Bashō's Journey: The Literary Prose of Matsuo Bashō

3. Knapsack Notebook

CHAPTER 3 K n a p s a c k N o t e b o o k O i n o k o b u m i Among these hundred bones and nine orifices1 there is something . For now let’s call it “gauze in the wind.”2 Surely we can say it’s thin, torn easily by a breeze. It grew fond of mad poetry3 long ago and eventually this became its life work. At times, it has wearied of the venture and thought of quitting; at times it has pressed forward, boasting of victories. Battling thus back and forth, it has never been at rest. For a while it yearned for worldly success, but poetry thwarted that; for a while it thought of enlightening its foolishness,4 but poetry broke that off. Finally, without talent or skill, it simply follows along this one line. Saigyō’s waka, Sōgi’s renga, Sesshū’s painting, Rikyū’s tea ceremony5—one thread6 runs through the artistic Ways. And this aesthetic spirit is to follow the Creative,7 to be a companion to the turning of the four seasons. Nothing one sees is not a flower, nothing one imagines is not the moon. If what is seen is not a flower, one is like a barbarian; if what is imagined is not a flower, one is like a beast. Depart from the barbarian, break away from the beast, follow the Creative, return to the Creative. It was the beginning of Godless Month,8 with sky unsettled and body like the aimless, windblown leaves. “wayfarerer” will be my name; first winter showers tabibito to / waga na yobaren / hatsushigure 29 sasanqua blossoms again at each and every lodging mata sazan ka o / yadoyado ni shite (Chōtarō) Chōtarō, resident of Iwaki, added this second stanza and treated me to a farewell party at Kikaku’s home. now it’s winter; doubtless you’ll return from Yoshino with the journey’s souvenir of spring toki wa fuyu / yoshino o komen / tabi no tsuto (Lord Rosen) This verse was a gracious gift of the Lord Rosen,9 and with this as a beginning, friends of all kinds and disciples joined in, some offering poems or prose, others money for sandals, revealing their deep feelings. And so I had no need to concern myself with the “three months of provisions.” Paper clothing and padded cloak, hat and socks: each person collected something for me, leaving me no worries about the biting cold of frost or snow. Some invited me onto their boats, others gave parties at their villas, still others brought food and drink to my hut, celebrating the journey ahead, regretting the farewell. It almost seemed that someone important was departing—rather extravagant I felt. Among diaries of the road, those of Ki, Chōmei, and the Nun Abutsu10 are consummate works, bringing to fulfillment the feelings of the journey, while later writers merely imitate their form, lapping their dregs, unable to create anything new. I too fall far short, my pen shallow in wisdom and feeble in talent. “Today rain fell, it cleared at noon. There was a pine tree here, a certain river flowed over there”: anyone can record this, but unless there is Huang’s distinctiveness and the freshness of Su,11 it’s really not worth writing. And yet the scenes of so many places linger in the heart, and the aching sorrow of a mountain shelter or a hut in a moor become seeds for words and a way to become intimate with wind and clouds. So I’ve thrown together jottings of places unforgotten. Think of them as the delerium of a drunk or the rambling of one asleep, and listen recklessly.12 3 0 B a s h ō’ s J o u r n e y Staying over at Narumi “gaze into the darkness of Star Cape”: is this the plovers’ cry? hoshizaki no / yami o miyo to ya / naku chidori I was told that Lord Asukai Masaaki13 had stayed at this inn and written a poem that he presented to the innkeeper: today the capital seems even more distant here at Narumi Bay looking across the vast sea that separates me from home kyō wa nao / miyako mo tōku / narumigata / harukeki umi o / naka ni hedatete (Masaaki) So I wrote: to the capital, half the sky left— clouds of snow kyo...