival is held in the rainy season when in former times diseases such as cholera and dysentry were rife. It was a sickly time of year, followed by the season of death in August.

– at the core of the month-long events is a spiritual festival featuring three mikoshi (portable shrines) which are moved from Yasaka Jinja to the stopping place (tabisho) in Shijo Street.

– the three mikoshi are for the presiding deity, storm kami Susanoo no mikoto, together with his wife Kushi-Inada in the second mikoshi and their eight children in the third.

– the two processions of floats (34 in all) are put on for the purpose of pleasing the kami and promoting their transformation from angry spirits to benevolent. Each float has its own deity or deities.

The impressive parade of floats with their enormous shamanic spires (Pawasarat)

In recent years the festival has faced difficult challenges. These include the erosion of tradition; decline of the kimono businesses that sponsored floats; loss of traditional townhouses to modern blocks and hotels; aging festival organisers, increased mobility and declining number of young people willing to assume responsibility.

On the other hand, there are positive signs. Crowd funding succeeded in restoring the long defunct Ofune float. University students have given support and acted as volunteer workers at the festival. Ritsumeikan is running a Virtual Gion Festival project, which will greatly aid research. Attention from modern industry has resulted in unexpected connections, such as robotic interest in the Praying Mantis float mechanics. There is greater female involvement, and architects are developing sympathetic designs which retain traditional features.

All in all, this was a wide-ranging and informative talk that drew attention to the extraordinary cultural wealth of this multi-faceted festival. Some mistakenly think of it as simply a procession of floats, but as Catherine demonstrated in this richly illustrated talk, it is far, far more than that.

Taken overall, the festival virtually lasts all year when one takes preparations and practice into account. The actual events take place over the whole month of July, with a variety of rituals, dances and events, some of which constitute a whole festival in themselves. One such is the Byobu Festival, when traditional houses or shops display their most valued items. For those who’d like to know more, Catherine has a book coming out in August, full of insider information from her long friendship with participants. And if you can’t wait till then, take a look at her website here.

A festival with great popular as well as cultural and historical appeal (photo Pawasarat)

For a video of the full talk, please see this youtube link:

Writers in focus

Tina deBellegarde

July 18, 2020
Tina and son Alessandro in Kyoto

Given that you live in New York, could you explain why you want to belong to Writers in Kyoto?

I have visited Kyoto several times since my son made it his home. In that time, I have found an unusual connection to the city that isn’t explained only by my connection to him. When I visit, besides the joy of being in an exciting and beautiful place, I experience a peacefulness that I believe is innate to the city. Even with the increased tourism, there remains a sense of tranquility. I miss the city when I am not there, and when I am in Kyoto, I feel like I belong.

That famous Japanese paradox, especially noticeable in Kyoto, of celebrating the traditional while indulging in modernity, is such a rich resource for story writers. I have written short stories set in Japan with many more on the back burner.

I intend to make my visits to Kyoto more frequent and lengthier. I am looking to have a connection to the city beyond my son’s very busy life. Being a part of WiK is a wonderful way for me to have my own community.

Your son is apparently engaged with media production in Kyoto. Could you tell us more about that?

I’d love to!  Alessandro is a director, producer, and digital artist. He creates traditional and 3D media for cultural preservation/promotion of Kyoto traditions and artistry for local and international audiences. Some of his more prominent projects include partnerships creating 3D content for Gion Matsuri, Furoshiki Paris, and exhibiting Kyoto culture with Virtual Reality at the Grammy Awards. Most recently he is a member of SKYART, a subsidiary of Kawasaki Kikai. I am very proud of him and the niche he has made for himself as a foreign artist breaking into the Japanese market.

For a long time you wrote secretly but only recently after turning 50 decided to go public. Why was that?

My personal story doesn’t start in the same way as many other writers. I wasn’t writing from an early age and submitting to story contests. I didn’t get degrees in Creative Writing or English. But at the same time, since I felt these credentials were necessary to claim the title of writer, I always remained under-confident. I wrote but I never did anything with my writing and I certainly didn’t want to share with anyone my pipe dream of being a published writer. I suffered from imposter syndrome. Luckily, my confidence grew as I aged, and seven years ago my husband Denis and I (semi-)retired. We moved to the countryside with the intention that I would write seriously and pursue publication. It was a big step for me since I had never taken the small steps that many writers take. At a certain age, I guess I felt that I had the right to assert my dreams and try them out and hopefully not fall on my face.

Design by Sachi Mulkey (Kyoto)

Some members of WiK might well want to emulate your success. What advice would you have for them?

Besides finding a supportive community, which you all have here with WiK, I would say networking was the most important thing I did to promote my writing. By attending writer conferences and other events I met accomplished authors I admired, I met struggling new writers who helped me understand I wasn’t alone, I found Beta readers and critique partners, and I had the opportunity to pitch to agents and publishers. Becoming a part of the writing community allowed me to believe getting published was just a matter of time and gave me the tools and the confidence to pursue it.

You have won competitions for flash fiction. Could you comment on our Short Shorts competition and how it differs from those you are used to (please see for example this year’s winner, https://archived.writersinkyoto.com/2020/06/wik-competition-2020-first-prize/)?

Your competition is most noticeably different in that you give few guidelines. You accept all types of writing in the same competition. I have found that prose, poetry, essays etc are generally separated into different competition categories. But it is the writer’s ability to capture the essence of Kyoto that you seek, regardless of form. The lack of prompt and strict guidelines must make it hard for the judges, but at the same time it is obvious that you know what you are looking for when you see it. The three winning pieces from this year are so effectively evocative of Kyoto – all beautiful, all winners.

You write in three different genres, novels, short fiction and flash fiction. How do you feel about the differences between them, and which is your favourite?

This is an impossible question. When I’m working on a novel, the characters, the long story arcs and sub-arcs draw me in and keep my mind churning. Once I delve into the world, I have trouble stepping out.

The challenge of writing a flash fiction nugget that imparts everything is intoxicating. Once I start, I can’t stop until I have something viable to refine. Sometimes the story I want to tell can’t work as flash so I turn it into a short story. But when I succeed at a good piece of flash, I am particularly proud of myself. I feel as if I discovered or rather uncovered something.

If I had to choose, I have a love affair with the short story. It’s the perfect storytelling length. I write until I’m done and I find most of my stories run about a similar size

From your experiences with literary matters and publishing in the USA, do you feel optimistic or pessimistic about the future from the viewpoint of authors?

I am feeling optimistic. Smaller presses are popping up everywhere. The internet has made community much easier to sustain, and along with it, support, promotion etc. When I entered the field I wasn’t as optimistic. As far as I could tell there were just a few big publishing houses and no way to gain access. But as I researched, I realized that there are plenty of publication avenues.

I also learned about the power of the internet to reach readers and publication opportunities. For example, I started writing short stories and flash between finishing my first novel and getting up the nerve to find a publisher. I found it easy to locate short fiction competitions and to stay in touch with the community of writers pursuing these competitions.

I am happily discovering that smaller presses are more willing to accept your work as it exists, less interested in fitting you into a tried and true box that they know will sell. It seems that smaller publishers are in it for the long haul with their writers, it’s not as necessary to make a bang right out of the box. Overall, I think there is room for all of us.

Tina’s writing cottage, built by her husband

Kyoto’s Netsuke Museum

July 16, 2020

Kyoto’s Netsuke Museum
By Iris Reinbacher

This report is posted in conjunction with WiK’s upcoming members-only guided tour of the museum on Sept 26. For further details, please see the righthand column under News or click on this link.

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Just opposite the eastern entrance of Mibudera, famous for its Mibu kyogen, lies the Kyoto Netsuke Museum. Established in 2007 by an avid collector, it is the only dedicated netsuke museum in Japan and houses more than 5000 pieces, the largest collection of netsuke worldwide.

Netsuke are little carved objects ranging from the size of a walnut to that of a ping-pong ball. Originally purely functional, they were intended to prevent losing things like inro (medicine containers) or yatate (tobacco pouches) that were tied to a man’s obi. A cord was fastened to the pouch, with the netsuke on the other end, and then the pouch was hung onto the obi with the netsuke as a kind of button to prevent it slipping.

It is said that Tokugawa Ieyasu used netsuke when out and about, and over time, with the rise of the merchant class in the Edo period, the little carvings became a fashionable status symbol for men akin to expensive watches today.

Since everybody could make and wear netsuke, they were often used to convey the wearer’s personal tastes. Zodiac symbols and other animals were a favourite, as well as carvings inspired by folklore, ancient tales or Buddhist teachings. Human figures were also popular; some carvings lampooned foreigners, and for the especially daring, nude females were produced.

As mentioned above, the museum currently holds more than 5000 netsuke. About 10% are antiques from the Edo period, but since one of the museum’s missions is to pass on the art to the future, pieces by modern artists have been collected as well. While traditionally ivory and wood were used for netsuke, modern carvers employ all kinds of material, including synthetic resins.

Every month, the Netsuke Museum has a special exhibition that focuses on a specific theme or a particular (contemporary) artist. While the carvings can be enjoyed purely for their artistic merit, those with a greater knowledge of Japanese culture will find allusions to stories, history, or even individual figures, which will make a visit even more satisfying.

Another point of interest: this is not merely the only museum in all of Japan with a focus on netsuke, but it is moreover housed in the only remaining samurai residence left in Kyoto. The building is believed to have been built in 1820 for the Kanzaki family, who were one of the Mibu Goshi warriors who became farmers in the Edo period. It has been lovingly restored and is now a tangible cultural property of Kyoto City. So even if you tire of the netsuke, you can always turn your attention to the building!

For more information, see the website of the Netsuke Museum
https://www.netsukekan.jp/en/

and check out the photos on their instagram
https://www.instagram.com/netsuke_museum/

(All photos by Iris Reinbacher)

Authors who belong to Writers in Kyoto

Island Idyll

July 14, 2020

Finding an Island
by Robert Weis

Out on the islands
Lights are turning on
Sea at springtime

(Masaoka Shiki)

The Inland Sea sparkles in the hot afternoon sun, my eyes are blinking, white skin gently burning. It truly is a romantic idea that brought me here, to the shores of a sea that is hiding its true nature under the appearance of a borderless lake, dotted with islands and rocks, thousands of them. A book first of all, The Inland Sea, narrating Donald Ritchie’s quest for a lost maritime Japan, a need for inner peace finally, triggered by this name, Inland Sea, that promises stillness and introversion. Impossible not to get lost, then, in this infinite multitude of islands between Miyajima and Shodoshima, the two extremes of my journey during these early May days. And here I am, in the middle of Japan, hitting the sea towards the islands of Kasaoka, a tranquil community in Okayama province, towards my hoped for harbour of peace for the coming days.

Shiraishijima, literally White Rock Island, is set to be my shelter during the busy Golden Week. It immediately appears as a miniature universe, a world resembling the world. An izakaya filled with habitués where shochu is flowing continuously in a joyful hustle and bustle, a beach bar run by an American-Australian couple, a handful of small pensions, family-run, a guesthouse for international travellers which commands a splendid view over the beach (those sunsets!), a grocery store and an alcohol shop. What else would you need? And there is yet more to be discovered: a Buddhist temple is tucked away in the green heart of the island, and then there is this not-to-be-missed panoramic hiking trail, including some easy boulder climbing that grants spectacular postcard views of the Inland Sea. A hidden beach on the back of the island, accessible by a narrow footpath through the jungle-like forest. Finally, the icing on the cake, and maybe the most surprising of all, a pilgrimage path, hidden in the intimacy of the forest that retraces the 88 sacred places of the Shikoku pilgrimage.

(All photos courtesy Robert Weiss)

I am given accommodation at the International Villa under the guidance of the friendly manager couple Ayumi and Moyo – the flowering red azaleas provide a poignant contrast with the blue skies, and the elegant austerity of the villa architecture, with large bay windows where the sky and the sea meet in infinite reflections. Amy, expat and good island soul, invited me to a religious ceremony during the afternoon, when the birth of the Buddha is celebrated at the local temple. The island community is already gathered as we reach the place and take the opportunity to bathe the Buddha and drink sweet tea handed out by volunteers. This is also the occasion to have a rare glimpse of the local dance tradition, the Shiraishi Obon dance, usually performed on the beach during the Day of the Dead in summertime. The evening inaugurates itself through an epic sunset, with the industrial skyline of Fukuyama as a charming yet haunting background silhouette. A freshly married couple from Kyoto, Yama-chan and Mai-chan, share a cocktail with me at Mooo Bar, we exchange business cards and would meet again later on my journey. On an island, there are few people but many encounters, the slow way of life promotes sociability, and the evening fades into darkness around a bonfire at Sanchan’s pub, with grilled oysters from the neighbouring island waters and shochu, of course.

On the subsequent morning, I make it to the trailhead of the Pilgrimage Path. The complete loop can be done, in as far as the shrines are accessible and depending on the vegetation, in a whole day, or on two shorter days. Amy gets me dressed in the traditional pilgrimage gear: the hat and a pilgrimage stick that would later be useful on some slippery slopes. The route of the Pilgrimage Trail passes under trees most of the time, a perfect feature for a hot and sunny day: wild flowers, ferns, bamboo groves can be admired along the way, and of course, the 88 little Boddhisattva and Jizo statues, typically hidden under a rock, or inside a cave. Quietness is a major attraction of the trail and I find myself lost in self-consciousness in the midst of the forest, albeit never far away from a settlement. And a question keeps returning to my mind: What was it that I was looking for?

The answer might be: my steps had led me on a path to a harbour of peace inside myself. In this inner sea, fortunately enough, I found an island.

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To learn more about Amy Chavez, click here. For a visual and verbal account of a longer stay on Shiraishi, see this posting by John Dougill.

Writings about Kyoto, whether by Japanese or foreign observers

Sutoku In Kyoto

June 28, 2020

Sutoku in Kyoto – emperor, poet, rebel, yōkai
By Nicholas Teele

Emperor Sutoku (Wikicommons)

Sutoku, the 75th emperor of Japan (reigned 1123-1142), is known to those with an interest in Japanese literature primarily for a poem included in a 13th century anthology of poetry, the Hyakunin Isshu (1235 AD); for students of history he is known as a rebel and the catalyst of one of the most significant power shifts in Japanese history; and for those with an interest in fantasy, horror, and magic he is known as an onryō, or yōkai.

Born in 1119, he was named Akihito, although we will refer to him as Sutoku, the name given to him after his death.  According to genealogical records, his father was emperor Toba (1103-56); however, in the next century a story surfaced that not Toba but the retired emperor Shirakawa was Sutoku’s father.  His mother, Fujiwara Tamako (Shōshi), was the daughter of Fujiwara Kinzane. As a child she was adopted by Toba’s grandfather, Shirakawa, and he eventually had her marry Toba. She is said to have been exceedingly beautiful, promiscuous, and very intelligent. After becoming empress she was given the name Taikenmon’in. 

Sutoku was enthroned in 1123, when he was four, and married a few years later. His empress, Kiyoko (1122-1182), was also called Kōkamon’in. She was the daughter of Fujiwara no Tadamichi (1197-64) who served as Regent or Chancellor during the majority of Sutoku’s life. She became consort in 1129, and empress in 1130. She was eight, he was eleven. The emperor and empress got along well but had no children.  

Meanwhile, Toba’s attention shifted from Taikenmon’in to Fujiwara Nariko (1117-1160), who became his new favorite and received the name Bifukumon’in. In 1139 she had a boy, who was given to Kiyoko to raise. However, Sutoku wanted his own child. Whether or not it is because in 1139 he founded a temple, Jōshō-ji, (which was located where Kyoto’s Exhibition and Trade Center in Okazaki Park stands today) is unknown, but the next year Sutoku got the child he hoped would be his heir when his concubine Hyōenosuke no Tsubone gave birth to a boy. 

Houkongou-in garden (courtesy garden-guide.jp)

In 1141, Sutoku was forced to abdicate, and the baby which Toba and Bifukumon’in had given to Sutoku’s wife to raise was enthroned. He was later given the name Konoe. Taikenmon’in, seeing that her influence on Toba had all but disappeared, became a nun and moved to Hōkongō-in, where she died in 1145. The temple is known today for the beauty of its garden and its flowers (http://houkongouin.com).  

As a retired emperor, Sutoku had his own palace. Although it no longer exists, the well that was on the palace grounds remains, on Nishi no Toin, just down from Sanjo. Called “yanagi no mizu,” (water of the willow), the well’s water has been used over the centuries by many people, including Sen no Rikyu. A dyeing company has the land now, and when I visited the shop I was invited in and given a glass of the well water – it was delicious.  (Banba Senkogyo, 77 Ryusuicho, Nakagyo-ku, Kyoto http://www.black-silk.com/contents/about/yanagi/ )

Sutoku had a great interest in poetry. In the early 1140’s he gave an assignment to a select group of poets for each to submit a one hundred poem sequence. Sutoku himself participated, and the poem selected for the Hyakunin Isshu was among the poems in his sequence. There were thirteen participants, among whom were Fujiwara Akisue and his son Akisuke (leaders of the Rokujo group of poets), Fujiwara Shunzei (who was using the name Akihiro), and two of Taikenmon’in’s Ladies in Waiting. Completed in 1150, the sequence was named for the year period in which it was finished, Kyūan, and called the Kyūan Rokunen Hyakushu, Hundred Poem Sequences of the Sixth year of Kyūan.

The poet Saigyo was a friend of Sutoku and his poetry circle (Wikicommons)

The next year, Sutoku commanded Akisuke to compile an imperial anthology of poetry. Completed in about 1151, it was given the title Shikawakashū. The anthology is interesting because it comes at the end of the predominance of the Kokinshū style and sets the stage for the beginning of a new style that culminates in that of the Shinkokinshū. Shunzei, who was young and relatively unknown at this time, was later to edit an imperial anthology himself, the Senzaiwakashū, which is known for its poems with yūgen, depth and mystery. He was also to head the Mukohidari poetry group, which was to eclipse all others. The famous poet priest Saigyo who knew Toba, Taikenmon’in, Shunzei, Sutoku, and the others, had one of his poems included in the Shikawakashū, although as an anonymous poem.

The emperor Konoe died in 1155. It was rumored that Sutoku was somehow involved in the young emperor’s illness, and even suggestions that he had used curses and evil magic to hasten the lad’s death.  Sutoku (and apparently many others) believed that Sutoku’s own son would be enthroned next, but Toba chose Sutoku’s younger brother, the man known in history as Goshirakawa.

Sutoku was enraged. When Toba became sick, and his condition worsened, Sutoku began plotting. As Toba’s death approached, Sutoku moved to the Tanakaden in the Toba Palace to be close to his father.

Built by the Emperor Shirakawa just south of the capital near what was then the juncture of the Kamo and Katsura Rivers, the Toba Palace must have been an opulent array of magnificent buildings and gardens. The following photograph, taken of an illustration at the onsite display, shows what the area may have looked like.

Walking a bit south and then west from Kintetsu Takeda station, one arrives at Anrakujū-in, which is the location of emperor Toba’s tomb. That of the emperor Konoe is close by, as is the emperor Shirakawa’s. Walking on westward, through the Jonan-gu shrine, and crossing the highway, one comes to the Toba Palace Park. Historical markers roughly between Anrakujū-in, the park, and the Kyoto Minami IC of the Expressway, indicate where other parts of the Toba Palace area were.  One of them, a bit northwest of Shrirakawa’s tomb, is the Tanakaden, the place where the retired emperor Toba died.

The Hogen Rebellion of 1156, led by Sutoku (Wikicommons)

After Toba’s passing, in July of 1156, Sutoku mounted a rebellion with the intention of overthrowing Goshirakawa and installing his own son as emperor. The event is known as the Hogen Rebellion, or Hogen Insurrection (to use Sansom’s translation of Hogen no Ran). It was an event of enormous importance in Japanese history. The story is told in the Hogen Monogatari (translated most recently by Royall Tyler in Before HEIKE and After: HOGEN, HEIJI, JOKYUKI. 2016). 

Just a few days after Toba’s death, to everyone’s surprise Sutoku left the Tanadaken and moved to the Shirakawa Kitaden, a palatial area which had been built by Shirakawa. (Today, a stele at the northwest corner of the Kyoto University Kumano Dormitory on Marutamachi marks the site of the Shirakawa Kitaden.)  As he plotted with his advisors, Sutoku put out the call for his supporters to gather with their troops. At the same time Goshirakawa’s advisers realized what was happening and made their own plans. Among Goshirakawa’s supporters were Fujiwara no Tadamichi (the father of Sutoku’s wife Kiyoko), Taira no Kiyomori, and Minamoto no Yoshitomo. Afraid that waiting would mean defeat, Goshirakawa agreed to attack before dawn. 

The fighting was fierce, but Sutoku’s men held firm. Minamoto no Yoshitomo, worried that with time passing more of Sutoku’s men might arrive to support him, sent a message from the front line to Goshirakawa about what to do, and was ordered to set fire to the mansion housing Sutoku and his advisors.  Caught unawares, Sutoku and his forces panicked and scattered in disarray. Together with a few of his closest retainers, Sutoku escaped up into Mt. Nyoi, on past the part of the mountain now commonly referred to as Daimonji-yama, and spent a miserable night there before he decided to give up and become a priest.  The next day he managed to get to Ninna-ji (just west of Ryōan-ji) where his (and Goshirakawa’s) brother was a priest. There he took priestly vows and shaved his head.  It was quickly decided that Sutoku would be sent into exile.

Ninna-ji, where Sutoku’s brother was installed as priest
(photo John D.)

Sutoku was taken back south of the capital and put on a boat which would take him to exile in today’s Sakaide, in Kagawa prefecture. His son took priestly vows at Ninna-ji, and may have stayed there, or may have gone with his father.  The boy’s mother, Hyōenosuke no Tsubone, went with Sutoku.  Kiyoko stayed behind, and became a nun. Many of Sutoku’s supporters were executed.

While in exile, Sutoku repeatedly pleaded with the imperial court to be allowed to return to the capital.  He copied sutras and had them sent to Goshirakawa to show his sincerity, but the emperor rejected them, and all of Sutoku’s pleas.  There were rumors that Sutoku was using his own blood to write with, instead of black ink. There were fears that the sutras he copied contained some kind of special power, and curses, and were part of a plot to regain the throne.  Strange disasters in the capital, especially involving those who had opposed him were blamed on Sutoku, with his evil magic, such as the deaths of Bifukumon’in in 1160, and Fujiwara no Tadamichi in 1164, six months before Sutoku’s own death.

Sutoku died in 1164 and is buried on Mt. Shiramine, in Kagawa (https://www.kunaicho.go.jp/ryobo/guide/075/index.html), next to Shiramine-dera, one of the 88 Shikoku pilgrimage temples. Although he never returned physically to the capital, some said that his revengeful spirit did, and rumors continued that Sutoku was responsible for deaths and natural disasters that followed.  It said he had become an onryō (wrathful spirit), tengu, or yōkai. 

Sutoku as demon (courtesy yokai.com)

After Sutoku died, a woman who had been one of his favorites, Awa o Naishi (also pronounced Awa no Naiji), built a memorial to him in Kyoto where she and others prayed that his soul might find peace. Called the Sutoku Tenno Gobyō, it is located in the Gion area, just behind the Kaburenjo (https://ja.kyoto.travel/kiyomori/detail/022.html).  Awa no Naishi had lived not far away, near the site of what is now the Yasui Konpira-gu shrine, and today Sutoku is one of three kami worshipped there. (http://www.yasui-konpiragu.or.jp/en/about See also the recent post in Green Shinto, http://www.greenshinto.com/wp/2020/05/26/animism-2-syncretic-yasui/ )

Later, after the fall of the Taira in 1185, Awa no Naishi moved to Jakkō-in, in Ohara, where she was lady in waiting to Taira no Tokiko, better known as Kenreimon’in, the daughter of the great Taira leader, Taira no Kiyomori. Kenreimon’in had been empress of the emperor Takakura, and she was the mother of the child emperor Antoku, who was drowned at Dan no Ura in the defeat of the Taira, in 1185. (http://www.jakkoin.jp/en/)  In the Tale of the Heike, there is a moving account of the retired emperor Goshirakawa going to Jakkō-in to visit her, and being surprised to see Awa no Naishi there as well.  They all cry as they remember the wars set in motion by Sutoku’s futile insurrection. The story is also in the Noh play Ohara goko.

The Hogen Rebellion of 1156 saw the rise of Taira no Kiyomori and Minamoto no Yoshitomo, who had supported Goshirakawa. In 1159, the Taira and Minamoto clans turned on each other in the Heiji Rebellion.  The Taira won with Kiyomori at their head, but in 1180 the Genpei wars started, again between the Taira and the Minamoto, and this time the Taira were crushed and the victorious Minamoto, under Minamoto no Yoritomo, took control, and set up the Shogunate in Kamakura. Sutoku’s insurrection also resulted in the revival of the death penalty, and of the exile of an emperor; it had been centuries since either penalty had been imposed.

In 1177 it was decided that the name Sutoku would be used to refer to the man who had been the 75th emperor of Japan. In 1184, after a number of incidents attributed to Sutoku’s revengeful rage, the emperor Goshirakawa tried to calm and pacify the spirit of his deceased older brother. He held memorial services at Jōshō-ji, the temple Sutoku had founded in 1139, and at the Awata-gu, a shrine Goshirakawa had built at the site of the Shirakawa Kitaden, which had been the center of the fighting in the Hogen Insurrection. The Awata-gu is gone, having been destroyed by war in the fifteenth century, but a statue thought to have been there, the Sutoku Jizo (also referred to as the Hitokui Jizo – ‘people-eating Jizo’), can be seen at Sekizen-in (which is a few minutes walk east from Higashi-oji, on Kasugakita-dori, one block north of Marutamachi).  A sign in front of the statue says “Do not take pictures of it.”

Sutoku’s place among the ranks of onryō  (wrathful spirits) and yōkai (monsters) was secured in the 18th century with Ueda Akinari’s “Shiramine,” the first story in his Ugetsu Monogatari, translated by Anthony Chambers (Columbia, 2007) as Tales of Moonlight and Rain. “Shiramine” is the tale of a visit by the famous poet-monk Saigyo to pray at the mausoleum of Sutoku on Mt. Shiramine. In the story, Sutoku’s spirit appears and converses with Saigyo. Sutoku, looking dreadful, haggard, ragged, long straggly hair, gangly, and with a bellowing, angry, revengeful and wrathful voice, boasts about the death and destruction he has caused with his curses, and promises more carnage to come.  Saigyo encourages him to reform, and says he will keep praying for him.

In 1868, as the Meiji period began, Sutoku’s spirit was finally allowed to return to Kyoto and a shrine was built for his spirit and that of another exiled emperor, Junnin (8th century). The shrine, called Shiramine-gu (after Sutoku’s mausoleum in Kagawa prefecture) is on Imadegawa, just east of Horikawa (http://shiraminejingu.or.jp/english/. 

The poem Shunzei’s son Teika selected for the Hyakunin Isshu, which Sutoku had written for the Kyūan Hundred Poem Sequences several years before his revolt and exile, reads like the passionate call of a man for a dream which was never to come true.

瀬をはやみ                     se wo hayami
岩にせかるる                 iwa ni sekaruru
滝川の                              takigawa no
われても末に                warete mo sue ni
逢はむとぞ思ふ            awan to zo omou

The rapids so fast
that though the large rocks blocking
the waterfall river 
split the flow, it will join again —
I so want to be with you again!

Sutoku becoming a vengeful demon on his death, painted by Utagawa Yoshitsuya

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For an interview with Nick Teele, see here. For his account of reviving a Kyoto Pilgrimage of 33 Temples, see here.

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