“I and Thou” by Martin Buber (translated by Walter Kaufmann)

Importantly, Kaufmann chooses to translate the German Du as You, instead of Thou throughout this work. One could contest that Thou/You is the most vital word in Buber’s short work. Buber begins, “The attitude of man is twofold in accordance with the two basic words he can speak…. The basic words are not single words but word pairs…. One basic word is the word pair I-You…. The other basic word is the word pair I-It…. Basic words do not state something that might exist outside them; by being spoken they establish a mode of existence…. Basic words do not signify things but relations…. Whoever says You does not have something for his object. For wherever there is something there is also another something; every It borders on other Its…. But where You is said there is no something. You has no borders. Whoever says You does not have something; he has nothing. But he stands in relation.”

Buber stresses that the I-You is an actuality in the lived world of individuals, not a concept of the forms, appearances, or ideas expressed by the likes of Plato or Kant. “I speak only of the actual human being, of you and me, of our life and our world, not of any I-in-itself and not of any Being-in-itself.” He stresses that the I-It is a necessary, but not a sufficient, relationship, “This, however, is the sublime melancholy of our lot that every You must become an It in our world…. The human being who but now was unique and devoid of qualities, not at hand but only present, not experienceable, only touchable, has again become a He or She, an aggregate of qualities, a quantum with a shape…. Every You in the world is doomed by its nature to become a thing or at least to enter into thinghood again and again.”

The second part of Buber’s treatise, amongst other things, details his position on the juxtaposition between necessity and free will, “The unlimited sway of causality in the It-world, which is of fundamental importance for the scientific ordering of nature, is not felt to be oppressive by the man who is not confined to the It-world but free to step out of it again and again into the world of relation. Here I and You confront each other freely in a reciprocity that is not involved in or tainted by any causality; here man finds guaranteed the freedom of his being and of Being. Only those who know of relation and who know of the presence of the You have the capacity for decision…. The man to whom freedom is guaranteed does not feel oppressed by causality. He knows that his mortal life is by its very nature an oscillation between You and It, and he senses the meaning of this…. Fate and freedom are promised to each other. Fate is encountered only by him that actualizes freedom…. Freedom and fate embrace each other to form meaning; and given meaning, fate—with its eyes, hitherto severe, suddenly full of light—looks like grace itself. No, the man who returns into the It-world, carrying the spark, does not feel oppressed by causal necessity.”

Finally, in the third part of the book, Buber concerns himself with the individual’s relationship with God, the eternal You, “For whoever pronounces the word God and really means You, addresses, no matter what his delusion, the true You of his life that cannot be restricted by any other and to whom he stands in a relationship that includes all others. But whoever abhors the name and fancies that he is godless—when he addresses with his whole devoted being the You of his life that cannot be restricted by any other, he addresses God…. The You confronts me. But I enter into a direct relationship to it. Thus the relationship is at once being chosen and choosing, passive and active…. This is the activity of the human being who has become whole…. One does not have to strip away the world of the senses as a world of appearance. There is no world of appearance, there is only the world—which, to be sure, appears twofold to us in accordance with our twofold attitude. Only the spell of separation needs to be broken. Nor is there any need to “go beyond sense experience”; any experience, no matter how spiritual, could only yield us an It. Nor need we turn to a world of ideas and values—that cannot become present for us. All this is not needed. Can one say what is needed? Not by way of a prescription…. Going forth is unteachable in the sense of prescriptions. It can only be indicated—by drawing a circle that excludes everything else. Then the one thing needful becomes visible: the total acceptance of the present…. What has to be given up is not the I, as most mystics suppose: the I is indispensable for any relationship, including the highest, which always presupposes an I and You. What has to be given up is not the I but that false drive for self-affirmation which impels man to flee from the unreliable, unsolid, unlasting, unpredictable, dangerous world of relation into the having of things…. One does not find God if one remains in the world; one does not find God if one leaves the world. Whoever goes forth to his You with his whole being and carries to it all the being of the world, finds him whom one cannot seek…. For the sake of this there are I and You, there is dialogue, there is language, and spirit whose primal deed language is, and there is, in eternity, the word.”

“The Pillow Book” by Sei Shonagon (translated by Meredith McKinney)

Sei was a gentlewoman at the court of Empress Teishi, who lived at the end of the tenth century in what was then Japan’s capital, Kyoto. This book is similar to a journal, broken off into sections of varying lengths and subject matter—each section might be full of an anecdote, a reminisce of a memorable event, personal opinions, explanations of court etiquette, and gossip. Sei claims, “I have written in this book things I have seen and thought, in the long idle hours spent at home, without ever dreaming that others would see it.”

Much of courtly life in Japan revolved around religious ceremonies, festivals, and the readings of the Buddhist sutras. Sei had a unique opinion on what made these go best, “A priest who gives a sermon should be handsome. After all, you’re most aware of the profundity of his teaching if you’re gazing at his face as he speaks. If your eyes drift elsewhere you tend to forget what you’ve just heard, so an unattractive face has the effect of making you feel quite sinful.”

Amongst the book’s sections, Sei often included short lists, “Refined and elegant things – A girl’s over-robe of white on white over pale violet-grey. The eggs of the spot-billed duck. Shaved ice with a sweet syrup, served in a shiny new metal bowl. A crystal rosary. Wisteria flowers. Snow on plum blossoms. An adorable little child eating strawberries.” These lists were often quite funny, “Worthless things – Someone who’s both ugly and unpleasant.… And why should I avoid mentioning here the fire tongs that are burned in the post-funeral fire? After all, these are things that exist in the world. I never intended this book to be seen by others, so I’ve written whatever came into my mind, without worrying about whether people would find it strange or unpleasant.”

Other sections of Sei’s book are detailed vignettes typical to courtly life, “Another scene of fascinating elegance – it’s very late at night, Her Majesty has retired to her chamber, everyone is asleep and outside a lady is sitting talking with a senior courtier. From within comes the frequent sound of go stones dropping into the box. Delightful too to hear the soft sound of fire tongs being gently pushed into the ash of the brazier, and sense from this the presence of someone who isn’t yet asleep…. A person who stays up late is always elegantly intriguing. You wake in the night to lie there listening through the partition, and realize from the sounds that someone is still up. You can’t hear what is said, but you catch the sound of a man’s soft laugh, and you long to know what they’re saying together.”

Sei’s family were renown for their skill at poetry. Throughout her book, Sei alludes to many poems, as well as often interspersing snippets within her stories. This tale involves Sei escorting the Empress to the Emperor’s quarters for the night before returning home, “‘Are you going back?’ inquired the Grand Counsellor. ‘Let me see you home.’ I hung my train and Chinese jacket on the standing screen, and we set off. His cloak glowed wonderfully white in the bright moonlight, and he trod the loosened hems of his gathered trousers as he walked. ‘Don’t fall,’ he said, taking hold of my sleeve, and then he delighted me by reciting ‘The wanderer sojourns on beneath the late moon.’ ‘You do get pleasure out of that sort of thing, don’t you!’ he remarked with a smile – but really, how could you not find it enchanting?”

Towards the end of this book (and also probably towards the end of life when the Empress is already dead and she is no longer living at court), Sei ponders, “Is there any occasion to match a moonlit night for sending your thoughts winging to distant places, and recalling past moments, their sorrows and joys and pleasures, as if it were today?”

“Essays in Idleness” by Yoshida Kenko (translated by Meredith McKinney)

Kenko took the tonsure to become a Buddhist monk in his thirties, but never joined a monastery or left urbanity for the life of a recluse, instead maintaining a home in greater Kyoto. “What kind of man will feel depressed at being idle? There is nothing finer than to be alone with nothing to distract you.” 

This collection is broken into numbered sections, varying from aphorisms, short tales, court gossip, and life advice. Kenko often warned of wasting ones life, “What happiness to sit in intimate conversation with someone of like mind, warmed by candid discussion of the amusing and fleeting ways of this world . . . but such a friend is hard to find, and instead you sit there doing your best to fit in with whatever the other is saying, feeling deeply alone.”

Kenko warned of being distracted by wealth and worldly desires, “Great wealth will drive you to neglect your own well-being in pursuit of it. It is asking for harm and tempting trouble. Though you leave behind at your death a mountain of gold high enough to prop up the North Star itself, it will only cause problems for those who come after you. Nor is there any point in all those pleasures that delight the eyes of fools. Big carriages, fat horses, glittering gold and jewels – any man of sensibility would view such things as gross stupidity. Toss your gold away in the mountains; hurl your jewels into the deep. Only a complete fool is led astray by avarice…. A dull, stupid person can be born into a good house, attain high status thanks to opportunity, and live in the height of luxury, while many wonderfully wise and saintly men choose to remain in lowly positions, and end their days without ever having met with good fortune. A fierce craving for high status and position is next in folly to the lust for fortune…. Desire for a good reputation is merely revelling in the praise of others. Neither those who praise us nor those who denigrate will remain in the world for long…. There is nothing to be gained from leaving a lasting name…. Knowledge leads to deception; talent and ability only serve to increase earthly desires. Knowledge acquired by listening to others or through study is not true knowledge…. One who is truly wise has no knowledge or virtue, nor honour nor fame…. All things of this phenomenal world are mere illusion. They are worth neither discussing nor desiring.”

An ambivalence and reluctance with knowledge is a recurring theme of this essay, “Sometimes a man can genuinely impress you with how well informed he is, but on the whole such people appear stupidly complacent and self-satisfied…. It is truly impressive to speak only reluctantly about something you thoroughly understand, and not to mention it at all unless asked.” Kenko later continues, “Even people who seem eminently intelligent will judge others yet have no knowledge of themselves. It makes no sense to lack self-knowledge while understanding those around you. He who knows himself must be said to be the man of real knowledge…. People yearn for the unattainable, bewail matters beyond their power, wait for things that will never come, fear others or fawn on them. The shame in all this is not caused by others. You bring it on yourself by your own greed. This insatiable desire is due to a lack of real understanding that the end of life, that tremulous thing, is at this very moment as good as upon us.”

Kenko suggests to concentrate one’s energy on the few things that are truly important in life, “None of the requirements of human interaction and etiquette can be easily avoided. If we insist on being punctilious in all those worldly demands so difficult to ignore, it will only add to desires, shackle our lives and leave no space in our hearts for calm detachment, and we will end up wasting our entire life being driven to distraction by trivial matters.” Furthermore, he states, “The joys, angers, sorrows, and pleasures of adults too are all based on illusion, but who among us is not attached to the seeming reality of this life?”

The impermanence of the world is a major theme of Buddhist teaching, “In this transient phenomenal world with its constant change, what appears to exist in fact does not. What is begun has no end. Aims go unfulfilled, yet desire is endless. The human heart changes ceaselessly. All things are passing illusion. What is there that remains unchanging? The folly of such beliefs springs from people’s inability to understand this.”

Finally, Kenko concludes by reiterating the ephemerality of life, “The way people struggle to get along in the world strikes me as like fashioning a buddha from snow on a spring day…. So many strive in hopes of the future, even as the life still in them is daily dissolving away like snow from beneath the snowman.”