When he jumps out of bed, scurries about the room, tightly fastens his trouser-sash, rolls up the sleeves of his Court cloak, over-robe, or hunting costume, stuffs his belongings into the breast of his robe and then briskly secures the outer sash - one really begins to hate him. One's attachment to a man depends largely on the elegance of his leave-taking.
A flight of crows circle over with loud caws. One is just about to be told some interesting piece of news when a baby starts crying. I hate the sight of men in their cups who shout, poke their fingers in their mouths, stroke their beards, and pass on the wine to their neighbors with cries of "Have some more! Drink up!" They tremble, shake their heads, twist their faces, and gesticulate like children who are singing, "We're off to see the governor!" I have seen really well-bred people behave like this and I find it most distasteful. A man who has nothing in particular to recommend him discusses all sorts of subjects at random as though he knew everything. If it is someone of no importance, one can get rid of him by saying, "You must tell me all about it next time" but, should it be the sort of visitor whose presence commands one's best behavior, the situation is hateful indeed. One is in a hurry to leave, but one's visitor keeps chattering away. This 10th century Japan private diary of a lady-in-the-court is one of the most extraordinary pieces of non-fiction I’ve ever read - through sweeping, exhaustive lists, Shōnagon, a gossip and a prankster, reveals both the universality of human life and the paticularities of her cloistered life in Japanese court.
0 kommentar(er)
