Read Ebook {PDF EPUB} Oku No Hosomichi The Narrow Road to the Interior by Matsuo Bashō BASHO NARROW ROAD TO THE INTERIOR PDF. Here is the most complete single-volume collection of the writings of one of the great luminaries of Asian literature. Basho (–)—who elevated the haiku . to his lucid and engaging translation of Bashō’s greatest achievement, his famed travelogue Narrow Road to the Interior (Oku no Hosomichi). Narrow Road to the Interior By Matsuo Basho. Translated by Sam Hamill. Shambhala Publications: Boston, pp. $ (paperback). addiss_1. Author: Voodoogrel Nikorn Country: Yemen Language: English (Spanish) Genre: Finance Published (Last): 27 February 2008 Pages: 87 PDF File Size: 8.45 Mb ePub File Size: 9.85 Mb ISBN: 818-1-62779-777-9 Downloads: 6143 Price: Free* [ *Free Regsitration Required ] Uploader: JoJor. It meant a few miles extra, doubling back toward Obanazawa to find shelter. It is also like cutting a ripe watermelon with a sharp knife or like taking a large bite at a pear. The picture that emerges of Basho is a bit different from what I was expecting. Amongst those of old were many that perished upon the journey. This work thd considered one of the masterpieces of classical Japanese literature. There is also a selection of over two hundred fifty of Basho’s finest haiku. In form, the work is an haibun, a mixture of prose and haiku. The starting piece was:. Narrow Road to the Interior: Feb 20, Dawn rated it really liked it. However, even if one isn’t from Japan or traveling within, his haiku deserve their own review, even if one is not inclined to poetry. The Narrow Road to the Interior by Matsuo Basho (1644-1694) This seems to me especially important in the notoriously difficult task of translating haiku. What were the holidays that Basho so soberly celebrated? Between our two lives there is also the life of the cherry blossom They lamented the child’s tragic fate, yet never aided. The years interikr come and go are travellers too. The gods seem to have possessed my soul and turned it inside out, and roadside images seemed to invite me from every corner, so that it was impossible for me to stay idle at home. Basho is famous as a composer of haiku. Stay in Touch Sign up. I read the first section in all of them and this one, by Sam Hamill, was my favorite A pretty enjoyable slim little volume, roaf not a source of any great inspiration for me. I barely had time to sweep the cobwebs from my broken house on the River Sumida before the New Year, but no sooner had the spring mist begun to rise over the field than I wanted to be on the road again to cross the barrier-gate of Shirakawa in due time. Basho wrote in a particular form called Haibun which consisted of short journal prose pieces about travel that were sprinkled lightly with haiku. The silence was profound. The book requires re-reading and interiir exploration. All translated works depend on the skills and abilities of their translators and on the choices they are forced to make in trying to recreate something in another language and culture. Badho is a possessive and is prepositional. English translation by Donald Keene. Another edition is available from Shambhala with 3 other lesser known travelogues, also translated by Hamill. Kansas City in the Pendergast Era. Jazz at Lincoln Center: Ultimately, though, words fail to capture everything from any experience, or fail to adequately describe all the wonder of the world, even though that does not keep Basho from trying himself and calling to mind his predecessors who tried to do so. Narrow Road to the Interior. The narrator for the lead piece, The Narrow Road to the Interior was a little hard to understand. By the time I had mended my torn trousers, put a new cord on my hat, and cauterized my legs with moxa, Narros was thinking only of the moon at Matsushima. Here is my favorite from the book: Seventeenth century haiku and prose -travelogue of the great poet Basho. The translator refers to them as the Basho school of poetry. Nov 14, Pages. The opening paragraph of The Narrow Road is famous and is worth presenting in its entirety: Lists with This Book. Matsuo Basho’s “Narrow Road” (Oku no Hosomichi) This insight is summed up by the phrase mono-no-aware, the perception of the natural poignancy of temporal things. The travel log, itself seems interesting, but hard to picture and it simply a list of pla I am not sure if this story would be better in print or better if I had a printed copy to see as I listened along. Even the years wander on. Traveling this high mountain trail, delighted by wild violets and A fresh spring rain must have passed through all the leaves to nourish this spring And then this one, which sounds like something William Carlos Williams might have written: Basho — —who elevated the haiku to an art form of utter simplicity and intense spiritual beauty—is best known in the West as the author of Narrow Road to the Interior, a travel diary of linked prose and haiku that recounts his journey through the Here is the most complete single-volume collection of the writings of one of the great luminaries of Asian literature. Matsuo Bashō. Matsuo Bashō (松尾 芭蕉, 1644 – November 28, 1694), born Matsuo Kinsaku (松尾 金作), then Matsuo Chūemon Munefusa (松尾 忠右衛 門 宗房), [1] [2] was the most famous poet of the Edo period in Japan. During his lifetime, Bashō was recognized for his works in the collaborative haikai no renga form; today, after centuries of commentary, he is recognized as the greatest master of haiku (at the time called hokku). His poetry is internationally renowned, and in Japan many of his poems are reproduced on monuments and traditional sites. Although Bashō is justifiably famous in the West for his hokku, he himself believed his best work lay in leading and participating in renku. He is quoted as saying, “Many of my followers can write hokku as well as I can. Where I show who I really am is in linking haikai verses.” [3] Bashō was introduced to poetry at a young age, and after integrating himself into the intellectual scene of Edo (modern Tokyo), he quickly became well known throughout Japan. He made a living as a teacher, but renounced the social, urban life of the literary circles and was inclined to wander throughout the country, heading west, east, and far into the northern wilderness to gain inspiration for his writing. His poems were influenced by his firsthand experience of the world around him, often encapsulating the feeling of a scene in a few simple elements. Contents. Early life. Bashō's supposed birthplace in poblacio. Bashō was born in 1644, near Ueno, in Iga Province. [4] His father may have been a low-ranking samurai, which would have promised Bashō a career in the military, but not much chance of a notable life. It was traditionally claimed by biographers that he worked in the kitchens. [5] However, as a child, Bashō became a servant to Tōdō Yoshitada (藤堂 良忠), who shared with Bashō a love for haikai no renga , a form of collaborative poetry composition. [6] The sequences were opened with a verse in 5-7-5 mora format; this verse was named a hokku , and would centuries later be renamed haiku when presented as a stand-alone work. The hokku would be followed by a related 7-7 mora verse by another poet. Both Bashō and Yoshitada gave themselves haigō (俳号), or haikai pen names; Bashō's was Sōbō (宗房), which was simply the on'yomi reading of his adult name of Matsuo Munefusa (尾 宗房). In 1662 the first extant poem by Bashō was published; in 1664 two of his hokku were printed in a compilation, and in 1665 Bashō and Yoshitada composed a hyakuin, or one-hundred-verse renku , with some acquaintances. Yoshitada's sudden death in 1666 brought Bashō's peaceful life as a servant to an end. No records of this time remain, but it is believed that Bashō gave up the possibility of samurai status and left home. [7] Biographers have proposed various reasons and destinations, including the possibility of an affair between Bashō and a Shinto miko named Jutei (寿貞), which is unlikely to be true. [8] Bashō's own references to this time are vague; he recalled that "at one time I coveted an official post with a tenure of land", and that "there was a time when I was fascinated with the ways of homosexual love", but there is no indication whether he was referring to real obsessions or even fictional ones. [9] He was uncertain whether to become a full-time poet; by his own account, "the alternatives battled in my mind and made my life restless". [10] His indecision may have been influenced by the then still relatively low status of renga and haikai no renga as more social activities than serious artistic endeavours. [11] In any case, his poems continued to be published in anthologies in 1667, 1669, and 1671, and he published his own compilation of work by him and other authors of the Teitoku school, The Seashell Game (貝おほひ, Kai Ōi), in 1672. [4] In about the spring of that year he moved to Edo, to further his study of poetry. [12] Rise to fame. In the fashionable literary circles of Nihonbashi, Bashō's poetry was quickly recognized for its simple and natural style. In 1674 he was inducted into the inner circle of the haikai profession, receiving secret teachings from Kitamura Kigin (1624–1705). [13] He wrote this hokku in mock tribute to the Shogun: kabitan mo / tsukubawasekeri / kimi ga haru the Dutchmen, too, / kneel before His Lordship— / spring under His reign. [1678] When Nishiyama Sōin, founder and leader of the Danrin school of haikai, came to Edo from Osaka in 1675, Bashō was among the poets invited to compose with him. [14] It was on this occasion that he gave himself the haigō of Tōsei, and by 1680 he had a full-time job teaching twenty disciples, who published The Best Poems of Tōsei's Twenty Disciples (桃青門弟独吟二十歌仙, Tōsei-montei Dokugin-Nijukasen), advertising their connection to Tōsei's talent. That winter, he took the surprising step of moving across the river to Fukagawa, out of the public eye and towards a more reclusive life. [15] His disciples built him a rustic hut and planted a banana tree (芭蕉, bashō) in the yard, giving Bashō a new haigō and his first permanent home. He appreciated the plant very much, and was not happy to see Fukagawa's native miscanthus growing alongside it: bashō uete / mazu nikumu ogi no / futaba kana by my new banana plant / the first sign of something I loathe— / a miscanthus bud! [1680] Despite his success, Bashō grew dissatisfied and lonely. He began to practice Zen meditation, but it seems not to have calmed his mind. [16] In the winter of 1682 his hut burned down, and shortly afterwards, in early 1683, his mother died. He then traveled to Yamura, to stay with a friend. In the winter of 1683 his disciples gave him a second hut in Edo, but his spirits did not improve. In 1684 his disciple Takarai Kikaku published a compilation of him and other poets, Shrivelled Chestnuts (虚栗, Minashiguri). [17] Later that year he left Edo on the first of four major wanderings. [18] Travelling alone off the beaten path (i.e. the Edo Five Routes) in medieval Japan was regarded as immensely dangerous, and at first Bashō expected to simply die in the middle of nowhere or be killed by bandits. As the trip progressed, his mood improved and he became comfortable on the road. He met many friends and grew to enjoy the changing scenery and the seasons. [19] His poems took on a less introspective and more striking tone as he observed the world around him: uma wo sae / nagamuru yuki no / ashita kana even a horse / arrests my eyes—on this / snowy morrow [1684] The trip took him from Edo to Mount Fuji, Ueno, and Kyoto. He met several poets who called themselves his disciples and wanted his advice; he told them to disregard the contemporary Edo style and even his own Shrivelled Chestnuts , saying it contained "many verses that are not worth discussing." [20] He returned to Edo in the summer of 1685, taking time along the way to write more hokku and comment on his own life: toshi kurenu / kasa kite waraji / hakinagara another year is gone / a traveller's shade on my head, / straw sandals at my feet [1685] When Bashō returned to Edo he happily resumed his job as a teacher of poetry at his bashō hut, although privately he was already making plans for another journey. [21] The poems from his journey were published as Account of Exposure to the Fields (野ざらし紀行, Nozarashi kikō). In early 1686 he composed one of his best-remembered haiku: furu ike ya / kawazu tobikomu / mizu no oto an ancient pond / a frog jumps in / the splash of water [1686] Historians believe this poem became instantly famous: in April, the poets of Edo gathered at the bashō hut for a haikai no renga contest on the subject of frogs that seems to have been a tribute to Bashō's hokku , which was placed at the top of the compilation. [22] Bashō stayed in Edo, continuing to teach and hold contests, with an excursion in the autumn of 1687 when he travelled to the countryside for moon watching, and a longer trip in 1688 when he returned to Ueno to celebrate the Lunar New Year. At home in Edo, Bashō sometimes became reclusive: he alternated between rejecting visitors to his hut and appreciating their company. [23] At the same time, he enjoyed his life and had a subtle sense of humour, as reflected in his hokku : iza saraba / yukimi ni korobu / tokoromade now then, let's go out / to enjoy the snow. until / I slip and fall! [1688] Oku no Hosomichi. A statue commemorating Matsuo Bashō's arrival in Ōgaki. Bashō's private planning for another long journey culminated on May 16, 1689 (Yayoi 27, Genroku 2), when he left Edo with his student and apprentice Kawai Sora (河合 曾良) on a journey to the Northern Provinces of Honshū. Bashō and Sora headed north to Hiraizumi, which they reached on June 29. They then walked to the western side of the island, touring Kisakata on Template:Nowrap, and began hiking back at a leisurely pace along the coastline. During this 150-day journey Bashō travelled a total of 600 ri (2,400 km) through the north-eastern areas of Honshū, returning to Edo in late 1691. [24] By the time Bashō reached Ōgaki, Gifu Prefecture, he had completed the log of his journey. He edited and redacted it for three years, writing the final version in 1694 as The Narrow Road to the Interior (奥の細道, Oku no Hosomichi). The first edition was published posthumously in 1702. [25] It was an immediate commercial success and many other itinerant poets followed the path of his journey. [4] It is often considered his finest achievement, featuring hokku such as: araumi ya / Sado ni yokotau / amanogawa the rough sea / stretching out towards Sado / the Milky Way [1689] Last years. On his return to Edo in the winter of 1691, Bashō lived in his third bashō hut, again provided by his disciples. This time, he was not alone; he took in a nephew and his female friend, Jutei, who were both recovering from illness. He had a great many visitors. Bashō continued to be uneasy. He wrote to a friend that "disturbed by others, I have no peace of mind". [26] He made a living from teaching and appearances at haikai parties until late August 1693, when he shut the gate to his bashō hut and refused to see anybody for a month. Finally, he relented after adopting the principle of karumi or "lightness", a semi-Buddhist philosophy of greeting the mundane world rather than separating himself from it. Bashō left Edo for the last time in the summer of 1694, spending time in Ueno and Kyoto before his arrival in Osaka. He became sick with a stomach illness and died peacefully, surrounded by his disciples. [27] Although he did not compose any formal death poem on his deathbed [28] the following, being the last poem recorded during his final illness, is generally accepted as his poem of farewell: tabi ni yande / yume wa kareno wo / kake meguru falling sick on a journey / my dream goes wandering / over a field of dried grass [1694] Influence and literary criticism.

Rather than sticking to the formulas of kigo (季語), which remain popular in Japan even today, Bashō aspired to reflect his real environment and emotions in his hokku . [29] Even during his lifetime, the effort and style of his poetry was widely appreciated; after his death, it only increased. Several of his students compiled quotations from him about his own poetry, most notably Mukai Kyorai and Hattori Dohō. [30] During the 18th century, appreciation of Bashō's poems grew more fervent, and commentators such as Ishiko Sekisui and Moro Nanimaru went to great length to find references in his hokku to historical events, medieval books, and other poems. These commentators were often lavish in their praise of Bashō's obscure references, some of which were probably literary false cognates. [30] In 1793 Bashō was deified by the Shinto bureaucracy, and for a time criticizing his poetry was literally blasphemous. [30] It was not until the late 19th century that this period of unanimous passion for Bashō's poems came to an end. Masaoka Shiki, arguably Bashō's most famous critic, tore down the long-standing orthodoxy with his bold and candid objections to Bashō's style. [30] However, Shiki was also instrumental in making Bashō's poetry accessible to leading intellectuals and the Japanese public at large. He invented the term haiku (replacing hokku ) to refer to the free-standing 5-7-5 form which he considered the most artistic and desirable part of the haikai no renga . [30] Critical interpretation of Bashō's poems continued into the 20th century, with notable works by Yamamoto Kenkichi, Imoto Nōichi, and Ogata Tsutomu. The 20th century also saw translations of Bashō's poems into languages and editions around the world. His position in Western eyes as the haiku poet par excellence gave him great influence, and by virtue of Western preference for haiku over more traditional forms like the tanka or renga , have rendered him the archetype of Japanese poets and poetry, [31] with some western scholars even believing that he invented haiku. [32] The impressionistic and concise nature of his verse influenced particularly Ezra Pound and the Imagists, and later the poets of the Beat Generation. [33] Two of Bashō's poems were popularized in the short story "Teddy" written by J.D. Salinger and published in 1952 by The New Yorker magazine. [34] List of works.

Haiseiden (俳聖殿, Poet's Memorial Hall) in Iga, Mie, which was built to commemorate the 300th anniversary of Bashō's birth. Oku no Hosomichi. Oku no Hosomichi (meaning Narrow Road to Oku [the Deep North]) is a major work by Matsuo Bashō. Oku no Hosomichi was written based on a journey taken by Bashō in the late spring of 1689. He and his traveling companion Sora departed from Edo (modern-day Tokyo) for the northerly interior region known as Oku, propelled mostly by a desire to see the places about which the old poets wrote. Travel in those days was, of course, very dangerous to one’s health, but Bashō was committed to a kind of poetic ideal of wandering. He travelled for about 156 days all together, covering thousands of miles mostly on foot. Of all of Bashō’s works, Oku no Hosomichi is best known. Spring Farewells. There is not much to this poem. There need not be. Or is there? ‘ Parting is such sweet sorrow ‘ Juliet said. Or as the Buddha says, ‘ Au wa wakare no hajimari .’ ‘ Meeting is the beginning of parting ‘. A parting begins a journey. Inspired by a warm breeze and a passing cloud, in the late spring of 1689, Matsuo Basho sold his few possession, closed the door to his cottage, and, along with Sora his traveling companion, headed north on what would become a journey of nine months. This trip would eventually become a book that would make Basho famous, Oku no Hosomichi, 奥の細道 , meaning “Narrow road to the interior” or “Pathways to the Interior” or something similar. But since 奥 , Oku can also imply one’s heart, it implies an inner search for meaning, a spiritual quest to find one’s true feelings. But that lay ahead. Basho was dressed in a peasant’s bamboo hat, as protection from the sun and rain. He wore white breeches that came to mid-calf, a blue tunic, and leather sandals, that he would later decorate with spring flowers. Basho, it is said, rode on a small horse, for he is pictured as such, but it is more likely he walked. The horse was a pack horse or a donkey, the kind we associate with prospectors. It carried Basho’s few provisions, a raincoat, a sleeping bag, some money, although, Basho hoped to live off the kindness of those he met along the way for his fame was now well known throughout Japan. Sora walked beside him. Their trip began with farewells and the chatter of neighborhood children who were no doubt envious of the adventurous travelers. Perhaps, Basho was thinking partings are beginnings, new meetings, new friends. Of sweet fish and salty fish.

For this haiku, Basho chose the Ayu, 鮎 for the children. The Ayu, the small Sweetfish, we might liken to Silverfish, who swim about in schools when the sun appears or large predator fish chase them. Basho and Sora are the old fish, Sakana, 魚 , or white fish, quite common. Basho, having had some reservations about the dangers of the trip, perhaps alluded to his becoming bait for bandits. Sakana is a generic Japanese word for fish, usually salted and served with sake. As I said, there is not much to this haiku, or is there? “A parting is not an ending but a beginning,” says Bashō no yōna , to those who look forward and not backwards.

別れは終わりではなく始まりです Wakare wa owaride wanaku hajimaridesu. I must take to the road again. Shall I call this an end or simply a repose. It is now November. The sky is gray, the trees are bare, there is a cold wind that chills, leaves once red and gold, now yellow and brown, flutter in the air then gather for they know Winter is near. Meoto Iwa Married Couple Rocks, Futami. September 1689, Ogaki. In September 1689, Matsuo Basho has completed his Journey to the North, ending in Ogaki on horseback. His friend Rotsu accompanied him, Sora, his companion on much of the journey, rejoined him. Basho continues, “ we all went to the house of Joko, where I enjoyed a reunion with Zensen, Keiko and his sons, and many other old friends who came to see me by day or night. “ On the 6th of September, it was time to part and take to the road again. Life moves on, and so, he left for the Ise Shrine, for he wanted to see the dedication of a new shrine ( Futamiokitama Shrine ). As he stepped into the boat that would take him across Ise Bay he wrote: As clams Divide into Two ( Separate in Futami) In Autumn.

蛤の ふたみにわかれ 行秋ぞ. hamaguri no / futami ni wakare / yuku aki zo. So too, I take to the road again . Not a farewell my friends, a repose. Matsuo Bash�: Oku no Hosomichi. Days and months are travellers of eternity. So are the years that pass by. Those who steer a boat across the sea, or drive a horse over the earth till they succumb to the weight of years, spend every minute of their lives travelling. There are a great number of ancients, too, who died on the road. I myself have been tempted for a long time by the cloud-moving wind � filled with a strong desire to wander. It was only towards the end of last autumn that I returned from rambling along the coast. I barely had time to sweep the cobwebs from my broken house on the River Sumida before the New Year, but no sooner had the spring mist begun to rise over the field than I wanted to be on the road again to cross the barrier-gate of Shirakawa in due time. The gods seem to have possessed my soul and turned it inside out, and roadside images seemed to invite me from every corner, so that it was impossible for me to stay idle at home. Even while I was getting ready, mending my torn trousers, tying a new strap to my hat, and applying moxa to my legs to strengthen them, I was already dreaming of the full moon rising over the islands of Matsushima. Finally, I sold my house, moving to the cottage of Samp � for a temporary stay. Upon the threshold of my old home, however, I wrote a linked verse of eight pieces and hung it on a wooden pillar. The starting piece was: Behind this door Now buried in deep grass, A different generation will celebrate The Festival of Dolls. Translated by Nobuyuki Yuasa ( The Narrow Road to the Deep North and Other Travel Sketches, 1966) Moon and sun are passing figures of countless generations, and years coming or going wanderers too. Drifting life away on a boat or meeting age leading a horse by the mouth, each day is a journey and the journey itself home. Amongst those of old were many that perished upon the journey. So — when was it — I, drawn like blown cloud, couldn’t stop dreaming of roaming, roving the coast up and down, back at the hut last fall by the river side, sweeping cobwebs off, a year gone and misty skies of spring returning, yearning to go over the Shirakawa Barrier, possessed by the wanderlust, at wits’ end, beckoned by D �sojin, hardly able to keep my hand to any thing, mending a rip in my momohiki , replacing the cords in my kasa , shins no sooner burnt with moxa than the moon at Matsushima rose to mind and how, my former dwelling passed on to someone else on moving to Samp�’s summer house, the grass door too turning into a doll’s house. (from the eight omote ) set on a post of the hut . Translated by Cid Corman and Kamaike Susumu ( Back Roads to Far Towns, 1968) The months and days are the wayfarers of the centuries and as yet another year comes round, it, too, turns traveler. Sailors whose lives float away as they labor on boats, horsemen who encounter old age as they draw the horse around once more by the bit, they also spend their days in travel and make their home in wayfaring. Over the centuries many famous men have met death on the way; and I, too, though I do not know what year it began, have long yielded to the wind like a loosened cloud and, unable to give up my wandering desires, have taken my way along the coast. Last autumn, as I cleaned the old cobwebs from my old dilapidated house by the riverside, I found that the year had suddenly drawn to its close. As the sky of the new year filled with the haze of spring, I thought of going beyond the Shirakawa Barrier, and so possessed was I by some peripatetic urge that I thought I had an invitation from the god of travelers himself and so became unable to settle down to anything. I mended my underpants, re-corded my rain hat, and took three bits of moxa cautery. I could not put from my mind how lovely the moon must be at Matsushima. I disposed of my property and moved to Samp � ’s villa. My old grasshut Lived in now by another generation Is decked out with dolls. This and the rest of the first eight stanzas of a haikai I left posted on a pillar of my cottage. Translated by Earl Miner ( The Narrow Road Through the Provinces, in Japanese Poetic Diaries, 1969) The passing days and months are eternal travellers in time. The years that come and go are travellers too. Life itself is a journey; and as for those who spend their days upon the waters in ships and those who grow old leading horses, their very home is the open road. And some poets of old there were who died while travelling. There came a day when the clouds drifting along with the wind aroused a wanderlust in me, and I set off on a journey to roam along the seashores. I returned to my hut on the riverbank last autumn, and by the time I had swept away the cobwebs, the year was over. But when spring came with its misty skies, the god of temptation possessed me with a longing to pass the Barrier of Shirakawa, and road gods beckoned, and I could not set my mind to anything. So I mended my breeches, put new cords on my hat, and as I burned moxa on my knees to make them strong, I was already dreaming of the moon over Matsushima. I sold my home and moved into Samp � ’s guest house, but before I left my cottage I composed a verse and inscribed it on a poem strip which I hung upon a pillar: This rude hermit cell Will be different now, knowing Dolls’ Festival as well. Translated by Dorothy Britton ( A Haiku Journey: Bash�’s Narrow Road to a Far Province, 1980) The sun and the moon are eternal voyagers; the years that come and go are travelers too. For those whose lives float away on boats, for those who greet old age with hands clasping the lead ropes of horses, travel is life, travel is home. And many are the men of old who have perished as they journeyed. I myself fell prey to wanderlust some years ago, desiring nothing better than to be a vagrant cloud scudding before the wind. Only last autumn, after having drifted along the seashore for a time, had I swept away the old cobwebs from my dilapidated riverside hermitage. But the year ended before I knew it, and I found myself looking at hazy spring skies and thinking of crossing Shirakawa Barrier. Bewitched by the god of restlessness, I lost my peace of mind; summoned by the spirits of the road, I felt unable to settle down to anything. By the time I had mended my torn trousers, put a new cord on my hat, and cauterized my legs with moxa, I was thinking only of the moon at Matsushima. I turned over my dwelling to others, moved to a house belonging to Sanp � , and affixed the initial page of a linked-verse sequence to one of the pillars at my cottage. Even my grass-thatched hut will have new occupants now: a display of dolls. Translated by Helen Craig McCullough ( Narrow Road of the Interior, in Classical Japanese Prose: An Anthology, 1990) The months and days are the travelers of eternity. The years that come and go are also voyagers. Those who float away their lives on ships or who grow old leading horses are forever journeying, and their homes are wherever their travels take them. Many of the men of old died on the road, and I too for years past have been stirred by the sight of a solitary cloud drifting with the wind to ceaseless thoughts of roaming. Last year I spent wandering along the coast. In autumn I returned to my cottage on the river and swept away the cobwebs. Gradually the year drew to its close. When spring came and there was mist in the air, I thought of crossing the Barrier of Shirakawa into Oku. I seemed to be possessed by the spirits of wanderlust, and they all deprived me of my senses. The guardian spirits of the road beckoned, and I could not settle down to work. I patched my torn trousers and changed the cord on my bamboo hat. To strengthen my legs for the journey I had moxa burned on my shins. By then I could think of nothing but the moon at Matsushima. When I sold my cottage and moved to Samp �’s villa, to stay until I started on my journey, I hung this poem on a post in my hut: kusa no to mo sumikawaru yo zo hina no ie Even a thatched hut May change with a new owner Into a doll’s house . Translated by Donald Keene ( The Narrow Road to Oku, 1996) (An earlier and slightly different partial translation appeared in Keene�s Anthology of Japanese Literature, 1955.) The months and days are wayfarers of a hundred generations, and the years that come and go are also travelers. Those who float all their lives on a boat or reach their old age leading a horse by the bit make travel out of each day and inhabit travel. Many in the past also died while traveling. In which year it was I do not recall, but I, too, began to be lured by the wind like a fragmentary cloud and have since been unable to resist wanderlust, roaming out to the seashores. Last fall, I swept aside old cobwebs in my dilapidated hut in Fukagawa, and soon the year came to a close; as spring began and haze rose in the sky, I longed to walk beyond Shirakawa Barrier and, possessed and deranged by the distracting deity and enticed by the guardian deity of the road, I was unable to concentrate on anything. In the end I mended the rips in my pants, replaced hat strings, and, the moment I gave a moxa treatment to my kneecaps, I thought of the moon over Matsushima. I gave my living quarters to someone and moved into Samp �’s villa: Kusa no to mo sumi-kawaru yo zo hina no ie In my grass hut the residents change: now a doll’s house. I left the first eight links hung on a post of my hut . Translated by Hiroaki Sato ( Bash�s Narrow Road, 1996) The moon and sun are eternal travelers. Even the years wander on. A lifetime adrift in a boat, or in old age leading a tired horse into the years, every day is a journey, and the journey itself is home. From the earliest times there have always been some who perished along the road. Still I have always been drawn by wind-blown clouds into dreams of a lifetime of wandering. Coming home from a year’s walking tour of the coast last autumn, I swept the cobwebs from my hut on the banks of the Sumida just in time for New Year, but by the time spring mists began to rise from the fields, I longed to cross the Shirakawa Barrier into the Northern Interior. Drawn by the wanderer-spirit D �sojin, I couldn’t concentrate on things. Mending my cotton pants, sewing a new strap on my bamboo hat, I daydreamed. Rubbing moxa into my legs to strengthen them, I dreamed a bright moon rising over Matsushima. So I placed my house in another’s hands and moved to my patron Mr. Samp�’s summer house in preparation for my journey. And I left a verse by my door: Even this grass hut may be transformed into a doll’s house. Translated by Sam Hamill ( Narrow Road to the Interior and Other Writings, a.k.a. The Essential Bash�, 1998) The days and months are travellers of eternity, just like the years that come and go. For those who pass their lives afloat on boats, or face old age leading horses tight by the bridle, their journeying is life, their journeying is home. And many are the men of old who met their end upon the road. How long ago, I wonder, did I see a drift of cloud borne away upon the wind, and ceaseless dreams of wandering become aroused? Only last year, I had been wandering along the coasts and bays; and in the autumn I swept away the cobwebs from my tumbledown hut on the banks of the Sumida and soon afterwards saw the old year out. But when the spring mists rose up into the sky, the gods of desire possessed me, and burned my mind with the longing to go beyond the barrier at Shirakawa. The spirits of the road beckoned me, and I could not concentrate on anything. So I patched up my trousers, put new cords in my straw hat, and strengthened my knees with moxa. A vision of the moon at Matsushima was already in my mind. I sold my hut and wrote this just before moving to a cottage owned by Samp �: even this grass hut could for the new owner be a festive house of dolls! This was the first of an eight verse sequence, which I left hanging on a post inside the hut. Translated by Tim Chilcott ( The Narrow Road to the Deep North, 2004) Nine translations of the opening paragraph of Matsuo Bash�s travel journal Oku no Hosomichi (1689).