This book explores the many texts supposedly concerning the life of Izumi Shikibu 和泉式部, a famous mid-Heian poet who served at court. The author shows that legendary qualities ascribed to this female figure came to be shaped through the lens of religious discourses in the medieval period, and that these discourses helped popularize Izumi Shikibu into the household name she is today. Expansive in scope, this panoramic investigation covers works from the Heian era into the late medieval and early modern periods, and examines both textual and visual narratives. Copiously footnoted and including a helpful appendix of translations, the book is clearly a product of much labor, and adds significantly to the study not only of how Izumi Shikibu's specific figure was shaped according to various religious agendas, but of medieval literature more generally. Through the examination of this female icon, Kimbrough shows us the importance of women as producers, performers, and consumers of texts.
The eight chapters are grouped thematically and chronologically. The opening three chapters examine the development of narratives that partner Izumi Shikibu with the priest-poet Dōmyō 道明 (974–1020), the former usually cast as the seducer of the latter. The first chapter traces the earliest possible linkages of these figures, which likely began in the late Heian period and continued in such Kamakura-period works as Uji shūi monogatari 宇治拾遺物語, Kojidan 古事談, and Shasekishū 沙石集. The next chapter focuses on a text called Kotohara 琴腹, a mid-fifteenth-century otogi zōshi 御伽草子 attributed to Emperor Gohanazono 後花園, which I will address in more detail below. The third chapter turns to another otogi zōshi with the title Izumi Shikibu; likely a late Muromachi composition, the narrative not only casts Izumi Shikibu and Dōmyō as lovers, but claims that the latter is a long-lost son of the former, adding the issue of incest to the discourse of sexuality and religious enlightenment that is central to the series of stories explored in the three chapters.
The next two chapters address texts that feature Izumi Shikibu with another religious figure, Shōkū 性空 (910–1007). Chapter 4 concerns a series of Tendai texts in which Izumi Shikibu seeks Buddhist guidance from Shōkū and attains it despite his initial resistance to meet her because of her sex; she succeeds by impressing him with her well-known waka poem that begins “from darkness (kuraki yori … ).” These texts, which the author states may have been used to preach to women, are some of the most intriguing; for instance, the Lotus Sutra commentary Ichijō shūgyokushō 一乗拾玉抄 (1488), which attempts to explain the concept of nonduality through the use of Izumi Shikibu's poem above. In contrast, Pure Land texts are the focus of Chapter 5, particularly the storytelling tradition at Seiganji 誓願寺. The texts range from a Kamakura-era sermon called Izumi Shikibu ōjō no koto 和泉式部往生事, in which Shōkū plays an auxiliary role to the Amida Buddha at Seiganji, to a late medieval hanging scroll utilized for the purpose of etoki 絵解き (preaching with the use of visual material) which was presented by priests and also possibly by nuns to female audiences. The author argues convincingly that these texts and their specific depictions of Izumi Shikibu participated in the lively competition between Buddhist schools of thought for worshippers and financial contributions for particular projects such as the restoration of buildings. The discussion of Seiganji segues into Chapter 6, which is devoted to a late sixteenth-century narrative called Rakuyō Seiganji engi 洛陽誓願寺縁起. Similar in plot to the earlier Seiganji texts, this work distinguishes itself by presenting the temple's Amida Buddha as manifesting itself as a nun, broadcasting the good news that women, too, can be saved. Kimbrough puts forth the exciting prospect that there was a “thriving cult of Izumi Shikibu at Seishin'in 誠心院/Seiganji throughout the medieval period. The monks and nuns there may have sought to enshrine Izumi Shikibu as a kind of patron saint” (p. 168) – particularly for female devotees. The final two chapters address discourses that center around women's reproductivity and sexuality. Chapter 7 deals with textual and visual narratives that challenge nyonin kinsei 女人禁制, the prohibition of women's entering holy mountain grounds, as well as the notion of menstrual impurity that stood in the way of women's desire to worship; such tales were possibly propagated by female religious practitioners like the Kumano bikuni 比丘尼. The final chapter examines another otogi zōshi called Jōruri monogatari 浄瑠璃物語, which may have its roots in medieval performed texts. In this work, Izumi Shikibu atones for her sin of having made countless men fall in love with her by vowing to “love all men”; through this act, her own salvation and that of her parents are guaranteed. The author considers the various potentials for gendered oppression in this narrative, and concludes that in the end, all is hōben 方便, or expedient means, for the promotion of Buddhist ideals.
It is clear that this book covers a great deal of ground, and the author does so with much attention to the fine points of each text. The meticulous details of the texts are, in fact, what sometimes call out for a more thorough analytical framework that would anchor the painstaking research in a fuller manner. The book overflows with interesting material to such an extent that the discussion occasionally meanders; sections of chapters might better serve as footnotes (for example, some of the details about Chūjōhime 中将姫 and Ippen 一遍 in Chapter 6), clearing the ground for tighter critical argumentation.
In other places, there are missed opportunities for further analysis, such as the discussion of Kotohara in Chapter 2. In the first part of the narrative, a koto harp belonging to the Empress becomes shelter for a mouse giving birth; in order to eradicate any ominous potential stemming from this event, Emperor Goichijō 後一条 (1008–1036) asks for a poetic composition. Izumi Shikibu steals a poem by Dōmyō and presents it to the emperor as her own; despite the trick, all ends well, and an imperial heir, the future Emperor Goreizei 後冷泉 (1025–1068), is born – from a kotohara, which means both “a different womb” and “belly of the koto.” What struck me about the story is that the term kotohara places the focus on the “different womb” from which the prince emerged – that is, it diverts attention from the question of the paternal identity of the heir. Indeed, the future Goreizei is not only born of a womb different from Goichijō's consort's, but also of a different father: he is the son of Emperor Gosuzaku 後朱雀 (1009–1045), the younger brother of Goichijō who takes the throne immediately after Goichijō. In other words, the narrative is remarkable in that it recasts what looks like a routine path of imperial succession – older brother, younger brother, son of younger brother – into a matter of womb identity, in which the narrator makes matters appear as if Goreizei had been fathered by Goichijō; the use of the term kotohara is emblematic of this erasure of actual paternity. Furthermore, perhaps most intriguing is the background of the text's author, Gohanazono (1419–1470): his predecessor, Emperor Shōkō 称光 (1401–1428), whose enthronement resurrected the conflict between Northern and Southern courts, had died without an heir; Gohanazono, whose father was an imperial prince, was quickly brought to the throne. This emperor, therefore, is himself a product of kotohara and the suppressed difference in paternity.
Given these circumstances, it would be interesting to consider more fully the various possible implications of this text. Might Gohanazono be trying to legitimize his own genealogical status within the imperial line through a motivated recasting of Goreizei's origins – that is, by masking issues of paternity and focusing exclusively on maternity, is he implying a more direct patrilineal descent for both himself and Goreizei? That Izumi Shikibu is shown to have stolen Dōmyō's poem is equally intriguing: she does not plagiarize outright, as she coaxes him into telling her only the first line of the waka, whereupon she coincidentally composes a poem that is identical to his based only on that line. We might consider how this textual production might be analogous to imperial biological production: though the wombs (the poets) are different, the legitimacy of the emperor (the poem itself, which is deemed as excellent and powerful) remains constant. Finally, the issue of lineage might be contextualized within Gohanazono's era; given that the years surrounding his emperorship refueled tensions that remained from the dispute between the Northern and Southern courts, the relationship between quasi-plagiarism, legitimacy, and rightful lineage seems to be ripe for further consideration.
The second part of Kotohara tells of the union between Izumi Shikibu and Dōmyō, which had been popularized by the circulation of similar narratives in the texts Kimbrough describes in Chapter 1. He notes the ways in which this work differs from its predecessors: whereas in the earlier tale collections, a deity expresses appreciation for the protagonist monk's chanting of the Lotus Sutra despite his not having purified himself after sexual union, the later text presents a different deity who shuns the monk's sutra recitation because of the monk's impure act. The author offers potential answers to this change in tone over two centuries, such as confused transmission, but it seems that in light of the prominence of the figure of the womb in this text, we could try to understand the condemnatory overtone regarding sexuality in relation to the question of imperial lineage that was a significant focus of the first part of the tale. If Izumi Shikibu is shown to have masqueraded as a “lurid” yūjo 遊女 (translated by Kimbrough as “courtesan”) who then begins a torrid affair with Dōmyō, the female reproductive organ becomes a dangerous object within the patrilineal rubric: women's wanton sexuality compromises definitive paternity, and it is a quality that should thus be disparaged and discouraged. Read together, the two seemingly distinct parts of Kotohara weave a complex web in which female sexuality, reproductivity, and the imperial line converge.
Indeed, another arena for further consideration is the question of gender itself. The book does not engage in a theorization of gender, and although critical reflection on discourses of gender may not be necessary in every book that investigates female figures in texts, lack of attention to these complicated questions can sometimes lead to oversights and assumptions that dilute the strength of an otherwise strong volume. For example, Kimbrough notes in Chapter 3 that the text Izumi Shikibu is “a tale both of and for women,” popularized by a male bookseller who specialized in publishing texts aimed at educating women. He asserts that the text, which concerns an accidental incestuous relationship between Izumi Shikibu and her purported son, shows that she was able to achieve enlightenment “in spite of (or as a result of) sleeping with her son” – a fascinating point. Kimbrough, though, claims that the text is “told from a woman's point of view” (p. 94), which is a difficult argument to substantiate: its author is unknown, the narrator's gender is unmarked, and the publisher who promoted the text's popularization is male. Given these factors, on what basis can one discern or define a “woman's point of view”? If the text had been a didactic work aimed at women, and if men might have been involved in some stage of its production, how then should we reframe the reading of incest and salvation? Why might Shibukawa Seiemon 渋川清右衛門, the publisher, have been interested in generating this particular religious message?
This book considers a vast collection of texts with which women likely engaged in different ways – as listeners, viewers, or readers; as performers; or as editors or authors – yet the distinctions between these different modes of involvement are not highlighted in a fashion that would help the reader understand the implications of such differences. For instance, the author suggests that “pro-woman content” can indicate female authorship (p. 193), yet we are also given examples of texts attributed to men that promote women's religious achievements in powerful ways. The Kumano poem-story series discussed in Chapter 7, in which a female figure's menstrual taboo is removed by the Kumano deity, may possibly have been produced as well as performed by the female Kumano bikuni and is celebrated as “proto-feminist”; however, the Lotus Sutra-related narratives discussed in Chapter 4, all penned by men, seem to offer an equally redemptive discourse for women, with their Five Obstructions removed or deemed fundamentally unproblematic. In attempting to ascribe gendered agency, it is difficult to avoid biological essentialism; in walking this slippery tightrope, a more direct engagement with the many theorists of gender who have struggled with this question might be productive.
Nevertheless, Preachers, Poets, Women, and the Way represents an important contribution to the field of premodern Japanese literature. It sheds light on numerous works that have received less attention than they deserve, and encourages us to think thoroughly about the genealogy of figures whose fame and supposed life stories we tend to take for granted.
