BUDDHISM AND THE TRANSFORMATION

OF OLD AGE IN MEDIEVAL JAPAN

BUDDHISM AND THE
TRANSFORMATION
OF OLD AGE IN
MEDIEVAL JAPAN

Edward R. Drott

University of Hawai‘i Press

Honolulu
© 2016 University of Hawai‘i Press
All rights reserved
Printed in the United States of Amer­ic­ a

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Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-Publication Data

Names: Drott, Edward Robertson, author.
Title: Buddhism and the transformation of old age in medieval Japan / Edward R. Drott.
Description: Honolulu : University of Hawai‘i Press, [2016] | Includes bibliographical
  references and index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2015043302 | ISBN 9780824851507 cloth : alk. paper
Subjects: LCSH: Aging—­Japan. | Buddhism—­Japan—­History—1185–1600. |
  Buddhism—­Japan—­Philosophy.
Classification: LCC BQ678 .D76 2016 | DDC 294.3084/6—­dc23 LC rec­ord available at
  http://­lccn​.­loc​.­gov​/­2015043302

University of Hawai‘i Press books are printed on

acid-­free paper and meet the guidelines for permanence
and durability of the Council on Library Resources.
 Contents

Acknowl­edgments vii
Introduction ix

I. Making Elders ­Others in Early Japan

1. Aged Earth Gods and Majestic Imperial Ancestors:
The Uses of Old Age in Early Japa­nese Myth 5
2. “Lamenting Gray Hair”: The Poetics of Retirement in Early Japan 20
3. Decrepit Demons and Defiled Deities: Elders at the Crossroads
in Late Heian Japan 39

II. Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

4. From Outcast to Saint: Overcoming Pollution in an Age of Decline 53
5. The Eccentric Avatar: Reimagining the Body of the
Bodhisattva in Early Medieval Engi 74
6. The Graying of the Gods: The Return of the Okina Kami
in Medieval Myth 96
7. “Tranquil Heart, Gazing Afar”: Reimagining the Aged Body in Noh 118
Conclusion 145

Abbreviations 149
Notes 151
Works Cited 193
Index 209

v
 Acknowl­e dgments

It is perhaps fitting that this work, a book about old age, has under­gone a long
pro­cess of maturation. During ­those years many individuals and institutions have
made invaluable contributions to its development. To begin with, I wish to express
deep gratitude to my late adviser William LaFleur, who first ignited my interest
in the relationship between religion and the body in Japan, and whose example
continues to inspire me. I am also indebted to my other mentors from gradu­ate
school, particularly Linda Chance, Cappy Hurst, Victor Mair, and Nathan Sivin,
and from my undergraduate years, Stephen Dunning, Robert Kraft, Ann ­Matter,
and Guy Welbon.
The questions that motivated this study came into focus during the 2006–2007
academic year, which I spent as a postdoctoral fellow at Harvard University’s Reis-
chauer Institute of Japa­nese Studies. During my fellowship, I benefited enormously
from my interactions with several scholars, particularly Mikael Adolphson, Helen
Hardacre, and Shigehisa Kuriyama. I also enjoyed many fruitful exchanges with
Katrina Moore, Christopher Hanscom, Hans Martin Krämer, and my fellow post-
docs, Anna Andreeva, Christopher Bondy, Seth Jacobowitz, and Aaron Moore.
­Later, as a lecturer at Dartmouth College, I was fortunate to be surrounded
by colleagues who stimulated and challenged me. In ­t hose years and since, I have
received all manner of support, encouragement, and advice from Susan Ackerman,
Reiko Ohnuma, Steven Ericson, and Gil Raz. At the University of Missouri I
was once again blessed with brilliant and supportive colleagues. Rabia Gregory,
Nate Hofer, Dennis Kelley, and Chip Callahan provided extremely insightful
comments and criticism on vari­ous chapters and helped me clarify my framing
of the proj­ect as a ­whole. While at Missouri, vari­ous funding agencies provided
me with support necessary to conduct research in Japan. A University of Missouri
Summer Research Fellowship and grant from MU’s Center for Arts and Human-
ities allowed me to spend the summer of 2010 as a visiting research scholar at the
Nanzan Institute for Religion and Culture. In the summer of 2011, funding from
the Japan Society for the Promotion of Science enabled me to conduct research at
Sophia University. A National Endowment for the Humanities Summer Stipend,

vii
viii  Acknowl­
e dgments

and funding from the University of Missouri Research Board and Research
Council, allowed me another period as a visiting research scholar at the Nanzan
Institute in 2012. Since taking up my position at Sophia University in 2014, I have
enjoyed generous research support and benefited greatly from interaction with
my new colleagues.
Parts of this study have been presented at vari­ous conferences and workshops,
including the 2010 meeting of the Académie du Midi; the 2011 meeting of the As-
sociation for Asian Studies; the 2011 session of the Body and Religion Group held
at the annual meeting of the American Acad­emy of Religion; at a workshop on
East Asian medicine and Buddhism convened by Benedetta Lomi at the Univer-
sity of California, Berkeley; and at a colloquium at the University of Nagoya
Gradu­ate School of Letters in 2012.
A generous grant from the Japan Foundation enabled me to spend the 2012–
2013 academic year based at the University of Nagoya, and in Kyoto. During that
year Abe Yasurō, who acted as my host, offered many valuable suggestions and
invited me to participate in vari­ous research seminars and activities. I also prof-
ited greatly from discussions with Araki Hiroshi, Carl Becker, Onjōji’s Shitsujichō,
Fuke Toshihiko, Michele Mason, Satō Yasuhisa, Jacqueline Stone, Tanaka Takako,
and Uejima Susumu. I am grateful to Hashimoto Michinori for spending a g­ reat
deal of time talking with me about my proj­ect and introducing me to other schol-
ars and resources. Amano Fumio was very generous with his time, allowing me
to confer with him about numerous issues pertaining to okina sarugaku and the
development of early Noh. I also enjoyed numerous exceedingly detailed discus-
sions with Michael Jamentz, who shared his vast knowledge of late Heian reli-
gious and literary culture. During my final months in Kyoto, I was extremely
fortunate to be able to discuss my work with Heather Blair, who read and com-
mented on extensive portions of this manuscript.
Over the years, I have benefited significantly from discussing aspects of my
proj­ect with numerous other scholars, including Robert Borgen, Michael Como,
Gary Ebersole, Andrew Goble, James Heisig, Leith Morton, Paul Swanson, and
John Traphagan. Richard Gardner has been especially generous with his time,
reading and conferring with me on several chapters and the shape of the proj­ect
as a w­ hole. Christopher Bondy and Anna Andreeva have continued to provide
valuable feedback on portions of the manuscript at vari­ous stages.
I am deeply grateful to Patricia Crosby, who began the pro­cess of guiding this
proj­ect ­toward publication, and to Stephanie Chun at the University of Hawai‘i Press,
who worked closely with me seeing it through to completion. Fi­nally, this book
would never have come to fruition without the support of friends and the love and
understanding of my f­ amily—my parents, my ­brother, my c­ hildren, and my wife.
 Introduction

The pre­sen­ta­tion of the old man is the heart of Noh. [ . . . ​]

Without years of practice and lofty achievements, you cannot
perform the role suitably. [ . . . ​] ­Don’t fidget and fuss; comport
yourself with grace. Most impor­tant of all is the dance of the
old man. You must inquire deeply into the mystery (kōan) of
how to look old and yet retain the dramatic flower. It is just
like [the mystery] of blossoms on an ancient tree.
—­Zeami Motokiyo1

The late-­medieval Noh dramatist and theorist Zeami Motokiyo (ca. 1363–1443)
devoted a ­great deal of thought to the appearances and meanings of vari­ous bodily
types, t­ hose of men, w
­ omen, animals, ghosts, gods, demons, warriors, priests, and
­others. But one form in par­tic­u ­lar held a special fascination for him: the rōtai, or
“aged body.” According to Zeami, the correct pre­sen­ta­tion of the role of the old
man (rōjin) required the utmost skill from an actor and epitomized the innermost
essence of the art of Noh. Successfully performing the rōjin produced the effect
of “an old tree that puts forth flowers.”2
The image of blossoms on a withered branch was at once a reference to The
Flower—­a term for dramatic perfection—as well as an allusion to the Buddhist
trope that the appearance of flowers on dead branches heralded the arrival in the
world of an enlightened being. By producing beauty from the aged form, Zeami
implied, the performer facilitated the revelation on the Noh stage of something
divine.3 Zeami followed through on t­ hese intimations, writing elsewhere that the
bearing of the old man was the basis for representing the awesome dignity of
gods.4 Zeami’s observations clearly reflect the centrality to Noh of the figure of
the okina—­a mysterious old man featured in Noh’s ceremonial Shikisanban
dances and revealed in many Noh plays to be a god.
Zeami’s treatment of the aged body as a form through which actors ­were able
to attain the ultimate expression of beauty and sacred power, coupled with the
abundance of medieval legends in which gods w ­ ere depicted as old men, might

ix
x  Introduction

create the impression that the aged had been highly esteemed throughout Japa­
nese history. And yet even a cursory examination of materials from earlier cen-
turies reveals quite a dif­fer­ent story. In the Nara and Heian periods (710–1185),
old age was routinely described as a time of misery and social ostracism, with the
aged body subjected to widespread disparagement. In fact, aside from a handful
of textual references from the early eighth ­century, it is not ­until the late Heian
period (ca. 1050–1185)—­a period I designate as the cusp of the medieval—­t hat
we witness a sudden proliferation of legends centering on okina gods. In the cen-
turies that followed, all manner of transcendent beings came to be represented in
the form of okina: buddhas, bodhisattvas, immortals, saints, local and immigrant
kami (divine beings), and deities who protected the Buddhist teachings or Dharma
(gohō).5 Many of the figures that ­were re­imagined in aged guises during the me-
dieval period ­were associated with established cults and ­were the subject of leg-
ends, which in earlier centuries had made no mention of their age or appearance
(even in legends in which ­t hese beings ­were described revealing themselves di-
rectly to mortals).6 And yet in the closing centuries of the Heian period it became
common to portray ­t hese beings with white hair and bent backs, inaugurating
what Kim Hyŏn-uk calls the “transformation of medieval kami” into okina—­a
pro­cess I refer to as “the graying of the gods.”7 This trend only intensified in the
Kamakura (1185–1333) and Muromachi periods (1333–1573).
First-­person accounts of old age in premodern Japan underwent similar shifts,
with religious discourse playing a key role.8 Early Japa­nese authors consistently
depicted the onset of white hair and wrinkles as a cause of despair. However, in
the late Heian and early Kamakura periods an authorial voice developed that cel-
ebrated old age as an escape from the constraints of social and po­liti­cal entangle-
ments—­a time to achieve insight into Buddhist truths unavailable to ­t hose who
remained mired in social obligations.
How do we account for the emergence of a new intuition in medieval Japan
that the aged body was highly suitable for realizing truth and representing other-
worldly powers? I explain t­hese transformations by identifying the religious,
po­liti­cal, and cultural shifts that opened new possibilities for representing and
reflecting on the aged body in medieval Japan and by examining the ways indi-
viduals and groups acted on ­t hese new opportunities. The transformation of the
meanings ascribed to the aged body coincided with the emergence of a new sym-
bolic vocabulary for expressing sacred and po­liti­cal power. In Japan’s early history
(ca. 500–1050), ruling elites promoted a complex of continental religious and
po­liti­cal ideologies—­combining ele­ments of Buddhist, Confucian, and Chinese
naturalist thought—to or­ga­nize society around the axial figure of the emperor.
The emperor, or tennō, was presented as ruling from a capital portrayed as the
 Introduction  xi

civilized, purified center of the world. The aged body, on the other hand, was
commonly employed to represent all that should be excluded from the center: an
uncomfortable reminder of h ­ uman weakness, barrenness, ugliness, stagnation,
and pollution that had no place in a court that compared itself to the timeless and
deathless lands of Tokoyo (a mythic other world, u ­ nder or beyond the sea), Peng-
lai (a storied isle of immortals), or Kunlun (the mountain paradise of the Queen
­Mother of the West).9 However, from the late Heian through the early medieval
periods—­concurrent with the reconfiguration of the classical po­liti­cal order
and the growing sense that the world had entered an age marked by the degen-
eration of the Dharma (mappō)—­new religious worldviews emerged that drew
inspiration from innovative readings of Buddhist scriptures and challenged tra-
ditional dichotomies between center and margin, high and low, and purity and
defilement, thus complicating the po­liti­cal and religious ideologies that had
promoted the image of Japan as a realm or­ga­nized around a single, stable center.
It was in this context that individuals and groups seized upon the aged body as
a means of expressing the power of their cult, their lineage, their religious site, or
their religious practice.
The reimagining of old age thus came about in part ­because, for vari­ous
parties at vari­ous historical junctures, aged bodies ­were “good to think with.”10
That is to say, the aged body, when construed as a fundamentally dif­fer­ent ­human
type, could be used to cognize and symbolize vari­ous other sets of differences: to
express the opposition between center and margin, between power and power-
lessness, or between the sacred and the mundane. Old age as difference became
a means of relating and contrasting self and other, not only individual selves, but
also the collective selves of kinship groups, clerical lineages, Buddhist sects, devo-
tional cults, or the geo­graph­i­cally delimited units of province, country, or realm.
Throughout the period in question, the aged body was recruited for multiple, often
conflicting proj­ects of difference-­making—­the most impor­tant of which involved
the legitimation of royal or sacred authority.
In the wake of the so-­called somatic turn in the humanities and social sci-
ences, numerous studies have charted the ways in which anx­i­eties about the
social body have been mapped onto the bodies of “deviant” individuals, which
then become the subjects of social control and discipline.11 In premodern Japan,
the aged body also functioned as a medium onto which anx­i­eties ­were projected
and through which ideological strug­gles ­were waged. It is thus no coincidence
that the meanings of the aged body underwent their most radical transforma-
tions in the turbulent years of the late Heian period, when Buddhist institutions
and court intellectuals alike w ­ ere searching for new ways to represent and legiti-
mate power.
xii  Introduction

Although I argue that the transformation of old age coincided with larger po­
liti­cal, cultural, and religious shifts, ­t hese broader patterns cannot in themselves
be considered c­ auses. The reimagining of old age was constituted by and must be
understood through specific instances of meaning-­making and identity forma-
tion. ­Here I follow the insights of the proponents of practice theory, who have
shifted scholarly attention away from charting the structures that order a given
society to the question of how individuals and collectives seek to work within
and, at times, against ­those structures.12 In the pages that follow, I examine
concrete examples in which the aged body was used strategically in proj­ects of
legitimation and re­sis­tance by both t­ hose writing about elders and ­t hose writing
as elders.

Defining Old Age in Premodern Japan

At the outset it seems reasonable to ask at what age a person in premodern Japan
would have been considered old, but the answer differs depending on w ­ hether we
rely on a l­ egal, medical, or ceremonial framework. Depending on the context, old
age was said to begin at the age of thirty, forty, fifty, sixty, or seventy.13 This vari-
ability underlines one of the central points of this work: that old age had vari­ous
definitions and meanings. Calling oneself or another old was never a s­ imple act
of describing an objective fact—it was an act of repre­sen­ta­tion, identity forma-
tion, and social positioning.
Although some texts sought to generalize and identify the onset of old age
with a par­tic­u ­lar de­cade of life, in the case of individuals, old age was more often
defined by the presence of certain ste­reo­t ypical physical characteristics, such as a
bent back or wrinkles, than by the number of years that person had lived. Pre-
modern authors w ­ ere acutely attentive to the vis­i­ble, auditory, and, occasionally,
olfactory aspects of the aged body. Thus, men or ­women who ­were portrayed as
successful prac­ti­tion­ers of the arts of longevity or immortality, who maintained
black hair and a glowing complexion into their seventies, eighties, or beyond,
­were not deemed elders. Similarly, even gods or immortals who ­were described
as having existed for eons would still be referred to as “youths” if that was the
form in which they appeared.
­Those who bore the telltale marks of senescence w ­ ere labeled using a number
of terms, many including the character rō 老 (old), also read oi.14 This character
appeared in many compound words that served to foreground the otherness of
the aged body. We read, for instance, of men and ­women whose voices became
“hoarse with old age” (oigaru); p ­ eople “bent over with age” (oikagamaru); or
­people suffering from the “weakness of old age” (rōsui), “farsightedness” (rōgan),
 Introduction  xiii

or “vagueness” (oibore).15 Tellingly, we read of elders removing themselves

from sight (oikakuru) perhaps out of deference to “the shame of old age” (oi
no hazukashisa).16
In certain cases, el­derly men w­ ere referred to as okina (written 翁 or, less fre-
quently, 叟), el­derly w­ omen as ōna (嫗, sometimes read omina).17 Texts from the
Nara period forward reserved t­hese terms for elders who w ­ ere perceived to be
especially base, strange, or outlandish. Fukutō Sanae observes that in the Heian
period ­t hese labels referred to elders who “did not conform to aristocratic com-
mon sense, ­were of low social standing, had unusual talents, or whose clownish-
ness inspired curiosity, in other words, elders somehow removed from ‘the world’
or the social order.”18 Emperors, high-­ranking aristocrats, and priests, regardless
of their age, ­were never referred to as okina or ōna.19 Paradoxically, ­these ­were also
the terms used to designate a handful of el­derly male and female earth gods in
Japan’s earliest official chronicles, a subject addressed in chapter 1.
Buddhism and other forms of continental knowledge made significant con-
tributions to Japa­nese understandings of old age. Buddhist texts and continental
medical traditions commonly depicted the aging body as inherently problematic
and then proposed vari­ous solutions. Some solutions required self-­control, spiri-
tual purity, or moral discipline, making the aged body a particularly rich marker
of difference, since it could be used as an index of moral worth and spiritual
advancement. For many Heian-­period Buddhists, the aged body, as a body that
vividly displayed the effects of time, became a tacit symbol of the temporal realm
of samsara—­the profane world of the “six paths,” characterized by impermanence
and suffering, along which ignorant beings died and ­were reborn. Certain strains
of Pure Land discourse in par­tic­u ­lar promoted a stark vision of the miseries
incumbent on the samsaric body, while at the same time holding up the change-
less, pure, and hermetic bodies of t­ hose born in Amida’s Pure Land as goals t­ oward
which to strive.20

Of Margins and Limens

One of the most significant ways the aged body was employed to articulate dis-
tinctions was its use in distinguishing between centers and margins. In order
to produce a vision of Japan as a centered “realm ­under heaven” (tenka), the aged
body was at times appropriated to symbolize the social and spatial margin. But
just as the aged body was critical in elucidating this geographic imaginary, in ­later
centuries it became just as useful in challenging ­t hose visions.
Scholars often describe the status of ­t hose relegated to the social periphery
as one of liminality—an analytic concept widely employed by Victor Turner to
xiv  Introduction

describe the special characteristics of individuals and groups inhabiting areas

conceived as bound­aries, “betwixt and between” the temporal and spatial zones in
which ­human interactions ­were ordered and structured.21 Turner described how,
due to their extra-­mundane existence, p ­ eople of liminal status could be seen as
possessing an aura of the sacred.22 In an influential essay on the medieval Japa­
nese life cycle, Kuroda Hideo drew on this concept when he described both child-
hood and old age as life stages that stood symbolically between the realm of fully
fledged adults (ichininmae) and the realm of the gods and buddhas (shinbutsu).
According to Kuroda, the liminal status of elders and ­children and their perceived
proximity to the other world helps account for the widespread perception that
­children and elders had a deeper connection to the sacred than normative ichi-
ninmae ­humans.23
In addition to Kuroda’s work, studies of sacred elders (sei naru rōjin) con-
ducted by folklorists such as Yamaori Tetsuo and Miyata Noboru have also been
based on the premise that the el­derly have been interpreted as liminal beings.24
However, such an approach runs the risk of presenting the el­derly as a mono-
lithic social category. Treating premodern Japa­nese elders as essentially liminal
elides impor­tant distinctions between elders. Sekizawa Mayumi warns that such
sweeping assessments overlook what Katata Jun called “subcultures” of old age—­
differences based on ­factors such as social class, gender, occupation, or geo­graph­
i­cal region.25 Attention to ­t hese subcultures and subcategories leads to an aware-
ness that not all elders w ­ ere equally disengaged from the social realm, and not all
who attained the status of outsider ­were able to enjoy the aura of sacrality that
their liminal status was supposed to confer. Rather, we see that, just as ­t here w ­ ere
va­ri­e­ties of elders, ­t here ­were va­ri­e­ties of liminalities, and the meanings of social
disengagement varied according to context and according to the motivations of
­t hose who represented o ­ thers or themselves as elders. This book is dedicated to
understanding ­t hese inconsistencies—­especially the dif­fer­ent meanings limin-
ality and marginality acquired in dif­fer­ent historical contexts. It is dedicated to
explaining why it was only in the mid-­eleventh ­century that the aged body, hav-
ing been subjected to marginalization for centuries, began to be imbued with the
sacred power that presumably should have always been its due.
To understand t­ hese disparities, it is impor­tant to treat marginality not as
some essential characteristic but as a product of social practices. The marginality
of the el­derly or of a par­tic­u­lar elder was never a given, but was in a constant pro­
cess of being constructed, negotiated, and reconstituted in specific texts and prac-
tices, ­whether an author was describing his or her own reactions to growing old
or depicting an aged statesman, an aged beggar, or an aged god.26 By approaching
old age and the repre­sen­ta­tion of old age as performative acts, we can begin to see
 Introduction  xv

how authors utilized available cultural resources to shape images of the aged to
suit their own par­tic­u ­lar interests, with each case representing a complex con-
fluence and collision of expectations and desires.

Sources and Approaches

This study treats a wide variety of materials. Although a major focus is the man-
ner in which the image of the aged body was used to make meaning in religious
texts—­including doctrinal works, legend collections, miracle tales, and other
genres of Buddhist lit­er­a­t ure—­t he authors and compilers of ­t hese texts, even
when they claimed the mantle of Buddhist renunciants or “world-­leavers,” re-
mained part of their broader social and cultural milieus and did not confine
themselves, in their own reading, to Buddhist texts. Furthermore, it is clear that
throughout the premodern period even self-­proclaimed recluses had extensive
contacts, depending on their own social positions, with courtiers, warriors, pro-
vincial governors, estate man­ag­ers, artisans, fishermen, and other commoners,
including ­those of low status, such as beggars, shrine/­temple menials (jinnin), and
outcasts (hinin). While I see religious discourse as the prime mover in reimagin-
ing old age, certain laypeople, including poets, court scribes, mid-­ranking offi-
cials, and scholars, had a major role in the formation of key legends featuring aged
avatars. Thus, even though our modern academic disciplines are or­ga­nized such
that certain genres of writing are more likely to fall u ­ nder the purview of the
historian or literary specialist than the scholar of religious studies, I have cast a
wide net.
Of course the term “religious” itself, when applied to premodern Japa­nese
texts, brings certain unhelpful associations. Whereas it is now common to imag-
ine religion as a distinct sphere of activity in which an individual claims affilia-
tion with one par­tic­u­lar tradition or sect, or pledges exclusive devotion to a par­
tic­u ­lar doctrine or deity, in premodern Japan, religious concepts and concerns
seeped into vari­ous aspects of everyday discourse and practice, and any par­tic­u­
lar individual was likely si­mul­ta­neously involved in multiple devotional activi-
ties and cultic networks.27 Some of the sources examined in the chapters that
follow would t­oday be regarded as self-­evidently “religious”: doctrinal works,
legends that promoted par­tic­u­lar holy sites (engi), or genres of Buddhist didactic
lit­er­a­ture, including accounts of propitious rebirths (ōjoden), explanatory tales
used in sermons (setsuwa), and hagiographies (den). But I also employ other types
of sources, such as official histories, l­egal codes, diaries, vernacular court fiction,
and poetry. Moreover, I examine materials that defy categorization according to
a binary model of “religious” versus “secular” lit­er­a­ture: the poetic travel diaries
xvi  Introduction

of aged pilgrims (kikō) and theoretical and dramatic works from Noh—­a dra-
matic form that claimed to have its origins in religious ritual. Taking such a wide
view reveals in­ter­est­ing confluences. For instance, we find that certain narratives
that appear in engi and setsuwa collections flowed freely across historical and
literary genres, and that the key players in promoting the image of white-­haired
deities ­were often court literati.
One other type of intertextuality deserves attention ­here. Throughout the pe-
riod u­ nder examination, continental texts w ­ ere highly influential in Japan. For
example, China had rich traditions of depicting perfected ­humans as xian (仙
J. sen), commonly translated as “immortals” or “transcendents.” Japa­nese elites
displayed a keen interest in literary and medical works that described ­t hese be-
ings. This interface with continental sources had a major impact on Japa­nese
views of aging, longevity, and repre­sen­ta­tions of divinity, but it cannot com-
pletely explain the medieval Japa­nese tendency to represent divine beings as el-
ders. Premodern Japa­nese authors, while exhibiting clear admiration for conti-
nental writings, mined ­t hese sources selectively to find allusions and pre­ce­dents
that suited their own requirements. In the earliest and most influential Chinese
collections of immortality tales, roughly half the immortals ­were depicted as el-
ders, but the other half appeared as youths brimming with vigor, with black hair
and radiant, wrinkle-­free skin. ­There is thus ­little reason to think that interest in
Chinese immortals alone could account for ­either the proliferation of tales in-
volving “youthful” immortals we find in early Japan or the glorification of the
aged body we find in medieval Japan.28 Similarly, Bo (also Bai) Juyi (772–846), by
far the most influential Chinese poet in premodern Japan, often wrote about old
age, but his tone was ambivalent, at times celebrating and at times reviling his
gray hair. Japa­nese authors writing on the topic of aging could and did choose
which poems to quote depending on the mood of their own composition.
Other trajectories of continental influence have been described by Kim
Hyŏn-uk, who has observed that the majority of Japa­nese okina gods had some
connection to kinship groups who traced their origins to the Korean peninsula—­
the implication being that many of ­these legends had Korean roots.29 While I
take ­t hese connections to be significant, even if we could demonstrate the penin-
sular origins of certain divine figures or the tales told about them, it would not
necessarily tell us why ­t hese par­tic­u­lar narratives proliferated or how they ­were
used in Japan.30
Understanding the origins of certain legends may be relevant as we attempt
to track the ways they ­were reworked and rewritten by successive generations, but
my true aim is to understand t­ hese narratives in terms of the performative func-
tions they fulfilled in their par­tic­u ­lar historical, social, and po­liti­cal contexts—­
 Introduction  xvii

how they served to establish or contest identities, authority, social bound­aries, or

­imagined geographies.31 In adopting this stance I am most indebted to the advo-
cates of practice theory. In par­tic­u ­lar, the work of philosopher-­sociologist Pierre
Bourdieu provides a model for how individuals and groups stake out positions
within social, cultural, or religious fields and then, through an embodied “feel
for the game” or “habitus,” work within or against established social codes to
advance their interests.32 Habitus—­t he physically imprinted sets of be­hav­iors,
styles of speech, and comportment unconsciously appropriated through a pro­cess
of mimesis—­a llows individuals to navigate social interactions but also provides
them with a semi-­instinctual sense of how to maximize their cultural and mate-
rial capital in ­t hese engagements. Bourdieu has noted that the act of writing also
engages an embodied sense of the “rules of the game,” and that authors in the act
of textually objectifying social relations might intuitively attempt to push back
against limitations imposed on them by powers entrenched in social structures.33
Thus, while the authors I study inherited certain sets of associations that told
them how elders ­were supposed to feel or act and where elders ­were supposed to
be socially “positioned,” many creatively improvised around ­t hose limitations
and, in the pro­cess, produced new sets of meanings.
Another touchstone for this study has been the field of gender studies, par-
ticularly works that have sought to illuminate the constructed and performative
nature of seemingly natu­ral, foundational categories such as sex and gender.34 In
a similar vein, this study treats old age not as an immutable “natu­ral object” but
as a category of knowledge through which ­people seek to understand themselves
and o ­ thers.35 And just as per­for­mance theorists of gender have argued that the
styles of adornment, speech, or comportment that cultures associate with male-
ness or femaleness come to be regarded as natu­ral only through repeated in-
stances of enactment, the styles of expression and be­hav­ior expected of elders in
early and medieval Japan w ­ ere not natu­ral or given. Old age was also an identity
to be performed. While the focus of this book is on repre­sen­ta­tions of aged o ­ thers,
we also examine texts in which old age figured in acts of self-­representation. In
early Japan, “writing old” often required highlighting one’s physical ailments
and social alienation. In certain circumstances, however, and increasingly in
the medieval period, ­t hose adopting the persona of the elder could utilize avail-
able resources (particularly Buddhist ideologies) to craft potentially authorita-
tive identities.
In illuminating and explaining the disjunctions between early and medieval
pre­sen­ta­tions of old age, I am cognizant that historical and cultural change is
never characterized by bright lines and clean breaks. Tropes have a life of their
own and continue to exert influence long ­after the original conditions that led to
xviii  Introduction

their emergence have passed. While this study seeks to compare what might be
described as two distinct “cultures” of old age, I have done my best to pres­ent
­t hese cultures in their own complexity. At no time was ­t here a perfectly fixed,
stable, uniformly agreed-to way of being old. ­There was as much contention over
the meanings of old age in early Japan as t­here was in medieval Japan. The
story, therefore, is not of one meaning giving way to another, but of one way of
framing the debates and negotiations over meaning being joined and then over-
shadowed by new ways of framing ­those debates and negotiations—­a re­orientation
of the axes along which dif­fer­ent positions in ­t hese negotiations ­were arranged.
And while my approach is informed by theories of practice and per­for­mance, I
have tried not to be overly beholden to them; I am more interested in describing
the vari­ous ways ­people made old age meaningful than in attempting to fit my
data into a single theoretical scheme.36

Buddhism versus Buddhisms; Transformation

versus Transformations
Buddhists played a decisive role in reimagining the aged body in medieval Japan.
Since one of the most striking features of this shift was the sudden proliferation
of aged kami—­a term usually reserved for Japa­nese deities—it might strike some
readers as odd that I label this a Buddhist transformation. But in the period u ­ nder
examination, aside from the activities of the governmental Council of Kami
Affairs (Jingikan) and sacerdotal lineages attached to major shines, rites of kami
veneration ­were performed for the most part by Buddhist priests within a Bud-
dhist intellectual framework. It was Buddhists, as well, who did the bulk of spec-
ulative writing about the gods. Thus, while many of the gods who ­were re­imagined
as elders are t­ oday associated with institutions designated “Shintō,” the premod-
ern manipulations of the images of ­t hese gods almost always occurred in texts
produced by or for Buddhist institutions. Buddhist authors and lay authors record-
ing Buddhist legends ­were the first to use the aged body as a new means of sym-
bolizing power. Furthermore, it was Buddhist ideology that provided complex
theories of embodiment that formed the backdrop for shifting repre­sen­ta­tions of
the sacred. The transformation of the image of ­t hese gods was intimately related
to theories of honji suijaku, which held kami to be manifestations (suijaku) of
buddhas or bodhisattvas, who served as their “original ground” (honji). It was in
the combinatory milieu of ­t hese shrine-­temple complexes that Japa­nese gods
­were first given the visages of old men.
However, we should not treat Buddhism as a monolithic entity. Although the
title of this work refers to “Buddhism” and the “transformation” of old age, perhaps
 Introduction  xix

a more accurate title would have invoked “Buddhisms” and “transformations.”

Indeed, the trope of the otherworldly okina was born in large part out of the ten-
sions between dif­fer­ent Buddhist factions as they strug­gled to establish the grounds
for their authority. Although never the center of explicit debate, the aged body,
since it was regarded as particularly subject to pollution, sickness, death, and
decay, served as a symbol of impermanence, the ­human condition, or samsara in
general. It thus became a medium through which authors could articulate com-
peting opinions about the nature of this world and the next, the meanings of purity
and pollution, appropriate attitudes ­toward impermanence, and the efficacy of a
par­tic­u­lar doctrine or practice to achieve transcendence.

Chapter Summaries
This book is divided into two parts. ­These parts are thematic, but they also pro-
ceed in a roughly chronological fashion. Part 1, “Making Elders ­Others,” com-
prises chapters 1, 2, and 3 and investigates the ways the aged body was used as a
symbolic scapegoat against which to define and reinforce the sacred and po­liti­cal
authority of the court in Nara and Heian Japan. Chapter 1 examines repre­sen­ta­
tions of the aged body in some of Japan’s earliest texts in light of the religious and
po­liti­cal ideologies they employed to produce an image of Japan as a realm or­ga­
nized around the axial figure of the emperor. This involves an exploration of early
Japa­nese myths, in which aged male and female earth gods ­were used to repre-
sent ­peoples of outlying provinces in contrast to the awesome, youthful, vital bod-
ies of the heavenly ancestors of the sovereign. Chapter 2 provides an analy­sis of
the rhe­toric employed in official retirement petitions (chijihyō) and poems ap-
pearing in imperial anthologies, in which authors strategically ­adopted the per-
sona of the elder as outsider to enhance their prestige as a poet, serve their po­liti­
cal interests, or both. Chapter 3 provides an analy­sis of two Heian-­period legends
in which the aged body was used to represent otherworldy beings associated with
death, disease, pollution, and dangerous liminal zones. Although t­ hese legends
represent some of the first instances of the reemergence of elder gods in the late-­
Heian period, their portrayal of the aged form has more in common with earlier
Japa­nese treatments of old age as a mark of negative distinction than with the
glorified elder divinities of medieval legend.
Part 2, “Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan” (chapter 4 through
chapter 7), surveys early medieval and medieval Buddhist legends, hagiographies,
and literary and dramatic works in which the aged body was presented in positive
terms, despite its problematic nature. Chapter 4 looks at Buddhist didactic tales
that depicted elders with the power to overcome distinctions between purity and
xx  Introduction

defilement. In chapter 5 and chapter 6, I turn to Buddhist engi and other reli-
gious texts in which buddhas, bodhisattvas, local kami, and foreign deities ­were
depicted as okina, some of whom engaged in activities generally considered to
be polluting as well as morally troubling. Significantly, some of the earliest texts
featuring gods and buddhas as okina ­were compiled not by high-­ranking Bud-
dhist priests but by less eminent religious prac­ti­tion­ers and mid-­ranking scholars
who served reigning and cloistered emperors. Furthermore, ­t hese texts featured
legends that w ­ ere not derived from the Buddhist canon or other “official” sources
but from the experiences of p ­ eople who had long been marginalized: lower-­
ranking nobles of the provincial governor class, religious institutions that existed
near the periphery of Buddhist “gates of power,” unofficial beggar priests, outcast
mendicant preachers, and underclass lay communities attached to shrine-­temple
complexes through ties of patronage or ser­v ice.37 I argue that as an emblem of all
that po­liti­cal and religious elites had sought to repress and exclude—­weakness,
impermanence, and pollution—­the aged body became useful to groups that wished
to challenge established social hierarchies and articulations of centers and mar-
gins. Chapter 7 examines sources from the fifteenth c­ entury, near the end of what
is usually regarded as the medieval period. ­There I return to Zeami, who sought
to harness the otherworldly charisma of the aged body in Noh.

Ancient Anx­i­eties and Con­temporary Concerns

In the closing de­cades of the twentieth c­ entury, Japa­nese social scientists began
to voice the opinion that Japan was approaching a demographic crisis as its pop-
ulation “aged”—as the percentage of the population that was el­derly, retired, or
required care grew relative to the percentage of ­those in the workforce.38 This
development coincided with a deluge of publications both academic and popu­lar
that presented aging and the aged as a “prob­lem.”39 Many of ­t hese works linked
the difficulties of aging to the predicament of modernity, assuming that Japa­nese
elders had enjoyed a level of care and re­spect in ages past that modern society was
­either unable or unwilling to provide.40 Despite nostalgic dreams to the contrary,
however, ­there never was a golden age in the past in which elders ­were universally
loved and respected; the historical rec­ord certainly does not reveal anything that
might be mistaken for a lost “gerontopia.” Although the aged male body came to
be the primary means for representing the earthly manifestations of gods and
buddhas, this was not a perennial feature of Japa­nese myth. Furthermore, such
repre­sen­ta­tions continued to rely on visions of old men and ­women as somehow
uncanny. The aged body continued to be viewed with deep ambivalence through-
out the premodern period.
 Introduction  xxi

While this study is focused on premodern Japan, ­t here are also broader issues
to address. I am fascinated by the ways that religious narratives and practices
function to form, shore up, or undermine intuitions about the nature of our phys-
ical being. By suggesting that the methods that have proved so fruitful in reveal-
ing the influence of religious ideology on gender can also be applied to studying
the role of religion in the formation of generational categories, I hope to contrib-
ute to and expand the horizons of a subgenre of works focusing on the history of
religion and the body. I also intend to contribute to conversations about how ­those
who study Japa­nese religion might approach their data. Recent de­cades have seen
scholars of premodern Japa­nese religion engage more fully in examining the ways
that religious institutions functioned as social and po­liti­cal forces in Japa­nese
history. In addition, while this study is attentive to the ways premodern religious
institutions functioned as “power blocs” (kenmon), working to legitimate their
authority and amass material resources, it also seeks to describe another level of
materiality. By disclosing the role that religious ideas and practices played in the
formation of what might be called the habitus of aging at vari­ous historical junc-
tures, I hope to illuminate yet another way that ­t hose who used ­t hose ideas or
practices made their impact felt beyond the walls of the t­ emple or shrine.
Fi­nally, I hope this study w­ ill be of interest beyond the circle of specialists in
religion or Japan. In the twenty-­first century, aging is considered primarily a
question of biology. This is all the more reason to stress the extent to which old
age is also a cultural product, especially as what might be called the “medical-­
nutritional-­industrial complex” stokes dreams of preventing and eventually de-
feating aging altogether. In the pages that follow we w ­ ill encounter many who
held similar dreams, but also dissenting voices that celebrated the aged body even
in the midst of its messiness. I hope this book w ­ ill contribute to the recognition
that our own quests ­today for eternal youth and virility and our own notions of
what is natu­ral for elders to think or feel are also tied to deeper cultural, religious,
and po­liti­cal agendas, and that our own self-­understanding need not be com-
pletely determined by t­ hese templates. We are just as f­ ree to accept or resist t­ hese
frameworks as our pre­de­ces­sors ­were in early and medieval Japan.
PA R T I

Making Elders ­Others in Early Japan

Literary texts from the Heian period vividly depict men and ­women confront-
ing old age and its consequences. The Genji monogatari pres­ents one character
in particular—­t he Akashi priest—­who epitomizes the complex and contradic-
tory qualities that ­were ascribed to this life stage in early Japan. In the Akashi
chapter, Prince Genji has been forced into exile and taken up residence in the
western region of Suma. Engulfed in a tremendous storm, he dreams of a strange
figure beckoning him. This, he understands, is Watatsumi, the Dragon King who
rules the seas from a palace beneath the waves. Upon awakening, Genji learns
that an aged priest has arrived on a small boat and offered his hospitality in
Akashi, farther down the coast.
The priest, now in his sixties, is the son of a minister (Daijin), a position
near the pinnacle of Japan’s imperial bureaucracy. Having achieved the re-
spectable office of ­M iddle Captain of the Imperial Bodyguards, however, he
opted to remove himself from the capital, volunteering to fill the post of gov-
ernor of the province of Harima. The priest eventually retired from that post
as well, remaining in the province to live out his remaining years as a lay
priest (nyūdō).
In some ways, the old priest’s ­career exemplifies the paradigmatic life course
for noble men and ­women of classical and medieval Japan, tracing a trajectory
from secular life and worldly duty to retirement and tonsure, mirrored geo­
graph­i­cally in a movement from the center of the capital to the provincial pe-
riphery. This passage to the periphery also represented, in the eyes of the Heian
courtier, a movement from the civilized, social realm—­t he metropolitan core
where personal cultivation and thus po­liti­cal advancement was pos­si­ble—to a
wilderness, a zone of po­liti­cal irrelevance and crude customs.1 In this regard, the
setting of Harima is significant. Suma, while exotic, was still in Settsu, one of the five
inner or “home” provinces (kinai), the region immediately surrounding the cap-
ital. By moving from Suma to Akashi, Genji has made a symbolic leap, stepping
outside the pacified center of the classical imagination.2

1
2   Making Elders ­O thers in Early Japan

The Akashi priest’s spatial marginality is mirrored in his social marginality.

Throughout the tale, he is ridiculed in ways that foreground his old age, reflecting
the assumption that the aged body was an inherently asocial body, one whose
ugliness and crassness made it impossible to harmonize with the rest of human-
ity, propelling it outward to the social fringe. Youths laugh openly at his contorted
face, his wrinkled, pursed lips likened to a clam shell.3 He is depicted as so lack-
ing in social graces that the narrator at times truncates his soliloquies, judging
them to be “tiresome” (urasashiya).4 He is referred to as “stubborn” (uchihigami
horebore), “an odd sort of man who does not get along well with p ­ eople” (yo no
higamono), an object of disdain (anazurarete).5
Although he retired of his own volition, the old priest is unable to sever all
ties to the world and still harbors the desire to see his ­daughter married to some-
one of po­liti­cal consequence. His per­sis­tent concern for such worldly ­matters only
contributes to rumors of his eccentricity.
Despite the contempt with which he is treated, however, the old priest is
deeply connected to super­natu­ral forces. His miraculous appearance on the
shores of Suma following Genji’s dream suggests that he is perhaps an emis-
sary of fate, the Dragon King, or the sea god Sumiyoshi. Scholars have noted
parallels between the Akashi sequence and the myth of Hiko-­hoho-­demi no
Mikoto from the eighth-­century Kojiki and Nihon shoki.6 In both tales, a mem-
ber of the imperial line (Genji/Hiko-­hoho-­demi) wanders forlorn by the coast
where he encounters an old man who becomes his guide. Both tales involve the
marriage of the heavenly prince to the ­daughter of a denizen of the sea (the
Akashi priest/Watatsumi) and result in a child whose offspring w ­ ill become
­emperor. At the completion of the Akashi sequence, Genji has married Lady
Akashi, the old priest’s ­daughter. And the ­daughter of Genji and Lady Akashi—­
the Akashi Princess—­eventually goes on to become empress, and ­mother of the
­f uture emperor.7
We are left with a strange composite image of the Akashi priest; he is at once
a foolish, marginal creature, exiled from the center and, at the same time, an other­
worldly agent, who serves to perpetuate the royal line. It is impor­tant to note that
the latter reading only fully emerged in the medieval period—­a time in which the
aged body increasingly came to be used as a symbol of otherworldly powers.8
Unlike medieval legends, the Genji monogatari itself provides no clear revelation
that the Akashi priest was anything other than a strange old man. Once he learns
that his grand­d aughter ­w ill be an imperial consort he bids a tearful farewell to
his attendant monks and heads off alone into the mountains, presumably to die.
In this, the Genji monogatari adheres to classical-­era conventions in its treatment
of old age as an all-­too-­mundane form of existence.
 Making Elders ­O thers in Early Japan   3

The tensions revealed h ­ ere ­were also pres­ent in other early texts, most
signi­ficantly in Japan’s earliest collections of myths. The following chapters ex-
amine how the aged body came to function in the early Japa­nese imagination
as a figure of powerlessness, social alienation, and marginality, but also as an
impor­tant symbolic ele­ment in the construction and legitimation of the
imagined center.
C HA P T E R ON E

Aged Earth Gods and Majestic

Imperial Ancestors
The Uses of Old Age in Early Japa­nese Myth

Nara-­and Heian-­period texts—­including diaries, literary works, collections of

poetry, and official chronicles—­regularly associated old age with humiliation,
social alienation, po­liti­cal marginalization, physical enfeeblement, disease, filth,
and the imminence of death. At least among the literate, old age was treated with
deep ambivalence, often as ­little more than a cause of misery and despair. It is
thus surprising to note that Japan’s earliest extant writings—­t he Kojiki of 712,
the Nihon shoki of 720, and numerous gazetteers ( fudoki) of the early eighth
­century—­nonetheless represented a handful of kami as old men and w ­ omen.1
Scholars have theorized that the association of the aged body with godliness in-
dicates that elders in pre-­Nara and early Nara society must have been held in high
regard, perhaps acting as shamans or clan chieftains.2 However, far from the ex-
alted status their deification might suggest, even in ­t hese early myths in which
elders figured as gods, they ­were associated not with power but with marginality.
The aged body was made to serve the rhetorical and narrative imperatives of texts
whose main purpose was to legitimate the burgeoning royal tradition of the
Yamato court. In contradistinction to the glorious, potent, and youthful bodies
of the heavenly royal ancestors, the gods of boundary p ­ eoples ­were presented
as elders to underline their nonthreatening, submissive status. Attention to the
symbolic role of the body in ­t hese early texts illuminates not only the meanings
they projected onto dif­fer­ent bodily types, but also some of the subtler strategies
employed to or­ga­nize space and create social and po­liti­cal hierarchies.
Our analy­sis of myths from the Kojiki and Nihon shoki (the so-­called kiki-
shinwa) featuring elder gods begins with an explanation of their identification
with marginal spaces and bound­aries, their roles as mediators, matchmakers, and
guides, and how the par­tic­u ­lar demands of t­ hese texts required portraying the
bodies of t­ hese gods as physically weak, sexually barren, and unsightly. Next we
examine how the bodies of the legendary and proto-­historical descendants of
heavenly and earthly deities w ­ ere described in ­these texts, paying par­tic­u ­lar
attention to the anomalous case of the Emperor Seinei, the only heir of the sun

5
6   Making Elders ­O thers in Early Japan

lineage described in the Kojiki and Nihon shoki as possessing one of the marks of
old age: white hair.

Reading the Bodies of the Gods

Gods of Heaven, Gods of Earth
The Kojiki and Nihon shoki ­were commissioned by rulers determined to produce
narratives, in the vein of Chinese dynastic histories, that would establish the le-
gitimacy and sacred authority of the ruling ­house and promote an image of the
ruler as more than a mere king ruling a par­tic­u ­lar state (kuni), but as a heavenly
sovereign, or tennō, ruling a “realm u ­ nder heaven” (tenka) from a capital situated
at the pivot of heaven and earth. Th ­ ese early compendia and the official court his-
tories that followed played a major role in shoring up the early ritsuryō state, an
imperial bureaucracy based on Chinese and Korean pre­ce­dents. Although the Ko-
jiki and Nihon shoki utilized a variety of theories of sacred kingship and strate-
gies of legitimation lifted from authoritative Chinese texts, one of the most impor­
tant sought to establish a genealogy linking the contemporaneous line of rulers
to a line of heavenly kami originating with the high lord of heaven Takamimu-
suhi (High Generative-­Force Deity), the sun goddess Amaterasu Ōmikami (­Great
Heavenly Shining Deity), her grand­son Amatsuhiko-­kuniteruhiko-­hono ninigi
no Mikoto (hereafter abbreviated as Ninigi), and his g­ reat-­grand­son, known
posthumously as Jinmu, depicted in the chronicles as the first ­human tennō.3 The
rulers who commissioned ­these early texts had to rely on advisers with ties to the
Korean Peninsula whose superior literary skill and knowledge of the Chinese tex-
tual corpus gave them the necessary qualifications to produce appropriate images
of sacred kingship.4 ­These court officials ­were also well versed in Chinese religious
and medical knowledge, which colored their pre­sen­ta­tion of the aged body.
While the most impor­tant lineage traced in the kikishinwa was that of the
imperial line, myths of the sun line ­were interwoven with narratives describing
the divine origins of vari­ous less-­eminent kinship groups and their ties to the
royal line. Many of the myths that served as raw material for the ­grand narratives
at the center of the Kojiki and Nihon shoki ­were the product not of the Yamato
line itself, but of the cults of vari­ous lower ranking kinship (uji) and ser­vice groups
(be) who often hailed from outlying areas of the Japa­nese archipelago.5 Thus, al-
though the thrust of ­t hese texts was to pres­ent a unified view from the center of a
stable, harmonious polity grounded in cosmic princi­ples, they ­were in fact the
product of negotiation and compromise.
 Aged Earth Gods and Majestic Imperial Ancestors   7

Despite the complex conditions under­lying their production, the pre­sen­ta­tion

of the bodies of the gods in ­t hese compilations conformed to certain recogniz-
able patterns. First, only one species of gods appeared as elders in ­t hese early
myths: earthly deities (kunitsukami). ­These deities ­were “earthly” in two senses.
First, they ­were presented in contradistinction to the heavenly deities (amatsu-
kami) who inhabited the Plain of High Heaven (Takama no hara) and from whom
the imperial line purportedly descended. Second, the kunitsukami ­were often pre-
sented as tutelary gods, associated with par­tic­u ­lar geo­graph­i­cal regions and their
inhabitants, or the ancestors of nonroyal clans or ser­v ice groups.6 Although
myths of divine descent enhanced the status of vari­ous other kinship groups, dis-
tinctions between heavenly and earthly divine ancestors w ­ ere used to signal fur-
ther gradations of status. ­There is evidence that contention over which gods w ­ ere
included in which categories continued into the Heian period. Texts such as the
Shinsen shōjiroku, Ryō no gige, Kogo shūi, and Kuji hongi often applied the desig-
nation amatsukami to gods that had not been so identified in the Kojiki and Nihon
shoki, reflecting the recently elevated status of the clans or ser­v ice groups that
claimed ­t hose gods as ancestors.7

Elder Earth Gods as Mediators and Matchmakers

The el­derly earth gods of the kikishinwa ­were consistently depicted as both mar-
ginal and liminal, inhabiting zones external to ­imagined centers, or bound­a ries
between regions that had been pacified by the heavenly deities and wild, un-
tamed areas. The narratives further underscored the liminality of ­t hese gods
by positioning them as mediators who offered up their lands to scions of the
sun lineage (kuniyuzuri) or served as go-­betweens in strategic marriages, fa-
cilitating the unification of heaven and earth, land and sea, or this world and
the ­u nderworld.
Shiotsutsu-­no-­oji serves as the paradigmatic example of an aged earth deity,
appearing at several pivotal moments in the early chapters of the Nihon shoki.8
He is the first kunitsukami to cede his territory to Ninigi, who had been com-
manded to descend from the Plain of High Heaven to rule the earth (the Land of
the Central Reed Plains).9 Following Chinese notions of spatial organ­ization, the
Kojiki and Nihon shoki sought to map concentric rings around an ­imagined cen-
ter, with ever-­increasing degrees of authority associated with the innermost zones.
As the name “Central Reed Plains” implies, the Japa­nese isles ­were construed in
­t hese texts as the center of the terrestrial sphere. But within the Central Reed
Plains, ­there w
­ ere further sets of centers and margins. Although Hyūga, Shiotsutsu-­
oji’s domain, served as the site of Ninigi’s descent and the seat of his original court,
8   Making Elders ­O thers in Early Japan

the texts identify it as a mere “western border-­land” (西偏), not to be regarded as

the true center of the land.10
In addition to their marginality, the kikishinwa depicted earth gods inhabit-
ing liminal boundary zones, allowing them to facilitate strategic marriages.
Shiotsutsu-­oji, whose name suggests a connection to both the ocean (shio) and
the land (tsuchi), appears on the coast, at the border of the land and the sea. This
locus becomes significant in a myth in which he assists in the marriage of Nini-
gi’s son, Hiko-­hoho-­demi no Mikoto, and Toyo-­tama-­hime, the ­daughter of the
sea god, Watatsumi, symbolically uniting ­these two realms.11 The ­union of Hiko-­
hoho-­demi and Toyo-­tama-­hime produces a child that eventually becomes the
­father of Jinmu tennō. The kikishinwa also implied that Shiotsutsu-­oji had arranged
an alliance between heaven and earth. Immediately a­ fter offering his land to Ninigi,
the heavenly deity encountered and married the d ­ aughter of an earthly moun-
tain god.12 Both marriages produced royal ancestors who could claim not only
descent from heaven, but also the right to rule the domains described in the Kojiki
and Nihon shoki’s creation myths: the Central Reed Plain and the Sea Plain.
Although his progeny do not figure directly in the imperial line, a myth con-
cerning Susanowo, the god of wind and storms, follows a similar pattern. A ­ fter
committing vari­ous offenses, Susanowo is banished from the heavens and or-
dered to rule the land of the dead. Susanowo descends first to the Land of Izumo,
where he meets two kunitsukami, Ashinazuchi (Foot Stroking Elder) and his
wife Tenazuchi (Hand Stroking Elder). Susanowo saves their ­daughter from a
monstrous serpent, marries her, and descends to the underworld. Before depart-
ing, however, he grants the two kunitsukami titles, ordering them to govern Izumo
in his stead.13
The relationships of suzerainty and fealty mapped in ­t hese myths sought to
si­mul­ta­neously mirror and justify relationships between the court and the leaders
of outlying regions at the time they ­were being recorded and compiled. The kiki-
shinwa describe a po­liti­cal paradigm in which local leaders (zaichi shuchō) ­were
invested with certain rights or titles in exchange for yielding their land to trans-­
local authorities capable of pacifying unruly agents. By arranging marital ties
between young ­women of the local community and the rulers who inhabited the
core domain (kinai) local leaders further cemented relations between the center
and periphery.14 Although in Heian society strategic marriage between members
of one’s immediate f­ amily and the royal ­house was a way for aristocratic men to
gain influence and po­liti­cal leverage, in the pre-­Nara context, offering ­daughters
or s­ isters to court was presented as an act of submission undertaken by conquered
parties to demonstrate subjugation to the throne.15
 Aged Earth Gods and Majestic Imperial Ancestors   9

Earth Gods as Chieftains: Images of Power or Capitulation?

As ­t hese patterns of investiture suggest, in Japan’s earliest textual sources, tute-
lary deities w ­ ere often depicted playing roles that local chieftains (shuchō) are
thought to have performed prior to the rise of the ritsuryō state. In addition to
arranging marriages, ­t hese deities are depicted greeting representatives of the
throne, providing them with information about the local area, and at times
acting as guides, signaling their submission to central authority.16 In the Nihon
shoki, for example, the ruler Yūryaku is recorded sending an envoy to the Korean
kingdom of Paekche, who encountered “a god of the country (kunitsukami), assum-
ing the form of an old ­woman,” meeting the envoy on the road and providing him
with directions.17 In a similar fashion, the Bungo fudoki describes Hisazu-­hime
(a god marked as female, but whose age is not specified) appearing to receive a
royal pro­cession and provide a report on her territory.18
Myths describing interactions between heavenly and earthly deities depicted
similar arrangements. Aged kunitsukami ­were often portrayed as the first beings
heavenly deities or their descendants encountered when entering a new region.
They ­were further portrayed offering their ser­vices as guides. It was Shiotsutsu-­oji
who first informed Ninigi that t­ here was “a country h ­ ere,” and who guided Hiko-­
hoho-­demi to the kingdom of the Sea God. According to one etymological theory,
Shiotsutsu-­oji’s name can be parsed as “Guide to the Roads of the Ocean.”19 Ninigi’s
­great-­grand­son Jinmu l­ater credits Shiotsutsu-­oji with having informed him of
the existence of the land of Yamato, which he would eventually conquer and de-
clare to be the purified center of the world.20
Considering ­these parallels, and given that tutelary gods w ­ ere commonly rep-
resented as elders, some scholars have theorized that the leaders of the local pre-­
ritsuryō collectives that produced or ­were represented in ­t hese myths would have
also been old men or ­women.21 Even ­after the promulgation of the ritsuryō codes,
certain centrally appointed provincial posts ­were understood to be positions for
life. ­There is evidence that, given no mandated retirement age, the men who held
­t hese posts served well into old age.22
Although the argument that old men and ­women often served as chieftains
or local authorities in the pre-­and early ritsuryō order is persuasive, that fact
alone does not fully explain the role that old age plays in t­ hese myths. Certainly
it was not the aim of ­t hese narratives to demonstrate the power of elders in pre-­
Nara Japan. In t­ hese myths, el­derly earth gods appear and perform, each time,
the same function, yielding their territory and at times their ­daughters to their
superiors, descendants of the sun lineage. Standing in for the subjugated p ­ eoples
10   Making Elders ­O thers in Early Japan

of the Japa­nese archipelago, the aged body did not symbolize awe-­inspiring
divinity, but powerlessness in the face of the majestic sun line.
Another way that old age figured in the kikishinwa as a mark of submission
relates to the role of elder gods as matchmakers. Since a major function of ­t hese
texts was to establish and fix lineages, since marital relations connoted not just
alliance and interrelation but also sovereignty and subjecthood, and since the
ability to produce an heir in a timely fashion was presented as a key qualification
for rulership, the kikishinwa required certain deities to be gendered and marked
according to their reproductive capacity—­t heir virility or fecundity—in order to
produce their desired ideological effects. The heavenly deities who accepted mar-
riages instigated by el­derly kunitsukami w ­ ere therefore presented as males in their
sexual prime. Furthermore, the Kojiki and Nihon shoki provide extravagant ac-
counts of the fecundity of the entire line of imperial ancestors, beginning with
the heavenly deities and continuing down through the generations of legendary
­human emperors from Jinmu forward. To begin with, the name of the high lord
of the Plain of High Heaven, Takamimusuhi, suggests vitalistic generative force
(musubi).23 Izanagi and Izanami famously gave birth to the land and myriad other
deities through their sexual intercourse, their bodies so inherently fecund that
even their detritus gives rise to progeny. Izanagi “gives birth” to Amaterasu when
she emerges from his left eye as he purifies himself in a river. The sun goddess
Amaterasu’s link to fertility—­specifically agricultural productivity—­hardly bears
explication. The chronicles portray the heavenly grand­son Ninigi as so sexually
potent that even he has trou­ble believing it.24 Impregnating his wife ­after just one
night together, he doubts that he can ­really be the ­father. When his indignant wife
proves her faithfulness, Ninigi declares that he, in fact, knew that the child was
his, but wanted to allay the doubts of ­others: “I wished to let every­body know
that [ . . . ​] a Heavenly Deity can cause pregnancy in one night.”25
In contradistinction to this parade of fecundity, the elder gods who offer up
­daughters in ­t hese myths pose no pos­si­ble threat to the sun lineage. In keeping
with Chinese naturalist and medical knowledge that formed an impor­tant back-
drop to official documents composed in the de­cades leading up to the Nara pe-
riod and beyond, one of the key defining traits of old age (rō) was a depletion of
vital pneumas (Ch. qi; J. ki) and the weakening of crucial ki conduits resulting in
the cessation of reproductive viability in both men and ­women, as well as a with-
ered or desiccated body, graying and thinning hair, wrinkled skin, pale complex-
ion, weakened teeth, and other symptoms.26 Placing earth gods beyond procre-
ative age, rendering them sexually and, to a degree, po­liti­cally impotent, took
them out of sexual competition with the heavenly deities ­t hese texts sought to
promote. Given the age at which ­t hese earth deities ­were depicted, it becomes a
 Aged Earth Gods and Majestic Imperial Ancestors   11

violation of medical and narrative logic for a heavenly deity or emperor to offer a
son or a ­daughter to them. The unidirectional flow of fealty ­t hese texts construct
was thus made natu­ral, rendering any alternative course inconceivable.

Straw Raincoats and Ugly Elders

Fecundity and barrenness was just one of many sets of oppositional categories
­t hese texts employed to draw a bright line between the gods of heaven and the
gods of earth. Descriptions of the beauty or ugliness of t­ hese divinities w ­ ere also
part of this larger proj­ect of differentiation. In this regard, myths involving the
earth deity Shihinetsu-­hiko are instructive.
The Nihon shoki describes Jinmu, on his campaign to conquer the lands be-
tween Hyūga and Yamato, encountering Shihinetsu-­hiko fishing off the coast of
Bungo.27 L ­ ater, Jinmu and his entourage come to the district of Uda, where a lo-
cal chieftain, Ukashi the Younger, pledges his loyalty and reports on the lay of the
land ahead.28 He warns that ­t here are tribes of rebels or bandits in the province
of Yamato and advises Jinmu, before proceeding, to fashion platters out of clay
from the peak of Mount Kagu and use them to make offerings to the gods. Jinmu
­orders Shihinetsu-­hiko to don “ragged garments and a sedge hat and cloak (mino-
kasa 蓑笠) to disguise himself as an old man. He also had Ukashi the Younger
cover himself with a winnowing tray 箕 to assume the appearance of an old
w ­ oman.”29 Shihinetsu-­hiko and Ukashi approach the e­ nemy, who are somehow
fooled by their makeshift disguises. The bandits ridicule them, calling out, “What
an ugly (minikui) old man and ­woman!” Regarded as no threat, the two pass
through their lines, obtain the red clay, and deliver it to Jinmu’s encampment.
Scholars have observed that taking possession of the clay from Mount Kagu was
intended to represent Jinmu’s owner­ship of the land.30 ­Here is perhaps the most
explicit example of an earth deity handing over land (in this case in the form of
­actual earth) to the ruler.
I would like to return to one of this episode’s most intriguing features:
the laughter of the bandits when confronted with the old man and ­woman. Just as
the kikishinwa presented aged earth gods as essentially impotent, sidelined by a
series of potent imperial ancestors, the laughter of the bandits further marks the
aged body as nonthreatening—­disqualified from the military contests that would
decide who would rule the Central Reed Plains. The old man and ­woman are al-
lowed to pass ­because they are perceived to be constitutionally incapable of in-
volving themselves in worldly strug­gle. Not only does the laughter reinforce the
notion that el­derly earth gods are inherently inferior, it also points to the fact that
­these texts sought to pres­ent the aged body as fundamentally heteromorphous—­a
strange, nonstandard form of embodiment.
12   Making Elders ­O thers in Early Japan

In this regard, the use of sedge hats and raincoats (minokasa) in this narra-
tive is significant. Many scholars, beginning with Orikuchi Shinobu, have com-
mented on the complex symbolism of the minokasa.31 The first time we encounter
this garb in Japa­nese myth is in the episode in which Susanowo, having commit-
ted acts of pollution, is banished and sent off wearing a minokasa. We read that
“ever since that time p ­ eople have avoided entering the h ­ ouse of another wearing
a sedge hat and a grass raincoat.”32 In this instance the minokasa is clearly associ-
ated with both banishment and pollution (Susanowo’s crime).33 ­These and other
tales strongly suggest that the minokasa was closely connected with beggars
and outcasts in the premodern imagination.34 It is significant, therefore, that
Shihinetsu-­hiko and Ukashi are transformed into elders by donning the mino-
kasa, once again correlating the aged body with low status and marginality, con-
juring visions of elders as quin­tes­sen­tial outsiders.35 Presenting ­t hese elders as
ugly and laughable was consistent with the other ways in which the kikishinwa
utilized the aged body to serve as a foil for the bodies of heavenly imperial ancestors.
Where earth gods w ­ ere weak, heavenly deities ­were strong; where earth gods
­were laughable, heavenly deities inspired fear and awe.

The Heavenly Bodies of the Sun Lineage

Producing the Normative Body of the Imperial Ancestors
Since one of the most impor­tant strategies employed in the Kojiki and Nihon shoki
to legitimate the Japa­nese imperial h ­ ouse was linking the current monarch and
his or her progeny genealogically to power­f ul, life-­giving heavenly deities, the
repre­sen­ta­tions of ­these heavenly ancestors in terms of both their moral and
physical qualities took on heightened significance.36 Royal ancestors needed to
be portrayed in ways that would reflect positively on the current occupants of the
throne. However, aside from their virility, discussed above, we find few concrete
descriptions of the physical attributes of the heavenly deities or the line of myth-
ical founding emperors who w ­ ere said to have descended from them. Imperial
heavenly ancestors w ­ ere commonly marked only as awesome (indicated by
the prefix mi 御, commonly translated as “august”) and beautiful.37 When
Toyo-­tama-­hime first encounters the divine ancestor Hiko-­hoho-­demi, for in-
stance, she reports to her f­ ather that she has encountered “a noble stranger of no
ordinary build.”38 In a variant of this episode, she describes him as follows: “His
countenance is very beautiful, and his form comely. He is surely no ordinary
person.”39 The exceeding beauty of the consorts of the heavenly deities was also
often emphasized. For example, Toyo-­tama-­hime herself was described as “a
beautiful ­woman, whose countenance was such as is not anywhere to be seen.”40
 Aged Earth Gods and Majestic Imperial Ancestors   13

Much of what we learn about the bodies of imperial ancestors is through a

via negativa; the chronicles presented vari­ous “­others” who w ­ ere meant to compare
unfavorably with the heavenly deities. One non-­Yamato group, the Tsuchigumo,
for instance, was singled out as particularly ill-­proportioned, described possess-
ing short torsos but long arms and legs.41 For torsos to be “short” or arms and legs
to be “long,” of course, requires some i­ magined standard. Although never explic­itly
described, the bodies of the descendants of the sun line and, by association, their
­people, the Yamato, became the norm against which all ­others ­were mea­sured.
Kim Hyŏn-uk observes that non-­Yamato p ­ eople ­were described in gazetteers and
official chronicles in a manner that highlighted, from the perspective of the cen-
ter, what amounted to their heteromorphism, ascribing to them animalistic be­
hav­iors or physical characteristics. For instance, the Chinese characters desig-
nating the intransigent Emishi, 蝦夷, identify them as pest-­like, with the first
character including the insect radical 虫, also used in words for “shrimp” or
“toad.”42 The Tsuchigumo w ­ ere saddled with a name suggesting “mud spiders”
(土蜘蛛). ­These labels followed the Chinese practice of naming ­peoples inhabit-
ing border zones with characters containing animal radicals, indicating their
bestial nature compared with subjects of the civilized central kingdom.43
In the Japa­nese case, some of the most prominent examples of this strategy of
differentiation through dehumanization come during descriptions of Jinmu’s
conquests. Jinmu and his entourage encounter a series of tutelary deities and
­peoples who possess tails, or are captured and killed en masse using a method
usually reserved for animals, in nets. The Tsuchigumo ­were described living in
pits, highlighting their primitive proto-­humanity.44 Outlandish dwelling places
­were another common trope in Chinese texts depicting the otherness of p ­ eople
at the bound­aries of the empire, or ­t hose who lived in periods prior to the civiliz-
ing force of ancient sage-­rulers. Having pacified the Yamato plain, Jinmu reflects
on the areas of his tenka that remain in a savage state, where “­people’s minds are
unsophisticated [and they still] roost in nests or dwell in caves.”45 When placed
in this context, we see that for the purposes of t­ hese texts, as ancestors or tutelary
gods of subjugated ­peoples, the aged bodies of the kunitsukami served as yet
another, perhaps less extreme, version of a nonstandard body type with which to
represent groups that the compilers wished to position in an outer, inferior situ-
ation relative to the Yamato court.46

The Curious Case of the White-­Haired Tennō

Considering the degree to which old age was employed in ­t hese texts as a means
of “othering,” it is perhaps not surprising that imperial ancestors and their heav-
enly forebears ­were never depicted growing old. Heavenly deities like Ninigi
14   Making Elders ­O thers in Early Japan

became mortal once they descended to earth, but ­t hese narratives made no men-
tion of any period of senescence.47 Biographies of several generations of ­human
rulers following Jinmu followed a similar pattern. Interestingly, t­ here was one
emperor in the early section of the chronicles whose name identified him as
“white haired” (shiraka), one of the characteristic marks of old age. The Kojiki
pres­ents a Prince Shiraka, one of the sons of Yūryaku, taking the throne as Shiraka-­
no-­ōyamato-­neko-­no-­Mikoto (白髪大倭根子命).48 Posthumously identified as
Seinei tennō, his reign is short, and he is recorded producing no heirs. Given the
rhetorical emphasis in ­t hese texts on the vitality of the imperial line, the rec­ord
of Seinei represents a glaring anomaly.
Although the rec­ord of a presumably white-­haired imperial ancestor unable
to produce an heir deviates significantly from the ideological thrust of ­these texts,
in the context of the broader genealogical map laid out in the Kojiki, Shiraka’s
name and infertility actually serve impor­t ant strategic aims. Specifically, the
compilers needed to justify a detour from the direct line of descendants of the
quasi-­mythical sage-­rulers Ōjin and Nintoku to the line of Keitai, the g­ reat king
who could be reliably linked to the dynasty for whom the Kojiki and Nihon shoki
­were produced, but whose connection to Ōjin was tenuous. Keitai was said to have
been a fifth-­generation descendant of Ōjin, but none of the intervening links in
the genealogical chain are named—­a unique occurrence in the chronicles. Many
scholars believe that Keitai was, in fact, the founder of a new dynasty with no
blood ties to earlier g­ reat kings, and that the chronicles not only manufactured
his descent from Ōjin, but also attempted to explain his succession as a necessary
response to the failure of Ōjin’s main line.
The Kojiki and Nihon shoki identified Shiraka/Seinei, and his distant cousin
Buretsu, as the sage-­k ing Ōjin’s final direct descendants, but t­ here are serious
doubts about the historicity of their reigns.49 Buretsu was famously depicted in
the Nihon shoki as a sadistic tyrant, whose lack of redeeming qualities signified
that Ōjin and Nintoku’s abundant virtue had somehow become depleted over the
generations.50 Seinei’s position at the other terminal point of Ōjin’s lineage has
garnered less scholarly attention. Like Buretsu, ­t here are reasons to suspect that
Prince Shiraka never actually reigned.51 This raises the possibility that the com-
pilers of ­t hese texts, looking for fictional rulers to fill narrative gaps, took advan-
tage of a con­ve­niently named prince and sought to signal that he had taken the
throne, if not at an advanced age, then at least in a diminished physical capacity,
and was thus unable to conceive.
Although a long line of commentators have speculated that Shiraka’s name
derived from a physical trait, this need not have been the case to have made him
strategically useful to the chroniclers. Ōjin was recorded having acceded at the
 Aged Earth Gods and Majestic Imperial Ancestors   15

age of seventy and in the next year fathering a child, followed ­later by another
nineteen offspring. Given the strong connection the early chronicles sought to
draw between divine descent, procreative ability, and the right to rule, Shiraka’s
name and purported sterility ­were sufficient to imply that he had somehow suc-
cumbed to the depleting effects of old age, providing more evidence that the vir-
tue and vitality of the ­great sage-­k ings had somehow become exhausted and ren-
dering the shift to Keitai’s line natu­ral and necessary.52
Attending to the literary quality of t­hese rec­ords, Araki Hiroshi notes that
the announcement of Shiraka’s elevation to the rank of crown prince in the Ni-
hon shoki was followed immediately by a brief, enigmatic recap of the legend of
Urashimako—­a fisherman who had dwelt for a time in the land of the immor-
tals, but who ended his life exiled from the undying land. Araki notes that the
complete version of the tale in the Man’yōshū stressed that once back in the world
of mortals, Urashimako had quickly aged. His face grew wrinkled, his hair grew
gray, his vitality left him, and he died. The juxtaposition of the announcement
that the “white haired” prince would succeed Yūryaku with reference to a legend
in which white hair was treated as a symbol of mortality and death served as a clue
that Yūryaku’s line had lost its virtue, vitality, and legitimacy and would termi-
nate with his successor, Seinei.53
Depicting Seinei as a less than virile ruler helped justify the transfer of the
imperial dignity to a remote lateral branch of Ōjin’s line, but also created its own
prob­lems. The depiction gave lie to the notion that imperial ancestors ­were pos-
sessed of superhuman vitality. The degree to which this episode was regarded
with ambivalence by the chroniclers becomes evident when we compare the
Kojiki account of Seinei with his treatment in the Nihon shoki, presented to court
eight years l­ater. To begin with, the compilers of the Nihon shoki identify him as
Shiraka-­no-­take-­hirokuni-­oshi-­waka-­Yamato-­neko, adding to his name epithets
implying both martial prowess (take 武) and youth (waka 稚).54 Furthermore, the
Nihon shoki’s rec­ord of Seinei begins with a passage disassociating his white hair
from old age, claiming that his hair was white from birth.55 The fact that he was
childless, however, was clearly an anomaly the compilers w ­ ere unable to finesse,
the genealogical rec­ord having been more or less fixed in the Kojiki.

Vitalizing the Center and “Nourishing Old Age”

in the Yōrō Era
The care with which Seinei’s white hair was explained away in the Nihon shoki is
evidence of a heightened attention to ­matters of the aged body and its symbolic
significance in that text, relative to the Kojiki. Neither Ninigi’s first encounter
with Shiotsutsu-­oji on the Cape of Kasasa nor Shihinetsu-­hiko and Ukashi the
16   Making Elders ­O thers in Early Japan

Younger’s transformation into elders w ­ ere recorded in the Kojiki. And although
Shiotsutsu-­oji appeared in the Kojiki’s treatment of the Hiko-­hoho-­demi myth,
his name in that variant, Shiotsuchi-­kami, lacked the characters that would have
identified him as an elder. In fact the only earth deities of the Kojiki that are
explic­itly described as elders are Ashinazuchi and Tenazuchi. The Nihon shoki
also displays a heightened sensitivity to portrayals of the vitality of ruler.
Although the compilation of the Kojiki and Nihon shoki likely occurred
si­mul­ta­neously, it is pos­si­ble that events that occurred in the years ­after the com-
pletion of the Kojiki resulted in a more systematic use of life stages to articulate
the centrality, authority, and vitality of the imperial line.56 An episode recorded
in the third official court history, the Shoku Nihongi (Continued Chronicles of
Japan), I believe, sheds light on this issue. In the ninth month of 717, Genshō tennō
made a royal pro­g ress to the province of Mino, an area to which a priest had
been dispatched in the year prior to the death of her grand­father, Tenmu tennō
(r. 673–686), to collect the herb okera (or hakuchi 白朮), which was used in a Daoist-­
style elixir for his consumption.57 In Mino, Genshō was reported to have discov-
ered a pure spring, the ­waters of which tasted like sweet wine (rei) and could
purportedly reverse the aging pro­cess.58 The discovery of this spring was given as
the impetus for changing the era name from Reiki (sacred tortoise) to Yōrō 養老,
literally “nourishing old age.”
Changing era names mid-­reign in response to auspicious omens was one of
many methods believed to positively affect the fortunes of the court and the na-
tion.59 Scholars have generally taken the reign name Yōrō to mean “nurturing the
aged” in a Confucian vein. Chinese texts indicated that virtuous rulers took spe-
cial care to ensure the welfare of the poor, sick, and el­derly. Although we do find
instances of food, medicine, and other gifts being offered to the indigent and
elders of all ranks in the Yōrō era, such practices had also been undertaken in
earlier reigns, meaning that the new era name did not signal a new policy of
nourishing the el­der­ly.60
Given the fact that the era name was changed in commemoration of Genshō’s
discovery of life-­restoring ­waters, I would argue that the era name “Yōrō” was in-
tended instead to signal “nourishing longevity.”61 In a proclamation (mikotonori)
issued shortly ­a fter Genshō’s return to the capital, the miraculous spring was
explic­itly cast in light of an episode from the History of the L ­ ater Han (Ch. Hou
Hanshu), in which the virtue of the Emperor Guangwu (5 BCE–57 CE) was suf-
ficient to cause “sweet springs” to appear miraculously around the realm.62 Other
Chinese texts indicated that subjects who drank from such springs or partook of
local provender fed by their w ­ aters ­were blessed with longevity, providing proof
 Aged Earth Gods and Majestic Imperial Ancestors   17

of the sovereign’s virtue and of Heaven’s approval of his reign.63 Similarly, Genshō’s
proclamation reported that she had washed her hands and face in the w ­ aters of
the Mino spring, leaving her skin smooth and relieving her of unspecified pains.
The edict further ascribed to ­these w ­ aters the power to change white hair to black,
to reverse hair loss, to return vision to the blind, and to cure illness.64
Mirroring the legitimating function ­t hese magical ­waters performed in the
Hou Hanshu, it seems that Genshō’s discovery of this auspicious spring was meant
to preemptively demonstrate Heaven’s acquiescence to her po­liti­cally unpopular
maneuvers, specifically her promotion of Fujiwara no Fusasaki (681–737) to the
Council of State (Daijōkan) while his ­father, Fujiwara no Fuhito (659–720), was
serving as Minister of the Right.65 This granted the Fujiwara clan an unpre­ce­dented
degree of po­liti­cal authority, considering their nonroyal status.66 But Genshō’s
pro­gress to Mino differed in impor­tant ways from Chinese textual pre­ce­dents. In
­those examples, the ruler’s virtue contributed to the longevity of his subjects. Why,
then, did Genshō herself need to travel to the site of the miracle and personally
partake of the ­waters? Although rulers like Tenmu and Genshō clearly received
elixirs due to a belief in their practical efficacy, t­ hese potions also served as sym-
bols of power.67 Tenmu was the first Japa­nese monarch known to have received
an immortality draught, staged to create an image of health and vitality in the
face of what was to prove a terminal illness. Unlike Genshō’s sweet spring, how-
ever, Tenmu’s elixir was not explic­itly framed as youth-­restoring. Whereas Tenmu
had been given a potion to save his life, Genshō, who by traditional reckoning was
entering her fourth de­cade of life around the time of her pro­gress, had found a
spring to restore her youth.
To understand the enhanced emphasis on the youth-­restoring qualities of
this spring, we should note that far from inaugurating an era of kindness t­ oward
the el­derly, the Yōrō saw new policies enacted that served to disenfranchise
aged officials of the ritsuryō state. In the years Fujiwara no Fuhito was at the
height of his power, the Council of State—to which he had been attached since
708—­instituted rules that allowed for the removal of el­derly officials when they
had been deemed unfit for ser­v ice. A directive (sei) issued in 713 gave governors
the right to force their subordinates into retirement if old age had rendered them
incompetent to fulfill their duties, stipulating that district officials (gunji) of sev-
enty years old and “feeble, with weakened qi or bodies, their spirit wandering or
disordered, laid low with serious illness without hope for recovery, uttering mad
words, and unfit for ser­v ice, must be examined, sent back to their h ­ ouse, to nurse
themselves.”68 Fuhito was also the driving force ­behind the revision of the ritsuryō
statutes that resulted in the Yōrō code, completed in 718.69 Paralleling the directive
18   Making Elders ­O thers in Early Japan

of 713, article fourteen of the section of the Yōrō codes that regulated the Buddhist
community, the Sōniryō, allowed for appointees of the Office of Monastic Affairs
(Sōgō) to be removed by their superiors in case of illness or old age.70 Interest-
ingly, Wada Atsumu also sees Fuhito, his sons, and his allies as the prime movers
in arranging Genshō’s royal pro­gress to Mino and in framing the discovery of
the spring as evidence of royal legitimacy.71 At the same time the court was
issuing o ­ rders that justified removing elders from positions of authority and
that implicitly associated old age with potential enfeeblement and incompetence,
Genshō was depicted performing ablutions with youth-­restoring ­waters. Publi-
cized in a proclamation and celebrated in the change of era name, Genshō’s en-
counter in Mino amounted to a public ritual of royal rejuvenation. By portraying
the tennō as one in possession of the means of perennial youth, ­t here could be no
question of her incapacitation.
Taken together, the evidence suggests that in the second de­cade of the eighth
­century court elites began to expand the symbolic vocabulary that had developed
greatly ­under Tenmu and Jitō to incorporate a more explicit attention to youth
and old age as indices of power and powerlessness. The court ­under Tenmu and
Jitō had clothed their reigns in the quasi-­Daoist language of immortality and
longevity—­but had employed terminology and meta­phors signaling eternal life
and superhuman sagacity that lacked specific age-­graded connotations.72 The
years in which the court appears to have added this new symbolic motif to its
repertoire of legitimation strategies w ­ ere the same years in which the finishing
touches ­were being put on the Nihon shoki.73 The correlation of vitality, youth, and
rejuvenation with royal virtue and authority articulated at the inauguration of the
Yōrō era accords closely with the ideological uses of youth and old age in that text.
­These w ­ ere also, as I have noted, the years that directives and l­egal codes w ­ ere
produced that contributed to the po­liti­cal marginalization of the aged. This is not
to say, however, that the symbolic repositioning of the aged body in the reports of
Genshō’s pro­gress or in the rewritten myths and legends of the Nihon shoki should
be regarded as reactions to t­ hese laws. Rather than treating one f­ actor as the sole
cause of the ­others, we should understand this confluence of shifts in the fram-
ing of the aged body as complexly interrelated and recursive.74 In each case, t­ hose
with the power to craft official histories, stage and publicize auspicious omens,
and reshape the ­legal codes, regardless of their inspiration, consciously or uncon-
sciously began to wield old age as a form of difference to further legitimate the
ritsuryō state and enhance their control over it.
The symbolic positioning of the aged body articulated in the Yōrō era set the
stage for the ideological uses of old age in official documents, imperial antholo-
gies, and other examples of court-­centric lit­er­a­ture for centuries to come. Especially
 Aged Earth Gods and Majestic Imperial Ancestors   19

for t­ hose who had an interest in maintaining the imperial state, or in maintain-
ing the illusion of an imperial state, the aged body continued to serve as a foil for
the center, a symbol of margins or bound­aries, with white hair and other marks
of age suggesting not so much chronological age as weakness, impotence, and
social ostracism.
C HA P T E R T WO

“Lamenting Gray Hair”

The Poetics of Retirement in Early Japan

Just as the early documents of the ritsuryō state—­its mythohistories and

gazetteers—­used the aged body as a symbol for the margins of the realm to pro-
duce a par­t ic­u ­lar vision of the center and associate the rulers who dwelt t­ here
with the beauty and vitality of bodies in their prime, Nara-­and early Heian-­
period literary works reveal that the meanings assigned to the aged body in t­ hese
narratives continued to be promoted by ­those with a vested interest in maintaining
the i­ magined geography of the ritsuryō order, or who wished to employ ritsuryō-­
style rhe­toric to advance their own po­liti­cal, artistic, or religious agendas.1 This
remained the case even as the institutions of the tennō-­centered polity began to
be reconfigured, especially as power shifted away from the throne with the rise of
the Fujiwara regency in the ninth c­ entury.2 Th­ ese uses of old age are particularly
clear in depictions of official retirement practices presented in the official chron-
icles and early court-­sponsored poetry collections. This chapter begins by exam-
ining the poetics of retirement exemplified in official Nara-­and early Heian-­
period retirement petitions. We then consider the shift to Buddhist renunciation
as the norm for retirees in the Heian period and how earlier images of retirement
continued to color t­hese practices. Fi­nally, we explore how tropes employed in
retirement petitions—­depictions of the capital as a life-­giving center and associ-
ations of the marks of old age with exile from the center—­functioned in other ex-
amples of early Japa­nese poetry and prose.
Most of the materials examined in this chapter w ­ ere produced in an era dom-
inated by what has been called keikoku shisō, which Ryūichi Abe has translated
as “statecraftism”: the Confucian notion that the purpose of lit­er­a­ture and the arts
was to praise the virtuous ruler, sharpen the intellectual acuity of bureaucrats,
and reinforce the authority of the state.3 Ikeda Genta, who coined the term, sees
it as particularly dominant in the eighth and ninth centuries, reaching its zenith
during the reign of Saga tennō (r. 809–823).4 But the use of art to reflect the glo-
ries of the tennō and his or her reign was not unique to ­t hese centuries, and state-­
centric ideologies continued to color the cultural products of the court through-
out the Nara and Heian periods. The ways ­t hese texts situated the aged body in

20
 “Lamenting Gray Hair”   21

court-­centric spatial imaginaries had impor­tant ramifications in l­ater periods as

well, as new generations of literati working in Buddhist textual genres began the
pro­cess of inverting and overturning the meanings that t­ hese texts had ascribed
to the aged body.

Retirement and the Ritsuryō Order

Based on surviving fragments of the Taihō codes of 701, it appears that this early
iteration of the ritsuryō included regulations concerning retirement based on
continental pre­ce­dents.5 Retirement from office, referred to as chiji, entailed the
submission of a formal request, or chijihyō, to court, with officials of fifth rank
and above submitting their petitions directly to the tennō.6 The earliest occur-
rence of the term chiji is found in the Nihon shoki, in the rec­ord of Emperor
Ōjin, its only occurrence in that text.7 Like much of the account of Ōjin’s reign,
the description of Japan’s first official retirement straddles legend and history,
serving as a kind of charter myth for ­later practices. The Kojiki and Nihon shoki
describe Ōjin as a paragon of virtuous rule, who from childhood bore the marks
of a sage-­k ing.8 During his reign, a minister, “Ushi, the Kimi of Morogata from
the country of Hyūga,” having become “old in years” and unable to serve, retired
to his native land.9
It is likely that the compilers of the Nihon shoki hoped to pres­ent this episode
as a template for the proper order of t­ hings: ministers would serve u ­ ntil they
became “old in years,” at which point they would step down, remove themselves
from the capital, and return to their home provinces. The Kojiki and Nihon shoki
also rec­ord an example of an old w ­ oman, Okime, who had served at court, being
allowed to return to her home province once her “vigor had decayed” and she was
“old, infirm and emaciated.”10 Okime’s retirement, however, is not described us-
ing the term chiji, reflecting the informal nature of her ser­v ice. Nonetheless her
withdrawal fits the pattern: unable to be of further use to the ruler, Okime begs
to return to her home in the provinces.
The rec­ord of Ushi’s retirement draws several structural oppositions between
the aged minister who removes himself to the periphery and the ruler whose
supermundane vigor allows him to continue to rule all u ­ nder heaven, well into
chronological “old age.”11 First, Ōjin was himself recorded acceding to the throne
at the age of seventy, precisely the age at which the ritsuryō codes required retire-
ment. ­Later, on an imperial pro­gress, Ōjin encounters men dressed in outlandish
costumes made of deerskins and antlers—­highlighting the uncivilized nature of
the periphery—­who inform him that they have been sent by Ushi to offer his
­daughter, Kaminaga-­hime, to the emperor, recapitulating themes in the kikishinwa
22   Making Elders ­O thers in Early Japan

in which el­derly earth gods offered their d ­ aughters in marriage to the heavenly
sovereign.12
Scholars have long noted that many power­f ul protagonists of Japa­nese myth
­were portrayed enhancing their authority by claiming w ­ omen from the provinces.
Orikuchi identified this as the paradigm of the irogonomi (erotic) hero, able
to symbolically possess the land by marrying ­women from vari­ous regions.13 But
­here, in addition to dramatizing imperial possession of the hinterlands, the epi-
sode accords with attempts by the early chroniclers to concentrate symbols of
youth, beauty, and vigor in the center, while excluding the marks of old age.14
Kaminaga-­hime’s name (Long-­Haired Beauty) attests to her youth and vitality,
since long hair was regarded as a mark of sexual attractiveness and was high-
lighted in the Chinese medical corpus as a sign of fertility.15 In contrast to the
centrifugal pull of the el­derly minister to the provinces, the emperor is portrayed
returning to the capital with a young w ­ oman.16 Further underlining Ōjin’s undi-
minished vitality, and thus implicitly his right rule, the Nihon shoki reports that
Kaminaga-­hime gave birth to two imperial princes, making Ōjin a ­father well
over the age of eighty.17 As the aged body is portrayed finding its natu­ral home at
the periphery, youth and vitality are transferred to the center.
If this episode was intended as a guide for official retirement practices, ­later
court histories demonstrate that real­ity often failed to conform to pre­ce­dent.
Officials with sufficient po­liti­cal clout often maintained their positions well past
the age of seventy, and el­derly ministers who perhaps earnestly wished to depart
from court w ­ ere often pressed to remain in ser­v ice. As courtiers and sovereigns
exchanged petitions and responses, they worked with and against paradigms
established in the Nihon shoki and Chinese textual sources, adumbrating the
possibilities and limitations of the aged.

Chijihyō in the Six National Histories

In his classic work on Japa­nese retirement customs, Hozumi Nobushige made an
exhaustive survey of court rec­ords and found that 80 to 90 ­percent of ­t hose sub-
mitting official petitions requesting retirement did so at or above the age of sev-
enty.18 This conforms to the stipulation in the Yōrō code that officials (kanjin) over
the age of seventy ­were expected to retire.19 Although Hozumi’s findings seem to
indicate a well-­ordered regime of age-­grading among Nara and early Heian offi-
cialdom, they conceal what amounted to ­battles of competing desires, in which
chronological age had to be balanced against an official’s a­ ctual physical and
­mental capabilities, his po­liti­cal standing, his wish to maintain his position or
withdraw, and the ruler’s need to keep well-­established, experienced allies close
by. Official retirement in Nara and Heian Japan was actually less a function of
 “Lamenting Gray Hair”   23

chronological age than a question of w ­ hether or not one was believed to be po­liti­
cally v­ iable and competent in one’s duties. We find many examples of rulers who
­were loath to lose older statesmen and would rebuff their repeated requests for
retirement.20 In such cases, however, ministers could appeal to the pre­ce­dent that
old age rightly meant removal from the center.
Although chijihyō w ­ ere official documents, they w­ ere also, from an early stage,
literary exercises demonstrating the erudition of courtiers who could locate
appropriate textual examples from Chinese historical and literary sources to
express their desires. Representing some of the richest per­for­mances of old age in
early Japan, chijihyō extravagantly described the petitioner’s unworthiness to
serve the tennō, coupled with his despair at the prospect of withdrawing from
court. Occasionally they ­were deemed of sufficient interest to be preserved in the
six official court histories (rikkokushi), or in collections of exemplary Chinese prose
such as the Honchō monzui or the Honchō zoku monzui, indicating they w ­ ere
often seen both as paragons of literary finesse and as examples of proper com-
portment for ­f uture generations of loyal ministers.21
­These elegantly worded per­for­mances of old age often concealed agendas that
had less to do with loyalty to the throne or to the ritsuryō order than with per-
sonal interests. We find many cases in which retirement requests seem to have
been made as a display of humility or in order to conform to age-­appropriate
be­hav­ior, rather than out of a true wish to leave office. In other cases, the appeal to
old age provided a polite cover for ­t hose who wished to remove themselves from
court for reasons they did not wish to acknowledge publicly. ­These documents
thus demonstrate their authors’ tactical uses of old age to maximize their social,
po­liti­cal, or cultural capital.
Serving complex and contradictory sets of strategic goals, ­these works are rife
with rhetorical tensions. Although masterly works of prose, they portray their
authors as doddering fools, associating their old age with illness, physical frailty,
and weakened ki—­implying a lack of ­either energy or ­mental clarity.22 Rhetorical
tensions ­were also inevitable when courtiers sought to balance claims that retire-
ment would bring them peace and possibly longevity against the need to express
sufficient regret that retirement would entail separation from the beloved sover-
eign and the glorious, life-­sustaining center.
The retirement petitions of Kibi no Makibi (ca. 693–775) exemplify ­these
tensions. In the ninth month of 770, Makibi, serving si­mul­ta­neously as Minister
of the Right and Captain of the Inner Imperial Guards, submitted a retirement
petition to Emperor Kōnin (r. 770–781), observing that “the one who is forced to
work although his powers are not equal to his responsibilities w ­ ill soon be of no
use; the one who is pushed to his limits although his mind is not up to the task
24   Making Elders ­O thers in Early Japan

­ ill certainly make errors in judgment.”23 Although he had requested retirement

w
at the age of seventy, he had instead received a new assignment. Soon a­ fter, he had
been struck by illness. In spite of what Makibi describes as his meager abilities,
he continued to rise to higher and higher positions.

Old age and illness now envelop me. Even with medical treatment, my
condition does not improve. Working in this heavenly office (tenkan)
as Minister of the Right is difficult. [ . . . ​] How could I, with this body
stricken with disease, have been allowed to disgrace this high position
for so long? [ . . . ​] Prostrating myself, I plead to be allowed to retire and
remove this obstruction from the paths of the wise. To Your Majesty above,
I pray that the virtue of the saintly court (seichō) ­will nourish my longev-
ity; and for myself below, I pray to achieve the heart of the s­ imple fool
who knows his limitations.24

Although Makibi argues that his disgraceful aged frame provided the impe-
tus for seeking to remove himself from the heavenly precincts of the palace com-
pound, ­later, unofficial court histories attributed his wish to step down to his
support for rival claimants to the throne prior to Kōnin’s accession.25 If this was
in fact the case, old age would have provided a useful means of concealing an
uncomfortable truth. Apparently Kōnin was only half persuaded by Makibi’s pro-
testations, allowing him to lay down the post of Captain of the Imperial Guards
but requiring that he remain as Minister of the Right.
The Nihon Montoku tennō jitsuroku of 879 preserves a particularly significant
series of memorials submitted in 857 by Fujiwara no Yoshifusa (804–872), one of
the most power­f ul figures of his day, requesting retirement from his position as
Minister of the Right. Yoshifusa established a pattern, which his nephew and
­adopted heir, Mototsune (836–891), followed, of utilizing the position of regent
to the throne to dominate court politics. Mototsune was also the chief compiler of
the Montoku jitsuroku. Since Mototsune wished not only to emulate, but also
to legitimate Yoshifusa’s activities, it is no accident that so many of Yoshifusa’s
chijihyō—­portraying him as nothing more than a ­humble servant of the throne—­
found their way into the text.
Yoshifusa’s first petition begins by quoting the Liang dynasty poet, Yu Xin 庾
信 (513–581), comparing himself to an emaciated old ­horse, exhausted from pull-
ing the royal carriage.26 Noting that he had requested retirement in 850, at the
time his son-­in-­law, Emperor Montoku, took the throne, but that his request had
been rejected, his petition continued:
 “Lamenting Gray Hair”   25

Thereupon, Your Majesty’s subject [ . . . ​] exhausted his energy and sincer-
ity, attempting to be worthy of Your Majesty’s ­great graciousness. How-
ever, since the past year, old age and ills (rōbyō) have multiplied within me.
The beard of Gu Yue 顧悦 became prematurely white, and the words [of
refusal] of Zhu Wu 燭武 ­were not ill-­founded. The days and moons have
revolved numerous times, and my years have become many; my pres­ent
ills have come about in accordance with the princi­ple that fullness invites
loss and extremes cause change. [ . . . ​] Humbly I beg that I be relieved of
my duties, that I may tend my ills at home. Then, when recovered, I may
participate in state affairs beyond the walls and steps leading to the Impe-
rial abode. For an aged subject, this would be the utmost of good fortune.
This was declined.27

In the following days, Yoshifusa presented two more memorials expressing

his desire to be relieved of office, so that he could return to his “native home.” Al-
though he would face sorrow when forced to distance himself from the emperor,
he explained, he needed to remove himself from court to “escape ridicule” in his
old age.28 It is doubtful that Yoshifusa would have traveled far to reach his “native
home” since most high-­ranking courtiers retired to mansions within the capital.
In spite of the proximity many would have maintained to the palace, the authors
of chijihyō commonly dramatized the gulf that would come between them and
their beloved lord using spatial meta­phors, relying on the image of the retired el-
der as one who abides in the far-­flung reaches of the realm. The following month,
Yoshifusa wrote again of his fear that in his debilitated state he might fail his lord,
or be subject to mockery. Although derision was a real concern for any courtiers
elevated above their abilities, as the most influential official in the land, Yoshifusa
had l­ ittle to fear.
Yoshifusa’s petitions represent a tour-­de-­force of humility. All w ­ ere promptly
rejected, and ­t here is ample reason to doubt their sincerity. The year he submit-
ted the first of this series of chijihyō, Yoshifusa was fifty-­t hree—­old, but not the
full seventy years that was the norm for official retirement. And his po­liti­c al
power was only to increase in the years to come. That same month, he was ap-
pointed chancellor (Daijō Daijin), the highest position in the ritsuryō state. In 858,
the year a­ fter he had painted himself as a weary old man, Yoshifusa was appointed
sesshō, regent to his grand­son, the ­f uture Emperor Seiwa. Yoshifusa was the first
nonroyal regent, his appointment heralding the beginning of a span of centuries
(ca. 850–ca. 1050) during which his branch of the Fujiwara clan would dominate
court politics.
26   Making Elders ­O thers in Early Japan

By the mid-­ninth ­century, then, the assumption that old age required removal
to the periphery had become such a cliché that courtiers such as Yoshifusa felt
obliged to invoke it at appropriate times, even if it was clear to all parties involved
that it amounted to nothing more than posturing. ­There was no danger that Yo-
shifusa’s chijihyō would be accepted, but by presenting himself as a frail old man
protesting his unworthiness to serve, he could demonstrate to ­others at court his
humility before the sovereign, and thus, paradoxically, his worthiness to serve.
And by being repeatedly pressed into ser­v ice, he could also enhance and publi-
cize his strong ties to the throne.

Buddhist Retirement Practices in Early Japan

Taking Vows and Leaving Home
Through elaborate allusions and overblown language, chijihyō reproduced and
­reinforced normative attitudes about the meanings of old age. They drove home
the message that old age entailed decrepitude, unsuitability for the center, and
grief over the distance that would inevitably come between their authors and the
social, po­liti­cal, and geographic core. Ultimately the cultural significance of prac-
tices surrounding official retirement was overshadowed by another mode of
late-­life retirement originating in early Japan: Buddhist lay ordination, which
nonetheless came to be described in ways that echoed themes first articulated
in chijihyō.
The earliest references to the administration of Buddhist o ­ rders as a form of
retirement in Japan treat it as a means of producing and transferring merit (tsui-
zen) to one’s parent or superior. This merit was believed to be able to cure diseases,
and also to have a positive effect on the well-­being of the spirits of the deceased.29
­Later, taking the tonsure on the death of one’s lord came to be seen as a means of
demonstrating one’s loyalty to the departed.30 Buddhist retirement was also pre-
sented as an option for princes who wished to remove themselves from contesta-
tion over the throne.31 It eventually became an accepted course of action for ­t hose
of all ranks whose frailty or incompetence made them unsuitable for continued
ser ­v ice.32 The early chronicles also depict numerous instances in which Buddhist
renunciation was undertaken in an attempt to cure the tennō of a disease. This
could take the form of individual ordination or mass (possibly forced) ordination
(do), sometimes of as many as one thousand individuals.33 Gradually, however,
motivations for the tonsure shifted from a desire to produce merit on behalf of
one’s ancestors or superiors to a desire to produce merit for oneself.
Taking vows to become a Buddhist monk or nun was commonly referred to
as nyūdō (entering the way), but also as “home leaving” (shukke) or “abandoning the
 “Lamenting Gray Hair”   27

world” (yosute).34 Beginning in the tenth ­century it became customary among the
highest ranks of the aristocracy to be ordained on their deathbeds (rinjū shukke)
as a last-­d itch effort to effect recovery, or in preparation for a positive rebirth.
Generally Heian-­period aristocrats waited u ­ ntil t­ here was no hope of extending
life to renounce their worldly status and become a monk, taking their vows only
days before death.35 Since shukke was seen as irreversible, ­those at the pinnacle of
worldly success w ­ ere understandably reluctant to “abandon the world.”36
Among emperors, practices varied. In 749, Shōmu became the first tennō to
take the tonsure immediately following his abdication for reasons unrelated to
illness or impending death. But for centuries this remained an anomaly. This be-
gan to change in the Heian period, starting with the deathbed tonsure of Ninmyō
in 850; among the remaining twenty-­eight sovereigns of the Heian period, eigh­
teen ­were administered Buddhist vows.37 Emperor Uda (r. 887–897) was ordained
two years a­ fter his abdication and became the first ruler since Shōmu to spend
his final years as a lay renunciant.38 At his death, he had spent more than three
de­cades as a Buddhist monk. Importantly, even in retirement, Uda remained po­
liti­cally involved, foreshadowing the post-­tonsure ­career of the power­ful regent
Fujiwara no Michinaga (966–1028). Michinaga shaved his head in 1019 in response
to what he believed was a terminal illness. His unexpected recovery resulted in al-
most nine years in which he remained the most power­ful man in Japan, despite his
having laid down his appointments, and despite his status as a world-­renouncer.
His example was l­ ater followed by abdicated emperors of the so-­called Insei period
of “government by cloistered emperors” (ca. 1050–1185).39
Literary sources from around the turn of the eleventh c­ entury point to simi-
lar trends of tonsure among laity of less exalted status for whom death was not
imminent. Retirement well in advance of death allowed lay renunciants to expend
their full energy on devotional endeavors, providing ample time to perform
prayers and other merit-­making activities to secure a favorable rebirth.40 This
was in keeping with Hayami Tasuku’s observations that the religious culture of
Heian Japan was dominated by a “quantitative ideology of merit,” which held that
the more devotional activities one could engage in or sponsor, the more merit one
could accrue.41 By the mid-­Heian period, late-­life tonsure appears to have become
the norm, at least among the nobility.
Among aristocrats, the desire to renounce the world early enough to build
merit for the next life required walking a fine line. Taking vows too early invited
the resentment of f­ amily members and other dependents, especially t­ hose wish-
ing to advance at court.42 But to remain too long in the world in one’s declining
years was to invite derision.43 For ­t hose who lacked sufficient influence to elevate
their dependents, refusing to take vows was seen as vanity. Heian lit­er­a­ture provides
28   Making Elders ­O thers in Early Japan

ample examples of ineffectual elders who refused to go gracefully into Buddhist

retirement being subjected to ridicule or worse.44
Leaving aside the examples of faux tonsure among supremely power­ful fig-
ures such as retired emperors, regents, or chancellors, as a cultural ideal, late-­life
renunciation in Heian Japan was strongly associated with po­liti­cal disempower-
ment. For kugyō—­those of sufficient rank to sit on the Council of State—­deathbed
tonsure remained the norm. But for most, since old age brought with it a decline
in po­liti­cal fortunes, Buddhist retirement was seen as the natu­ral course. Late-­
life lay renunciation was thus framed in ways that resembled court retirement
practices, and many of the discursive conventions developed in earlier centuries
to describe court retirement practices w ­ ere now invoked in depictions of late-­life
shukke, which thus came to make its own contributions to the classical conceit
of old age as a time of despair. As in the case of chiji, the tonsure was often in
response to illness or incapacity. Furthermore, becoming a Buddhist renunciant
in old age was understood to require removing oneself from the putative center
to a less civilized area. Well-­to-do elders could retreat to a private chapel or separate
wing within the ­house­hold complex.45 ­Others could afford their own mansions.46
The less fortunate, however, w ­ ere depicted taking up residence in relatively remote
­temples, hermitages, huts, wilderness areas, or, at times, to run-­down zones
within the capital.47
While late-­life tonsure was commonly described in Heian and l­ater sources
as the fulfillment of a long-­held wish, it was treated, even in t­ hose cases, with deep
ambivalence. Originally envisioned as a response to illness, lack of po­liti­cal viabil-
ity, or imminent death, it retained ­those negative connotations. As in court retire-
ment petitions, even ­t hose whose wealth or influence rendered them retirees in
name only still expressed (if only out of a sense of propriety) their misery at depart-
ing the world. In spite of many exceptions, shukke was regarded as an irreversible
act, removing the retiree from the life he or she had known, taking him or her
one step closer to death. Literary treatments of Heian tonsure ceremonies never
fail to mention the weeping of all pres­ent.48 For Heian-­period elders, therefore,
Buddhist retirement was treated as a source not only of solace, but also of sorrow.

The Poetics of Old Age in Early Japan

Placing and Displacing the Aged Body
in Early Japanese Poetry
Although the chijihyō ­were likely read by very few, the men who composed them
­were often engaged in other literary pursuits as well. Yoshifusa, for example, had
 “Lamenting Gray Hair”   29

one of his poems included in the Kokin wakashū (ca. 920), the first official com-
pilation of Japa­nese verse. His entry echoes some of the tropes that he engaged so
fluently in his retirement petitions. In the poem, Yoshifusa pres­ents himself as an
old man revivified by the presence of his d ­ aughter Meishi (829–900), who, as the
wife and ­mother of emperors, connected him to the symbolic youth and transcen-
dence of the imperial line.49 Since Japan’s earliest imperial anthologies of Chinese
and Japa­nese verse ­were also products of the court-­centric ideological milieu of the
ritsuryō and regency periods, the poems selected for inclusion in ­these collections
often employed similar sets of tropes and spatial logics as retirement petitions.
Regarded by the literati of l­ater centuries as touchstones of lyrical elegance, the
poems in t­ hese prestigious collections can thus not only tell us how the aged body
was being ­imagined in the period in which they w ­ ere compiled, but also provide
a basis for understanding how their structuring of space, the ­human life cycle,
and royal authority came to be reworked or revised in the medieval period.
In recent de­cades, Japan’s earliest imperial anthologies, the Kaifūsō (751) and
the Man’yōshū (ca. 759), have come to be examined not just in terms of their aes-
thetic contributions, but also for what they can tell us about the social, religious,
and po­liti­cal world in which they ­were produced. Like early court histories, ­t hese
works ­were compiled in imitation of Chinese models to proj­ect an image of
Nihon as a unified, centralized polity, revolving around a virtuous sovereign. The
extent to which the Kaifūsō and the Man’yōshū ­were embedded in ritsuryō po­liti­
cal ideologies becomes clear when we recognize that many of the poems they pre-
served ­were to be recited orally or presented at gatherings, often in the presence
of the emperor.50 Songs performed at banquets, royal progresses, and other quasi-­
official events commonly made reference to the divine descent of the sovereign,
included prayers for his or her longevity, or alluded to his or her power to civilize,
subdue, and pacify the realm. And by publicly demonstrating his or her affection
for the sovereign and giving voice to ritsuryō notions of a “natu­ral” social, po­liti­
cal, and cosmic order, the poet reminded ­t hose pres­ent of his or her own place in
that order. The composition and recitation of poetry was thus a po­liti­cal act of
social positioning and identity formation.
Efforts to reinforce authorized visions of the cosmos, ruler, and realm are
clear in the preface of the Kaifūsō, a collection of poems in Chinese (kanshi). The
Kaifūsō’s preface seeks to situate the composition of Chinese verse in the mytho-
history of Japan and its royal tradition, describing such pivotal moments as Nini-
gi’s descent and the flourishing of kanshi at the court of Tenji, a ruler who sought
to order the realm, in part, through learning (i.e., poetry).51 The preface contin-
ues its history of Japa­nese kanshi through oblique references to the poetic contri-
butions of vari­ous historical figures. Of par­tic­u ­lar interest is one such reference
30   Making Elders ­O thers in Early Japan

to the eigh­teenth poem in the collection, in which Councilor of State Ōmiwa no

Takechimaro (657–706) “lamented his gray hair (hakubin).”52
The poem in question begins with a headnote indicating that the author com-
posed it at the age of fifty. It continues:

Laid low by illness, my hair already turned white

Feeling as though I am about to enter the other world
When unexpectedly an imperial command reached me
To join him in his spring pro­cession to the Imperial Park.
From pine cliffs the gurgling ­water falls
Freshly blooming flowers smile by bamboo banks
[What an honor to have been invited since] I am just a s­ imple rustic
Unworthy to ­ride in the last of the carriages.53

What begins as a reflection on old age abruptly changes direction, giving way
to a work whose main theme is spring, but also rescue, rebirth, and the revivify-
ing effect of the imperial invitation. Takechimaro opens his poem emphasizing
his old age, white hair, illness, and closeness to death, in order to dramatize the
power of the emperor’s benevolent attention to reawaken life. Only the grace of
the virtuous sovereign could call back one so far gone. Takechimaro’s “lament-
ing gray hair” was thus not so much a reflection on the aging pro­cess as an op-
portunity to celebrate the power of the sovereign to turn back old age and death.54
This is the type of poem that would have been presented at the event it memorial-
izes, although it is unclear ­whether or not Takechimaro had the opportunity,
since he died around the time it was supposed to have been offered.
Although the Kaifūsō is thought to have been essentially ignored for roughly
two centuries, the motif of “lamenting” gray hair continued to be deployed in the
interim. The celebrated preface of the Kokin wakashū, for example, refers to this
poetic practice, perhaps also gesturing to the preface of the Kaifūsō, when it notes
that poets of old “lamented as the years brought snow and waves to the reflections
in their mirrors,” referring to white hair and wrinkles, respectively.55
The Man’yōshū contains relatively few poems discussing old age and, as Okuda
Hisashi notes, many of t­ hose are not focused on aging per se.56 Many love poems,
for instance, use old age as a meta­phor for abandonment, among them a famous
poem attributed to Empress Iwa-­no-­hime, yearning for the ruler Nintoku:

Aritsutsu mo ­Here s­ hall I abide

kimi wo ba matamu and wait the coming of my lord,
uchinabiku ­until the streaming
 “Lamenting Gray Hair”   31

waga kurokami ni banner of my long black hair

shimo no oku made ni is stiff and white with frost.57

On one level, Iwa-­no-­hime’s white hair is a sign of constancy and devotion—­

evidence of the length of time she is willing to wait for a visit from her beloved.
But the poem also evinces the fear that Nintoku w ­ ill arrive too late, once she has
passed her reproductive prime. In this regard it echoes an episode in the Kojiki,
in which Yūryaku encounters a young w ­ oman washing clothes. Commanding her
not to marry and promising to summon her soon, he returns to his palace. De­
cades ­later, dismayed by her “decrepit and withered” body, the w ­ oman realizes
that she has been forgotten.58 Taking m ­ atters into her own hands, she approaches
the emperor, explaining that she has waited respectfully for eighty years. “Now
my appearance has become old (ki), and t­ here is no longer any hope. Neverthe-
less, I have come forth to declare my constancy.” Yūryaku finds it pitiable that she
has “wasted away the prime” of her life. “In his heart he wished to wed her but,
out of consideration for her extreme age, he was not able to.”59 Yūryaku sends her
home.60 Iwa-­no-­hime’s poem expresses a similar anxiety: that old age would ren-
der her susceptible to exclusion, forced to return to a home situated if not in the
provinces at the very least outside the palace walls.61
The use of the aged body to signal misery over separation from the sovereign
was not limited to poems involving emperors and consorts. Similar tropes appear
in poems dealing with anx­i­eties surrounding travel. Judith Rabinovitch and Tim-
othy Bradstock observe that homesickness and exile ­were common themes in
Chinese poetry, but that in Japa­nese kanshi, they w ­ ere transposed into a longing
for the capital.62 The same can be said of many poems of the Man’yōshū depicting
officials ordered to take up posts in remote areas. What is fascinating is how the
aged body figures in ­t hese verses as a symptom and symbol of displacement. A
set of five poems by Ōtomo no Tabito, for instance, pairs his yearning for the
capital of Heijō-­k yō with reflections on the passing of his youth:

Waga sakari My own blossoming youth

mata ochime ya mo can it come back to me?
hotohoto ni ­Unless I am wrong
nara no miyako wo the chances are I ­shall never see
mizu ka nari namu the Nara capital again.63

The other four poems of the set describe his wish to live long enough to return to
the capital. Some feature references to Yoshino, a mountain not far from Heijō-­k yō,
presented in the early chronicles and poetry collections as a land of immortals,
32   Making Elders ­O thers in Early Japan

whose soil, ­waters, and herbs contained life-­prolonging properties. Implicit, there-
fore, in Tabito’s lament is the notion that his distance from the central province of
Yamato places him at the mercies of old age and mortality. Cut off from the life-­
giving center, he feels the passage of time all the more profoundly.
While texts from the Nara period forward often treated Yoshino, Katsuragi,
and other mountains as immortal realms, the capital city, palace complex, and
especially the imperial residence w ­ ere also commonly graced with super­natu­ral
epithets. Specifically, the environs of the capital and court ­were likened to Peng-
lai, the isles of the immortals from Chinese legend; Kunlun, the paradise of the
Queen ­Mother of the West; or Tokoyo, the “world of perpetuity,” a deathless realm
envisioned beyond or ­under the sea, which was at times ­imagined as a land in
which the old w ­ ere returned to youth.64 ­These three mythical topoi w­ ere enthusi-
astically deployed in Japa­nese attempts to celebrate the center. In the Man’yōshū
(1/50), for instance, a paean by the poet laureate Kakinomoto no Hitomaro (fl. ca.
690) describing the construction of the Fujiwara palace, the seat of government
from 694 to 710, likens it to Tokoyo and celebrates the arrival of a sacred tortoise
bearing mysterious marks on its shell.65 Herman Ooms observes that the strange
markings would have represented the three divine mountains thought to be
situated off the coast of China: Penglai (J. Hōrai-­san), Fangzhang (J. Hōjō-­san),
and Yingzhou (J. Eishū-­san), collectively known as Penglai. According to some
legends, ­t hese three islands ­were, in fact, perched on the back of a tortoise—­itself
a symbol of immortality.66 Penglai was first identified in the “Rec­ords of the
­Grand Historian” (Ch. Shiji, 109 to 91 BCE) as an immortal realm where youth-­
restoring elixirs could be found. Since the Fujiwara palace was cradled by three
mountains to the east, west, and north, the poem meant to further identify the
capital not only with Tokoyo but with Penglai as well.67 Ooms also notes that
three of Japan’s four early capitals, Fujiwara-­kyō, Heijō-­kyō, and Heian-­k yō, ­were
bounded on three sides by mountain ranges, in conformity with Chinese geoman-
tic princi­ples but also, perhaps, to maintain the illusion that the capital was itself
comparable to Penglai.68
­These associations carried over into the Heian period as well. Penglai became
a favorite trope of court literati describing the environs of the palace compound.
Sugawara no Michizane (845–903), for instance, described a scene in the garden
of the retired Emperor Suzaku, noting that “every­t hing upon which one casts
one’s eyes is removed from the dust of the mundane world; I do not even envy
­those who could spend the entire night hidden in Penglai.”69 In a petition request-
ing appointment at court, Tachibana no Naomoto (dates unknown) humbly
acknowledged that his “mortal bones” (shokukotsu) ­were not worthy to tread on
the clouds of Penglai.70
 “Lamenting Gray Hair”   33

Another popu­lar meta­phor was Kunlun (J. Konron), the mythical mountain
of Chinese lore, understood to be the site of the paradise of the Queen ­Mother of
the West. Kunlun’s divine geography included several landmarks, one of which
was the Yao Pond (Turquoise Pond 瑶池 J. Yōchi).71 A pond in the imperial
garden of Heijō-­k yō was given the same name, allowing courtiers at gatherings
within the palace compound to imagine themselves, once again, in an immortal
realm. A pair of poems from the Kaifūsō (21 and 24) play with ­t hese associations.
An offering by the scholar Mino no Kiyomaro (dates unknown) describes spar-
kling fish sporting about in Yao Pond. He also mentions peach trees in glorious
bloom, another clear allusion to the paradise of the Queen ­Mother of the West,
famous for a peach tree that bloomed once e­ very three thousand years, produc-
ing fruit that bestowed eternal life upon t­ hose who tasted it.72 The imperial com-
pound of the Heian capital featured other sites whose names recalled immortal
lands. For example, the tennō frequently hosted banquets and poetry gatherings
in the Shinsen’en or “Garden of the Divine Spring”—­a designation that evoked
images of ­waters of immortality issuing forth during reigns of virtuous mon-
archs.73 Heian-­period poets commonly rendered the palace itself a celestial realm—­
thus the common epithet for the court indicated that it was situated “above the
clouds.” Fujiwara no Toshiyuki (d. 901), for instance, wrote of his bedazzlement
on entering the inner sanctum of the imperial residence, “in the celestial realm,
above the clouds” (hisakata no kumo no ue nite).74
Another pair of poems from the Man’yōshū (847 and 848), possibly also by
Tabito, describe how the mere sight of the capital would be more effective than
elixirs of immortality.75 The second of the two reads

Kumo ni tobu It is not drinking

kusuri hamu yo wa an elixir that lets you fly through the clouds
miyako miba but seeing the capital
iyashiki aga mi that would cure this villainous old age
mata wochinu beshi and give me youth again.76

Centuries ­later, the conceit that the capital held youth-­restoring powers and
that, conversely, the aging pro­cess continued unabated in the provinces found its
most compelling expression in the poetry of one of Heian Japan’s most celebrated
scholar-­poets, Sugawara no Michizane, in the two major anthologies of his work.
At the age of forty-­t wo, while serving as governor of Sanuki province, Michizane
wrote, in “Noticing My First Scattered Gray Hairs”:

I am ten years older than Pan Yue

Gray hairs, where have you been hiding?
34   Making Elders ­O thers in Early Japan

At first I did not notice you, but now I do!

Surely it is b
­ ecause I live in sorrow ­here by the seashore.77

In this work, Michizane connects his location by the seashore with the onset
of the physical marks of aging. Since Japan’s early capitals ­were situated inland,
the seashore was commonly depicted as an exotic locus for poetic composition.
Pan Yue (Pan Anren, 265–317) of the Qin dynasty was a poet who went gray at
only thirty-­two, due to the rigors of officialdom. Michizane, however, attributes
his aging (or at least his consciousness of it) not to the t­ rials of ser­v ice at court,
but to his distance from the capital. Interestingly, all of Michizane’s poems about
his gray hair collected in the first of his two anthologies, the Kanke bunsō, w ­ ere
composed between the ages of forty-­t wo and forty-­six, the period in which he
served in the provinces.78 This anthology, presented to the throne in 900 along
with other collected works of the Sugawara h ­ ouse, reveals that once he returned
to the capital ­a fter his tenure as governor of Sanuki ­either his writing on that
theme came to an abrupt halt or such poems had been edited out. Of the poems
in this collection composed in the following eleven years he spent in Heian-­k yō,
not one laments his old age, although chronologically he would have been older
than he was in Sanuki.79
Michizane, famously, was not able to spend his final days in the capital. In 901,
his po­liti­cal rivals succeeded in having him demoted and sent into de facto exile
in Dazaifu, an area described in his writings as a wilderness to which imperial
authority did not fully extend.80 It was in Dazaifu that Michizane once again be-
gan to reflect on his aging body, in poems included in his second anthology, the
Kanke kōshū. Michizane’s most famous laments in exile call attention once again
to his white hair. Commenting on the distance that was growing between him
and the world of the capital, he wrote of crying over “the faded purple of my of-
ficial robes. Looking into the mirror, I lamented my gray hair.”81 Michizane’s em-
phasis on old age in t­ hese late poems has traditionally been interpreted as express-
ing fear that he would die without ever returning to the capital. This cannot be
discounted. But such a reading fails to account for his preoccupation with his gray
hair years earlier in Sanuki province.
The association of old age with exile and ostracism, tragically exemplified in
Michizane’s biography and poignantly reflected in his writings, was perhaps most
vividly expressed in fiction describing Obasute-­yama (or Ubasute-­yama), “The
Mountain for Abandoning Old ­Women.” The tenth-­century Yamato monogatari,
for instance, tells of a man whose wife pressures him into abandoning his aged
aunt once she becomes “decrepit and bent.”82 The man succumbs and takes his
aunt to Obasute-­yama. That night, however, overcome with regret, he goes to
 “Lamenting Gray Hair”   35

retrieve her.83 The prevalence of such tales in premodern lit­er­a­ture has led some
scholars to speculate that abandonment of the el­derly was a widespread practice.
The basis for this legend, however, is actually of continental origin, brought to
Japan in the popu­lar collection of Buddhist parables, the Store­house of Sundry
Trea­sures Sutra (Zappōzōkyō T no. 203). Although they cannot serve as evidence of
­actual social practices, legends of abandonment w ­ ere a product of the Nara and
Heian intuition that the aged body was an asocial body—­one that the social body
sought to expel or, at the very least, relegate to social and geo­graph­i­cal margins.
In our discussion of the poetics of aging in early Japan, ­there is another moun-
tain that bears mention: Kagami-­yama or “Mirror Mountain.” The fact that a
mountain on the outskirts of the Heian capital happened to be named “mirror
mountain” led to an especially rich vein of associations for poets to mine.84 In
Heian-­period poetry, mirrors commonly served to alert authors to their physical
transformation.85 This, combined with the motif of elders removing themselves
or being removed to the periphery, made Kagami-­yama a popu­lar setting for
poetic reflection on the aging body. It attained its status as an utamakura, a place-­
name charged with intertextual and allusive potential, from a poem in the Kokin
wakashū attributed to Ōtomo no Kuronushi (dates unknown), in which he
stopped at Mirror Mountain to inspect himself and learn ­whether, ­a fter living
many years, he had truly become an old ­man.86
Kagami-­yama lay near Lake Biwa, along one of the few major cir­cuits leading
out of the capital ­toward the eastern provinces. The Kokin wakashū provides no
indication of why Kuronushi was traveling this route, but it is likely that ­people
of the time would have interpreted it as a poem composed as he returned to his
native province of Ōmi, perhaps in retirement. L ­ ater poets followed Kuronushi’s
lead. Kagami-­yama became a favorite stop for authors of medieval travel diaries
(kikō), who commonly portrayed themselves as aged recluses, striking out into
relatively untamed territories.87 The authors of the Tōkan kikō, Shinshō hōshi
nikki, Miyako no tsuto, and Nagusamegusa all took a moment to offer poetic ac-
counts of their somatic situation as they passed this site.88

Frosty Temples and Red Eyes: Heian Writings on

the Marks of Age and Their Chinese Precedents
The image of the poet regarding himself in a mirror and discovering gray hairs
became a commonplace of Heian-­period laments, not limited to works included
in imperial collections. The theme had its roots in Chinese lit­er­a­ture of the
Six Dynasties, but also appeared frequently in the work of the Tang-­dyansty poet
Bo Juyi—­k nown in Japan as Hakurakuten—­a favorite of Japa­nese literati.89 Japa­
nese writers also inherited meta­phors from the continent with which to describe
36   Making Elders ­O thers in Early Japan

their physical transformations. White hair, for instance, was commonly re-
ferred to as “frost” on one’s ­temples (bin). But Japa­nese literati often reworked
­t hese tropes to achieve effects that w ­ ere quite dif­fer­ent from t­ hose realized in
continental verse.
One well-­k nown Heian-­period text involving a mirror and the unwelcome
recognition of old age is the essay “Seeing Gray Hairs” by Minamoto no Fusaa-
kira (d. 939). Fusaakira describes the shock of finding evidence of encroaching
old age as he gazed at his reflection one morning. Hair, as has been noted, was an
impor­tant index of health and vitality in premodern Japan. Plucking the offend-
ing strands, he pauses to consider his years of ser­v ice to the throne, the stresses
of which might be to blame for his premature aging.90 Both Fusaakira’s essay and
Michizane’s “mirror” poems w ­ ere modeled on Bo Juyi’s “Looking in the Mirror
and Rejoicing in Old Age.”91 Bo’s poem, however, is strikingly dif­fer­ent from t­ hose
of his Japa­nese admirers, presenting gray hair as a sign that he might fi­nally put
down worldly cares and retreat to the mountains to live in contented retirement.
(Bo also wrote happily about ­going bald.) ­These works echoed the valorization of
nonnormative bodies in proto-­Daoist texts such as the Laozi and Zhuangzi. In
­so-­called Zhuang-­Lao thought, deformed or useless bodies could live in peaceful
disengagement from society and the state and thus avoid having their vitality
sapped.92 Demonstrating a playful, subversive attitude, Bo celebrated physical de-
cay. In the early through mid-­Heian period at least, his Japa­nese imitators seemed
much more brittle. Michizane, Fusaakira, and ­t hose who followed in their wake
­were almost uniformly somber in their reflections on white hair, hair loss, and
the like.
Some of the clearest examples of the gap between the construction of old age
in the Heian literary imagination and its pre­sen­ta­tion in Chinese sources can be
found in poetry produced at Shōshikai, literary banquets to celebrate the longev-
ity of their honorees.93 The first banquet celebrating old age was attributed to Bo
Juyi, who described its boisterous mood in a prose preface and poem:

Taken together ­t hese seven [old men] have five-­hundred seventy years
All dressed in robes of purple or vermillion, our white beards hang down
We have no gold in our pockets, but that is not cause to sigh
Let us anyway enjoy the fact that we have wine in our cups
Reciting just two verses of a song puts me in high spirits
Drinking three cups of wine puts me in an even wilder mood
Jabbering away at a mad song, the maidservant keeps the rhythm
Tottering in my drunken dance, I am propped up by my grand­child.94
 “Lamenting Gray Hair”   37

The poems by the other guests also describe an atmosphere of festive drunk-
enness, as they extemporized on drinking, dancing, singing, joy, and the idyllic
beauty of nature. Collectively, they pres­ent a picture of old age as a time of rustic
repose, f­ ree from worries.95
We might expect Japa­nese authors emulating this banquet to take emotional
cues from the original, but they do not. Between the ninth and twelfth centuries
we have rec­ords of five major Shōshikai banquets in Japan. The first, known as the
Jōgan Shōshikai, was held in 877 by Minafuchi no Toshina (808–877). Although
none of its poems survived, it was described in an essay by one of the partici-
pants, Sugawara no Koreyoshi (812–880), and in a poem by Koreyoshi’s son,
Michizane. Although Michizane writes of feeling as though he had happened
upon a gathering of immortals (sennin) and makes mention of wine and song, his
poem ends on a solemn note:

Looking at my old ­father, who could suppress their tears?

This assembly ­w ill surely be a source of anguish for the young.96

Koreyoshi’s essay, while for the most part lighthearted, also introduces a hint
of darkness. He describes Toshina congratulating his friends for producing ex-
cellent poems despite the weakness of old age.97 Koreyoshi portrays wine and
song not as celebratory, but as a balm to put his “old mind” (rōshi 老志) at ease.
Rather than an opportunity to revel in old age, therefore, Japan’s first Shōshikai
is presented as something held despite the frailty of its participants, in part to
provide solace.
­These themes ­were echoed in Sugawara no Funtoki’s (899–981) preface to the
second Japa­nese Shōshikai, known as the Anna Shōshikai, held by Fujiwara no
Arihira (892–970) at his Awata estate.98 Funtoki (also written Fumitoki) rec­ords
the host paraphrasing Koreyoshi: “My many friends, the day grows late and we
are near the end of our lives. Let this cele­bration ease our old minds.”99
Unlike the Jōgan Shōshikai, many poems survive from this banquet.100 Cou-
plets from t­ hese poems ­were featured in the Wakan rōeishū. Interestingly, ­t hese
tended to be among the most mournful. The first and third of ­t hese read

Just as ­t here is no eve­ning in which the rivers flow back to their source,
Neither the passing years, nor the tears I shed for them, w ­ ill return.
[Once the season has passed] how could the flowers that bloomed in spring,
Return to beautify old age?
Sugawara no Funtoki
38   Making Elders ­O thers in Early Japan

Drunk, I face the scattering blossoms,

But my heart is calm of its own accord;
Drifting off to sleep, I think of my remaining years,
And my eyes grow red with tears.
Sugawara no Gaki 101

Whereas wine is served to elevate spirits at Bo Juyi’s original Shōshikai, in

Sugawara no Gaki’s poem it provokes morose reflection on falling flowers, giving
way in the end to tearful red eyes.
The third Japa­nese Shōshikai for which we have rec­ords was held in 1131
by Dainagon Fujiwara no Munetada (1062–1141).102 Although late Heian authors
had begun to reflect on their old age in a more consistently positive tone, certain
poems from this banquet still show deep ambivalence. One participant, Fujiwara
no Sanemitsu (1069–1147), writes that having passed the sake cup, “birds sing;
flowers dance; flute m
­ usic plays softly; but my body and mind are old and weak.
Although I wear a garland, I am listless (monoushi).” Sanemitsu claims to be lucky
to have lived so long, but he quickly notes that many of his friends have died.
“Of my friends who have reached the age of sixty, ­t here is no one but the soli-
tary pine tree.”103

For Sanemitsu and other Nara-­and Heian-­period authors, the persona of the el-
der was useful for achieving certain aesthetic effects, which, given the hierarchi-
cal structures of the prevailing social, po­liti­cal, and literary fields, w
­ ere never far
removed from the ideological effects that elites sought to achieve through their
uses of the aged body in official documents, from mythohistories to retirement
petitions. For the literate of Nara and Heian Japan, to write about one’s old age
was to position oneself within an ­imagined geography, rendering oneself, to
some degree, an outsider, which then elicited a par­tic­u ­lar style of expression or
tone. Of course ­t hese conceits ­were not always employed in total sincerity. Paint-
ing oneself as a miserable, marginal elder could at times ensure even more secure
ties to the center, as in Yoshifusa’s gratuitous retirement petitions. Regardless of
how elites like Yoshifusa actually fared in old age, however, the premise that el-
ders ­were ugly, uncouth outsiders was rarely challenged.
C HA P T E R T H R E E

Decrepit Demons and Defiled Deities

Elders at the Crossroads in Late Heian Japan

In early Japan, the aged body was treated not only as unsightly, shameful, or
ridicu­lous, but also as a potential source of filth and pollution. Concerns about
the defiling nature of the aged body w ­ ere expressed in vari­ous ways in a range of
texts, from official chronicles, literary texts, and diaries to Buddhist doctrinal and
didactic works. Certain texts, relying on meta­phors from the Chinese naturalist
tradition equating fluidity and flow with health and purity, portrayed elders ex-
emplifying the kinds of stagnation and decay regarded as a dangerous precursor
to disease. ­Others devoted attention to elders’ perceived inability to maintain
their physical integrity and their tendency to produce excreta such as urine and
feces at inopportune moments. Some writings portrayed old age as a liminal state
in which the pollution of illness and death was pos­si­ble at any moment.1 This
chapter centers on an analy­sis of two Heian-­period Buddhist tales that played on
­these associations, utilizing aged male and female bodies to represent other-
worldly figures implicated in the defiling influences of death, disease, and dan-
gerous liminal spaces. The first involves a roadside god or dōsojin, the second the
datsueba—­the hag of the Japa­nese Styx who greeted the deceased before they
crossed into the underworld. ­These tales provide examples of how certain Bud-
dhist writings contributed to repre­sen­ta­tions of the aged body as an inherently
problematic other. They also provide a basis for comparison with contemporane-
ous and l­ater Buddhist legends, in which the aged body came to serve quite
dif­fer­ent narrative purposes.
Since concepts of purity and pollution played an impor­tant role in the
ensemble of religio-­political practices employed in early Japan to privilege the
center, associating elders with pollution contributed to marginalizing discourses
that constructed old age as an asocial form of being, best relegated to social and
geographic peripheries.2 Since at least the seventh ­century, large-­scale purifica-
tion proj­ects had been framed as an essential responsibility of the ruler, who
demonstrated his or her virtue and authority, in part, by sponsoring rituals to rid
the land of pollution, ensuring the well-­being of the populace.3 Annual rituals
of purification and propitiation ­were performed at the borders of the capital and

39
40   Making Elders ­O thers in Early Japan

at sites seen to be especially susceptible to infiltration by defilement or vengeful

spirits of the unsettled dead (onryō or goryō).
Concerns over pollution w ­ ere most intense within the palace compound and
major shrine-­temple complexes, which ­were treated as organs of the body of state,
tasked with rites that guaranteed its continued health. Thus, for instance, we read
in the Nihon shoki that Tenmu tennō ordered bedridden elders removed from
­temples out of fear that their physical stagnation would incur disease and defile-
ment, producing pollution (kegare) in “places which should be pure.”4 For ­t hose
attached to the court or the major shrine-­temple complexes, contact with kegare—­
the most dangerous form of pollution, associated with death, disease, blood, men-
struation, and childbirth—­often required a period of sequestration or the ser­v ices
of a ritual specialist. Although other forms of “­matter out of place” such as urine,
feces, or other bodily effluvia fell ­under the less threatening rubric of “filth” ( fujō),
­these categories tended to blur in the premodern imagination, with vari­ous merely
“unclean” substances commonly described as kegare.
Purity and pollution ­were used not only to distinguish between centers and
peripheries, but also to or­ga­nize bodies within ­these geographic imaginaries, and
had a significant impact on premodern Japa­nese social stratification. While the
emperor was ­imagined inhabiting the pinnacle of purity, high-­ranking aristocrats
and clerics, whose work involved e­ ither physical presence within the imperial
compound or the per­for­mance of rituals on behalf of the state, ­were also among
the most concerned with maintaining purity and among the most likely to rigor-
ously observe taboos. Th­ ose tasked with removing defilement from the capital,
however, the kiyome, ­were seen as the bottom rung on the social ladder, embody-
ing the impurity they managed.5
In the Mahāyāna sutras, purity and pollution had been used primarily as
meta­phors for states of mind. In early Japan, however, “pure conduct”—­mainly
defined as abstaining from sex and the consumption of meat—­became key
quali­fications for ­those hoping to receive official ordination. Since purity
was seen as a crucial f­ actor determining the success or failure of the prayers
and rituals the Buddhist clergy performed, protecting the purity of ­temples,
shrines, and other sites in which t­ hese rituals w ­ ere conducted became a major
concern. Scholars have generally held that Buddhist teachings and practices
relating to pollution in the Heian through medieval periods w ­ ere instrumental
in the formation of outcast groups and ever-­more-­concrete practices of social
­d iscrimination.6
In Heian Japan, the notion that the world was about to enter, or had already
entered, the “defiled age” of mappō (“the latter age of the law”)—­a period marked
 Decrepit Demons and Defiled Deities   41

by the decline of the Dharma preached by the historical buddha, Śākyamuni—­

appears to have heightened kegare consciousness. Texts promoting practices
aimed at rebirth in a Buddhist Pure Land, especially that of Amida Nyorai, relied
in part on anx­i­eties over mappō and pollution to make their case, drawing a stark
contrast between the miseries of embodiment in samsara, portrayed as a realm
steeped in pollution, and the pure, indestructible bodies of t­ hose reborn in the
Pure Land. This was, for example, the thrust of the early chapters of the Tendai
priest Genshin’s (942–1017) celebrated Ōjōyōshū, epitomized in the motto onri
edo, that called on the faithful to “despise and seek to flee the polluted land
[of samsara].”7
The belief that this world was utterly polluted elicited varied reactions. On the
one hand, Pure Land discourse opened the way for certain recluses, gosesha (or
goseisha), to disregard pollution taboos, since all samsaric existence was seen to
be equally contaminated and their only concern was for the next world.8 On the
other hand, the majority of lay and ordained Buddhists evinced, if anything,
a heightened concern over pollution, attempting to create or maintain sites of
purity to stave off the deleterious effects of mappō. This is evident, for instance,
in Genshin’s institution of the Śākyamuni assembly of Reizan-in (Reizan-in
Shakakō), which engaged in daily recitations and rituals venerating a Śākyamuni
icon installed on Mount Hiei.9 ­Every day Genshin and the assembly would intone
before the statue the number of years remaining u ­ ntil the onset of mappō, as they
carried out vari­ous practices to sustain Śākyamuni’s presence in this increasingly
debased world.10 The icon was constructed to be the same height as the historical
buddha (tōshin) and enshrined in a manner that re-­created the scene of his ser-
mon on Numinous Ea­gle Peak (Ryōjusen), where he preached the Lotus Sutra.11
Attendees treated the icon as a living buddha (shōjin kuyō), offering rice, vegeta-
bles, and fruit at meal times, fanning the statue when it was hot and keeping it
warm in the winter.12
In keeping with Pure Land ideologies of the day, which held that the only so-
lution to the inherent misery and pollution of samsaric embodiment was escape,
the faithful sought, through their devotional practices at this microcosmic Nu-
minous Ea­gle Peak, to establish karmic bonds that would allow them to transcend
this world and be reborn in a Pure Land: “We carry out vari­ous tasks such as
sweeping and cleaning in order to be reborn for eternity in a pure world that is
­free from dust.”13 Producing a mirror image of the heavenly perfection of Numi-
nous Ea­gle Peak, Śākyamuni’s Pure Land, on earth required purification; the con-
fraternity’s charter documents make clear that Genshin intended nothing less
than to carve out a tiny enclave of purity in this defiled world. Participants had
42   Making Elders ­O thers in Early Japan

to maintain strict protocols of be­hav­ior and cleanliness when approaching

the image:

Numinous Ea­gle Peak is where Śākyamuni perpetually resides. [ . . . ​] This

cloister, Reizan-in, has been created to manifest Numinous Ea­gle Peak.
Thus, only ­t hose who maintain purity of body and mind w ­ ill be permit-
ted to enter. Of t­ hose with unclean or licentious ( fujō hōmen) bodies, or
­t hose who neglect to follow the rules of propriety, not one ­shall be per-
mitted to enter.14

Unlike the goseisha who saw mappō as reason enough to abandon purity ta-
boos, Genshin’s rhe­toric indicates a belief that it was still pos­si­ble to maintain a
semblance of purity at certain sites. Despite the egalitarian tone of the Reizan-in
Shakakō’s charter, Genshin was far from abandoning taboos.15 Similarly, even as
most forms of mid-­Heian Pure Land discourse rhetorically elided distinctions be-
tween lay and monastic, male and female, elite and commoner, they continued to
reproduce and reinforce distinctions between purity and pollution, between sa-
cred and profane space, between world-­renouncers and the laity, and between this
world and the next.
As for the aged body, its negative associations made it an appropriate symbol
for Buddhist authors who wished to utilize the oppositional categories of purity
and pollution to contrast the miseries of samsara with the joys of vari­ous Pure
Lands. As opposed to the immortal, adamantine bodies promised to t­ hose reborn
in a Pure Land, the bodies of this world w ­ ere characterized by impermanence,
decay, and pollution. The aged body thus epitomized all that mortals should wish
to transcend. This perspective is evident, for example, in certain mid-­Heian Bud-
dhist hagiographies and tales of auspicious rebirth. One such tale, for instance,
described the final words of a saint, who, on his deathbed, celebrated the fact that
he was “abandoning the body of delusion, impurity, impermanence and kegare, and
receiving the pure, adamantine, unbreakable fruit of the Buddha!”16 Some didactic
tales encouraged empathy with aged protagonists, to serve as a reminder that all
samsaric beings ­were subject to the depredations of time. Other works treated the
aged body as a defiled other, to inspire fear and revulsion sufficient to encourage a
course of moral action. Both modes ­were employed in the tales examined below.

Intersections with Illness and Death:

The Dōsojin and the Datsueba
Due to its associations with liminality, pollution, and disease, the aged body
became an opportune form for representing certain insalubrious otherworldly
 Decrepit Demons and Defiled Deities   43

beings situated at boundary zones connected to defilement, illness, and death.

One such being was the roadside god or dōsojin, alternatively known as sae no
kami, funado, or kunado no kami, the center of an ancient f­ amily of cults.17 Com-
monly represented by stone effigies placed at borders or crossroads, they w ­ ere
sometimes referred to as ishigami, or “stone gods.” The dōsojin was a complex,
composite figure with roots in diverse sets of rites performed from at least the
Nara period, possibly much earlier.18 Th ­ ese cults can be grouped into two broad
categories: ­t hose encouraging fertility and ­t hose involving purification or the
pacification of dangerous spirits—­either the unsettled spirits of the dead or gods
of disease (ekijin) who w ­ ere ­imagined traveling along the roadways.
The situation of t­ hese gods at crossroads was significant, for in state-­sponsored
purification rites in effect from at least the time of Tenmu, par­tic­u ­lar attention
was given to nodes in the nation’s transportation network, points of perceived
vulnerability such as the capital’s main sites of ingress or egress, intersections,
and canals. The most famous of ­these rites was the Seven Shallows Purification, in
which effigies bearing the pollution of the center w ­ ere brought to special inter-
stices along the two major waterways of the Heian capital and caused to flow out-
ward, eventually reaching the sea to be “lost.” Other purification rituals ­were
conducted at intersections (chimata) around the capital and at sites spanning
the entire realm.19
The earliest extant text to provide a concrete description of a dōsojin is the
eleventh-­century Dai Nihonkoku Hokke-­kyō genki (hereafter referred to as the
Hokke genki).20 The Hokke genki and some texts that followed depicted dōsojin as
underclass old men (okina), occasionally accompanied by old w ­ omen. The Hokke
genki (3/128) describes how a traveling priest, Dōkō, returning to his home ­temple
from a pilgrimage to Kumano, took shelter for the night ­under a tree. He soon
heard some twenty or thirty riders approaching, and a voice asking, “Is the okina
­here? Come quickly and act as our guide!” In the morning the priest found an
old, broken, decaying icon of a male dōsojin.21
The second night the dōsojin appeared to Dōkō as an old man and told him,

­ ose [ . . . ​] riders are the roaming spirits of epidemics (gyōekijin). When-
Th
ever t­hese spirits travel around the country, this okina is forced to lead
them. I now wish to throw away the form of a lowly god and gain a supe-
rior, virtuous body. My [current] body is subject to limitless suffering. By
means of your saintly power, I wish to achieve this [transformation]. [ . . . ​]
Stay u­ nder this tree three days and nights and recite the Lotus Sutra.
Through the miraculous efficacy of this sutra, my suffering body ­w ill be
transformed and I ­w ill receive a purified and subtle body.22
44   Making Elders ­O thers in Early Japan

Dōkō did as he was instructed and on the fourth day the dōsojin informed
him that he had quit his suffering, debased body and gained a superior,
pure, and virtuous body. Furthermore he was destined to attain the status of
­bodhisattva.23
The fact that the dōsojin was portrayed in league with the spirits of epidemics
is significant, since many of the gods who ­were enlisted to protect against disease
­were originally understood to be ­bearers of calamity and disease.24 Rites of propi-
tiation sought to placate gods who would other­w ise do harm, in essence bribing
them into cooperation. This is the under­lying logic of many of the ritual prayers
(norito) of the tenth-­century Engishiki (Procedures of the Engi Era), where we find
references to dōsojin (given as kunado no kami) propitiated in the Michiae no
matsuri (Ceremony of Roadside Offerings).25 We are left with a double image of a
god who is both an embodiment of pollution and disease and a protector against
­t hose influences. Although it is unclear ­whether the dōsojin was ever explic­itly
regarded as an ekijin, a similar ambivalence is at work in the Hokke genki tale.
The aged dōsojin is too weak to resist the commands of the ekijin. Forced to act
as their guide, he becomes a facilitator for the spread of disease.26
The association of the okina dōsojin with deleterious influences resonates
with his emphatic desire to abandon his pres­ent form of embodiment. Although,
to many readers, it might seem odd that a “god” would complain so vociferously
about the shortcomings of his or her body, this was in fact a relatively common
trope in early and medieval Japan. Technically, deities ­were still inhabitants of
samsara, often presented seeking release from the path of the gods (tendō) and
elevation to the status of enlightened being. In this tale, the aged dōsojin complains
to the point of hyperbole about his dissatisfaction with his debased body. He twice
expresses his desire to attain a noble, “purified” body. His physical location at a
crossroads, a site of purification rituals that w­ ere also commonly associated with
death, disease, and pollution, is also suggestive. The connections between the
aged body of the dōsojin and the pollution arising from physical disintegration
are underlined when we read of the broken, weather-­worn, and decayed votive
tablet that stands in as the physical form (shintai) of this god.27
­T hese associations ­were further adumbrated in a ­later legend involving
an okina dōsojin from the Ujishūi monogatari (1/1), involving the monk Dōmyō.
Numerous legends told that when Dōmyō, renowned for the beauty of his voice,
recited the Lotus Sutra, gods would gather round to listen. The Ujishūi puts an
ironic twist on t­ hese legends. It pres­ents Dōmyō beginning his recitation imme-
diately a­ fter engaging in sexual intercourse, but without having first purified him-
self. By engaging in fujō seppō, or “defiled preaching,” Dōmyō attracts, instead of
his usual divine audience, only a solitary god: an okina dōsojin, who expresses his
 Decrepit Demons and Defiled Deities   45

joy at fi­nally being able to hear Dōmyō’s recitation. The okina notes that, usually,
Dōmyō performed the proper ablutions and his recital would attract a crowd of
high-­ranking protective deities, “But to­night you read it without having cleansed
yourself first. [ . . . ​] This gave me a chance to come and hear it myself.”28 Although
we are meant to understand that the lowly roadside god can fi­nally approach
Dōmyō in part b ­ ecause of the lack of a crowd, he also represents the kind of
inauspicious being that protective gods would have prevented from drawing
near. The uninvited okina dōsojin is thus an implicitly threatening presence.
The tale ends with the warning that one should never recite the sutra without
purifying oneself first. Although other tales connected (not necessarily aged)
dōsojin with fertility, sex, and even incest, the Ujishūi narrative utilizes the
aged dōsojin quite simply as an object of fear on account of his connections
with pollution.29
Hank Glassman has shown how dōsojin cults w ­ ere eventually co-­opted by
Buddhists promoting the Bodhisattva Jizō—­another figure who came to be rep-
resented by stone icons at crossroads.30 While Jizō (whose iconographic repre­sen­
ta­tions increasingly became ever more youthful or childlike) a­ dopted the aspects
of the dōsojin’s persona associated with fertility, sexuality, childbirth, and the pro-
tection of travelers, the aged body was used in the Hokke genki, Konjaku mono­
gatarishū, and Ujishūi monogatari to represent the side of ­t hese boundary gods
connected to pollution, death, and disease.
In the Hokke genki legend, it is not Jizō, but Kannon and the Lotus Sutra that
take center stage. Presenting the dōsojin as a decrepit old man, the tale argues
that standard rites of propitiation dedicated to roadside gods w ­ ere not effective,
for the gods themselves ­were feeble and implicated in the very pollution and dis-
ease from which petitioners sought protection. Rather it is Dōkō, the traveling
priest, who is able, through the power of the Lotus Sutra, to save the dōsojin and
deprive the ekijin of their guide. This tale functioned as propaganda in support of
wandering Lotus Sutra devotees ( jikyōsha), specifically ­t hose linked to Kumano,
regarded as a gateway to Kannon’s paradise above Mount Fudaraku (Sk. Potalaka).
The tale ends with a vision of the dōsojin speeding south in a small boat, destined
for Fudaraku.31 Likely used in sermons by Kumano jikyōsha, this tale strongly
implied that offerings that had hitherto been made to stone gods by the roadside
would be better redirected to the jikyōsha instead.
The Hokke genki also includes one of the earliest references to an equally
unsavory elder of the crossroads—­t he datsueba, or “clothes ripping hag” (2/70).
In this legend, another devotee of the Lotus Sutra and the Bodhisattva Kannon,
the monk Renshū, dies suddenly. Passing into the underworld, he crosses a high
mountain range and arrives at a ­great river.
46   Making Elders ­O thers in Early Japan

On the north bank of this river was a solitary old female (ōna) demon. Her
form was ugly and crude. She sat beneath a ­great tree. On the branches of
the tree ­were hung countless garments. The demon looked at the monk
and said: “As you should know, this is the river Sanzu (Sōzu). [ . . . ​] You
must take off your clothes, give them to me, and cross over.” At that mo-
ment, four heavenly youths suddenly arrived and said, “Old w ­ oman de-
mon, why are you trying to take this monk’s clothing? This śramaṇa is an
upholder of the Lotus Sutra and is u
­ nder the protection of Kannon.”32

The locus classicus for the datsueba is the Japa­nese version of the late Heian
apocryphon, Sutra of the Ten Kings (Jizōbosatsu hosshin innen jūōgyō), which
describes the afterlife as a series of ten tribunals overseen by ten kings of the
underworld. Before approaching the tenth and final king of hell, the deceased
crosses the river Sōzu (­here given as Sanzu). By its shore is a tree, in the shadow
of which stands the datsueba and her assistant, the ken’eō, or “clothes-­hanging
okina.” The weight of the clothes on the branches determines the degree of one’s
sins and thus the extent of one’s postmortem punishment.33
The figure of the old ­woman, while only very rarely presented in medieval
legend as an avatar of a god or buddha, was quite often used to represent demons
associated with vio­lence and death. For example, the Konjaku monogatari in-
cludes a tale (27/22) in which a man’s m ­ other grows old and gradually transforms
into a flesh-­eating demon.34 Another story from the same collection (27/15)
describes how a young ­woman wishing to conceal her pregnancy goes into the
woods and is assisted by an old ­woman. The young ­woman flees, however, when
she hears the old w
­ oman mumbling to herself about her plan to devour the infant.35
The contrast presented in this tale between the body of the young ­woman, which
is capable of producing life, and the body of the aged w ­ oman, which is capable
only of taking life, is mirrored in the figure of the datsueba as well. Michael Como
has shown that the figure of the celestial weaver maiden in Chinese and Japa­nese
myth highlighted the social and economic value that young ­women had within
the ancient ­family structure. Young ­women traditionally produced the vestments
necessary to perform ceremonies of state, which thus served as both material and
symbolic capital. Accordingly, certain myths presented youthful female bodies as
capable of marshaling generative forces, employing silk-­and textile-­producing
young ­women as meta­phors for life and rebirth.36 The datsueba and other el­derly
de­mon­esses symbolized the inverse. Where the youthful weaver maidens pro-
duced silk and clothing, the aged datsueba stripped one of t­hese symbols of
social status and humanity. If the body of the youthful female was employed to
symbolize generative force, the body of the aged female was used to symbolize
 Decrepit Demons and Defiled Deities   47

de-­generative force. No longer fecund, the aged female body could only take, thus
contributing to the pro­cesses of death and decay.37
In contrast to the Hokke genki’s dōsojin, ­t here was no salvation for t­ hese aged
female demons. They ­were merely part of the machinery of the narrative.38 The
datsueba tale ends with the priest Renshū, the protagonist, rescued from the
clutches of the clothing-­stripping hag, leaving the old datsueba standing forever
at the river marking the boundary of life and death. The disparity in the treat-
ment of t­ hese two otherworldly elders discloses the two ways in which the aged
body was most often used in early Japa­nese Buddhist didacticism. On the one
hand, readers or auditors ­were often encouraged to empathize with elders and
reflect on the fact that all w ­ ill encounter such miseries should they live long
enough. On the other hand, certain works presented the aged body as an unset-
tling other, to inspire fear or disgust and encourage the faithful to engage in prac-
tices that could rescue them from attachment to the ­human form or from horrific
figures like the datsueba. ­These two didactic modes ­were often bifurcated along
gender lines, with auditors encouraged to empathize with aged male bodies but
presented with aged female o ­ thers to inspire revulsion.
Both examples analyzed above presented what might be called transcenden-
talist solutions to the prob­lem of the defiled aged body. In the case of the dōsojin,
the prayers of a Buddhist priest allowed him to exchange his decrepit form for the
glorified body of a bodhisattva and achieve rebirth in Kannon’s Pure Land. In the
case of the datsueba, it is the priest Renshū whose faith allows him to escape from
the defiled underworld and the terrifying proximity of the clothes-­stripping hag.
In the late Heian period, however, another, “immanentist” salvific mode emerged
that held out the possibility of redemption for the polluted aged subjects even while
maintaining their aged form. Many of the earliest examples of such tales ­were also
found in the Hokke genki, an ideologically heterogeneous work comprising vari­
ous perspectives. Therefore, in addition to their positioning in their respective
narratives at bound­aries and thresholds, the el­derly dōsojin and datsueba of the
Hokke genki stood at another kind of crossroads as well—­an intersection between
early and medieval Japa­nese pre­sen­ta­tions of the aged body.
PA R T I I

Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

The previous chapters have shown how early Japa­nese courtiers, chroniclers, po-
ets, and priests employed repre­sen­ta­tions of the aged body to further a variety of
po­liti­cal, aesthetic, and didactic agendas, most prominently in discourses that
sought to promote an image of the capital and palace as the glorious, pure, time-
less center of the world. To perpetuate this vision, the aged body was often used
to symbolize much of what t­ hese authors sought to exclude from the imaginary
center—­ugliness, weakness, barrenness, and pollution. Not surprisingly, poetry
composed by imperial command, performed at public poetry gatherings or ban-
quets, or selected for inclusion in prestigious imperially sponsored anthologies,
was the most likely to conform to ­t hese conventions.1 In spite of the influence of
Zhuang-­Lao thought on lit­er­a­ture of the Nara and Heian periods, examples of
poetry or prose promoting the notion that retirement from the center could be
equated with freedom ­were remarkably rare.2 Early Japa­nese literati had toyed
with t­ hese themes, but they ­were submerged in the much more substantial cor-
pus that took a less sanguine view of retirement. In the late Heian and medieval
periods, however, t­ hese themes would spring to the fore.
Nowhere is this shift in tone more evident than in Kamo no Chōmei’s (1155–
1216) early Kamakura-­period work, Hōjōki. The Hōjōki famously describes the
vari­ous forms of tumult that shook the capital at the end of the Heian period.
Chōmei comments on natu­ral calamities that had befallen the city, including
famine, earthquakes, and fires, and bemoans the increased influence of uncouth
warriors, such as the Taira, who dominated politics before their downfall in 1185.
He describes, in short, a world falling apart—­t he ancient dream of a stable, cen-
tralized imperial bureaucracy ruled through virtue fi­nally rendered utterly obso-
lete. In its place, we find a world characterized by fragmentation and flux.3
Although the dominant mood of the work is one of regret over the passing of
the classical order, Chōmei also admits to enjoying his life as an aged recluse.4 He
describes how, following what by his day had become a well-­established custom,
he became a Buddhist monk at the age of fifty. But nowhere do we find the histri-
onics that generally accompanied Heian-­period depictions of lay renunciation. In

49
50   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

fact the work closes with his concerns that he might be too comfortable with his
position; Chōmei won­ders if living in this ­humble, detached manner had become
yet another form of attachment.5 It would be wrong, of course, to take Chōmei’s
assertions completely at face value. Rather than viewing Chōmei and o ­ thers of his
ilk as individuals who had successfully extricated themselves from the court-­
centric social system, it is more accurate to view them as attempting to position
themselves as such in order to stake out their own fields of authority.6 A situation
that in ages past had given rise mainly to grief, now, paradoxically, might allow
such contentedness that it inspired feelings of guilt. As the center crumbled, a seat
on the sidelines became increasingly appealing.
Part of the lasting value attributed to the Hōjōki derived from the skill with
which it narrated the pro­cess by which the centered space of classical order gave
way to the decentered space of the medieval period. In one of the most telling seg-
ments from the Hōjōki, Chōmei discusses the failed attempt of the upstart Taira
to forcibly shift the capital from Heian-­k yō to Fukuhara, situated near the Inland
Sea. The passage reads as a parody of earlier works, such as Hitomaro’s paean to
Fujiwara-­k yō, in which the erection of the capital city was treated as a cosmo-
gonic act. The Fukuhara capital is a blatant failure:

When I came to look at it the site was cramped and too narrow to lay out
the ave­nues properly. And the mountains towered over it to the north
while the sea hemmed it in on the south and the noise of the waves and
the scent of the brine w
­ ere indeed too much to be borne.7

Reminiscent of Michizane’s “sorrow by the sea shore,” Chōmei’s visceral

r­ eaction to “the scent of brine” reminds us that capitals of the classical period
had always been situated inland. The sea was, in the Heian imagination, an exotic
locale—no place to center the realm. The Fukuhara capital also fails to conform
to the geomantic patterns that w ­ ere the mark of the proper Sino-­Japanese cen-
ter, used to order the realm and validate the authority of the tennō. ­These princi­
ples ­were clearly instantiated in the arrangement of the classical-­era capitals of
Fujiwara-­k yō, Heijō-­k yō, and Heian-­k yō. By renouncing them, the ersatz capi-
tal of the Taira indicates a disordered, decentered realm.
Also striking in this regard is Chōmei’s description of his own hut. Although
before his retirement he had been a member of the Kamo sacerdotal lineage, one
of the two families to staff the Bureau of Divination (Onmyōryō), Chōmei writes
that since he planned it as only a temporary residence, he built his hut “without
conducting divination.”8 While deriding the Taira capital for its failure to abide
by the time-­honored rules of geomancy, Chōmei is blasé about the unmoored
 Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan   51

positioning of his own dwelling. The unsettled, nomadic life of the aged recluse,
Chōmei implies, is one that can ignore the rules that the center had used to en-
force bound­aries, social hierarchies, and order.
Despite inhabiting a fragmented landscape, Chōmei took pains to describe
the orderliness of his own dwelling. The eaves of his hut point south, to the north
he has a small garden, his writing ­table sits by the east wall, and on his west wall
hangs a shelf “for the offerings of ­water and flowers to the Buddha,” and a picture
of Amida, arranged such that “the setting sun shines from between his brows as
though he ­were emitting his ray of light, while on the doors of his shrine are
painted pictures of Fugen and Fudō.”9 Without consulting a diviner, he has none-
theless aligned his hut along the north-­south axis. What he has abandoned is the
yin-­yang geomantic hermeneutic. The orientation of the objects in and around
his hut in the four ordinal directions gives special attention to the situation of
his Buddhist images. The passage reads a bit like the description of a mandala.
Chōmei, it seems, no longer inhabits a tennō-­centered world, but a space oriented
by Buddhist entities. This is reinforced in another passage in which he indicates
that he could enjoy the views of Mounts Kobata, Fushimi, Toba, and Hatsukashi,
“since beautiful scenery,” Chōmei wrote, “has no master” (shōchi wa nushi na-
kereba).10 ­Under the ritsuryō regime, the land was technically the property of the
emperor, to be managed on his behalf by loyal governors and cultivated by loyal
subjects. To say that the land has no master was to reject the notion of the life-­
giving center and the emperor’s role in rituals of world renewal.
Along with Chōmei, numerous authors of the Kamakura and Muromachi
periods a­ dopted the literary persona of the aged reclusive poet-­priest.11 In travel
diaries (kikō), the motif of the elder inhabiting boundary zones and wildernesses
became an organ­izing princi­ple, as they recorded their journeys, generally away
from the capital ­toward the eastern provinces.12 ­These works echoed Chōmei’s
sentiments, which refigured late-­life Buddhist retirement from a cause for tears
and regret into an opportunity for freedom, spiritual advancement, and aes-
thetic mastery.13
The social, po­liti­cal, and cultural transformations that allowed for the new
perspectives on the ostensibly asocial body of the elder exemplified in t­ hese works
­were the result of pro­cesses that had begun centuries earlier, in the mid-­to late
Heian period. Changing ideals of reclusion ­were deeply connected to the break-
down of the traditional spatial imaginary, which was itself connected to shifting
visions of royal authority. It was in the closing centuries of the Heian period that
retired emperors (in) sought to amass private wealth using the same techniques
as other power blocs of the time, particularly the Northern Fujiwara. At the same
time, they took advantage of their status as nominal home-­leavers to position
52   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

themselves as chakravartin—­Buddhist wheel-­turning kings. Although the sym-

bolism of the chakravartin had first been introduced in the Heian period, most
notably in the esoteric enthronement rites, or sokui kanjō, to enhance the pres-
tige of the ruling emperor, retired emperors ­were able to don the mantle of Bud-
dhist kingship more comfortably. The symbolic valences of the reigning tennō
remained colored by associations from the Chinese textual tradition and the early
mythohistories that associated the body of the ruler with generative, procreative
forces. Since, by the late Heian period, retirement for elites had come to be in-
stinctively equated with tonsure, and since tonsure (ideally) removed one from
the procreative realm, retired emperors could be fully fledged priest-­k ings in ways
that reigning tennō could not. Paradoxically, however, both of ­t hese strategies
undermined the symbolic order on which the prestige of the royal ­house had long
been based, further weakening the conceit of a stable, centered realm.
Although the shifting strategies of royal legitimation ­were among the more
salient manifestations of the deep po­liti­cal, social, and cultural upheavals taking
place t­ oward the end of the Heian period, they ­were not the only f­ actors contrib-
uting to the reimagination of the aged body. A variety of individuals and groups,
working in this new, fluid cultural scene, sought to rework the symbolism of the
aged body to advance their own agendas; in the pro­cess, old age was transformed
from a life stage mainly associated with alienation and misery into one that could
represent power and sacred potential.
C HA P T E R F OU R

From Outcast to Saint

Overcoming Pollution in an Age of Decline

Although the aged body had been portrayed as potentially defiled, starting in the
late Heian period this association came to be employed in unexpected ways. In
collections of setsuwa or “explanatory tales” compiled from the late Heian period
forward, stories of aged Buddhist lay prac­ti­tion­ers, priests, and recluses at times
portrayed the transformation of the defiling marks of the aged body into sym-
bols of purity and salvation.
Before proceeding to an analy­sis of ­t hese tales, we begin by outlining some of
the fissures that had begun to develop, starting in the mid-­Heian period, between
the continued use of concepts of purity and pollution to legitimate social hierar-
chies both at court and within elite religious institutions and some of the po­liti­
cal and social transformations that rendered ­t hese strategies increasingly unten-
able.1 It was in this context that legends w ­ ere circulated in which discourses of
purity and pollution, long used to legitimate social hierarchies within the po­liti­
cal and religious spheres, came to be redeployed to critique the perceived moral
corruption of members of elite Buddhist institutions. Th ­ ese tales often valorized
moral purity over the forms of cleanliness achieved through the observation of
taboos, crediting moral w ­ holesomeness with the potential to miraculously trans-
form samsaric bodies into exemplars of physical integrity.
We then turn to an examination of three sets of legends in which the aged
body was used to demonstrate that salvation was pos­si­ble even in the midst of pol-
lution and decay. In legends of the lay recluse Okina Oshō, the holy man Zōga, and
the outcast preacher said to have performed the inaugural sermon at Tokujōju-in,
the aged male body’s potential for pollution was miraculously revealed to be a
source of purity. Rather than employing the specter of pollution to evoke fear or
disgust, t­ hese legends treated the tendencies of the aged body to disintegrate or
produce unclean outflows as opportunities to demonstrate the awe-­inspiring ef-
ficacy of a given sacred text, holy site, or saintly individual, or the purifying faith
of a retired emperor.
­These legends came into being at a time in which Japan was undergoing radi-
cal po­liti­cal, religious, and cultural transformations. The teachings, practices, and

53
54   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

sites they featured w ­ ere often connected to groups who had reasons to challenge
discourses of purity and pollution that emanated from the court or elite monas-
tic centers. ­These groups included underclass mendicant preachers and entertain-
ers, and lower-­ranking aristocrats who ­were members of the provincial governor
class, all of whom inhabited zones regarded as defiled from the perspective of the
center. Th
­ ese narratives thus reflect the social positioning of their sources and the
low-­status performers and popu­lar sermonizers who circulated them, and who
used them not only as vehicles for fundraising, awakening faith, or making merit,
but also as means to challenge social hierarchies and spatial imaginaries that had
become increasingly difficult to justify in light of new po­liti­cal realities.2
The period in which ­t hese tales ­were recorded and compiled was also marked
by an intensified anxiety over the prospect that Japan was entering the age of the
decline of the Buddhist Dharma or mappō. Chapter 3 discussed the ways in which
anx­i­eties over pollution w ­ ere exploited in mid-­Heian mappō discourse, and vice
versa. ­These interwoven discourses also had some bearing on views of the aging
pro­cess. Mappō was commonly referred to as “the evil age of five defilements (go-
joku).” The “five defilements” comprised (1) the defilements of the age (kōjoku),
(2) the defilement of ignorance (bonnō), (3) the defilement of sentient beings,
(4) the defilement of views, and (5) the defilement of shortened lifespans.3 The
first of t­ hese—­t he defilements of the age—­referred to both a general increase in
pollution over time and the sum of the remaining four, which referred respec-
tively to an increase in deluded attachments and desires (bonnō); a gradual
weakening, depletion, and coarsening of the bodies of sentient beings; the spread
of false doctrines; and a gradual shortening of the ­human life span, eventually
reaching a point at which ­people would live no more than ten years.4
The notion that the pres­ent age was one of decline, and that ­people of the past
had enjoyed greater vitality and longevity, was not only articulated in vari­ous
Buddhist sutras. It was also attested to in vari­ous classical Chinese texts,
which described the golden age of “high antiquity” (Ch. shanggu) as a time in which
­people lived in harmony with the Way and thus enjoyed longevity.5 Since, in
mappō, the decline of the age was manifested in the wearing down and pollution
of the bodies that inhabited this age, the aged body was the quin­tes­sen­tial body
of mappō, a symbol of all humanity in a period of decay. Certain of the Buddhist
responses to the prob­lem of mappō therefore also sought, directly or indirectly,
to address the twin prob­lems of pollution and aging. Since it was regarded as
particularly subject to pollution, sickness, death, and decay, the aged body could
thus be used to demonstrate the efficacy of a par­tic­u­lar doctrine or practice to
achieve something approximating perfection and salvation.
 From Outcast to Saint   55

Physical Purity, Moral Purity, and Social Status

in the Post-­Ritsuryō Imagination
The classical vision of the realm was one in which, provided the proper taboos
­were observed and rituals enacted, institutional rank correlated with degree of
access to purified centers, and corresponded, in the case of officials, with wisdom
and rectitude and, in the case of religious specialists, with moral purity. However,
with the disintegration of the merit-­based ritsuryō system and the rise of private
wealth and heredity as the major determinants of po­liti­cal power, cracks appeared
in this façade. Since at least the ninth c­ entury, the vision of the tennō-­centered
realm had been more a poetic conceit than a practical real­ity. The mid-­Heian pe-
riod saw the rise of extra-­ritsuryō institutions that substantially weakened the
ability of the tennō to rule. One of ­t hese was the estate or shōen system, whereby
land was allowed to come ­under private management. Another major ­factor was
the rise of the Fujiwara regency, through which members of one subbranch of the
Fujiwara clan came to exercise an inordinate influence on state policy by act-
ing as regents to relatively youthful emperors to whom they w ­ ere related by
­marriage—as f­ athers-­in-­law, ­uncles, or grand­fathers. The regents’ branch (sekkanke)
of the Northern Fujiwara was able to perpetuate their power by monopolizing the
regency, making it essentially a hereditary position, taken up by successive heads
of the sekkanke Fujiwara line—­v iolating the meritocratic ideals of the ritsuryō
state. The sekkanke translated their influence into vast private wealth, in part
through the accumulation of shōen and also the development of networks of cli-
ents, especially among the ranks of custodial governors (zuryō).6 The attenuation
of imperial power and trends t­oward privatization led not only to the po­liti­cal
and economic dominance of the Northern Fujiwara, but also to a situation in
which power was determined less by office or rank and more by ties between clients
and patrons.
In the mid-­eleventh ­century, retired emperors began themselves to employ
extra-­ritsuryō institutions to increase the po­liti­cal and economic power of the
royal ­house and combat the influence of the Northern Fujiwara. In some ways,
the so-­called Insei period or “period of rule by retired emperors” was merely an
acceleration of the trends that had begun u ­ nder the Fujiwara regency. Religious
institutions joined the rush t­ oward the accumulation of estates and other means
of income, as funding from the central government began to dry up from the
tenth c­ entury forward. Skillful po­liti­cal players like the Tendai head abbot (zasu)
Ryōgen (912–985) ­were able to find patrons among power­f ul members of the
regents’ branch of the Fujiwara clan.7
56   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

Even as the ritsuryō order was drastically reconfigured, purity remained a

concern for official monks (kansō) tasked with performing rites for the protec-
tion of the state and for high-­ranking aristocrats who had to attend to their
duties within the sanctum of the palace compound. At the level of rhe­toric, elites,
including the Fujiwara regents and retired emperors, continued to employ cus-
tomary continental tropes to describe royal authority and the structure of the
realm. Similarly, even as high-­ranking prelates and aristocrats ­were engaged in
activities that undermined ritsuryō institutions, they continued to couch their
activities in language that glorified the tennō and to rely on established means
of enforcing social hierarchies, including pollution taboos.
However, increasingly in the Heian period, ­t hose displaced and disgusted by
the incongruity between rhe­toric and real­ity began to make veiled critiques of
­t hose like Ryōgen who ­were able to exploit post-­ritsuryō social and po­liti­cal ar-
rangements to empower themselves and enrich their institutions. Since purity
was one of the most salient means of expressing status, ­t hese critiques often in-
volved e­ ither accusations of moral or physical impurity directed at elites or at-
tempts to valorize the moral purity of the marginalized over the forms of purity
maintained through adherence to taboos.

Challenging Institutions and Spatial Imaginaries

in the Hokke Genki
Many scholars have described Genshin’s Reizan-in Shakakō, discussed in chap-
ter 3, as an attempt to carve out a zone of “pure practice” in response to the per-
ceived corruption of the Enryakuji leadership.8 One of the names to appear on
the register of the Reizan-in Shakakō was that of the Tendai priest Chingen, who,
between the years 1040 and 1044, is thought to have compiled the Dai Nihonkoku
Hokke-­kyō genki (Hokke genki).9 Genshin’s urge to re-­create Numinous Ea­gle Peak
on Mount Hiei was a reaction to life in a world without a Buddha, the approach
of the latter age of the Dharma, and perhaps his dissatisfaction with Enryakuji
elites. Chingen’s Hokke genki shares t­ hese concerns but offers startlingly dif­fer­
ent solutions. The Hokke genki collected tales of diverse origins demonstrating the
miraculous potency of the Lotus Sutra, a scripture that presented itself as a sub-
stitute body of the Buddha, especially directed t­ oward t­ hose born in an age of the
five defilements.10 The text of the Lotus called upon ­t hose who would uphold it
( jikyōsha) to treat it as if it ­were a shari (Sk. śarīra)—­miraculous, jewel-­like relics
found in the cremated remains of saints, symbols of the permanent and abid-
ing nature of the Buddha and his teachings.11 Jikyōsha ­were depicted engaging
in four paradigmatic activities: reciting, reading, copying, or auditing Lotus
recitations.12
 From Outcast to Saint   57

The Hokke genki was one of the first works to prominently feature the activi-
ties of Lotus jikyōsha known as hokke hijiri, ascetic recluses who, in apparent dis­
plea­sure with developments on Mount Hiei and other power­f ul Buddhist institu-
tions, retreated to remote mountains and other marginal sites to conduct ascetic
practices in relative solitude.13 Many of ­t hese sites ­were identified as bessho, liter-
ally “separate places,” loci for religious austerities that had ­either been established
by or become connected to major shrine-­temple complexes, particularly Mount
Kōya, Shitennōji, and Mount Hiei.14 Most of the earliest references to bessho
are found in the Hokke genki, indicating major social transformations in the
mid-­eleventh ­century and an increasing tendency for ordained priests to abandon
­temple precincts to become nominal tonsei or recluses.15
The Hokke genki presented t­ hese hermits congregating in diverse locales such
as Yoshino, Mitake, Hira, Kumano, and unnamed sites in Kyūshū. Interestingly,
some of the territories to which t­ hese recluses retreated, such as Mount Atago,
also appear to have functioned as burial grounds.16 Recluses w ­ ere shown engag-
ing in vari­ous forms of asceticism, combining recitation and other styles of Lotus
devotion with Daoist-­style immortality practices—­abstaining from cereals and
other coarse foods, living on rainwater, pine n ­ eedles, mushrooms, and other
mountain provender. Some ­were depicted maintaining a state of youth, physical
integrity, and purity well beyond the average h ­ uman life span.17 Whereas, in early
Japan, elites had attributed the power to overcome aging to the virtue of sover-
eigns like Genshō who caused sweet springs to appear throughout the land, the
Hokke genki attributed the vitality of t­ hese hijiri to the Lotus Sutra, which prom-
ised that ­those who heard its teachings would not suffer old age, illness, or death.18
Since the Lotus Sutra claimed to represent the body of the Buddha, devotion
to it required maintaining the purity and integrity of the text itself. Accordingly,
many of the tales from the Hokke genki maintain a strongly dualistic view of pu-
rity and pollution. Indeed, tales featuring the youthful, pure bodies of hokke hijiri
reiterated the classical dichotomy between old age/pollution and youth/purity,
characterizing bodies susceptible to old age, illness, and death as unclean.19 The
Hokke genki, however, often employed ­t hese categories to critique the very sites
that the power­f ul sought to pres­ent as eminently pure. Mount Hiei in par­tic­u ­lar
was described as a site of moral and physical defilement from which sincere Bud-
dhists should flee.20 The Hokke genki thus presented an upside-­down world in
which a charnel ground might become a locus in which a virtuous Lotus devotee
could receive a body f­ ree of decay and old age, whereas a site like Enryakuji—­
protected by vari­ous restrictions and taboos—­was considered polluted due to the
moral taint of t­ hose who dwelt t­ here. Other tales from the Hokke genki and l­ater
texts, however, presented an even more radical vision, in which moral purity was
58   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

sufficient to secure the salvation of even a polluted aged body. It is to ­t hese tales
that we now turn.

Overcoming Pollution through the Aged Body

In response to deep anxiety over the inherent pollution of the samsaric body,
influential strains of mid-­Heian Pure Land thought proposed a “transcendental”
solution that encouraged escape from this world and from bodies subject to the
influences of time and decay. The texts examined h ­ ere, on the other hand, pro-
posed what might be called “immanentist” solutions. Rather than depicting mi-
raculous transformations whereby the aged body was cleansed of its polluting
nature, or instances in which faithful Buddhists succeed in escaping their tainted
bodies (as, for instance, in the case of the okina dōsojin examined in chapter 3),
­t hese texts celebrated the aged body and its disintegration, suggesting the per­sis­
tence of the sacred and the possibility of spiritual purity even in a world charac-
terized by the decay of the Buddhist law.

Challenging the Somatic Status Quo: Okina Oshō,

Zoga Shōnin, and the Reimagination of Effluvia
Although the Hokke genki contained tales that continued to treat old age as a pol-
luted state that could be remedied through Daoist-­style practices and Lotus de-
votion, it was a rhetorically and ideologically varied work, reflecting the diversity
of its sources. Thus, a few of the miracles reported in the Hokke genki involved
recluses who overturned the somatic common sense of their day, subverting ac-
cepted understandings of purity and pollution and providing a reappraisal of the
aged body and its tendency to pollute. One such legend (3/109) involves a certain
“Okina Oshō of Kaga Province,” a layman identified as an okina, a marginal
elder. A recluse whose “heart was clean and pure,” he made his living by begging
and reciting the Lotus Sutra for offerings. Having made his rounds, he would
retire to a “quiet place” and continue his recitations in private.21
One day “while reciting, a tooth fell from his mouth on the copy of the sutra.
The surprised Okina Oshō took it in his hand and found that it was a relic of the
Buddha [busshari]. Feeling this most extraordinary, he paid homage to it and put
it away carefully.”22 The tale continues: “On another occasion, as he was reciting
the sutra, another relic fell from his mouth.” Fi­nally he retreated to a quiet moun-
tain t­emple to spend his final days, reciting the sutra “with no delusion in his
mind and no pain in his body.” “When he recited the words in the Chapter on the
Lifespan of the Buddha [ . . . ​] Okina Oshō ­rose, paid homage to the sutra with
deep re­spect and passed away.”23
 From Outcast to Saint   59

Devotional practices such as reading, reciting, or copying a sutra ­were under-

stood to require proper ritual purification.24 The Hokke genki vividly described
the punishments for damaging or defiling a physical copy of the Lotus Sutra as
well as the purification necessary before h ­ andling the text, including bathing,
putting on clean clothes, and washing one’s hands and mouth.25 Since bodily
“­matter out of place” was the source of many premodern taboos, the tooth that
this okina inadvertently dropped onto the sutra would ordinarily have caused
alarm. Instead, this bit of detritus was transformed into a physical manifestation
of the surpassingly pure body of the Buddha. In this account, the tendency of the
aged body to shed bits and pieces was treated not as a source of fear but as an op-
portunity to demonstrate the salvific power of the Lotus Sutra, especially in light
of the fact that among the punishments the scripture delineated for ­t hose who
disrespected it w­ ere ailments of the teeth.26
Whereas in the tale of the priest Dōkō and the dōsojin the polluted body of
the okina god was rescued through the intervention of an ordained priest, in the
case of Okina Oshō, it is the pure faith of an underclass layman that was able to
overcome pollution. Although the manner of the Okina Oshō’s death implied re-
birth in a Pure Land, unlike other ōjōden, or even the tale of the dōsojin, he made
no complaint about his physical disintegration. Rather it was that disintegration
itself that provided the occasion for miraculous proof of his salvation. Put another
way, we might say that although this tale hints at auspicious rebirth, and thus
transcendence, its didactic thrust is immanentist. Instead of a miraculous release
from the aged body, the Okina Oshō finds proof of his salvation within and
through the aged body itself.
The Hokke genki was the first text to feature the hagiography of another re-
cluse who became one of the most popu­lar subjects of medieval Buddhist lit­er­a­
ture: Zōga Shōnin. The title shōnin could be translated as “saint” or “holy person,”
and, like the term hijiri, often designated an individual who pursued devotional
activities outside the strictures of monastic institutions. Contemporaneous rec­
ords show Zōga (917–1003) to have been a relatively high-­ranking priest of the
Tendai School and disciple of the power­f ul Tendai zasu Ryōgen. In his late for-
ties, however, Zōga appears to have suddenly departed Mount Hiei and taken up
residence at the shrine-­temple complex at Tōnomine. Regarded with ­great re­spect
during his time at Mount Hiei, he was known as a brilliant scholar comparable to
two of the ten disciples of the historical Buddha: the ­great debater Mahākātyāyana
(J. Kasennen) and Subhūti (J. Shubodai or Kūshō).27 But popu­lar hagiography
starting with the Hokke genki presented Zōga primarily as an eccentric, dis­
respectful of authority, and, as hagiographic traditions developed, as someone who
mingled with polluted individuals or engaged in defiling activities in order to
60   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

prove his lack of interest in status and worldly concerns. To avoid the promotion
and acclaim that w ­ ere his due, he sought to disguise his virtue, presenting a
repulsive front. Over the centuries, the accounts of Zōga’s be­hav­ior became more
and more explicit, and his transgressions become more and more explic­itly con-
nected to the aged body.
The Hokke genki account of his life begins by stressing his seriousness as a
scholar-­monk, but then notes that he “hated fame and wealth” and desired to live
in seclusion (tonsei inkyo).28 We read that the Emperor Reizei summoned him to
court but, to escape this obligation, he “spoke mad words and committed mad
acts.” He also denied a request to officiate in the tonsure of Fujiwara no Senshi
(962–1002, also read as Akiko), consort to Emperor En’yū and ­mother of Emperor
Ichijō, by speaking in a rough or vulgar manner. In neither case, however, are his
acts described in any specificity. Fi­nally, Zōga is recorded retreating to Tōnomine.
Despite the fact that the Hokke genki pres­ents Zōga living ­t here in isolation (“he
hardly met or spoke to p ­ eople”), at the time he arrived, Tōnomine was already
the site of a substantial shrine-­temple complex.29 Established in the Nara period
as the mausoleum for Fujiwara Kamatari (614–669), originating ancestor of the
Fujiwara clan, it was transformed into a monastic complex by the Tendai monk
Jisshō (892–956).30 T ­ emple rec­ords also show Zōga playing a major role in build-
ing institutions and establishing patronage for regular rites and ser­v ices.31
At the end of his life, the Hokke genki has him predicting his death ten days
in advance. When the morning of his departure arrived, he stated that “this old
fool Zōga long wished to leave this life sooner and be reborn in the West. This
­will be realized in the morning, and I am most pleased.”32 ­After offering a lecture,
he recited a poem:

Mizuha sasu At this g­ reat age,

yasoji amari no how joyful to encounter,
oi no nami when over eighty,
kurage no hone ni something as rare as jellyfish bones
au zo ureshiki amidst the “waves of old age”!33

We read that Zōga died peacefully, while reciting the Lotus Sutra, and that he
was indeed over eighty years of age. His death poem plays on the analogous
images of jellyfish bones and mizuha—­a new set of teeth that ­were said to sprout
from the gums of elders who lived long enough—­both considered remarkable
rarities.34 “The waves of old age” (oi no nami) is a trope employed quite frequently
in Heian poetry likening the wrinkles on the face of an elder to r­ ipples on the
“face” of a body of ­water, one of many stock images used to lament the miseries
 From Outcast to Saint   61

of aging. But in Zōga’s poem, the “waves of old age” are the locus in which one
might find something extraordinary and felicitous. The poem repurposes the vo-
cabulary of despair to glorify not just long life, but old age—­wrinkles and all. Al-
though the text ends with assurances that Zōga attained rebirth in an unspeci-
fied Pure Land, his statement predicting his death and his death poem pres­ent a
subtle rebuke of the transcendentalist logic under­lying mid-­Heian Pure Land
thought. Although, he claims, he had often wished to have died years ago, pre-
sumably to be spared the indignities of old age, he now refers to t­ hose sentiments
as foolish. His death poem revels in, rather than bemoans, having lived more than
eighty years. Instead of “despising the defiled realm,” Zōga’s attitude seems one
of accepting an aged body, providing an immanentist cele­bration of having re-
mained in this world so long. Perhaps it was this attitude that led l­ater hagiogra-
phers to increasingly treat Zōga not just as an eccentric, but as an aged eccentric—­
perfectly at ease with his physical dysfunction even when it caused consternation
to ­t hose around him.
Although this biography makes no reference to pollution, l­ater iterations of
Zōga’s legend did so emphatically. Zōga is the focus of two tales in the twelfth-­
century Konjaku monogatarishū.35 In one (12/33), he is depicted mingling with
low-­ranking “menial monks” (gesō) who w ­ ere tasked with performing duties in-
volving pollutants that scholar-­monks like Zōga ­were forbidden from coming
into contact with. Zōga sits by the side of the road to take a meal with them, using
twigs as chopsticks. Other scholar-­monks “avoided him like he was polluted.”36
The early thirteenth-­century Hosshinshū (1/5) also shows Zōga mingling with
unclean individuals of low status, in this case beggars (kojiki) who ­were regarded
as hinin or “non-­persons.” In this account, Zōga made his decision to abandon
his priestly position in the midst of a Buddhist ritual debate (nairongi). When the
rice from the offering was thrown out into the courtyard for the beggars, Zōga
entered the fray, struggling with the outcasts for the discarded rice.37
The second tale from the Konjaku monogatari (19/18) describes Zōga’s be­hav­
ior when asked to officiate the lay ordination of a consort of En’yū tennō, identi-
fied as the retired Empress Dowager Sanjō.38 A ­ fter the ceremony, Zōga shocked
the assembly by speculating aloud that the retired empress had invited him to be
her preceptor only ­because of the size of his genitalia (kitanaki mono), although
he notes that in his old age it has become “soft and limp as a piece of silk.”39 He
then exclaimed, “When you get old, the wind becomes difficult to endure. Nowa-
days, since I am suffering from diarrhea I thought I would refrain from coming.
But [ . . . ​] I made my best effort. Now, however, my condition is becoming unbear-
able and I must leave in haste.” At which point he proceeded to defecate off the
veranda. The “filthy noise” made by his excretion was so loud that all the assorted
62   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

dignitaries also heard it (oto kiwamete kitanashi). The young nobles burst out
laughing but the monks complained among themselves, asking, “Who would
invite such a madman?”40
This portrayal of Zōga’s incontinence contrasts sharply with examples from
other premodern Japa­nese texts, in which elders became the object of grotesque
humor.41 H ­ ere, Zōga is depicted using his body to humiliate his noble hosts, the
mortification over his impotence and incontinence turned around and projected
onto them. Even in the act of losing control, Zōga is presented as in command of
the situation. The legendary Zōga uses pollution, in the form of his own inconti-
nence, to paradoxically demonstrate his spiritual purity: on the one hand, he
ensures his distance from worldly entrapments, on the other, he displays his non-
dualistic indifference to m­ atters of purity and pollution. What in earlier lit­er­a­ture
had been a sign of helplessness and a cause of ridicule and exclusion was ­here
transformed into a symbol of world-­rejection and power.
Although not directly connected to Zōga’s age, a similar inversion is at work
in the Hosshinshū legend. The setting of Zōga’s mad outburst at a debate within
the palace is significant. Ryōgen came to power at a time in which Enryakuji’s
rivals had entrenched institutional advantages. He famously used debates as a
means of securing patronage and advancing Enryakuji’s economic and po­liti­
cal fortunes. Contemporaneous sources describe Zōga as an excellent debater,
yet shortly before his retirement to Tōnomine he withdrew from one of the
most impor­tant contests of Ryōgen’s c­ areer, the Ōwa no shūron. The Hosshinshū
satirized this episode, depicting Zōga joining the outcasts ­a fter a debate and
fighting for rice—­a parody of Ryōgen “battling” in debates for prestige and
material resources.
As zasu, Ryōgen was deeply involved in traditional economies of purity. In
his set of regulations for Mount Hiei’s Buddhist community (Nijū rokkajō), he
prohibited donors from delivering food baskets containing smelly and greasy
foods (meat) not b ­ ecause they v­ iolated the precept against taking life, but ­because
they carried the physical taint of blood: “Some guests who visit monks deliver
defiled food containers to our pure abode. [ . . . ​] Contaminating the pure with
kegare ­w ill produce roots of evil.”42 The corpus of legends featuring Zōga points
to the hy­poc­risy under­lying such efforts to maintain the physical purity of sacred
sites like Mount Hiei. Both Ryōgen and the legend in which Zōga shares a meal
with menial monks associate food baskets with pollution.43 In the legend, how-
ever, discarding the pretense of purity, Zōga reveals that ­t hese baskets provide
sustenance for the community. Ryōgen’s attempts to enforce taboos ­were under-
cut by his efforts to encourage lay patronage and donations that ­were, to the minds
of the hokke hijiri and other tonsei, themselves a source of corruption (and, in the
 From Outcast to Saint   63

case of the meal baskets sent up the mountain by patrons, the source of physical
pollution, as well). The legend of Zōga at the nairongi juxtaposes the strug­gle of
monks for patronage and the strug­gle of outcasts for nourishment. Although or-
dinarily the former would have been coded pure and the latter impure, by cross-
ing over from one group to the other, Zōga demonstrates the similarity between
the two groups, both battling for material support. The purity and superiority of
the monks is revealed to be no more than an illusion.44 By presenting Zōga as
physically tainted but spiritually superior, the promulgators of t­ hese and other
late Heian Buddhist legends illuminated the ways in which discourses of purity
and pollution served to ennoble the power­f ul but morally base while marginal-
izing the weak but morally pure.

Zōga at Tōnomine: Recluse or Institution Builder?

To more thoroughly unpack the ways that purity, pollution, and the aged body
­were used in Zōga’s hagiographies, it is necessary to place them within their
broader institutional and intellectual contexts. The ­actual reasons b ­ ehind Zōga’s
move to Tōnomine w ­ ill likely forever remain a mystery, but the move coincided
with an impor­tant trend at major shrine-­temple complexes t­ oward what scholars
have called “aristocratization.” We have no reliable accounts of Zōga’s parentage,
indicating that he was likely not of aristocratic stock.45 Although aristocratization
affected most major shrine-­temple complexes, developments on Mount Hiei pro-
vide a clear example. One of the strategies initiated by Ryōgen to secure Enryaku-
ji’s po­liti­cal and economic fortunes involved placing the sons of the ­temple’s elite
supporters—­high-­ranking aristocrats or members of the imperial house—in po-
sitions of ecclesiastic authority on Mount Hiei. For example, Ryōgen saw to it that
Jinzen (943–990)—­t he son of his patron, Regent Fujiwara Morosuke (908–960)—
became his successor as Tendai zasu. Se­niority, calculated based on the number
of years from ordination, was an impor­tant ­factor for promotion within ­temples
and the governmental Office of Monastic Affairs (Sōgō). Aristocratization under­
cut the established seniority system and propelled relative youths into lofty
monastic offices.46 Especially ­a fter the tenth ­century, as the average rank of ap-
pointees to leadership positions at Enryakuji and Kōfukuji, of t­ hose selected as
lecturers at the three major yearly Dharma assemblies, and of ­t hose elevated to
positions of authority in the Sōgō moved steadily up, the average age at the time
of appointment crept steadily down.47 In other words, between the tenth and
twelfth c­ entury, high-­status individuals closer to the prime of life w­ ere increas-
ingly pushing out lower-­status elders from positions of authority in major Bud-
dhist institutions. Older priests ­were thus motivated to leave ­t hese major t­ emples
and seek to establish themselves elsewhere. Although he does not use the term
64   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

aristocratization (preferring the more problematic “secularization”), Takagi Yutaka

points to increased competition for ecclesiastic positions as one of the major
­factors contributing to the rise of bessho hijiri in the late Heian period.48 Mid-­
ranking priests who increasingly saw no hope of promotion within the Sōgō
began to populate bessho. Like Zōga, ­t hese “reclusive” elders did not fully remove
themselves from institutional Buddhism, but merely transferred to smaller, less
influential institutions.
Abe Yasurō describes the Zōga of legend as “the quin­tes­sen­tial example of the
hosshin tonsei,” a monk originally attached to a major Buddhist institution who
is suddenly struck by the vanity of wealth and status and “awakens the Way-­
seeking mind” (hosshin)—­a sincere desire to achieve salvation.49 According to
this archetype, it was religious insight that motivated ­t hese priests to abandon
their posts.50 And yet, while hagiographies commonly placed tonsei and hijiri in
an oppositional relationship with their home ­temples and portrayed them retreat-
ing into the wild, many of ­t hese hijiri types, in fact, joined established communi-
ties. Despite their being depicted as undeveloped wildernesses, many bessho ­were
institutions in their own right, often maintaining close ties with their home
­temples. In other cases, so-­called tonsei appear to have set out to establish their
own lineages at what amounted to fully fledged branch ­temples, sometimes re-
ferred to as matsuji, or in separate cloisters (betsuin) on the grounds of the main
­temple complex.51 Zōga is a case in point. Zōga was Ryōgen’s disciple, but only
five years younger than he. He was thus among Ryōgen’s most se­nior disciples
and, in light of his reputed brilliance as a scholar and debater, would have been a
strong candidate for high monastic office.52 In spite of his qualifications, however,
Zōga’s ­career was unspectacular; he was never appointed to the Sōgō. Consider-
ing Ryōgen’s accelerated promotion of the relatively inexperienced Jinzen, Zōga’s
move must be read as a consequence of aristocratization.
Zōga’s first contact with Tōnomine came when Ryōgen sent him and Fujiwara
Takamitsu—­a nother of Morosuke’s sons and half-­brother of Ryōgen’s protégé
Jinzen—to establish closer relations between the two t­ emples.53 Once permanently
relocated to Tōnomine, Zōga engaged in the same fundraising and institution-­
building tactics that Ryōgen had, forming an especially close connection with
Morosuke’s son, the Regent Fujiwara no Koretada (924–972, also read Koremasa).54
Although early biographies made vague references to Zōga’s eccentricity, detailed
accounts of Zōga’s rejection of aristocratic values and violation of purity
taboos w ­ ere the creation of l­ater generations. It is pos­si­ble that legends with a
strong anti-­Enryakuji (and anti-­Ryōgen) bias ­were produced by Tōnomine
monks at a time the ­temple was attempting to assert its own in­de­pen­dence from
Mount Hiei.55
 From Outcast to Saint   65

Although the Hokke genki claimed Zōga behaved in a vulgar fashion when
summoned by Fujiwara no Senshi/Akiko—­identified as the ­mother of Ichijō
tennō—­t he Konjaku monogatari tells of Zōga defecating in the presence of a dif­
fer­ent consort who, the text specifies, was the d ­ aughter of a regent but who bore
En’yū no princes or princesses. Of En’yū consorts, the only one who fits that de-
scription was Fujiwara no Junshi (957–1017), d ­ aughter of Fujiwara no Yoritada
(924–989).56 In fact, Junshi is the main focus of the Konjaku tale. She is described
as unsuccessfully attempting to ingratiate herself with Genshin by presenting
him with lavish gifts and sponsoring elaborate Buddhist rites—­which rightfully
should have been held only for the emperor—­involving twenty monks of high
reputation and superlative moral and physical purity. Despite her efforts, ­people
­were surprised by the lack of miraculous signs t­ hese rites produced, implying that
they had not been efficacious. In essence, Junshi is treated as a w ­ oman whose
wealth and aristocratic status have somehow nullified the efficacy of her Buddhist
faith. Her e­ very act, including her extravagant efforts to ensure physical purity, is
portrayed as an attempt to buy her way into the com­pany of Buddhist saints and
purchase miracles. Even her inability to have c­ hildren is implied to be a form of
punishment for her spiritual failings.
It is pos­si­ble that this legend, making Junshi rather than Senshi the victim of
Zōga’s offensive be­hav­ior, was intended to advance the interests of Tōnomine.
Junshi’s f­ ather, Yoritada, was the cousin and chief rival of Tōnomine’s major pa-
tron, Koretada, for the position of regent.57 By presenting Yoritada’s ­daughter as
incapable of sincere faith, Tōnomine monks could indirectly elevate the Buddhist
credentials of Koretada’s line. The factional tensions under­lying the Junshi leg-
end illuminate a broader point. Taken as a w ­ hole, tales involving oppositions
between, on the one hand, shallow aristocrats and vain aristocratic monks and,
on the other hand, sincere, but lowly hijiri or tonsei types often masked conflicts
not between monasticism and reclusion, or even between “institutional Bud-
dhism” and “anti-­institutional Buddhism,” but between larger, better-­connected
institutions with relatively young aristocratic leadership and smaller, less-­
prosperous institutions with older, lower-­status leadership.58
In the centuries following his death, Zōga was taken up by ­others not neces-
sarily associated with Tōnomine who had an interest in mocking high-­status cler-
ics and aristocrats and subverting the protocols and taboos—­including t­hose
concerning pollution—­t hat helped them maintain their status. The Ujishūi mo-
nogatari, for instance, reproduced the Konjaku legend but shifted the emphasis
back to the saintly, but physically dysfunctional, Zōga, highlighting his comments
on the effects of age on the male anatomy and the scene of him emptying his bow-
els off the side of the veranda.59 It is unclear why Zōga came to be regarded as the
66   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

paragon of hosshin tonsei, but I would suggest that his death poem praising the
spiritual fruition available only to the aged made him an attractive medium
through which to express the frustrations of ­t hose displaced by successive waves
of aristocratization. It is likely that Chingen received his account of Zōga’s death
directly from his disciples, monks who had watched their master, a brilliant
scholar and debater, fail to attain high rank in the Sōgō, while at Enryakuji the
relatively underqualified son of a Fujiwara regent held the post of zasu.60 The
poem’s praise of the aged body—­and the unexpected, miraculous insights avail-
able to one who had piled up many years of practice—­offered a compelling protest
against ­t hese developments.61
In the late Heian period, starting with the Hokke genki, we find numerous
references to recluses who made their decision to abandon monastic institutions,
such as Tōdaiji, Kōfukuji, Hōryūji, Gangōji, Enryakuji, Onjōji, Tōji, Ninnaji, and
­others, on the cusp of old age.62 Although the term tonsei could be applied to any-
one who had chosen a life of reclusion, it was often used to refer to ­t hose who had
undertaken a “second” retreat from the world—­cases in which monastics, who
­were already presumably living apart from the world of mundane social inter-
course, opted to retire and retreat from monastic institutions as well. Although
Buddhist tonsure and retirement had always been described as home-­leaving
(shukke), texts dealing with t­ hese figures stressed the emphatic quality of their
desire to abandon the world (yosute). The pattern of Zōga’s retirement is echoed
in many tales from late Heian setsuwa collections. Although some of t­ hese tales
featured recluses who deci­ded to abandon the world in the prime of life or even
in youth, many featured individuals well along in their monastic c­ areer, whose
aging figured prominently in their decisions to abandon their status.63
Furthermore, while hagiographies found in earlier legend collections, such
as the Nihon ryōiki or the Ōjō gokurakuki, occasionally indicated the number of
years of practice or the number of daily recitations of a given sutra or the nen-
butsu that the hagiographic subject had undertaken, such quantitative mea­sures
came increasingly to be stressed in the Hokke genki.64 In ­t hese tales, the age of
the ascetic came to be used as an index of years of practice, which came to be
treated as a form of symbolic capital. We read, for instance, of Raishin (1/24), who
recited the Lotus Sutra three times a day into his old age and who, by the age of
seventy, had recited it sixty thousand times; or of Hōju (2/50), who “from his youth
to his old age never missed a day’s recitation”; or Chōzō of Mount Atago (2/56),
who “from his youth till he reached the age of eighty-­some years [ . . . ​] did noth-
ing but recite the Lotus Sutra.”65 In t­ hese tales, the aged ­were still associated with
liminal or polluted spaces, poverty, or social alienation, but t­ hese f­actors w ­ ere
 From Outcast to Saint   67

Figure  1. En no Gyōja. En no gyōja

daibosatsu koshikake zō oyobi zenki
goki zō. Kamakura period. Courtesy
of Ishibaji.

given a new, positive valuation as necessary preconditions for the kinds of con-
certed and sustained practices in which they engaged. Whereas previously t­ hese
associations had been employed to disparage the aged body, in late Heian and
medieval Buddhist lit­er­a­ture they became evidence of au­t hen­tic faith.
Significantly, many of ­these tales described forms of mountain asceticism that
are recognized as precursors to the Shugendō movement. Buddhist institutions
had long encouraged certain of their members to engage in ascetic practices out
of the perception that ascesis rendered clerics more effective in the per­for­mance
of rites for worldly benefit (kitō). Shugendō, which Heather Blair aptly translates
as “the Way of practice,” established its sectarian credentials around the mystique
that derived from extensive, strenuous praxis (shugyō).66 Although ­t hese moun-
tain ascetics also participated in traditional economies of prestige that derived
symbolic capital from imperially bestowed titles or the opportunity to lead high-­
ranking aristocrats, emperors, or retired emperors on pilgrimages, the main
68   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

source of their charisma derived from the length and severity of their ascesis.
Nowhere is this self-­presentation more obvious than in repre­sen­ta­tions of E no
Ozuno (fl. 699), a thaumaturge who, in his legendary guise as En no Gyōja (En
the Ascetic), was venerated as the founder of Shugendō.67 Although the Hokke
genki depicts some eleventh-­century mountain ascetics in the Ōmine Range en-
gaged in practices believed to allow them to maintain a perpetual state of youth,
significantly, the Kamakura-­era cult of En no Gyōja chose not to portray him as
a youthful immortal, but as a wizened old man. Statues of En from the Kamak-
ura period forward utilize his skeletal frame, wrinkles, and dangling whis­kers to
demonstrate his years of practice (see figure 1). Unlike earlier repre­sen­ta­tions of
old age as loss and decay, this was a body that wore its age proudly—as a mark of
charisma that could only accumulate in a frame subjected to years of training.

The Outcast Okina Preacher and

the Dedication of the Tokujōju-­in
The final legend I would like to consider coalesced centuries ­after ­t hose recorded
in the Hokke genki. It comes from the Enkyōbon Heike, one of the oldest vari-
ants of the Heike monogatari—­a collection of ballads on the rise and fall of the
Taira clan. The Enkyōbon colophon is dated 1309–1310, but its narratives are
thought to have developed in the roughly one-­hundred-­year span following
the downfall of the Heike in 1185.
The episode in question revolves around the dedicatory mass (kuyō) for
the Tokujōju-in, a t­ emple constructed to fulfill a vow made by Toba-in (r. 1107–
1123), who presided as cloistered emperor from 1129 to 1156.68 Although vari­ous
prideful noble priests w­ ere clamoring to be the officiant at the inaugural ser­v ice,
the retired emperor declared that he was willing to employ someone who was not
necessarily wise or even a skilled preacher if they w ­ ere compassionate and vir-
tuous, even if they w­ ere “of base lineage,” or “the poorest priest in the land.”69 At
that moment a strange old priest wearing a sedge hat and cloak (minokasa)
appeared and addressed the retired sovereign with his qualifications: “I may be
lacking in compassion and virtuous conduct, but in regard to poverty, this fool-
ish priest is the poorest in Japan.”70
The nobles reacted to this strange ( fushigi) unsightly (migurishi) priest with
revulsion, but the retired emperor immediately commissioned him to perform
the ser­v ice. We learn that the old priest lived “beneath the floorboards of the
shrine to Sakamoto’s tutelary deity,” where he also engaged in menial l­ abor. A ­ fter
returning to the shrine, the old priest is described placing a few pine ­needles into
a cup, drinking them down, and expressing his desire to live long enough to per-
form the dedicatory mass. He is confident he ­w ill, however, ­because “the purity
 From Outcast to Saint   69

of the retired sovereign’s good roots (gozenkon) are indeed felicitous,” and he
“practices purifying good deeds and austerities.”71
On the day of the ser­v ice, the old priest arrived accompanied by twelve low-­
class priests (gesō). He looked frail, with a crooked back, his knees quivering as
he ascended the dais. At first he seemed confused about the order of the ser­v ice.
­After a few unsettling moments, however, he hit his stride. “His petition was truly
a polished jewel. [ . . . ​] The multitude gathered to listen shed tears of joy and pu-
rified karmic sins that had come down from the infinite past. The lay p ­ eople and
priests who saw, heard, felt and understood straightened themselves up out of joy
and achieved instant enlightenment (sokushin no bodai wo satoru).”72 Fi­nally, the
old priest flew into the air and was revealed to be Yakushi Nyorai, the “original
ground” (honji) of the tutelary deity of the Sannō shrine and the Buddha installed
in Enryakuji’s main hall. The twelve gesō ­were revealed to be Yakushi’s twelve
guardian deities. The tale concludes with the observation that “although it is now
said to be the latter age of the Dharma, b ­ ecause the dedicant’s faith was pure, the
majestic light of the gods and buddhas is still awesome.”73
This narrative destabilizes many of the structural oppositions ­f undamental
to ritsuryō and court-­centric strategies for defining power, purity, and sacred
authority. Most glaringly, it collapses the distinction between the highest-­and
lowest-­status individuals in the land. Whereas the supporters of the tennō-­
centered polity had utilized ritual and other symbolic practices to protect the
tennō from pollution, this tale envisions a deep interdependence b ­ etween the
lofty retired sovereign and a polluted el­derly priest of the lowest pos­si­ble status.
Not only does the priest describe himself as the “poorest in the land,” his living
situation makes clear that he was a hinin, a “non-­person” whose work as a shrine
menial would have also put him in regular contact with kegare.74 The old priest’s
garb is also noteworthy: he is described wearing a minokasa, which was not only
a symbol for the aged body, but also a mark of the polluted outcast since at least
the Nara period.75
Abe Yasurō has noted that this legend is clearly a reworking of earlier setsuwa
(dating from the late Heian period) that depicted the arrival of vari­ous strange
otherworldly elders to sanctify the dedication of the G ­ reat Buddha in Nara. But
in the Enkyōbon rendition, the relationship between the authority of the sover-
eign and the authority of the mysterious elder has been reversed—­the retired em-
peror requires the miraculous intervention of the outcast priest to consecrate his
vow t­ emple and thus reaffirm his right to rulership.76 The Enkyōbon thus exem-
plifies the po­liti­cal and cultural shifts that began in the late Heian. Whereas the
tennō-­centric polity had established elaborate protocols to guard the sovereign
from sources of pollution, the late Heian period saw an increasing intercourse
70   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

between retired sovereigns and marginalized ­others, including low-­status aristo-

crats and warriors, as well as non-­agrarian groups, in an effort to shore up the
economic and military power of the imperial h ­ ouse and ­counter the Northern
Fujiwara. Cloistered emperors at times also saw fit to employ symbols of the
77

margin to enhance their authority.78

Conversely, the Enkyōbon belittles prideful aristocratic priests associated
with power­f ul ­temples—­who would usually have been expected to perform such
an impor­tant ser­v ice for Toba-in. The compilers of this legend clearly identified
with its protagonist. Just as he was situated beneath the floorboards conducting
protective and purifying rites, scholars believe that the marginal itinerant per-
formers, known as biwa hōshi, who created the Heike corpus fulfilled a similar
function—­propitiating the spirits of defeated Taira warriors, undoing the kegare
associated with their violent demise—­and ­were also regarded in their day as vir-
tual outcasts, inhabiting zones of the capital associated with pollution and death.79
As in all of the tales related in this chapter, purity of faith trumps physical
purity, just as experience and ascesis (undertaken in eccentric spaces, ­under the
floorboards, in bessho, or in mountain wildernesses) trump aristocratic prestige.
But why specify that this was not just an outcast, but an aged outcast, and dwell
upon such details as his frailty, his bent back, trembling knees, and his befuddle-
ment over the order of the ser­v ice? First of all, it allowed the compilers of the
Enkyōbon to make deliberate use of the symbolism of the aged body. A major
theme of this legend was the miraculous overcoming of duality, facilitated on the
one hand by the purifying good deeds of the retired sovereign and on the other
hand by the power of the gods and buddhas. Asami Kazuhiko, writing about this
­family of legends, sees them based around transformations of the mundane (zoku)
and polluted (kegare) into the sacred (sei).80 But in order for the overcoming of
oppositions to be suitably impressive, the oppositions need to be forcefully drawn.
This tale heightens the contrasts by invoking centuries-­old associations link-
ing the aged body with decay and pollution. Paradoxically, therefore, t­ hese tales
required the very sets of associations they dramatically undermined. Indeed,
none of the legends examined in this chapter went so far as to invoke the well-­
established Mahāyāna argument that the difference between purity and pollution
was merely a product of deluded dualistic thought. While providing examples of
bodies that seemed to violate established rules of purity and pollution, the didac-
tic thrust of t­hese tales was not to argue that pollution was unreal, but to use
unexpected conflations and inversions to shock the audience, leaving them awed
by the miraculous power of the sacred scripture, practice, holy site, or, in this case,
retired sovereign that ­t hese legends sought to celebrate.
 From Outcast to Saint   71

I would also call our attention to the okina preacher’s engagement with the
arts of longevity. He lives on pine n ­ eedles and performs austerities in order to
prolong his life ­until he is able to complete his role in the fulfillment of Toba-­in’s
vow. But what a remarkable contrast this old hinin priest pres­ents, with his trem-
bling legs and crooked back, compared with the black-­haired, pink-­skinned
marvels that populated the majority of early Japa­nese immortality legends.81 This
points to an impor­tant resonance between the figure of the retired emperor and
the hinin priest qua aged immortal. Whereas enormous effort had been exerted
from at least the time of the compilation of the Nihon shoki to associate the tennō
with the trappings of youth and vitality, the cloistered emperor, while also a con-
sumer of longevity rites, was necessarily positioned as an elder relative to his son
or grand­son, the sitting ruler. While the symbolism of eternal youth was reserved
for the reigning sovereign, a newly empowered old age became instrumental in
the rise of the Insei.
It is thus significant that the Tokujōju-in kuyō setsuwa employs a discourse of
immortality that has been decoupled from images of youth and vitality. In con-
trast to the classical image of the tennō, the retired emperor projected a two-­sided
character as king and Buddhist retiree (and thus elder).82 But the vocabulary
describing the world of the cloistered emperor was also dominated by sennin
metaphors—­for instance, he dwelt and conducted his affairs from a detached
palace known as the Sentō, or the “Grotto of the Immortals.”83 If the retired
­emperor was ­imagined to be a sennin, he would have to be one whose old age was
seen not as a prob­lem to be overcome but as an opportunity to be exploited.
­Especially following the Emperor Shirakawa, who lived to the ripe old age of
seventy-­six and spent the majority of his life (forty-­two years) in “retirement,”
old age and postretirement c­ areers became central to maintaining the power and
prestige of the royal ­house, and thus royal authority, in the late Heian through
Kamakura periods.84
Gomi Fumihiko writes of how the Insei system produced a two-­sided king-
ship in which the sacred (hare) character of the sovereign was embodied by the
tennō, while the cloistered emperor (jōkō) was able to engage in the polluted mun-
dane realm (ke) in order to accrue wealth and po­liti­cal power. At the same time,
Gomi acknowledges that the retired emperor bolstered his sacred authority
through pilgrimage and the sponsorship of Buddhist rites and construction proj­
ects.85 Hayami Tasuku has noted that certain of ­t hese proj­ects ­were aimed at pre-
senting the retired emperor as a Buddhist wheel-­turning king or chakravartin,
rendering the implicitly aged Buddhist retiree the pinnacle of worldly power and
the key mediator of sacred power as well.86 The Tokujōju-in narrative thus traces
72   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

the complex contours of the po­liti­cal, religious, and cultural landscapes of the
post-­ritsuryō world, in which an aged Buddhist retiree qua wheel-­turning king
could traffic in polluted realms and still enjoy the blessings of longevity and the
grace of the gods and buddhas.

What inspired the compilers of t­ hese tales to challenge what might be described
as orthodox pre­sen­ta­tions of the aged body? Certainly t­ here w
­ ere numerous com-
plex f­ actors, but one must not overlook the growing role of nonelites and the laity
in the formation of late Heian Buddhist discourse. The Hokke genki, for example,
is noteworthy for its inclusion of voices from the purported social and geo­graph­
i­cal margins of the realm. The register of the Reizan-in Shakakō, where Chingen
was listed, also included the names of lay Buddhists of vari­ous ranks. Many of
the tales that make up the Hokke genki ­were likely transmitted orally by provin-
cial governors of mid-­to low-­ranking ­houses and their retinues who had returned
to the capital ­a fter their tour in the provinces.87 Since governors ­were the rare
aristocrats who actually ventured out to remote corners of the realm, Chingen
must have seen them as a valuable source of tales hitherto unknown in the capi-
tal. In the pro­cess, the perspectives of second-­and third-­tier nobles as well as
commoners and even outcasts became imprinted on t­ hese materials.88 Much of
what was innovative in t­hese tales, therefore, reflected the difference between
narratives that arose at court, where imperially bestowed rank remained the pri-
mary source of prestige, and narratives that developed in the provinces, where
connections to power­f ul sites, local lore, and miraculous occurrences made as
much or more of an impression.
In the economies of purity established by Buddhist elites, it was underclass
individuals who w ­ ere charged with work that necessitated contact with pollution.
But as ­t hese groups came to have a larger role in the economic viability of major
shrine-­temple complexes from the eleventh c­ entury forward, their perspectives
and desires came to be reflected in the texts produced by ­t hose institutions. Iron-
ically, as pollution taboos became ever stricter at Buddhist ­temples throughout
the medieval period, and as the social status of hinin became ever more fixed,
outcasts became ever more the subject of aggrandizement in legends and didac-
tic tales—­presented as uncanny beings with direct access to sacred powers. This
was likely due, in part, to the fact that t­ hose charged with managing pollution,
and thus violating taboos, w ­ ere seen to be capable of something miraculous in its
own right. But it also surely stemmed from the fact that ­those situated on the mar-
gins of elite Buddhist institutions, whose voices became increasingly prominent
from the late Heian period forward, would not have been as invested in discourses
of purity and pollution and would have had ­little interest in maintaining the
 From Outcast to Saint   73

hierarchies of status and space they served. Thus, as the symbolic order of the
tennō-­centered polity became less tenable, the aged body, long associated with
decay, defilement, and an unsettling proximity to death, became an opportune
device for ­t hose marginalized by traditional spatial and social schemas to chal-
lenge ­t hose hierarchies and assert their own symbolic power.
C HA P T E R F I V E

The Eccentric Avatar

Reimagining the Body of the Bodhisattva
in Early Medieval Engi

The early medieval period saw a rapid proliferation of legends in which local dei-
ties or kami appeared as mysterious old men. However, some of the earliest in-
stances of medieval legends featuring divine elders used the aged body to repre-
sent not kami, but figures from the Buddhist pantheon: most notably bodhisattvas
and, occasionally, buddhas.1 Perhaps the most startling early example of a Bud-
dhist divinity adopting the persona of an elder occurs in the eleventh-­century
Onjōji ryūge-­e engi. The text centers on a legend concerning an old monk named
Kyōtai who spent his days consuming alcohol, fish, and turtles, leaving a pile of
fish on the grounds of the ­temple Onjōji. And yet this sinful old monk was re-
vealed to be an avatar of the Bodhisattva Maitreya (J. Miroku Bosatsu)—­the Bud-
dha of the ­future age. In the last chapter we saw examples of early medieval
legends in which old men, due to some combination of faith and the salvific
power of the Lotus Sutra, overcame pollution, thus symbolizing the per­sis­tent
power of the Buddha in the age of the Dharma’s decline. But, in the case of Kyōtai
and other legends examined in this chapter, the aged body was revealed as more
than just a vehicle through which divine powers could work, but an embodiment
of divinity itself.
The Ryūge-­e engi’s depiction of Kyōtai was a truly radical departure from the
standard repre­sen­ta­tions of Miroku Bosatsu. Bodhisattvas tended to be presented
iconographically as princes, younger than buddhas, perhaps symbolizing that
they w­ ere still undergoing a pro­cess of maturation on the path to buddhahood.2
Although we read that Kyōtai lived on fish and tortoises, the Daijō honjō shinji
kangyō, a sutra quoted in the Ryūge-­e engi, states that Maitreya “from the first
time he awakened the way-­seeking mind did not eat meat. For that reason he is
named Honored One of ­Great Kindness (Jison).”3
The legend of Kyōtai thus raises several questions. Given that Onjōji was likely
established in the seventh or eighth c­ entury, why is it that the earliest extant leg-
end dealing with this old monk only dates from the second half of the eleventh
c­ entury?4 What is the significance of his consumption of fish? And, why specify
that Maitreya assumed the form of an old man? To answer t­hese questions we

74
 The Eccentric Avatar   75

r­ econstruct the conditions for the production of this text by examining the posi-
tioning of its vari­ous facilitators and the social and cultural fields in which they
operated. In addition to the religious and literary contexts for the figure of the
divine old fisherman, we explore Onjōji’s position relative to its power­f ul rival
Enryakuji, and its geographic setting in Ōmi province—­a province encompass-
ing Lake Biwa, Japan’s largest lake. Kyōtai’s role in this legend can be best under-
stood by viewing him in light of the complex relationships between the Buddhist
institutions proximate to Lake Biwa—­including Onjōji, Sekidera, Sūfukuji, and
Ishiyama-­dera—­and the ­people who made their living from this body of ­water.
Before delving into the prob­lem of this eccentric avatar, however, it would be
useful to step back and reflect on how Buddhist doctrines of avatarism—­the
belief that its divinities could choose to take ­human form to interact with mortals—­
intersected with practices of iconographic and textual repre­sen­ta­tion in Japan,
and particularly how t­ hose practices came together in the production of engi, origin
accounts of sacred sites.5

Buddhas and Bodhisattvas in Image and Text

By the time Buddhism reached Japa­nese shores, it had developed sophisticated
theories of avatarism. The eminent scholar of Japa­nese folklore, Yamaori Tetsuo,
has speculated that part of the appeal of Buddhism to the early Japa­nese was the
fact that buddhas and bodhisattvas ­were capable of manifesting themselves in
­human form, with a panoply of anthropomorphic icons greatly enhancing the
cult’s attraction.6 In addition to their aesthetic appeal, Buddhist icons, when con-
secrated and installed in a ­temple hall, ­were regarded as honzon (principal objects
of veneration) and treated as the functional equivalent of living buddhas, reposi-
tories of sacred power and focal points for rituals and devotional activities. At the
level of textual repre­sen­ta­tion, Buddhist legends and didactic tales took advan-
tage of the narratological potential afforded by the notion that buddhas and
bodhisattvas could interact directly with humanity, not just as mysterious disem-
bodied presences, but in recognizable forms. ­These stories w ­ ere used as the basis
for sermons and lectures that helped foster devotion and explain an abstruse doc-
trine in terms that could be grasped by the wider population.
Centuries before Buddhist icons or scriptures reached Japan, Mahāyāna
Buddhists had determined that buddhas existed in three corporeal modes (Sk.
trikāya J. sanshin). In their fundamental state as embodiments of the Dharma
(Sk. dharmakāya J. hosshin), buddhas ­were formless, pervading the cosmos.7 In
visions or dreams, however, celestial buddhas (Sk. sambhogakāya J. hōjin) dis-
played radiant, glorified, but ­human-­like bodies. ­These ­were also the bodies
76   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

buddhas manifested in their buddha fields, paradisiacal projections of their en-

lightened minds. At rare moments, at the dawn of an age, buddhas took physical
bodies (Sk. nirmāṇakāya J. ōjin), “response bodies” such as the one that Śākyamuni
­adopted in the years he walked the earth.
Mahāyāna sutras explic­itly acknowledged that embodied divinities ­were more
relatable than abstract concepts, explaining that buddhas and bodhisattvas
appeared in fleshly forms as an example of skillful means (Sk. upāya J. hōben),
the notion that out of their supreme wisdom and compassion, buddhas and
­bodhisattvas modulated their teachings to perfectly accord to each individual’s
specific needs. Buddhist divinities, particularly bodhisattvas—­depicted as es-
pecially ­eager to intervene in the lives of mortals—­could take forms that ­were
appropriate to the needs and level of comprehension of the person they wished to
save. For example, in the twenty-­fifth chapter of the Lotus Sutra, we read of the
thirty-­three forms (some of them not particularly exalted) that the Bodhisattva
Avalokiteś­vara (J. Kannon Bosatsu) could assume depending on the requirements
of the situation.
Mahāyāna Buddhists i­ magined a cosmos teeming with buddhas and bodhisat-
tvas ready to come to the aid of suffering worldlings. Since the Māhāyana tradition
repeatedly underlined the miraculous adaptability of its divinities’ manifestations,
one might assume that buddhas and bodhisattvas would have been depicted as-
suming a wide variety of physical forms, some lofty, some lowly, to accommodate
themselves to the variety of predicaments in which mortals found themselves.
And yet, prior to the eleventh ­century, the repertoire of somatic forms available to
buddhas and bodhisattvas in Japa­nese legends was oddly limited.
Part of this can be explained by the sheer weight of the Mahāyāna icono-
graphic and textual tradition—­a tradition that overwhelmingly presented ­t hese
entities possessing bodies that reflected contemporaneous understandings of
how the most power­ful, dignified, and beautiful beings should appear. Icono-
graphically, buddhas ­were consistently presented as men in their prime, seated in
a meditative posture, clothed in ­humble robes, with serene expressions on their
beautiful, symmetrical ­faces; bodhisattvas ­were most often represented as young
men, dressed in more elaborate robes and headdresses or crowns.8 In cases in
which the bodies of buddhas or bodhisattvas w ­ ere presented with anomalous
features, ­t hese marks always gestured t­ oward a superhuman rather than a sub-
human status. For example, numerous figures from the Esoteric (Tantric) Bud-
dhist pantheon w ­ ere endowed with multiple ­faces or arms to symbolize their
superior watchfulness or power. But, even in ­t hese cases, the bodies of buddhas
and bodhisattvas w ­ ere presented as youths or men in their prime. Aside from
relatively rare examples of bodhisattvas with jarringly chimeric bodies, such as
 The Eccentric Avatar   77

the “horse-­headed” Batō Kannon, and occasional instances from the tenth
­century forward in which Kannon was depicted in female form, the overwhelm-
ing majority of bodhisattva images reflected the normative body of the youth-
ful or ichininmae male.
In Mahāyāna scriptures, or in so-­called Buddhist apocrypha—­texts com-
posed l­ ater but accepted as canonical in the Chinese cultural sphere—­t he bodies
of buddhas and bodhisattvas, when described at all, generally conformed to the
same patterns.9 The Buddhist corpus included detailed descriptions of the mirac-
ulous thirty-­two marks and eighty minor marks that distinguished the anato-
mies of buddhas from t­ hose of lesser beings. Buddhas ­were known by miraculous
features, such as the thousand-­spoke dharma-­wheel symbols on the ­soles of their
feet (J. sokuge nirinsō). O ­ ther marks ­were comparatively mundane, but still en-
nobling. The skin of a buddha, in addition to its golden hue, was extremely sup-
ple and smooth, implying that it possessed no wrinkles or other marks of age. A
buddha had a perfectly erect posture. According to the eighty minor marks, his
skin was lustrous, his body pure, flexible, and emitting a pleasant fragrance—in
short, the clean, soft, stainless body of youth.10 Such descriptions informed Bud-
dhist iconography.11 Perhaps even more importantly, they formed the basis for
meditative visualization practices, imprinting the minds of the initiated with
prescribed images of Buddhist divinities.
While officially sponsored works of art and canonical texts might be thought
of as Buddhism’s “hard” tradition, Buddhism also included a “soft” tradition of
popu­lar lit­er­a­t ure. In China, from at least the fourth c­ entury, inspired by the
genre of “anomaly accounts” (Ch. zhiguai), Buddhist laypeople circulated mira-
cle stories. Th
­ ese texts became highly influential in the development of Japa­nese
Buddhist lit­er­a­ture.12 In Japan, popu­lar Buddhist lit­er­a­ture was produced out of
a desire to collect materials for preaching, to promote a par­tic­u ­lar site or cult, or
to make merit, and came to be grouped ­under generic categories such as setsuwa
(explanatory tales), den (hagiographies), genki (rec­ords of miracles), or engi (ori-
gin accounts of sacred sites).13 Unlike Buddhist apocrypha, which followed the
formulae of sutras, ­these texts made no attempt to masquerade as canonical works.
Although their compilers often gleaned materials from sutras, earlier collections,
or other textual sources, they often supplemented t­ hese with materials gathered
by word of mouth from their contemporaries, who related their own encounters
with Buddhist divinities, or the experiences of o ­ thers that had been transmitted
to them verbally. 14

The oral component of t­hese texts allowed a more diverse set of voices to
contribute—­from low-­ranking and unofficial or “self-­ordained” monks and nuns,
to laypeople from vari­ous social strata. ­These noncanonical writings ­were thus
78   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

able to capture images of buddhas and bodhisattvas that had formed in the popu­
lar imagination—an imagination that had no doubt been influenced by official
narratives and icons, but which also was f­ ree from the constraints that went along
with being embedded in Buddhist institutions. It was in this arena of narrative
fluidity that legends emerged in which buddhas and bodhisattvas ­were portrayed
taking nonnormative bodies.15
Although, according to the standard canonical categories, buddhas and
bodhisattvas existed as “dharma,” “reward,” or “response” bodies, in Buddhist
popu­lar lit­er­a­ture, they ­were most often described manifesting “transformation
bodies” or keshin, sometimes rendered hengeshin or henge.16 In Nara and early
Heian-­period texts, the term keshin referred to a variety of super­natu­ral beings.17
However, most early legends failed to associate a given keshin with any par­tic­u ­lar
member of the Buddhist pantheon, depicting them instead as mysterious beings
that appeared in this world to fulfill some sacred duty, only to vanish once their
task was accomplished. Such legends bear a clear imprint of Daoist tales in which
immortals rode away on clouds, ascended into the sky, or “concealed their form”
(J. ongyō) at w­ ill.18
In certain Buddhist scriptures, the keshin replaced the “reward body.”19 But,
broadly speaking, t­ here ­were impor­tant distinctions between depictions of the
reward body and the transformation body. The reward body was understood to
appear only to experienced meditators. Keshin, on the other hand, appeared to
laypeople as well.20 Another impor­tant difference was the diversity of forms avail-
able to keshin. The reward body was revealed through guided meditation, which
involved repeatedly calling to mind (J. nen) aspects of the prescribed image of the
celestial body of a Buddhist divinity ­until ­t hese ele­ments could be combined into
a complete image. Keshin, on the other hand, ­were more often described appear-
ing unbidden in dreams or in the waking experiences of laypeople. The keshin
thus provided a medium through which the religious imagination had relatively
­free rein—­a field of imaginative play in which eccentric avatars might appear.
Nonetheless, in the overwhelming majority of Buddhist tales of the Nara
through mid-­Heian periods, the physical appearance of keshin—­even of specific
buddhas, bodhisattvas, or honzon—­were not described. Most early legends pro-
vided no details about their physiognomy, besides noting their “noble appear-
ance” or “strangeness.” ­These conspicuously unmarked keshin would likely have
been understood as normative, ichininmae males. In the late Heian period, how-
ever, numerous legends appeared involving keshin of specific buddhas or bod-
hisattvas, which provided concrete descriptions of their physical forms and iden-
tified them as anonymous or low-­status individuals, or, at times, individuals
possessing nonnormative bodies.21
 The Eccentric Avatar   79

The emergence of tales depicting keshin with nonnormative bodies was the
result of multiple f­ actors, one of which was an outgrowth of the theory that bud-
dhas and bodhisattvas could divide their bodies (bunshin) and manifest them-
selves in multiple concrete, localized instantiations, most saliently as honzon.
Through the interplay of scripture, icon, and the legends that glorified them,
honzon developed their own individual characters and charisma, contributing,
­ oused them. Engi played
as well, to the identities of the specific sacred sites that h
a key role in “fleshing out” the lives of t­ hese icons. Often ­these narratives elabo-
rated on the special powers of localized Buddhist divinities for healing, protec-
tion from enemies, matchmaking, safe childbirth, or other worldly benefits. ­These
narratives fulfilled a promotional function, broadcasting the distinguished his-
tories and unique rec­ord of miracles of ­t hese buddhas and bodhisattvas. Thus,
while many in premodern Japan venerated non-­localized Buddhist divinities, we
also find plentiful examples of p ­ eople dedicated, for instance, to the “Hasedera
Kannon” or the “Yata Jizō,” or reporting the miraculous intervention of the
“Yakushi Nyorai of Kamunaidera.”22
It is in engi and popu­lar legends describing miracles associated with specific,
localized instantiations of a given Buddhist divinity that we begin to encounter
non-­standard bodies assigned to buddhas and bodhisattvas. Thus, for example, in
the Konjaku monogatari we find the exceedingly rare case of a bodhisattva taking
the form of an old ­woman (ōna). In the tale (16/9), an impoverished young female
devotee of the Kannon of Kiyomizu-­dera, a t­ emple in the Higashiyama district of
the Heian capital, encounters an old w ­ oman who helps her find a husband. The old
­woman is ­later revealed to have been a keshin of Kiyomizu-­dera’s Kannon hon-
zon.23 Interestingly, the old ­woman’s hut seems to have been located at or near the
site of a pair of ancient standing stones, on a small rise ­behind Kiyomizu-­dera’s
main hall. ­These stones ­were likely venerated as ishigami, gods that assisted in
securing a mate, and which from at least the eleventh ­century had at times been
represented as old men and w ­ omen.24 ­These stones are not mentioned in extant
versions of this legend, but their proximity to the hall housing Kiyomizu-­dera’s
honzon raises the possibility that this tale sought to associate their powers with the
­temple’s main icon. By revealing this miraculous old ­woman to have been the Kan-
non of Kiyomizu-­dera, this tale thus made a bid to contribute to the ­temple’s sacred
history, and the identity of its honzon, adding matchmaking to its cata­logue of
powers and the body of an aged ­woman to its list of potential manifestations.25
Just as the concept of keshin opened up new narratological possibilities, it also
allowed for the identities of honzon to be negotiated between clerics at Buddhist
institutions and the populations of lay-­devotees and unofficial religious profes-
sionals who saw themselves to be affiliated in some way with t­ hese institutions or
80   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

their honzon. Legends and engi involving keshin combined or preserved side by
side vari­ous interpretations and associations. But not ­every new legend would be
taken up gladly by members of a given Buddhist institution and incorporated into
the rec­ords they kept. Honzon ­were a major source of symbolic capital for t­ emples.
­Temples could translate the cachet of their icons into material resources by moti-
vating wealthy patrons to engage in pilgrimages or fund ceremonies or rituals, or
by extracting smaller donations from the less affluent. Buddhist institutions thus
had an interest in maintaining control over the image and prestige of their hon-
zon. However, as ­temple engi developed from the classical to the medieval period,
popu­lar narratives increasingly came to be included in texts compiled by ­t hose
with formal ties to the institutions whose histories they described.
The earliest examples of engi from the Nara period w ­ ere compiled at the
­request of the Office of Monastic Affairs and lack the mysterious, miraculous
­ele­ments of ­later engi.26 Their central concern was to connect their t­emple to
some illustrious (preferably royal) historical personage.27 From the Heian period
forward, however, even engi kept by the institutions themselves increasingly be-
came repositories for popu­lar legends and miracle tales. The introduction of folk
ele­ments into ­t hese rec­ords contributed to the individuation of the honzon they
celebrated. ­These legends ­were subtly s­haped by the many voices that repro-
duced ­these tales ­until they ­were rendered into text, at which point they ­were
molded once again by their compilers.
Through ­t hese complex pro­cesses, as legends ­were juxtaposed and combined,
the localized buddhas and bodhisattvas at their center took on complex, com­
­ ese new, negotiated identities of t­ emple honzon could then, in
posite identities. Th
turn, be used to reflect and symbolize the collective identities of the institutions
and the lay communities that formed around them. This provides us with another
framework for understanding how the symbolic resonances associated with dif­
fer­ent corporeal forms ­were used to strategically enhance the status of a given site
or cult, especially in cases in which legends originated with or ­were ­adopted by
­t hose formally attached to the institutions featured in ­t hese tales. In the case
of the Ryūge-­e engi, the legends of the bizarre old avatar Kyōtai likely originated
with Onjōji monks, possibly even t­ hose in positions of authority. Furthermore,
although the story of Kyōtai was l­ater taken up in setsuwa collections that w ­ ere
produced by ­people without a clear connection to Onjōji, many of ­t hese legends
found their way into the Onjōji denki and Jimon denki horoku, semiofficial histo-
ries compiled by t­emple priests in the Muromachi period.28 All of this suggests
that although the Ryūge-­e engi was composed by an aristocratic layman, ­people
attached to the institution strongly endorsed the manner in which it equated
Onjōji’s honzon with one of the most lowly of bodies imaginable.29
 The Eccentric Avatar   81

Onjōji’s Ignoble Avatar

The earliest extant account of the eccentric avatar Kyōtai comes in the Onjōji
ryūge-­e engi, written by Fujiwara no Sanenori (active 1023–1062), a mid-­ranking
scholar-­poet.30 The text sought to promote the Dragon Flower Dharma Assembly
(Ryūge-­e) of its title—to distinguish it from other major Dharma assemblies (hōe)
of the day and place it on par with the prestigious assemblies of Enryakuji and
the major Nara-­based ­temple complex of Kōfukuji. The Dragon Flower Assembly
anticipated the moment in the ­f uture at which Maitreya, having descended from
his Tuṣita heaven (J. Tosotsu ten), would achieve enlightenment and give his first
sermon u ­ nder the Dragon Flower Tree (Ryūge Jū). By promoting the Ryūge-­e at
Onjōji, this text underscored the ­temple’s connection to Maitreya (Onjōji’s hon-
zon) and implicitly situated it as the site from which Maitreya would give his first
sermon, heralding the dawn of a new age.31
The Ryūge-­e engi also sought to explain how the ninth-­century Tendai prelate
Enchin (814–891) came to choose Onjōji, also known as Miidera, to base his
lineage—­what would come to be known as the Jimon or “­temple gate” branch of
the Tendai School. Although Enchin served as chōri (head) and bettō (supervi-
sor) of Onjōji, his connections to the t­emple w ­ ere not as deep or as exclusive as
­later texts would have us believe. In the centuries a­ fter his death, Enchin’s cleri-
32

cal lineage entered into a fierce rivalry with the descendants of his con­temporary,
Ennin (793 or 794–864), a line that came to be known as the Tendai Sanmon or
“mountain gate” school, on account of their being based on Mount Hiei.33 It was
only generations ­after Enchin’s death that his spiritual descendants came to be
based exclusively at Onjōji, and generations ­after that that they sought to revise
the historical rec­ord and cement his connection to the ­temple. The Ryūge-­e engi
represents an early example of such efforts.
The Ryūge-­e engi begins with a description of Enchin’s journey to the Tang
and his return, during which he receives a visitation from an elder god, identified
as Shinra Myōjin, who directs him to Onjōji to ­house the texts he had brought
back from China. At Onjōji, Enchin encounters Kyōtai, described as an old (rō)
bhikṣu, 162 years of age, living in a hut. We learn that “if it was not fish, he would
not eat it; if it was not wine, he would not drink it. He caught fish and tortoises
and treated them as the ‘vegetables’ of his daily meal.” Kyōtai transfers responsi-
bility for the ­temple to Enchin and dis­appears. Intrigued, Enchin notices a pile of
fish near Kyōtai’s hut, which suddenly transforms into lotus roots, stems, and
flowers. From this, Enchin “truly knew this was a keshin of Maitreya.”34
In the centuries ­a fter it was first recorded, Kyōtai’s legend spread beyond
Onjōji, to be featured in vari­ous setsuwa collections, including the Honchō
82   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

shinsenden, Konjaku monogatarishū, Uchigikishū, Kokonchomonjū, and Genkō

shakusho, as well as the Kakuichibon Heike monogatari and the Genpeijosuiki.
But texts compiled and maintained by Onjōji itself show that if t­ here was ever
an attempt to redact or repress potentially embarrassing aspects of Kyōtai’s pre­
sen­ta­tion, they ­were unsuccessful. By the medieval period, Kyōtai was clearly seen
as an essential ele­ment of the ­temple’s identity. The Jimon denki horoku, compiled
between 1398 and 1428, contains numerous variants of the legend, demonstrating
how it had grown through repeated retellings. From the Jimon denki horoku we
gather that the Kyōtai mitamaya, a shrine at which yearly rites w ­ ere performed
on November 11, was situated in the central cloister, near the ­temple’s main hall,
according with Sanenori’s description of the location of Kyōtai’s hut in the elev-
enth ­century.35
To understand what this figure signified to the Onjōji community, we should
first note that the Kyōtai of the Ryūge-­e engi was clearly already a composite
figure—­the product of multiple layers of legend.36 Some have theorized that Kyōtai
was originally based on Onjōji’s head monk at the time Enchin returned from
the Tang.37 At some point, however, Kyōtai came to be seen as something akin to
a gohō, a divine protector of the Dharma. Tsuji Zennosuke has noted that Kyōtai’s
name translates literally to “awaiting the teachings,” suggesting someone blessed
with sufficient longevity to guard the ­temple ­either u ­ ntil Enchin returned from
the Tang or u ­ ntil Maitreya promulgated the Dharma at the dawn of the next
aeon.38 Eventually, Kyōtai came to be portrayed as more than a mere protector of
Maitreya’s teachings, but as Maitreya himself.
The Ryūge-­e engi dramatically underscores the identity of Kyōtai and Maitreya
in a section in which Sanenori recounts his own experiences at Onjōji:

Now, gazing at the most sacred part of the ­temple precincts, I reflect on the
former times through which Kyōtai dwelt ­here to preserve the Dharma.
The thousand-­spoke Dharma wheels on the bottoms of his feet went up and
down the stone bridges ­running east and west. His fin­gers of hundredfold-­
blessings opened and closed [his hut’s] north and south-­facing win­dows
and doors. ­Those of us whose karma has brought us to reside for a time in
this place can walk precisely in Maitreya’s ancient footsteps.
Happily I entered Kyōtai’s former dwelling. Looking up at the ­temple’s
Golden Hall, I could see it was no dif­fer­ent from [Maitreya’s] forty-­nine
story wish-­fulfilling gem hall. Gazing down at mirror-­like Lake Biwa, I
could see it was just the same as the ­waters of the eight attributes of the
lotus pond of Maitreya’s Tuṣita heaven.39
 The Eccentric Avatar   83

The text maps well-­k nown features of Maitreya’s paradise onto the traces of
Kyōtai’s former presence at Onjōji. The Shinji kangyō, for example, describes Mai-
treya tirelessly engaged in bodhisattvic practice in his “forty-­nine story wish-­
fulfilling jewel hall in the fourth Tuṣita heaven,” such that “­those who have formed
a karmic bond with him ­will be born in a lotus flower in the lake of ‘­water of eight
attributes.’ ”40 The Ryūge-­e engi makes Lake Biwa the lotus pond into which devo-
tees would be reborn and identifies Onjōji’s main hall with Maitreya’s wish-­
fulfilling (mani) jewel hall. The most in­ter­est­ing of ­t hese parallels is Sanenori’s
references to Kyōtai’s “thousand-­spoke dharma-­wheel” footprints and “hundred-­
blessing” fin­gers.41 ­These are, of course, among the major marks of Buddhahood,
another reminder that Kyōtai was, in fact, Maitreya.
Other aspects of Kyōtai’s character w ­ ere brought to the fore in l­ ater texts. For
example, although the Ryūge-­e engi notes that Kyōtai left a pile of fish on ­temple
grounds, it does not dwell on the pollution this would have incurred. L ­ ater ver-
sions, however, expanded on this, adding fish scales, bones, and tortoise shells to
the list of pollutants with which he defiled Onjōji’s sacred precincts. The Konjaku
monogatari (11/28) describes Kyōtai “spitting out and scattering” scales and
bones, adding to the sense of slovenliness, and notes the horrific stench emanat-
ing from his piles of refuse.42 As in the case of Okina Oshō, the transformation of
the polluted products of fleshly decay into symbols of purity and sacred power—
in this case lotus flowers—­contributes to the sense of awe the tale could inspire.43
A second impor­tant point established in the Ryūge-­e engi and elaborated on
in ­later versions was that Kyōtai not only consumed fish, he caught them. The
­Jimon denki horoku, for example, preserves a variant highlighting his identity as
an old fisherman. He is described spending his days wandering idly by the edge
of the lake, catching turtles. The pile of shells and bones he left became so tall it
came to be known as kameoka (turtle hill).44
Given ­these ­factors, we are left with the question: Why would anyone, espe-
cially ­those associated with Onjōji, seek to associate the body of Maitreya with that
of an old, filthy fisherman? In order to better grasp how Kyōtai’s multifarious
identities functioned in Onjōji’s own proj­ects of identity formation, I w ­ ill, in the
following pages, attempt to reconstruct some of the religious, literary, and geo­
graph­i­cal contexts through which this strange figure would have been understood.

Fishy Old Men of Medieval Legend

Premodern Japa­nese Buddhist lit­er­a­ture includes a remarkable number of mira-
cle tales featuring old fishermen or old men engaged in selling, purchasing, or
84   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

consuming fish. Interestingly, if we trace the development of t­ hese narratives, we

find a trend ­toward, on the one hand, fishermen in early legends whose age was
not specified gradually being identified as elders in ­later accounts, and, on the
other hand, a tendency for aged fishermen who had only a peripheral role in a
given narrative gradually coming to be identified as divine beings. The germs of
certain of t­ hese tales appear in the early ninth-­century Nihon ryōiki.45 Two tales
in par­tic­u­lar provided the basis for impor­tant ­later legends involving a miracu-
lous fish-­bearing elder, who according to some legends provided the dedicatory
sermon at the eye-­opening ceremony of the monumental G ­ reat Buddha (Daibutsu)
enshrined at the Nara t­ emple of Tōdaiji. In the first tale (2/15), a beggar with no
real knowledge of Buddhist scriptures is selected to become the lecturer for a me-
morial ser­v ice but is miraculously able to conduct a lecture on the Lotus Sutra.46
In the second tale (3/6), a monk wishes to eat fish and sends his disciple to obtain
some. When the acolyte encounters an acquaintance on the road, the fish trans-
form into eight fascicles of the Lotus Sutra. Although in neither of ­t hese origi-
nal narratives is the subject described as old, in the early twelfth-­century Tōdaiji
yōroku ­t hese tales merge into an account of a miraculous old man carrying a
load of mackerel, identified as the Ke’nin Kōshi or Saba Okina.47
The Tōdaiji yōroku contains four variants of the Saba-­u ri Okina legend.
Although the Tōdaiji yōroku claims ­t hese tales ­were transmitted orally by ­temple
elders (kikyū), all four bear close resemblance to the legends set down in the
Nihon ryōiki. Each describes how the Emperor Shōmu has a dream in which he is
instructed to make the first person who appears at the gate the lecturer for the
eye-­opening ceremony for the G ­ reat Buddha. On the appointed day, an old man
carrying mackerel appears and is selected. Against all expectations, the old man
is an exemplary lecturer (in certain variants he lectures in Sanskrit, demonstrat-
ing ­either extreme erudition or exotic origins). A­ fter the lecture, the elder mysteri-
ously vanishes, and it is revealed that the fish he was carry­ing had transformed
into (or had always been) the eighty scrolls of the Kegonkyō.48
The Tōdaiji yōroku also contains narrative rudiments that would l­ ater be com-
bined and elaborated on in a group of legends describing another miraculous old
fisherman: Hira Myōjin, a tutelary deity of the area at the base of the Hira moun-
tain range, which skirts the southwest edge of Lake Biwa. Medieval engi used Hira
Myōjin as a narrative lynchpin linking the sacred history of Tōdaiji with that of
the Ōmi ­temple Ishiyama-­dera. The thirteenth-­century Shoji ryakki, for instance,
tells of how the priest Rōben (689–774) was tasked with securing gold to gild the
­Great Buddha. Instructed by the god Zaō to proceed to Ōmi province, Rōben
finds an old man sitting atop a ­great boulder, fishing. The okina identifies himself
as Hira Myōjin and offers his land to Rōben on the condition that he install an
 The Eccentric Avatar   85

icon of Nyoirin Kannon t­ here. The ­temple constructed to h ­ ouse this icon comes
to be known as Ishiyama-­dera. The creation and installation of the icon miracu-
lously facilitates the discovery of gold for the first time in Japan.49 Rōben’s en-
counter with Hira Myōjin was depicted in the Kamakura-­period Ishiyama-­dera
engi emaki (see figure 2).
The original versions of this legend presented in the tenth-­century Sanbō eko-
toba and the Tōdaiji yōroku, however, lacked many of ­t hese narrative ele­ments.
In the Tōdaiji yōroku we find six variants. The first four include no mention of
Ishiyama-­dera. The fifth describes the origins of Ishiyama-­dera, but makes no
mention of an okina or Hira Myōjin.50 In the Sanbō ekotoba and the Tōdaiji
yōroku’s sixth variant, having received instructions from the god Zaō in a dream,
the emperor directs Rōben to proceed to a par­tic­u­lar boulder by the side of a river
on top of which is (or was) a fishing okina, and to place a carved image of Nyoirin

Figure  2. Rōben encountering Hira Myōjin. Ishiyama-­dera engi emaki. Kamakura period.
Courtesy of Ishiyama-­dera.
86   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

Kannon atop that boulder. Once this task is completed, gold is discovered in
Mutsu province.51
Significantly, in none of ­t hese early narratives is the old fisherman described
as a god—­five of six make no mention of an okina at all. The sixth variant, a na-
scent version of the Ishiyama-­dera engi, mentions the fishing okina. However, it
pres­ents him not as a god, but simply as a means of identifying a par­tic­u ­lar rock
on which to install an icon.52 It is not u ­ ntil the Shoji ryakki of 1297 that the
fishing okina was identified as Hira Myōjin and was depicted conversing with
Rōben.53 What began as a story involving a passing reference to an innocuous old
fisherman had by the thirteenth c­ entury developed into a tale in which a divine
old fisherman played a pivotal role.
Like Onjōji, in the case of Ishiyama-­dera we are once again dealing with a
­temple in close proximity to Lake Biwa. What was it about this region that led to
the development of two families of medieval legend in which old fishermen were
revealed to be divine beings? Although this is not a question to which ­there could
ever be a single definitive answer, we can begin to understand some of the forces
under­lying the production of t­hese legends, and ­others involving otherworldly
fish-­bearing okina, if we consider the place of fishermen and fishing communities
in the early and medieval Japa­nese imagination—­how the aged fisherman became
an object of poetic curiosity, and how the rise of the estate system in the late Heian
period affected the status of t­ hose who sustained themselves by fishing.

Fishing Communities in the Early

and Medieval Imagination
As an occupation, fishing was regarded with considerable ambivalence in early
and medieval Japan. On the one hand, in some of Japan’s earliest texts, we see
fishing communities providing a portion of their catch directly to the throne or
to major shrines as tribute (nie).54 Such offerings ­were presented as acts of grati-
tude to the sovereign and evidence of his or her virtue. In the eighth-­century
Sumiyoshi taisha jindaiki, for instance, fishermen identify sea bream (tai) as an
appropriate offering for a sage-­k ing.55 However, since t­ hese offerings circum-
vented the ritsuryō system of taxation, they placed t­ hese communities in an am-
biguous situation. At the same time that ­t hese groups enjoyed direct connections
with the highest authorities of the land, they ­were paradoxically outside the ­legal
framework that or­ga­nized and defined the state. The mobility and in­de­pen­dence
of t­ hese groups was also unsettling to officials tasked with translating the l­abor
of the able-­bodied inhabitants of their district or province into rice that could
serve as taxes.56 As non-­agrarian types, fishermen w­ ere perceived to fall outside the
 The Eccentric Avatar   87

structures of the ritsuryō state and were often treated as a prob­lem to be man-
aged, the functional equivalent of furōnin, a term for absconders and o ­ thers unat-
tached to the land.57 Such views persisted into the medieval period, u ­ nder the
estate system (shōensei). Estate supervisors in areas where the bounty of the sea
was readily available complained that the ­people ­under their management pre-
ferred the relatively easy life of fishing to the arduous ­labor of agriculture.58
While fish was an integral part of the premodern Japa­nese economy, attempts
to model the ritsuryō regime ­after Chinese pre­ce­dents led to a desire among early
Japa­nese elites to proj­ect an image of Japan as “Mizuho no kuni,” the land of plen-
tiful ears of rice.59 This emphasis on agriculture placed fishermen, if not outside,
then at least near the bottom of the social hierarchies articulated in the court-­
centric cultural products of the Nara and Heian periods.60 Despite the fact that
offerings of fish ­were, to some degree, deemed necessary for the proper function
of the state—­official documents, such as the Engishiki, detailed the precise num-
ber and kind of fish to be presented by provincial officials for major festivals and
ceremonies of state—­t he ­people actually tasked with procuring fish ­were treated
in official and literary sources as quasi-­deviants, exotic outsiders—­not fully part
of a realm whose collective identity was symbolized by a tennō who, according to
Amino Yoshihiko, was characterized as a “rice-­k ing.”61
Although fishing was regarded with suspicion in some corners of the ritsuryō
state, the royal ­family relied on fish not only as symbolic tokens of fealty or cer-
emonial offerings, but also to stock their pantries. To ensure an uninterrupted
supply of fish, as early as the ninth c­ entury, protected zones known as mikuri w ­ ere
established, most of the earliest of which ­were shallow-­water fisheries around
Lake Biwa.62 The communities based at ­t hese mikuri had exclusive rights to fish
the w ­ aters contained within or bordering them. Parallel systems developed in the
late Heian period to protect the rights of other groups, known as kugonin or
jinnin. Kugonin w ­ ere groups that had special arrangements with the imperial
­house­hold or other power­ful patrons to provide nonagricultural produce gleaned
from the ­waters (kakai) or uncultivated fields or mountains (san’ya) of estates or
public land.63 Jinnin (divinely protected ­people) generally referred to underclass
individuals who performed menial l­abor on shrine grounds, but could also refer
to groups who had tributary arrangements with shrines.64
The proliferation of t­hese groups in the Heian period led to numerous
­conflicts over rights to the resources of ­waters, mountains, and wilderness (san’ya­
­kakai).65 In addition to conflicts between fishing groups, and frictions between
­t hese collectives and their patrons, t­ hese communities often found themselves in
an adversarial relationship with local Buddhist institutions. While well-­connected
and po­liti­c ally power­ful shrines formed tight bonds with their jinnin and
 88 Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

protected their rights in exchange for regular offerings of fish, Buddhist stric-
tures against taking life precluded such arrangements for temples. For temples
bordering major bodies of water, the potential for conflict was high. The Takami
net group, for instance, was active in an area located somewhere in the vicinity
of, and possibly inside, the grounds of Ishiyama-dera.66 But between the tenth
and thirteenth centuries, temple officials, their allies at court, and eventually the
Kamakura warrior government issued a series of orders banning hunting and
fishing in the area.67
Bans on taking life (sesshō kindan) were relatively common in premodern Ja-
pan. From at least the seventh century, rulers or regional authorities instituted
bans of hunting and fishing in regions they controlled in order to prove their de-
votion to the Dharma or qualifications as enlightened leaders, to transfer merit
to deceased relatives, or to ensure the efficacy of rituals of state or rituals for lon-
gevity or other worldly benefits.68 In addition to these temporary governmental
orders, temple grounds were themselves regarded as zones in which the taking of
life was strictly prohibited.69 The Ishiyama-dera engi emaki beautifully illustrates
Ishiyama-dera’s efforts to interrupt the activities of fishermen and hunters on
temple grounds. One section of this illustrated scroll contains a long frame in
which monks, identifiable by their shaved heads but nonetheless dressed in ar-
mor and carry ing weapons, chased off hunters.70 In an ironic twist on the Bud-
dhist tenet of nonviolence (Sk. ahiṃsā), these ruffian monks are depicted protect-
ing wildlife by inflicting a beating on one of the hunters with a long staff. To the
left of that scene, another band of armed monks drives away three fishermen. In
the river, two monks and a layman disassemble a weir, while monks on shore cut
up the nets and release fish back into the water (see figure 3).
Clearly sesshō kindan declarations were not just a means of demonstrating
Buddhist compassion, but also a means for temples to reinforce boundaries and
assert control over their territory. Furthermore, the Ishiyama-dera engi emaki
demonstrates that for temples bordering rivers, lakes, or seas, the temple’s domain
was often believed to include some portion of those bodies of water. Importantly,
at least four documents, likely dating from the medieval period, which provide
Onjōji’s four boundaries (shishi, sometimes pronounced shiji or shiishi), assert
that the temple’s eastern border extended into Lake Biwa “to the depth of a stand-
ing oar.”71 If the temple’s borders had been conceived this way at the time the
Onjōji ryūge-e engi was composed, Kyōtai would have been understood to have
been fishing not near Onjōji, but within Onjōji, suggesting that he was not only
consuming fish on temple grounds and polluting the site with animal refuse, but
also taking life on temple grounds.72 By associating him with marginal groups
that lived on the edges of ritsuryō culture and often found themselves in conflict

542-62921_ch01_6P.indd 88 2/10/16 10:25 AM

 The Eccentric Avatar   89

Figure 3. Monks attacking fishermen. Ishiyama-­dera engi emaki. Kamakura period. Courtesy
of Ishiyama-­dera.

with Buddhist institutions, the Ryūge-­e engi hinted that Kyōtai was guilty not
only of eccentricity, but of sin.

The Aged Fisherman as Literary Motif

Contributing significantly to the range of meanings that the aged fisherman
evoked was a poetic tradition, of which Sanenori and possibly ­others at Onjōji
­were surely aware, associating aged fishermen with solitude, homesickness, and
tears. In the poetry and prose of both China and Japan we find a distinct tendency
to represent fishermen as old men, due in part, perhaps, to the fact that a Chinese
term for fisherman, yufu, translates literally to “fishing ­father,” and thus carries
age-­graded connotations. The most famous examples of old fishermen from the
Chinese classics romanticize the ­free and easy life of the fisherman, who re-
mains disengaged from the stresses of the world, embodying an idealized reclu-
sive existence.73
Japa­nese poets inherited this image of the aged fisherman, but ­were less likely
to portray him in such unabashedly positive terms.74 Their treatment of old fisher­
men had more in common with other poems describing elders scraping out a
90   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

living on the margins of society. Especially among prac­ti­tion­ers of Chinese verse

or kanshi, the means by which elders w ­ ere able to support themselves was a sub-
ject of poetic curiosity. Heian-­period kanshi display, if not a concern for, at least
an interest in, the plight of the poor, miserable, and underclass.75 Ivo Smits ob-
serves that such poems treat “the social fringe as exotic subject m­ atter.”76 The ex-
oticism of ­these subjects stemmed from their embodying every­thing that the
center had sought symbolically and rhetorically to expel: t­ hose depicted as dirty,
diseased, poor, miserable, and, of course, old. Since the self-­image of early Japa­
nese rulers and nobles was tied in part to the conceit that rice was the foundation
of the realm, non-­agrarian elders became a subject of special fascination, to be
examined from a safe distance. Once again, the body of the elder occupied the sym-
bolic shadow formed by a poetics that sought to illuminate only certain aspects
of life at court. Heian-­period kanshi poets turned their gaze on t­ hese repressed
ele­ments of the social body that the center had seen fit to ignore.77
An example from a twelfth-­century poetry competition (uta awase) held at
Onjōji demonstrates that the poetic potential of the aged fisherman inspired Japa­
nese verse (waka), as well. In the fifth round of offerings on the theme of “Moon
over Lake Biwa,” the judge, Fujiwara Shunzei (1114–1204), awarded victory to
Taira no Chikamune’s (1144–1199) contribution:

Karasaki ya As the moon

shiga no urawa ni shines on Shiga bay,
tsuki sumeba from Karasaki,
haruka ni utau the far-­off song
oki no tsuribune of a fishing boat on the open ­water.

Shunzei judged this poem to be superior for the way it produced an atmo-
sphere of loneliness, evoking the “single oar-­song of the fishing-­boat okina,” a
reference to a Chinese poem by Yoshishige no Yasutane: “Tears of homesickness
form several rows on the face of the border guard / From his fishing boat, the
okina sings a solitary oar-­song.”78 Yasutane’s poem produces its own air of loneli-
ness by presenting a homesick soldier, posted at the very edge of the realm. The
appearance of the old fisherman further underscores his distance from the center,
situating him in the far-­off, eccentric zone of the okina. Although ­there is nothing
to indicate that Yasutane’s poem was set at night, the Wakan rōeishū appended a
note indicating that it called to mind the moon. This might be one reason Shunzei
drew a connection between Yasutane’s poem and Chikamune’s. But why would
the Wakan rōeishū’s compilers have claimed that Yasutane’s poem evoked the
moon? Images from the medieval period depicting fishing communities show pairs
 The Eccentric Avatar   91

or groups of men working during the daytime. Fishing at night presumably would
have been a solitary, private pursuit, appropriate for the okina, the quin­tes­sen­tial
outsider, cut off from society, forced to make his way in the world.
Chikamune’s poem makes no mention of the age of the fisherman whose song
he hears from Karasaki. Shunzei’s interpolation of the okina into the scene shows
the degree to which, by the late Heian period, a solitary fisherman evoked not just
loneliness, exile, tears, and moonlight, but the okina. The mere mention of a fish-
ing boat in moonlight was enough to call to mind the body of the elder. Such
­associations ­were also at play in the repre­sen­ta­tions of Kyōtai, especially in ­later
variants that indicate that he fished b ­ ecause he had “no other means with which
to support himself.”79 In the context of the late Heian poetic imagination, Kyōtai
was a figure that would have been immediately recognizable: a poor, underclass
elder, living apart from the group, forced, through his poverty, to engage in a form
of livelihood that implicated him in pollution and sin.80
Since fishing groups had long been represented as not fully part of the social
body of the imperial state, the aged fisherman of poetry and legend could also
serve as a stand-in for t­ hese collectives. Just as the aged kunitsukami in Japan’s
earliest myths represented the collective identities of vari­ous non-­Yamato ­peoples
who came to acknowledge the suzerainty of the center, the aged fisherman of
poetry and myth was treated as a representative of outlying non-­agrarian groups.
But in the Ryūge-­e engi, Kyōtai is more than a representative of a marginal group
submitting to a superior party. Kyōtai is himself revealed to be Maitreya, the pri-
mary object of worship at Onjōji. The aged, polluted, sinful body was redeemed
not through its contact with a superior power—it was revealed to be a superior
power in and of itself. To understand why ­t hose involved in originating and dis-
seminating this legend should have hoped to valorize such a body requires one
final piece of context: the shifting dynamics of patronage of Buddhist institutions
in the mid-­eleventh c­ entury.

Incorporating the Fringe: The Estate System and the

Bound­aries of the Monastic Body in Late Heian Japan
In the eleventh c­ entury, t­ emples w
­ ere forced to search for alternative sources of
funding.81 Traditionally, major shrine-­temple complexes could rely on steady sup-
port from the central government in return for protective rites performed for the
state or the imperial ­house­hold. As this system faltered, ­temples turned increas-
ingly to lower-­status individuals for support, often through fundraising cam-
paigns (kanjin). The Sekidera engi, for example, describes efforts to rebuild the
­temple in the 1020s, uniting high and low, including the fishermen and merchants
92   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

who dwelt near Lake Biwa.82 ­Temples also began to accumulate rights to por-
tions of the produce of private estates or shōen. By the eleventh c­ entury, propri-
etors w ­ ere exerting ever more control over t­ hese territories, seeking to extract a
share not only of their agricultural produce, but also of the output of their
rivers, lakes, the sea, mountains, and uncultivated lands (san’yakakai). In ­these
years, Onjōji was also forging new relationships with laypeople of diverse back-
grounds through the burgeoning estate system. At the time the Ryūge-­e engi
was being composed, the head (chōri) of Onjōji was Myōson (971–1063), who
was also the proprietor of the Ōura-­no-­shō, an estate situated on the northern
edge of Lake Biwa. Identified in the Man’yōshū as a major port, Ōura was likely
settled early on by communities whose livelihood was closely connected to the
lake, a situation that appears to have continued well into the medieval pe-
riod.83 In 1041, Myōson transferred rights to this estate to a ­temple that soon
became one of Onjōji’s imperial cloisters, effectively passing the proprietorship of
the Ōura estate to Onjōji itself.
Unlike shrines, t­ here is no evidence that t­ emples demanded a portion of the
fish caught on their estates. Nonetheless, t­ emple proprietors could hardly ignore
violations of the Buddhist precepts taking place on lands nominally u ­ nder their
control. Although t­ emples occasionally sought to restrict activities like hunting
and fishing on their territories through sesshō kindan declarations, such cases
­were relatively rare. More often, t­ emples turned to ideological means to manage
the commoners on their lands. Taira Masayuki argues that the proliferation of
tales depicting the salvation of sinners (akunin ōjō) in preaching texts dating
from the eleventh through thirteenth centuries resulted from increased contact
between t­ emple priests and laity who had no choice but to engage in forms of
livelihood that Buddhist teachings deemed immoral. ­These sermons implicated
fishermen, hunters, warriors, and vari­ous other non-­agrarian occupational groups
in killing, and sought to convince auditors that ­those who engaged in such activi-
ties ­were destined for hell ­unless they repented.84 Although ­t hese sermons pro-
vide evidence that ­temples ­were attempting to adjust the be­hav­ior of laypeople
ostensibly ­under their management, I would argue that influence flowed back in
the other direction as well. Th
­ ese tales often provided ideological cover for hunt-
ers and fishermen by demonstrating that even such sinners could be saved if they
displayed sufficient piety at appropriate moments. L ­ ater legends found other ways
of justifying fishing in par­tic­u­lar, especially when a portion of the catch was des-
tined to become an offering to a shrine.85
Late Heian-­period ­temples that found themselves in possession of lands on
which sinful activities w­ ere being performed w ­ ere forced to rethink their sense
of the bound­aries of their sacred domain and their community. Shōen, especially
 The Eccentric Avatar   93

as they came ­under tighter control by religious leaders, came to be ­imagined as

an extension of the sacred grounds of the t­ emple, and an extension of the monas-
tic body. In the case of Onjōji, this is clear in the Kujō-ke Onjōji engi, a document
purporting to be from the ninth c­ entury, but clearly of much l­ ater provenance. It
begins by delineating the four bound­aries of the ­temple and then lists seven shōen
whose taxes contributed annually to the repair of t­ emple buildings and the suste-
nance of the resident monks.86 The document invites “­people of high or low status,
men or ­women, to gather and dwell within the four bound­a ries of the above
mentioned estates that are the territory (ryō) of this ­temple,” especially their
uncultivated “mountains, ­waters and wilderness.”87 In this engi, Kyōtai himself
insists that the area “within the four bound­aries of this ­temple’s territory (ryō) is
exclusive; it is not the territory of any other person,” emphasizing that Onjōji is
meant exclusively for Enchin’s Jimon lineage, but also asserting Onjōji’s rights
against encroachment on its estates.88 Interestingly, all of the shōen listed in the
text’s introduction ­were located in Ōmi province, relatively close to Onjōji and
the shores of Lake Biwa.89 As a document adamant about protecting bound­aries
(reiterating Onjōji’s shishi three times within the text), its welcoming, inclusive at-
titude ­toward ­those who would populate the ­temple’s shōen and utilize their
mountains and ­waters is significant. It explic­itly recognizes the fact that Onjōji is
dependent on t­ hose properties, and the ­people of “high and low” status who dwelt
t­ here.90 And the p­ eople the text invited to “cultivate” t­ hese areas would invariably
have also engaged in the same problematic forms of livelihood as Kyōtai.91
The aged, polluted avatar Kyōtai appeared at precisely the historical moment
that Onjōji was coming into possession of territories inhabited by groups that had
long been regarded as marginal or even sinful. Just as akunin ōjō tales w ­ ere the
product of the increased contact between priests and commoners brought about
by the involvement of t­ emples in their estates, the figure of Kyōtai was the product
of a similar cross-­fertilization. His identity is one that straddles and unites sev-
eral communities. He is an old fisherman, making him the representative of mar-
ginal occupational groups of Onjōji’s shōen and the vicinity around the ­temple. But
he is also a monk—­self-­ordained perhaps, but living on ­temple grounds. Indeed,
his hut is positioned within the ­temple’s innermost sanctum, directly across from
the hall housing the ­temple’s honzon. Fi­nally, through the revelation that Kyōtai
is himself Maitreya, his identity brings together all of t­ hese groups. As a living
embodiment of Onjōji’s honzon, Kyōtai becomes a quasi-­totemic figure, symboli-
cally encompassing ­those of high and low status the ­temple sought to unite to
ensure its ­f uture.92 Kyōtai served to reassure the faithful that polluting activities
such as fishing could be sacred duties if they served to maintain the ­temple ­until
Maitreya made his appearance u ­ nder the Dragon Flower Tree. And as a monk
94   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

who lived on fish, Kyōtai also became a subtle symbol of the monastic commu-
nity, which, although it did not directly consume the fish being caught on its
­estates, also began in the eleventh ­century to owe its own livelihood in part to
­t hose activities.93
Scholars have cast the Onjōji ryūge-­e engi as an attempt to articulate a com-
pelling sectarian identity for Onjōji, distinct from that of its more power­f ul ri-
val, Enryakuji.94 Although at times ­t hese two ­temples, as representatives of the
Tendai School, presented a united front against their mutual rival Kōfukuji,
conflicts over Myōson’s brief appointment as Tendai zasu marked the begin-
ning of a long period of often violent clashes between the Jimon and Sanmon
branches.95 The portrayal of Onjōji’s honzon as an aged fisherman was clearly
connected to the new identity that Onjōji was attempting to forge at this time. As
a literary trope, the aged fisherman reflected the status of fishing communities—­
communicating their marginal place in the ritsuryō imagination, not fully inte-
grated into the body of the state. Kyōtai thus represented all the non-­agrarian,
quasi-­deviant bodies residing on the shōen that had only recently become part of
Onjōji’s corporate body as well. In stark opposition to earlier views of the aged
body as something problematic that might—as in the time of Tenmu—­require
expulsion from sacred sites to protect their purity, as an avatar of Onjōji’s cen-
tral buddha, the aged body was embraced and “incorporated” not only as part
of the collective body of the Jimon branch, but also as its emblem.96 Asserting
the power of the alienated, unclean body of the aged fisherman, ­these legends
also proclaimed the power of marginal groups at a time that the structures of
the classical center ­were being reconfigured. In the pro­cess, they implicitly af-
firmed the power of Onjōji as a marginal entity relative to Enryakuji.
As long as the ritsuryō economic and symbolic economy functioned, ­temples
had no interest in elevating marginalized bodies symbolized by the aged male.
In the ritsuryō worldview, shrines and t­ emples functioned as “organs” of the body
of the state, providing rites (kitō) to protect it. With the accelerating disintegra-
tion of that symbolic and economic system in the eleventh ­century, ­temples ­were
forced to incorporate bodies that had hitherto caused consternation. The Ryūge-­e
engi and ­later variants of the Ishiyama dera engi show how ­t hese communities
transformed the meanings of t­ hese bodies in light of t­ hese new realities, eventu-
ally embracing and celebrating them.97
Of course t­ emples with legends involving sacred old fishermen w ­ ere not the
only ones to come into possession of estates with fishing populations in the late
Heian period.98 But the proximity of Onjōji, Ishiyama-­dera, and Seki­dera to
Lake Biwa forced them into more direct contact with ­these groups, evidenced by
the long rec­ord of conflicts between Ishiyama-­dera and local mikuri. From the
 The Eccentric Avatar   95

lofty heights of Mount Hiei or distant Mount Kōya ­these deviant types could
continue to be ignored, or ­imagined as exterior to the ­temple body. This was not
so s­ imple on the shores of Lake Biwa.
Nonetheless, we should not assume that the appearance of legends featuring
divine old fishermen meant that fishing communities, long seen as incorrigible
adversaries, w ­ ere immediately accepted by the entire monastic community as al-
lies. As negotiated texts, ­t hese legends ­were never completely successful in their
attempt to blend and reduce multiple competing voices to a single narrative.
Onjōji monks continued debating Kyōtai’s significance well into the Muromachi
period. A document preserved in the Jimon denki horoku notes that “some rec­ords
claim Kyōtai was the founder of this ­temple,” an allegation the author denies.99
­Were assertions that Kyōtai had founded the t­ emple attempts to undermine the
notion that he was a filthy old fisherman, or that he was an avatar of Onjōji’s hon-
zon? It is impossible to know. At the very least, the document reveals that the
community continued to discuss and debate Kyōtai’s identity and his connection
to the ­temple long ­after the composition of the Ryūge-­e engi. It also reveals that
­t hose with the authority to make theirs the final word supported the view that
Kyōtai was at once fisherman, monk, and Maitreya. Although this chapter has
demonstrated that Kyōtai served a quasi-­totemic role, representing the incorpo-
ration into Onjōji’s collective body of ele­ments that ­t hose invested in the ritsuryō
order had sought to exclude, it would be more precise to say that Kyōtai was an
image of collective identity projected by certain members of the group, over the
pos­si­ble objections of other members.
David Bialock has remarked that in the late Heian period the borders of the
realm w ­ ere “reinvested” as sites of symbolic power.100 Indeed, ­t hese ­were the cen-
turies in which the aged body, as a symbol of the border and exterior, was also at
times ascribed a sacred aura. But ­t hese broad epistemic shifts ­were only the result
of countless smaller acts of reinterpretation and renegotiation undertaken by spe-
cific historically, eco­nom­ically, and po­liti­cally situated actors. Although ques-
tions remain, we are blessed with relatively detailed knowledge of Onjōji and its
interests at the time it began promoting the Kyōtai legend. We cannot reconstruct
a full account of how the aged avatar became the norm in medieval legend, but
the case of Kyōtai demonstrates how a complex set of shifting circumstances
motivated par­tic­u­lar individuals and groups with ties to the social and po­liti­cal
margins to appropriate the aged body and reimagine it as a symbol of power.
C HA P T E R SI X

The Graying of the Gods

The Return of the Okina Kami in Medieval Myth

The eleventh ­century saw the emergence of Buddhist legends in which the aged
body was a­ dopted as a novel symbol of otherworldly power, in some cases em-
ployed to represent unlikely keshin of buddhas or bodhisattvas. In the centuries
that followed, a remarkable number of legends w ­ ere recorded in which the aged
body was also used to represent kami of vari­ous types.1 The allure of the okina
god became so ­great in medieval Japan that we find numerous instances in which
sacred sites with relatively ancient and well-­established histories or origin legends
revised t­ hese accounts ­either to incorporate a mysterious old man or to provide a
more concrete description of their tutelary deities that marked them as elders—­a
pro­cess I call the “graying of the gods.” By the Kamakura period, legends had ap-
peared portraying kami associated with diverse cultic sites as old men, including
Gozu Tennō, Hachiman, Hakusan Myōjin, Hira Myōjin, Inari Myōjin, Kasuga
Gongen, Kifune Myōjin, Kumano Gongen, Matsuo Myōjin, Mio Myōjin, Sekizan
Myōjin, Shinra Myōjin, Sōtō Gongen, Sumiyoshi Myōjin, and Yoko’o Myōjin.2
Many of ­these gods made their first appearance in what have been called
“medieval shinwa.”3 The term shinwa, usually translated as “myth,” also carries the
narrower connotation of “kami tales.” Aside from their date of composition,
“medieval shinwa” share certain characteristics that distinguish them from
ritsuryō-­era kami tales, most notably the kikishinwa—­myths first recorded in the
Kojiki and Nihon shoki—­a nd from ­t hose found in eighth-­century fudoki. First,
while early kami tales often featured the gods of elites and served to articulate
and reinforce the social and po­liti­cal hierarchies of the imperial state, medieval
shinwa ­were of more diverse origins. Generally, they ­were the product of shrine-­
temple complexes and ­were used to advance their interests, often as fund-­raising
tools. A second impor­tant distinction involves the ways ­t hese texts represented
their gods. The sections of the early chronicles dealing with the “age of the gods”
depicted mortals—­usually tennō or their representatives—­interacting with kami
on the terrestrial plane. But with each successive imperial reign, kami became
ever more remote. In post-­kikishinwa texts, it became the norm to pres­ent gods as
invisible presences whose voices could be heard through oracles, but who did not

96
 The Graying of the Gods   97

reveal themselves materially.4 Medieval shinwa, however, once again depicted kami
taking concrete, humanlike form, although instead of appearing to rulers or their
emissaries, they almost always revealed themselves to religious professionals—­
esteemed Buddhist clerics or thaumaturges.5 A third characteristic of medieval
shinwa was their tendency to revise earlier narratives, reworking or expanding
the character of a par­tic­u ­lar kami, often reimagining their physical appearance
as well. Kami who had earlier been depicted as youths, or not been described at
all, ­were commonly reenvisioned in medieval shinwa as old men.6 In other cases
medieval shinwa introduced “medieval gods”—­kami that made their first appear-
ance, most often as an okina, in texts that dated from the medieval period but
that often claimed to describe much earlier events.7
The prevalence of myths featuring okina kami contributed to the modern
notion that the okina was the archetypal form of the Japa­nese god, as opposed to
buddhas who w ­ ere traditionally portrayed as youths or men in their prime.8
Of course, Japa­nese legends did portray bodhisattvas and buddhas as old men or
even, in rare instances, as old w ­ omen. And while an overwhelming majority of
legends featuring otherworldly okina used the aged body to represent kami rather
than buddhas, we should not assume that okina kami ­were a perennial feature of
the Japa­nese religious imagination, or that the categories of kami and buddhas
aligned neatly with categories of “Japa­nese” and “foreign.” Many early kami long
regarded as “native” to Japan likely had foreign origins or cults so deeply influ-
enced by continental legends, liturgies, and ritual forms that it is impossible to
tease out native ele­ments from t­ hose that originated abroad.9 Furthermore, while
certain early medieval okina kami ­were portrayed as chthonic, identified as pro-
tectors of a local territory ( jishu), ­others ­were not marked as local, let alone “Japa­
nese.” Many ­were explic­itly portrayed as foreign, some identified as Dharma pro-
tectors (gohō or gohōjin) who had traveled to Japan from ­Korea or China for the
purpose of protecting a Buddhist site or clerical lineage.10
This chapter pres­ents an analy­sis of representative examples of medieval
shinwa to show, first, that the groups or individuals who crafted t­ hese images of
okina gods w ­ ere, for the most part, from the m ­ iddle echelons of court or religious
hierarchies, conscious of their marginal status, and produced t­ hese legends to
legitimate their religious or artistic lineages. Second, and importantly, the texts
in which t­ hese legends first appeared ­were not the work of sacerdotal lineages
charged with maintaining kami cults, but mainly the work of lay Buddhists, usu-
ally scholars or literati. The archetype of the okina kami was produced within a
Buddhist context, most often to promote Buddhist sites. In spite of modern Shintō
rhe­toric, the gods discussed in this chapter w ­ ere not envisioned occupying a sep-
arate pantheon from that of Buddhist divinities.11 Their legends arose within a
98   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

milieu of shinbutsu shūgō, a scholarly term denoting the combinatory nature of

premodern religious sites and cults. Th ­ ose who originated or compiled ­t hese nar-
ratives envisioned a cooperative, not oppositional, relationship between buddhas
and kami.
By the Kamakura period the okina kami had become more or less a stock
figure, more likely deployed out of obedience to convention than a desire to work
with or against the meanings evoked by the aged body. Therefore I have sought to
examine the strategic positioning of the aged body in some of the earliest recorded
instances of gods being presented as okina, focusing on narratives surrounding
three kami—­Shinra Myōjin, Matsuo Myōjin, and the Sumiyoshi Daimyōjin.
Before analyzing ­these legends, it is impor­tant to consider why it was the aged
male, and not the aged female, that came to enjoy such widespread use as a repre­
sen­ta­tion of the divine in medieval Japan.12 Roughly half the elder gods in the
kikishinwa ­were depicted as ōna (old ­women).13 However, medieval legends fea-
turing el­derly female avatars of any kind—­kami, buddhas, or bodhisattvas—­were
exceedingly rare. Fukutō Sanae explains this shift as a reflection of the declining
social standing of w ­ omen between the early and medieval periods. Fukutō points
to archaeological and textual evidence that in pre-­ritsuryō ­Korea and Japan
­women occupied positions of authority and numbered among the ranks of local
chieftains (shuchō).14 Although the early ritsuryō state continued to employ the
ser­v ices of leaders of traditional collectives, ­women ­were increasingly disenfran-
chised.15 Ninth-­century laws completely removed local leaders, introducing a new
degree of social stratification.16 The ninth ­century also saw the end of official fe-
male ordination. From that point forward all major posts within the Buddhist
sangha came to be occupied by male monastics, with many state-­sponsored nun-
neries that had been established in the Nara period converted into monasteries.17
Following the gradual weakening of ritsuryō institutions, in the late Heian
period, something resembling pre-­r itsuryō structures of authority began to
reemerge at the local level, based not on court appointment but on seniority. The
shōen system led to the development of positions, such as the satanin and korō, to
manage production on behalf of off-­site patrons, providing new authoritative
roles for elder males. ­Women, however, enjoyed no new forms of social empow-
erment in the post-­ritsuryō world. In the realm of kami cults, similar dynamics
­were at play. As villages developed into guild-­like structures in the early medi-
eval period, shrines came to be managed by miya-­za, headed by village elders
(toshiyori, otona).18 ­These would also have been men. Fukutō theorizes that as el­
derly men came once again to enjoy positions of local authority, local deities
came to be seen as old men.19 Although compelling, this argument offers only a
partial explanation. It ignores the fact that many of the first medieval okina kami
 The Graying of the Gods   99

­ ere not local deities but gods from abroad, not tutelary deities but Dharma
w
protectors.20 We might also note that the elevated image of aged saints in early
medieval texts, discussed in chapter 4, was connected, in some mea­sure, to the
disempowerment of se­nior members of the Buddhist community. While it seems
reasonable to assume that repre­sen­ta­tions of divine beings mirror social realities
and power structures “on the ground,” the situation is clearly more complex and
requires consideration of a broader set of social and cultural f­ actors.
Although the mystery of the vanishing ōna kami is not one that can be fully
solved ­here, I suggest that we must attend to the positioning not only of ­t hose
being represented, but also of ­t hose who produced and promulgated ­t hese repre­
sen­ta­tions. We must further consider ­whether a given figure was being used to
represent “­others” or to represent individual or collective “selves.” As best we can
determine, the late-­Heian and early-­medieval legends in which the figure of the
okina was once again used to represent kami ­were for the most part the product
of interaction between male religious experts and male literati. In many of t­ hese
cases, the gods in question ­were also implicitly positioned as surrogates for ­t hese
predominantly male collectives. The aged male form was thus well suited to func-
tion as a marker of difference with which t­ hese groups could, nonetheless, par-
tially identify. Similarly, in the rare medieval legends portraying aged female
divinities, most notably a trinity collectively known as Onbasama enshrined at
Tateyama, t­ hese figures ­were the center of cults that addressed the concerns of
­women and w ­ ere presumably comprised mainly, if not exclusively of ­women.21
When called upon in texts authored by men to represent otherworldly powers,
however, the aged female body invariably represented the “other”—­oppositional,
demonic forces, such as ­t hose discussed in chapter 3.
Given ­t hese observations, one still might expect more gender parity within
the medieval pantheon, considering the degree to which w ­ omen w ­ ere active pa-
trons of and participants in religious life in medieval Japan. Caroline Bynum’s
22

studies of the biographies of medieval Eu­ro­pean w ­ omen and response to Victor

Turner’s theories of liminality provide a promising starting point for further in-
vestigation. Bynum observes that in order for liminality to function as a form of
power, it had to represent a break with and an inversion of an individual’s origi-
nal status. Since, she claims, ­women in medieval Eu­rope ­were construed as “per-
manently liminal” relative to men, they could not enjoy the symbolic empower-
ment that accompanied a break with their earlier status.23 Although t­ here are
limits to the parallels that might be drawn, similar dynamics ­were at work in pre-
modern Japan. In the case of men, old age had traditionally been represented as a
fall from power and expulsion from the center. In the late Heian, however, elite dis-
courses of retirement increasingly came to describe reclusion as an opportunity
100   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

for new forms of authority that ­were only available once one escaped the social
hierarchies of the court or the monastery. For w
­ omen, who beginning in the eighth
­century could no longer aspire to the status of tennō—­the pinnacle of worldly
power—­and who from the ninth ­century ­were increasingly excluded from publicly
recognized forms of authority, old age and retirement had a much more ambigu-
ous set of meanings.24 This, in turn, made the aged female body a much more
problematic signifier. For male authors, the female body was presumably already
sufficiently “other” to serve as a form of difference through which to imagine
otherworldly beings, and did not require the further distinction of being old.
Thus in medieval legends we do find references to divinities appearing as females
(onna) marked as neither young nor old and thus presumed to be ­women in
their prime.25 Female authors, on the other hand, might have perceived old age
and retirement from “the world” as a less drastic break than their male counter­
parts, and thus the aged female form as a less useful conceptual tool for ex-
pressing difference.

Dharma Protectors and Tutelary Kami

The Exotic Okina: Shinra Myōjin
One of the earliest depictions of a medieval god as an okina occurs in the Onjōji
ryūge-­e engi of 1059, in its descriptions of Shinra Myōjin, a gohō or Dharma-­
protecting deity. The Ryūge-­e engi was produced as Onjōji was struggling to es-
tablish itself as an in­de­pen­dent branch of the Tendai School, reflecting Onjōji’s
awareness of its marginality relative to its more dominant rival, Enryakuji. Al-
though Onjōji stood alongside Enryakuji and Kōfukuji as one of the three most
power­f ul ­temples in Japan, compared to Enryakuji, the Jimon lineage had reason
to feel insecure. Throughout the tenth and eleventh centuries, Jimon monks ­were
denied the position of zasu, or forced to resign ­a fter a short term in office. Al-
though Enryakuji had been allowed to establish an ordination platform in the
ninth c­ entury, it repeatedly blocked Onjōji from creating its own.26
The Ryūge-­e engi presented a fictional account of how Enchin’s lineage came
to be based at Onjōji, describing his journey to the Tang and his initiation into
the esoteric lineage of Faquan. On his return voyage, an “old okina” (rōō) ap-
peared, identifying himself as “the bright deity (myōjin) of this country of Silla.”
Shinra Myōjin vowed to protect the Buddha Dharma that Enchin had received
­u ntil the coming of Maitreya—­t he buddha of the f­ uture age.27 Upon reaching
Japan, Enchin was ordered to store the icons and scriptures he had brought back
at the G­ reat Hall of State. Enchin was then once more visited by Shinra Myōjin,
 The Graying of the Gods   101

who instructed him to take his scriptures, instead, to a sacred (“superior”) site
in Ōmi province. Enchin proceeded to Onjōji. A ­ fter vowing to base his lineage
­t here, we read that a shrine to Shinra Myōjin was established in the t­ emple’s north-
ern cloister.28
Although this narrative gives Shinra Myōjin a pivotal role in the founding of
the Jimon lineage, ­t here is nothing prior to the Ryūge-­e engi connecting this
deity to Enchin. The earliest, most reliable rec­ords concerning Enchin—­his diary
(Gyōrekishō) and his earliest biography, Miyoshi no Kiyoyuki’s (847–918) Chishō
daishiden—­make no mention of Shinra Myōjin.29 Tellingly, in 886, when the
emperor contracted a serious illness, Enchin’s prayers for his recovery ­were di-
rected not to Shinra Myōjin but to the Sannō deity, the tutelary deity of Mount
Hiei.30 Narratives involving Enchin’s visions of Shinra Myōjin ­were ­later fabri-
cations, likely dating from the late tenth or mid-­eleventh ­century.
The development of Shinra Myōjin’s cultic identity was intimately connected
with that of another continental gohō, Sekizan Myōjin. Sekizan Myōjin had pur-
portedly been brought back from the Tang by Ennin, regarded as the founder of
the Sanmon lineage, based at Enryakuji. Shinra Myōjin was likely first enshrined
at Onjōji in the tenth ­century in emulation of the installation of Sekizan Myōjin at
the foot of Mount Hiei. The first document naming Shinra Myōjin and connecting
him to Onjōji dates from 971, showing that the god was elevated to Se­nior Fourth
Rank, Upper Grade, in response to a petition by an Onjōji monk.31 Twenty-­some
years ­later, a Jimon monk attacked the Sekizan shrine in retaliation for the refusal
of Sanmon authorities to promote Jimon monks within the Tendai School.32 By
at least the tenth ­century, therefore, continental gohō ­were being treated as totem-­
like emblems of Jimon and Sanmon lines. Elevating the rank of a Jimon gohō
served to elevate the status of the lineage as a w ­ hole; vio­lence against a Sanmon
gohō was seen as a strike against that lineage as a ­whole.
The mid-­eleventh ­century saw a flurry of repre­sen­ta­tional activity around the
figure of Shinra Myōjin that was deeply intertwined with Myōson’s efforts as chōri
to secure patronage, shore up Onjōji’s institutional in­de­pen­dence, and fashion a
sectarian identity for the Jimon lineage. Although Shinra Myōjin had had a pres-
ence at Onjōji since at least 971, the Onjōji denki and Jimon denki horoku rec­ord
that when the god was first brought to Onjōji, no one knew its true name. Pre-
sumably it was for this reason that it was first identified in the petition of 971 only
by the generic moniker of “bright deity of Silla.” The first public rites (saishi) hon-
oring the god ­were not performed u ­ ntil 1052. ­These rites, overseen by Myōson,
are thought to have served as the shrine’s dedication ceremony.33 It appears that
Onjōji had been unable to perform the dedication when Shinra Myōjin was first
installed ­because without its name, it could not be formally addressed in public
102   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

prayers.34 The Onjōji denki and Jimon denki horoku describe how a Song merchant
fi­nally identified the deity, providing four names: Sūkaku 崧嶽, Sekizan’ō 赤山王,
Sūzan’ō 嵩山王, and Shiten Fujin 四天夫人.35 The merchant also revealed that in
its home country, it customarily received an offering of one thousand swords.36
Since this was the very offering Myōson arranged in 1052, it suggests that the
merchant provided details about Shinra Myōjin sometime just prior to its dedi-
cation ceremony.37 ­Temple rec­ords also show that around this time the head of
the Seiwa Genji warrior clan, Minamoto no Yoriyoshi (988–1075), prayed to
Shinra Myōjin for success in the Latter Nine Years’ War, promising to offer his
third son to Onjōji should he prevail. The Seiwa Genji was to become one of
Onjōji’s most impor­tant patrons, treating Shinra Myōjin as one of their clan dei-
ties (ujigami). The dedicatory ceremony in 1052 was perhaps timed to correspond
with Yoriyoshi’s prayers.38
Christine Guth argues that one of the most striking images of Shinra Myōjin,
a wooden icon or shinzō, was created for this ceremony.39 The icon portrays him
as a pale figure dressed in Chinese-­style robes, with vis­i­ble wrinkles, a white
beard, and drooping white eyebrows.40 Seven years ­after the ceremony, Sanenori
produced the Ryūge-­e engi, the first text to explic­itly depict Shinra Myōjin as an
okina god traveling with Enchin to Japan from abroad. The formation of a
concrete image and legend for the god, therefore, must be understood as part of
Myōson’s larger proj­ect of securing patronage and producing an in­de­pen­dent
identity for the Jimon line. Unlike the Ryūge-­e engi’s pre­sen­ta­tion of Onjōji’s other
super­natu­ral elder, Kyōtai, as a fisherman, Shinra Myōjin was not depicted textu-
ally or iconographically as particularly polluted or sinful. What was foregrounded,
however, was his foreign origin. Guth proposes that by emphasizing the foreign
character of gohōjin associated with found­ers of Buddhist lineages, ­t hese texts
and icons reminded the faithful that their spiritual ancestors had received the
correct transmission of the Dharma from its sources abroad. In the case of the
Shinra Myōjin icon, vari­ous details highlight this figure’s outlandishness: its un-
usual ­triple-­pointed cap, its ghostly pallor, its tall leather boots, and its dramati-
cally slanting eyes.
Portrayals of gohō as outsiders also provided them with the charisma of the
mysterious other. It is ­here that the aged body also had a role to play. From at least
the eighth ­century, the aged body had been utilized in a variety of texts as a sym-
bol of otherness—of beings that existed at the margins of or outside the royal
ambit. In the Ryūge-­e engi, Shinra Myōjin’s position as a foreign divinity empow-
ers him to resist royal authority. He has Enchin disobey the ­orders of the court
and transport the materials he had brought back from the Tang to Onjōji, rather
than depositing them at the ­Great Hall of State. A group of legends preserved in
 The Graying of the Gods   103

the Onjōji denki and Jimon denki horoku described further conflicts between
Shinra Myōjin and the tennō. When Onjōji was denied the right to establish its
own ordination platform ­under Go-­Suzaku tennō, Shinra Myōjin reputedly sub-
jected his grand­son, Emperor Go-­Sanjō, to a curse (tatari).41 The Jimon denki
horoku also recorded an oracle in which the god expressed his lack of interest in
attaining court rank, thus indicating his indifference to the court-­centered status
system. Similarly, in the f­ ourteenth-­century Jitokushū, Shinra Myōjin stated that
he came to Japan “for the sole purpose of protecting the Dharma of Chishō Dai-
shi (Enchin), not to be recognized by the lord of this land.”42

Competition and Convergence: Okina in the Legends

of Shinra Myōjin, Sekizan Myōjin, and Beyond
The development of the legends of Shinra Myōjin and Sekizan Myōjin involved a
fascinating dialectical pro­cess. From Ennin’s diaries, we have a clear account of
the circumstances by which he came in contact with Sekizan Myōjin. Sekizan is the
Japa­nese reading for Chi Shan, a sacred mountain on the coast of Shandong prov-
ince. On his journey to the Tang in 838, Ennin’s boat encountered a storm. The
crew averted disaster by pointing the bow of the vessel ­toward Chi Shan and pray-
ing to its deity. Having survived the storm, Ennin climbed Mount Chi and showed
his gratitude to the god. Although ­later accounts would claim he vowed to build a
shrine to the god in Japan, t­ here is no mention of such a vow in his diary, and it was
only a­ fter his death in 888 that Sekizan was installed at the foot of Mount Hiei.43
The Ryūge-­e engi’s depiction of Enchin’s encounter with Shinra Myōjin at sea
clearly sought to mimic the way Sekizan Myōjin was shown to protect Ennin on
his own voyage. However, whereas in Ennin’s account Sekizan Myōjin remained
an unseen presence, the Ryūge-­e engi described Shinra Myōjin appearing bodily
to Enchin, marking it as a “medieval” style myth. In an ironic reversal, l­ater leg-
ends dealing with Sekizan Myōjin began to incorporate narrative ele­ments from
the Ryūge-­e engi. In the thirteenth-­century Hie Sannō rishōki we read of Ennin once
again aboard a ship caught in a storm, but this time directing his prayers to Mount
Hiei. Suddenly a man appears who identifies himself as Sekizan Myōjin.44 Although
described as an old man elsewhere in the text, in his encounter with Ennin he is not
marked as an elder. In the l­ater Sekizan myōjin engi, however, the god appears on
Ennin’s boat as an “old okina”—­a rōō, the same term employed in the Ryūge-­e engi.
And, not to be outdone, he is depicted as over one-­million years of age.45
­These examples of competitive mythmaking are all the more ironic when we
consider that numerous scholars have postulated that Sekizan and Shinra Myōjin
­were originally the same god.46 Kim Hyŏn-uk notes that Sekizan was originally
venerated at the Sillan cloister on Mount Chi and that Sekizan’ō was one of the
104   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

names the Song merchant provided for Shinra Myōjin. On the other hand, while
­t hese gods may very well have shared a common origin, it is unclear what signifi-
cance this would have had in premodern Japan, where the “identity” of a god was
determined more by the local cultic networks that formed around it. What is more
impor­tant is the way rival lineages developed distinct identities for ­t hese gods
through competition and, at times perhaps, unwitting collaboration. While the
Jimon lineage started out imitating ele­ments of the Sekizan cult in its long quest to
achieve parity with Enryakuji, certain features of the Ryūge-­e engi narrative ­were
successful enough to inspire their own imitators. For example, in addition to ­later
Sekizan legends, a Kamakura-­period narrative explaining the Sumiyoshi deity’s
protection of the Way of Poetry had the god appearing as an okina on the boat of
famed poet Fujiwara no Shunzei to save him from drowning in a storm.47

Localizing the Legitimating Okina

Shinra Myōjin and Sekizan Myōjin began their ­careers in Japan as deities whose
physical appearance was not central to their cult.48 By the Kamakura period, how-
ever, legends had developed in which both revealed themselves as old men to
high-­ranking Buddhist prelates. Similar pro­cesses ­were at work at other sites
around Japan. Although our discussion has focused on narratives featuring for-
eign gohō, legends that formed around kami that w ­ ere explic­itly positioned as
local or tutelary underwent similar transformations in the late Heian and medi-
eval periods. Chapter 5 described the evolving identity and image of Hira Myōjin
from unnamed okina fisherman to tutelary deity in the corpus of engi related to
Ishiyama-­dera. Legends describing the origins of the Tōji, Tōnomine, Hasedera,
and Daigoji also disclose a pattern of development in which tutelary deities, ­either
not mentioned or presented as invisible in early texts, are depicted in ­later texts
as okina.49 In the case of Daigoji, the earliest document dealing with its founder,
Shōbō, the Daigo konpon sōjō ryakuden, makes no mention of any tutelary kami.50
But the late Heian-­period Daigoji engi describes Shōbō climbing Kasatori-­yama
and encountering an okina, identified as Yoko’o Myōjin, sipping from a sacred
spring.51 The Daigoji engi consists of three parts, the earliest of which, appended to
the end of the document, has a colophon dated 937. But the first section, in which
the okina kami appears, is clearly a work of the late Heian period, since it also
mentions the Enkō-in and Muryōkō-in, which w ­ ere constructed in 1085 and
1097, respectively.52
Texts imputing links between aged tutelary gods and ancient sites employed
vari­ous strategies to enhance their authority. Some forgeries bore improbable
attributions, e­ ither to the founder of the t­ emple or renowned figures such as, in
the case of the Hasedera engi, Sugawara no Michizane.53 But the frequent inter-
 The Graying of the Gods   105

polation of aged tutelary deities into established narratives indicates that by the
Kamakura period, elder gods ­were themselves seen as virtual sine qua non of
Buddhist engi; the imprimatur of an aged kami was another means of lending
credence to a narrative and prestige to a given site. While maintaining its status as
a symbol of the margins, the okina was gaining a paradoxical form of authority.
On the one hand, medieval shinwa recapitulated the structure of ancient myths
where aged kunitsukami, representing inferior, conquered groups, ceded their land.
Medieval legends, as well, portrayed the submission of local powers to trans-­local
powers. But rather than submitting to the tennō, they offered their land to Bud-
dhist prelates, illustrating a shift from a tennō-­oriented ideology to a medieval
ideology, in which vari­ous power blocs competed for and shared power but
recognized ultimate authority resting with the Dharma. Unlike early myths in
which the aged body could not resist the majesty of the sun line, medieval
okina kami would, if required, serve the Dharma over and against the interests
of the throne.
The fact that so many Buddhist sites deemed it a necessity to alter their origin
narratives to include aged tutelary deities suggests that ­t hese gods brought other
benefits as well. Just as Shinra Myōjin had strengthened ties between Onjōji and
the Seiwa Genji, ­t hese gods could be sources of symbolic capital, inspiring cults
that helped expand the network of patronage at a given t­ emple.

Okina Kami as Suijaku

Visions of the Matsuo Diety
The tendency to envision a cooperative relationship between Buddhist divinities
and local gods is a pan-­Buddhist phenomenon. In Japan t­ hese combinatory sen-
sibilities, cast against a backdrop of Tiantai reflection on the three bodies of the
Buddha (sanshin) led to the widespread understanding that local kami ­were
avatars or “traces” (suijaku) of Buddhist “originals” (honji)—­so-­called honji suijaku
thought. A few early examples notwithstanding, the theory came to be widely
applied beginning in the eleventh ­century.54 Although no theory can fully ac-
count for why combinatory practices accelerated in the late Heian, the pro­cess is
generally understood as an outgrowth of Buddhist institutions seeking to expand
their influence into territories or zones of ritual activity that had previously been
the domain of kami cults. Some have proposed that honji suijaku provided Bud-
dhist institutions a means to forge closer ties with and control the ­people who
lived and worked on their shōen.55 By claiming that tutelary deities venerated
by shōen inhabitants ­were in fact manifestations of the ­temple’s honzon, ­temple
leaders encouraged loyalty to their institution and, when necessary, threatened
106   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

divine punishment for ­those who failed to obey commands or submit taxes. Uejima
Susumu has identified another impor­tant locus of combinatory activity: twenty-­
two official shrines (nijūnisha), singled out for imperial support in return for rites
to protect the state and emperor.56 The nijūnisha system was formed partly in re-
action to the dominance of the esoteric Shingon and Tendai schools in this field
of ritual activity.57 But ­after a few centuries, esoteric Buddhist monks (gojisō) began
inserting themselves into nijūnisha rites as well. The gojisō incorporated rituals
undertaken at t­ hese shrines into an esoteric Buddhist paradigm. But in order to
conduct ­these Buddhist rituals, the honji of t­ hese deities had to be identified.
Some have proposed that honji suijaku discourse spread in response to mappō
consciousness.58 Japa­nese Buddhists took solace in the notion that exalted bud-
dhas and bodhisattvas had made special efforts to guide ­t hose born in the degen-
erate age by taking forms to which the Japa­nese could more easily relate. This
resonated with the view that buddhas “softened their illumination and merged
with the dust” (wakō dōjin) of this polluted world to become more accessible to
us. Since “dust” was a term commonly employed to indicate filth, and Buddhist
lit­er­a­ture often treated the aged body as emblematic of the coarse, polluted na-
ture of samsara, a symbolic logic undergirded the many tales in which suijaku
­were portrayed as okina.59 That surpassingly pure buddhas or bodhisattvas would
lower themselves to such a status demonstrated, once again, the miraculous abil-
ity of ­t hese beings to overcome dualities.
Although the pro­cesses by which par­tic­u­lar local gods came to be associated
with specific buddhas and bodhisattvas ­were complex and multifaceted, the new-
found urge in the late Heian period to identify the honji of vari­ous kami spurred
the production and compilation of legends that disclosed t­ hese relationships and
accelerated the proliferation of narratives in which okina played a central role,
­either as embodied suijaku or as ambiguous otherworldly figures who revealed
the secret Buddhist identity of a given kami. Ōe no Masafusa’s (1041–1111) Honchō
shinsenden provides one of the earliest examples involving an okina suijaku,
recording that the monk Nichizō (also known as Dōken) once resolved to dis-
cover the original ground (­here written as hongaku) of the deity of the Matsuo
(Matsuno’o) shrine. Having prayed and chanted sutras continuously for twenty-­
one days, he was engulfed in dark clouds and rain.60 Suddenly out of the gloom an
old man appeared and attempted to remove Nichizō from the sanctuary. Although
Nichizō covered his ears, he heard a voice call out: “Vipasyin Buddha.” Nichizō
looked up, only to see the old man standing over him.61
Several aspects of this narrative commend themselves to our attention. First,
the revelation of the god and his honji is only in response to the interest of a Bud-
dhist priest. Since it was generally understood that gods tended not to reveal their
 The Graying of the Gods   107

“true bodies” to ignorant laypeople, the pro­cess of determining t­ hose relations

required the involvement of priests like Nichizō. It was also impor­tant that t­ hese
priests possess sufficient charisma to make their visions authoritative.62 The Shin-
senden also describes the activities of the mountain monk Taichō, who traveled
to sites around Japan, revealing the originals of vari­ous traces.63 The motif of the
okina god appearing to announce his honji became a commonplace from the early
medieval period forward. Noteworthy examples include the legends of Hachiman
Daibosatsu from the twelfth-­century Tōdaiji yōroku and Fusō ryakki, of Kasuga
Daimyōjin from the f­ ourteenth-­century Kasuga gongen genki e, and of a tutelary
deity of Mount Haku (Hakusan or Shirayama) from the ­fourteenth-­century
Genkō shakusho.64
Although we cannot know w ­ hether the historical Nichizō had any interest in
the Matsuo deity, the persona established for him by the late eleventh ­century
satisfied the requirements of the legend. Nichizō was well-­k nown for his alleged
sojourn to the underworld, where he had witnessed the punishments meted out
to vari­ous parties for Michizane’s wrongful exile. Nichizō’s fame as a visionary
likely made him an appealing stand-in for a host of nameless monks engaged in
similar practices in the late Heian and medieval periods, allowing him to serve
as an authoritative voice in legends that hoped to fix relationships between a given
local god and a buddha.65
Nichizō’s persona as seer also highlights the central role of dreams and visions
in the revelation of the physical forms of gods in medieval legends. In the Shin-
senden, the Matsuo deity appears only ­after Nichizō has engaged in twenty-­one
days of continuous prayer and mindfulness (nen), presumably uninterrupted by
sleep. This reflects the longstanding practice of okomori (incubation), in which
individuals spent the night in a ­temple or shrine sanctuary to accrue merit and,
if pos­si­ble, receive a visitation from its honzon or other divine beings. Pilgrimage
and incubation became popu­lar from the mid-­Heian period, providing a matrix
for the development of images for gods, buddhas, and bodhisattvas. Before under-
taking a pilgrimage it was customary to engage in fasting and “contemplative
devotion to a Buddhist deity” (hotoke o nenjitatematsuru).66 During both the
preparatory period and their incubation, devotees would pay special attention to
dreams in which divinities might appear.
In Nichizō’s case we are meant to believe that his encounter took place in wak-
ing consciousness, but ­after twenty-­one days of sleeplessness, we have reason to
be skeptical. It is also clear from textual and pictorial repre­sen­ta­tions of okomori
dating from the Heian and Kamakura periods that although pilgrims attempted
to stay awake for the entire three-­or seven-­day length of their visit, they often spent
­t hose long hours drifting in and out of sleep. One frame from the Ishiyama-­dera
108   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

engi emaki shows the wife of Fujiwara Kumiyoshi asleep in front of the sanctuary
being visited in a dream by the honzon.67 Similar scenes in the second, fourth,
and fifth scrolls show the faithful in vari­ous states of wakefulness, some reclin-
ing, some praying, and some blatantly sleeping.68 Clearly, visions of super­natu­ral
beings in dreams ­were taken as seriously as encounters in waking life. Indeed
this was the case for religious professionals as well. Respected clerics are known
to have kept diaries in which they probed their dreams for clues about the inten-
tions of kami and buddhas.69
Dream diaries and other sources show that by the Kamakura period both lay-
people and religious professionals w ­ ere dreaming with surprising regularity of
mysterious old men.70 But it was often not clear who or what t­ hese el­derly appari-
tions ­were meant to represent. In the Ishiyama-­dera engi emaki’s okomori scenes,
for example, although the t­ emple’s honzon makes a few appearances, the major-
ity of visions involved old men, often old monks. None, however, ­were explic­itly
identified as any specific form of divinity. In one section, a wealthy man who had
come to Ishiyama-­dera to pray for the recovery of his d ­ aughter from rai—­a cat-
egory of skin diseases thought to include what is ­today identified as Hansen’s
disease—­dreamt of an old monk stripping his d ­ aughter of a persimmon-­colored
robe (see figure 4).71 Beggars, outcasts, and ­t hose afflicted with rai often wore
persimmon-­colored robes.72 By removing them, the old man symbolically

Figure  4. Apparition of el­derly monk curing disease. Ishiyama-­dera engi emaki. Kamakura
period. Courtesy of Ishiyama-­dera.
 The Graying of the Gods   109

r­ emoved her diseased skin, effecting a miraculous cure.73 Overjoyed, the f­ ather
showed his appreciation with a generous offering. Although clearly a vehicle of
super­natu­ral power, nowhere was the old man identified as a god or buddha.
The ambiguity in ­t hese sources over ­whether a given apparitional elder was a
kami, a divine messenger, or just an old man demonstrates that such identifica-
tions ­were seen to require expertise and authority.74 Narratives in which mysteri-
ous elders w ­ ere identified as gods always involved high-­ranking Buddhist priests
or ascetics (kenza). But even ­t hese thaumaturges did not necessarily have the
final word; t­ hose who recorded and transmitted t­ hese legends also played a crucial
role. In par­tic­u­lar, Ōe no Masafusa became a key figure in the advancement of
honji suijaku thought.75 In the Shinsenden and other writings, Masafusa provided
the honji for sixteen gods, most of whom ­were associated with the twenty-­t wo
official shrines. Yoshihara Hiroto points out that of ­these sixteen honji, fifteen are
the earliest attestation. In all cases the honji recorded by Masafusa eventually
became widely accepted.76
Many of ­t hese cases ­were directly connected to Masafusa’s role as advisor
to the throne during the period in which power was shifting from the Fujiwara
regents’ line to retired emperors.77 More than half the associations Masafusa
recorded appeared in ganmon, votive texts that he composed on behalf of royal and
noble patrons, articulating prayers to accompany offerings to buddhas and bod-
hisattvas.78 Th ­ ese ganmon often followed a compositional template in which the
Buddhist original and kami trace to which prayers w ­ ere directed ­were listed in
sequence.79 Thus one reason Masafusa was so curious about legends identifying
the originals of vari­ous kami was to aid him in composing poetically balanced,
accurate, and thus effective prayer petitions. By rendering legends into text, lite-
rati like Masafusa attempted to fix honji suijaku relationships, which then aided
them in proj­ects like the composition of ganmon, allowing them to use their
knowledge to acquire social and material capital. While the practice of okomori
likely generated much of the “raw data” that determined relationships between
par­tic­u­lar gods and buddhas, okomori’s role as a literary device was thus just as
impor­tant. In the pro­cess of producing and disseminating memorable and authori-
tative accounts publicizing the discovery of a given honji suijaku relationship, the
aged body once again became a useful narrative tool. Some texts ­were vague as to
w­ hether the okina was the kami in question or a divine messenger sent to announce
the god’s honji. But l­ ater texts increasingly featured mysterious okina explic­itly
identifying themselves as specific gods, often for the purpose of revealing their
honji. Although the spread of honji suijaku discourse occurred in a piecemeal
fashion, in the aggregate it increased repre­sen­ta­tional activities that contributed
to the proliferation of the image of local deities as mysterious old men.
110   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

Aged Avatars in the Formation

of the Rokujō Poetic Lineage
The Key to Dreams: Hitomaro, Sumiyoshi,
and Narihira as Deified Okina
Dreams and visions of mysterious old men often served as raw material out of
which religious and scholarly authorities constructed relationships between gods
and buddhas. But, ­t here was one dream in par­tic­u ­lar that proved quite conse-
quential in cementing the image of the okina as a super­natu­ral figure. This dream
was recorded and rerecorded in vari­ous compendia, becoming the basis for legiti-
mating a new poetic ­house, the Rokujō School, whose scions produced esoteric
literary treatises that would come to have a subtle but widespread influence, par-
ticularly in the development of Noh. The okina was a crucial f­actor in this pro­
cess, serving once again as a m­ iddle term—­one that could unite vari­ous streams
of cultic and poetic tradition.
In his Kokonchomonjū (204), Tachibana no Narisue recorded that Fujiwara
no Kanefusa (1001–1069) had deep love of Japa­nese poetry and wished to know
what the ­g reat poet Kakinomoto no Hitomaro looked like.80 One night Hito-
maro appeared to him in a dream. When Kanefusa awoke, he had someone
create an image based on his memory.81 Although the original image was lost in a
fire, Fujiwara no Akisue (Rokujō Akisue 1055–1123) had been allowed to make a
copy, which was then passed down to his descendants, starting with his son,
Rokujō Akisuke (1090–1155). This copy came to be treated as a cultic object,
proof of headship of the Rokujō School, venerated as a honzon to which offerings
would be made in rites that would come to be known as Kakinomoto eigu or
Hitomaro eigu (memorial ser­v ice for Hitomaro).82
Narisue’s essay gave no description of Hitomaro’s appearance in e­ ither
Kanefusa’s dream or the portrait he commissioned. But another essay in the
Kokonchomonjū (178) by Fujiwara no Atsumitsu (1063–1144), a renowned scholar
of Chinese learning, described the copy in use at the first Hitomaro eigu in 1118.83
The portrait presented Hitomaro as a man in his sixties (despite the fact that he
was thought to have died in his forties), wearing a court cap, with paper in his left
hand and a writing brush in his right.84 Ōgushi Sumio has demonstrated that
this portrait was actually based on the image of a white-­haired Bo Juyi from a
landscape screen (sansui byōbu) in the possession of Tōji.85 The similarities
between t­ hese two images are close enough to suggest that the Hitomaro image
had been made by tracing the image of Bo Juyi. Yamada Shōzen concludes that the
Hitomaro portrait passed down within Akisue’s Rokujō lineage bore no connec-
tion to Kanefusa’s original.86 Given that the first account of Kanefusa’s portrait
 The Graying of the Gods   111

appeared roughly two hundred years ­after his death, in sources compiled ­after
the image had taken on a significant legitimating role, we have reason to doubt
­whether the original portrait ever actually existed. It seems more likely that nar-
ratives connecting Akisue’s portrait to Kanefusa’s dream w ­ ere an attempt to pro-
duce a miraculous origin narrative involving an apparitional okina for what had
become the honzon of this poetic lineage.
The thirteenth-­century Jikkinshō (1/4) presented an enhanced origin account
for the image, retroactively describing Kanefusa’s original vision of Hitomaro
such that it conformed perfectly to the Rokujō School’s portrait.87 The Jikkinshō
also introduced another impor­tant ele­ment into the narrative, claiming that
Kanefusa “for many years loved waka, but was unable to produce good poetry.”88
­A fter commissioning his portrait of the el­derly Hitomaro, he “regularly per-
formed rites of veneration (rai) before it. Perhaps as a miraculous sign, from that
point on he was able to compose better poetry.”89 Narisue’s original account of
Kanefusa’s dream included nothing to indicate that the image had been used in a
ritual setting, but by the time the Jikkinshō was compiled around 1252, the Hito-
maro eigu and related rites ­were widespread, indicating that this was yet another
attempt to retrofit the legend of Kanefusa’s dream to accommodate contempora-
neous practices.
The Hitomaro eigu was likely born out of the poetic (and po­liti­cal) rivalry
between Akisue and Fujiwara no Tadamichi (1097–1164), who was not only a tal-
ented poet, but also a member of the power­f ul sekkanke branch of the Fujiwara,
giving him obvious advantages in having his poems chosen for imperial collec-
tions and other f­ actors that greatly increased a Heian poet’s artistic cachet.90 The
Hitomaro eigu was a ritual means of establishing Akisue’s poetic credentials. By
mimicking the structure of Confucian-­style ancestral rites (sekiten or shakuten),
the eigu allowed Akisue to position himself as the head of a new poetic lineage,
formalizing ties within his poetic network and creating a familial structure: the
Rokujō House. ­These rites also legitimated this burgeoning poetic ­house by plac-
ing it in a purportedly lineal relationship with one of the greatest poets of Japa­
nese history, rendering Hitomaro an ancestral deity and implying that members
of the Rokujō House would enjoy the blessings of a quasi-­deified Hitomaro, just
as Kanefusa had, enabling them to compose superior verse.91
The image of a par­tic­u­lar elder, the deified Hitomaro, thus became central to
the identity of a poetic h ­ ouse that was to have remarkable influence on the late
medieval cultural scene. The aged Hitomaro also became a nexus linking quasi-­
legendary poets and gods in a complex network of rituals and esoteric trea-
tises. The Hitomaro eigu eventually developed into the Waka kōshiki, sometimes
translated as “waka lecture ceremonies.” Kōshiki w ­ ere originally Buddhist ser­v ices
112   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

that sought to establish karmic bonds between a devotee and a Buddhist divinity.
The Waka kōshiki expanded on the Hitomaro eigu, adding images of the early
Heian poet Ariwara no Narihira (825–880) and the Sumiyoshi Daimyōjin to the
ceremony, eventually utilizing honji suijaku logic to explain that both Hitomaro
and Narihira ­were emanations of the Sumiyoshi god, who by that time had come
to be regarded as the guardian deity of waka.92

From God of the Sea to God of Poetry

It is unclear at what point the Sumiyoshi god came to be thought of as a protector
of poetry, but the development of this identity appears to have gone hand in hand
with the development of his image as an okina. Earliest rec­ords indicate that Sum-
iyoshi was a composite deity, a triumvirate that protected fishermen, sailors, and
other seafarers. Despite receiving the epithet “god appearing in ­human form”
(arahitogami) in the Man’yōshū, no concrete description of its physical appear-
ance is given in that or any other early text.93 Interestingly, although not explic­
itly identified as a god of poetry, some early sources have Sumiyoshi composing
waka. The eighth-­century Sumiyoshi taisha jindaiki, for instance, rec­ords the god
arriving in Japan and reciting a waka that expressed his loyalty to the Japa­nese
royal ­house.94
The first reference to the Sumiyoshi god as an elder comes in the mid-­eleventh-­
century Akazome emon shū, a collection of the poetry of Akazome Emon, reputed
author of the Eiga monogatari and wife of literatus Ōe no Masahira. Perhaps as a
god who had composed waka, the Sumiyoshi god commended itself to the atten-
tion of literati. The Akazome emon shū contains three poems dedicated to the
deity, praying for the health of the poet’s child, who had contracted a serious
illness. The poems w ­ ere written on paper offerings (mitegura) presented to the
god.95 That night someone had a dream in which an okina with a “pure white
beard” (hige ito shiroki okina) took possession of the mitegura. Soon a­ fter, we read,
Akazome Emon’s son’s illness was cured.96
The episode was l­ ater described in Rokujō Kiyosuke’s Fukuro zōshi (ca. 1157–
1160). Grand­son of Fujiwara no Akisue, founder of the Rokujō House, Kiyosuke
(1104–1177) likely sought to preserve and promote Akazome Emon’s encounter
with the white-­bearded Sumiyoshi deity b ­ ecause of its parallels with the legend
of Kanefusa’s dream of Hitomaro, which purportedly gave rise to the all-­impor­
tant portrait of Hitomaro as okina.97 ­Later variants further strengthened ­t hese
parallels by implying that it was Akazome Emon herself who dreamt of the aged
Sumiyoshi deity.98 Other writings from Kiyosuke make clear that he was also in-
volved in some of the earliest attempts to unite Sumiyoshi and Hitomaro using
Buddhist theories of avatarism.99 But it was the poet and Shingon priest Fujiwara
 The Graying of the Gods   113

no Tameaki (1295–1364), grand­son of the ­great poet Fujiwara no Teika (1162–

1241), who made t­ hese connections most emphatically.
Although Tameaki was not a member of the Rokujō House, he admitted
having been inspired by their Waka kōshiki ceremonies and appears to have had
access to their esoteric writings.100 Tameaki inaugurated the Waka kanjō, or eso-
teric poetic initiation, which mirrored tantric Buddhist practices most commonly
associated with Shingon and esoteric Tendai (Taimitsu) lineages. Such initiations
allowed for a transfer of charisma from master to pupil and regulated access to
esoteric texts and the transfer of esoteric knowledge or oral traditions. Tameaki
also composed esoteric literary treatises that relied on the correlative logic of es-
oteric Buddhism and combinatory ethos of honji suijaku thought. Th ­ ese treatises
sought to unpack hidden religious meanings that had supposedly been planted
in classical literary texts by poets who ­were ­either themselves avatars or had been
initiated by okina gods into the secret Buddhist significance of poetry. Tameaki
seems to have had some connection to the notorious Tachikawa lineage of eso-
teric Buddhism, which promoted tantric sexual practices based on a radical read-
ing of the doctrine that defiled ignorance and desire (bonnō) was nondual with
enlightenment (bodai). Tameaki used Tachikawa reasoning to argue that poetry,
as a vehicle for passion and eroticism, was rightly understood as a tool through
which Buddhist divinities sought to communicate hidden truths via godly and
mortal avatars: particularly the Sumiyoshi deity and Ariwara no Narihira.
­These radically nondual modes of Buddhist thought paved the way for a series
of conflations that allowed the figure of the okina to become a pivot around which
an elaborate system of correlations could be or­ga­nized. Tameaki’s esoteric com-
mentaries on the Ise monogatari and Kokin wakashū pres­ent a fully developed
theory that both Hitomaro and Narihira ­were avatars of the Sumiyoshi deity. In
his Gyokuden jinpi no maki, Tameaki used creative readings of classical texts to
demonstrate that not only Hitomaro, but also Sumiyoshi and Narihira at times
appeared as okina, allowing him to merge all three into a composite figure.

Narihira as God; Narihira as Okina

As with Hitomaro, the deification of Ariwara no Narihira involved envisioning
him as an okina. Narihira had been immortalized, in the centuries following his
death, in the Ise monogatari, a so-­called uta monogatari that arranged his poems
and ­t hose of ­others into a narrative that followed a fictionalized biography, high-
lighting his romances and eventual exile. Kamakura-­period readings of the Ise
monogatari, led by Tameaki’s treatises, latched on to the fact that at a certain point
in the text, Narihira was referred to as a ­humble old man (katai okina).101 Tame-
aki and l­ ater commentators took this as a clue that e­ very okina in the tale was, in
114   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

fact, Narihira in disguise.102 The ­actual text of the Ise monogatari depicts Nari-
hira’s old age, in a mode typical of early to mid-­Heian lit­er­a­ture, as decline rather
than deification. From the point at which Narihira comes to be identified as an
old man, his poems begin lamenting his failure to achieve promotion at court
and the swift passage of time—­hardly the concerns of a god. But once Tameaki had
seized upon this hermeneutic key, it became a means of “uncovering” hidden
meanings sprinkled throughout the text and, importantly, a means of uniting
the figures of Sumiyoshi, Hitomaro, and Narihira.
Tameaki’s reading of the Ise monogatari’s eighty-­first episode illustrates the
type of creative reimagination that occurred when ­every okina was interpreted as
Narihira. The passage describes a banquet at Minamoto no Tōru’s (822–895)
Kawara-­no-in mansion. One of the celebrated features of Tōru’s mansion was its
re-creation of Mutsu province’s exotic saltwater bay, Shiogama. As his guests
exchanged poems praising the verisimilitude of Tōru’s replica, a lowly okina beg-
gar appeared from ­under the floorboards (itajiki) of the veranda and offered a
poem, in which he i­magined he had somehow been transported to the far-­off
site.103 The episode ends on an ambiguous note, the narrator observing, “When
traveling to Michinoku [Mutsu] Province one encounters numerous strange and
fascinating places [ . . . ​] but in all sixty provinces of our realm, nowhere com-
pares to Shiogama.”104 If nowhere can match the real Shiogama, of course, then
Tōru’s virtual Shiogama is a failure. Although the episode portrays the katai
okina as an unsettling interloper, possibly representing the exotic fringes of the
realm, Tameaki and ­later commentators gloss over the passage’s ambivalence,
presenting him as Narihira delivering felicitations.105 Since Narihira was a de-
scendant of royalty and ­later seen as a divine avatar, medieval commentators ­were
troubled by the fact that this okina was referred to with the epithet katai, generally
written with characters that ­were read kojiki (beggar). Although it is clear from
context that the old man sheltering himself beneath the eaves of Tōru’s veranda
would have been an underclass vagrant, ­later commentators substituted other
characters that could also be read as katai but carried more auspicious meanings,
or extolled Narihira’s poetic genius.”106
Commentaries associated with Tameaki and his school used the Ise monoga-
tari’s 117th episode—­involving a poetic exchange between the Sumiyoshi deity, the
Emperor Montoku, Narihira, and, in some variants, another okina beggar—to
demonstrate that Narihira was an avatar of Sumiyoshi.107 In Tameaki’s imagina-
tive reading, the Sumiyoshi deity’s verse contained a veiled revelation that he
was Narihira’s honji.108 The Gyokuden jinpi no maki claims that ­after reciting his
verse, the Sumiyoshi god then delivered to Narihira the “Akone no ura kuden”
(Oral Transmission of Akone Bay), explaining that as his suijaku, Narihira’s
 The Graying of the Gods   115

mission was to save sentient beings by spreading the Dharma—­particularly in its

radically non-dualistic, tantric mode—­concealed in poetry.109 Tameaki’s association
of Narihira with the vari­ous okina of the Ise monogatari facilitated his equation
with the Sumiyoshi god, who by this time had also come to be depicted as an okina.
Tameaki could thus unite Hitomaro, Narihira, and Sumiyoshi, referring to them
as the “three okina” (mitari okina) who exist as “one body” (mitari ittai).110
Tameaki had numerous strategies for positing secret relations between what,
on the surface, appeared to be disparate phenomena. He resorted to numerologi-
cal analy­sis and parsed Chinese characters into their graphic ele­ments in order to
unpack hidden messages. Claiming to reveal latent relationships, he, in fact, created
new relationships. The okina became yet another signifier to be manipulated in his
attempt to show connections between the Sumiyoshi god, Hitomaro, and Nari-
hira, the three ancestor-­deities of his poetic cult. By transposing Buddhist prac-
tices and esoteric Buddhist reasoning to a lay setting, Tameaki and his followers
produced knowledge, in part about the secret sacred identities of strange old men,
which helped establish them as authorities in their field. In the pro­cess, aged
bodies that had been used as symbols of disquieting incongruity or humor
became invested with new meanings as mysterious but awesome avatars.
It is significant that this enterprise was initiated by the veneration of
­Hitomaro, the original Japa­nese poet laureate, who served Jitō and Monmu
tennō, composing verse that fulfilled both aesthetic and po­l iti­c al purposes si­
mul­ta­neously.111 Hitomaro lauded his patrons, including the late Emperor Tenmu,
and elevated their status above that of mere monarch to that of heavenly sover-
eign, at times using continental symbolism of immortality.112 The late eleventh-­
century literati who venerated Hitomaro w ­ ere similarly tasked from time to time
with the composition of poetry and prose that would proj­ect a carefully crafted
image of the sovereign and, in a new twist, legitimate the royal authority of the
retired sovereign as well. Although late Heian scholar-poets (bunjin) saw them-
selves reflected in Hitomaro’s role as the poetic voice of the sovereign, they lived in
a very dif­fer­ent time. Whereas Hitomaro and other poets of his era availed them-
selves of continental meta­phors comparing the ruler to eternally vital transcen-
dent beings, in the late Heian period, the religio-­political valences of youthful and
aged bodies had become more complex. For instance, Fujiwara no Atsumitsu,
who had been invited to rec­ord the proceedings of the first Hitomaro eigu,
moved in vari­ous social circles, at one point exchanging poems with Akisue’s
main rival, Tadamichi, on the theme of the wretched old charcoal seller, modeled
­after Bo Juyi’s “Maitan weng.”113 The same Atsumitsu who wrote the essay that
popu­lar­ized the veneration of an aged Hitomaro also shared his poetic observa-
tions of the miseries of old age with a prominent member of the regents’ branch.
116   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

Atsumitsu also composed a ganmon for the cloistered Emperor Shirakawa, pray-
ing for ten more years of life. Writing in Shirakawa-­in’s voice, he referred un-
abashedly to his dangling eyebrows forming the shape of the Chinese character
for the number eight, a poetic metonym for the aged body, which had also been
employed in the Shinra Myōjin shinzō to emphasize his old age. Atsumitsu’s gan-
mon marks a shift to an Insei-­style discourse of rulership. In the classical era,
rulers had referred to their own aging sparingly, if at all, except to indicate they
­were preparing to retire.114 Cloistered rulers, however, needed to acknowledge
their aged bodies in order to justify their status as Buddhist retirees, but si­mul­ta­
neously employ other tropes and strategies to emphasize their supreme power. It
was literati like Atsumitsu who w­ ere called on to walk this rhetorical tightrope.

Although the okina figure a­ dopted by Akisue and his descendants as their ances-
tral deity was not particularly subversive, it once again became an emblem for a
group (the nascent Rokujō House) attempting to define and legitimate itself in
opposition to powers more tightly aligned with the i­magined center. Similarly,
Shinra Myōjin, a figure represented in the Ryūge-­e engi defying imperial o ­ rders,
played an impor­tant role in forging an identity for Onjōji, a t­emple highly con-
scious of its marginality relative to Enryakuji. The Ryūge-­e engi’s author, Fujiwara
no Sanenori, occupied a similarly tenuous position in late Heian literary, po­liti­cal,
and social fields. Sanenori was a scion of the Southern House of the Fujiwara clan
(nanke), a lineage that had long been pushed to the po­liti­cal periphery by the
dominant Northern House, from which the h ­ ouse of regents derived. As a specialist
in Chinese learning and poetry (kangakusha), Sanenori was part of what Ivo
Smits classifies as the “literary fringe” of the Heian period. Although scholars
enjoyed prestige on account of their erudition and, as tutors to royal princes, had
access to the inner sanctum of the court, they rarely achieved high rank and
tended to cut a rather shabby figure.115 Sanenori served as secretary to the Em-
peror Go-­Ichijō and head of the Imperial University, but only ­rose to Ju­nior
Fourth Rank, Upper Grade.116
Clearly, for the m
­ iddle echelons of the court that specialized in Chinese lore,
knowledge was indeed their most reliable source of power. Bunjin augmented
their cultural capital through the production of knowledge and strategies of se-
crecy. Modern scholars have noted the emergence of a new “taste for the exotic”
among late Heian literati, a reflection perhaps of their need to gather obscure ma-
terials that could be deployed, for instance, in the composition of engi on behalf
of Buddhist institutions, or in the composition of ganmon for power­f ul patrons.
The trend ­toward the “privatization” of the knowledge economy had begun in the
ninth c­ entury when the Imperial University came to be dominated by three schol-
 The Graying of the Gods   117

arly families. The hunger for esoterica accelerated in the wake of the Genpei War
(1180–1185), when the balance of po­liti­cal power shifted t­ oward the eastern city
of Kamakura, where the newly dominant Minamoto warrior clan had established
its headquarters. Aristocrats who remained in the Heian capital found themselves
increasingly divested of po­liti­cal and economic clout. What they still possessed in
abundance, however, was social and cultural prestige. The rise of esotericism
in the arts allowed t­ hese kinship groups to leverage the ties they maintained to
older artistic and literary traditions, transforming their symbolic capital into eco-
nomic and po­liti­cal gain.117 The figure of the okina became useful to the purvey-
ors of esoteric theories as a means of extending their perceived expertise, inte-
grating disparate, unrelated poems, tales, and cults into their interpretive schema,
placing them, to some extent, ­under their control.
The fact that knowledge was fundamental to po­liti­cal and economic viability
was well understood by the players at the time. Fujiwara no Munetada was criti-
cal of Masafusa’s practice of recording legends and “gossip”: accounts of histori-
cal figures and events gathered by word of mouth.118 Masafusa, for his part, wrote
that it was not necessary for the kanpaku or sesshō to write poetry or be good
scholars, a backhanded critique of sekkanke anti-­intellectualism.119 The disap-
proval some quarters of the regents’ branch showed ­toward oral tradition likely
stemmed from the sense that ­t hese narratives often undercut official readings of
history that had once been controlled by the court. The historical narratives orig-
inating with ­people of vari­ous social positions promulgated by Insei-­period lite-
rati represented a loss of control on the part of the p
­ eople who sought to preserve
court-­centric social hierarchies and systems of prestige.120
C HA P T E R SE V E N

“Tranquil Heart, Gazing Afar”

Reimagining the Aged Body in Noh

Noh played a pivotal role in establishing the divinized okina as the paradigmatic
symbol of otherworldy power in the Japa­nese religio-­cultural imagination. The
aged body held a special fascination for Noh’s earliest theorist, playwright, and
effective founder, Zeami Motokiyo (ca. 1363–1443) and for his artistic heir, Kon-
paru Zenchiku (1405–1468). A substantial portion of extant plays feature aged
men or w ­ omen as protagonists or shite.1 In his Nikyoku santai ningyōzu (Illus-
trated Manual of the Two Arts and Three Bodies), Zeami made the elder one of
the three fundamental “bodies” to be mastered by the Noh actor. But more than
the other two forms, Zeami presented the per­for­mance of the aged body (rōtai)
as the very heart of Noh.2 Zenchiku devoted his unfinished esoteric treatise
Meishukushū to tracing the origins of vari­ous okina, revealing them to be mani-
festations of a god who encompassed the threefold body of the Buddha, and who
had “appeared at the primordial unfolding of Heaven and Earth, protected the
sovereign, rendered the land fruitful, and provided relief to the p ­ eople without
interruption up through the pres­ent reign.” 3

The intense interest with which Zeami and his heirs regarded the aged body,
particularly the okina, was due in large part to the importance they placed on the
Shikisanban—­a set of ceremonial dances originally performed by actors wearing
masks representing three old men, including the enigmatic, smiling Okina (see
figure 5), set within a rudimentary dramatic framework.4 The Shikisanban was
purported to ensure peace, fertility, prosperity, and longevity throughout the
realm. It was a key ele­ment in legitimation strategies that helped early Noh troupes
secure and maintain patronage, mainly from the dominant Ashikaga military
clan and major ­temples and shrines, particularly the Kasuga-Kōfukuji complex in
Nara. Zeami and Zenchiku framed the Shikisanban as a primordial religious
ritual rather than entertainment, presenting it as the sacred core of their art, a
taproot extending down into the mythic past able to access primeval energies.5
Through its connection to the Shikisanban, Zeami could claim that Noh was an
“elegant and life-­sustaining” art ( fūgetsu ennen).6 Zenchiku, for his part, based
the legitimacy of his Konparu troupe on the fact that it alone was capable of

118
 “Tranquil Heart, Gazing Afar”   119

Figure  5. Okina mask. Muromachi

period. Courtesy of the Tōkyō Na-
tional Museum.

properly performing the Okina role.7 Through their efforts to maintain the pres-
tige of the Shikisanban and profit from its symbolic capital, the okina became the
sine qua non of Noh.
In this chapter we explore Zeami’s efforts to refashion the received image of
the elder and harness what he took to be the charisma of the aged body to promote
his burgeoning art, through an examination of his writings on the Shikisanban,
his theories about age-­graded training, and his pre­sen­ta­tion of the aged body in
god plays and vari­ous other Noh entertainments. While concerned mainly with
Zeami, we ­w ill also attend to theatrical and theoretical works of ­others, most
importantly Zenchiku and Zeami’s ­father, Kan’ami (1333–1384).
Zeami employed three basic strategies involving the aged form to enhance
the prestige of his art. First, he argued that the Shikisanban was effective as a
religious technology for rendering the realm peaceful and prosperous. Second,
he produced entertainments that reproduced the classical image of the state as a
realm ­under heaven (tenka), which would appeal to audiences comprising both
aristocrats and warriors—­t he dominant power blocs of the day. This was partic-
ularly true of the so-­called god plays or Waki Noh, in which deities, usually taking
the form of el­derly men and ­women, express their satisfaction with and willingness
120   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

to protect the realm of virtuous sovereigns. Third, Zeami presented Noh as a

distillation of elite, aristocratic arts to appeal to the cultural aspirations of
warriors who craved the trappings of refinement. Zeami played to ­t hese desires,
splicing allusions to classical lit­er­a­ture into his dramas and basing them on po-
etic themes and subjects, injecting aristocratic aesthetics into a per­for­mance
genre that had previously (as sangaku and sarugaku) included crude ele­ments of
acrobatics and physical humor.8 The aged body had a part to play in the aristoc-
ratization of Noh. One of the dominant themes of classical poetry and prose that
Zeami sought to incorporate into his plays, the transience of life and love and
nostalgia for the past glories of the court, could be dramatized quite effectively in
per­for­mances featuring aged protagonists.
­These legitimation strategies w ­ ere interrelated and mutually reinforcing.
Zeami repeatedly suggested that Noh’s efficacy derived not only from its origins
in sacred ritual, but also from its emotional impact—­its ability to pacify the hearts
of the p ­ eople, rendering them civilized subjects. The idealized repre­sen­ta­tions of
the realm in Waki Noh also blurred the line between drama and ritual. Th ­ ese
plays culminated in scenes in which an actor, speaking on behalf of a god, pro-
claimed his or her intention to protect the realm and ensure the longevity of the
sovereign and his subjects and performed songs and dances understood to effect
­t hese desiderata. Even what appeared to be the most purely aesthetic aspects of
Noh—­its poetic allusions—­often hinted at Noh’s salvific power, making subtle
references to esoteric literary treatises, which purported to unveil hidden mean-
ings that had been planted in classical lit­er­a­ture, most importantly the Kokin
wakashū (Kokinshū) and the Ise monogatari. ­These texts declared that poetry was
the supreme vehicle for communicating the non-­dual relationship of desire or
passion (bonnō) and awakening (bodai).9 ­These treatises not only provided source
materials (honzetsu or honsetsu) that formed the germ for many plays, they also
provided the theoretical tools that allowed Zeami to argue that poetry, dance,
and, by extension, Noh, possessed soteriological efficacy. And as an art form that
conveyed Buddhist truth, Noh claimed the power to produce worldly benefit for
­t hose who witnessed and patronized it.

Envisioning Auspicious Okina

The Dances of Owari no Hamanushi and the Fushimi Okina
Before discussing interpretations of the Shikisanban, it is useful to consider two
earlier narratives depicting auspicious dances, in which the aged body was central
to the meanings and effects ­these per­for­mances ­were intended to produce. In both
cases, the fact that the elder was able to rouse himself to perform was presented
 “Tranquil Heart, Gazing Afar”   121

as miraculous, perhaps evidence of the intervention of otherworldly powers.

­These dances also point to the roots, if not of the Shikisanban, at least of the para-
digm in which the okina served as an enigmatic emissary, whose dance and song
held secret meanings.
The Shoku Nihon kōki rec­ords that during the reign of Ninmyō—­marked by
near constant anxiety over the health of the sovereign—­a low-­ranking court mu-
sician, Owari Muraji Hamanushi, offered to perform a “Japanese-­style” dance of
longevity (chōjuraku) for the emperor. Hamanushi was reputedly 113 years old at
the time, and many of the spectators expressed doubts that he was up to the task.
Once the ­music started, however, to every­one’s amazement Hamanushi danced
as skillfully “as a youth.”
Along with his request to perform, he had included a poem:

Nanatsugi no An okina
miyo ni mawaeru of one hundred years
momochimari plus ten,
tō no okina no having seen seven reigns,
mai tatematsuru now wishes to offer a dance.10

Two days l­ater, the emperor summoned Hamanushi to perform a dance for lon-
gevity in front of the Seiryōden, a hall attached to the imperial residence. Com-
pleting his dance, Hamanushi recited another poem:

Okina tote Just ­because I am an okina,

wabi ya wa oramu why should I feel downhearted?
kusa mo ki mo When the grasses and trees
sakayuru toki ni are in full bloom,
idete maitemu I too ­w ill go out and dance.11

Although ostensibly a dance to promote the longevity of the tennō, the dis-
play of such a physically vital elder was also an implicit comment on the virtue of
Ninmyō’s reign. Early Japa­nese elites commonly drew on passages from Chinese
textual sources that described the existence of resonant relationships between the
virtue of the sovereign and the health and longevity of his or her “black-­haired
subjects” (reigen or kenshu). Hamanushi’s dance thus fulfilled both instrumental
and expressive functions. On the one hand, ­people surely hoped the dance would
indeed fulfill its stated purpose. On the other hand, by publicly demonstrating
the existence in the realm of vital, long-­lived subjects, the dance provided proof
of the sovereign’s right to rule. On both occasions Hamanushi presented a poem
122   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

that served the role of hokai, a congratulatory felicitation that was also believed
to be capable of extending life, protecting against calamity, and imparting bless-
ings.12 Since Hamanushi’s longevity was a result of the virtue of the sovereign,
his per­for­mance was implicitly an act of gratitude. The entire affair, presented as
it was in a state-­sponsored court history, sought to demonstrate that the “econ-
omy of virtue”—­the circle of reciprocity in which imperial virtue gave rise to
national well-­being, which in return gave rise to gratitude and life-­extending
felicitations directed ­toward the ruler—­continued to function in spite of Ninmyō’s
fragile condition.13
Although identified as a court musician and presumably well-­versed in
continental traditions, Hamanushi nonetheless chose to perform an unnamed
“Japanese-­style” dance of longevity. The entry for the eighth day of the first month
of 845—­t he date the first dance was performed—­a lso notes the beginning of the
Golden Light Assembly (Saishō-­e), a series of lectures and debates on the Golden
Light Sutra, at the ­Great Hall of Audience.14 By the Heian period, the eighth day
of the first month had come to mark the beginning of a week of Buddhist rites
undertaken for the welfare of the state and ruler. ­These rites ­were held in coordi-
nation with a series of per­for­mances held at major shrine-­temples—­the Shushō-­e,
regarded as the birthplace of an ancient form of the Shikisanban. It would be
tempting, therefore, to read this auspicious okina dance as a distant ancestor of
the Shikisanban.15 Unfortunately, ­t here is no evidence that Hamanushi’s dance
was part of or gave rise to any tradition—­described as his own creation, it began
and ended with him.16
Another striking example of an elder offering a felicitous song and dance,
despite his presumed physical limitations, is found in a cluster of legends describ-
ing the Nara-­period dedication of the “­Great Buddha” (Daibutsu), Tōdaiji’s
massive honzon. ­These legends featured a mysterious old man originally referred
to as Yamato no Kunimi, ­later known as the Fushimi Okina, and formed, in an
extremely roundabout way, the honzetsu of what is generally regarded as the
earliest example of Waki Noh, the play Kinsatsu. The late Heian-­period Daianji
bodai [mai] denraiki contains the earliest reliable reference to Kunimi/Fushimi
Okina.17 The text describes the activities of the peripatetic Gyōki Bosatsu, en-
listed by Shōmu tennō to raise funds for the construction of the ­Great Buddha,
and Bodhisena, a monk of South Asian origin who ostensibly performed the eye-­
opening ceremony that symbolically vivified the ­great honzon.18
The relevant passages from the Daianji bodai denraiki describe Bodhisena’s
journey to Japan and first encounter with Gyōki. The two exchange songs reveal-
ing that both w ­ ere, in fact, reincarnations of bodhisattvas who w ­ ere pres­ent at
Śākyamuni’s preaching of the Lotus Sutra.19 On their way to the capital in Nara
 “Tranquil Heart, Gazing Afar”   123

(Heijō-­kyō), they pass Sugawara ­temple. ­There they encounter an old man named
Yamato Kunimi. Following the pattern of many late Heian legends in which the
lowly okina is revealed to be a miraculous being, we learn that Kunimi was actu-
ally a reincarnation of one of Bodhisena’s novices. Although he had stopped
speaking from the age of seventy, he approached Gyōki with a question: “If you
are greeting a guest from far away, is ­there not something lacking?” Gyōki answered:
“The only ­thing missing is song and dance.” To this, Kunimi replied:

“This okina also wishes to offer something, but he is poor, lacking all but
the roughest clothing and food. How can I serve him?” At this, the other
disciples all sneered and ridiculed him. [ . . . ​] Kunimi then brought out
two boys, both of whom ­were ­under the age of ten. [ . . . ​] They took some
chopsticks and tapped out a rhythm on one of the ­tables. Every­one sang
the song that the Brahman had composed. At which point, the small boys
­rose and danced.20

Where Hamanushi had been a low-­ranking courtier, ­here, the okina is a beg-
gar. His offering of song and dance is explic­itly related to his ­humble status and
poverty. Although in this earliest version two c­ hildren dance on his behalf, all
­later variants have the okina himself performing the dance. Abe Yasurō notes that
although Kunimi’s legend is interwoven with narratives centering on Gyōki and
Bodhisena, the Daianji bodai [mai] denraiki in fact serves as an engi, describing
the origins of a par­tic­u ­lar form of dance—­t he Bodaimai (the Dance of the Bod-
hisattva, also known as the Bosatsumai) indirectly invoked in the text’s title.21 The
Bodaimai was, in fact, one of the dances performed at the eye-­opening ceremony
for the ­Great Buddha by Buttetsu, a monk of Amanese origins thought to have
accompanied the historical Bodhisena to Japan. The twelfth-­century Fusō ryakki
pres­ents a variant of the Kunimi legend as the source of another form of cere-
monial dance (gagaku) connected to Tōdaiji, the “Dance of the Ten Heavens”
(Jittenraku).22 The purpose of ­t hese early narratives thus appears to have been to
create more impressive accounts of the origins of certain continental per­for­mance
traditions associated with Tōdaiji, which would connect them more directly with
Gyōki and Bodhisena, who had come to figure prominently in the sacred his-
­ reat Buddha. Replacing Buttetsu with a miraculous okina, ­these tales
tory of the G
added another layer of awe to the events surrounding the construction and dedi-
cation of the Daibutsu.
The construction of the ­Great Buddha served to legitimate Shōmu’s reign,
allowing him to cast himself as Buddhist monarch. The Yamato Kunimi legend,
however, exemplifies the drastic shift in the figuring of royal authority in medieval
124   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

myth. The name Kunimi, literally “viewing the country,” designated an ancient
rite in which the sovereign asserted owner­ship of the land by gazing at it from
on high. The kikishinwa depicted two aged gods facilitating Jinmu’s inaugural
kunimi. ­Here, however, it is not the ruler but an okina who occupies the high
ground, his name identifying him as the one looking down over Yamato. ­Later
variants bear this out, situating the old man on Mount Fushimi, which, like Kun-
imi, includes the character mi, meaning “to look.” Symbolically displacing the
godlike tennō surveying his realm, t­ hese legends pres­ent a super­natu­ral okina
who sustains imperial rule, but only indirectly, by glorifying Tōdaiji’s honzon—­a
symbol of the emperor’s status not as heavenly sovereign but as servant and pro-
moter of the Dharma.
Importantly, each successive rewriting of this tale rendered the okina increas-
ingly mysterious. In the oldest stratum of the legend, the origins of the Fushimi
Okina (a.k.a. Kunimi) are clear and intelligible; he is a disciple of Bodhisena’s who
has been reborn in Japan. In variants from the Ryūmeishō and Kyōkunshō, Gyōki
identifies the enigmatic elder or elders as avatars of deva from the Tōriten heaven
(Sk. Trāyastriṃśa).23 In a parallel set of narratives found in the Fusō ryakki and
the thirteenth-­century Genkō shakusho, however, the origins of the Fushimi Okina
and the significance of his dance have become almost completely obscure:

I do not know where the Fushimi Okina came from, but certain ­people
said he was from India. This okina lay down on a hill beside the Sugawara
­temple in the Heijō capital in Yamato province. For three years he did not
rise, and since he never spoke a word even when p ­ eople called him, every­
one assumed he was a mute. From time to time he would raise his head
and look to the east. Then, in the eighth year of the Tenpyō era [736 CE]
Gyōki hōshi welcomed the Brahman monk Bodhisena and returned with
him to Sugawara ­temple where offerings had been prepared [for a Bud-
dhist ser­v ice]. They ­were both in exceedingly high spirits. In fact, t­ hese
two bhikṣus danced together using a pair of chopsticks to keep time. At
that very moment, the okina suddenly arose and entered the t­ emple. Join-
ing their dance he began to chant: “Is it time? Is it time? Has this karma
reached fruition?” The three danced together like old friends. Doubtless,
the act of spending all ­t hose years without speaking was for the purpose
of fi­nally uttering ­t hese words. [The reason] he had lifted his head from
time to time to gaze east was in order to see the work g­ oing on at Tōdaiji
[on the Daibutsu]. Afterwards, the place where he had lain came to be
known as Fushimi no Oka [Lying Down and Watching Hill], and from
this the okina got his name.24
 “Tranquil Heart, Gazing Afar”   125

Just as Kunimi/Fushimi Okina’s origins became increasing murky with each

retelling, so too did the meaning of his song. Like Hamanushi, who offered
poetic felicitations that w
­ ere completely intelligible, Kunimi’s original song merely
repeated that of Bodhisena, presumably understood by all. By the Genkō
shakusho, however, his “song” no longer conforms to the meter of Japa­nese verse.
Nor is its meaning entirely clear. The unintelligibility of the Fushimi Okina’s song
resonates with another set of legends connecting a mysterious old man to the
dedication of the ­Great Buddha, dating from the late Heian period. The legend
reports that through a strange set of circumstances, an old mackerel seller was
selected to give the dedicatory sermon at the eye-­opening ceremony. ­After ascend-
ing the platform, he began to “­mumble” (saezuru), pronouncing syllables that ­people
suspected might be Sanskrit.25 The unintelligibility of the old mackerel seller’s
speech seems to mark him as yet another avatar from a distant land. But remov-
ing speech from the realm of semantic sense is also a strategy for elevating utter-
ances to the level of magical spell. Th ­ ese legends thus anticipate the enigmatic
song intoned by the Okina early in the Shikisanban: “dō dō tarari tararira tarari
agari rari tō”—­a series of syllables that defy comprehension, and which have long
been compared to Buddhist spells or darani, which supposedly tap into deeper
levels of meaning than are usually accessible to the unenlightened mind, and which,
to the uninitiated, sound like strings of nonsense syllables.26 Strictly speaking,
none of t­ hese chants are darani. But like darani, they derive their power from the
fascination inspired by vocalizations removed from the domain of everyday speech.
The Kunimi/Fushimi Okina legends further emphasized the miraculous
nature of his song and dance by playing on assumptions about the inherent weak-
ness and incapacity of the aged body. For example, the effects of the okina’s utter-
ances are amplified by the claims that prior to offering his song he had been mute
for many years. The variant in the twelfth-­century Ryūmeishō foregrounds other
forms of disability. Bodhisena in this case encounters a c­ ouple—an ōna and
okina—­both over one hundred years old. One, from birth, could not see; the other
could not stand. Neither could speak. However, on hearing the song of Bodhi­
sena the eyes of the first elder opened and the second stood up and danced for
joy.27 Despite identifying their physical shortcomings as congenital, and thus un-
related to old age, just as in the Hamanushi narrative, the Kunimi/Fushimi Okina
legends treat the okina’s dance as something remarkable. In each case, the aged
body is animated by some miraculous power—­t he incongruity of an old man
dancing and singing adding to the sense of awe.
While Hamanushi’s dance and the rec­ords of it w ­ ere intended for elite
audiences, the Kunimi/Fushimi Okina legends likely originated with marginal
126   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

specialists of ritual theater connected to Daianji or Tōdaiji who made their living
performing the Bodaimai or Jittenraku at Buddhist ceremonies. As the purported
originator of ­these dances, the okina once again became an ancestral figure, serv-
ing as a unifying symbol for a marginal lineage. Although we cannot draw a direct
genealogical link between any of t­ hese dances and the Shikisanban, the itinerant
ritualists who generated ­t hese tales inhabited the same religio-­cultural milieu as
the performers who originated the precursors of the Shikisanban. Th ­ ese tales pro-
vide charter myths of underclass individuals offering dance and/or song to their
superiors or to the Dharma, justifying such practices and illustrating the benefits
that might result from sponsoring such per­for­mances.

The Mysterious Okina of the Shikisanban

Within the earliest stratum of extant writings on the Shikisanban, ­t here was con-
sensus that it was an ancient, mysterious, and deeply significant tradition, but no
agreement about what it actually signified. Several ele­ments set the Shikisanban,
also known by the title “Okina,” apart from other plays. Cumulatively, t­ hese ­factors
amount to framing strategies signaling to audience and actors that the Shiki-
sanban is something that aspires to the status of ritual.28 ­Today, the Shikisanban
holds a preeminent position in the repertoire, performed annually by each of
the five active Noh troupes as the first per­for­mance of the New Year.29 Noh plays
are generally structured around the interactions of a shite (doer) and waki (side
role). The waki encounters the masked shite, who often appears in the guise of a
poor old man or w ­ oman. In the second half of the play, the shite is revealed to be
an entity of super­natu­ral origin, leading to a climax in which the otherworldly
shite performs a dance. In the Okina play, on the other hand, the shite first appears
unmasked, donning the mask onstage.30 Instead of one climactic dance, the Okina
play features three, originally performed by actors using Okina, Chichi no jō, and
Sanbasō masks. Another remarkable feature of the Shikisanban is the enigmatic
song intoned by the Okina. Although the dialogue in most Noh plays is allusive
to the point of being almost unintelligible, the Okina song is of a qualitatively
dif­fer­ent level of opacity, inviting a wide range of interpretations.
While its origins are obscure, the Shikisanban is thought to have reached
something approximating its final form by the early Kamakura period.31 In recent
de­cades, scholarly consensus has formed around the theory that the Shikisanban
is a survival of an earlier form of ritual theater, known as okina sarugaku, the
pre­de­ces­sor of Noh. Okina sarugaku had its roots in the ritual theater of jushi
(also rendered sushi or shushi, “spell masters”) who performed at major shrine-­
temple complexes in Ōmi, Tōnomine, and Yamato, particularly the Kasuga-
Kōfukuji complex, and conducted purificatory and propitiatory rituals known
 “Tranquil Heart, Gazing Afar”   127

as jushi no hashiri in the first and second months at the Shushō-­e and Shuni-­e
assemblies, pivotal junctures in the Buddhist liturgical calendar.32 Culminating
in a scene in which demons, symbolizing kegare and other evil influences, would
be driven out of the ritual arena, t­ hese rites w­ ere regarded as especially effective
in purifying the realm and ensuring peace, health, and a bountiful harvest in the
year to come.33 The four Yamato sarugaku troupes (za) most active in the formation
of Noh, as well as other regional troupes, ­were originally jushi.34 At some point,
­these troupes began to perform the Okina dance to replace the jushi no hashiri at
these assemblies, but it is unclear why it was seen to be a suitable substitute.35
Unlike t­ hose in other Noh plays, the Okina of the Shikisanban is not identi-
fied as any par­tic­u ­lar god or buddha, or with any par­tic­u ­lar site. Since Kasuga is
regarded as the matrix of the four Yamato troupes, scholars have theorized
that the Okina of the Shikisanban was intended to represent the Kasuga god. The
f­ ourteenth-­century Kasuga gongen genki e, for instance, describes how the priest
Jōkei sequestered himself at the Kasuga shrine and prayed to see the living form
of the god, who then appeared as an okina.36 Although this episode is suggestive,
it should be remembered that by the Kamakura period the figure of the okina god
was widespread in Buddhist legends. Kamakura-­period texts dealing with other
sites connected to early Noh troupes, such as Tōnomine and the Hie shrine, also
included legends of deities appearing as okina.37 Furthermore, certain passages
from the Shikisanban libretto suggest a strategic unwillingness to associate its
okina with any par­tic­u­lar locale. In keeping with the fact that the Shikisanban
was originally conducted by itinerant ritualists, the play begins by depicting a
sarugaku troupe arriving at an unnamed site and preparing for a per­for­mance.
Since the setting could be anywhere, it seems that the Shikisanban was designed
or developed such that its divine referents ­were interchangeable, allowing it to be
performed identically at Kasuga-­Kōfukuji, Tōnomine, Hie, or other shrine-­temple
complexes.
The earliest extant commentary on the Shikisanban is found in the Hokkego-
bukukanjo (Writings on the Lotus Sutra in Five Parts and Nine Volumes), attributed
to the twelfth-­century Tendai zasu Chūjin, but likely written in the thirteenth
­century.38 The text describes a per­for­mance of the Shikisanban, interpreting its
three Okina as avatars of three central figures of the Lotus Sutra—Śākyamuni,
Mañjuśrī, and Maitreya—and providing a convoluted decryption of the Okina
chant, revealing a set of pithy slogans explaining the non-­duality of ignorance
and enlightenment. Although this exegesis is not particularly compelling, it
demonstrates that the Okina dance had arrived at something approximating its
classical form and was already considered something of an enigma more than a
­century before Zeami.39
128   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

Both Zeami and Zenchiku recorded mythohistories of okina sarugaku col-

ored by their desire to pres­ent Noh as an ancient and noble tradition. Zeami, in
fact, provides three accounts of its origins, all of which likely predated him.40 In
the Fūshikaden he associates the earliest per­for­mance of sarugaku with the myth
in which the sun deity Amaterasu, having hidden herself in a cave, was lured out
by a group of gods performing song and dance, restoring light and life to the uni-
verse. He then asserts that sarugaku began when the Buddha had his disciples
perform flute and drum m ­ usic at the rear of the hall to distract a crowd of unbe-
lievers who sought to disrupt the dedicatory sermon at the Jetavana Monastery.41
He identified a third “origin” in Japan, when Prince Shōtoku, responding to dis-
turbances in the land, had Hata no Kawakatsu perform the same sixty-­six pieces.
­These ­were eventually narrowed to three, corresponding to the three bodies of the
Buddha, performed with masks representing Inatsumi no Okina, Yonatsumi no
Okina, and Chichi no jō.42 Zeami writes that Shōtoku described the Shikisanban
as a means of spreading the teachings of the Buddha, with the sacred power to
“chase away evil affinities, [and] call forth happiness, so that the country ­w ill re-
main in tranquility, bringing gentleness and long life to the ­people.”43
For Zeami, the Shikisanban’s significance stemmed from its connection to
primordial divine powers, be they Buddhist or kami-­centric, and its purported
efficacy as sacred ritual. Similarly, in his Meishukushū, Zenchiku claimed that the
Okina of the Shikisanban manifested a transcendent Okina deity, which stood
­behind the multitude of okina gods and avatars of legend. He furthermore con-
nected this original Okina to the Shukujin (or Shukushin), a god of creativity,
whom scholars have identified as a tutelary deity venerated by medieval perform-
ers.44 Zenchiku never seems to question why this primeval god would have the
form of an okina. Nor does Zeami seek to explain why the Shikisanban should
center on the dances of three old men. Both pres­ent the aged body as a natu­ral
vessel for mysterious powers and secret meanings.

Displacing the Osa

Leaving aside the supposedly divine origins of the Shikisanban, for Zeami, the
most significant moment in the history of Noh was the fateful day at the Imaku-
mano shrine when his f­ ather, Kan’ami, performed the role of Okina for the Shogun
Ashikaga Yoshimitsu.45 Deeply impressed, Yoshimitsu became the key patron of
Zeami’s Kanze troupe. Kan’ami’s per­for­mance had broken with pre­ce­dent. The
role of Okina had traditionally been reserved for the se­nior troupe member or
osa, but at the time, Kan’ami had been a tayū or lead performer. As in other medi-
eval guilds, sarugaku za ­were or­ga­nized according to seniority—by chronological
age or number of years since entering the group. The osa was therefore not only
 “Tranquil Heart, Gazing Afar”   129

the leader of the troupe, but likely its oldest member.46 In addition to the undeni-
able logic of having the oldest member perform the role of Okina, as the most pres-
tigious piece in the repertoire, it stands to reason that it would only have been
performed by the troupe’s highest-­ranking member. Although it is clear from
Zeami’s treatises that he still saw the role of Okina as one best reserved for actors
over forty, Kan’ami’s displacement of the osa signaled a shift away from seniority
as the main criterion in selecting roles.47
The per­for­mance at the Imakumano shrine opened the way for a new emphasis
in the Kanze troupe on skill over chronological age when selecting performers.48
Zeami was critical of most el­derly actors. Even a fantastic creature like a kirin, he
noted, was “worse than a worn out pack­horse” once it grew old.49 However, Zeami
still held certain older actors in high regard—­especially his ­father Kan’ami. In fact,
actors who, like Kan’ami, w ­ ere able to maintain their skill late in life w
­ ere capable
of producing much more in­ter­est­ing and beautiful per­for­mances than youths,
whose beauty was obvious, but lacked depth. The actor who maintained his skills
into old age could generate the effect of “flowers on a withered branch.” The high
esteem in which Zeami held certain se­nior actors was based not on a system of
seniority, but on theories of lifelong training articulated in his treatises.
For Zeami, the key to a g­ reat per­for­mance was not mimetic verisimilitude.
Successful monomane (mimicry) meant attaining the “essence” (hon’i) of a role,
which involved mastery of hundreds of gestures and postures, through repetitive
training (keiko).50 ­These patterns of movement would be rehearsed to the point
they could be enacted almost unconsciously. Reaching that stage, an actor “pos-
sessed mastery of style” (ushufū).51 Analyzing theories of training in Noh and
other medieval arts, Yuasa Yasuo has shown that their practical regimens bore
similarities to the forms of bodily discipline (shugyō) found in esoteric Buddhism
and Zen, which also purported to remake the body-­mind through repetitive
training.52 In Noh, “true per­for­mance was not something to be understood men-
tally, rather it was something absorbed and remembered by the body. [ . . . ​] It was
something created by a body that has been built up by long years of strict training.”53
In the Fūshikaden, Zeami broke his training regimen into seven broad life-­
stages.54 He noted that young actors possessed a “Flower”—­Zeami’s term for the
ability to elicit fascination—­simply by virtue of their youthful charms. However,
Zeami repeatedly warned against mistaking the ­simple beauty of youth for the
“true” flower (makoto no hana or shōka). While young actors could achieve a
“temporary flower” ( jibun no hana 時分の花 or yōka 用花), which might fool an
unsophisticated audience, the true flower was only gained through training.55
Zeami admitted that in competitions, audiences would at times prefer a youth to
a more experienced actor, but insisted that an actor over fifty who had not lost his
130   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

flower would never be defeated by superficial beauty.56 Throughout his writings,

Zeami stressed maturity and mastery (tatsujin). “A truly novel [in­ter­est­ing] flower,”
he wrote, “comes about ­because of an actor’s experience and maturity (toshi no
sakari),” literally when he is at the “peak of his years.”57 Such mastery was not a
­return to youth, but a sublimation of and movement beyond youthful artistry.
In the Shūgyoku tokka, Zeami elaborated on the relationship between the tem-
porary flower and the true flower, using a Zen kōan: “Vari­ous truths are manifesta-
tions of the one truth. The one truth only exists in its vari­ous manifestations.”58
Similarly, the temporary flower was no more than a manifestation of the innate
flower (shōka 性花) of the accomplished actor (tatsujin).59 Although counterintui-
tive, Zeami argues that the flower of youth is somehow derived from the true flower
that can only be achieved in ­later life. Echoing the logic of Buddhist training,
and theories of “original enlightenment” (hongaku), Zeami claimed that only with
cultivation could the actor access what was already inherently possessed.
Although ­t here was no way for a ju­nior actor to imitate the mature flower,
elsewhere Zeami wrote that the elder actor still had access to the flower of youth:

An actor must not forget the Flower that he has established at vari­ous
phases of his c­ areer. Th
­ ese vari­ous flowers, past and f­ uture, make up the
vari­ous ele­ments of one’s acting style. By “past and ­f uture” I mean that
the vari­ous styles that an actor has naturally mastered at vari­ous times,
such as his presence as a child actor, his art as a young adult, and his
elaborate skill as a mature actor, as well as his technique as an older per-
former, should all form a part of his art.60

Although aged actors could call on an entire range of acting styles, Zeami
counseled them to avoid showy parts involving energetic motion and instead
opt for ­t hose that could “be played in a relaxed manner without physical strain.”61
While this might sound as though Zeami ­were seeking to ­gently usher aged ac-
tors off the stage, Zeami’s aesthetics actually favored such understated per­for­
mances.62 He famously counseled that the mind of the actor should be completely
engaged (at “ten”), but his body should not be utilized fully (only at “seven”).63 In
his efforts to aristocratize his art, Zeami demanded refinement even in roles that
would traditionally have been performed energetically. Demons, for instance,
­were to be enacted with “strength within delicacy.”64
Although an aged actor’s physical condition might curtail the number of roles
he might perform, it left open the types of roles that Zeami saw as the greatest of
Noh—­t hose that required holding back and relying more on “inner” power than
showy physical displays. In the Kakyō, Zeami stated that only ­after the age of forty
 “Tranquil Heart, Gazing Afar”   131

could actors start to use “restraint” (oshimu futei) in their per­for­mances, since at
that age they truly possessed something to hold back.65 Training built up reserves
of skill that w­ ere pres­ent with the mature actor on stage, enriching their per­for­
mance with a depth that the audience could sense but not fully fathom.66
Zeami’s theories of training also help explain his writings on the ultimate
level of artistic achievement: the stage of myō. The term originates in Buddhism,
where its range of meanings include “subtle,” “mysterious,” “wondrous.” In the
Tendai School, myō indicated the inexplicable nature of the universe character-
ized by infinite interpenetration.67 Writing on myō, Zeami quoted an unidenti-
fied Tiantai text that asked prac­ti­tion­ers to “cut off all verbal expression, tran-
scend thought, and enter the realm of myō.”68 In his “Nine Levels” (Kyūi), Zeami
“explained” myō using another Zen kōan: “In Silla, in the dead of night, the sun
shines brightly,” meaning that myō “surpasses any explanation in words and lies
beyond consciousness.”69 Given Zeami’s reliance on esoteric literary treatises, we
might read the kōan’s conflation of night and day as expressing the unification of
oppositions—­y in/yang, female/male, delusion/enlightenment. An actor achiev-
ing the level of myō presumably provided audiences with a direct revelation of
Buddhist truth that overcame the dualities through which the unenlightened
intellect perceived the world.70
Zeami not only appropriated Buddhist vocabulary in his aesthetic theories,
he also treated the won­der and awe experienced in the presence of super­natu­ral
powers as comparable to the won­der that could be generated on stage. In the
Shūgyoku tokka, he explained the audience’s experience of myō in terms of the
Buddhist concept of kannō—an emotional resonance between divinities and
devotees.71 The performer who possessed myō produced won­der in the audience
in the same way that divine beings amazed and inspired the faithful. Such ex-
pressions of transcendent real­ity needed to be perceived and intuited directly;
they could not be analyzed and explained verbally. Since myō was characterized
not by clarity, but by mystery, this highest sphere of dramatic accomplishment
was compatible with the style of the aged actor epitomized by restraint—­a style
that withheld expression and made per­for­mance less, rather than more, intel-
lectually accessible.
­There was but one actor Zeami described having achieved this level of perfec-
tion: his ­father, Kan’ami. The Sarugaku dangi, a rec­ord of Zeami’s discourses on
Noh taken down by his son, Motoyoshi, rec­ords that while he found t­ hings to
praise about con­temporary performers like Kiami and Dōami, it was Kan’ami
who had reached an “unexcelled style of elegance” (yūgen mujō no fūtei).72 “He
showed skill worthy of the gods themselves ( jinben).”73 “Even a player descended
from heaven itself (amakudari) could not have achieved such a level of art.”74 In
132   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

his final work, Zeami intimated that ­t here was one stage of per­for­mance higher
than myō, “the flower of returning” (kyakuraika), which, once again, only the
aged actor could produce.75 The only actor he had ever witnessed capable of it was
Kan’ami.76 Zeami’s idealization of his f­ather obviously derived from a complex
set of motivations, including his desire to further elevate and legitimate his own
dramatic lineage. But one of the key criteria Zeami used to set apart his f­ ather’s
Noh was his ability to remain compelling in old age.77 It is pos­si­ble that Zeami’s
reflections on training and the aged actor ­were derived, in part, from a wish to
explain and justify the magnificence of his f­ ather’s art.78
Zeami’s theories of lifelong training posited that the body of the actor was a
repository for accumulated skill. As outward, obvious beauty dis­appeared with
age, the true flower of experience could be revealed. It is perhaps for this reason
that Zeami never questioned why the most power­f ul per­for­mance tradition in
Noh should have the Okina as its focal point. The mysterious quality of the Shi-
kisanban, with its shadowy origins and incomprehensible song, accorded with
the notion that bodies stored up hidden skills and powers through accumulated
years of training, eventually reaching a godlike level of efficacy. The Okina and
the aged actor embodied restraint, mystery, and hidden depths that resisted overt
explication but could communicate, through the experience of the audience,
profound truths.

The Aged Body in Waki Noh

“Tranquil Heart, Gazing Afar”:
The Rōtai as Template for God Plays
Turning from the Shikisanban to the treatment of the aged body in Noh plays,
the natu­ral place to begin is Waki Noh, sometimes called “kami no mono” or “god
plays.” While the Noh repertoire includes a broader set of plays centering on di-
vine figures, generally known as Kami Noh, Zeami is credited with having s­ haped
the genre of Waki Noh, a term he himself employed, by slowing the tempo of the
plays, rendering them more in keeping with the aesthetics of the aged body (rōtai).
Waki Noh was traditionally performed immediately ­after the Shikisanban, which
inaugurated a day’s program.79 In a typical Waki Noh, the waki, often an emis-
sary of the throne, encounters the maejite, an old man, at times accompanied by
an old w­ oman, who in the second half is revealed to be a god, the nochijite, who
performs a dance and delivers “auspicious blessings” (shūgen), celebrating impe-
rial rule.80 The majority of Zeami’s Waki Noh, including Yumi Yawata, Oimatsu,
Hōjōgawa, Takasago, and Yōrō, featured deities that appeared, at least at first, as
aged avatars. In many ways, Waki Noh is an extension of the Shikisanban—­plays
 “Tranquil Heart, Gazing Afar”   133

within plays in which the song and dance of an elder god is meant to pacify the
realm and sanctify the rule of the sovereign.
In Waki Noh, dramatists sought to pres­ent visions of the world that would
satisfy power­f ul patrons, relying on ancient literary and mythohistorical tropes
to reproduce, with certain modifications, the classical image of a purified, paci-
fied, tennō-­centered realm. One of their challenges was harmonizing ­these
ritsuryō-­era visions with the po­liti­cal realities of their day. Although the ritsuryō
regime had always been as much a cultural fantasy as a functioning system of
government, ­t here was a particularly stark disjunction between that dream and
the realpolitik of Muromachi Japan, in which the court was significantly weak-
ened and military clans, particularly the Ashikaga, held ultimate sway. As if to
acknowledge this, Waki Noh ­were generally set in the distant past and praised
sovereigns whose reigns w ­ ere long over. Nonetheless, Zeami intimated, the
tranquility of ancient times could be re-created through Noh’s function as “a
ritual prayer (kitō) for achieving peace in the realm.”81 This message was compli-
cated, however, by the diverse makeup of the audience.82 It required no small
mea­sure of finesse to craft ideologically multifarious works that appealed not
only to aristocrats, but also to members of warrior clans, as well as high-­ranking
Buddhist clergy.
Most Waki Noh w ­ ere performed with the rōtai, one of the three bodies that
Zeami wrote ­were the basis of all roles. Noh per­for­mance required mastery of the
“two arts” of singing and dancing, and the “three bodies” of the ­woman, warrior,
and elder. From ­t hese three basic types, actors could develop any of the numer-
ous roles required of them. For instance, actors seeking to convey the delicacy and
grace of an aristocrat would model their per­for­mance on the w ­ oman’s body (nyo-
tai). A raging demon would be based on the warrior. Reflecting the positioning
of the aged body in the Shikisanban, Waki Noh ­were most often written such that
their gods ­were performed in the rōtai. Although Zeami admitted ­there w ­ ere
plays using the rōtai that ­were not Waki Noh, and Waki Noh that employed the
nyotai, he also asserted the essential suitability of the rōtai for Waki Noh.83
The Nikyoku santai ningyōzu contains illustrations of the rōtai showing an old
man, slightly stooped, with a walking stick. Zeami’s descriptions of the proper
per­for­mance of the elder stressed its reserve, ease, and mildness. Th ­ ese qualities
­were epitomized in the slogan appended to the illustration: “Tranquil heart, gaz-
ing afar” (see figure 6). Per­for­mances in the rōtai thus perfectly embodied Zeami’s
aesthetic of restraint. In other writings, Zeami attempted to prune away the lay-
ers of tradition that would have made the body of the elder an object of ridicule.
Anyone, he wrote, could play the role of an aged salt dripper or woodcutter, but
it took true skill to perform the role of an elder in court attire.84 Since the okina
134   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

Figure 6. Illustration of the aged mode

(rōtai). Nikyoku santai ningyōzu. The
caption reads: “Tranquil heart, gaz-
ing afar.” Courtesy of Nogami kinen
Hōsei Daigaku Nōgaku kenkyūjo.

was widely associated with lowly professions in lit­er­a­ture and legend, such roles
presented ­little challenge. Using the aged body to proj­ect the dignity of a courtier
apparently required more skill.
Zeami’s attempts to repurpose the aged body followed trends that had begun
in late Heian legends—­transforming it from an object of pity or ridicule into
something worthy of awe. Since the standing of its art was based on the majesty
of the Okina, the Kanze School had an interest in redacting pre­sen­ta­tions of the
elder to produce an image of dignity and solemnity that w ­ as also the basis of
Waki Noh. Prior to Zeami, sarugaku and other per­for­mance traditions appear to
have relied on aged stock characters that, in Zeami’s view, degraded the image
of the rōtai. In discussing a con­temporary of his ­father, the dengaku performer
Kiami, Zeami described how he was able, in his l­ater years, to perform the role
of a rustic old man in a way that had some charm but was nonetheless “straight-
forward and artless.”85 Zeami had much higher praise for Kiami’s per­for­mance
 “Tranquil Heart, Gazing Afar”   135

of the okina god Tenazuchi, which he described as “majestic.”86 Zeami is re-

corded having criticized what he characterized as a recent tendency to per-
form the Sanbasō role in the Shikisanban to produce a “comic effect.”87 Heian-­
period texts suggest that sarugaku performers occasionally turned to the aged
body for cheap laughs. The Konjaku monogatari (28/35), for instance, describes
a kusa awase competition in which rivals of the pompous Shimotsuke no Kin-
tada sought to humiliate him by sending out, as his opponent, an old man with
a ridicu­lous headpiece, riding a cow, with a dried fish as a sword. The old man
“looked like a humorous sarugaku performer.” Kintada was furious.88 In an epi-
sode from the Shinsarugakuki, Fujiwara no Akihira reported witnessing an ex-
ample of ritual theater, prob­ably a fertility rite, at the Inari shrine involving sex-
ual intercourse between an old man and a young ­woman. The comic incongruity
of an aged body seeking to arouse generative energies was greeted by hysterical
laughter from the audience.89
In addition to providing a template for certain roles, the “aged mode” (rōtai)
served as a style of dramatic composition that structured the pace and mood of
an entire play.90 Zeami’s idealized vision of the elder also colored his descrip-
tions of this dramatic style. The majority of Waki Noh w ­ ere written in the “aged
mode,” which consisted of five parts, moving in a slow, stately fashion, without
any major dramatic twists to jar the audience out of a mood of quiet repose.91
When writing in the aged mode, Zeami sought to establish tonal consistency
between the first and second halves of the play. Prior to Zeami it was already
conventional in Kami Noh to portray the maejite as an old man. But surviving
plays and per­for­mance notes demonstrate that one of Zeami’s major innova-
tions in Waki Noh involved reshaping the character of the nochijite.92 In god plays
from the period in which Kan’ami was active, it was popu­lar to pres­ent fearsome,
energetic nochijite whose dance displayed violent energy. Prior to Zeami, the line
between gods and demons had been less clearly drawn on the Noh stage; gods
­were ambivalent entities that could be benevolent or threatening in turn. Zeami,
however, consistently presented gods as calm, beneficent beings.93 While not
the first to feature the aged body as the quin­tes­sen­t ial vehicle for sacred power
in sarugaku, Zeami significantly revised the image of the elder and the gods
they represented.

Kinsatsu and Fushimi: From the Spectacle

of Kami Noh to the Subtlety of Waki Noh
The earliest surviving example of a god play is thought to be Kinsatsu, attributed
to Kan’ami. Another closely related play, Fushimi, appears to be Zeami’s revision
of Kinsatsu.94 ­These plays provide examples of how Zeami presented the aged
136   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

body as a vehicle of auspicious blessings but also actively reworked classical tropes
to accommodate new po­liti­cal and religious realities.
Both plays rely heavi­ly on materials gleaned from esoteric literary treatises,
specifically passages providing exegesis on the so-­called Izakokoni poem (981)
from the Kokinshū:

Iza koko ni I, at least, ­will live

waga yo wa henamu in no other place than this.
sugawara ya How sad that old homes
fushimi no sato no at Sugawara Fushimi
aremaku mo oshi must decay into ruins.95

Lacking both headnote and identified author, the poem presented an open
field of interpretive possibilities for the compilers of medieval allegorical com-
mentaries. In the Kokinshūchū, the priest Kenshō (ca. 1130–ca. 1210) claimed that
“according to Ryūen Hōshi, this is a poem by Fushimi Sennin,” other­wise known
as the Fushimi no Okina.96 Kumazawa Reiko suggests that early exegetes sought
to link the Izakokoni poem to the mysterious Fushimi Okina ­because of his con-
nections with Sugawara Fushimi in Yamato province, the poem’s subject.97
By the late thirteenth ­century, exegeses on the poem had expanded to include
the Emperor Kanmu and the founding of the Fushimi shrine, pushing the role
of the Fushimi Okina to the periphery. This version was recorded in a short pas-
sage titled Kinsatsuden from Fujiwara no Tameaki’s Gyokuden jinpi no maki, a
work dedicated to revealing the meanings supposedly hidden in the poems of the
Kokinshū. The Kinsatsuden states that the Izakokoni poem is a kanjō uta—­a song
that accompanied an initiation into esoteric Buddhist truths—­dating from the
reign of Kanmu. Although the setting of the poem is clearly Yamato province, site
of the Nara capital, the Kinsatsuden claims that the poem relates to a fictitious
Sugawara Fushimi village in Yamashiro, near the Heian capital. It recounts how
at one point Kanmu lived in this village, which was also home to a heavenly ke’nin
化人, another term for a keshin. One day, a golden tablet fell from the sky, inscribed
on one side with the mysterious Izakokoni poem. On the reverse side the author
was identified as Tenshō Daijin (Amaterasu). Tameaki relates that Fushimi was
the original name for all of Japan, since a­ fter creating this land, the gods Izanagi
and Izanami lay down ( fushi) and gazed (mi) at their creation. He thus interprets
the poem as Amaterasu’s vow to protect Japan in perpetuity. The Kinsatsuden
informs us that Kanmu had a shrine constructed to ­house the golden tablet.98
Kan’ami’s Kinsatsu is a relatively straightforward retelling of this legend,
although with certain significant alterations. It describes Kanmu’s construction
 “Tranquil Heart, Gazing Afar”   137

of a g­ reat shrine (daigū) at Fushimi at the time he relocated the capital from
Hiejō-­k yō to Heian-­k yō.99 The play opens with Kanmu’s messenger arriving at
the site and encountering an old man who has arrived from Akone Bay in Ise.
Suddenly, a golden tablet descends from the sky inscribed with verses praising
the reign of the sovereign: “Clear lies this land, bright girdled round with such-
ness Dharma nature! Guard, I w ­ ill, the ceaseless flow of the Mimosuso River. And
for this, I vow to dwell in Fushimi.”100
The imperial messenger takes this to mean that the god ­w ill dwell in the
Fushimi shrine, but the old man explains that Fushimi is a name for all of Japan,
providing the same gloss as the Kinsatsuden involving Izanagi and Izanami. The
old man enters the shrine and emerges in his true form, Amatsu Futodama, one
of the gods who lured Amaterasu out of the rock cave, restoring light to the uni-
verse. Futodama’s role as Amaterasu’s servant implies that the golden tablet’s
message has come from the sun goddess. In the final scene of the play, Futodama
produces a “Zelkova-­Moon Bow of Suchness” (shinyo no tsuki yumi) and engages
in a ritual dance (Hataraki) warding off the barbarians of the four directions.101
Declaring the realm at peace, he unstrings the bow and casts it aside, intoning
the phrase “bow unstrung and sword sheathed.”102
The first half of Zeami’s Fushimi follows Kinsatsu closely, but omits the ele­ment
of the golden tablet, returning the play to something closer to Kenshō’s original
account. In Zeami’s telling, the shite identifies himself as Fushimi no Okina, who
spends his time tending to and waxing poetic over chrysanthemums, also known
as okina kusa (old man grass). An exposition (kuse) explains that the Fushimi no
Okina appeared and recited the Izakokoni poem when Kanmu began construct-
ing his g­ reat shrine at Fushimi. The second half of the play reveals the okina to
be the god Kazahae (or Kazehaya, “speedy wind-­deity”) from Ise’s Akone Bay.103
Both Kinsatsu and Fushimi derived source material from esoteric literary trea-
tises, including the Gyokuden jinpi no maki, which described Akone Bay as the
site at which an okina Sumiyoshi deity—­god of war and poetry—­t ransmitted
the esoteric secrets of poetry to Narihira and reaffirmed his vow to protect the
imperial line.104 The mention in ­t hese plays of Akone Bay would have caught the
attention of t­ hose in the audience with access to secret poetic traditions (which w
­ ere
apparently not so secret among late medieval cognoscenti), and suggested that their
okina gods might also be avatars of Sumiyoshi.
The shift in tone between t­ hese two plays exemplifies Zeami’s attempts to aris-
tocratize his art, reining in forceful displays and featuring instead dignified,
understated per­for­mances. Kinsatsu reveals its okina to be a virile god in a Tenjin
mask—an image of the deified Sugawara Michizane, exhibiting his fierce aspect—­
who performs an aggressive ritual dance (Hataraki) to ward off enemies. Fushimi
138   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

is more in keeping with the central theme of certain influential esoteric poetic
commentaries, which saw the power of the Sumiyoshi deity not in his military
might but in the power of song and dance to order the realm and reveal Buddhist
truth. The dance performed at the end of Fushimi is gentle and felicitous, cele-
brating the “ten-­thousand year reign of the sovereign.”105 It also accords with
Zeami’s aesthetics of the aged form. Older stage manuals in the Kanze lineage
indicate that the play originally featured a stately Shinnojo-­no-­mai performed
with an aged mask and white wig.106 This indicates that Zeami composed Fushimi
around the time he was experimenting with a new style of Waki Noh, in which
the shite remained an elder even a­ fter having been revealed as a god.107 Such is
still the case in Oimatsu and Hōjōgawa; the same might also have been true of
the original version of Takasago.108
Although Zeami wrote that it was impor­tant to adhere closely to the honzetsu
when composing Waki Noh, ­t here is no extant source that contains all the ele­
ments of Kinsatsu or Fushimi. Kan’ami and Zeami clearly reworked their respec-
tive narratives to make the plays more palatable to prospective audiences and
more compatible with their own tastes and their own agendas.109 For example,
Zeami’s Waki Noh, including plays like Yōrō, Oimatsu, Hōjōgawa, favored the
configurations of royal authority presented in medieval shinwa. ­These plays ended
with an otherworldly elder promising to protect the sovereign and the realm.
Unlike the kikishinwa, in which elder gods symbolized submission to the natu­ral
superiority of the sun lineage, t­ hese plays posited a symbiosis between the ruler
and the Dharma, made manifest through aged avatars. By promoting a vision of
reciprocity between temporal powers and otherworldly elders, Waki Noh pro-
vided a template for the relationship that early Noh dramatists sought to estab-
lish with their patrons. By sponsoring Noh (particularly the Shikisanban), medi-
eval Japa­nese elites, including warriors, royals, or aristocrats, could stage public
displays of super­natu­ral approval for their rule—­a situation that benefited Noh
troupes as well. Zeami’s Waki Noh thus empowered its aged avatars, not by
endowing them with martial vigor, but by making them the vehicle for oracular
pronouncements that promoted per­for­mance, in the form of poetry and dance,
as the highest expressions of truth and the key to maintaining worldly power.

Misery Remade
The Aged Body beyond Waki Noh
Where for Zeami the goal of Waki Noh had been to create scenes of quiet, digni-
fied joy, the rest of Noh repertoire required displays of stronger emotion in order
 “Tranquil Heart, Gazing Afar”   139

to achieve dramatic interest. Despite his efforts to place the rōtai securely in a
zone of grace, Zeami was mindful of its potential for generating pathos.110 In the
Fūshikaden, he wrote that when performing an old man one should bear in mind
that “an old man wants to appear young.”111 Echoing classical-­era aesthetics in
which elegiac beauty was seen to emerge out of a consciousness of transience,
many Noh plays revolved around themes of loss and the irretrievability of the
past. Zeami and other dramatists drew on earlier readings of old age as a life stage
characterized by loss to symbolize the disjuncture between the beauties of the
former age and the fallen world of the pres­ent.
The aged protagonists of t­ hese plays typically appeared in the guise of wood-
cutters, fishermen, or other non-­agrarian types that ­were the mainstay of poetry
and legend featuring okina.112 Although they sampled heavi­ly from poetic laments
over the aged body, certain of t­ hese plays suggested that old age, or even time it-
self, could be conquered through Buddhist salvation. In Zeami’s Suma Genji, for
instance, the waki encounters an old man at Suma, the site of Genji’s exile, who
is, of course, Genji himself. Interestingly, in the Genji monogatari, Murasaki
Shikibu never subjected her audience to an image of Genji in his decline—­the
narrative jumps abruptly from chapters depicting him on the cusp of old age to
chapters set a­ fter his death. The Genji monogatari allows the shining prince—­a
symbol of the beauties of the flowering court—to remain in our imagination ever
as a youth or man in his prime. Perhaps to minimize the cognitive dissonance
aroused by the image of an aged Genji, Suma Genji’s shite does not harp on
the miseries of old age to the degree we find in other plays. And at the moment the
shite is revealed to be Genji, he miraculously returns to his beautiful, youthful
form, an apotheosis of Genji as an eternal, shining ideal, but also, the play implies,
a bodhisattva descending to save the ignorant.113
Zeami’s Tōru also involves an old man who, in the second half of the play,
recaptures the beauty of youth as the courtier Minamoto no Tōru. Both Suma
Genji and Tōru end with a dance by the nochijite, which overcomes the disconti-
nuity between the aged body and youth, symbolically healing the rift between
miserable pres­ent and glorious past as well. Many Noh plays pres­ent dance as a
means by which oppositions—­between the sacred and profane, this world and the
next, past and pres­ent—­can be reconciled. The denouements of Suma Genji and
Tōru include language suggesting their protagonists have found Buddhist salvation
(or are perhaps themselves avatars of Buddhist divinities), in some ways echoing
Pure Land Buddhist rhe­toric that promised radiant, ageless bodies to the faithful
who w ­ ere able to transcend this world and be reborn in Amida’s paradise.114
The body used in Noh to symbolize the complete rupture with past glories was
that of the aged female, particularly in plays featuring Ono no Komachi (fl. 850).
140   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

A celebrated Heian-­period poet, several of Komachi’s works had appeared in the

Kokinshū. Perhaps ­because so ­little was recorded of her biography, and ­because
of the romantic passion evident in her poems, legends emerged that Komachi had,
in her youth, been a haughty beauty who toyed with the affections of her lovesick
suitors. As recompense, in her old age she had been reduced to the status of a
wandering hag.115
In Zeami’s Sekidera Komachi, she is an anonymous old ­woman. When a party
of priests and acolytes finds her and discovers her true identity, she is overcome
by longing for her former glories: “O how I miss the past!” she cries, “I hunger to
regain even the earliest years of my old age.”116 Performing a “mad dance,” she
vividly describes scenes from her youth in the imperial palace compound. Un-
like in Suma Genji or Tōru, however, Komachi’s dance is not transformative. She
awakens from her dream and returns to her hut weeping. While many plays in-
volving historical figures, particularly warrior plays, allowed their aged shite to
overcome their attachments, Sekidera Komachi ends on a note of despair. The
break with the past, symbolized by Komachi’s aged body, is incontrovertible.
And yet another Komachi play suggests that the suffering of the aged body
could itself be a source of salvation. In Sotoba Komachi, generally attributed to
Kan’ami but heavi­ly revised by Zeami, two priests encounter a haggard old
­woman, Komachi, who enters singing mournfully of her former beauty and pres­
ent decrepitude, sitting down to rest on an old, weatherworn grave marker (so-
toba; Sk. stupa), which she takes to be a stump. Sotoba ­were often carved from
stone in the form of gorintō: towers comprising five shapes representing the five
ele­ments, and thus the body of the cosmic Buddha. The sotoba in the play was
presumably made of wood; through exposure to the ele­ments, it bore no resem-
blance to its former state, symbolizing Komachi’s condition, as well. The priests
are appalled to find her sitting on this sacred object. Komachi, however, shows no
remorse, arguing that “it was on the ground already.”117 This inspires a debate,
which segues into a broader discussion of Buddhist doctrine, culminating in an
exchange of passages from the Nirvana Sutra and the Platform Sutra: “What
we call evil / is also good / delusion (bonnō) / is salvation (bodai) [ . . . ​] Of Buddha
and man ­there is no distinction [ . . . ​] even from discord salvation springs.”118 Uti-
lizing non-­dualistic Buddhist logic, Komachi reminds the priests that just as
­t here is ultimately no difference between a rotten stump and sacred stupa, a filthy
old beggar ­woman could also be a hidden saint. Recognizing her superior wis-
dom, they marvel that “truly this is an awakened beggar (satoreru hinin)” and
prostrate themselves before her.
Immediately thereafter, however, Komachi, possessed by the spirit of her jilted
suitor, engages in a mad dance demonstrating she is still entangled in delusion.
 “Tranquil Heart, Gazing Afar”   141

A curious retrogression ­after her display of Buddhist wisdom, this frenzy nonethe-
less provides the final impetus for her redemption. The play concludes with the
chorus singing that Komachi ­will pray for the salvation of her departed suitor and
make offerings by piling up pebbles to make stupas. She has gone from a defiler
to producer of a sotoba. The final lines of the play indicate that Komachi is “enter-
ing the Way,” the path to Buddhahood. Elsewhere, the play relates that although
Komachi is like a withered branch, she holds within her heart the flower of
poetry. This image, of course, served in Zeami’s writings and Buddhist sutras as
a meta­phor for not only artistic talent, but enlightenment. It suggests that Komachi
from the beginning possessed within herself the seeds of salvation.
The innovative nature of this treatment of Komachi is evident when compared
to its main honzetsu, the mid-­to late Heian “Tamatsukuri Komachishi sōsuisho,”
a poem with a lengthy prose prologue.119 This was prob­ably used as a Buddhist
preaching text (shōdō) to illustrate the miseries of birth, old age, sickness, and
death and encourage faith in the Pure Land. Stylistically, “Tamatsukuri” owes
much to kanshi and Bo Juyi’s “Pipa xing,” which depicted a lady of the capital
who, when her beauty fades, is forced to marry a merchant in the provinces.120
“Tamatsukuri” traces an arc from Komachi’s youthful elegance and prosperity to
her destitution and abandonment in old age. Didactically, the text uses the en-
croachment of old age to inspire a search for transcendence. The prose introduc-
tion ends with Komachi admitting she should become a nun. The poem ends with
her sorrowful realization that ­t here is nothing left for her in this world and she
must “abhor defilement and wish for the absolute [ . . . ​] making offerings for the
sake of rebirth in the Pure Land.”121
In “Tamatsukuri,” the only solution to Komachi’s plight is escape from this
world and, implicitly, her defiled aged frame. In Sotoba Komachi, however, she
realizes salvation in this world. Moreover, the victory of Komachi’s immanentist,
non-­dualistic position over the transcendentalist, dualistic position espoused
by the priests, suggests that her “entering the Way” would not result—as it did in
Suma Genji or Tōru—­in a return to youth, but in an awakening “within this very
body” (sokushin)—­a promise held out in certain strains of Buddhist discourse.122
The possibility of salvation absent physical transformation and the notion that
suffering itself was the impetus for that salvation ­were in keeping with Buddhist
dialectical reflection that saw the passions (bonnō) not as obstacles to realization
(bodai), but as necessary concomitants.123
­These themes appear to have been even more pronounced in earlier versions
of Sotoba Komachi. A passage from the Sarugaku dangi reveals that Sotoba Kom-
achi was originally written as Kami Noh and included a scene in which Komachi
made an offering to a shrine dedicated to the imperial consort Soto’ori-­hime,
142   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

deified as Tamatsushima Myōjin—­the female god of poetry.124 The play ended

with Komachi receiving blessings from Soto’ori-­hime. Tamatsushima Myōjin fig-
ured prominently in esoteric poetic treatises as the female counterpart of the male
god of poetry, Sumiyoshi Daimyōjin. Esoteric commentators took references to
Komachi and Soto’ori-­hime in the Kokinshū’s preface to mean that Komachi was
a poetic descendant of Soto’ori-­hime and recipient of her secret poetic transmis-
sion.125 Tameaki also made her the romantic and poetic counterpart of Narihira.
Since Narihira was presented as an avatar of Sumiyoshi, esoteric commentaries
positioned Komachi as an incarnation of Tamatsushima/Soto’ori-­ h ime.126
Kan’ami’s original version of the play similarly intimated that Komachi was an
aged female avatar of the female consort of the okina Sumiyoshi god.127
Although Zeami removed the portions of the play that would have signaled
Komachi’s status as an avatar, Sotoba Komachi still hints at this decrepit old
­woman’s exalted status. Just as Narihira’s role in esoteric commentaries was to
preach the Dharma through the erotic medium of poetry, the same can be said of
Komachi’s role in Sotoba Komachi. The flower in her heart is at once a symbol of
her poetic genius and her status as a vessel for Buddhist truth. Presenting her as
the complete inverse of the classical image of an enlightened being—­old, female,
poor, dirty, and deluded—­reinforces the under­lying esoteric Buddhist theme of
the play: the non-­duality of seeming opposites. But where esoteric literary treatises
and other Noh plays stressed the unity of erotic passion and Buddhist wisdom,
Sotoba Komachi posited the unity of the pathos of old age and Buddhist wis-
dom. Demonstrating that a lump of wood on the ground could be both a decaying
stump and a holy stupa, the play reveals that the aged body as well could maintain
the inner flower of poetry and enlightenment.
In Noh, the misery of old age was just one of a litany of passions transmuted
into salvation through the alchemy of per­for­mance, following the well-­k nown
formula positing the unity of passion and enlightenment (bonnō soku bodai). This
was the central theme of the esoteric literary treatises that informed much of
Zeami and, ­later, Zenchiku’s work. Inspired by the Tachikawa-­r yū strain of eso-
teric Buddhism, t­ hese treatises focused on erotic passions. But Noh dealt with
bonnō in its many forms: Kakitsubata, Kinuta, and Koi no omoni centered on
erotic passion and longing; Atsumori and other warrior plays focused on the emo-
tional traumas of b ­ attle; still other plays, such as Miidera and Yuya, ­were pro-
pelled by examples of parental or filial attachment. Although the aged body was
not alone in producing pathos, Zeami and t­ hose who followed him considered it
a potent source.
In plays in which the misery of old age seems unresolved, the emotions that
­were generated w ­ ere understood to give rise to a form of beauty that Zeami
 “Tranquil Heart, Gazing Afar”   143

praised as more than just a ­matter of aesthetics. Zeami embraced the theory that
poetry and drama ­were skillful means employed by gods and buddhas to lead
mortals to truth and bring peace and prosperity to the realm. In Sekidera Koma-
chi, Komachi offers a paean to poetry, describing it as an art that dates to the age
of the gods, unites high and low, and remains ever green like pine n ­ eedles—­themes
highlighted as well in the Waki Noh Takasago.128 If the poignancy of old age could
give rise to poetry, it too could teach ultimate truth.
The court literary tradition suggested ­little hope of ameliorating the tragic
dimension of aging. But Sotoba Komachi portrays Komachi achieving salvation
both in spite of and in the midst of her unresolved longing to return to the past,
to youth. This might be why five plays featuring el­derly ­women—­t he three Kom-
achi plays, Higaki, and Obasute—­are regarded as of the highest dignity or rank
(kurai).129 ­These plays depict no overt redemption. The actors must provide the
audience with a sense of grace and beauty even as they remain grounded in
the ultimate embodiment of despair—­the aged female form—­a form that, unlike the
okina, found few instances of miraculous elevation or deification.
­These sentiments are eloquently expressed in Zeami’s Higaki, which again fea-
tures an aged female as a symbol of irredeemable rupture with the past.130 Once a
shirabyōshi dancer of g­ reat renown, the nearly one-­hundred-­year-­old protagonist
has grown old and weak (rōsui). Invoking the standard laments over the aged
body gleaned from classical literary sources, the apex of the drama occurs when
the w­ oman recalls how her patron discovered her late in life and ordered her to
dance for him once more. Although she protested that her beauty had faded and
the dancer of the past was now nowhere to be found, her patron replied with a
sentiment reminiscent of Zeami’s theoretical writings: “Regardless of your ap-
pearance, since in the past you ­were a dancer of g­ reat skill, you must still be able
to dance ­today.”131 The dance of the elder had the potential to achieve greater emo-
tional depth than one that any youth could muster. Even in plays featuring the
ugliness and loss that w ­ ere the focus of classical writings on the aged body, Zeami
found grace and dignity. In t­ hese plays, the protagonist’s misery was not unmade
but became nonetheless the fertile ground from which new beauty could grow. In
this way, the miseries of old age ­were remade.

Zeami employed vari­ous strategies to achieve an elevated position for Noh. In

most, the aged body played a pivotal role. Zeami reworked and recombined ele­
ments from lit­er­a­ture and legend to pres­ent a vision of the aged body that could
justify the sacred aura of the Okina and at the same time extract beauty from its
supposed wretchedness. Following esoteric commentaries arguing that poetry
was a means of bringing ­people to enlightenment, Zeami held the same was true
144   Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

of dance and drama. The okina gods of the Shikisanban and Waki Noh, and the
miserable elders who left the audience mesmerized by the tragedy of imperma-
nence, all performed the role that Sumiyoshi and Narihira did in the esoteric
literary commentaries—­communicating Buddhist truths in a form that could be
more easily accepted by ignorant worldlings and delivering the promise of salva-
tion and worldly benefit to their elite patrons and the realm at large.
Although Zeami and Zenchiku presented the okina as a timeless, sacred pres-
ence, this notion was itself the product of a historical pro­cess. It was a pro­cess
that began in Japan’s earliest myths and legends in which the aged body came to
symbolize that which authors glorifying the tennō-­centered polity sought to wish
away—­mortality, ugliness, and pollution. It was only in the medieval period that
Buddhists began to work against ­t hese readings, opening new ways of imagining
the aged body and opening a discursive space in which a purportedly asocial,
enigmatic, but spiritually potent otherworldly elder was conceivable. Claims that
the okina was a power­f ul, primordial being thus came only at the end of a long,
complex pro­cess. The divinized okina was not the beginning of that pro­cess, but
its result.
 Conclusion

The route by which the okina went from object of derision to object of veneration
involved many twists and turns, its reinvention driven by a diverse cast of social
agents, often working ­toward disparate ends. Of course, to frame this history as
a “route,” no m­ atter how circuitous, implies a degree of continuity between the
okina that began the journey in early Japan and the one that emerged at the end
of the medieval period. But unlike medieval literary theorists (or some ­later schol-
ars) who ­were confident that regardless of context ­every reference to an okina
denoted a timeless, transcendent, divine being, I have sought to pres­ent each
okina as the product of par­tic­u ­lar moments of meaning-­making. And yet t­ hese
moments ­were never perfectly discrete, for although this history encompassed
breaks and disjunctures, each refashioning of the okina was also a reaction to and
reappropriation of what had come before. I have tried to navigate between two
interpretive extremes—­between an approach that would reify i­magined okina
traditions and one that would treat each historical episteme as hermetically sealed
off from e­ very other. Although I have presented the history of the okina as a pro­
cess of transformation, I trust that the narrative I have constructed has not been
too ­grand. The coming into being of the sacred elder was not inevitable; it was
not the working out in history of innate Japa­nese religio-­cultural sensibilities or
values. Rather, it was the result of numerous small maneuvers on the part of in-
terested parties, many of whom, ironically, had no par­tic­u ­lar interest or invest-
ment in the aged body per se. Among the most prominent of ­t hese parties ­were
lay and ordained Buddhists, motivated not out of any special desire to improve
the image of the el­derly, but out of a perhaps unconscious sense that the aged body
carried symbolic resonances that made it a highly effective device in polemical
and sectarian ­battles. Rather than the result of some or­ga­nized movement, the
okina’s rehabilitation was an unintended consequence of countless small acts of
appropriation and adaptation.
Our study of the okina has also served as an aperture through which to engage
in a broader examination of the ideological uses of old age in premodern Japan,

145
146  Conclusion

revealing some of the ways in which religious ideas and practices served both to
naturalize but also to challenge common sense about the body.1 Early Japanese
religio-­political discourse used old age as a symbol of weakness against which
power could be defined. This served the interests of t­ hose in power, but also allowed
space for t­hose adopting the persona of marginalized elder to position them-
selves strategically. Especially among ritsuryō and regency-­era elites, assuming
the persona of the pathetic elder could at times be advantageous, even as it added
to discourse presenting old age as a time of misery and alienation.2 Buddhists had
a hand in naturalizing the association of the aged body with pollution and filth.
But ­later Buddhist authors used ­those associations to undermine received notions
about purity and pollution, employing the aged body to destabilize court-­centric
configurations of oppositional categories, such as purity and pollution or center
and margin. In the pro­cess, they challenged naturalized images of the aged body,
but only obliquely, by shifting the valences of the categories through which the
aged body was understood. The perceived eccentricity of the aged, for instance,
became useful in fashioning authoritative identities for ­those who positioned them-
selves as outsiders, distanced from the ultimately insubstantial glories of “the
world.” But t­ hese new identities ­were never unambiguously power­f ul. In cases in
which ­those “writing old” or seeking to ally themselves in some way with the mys-
tique of the elder presented old age as a form of power, their repre­sen­ta­tions often
continued to rely on and reproduce associations of the aged body with eccentric-
ity and enfeeblement.
The social disposition of t­hose who manipulated ­t hese images was often a
more significant f­ actor in determining how they sought to construe the aged body
than their own chronological age or ­whether they self-­identified as old. Specifi-
cally, the aged body was used by ­t hose of comparatively marginal status to gain
prestige and secure symbolic capital. ­These marginal players included not only
the underclass, but also lower- to mid-­ranking aristocrats, as well. In other words,
their marginality was never an essential trait, but always situational—­a status that
was manifested only through interaction with more power­f ul rivals.
It is also significant that among the most impor­tant reconfigurations of the
meanings of the aged body w ­ ere the works of t­ hose engaged in the medieval “knowl-
edge economy.” We have traced examples of how certain Buddhist laypeople—­
particularly late Heian literati like Sanenori and Masafusa, but also Tameaki,
Zeami, and ­others with access to secret or oral traditions concerning the okina—­
attempted to translate their knowledge into cultural and social power. In their
attempts to shore up their own positions, ­t hese authors recorded and circulated
narratives in which aged saints or avatars served as figures of re­sis­tance, challeng-
ing court-­centric social hierarchies and geographic imaginaries.
 Conclusion  147

This book has focused on the shifting meanings with which the aged body and
the aged subject ­were imbued, and the symbolic uses to which they could be put.
But to what extent did shifting repre­sen­ta­tions and self-­representations of the
aged affect their social or po­liti­cal status? Put another way, how did new styles of
representing old age affect the ways in which t­ hose identified as elders operated
within l­egal, po­liti­cal, or economic frameworks, what Bourdieu called “fields of
power”?3 ­There can be no ­simple answer to this question. Just as shifting repre­sen­
ta­tions of old age ­were not wholly determined by institutional or po­liti­cal changes,
shifts in repre­sen­ta­tion cannot wholly account for, say, the reemergence of authori-
tative roles for el­derly men in medieval guilds or farming communities. No doubt
new styles of representing old age, along with innumerable other f­ actors, contrib-
uted to social, po­liti­cal, or institutional changes.4 But the relationships between
images of the el­derly, their standing within familial, governmental, or religious
hierarchies, and the power they came to exercise within t­ hese institutions w ­ ere
complex and recursive. I have suggested, for example, that some of the new valences
of old age in late Heian Japan w ­ ere useful to retired emperors as they worked to
legitimate their “rule” and bolster existing institutions that provided them with
greater po­liti­cal and economic power.5 But through their own establishment of
new forms of authority, ­these retired, yet po­liti­cally potent, Buddhist sovereigns
also played a role in once again redefining the image of old age and its potentials.
The example of cloistered emperors also demonstrates why we cannot make
blanket statements about the relationship between repre­sen­ta­tions of the el­derly
and their status as a purported social bloc. It suggests that t­ hose who w ­ ere able to
take advantage of the identities t­ hese innovative repre­sen­ta­tions made pos­si­ble
already had at their disposal sufficient cultural, po­liti­cal, or economic capital to
ensure that o ­ thers recognized their refashioned identity as power­f ul. To deter-
mine the effects of the imagination of old age on the social opportunities of the
aged once again requires clarifying, in each case, who was attempting to appro-
priate and renegotiate the meanings of old age, their social position, and the de-
gree of access they had to vari­ous forms of capital to begin with.
This study has presented some of the myriad ways in which lay and ordained
Buddhists produced knowledge about and adjusted the range of meanings through
which old age could be understood and aged identities performed. Just as the
visions of the aged body constructed by Buddhist preachers, scholars, poets, or
dramatists often borrowed tropes or reworked themes from literary works or offi-
cial chronicles, the new meanings they produced overflowed the bounds of Bud-
dhist lit­er­a­ture, becoming resources for fashioning identities across vari­ous social
contexts. It was in this way—by expanding and reformulating the ways in which
old age could be conceived and performed—­that Buddhists transformed old age.
 Abbreviations

DNBZ Dai Nihon Bukkyō zensho. 1970–1973. Ed. Suzuki gakujutsu zaidan. 161 vols. Tokyo:
Kōdansha.
DNK Dai Nihon kokiroku. 1952– . Ed. Tōkyō Daigaku shiryō hensanjo. Tokyo: Iwanami
shoten.
DNS Dai Nihon shiryō. 1901– . Ed. Tōkyō Daigaku shiryō hensanjo. 373 vols. (to date).
Tokyo: Tōkyō Daigaku shuppankai.
GR Gunsho ruijū (3rd edition). 1959–1960 (1906–1907). Ed. Hokinoichi Hanawa and Zoku
Gunsho Ruijū kanseikai. 29 vols. Tokyo: Zoku Gunsho Ruijū kanseikai.
KK Kokuyaku issaikyō. 1958–1970. Ed. Iwano Shin’yū. 100 vols. Tokyo: Daitō shuppansha.
KT Shintei zōho kokushi taikei. 1929–1967. Ed. Kuroita Katsumi. 66 vols. Tokyo:
Yoshikawa kōbunkan.
NEZ Nihon emakimono zenshū. 1958–1969. Ed. Tanaka Ichimatsu. 24 vols. Tokyo:
Kadokawa shoten.
NKBT Nihon koten bungaku taikei. 1957–1967. Ed. Takagi Ichinosuke et al. 100 vols. and 2
index vols. Tokyo: Iwanami shoten.
NST Nihon shisō taikei. 1970–1982. 67 vols. Iwanami shoten.
SNKBT Shin Nihon koten bungaku taikei. 1989–2005. Ed. Satake Akihiro et al. 100 vols. and 6
index vols. Tokyo: Iwanami shoten.
SNKBZ Shinpen Nihon koten bungaku zenshū. 1994–2002. 88 vols. Tokyo: Shōgakkan.
ST Shintō taikei. 1978–1992. Ed. Shintō Taikei hensankai. 120 vols. Tokyo: Shintō Taikei
hensankai.
T Taishō shinshū daizōkyō. 1924–1932. Ed. Takakusu Junjirō and Watanabe Kaikyoku.
85 vols. Tokyo: Taishō Issaikyō kankōkai.
ZGR Zoku gunsho ruijū (3rd edition). 1957–1959. Ed. Hanawa Hokinoichi and Ōta Tōshirō.
37 vols. Tokyo: Zoku gunsho ruijū kanseikai.

149
 Notes

Introduction
1. NST (24:21–22). Translation adapted from Hare (1986, 66).
2. NST (24:21–22).
3. Although con­temporary Noh performers claim to achieve apotheosis when enacting
the role of the mysterious old man or Okina, Eric Rath (2004, 77) has argued that this is a mod-
ern conceit. Nonetheless, Zeami consistently described the role of the old man as one most
suitable for representing sacred power, and attempted to pres­ent Noh as an art capable of pro-
ducing salvific effects, subjects explored in chapter 7.
4. NST (24:11).
5. Although many of ­these entities w ­ ere labeled kami—­the Japa­nese term for divine
­beings or gods—­and might t­ oday be venerated at Shintō institutions, in premodern Japan kami
that ­were ­imagined to be native as well as ­t hose of continental origin ­were worshiped primar-
ily within Buddhist doctrinal, ritual, and institutional settings. See Teeuwen and Rambelli
(2003, 1–53).
6. Gods ­were occasionally described, but only in vague terms, indicating, for instance,
that they appeared “noble” or “strange.” It was also uncommon to specify their gender.
7. Kim (2008, i–ii, 3).
8. I use the term “premodern” to refer to the centuries prior to 1600, encompassing the
periods Japa­nese historians have traditionally designated jōdai (ancient), kodai (early/classical),
and chūsei (medieval).
9. ­These associations are analyzed in chapter 2. For more on the impact of concepts of
pollution on views of the aged body in early Japan, see Drott (2015a).
10. This phrase, of course, originates with Lévi-­Strauss (1964). The notion that p ­ eople
often use certain species of bodies to “think with” has also been taken up by scholars investi-
gating the ideological or polemical functions that repre­sen­ta­t ions of the body can serve. This
is the sense in which I employ the expression. See, for instance, Clark (2004, 178–181).
11. Douglas (1966); Foucault (1978, 1979). Lawrence Cohen, in his writings on senility in
modern India, was among the first to utilize t­ hese approaches to study old age as a form of dif-
ference. Cohen (1998, xvii) observes that in discussions of senility in India, the aged body
serves as a “critical idiom through which collectives imagine and articulate” their conscious-
ness of “temporal and po­liti­cal ruptures in the order of t­ hings.” John Traphagan (2000) has
done extensive work on old age as a form of difference in con­temporary Japan. Also worthy of
mention is Margaret Lock’s study of menopause in Japan (1995).
12. Lincoln (2000, 493).

151
152   Notes to Pages xii–xvi

13. Sei Shōnagon, for example, described herself as an old ­woman at the age of thirty
(Morris 1991, 94). See also Shinmura (1991, 8–9) and Hotate (1993a, 240–242).
14. When rendering classical Japa­nese, I use modern readings (e.g., rō for rau). Japa­nese
texts occasionally used more obscure terms to indicate old age, such as kō 耈, ki 耆, or mō 耄.
Although the Rec­ord of Rites (Liji) used ki to designate ­t hose between the ages of sixty-­five and
sixty-­nine, and mō for ­t hose aged e­ ither eighty or ninety, they ­were rarely used with such pre-
cision in Japan. The Sino-­Japanese character chō 長, usually meaning “long,” also appears in
numerous compounds meaning “old” (Hotate 1993a, 241).
15. See Genji monogatari (NKBT 17:456); Yamato monogatari (NKBT 9:327); Taketori mo-
nogatari (NKBT 9:62); Kokin wakashū (NKBT 8:342); Utsubo monogatari (NKBT 11:388),
respectively.
16. See Kokin wakashū (NKBT 8:111); Kagerō nikki (NKBT 20:288).
17. The tenth-­century dictionary Wamyō ruiju shō gives the reading omuna for ōna (Min-
amoto 1967, 7).
18. Fukutō (2001, 45). Okina was also used as a humble first-­person pronoun, for example,
in the Taketori monogatari (NKBT 9:31–32).
19. Apparently, however, it was acceptable for an emperor to obliquely refer to himself as
an okina. One of Emperor Saga’s Chinese poems collected in the Keikokushū (11/104) described
a drunken, solitary but contented okina, living in a rustic environment, apparently reflecting
Saga’s hopes for his own life ­a fter retirement (Kojima 1968–1998, 3.1:3112–3116; Gotō 2011,
47–48). See also Keikokushū (14/214), Kojima (1968–1998, 3.3:4083–4087).
20. Conversely, ­later writings—­especially t­ hose encouraging devotion to the Lotus Sutra
or Maitreya, the Buddha of the ­f uture age—­often glorified the aged body and, not coinciden-
tally, maintained that salvation was still pos­si­ble in this world.
21. Social margins are often described displaying characteristics of liminality. Individuals
or groups removed from normative social hierarchies could be interpreted as inhabiting a zone
of indeterminacy that Turner (1995, 128) identified as “anti-­structure.”
22. Ibid., 94–130, esp. 96–97, 128.
23. Kuroda (1986, 209).
24. Yamaori (1984) and Miyata (1996). Orikuchi Shinobu coined the term “sacred elders”
in his influential essay “Okina no hassei” (1995, 2:348–388). See Orikuchi (1995, 2:356).
25. Sekizawa (2003, 102–104). If elders w ­ ere uniformly regarded as marginal we might ask
why, for instance, the aged female body did not enjoy the same re­nais­sance the aged male body
did in the medieval period.
26. The performative nature of the center/margin binary is discussed by Terry Kawashima
(2001, 9–10) in her study of the marginalization of ­women in Heian and Kamakura texts.
27. Although Japa­nese religiosity remains eclectic, a key difference between premodern
­religion and con­temporary practices resulted from the nineteenth-­century separation of Bud-
dhist institutions and kami cults (shinbutsu bunri), which had previously functioned in a com-
plementary, combinatory fashion.
28. On the fascination among early Japa­nese elites with legends featuring youthful immor-
tals and techniques for restoring the marks of youth, see Drott (2015b).
29. Kim (2008).
30. It is also worth noting that Korean groups apparently responsible for certain Japa­nese
okina legends, such as the Hata clan, had been in Japan from ancient times, many centuries
before the vast majority of ­t hese tales began to appear in the early medieval period.
 Notes to Pages xvii–5   153

31. On the performative function of texts, see Bell (1992, 81–82).

32. Bourdieu (1977, 1990). On the applicability of Bourdieu’s models and approaches to the
study of history, see Gorski (2013, esp. 1–15, 327–365).
33. Bourdieu (1993, 192–211, esp. 198–199).
34. See especially Butler (1990).
35. For a discussion of Foucault’s pioneering work destabilizing “natu­ral objects,” such as
madness and sexuality, see Clark (2004, 115–117).
36. Charles Camic (2013, 193) notes that Bourdieu himself was wary of “conceptual straight-
jackets [sic]” and his empirical work, at times, produced an “observational surplus.”
37. The term “gates of power” is Mikael Adolphson’s translation of Kuroda Toshio’s term
kenmon, referring to the major power blocs—­court nobles, warrior clans, and major shrines
and ­temples—­t hat engaged in a system of shared power that, for Kuroda, defined the medieval
age (Adolphson 2000, 10–20). It also served as the title of Adolphson’s monograph on the
po­liti­cal and military might of major medieval Japa­nese religious institutions.
38. The five-­volume series Oi no hakken pres­ents itself as a response to the “graying” of
the population that began in the 1970s (Itō et al. 1986–1987, 1:5). The editors of a special issue
of the journal Nihon rekishi (January 2013), dedicated to the theme of aging in Japa­nese
history, also acknowledged Japan’s “aging society” (kōreikashakai) as an impetus for sustained
treatment of the topic (Nihon rekishi henshū iinkai 2013, 1). Im­por­tant Western-­language
studies on old age in premodern Japan include Formanek (1988, 1992, 1994, 1997); Scheid
(1996); Formanek and Linhart (1992, 1997).
39. See Itō et al. (1986–1987, vols. 1–5). See also Toshitani et al. (1990, vol. 5).
4 0. See, for instance, Kōkotsu no hito, Ariyoshi Sawako’s popu­lar novel about a w ­ oman
struggling to care for her senile ­father-­in-­law (1972).

Part 1: Making Elders ­Others in Early Japan

1. ­Children raised in the provinces w ­ ere portrayed in Heian-­period texts as uncouth, re-
quiring a g­ reat deal of training before they could function properly at court.
2. Tyler (2009, 134–135).
3. Seidensticker (1976, 267); SNKBZ (21:269).
4. SNKBZ (21:246–247); Seidensticker (1976, 258).
5. Seidensticker (1976, 86, 254). SNKBZ (21:238); SNKBZ (20:202).
6. Shirane (1987, 77–80).
7. Tyler (2009, 152).
8. It seems likely that Murasaki Shikibu consciously drew on ­t hese myths. But t­ hese par-
allels ­were first explic­itly noted in the Kakaishō of 1367 (ibid., 132).

Chapter 1: Aged Earth Gods and Majestic Imperial Ancestors

1. Although this chapter focuses on myths recorded in the Kojiki and Nihon shoki, ver-
sions of ­t hese tales also appeared in ­later texts, such as the Kogo shūi of 807, or the Sendai kuji
hongi, generally believed to have been compiled in the ninth through tenth centuries. I have
limited my discussion of such texts to cases in which they introduced new ele­ments relevant to
their treatment of the aged body.
154   Notes to Pages 5–9

2. See, for example, Shinmura (1991, 31) and Yamaori (1984, 156–160). Fukutō Sanae dis-
cusses the evidence that old men and ­women acted as chieftains in early Japan (2001, 79–82).
3. In ancient Japan, kami ­were likely ­imagined to be invisible forces that at times resided
in sacred objects or features of the natu­ral environment (Brown 1993, 16–17). Unlike mono­
the­istic traditions, kami ­were not perceived to be utterly transcendent beings. They ­were seen
as power­f ul but still possessing ­human-­like traits, desires, and foibles (Matsumae 1993, 317–
318). It is unclear when tales involving anthropomorphized kami first arose, but the Kojiki and
Nihon shoki represent the earliest rec­ords we have of such myths. For speculation on the devel-
opment of narratives involving anthropomorphized kami, see Matsumae (1993, 323–326).
4. Como (2003, 2008, 2009).
5. Matsumura (1954–1958, 1:118–124). See also Matsumae (1993, 323).
6. The merging of tutelary and ancestral gods appears to have been a relatively late in-
novation (Bock 1970, 1:32). For a discussion of the distinction between the gods of the land
and gods of heaven see Yamaori (1984, 126–136) and Formanek (1988, 11–28). Although the
term chigi 地祇 (gods of the land), utilized in the construction “gods of heaven and earth” (ten-
jin chigi 天神地祇), was also sometimes read kunitsukami, Kumagai Yasutaka (1991) argues
that ­t hese ­were distinct categories that became confused in the compilation of the Kojiki and
Nihon shoki. At least one of the kunitsukami ­under examination, Shihinetsu-­hiko, is listed in
the early ninth-­century rec­ord of hereditary titles and f­amily names, the Shinsen shōjiroku,
­under the rubric of chigi (Saeki 1962, 268).
7. For example, Inobe Jūichirō speculates that the elevation of the Sumiyoshi god from
earthly to heavenly in the Shinsen shōjiroku reflected the growing power of the Tsumori clan,
who claimed Sumiyoshi as their tutelary deity (Inobe 1976, 67b–68a, esp. 68a).
8. In the Kojiki, Shiotsuchikami 鹽椎神 is not marked as an elder, but his names in the
Nihon shoki (Shiotsutsu-­no-­oji 鹽土老翁 and Shiotsuchi-­no-­oji 鹽筒老翁) identify him as an
old man (NKBT 67:157). For a discussion of his name and his role in the Nihon shoki, see
ibid., 157n22.
9. His name is originally given as Kotokatsu-­kunikatsu-­Nagasa 事勝國勝長狹. See
­Aston (1972, 1:87–88).
10. Ibid., 110; see also 131. Following the work of Mizubayashi Takeshi and ­others, Her-
man Ooms (2009, 40) has shown that the relationship between the heavenly and earthly realm
in ­t hese myths was constructed not merely in vertical, hierarchical terms, but horizontally—
as center (heaven) and periphery (earth). For an outline of t­ hese spatial structures and their
relations to marital ties, see Mizubayashi (2001, 54–55, 82, 247).
11. NKBT (67:164–167; see also 274n29). For the Kojiki version, see Philippi (1969, 150).
12. Aston (1972, 1:84).
13. NKBT (67:120–121); Aston (1972, 1:55); Philippi (1969, 92).
14. Mizubayashi (2001, 85, 246–253). Finding parallels in the work of Marshall Sahlins and
Stanley Tambiah, Joan Piggott (1997, 38, 59–60) also points to evidence from the Nihon shoki
that marital alliances ­were used in the pre-­ritsuryō period to strengthen ties between the
­center and periphery.
15. This appears to be related to the pre-­r itsuryō practice of sending uneme 釆女, the
­daughters of local potentates, to serve at court. See Aston (1972, 1:304).
16. See Fukutō (2001, 81–82); Aoki (1997, 236). Modern scholars use the term shuchō 首長
to refer to chieftains of Yayoi and Kofun periods (Piggott 1997, 18). Chieftains are also believed
to have played a priestly role in ancient Japan (Brown 1993, 14).
 Notes to Pages 9–11   155

17. Adapted from Aston (1972, 1:349).

18. Aoki (1997, 236).
19. Fukutō (2001, 80).
20. Aston (1972, 1:110–111, 131–132). Another kunitsukami, Shihinetsu-­hiko, also played
a crucial role as Jinmu’s guide on his journey east.
21. The relatively high proportion of ­women who appear in ­t hese sources as tutelary gods
or chieftains appears to support the widely held theory that w ­ omen enjoyed greater po­liti­cal
power prior to the rise of the ritsuryō state (Fukutō 2001, 81–82). Archaeological evidence has
also been put forward to support t­ hese claims. See Mizoguchi (1989, 1997). See also Piggott
(1997, 39–40).
22. A directive (sei 制) issued in 713 affirmed that ­t here was no retirement age for direc-
tors and vice directors of the offices of district magistrates (gunji dairyō and shoryō), but made
provisions for governors to remove individuals from t­ hose posts if they ­were judged no longer
capable of fulfilling their duties. SNKBT (12:198–199). See also Shinmura (1991, 15).
23. Matsumae (1993, 319). In Ooms’s reading (2009, 32) it is the creative energy of Taka-
mimusuhi and Kamumusuhi that “infuse Izanagi and Izanami with the sexual power to bring
the world into being.”
24. According to Sakurai Yoshirō (1993, 63–67), unlike other myths in which agricultural
fertility is achieved through the marriage of a “stranger god” and a “­woman of the land,”
Ninigi—­who in other re­spects appears as a quin­tes­sen­t ial stranger god—is himself identified
as a symbol of the fertile earth.
25. Aston (1972, 1:89).
26. Detailed speculation about the aging pro­cess, its ­causes, and its potential remedies ­were
found, for instance, in the Huangdi nejing suwen (Yellow Emperor’s Inner Classic, Basic Ques-
tions), regarded since the Han dynasty as the sine qua non of medical education. It describes
­women reaching their prime between the ages of fourteen and forty-­nine, once qi becomes
abundant and initiates the production of a vital fluid necessary for childbearing. The parallel
pro­cess in men results in fertility between the ages of sixteen and forty (Ishida 1991, 1:33–37).
Works such as the Suwen ­were likely being studied at the Yamato court for two, possibly three
centuries prior to the compilation of the kikishinwa. The Nihon shoki rec­ords a Sillan doctor
bringing continental medicine during the reign of Ingyō (Aston 1972, 1:315) and numerous
experts in medicine arriving from Paekche at the request of Kinmei (Aston 1972, 2:68, 72).
­Later, more reliable attestations to the study of continental medicine at the Yamato court come
in the Yōrō code of 718, which was likely largely based on the Taihō code of 701 (Bock 1970,
1:8–9). In the section outlining the functions of the Imperial Medical Bureau, the Ten’yakuryō,
the Yōrō code lists several Chinese medical works to be mastered by its staff prior to their ap-
pointment. Along with the Huangdi neijing, we find works on acu­punc­ture, moxibustion, and
phar­ma­ceu­ti­cals. NST (3:422–429).
27. Aston (1972, 1:111). The Kojiki gives his name as Sawonetsu-­hiko 槁根津日子, identi-
fying him as the first ancestor of the Kuni-­no-­miyatsuko of Yamato (SNKBZ 1:142–143). The
Nihon shoki states that he was the first ancestor of the Yamato no Atae 倭直部 (Aston 1972,
1:112). The Shinsen shōjiroku describes Shihinetsu-­hiko offering his land to Jinmu, a detail not
included in the Kojiki or Nihon shoki (Saeki 1962, 251).
28. Aston (1972, 1:117).
29. NKBT (67:200–201); adapted from Aston (1972, 1:120).
30. SNKBZ (2:211n18); Ebersole (1989, 26).
156   Notes to Pages 12–13

31. Orikuchi (1995, 1:20) saw the minokasa as a form of dress associated in ancient Japan
with otherworldly beings. Donning it was a method of separating from humanity and taking
on godly form. In t­ hese myths, of course, the reverse seems to be the case. Shihinetsu-­hiko,
and perhaps Susanowo, don the minokasa to take the form of mortals.
32. Adapted from Aston (1972, 1:50). Susanowo’s minokasa is written with the characters
reversed, as kasamino 笠蓑 (NKBT 67:118–119).
33. This point is made forcefully by Tanaka (1997, esp. 10–11).
34. See Amino (1986, 106–113) and Abe (1991, 223).
35. The editors of the Shinpen Nihon koten bungaku zenshū describe the minokasa as a
symbol of the okina and ōna (SNKBZ 2:212n4 and n5). Mizuhara Hajime (1979, 414) observes
that in l­ ater texts the minokasa came to symbolize the recluse—­t he archetypal figure removed
from worldly contests.
36. In her classic study of kami iconography, Christine Guth (1985, 15) notes that gods ­were
represented as courtiers, reflecting the perceived superiority of the class that commissioned
them.
37. Formanek (1988, 16) observes that in comparison with earth deities, heavenly deities
are presented as “youthful,” perhaps drawing this conclusion from their implicit contrast to
the gods of the earth. ­There are also rec­ords of ancient rulers learning of beautiful ­women in
the realm and simply claiming them as consorts (Aston 1972, 1:348).
38. Aston (1972, 1:97).
39. NKBT (67:172–173); Aston (1972, 1:99).
40. NKBT (67:169); Aston (1972, 1:96). An episode from the rec­ord of Keikō underscores
this point. A ­woman chosen by the emperor seeks to offer her elder s­ ister in her stead, claiming
that her own “face is hideous and she is unworthy of being added to the side courts,” but her
elder s­ ister has a “beautiful countenance, and also a virtuous disposition” (Aston 1972, 1:190).
The Empress Jingū is also described as wondrously beautiful (Aston 1972, 1:224).
41. The passage continues, stating that they are in the “same class as the hikihiko 侏儒 [also
read shuju],” a term for ­people of very small stature (NKBT 67:210–211; Aston 1972, 1:130).
References to the Tsuchigumo are also found in certain fudoki (Mizoguchi 1997, 6–8).
42. Kim (2008, 17).
43. A passage from the rec­ord of Saimei distinguishes between the Ara-­Emishi 麁蝦夷 and
the Nigi-­Emishi 熟蝦夷 (Aston 1972, 2:261–262). ­Those closer to the Yamato capital, having
come ­under the civilizing influence of the central realm of Nihon and in tributary relations
with it, are portrayed as nigi (pacified). ­Those farther out are designated ara (wild). Even the
bodies of the pacified Emishi, however, are described as strange 異.
4 4. Philippi (1969, 170, 174); SNKBZ (1:148–149, 152–153); Aston (1972, 1:118–119, 130);
NKBT (67:198–199, 210–211). For a discussion of the significance of “pit-­dwelling,” see Aston
(1972, 1:71–72n4).
45. Philippi (1969, 169); Aston (1972, 1:131). Both the earth deities and the savage h ­ umans
inhabiting ­these areas ­were depicted possessing tails, implying genealogical links between
semidivine ancestors (earth gods), their p ­ eoples, and contemporaneous ethnic or kinship
groups, who themselves w ­ ere positioned in a subservient role relative to the Yamato court
(Matsumura 1954–1958, 1:156–157).
4 6. That is not to say that elders w ­ ere such a rarity in early Japan. Our best demographic
estimates show that in the pre-­Nara and Nara periods, a substantial proportion of ­people
 Notes to Pages 14–16   157

could expect to live beyond the age of forty and thus presumably would not have been as
shocking a sight as some of the chimerical beings found in the chronicles (Formanek 1988,
11–12).
47. The same is true of Hiko-­hoho-­demi (Aston 1972, 1:95). Discussed in Drott (2015b).
48. SNKBZ (1:354–355); Philippi (1969, 369).
49. Katō (1988, 232).
50. Sakamoto (1991, 67).
51. Katō (1988, 232–233).
52. The chronology of the Nihon shoki indicates that emperor Seinei would have been in
his twenties when he took the throne. His ­mother became a consort to Yūryaku in the first year
of his reign (Aston 1972, 1:337), and he is named heir apparent in the twenty-­second year of
Yūryaku (ibid., 368). But the notion that Seinei acceded at a young age is contradicted by the
fact that ­a fter a mere five-­year reign he is reported to have died when “his years ­were many”
(ibid., 337). A note in NKBT (67:508n6) refers to ­later histories, such as the Jinnō shōtoki,
which give his age at time of death as thirty-­n ine, forty-­one, or forty-­t wo. See also Aston
(1972, 1:377n4).
Seinei dies leaving no heir, and rulership is recorded passing to a descendant of one of
Nintoku’s sons. But this line ends with the abominable Buretsu, who is also depicted as child-
less. From ­t here the line moves through an unnamed, likely fabricated branch of descendants
of Ōjin to Keitai (Ooms 2009, 15). Seinei and Buretsu ­were thus meant to represent terminal
points in the imperial f­ amily tree that required passing the dignity to a new branch.
53. Araki (1998, 42).
54. NKBT (67:502–503). “Waka 幼” and “take 武” ­were also components of Yūryaku’s post-
humous name (Katō 1988, 230).
55. NKBT (67:502–503); Aston (1972, 1:373). Aston observes that Laozi and other Chinese
sages ­were also reported to have been born with white hair, implying that Seinei’s unusual col-
oring could have been regarded as a sign of sagehood. However, the hagiographic traditions
claiming that Laozi was born with white hair, beginning with Ge Xuan’s Laozi daodejing xu
jue, ­were merely attempts to make sense of his name, which could be read to mean “Old Child.”
Similarly, the Nihon shoki makes no indication that his white hair was an auspicious sign. Such
claims are made only in ­later Japa­nese histories, such as the Heian-­period Renchūshō and Jien’s
Gukanshō. See Brown and Ishida (1979, 259); NKBT (86:54).
56. Yoshida Takashi (1994, 37) claims that while the Kojiki was intended as a private record
for the imperial line, the Nihon shoki, written in Chinese, was meant to play a role in Japan’s
international relations. It is also clear that the Nihon shoki was still being actively reworked in
the years immediately prior to its pre­sen­ta­tion. See Sakamoto (1991, 42).
57. Ooms (2009, 146); Bialock (2007, 76–77). Herman Ooms (2009, 244) also describes
Genshō as the first Japa­nese ruler to receive an elixir of cinnabar, in Yōrō 6 (722) 4/21, presum-
ably reading 飛舟 (flying boat) as a copyist error for 飛丹 (flying [volatized?] cinnabar/elixir)
(SNKBT 13:114–115, esp. n9). See also Campany (2002, 42).
58. For more on the etymology of rei 醴, see Wada (1995, 2:251).
59. Ooms (2009, 184–185).
60. ­Under Tenmu, individual aged priests received special support (Aston 1972, 2:371, 378).
­Under Jitō the custom began of offering charity to groups of elders (Aston 1972, 2:397). For
examples from the reign of Monmu, see Snellen (1934, 171, 185, 197, 217, 221–222). Th ­ ese
158   Notes to Pages 16–18

a­ ctivities ­were eventually curtailed in the Heian period due to financial constraints (Fukutō
2001, 115).
61. Similarly, Ooms (2009, 147) translates Yōrō as “Nurture Aging.” He notes that many
of the reign names chosen between the years 701 and 782 ­were rendered in a quasi-­Daoist
idiom that alluded to auspicious omens such as white tortoises or mysterious cloud forma-
tions. He has proposed that in times of par­t ic­u ­lar stress, the Nara court “in dire need of as-
surances that it would last,” relied especially on Daoist-­style legitimating techniques, since
“Daoism presented symbols that promised overcoming the debilitating work of time” (Ooms
2009, 185).
62. Yōrō 1 (717), 11/17. SNKBT (13:34–35); Ujitani (1992–1995, 1:188).
63. Wada (1995, 2:251). Wada also notes that in the second month of the year following
Genshō’s pro­gress, ­water from her spring was brought to the capital to make sweet sake (ko-
sake or reishu 醴酒). Sweet springs also figured in Daoist works, such as Ge Hong’s celebrated
Baopuzi, a fourth-­century text that dealt extensively with alchemy and the quest for immor-
tality (ibid., 252).
64. SNKBT (13:34–35).
65. Ooms (2009, 147).
66. Traditionally, only one member of each clan was allowed to serve on the council at any
given time (Wada 1995, 2:249).
67. David Bialock (2007, 76–84) discusses the complex symbolism that allowed Tenmu’s
elixir to buttress his royal authority. See also Ooms (2009, 161).
68. Adapted from Snellen (1937, 257). Framed as an attempt to protect low-­level bureau-
crats from the caprices of governors, the directive in fact empowered governors to remove el­
derly subordinates (Wadō 6 [713], 5/7; SNKBT 12:198–199).
69. Although the Yōrō code was not enacted u ­ ntil 757, it serves, at the very least, as a rec­
ord of the attitudes of court elites at the time it was composed.
70. NST (3:220). The Yōrō ritsuryō also included retirement procedures for court officials
upon reaching the age of seventy. Retirement guidelines are given in the Senjoryō section of the
Yōrō code. See NST (3:269–280, esp. 275–276). The first reliable rec­ord of an official stepping
down due to old age appears in 756, one year before the Yōrō code was fi­nally enacted. This would
seem to indicate that the earlier Taihō codes also included retirement guidelines, but that for
nearly half a c­ entury no one had actually put them into practice. This too, then, points to evolving
attitudes t­ oward the role of the aged in the early through mid-­eighth ­century.
71. Wada (1995, 2:250). Fuhito and his son Umakai contributed Chinese poems to the
Kaifūsō that demonstrated a deep familiarity with Chinese theories of longevity and immor-
tality. Another of Fuhito’s sons, Muchimaro, is recorded having “trea­sured” the Laozi, Zhuangzi,
and Ijing (Ooms 2009, 136).
72. Ooms (2009).
73. Scholars have discovered other examples of late additions and edits, most notably the
inclusion in the Nihon shoki of language from the Golden Light Sutra, which only reached
Japan in 718 (Sakamoto 1991, 42).
74. Although we might attempt to trace t­ hese tangled lines of influence (Gorski 2013, 356),
we do not have enough information about the pro­cess by which the Nihon shoki or the Yōrō
codes w ­ ere compiled to conduct such a fine-­tuned analy­sis. On the uncertainties surrounding
the compilation of the Nihon shoki, see Sakamoto (1991, 33–39).
 Notes to Pages 20–22   159

Chapter 2. “Lamenting Gray Hair”

1. In this and the following chapters I rely on a concept of “spatial imaginaries” adapted
from Henri Lefebvre’s work on the social production of space (1991). Lefebvre describes how
social practices (what he terms “spatial practices”) contribute to and reinforce given conceptu-
alizations of space, which can also be made concrete in repre­sen­ta­t ions such as maps or dia-
grams. He also describes what he calls “repre­sen­ta­tional space,” the lived experience of space
that is perhaps only dimly intuited, but can at times be expressed by artists or writers (1991,
38–39). David Bialock makes effective use of t­ hese frameworks in his analy­sis of the spatial
imaginaries of early and medieval Japan (2007).
2. On the vari­ous ways in which power was reconfigured in the mid-­Heian period, see
Adolphson, Kamens, and Matsumoto (2007, 3–5).
3. See Abe (1999, 305–306). Abe (2007, 182–183) sees a sharp break between the kinds of
discourse found within official collections of Chinese verse and imperially sponsored collec-
tions of Japa­nese verse. But, as the examples discussed below serve to illustrate, waka was not
immune from the influence of state-­centric ideologies.
4. Ikeda (1977, 159–163).
5. See NST (3:269–280, esp. 275–276).
6. Chiji 致仕, sometimes rendered chishi, or, as a verb, shi wo itasu. Ibid., 275–276.
7. The first reliable rec­ord of an official stepping down due to old age appears in the Shoku
Nihongi. The emperor allowed Tachibana no Moroe to retire in 756.
8. Aston (1972, 1:254).
9. Adapted from ibid., 260.
10. Ibid., 391; SNKBZ (1:363–364). See also Cranston (1993, 66–67).
11. Legendary rulers such as Jinmu, Jingū, and Ōjin embodied the continental ideal of the
ancient sage-­k ing who, by harmonizing yin and yang, remained active beyond even the life­
span of the average mortal.
12. In this variant it is unclear if Kaminaga-­hime is offered to the emperor or to his son,
who reigned as Nintoku. Her offspring with Ōjin are discussed at the beginning of his rec­ord,
where her name is abbreviated to “Naga-­hime” of Hyūga (Aston 1972, 1:255). But the rec­ord of
Nintoku indicates that she became his consort, which accords with the version found in the
Kojiki (Philippi 1969, 279). It is striking that Ushi hails from Hyūga, the area where Ninigi
­encountered Shiotsutsu-­oji and a local “­daughter,” a goddess who became his consort. See
Philippi (1969, 413n18) for a discussion of the pos­si­ble significance of Hyūga.
13. This pattern is repeated in the myths of Ninigi, Hiko-­hoho-­demi, Susanowo, and Ōjin,
as well as ­t hose of Ōkuninushi, Jinmu, Yamato-­takeru, and Nintoku tennō. See Orikuchi (1995,
15:319–341, esp. 333–334).
14. The Montoku jitsuroku contains a strikingly candid example of this proj­ect. The biog-
raphy of Fujiwara no Matsukage describes him as exceedingly attractive: “By nature he was of
erect bearing, and his beard and eyebrows w ­ ere as if drawn.” Since officials of the Crown Prince
­were looking for “men of good appearance,” Matsukage was “transferred and appointed Ju­nior
Secretary of the Office of the Crown Prince’s Quarters” (Saikō 2 [855], 1/22; Shimizu 1951,
386–387; Saeki 1930, 108).
15. The Huangdi neijing pres­ents hair as an index of female sexual maturity (Veith
1966, 99).
160   Notes to Pages 22–26

16. Edwin Cranston (1993, 163) sees this motif at work in the opening poem of the
Man’yōshū, where “the ruler asks for the name of [a young girl with a basket], and thus for her
yielding—­like his realm at ­large.”
17. Kaminaga-­hime is reported to have become a consort in the thirteenth year of Ōjin’s
reign. Ōjin was said to have acceded at the age of seventy (Aston 1972, 1:255).
18. Hozumi (1989, 108).
19. NST (3:275–276); Hozumi (1989, 109).
20. For example, Ōnakatomi no Kiyomaro (702–788), whose biography appears in the
Shoku Nihongi (Enryaku 7 [788], 7/28), had a remarkable c­ areer, serving from the reigns of
Shōmu to Kanmu, and was deeply knowledgeable about ancient pre­ce­dent and court ceremo-
nial. At the age of seventy, he requested retirement but it was not allowed. He was fi­nally
­a llowed to retire in 781 (SNKBT 16:410–413; Ujitani 1992–1995, 3:401).
21. Since the upper echelon of officialdom was an exclusively male preserve, chijihyō ­were
uniformly composed by men. On the place of ­women in the ritsuryō bureaucracy, see Yoshikawa
(1990, 105–142).
22. Courtiers commonly appealed to the same kinds of criteria found in the directive of
713 discussed in chapter 1, calling for the removal of incapacitated elders from provincial posts
(SNKBT 12:198–199).
23. Hōki 1 (770), 10/8; SNKBT (15:314–315).
24. SNKBT (15:316–317).
25. The twelfth-­century Mizukagami has Makibi supporting Funya no Ōchi and then Fu-
nya no Kiyomi (KT 21:71–72).
26. Ten’an (Tennan) 1 (857), 1/21. Saeki (1930, 135).
27. Ten’an 1 (857), 1/21. Adapted from Shimizu (1951, 449–50); Saeki (1930, 135).
28. Ten’an 1 (857), 1/26. Shimizu (1951, 451–452); Saeki (1930, 136–137).
29. The first reference to Buddhist retirement (shukke) in the Nihon shoki comes in the
­rec­ord of Kinmei, describing a Korean prince’s wish to take the tonsure to ensure the repose of
his f­ ather’s sprit (Aston 1972, 2:77–78).
30. For example, Tachibana no Tsuneko (788–817), who became a nun in response to the
death of Kanmu tennō (Mo­rita 2006, 3:42). Yoshimine no Munesada (816–890) took the tonsure to
“repay his debt” to the late Ninmyō tennō. Montoku jitsuroku, Kashō 3 (850), 3/28 (Saeki 1930, 4).
31. The Nihon shoki pres­ents both Princes Furuhito-­no-­Ōe and Ōama seeking to take
themselves out of contention for the throne by donning Buddhist robes and retreating to Mount
Yoshino. Furuhito reportedly sought to “leave home” (shukke) and devote himself to “the prac-
tice of the way of the Buddha, thus rendering support to the Emperor.” Adapted from Aston
(1972, 2:196); NKBT (68:269).
32. Often ­t hese two modes of Buddhist retirement went hand in hand. Okano Kōji (1998,
81–84) analyzed patterns of Buddhist retirement among Heian-­period aristocrats and found
that among the most common reasons for retirement was a change in the po­liti­cal climate, or
death of a tennō. Since the death of one’s patron could result in a precipitous fall from grace,
removing oneself to pray for the afterlife of one’s deceased lord was a con­ve­nient way of remov-
ing oneself from the danger of court intrigues. Adolphson (2007, 215) also sees an early spike
in lay renunciation ­after the rise of Yoshifusa and the displacement of many non-­Fujiwara elites
from high office.
33. In the reign of Tenji, for example, 330 p
­ eople ­were made to enter religion for the sake
of the recently deceased Empress Dowager Hashihito (Aston 1972, 2:283).
 Notes to Pages 27–30   161

3 4. A lay monk might be referred to as a nyūdō (novice), a lay nun as a nyūdō ama.
35. Katata (1985, 383).
36. ­There ­were exceptions, but shukke was perceived to be irreversible. See Meeks (2010,
18, 23).
37. Out of ­t hose, only five ­were given deathbed tonsure (Katata 1985, 394).
38. Hurst (1976, 69–74).
39. The significance of Michinaga’s post-­tonsure ­career and its influence on Insei models
of rulership are discussed in Uejima (2010, 161–189).
40. For example, in the late tenth-­century Ochikubo monogatari, the seventy-­year-­old step-
mother of the protagonist is encouraged to become a nun to begin making merit (kudoku) for
the next life (NKBT 13:247).
41. Hayami (1975, 107–108).
42. In the Eiga monogatari we read that the tonsure of Fujiwara no Kintō (966–1040) at
age sixty caused his f­ amily ­great consternation. Discussed in Meeks (2010, 12–13).
43. Fujiwara no Akimitsu (944–1021) reportedly elicited chuckles as he prattled on about
his plans “­because it was ridicu­lous for a dotard in his seventies to be planning for the remote
­f uture instead of reciting Amida Butsu’s name” (McCullough and McCullough 1980, 519–520;
NKBT 76:28).
4 4. For example, in the Ochikubo monogatari, the lecherous old Ten’yaku no suke, who is
treated with utter disdain by all, fi­nally has his lacquered court cap (eboshi)—­symbol of his
official status—­k nocked off his head (White­house and Yanagisawa 1965, 165). Sei Shōnagon
was particularly barbed in her assessment of elders at court. She observes that white-­haired
candidates for official appointments ­were often mocked b ­ ehind their backs, judging them
“pathetic” (Morris 1991, 23–24).
45. In the Sarashina nikki, we read that the author’s ­mother had become a nun and that,
although she remained in the same ­house­hold, she lived separately from her ­family in another
section of the building (NKBT 20:510). Meeks (2010, 37) interprets this passage to mean that
her m ­ other had moved to a separate annex on the same estate.
46. In the Kagerō nikki, the narrator reports that she had heard about the wife of a gover-
nor who had become a nun and moved to her own mansion (Seidensticker 1973, 75).
47. The Genji monogatari, for example, describes Genji paying a visit to his former nurse,
who had become a Buddhist nun. As he looked “up and down the dirty, cluttered street,” he
was somewhat taken aback by the dubious (ayashiki) neighborhood she had retired to. Seiden-
sticker (1976, 57–58).
48. This ambivalence is discussed in Meeks (2010, 10).
49. McCullough (1985, 24).
50. Discussed in Ebersole (1989, 17, 46–47).
51. NKBT (69:58). Confucian ideology held that poetry and lit­er­a­ture had a refining effect
and could bring order and rectitude to the vagaries of ­human emotion, transforming rough,
uncultured men and ­women into domesticated subjects. This ideology informs the title of a
ninth-­century imperial anthology, the Keikokushū (Collection of Verses to Bring Order to the
Realm). See Kojima (1968–1998, 2.3, part 1:2134).
52. Bin ­were “side-­tresses,” the hair on one’s ­temples (NKBT 69:60–61).
53. Ibid., 88–89. Adapted from Rabinovitch and Bradstock (2005, 41–42).
54. Other works from this time commonly compared the emperor’s grace to the arrival of
spring. See, for example, Rabinovitch and Bradstock (2005, 55).
162   Notes to Pages 30–33

55. McCullough (1985, 5).

56. Out of some 4,500 poems, only seventy-­six deal with old age (Okuda 1997, 46–47).
57. Cranston (1993, 162).
58. Philippi (1969, 353); SNKBZ (1:340–341).
59. Philippi (1969, 354); SNKBZ (1:342–343).
60. Philippi (1969, 356, 344–345). Cranston (1993, 54) notes that the w ­ oman ages, but
Yūryaku does not. This is, of course, in keeping with the rhe­toric of the virtue and vitality of
heavenly sovereigns found in the early chronicles.
61. Both episodes rework the themes of Chinese poems describing aging consorts losing
imperial ­favor.
62. Rabinovitch and Bradstock (2005, 12).
63. Adapted from Cranston (1993, 559). NKBT (4:174); SNKBZ (6:205).
64. Although Tokoyo has generally been taken to be an ele­ment of native Japa­nese folk-
lore, it clearly incorporated concepts of immortality derived from continental sources. The
Urashimako legend in the Man’yōshū combines the mythic topology of Tokoyo with that of
Penglai. See Senda (2003, 40–47). In the Nihon shoki, Tajima Mori was reported to have trav-
eled to Tokoyo (described as a land of shinsen) to bring back the fruit of the “Seasonless Fra-
grant Tree” (tachibana) of immortality to pres­ent to the sovereign (Cranston 1993, 463–464).
A poem by Ōtomo no Miyori (d. 744) hints that Tokoyo was a land in which youth was re-
stored. Expressing joy on being re­united with his love, he writes that she must have been living
in Tokoyo, since she seems to have grown even younger than the last time they met (Cranston
1993, 406–407; SNKBZ 6:334).
65. SNKBZ (6:53–54).
66. In addition to immortals, Penglai is inhabited by auspicious fauna and flora, including
tortoises, cranes, stags, mushrooms, pine, peach, and plum trees—­a ll symbols of longevity
(Pregadio 2008, 2:788–790).
67. On the poetic connections between Penglai and Japan’s first capital, see Ooms (2009,
80) and Senda (2003, 46–47).
68. Ooms (2009, 78–80).
69. NKBT (72:460). The Japa­nese w ­ ere following Chinese pre­ce­dent ­here. The palace gate
in the Han-­dynasty capital of Luoyang was known as the “Gate of Non-­Aging” (NKBT 73:250).
The Imperial Palace in the Tang capital was known as the Penglai Palace (Akiyama and
Yamanaka 1967, 3:38b). A poem by the Tang-­era poet Yang Heng collected in the Wakan
rōeishū claimed that the Tang sovereign, dwelling in the palace of long life, had no need to visit
Penglai or Kunlun (NKBT 73:218–219).
The gardens of nonroyals w ­ ere also at times compared to Penglai. The Kawara-­no-in no fu,
an essay by Minamoto no Sumeru (dates unknown), boasts in a similar vein of the garden of
his Kawara-­no-in (NKBT 69:330–333). In rare cases, the natu­ral world might inspire compari-
son to immortal lands. Michizane, for instance, composed a poem reveling in the purity of the
snow in Sanuki province, likening it to walking on jewels in Penglai (NKBT 72:327).
70. NKBT (73:246).
71. Pregadio (2008, 2:602–604).
72. NKBT (69:91–92, 94); Tatsumi (2012, 133–137, 145–150).
73. On the Shinsen’en as a locus of poetic composition, see Akiyama and Yamanaka (1967,
3:52–57).
74. McCullough (1968, 33).
 Notes to Pages 33–36   163

75. SNKBZ (7:49–50).

76. Adapted from Cranston (1993, 548–549).
77. (Kanke bunsō 194) NKBT (72:256). Translated by Borgen (1994, 192–193). Borgen
(1994, 361n72) lists four other poems in the Kanke bunsō in which Michizane laments his
gray hair, all dating from his years in Sanuki: 224, 254, 297, and 301 (NKBT 72:279, 303–304,
343, 345).
78. Michizane’s corpus allows us to track how his poetic reflections on the aged body re-
sponded to his social and geographic position. As a rule, he composed no laments for his gray
hair in the capital, with the pos­si­ble exception of one poem he wrote when, during his tenure
in Sanuki, he was allowed to return temporarily to Heian-­k yō (Kanke bunsō 239) (NKBT
72:293–294).
79. Part of this has to do with the nature of the poetry being composed in ­t hese two dis-
tinct settings. Scholars note that his poetry in Sanuki was private in nature, consisting mainly
of melancholy verse. Upon his return to the capital, however, he was elevated to the post of
Minister of the Right, which required that the style of his poetic output shift to accommodate
this public role. The majority of the verses in the Kanke bunsō from this period ­were composed
at formal gatherings, often in response to imperial command. See Rabinovitch and Bradstock
(2005, 122), and Borgen (1994, 225). But we should not underestimate the po­liti­cal component
of his supposedly private poems from Sanuki, especially in light of the fact that they ­were
­selected for inclusion in an anthology presented to the throne in 900.
The first seven poems of the Kanke kōshū ­were also composed during the period prior to
his exile. One of ­t hese mentions his old age in comparison with the youthful Emperor Daigo
(Kanke kōshū 473) but does not take up the aged body as a sustained theme for melancholy
­reflection (NKBT 72:474).
80. Borgen (1994, 297).
81. Ibid., 299.
82. Tahara (1980, 109); NKBT (9:327–328).
83. Hozumi (1989, 69–91) gives a detailed treatment of the instances in which the legend is
recounted in Japa­nese lit­er­a­ture.
8 4. The earliest references to Kagami-­yama in Nara-­period texts ­were actually to other
mountains with the same name. See, for instance, the Buzen fudoki (SNKBZ 5:550) and
Man’yōshū (NKBT 4:90, 140, 166, 200). Regardless, it was not ­until the Heian period that the
trope of seeing one’s reflection in Mirror Mountain emerged.
85. One of the earliest examples is by Ōshikōchi no Mitsune (859–925) (Rimer and Chaves
1997, 219).
86. NKBT (8:282); McCullough (1985, 197).
87. Herbert Plutschow (1975, 57) observes that “consciousness of the age of the authors
pres­ents a peculiar feature of kikō. In the prefaces, the authors frequently introduce themselves
as hermits over fifty.”
88. Tōkan kikō (SNKBT 51:131); Shinshō hōshi nikki (SNKBZ 48:85–104); Nagusamegusa
(SNKBZ 48:431). Another popu­lar landmark for poetic composition for kikō diarists was the
nearby Oiso Forest, the name of which combined the characters for “old age” and “rebirth”
老蘇. Oiso was visited by authors of the Tōkan kikō, Nagsusamegusa, Fujikawa-­no-­ki (SNKBT
51:400), and o ­ thers.
89. Tatsumi (2012, 511).
90. Rabinovitch and Bradstock (2005, 167–168).
164   Notes to Pages 36–41

91. Ibid., 168. Konishi (1948–1953, 2:169).

92. In the Zhuangzi, for instance, a massive, gnarled old tree is praised for its uselessness.
­Because of its defects, it would never be cut down for timber (Mair 1998, 37–38).
93. Shōshi 尚齒 is a term of re­spect for elders, the character shi 齒 (歯), for “tooth,” pro-
viding a graphic ele­ment for the character rei 齡 (齢) for age.
94. Nawabon Hakushi bunshū 71. Kawai (2011, 2:347–353).
95. Zen Tōshi 463. Honma (1992–1994, 1:47–48).
96. NKBT (72:168). For the preface, see SNKBT (27:61–62).
97. SNKBT (27:62, 276a).
98. Discussed in Gotō (2012, 352).
99. SNKBT (27:276b). Funtoki’s preface is translated in Gotō (2012, 131). Funtoki also
authored an essay deceptively titled “Song about the Peaceful Retirement of an Old Man” that
is, once again, essentially a lament (Rabinovitch and Bradstock 2005, 180–181).
100. These are well known, published in GR (9:265b–269a). Recently a new set was discov-
ered in the Tokugawa Bijutsukan, treated in Gotō (1993, 113–134).
101. Poems 729 and 731 (NKBT 73:238–239).
102. A description of this event is found in the Chōshūki, the diary of Minamoto no
­Morotoki (Tenshō 1 [1131], 3/22). Discussed in Gotō (2012, 352–353). Poems from this
Shōshikai are found in ZGR (9:3–4) and Honchō mudaishi (Honma 1992–1994, 1:44–60).
103. Honma (1992–1994, 1:44–45, 48–49).

Chapter 3. Decrepit Demons and Defiled Deities

1. I discuss ­t hese three repre­sen­ta­t ional modes in depth in Drott (2015a).
2. In the Nihon shoki, for example, the Yamato plain—­site of Japan’s first “permanent”
capitals—­was cast as a pure, pacified center, ­f ree of “dust and wind,” set apart from the “un-
clean frontier lands” (Aston 1972, 1:131).
3. Itō Kiyoshi (1993, 28) observes that taboos and purification rites enhanced the status
of the tennō. By claiming to protect the body of the emperor they implied its essential purity.
4. Aston (1972, 2:344); NKBT (68:438–439).
5. Murai (1988, 108–109); Ōji (2002, 71–95, esp. 71–77).
6. The classic study of this pro­cess was conducted by Yokoi Kiyoshi (1975). See also,
Stone (2007, 175). Buddhist discourse on pollution also played a role in gender discrimina-
tion, with ­women barred from many sacred sites (nyonin kinsei), in part due to fears of men-
struation.
7. 厭離穢土 NST (6:10, 324a).
8. Stone (2007, 203).
9. Hayami (1988, 221–231).
10. Ibid., 228.
11. Around the icon, images of the Buddha’s ten g­ reat disciples, Kannon and Fugen
Bosatsu, and the four deva kings ­were hung on the walls (Hori 1983, 282). Each day without fail
the sixteenth chapter of the Lotus Sutra, “Fathoming the Lifespan of the Tathāgata” (Juryōbon),
was recited nine times. This chapter held that the death of the historical Śākyamuni was but an
illusion and that his lifespan as a manifestation of buddhahood was, in fact, endless (Kawasaki
1972, 390a; Hayami 1988, 222).
 Notes to Pages 41–45   165

1 2. Takeuchi (1963–1976, 11:262–273); Hori (1983, 284); Kawasaki (1972, 389b).

13. Kawasaki (1972, 388b–389a). Although Genshin is famous for his promotion of the
Pure Land of Amida, it is unclear h ­ ere ­whether he was in fact addressing aspirations to be
reborn in Śākyamuni’s Buddha land.
14. Kawasaki (1972, 389b).
15. The Reizan-in Shakakō’s charter documents describe a diverse membership, listing in-
dividuals of vari­ous ranks and stations, including an unnamed imperial princess, an imperial
consort, a minister of state, provincial governors, and monks and nuns of vari­ous ranks (Ka-
wasaki 1972, 44a; Hayami 1988, 225–226). It is unclear ­whether female members of the asso-
ciation ­were allowed to ignore nyonin kinsei taboos to access the Reizan-in or ­whether they
­were forced to send proxies. Hori Daiji (1983, 288, 299) takes the view that w ­ omen ­were allowed
to participate. Sarah Horton (2004, 45n16) raises the possibility that ­women sent proxies.
16. Hokke genki 2/49; NST (7:117, 535b).
17. The early tenth-­century dictionary Wamyō ruijushō has an entry indicating that the
characters that l­ ater came to be read as dōsojin (道祖神 literally “road ancestor god”) w ­ ere pro-
nounced sae no kami. Another entry gives the pronunciation funado no kami for the charac-
ters chimata kami (literally “crossroad god”). See Daigo (1966, 2:6–7).
18. Several scholars have seen evidence of dōsojin-­style cults in the Kojiki and Nihon shoki.
See Ōshima (1972, 68–69); Itō and Endō (1972, 223).
19. The geography of t­hese rites is explained in detail in Itō (1993, 22–28). Although
­Bialock (2007, 221–224) observes that, as ­t hese rituals came ­under the purview of privatized
Yin-­Yang masters, practices of purification became a destabilizing force that undermined the
authority of the throne, they continued to contribute to the cultural fantasy of a purified center
at least ­until the late Heian.
20. Also known as the Honchō hokke genki.
21. NST (7:567b, 215). The icon (votive tablet) described ­here also resembles the hitogata,
effigies that ­were at times used in purification rituals as scapegoats, to soak up pollution and
then be cast out.
22. NST (7:567b–568a).
23. Ibid. Hank Glassman (2012, 170) sees the reference h ­ ere to the “vulgar” body as an
indication of the phallic form that many dōsojin took. In this case, however, the votive statue
appears to have been in h ­ uman form rather than phallic, since it is depicted riding a ­horse.
24. McMullin (1987, 166).
25. Philippi (1990, 53).
26. Abe Yasurō (1995, 139–140) makes a similar point. A tale from the Konjaku mono­
gatarishū also used the aged body to symbolize a likely disease agent, depicting a tiny okina
emerging out of brackish w ­ ater to stroke the face of a sleeping man (Drott 2015a, 10–12).
27. For a discussion of the lowly status of the okina dōsojin, see Abe (1998, 286–288); Hotate
(1993b, 31); Kim (2008, 74–76).
28. Mills (1970, 136); NKBT (27:53–54).
29. Abe Yasurō has shown that numerous references to dōsojin from the Heian and medi-
eval periods associated the deity with sex and fertility. ­People commonly prayed to ­t hese gods
of the crossroads in hopes of “intersecting with” their own marital or sexual partner (Abe 1998,
288, see also 284–285). Variants of this tale portray Dōmyō as guilty not just of violating his
celibacy, but of incest as well. In this case, however, the heart of the ­matter is the fact that he
166   Notes to Pages 45–51

dared to ­handle the Lotus Sutra without purifying himself first. The dōsojin’s appearance does
not instigate this sexual activity. It is in response to impurity.
30. Glassman (2012, 162–166).
31. Abe (1998, 288).
32. NST (7:138–139, 542a–542b).
33. Seidel (2003, 1159b–1160a).
34. NKBT (25:507–508). Discussed in Iinuma (1990, 166) and Formanek (1997, 118).
35. NKBT (25:496–498).
36. Como (2009, esp. 195–196).
37. The insatiability of the aged female is also a feature of certain tales of the mountain
hag (yamanba). In one, a man leading a cow laden with salted mackerel is accosted by a
­yamanba. Not satisfied with just one fish, she ends up eating the entire load, and even the cow.
See Yanagita (1963, 6:439).
38. In the medieval period, the image of the datsueba came to overlap with that of a trinity
of aged female deities (collectively known as Onbasama) enshrined at Tateyama, eventually
transforming the fearful datsueba into a protective deity for w ­ omen, able to ensure safe child-
birth (Seidel 2003, 1163–1167).

Part 2. Reappraising the Aged Body in Medieval Japan

1. The prestige attached to ­t hese collections likely played a major role in setting the tone
for classical-­period verse.
2. One of the bangai poems appended to the received version of the Kaifūsō, misleadingly
titled “Lamenting Old Age,” is a pos­si­ble exception. However, noting its similarity to works
from the ninth-­century Chinese collection Hanshan (Cold Mountain), Yamagishi Tokuhei
theorizes it was added as late as the Muromachi period (NKBT 69:7–9). See also Rabinovitch
and Bradstock (2005, 48).
3. The fact that fires destroyed the Suzakumon, the Daigokuden, and other key landmarks
in the geography of the court further underlines the sense that the center has been wiped away
(NKBT 30:24).
4. Discussed by Itō Hiroyuki (1975, 78–90).
5. NKBT (30:44).
6. On this point, see Marra (1991, 75–100).
7. Sadler (1972, 5).
8. NKBT (30:36).
9. Sadler (1972, 13–14); NKBT (30:37–38).
10. NKBT (30:39).
11. Another famous example is Yoshida Kenkō’s Tsurezuregusa, wherein he takes several
opportunities to reflect on his own old age and eccentricity. See, especially, NKBT (30:180–181).
The degree to which the persona of the aged recluse had become a literary pose is evident in
Nijō Yoshimoto’s Ojima no kuchizusami. Donald Keene (1989, 186) observes that Yoshimoto
“writes in the manner of an old man, though he was only thirty-­five.”
12. Classic examples of the genre are the Kaidōki (Rec­ord of the Route along the Sea) and
the Tōkan kikō (Travel Diary of the Barrier Gate) (SNKBT 51).
13. Chōmei writes: “Since I forsook the world and broke off all its ties, I have felt neither
fear nor resentment. [ . . . ​] Like a drifting cloud I rely on none and have no attachments” (Sadler
 Notes to Pages 53–57   167

1972, 19). Similar sentiments are expressed in the Kaidōki. Gazing out at fishermen, the author
is reminded of ­t hose sent out by the Qin emperor on their failed mission to discover Penglai
and writes:
Omoiseji to It is ­t hose who are not troubled by
kokoro wo tsune ni the thought [of growing old]
yaru hito zo and whose hearts are always at ease;
na wo kiku shima no it is they who ­w ill obtain
kusuri wo motoru the elixir of the famous isle.
(SNKBT 51:82)

Chapter 4. From Outcast to Saint

1. In part in reaction to t­ hese developments, certain Buddhist priests, such as Gen-
shin, sought to establish special sites for practice in which physical and moral purity could
be maintained. His establishment of the Reizan-in Shakakō can be understood as one
such effort.
2. Although the perspective of a given work cannot be fully explained by the social class
of its producers or patrons, valuable insights can be gained by contextualizing cultural prod-
ucts in terms of the social positioning of their producers and what Bourdieu terms the “space
of pos­si­bles”—­t he “universe of prob­lems, references, intellectual benchmarks”—­out of which
they emerged (Bourdieu 1993, 9, 30–32, 176).
3. The five defilements are mentioned, for example, in the “Skillful Means” (Hōben) chap-
ter of the Lotus Sutra.
4. Japa­nese Pure Land discourse incorporated the concept of the five defilements very
early on. The early Heian Jōgū Shōtoku taishi den hoketsuki, for instance, depicts the death and
ascent to the Pure Land of Shōtoku Taishi’s son Yuge-­no-­miko, who declares that he is “aban-
doning his body of five defilements” (GR 5:339b).
5. Buddhist scriptures explained that at the beginning of each four-­kalpa (aeon) tempo-
ral cycle, ­humans would live as long as eighty thousand years (Sadakata 1997, 104). Two early
medieval histories, the Ōkagami (NKBT 21:278; McCullough 1980, 235) and Gukanshō (Brown
and Ishida 1979, 211–212) employed ­t hese theories to account for the gradual diminution of
lifespans of Japa­nese sovereigns compared with the superhuman longevity of legendary rulers
in the early chronicles. Since the vitality of sovereigns was linked rhetorically to their virtue,
the Buddhist view of time could con­ve­niently explain the short reigns of recent emperors as a
function of their having acceded in a degenerate age.
6. See Kiley (1999, 239).
7. Groner (2002).
8. See, for instance, Hori (1983, 296).
9. Dykstra (1983) has translated the text in full. To foreground certain relevant nuances
in the original, I have used my own translations, except where noted.
10. Eubanks (2011, 41).
11. Ruppert (2000).
12. For an excellent discussion of the jikyōsha see Eubanks (2011, 46). See also Kikuchi
(2007, 44–84).
13. Dykstra (1983, 5).
168   Notes to Pages 57–60

14. Although bessho ­were designated as places apart, they also made impor­tant economic
contributions to their home ­temples (honji) and at times acted as mediators between the main
­temple and the laypeople who lived and worked on ­temple lands (Takagi 1973, 322–375; Hay-
ami 1991, 22).
15. Discussed in Takagi (1973, 356–357) and Deal (1993).
16. On Atago as a site for funeral rites, reclusion, and Lotus devotion, see Bouchy (1987,
255–258). For an example of a recluse who chose Atago as his final abode, see Hokke genki
(1/16) (Dykstra 1983, 45). While bessho w ­ ere a heterogeneous set of loci, Takagi Yutaka (1973,
351) finds that many of them ­were also situated in or near areas that ­were used as burial
grounds.
17. See, for example, the case of the youthful 140-­year-­old jikyōsha in the mountains be-
tween Kumano and Ōmine (1/11) (NST 7:66–68, 518b–519a); of Ryōsan (2/49), who abstained
from cereals and fashioned clothing out of club moss and bark, but whose complexion was
“fresh and fair” even on his death bed (NST 7:116, 535a–535b); or Kitō (2/69), who lived to be
over 140 years old, but appeared as a man of thirty. His back unbent and his senses still sharp,
he “escaped the sufferings of old age and sickness” (NST 7:137–138, 542a). See also Dykstra
(1983, 40–42, 76–77, 91).
18. For example 1/11. NST (7:67, 519a); Dykstra (1983, 41).
19. See, for instance, 2/49. NST (7:117, 535b); Dykstra (1983, 77).
20. See episodes 1/18 and  2/44 (NST 7:76–77, 521b–522a, 107–109, 532b–533a; Dykstra
1983, 47–48, 70–71). We also read of Yōshō Sōzu (2/42) expressing dis­plea­sure at being appointed
to the post of zasu on account of his exceedingly “pure (清浄 shōjō) Way-­seeking mind,” imply-
ing that moral purity was incompatible with high monastic office (NST 7:105–106, 531b–532a;
Dykstra 1983, 67–68).
21. NST (7:190–191, 559b–560a). See also Dykstra (1983, 127–128). The evocation of a
“serene” space for recitation recalls a passage from the Lotus Sutra quoted in another tale (1/18)
promising that Śākyamuni would appear manifesting a pure, glowing body to t­ hose who recited
the scripture in a quiet place NST (7:77, 521b).
22. Slightly adapted from Dykstra (1983, 128). NST (7:191, 560a).
23. Slightly adapted from Dykstra (1983, 128). The Konjaku version of this tale (13/14)
claims that he passed away at Ōjō-ji 往生寺, but we have no information about this t­emple
(SNKBZ 35:326).
24. It ­w ill be remembered that in the Ujishūi monogatari, a dōsojin (an unsettling symbol
of pollution) appeared when Dōmyō had attempted a recitation without having first purified
himself (Mills 1970, 136).
25. On punishments for defiling a copy of the Lotus Sutra, see 2/78 and 3/93 (Dykstra 1983,
98, 115–116). Purification practices prior to ­handling the sutra included bathing and donning
clean robes: see 3/113 and 3/121 (Dykstra 1983, 131–132, 137–138).
26. Hurvitz (1976, 337).
27. NST (7:157, 548b). Certain twelfth-­century documents referred to him as “court chap-
lain (naigubu).” Thus, contrary to the thrust of his hagiographies, Zōga might have served at
court (Hirabayashi 1981, 270).
28. NST (7:157, 548b–549a).
29. Ibid., 549a.
30. Groner (2002, 327).
 Notes to Pages 60–64   169

31. Paul Groner (2002, 112–114, 341–343) devotes several pages of his work on Ryōgen to
Zōga, noting his early reputation as a gifted scholar-­monk and institution builder at Tōnomine.
On Zōga’s scholarly activities see also Itō (1979, 61).
32. Adapted from Dykstra (1983, 104). NST (7:158, 549a).
33. NST (7:158, 549a).
34. See SNKBZ (35:249n20).
35. In another tale (15/39) Genshin’s ­mother instructs her son to follow the example of the
Tōnomine Shōnin (Zōga).
36. SNKBZ (35:248).
37. Miki (1976, 61).
38. The text does not refer to her by name, identifying her as Empress Dowager Sanjō
(Sanjō no Taikō Taigō no Miya), consort (kisaki) to En’yū, ­daughter of Sanjō no Kanpaku Daijō
Daijin (Fujiwara no Yoritada). The editors of the Shinpen Nihon koten bungaku zenshū assume
this refers to Yoritada’s ­daughter Junshi 遵子 but note that ­t here are no sources referring to her
as Empress Dowager Sanjō. This misattribution was likely on account of her f­ather’s epithet:
“the Sanjō Lord” (SNKBZ 36:514n2). See also NKBT (25:99–100).
39. SNKBZ (36:515).
40. Ibid., 516.
41. Drott (2015a, 2, 20–21).
42. Groner (2002, 357).
43. Although the texts use dif­fer­ent terms to refer to food baskets (warigo in the Nijū
rokkajō, oribitsu in the Konjaku tale), both are connected to pollution.
4 4. Miki Sumito (1988, 47) also sees this episode as a social critique.
45. Ibid., 11–13.
4 6. The rise of esotericism also undermined the seniority system, since a master could
initiate any one of his disciples regardless of their age or experience, automatically rendering
them a “master” (Groner 2002, 33). Ryōgen’s successor, Jinzen, continued the trend when he
appointed Morosuke’s grand­son Jinkō (971–1038) to be the abbot of Myōkōin, an eco­nom­ically
critical part of the Enryakuji complex, when he had just fifteen years of seniority. Paul Groner
notes that all the monks assigned to assist Jinkō ­were older than he and also held more senior-
ity (2002, 196–197). Neil McMullin (1984, 105n66) observed that beginning in 1019 with
Myoku “all subsequent Tendai zasu ­were members of the Imperial f­amily” or the regents’
branch (sekkanke) of the Fujiwara.
47. Hirata (1965, 90–98). See also Groner (2002, 47–48).
48. Takagi (1973, 390).
49. Okano Kōji (1998, 80) describes such practices as a reaction against the “second secu-
lar world” (daini no sezoku) of aristocratized shrine-­temple complexes.
50. Abe (1983, 17a).
51. Takagi (1973, 324–325).
52. Ryōgen had been ordained at the age of eleven, Zōga at the age of ten. Th
­ ere is reason
to suspect that Ryōgen was not Zōga’s first teacher, as biographies from the Hokke genki
forward claim, since Ryōgen would have been only fifteen years old at the time Zōga arrived at
Mount Hiei. See Hirabayashi (1981, 58, 267).
53. This was part of a strategy undertaken by Ryōgen and Morosuke to set up Enryakuji and
Tōnomine as religious bases for the northern branch of the Fujiwara, allowing it in­de­pen­dence
170   Notes to Pages 64–69

from the Fujiwara-­clan ­temple, Kōfukuji in Nara. Morosuke’s alliance with Ryōgen helped
him gain and maintain control of the headship of the Fujiwara ­family.
54. Groner (2002, 341).
55. Some of the ­later legends seem to cut against Tōnomine’s interests as well. Miki Sumito
(1988, 12) notes that the Sonpi bunmyaku entry connecting Zōga with the Tachibana clan also
lists numerous noteworthy recluses and recluse poets in that line. Miki hints that l­ ater genera-
tions of literati might have attempted to insert Zōga and ­others into their lineages.
56. See note 38.
57. In her analy­sis of ele­ments of the grotesque in the Konjaku monogatari, Michele Li
(2009, 97–99) has shown how the humiliation of another imperial consort served to express
resentment ­toward her ­father, Fujiwara no Yoshifusa, who was responsible for displacing other
aristocratic lineages from power.
58. Even the examples from the Hokke genki of monks entering reclusion on Mount Atago—­
where lone ascetics supposedly dwelt in caves or wandered dressed in rags and deerskins—­
described them taking disciples and even, in two cases, receiving patronage from p ­ eople
attached to the regent’s ­house. See 1/21 (NST 7:79–80) and 2/55 (NST 7:122–123). See also
Chimoto (1991, 148).
59. In the Ujishūi version, the consort is once again identified as Akiko/Senshi and the
criticism of Junshi is removed.
60. Takahashi (1962, 49b). Age might also have played a role in Takamitsu’s accompany-
ing Zōga to Tōnomine. Ryōgen sought to dissuade Takamitsu from taking the tonsure and
eventually sent him to Tōnomine b ­ ecause he was grooming Takamitsu’s younger b ­ rother
Jinzen for the post of zasu. Takamitsu’s chronological seniority could have caused complica-
tions since, as Paul Groner observes (2002, 83), Morosuke had willed “considerable landhold-
ings to Jinzen and the Tendai school.”
61. ­These tales mirror a trend that began with the inception of the Fujiwara regency in the
ninth ­century. Adolphson (2007, 215–216) notes that the tendency for the po­liti­cally outma-
neuvered to retire into Buddhist ­orders increased ­a fter the Jōwa incident, in which Yoshifusa
assured the po­liti­cal dominance of the Northern Fujiwara.
62. Takagi (1973, 390).
63. See, for example, Hokke genki 1/39 and  1/40 (NST 7:98–100, 528b–529b). Dykstra
(1983, 64).
64. See, for example, 1/24, 1/32, 2/42, 2/49, 2/50, 2/56, 2/69, 3/109, 3/121 (Dykstra 1983, 53,
58, 76–77, 82, 91, 128, 137). The trend ­toward quantitative mea­sures of practice is discussed
in Kawazoe (1999, 39–41).
65. Slightly adapted from Dykstra (1983, 53, 77, 82). NST 7:83–84 (524a), 117 (535b), 123
(537b).
66. Blair (2015, 2, 273–294).
67. Ibid., esp. 253–263.
68. This legend is treated in detail by Bialock (2002). For the most part I have used his
translation, with minor alterations.
69. Adapted from ibid., 240; Kitahara (1990, 19).
70. Adapted from Bialock (2002, 240); Kitahara (1990, 19–20).
71. Adapted from Bialock (2002, 241); Kitahara (1990, 21).
72. Adapted from Bialock (2002, 242); Kitahara (1990, 22).
73. Adapted from Bialock (2002, 242–243); Kitahara (1990, 22).
 Notes to Pages 69–74   171

74. Bialock (2002, 252). The priest’s living situation also exposes him to dirt and filth.
75. Discussed in chapter 1.
76. Abe (1991, 226, 229). See also Asami (1997, 306) and Bialock (2002, 243–244).
77. This pro­cess is discussed in detail by Gomi (1993, 96–98).
78. See Bialock (2007, 218–219) and Tanaka (1989).
79. Bialock (2002, 234–235).
80. Asami (1997, 303, 310).
81. On the prominence of youthful immortals in early Japa­nese legends, see Drott (2015b).
82. Uejima Susumu (2010, 161–189) has argued that it was the Regent Fujiwara no Michinaga
who first utilized Buddhist retirement as a means of consolidating resources, sacred authority,
and a new form of royal authority, paradoxically, by removing himself from the structures of the
ritsuryō bureaucracy. The Insei borrowed ­these practical and symbolic techniques.
83. In the words of Araki Hiroshi, the cloistered emperor “inhabited the world of the sen-
nin” (personal communication). See also Gomi (1993, 87) on the contrasting spaces occupied
by the tennō and jōkō.
84. Hurst (1976).
85. Gomi (1993).
86. Hayami (1987, 134).
87. Chimoto (1991, 147). Even tales that had appeared in earlier collections bear the marks
of oral transmission in the Hokke genki, introducing novel perspectives into the text (Chimoto
1991, 149–151).
88. Chingen’s treatment of Sōō Shōnin, for example (1/5), stresses his austerities, thauma-
turgical powers, and longevity (Dykstra 1983, 35–36). The Sōō oshō den (ca. 923), on the other
hand, likely compiled by an aristocrat, was much more concerned with establishing Sōō’s con-
nections to numerous high-­ranking personages and detailing his activities on Mount Hiei. It
describes his appointments as court chaplain, ­a fter performing efficacious rituals for the court,
and his successful petition to grant the imperially bestowed title of G ­ reat Master (Daishi) to
Saichō and Ennin (GR 5:544–553).

Chapter 5. The Eccentric Avatar

1. The Hokke genki, for instance, describes priests from ­temples around Japan reporting
dreams in which diverse figures of Buddhist provenance appeared to them as old men, includ-
ing Shubodai (Subhūti) (1/17), Yakushi Nyorai (1/30), Kannon Bosatsu (1/31), and the g­ reat
Buddhist logician Nāgārjuna (2/53) (NST 7:74–75, 521a; 89–91, 525b–526b; 120–121, 536b–
537a). Throughout this chapter I use the term “Buddhist divinities” to refer to superhuman be-
ings from the Buddhist pantheon, including buddhas and bodhisattvas, which are not techni-
cally gods. It is also worth noting that Buddhists brought to Japan a pantheon of deities of
South Asian origin, often cast as protectors or supporters of buddhas or bodhisattvas, some of
whom w ­ ere portrayed as elders—­for example, the gods of wind (Fūten) and fire (Katen) (two
of the jūniten, the gods of the twelve directions), or Basu Sennin and Mawaranyo (two of the
Thousand-­Armed Avalokiteśvara’s twenty-­eight guardians).
2. One of the most famous Miroku icons, the Hōkei Miroku of Chūgūji, highlighted his
delicate, youthful features. See Guth (1988, 191–213).
3. T no. 159, 3:306a.
4. Saeki (1990, 207).
172   Notes to Pages 75–78

5. For a discussion of the historical development and scholarly treatment of engi, see Blair
and Kawasaki (2015).
6. Yamaori (2004, 1–6).
7. T no. 159, 3:305b.
8. The notable exception is Jizō, who was portrayed as a monk. Another pos­si­ble excep-
tion is a group of Heian-­period statues of the Bodhisattva Mañjuśrī (J. Monju Bosatsu), which
portrayed him as an aged monk (sōgyō Monju zō). But Kaneko Hiroaki (1992, 79–80) notes that
­t here is nothing to distinguish ­t hese statues from typical sōgyōzō, statues that captured the
likeness of high-­ranking Buddhist prelates, suggesting ­t hese ­were not originally considered
Monju images.
9. On the question of “canon” in East Asian Buddhism, see Zhiru (2010, 85–105). We
should be careful to distinguish between the bodies of bodhisattvas in the traditional sense of
incipient buddhas, and the Mahāyāna vision of bodhisattvas as celestial savior figures. The
Jātaka tales, for instance, described the previous lives of Śākyamuni, as he was reborn as a “bod­
hisattva” in a variety of ­human and animal forms. The most noteworthy Mahāyāna example of
a bodhisattva appearing in a less-than-glorious body comes in the Vimalakīrti Nirdeśa Sūtra
(T no. 474–476), which features the layman Vimalakirti, who, although recognized as a bod-
hisattva, used skillful means to manifest a sick body.
10. Other scriptures that encouraged visualization of par­t ic­u ­lar Buddhist divinities ex-
panded on this list. The Pure Land Treatise, for example, called on devotees to meditate on the
84,000 marks of the body of Amida (T no. 1963, 47:89b).
11. Of course, ­t here was never a perfect correspondence between text and image—­v isual
repre­sen­ta­tions did not always spring from textual sources—­a nd textual descriptions ­were at
times inspired by iconography, rather than the other way around. On the complex interplay of
image and text in early Buddhism, see Lamotte (1988, 666–667).
12. Campany (2012, 1–7).
13. While I place ­t hese vari­ous genres ­u nder the rubric of “popu­lar Buddhist lit­er­a­t ure,”
I do not mean to imply that they comprised a “low” tradition as opposed to one maintained by
elites. The authors of ­t hese works ­were often ordained priests or aristocrats. By “popu­l ar”
I simply mean that ­t hese works w ­ ere extra-­canonical and aimed at a broad audience.
14. On oral tradition in Chinese Buddhist tales, see Campany (2012, 17). At times, pre-
modern Japa­nese texts attributed legends to unnamed “elders”—­furuokina/korō 古老 or kikyū
耆舊 (耆旧)—­who ­were treated as living repositories of ancient lore. Such tales appear, for
instance, in vari­ous fudoki, the Nihon ōjō gokurakuki, the Tōdaiji yōroku, and the Kōyasan
ōjōden. The compilers of popu­lar Buddhist tale collections often appended prefaces to ­t hese
works in which they acknowledged some anxiety over the dubious origins of many of the
narratives they included. For a discussion of the prefaces of setsuwa collections, see Eubanks
(2011, 77–90).
15. In addition to the bodies of elders, we also find examples of popu­lar legends of bud-
dhas manifesting themselves as animals. In the eleventh c­ entury, for instance, a rumor spread
that an ox employed at Sekidera was an incarnation of Śākyamuni (Hirabayashi 1981, 307–330).
An early example of an animal avatar is a tale from the Nihon ryōiki (2/18) in which a heron is
taken to be a manifestation of Kannon (Nakamura 1973, 184–185).
16. Certain scriptures made the keshin one of the “four bodies” of the Buddha (shishin).
While the “four bodies” became a part of Tendai doctrine, its use was not widespread. See
“Shishin” in Nakamura (2001, 2:671–672).
 Notes to Pages 78–80   173

17. The most prominent early uses of the term posthumously designated impor­tant figures
from Japa­nese Buddhist history as avatars of specific buddhas or bodhisattvas, as in the cults
that formed around Shōtoku Taishi or the holy man Gyōki that identified them with the bod-
hisattvas Avalokiteśvara and Mañjuśrī, respectively.
18. The Enryaku sōroku also identified several Japa­nese royals as bodhisattvas, but did not
designate them keshin (KT 31:78–92). Of the vari­ous princes, sovereigns, aristocrats, and
priests listed, only the seven royals are identified as bodhisattvas.
19. For example, the Golden Light Sutra (T no. 663–665) and the Mahāyāna-­saṃgraha
(T no. 1595).
20. See “Keshin” in Nakamura (2001, 1:372).
21. The Nihon ryōiki provides a remarkable exception (1/6) depicting the monk Gyōzen
encountering Kannon as an old man who saves his life by ferrying him across a river (Naka-
mura 1973, 115–156). The persona of the ferryman corresponds to the Mahāyāna meta­phor of
the bodhisattva as one who ferries the faithful to the other shore of nirvana. His depiction as
an old man might have been based on one of the thirty-­t hree forms attributed to Kannon in
the Lotus Sutra, a chōja 長者 (Sk. gṛhapati). The term is generally understood to mean a
­house­holder or a man of wealth, but could also be interpreted as the head of a guild (Sk. śreṣṭhin)
or “elder.”
Ennin’s celebrated rec­ord of his travels to the Tang provides one other significant early case
of a Japa­nese text describing a bodhisattva appearing as an old man. He refers at several points
to the legend that the Indian monk Buddhapāla encountered the Bodhisattva Mañjuśrī in the
form of an old man (老人) at Mount Wutai. DNBZ (72:110b, 111c, 114b, 116c–117a). This tale
clearly contributed to the development of legends describing the dedication of the ­Great Bud-
dha at Tōdaiji, to be discussed in chapter 7.
22. Mark MacWilliams (1990, 57–59) and Hank Glassman (2012, 13) raise this point re-
garding cults dedicated to the bodhisattvas Kannon and Jizō, respectively. I think it has broader
applications as well. On the Kamunaidera Yakushi, see NST (7:89).
23. NKBT (24:441–444); SNKBZ (36:187–192). Discussed in Fukutō (2001, 46).
24. ­These stones are clearly depicted in two extant versions of the sixteenth-­century
Kiyomizu-­dera sankei mandara (both of which, intriguingly, show an old ­woman e­ ither climb-
ing or descending the slope to the shrine). See Kiyomizu-­dera shi hensan iinkai (1995–2011,
4:38) and Ōsaka shiritsu hakubutsukan (1987, 121).
25. The sixteenth book of the Konjaku monogatari features tales of Kannon, roughly half
of which are taken from earlier written sources. Six of the “new” tales deal with Kiyomizu-­dera.
Five of ­t hese demonstrated the efficacy of this honzon in matchmaking, suggesting that this
was a relatively recent addition to the Kiyomizu-­dera Kannon’s repertoire of powers (NKBT
24:421). Th ­ ese tales likely served as the germ of medieval and early modern beliefs that
Kiyomizu-­dera’s honzon was effective in helping one secure a mate (Kiyomizu-­dera shi hensan
iinkai 1995–2011, 1:157–159).
26. Examples include the Hōryūji garan engi narabi ni ruki shizaichō (DNBZ 85:114–124),
the Daianji garan engi narabi ni ruki shizaichō (DNBZ 84:385–391), and the Gangōji garan
engi narabi ruki shizaichō (DNBZ 85:1–5). See Sakurai (1976, 21). See also Blair and Kawasaki
(2015, 4).
27. Buddhist theories of avatarism ­were employed in ­these early engi only to further
bolster the reputation of already high-­s tatus individuals, most notably members of the
royal ­family. They thus participated in the ritsuryō system of prestige in which sacred status
174   Notes to Pages 80–82

corresponded closely to one’s place within its social and po­liti­cal hierarchies, with the tennō at
its pinnacle.
28. Shindō (2005, 20).
29. Such repre­sen­ta­tions of a honzon seem to represent the inverse of the pro­cess described
in chapter 1, in which lineages associated with given ancestral kami jockeyed to have their gods’
status elevated in the Shinsen shōjiroku and other rec­ords.
30. ­There are several pos­si­ble explanations for Sanenori’s connection to Onjōji. His wife
was the ­daughter of Ono no Sukemichi, and thus member of a clan with roots in the Shiga dis-
trict of Ōmi province, where Onjōji was located. Another impor­tant member of the Ono clan
and con­temporary of Sanenori was Myōson, the head of Onjōji. Myōson was a respected poet,
and thus likely traveled in the same circles as Sanenori. From the Onjōji denki and Jimon denki
horoku, we also see that both had connections to the nearby ­temple of Sūfukuji. Although it
is conceivable that the legends of Kyōtai w ­ ere transmitted to Sanenori by Myōson, we have
no solid evidence of this. See Onjōji chōri shidai in ZGR (4.2:688a). The text was included in
two early medieval collections, the Sanjūgo bunshū and Honchō zoku monzui. The colophon
of the Honchō zoku monzui version is dated Kōhei 5 (1062), but also gives the year accord-
ing to the sixty-­year Chinese sexagenary cycle as tsuchi no toi or kigai 己亥, corresponding
to Kōhei 2 (1059). The latter is the likely date of composition. My translations are based on
the Honchō zoku monzui version (KT 29.2:186–188), consulting the Sanjūgo bunshū (ZGR
12.1:57a–59a).
31. ­There is only one documented instance of this Dharma assembly being performed
at Onjōji, in 1060, the year ­a fter the Ryūge-­e engi was likely composed. See Ichidai yōki Kōhei
3 (1060), 8/18 (Kondō 1983, 1:187). ­A fter that, we have rec­ords of its being performed four
times in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries at Sekidera: on Hōgen 3 (1158), 4/18 in the Jimon
denki horoku (DNBZ 127:265a); Antei 2 (1228), 11/5 in Hyakurenshō 13 (KT 11:166); Kenchō 2
(1250), 11/5  in the Ryūhen hōin saijōki (DNS 5.34:1–4); and on Kōan 8 (1285), 4/5  in Zoku
shigushō 7 (KT 13:175).
32. In addition to constructing new buildings at Onjōji, Enchin also developed areas of
Enryakuji (McMullin 1984, 87). And while he is credited with helping rebuild Onjōji in 859,
the extent of his involvement is debatable. See Saeki (1990, 210) and Oyamada (1990, 126–137).
33. Enchin’s lineage was based in cloisters at Enryakuji as late as one hundred years ­a fter
his death. In 993, monks of Ennin’s lineage burned down the Senju-in where many of Enchin’s
line had been based. In the eighth month of that year, one thousand monks of Enchin’s faction
descended Mount Hiei to take up residence at Onjōji (NST 7:414b). See also Fusō ryakki,
Shōryaku 4 (993), 8 (KT 12:260–261).
34. KT (29.2:187).
35. DNBZ (127:69a). Two variants of the Heike monogatari rec­ord that Kyōtai’s original hut
and statue ­were burned in the twelfth-­century Genpei war. A Kamakura-­era map, the Onjōji
kedai kozu, shows a Kumano shrine on the site, and a structure labeled as the Kyōtaidō (Kyōtai
Hall) in the Northern cloister (Izumi 1990, 1–21). Descriptions of the Kyōtai mitamaya in the
Jimon denki horoku indicate that by the Muromachi period it had once again come to be situ-
ated steps from the main hall. This is also the site of the current Kyōtaidō, a small structure
containing an icon representing Kyōtai of unknown date, which I was permitted to view on
March 9, 2013.
36. On the composite nature of the Ryūge-­e engi, see Miyaji (1931, 329).
37. Saeki (1990, 208–209).
 Notes to Pages 82–85   175

38. Tsuji (1931, 214). Several aspects of Kyōtai’s pre­sen­ta­t ion also call to mind the figure of
the Daoist transcendent (Ch. xian). ­Later versions of the legend identify him as Kyōtai Sennin
(the immortal Kyōtai).
39. KT (29.2:187).
40. T no. 159, 3:306a.
41. “Marks of hundredfold blessing” (hyakufuku shōgon) refers to the karmic rewards
­realized by the bodies of buddhas, presumably indicating slender fin­gers, one of the thirty-­t wo
marks of Buddhahood.
42. SNKBT (35:77).
43. Early Chinese Buddhist texts at times presented filthy-­looking, low-­status individuals
testing the charity and spiritual insight of Buddhist priests or laypeople. See, for example, tales
11 and 12 of Signs from the Unseen Realm (Campany 2012, 95–98). To my knowledge Kyōtai is
the first Japa­nese case of the polluter being revealed to be a bodhisattva.
4 4. DNBZ (127:183b). A small stream began to flow from the hill and in its w ­ aters the tur-
tles miraculously returned to life, recalling a legend involving the saint Gyōki (Kamens 1988,
197; NST 7:17, 502a).
45. For example, in one tale, a young ­woman purchases a crab from an old man to
­release it in an act of Buddhist compassion (2/8). It is revealed that the old man was “a trans-
formation body of a sage,” a common, early Japa­nese use of the term keshin to refer not to
avatars of buddhas or bodhisattvas, but to vaguely Daoist super­natu­ral beings (Nakamura
1973, 171–173).
46. This was likely based on a tale from the Daichidoron (T no. 1509, 16:161b), also appear-
ing in Daoshi’s Fayuan zhulin (T no. 2122, 53:449a) (Nakamura 1973, 180–181, 230–231).
47. The late twelfth-­century Kenkyū gojunreiki and ­later texts refer to the old man as Saba-­
uri Okina, the “mackerel-­selling okina.”
4 8. Tsutsui (2003, 52–53). Some have interpreted references to a Konomoto no Okina
(此本老 or コノモトノ翁) in two of the three manuscripts of the tenth-­century Sanbō ekotoba as
an allusion to the Ke’nin Kōshi (Koizumi and Takahashi 1980, 316). The editors of the Shin
Nihon koten bungaku taikei, for instance, suggest this connection (SNKBT 31:195n7). But the
Ke’nin Kōshi legend is not recounted in the Sanbō ekotoba. And why refer to this fish-­bearing
okina as “Konomoto”? I propose that the name actually derives from a misreading of the first
line of the Ke’nin Kōshi tale from the Tōdaiji yōroku, interpreting 有買鯖翁。爰本願聖皇召留之
(Tsutsui 2003, 52) as the less grammatical 有買鯖翁爰本。願聖皇召留之, giving the name
“Saba Okina Konomoto” (鯖翁爰本). The Tōdaiji yōroku attributes the Ke’nin Kōshi tale to
oral tradition (kikyūden), meaning t­ here was no earlier textual source from which the compil-
ers of the two Sanbō ekotoba manuscripts could have misread the name. The most reliable
Sanbō ekotoba manuscript, the Tōdaiji-­gire, contains no reference to “Konomoto Okina,” con-
firming this to be a l­ater interpolation. Although we cannot date the oral tradition on which
the original Ke’nin Kōshi tale was based, we can say with some confidence that it had not been
rendered textually ­until the twelfth ­century. Although ­t here appear to be cases in which the
Tōdaiji yōroku quoted the Sanbō ekotoba (see note 51), the relationship between ­these two
corpora is clearly more complex than has been suspected.
49. DNBZ (60:265c). ­Here, as in the Ke’nin Kōshi/Saba Okina legend, an aged fisherman
facilitates the spread of the Dharma in Japan, and legitimates the authority of the ruler who
promotes Buddhism.
50. Tsutsui (2003, 44).
176   Notes to Pages 86–88

51. Ibid., 45. The Tōdaiji yōroku version is attributed to “a certain diary,” thought to be a
reference to the Sanbō ekotoba (Kamens 1988, 328, 330n6).
52. Due to the terseness of the classical Chinese, it is unclear ­whether this is a boulder
where one or many okina fish, or a boulder from which an okina once fished, or continues to
fish. What is clear is that the okina is simply a means of identifying a par­tic­u ­lar boulder. In
neither this version of the engi, nor in the twelfth-­century Konjaku monogatari, does Rōben
actually encounter the okina.
53. DNBZ (60:265c). Discussed in Matsuoka (1999, 42a).
54. Hotate (1981, 15a).
55. The ruler Jingū was described hosting a banquet on a boat and attracting a large num-
ber of bream, which fishermen happily gathered up, exclaiming: “­These are fish to be offered to
a sage-­k ing!” (Tanaka 1998, 7:45, 109, 168). This treatment of tai calls to mind the well-­k nown
wordplay that describes ­t hese fish as “mede-­tai” or auspicious.
56. For examples of fishermen being pressed into agricultural ­labor, see Hotate (1981, 19b–
20a). A decree issued to district magistrates in Izumi Province noted that although the p ­ eople
­were numerous, “half concentrate on fishing and have no liking for farm work” (Kiley 1999,
240). Heian ibun 462 (Takeuchi, 1963–1976, 2:630).
57. Amino (1998, 189).
58. Carl Steenstrup (2003, 109–110) notes that Kyūshū estates ­were particularly vulnerable.
59. Between the tenth and fifteenth centuries, for instance, in addition to rice tax (nengū),
estates ­were often obliged to provide supplementary taxes or kuji to the central government or
to estate proprietors (ryōke). Kuji could include handicrafts or nonagricultural products in-
cluding fish. Amino (2001, 238) notes that despite the ritsuryō state’s “agricultural fundamen-
talism,” the majority of tax payments from shōen between the eleventh and thirteenth centu-
ries w ­ ere not in rice, but in nonagricultural produce.
60. A poem by Sugawara no Michizane, for instance, depicts the decree of the sovereign
issuing from the palace gates, reaching the ocean, and extending to lowly woodcutters and
fishermen. The poem seeks to pres­ent the power of the sovereign radiating from center to pe-
riphery, and from high to low, positioning woodcutters and fishermen at the outermost bor-
ders of the realm, and the very bottom of the social hierarchy. Kanke bunsō 294. NKBT (72:341).
61. Amino (2001, 243).
62. Hotate (1981, 16b); Miyamoto (1979, 20–27).
63. Nakamura (1978–1979, 2:200b–201a).
64. On jinnin, see Amino (1998, 196–208).
65. A document from 883, for instance, describes trou­bles caused by the Takami net group,
attached to the office of the empress dowager and invested with the rights to fish the Seta
Mikuri. Emboldened by their relationship with the royal f­amily, they encroached on other
areas, brandishing documents from central authorities (Miyamoto 1979, 24b).
66. Ibid. Sometimes ­t hese conflicts pitted shrines against ­temples. See Hashimoto (2015,
121–124).
67. The number of bans issued over the centuries implies they ­were never wholly success-
ful (Miyamoto 1979, 24b).
68. Taira (1997, 149–150). The Shoku Nihon kōki rec­ords that fishing and hunting ­were
prohibited in the entire province of Ōmi while the Enmeihō was being performed for the ailing
emperor Ninmyō at Bonshakuji, a ­temple in that province (Mo­rita 2010, 2:366, 369). Shirakawa-
in issued two such bans, adding the ostentatious gesture of having fishing nets collected and
 Notes to Pages 88–90   177

burned. See Hyakurenshō (Taiji 1 [1126], 6/21); KT (11:56) and Chōshūki (Taiji 4 [1129], 6/26);
Sasagawa and Yano (1934–1944, 6:279b). Discussed in Gomi (1993, 92–93).
69. Hashimoto Michinori (2015, 118–119) provides examples of sesshō kindan ­orders that
encompassed an area of two ri 里 around a given t­ emple.
70. The monks are presented in the guise of sōhei or akutō (NEZ 22:9, 39–40, plates 48, 49).
71. Kunaichō Shoryōbu (1970, 129a). Three of t­ hese, the Onjōji engi and two appended
documents—­a petition (ge) and a provincial order (kokufu)—­claim to be from the ninth
­century, but are clearly forgeries. See Oyamada (1990, 142–146). Akamatsu Toshihide (1968,
495) puts the composition of the Onjōji engi somewhere between the years 1075 and 1081, but the
Kunaichō Shoryōbu (1970, 26) notes that it has the character of an okibumi, defined in the Cam-
bridge History of Japan as “[a] testamentary document form in use during the Kamakura and
Muromachi periods to regulate ­matters of inheritance and property” (Yamamura 1990, 696).
72. The Kokonchomonjū (2/14) states that Kyōtai “was always ­going to the spot where the
­temple bordered the lake and catching fish and turtles to make his daily meal” (NKBT 84:78).
73. The Chuci (Songs of Chu) features an encounter between an emaciated, exiled prince
and a contented fisherman, and ends with the fisherman’s carefree song celebrating his har-
monious relationship with the river (SKT 34:278–281). The Zhuangzi features two instances in
which an aged fisherman meets his social superior and is recognized as a sage. Confucius, for
example, is presented encountering a ragged, white-­haired fisherman, acknowledging that he
“possesses the Way,” and begging for instruction (Mair 1998, 323; SKT 8:771–783). See also
Mair (1998, 205).
74. Exceptions are to be found in the Keikokushū, which contains a series of five poems by
the retired Emperor Saga and ­others on the theme of the fisherman’s song (14/216–220) (Ko-
jima 1968–1998, 3.3:4089–4128). Two poems by Princess Uchiko (14/221–222) depict the white-­
haired fisherman leading a peaceful, happy life (Kojima 1968–1998, 3.3:4105–4111; translated
in Rabinovitch and Bradstock 2005, 97). Two other poems in the set pres­ent their fishermen as
content (14/223) or even as a sage (14/227) but do not explic­itly mark them as elders (Kojima
1968–1998, 3.3:4111–4128).
75. For example, Minamoto no Shitagō (911–983) writes of an old night watchman who
complains of his vari­ous age-­related ailments, wondering why he is “without imperial ­favor in
his declining years” (SNKBT 27:13–16; Rabinovitch and Bradstock 2005, 175–176). Kanshi
from the early eleventh ­century on ­were also influenced by the “new ballads” (xinyuefu) of Bo
Juyi (772–846), intended to fulfill the Confucian duty of calling the attention of the ruler to
the suffering of the commoners (Smits 1997, 172).
76. Smits (1997, 179).
77. Michizane, for instance, wrote several poems on elders engaged in non-­agrarian work
during his tenure as governor of Sanuki. One describes a fisherman for whom “the land brings
forth no bounty,” who “grows old in his l­ittle boat” (Watson 1975, 94). Echoing Bo Juyi’s sa-
tirical “Hai manman,” Michizane makes a sly reference to the Qin Emperor’s failed mission to
discover the isle of the immortals. All who set sail, including five hundred prepubescent
youths, grew old at sea. Michizane’s poem subverts the positive, quasi-­Daoist depictions of the
el­derly fisherman as carefree sage. Rather than the positive bounty of the sea, he is motivated
by the paucity of the land; rather than an immortal, we find a man growing old on his boat. See
also, Kanke bunsō 236 (Borgen 1994, 171–172). An earlier poem offered a more idealized image
of the aged fisherman (Kanke bunsō 167). Incongruities in tone between this poem and his
other compositions are discussed in Borgen (1994, 172–173).
178   Notes to Pages 90–93

7 8. DNBZ (127:162b); NKBT (73:112).

79. NKBT (24:111).
80. Fujiwara no Sanenori was also a respected composer of Chinese verse around the time
that ­t hese “exotic” subject ­matters ­were coming into vogue. In the Honchō mudaishi (431) we
read his poetic accounts of encounters with vari­ous commoners, including a fisherman (whose
age is not specified) who shares some raw fish (膾 J. namasu; Ch. kuai) (Honma 1992–1994,
2:368).
81. Koyama (1987, 32).
82. Sekidera engi in Onjoji denki 3/4 (DNBZ 127:44a). The Ryūge-­e engi also clearly func-
tioned as a promotional document for a kanjin campaign. Sanenori describes the plan to hold
a Dragon Flower Assembly at Onjōji, entreating men and ­women of high and low status to of-
fer even a “single flower or a single stick of incense” to support its per­for­mance (KT 29.2:187).
83. Nakamura (1978–1979, 2:206a, 208b). Onjōji’s Ōura estate famously engaged in a pro-
tracted ­legal strug­gle with what came to be known as Suga-­no-­ura, over bound­a ries of their
respective estates and fishing rights. See Hayashiya (1983, 335); Kudō (1978, 146–147); and
Nakamura (1978–1979, 2:206b).
84. Taira (1992, 247).
85. The Shasekishū describes a monk releasing a carp back into Lake Biwa, only to learn in
a dream that the fish was bitterly disappointed, having lost its opportunity to achieve salvation
by being offered to the Kamo shrine (Hashimoto 2015, 124).
86. Kunaichō Shoryōbu (1970, 129a–135a). The term ryō 領, often used merely to indi-
cate “proprietorship” of a given estate, h ­ ere suggests its other connotations of “territory” or
“domain.”
87. See Kunaichō Shoryōbu (1970, 129b, 131a). Discussed in Akamatsu (1968, 493–496).
88. Kunaichō Shoryōbu (1970, 131a); Oyamada (1990, 142).
89. Although the Onjōji engi claims to protect Onjōji’s rights, no other extant document
links Onjōji to any of t­ hese shōen: Ikago, Kinokawa, Takashima, Toira, Harihata, Yasu, and
Yoshishima. See Kokuritsu rekishi minzoku hakubutsukan (1995, 1:393–394, 408, 419, 422,
426–427, 435, 438).
90. For a discussion of the ways in which the shōen system encouraged the underclass to
align themselves with t­ emples, in turn, allowing them an ever greater voice in t­ emple affairs,
see Satō (1987, 31–33).
91. Even if cultivation was understood to mean agriculture, farmers w ­ ere also known to
have turned to san’yakakai to supplement their livelihood (Koyama 1987, 43–45).
92. My use of the term “totem” is, of course, figurative. The classic work identifying totems
as symbols of group identity is Durkheim’s The Elementary Forms of Religious Life (1995,
208–216). While his study focused on the role of sacred animals and plants in the cultic lives of
native Australians, he also suggested that the concept of totem had broader applications, point-
ing, for instance, to the example of soldiers willing to die to protect their national flag (1995,
228–229, 233–235). Nonetheless, ­t here ­were significant prob­lems with the ways Durkheim and
other nineteenth-­and early twentieth-­century thinkers abstracted the concept of the totem
from its original cultural contexts, designating it a key feature of “primitive religion.”
Of course, Buddhist divinities w
­ ere not the only symbols around which medieval religious
communities rallied. This is evident in the many forceful demonstrations beginning in the late
Heian period in which monks carried portable shrines or sacred objects embodying the tute-
lary deities of shrines affiliated with their monastic complexes. See Adolphson (2000, 248–251).
 Notes to Pages 94–97   179

93. Underscoring Kyōtai’s status as a symbol of the monastic community, the Jimon
denki horoku rec­ords that upon taking the tonsure, monks would place their shorn hair into a
small pit or cave (sekkutsu) ­under Kyōtai’s mitamaya (DNBZ 127:183b–184a).
94. For example, Miyaji (1931, 331–333) and Tsuji (1931, 216–217).
95. Myōson’s ties to Onjōji made him unacceptable to the Sanmon monks, who suc-
ceeded, through violent protest, in forcing him to resign ­a fter only three days.
96. Tenmu’s order to expel elders from t­ emples is discussed in chapter 3. See also Drott
(2015a, 8–12).
97. Although our rec­ords of medieval estates are far from complete, they reveal that in
the de­cades that the image of Hira Myōjin as both fishing okina and tutelary deity was crystal-
lizing, Ishiyama-­dera was also in possession of several estates bordering Lake Biwa. For ex-
ample, twelfth-­century documents assert Ishiyama-­dera’s proprietorship of Mio and Terabe
estates (Takeuchi 1963–1976, 7:2670b–2671a [Heian ibun 3387]; and Takeuchi 1971–­, 2:261a–
261b [Kamakura ibun 945]).
98. Enryakuji established Katada-­no-­shō on the grounds of a fishery (Kokuritsu rekishi
minzoku hakubutsukan 1995, 1:404; Abe and Satō 1997, 399). Ryōgen also held property
that might have been home to fishing groups (Hotate 1981, 17a). Kakuban (1095–1143) was
active in securing rights to lakes on Mount Kōya’s Santō-­no-­shō and Yamazaki-­no-­shō
(Takeuchi 1963–1976, 5:1913b–1914b [Heian ibun 2249 and  2250]). Discussed in Koyama
(1987, 27).
99. DNBZ (127:183–184).
100. Bialock (2007, 9).

Chapter 6. The Graying of the Gods

1. Including “Dharma-­protecting” deities attached to Buddhist ­temples (gohō), tutelary
gods (known as jishu, jishujin, jinushigami, jigami, or jijin), and gods revealed as local mani-
festations (suijaku) of Buddhist divinities. Although ­t hese members of the medieval pantheon
would eventually come to be identified as “Shintō” deities, in the materials we are examining,
they w­ ere part of a Buddhist milieu.
2. Due to difficulties dating premodern texts it is impossible to establish exact dates for
the first appearance of many gods. Even when dates can be affixed to texts with a fair degree of
certainty, the legends they recorded might have been transmitted orally for generations before
being put to paper, or earlier texts might have existed that have vanished from the historical
rec­ord. Nonetheless, the extant textual rec­ord attests to what can only be described as a re-
markable upsurge in tales of okina kami from the eleventh ­century forward, perhaps reaching
a peak in the Kamakura and Muromachi periods.
The fact that many examples of okina gods bore the titles myōjin (明神 bright deity),
daimyōjin (­great bright deity) or gongen (権現 god appearing in temporary form) hints at the
Buddhist involvement in the development of their identities. Although references to myōjin or
daimyōjin had appeared centuries earlier, in the late Heian ­t hese titles came to be associated
with gods who sought Buddhist salvation, or who w ­ ere avatars of buddhas (Nakamura 2009).
Similarly, gongen designated avatars of Buddhist “originals” (honji).
3. I am adapting a category introduced by Yamamoto Hiroko (1998a).
4. For instance, in the Hizen fudoki, ­people determine a god is a female only by her
association in a dream with weaving implements (NKBT 2:382–385; Aoki 1997, 253–254).
180   Notes to Pages 97–99

5. Art historian Yamamoto Yōko (2006, 11–13) writes that in early Japan kami ­were per-
ceived to be without form, but notes many exceptions to this rule, explaining the circumstances
deemed acceptable to artistically render the form of kami. The sources she works from, how-
ever, date from the late Heian period forward, thus falling ­under the rubric of medieval shinwa.
6. The cult of Sumiyoshi Daimyōjin, for instance, possibly dates back to the seventh
­century, with a textual tradition recoverable to the early eighth ­century. However, the earliest
extant text depicting the Sumiyoshi god as a white-­haired old man, the Akazome emon shū,
only dates from the eleventh ­century. Other gods, like Sekizan Myōjin, ­were the object of more
recent cults, but still had hundreds of years of history prior to “­going gray” in the medieval
period.
7. For a discussion of “medieval gods,” see Yamamoto (1998a, 1998b).
8. See, for example, Yamaori (1984, 2004).
9. See, for instance, Como’s work on this subject (2008, 2009). Kim Hyŏn-uk (2008) has
shown that Usa Hachiman, Sumiyoshi Daimyōjin, Inari, and ­others ­were originally gods of
Korean kinship groups.
10. To describe t­ hese kami, Yamamoto Hiroko has coined the term ikoku no kami or ishin
(foreign gods). But the ideograph i 異 also fittingly carries the sense of “strange” or “mysterious.”
As she notes, most medieval ishin w ­ ere odd entities of uncertain provenance, difficult to identify
unequivocally as gods, buddhas, bodhisattvas, or some combination (1998b, i).
11. Satō Hiroo (2003, 113) questions ­whether “the assumed dichotomy of kami versus Bud-
dhist divinities” was “impor­tant or even recognized in premodern Japan.”
12. Although the okina was the most common form given to gods in medieval shinwa,
some legends also presented kami appearing as ­children (warawa) and ­women (onna). Kuroda
Hideo (1986, 228) has theorized that t­ hese three social categories w ­ ere used to symbolize the
realm of gods and buddhas (shinbutsu) since old men, w ­ omen, and c­ hildren ­were excluded
from the normative category of adult males (ichininmae) that epitomized the h ­ uman realm.
Unfortunately this does not account for the fact that gods ­were so rarely depicted as old ­women
(ōna), who also possessed “nonnormative” bodies.
13. For example, the mirror-­maker Ishikōri-­hime (in the Kojiki, Ishikōri-­dome) (Aston
1972, 1:52, 76–77).
14. Fukutō (2001, 132–133). For example, we read in the Nihon shoki of a Japa­nese emis-
sary to Paekche meeting an el­derly female kunitsukami acting as a local chieftain (Aston 1972,
1:349).
15. Local chieftains (zaichi shuchō) served as district magistrates (gunji) ­under the ritsuryō
system (Matsumae 1993, 351–352). See also ­Inoue (2006, 113).
16. Fukutō (2001, 106).
17. Meeks (2010, 4).
18. Itō (2003, 67).
19. Fukutō (2001, 54–57).
20. In this period, immortals also began to “go gray.” Early Japa­nese legends had been
dominated by tales of superannuated individuals who had “halted old age and prolonged their
life” (駐老延命 chūrōenmei), retaining the marks of youth (Drott 2015b). In the late Heian,
immortals came to be more consistently depicted bearing the telltale marks of old age.
21. Seidel (2003, 1159b–1160a).
22. On the influence of Buddhist ­women in the period in question, see Meeks (2010, 4–5).
23. Bynum (1992, 48–51).
 Notes to Pages 100–104   181

24. Compare, for instance, the tone of the Hōjōki with that of the eleventh-­century Jōjin
ajari no haha no shū and the thirteenth-­century Izayoi nikki, two of the most prominent ex-
amples of writing by aged female renunciants, both of whom display continued anxiety over
the well-­being of their sons. Discussed in Keene (1989, 62–67, 136–140). For a discussion of the
shifting ways in which po­liti­cal power was gendered in early Japan, see Fukutō (2007, 26).
25. Kuroda (1986, 228).
26. Yamamoto (1998b, 19).
27. Also transliterated as Shira Myōjin.
28. KT (29.2:187).
29. Tsuji (1931, 215).
30. Ibid.
31. Ibid., 216.
32. Groner (2002, 233).
33. DNBZ (127:35b).
34. Yamamoto (1998b, 73).
35. Onjōji denki 1/2 (DNBZ 127:8a). Onjōji denki 3/4 (DNBZ 127:35b–36a) gives five names:
Sūkaku, Sūshi, Sekizan’ō, Shiten Fujin, and Sugami hoshikashi Kami. Discussed in Kim (2008,
132). While we might assume that the merchant was identifying a god known by multiple
names, it was not uncommon for a deity to be considered a composite of multiple gods. This was
the case for Sumiyoshi Daimyōjin and Kasuga Daimyōjin.
36. Onjōji denki 3/4 (DNBZ 127:40b).
37. Myōson had also successfully petitioned to have the god raised to third rank in 1049
(Yamamoto 1998b, 22).
38. Guth (1999, 112).
39. Ibid. Sujung Kim offers the intriguing theory that the image of Shinra Myōjin as an
elder was based on Chinese repre­sen­ta­tions of one of the Bodhisattva Mañjuśrī’s attendants,
Taishō rōnin. See Kim (forthcoming).
40. Although the icon is treated as a hibutsu 秘仏 (hidden buddha) and not publicly dis-
played, its image has been reproduced in vari­ous publications. See, for example, Guth (1999).
41. Yamamoto (1998b, 19–20).
42. Ibid., 22.
43. Guth (1999, 118). Another set of legends concerning Shinra Myōjin’s origins hold that
Enchin first encountered the god in Dazaifu when, having returned from the Tang, he stayed
at the Kōrokan, the hall where foreign monks and visitors ­were ­housed as they awaited per-
mission to proceed to the capital (Yamamoto 1998b, 69). But if we start from the premise that
the Jimon lineage’s adoption of Shinra Myōjin was part of an ongoing effort to achieve parity
with Enryakuji, this seems unlikely, since Enchin had returned from the Kōrokan de­cades be-
fore the Sekizan shrine was built, and more than a ­century before the first reliable attestations
to Shinra Myōjin.
4 4. ST (6.29:666).
45. ST (7.4:623). The mid-­t hirteenth-­century Genpei jōsuiki also pres­ents Sekizan as an
okina (Kim 2008, 128).
46. Ogino (1964, 141–155); Murayama (1974, 307–310); Kim (2008, 129).
47. Kokonchomonjū 165 (NKBT 84:153–154).
4 8. It appears that shinzō w
­ ere not created for ­either god u­ ntil well a­ fter they w
­ ere
enshrined.
182   Notes to Pages 104–107

49. Discussing the shifting image of the Sumiyoshi deity, Kim (2008, 50) refers to this pro­
cess as okina-­ka, or “okina-­ization,” providing numerous other examples from the eleventh
­century forward, such as the immortal Gyōei who, in the Honchō shinsenden, was described
having a complexion like gold, but became an aged immortal in the l­ater Fusō ryakki and
Genkō shakusho (2008, 67–68).
50. Ōsumi (1976, 11, 165–168).
51. The w ­ ater, he declares, tastes like clarified ghee (daigo), a meta­phor for the most refined
of the Buddha’s teachings (ibid., 101–103). On dating the three sections, see also Van Put
(2004).
52. I am indebted to Michael Jamentz for alerting me to t­ hese anachronisms.
53. Borgen (2007, 28).
54. Yoshihara (1994, 103).
55. Matsunaga (1969, 229–230); Koyama (1987, 30); Satō (1998, 21–24).
56. Uejima (2011, 23a).
57. Grapard (1988).
58. Teeuwen and Rambelli (2003, 18) note that this is a common explanation in Japa­nese
scholarship, but the earliest example they provide is from the twelfth-­century Yōtenki.
59. Ibid., 20, also see wakō dōjin implying the assumption of more coarse, earthy
­b odies.
60. Masafusa used several terms for honji, including hon’en (original karmic cause) and
hontai (original body) (Yoshihara 1994, 109). His use of hongaku (original nature as an awak-
ened being) points to the roots of honji suijaku theories in Tendai (Ch. Tiantai) thought. Zhiyi,
regarded as the founder of the Tiantai School, analyzed the Lotus Sutra into two sections, the
“gate of traces” ( jakumon), in which the Buddha appears as Śākyamuni to reveal the provi-
sional truth, and the “gate of original” (honmon) where the Buddha spoke from his original form
(hongaku) (Kuroda 1989, 143).
61. NST (7:274, 585b). See also Kleine and Kohn (1999, 182). Nowhere does the text indi-
cate that this old man was the Matsuo deity, although it is strongly implied. Three of the earli-
est extant shinzō are from the Matsuo Taisha, likely dating from the mid-­Heian period. Rely-
ing on the work of Oka Naomi, Yamaori Tetsuo (1990, 153; 2004, 9–12, 394) has described one
of ­t hese icons as an okina. Although the icon is bearded, ­t here are no indications it was meant
to be seen as old. Nowhere does Oka (1966, 61–83) indicate that the statue represents an elder.
Viewed in­de­pen­dently of the ­later textual accounts describing the Matsuo deity as aged, it is
doubtful anyone would have identified this figure as an “okina.” See also Guth (1985, 53–54,
and plate 10). Stephen Marvin (2010, 1:13) is also careful to distinguish aged shinzō from the
figure of the okina.
62. Yoshihara (1994, 106); Teeuwen and Rambelli (2003, 17).
63. NST (7:259). Translated in Kleine and Kohn (1999, 152–154).
64. The Tōdaiji yōroku and Fusō ryakki contain nearly identical accounts of a strange okina
blacksmith who arouses the curiosity of a sixth-­century local potentate, Ōga no Higi. Ōga ab-
stained from cereals and practiced okomori for three years, making offerings and praying for
a revelation. At last a three-­year-­old child appeared (presumably the okina blacksmith in an-
other guise), standing on a bamboo leaf, and announced: “I am the sixteenth ­human tennō of
Japan, Ōmuda [Ōjin] tennō, the wide-­bannered Hachiman-­maro. My name is Gokoku reiken
iryoku shinzū, Daijizaiō Bosatsu. In vari­ous countries, in vari­ous places, I have descended as
an avatar from the kami path (suijaku shindō)” (Tsutsui 2003, 117).
 Notes to Pages 107–110   183

The Kasuga gongen genki e describes the priest Jōkei practicing okomori at the Kasuga
shrine and being visited by a mysterious old man who carves a statue of Jizō, stating that this
was his honji. Since the Kasuga deity was recognized as a suijaku of Jizō, this episode indirectly
identified the old man as the god (DNK 13:30; Glassman 2012, 53).
A section of the Genkō shakusho dealing with Hakusan Myōjin describes an okina with
strange clothes (奇服 perhaps a miscopying of “strange eyes” 奇眼) appearing before the priest
Taichō, announcing that he is an “assistant” 弼 of Myōri Daibosatsu (KK 50:333). Kim (2008,
97) takes this to mean he is an avatar of this bodhisattva, but misattributes the passage to the
twelfth-­century Shirayama no ki, which associates the okina with Amida Nyorai instead. See
NST (20:303).
65. Yamamoto Satsuki (2000, 96) believes that the figure of Nichizō was often used as a
literary device, representing Daigoji-­lineage monks who performed austerities at Kinpusen.
66. Ambros (1997, 306).
67. NEZ (22:17, 54).
68. Ibid., 34, 36, 54, 60.
69. The best-known example is Myōe. See Tanabe (1992).
70. Mid-­Heian diarists w ­ ere attentive to their dreams and made efforts to rec­ord them, but
­were vague about many details. Diarists commonly described mysterious beings appearing
simply as “­women” (onna), “men” (hito), or “monks” (sō). At times they recorded encounters
with disembodied voices (Ueno 2013, 22). Kanbun diaries recorded dreams in which figures
such as Hachiman Daiosatsu or the Kasuga Myōjin made impor­tant pronouncements, but did
not describe their appearance. See, for example, Teishinkōki: Engi 20 (920), 1/2 (DNK 8:69) and
Shōyūki: Eiso 1 (989), 4/14 (DNK 10.1:175). In his diary (Gonki), Fujiwara no Yukinari recorded
a fascinating vision he had, while sick, of three Chinese characters—­Fu Dō Son (不動尊)—­
warding off agents of disease (byōma 病魔). From that, he understood that the wisdom king
Fudō Myōō was acting as his protector. Literary diaries of court ­women ­were slightly more
prolix, but still did not mention the apparent age of mysterious figures appearing in dreams, as
when the author of the Sarashina nikki dreamt of a “priest in yellow,” or of a priest “in blue
garments with loose brocade hood and brocade shoes.” Ueno Katsuyuki (2013, 21–23) observes
that often in Heian-­period dreams, Buddhist divinities took the form of icons, or had appear-
ances that resembled ­icons.
71. Ishiyama-­dera engi no sekai ten jikkō iinkai (2012, 165); NEZ (22:60, plate 83).
72. Kuroda (1986, 150–151).
73. This interpretation was suggested by Tanaka Takako (personal communication).
74. Yoshihara (1994, 106).
75. Ibid., 104.
76. Ibid., 115.
77. On Masafusa’s engagement with the royal ­family and tensions with Michinaga’s son
Yorimichi, see Hurst (1976, 104–107).
78. Masafusa also occasionally composed ganmon for his social inferiors (Yamasaki 2010).
79. Five of eight ganmon composed on behalf of cloistered Emperor Shirakawa fit this pat-
tern. ­Others used dif­fer­ent wording, but w ­ ere similarly structured (Yoshihara 1994, 116).
80. NKBT (84:181–182). Also in Jikkinshō 4/2 (SNKBZ 51:150–152).
81. The relevant passage from the Kokonchomonjū is translated in Klein (2002, 86). Dis-
cussed in Kim (2008, 42–43).
82. Klein (2002, 171–175).
184   Notes to Pages 110–114

83. Atsumitsu wrote that for the ceremony Akisue gathered members of his poetic salon,
the burgeoning Rokujō School. Flowers ­were arrayed before the trea­sured image. Having made
offerings, the participants held a poetry meeting, composing on the theme of “a breeze upon
the ­water at dusk” (NKBT 84:162–164).
84. Ōgushi (1952, 98b).
85. Ōgushi (1952).
86. Yamada (1966, 92). In Sugawara no Koreyoshi’s essay on the first Japa­nese Shōshikai,
he described a similar screen that had been brought to Japan from China, depicting Bo Juyi’s
original Shōshikai banquet. Copies of this image would likely have been pres­ent at many such
Japa­nese banquets (SNKBT 27:63–64, 276a); discussed in Kim (2008, 40–41). Given the ways
earlier generations of Japa­nese literati had selectively appropriated themes from Bo Juyi’s po-
etry to craft an image of old age as a time of misery, the fact that Bo came to be used as a model
for a deified okina figure is deeply ironic, demonstrating, once again, that the Japa­nese ­were
not engaged in mindless borrowing, but in a creative dialogue with Chinese pre­ce­dents.
87. Kim (2008, 41–42).
88. SNKBZ (51:150).
89. Ibid., 151.
90. Yamada (1966).
91. Klein (2002, 86).
92. Plutschow (1990, 119); Klein (2002, 80); Kim (2008, 47–48).
93. Man’yōshū 6/1020–1021; NKBT (5:177). The Sumiyoshi taisha jindaiki simply describes
the god appearing as a “beautiful person” (美麗貌人 uruwashiki hito) (Kim 2008, 27–28).
94. Nishimoto (1977, 107); Tanaka (1998, 120, 198).
95. Sekine et al. (1986, 478–481).
96. Ibid., 480.
97. Ōgushi (1952, 103) argues that paintings of the el­derly Sumiyoshi god that circulated
in the medieval period had the same origins as Akisue’s famed portrait of Hitomaro.
Tsumori Kunimoto (1023–1102), the head administrator of the Sumiyoshi shrine and a
­respected poet, was a close friend of Akisue at the time he was initiating the Hitomaro eigu.
Kunimoto sponsored poetry competitions at the Sumiyoshi shrine and was likely active in pro-
moting the Sumiyoshi Daimyōjin and Tamatsushima Myōjin as guardians of waka (Klein
2002, 80n7). See also Asō (1973, 23).
98. Jikkinshō 10/15 (SNKBZ 51:402).
99. Asō (1973, 22–23).
100. Klein (2002, 89, 207).
101. McCullough (1968, 56–57) translates katai okina as “­humble old fellow.”
102. Klein (2002, 204).
103. McCullough (1968, 124).
104. Katagiri (1975, 183).
105. Bialock (2007, 154–155) discusses the subversive tone of the okina’s poem. Since trav-
elers, beggars, and the sick often sheltered beneath veranda floorboards, the area was associ-
ated with the underclass. But since it was also a space for okomori, ascetic practices, and rites
performed by underclass ritual specialists, scholars have suggested that the okina’s presence
­t here might be connected to the sacred okina of Noh. See Asami (1997, 307). Katagiri Yōichi
(1975, 189) also compares the role of the katai okina to that of the okina in Noh. Texts from the
Heike corpus further identified the katai okina as the tutelary deity of Shiogama.
 Notes to Pages 114–118   185

1 06. Katagiri (1975, 189).

107. Klein (2002, 187–188).
108. Katagiri (1986, 5:546).
109. Ibid., 529–531. The “truths” revealed to Narihira bear the clear imprint of Tachikawa-­
ryū thought (Klein 1997, 450).
110. Katagiri (1986, 5:528).
111. The poem accompanying the description of first eigu highlights Hitomaro’s ser­v ice
to the throne (Klein 2002, 81–82).
112. Ooms (2009, 65–67).
113. Smits (1997, 177).
114. Discussed in Drott (2015b, 276–282). As the power ­behind a series of emperors en-
throned as c­ hildren or youths, the Fujiwara regents had an obvious interest in maintaining
symbolic systems that legitimated youthful rulership.
115. Smits (2007). Masafusa was the exception, achieving Se­nior Second Rank.
116. Resentment over the sekkanke mono­poly on power was a key subtext of many impor­
tant works of Heian lit­er­at­ ure (Marra 1991). Since the sekkanke had close ties to Enryakuji,
similar dynamics can be detected ­here.
Of course we should not put too much weight in the explanatory power of court factional-
ism. In the Heian period and beyond, the bonds of clan, ­house, and lineage ­were intricate and
ever shifting, meaning that ­battle lines ­were never so clearly drawn. Bunjin like Fujiwara no
Atsumitsu ­were able to move in vari­ous circles. And, although Onjōji continued to occupy a
tenuous position relative to Enryakuji, in the late Heian, both Myōson and his successor,
Gyōson, had close ties to Michinaga’s son, the Regent Fujiwara no Yorimichi.
117. Klein (2002, 78) notes that “the contemporaneous appearance in other artistic tradi-
tions, such as gardening and m ­ usic, of secret traditions within families was symptomatic of
broader social changes.”
118. Ury (1993, 359).
119. SNKBT (32:312–313). See also Borgen (1994, 57); Mostow (2001, 135); and Smits
(2007, 107).
120. On the diminished authority of officially sanctioned rec­ords and the rise of rival
histories in the early medieval period, see Bialock (2007, 160).

Chapter 7. “Tranquil Heart, Gazing Afar”

1. Yamaori (2012, 39–40) estimates that, out of the current repertory of 235 plays, more
than fifty feature aged shite. In many ­others, elders play the role of waki (side), or include gods
that, while not presented as aged, are performed in the “aged mode” (rōtai).
2. Kono michi no ōgi nari (NST 24:21).
3. Ibid., 400a.
4. One part was replaced by a youth, whose name (Senzai, “one thousand years”) betrays
the fact that the role originally represented an elder. Although certain Okina masks are attrib-
uted to Heian-­period artisans, Marvin (2010, 1:12) notes that the earliest example with a plau-
sible provenance is inscribed Shōwa 5 (1316), “and the first unambiguous written reference to
an Okina mask appears in the description of a ­temple festival held in 1283. The carving style
and aging patterns of several other unmarked examples suggest a somewhat older origin, pos-
sibly the ­middle Kamakura period.”
186   Notes to Pages 118–122

5. Noel Pinnington (2006, 206, 215–216) notes that in Zeami’s time the Shikisanban was
not popu­lar with aristocratic audiences and was gradually dropped from the program. It was
only late in his ­career that Zeami became more committed to promoting its special status.
Zenchiku displayed a more consistent investment in elevating the status of the Shikisanban.
6. NST (24:167). Rath (2015, 68, 80–81) argues that Zeami sought to draw a sharp distinc-
tion between the status of the Shikisanban as ritual and the status of other Noh entertainments
as art. But throughout this chapter I ­w ill argue that Zeami also sought to exploit the notion that
as a per­for­mance tradition with a sacred ritual at its “core” Noh could boast not only of its aes-
thetic profundity, but also of its efficacy in conveying truths and ensuring peace and longevity.
7. Klein (2006, 239).
8. Positioning Noh as an expression of high culture was a remarkable feat, given that in
Zeami’s time the nobility continued to look upon sarugaku performers as the equivalent of beg-
gars (Brown 2001, 32).
9. Susan Blakeley Klein has produced the most thorough English-­language work on ­t hese
treatises, noting that they are invaluable sources for producing historicized readings of Noh
plays (see Klein 2002, 3). Itō Masayuki (1970, 1975) was the first to bring to light the extent to
which Noh dramas relied on ­t hese works.
10. Jōwa 12 (845), 1/8. Mo­rita (2010, 2:164–165).
11. Mo­rita (2010, 2:165). The following year (Jōwa 13 (846), 1/26), the 114-­year-­old Hama-
nushi was elevated to Ju­nior Fifth Rank, Lower Grade (Mo­rita 2010, 2:196). This episode seems
to contradict the prevailing tendency in mid-­Heian Japan to treat the aged body as inauspi-
cious. Hamanushi twice refers to himself self-­deprecatingly as an “okina,” underscoring the
incongruity of the ­humble old man’s audience with the sovereign. Instead of the typical exotic
setting, this okina is brought to the innermost sanctum of the court, an area that writings of
this period, most saliently official retirement petitions, claimed should not be disgraced by the
unsightliness of an old man. The anx­i­eties expressed by the spectators over Hamanushi’s abil-
ities remind us of the unpre­ce­dented nature of this event. Only ­a fter he demonstrates his vigor
is he allowed to proceed to the presence of the ruler.
12. Katata (1991, 142–144).
13. On the concept of an “economy of virtue” in early Japa­nese statecraft, see Abe (1999,
313–314) and Ōmuro (1981).
14. Mo­rita (2010, 2:164).
15. Although he does not suggest Hamanushi’s dance is directly connected to the Shiki-
sanban, Kanai Kiyomitsu (1969, 16) treats it as perhaps the dawn of a long tradition of felici-
tous dances performed by elders.
16. Neither Zeami nor Zenchiku saw fit to include Hamanushi in their histories of okina
sarugaku, perhaps b ­ ecause the symbolism of the aged body in the case of Hamanushi provided
more contrasts with the Shikisanban than continuities.
17. What might be taken as the earliest mention of the Fushimi no Okina appears in the
Sanbō ekotoba, but only in the less reliable manuscripts, and only in the highly suspect sen-
tence that also refers to a “Konomoto no Okina.” See chapter 5, note 48.
18. This cluster of legends has been referred to as “the eye opening of the three saints,”
Gyōki, Bodhisena, and Shōmu tennō. The “eye opening” is the ceremony to animate the ­great
Buddha of Tōdaiji (Mizuhara 1979, 424).
19. Horiike (1995, 54–57). Variants of this legend have Bodhisena traveling first to Mount
Wutai in search of Mañjuśrī echoing the legend of Buddhapāla described in Ennin’s diary. But
 Notes to Pages 123–129   187

unlike ­t hose tales, their Japa­nese retellings have Bodhisena encountering an old man who
directs him to Japan, where he encounters Gyōki, whom they identified as an avatar of Mañjuśrī.
­These variants sought to establish Japan as a Buddhist nation on par with China.
20. Tsutsui (2003, 54–56).
21. Abe (2011, 246–247). Koma no Chikazane’s (1177–1242) Kyōkunshō explic­itly pres­ents
this tale as the origin of the Dance of the Bodhisattva.
22. Tenpyō 18 (746), 7 (KT 12:96).
23. GR (19:32a); NST (23:78).
24. KT (31:224–225); KK (50:250–251).
25. Asami (1997, 302).
26. The Konparu troupe sings “dō dō,” the Kanze troupe sings “tō tō,” and the Hōshō troupe
sings “tō dō” (Amano 1995, 77, 81).
27. It is unclear which elder was blind and which could not stand (GR 19:31b–32a; dis-
cussed in Abe 2011, 256n10). A variant appears in the thirteenth-­century Kyōkunshō.
28. My analy­sis follows Catherine Bell’s observation (1992, 88–93, see also 140) that what
defines ritual is not some static set of criteria, but pro­cesses of “ritualization” that seek to dis-
tinguish certain actions and per­for­mances from their more mundane analogues in order to
fulfill socially strategic purposes.
29. In the Edo period, e­ very daylong program of Noh began with the Shikisanban (Hare
1986, 67). Okina also forms part of the repertoire of Kabuki and puppet theater.
30. For a detailed synopsis of a Shikisanban per­for­mance, see Pinnington (1998).
31. Umehara et al. (2013, 1:22).
32. For a discussion of the connections between the ritual theater of the jushi and the
Okina dance, see Amano (1995, esp. 55–75).
33. The demons represent Binayakas (Sk. Vināyakas), personifications of obstructions to
the Dharma (Matsuoka 2000, 227).
34. Omote (1983).
35. Matsuoka (2000, 224–225). Concurrently, other sarugaku troupes began to perform
Okina in smaller shrine ­temple complexes around Japan.
36. DNK (13:30); Glassman (2012, 53).
37. In the Tōnomine ryakki, for instance, Zōga encounters an aged sennin (revealed to be
Vimalakirti) who guides him to Tōnomine (DNBZ 118:492a).
38. Pinnington (1998, 499–500).
39. The fact that the author of this text sought to explain the per­for­mance in terms of the
Lotus Sutra demonstrates that the earliest impulse was to see it as a vehicle for Buddhist truths. It
was only in the late medieval period that Shintō readings emerged (Pinnington 1998, 512–516).
40. Pinnington (2006, 207–213).
41. Rimer and Yamazaki (1984, 31–32).
42. Ibid., 35–36.
43. Ibid., 34–35.
4 4. ­There is disagreement over this. Pinnington (2006, 226n573) raises serious doubts
about the existence of a Shukushin cult among sarugaku performers.
45. The episode is, in fact, related by Zeami’s son Motoyoshi, in the Sarugaku dangi, a rec­
ord of Zeami’s lectures on Noh. Rimer and Yamazaki (1984, 224).
46. Osa was written with the character 長 (long), indicating old age in many Sino-­Japanese
compounds.
188   Notes to Pages 129–132

47. Nearman (1980, 169).

48. Zenchiku, however, in his promotion of the Shikisanban, seems to have sought to
­revive the authority of the osa (Pinnington 2006, 207).
49. Adapted from Rimer and Yamazaki (1984, 9).
50. Brown (2001, 26).
51. Rimer and Yamazaki (1984, xli, 261).
52. Yuasa (1977, 124, 130); Yuasa (1987, 99–109).
53. Yuasa (1977, 130–131). For an alternate translation, see Yuasa (1987, 104–105).
54. NST (24:15–20).
55. Rimer and Yamazaki (1984, 131); NST (24:16, 187).
56. Rimer and Yamazaki (1984, 23). Zeami wrote that the first flower faded at the age of
seventeen or eigh­teen, at which point one entered a phase of awkward adolescence.
57. Rimer and Yamazaki (1984, 6); NST (24:17).
58. Rimer and Yamazaki (1984, 132).
59. Ibid.
60. Ibid., 57. NST (24:59).
61. Rimer and Yamazaki (1984, 9).
62. Or, “exercised restraint” (mi wo oshimite) (NST 24:85).
63. Kokoro wo jubun ni ugokashite, mi wo shichibu ni ugokase (ibid., 84–85). Elsewhere
this motto is abbreviated: shinshichibundō 身七分動 (ibid., 107): “When you feel ten in your
heart, express seven in your movements” (Rimer and Yamazaki 1984, 75).
64. Rimer and Yamazaki (1984, 46–47, 93–94).
65. NST (24:106). Rimer and Yamazaki (1984, 106).
66. Rimer and Yamazaki’s translation of ushufū as “internalization” seems apt.
67. Swanson (1989, 15). See also Sharf (2002, 124–125).
68. Rimer and Yamazaki (1984, 117). The occasion for the quotation is his reflection on a
poem by Fujiwara no Teika that seems, on the surface, to be nothing special but is inexplicably
moving. Zeami attributes this to myō.
69. Ibid., 120.
70. Ibid., 117; NST (24:166). See also Rimer and Yamazaki (1984, 98–99); NST (24:101).
71. He likens an audience’s experience of myō to the amazement of ­t hose witnessing Ama-
terasu emerge from her rock cave to illuminate the world (NST 24:188–189; Rimer and Yamazaki
1984, 132–134).
72. Rimer and Yamazaki (1984, 179).
73. NST (24:264–265).
74. Rimer and Yamazaki (1984, 180).
75. Nearman (1980, 157).
76. Ibid., 176.
77. “Even a­ fter forty he could act convincingly in the style of a youth” (Rimer and Yamazaki
1984, 57).
78. Not ­every aged actor could possess the true flower, let alone achieve myō; although not
universally beautiful, old bodies had the potential to reveal surprising hidden depths and pro-
duce the effect of a flower on a withered branch (rōkotsu ni nokorishi hana), a flower that did
not fade although the physical body grew frail (NST 24:20).
79. They ­were thus grouped u ­ nder the rubric of “category one,” in the five-­part taxonomy
developed in the Edo period (Brown 2001, 21–22).
 Notes to Pages 132–138   189

80. I am following Steven Brown’s (2001, 21) translation of shūgen. For an overview of the
major Waki Noh, see Ienaga (1984, 105–110).
81. NST (24:41).
82. Aristocrats likely clung to nostalgic visions of the realm as it had been ­u nder the
ritsuryō regime, but warriors would prob­ably have hoped to see the realm portrayed in a way
that accommodated their role.
83. Thus he asserts that Waki Noh using nyotai should still follow the rōtai sequence
(Rimer and Yamazaki 1984, 152).
84. NST (24:22).
85. For instance, Zeami once witnessed Kiami perform the role of an old man bemoan-
ing his loss of sexual attractiveness (Rimer and Yamazaki 1984, 175).
86. NKBT (65:505). Rimer and Yamazaki (1984, 199).
87. Rimer and Yamazaki (1984, 225).
88. The kusa awase, literally “grass comparing contest,” held on the fifth day of the fifth
month, appears to have involved some sort of debate (NKBT 26:112). This is perhaps the origin
of a legend in which Zōga appears in similarly ridicu­lous accoutrements.
89. The libretto of the Okina play contains fragments of a sexual poem, hinting that cer-
tain strands of this tradition extended back to similarly bawdy ritual per­for­mances used to call
forth the fertility of the land.
90. My translation of rōtai as “aged mode” follows Thomas Hare (1986).
91. Ibid.
92. See Omoto (2010, 201–219); Yokota-­Murakami (1997, 21–84).
93. Although he sought to soften his demons as well, Zeami allowed them to be performed
with frightening frenetic energy (Matsuoka 2013, 514–545; see also Oda 1983).
94. Kumazawa (1970, 7). Yokota-­Murakami (1997, 96–97).
95. McCullough (1985, 214).
96. Kumazawa (1970, 10b).
97. Ibid., 11b. It is unclear ­whether or not Zeami or Kan’ami w
­ ere aware of the full context
of the Fushimi no Okina legends. But a Konparu-­lineage text stored in Hōzanji, entitled
“Fushimi Okina,” reproduces the Genkō shakusho version of the legend (ibid.).
98. Katagiri (1986, 5:551).
99. Although the Kinsatsu shrine existed at the time the play was written, t­ here is no his-
torical basis for linking it to Kanmu.
100. Tyler (1978, 22).
101. The bow’s name is an elegant pun (kakekotoba), combining the phrases tsuki yumi (an
unvarnished, zelkova bow) and shinnyo no tsuki (the moon of suchness).
102. This resembles the rhe­toric of the play Yumi yawata, featuring Hachiman, a god of
war, who declares that since the realm is governed by a virtuous ruler, ­t here is no longer any
need for weapons. See Bender (1978).
103. Nonomura (1928, 672a).
104. Another esoteric treatise, the Kokin waka kanjō no maki, contains the only other
reference to Kazehae, describing him transmitting six “esoteric” poems from the Kokinshū,
including Izakokoni, to Narihira at Ise (Kumazawa 1970, 12).
105. Nonomura (1928, 672c).
106. Nishino and Haneda (2011, 137b). ­Today Fushimi features a Kamimai—­a youthful
dance that is nonetheless more in keeping with the gentle rhythms of the rōtai. “The shift from
190   Notes to Pages 138–142

the vigorous, mimetic hataraki to the dignified, abstract kamimai is one of Zeami’s major con-
tributions to the successful establishment of Nō as a fine art” (Yokota-­Murakami 1997, 25).
Another of Zeami’s innovations was to alter plays with female protagonists such as Sotoba
Komachi, excluding them from the canon of god plays (ibid., 15).
107. Ibid., 96–97.
108. Omoto (2010, 201–219).
109. Kanai (1970, 57a, 62b) accounts for some of the differences between Kinsatsu and
Fushimi by noting that, unlike Zeami, Kan’ami had to pass the Kinsatsu shrine when commut-
ing from his home base in Yamato to the Heian capital, thus requiring that he appease its gods
and the clan that oversaw the shrine.
In Kinsatsu, Kan’ami was able to skillfully weave together ele­ments that allowed dif­fer­ent
audience members to see their social roles reflected positively on stage. Aristocrats would have
seen its depiction of the establishment of the glorious Heian capital reaffirming the value of
the royal and courtly tradition. The Ashikaga might have seen themselves reflected in the pro-
tective dance of the bow-­w ielding god. The ­great shrine ­under construction in the play, referred
to as the daigū, might have carried a double meaning. Amano (2007, 100, 131–138, esp. 134)
notes that Ashikaga Yoshimitsu’s palace, which was ­u nder construction when Kinsatsu was
first presented, was also referred to as daigū, meaning that the act of cosmogony symbolized
by the establishment of a capital might also have been read as celebrating the pacification of
the realm by the Ashikaga.
110. The desire of an elder to return to youth could give rise to two contradictory forms of
pathos: one tragic and one comic. Zeami emphatically sought to eliminate the latter from his
art in ­favor of the former.
111. Rimer and Yamazaki (1984, 55–56); NST (24:58).
112. Often it was unresolved trauma that kept the aged protagonist attached to this world,
unable to move on to the next, a theme typical of “category two,” or warrior plays. Drawing
upon the laments of classical poetry, t­ hese plays often exhibited a tension between the courtly
values embedded in t­ hese literary sources and the immanentist strains of Buddhist discourse—­
also taken up assiduously in Noh—­t hat celebrated phenomenal existence.
113. Goff (1991, 150–151, 158–159).
114. Yugyō yanagi follows this pattern (NKBT 41:122–128).
115. Kawashima (2001, 134–136).
116. Tyler (1992, 232).
117. Keene (1955, 267).
118. Adapted from ibid. NKBT (40:85).
119. Translated in Kawashima (2001, 306–321).
120. Ibid., 307n26.
121. Ibid., 317.
122. One of the most influential proponents of this notion was, of course, Kūkai. See Abe
(1999, 281–282).
123. Susan Klein (2006, 239) notes that in medieval religious culture, bonnō soku bodai
implied not only an equation between passion and enlightenment, but that “passion is the nec-
essary flipside to enlightenment.”
124. See Klein (2002, 198–199). See also See Yokota-­Murakami (1997, 27–26).
125. See Klein (2002, 202–204).
126. Ibid., 2­ 04.
 Notes to Pages 142–147   191

127. Tameaki-­a ffiliated treatises identified Shōkannon, one of Kannon’s six forms, as
Tamatsushima’s honji. Komachi was also said to be an incarnation of Shōkannon, supporting
the notion that Komachi was meant to be seen as an avatar of Tamatsushima Myōjin.
128. Gardner (1992).
129. Wakita (2005, ix, 203–227); Kurushima (2013, 20a); Tyler (1992, 226).
130. NKBT (40:281).
131. Ibid., 285–286.

Conclusion
1. On religion’s role in producing naturalized images of the body, see LaFleur (1998, 37–40).
2. John Traphagan (2000, 6–7) has shown that in con­temporary Japan anx­i­eties over
aging often center on the folk medical category of boke (senility), which he describes as a dis-
integration of habitus—­the mimetically acquired sense of appropriate be­hav­iors necessary
for maintaining social viability. While some of the elders we have examined, especially in
early Japan, expressed similar fears to t­ hose of Traphagan’s in­for­mants, many clearly main-
tained enough of a sense of the “rules of the game” to be able to use their perceived eccentricity
strategically to advance their own interests.
3. On fields of power, see Bourdieu (1993, 14, 37–38).
4. ­Here again I follow Bourdieu, who, like Weber, saw the social world as “an infinite
manifold of causal interdependencies” and insisted that we “attempt to track multiple lines and
levels of causation to what­ever extent is practically pos­si­ble.” Gorski (2013, 356).
5. On the manipulation of ritsuryō institutions by cloistered emperors, see Hurst (1976,
110–150).
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 Index

Abe Yasurō 阿部泰郎, 64, 69, 123, 165n29 Amaterasu Ōmikami 天照大神, 6, 10, 128,
aged body: as asocial, 2, 35, 39; association 136–137, 188n71
with “exotic” spaces, 1, 34, 84, 90, 102, Amida Nyorai 阿弥陀如来, xiii, 41, 51, 172n10,
114; as “good to think with,” xi, 5, 18–19, 183n64; and nenbutsu 念仏, 66, 161n43
99–100; as object of derision, 2, 11–12, ancestors: Confucian-style rites (sekiten or
25, 27–28, 62, 133–135; and pollution, shakuten 釈奠) for, 111; legitimating
39, 42, 44–45, 53–54, 57–63, 69–70; as function of, 6–8, 102, 111, 115–116, 126.
symbol of divine/otherworldly power, 74, See also ancestors, imperial
91, 95–100, 106, 109, 118, 138; as symbol ancestors, imperial, 5–8, 11–12; beauty of,
of mappō, 54, 58; as symbol of margins, 12–13; longevity of, 13–14, 162n60
xiii, 18–21, 95, 102, 105; as symbol of Ariwara no Narihira 在原業平, 112–115,
samsara, xiii–xix, 42, 106; as symbol of 137, 142, 144
submission, 9–10; as ugly (minikui 醜), 2, Ashinazuchi (Foot Stroking Elder) 脚摩乳,
11–12, 46, 49, 68, 140–142. See also aged 8, 16
body, distinguishing marks; aged body, Atago, Mount 愛宕山, 57, 66, 170n58
Zeami’s writings on; old age Avalokiteśvara. See Kannon Bosatsu
aged body (rōtai 老体), Zeami’s writings avatars. See gods, categories of; keshin
on: as source of pathos, 138–143; as
template for Noh performance, ix, 118, Bai Juyi. See Bo Juyi
132–135, 139. See also Zeami, theoretical bessho 別所, 57, 64, 70, 168n16
works of Biwa, Lake 琵琶湖, 35, 90; estates proximate
aged body, distinguishing marks: bent back to, 92–93, 179n97; and fisheries (mikuri
(or oikagamaru 老い屈まる), xii, 34, 御厨), 87, 94, 176n65; and fishing, 92–95,
69–71, 133, 168n17; drooping eyebrows, 178n85; and Tuṣita heaven (J. Tosotsu
102, 116; farsightedness (rōgan 老眼), ten), 82–83; temples proximate to, 75,
xii, 133–134; hoarseness (oikagaru 老い 86–88, 91–92, 94
がる), xii; impotence/sterility, 10–11, 15, bodhisattvas: definitions of, 171n1, 172n9; as
61–62, 155n26; loss of mental acuity or elders, 74, 79, 97, 172n8, 173n21; glorified
“vagueness” (oibore 老い耄れ), xiii, 69; bodies of, 47; identification with historical
mizuha 瑞歯 or 稚歯, 60; pursed lips, or literary figures, 122, 139, 173nn17–18;
2; sickness (or rōbyō 老病), 23–25, 30, “localized,” 79–80; taking anomalous
39, 54; weakness (rōsui or oisui 老衰, forms, 76–77; taking human form,
or depleted ki 気), xii, 10, 23, 17, 69; 75–76, 78; as youths, 74, 76–77. See also
wrinkles (or oi no nami 老いの波), 2, honji suijaku; and names of specific
10, 15, 30, 60–61, 68, 102. See also hair bodhisattvas

209
210  Index

Bodhisena, 122–125 capital, symbolic forms of (cultural and

Bo Juyi 白居易, a.k.a. Hakurakuten 白楽天, social), xvii, 23, 46, 66–67, 105, 119, 147;
xvi, 35–36, 110, 115, 141; Shōshikai of, 36, honzon 本尊 as source of, 80; and
38, 184n86; works of: Hai manman 海漫漫 knowledge, 109, 113, 115–117, 146
(“Boundless Sea”), 177n77; Lan jing xi lao capitals (miyako 都 or 京): as center, x–xi, 1,
覽鏡喜老 (“Looking in the Mirror and 6, 49–50; Fujiwara-kyō 藤原京, 32, 50;
Rejoicing in Old Age”), 36; Maitan weng Fukuhara-kyō 福原京, 50–51; and
売炭翁 (“Old Charcoal Seller”), 115; Pipa generative/revivifying powers, 22, 32–34;
xing 琵琶行 (“Lute Song”), 141; xinyuefu purity of, 39–40, 40, 43; Heian-kyō 平安
新楽府 (“New Ballads”), 177n75 京, 33–34, 50, 137; Heijō-kyō 平城京
boundaries/liminal spaces: between center (Nara 奈良), 31–33, 50. See also under
and periphery, 7; between land and sea, immortal realms
8; crossroads (chimata 岐), 43–45; center: as heavenly/sacred (e.g. seichō 聖朝),
between world and underworld, 8, 46. 24; as pure, 40; as life-giving, 20, 22,
See also spatial/geographic imaginaries 32; challenges to, 54, 56–57, 146.
Bourdieu, Pierre, xvii, 147, 167n2. See also See also capitals; spatial/geographic
capital, symbolic forms of; habitus imaginaries
buddhas: “localized,” 79–80; major and chiji 致仕, 21–26; of Ushi, Kimi of Morogata
minor marks of, 77, 83; representations of, 諸縣君牛, 21–22
74–78, 97–98; three bodies of (sanshin Chinese sources: influence of, xvi, 6–7, 13,
三身, Sk. trikāya: “Dharma body,” hosshin 16–17, 23, 29, 31–33, 35–36, 116, 181n39,
法身, Sk. dharmakāya; “reward body” 184n86; of naturalist/medical
hōjin 報身, Sk. sambhogakāya; “response knowledge, x, xiii, 6, 10–11, 22, 39;
body,” ōjin 応身, Sk. nirmāṇakāya), zhiguai 志怪 (anomaly accounts), 77;
75–76, 78; and visualization, 70, 75, 77–78, Zhuang-Lao thought 荘老思想, 36, 49,
172n10. See also honji suijaku; honzon; 158n71, 177n73. See also immortality
keshin practices
Buddhism: “anti-institutional,” 65; diversity Confucianism, x, 16, 20, 111, 177n75
within, xviii–xix; Mahāyāna, 40, 75–77;
and royal authority, x, 51, 57, 69, 105; and Daianji bodai denraiki 大安寺菩提伝来記,
Shintō, xviii, 97; Zen, 129–131. See also 122–123
Esoteric (Tantric) Buddhism; shinbutsu Daigoji 醍醐寺, 183n65; in Daigoji engi 醍
shūgō 醐寺縁起, 104; in Daigo konpon sōjō
Buddhist literature, xv–xvi, 77; explanatory ryakuden 醍醐根本僧正略伝, 104
tales (setsuwa 説話), 53, 66, 69, 81–82; Daijō honjō shinji kangyō 大乗本生心地観
hagiographies (den 伝), 42, 59–61, 64–67, 経 (T no. 159), 74, 83
77; miracle tales (genki or kenki 験記), dance, ceremonial: Bodaimai 菩提舞 (or
58, 77; origin accounts (engi 縁起), 75, Bosatsumai 菩薩舞), 123, 126; Jittenraku
79–80, 104–105, 116, 123; tales of rebirth 十天楽, 123, 126; of longevity (chōjuraku
(ōjōden 往生伝), 42, 59; travel diaries 長寿楽), 121–122
(kikō 紀行), 35, 51. See also engi, early vs. dance in Noh: Hataraki 働, 137; Kamimai
medieval; legends 神舞, 189n106; Shinnojo-no-mai 真ノ序
Buddhist ordination, 40, 98; mass ordination ノ舞, 138; of shirabyōshi 白拍子, 143; in
(do 度), 26; platform for, 100, 103. See Waki Noh 脇能, 132–133. See also
also retirement, Buddhist Shikisanban
Bynum, Caroline, 99 dance of old men, ix, 120–123, 125
 Index  211

datsueba 奪衣婆, 39, 45–47 Enryakuji 延暦寺, 69, 101; criticism of,
demographics, xx, 156n46; kōreikashakai 56–57, 64, 66. See also Onjōji: relations
高齢化社会 (“aging society”) and, with Enryakuji; Ryōgen; Sanmon; Tendai
153n38 Esoteric (Tantric) Buddhism, 76, 100, 113,
demons. See datsueba; under Noh; ōna 115, 129, 142; and gojisō 護持僧, 106;
Dharma protectors (gohō). See under gods, Tachikawa lineage 立川流, 113, 142. See
categories of also Shingon; Tendai: Taimitsu
Dōmyō 道明, 44–45, 168n24 esoteric literary treatises, 110, 113. See also
dōsojin 道祖神 ( funado or kunado no kami under Noh
岐神, sae or sai no kami 障の神 or 塞の estates. See shōen
神), 39, 43–45, 47, 58–59
dreams/visions: of buddhas, 75, 107–108; of fish, 81, 83, 94; in premodern Japanese
gods, 107–108, 112; of keshin, 78; of economy, 87–88; as tribute (nie 贄),
Hitomaro, 110–111; of mysterious old 87–88. See also okina: fish-bearing
men, 108; role in honj suijaku thought, fishing communities, 86–89, 91–95. See also
107–109 Biwa, Lake: and fisheries
flower: of poetry, 141; on an ancient tree (oiki
early/classical Japan (kodai 古代 ca. no hana 老木の花), ix. See also Flower,
500–1050), x–xi, and court-centric Zeami’s concept of
ideologies, 18–19, 20–21, 29, 69, 72, 117, Flower (hana 花), Zeami’s concept of, ix;
146. See also regency and regency period; jibun no hana 時分の花 (or yōka 用花),
ritsuryō state; tennō 129; kyakuraika 却来華, 132; makoto no
earthly deities (or earth gods, kunitsukami hana 真の花 (or shōka 性花), 129–130
国神 or 国津神), 7–13, 16, 22, 91, 105, Formanek, Susanne, 153n38, 154n6, 156n37,
180n14; at boundaries and margins, 156n46
5, 7–8; elevation to heavenly status, fudoki 風土記 (gazetteers), 5, 9, 96, 172n14;
154n7 portrayal of non-Yamato people, 156n41
elders (e.g. chōrō 長老, furuokina or korō Fujiwara clan 藤原氏, 17, 60; Northern
古老, kikyū 耆旧, rōfu 老父, rōjin House (hokke 北家), 51, 55, 70, 116;
老人, rōō 老翁): as liminal beings, Southern House (nanke 南家), 116;
xiv; as source of oral traditions, 84, regents’ branch (sekkanke 摂関家), 25, 55
172n14, 175n8. See also old age; Fujiwara no Akisue 藤原顕季, 110–112,
okina; ōna 115–116
elixirs: okera (or hakuchi 白朮), 16; sweet Fujiwara no Akisuke 藤原顕輔, 110
springs (美泉), 16–17, 33, 57; Tenmu’s use Fujiwara no Atsumitsu 藤原敦光, 110,
of, 17 115–116
Enchin 円珍, a.k.a. Chishō Daishi 智証大師, Fujiwara no Fuhito 藤原不比等, 17–18,
81–82, 100–103; in Chishō daishiden 智 158n71
証大師伝, 101; Gyōrekishō 行歴抄, 101; Fujiwara no Junshi 藤原遵子, 65
and Onjōji/Jimon lineage, 81, 100; and Fujiwara no Kanefusa 藤原兼房, 110–112; in
Shinra Myōjin, 100–102 Jikkinshō 十訓抄, 111
engi 縁起, early vs. medieval, 80, 105. See Fujiwara no Koretada (alt. Koremasa) 藤原
also under Buddhist literature 伊尹, 64–65
Ennin 円仁, 81, 101, 103 Fujiwara no Michinaga 藤原道長, 27,
En no Gyōja 役行者, a.k.a. E no Ozuno 171n82
役小角, 67–68 Fujiwara no Morosuke 藤原師輔, 63–64
212  Index

Fujiwara no Mototsune 藤原基経, 24 gods, categories of: avatar (gongen 権現),

Fujiwara no Munetada 藤原宗忠, 38, 117 179n2; “bright deity”( myōjin 明神) or
Fujiwara no Sanenori 藤原実範, 81–83, 89, “great bright deity” (daimyōjin 大明神),
116, 146, 174n30, 178n80 100, 179n2; clan gods (ujigami 氏神),
Fujiwara no Senshi (alt. Akiko) 藤原詮子, 102; Dharma protectors (gohō 護法,
60, 65 gohōjin 護法神), 45, 97, 99, 100–102;
Fujiwara no Shunzei 藤原俊成, 90–91, 104 disease (ekijin 疫神), 43–45; tutelary/
Fujiwara no Tadamichi 藤原忠通, 111, 115 local (jishu 地主, jishujin or jinushigami
Fujiwara no Takamitsu 藤原高光, 64, 地主神, jigami or jijin 地神), 7, 9, 13,
170n60 96–101, 104–107, 109. See also earthly
Fujiwara no Tameaki 藤原為顕, 112–115, deities; heavenly deities; kami; okina;
136, 142, 146 and names of individual deities
Fujiwara no Yoritada 藤原頼忠, a.k.a. Sanjō Gyōki 行基, 122–124, 173n17, 175n44,
no Kanpaku Daijō Daijin三条関白太政 186n19
大臣, 65 Gyokuden jinpi no maki 玉伝深秘巻,
Fujiwara no Yoshifusa 藤原良房, 24–26, 113–114, 136–137
28–29, 38
fujō 不浄 (filth): and pollution, 40; and habitus, xvii; and old age, xxi, 191n2
preaching ( fujō seppō 不浄説法), 42. Hachiman Daibosatsu 八幡大菩薩, 96, 107;
See also pollution encounter with Ōga no Higi 大神比義,
Fukutō Sanae 服藤早苗, xiii, 98 182n64
Fushimi no Okina 伏見翁 (alt. 伏見老翁), hair: gray or white (“frosted temples”
a.k.a. Yamato no Kunimi 大倭国看, hakubin 白鬢 or 白鬂), xvi, 10, 15; as
122–125, 136–137; purported reference index of fertility or sterility, 14–15; as
to in Sanbō ekotoba (mistranscribed as index of youth or old age, xii, xvi; loss of
深身老), 186n17 (baldness) or thinning, 10, 36, 161n44
Fusō ryakki 扶桑略記, 107, 123–124 Hakusan (alt. Shirayama) 白山, 96, 107
Hasedera 長谷寺, 104–105
gender: in Buddhist didacticism, 47; of gods, Hata no Motoyoshi 秦元能, a.k.a. Kanze
9–10, 98–100; theories of (gender Motoyoshi 観世元能, 131; Sarugaku
studies), xvii, xxi. See also ōna dangi 申楽談儀, 131, 141
Genji monogatari 源氏物語, 1–2, 139–141, Hayami Tasuku 速水侑, 27, 71
161n47 heavenly deities (amatsukami 天神 or 天津
Genkō shakusho 元亨釈書, 82, 107, 神), 6–13
124–125 Heike monogatari 平家物語: and biwa hōshi
Genshin 源信, 41–42, 56, 65; Ōjōyōshū 往生 琵琶法師, 70; Enkyōbon or Enkeibon 延
要集, 41 慶本, 68–70; Genpeijosuiki 源平盛衰記,
Genshō 元正 (Empress), 57, 157n57; progress 82; Kakuichibon 覚一本, 82
to Mino province 美濃国, 16–18, 57 Hiei, Mount 比叡山. See Enryakuji
gods: as ancestors, 6, 12, 115, 156n46; as hijiri 聖, 57. See also Lotus Sutra: devotees of
elders/okina, ix–x, xvi, 97–98, 105, 119, Hiko-hoho-demi no Mikoto 彦火火出見尊,
128, 179n2; formless/invisible, 96–97, 2, 8–9, 12
104, 154n3; medieval, 97, 100; in Noh, Hira Myōjin 比良明神, 84–86, 96, 104
119, 132–133; shifting representations Hitomaro. See Kakinomoto no Hitomaro
(“graying”) of, xii, 7, 96, 180n6; within Hitomaro eigu 人麻呂影供 (or Kakinomoto
samsara, 44. See also gods, categories of eigu), 110–112
 Index  213

hōben 方便 (“skillful means,” Sk. upāya), immortals (Ch. xian 仙 J. shinsen 神仙 or
76, 143, 172n9. See also under Lotus sennin 仙人), xvi, 15, 37, 71, 78, 136;
Sutra portrayed as elders, 68, 71, 182n49;
Hōjōki 方丈記, 49–51 portrayed as youths, xii, xvi, 152n28
Hokke genki 法華験記 (Dai Nihonkoku Insei 院政 period (ca. 1050–1185), 27, 55;
Hokkekyō genki 大日本国法華経験記), and royal authority, 71, 116. See also
43–47, 56–60, 66–68, 72 retired emperors
hokke hijiri. See Lotus Sutra: devotees of Ise monogatari 伊勢物語, 113–115, 120
Honchō monzui 本朝文粋, 23 ishigami 石神 (stone gods). See dōsojin
Honchō shinsenden 本朝神仙伝, 81–82, Ishiyama-dera 石山寺, 75, 84, 86, 108;
106–107, 109 relations with fishing communities,
Honchō zoku monzui 本朝続文粋, 23 88, 94
honji suijaku 本地垂迹, xviii, 105–106, Ishiyama-dera engi emaki 石山寺縁起絵巻,
112–114; revelation of honji, 69, 106–109, 85, 88–89, 107–109
114; wakō dōjin 和光同塵, 106 Iwa-no-hime 磐之媛, 30–31
honzon 本尊, 75, 78–80, 105, 107–108; Izanagi 伊弉諾 and Izanami 伊弉冉, 10,
Hitomaro portrait as, 110–111; of Onjōji, 136–137
81, 93–95; of Tōdaiji, 122–124. See also
icons jikyōsha. See Lotus Sutra: devotees of
Hosshinshū 発心集, 61–62 Jimon denki horoku 寺門伝記補録, 80,
Hyūga province 日向国, 7, 11, 21, 159n12 82–83, 95, 101–103
Jimon lineage 寺門派, 81, 93–94, 100–102,
ichininmae 一人前 (normative human form), 104
xiv, 77–78 Jinmu 神武 (Emperor), 6, 8–11, 13–14,
icons, 43, 45; Buddhist, 74–80; as emblems 124
of collective identity, 80, 93, 95, 101; jinnin (alt. jinin) 神人 (shrine/temple
shintai 神体, 44; shinzō 神像, 102, menials), xv, 87–88
116, 162n61; tōshin 等身 (replicating Jinzen 尋禅, 63–64
historical Buddha), 41. See also honzon Jitō 持統 (Empress), 18, 115
identity, collective, xi, 99; divine beings as Jitokushū 寺徳衆, 103
symbols of, 7, 13, 80, 82, 93, 99, 101–102, Jizō Bosatsu 地蔵菩薩 (Sk. Kṣitigarbha),
116; of marginalized groups, 91, 93–95 45–46, 79
immanentist theories of salvation, 47, 58–59, Jōkei 貞慶, 127
61, 141 jushi (alt. sushi, shushi) 呪師, 126–127; jushi
immortality, 18, 33, 115; symbols of, peaches, no hashiri 呪師走り, 127
33; pine trees, 143, 162n66; tachibana 橘
(“seasonless fragrant tree”), 162n62; Kagami-yama 鏡山 (Mirror Mountain), 35
tortoises, 32. See also immortality Kaifūsō 懐風藻, 29–30, 33, 166n2
practices Kakinomoto eigu. See Hitomaro eigu
immortality practices (Daoist-style), 57–58, Kakinomoto no Hitomaro 柿本人麻呂, 32,
68, 71. See also elixirs; longevity 50, 110–115
immortal realms (Kunlun (J. Konron) 崑崙, kami 神: as native or “Shintō” deities, xviii,
Penglai (J. Hōrai 蓬莱), Tokoyo (常世): 97–98; as local and immigrant deities,
capital or palace likened to, xi, 32–33; 97; “in human form” (arahitogami 現人
mountains (Katsuragi 葛城山, Yoshino 神), 112. See also earthly deities; gods,
吉野, etc.) likened to, 31–32 categories of; heavenly deities
214  Index

Kaminaga-hime 髪長媛, 21–22 Kojiki 古事記, 5–7; Nihon shoki’s divergence

Kamo no Chōmei 鴨長明, 49–51 from, 15–16, 157n56; presentation of
Kan’ami 観阿弥, 119, 131–132, 135–138, 140, non-Yamato people, 13
142; performance at Imakumano shrine Kokin wakashū (Kokinshū) 古今和歌集,
今熊野神社, 128–129 29–30, 35, 113, 120, 136, 140, 142
kanjō uta 灌頂歌, 136 Kokonchomonjū 古今著聞集, 82, 110
Kanmu 桓武 (Emperor), 136–137 Kōnin 光仁 (Emperor), 23–24
Kannon Bosatsu 観音菩薩 (Sk. Konjaku monogatarishū 今昔物語集, 45–46,
Avalokiteśvara), 45–47, 76–77, 79, 61, 65, 79, 82–83, 135
172n15; Batō Kannon 馬頭観音, 77; as Konomoto no Okina (此本老 or コノモトノ
elder, 171n1, 173n21; Nyoirin Kannon 如 翁), a.k.a. 翁爰本, 175n48. See also
意輪観音, 85; Shōkannon 聖観音, Ke’nin Kōshi
191n27 Konparu Zenchiku 金春禅竹, 118–119,
kanshi 漢詩 (poetry in Chinese): on exotic 128, 142, 144; Meishukushū 明宿集,
subject matter, 90, 178n80; post-eleventh 118, 128
century, 90, 141; prior to eleventh Korea: Paekche, 9, 155n26; Silla, 100–101,
century, 29, 31 103; as source of knowledge, 6, 97,
Kasuga Daimyōjin 春日大明神, a.k.a. 155n26; as source of okina legends, xvi,
Kasuga Gongen 春日権現, 96, 107, 180n9
181n35, 183n70 Kōya, Mount 高野山, 57, 95, 179n98
Kasuga gongen genki e 春日権現験記絵, Kuji hongi 旧事本紀 (Sendai kuji hongi 先代
107, 127 旧事本紀), 7
Kasuga Taisha 春日大社 (Kasuga-Kōfukuji Kujō-ke Onjōji engi 九条家園城寺縁起, 93
complex), 118, 126–127, 183n64 Kumano 熊野, 43, 45, 57, 96
Kawara-no-in 河原院, 114, 162n69 Kyōkunshō 教訓抄, 124
kegare. See pollution Kyōtai 教待, a.k.a. Kyōtai Sennin, 74–75,
Keitai 継体 (Emperor), 14–15 80–83, 88–89, 91, 93–95; mitamaya 廟
Ke’nin Kōshi 化人講師, a.k.a. Saba Okina (shrine) to, 82
鯖翁, Saba-uri Okina 売鯖翁, 84, 125,
175nn48–49 legends: and borrowed narrative elements,
Kenshō 顕昭, 136–137; Kokinshūchū 84, 103–104; collective authorship of,
古今集註, 136 78–82, 95, 109; and continental influence,
keshin 化身 (“transformation bodies,” also xvi, 35, 78; and legitimation, 12, 110–112,
hengeshin 変化身 or ke’nin 化人), 125–126; and oral traditions, 77–78, 84,
78–81, 136, 175n45; as one of “four 109, 117; social positioning of sources, xx,
bodies” (shishin 四身), 172n16; evolving 53–54, 64–65, 70, 72, 74–75, 99, 116–117,
descriptions of, 78. See also honji 146. See also Buddhist literature; myths
suijaku or “kami tales”
ki 気 (Ch. qi), 10, 17, 155n26 liminality: and social marginality, xiii–xiv;
Kibi no Makibi 吉備真備, 23–24 variable meanings of, xiv, 99. See also
kikō 紀行, xv–xvi, 35, 51 boundaries/liminal spaces
Kim Hyŏn-uk 金賢旭, x, xvi, 13, 103 literati, 29, 32; in dialogue with continental
Kiyomizu-dera 清水寺, 79 sources, xvi, 35–36, 49; role in development
Kōfukuji 興福寺, 63, 66, 81, 94, 100, 169n53. of myths and legends, xv, 97, 109, 146;
See also Kasuga Taisha scholar-poets (bunjin 文人), 115–116.
Kogo shūi 古語拾遺, 7 See also names of specific literati
 Index  215

longevity: “ageless” (chūrōenmei 駐老延命), Miidera 三井寺. See Onjōji

180n20; dance of (chōjuraku 長寿楽), Minafuchi no Toshina 南淵年名, 37
121–122; in mythic past (e.g. Ch. Minamoto clan (Genji 源氏), 102, 117; Seiwa
shanggu 上古), 54; and Noh, 118, 120, Genji, 102, 105
132; retirement and, 23–24; and royal Minamoto no Fusaakira 源英明, 36
authority, 16–18, 71–72; songs/prayers/ Minamoto no Tōru 源融, 114. See also Noh
felicitations (hokai 賀, 壽, 祝 or shūgen plays: Tōru
祝言) for, 29, 121, 132. See also Minamoto no Yoriyoshi 源頼義, 102
immortality; ritual: of longevity; minokasa 蓑笠, 11–12, 68
Shōshikai Mino no Kiyomaro 美努浄麻呂, 33
Lotus Sutra (Myōhōrengekyō 妙法蓮華経 or Miroku Bosatsu. See Maitreya
Hokkekyō 法華経, T no. 262), 41, 43–46; Mirror Mountain. See Kagami-yama
devotees of (hokke hijiri 法華聖 or Miyako no tsuto 都のつと, 35
jikyōsha 持経者), 45, 56–57; Juryōbon 寿 Miyoshi no Kiyoyuki 三善清行, 101
量品 (Chapter on Fathoming the Monju Bosatsu. See Manjuśrī
Lifespan of the Tathāgata), 164n11; Montoku 文徳 (Emperor), 24, 114
Hōbenbon 方便品 (Chapter on Skillful Montoku jitsuroku (Nihon Montoku tennō
Means), 167n3 jitsuroku 日本文徳天皇実録), 24
Motoyoshi. See Hata no Motoyoshi
Maitreya (Miroku Bosatsu 弥勒菩薩, a.k.a. Mutsu province (alt. Michinoku) 陸奥国,
Jison 慈尊), 74, 81–83; Hōkei Miroku 宝 86, 114
髻弥勒, 171n2. See also Kyōtai myōjin. See gods, categories of
Manjuśrī (Monju Bosatsu 文殊菩薩), 127, Myōson 明尊, 92, 94, 101–102, 181n37,
172n8, 173n21, 181n39, 186n19. See also 185n16
Gyōki myths or “kami tales” (shinwa 神話):
Man’yōshū 万葉集, 15, 29–33, 92, 112 kikishinwa 記紀神話, 5–7, 8, 10, 12,
mappō 末法, xi, 56; as “defiled age” or “age 21–22, 98, 124; “medieval shinwa,”
of five defilements” (gojoku 五濁), 96–97, 105, 138
40–42, 54; and honji suijaku, 69, 106
marginality: as socially produced and Nagusamegusa なぐさめ草, 35
negotiated, xiv; as relative or situational, Narihira. See Ariwara no Narihira
100, 116, 146. See also margins nen 念 (“mindfulness”), 78, 107. See also
margins (periphery), xiii, 1, 21, 40; use of Amida Nyorai: and nenbutsu; buddhas:
aged body in articulating, xiii, 90, and visualization
163n78. See also spatial/geographic Nichizō 日蔵, a.k.a. Dōken 道賢, 106–107
imaginaries Nihon ōjō gokurakuki 日本往生極楽記, 66,
Matsuo deity, a.k.a. Matsuo/Matsuno’o 172n14
Myōjin 松尾明神, 96, 98, 106–107, Nihon ryōiki 日本霊異記, 66, 84, 172n15,
162n61 173n21
medieval (chūsei 中世) Japan (ca. 1185– Nihon shoki 日本書紀, 5–7; heightened
1573): as decentered realm, xi, 50–51, attention to aged body in, 15–16, 18
105, 153n37; Insei (late-Heian) period as Ninigi 瓊瓊杵, 6–10, 13, 29
cusp of, xiv; politics of, 51, 55–56, 105. Ninmyō 仁明 (Emperor), 27, 121–122,
See also Buddhism: and royal authority; 176n68
myths or “kami tales”: medieval; royal Nintoku 仁徳 (Emperor), 14, 30–31
authority Nirvana Sutra (T no. 374), 140
216  Index

Noh: demons in, 127, 130, 133; and esoteric old age: associations with exile or
literary treatises, 131, 136–137, 142, 144; abandonment, 15, 31, 34–35, 91;
Kami Noh 神能, 132, 135, 141; old man definitions of, xii–xiii; as form of
(rōjin 老人) in, ix; promoting peace difference, xi, xiii, 18, 99–100;
and longevity (e.g. as “elegant and life dissociated from chronological age, xii;
sustaining” fūgetsu ennen 風月延年), and eccentricity, 2, 61, 146, 166n11,
118, 120, 128. See also Noh plays; okina 191n2; as liminal state between life and
sarugaku; Shikisanban; Zeami Motokiyo death, 39; as persona/performed identity,
Noh plays: Atsumori 敦盛, 142; Fushimi 伏見, xiv–xv, xvii, 23, 38, 51, 146; poetics of,
135, 137–138; Higaki 檜垣, 143; Hōjōgawa 28–38; reduced to biology, xxi; and
放生川, 132, 138; Kakitsubata 杜若, 142; seniority, 63–66, 98, 128–129; and social
Kinsatsu 金札, 135–138; Kinuta 砧, 142; Koi or political disempowerment, 17–19, 28,
no omoni 恋重荷, 142; Obasute 姨捨, 143; 63–64; as source of authority based on
Oimatsu 老松, 132, 138; Sekidera Komachi experience, xvii, 66–67, 70, 129–132,
関寺小町, 140, 143; Suma Genji 須磨源氏, 143; as source of misery, x, 23, 28, 31, 47,
139, 140–141; Takasago 高砂, 138, 143; Tōru 60–61, 138–142; as source of shame (or
融, 139–141; Yōrō 養老, 132, 138; Yugyō oi no hazukashisa 老いの恥ずかしさ),
yanagi 遊行柳, 190n114; Yumi Yawata xii, 24; terms for (e.g. ki 耆, kō 耈, mō 耄,
弓八幡, 132 rō or oi 老), xii; variable meanings of, x,
nondualism, 62, 70; bonnō soku bodai 煩悩 xvii–xvii. See also aged body; elders;
即菩提, 113–115, 120, 140–142 okina; ōna
Numinous Eagle Peak (Ryōjusen 霊鷲山), Ōmine mountain range 大峰山脈, 68
41–42, 56 Ōmi province 近江国, 75, 84, 93, 101
Ōmiwa no Takechimaro 大神高市麻呂, 30
Obasute-yama (alt. Ubasute-yama) 姨捨山, ōna 嫗 (underclass old woman), xiii; divine,
34. See also Noh plays: Obasute 98–99; as demon, 45–47, 99
Ōe no Masafusa 大江匡房, 117, 146; ganmon Onbasama, a.k.a. Ubason 姥尊, 99
願文 of, 109; and honji suijaku, 106, 109 Onjōji 園城寺, 74; relations with Enryakuji,
Ōjin 応神 (Emperor), 14–15, 21–22, 159n11 75, 81, 94, 100–101, 104, 116. See also
okina 翁: association with native Japanese Jimon lineage
deities, 97, 145; fish-bearing, 83–86; Onjōji denki 園城寺伝記, 80, 101–103
interpolation into medieval tales, 96–97, Onjōji ryūge-e engi 園城寺竜華会縁記 (also
103–105; katai okina 乞食翁 (alt. 佳体翁 written 縁起), 74, 80–83, 94, 100–104
or 歌代翁), 113–114; ken’eō 懸衣翁 Ono no Komachi 小野小町, 139–143
(clothes-hanging okina), 46; mitari okina Orikuchi Shinobu 折口信夫, 12; concept of
三人翁, 115; representing various kinds “sacred elder” (sei naru rōjin 聖なる老
of divinities, x, 96–97, 180n20; as 人), xiv, 152n24; on irogonomi 色好み
transcendent god in Zenchiku, 118, 128; (erotic) hero, 22
as underclass old man, xiii, 43, 67–69, 91, Ōtomo no Kuronushi 大友黒主, 35
113–114. See also Noh; Noh plays; okina Ōtomo no Tabito 大伴旅人, 31–33
sarugaku; and names of specific okina outcast preacher or “impoverished priest”
Okina Oshō 翁和尚, 58–59, 83 (binsō 貧僧) (a.k.a. preacher at
okina sarugaku, 126–128; performances at Tokujōju-in kuyō 得長寿院供養),
Shushō-e 修正会 and Shuni-e 修二会, 68–69
122, 127 Owari Muraji Hamanushi 尾張連濱主,
okomori 御籠り, 107–109 121–123, 125
 Index  217

Platform Sutra of the Sixth Patriarch (T no. Reizan-in Shakakō 霊山院釈迦講, 41–42,
2008), 140 56, 72
poetry: and esoteric literary treatises, retired emperors (in 院), 51; as chakravartin,
113–115; ideological subtexts of, 20–21, 51–52, 71–72; as elders, 71, 115–116, 147.
29, 49; on mirrors, 34–35; waka 和歌 See also Insei period
(Japanese verse), 28–29. See also kanshi; retirement: poetics of, 28, 35, 49–50; and
longevity: songs/prayers/felicitations for relocation to margins, 1–2, 25–26, 28,
pollution (kegare 穢), 39–40; and crossroads 161n47. See also chiji; Insei period;
(chimata 岐), 43–44; as metaphor for retired emperors; retirement, Buddhist
mental states, 40; and miraculous retirement, Buddhist: as “abandoning the
purification, 56–58; miraculous release world” (yosute 世捨て), 26–27; and
from, 43–44; miraculous transformation “awakening the Way-seeking mind”
of, 58–59, 83; and moral corruption, 53, (hosshin tonsei 発心遁世), 64–66; and
55–57, 63; nondualism and, 70; protection “deathbed tonsure” (rinjū shukke 臨終出
of social body from, 40, 94; and social 家), 27; as “entering the way” (nyūdō 入
hierarchy, 40, 53–54, 56, 61–63, 69, 道), 26; as home leaving (shukke 出家),
72–73; strategic uses of, 61–62. See also 26; and lay ordination as “novice” (nyūdō
aged body: and pollution; datsueba; 入道) or “lay nun” (nyūdō ama 入道尼),
dōsojin; fujō; mappō: as “defiled age” or 1, 161n34. See also reclusion
“age of five defilements” retirement, official. See chiji
Pure Land (jōdo 浄土): of Amida Nyorai, 41; ritsuryō 律令 state, 6; attenuation/
ideologies, 41–42, 58–59, 61, 139, 141; of reconfiguration of, 20, 55–56; as cultural
Kannon, 45, 47; and promise of pure imaginary, 20, 29, 51, 55–56, 86–87,
bodies, xiii, 41; of Śākyamuni, 41. See 94–95, 133; ideological continuities with
also transcendentalist theories of regency, 29, 56, 146; ideologies of, 20, 29,
salvation 51, 133; and retirement provisions: for
purity: attempts to preserve, 40–42; and provincial posts, 9; in Senjoryō 選叙令,
morality, 68–69; and social hierarchy, 40; 158n70; in Sōniryō 僧尼令, 18. See also
and the tennō, 40. See also ritual: of ritsuryō state, administrative agencies of;
purification Taihō code; Yōrō code
ritsuryō 律令 state, administrative agencies
Queen Mother of the West (Ch. Xi Wangmu) of: Bureau of Divination (Onmyōryō
西王母, 32–33 陰陽寮), 50; Bureau of Medicine
(Ten’yakuryō 典薬寮), 155n26; Council
reclusion (tonsei 遁世), 35, 57–58, 63–66, of Kami Affairs (Jingikan 神祇官), xviii;
99–100; gosesha or goseisha 後世者, Council of State (Daijōkan 太政官), 17;
41–42; as peaceful detachment, 36, Office of Monastic Affairs (Sōgō 僧綱),
49–51, 89 18, 63–64, 65
regency (sekkan seiji 摂関政治) and regency ritual: kami-centric, 105–106; of longevity
period (sekkan jidai 摂関時代 ca. (e.g. Enmeihō 延命法), 88, 176n68; and
850–1050), 20, 24, 55; continuity with Noh, xvi, 118, 120, 126, 128, 133; of
earlier court-centric ideologies, 29, 56, propitiation, 44; of purification, 39–40,
146; and Insei-period rulership, 27, 51, 55 43–44, 59, 69; and ritualization, 187n28;
regent (sesshō 摂政 or kanpaku 関白), 25, and royal authority, 18, 39, 69; theater,
27–28. See also Fujiwara clan: regents’ 126, 135. See also dance, ceremonial;
branch Hitomaro eigu; jushi; okina sarugaku
218  Index

Rōben 良弁, 84–86 Sekizan Myōjin 赤山明神, in Hie Sannō

Rokujō Akisuke. See Fujiwara no Akisuke rishōki 日吉山王利生記, 103; in Sekizan
Rokujō Kiyosuke 六条淸輔, a.k.a. Fujiwara myōjin engi 赤山明神縁起, 103
no Kiyosuke 藤原淸輔, 112 sennin 仙人. See immortals
rōtai. See aged body, Zeami’s writings on sesshō kindan 殺生禁断, 88, 92
royal authority: concept of sage-king, shari 舎利 (Sk. śarīra) (alt. busshari 仏舎利),
13–15, 21, 86; early theories of, 6; and 56, 58
“generative force” or vitality, 10, 14–18, Shihinetsu-hiko 椎根津彦, a.k.a.
29; of the “heavenly sovereign” (tennō 天 Sawonetsu-hiko 槁根津日子, 11–12,
皇), x–xi, 6. See also ancestors, imperial; 15–16
longevity: and royal authority; virtue, Shikisanban 式三番, ix; in Hokkegobukukanjo
royal 法華五部九巻書, 127; and strategies
Ryōgen 良源, 55–56, 59, 62–64; Nijū rokkajō of ritualization, 126, 128, 187n28.
(Jie Daishi nijūrokkajō kishō 慈恵大師廿 See also okina sarugaku; Shikisanban,
六箇条起請), 62 roles in
Ryūge-e 竜華会 (Dragon Flower Dharma Shikisanban 式三番, roles in: Chichi no jō
Assembly), 81, 178n82 父尉, 126, 128; Inatsumi no Okina 稲経
Ryūge-e engi. See Onjōji ryūge-e engi 翁, 128; Sanbasō 三番叟, 126, 135; Senzai
Ryūmeishō 龍鳴抄, 124–125 千歳, 185n4; Yonatsumi no Okina 代経
翁, 128
Saba Okina, a.k.a. Saba-uri Okina. See shinbutsu shūgō 神仏習合, 98. See also honji
Ke’nin Kōshi suijaku
Saga 嵯峨 (Emperor), 20, 152n19, 177n74 Shingon 真言, 106, 112–113. See also Esoteric
saints (shōnin 上人 or 聖人), 59; hidden, 140; (Tantric) Buddhism
and prestige, 65; and relics, 56. See also Shinji kangyō. See Daijō honjō shinji kangyō
Buddhist literature: hagiographies Shinra Myōjin (alt. Shira Myōjin) 新羅明神,
Śākyamuni (Shaka Nyorai 釈迦如来), 81, 100–105, 116; names of, 102–104,
41–42, 76, 122, 127; and Jetavana 181n35; public rites (saishi 祭祀) for,
Monastery, 128 101–102
samsara, xiii, 44; aged body as symbol of, Shinsarugakuki 新猿楽記, 135
xiii–xix, 42, 106; as polluted, 41, 58 Shinsen shōjiroku 新撰姓氏録, 7, 154nn6–7,
Sanbō ekotoba 三宝絵詞, 85 155n27
Sanjō (Empress Dowager) (Sanjō no Taikō Shinshō hōshi nikki 信生法師日記, 35
Taigō no Miya 三條大皇大后宮), 61, Shintō 神道, and Buddhism in premodern
169n38 Japan, xviii–xix. See also shinbutsu
Sanmon lineage 山門派, 81, 94, 101 shūgō
Sannō 山王 deity, 68–69, 101 Shiotsutsu-no-oji 鹽土老翁, 7–9, 15–16,
sarugaku (alt. sangaku) 申楽 or 猿楽, 120, 154n8
127–128, 134–135; sarugaku za 申楽座 Shirakawa 白河 (Emperor), 71, 176n68;
(guilds), 127–128. See also okina ganmon 願文 for, 116
sarugaku Shōbō 聖宝, 104
Seinei 清寧 (Emperor), 14–15, 157n52, shōen 荘園 (estates), 55, 86–87, 92–98, 105;
157n55 local administrative positions (satanin
Sekidera 関寺, 75, 91–92, 94. See also Noh 沙汰人, korō 古老) of, 98; Ōura-no-shō
plays: Sekidera Komachi 大浦荘 and Suga-no-ura 菅浦, 92,
Sekidera engi 関寺縁起, 91–92 178n83
 Index  219

Shoji ryakki 諸寺略記, 84, 86 Taira warrior house (Heike 平家), 49–50,
Shoku Nihongi 続日本紀, 16 68, 70
Shoku Nihon kōki 続日本後紀, 121 Taira no Chikamune 平親宗, 90–91
Shōmu 聖武 (Emperor), 27, 84, 122–123 Tamatsukuri Komachishi sōsuisho 玉造小
shōnin. See saints 町子壮衰書, 141
Shōshikai 尚歯会, 36–38 Tamatsushima Myōjin 玉津島明神, 142
Shōtoku Taishi 聖徳太子, 128 Tenazuchi (Hand Stroking Elder) 手摩乳, 8,
shuchō (local chieftains) 首長, 8–9, 98 16, 135
Shugendō 修験道, 67–68 Tendai (Ch. Tiantai) 天台, 94, 105–106, 131;
Shukujin (alt. Shukushin) 宿神, 128 Taimitsu 台密, 113; zasu 座主 (head
Smits, Ivo, 90, 116 abbot), 55, 63, 94, 100, 168n20. See also
Soto’ori-hime 衣通姫, 141–142 Enryakuji; Onjōji; Ryōgen
Sōzu, River 葬頭川 (alt. Sanzu 三途河), 46 Tenji 天智 (Emperor), 29, 137
spatial/geographic imaginaries, 159n1; Tenmu 天武 (Emperor), 16–18, 40, 43, 94, 115
Chinese, 7; of “home provinces” (kinai tennō 天皇, x–xi, 6; -centric ideologies, 6,
機内), 1; of Japan as “realm under 20–21, 133; and “economy of virtue,”
heaven” (tenka 天下), xiii, 1, 6; medieval 121–122; purified body of, 40, 65, 69–71;
(decentered), 50–51; and territory (ryō symbolic displacement of, 105, 124. See
領), 88, 92–94. See also boundaries/ also retired emperors
liminal spaces; under center; margins Toba 鳥羽 (Emperor), 68, 69–71
Storehouse of Sundry Treasures Sutra (J. Tōdaiji 東大寺, 66, 84, 126; and Daibutsu
Zappōzōkyō 雑宝蔵経 T no. 203), 35 大仏, 84, 122–124
Sūfukuji 崇福寺, 75, 174n30 Tōdaiji yōroku 東大寺要禄, 84–85, 107
Sugawara no Funtoki (alt. Fumitoki) 菅原文 Tōkan kikō 東関紀行, 35
時, 37 Tokujōju-in 得長寿院, 53, 68. See also
Sugawara no Koreyoshi 菅原是善, 37 outcast preacher or “impoverished priest”
Sugawara no Michizane 菅原道真, 32–34, Tōnomine 多武峰, 59–60, 62–65, 104,
36–37, 50, 104, 107, 137, 162n69, 176n60, 126–127; in Tōnomine ryakki 多武峰略
177n77; anthologies of (Kanke bunsō 記, 187n37
菅家文草, Kanke kōshū 菅家後集), 34; transcendentalist theories of salvation, 47,
exile in Dazaifu 大宰府, 34; as governor 58, 61, 141
of Sanuki province 讃岐国, 33–34 Turner, Victor, xiii–xiv, 99
Sumiyoshi Deity (Sumiyoshi Daimyōjin 住 Tuṣita heaven (Tosotsu ten 兜率天), 81–83
吉大明神), 2, 96, 104, 112–115, 142, tutelary deities. See gods, categories of
154n7; in Akazome emon shū 赤染衛門
集, 112; in Fukuro zōshi 袋草子, 112; in Ujishūi monogatari 宇治拾遺物語, 44–45, 65
Noh, 137–138 Ukashi the Younger 弟猾, 11–12, 15–16
Sumiyoshi taisha jindaiki 住吉大社神代記, Urashimako 浦嶋兒 or 浦島子, 15, 162n64
86, 112
Susanowo 素戔鳴, 8, 12 virtue (toku 徳), royal, 86; and longevity,
Sutra of the Ten Kings (Jizōbosatsu hosshin 16–18, 24, 39, 57, 121–122; and vitality,
innen jūōgyō 地蔵菩薩発心因縁十王 14–15, 162n60, 167n5
経), 46
Waka kōshiki 和歌講式, 111–113
Tachikawa lineage 立川流, 113, 142 Wakan rōeishū 和漢朗詠集, 37, 90
Taihō code 大宝律令, 21, 158n70 Watatsumi 海神 (Dragon King), 1–2, 8
220  Index

Yakushi Nyorai 薬師如来, 69, 79, 171n1 and purity, 57, 77. See also immortality;
Yamanba 山姥, 166n37 longevity
Yamaori Tetsuo 山折哲雄, xiv, 75 Yūryaku 雄略 (Emperor), 9, 14–15, 31,
Yamashiro province 山城国, 136 162n60
Yamato monogatari 大和物語, 34
Yamato no Kunimi. See Fushimi no Okina Zaō 蔵王, 84–85
Yamato province 倭國 or 大和国, 11, 124, Zeami, theoretical works of: Fūshikaden 風
126, 136; as civilized center, 13, 156n43; 姿花伝, 128–129, 139; Kakyō 花鏡, 130;
as life-giving center, 32; as purified Kyūi 九位, 131; Nikyoku santai ningyōzu
center, 9, 164n2 二曲三体人形図, 118, 133–134; Shūgyoku
Yoko’o Myōjin 横尾明神, 104 tokka 拾玉得花, 130–131
Yōrō 養老 code, 17–18, 22, 158nn69–70 Zeami Motokiyo 世阿弥元清, 118–120,
Yōrō 養老 era, 16–19. See also Noh plays: 143–144; on myō 妙, 131–132; on
Yōrō Shikisanban, 128; theories of age-graded
Yoshino, Mount 吉野山, 31–32, 57, 160n31 training (keiko 稽古), 129–132; and
Yoshishige no Yasutane 慶滋保胤, 90 Waki Noh 脇能, 132–138. See also aged
youth: association with center/imperial line, body, Zeami’s writings on; Flower,
5, 15, 17–18, 22, 29, 32–33, 55, 71; Zeami’s concept of; Zeami, theoretical
“black-haired subjects” (reigen 黎元 or works of
kenshu 黔首) as, 121; dissociated from Zenchiku. See Konparu Zenchiku
chronological age, xii; possessing Zōga 増賀, a.k.a. Zōga Shōnin 増賀聖人 or
“temporary flower” in Noh, 129–130; 増賀上人, 58–66; at Tōnomine, 63–64
 About the Author

Edward R. Drott is assistant professor of Japa­nese religions at Sophia Univer-

sity in Tokyo. His research explores the role of the body in religion and the role
of religious ideologies and practices in producing knowledge about the body.