Yoshida Kenko, born in 1283, left his life as a court official at the age of 42 (following the death of the emperor Go-Uda in 1324) to become a buddhist monk. shortly thereafter he took up residence in a little house in the wilds of arashiyama, far from the bustle of imperial kyoto, where he lived mostly in solitude until his death in 1350. the slim volume “the harvest of leisure,” takes the form of a couple hundred short passages. it was published posthumously, collected from scraps and notes stuck to the walls of his home. i bought an english translation years ago at a used book store and happened upon it today. seeing as how it seems to be out of print, i thought i’d transcribe a little bit here.
i love the idea of the hermitic type, living on a mountain, wandering about, sticking notes to his wall when an idea struck him. i also love that 800 years later those random thoughts of a monk living in solitude survive to be posted on the web. this particular translation is from 1931 and the language is a bit stiff, but it’s an enjoyable little book none the less.
38
those men who are mastered by greed for riches or fame reap their reward in troubled spirits and the absolute destruction of peace. what folly! such a rich man is too poor to buy peace, and his gold is heaped to the height of the great bear will but vex himself and his heirs. carriages, fat horses, jewels and glitter, what are these but the contempt of the wise.
with what passion the average man esteems great reputation! -and yet he who censures, he who blames, alike vanish quickly into forgetfulness. then is it not also folly to desire posthumous fame? those who do so are but the slaves of transitory opinion.
this brings us to the question of those who pursue knowledge with avidity. now, knowledge is gleaned from others or learned from books. that is not wisdom. then what is wisdom? alas! true wisdom is born in a man and dies with him. it cannot be transmitted, and the truly wise man can neither be classed with the virtuous or claimed by the foolish. he stands outside all classification of wisdom or folly or hoarding or spending. so therefore the man who pursues the gauds of fame and fortune walks in illusion. these things have no real existence- then wherefore shall we desire them?
74
the peoples of the world, what are they than ants hurrying east and west, north and south? nobles, some. plebeians, others- old and young, hastening to other places, rushing homewards. sleeping at night, rising in the morning. and why? what are they doing? in the urge of life they are seeking incessantly for gain. what future are they pursuing?
old age and death await them. what else? these come hastening on and cannot be arrested. and with this certainty what pleasure has the world to offer? yet the average man has no time to dread the inevitable law of life, for he is submerged in the desire of wealth and fame, and has no interest in reflecting upon the short span that is alloted to them. and the only ones who grieve at it are the fools in their folly, and they because the world’s impermanence galls them and they have no understanding of the law of change.
85
pray never to run the risk of imitating a fool! if you rage along the street in imitation of a madman you are a madman- neither more nor less. suppose you slay a man after the fashion of a criminal- you are a villain. (and what’s the moral?) if a horse can imitate the supernatural horse of legend who runs a thousand ri in one day, why then he is supernatural! and if an emperor imitates shun (the wisest of chinese rulers), he is shun. he who pretends wisdom is not far from being wise.
105
the snow which has lain a long time remains still on the northern side of the house; it is frozen hard indeed. a carriage is in sight, its pole covered with glittering rime. it is dawn, but the moon still gives light- a light more mysterious than daylight, obscured by a little temple and its trees, and in the haze of meeting lights, hidden from all eyes by the building, a man of high rank sits with a woman on the veranda by the temple railings. their talk is very low. how should i know what they say? her head droops a little- a sight of beauty. through the air the indescribable sweetness- a frail perfume comes drifting to me. i hear some broken words. a poem lived- not written.
137
the full glory of the blossoming cherry and the moon in a clear sky are not the only things worth seeing. it is as moving a matter to watch for the moon when the sky is dark with rain-clouds, or to be debarred from visiting the beauty of spring. and again, the garden in all it’s pride of blossom and the garden faded and dead in winter are equally suggestive…
the truth is that the beginning of anything and its end are alike touching. is the love of a manor a woman heart-moving only when they are together? what of the sorrow of separation, the empty token, the long waking night, the distant place? what of recalling with all the ache of memory bygone days, the little desolate grassgrown dwelling? these things are the very torture of lovers…
note that a man of true taste is never one who gorges himself with obvious beauty. he loves the more refined and intimate shades. you will find the lout fixed before the blossoms with gloating looks, exhilarated with drink, reeling off trick poems and heartlessly tearing off great boughs laden with bloom. you will find him dipping his paws in the purity of the flowing spring or tranquil lake. he will trample fallen snow and leave his hoof-marks upon it. invariably he is unable to rejoice in beauty without pawing it…
i take it that this is the attitude of the novelty hunter not the beauty lover.
166
when i reflect upon the thought of mankind and its purpose, i compare it to a man who models a snow image of the buddha and proposes to decorate it with precious substances and jewels in spring and to build a temple to house it. but can the snow tarry until the spring? truly a man’s life is like an image of snow thawing and wasting away daily.
235
vagrants do not enter an inhabited house, though a deserted house may be freely entered by any chance passer or be taken possession of by foxes or owls or haunted by wild woodland spirits. for there is none to say them nay.
so also it is because a mirror is empty of all form and colour that every image in turn reflects itself. should it have form and colour of itself it could reflect no images. thus an empty space may be filled by anything and every desire may nest in a masterless heart. were there a master ruling within it there would be no base intruders.