Kenko stories “omitted as unsuitable for English translation”

 

Another example of how times change is to be found in different English versions of Yoshida Kenko’s ‘Tsure-Zure Gusa’. William N. Porter’s translation, published in 1914 under the title ‘The Miscellany of a Japanese Priest’ contains many explicit accounts of fourteenth century Japanese life, however two of the 243 Sections of Kenko’s book, nos. 61 and 90, are censored from the text with the briefest explanation: “Omitted as unsuitable for English translation”.

 No correspondence can be entered into, and if we are not conversant in Japanese must rely on other sources for further explanation of these deliberate omissions. Meredith McKinney’s 2013 translation, under the conventional English title of the book, ‘Essays in Idleness’, helps reveal what we may have already guessed. Porter lives in the quaint world of Victorian prudery. Whether it was he or his publisher, or both, who decided to leave out 61 and 90, we may never know. But the reader turns the pages to find that 1914 London is a long way from the English-speaking world of 2025, and indeed the Japanese-speaking world of 1330.

 Section 61 is given the chapter heading ‘An Old Superstition’. This will be Porter’s invention, leading one to wonder if he translated the Section, only to have it then suppressed. McKinney saves us from further guesswork about the nature of the actual superstition.

 There is no official sanction for the practice of dropping a rice steamer from the roof when an imperial child is born. It is a form of magic to ensure easy delivery of the afterbirth. If things are going well, it is not done. The practice originated among the lower orders, and has no particular foundation. A steamer from the village of Ohara is traditionally used. There is a picture in an old treasure house of a steamer being dropped during the birth of a commoner’s child. (McKinney 52)

 Gargantuan googling may get us no closer to the origin, or even the meaning, of this superstition than Kenko himself. First inspection tells us that rice steamers are symbols of fertility and health; that the practice of dropping one from a roof for the reason specified was perhaps common; but that the imperial authorities neither encouraged nor forbad their subjects from doing so. Kenko is making an empirical observation; whether he is judging the practice, or simply recording it for our interest or amusement, is hard to say. One thing is certain: people have different ways of thinking about things. Presumably when it comes to the safe delivery of an heir, people will do whatever it takes. McKinney footnotes the Section: “An earthenware steamer was dropped from the roof, in the belief that this would encourage easy passage of the afterbirth.” (McKinney 163) She then offers the helpful fact that Ohara is “a village to the north of the capital. ‘Ohara’ is homophonous with a word meaning ‘big belly’” Which does at least suggest that such an imitative ritual action for childbirth is in play.

 Nevertheless, it is “unsuitable for English translation,” not only because it is a superstition – Kenko records other superstitions that pass the censor – but because of its everyday knowledge of childbirth, including mention of the placenta. In a society like Victorian and post-Victorian England (and its Empire), pregnancy was something best concealed and not spoken of. The bodily reality of physical change and childbirth was often overdressed in secrecy, something that led to all sorts of Victorian superstitions, superstitions completely on their own terms. None of these superstitions involved dropping rice steamers from rooftops.     

 Section 90 is given the anachronistically Anglican chapter heading ‘A Rt. Rev. Dai-Nagon and his Servant’. As Sanki Ichikawa discloses in his Introduction to Porter’s translation, the author of this work is “a fourteenth-century priest named Kenko, who lived the life of a recluse, without being able entirely to forgo the passions and desires of this world.” (Porter 4) In fact, a Buddhist monk of a particular kind, one McKinney identifies as a tonseisha, a recluse who is his own master. Conscious of his English readership, and his study environment at the University of Cambridge, Porter adopts the religious titles and honorifics of the English church throughout his version, in this case ‘Right Reverend’, standard title for a bishop. A century later, McKinney is more comfortable in the main using traditional Japanese position descriptions. This is her version of the story omitted from Porter’s book.

 The Dainagon Abbot employed a young acolyte by the name of Otozuru-maru, who came to be on intimate terms with one Yasura-dono and was constantly coming and going to visit him.

One day, seeing the lad return, the abbot asked where he had been. ‘I’ve been to see Yasura-dono,’ he replied.

‘Is this Yasura-dono a layman, or a monk?’ enquired the abbot.

Bringing his sleeves together in a polite bow, the acolyte replied, ‘I really don’t know, sir. I’ve never seen his head.’

I wonder why not – after all, he would have seen the rest of him. (McKinney 65)

 The aftershocks of the Wilde Trial (1895-97) resonated through the 20^th century, reverberating powerfully in England when Porter was translating Kenko. It was a very serious risk to publish literature depicting homosexual relationships, or even hinting at them. Having removed himself from the world, Kenko is still living in the world and with his memories. He recalls the male world of the Buddhist monastery, in the process leaving candid verbal snapshots. By the 21^st century it can be noted authoritatively, “It was common practice for young acolytes to receive the sexual attentions of older men.” (McKinney 166) Kenko reports or alludes to this in a couple of other places, but how do we understand these stories, which talk directly of pederasty, i.e. consensual liaisons between youths and older men, and why does he include them?

 Meredith McKinney states that none of the characters in Section 90 are “identifiable,” i.e. cannot be pinned down historically. But maybe Kenko is protecting their identities with pseudonyms that are types. Google says a dainagon is a counsellor of the first rank in the imperial court, which might be a sharp shot at the abbot, not just an indication of his role as a superior. Otozuru means to go visiting, which is the young acolyte’s pastime, and -maru can mean beloved: Otozuru-maru. Yasura-dono could mean many things, though yasura can mean protector and the suffix -dono is a lordly title. Is Kenko remembering types of social relation and giving them stage names?

 Then there is the critical yet mysterious punchline to the story. When asked by the abbot if this older man he visits is a monk or a layman, the acolyte replies, “I’ve never seen his head”. McKinney explains: “If he were a full monk, his head would be shaved.” (McKinney 166) We assume the abbot knows the names of all the monks. We assume he knows who is tonsured. The abbot’s own final thoughts on the subject confirm he understands quite well the nature of the relationship, but he is going to keep his own counsel. And like the abbot, Kenko has witnessed such things in life.

 One of the attractive aspects of Tsure-Zure Gusa is how its 243 Sections speak aloud the experience of one person, removed in time and place, yet his wisdom combines with inexplicable anecdote and seemingly random perception to create a composite testament, knowable and unknowable. Are we to be amused by the two Sections “omitted as unsuitable for English translation”, puzzled, better informed? How important or unimportant are they to the author? Like so many of the entries, they idle in space, inked on paper but now a riddle for the charmed reader. Who is he talking to? A younger self? His ideal listener? Are traumas implicit in the words? Is he asking to be remembered? Or is he simply going with the making of the flow, then letting it go?  

 

Sources

 

‘The Miscellany of a Japanese Priest : Being a Translation of Tsure-Zure Gusa by William N. Porter’, with an Introduction by Sanki Ichikawa. (London : Humphrey Milford, 1914)

 

‘Essays in Idleness and Hojoki’, by Yoshida Kenko and Kamo No Chomei, translated with an introduction and notes by Meredith McKinney. (London : Penguin Books, 2013)