Hojoki

The flowing river

never stops

and yet the water

never stays

the same.

Foam floats

upon the pools,

scattering, re-forming,

never lingering long.

So it is with man

and all his dwelling places

here on earth.

In our glorious capital

the roof tops of the houses

of the high and lowly

stand in line and seem to

jostle for prominence.

They appear to have endured

for generations, but look more closely—

those that have stood for long

are few indeed.

One year they burn down

and the next are raised again.

Great houses fade away,

to be replaced by lesser ones.

Thus too those

who live in them.

The place itself

does not change,

nor do the crowds.

Even so, of all

the many people I once knew

only one or two remain.

They are born into dusk

and die as the day dawns,

like that foam

upon the water.

People die

and are born—

whence they come

and where they go,

I do not know.

Nor do I understand

the transitory homes they build.

For whom do they fret themselves?

What can be so pleasing to the eye?

A house and its master

are like the dew that gathers

on the morning glory.

Which will be the first to pass?

Sometimes the dew falls away

while the flowers stay.

But they will surely

wilt in the morning sun.

Sometimes the flower shrivels

while the dew holds on.

But it will not

outlive the day.

In the forty years or so

since I reached the age

to understand the heart of things,

I have witnessed

many awful happenings.

One night long ago

—it would be the twenty-eighth day

of the fourth month

of the third year of Angen[1]—

a loud wind was blowing.

At eight o’clock a fire broke out

in the southeast of the city,

then spread north and west.

The fire finally reached

the south gate of the Palace.

This gate, together with the State Chamber,

University hall, and Office of the Interior,

all burned to ashes in one night.

They say it started

at Higuchi-Tominokoji,[2]

in the lodgings of a company of dancers.

The wind blew wildly—

this way! that way!—

and the fire spread,

like an unfolding fan.

Houses far away

engulfed in smoke!

Closer by, hungry flames

licked the ground.

Sky crimson all about!

Cinders flashing,

lit by fire!

Flames driven by

unrelenting gusts

flew whole blocks.

Who, in all this,

would not be scared to death?

Some suffocated by smoke

fell upon the ground.

Some swallowed by flames

died at once.

Some scarce able

to save themselves,

lost all their worldly goods.

Many treasures

reduced to ash!

Dreadful,

dreadful loss!

The fire destroyed

sixteen noble houses—

who knows how many more?—

I heard one third

of the entire capital.

Scores of men and women perished.

Countless horses,

countless cattle,

also died.

All of man’s doings are senseless

but spending his wealth

and tormenting himself

to build a house in this hazardous city

is especially foolish.

Then

in the fourth month

of the fourth year of Jisho[3]

came a great whirlwind,

which struck Nakamikado-Kyogoku[4]

and blew as far as Rokujo.

It blasted three, four city blocks.

No house, big or small,

once caught by this wind,

was left unscathed.

Some were leveled,

some left with only

posts and beams.

The wind wrenched off gates

and dropped them blocks away.

It flung down fences

so that one plot of land

merged with the next.

Household goods

were tossed into the sky.

Thatch and shingles

danced wildly in the wind,

like winter leaves.

Dust rose like smoke

so nothing could be seen.

The din so intense

no human voice could be heard.

The very winds of hell

must be this loud!

Not only houses

were destroyed.

Many people too

were hurt, maimed

trying to save their homes.

Then the wind moved south

and caused more grief.

Winds often blow—

but ever with such force?

It was all so freakish

I thought it must

be an omen.

And then

in the sixth month

of that fourth year of Jisho

the capital was suddenly moved.

This was deeply shocking.

I understand the city of Kyoto

was founded in the reign of Saga,[5]

so by now some four hundred years had passed.

Not an easy matter

to transplant it on a whim.

Small wonder

people muttered,

angrily.

But protest was to no avail,

and first the emperor,

then ministers,

then nobles of the highest rank,

all moved to the new capital.

Who in high office

could stay behind?

Those who yet craved rank or position

and depended on the patronage of masters

tried to move as quickly as they could.

Those who had missed their chance,

had failed to gain office,

or had otherwise lost hope,

were left behind, lamenting.

Once-proud mansions

fell to ruin as the days went by.

Houses were demolished

and floated down the Yodo River,[6]

while the ground where they had stood

turned into fields before your eyes.

People’s values also changed.

They preferred horse and saddle—

no need now for ox or coach.

All now sought estates

in the south and west.

No one wanted land

in the north and east.

Around that time

some business took me

to this new capital

in the country of Tsu.

When I saw the place

I thought it cramped indeed.

No space for city blocks.

In the north

the land rose

toward the hills.

In the south

it sloped away,

down to the sea.

Everywhere,

the crash of waves,

and strong sea breezes.

The palace in the hills

brought to mind

an ancient wooden lodge,

somehow odd enough

to give an air of elegance.

I wondered where

they were building houses

with the wood from those

dismantled day by day,

bottling up the river,

for there were still many empty lots

and few standing houses.

The old capital was in ruins

while the new was yet to rise.

Everyone felt adrift,

clouds.

The natives of the place

had lost their land

and were distraught.

Those moving there

sighed at the chore

of having to build anew.

When you looked around

those you might expect in carriages

were now on horseback.

Those you thought

to see in court attire

were in common dress.

The style of the capital

had suddenly changed.

Former gentlemen now seemed

mere provincial soldiers.

All this was felt to be

prelude to civil chaos.

Sure enough,

time passed and

confusion, anguish

filled the hearts of all.

Indeed, grievances grew so acute

that this same winter

the capital was returned.

But what of houses

now destroyed?

They could not

be built again

exactly as before.

I have heard

that in the distant past,

this nation was governed

with compassion

by certain wise rulers.[7]

The palace was thatched

with common reeds,

the eaves left ragged.

When the emperor saw

smoke rise thinly

from the people’s hearths

he waived already modest taxes.

This was

an act of mercy,

a desire to help

his people.

To understand

the world of today,

hold it up

to the world

of long ago.

Later

(was it in the Yowa era?[8]

—so long ago that I forget)

came a famine lasting two full years

brought much misery.

First, in spring and summer,

there was drought.

Then in autumn,

gales and floods.

These terrible events

came one upon another.

Finally, the grain crops failed.

People plowed in spring

and planted in summer,

but in vain.

There was no happy bustle

of autumn harvest

of laying away in winter.

In every region

people gave up farms and homes.

Others left for the hills.

Many prayers were chanted,

rituals performed,

with no result.

Kyoto always has relied

on the countryside

but now supplies stopped

and soon all dignity was lost.

People steeled themselves

to sell off possessions,

now of no value.

There was a little trade,

but grain was worth

more than gold.

Beggars were many in the streets,

clamor of suffering,

sorrow filled the air.

In this way, the year

struggled to its close.

There was hope

things might improve

the following year.

But then on top of all

a great plague broke out,

stood the world upon its head.

Everyone was starving.

Time passed and things grew worse

—people seemed like fish

in a shrinking pool.

Decorously dressed folk,

in hats and gaiters,

went from house to house,

frantically begging.

Even as you watched,

stricken people walking by

would suddenly fall.

So many bodies of the starved

lay in the streets

hard by the walls of houses.

Since these were not removed

there rose a dreadful stench.

It was more than one could bear

to look upon these rotting corpses!

Worse still beside the river—

not even room

for horse and cart to pass.

The woodcutters also starving,

firewood disappeared.

With nothing else

some tore down their homes

and took the wood to market.

It was said the value

of this wood

was not enough to live on

for one day.

Then, I was baffled

finding kindling painted red,

and catching glimpses

of gold leaf.

I inquired and found

someone had been reduced

to breaking into temples,

and stealing images of Buddha,

tearing out the fittings of the halls

and chopping them to bits.

Sinful times!

That I should witness

such a dreadful thing!

But then so many other sights

to break the heart.

Loving couples—

the one whose love was deeper

always died first.

They held back,

gave the meager food

to their dearest.

In families,

parents always were the first

to pass away.

I saw babies lying,

still sucking breast,

unaware their mothers were already dead.

A certain monk,

Ryugyo-hoin

of Ninnaji,

felt great pity for the

multitudes of dying.

When he came upon a dying man

he performed last rites,

traced the holy mark[9]

upon the brow.

To keep tally of the dead

he counted two full months.

On the streets of Kyoto

bounded north and south

by Ichijo and Kujo,

east and west

by Kyogoku and Suzaku[10]

the corpses numbered

forty thousand.

This did not include

the many, many

dead before or since.

Add to this the outskirts

by the river, in Shirakawa,[11]

Nishi-no-kyo, and other parts

and the provinces

along the seven highways.

Dead without number.

I hear tell

of another such calamity

in the past,

in the days of Emperor Sutoku

in the years of Chosho.[12]

But I know nothing

of that time.

All I know is this was

the very worst

I have seen.

Soon after

—I wonder now, when was it?[13]—

a great quake

shook the earth.

This too was

a terrible event.

Mountains fell

and filled the rivers.

The seas heaved

and flooded the land.

The earth itself split

and water gushed out.

Giant rocks cracked

and rolled down

into the valleys.

Boats along the shore

were helpless in the waves.

Horses on the streets

stumbled as they walked.

Around the capital

not one temple or pagoda

remained intact.

Some collapsed

and some fell over.

Dust and ashes rose

like billows of smoke.

Earth shaking,

houses breaking

sounded like the crash

of falling thunderbolts.

Caught inside

a house might crush you.

Outside, the ground was torn apart.

Without wings

you could not fly away.

Only a dragon

may ride the clouds!

Surely such an earthquake

is the most terrifying of events.

In time the violent shaking stopped,

but aftershocks continued.

Every day twenty, thirty quakes,

each one frightening enough

in normal times.

Only after ten or twenty days

did they begin to ease.

Sometimes there were

four, five shocks

then two or three,

then fewer and fewer.

These aftershocks lasted

for about three months.

Of the four elements,[14]

water, fire, and wind

often cause great damage.

Earth does not so often

bring catastrophe.

Long before

in the years of Saiko[15]

there had been an earthquake.

That one even caused the head

of the Great Buddha at Todaiji to fall,

as well as many other fearful things.

But from all I hear

that was no equal

to this quake.

For a while right after

there was talk

of the vanities of this world,

and people seemed to be rid

of the sinfulness in their hearts.

But days and months went by,

then years,

and no one spoke of it again.

So as we see

our life is hard

in this world.

We and our houses

fleeting, hollow.

Many troubles

flow from your status,

social rank.

The lowly man

who lives beside the man of power

cannot openly rejoice,

even when glad.

And when sorrow

becomes intolerable

he never can cry out.

His anxious air,

his constant fearful trembles,

are those of a sparrow

near the nest of a hawk.

The poor man

who lives near the rich

is shamed by shabbiness.

He goes in and out

by day or night

with self-effacing air.

He sees the envy of

his wife, children, servants.

He knows the rich despise them all

and his heart is troubled.

Never, never

can he find peace.

If you live

among crowds

you cannot flee

when fire breaks out.

If you wish to live

far from others,

traveling is hard

and there is danger of thieves.

The powerful are greedy.

Those who stand alone are always mocked.

Men of means

have much to fear.

Those with none

know only bitterness.

If you entrust yourself

to the care of others

you will be owned by them.

If you care for others

you will be enslaved

by your own solicitude.

If you conform to the world

it will bind you hand and foot.

If you do not, then

it will think you mad.

And so the question,

where should we live?

And how?

Where to find

a place to rest a while?

And how bring

even short-lived peace

to our hearts?

As for me,

I came into property[16]

from my father’s mother.

I lived there a long while

but then came death,

my family split[17]

and I came down in the world.

Memories were warm

but I could not stay and

after thirty,

by myself, I built a house

one-tenth the size

of my former home.

I built a simple living space,

but had no means to build

what most would think

a proper house.

I put up outer walls

but could not afford a gate.

I set up bamboo poles

as shelter for my cart.

When it snowed

or when the wind blew

my house felt precarious.

It was near the river

so danger from flooding

always loomed.

The place was also

overrun with thieves.

In much this way,

with often troubled mind,

I struggled on for thirty years

in this unkind world.

In this time,

my best intentions foiled,

I came to understand

my hopeless luck.

Therefore,

in my fiftieth spring

I retired from the world.

In any case, I had no wife or child,

no family to regret.

I had no rank,

no revenues,

so where the worldly ties?

In idleness

I lay down on Mount Ohara,[18]

clouds my pillow,

and some five springs

and autumns went by.

Then,

well into my sixth decade,

when the dew of life disappears,

I built a little hut,

a leaf from which

the last drops might fall.

I was a wayfarer

raising a rude shelter,

an old silk worm

spinning one last cocoon.

Unlike the house of my middle years,

this not even one hundredth the size.

The fact is

I get older,

my houses smaller.

As a house it is unique,

ten feet by ten,

the height no more than seven.

With no commitment

to any one place

I laid no claim to the land.

I laid planks

upon the ground

and covered it simply.

The joints are held

with metal hasps.

This is so

I can quickly move

if something should displease me.

No trouble to rebuild,

for it would fill just two carts,

the only cost

the carter’s fee.

I hide myself away

deep in the hills of Hino.[19]

On the east side

I have added a three-foot awning

and use the space below

to strip and burn brushwood.

By the south wall

I laid down a bamboo mat

and west of that

a shelf for offertory goods.

On the north side

behind a screen

an image of Amida

and next to it, Fugen.

In front of them

the Lotus Sutra.[20]

On the eastern side

bedding of dried bracken

for night’s rest.

In the southwest

a bamboo ledge

with three black leather-lined baskets

for poetry and music,

and works like the Ojo-yoshu.[21]

Next to the shelf,

against the wall,

a koto and a biwa,

known as “folding” koto,

“jointed” biwa.[22]

Such is

my little home

in this world.

Outside, to the south,

a water pipe

with stones

to hold the water.

A wood nearby

provides twigs and kindling

in abundance.

The hills are called Toyama,

and spindletrees shade the paths.

The valley is thick with trees

but I have a view

of the Western heavens,

focus for meditation.

In the spring, wisteria,

rippling like waves,

blooming like a holy purple cloud,

also to the west.

In summer, cuckoos.

As they chatter on I ask them

to be sure to guide me

through the mountain paths

of death.

In autumn

the voices of evening cicadas

fill the ear.

They seem to grieve

this husk of a world.

Then in winter—

snow!

It settles

just like human sin

and melts,

in atonement.

When in no mood for chanting

nor caring to read sutras

I can choose to rest.

I can be lazy if I like—

no one here to hinder me,

no one in whose eyes

to feel ashamed.

I took no vow of silence,

yet perforce observe one,

as I am alone.

I need not try so hard

to obey commandments.

Little chance to break them here!

In the morning

when my heart is full of

“the white-topped wake

that flows astern”[23]

I look out at the boats

plying round Okanoya[24]

and write, in the manner of Manshami.

In the evening

when the wind blows

through the katsura tree

and makes its leaves dance

I think of the Jin-yo River[25]

and play, imitating Gentotoku.[26]

When the mood takes me,

again and again, I play

the “Song of Autumn Breezes”

to the wind in the pines

or “Flowing Water”[27]

to the sound of the stream.

Though little skilled

I do not play

to please another’s ear.

I play just for myself

and sing to give sustenance to my own heart.

There is a simple hut

of brushwood

at the foot of the hill

where the mountainkeeper lives.

And there is a little boy

who sometimes visits.

When all is still

I walk with this companion.

He is ten, I am sixty,

so the difference is great.

Yet both delight.

We pick buds and shrubs

and gather bulbs and herbs.[28]

Or go to the fields

at the foot of the hill

and gather fallen ears of rice

and make different shapes.

When the day is fine

we climb to the hilltops

and look at the sky

above my former home.

We can see Kowata hills,[29]

Fushimi, Toba, and Hatsukashi.

A place of beauty

has no owner.

So there is nothing

to spoil the pleasure.

When we are fit

and feel like going farther

we walk the hills

through Sumiyama,

beyond Kasatori,

visit Iwama,

or make pilgrimage to Ishiyama.

Or we make our way across

the fields of Awazu

and visit the former home

of the poet Semimaru,[30]

or cross Tagami River

to the grave of Sarumaro.[31]

Coming back,

depending on the season,

we look at cherry blossoms,

view maples, pluck bracken,

gather nuts as offerings

or to take home.

On quiet nights

I recall friends

while looking at the moon

through the window.

I listen to

the distant cries of monkeys

and tears wet my sleeves.

Fireflies in the bushes

then appear like fishermen’s braziers

off on Makinoshima.[32]

The morning rain

feels like a storm

beating on the leaves.

When I hear

the tuneful cries

of copper pheasants

they sound just like

my father and mother.

When deer from higher up

come tamely down to me

I realize how far I am

from the world.

Awakening at night and

poking embers from the ashes

this old man finds his company.

The mountains do not daunt me,[33]

so I enjoy the hooting of the owl.

Each passing season

brings its own enchantment.

Of course, a more perceptive man

would find much more

to charm.

When I moved here

I did not mean to stay this long,

but five years have now passed.

This rough shelter

has become my home.

Rotting leaves pile up on the roof.

Moss grows on the lower parts.

Occasional word of the capital

tells me many lords have

passed away while I was hidden

here in the hills.

Others too, of lesser rank,

—numbers we can never know.

I wonder how many houses

burned down in the constant fires.

But nothing happens here

in my little hut.

Small as it is

there is room to sleep at night

and sit by day.

Space enough

for one man.

The hermit crab prefers a tiny shell

aware of its needs.

Ospreys live by the rocky coast

fearing the world of man.

And so with me.

I know my needs

and know the world.

I wish for nothing

and do not work

to acquire things.

Quiet is my only wish,

to be free from worry

happiness enough.

People in the world

do not build houses

to suit their real needs.

They build houses

for wives, children, retinues.

Or they build for friends

and those around them.

Some build houses

for masters and teachers.

And even for their treasures,

oxen, horses.

I have built for myself,

alone.

You may wonder why.

The world today has its ways

and I have mine.

I have no companion here

and no attendant either.

Even if I built bigger

who would I receive here,

who would I have to live in it?

In their friends

people like to see a certain affluence

and the ready smile.

They seldom care for

warmth and truthfulness.

So why not find your friends

in song and nature?

Servants value tangible rewards

as well as constant favors.

They seek no care or sympathy

nor contentedness or harmony.

Why not be your own servant?

But how to be a servant?

When there is something to be done,

employ your body.

It is hard, yet simpler

than using someone else,

and being obliged.

When you need to go somewhere

use your feet.

This too is hard, but not as hard

as worrying about horse and saddle,

ox and cart.

Now, I divide my body

and I give it twofold purpose.

My hands are my servants,

my legs my carriage.

This suits me well.

My heart knows

my strength’s limit,

and makes me rest when I am tired.

I work again when ready.

I exert myself,

but never to excess.

So even when fatigued,

I’m not distressed.

Always walking,

always working

makes the spirit strong.

Why rest without need?

Using others is a sin.

Why should I wish

to use another?

Just the same

with food and clothing.

My clothes are arrowroot,

my bedding hemp.

I make do with what I find

for dress.

Starwort from the fields,

berries from the hills

are all I need of sustenance.

Not mingling with society

my appearance does not matter.

My food being meager

tastes all the sweeter.

I do not speak

of these pleasures

to reproach the rich.

I just compare

my past life

with the present.

Reality depends

upon your mind alone.[34]

If your mind is not at peace

what use are riches?

The grandest hall

will never satisfy.

I love my lonely dwelling,

this one-room hut.

Sometimes I go to the capital

and am aware

I look like a begging monk.

But when I return

I pity those who seek

the dross of the world.

If you doubt my words,

consider the fish and birds.

Fish do not hate the water.

But then, none can know[35]

the happiness of the fish

unless he is one.

Birds love the woods.

If you are not a bird

you will not know its truths.

A quiet life is much the same.

How would anyone know it

without living it?

The moon

of my life is setting.

The life now left me

sinks into the hills.

Any time now

I may descend

to the darkness

of the river below.

To what end

do I pour this out?

Buddha taught

we must not be

attached.

Yet the way I love this hut

is itself attachment.

To be attached

to the quiet and serene

must likewise be a burden.

No more time shall I waste

speaking of useless pleasures.

The morning is quiet

and I have meditated much

on the holy teaching.

This is what I ask myself—

You left the world

to live in the woods,

to quiet your mind

and live the Holy Way.

But though you appear

to be a monk

your heart is soaked in sin.

Your home is modeled on

that of Vimalakirti.

Your practices are not as mindful

as those of Suddhipanthaka.[36]

Is your lowly life

—surely a consequence of past deeds—

troubling you now?

Has your discerning mind

just served to drive you mad?

To these questions of mind,

there is no answer.

So now

I use my impure tongue

to offer a few prayers

to Amida and then

silence.

Written by

the monk Ren-in[37]

in a hut in Toyama,

about the last day

of the third month

of the second year

of Kenryaku