Bashō's Journey: The Literary Prose of Matsuo Bashō

4. Sarashina Journal

CHAPTER 4 S a r a s h i n a J o u r n a l S a r a s h i n a k i k ō In the relentless autumn wind my heart grew unsettled, filled with longing to view the moon over Mount Obasute1 in Sarashina village. My friend Etsujin, also drawn by the wind and clouds, accompanied me. The Kiso Road runs deep into the mountains along preciptous paths, and Kakei,2 concerned that the journey might be unmanageable for us, sent a servant to attend to us. Both gave their all to the endeavor, but since none of them were experienced in traveling, they were quite unreliable . Things got all confused and turned around, but it certainly made for an interesting trip. At one point we met a priest about sixty years old, dreary and humorless, his countenance sullen and his body bent by his load, panting rapidly as he struggled along with halting steps. Moved to compassion, my companions bundled together the priest’s belongings with what we had been carrying, and threw it all onto the horse and then me on top. Overhead high mountains and strange peaks hung in layers. On my left a great river flowed; below was a precipice that seemed to drop a thousand feet. There was not a single piece of level ground, and unable to settle down in the saddle, I was terrified at every turn, so I dismounted , the servant taking my place. We passed treacherous places such as Hanging Bridge and the Site of Awakening, as well as Monkey Racetrack and Tachi Pass3 along the Forty-eight Turnings. The trail wound round as if on a pathway to the clouds. Even on foot I was dizzy and 45 shaken, my legs trembling, yet the servant showed no signs of fear and kept dozing on top of the horse. Many times I thought he surely would fall—I was terrified as I looked up from behind. Gazing upon the sentient beings of this transitory world, the Lord Buddha must feel the same. When we reflect upon the unremitting swiftness of change, we can see why it is said: “the whirlpool of Awa is free of wind and waves.”4 At night we sought lodging, my mind brimming with the scenes of the day and verses half-composed. I pulled out my brush and ink set and lay on the floor under the lamp, my eyes shut, groaning as I pounded my head. A priest, thinking I was suffering from the travails of traveling, came over to comfort me. He talked on and on about the pilgrimages of his youth, the marvels of Amida Buddha, and all that he considered wondrous —only to keep me from writing anything. But the moonlight he had distracted me from was now shining in through the trees and openings in the wall. From here and there came the sound of bird clappers and the cries of those chasing deer. It was a moment that brought to fulfillment the very heart of autumn sorrow.5 “Hey,” I said to everyone, “let’s have a drink on this moonviewing festival,” and wine cups were brought out. They seemed rather large and unrefined, their gold lacquer work quite crude. The cultured elite from the capital would think them tasteless, they wouldn’t even deign to touch them, but I was surprisingly delighted, as if they were jasper bowls or jeweled cups,6 coming as they did from this place. its inside I’d like to line with lacquer: moon at the inn ano naka ni / makie kakitashi / yado no tsuki the hanging bridge— grasping for dear life, ivy vines kakehashi ya / inochi o karamu / tsuta katsura 4 6 B a s h ō’ s J o u r n e y high hanging bridge— what first comes to mind is the Meeting with the Horses7 kakehashi ya / mazu omoiizu / koma mukae the mist cleared, on this hanging bridge you dare not even blink kiri harete / kakehashi wa me mo / fusagarezu (Etsujin) Mount Obasute her face— an old woman weeping alone: moon as companion omokage ya / oba hitori naku / tsuki no tomo moon of the sixteenth and still I linger here near Sarashina izayoi mo / mada sarashina no / kōri kana Sarashina— moonviewing three nights without a cloud sarashina ya / miyosa no tsukimi / kumo mo nashi (Etsujin) trembling, teetering, now...