Genji’s Beauty
No one could see him without pleasure.  He was like the flowering tree under whose shade even the rude mountain peasant delights to rest.  And so great was the fascination he exercised that those who knew him longed to offer him whatever was dearest to them.  One who had a favorite daughter would ask for nothing better than to make her Genji’s handmaiden.  Another who had an exquisite sister was ready for her to serve in his household, though it were at the most menial tasks.  Still less could these ladies (i.e. the ladies who served the Rokujo Lady) who on such occasions as this were privileged to converse with him and stare at him as much as they pleased, and were moreover, young people of much sensibility—how could they fail to delight in his company and note with much uneasiness that his visits were becoming far less frequent than before. [Anthology of Japanese Literature, 112]

Motoori Norinaga on The Tale of Genji
What Confucianism deems good Buddhism may not; and what Buddhism considers good Confucianism might regard as evil.  Likewise, references to good and evil in the Tale may not correspond to Confucian or Buddhist concepts of good and evil.  Then what is good or evil in the realm of human psychology and ethics according to the Tale of Genji?  Generally speaking, those who know the meaning of the sorrow of human existence, i.e., those who are in sympathy and in harmony with human sentiments, are regarded as good; and those who are not aware of the poignancy of human existence, i.e., those who are not in sympathy and not in harmony with human sentiments, are regarded as bad....Man’s feelings do not always follow the dictates of his mind.  They arise in man in spite of himself and are difficult to control.  In the instance of Prince Genji, his interest in and rendezvous with Utsusemi, Oborozukiyo, and the Consort Fujitsubo are acts of extraordinary iniquity and immorality according to the Confucian and Buddhist points of view.  It would be difficult to call Prince Genji a good man, however numerous his other good qualities.  But the Tale does not dwell on his iniquitous and immoral acts, but rather recites over and over again his profound awareness of the sorrow of existence, and represents him as a good man who combines in himself all good things in man. [Sources of Japanese Tradition (1st edition), 533-4]

Genji responds perfectly to each woman.  He is a genius at lovemaking, and if he had lived in a society where monogamy was strictly enforced or if, deciding that Murasaki was an ideal wife, he had never looked at another woman, the world would have been the poorer.  Unlike Don Giovanni, he not only woos and wins each lady but he makes each feel sure of his love, and each is content with her small part of his life.  When Genji lays out the plans for his Rokujo Palace, there are apartments not only for the women he still loves but for Suetsumuhana and even for the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers, a woman much older than himself who was one of the less important concubines of his father. [Seeds in the Heart, 500-1]

[After the spirit of Lady Rokujo (with whom Genji was having an affair) kills Genji’s wife out of jealousy, she decides to accompany her daughter who is going off to become a priestess at Ise, the shrine of the Sun Goddess, Amaterasu.  Unable to allow her to leave, Genji meets her at a small shrine on the outskirts of the Kyoto]:  The autumn flowers were fading; along the reeds by the river the shrill voices of many insects blended with the mournful fluting of the wind in the pines.  Scarcely distinguishable from these somewhere in the distance rose and fell a faint, enticing sound of human music….They came at last to a group of very temporary-looking wooden huts surrounded by a flimsy brushwood fence.  The archways, built of unstripped wood, stood out black and solemn against the sky.  Within the enclosure a number of priests were walking up and down with a preoccupied air.  There was something portentous in their manner of addressing one another and in their way of loudly clearing their throats before they spoke.  In the Hall of Offerings there was a dim flicker of firelight, but elsewhere no single sign of life.  So this was the place where he had left one who was from the start in great distress of mind, to shift for herself week after week, month after month!  Suddenly he realized with a terrible force all that she must have suffered. [After spending the night together, we see the perfect example of Heian “bedside manner” in the early morning when he leaves his lover]:  At last the night ended in such a dawn as seemed to have been fashioned for their especial delight.  ‘Sad is any parting at the red of dawn; but never since the world began, gleamed day so tragically in the autumn sky.’ And as he recited these verses, aghast to leave her, he stood hesitating and laid her hand tenderly in his. [Seeds of the Heart, 498-9]

Hateful Things: A lover who is leaving at dawn announces that he has to find his fan and his paper.  “I know I put them somewhere last night,” he says.  Since it is pitch dark, he gropes about the room, bumping into the furniture and muttering, “Strange!  Where on earth can they be?”  Finally he discovers the objects.  He thrusts the paper into the breast of his robe with a great rustling sound; then he snaps open his fan and busily fans away with it.  Only now is he ready to take his leave.  What charmless behavior!  “Hateful” is an understatement.
    A good lover will behave as elegantly at dawn as at any other time.  He drags himself out of bed with a look of dismay on his face.  The lady urges him on:  “Come, my friend, it’s getting light.  You don’t want anyone to find you here.”  He gives a deep sigh, as if to say that the night has not been nearly long enough and that it is agony to leave.  Once up, he does not instantly pull on his trousers.  Instead he comes close to the lady and whispers whatever was left unsaid during the night.  Even when he is dressed, he still lingers, vaguely pretending to be fastening his sash.
    Presently he raises the lattice, and the two lovers stand together by the side door while he tells her how he dreads the coming day, which will keep them apart; then he slips away.  The lady watches him go, and this moment of parting will remain among her most charming memories. [The Heritage of Japanese Civilization, 22-3]

Murasaki, like the novelist of today, is not principally interested in the events of the story, but rather in the effect which these events may have upon the minds of her characters.  Such books as hers it is convenient, I think, to call ‘novels,’ while reserving for other works of fiction the name ‘story’ or ‘romance.’ [Seeds of the Heart, 508]