The Tale of Genji
& the Language of Japanese Aesthetics

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Like
most of his peers, Genji, at least in his youth, had
little official business to occupy him at court, where affairs were
controlled
by a few leading Fujiwara ministers. Instead,
he devoted himself to the gentle arts and
especially to the
pursuit of love, an endeavor that involved him in a seemingly endless
string of
romantic entanglements. In Genji’s
circle, the typical love affair was conducted according to exacting
dictates of
taste. Lovers delighted each other by
exchanging poems written on fans or on carefully selected and scented
stationery, which they adorned with delicate sprays of flowers. A faulty handwriting, a missed allusion, or a
poor matching of colors could quickly dampen a courtier’s ardor. On the other hand, the scent of a delicately
mixed perfume or the haunting notes of a zither on a soft summer night
could
excite his greatest passion and launch him recklessly on a romantic
escapade
whose outcome was more than likely to have embarrassing and even
disastrous
results both for the lovers and for others among the intimately
associated
members of Heian courtier society. [Paul Varley, Japanese
Culture, Fourth Edition (Honolulu:
University of Hawaii Press, 2000), p. 65.]
- If Genji is always allowing
his passions to get both him and his lovers into trouble, then why is
he such a beloved figure—the so-called “shining prince”?
I. Miyabi (Courtly
Refinement)
Miyabi [courtly refinement] was perhaps
the most
inclusive term for describing the aesthetics of the Heian period. It was applied mainly to the quiet pleasures
that, supposedly at least, could be savored only by the aristocrat
whose tastes
had been educated to them—a spray of
plum blossoms, the elusive perfume
of a
rare wood, the delicate blending of colors in a robe.
In lovemaking, too, the “refined” tastes of
the court were revealed. A man might
first be attracted to a woman by catching a glimpse of her sleeve,
carelessly
but elegantly draped from a carriage window, or by seeing a note in her
calligraphy, or by hearing her play a lute one night in the dark. Later, the lovers would exchange letters and
poems, often attached to a spray of the flower suitable for the season. Such love affairs are most perfectly
portrayed in The Tale of Genji and, even if somewhat idealized
in that
novel, suggest to what lengths a feeling for “refinement” could govern
the
lives of those at court. [SJT, 199]
In
this world where aesthetics reigned
supreme, great attention was paid to pleasing the eye.
Ladies dressed in numerous robes, one over
the other (twelve was standard), which they displayed at the wrist in
overlapping layers, and the blending of their colors was of the utmost
importance in revealing a lady’s taste. Often
all a man saw of a lady were her
sleeves, left hanging outside her
carriage or spread beyond a screen behind which she remained invisible….

This
concern for appearance also extended to the features of the gentlemen
and
ladies. Both sexes used cosmetics,
applying a white face powder, which in the case of the women was
combined with
a rosy tint. The ladies took great pride
in their long, flowing, glossy hair but plucked their eyebrows and
painted in a
new set. Such customs are not unfamiliar
to the modern world, but far more difficult for us to appreciate are
the
blackened teeth of the refined Heian beauty….Specific fashions change,
but the
concern for visual beauty remained, a lasting legacy from the Heian
period. Even today, for example, great
care is taken over the appearance of food, and its impact on the eye is
considered at least as important as its taste. [BHJC, 55-56]
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Sei Shonagon’s Pillow Book
Over-refinement?
“[The commoners]
looked like so many
basket-worms as they crowded together in their hideous clothes, leaving
hardly
an inch of space between themselves and me. I
really felt like pushing them all over sideways.” [BHJC,
55]
.
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] |
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II. Mono-no-Aware
Sensitivity
to (the sadness)
of things
Motoori Norinaga (1730-1801), the novel’s
greatest
traditional interpreter, admired it above all for its expression of mono-no-aware,
a word frequently used by Lady Murasaki for “that power inherent in
things to
make us respond not intellectually but with an involuntary gasp of
emotion.” It could refer to joyous as
well as sad experiences, but eventually the implications of melancholy
predominated. It involves a realization
of the ephemeral quality of beauty, of all that is best in life,
indeed, of
life itself. Clearly in this concept
there are resonances of Buddhist teaching, which views life as an
illusion,
insubstantial as a dream. To the
Japanese, it was a beautiful but fleeting dream, and sadness was itself
a
necessary dimension of beauty. [BHJC, 64]
Ki no
Tsurayuki, in his preface to the Kokinshu, was the first to
describe the workings of this
aesthetic(mono-no-aware). For
example, when inquiring…whether anyone
can resist singing—or composing poetry—upon “hearing the warbler sing
among the
blossoms and the frog in his fresh waters,” Tsurayuki said, in effect,
that
people are emotional entities and will intuitively and spontaneously
respond in
song and verse when they perceive things and are moved.
The most basic sense of mono no aware
is the capacity to be moved by things, whether they are the beauties of
nature
or the feelings of people, a capacity that Tsurayuki, at least,
believed would
directly lead to aesthetic expression. [JC, 61] |
Murasaki
Shikibu
On the Art of Fiction/Genji as “Shining
Prince”
One day when Genji
came into Tamakazura’s
room he noticed
several illustrated romances scattered about the place.
“Really,” he said with a smile, “you women
are incorrigible. Sometimes I wonder
whether you haven’t been born into this world just so that you can be
deceived
by people. Look at those books! There probably isn’t an ounce of truth in the
lot of them—and you know that as well as I do. Yet
here you are, utterly fascinated and taken in by all
their
fabrications, avidly copying down each word—and, I may add, quite
unaware that
it is a sultry day in the middle of the rainy season and that your hair
is in
the most frightful mess.”
Genji
paused for a while. “But then,” he
continued, “if it weren’t for old romances like this, how on earth
would you
get through these long tedious days when time moves so slowly? And besides, I realize that many of these
works, full of fabrications though they are, do succeed in evoking the
emotion
of things in a most realistic way….Thus, when we read about the ordeals
of some
delightful princess in a romance, we may find ourselves actually
entering into
the poor girl’s feelings….He smiled and continued, “The author
certainly does
not write about specific people, recording all the actual circumstances
of
their lives. Rather it is a matter of
his being so moved by things, both good and bad, which he has heard and
seen
happening to men and women that he cannot keep it all to himself but
wants to
commit it to writing and make it known to other people—even to those of
later
generations. This, I feel sure, is the
origin of fiction. [SJT, 201-202]
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