ABSTRACT: Intertextuality is a term for underlying texts within a text being read and the relationship between them. Intertexts are common in Japanese haikai, hokku, and haiku and form part of the vertical axis, a term proposed by Shirane Haruo, that ties a piece of literature to past literature, religion, and culture. Though texts within texts may sometimes be difficult to see, recognizing intertextuality in haikai, hokku, and haiku greatly enriches one’s appreciation and understanding of them. This article identifies and examines embedded texts in numerous poems and prose passages, exploring how they work. For example, the introductory part of the modern short story “Haru no tori” [“The Spring Bird”] by Kunikida Doppo embeds a passage about summer grass from Matsuo Bashō’s Oku no Hosomichi [The Narrow Road to Oku], which in turn embeds some lines of a poem by Du Fu. A haiku by Shiki about the aftermath of modern warfare also embeds that “summer grass” passage of Bashō. Examples of texts within texts are presented in other hokku and haiku of both past and modern poets. A common interplay of intertextuality in hokku and haiku depends on the use of set phrases of five or seven on (sound syllables), like hototogisu (mountain cuckoo) or furusato ya (hometown). This usage dates back to the Man’yōshū, the earliest book in Japanese literature, in the form of makura kotoba (pillow words) and continues with numerous other set phrases to the present. Though a popular set phrase may link thousands of haiku that use the phrase, the poet and reader experience it subjectively, recalling specific poems that resonate personally. One other form of intertextuality, highlighted in a passage of Kawabata Yasunari’s Yama no oto [The Sound of the Mountain] comes into play when readers experience or interpret poems as representative of their own experiences. The reader’s life becomes a text of one within the poem he or she is reading. Any of the three kinds of intertextuality explored in the article add depth and connectivity both to a poem and to the reader’s experience with that poem.
by Richard Tice
Does this passage from a 1904 Japanese short story recall another, more famous passage?
On the summit remain the ruins of a castle. Vines of ivy cling to a high stone wall and seem, in a way that cannot truly be described, to be arranged and imbued with crimson. Anciently the area where a tower stood had become level—at some unknown time young pines had grown here and there, and summer grass had left no open space. When gazing on this, I feel keen sorrow recalling ancient days.
This is the second paragraph of “Haru no tori” [“The Spring Bird”] by Kunikida Doppo (1871 – 1908), describing a mountain where the narrator loved to walk. Readers may recall another passage if they are familiar with Matsuo Bashō’s travelogue Oku no hosomichi [1694, The Narrow Road to Oku]. Nowhere does Doppo mention Bashō (1644 – 1694), nor does he quote any of the related passage, Section 27, from Oku no hosomichi, but he uses key elements and words from that section: castle ruins on the mountain, a wall, his feelings of sorrow for the past, and the words “summer grass” (natsugusa). These effectively recall the prose passage with its famous poem:
natsugusa ya tsuwamonodomo ga ume no ato (Matsuo 364)
Summer grass —
of warriors’ dreams
It is as if Bashō’s words are embedded in Doppo’s description, setting up a parallel and implicitly sharing the moment with another moment 118 years before.
This use of embedding or alluding to an underlying text within the main text is an example of an intertext, defined as “a text drawing on other texts, for a text thus drawn upon, and for the relationship between both” (Baldick). “The various relationships that a given text may have with other texts” is intertextuality, a term invented by Julia Kristeva to discuss intertextual relationships (Baldick). Thus it relates closely to other literary terms like allusion, echo, allegory, and correspondence. Because it is a term related to deconstruction theory, it need not be intentional on the author’s part but may be perceived in the response of the reader. Though it is a modern term, the concept of embedded texts and embedded meaning goes back hundreds of years, and in the case of Japanese haikai and hokku, including texts within texts was once a common practice.
Doppo’s passage recalls a passage of Bashō’s Oku no Hosomichi, but Bashō’s passage in turn recalls a passage of Du Fu (712 – 770). Bashō: “The country crumbles; mountains and rivers remain. The castle, when spring comes, is seen as green grass” (Matsuo 364, Section 27). Du Fu: “The country has fallen, but its mountains and rivers remain; when spring comes to the city the grass turns green again” (Keene, World within Walls 104, tr. Donald Keene). Section 27 of Oku no hosomichi also recalls Section 21, when Bashō describes his reaction to reading a thousand-year-old monument referring to a castle that no longer exists. He writes that “from old, though names and places have remained from poetry and have been passed on, mountains crumble, rivers cease, new roads are made, rocks disappear and are hidden in the earth, trees become old, replaced by new trees” (Matsuo 358). He is astonished the stone monument has survived, bringing the ancients to his memory. Because of the intertext, the “summer grass” haiku becomes a partial repudiation of Du Fu’s claim that man-made things are temporary, but mountains and rivers remain: For Bashō everything perishes except summer grass, which always returns, and the enduring legacy of poetry.
Haruo Shirane has demonstrated how prevalent, and even essential, allusion and allegory are in the writings of Bashō and Buson and how much their work shares the past in terms of literature, culture, society, and religion. This aspect of haikai and hokku he calls the vertical axis, the horizontal axis being the present (53). For Bashō and many other haikai practitioners, their links to the past expressed in their poetry were shared experiences in an ongoing stream of literary experience. Intertextuality is equally a sharing with the past, part of the vertical axis, but is narrowly focused, a sharing with a specific poet and a specific text. Of course, readers can appreciate merely the here and now — the horizontal axis — of good literature, but how much more their interpretation and appreciation of the work are enhanced by recognizing the references to the past — the vertical axis.
Shirane has also pointed out how Masaoka Shiki (1867-1902), influenced by Western literary theories, greatly stressed personal, direct observation of the subject (shasei) (52). That focus on the here and now, though, does not entirely preclude sharing with the past. Here is Shiki’s use of intertextuality in a haiku that plays off of Bashō’s “summer grass” poem and passage in Oku no hosomichi:
nashi saku ya ikusa no ato no kuzure ie (Higginson 22)
the pear is blossoming —
after the battle [or, the battle’s aftermath] a collapsed house
Where is the summer grass, all that remains of warriors’ dreams? Shiki’s battlefield haiku differs distinctly from, yet still recalls, Bashō’s poem above. The first lines of both poems have the same initial sound, na, and end with the kireji (cutting word) ya, indicating the line break and emphasizing the image. Kusa (grass) is a pun within ikusa (battle), both poems set up a series of possessives (no / ga), and the focus is on “no ato,” which in Shiki’s poem can mean both “after” or the trace, tracks, or aftermath left behind. Ato is in hiragana (characters for sound only) rather than kanji (Chinese characters), so it suggests both meanings; in Bashō’s poem, it is in kanji for “trace,” the sound suggesting the alternative meaning of “after” (Higginson 22-23).
In Bashō’s prose just before and after his poem, he writes of a castle in ruins; in Shiki’s work, a house is in ruins. Shiki’s haiku focuses on the immediate ruin of war, which in Bashō’s poem has long since disappeared, yet in both, the cycle of nature, along with its beauty, has survived.
Sometimes a haiku depends so much on erudition that obscurity and learning, not the effect, become the purpose of the poem. The poem is meaningless to all except a select few. Unfortunately for most modern readers, the value of secret traditions in literature and the importance of knowing Chinese and Japanese classics weighed heavily in haikai, allowing poets like Teitoku (1571 – 1653) and Kikaku (1661 – 1707) to shine. Donald Keene gives an excellent example of a Teitoku poem ruined by intertexts — it is amazing that Keene can make sense of it, and as he points out, why would anyone want to?
neburasete Let him lick them —
yashinaitate yo That’s the way to bring him up:
hana no ame The flower sweets.
This cryptic verse, presented to a man who had just had a child, depends for its effect on puns and allusions. . . . Ame means both “sweets” and “rain.” Hana no ame is “rain on the flowers,” recalling the line in the Nō play Yuya that calls rain the “parent” of the flowers; it also refers to the “rain of flowers” that fell when Shakyamuni Buddha was born. The verse is deliberately ambiguous, but the expanded meaning is something like: “Raise your child by giving him sweets to lick, as the rain raises the flowers, your child born as Shakyamuni was, amidst a rain of flowers.” (Keene, World within Walls 31)
Here the intertexts are multiple and, to modern readers (me, at least) obscure. Without them the poem defies understanding, and even with them may still defy understanding. Fortunately, after the time of Teitoku, haikai became less cryptic.
Most modern Japanese and English readers appreciate a haiku for reasons other than its embedded text, but seeing an intertext can open the poem greatly. This haiku by Chiyoni works cleverly by itself, though a modern reader may wonder how a butterfly can dream:
chōchō ya nani o yume mite hanezukai (Bowers 47)
the butterfly —
what is it dreaming,
How much is added, however, if the reader knows the text from a Taoist philosopher that the haiku plays with:
Once upon a time, I, Chuang Tzu [Zhuangzi], dreamt I was a butterfly, fluttering hither and thither, to all intents and purposes a butterfly. I was conscious only of following my fancies as a butterfly, and was unconscious of my individuality as a man. Suddenly I awaked, and there I lay, myself again. Now I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly dreaming I am a man. (Giles 32)
Could the butterfly be dreaming it is Zhuangzi (circa 400 or 300 BCE)? Could it be an incarnation of a human, not knowing if it is a man dreaming it is a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming it is a man?
Both the passage of Zuangzi and the poem of Chiyoni are well known in Japan. So perhaps it is not too surprising to see them embedded in an interesting modern variation by Kamakura Sayumi:
ningen ni naritai kurage pukari pokari (Kamakura)
jellyfish with a wish
to be a human
bobbing, floating (tr. Fay Aoyagi)
Instead of a butterfly with moving wings, the poem focuses on a jellyfish whose entire body is moving. Without the intertexts, readers may wonder how the author perceives that a mindless jellyfish has a wish to become human. They may come to the conclusion that this “wish” is merely an interjection or superimposition of the author. With the intertexts, the dreaming of humans or butterflies may include other creatures, like jellyfish, and the poem may suggest an interpolation from the Buddhist and Taoist beliefs in reincarnation: reborn as a jellyfish, the creature has perhaps an innate desire to become human in a future incarnation.
The intertext for the following haiku by Suzuki Shizuko (1919 – unknown) definitely adds meaning to an otherwise puzzling juxtapositon:
Chūnen no otoko no miryoku tori kumo ni
A middle-aged man’s charm: bird in a cloud (Tr. Hiroaki Sato)
Is this poem suggesting that a middle-aged man’s charm is like a bird in a cloud, distant and soon disappearing? Or is the man attractive, as a bird in a cloud is attractive? Or both? Or something else entirely? The poem actually may also be a response to Bashō’s question in this poem:
kono aki wa nande toshiyoru kumo ni tori
This autumn, why do I grow old? In clouds a bird. (Tr. Hiroaki Sato)
The order of the bird and cloud (kumo, cloud, can be either singular or plural) is reversed from Bashō’s poem, but the image is obviously a shared one. Suzuku seems to be directing a comforting response to Bashō’s dismay at growing old — even a middle-aged man has charm. On the horizontal axis, she juxtaposes a middle-aged man with a bird in a cloud. On the vertical axis, she feels warmth toward Bashō, no matter his age.
An interesting example of how intertext can save a poem is this one by Bashō:
michinobe no mukuge wa uma ni kuwarekeri (Keene, “The Haiku Abroad” 75)
The roadside mallow flower has been eaten by the horse.
No matter how this is read, it hardly seems to be a poem. Especially in the standard one-line form used for printing Japanese haiku and with the use of present perfect (“has been eaten”), the statement seems to be just that — a statement. This commentary by Donald Keene is helpful in showing how this haiku can work as a poem:
In order to appreciate the poem one must possess some background information. The first is a line from a poem by Po-Chüi [772–846] found in . . . Collection of Japanese and Chinese Poems for ReadingAloud, compiled at the beginning of the 11th century. This work was a part of the standard education of Japanese of Bashō’s day, and no doubt he knew it well. The line in question goes in translation, “The mallow flower has one day of glory.” The meaning is obvious: the mallow flower lasts only a single day before withering, but during that day it shows itself in glory. With this knowledge in mind, we can see that being eaten by the horse deprived the flower of even that brief moment of glory. (“The Haiku Abroad,” 75–76)
Read by itself in the here and now of Bashō’s moment, the poem seems to a straightforward observation, one sentence with no justaposed images. Paired with Po-Chüi’s poem, the mallow flower becomes, in a light-hearted way (karumi), a tragic victim.
In the ongoing tradition of Japanese poetry, any poem or passage of prose can become a possibility for intertexting. According to Keene, this haiku of Yosa Buson (1716 – 83) borrows every image from Li Bo (701 – 762):
ureitsutsu oka ni noboreba hana ibara (World within Walls 347)
taken by melancholy
I climb a hill —
flowers of the briar rose
However, almost 150 years later, Ishikawa Takuboku (1886 – 1912), embedded this haiku into his waka: “Melancholy sweeps over me/ And, when I climb the hill,/ A bird whose name I don’t even know/ Is pecking there / At the red fruits of the briar” (World within Walls 347; tr. Keene). In Western tradition, the intertexting can look suspiciously like plagiarism — Buson plagiarizing Li Bo, and Takuboku plagiarizing Buson.
One form of intertexting is quite common and easily seen, relying upon the use of set five- or seven-on phrases. The use of set phrases dates all the way back to makura kotoba [literally, pillow words] — found abundantly in the oldest Japanese books, Kojiki and Man’yōshū, and continuing several centuries past them in national anthologies of waka. The makura kotoba is an adjectival epithet, usually of five on, attached to a deity, person, or place, typically used to begin a section of a poem. They really have nothing to do with pillows (makura), though that is what they are called. Some have lost their meaning, some have become independent, and some have passed into current usage. For example, the phrase yasumishishi (makura kotoba — governing the world in peace) ōkimi (exalted person) is archaic and no longer used, whereas chiba no (makura kotoba — many leaved) kazu (name of a plain) is still used (McCullough 82-83). For several centuries many 5-7-5-7-7 waka would use pillow words to hearken back to Man’yōshū poems and create an elegaic tone. They functioned intertextually, as noted on a waka website: “makura kotoba formed links in terms of meaning, association or sound and provided a means by which a poet could add depth to his/her poems or heighten the tone of his rhetorical style” (“Makura Kotoba”). Many were also used, some in more modern forms, in classical linked verse (renga), and their use continued to the twentieth century.
Set phrases of five sound-syllables or seven sound-syllables, counted as on, have proliferated greatly over the centuries beyond the five hundred or so original makura kotoba, appearing in countless haikai and haiku. There is no Japanese term that I have found for them, so I will continue to call them makura kotoba (or if anyone objects, man’yōgo makura kotoba — pillow words subsequent to the Man’yōshū), even when they are not used adjectivally. Such phrases may include season words by themselves, like hototogisu (lesser cuckoo, rendered skylark in the translation below) if they are five on, or in combination, like aki no kure (autumn dusk/the end of autumn). They may include locations, such as furusato (birthplace, hometown) in the set phrase furusato ya (ya for emphasis) or Minasegawa (Minase River). As such, they operate independently at the time of the poem, while also participating in the traditional ethos and cultural values of the past for the term (Shirane 58-59). More importantly, makura kotoba link a poem to any number of other poems with those words, but it is quite subjective, depending on what poems the poet has in mind and on what poems the reader associates with the words.
In the following experience related by Mukai Kyorai (1651 – 1704), Kyorai and Bashō consider a verse of Yamamoto Kakei (1648 – 1716) for inclusion in the collection Sarumino [The Monkey’s Raincoat]. Kakei’s verse includes the word “hototogisu,” a set term of five on used in Japanese poetry since the eighth century. Apparently though, Kakei had a specific Bashō poem using “hototogisu” in mind, a poem that both Kyorai and Bashō recognize.
Omokaji ya Port the helm!
Akashi no tomari There, by Akashi harbor,
Hototogisu A skylark!
This poem was being considered for inclusion in “The Monkey’s Cloak.” Kyorai said, “It’s just like the Master’s
No wo yoko ni Across the fields
Uma hikimuko yo Turn the horse’s head —
Hototogisu A skylark!
It should not be included.” The Master said, “The ‘skylark of Akashi’ is not a bad image.” Kyorai replied, “I don’t know about the ‘skylark of Akashi,’ but the poem merely substitutes a boat for a horse. It shows no originality.” The Master commented, “He hasn’t made any advance in the conception of the verse, but you may include it or not as you please on the basis of the Akashi skylark.” We finally did not include it. (“Conversations with Kyorai,” tr. Donald Keene)
Unfortunately for Kakei, though the poems use very different images (a boat instead of a horse), Kakei’s poem is rejected, not for repeating “hototogisu” but for not advancing “the conception of the verse.” In fact, Bashō is willing to include it because of the image, though it is the repeated part of Bashō’s poem. In both poems, the riders want to turn the boat/horse to look at the skylark — perhaps that is why Kyorai says the poem shows no originality.
Instead of referring to another poet’s poem, a poet may use set phrases while thinking of some of his or her other poems using those words. It may also be that the poet has no specific previous poem in mind even though the phrases are commonly used words. More importantly, the pillow-word poems the poet has in mind may be entirely different from the set of pillow-word poems the reader brings to mind. The reader’s recall of makura kotoba is usually independent of the writer’s recall of makura kotoba. For example, Kobayashi Issa (1763 – 1827) has more than thirty haiku that use the pillow word “fuyugomori” (winter seclusion), most of them humorous or bawdy and most showing some impatience with being house-bound for three or more months. Here is one about flies:
hae uchi ga kōsha narikeri fuyugomori (Lanoue)
he has become expert
at swatting flies . . .
The subject is omitted, but the haiku probably refers to Issa himself in summer and fall busily swatting flies until he becomes a fly-swatting master, now house-bound in the cold with no flies around. Who knows what “fuyugomori” poems, if any, Issa had in mind when he wrote this, but whenever I read any of Issa’s fuyugomori haiku, I invariably think of one Bashō poem:
kinbyō no matsu no furusa yo fuyugomori (Saitō 105)
on the gold-leaf folding screen
how old the pines . . .
Perhaps it is the contrast that causes me to put them together — Issa’s humor and earthiness contrasting with Bashō’s wabisabi (a genteel perception of aging beauty), Issa’s smugness and self-deprecation in contrast to Bashō’s acceptance. Issa may not have had Bashō’s haiku in mind, but as a reader I do.
Considering the enormous number of haiku written in Japan since the 1600s, the poems containing makura kotoba of the “big five” season words — cuckoo, cherry blossoms, snow, autumn leaves, and the moon (Shirane 58) — may number in the millions. That may be one reason for the modern search in Japan for new and novel images. Fortunately, the pillow words link each poem only to the ones that resonate with each reader. English writers are wary about using phrases they feel are overused or react negatively to what they feel are stock phrases — too many “cherry blossom” poems, for example — but they may be inadvertently closing their poems to the vertical reach of the poem, because shared images or phrases may create intertexts in English readers’ minds, favorite haiku being recalled when reading a certain familiar-sounding phrase.
One type of intertext is experienced often no matter what the language or literary tradition. Kawabata Yasunari (1899 – 1972) writes of a family haiku discussion in Yama no oto [Sound of the Mountain]. A family of three — an aging father, mother, and adult daughter — are eating ayu, or sweetfish, a small trout-like fish, at the dinner table, when the father, Shingo, begins to talk about haiku, mentioning season words relating to sweetfish: aki no ayu (autumn sweetfish), ochi ayu (descending sweetfish), sabi ayu (rusty sweetfish): “These are sweetfish that have laid their eggs and become worn out. Dilapitated, their color faded, they make their way unsteadily down to the sea.” Fusako, Shingo’s recently divorced daughter, immediately says, “Just like me!” (321). Shingo pretends not to hear and relates two unidentified haiku:
ima wa mi o mizu ni makasu ya aki no ayu (321)
its body to the water —
shinu koto to shirade kudaru ya sese no ayu (321)
not knowing it’ll die,
a sweetfish swims down
the shallow rapids
Then he adds, “Very much like me.” His wife, Yasuko, follows with “That’s my situation!” (321).
The three characters, as portrayed by Kawabata, see their lives encapsulated in the season words and haiku. Fusako had suffered a bad marriage, which led to divorce. Her former husband later attempted suicide. Now at her parents’ home, with two children and no real prospect of another marriage, she must have felt like a rusty sweetfish, worn out, making its way to the sea, only to die. The elderly parents, the best part of their lives having passed, burdened with two grown children who still lived with them and whose marriages were difficult, must have felt like the autumn sweetfish and descending sweetfish. They are reading themselves in the haiku; in this kind of interpretation, their lives become the intertext. The implicit meaning in these haiku is personal, not necessarily shared by others, though another reader may also see him- or herself in the haiku.
The above poems operate allegorically, a one-on-one correspondence between poem and reader. The vertical and horizontal axes in the sweetfish haiku are both in play, the present of the poems resonates with the present situations of the readers, but those situations have developed over the past, so the poems provide a very personal reach back in time up to the present moment. The interplay of one’s life with the text of a poem can move a person deeply. We appreciate haiku that we deem striking, insightful, full of tension, but the haiku that stir us most are the ones that we identify with — a intertext of self in the haiku of another.
In Bashō’s and Buson’s century, when poets immersed themselves in classical Chinese and Japanese literary, religious, and cultural traditions, the intertexts operating in poems were more visible to readers, and the connections between past and present were easier to make. Much of that depth has been lost to the modern reader and seems reserved for the classical scholar. Nevertheless, extensive reading of haiku and writings about the genre will help readers discover over time aspects of poems that they had been oblivious to. Fortunately, the other two aspects of intertextuality operate for all readers:
(1) The use and reuse of standard phrases in Japanese haiku have created a rich tapestry of interconnected poems, which hopefully Western readers do not reject because of too much repetition. Western haiku may not have set forms of syllable length or meter, but nevertheless something close to makura kotoba may be developing, despite diversities of geography, environment, and culture. Enough haiku has been written that share phrasing in a way that allows the poems to also share experiences and the readers to make connections.
(2) Some poems also operate as metaphors for ourselves; they pull us in as part of the poems. Perhaps only a few haiku for a reader will resonate one to one, but there is always the possibility of encountering oneself while reading haiku. One poet’s observation, phrased in a certain way in haiku, may end up being an observation of the reader’s experience.
Whatever the intertext, recognizing it deepens our appreciation of the haiku that harbors it.
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