A physical space for your inner self — reading a new translation of Hōjōki by Matthew Stavros

My clearest memory of my grandfather is the little cot in his back room. Lying on his side, propped up on one elbow, he would spend hours on that folding metal bed with the thin mattress, book in hand. The small room was his refuge, walls lined by the creased spines of paperbacks filling the shelves. Even when he moved house he always had a semblance of this quiet space. Grandfather had met my grandmother as a young man in the Western Canadian city of Vancouver. He courted her between boxing in hotel basements in East Van. Then the war happened and he was flying bombers over Germany. Upon returning from Europe he took my grandmother up into the Rocky Mountains, deep in the forest where he built a house with his own hands. The house was simple with a pot-bellied stove for protection against the chilly winter. In the corner was a small cot, above it a makeshift shelf nailed to wall holding a few books.

Reading the newly released Hōjōki: A Hermit’s Hut as Metaphor brought these memories back. For Kamo no Chōmei too, the thirteenth century was wracked by politics, plague, and destruction, prompting him to build a small hut in the Kyoto hills for solitary contemplation.

秋は日ぐらしの聲耳に充てり。
うつせみの世をかなしむかと聞ゆ。

On autumn evenings,
The cries of cicadas fill my ears,
Lamenting this empty husk of a world

In our own year of plague and destructive politics, Matthew Stavros has released this new translation. Chōmei’s work is prose, but Stavros has laid out each sentence on its own like a poem. The Japanese appears on the right page with its corresponding English translation on the left. Having the two to compare is not only brave on Stavros’s part, but convenient for the reader seeking a better literary appreciation of the Japanese. Stavros uses a 1906 version of Hōjōki, which is much more accessible for those of us not trained to read Early Middle Japanese. The small book is organized into fourteen chapters in three sections. Stavros’s translation is easy to read, unlocking the many lessons on impermanence, self-reliance, and non-attachment—all set within the scenic mountains surrounding Kyoto.

Although I have not built my own hut, for the past few years I have gone on retreat at a remote monastery of the Thai Forest tradition. Taking opportunities each year to cut oneself off from the contentiousness of the world — as well as one’s own vices — is rejuvenating. Reading Hōjōki again shed new light on the experiences, and I felt the pull to take another trip to the forest.

必ず禁戒をまもるとしもなけれども、
境界なければ何につけてか破らむ。

It’s not hard to keep the holy precepts,
There’s little chance of breaking them.

Kamo no Chōmei belongs to a tradition of suki no tonseisha (「数寄」の遁世者) or “aesthete-recluse” that writers will appreciate — those who combine asceticism with aesthetics. Reclusion offers a chance to practice both spirituality and art. Sometimes they are the same thing. During his time at Hino, Chōmei produced a major work on both poetry and religion in addition to his famous account of the three-meter square hut. Reading Hōjōki I felt the need for another writing retreat, and the inspiration that comes with seclusion.

みねのかせきの近くなれたるにつけても、
世にとほざかる程をしる。

When deer approach me without fear,
I realize just how far removed I’ve become.

Recently Stavros gave a talk on his book to Writers In Kyoto where he filled in the context  of Kamo no Chōmei’s world. As author of the acclaimed  Kyoto: An Urban History of Japan’s Premodern Capital, he was able to insert illuminating commentary and maps in his Hōjōki translation. Based on his recent talk, I think he could well have used even more of his vast expertise in this book, for example delving into how Chōmei was not entirely self-sufficient but must have had support to stay out there in the hills. In the text Chōmei details various aspects of the hut and his daily life, but does not mention cooking. That is not to dismiss nor “disqualify” Chōmei for not being a complete hermit. The Buddha himself gave up extreme asceticism! For the reader, a better understanding of how Chōmei achieved what he did might humanize the hermit and make the experience more accessible.

冬は雪をあはれむ。

And when the winter comes,
Snow covers the earth.

つもりきゆるさま、罪障にたとへつべし。

It accumulates then melts away,
Not unlike human sin and its redemption.

Whether earthquakes in 1185, war in 1943, or pandemic in 2020, suffering is a recurring condition of our world. The Hōjōki shows the value of having a physical space that affords an uninterrupted mental space for self-reflection. Whether that space is a three-by-three hut, a monastery, a campground, or just a cot in a back room filled with books, we all should try to find solitude periodically – especially writers.