Birthplace of Genji? Not really.

Murasaki Shikibu’s famous Tale of Genji (源氏物語) is unarguably a famous piece of classical literature. It is frequently called “the world’s first novel” (though this is a matter of some debate), and is generally considered to be a literary masterpiece. Thus, it comes as no surprise that there is no shortage of various persons and groups seeking to somehow benefit from Murasaki’s fame.

One of the best-known of these is the Buddhist temple Ishiyama-dera (石山寺), located just outside of Kyoto along the shores of Lake Biwa. According to the temple, Murasaki wrote Genji while spending time at the temple, in the room now known as the “Genji Room” (源氏の間). The monks have been asserting this as fact for hundreds of years. The following excerpt, translated by my classical Japanese professor Jamie Newhard, is from the Ishiyamadera Engi (石山寺縁起), originally published in 1327:

Murasaki Shikibu … secluded herself at this temple for seven days. Looking out into the distance over the lake, she cleared her mind, and various scenes floated up in her heart and obstructed her vision. Since she was not prepared with paper, in her heart she asked the Buddha enshrined here for the paper of a copy of the Prajnaparamita Sutra that was placed in the hall, and wrote down the unexpected scenes continuously. … The place where the tale was written is called the Genji Room, and it is said that this place is unchanged.

Today, the temple’s website continues to put forth essentially the same assertions. Recently, for the 1000th anniversary of Murasaki’s tale, the temple installed a cartoonish wooden cutout Genji (seen above) outside its main gates and placed a robotic Murasaki Shikibu inside the Genji Room.

Despite its ancient origins, however, the tale associating Genji with Ishiyama-dera appears to have little basis in fact. Most scholars agree that little of none of the tale was likely written at Ishiyama-dera; the majority of Genji was most likely written while Murasaki was at court in Kyoto itself.

SeaWorld, Without the Glass and Fences

When thinking about Ise (伊勢) and Japan’s Shima Peninsula (志摩半島), famous Shinto shrines, married rocks, and Mikimoto Pearls come readily to mind. Miniature SeaWorld-style theme parks do not. Yet, Futami Sea Paradise (二見シーパラダイス) is one of the area’s most interesting attractions.

What makes the park especially unique is the freedom given to both visitors and aquatic life forms: this is SeaWorld without the glass and fences (or the roller coasters). Walruses and seals mingle with humans freely, albeit under the watchful eye of park staff. Dolphins play catch with children from an open pool. As part of a sea lion show, the animals are led directly into and through the crowd.

And the occasional “lucky” visitor will even be kissed by a walrus.

My first thoughts upon visiting the park involved liability, lawyers, and lawsuits. These were wild animals! They could hurt someone! Think of the children! But as I walked around wide-eyed and slack-jawed, witnessing the happy interactions between Japanese families and the park’s resident marine mammals, I quickly became convinced that this was simply one more example of the amazing experiences that Americans were being deprived of because of our society’s paranoid and overly litigious nature.

Chasing a Recluse: Kamo no Chōmei

12th century Japanese author Kamo no Chōmei (鴨長明) is most famous for the Hōjōki (方丈記), a classic work in which he describes his retreat from the world and subsequent experience living in a hōjō – a ten foot square hut – in the wilderness of Hino (日野山), a mountain outside of Kyoto. Chōmei’s Hōjōki is thus often compared with Thoreau’s Walden. After having recently completed reading the Hōjōki, I set off on an attempt to visit the alleged site of Chōmei’s famous hut.

As I began to climb towards the mountains of eastern Kyoto from the nearest station, signs marking the way to Chōmei’s hut began to appear every few hundreds of meters. Slowly, the ubiquitous convenience stores, apartment blocks, and vending machines that characterize urban and suburban Japan began to gave way to rice fields and small single-family homes. After hiking a few kilometers, past bemused locals – why is there a foreigner out here? – and an abandoned public sports complex, I arrived at the foot of Mt. Hino.

Traces of civilization abruptly disappeared, replaced only by worn markers reassuring visitors that the overgrown dirt path ahead of them was indeed the way to Chōmei’s hut. After scrambling up slippery hillsides, past several suspicious-looking giant centipedes, and being feasted upon by several dozen mosquitoes, I finally arrived at the site of Chōmei’s famed hōjō.

I’m not sure what I was expecting. I was, after all, traveling to the site of a tiny, wooden hut from the 12th century. But in Japan, almost anything with the slightest potential appeal is readily converted to at least some form of a tourist attraction. Buildings from past centuries are frequently reconstructed, complete with the requisite souvenir shops and dining opportunities. Surely there would be something interesting to mark the site at which one of the most famous pieces of classical Japanese literature was written?

Instead, I found nothing more than a faded signpost resting askew against some rocks. I snapped the requisite picture (at right), and turned to stumble back down the trail before Mt. Hino’s insect population could inflict any more damage.

If for some reason you would like to repeat my journey, take the Tōzai Line (東西線) of the Kyoto City subway to Ishida (石田駅) and head southeast from the exit, passing a Seven-Eleven and following the turns indicated on the signs along the way. More detailed information on Mt. Hino can be found (in Japanese) here.