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A review by bentoth1
The Narrow Road to the Deep North and Other Travel Sketches by Matsuo Bashō
5.0
I love this book with my whole heart. Written in the 1600s, this travel-journal in the Haibun style (prose + haiku) is riddled with gorgeously niche natural imagery, a strong sense of an emotional authorial voice, and surprisingly extensive documentation of Japan's geography.
Bashō climbed mountains, sought out the visions of ancient poets, and processed the brutality of the 4 seasons with a profound calmness. He covered over 2,400km of harsh terrain in about 156 days...usually in straw sandals...usually alone.
The books in my favorites shelf have gently parted, making way for this relic of curiosity, creativity, and reverence for nature. I can imagine myself reading this again and again as I grow old, noticing my warbling reflection in the most peculiar of words every time.
"Nothing remained the same in my native village. Even the faces of my brothers had changed with wrinkles and white hair, and we simply rejoiced to see each other alive. My eldest brother took out a small amulet bag, and said to me as he opened it, 'See your mother's frosty hairs. You are like Urashimal whose hair was turned white upon his opening a miracle box.' After remaining in tears for a few moments, I wrote:
Should I hold them in my hand,
They will disappear
In the warmth of my tears,
Icy strings of frost."
"To talk casually
About an iris flower
Is one of the pleasures
Of the wandering journey."
Bashō climbed mountains, sought out the visions of ancient poets, and processed the brutality of the 4 seasons with a profound calmness. He covered over 2,400km of harsh terrain in about 156 days...usually in straw sandals...usually alone.
The books in my favorites shelf have gently parted, making way for this relic of curiosity, creativity, and reverence for nature. I can imagine myself reading this again and again as I grow old, noticing my warbling reflection in the most peculiar of words every time.
"Nothing remained the same in my native village. Even the faces of my brothers had changed with wrinkles and white hair, and we simply rejoiced to see each other alive. My eldest brother took out a small amulet bag, and said to me as he opened it, 'See your mother's frosty hairs. You are like Urashimal whose hair was turned white upon his opening a miracle box.' After remaining in tears for a few moments, I wrote:
Should I hold them in my hand,
They will disappear
In the warmth of my tears,
Icy strings of frost."
"To talk casually
About an iris flower
Is one of the pleasures
Of the wandering journey."