Diaries of Court Ladies of Old Japan — A Closer Reading

Poetry as Social Currency and Private Release

The diaries are punctuated by poems exchanged between ladies and courtiers, often written on perfumed, deeply coloured paper. These verses serve both as social obligations and as outlets for genuine feeling. In one exchange, Lady Koshosho sends a poem about 'the down-dripping rain' and longing, and the diarist replies with a poem contrasting the pauses between showers with her own continuously wet sleeves. The translators warn that the poems depend on 'plays upon words of two meanings' and cultural associations that are difficult to convey in English. Even so, the reader can observe how the poems crystallize a moment of emotion—often sorrow or yearning—and how they are embedded in the flow of daily events, such as dressing hair or waiting for the Emperor's delayed arrival.

The Weight of Ceremony and the Glimpse of Unease

The description of the King's visit reveals a court obsessed with rank and display. The diarist notes the precise placement of chairs, the colours of robes, and the shape of hair tied with bands. Yet she also records small, telling details of discomfort: a lady who 'seemed a little shy and I was sorry for her,' and bearers who bent their heads 'in absolute humility' that struck the observer as 'too humble.' These observations suggest that the diarist is not merely recording protocol but is attuned to the human cost of such formality. The tension between the ideal of courtly grace and the reality of awkwardness or excess humility is a recurring undercurrent.

Religious Yearning Amidst Worldly Beauty

Throughout the excerpts, the diarist expresses a desire to withdraw from the world and embrace a religious life. She writes: 'I wish I could be more adaptable and live more gaily in the present world—had I not an extraordinary sorrow—but whenever I hear delightful or interesting things my yearning for a religious life grows stronger.' This conflict is not resolved; it is simply stated and then followed by a poem or a description of a beautiful object, such as chrysanthemums seen through morning mists. The juxtaposition of aesthetic pleasure and spiritual longing is a defining feature of these diaries. The reader should note how often the diarist uses natural imagery—waterfowl, rain, flowers—as a springboard for introspection about impermanence and sin.

These diaries reward a patient reading that pays attention to what is left unsaid as much as to what is recorded. The translators' decision to use the third person for Izumi Shikibu's diary is a clue: the narrators often seem to be observing themselves from a distance, as if their own lives were as puzzling as the court rituals they describe. Look for the moments when a concrete detail—a robe's colour, a boat's dragon head—suddenly opens onto a question about the meaning of existence. That is where the diaries are most alive.

I keep returning to those Heian ladies’ half-said sentences, their shy reserve barely holding against the ache beneath—and it reminds me of how Richard’s chronicles feel similarly guarded, a man hiding his own longing behind action. Richard the Lion Heart — Reading Notes carries that same quiet hush, as though some things are best left unspoken, merely kept near. We are lucky to eavesdrop.