A portrait of Bashō, now in the Itsuo Museum, Ikeda City, Osaka
MATSUO BASHÖ
OKU NO HOSOMICHI THE NARROW ROAD TO THE DEEP NORTH
Introduction Chronology Map of Bashō’s Journey
PARALLEL TEXT Notes Further Reading and Links [The word NOTE in the text indicates a particular crux of translation, which is discussed further. Click on NOTE to be taken to the relevant discussion, and then on RETURN to come back to the translation.]
The seeds for this translation of one of the classic works in Japanese literature were sown over forty years ago. One of the most compelling accounts of poetry I heard as an undergraduate student was a reading by Christopher Logue from what was then his recently published translation of Book 16 of Homer’s Iliad. Logue’s version sounded with an enormous, visceral power. It leapt, twisted, invented, clashed, modernised, contorted, visualised – in ways that made all other translations of the poem seem staid and bland. Since then, it has become clear that this dramatic and verbal energy was no isolated tour de force by a young poet. Forty four years later, Logue’s radical approach to translating the poem (All Day Permanent Red, 2003, a rendering of the first battle scenes in Books 5-8) retains all of its earlier power to wrench and dislocate the original into a contemporary poetic idiom. There is, however, one aspect of the translation that, then as now, is likely at the very least to bemuse, if not actually to shock. Logue cannot read ancient Greek, not a word of it. He has created his Iliad by consulting already existing renderings, developing a sense of what the original is saying, and then taking off to create his own version. In the words of one reviewer, on the surface at least ‘it’s like learning of a deaf man who prepared himself to conduct Stravinsky by watching Fantasia’.
However quixotic or foolish Logue’s task may seem, though, the unquestionable power and richness of the result raises a fundamental question: to what extent, if any, is it possible to translate from a language of which one has little or no knowledge? Is it simply impossible? Or will such a version have to rely upon so many extraneous aids (numerous other translations, massive resort to commentaries and dictionaries, constant oversight by native speakers of the original language, and so forth) as to drown any individual voice in what will be essentially the translation of a collective? If these supports are not available, will such a text inevitably have to be loose paraphrase or imitation or re-composition because the complex connotations of the original cannot be understood? INTRODUCTION iii Or may there be some means by which all these barriers can be surmounted, and the original text presented in a close, faithful and resonant way?
This avowedly experimental translation of Matsuo Bashō’s Oku no Hosomichi raises all of the questions mentioned above; and while it may not answer all of them, it attempts at least to scrutinise, test and explore them. The personal journey may be worth describing briefly. At the very beginning of drafting the translation, I knew not a word of Japanese. I had for years been interested in haiku – that infinitely concentrated moment of perception condensed into 17 syllables of verse – and also in travel writing. And Bashō’s name had long been known, as one of the greatest exponents of both haiku and travelogue. But of the language in which he had written, I knew nothing.
Such ignorance might seem problematic enough in a translation from a European language with a similar script and basic structure. But from a language with a demonstrably different script and structure, the ignorance might seem insurmountable. Even a cursory reading in a Japanese grammar is enough to highlight quite radical differences between Japanese and English. Nouns in Japanese, to take a single example, have no gender, or case, or distinction between singular and plural. The Japanese for ‘dog’ or ‘a dog’ or ‘two dogs’ or ‘many dogs’ is the same word (‘inu’, in Romanised Japanese). Verbs, similarly, remain the same whether the person is first, second or third, singular or plural, masculine, feminine or neuter. There are no terms corresponding to the definite and indefinite articles: the tree and a tree are the same word, ‘ki’. Together with three different writing scripts (Kanji, Hiragana and Katakana), which can be written either vertically or horizontally, and a different sequencing of subject, object and verb, these features might seem to make for a total impenetrability – a language rooted in paradox and ambiguity, and understandable only after years of immersion.
Given this context, there are three major ways in which the challenge of translating Oku no Hosomichi has been taken up, and each is worth developing in a little detail:
other translations
There are currently no fewer than eight different translations into English of the whole of Oku no Hosomichi, together with several versions of parts of it. Placing these versions alongside each other at every step of the way INTRODUCTION iv allows two contrasting features to emerge: the lowest common denominators (whether part of speech or syntactic ordering) that all the versions share, but also the differences in tone and register between them. Consider, for instance, the celebrated opening ‘sentence’ to the travelogue:
The passing days and months are eternal travellers in time. The years that come and go are travellers too (Britton).
Moon & sun are passing figures of countless generations, and years coming or going wanderers too (Corman).
The moon and sun are eternal travellers. Even the years wander on (Hamill).
The months and days are the travellers of eternity. The years that come and go are also voyagers (Keene).
The sun and the moon are eternal voyagers; the years that come and go are travelers too (McCullough).
The months and days are the wayfarers of the centuries and as yet another year comes round, it, too, turns traveller (Miner).
The months and days are wayfarers of a hundred generations, and the years that come and go are also travelers (Sato).
Days and months are travellers of eternity. So are the years that pass by (Yuasa).
The shared denominators here can be easily identified:
moon/sun (months/days)
travellers/passing figures/wayfarers/wanderers
eternal (eternity)/countless generations/of the
centuries/of a hundred generations
year/years/another year
come and go/wander on/pass by
too/also/so/even
Yet these common features are orchestrated very differently. The choice between moon or month, and sun or day, is answered by five translators in one way, and three in another. The definite article is in one case INTRODUCTION v applied to both nouns; in five other cases, to only one; in two cases, to neither. Levels of diction vary: the generic ‘traveller’ is occasionally repeated, or juxtaposed against the more antique resonances of ‘wayfarer’ and ‘voyager’. In terms of rhythm, too, there are manifest differences: from the curt, rather banal ‘even the years wander on’, through the slightly convoluted, over-explicatory ‘and as yet another year comes round, it, too, turns traveller’, to the persuasive iambic stresses of ‘the years that come and go are travellers too’.
Such analysis of both the common and the individual features in each of the translations soon makes apparent the strengths and weaknesses of each rendering. Tired diction here, inappropriate register there; natural, unforced cadence here, resonant phrasing there. And as word is compared with word, phrase with phrase, an almost intuitive sense develops, not only of what Bashō’s original says, but of how it can best be translated into English. The mental notes made can be illustrated by reference to Bashō’s title, Oku no Hosomichi:
phrase only occurs at one point in the narrative (‘kano ezu ni makasete tadoriyukaba, oku no hosomichi no yamagiwa ni tofu no suge ari’)
oku = general name for the northern provinces; can also mean ‘interior(s)’ or ‘inner recess(es)’ no = links two nouns: at, in, of, on hosomichi = thin/narrow + road/path/way
Narrow Road to a Far Province (Britton): no article before ‘Narrow Road’ – evocative, or dulling? ‘far’ is good. ‘Province’ – accurate but lacking resonance?
Back Roads to Far Towns (Corman): too overtly urban and modern. Why highlight ‘towns’? ‘Back roads’ suggests a detour from existing ‘main roads’, which is surely not what Bashō meant. Monosyllabic rhythm?
Narrow Road to the Interior (Hamill and Sato): no article again before ‘Narrow Road’ – I’m torn between finding this productively suggestive and rather bland. ‘Interior’ is good, intimating both geographical and psychological conditions.
The Narrow Road to Oku (Keene): ‘to’ is better than ‘of’ in evoking sense of travel towards. But leaving ‘Oku’ untranslated will surely produce blankness, rather than telling ambiguity, to an English-speaking reader. What, who, where is ‘Oku’?
The Narrow Road of the Interior (McCullough): seems slightly prescriptive in resonance. ‘Of’ implies that the ‘Interior’ has already been reached, rather than travelled towards.
The Narrow Road to the Deep North (Yuasa): evocative, suggesting both the difficulty and the penetration of the journey. Perhaps ‘Deep North’ is a little free, but it well conveys the sense of a far-off land, reached only after difficulty.
Would it be worthwhile taking Yuasa’s hint and risking a very free adaptation of ‘Oku’ – something that evokes an emotional landscape, as well as a geographical one? Would ‘The Narrow Road to a Far-off Land’ do? On second thoughts, ‘Far-off Land’ could bring to mind a misleading fairy-tale dimension (‘Somewhere over the rainbow…’). Probably better, after all, to keep to ‘the Deep North’.
This kind of thought process, brought to bear on each word, phrase and section as the travelogue unfolds, results in a continual flow of judgment, both conscious and instinctive, about the most effective word, syntactic pattern, rhythm, and tone of voice.
word-for-word translations
In addition to the support provided by the eight translations above, there is a further resource: Makoto Ueda’s word-for-word versions of many of the haiku that punctuate Bashō’s travelogue. A single example will show how valuable even a literal translation of each word can be:
shizukasa ׀ ya ׀ iwa ׀ ni ׀ shimiiru ׀ semi ׀ no ׀ koe
stillness I ! I rock I to Ipermeate Icicadal 's I voice
Not only does this literal version indicate the order of the words and images in the original, but it also gives important signals about their INTRODUCTION vii relationships. The word ‘ya’, for instance, performs the function of a kireji, or ‘cutting word’. In Nobuyuki Yuasa’s words, ‘when a kireji is used in the middle of a poem it cuts the stream of thought for a brief moment, thereby indicating that the poem consists of two thoughts half independent of each other.’ ‘Ya’ also expresses a sense of wonder or excitement, and the closest English equivalent would probably be an exclamation mark. The opening five syllables, then, must evoke the wonder and profundity of the stillness, and conclude with the slightest of pauses before the poem resumes. When it does, another important signal is given: not simply the outer contrast between ‘rock’ and ‘voice’, but also the fact that ‘rock’ and ‘voice’ is the ordering, not ‘voice’ and ‘rock’. In other words, the ‘permeation’ of the rock is a preceding process before the suspended climax of perception, the cicada’s voice, is heard.
These features can emerge only from a word-for-word rendering of the original. But once recognised, they become part of the larger thought processes described earlier. How best to convey the sense of total stillness in five syllables, and then a momentary hiatus? How to anchor the rather generalised terms ‘permeate’ and ‘voice’ in a sensory immediacy? Is there one cicada, or are there many – and which is the more effective? The answers provided by the eight major translations conclude with Ueda’s version and then my own:
In this hush profound
Into the very rocks it seeps –
The cicada sound.
(Britton)
quiet
into rock absorbing
cicada sounds
(Corman)
Lonely stillness –
a single cicada’s cry
sinking into stone
(Hamill)
How still it is here –
Stinging into the stones,
The locusts’ trill.
(Keene)
Ah, tranquillity!
Penetrating the very rock,
a cicada’s voice.
(McCullough)
In seclusion, silence.
Shrilling into the mountain boulder,
The cicada’s rasp.
(Miner)
Quietness: seeping into the rocks, the cicada’s voice (Sato)
In the utter silence
Of a temple,
A cicada’s voice alone
Penetrates the rocks.
(Yuasa)
the stillness –
seeping into the rocks
cicadas’ screech
(Ueda)
the utter silence …
cutting through the very stone
a cicada’s rasp
(Chilcott)
The strengths and limitations of all of these versions will be quickly discernible. But it is worth noting that, unlike many translators, I have adhered to the basic 5-7-5 syllabic count of the original for all the haiku in this translation, and have chosen to avoid capitalisation and most punctuation marks. Such typographical signals can often seem intrusive, directing response rather than allowing the suggestiveness and ambiguity of the original free rein. Beginning a haiku with a capital letter and ending it with a full stop suggests the perception is contained solely within the words. But in truth, Bashō’s haiku begin before the first syllable is uttered, just as they sound long after the seventeenth syllable has been heard. I
native speakers and resources
Whatever support other translations can give, however, there are inevitably moments when some crux arises that can be resolved only by appeal to a native Japanese speaker. Sometimes, the crux has to do with connotation and resonance (‘is a closer in meaning to b or to c? or is it to both b and c with a touch of d?’). Sometimes, it has to do with cultural circumstances or positions that are very different from those in the western world (for instance, are the many holy men that Bashō meets in his journey best described as ‘monks’, ‘priests’, ‘high priests’, ‘abbots’, ‘bishops’, ‘archbishops’, or indeed none of the above?). But when such questions have arisen in this translation, I have been able to avail myself of the native and bi-lingual knowledge of Dr Mark Jewel, of the University of Waseda, and of Masami Sato, of Hanazono University. To both, I offer my sincerest thanks for the generosity of their help and advice. I am grateful, also, to Kendon Stubbs, co-director of the Japanese Text Initiative at the University of Virginia; the text of Oku no hosomichi presented here is used by permission of the JTI, Electronic Text Center (http://etext.lib.virginia.edu/japanese). My thanks are due, too, to Peter Goodman and Stone Bridge Press for their kind permission to reproduce the map of Bashō’s journey contained in their Bashō’s Narrow Road: Spring & Autumn Passages, trans. Hiroaki Sato, 1996.
conclusion
Whether this translation of Bashō’s Oku no Hosimichi has proved or disproved the possibility of translating from a language of which one has little or no knowledge, is for individual readers to determine. The best judges, presumably, will be those readers who are totally bi-lingual, as sensitive to every register and nuance of Japanese as they are of English. For myself, I began drafting the translation entirely sceptical, believing it would prove impossible. And yet it has emerged and is here. At the beginning of this introduction, I quoted the words of one reviewer about Christopher Logue’s version of the Iliad: ‘it’s like learning of a deaf man who prepared himself to conduct Stravinsky by watching Fantasia’. My final position, I hope, may be of a partially hearing man who prepared himself to conduct Stravinsky by discovering, at least, how to read a musical score.
Tim Chilcott July 2004
CHRONOLOGY
1644 born in the town of Ueno, in Iga Province, some thirty miles south-east of Kyoto. His father, Matsuo Yozaemon, is probably a low-ranking samurai, but little is known about his mother.
1656 his father, who may have been in the service of a local aristocratic family, the Tōdō, dies. Probably by this time, Bashō is also in the service of the family. He develops a close friendship with Tōdō Yoshitada, a boy two years older than him who is already interested in poetry. The two receive their first training in poetic composition together.
1662 composes his earliest known haiku.
1666 Tōdō Yoshitada dies suddenly in his twenty-fifth year – an event that may have shocked Bashō so deeply that he resigned from the service and embarked on a life of wandering.
1666-71 no secure evidence about his whereabouts. He may have gone to live in Kyoto, or only visited it occasionally. He continues, however, to write: at least four poems in 1666, thirty-two in 1667, six in 1669, two in 1670, three in 1671.
1672 first goes to live in Edo (modern-day Tokyo), and in the next six years becomes more and more known in literary circles, writing hokku for anthologies, teaching, and judging poetry competitions. A school of Bashō gradually comes into being.
1677-81 seems to have worked for a local waterworks company, while continuing to gain recognition as a poet.
1681 his students build a small house for him in Edo, and plant a bashō tree (a variety of banana tree) close by. It grows so well that his house becomes known as ‘the Bashō hut’ and CHRONOLOGY xi he himself as ‘Master Bashō’, the pen name he adopts for the rest of his life.
1682-3 in the winter of 1682, the Bashō hut burns down in a fire that devastates large parts of Edo. Manages nevertheless to supervise the first full-scale anthology of his school, now comprising the work of over a hundred poets. His mother dies, but he remains too poor to be able to travel to her funeral. His students collect donations and provide him with new accommodation.
1684 embarks on a journey that results in the first of his travel narratives, The Journal of a Weatherbeaten Skeleton.
1686 composes what has since become the most famous of all haiku, about a frog leaping into a pond.
1687 in the winter of 1686-7, meets Sora, a neighbour who is later to become his companion in Oku no Hosomichi. Travels to the lake country some fifty miles northeast of Edo, which results in a short travel sketch, Kashima m ōde (The pilgrimage to Kashima Shrine). Compiles Atsume ku (Collected verses), a collection of his work from the past three years. Sets out on another journey to western Japan, which results in Oi no kobumi (My knapsack notebook).
1688 continues to travel. Writes Sarashina kikō (The journal of travel to Sarashina).
1689 undertakes the long northern journey which is to result in Oku no Hosomichi. He leaves Edo in late spring and draws his journey to a close in Ōgaki five months later, as autumn begins to fall. He walks over twelve hundred miles. More than four years are spent composing, revising and polishing the final version.
1690-91 continues to travel and to participate in haikai gatherings, although he is plagued with ill health.
1692 another Bashō hut is built for him by his supporters, and he continues to participate in haikai gatherings.
1693 heartbroken at the death of his nephew Tōin, whom he has cared for as a son since 1676. Closes the gate to his residence and refuses to see people altogether, although he later resumes normal social activities.
1694 begins planning another westward journey, although his health is failing and he feels his end is drawing near. But he sets out in early summer, carried on a litter. His illness becomes increasingly critical, and in late autumn, he dies. He is just fifty
Though I write, I'm someone who never enjoyed that English lit class in high school or college where works of literature were analyzed with that endless question, "What do you think the author was trying to say? What do you think he meant there?" I still feel that way. I just like to read a good book and feel the way I feel, take away what I take away. But this issue of translating a work from one language into another, accentuated by the fact of writing in non-Roman characters, was interesting. It's furthered by translators who are then troubled by translating into languages which give gender to nouns -- which of course English does not. So it was interesting to realize that when reading anything written in a foreign language and then translated into one's own tongue that one may indeed not be able to get inside the tone of the ring inside a bell and hear the same as the writer described. It's a discourse that reminds me a bit of historiology.
I feel the same way in the sense of feeling what I feel and stay with that alone and not intellectualise everything. Being a speaker of two other languages other than English which give gender to nouns, I appreciate the difficulties. It is very true that getting “inside the time of the ring inside the bell and hear the same as the writer described.” Can be difficult. Just reading the various translations on this segment I was going to ask everyone which one was their favourite and why. Mine was actually the translation by Chilcott because the word he used is so illustrative of what he understood the essence of the sound to be. The weight of words in manifesting feelings and moving ideas across is very striking here.
Though I write, I'm someone who never enjoyed that English lit class in high school or college where works of literature were analyzed with that endless question, "What do you think the author was trying to say? What do you think he meant there?" I still feel that way. I just like to read a good book and feel the way I feel, take away what I take away. But this issue of translating a work from one language into another, accentuated by the fact of writing in non-Roman characters, was interesting. It's furthered by translators who are then troubled by translating into languages which give gender to nouns -- which of course English does not. So it was interesting to realize that when reading anything written in a foreign language and then translated into one's own tongue that one may indeed not be able to get inside the tone of the ring inside a bell and hear the same as the writer described. It's a discourse that reminds me a bit of historiology.
I feel the same way in the sense of feeling what I feel and stay with that alone and not intellectualise everything. Being a speaker of two other languages other than English which give gender to nouns, I appreciate the difficulties. It is very true that getting “inside the time of the ring inside the bell and hear the same as the writer described.” Can be difficult. Just reading the various translations on this segment I was going to ask everyone which one was their favourite and why. Mine was actually the translation by Chilcott because the word he used is so illustrative of what he understood the essence of the sound to be. The weight of words in manifesting feelings and moving ideas across is very striking here.