近松門左衛門と虚実皮膜Chikamatsu Monzaemon and Kyojitsu Hiniku

The mere mention of the word samurai often allows the image to sprint ahead, leaving the substance behind. The samurai, commonly misunderstood as an elite class, is now regarded as an entity that is no longer actual—entangled with the disguised misconception that the Edo period was synonymous with feudalism. In truth, none of us have ever seen a samurai, nor met one. We do not know the look in their eyes, the architecture of their thoughts, or the cadence of their gait. The familiar lie that the Edo period was purely feudal is nothing more than impression manipulation by the new rulers who overthrew the Tokugawa Shogunate through a military revolution, disguising their regime as a new era—the Meiji government. When viewed in this light, the last 160 years feel as though various discourses were cast into the void, and from the debris, the image of this nation called Japan was forcibly constructed. We speak of the Edo period, but it was an era that spanned nearly three centuries; if one discerns the nuance of such a duration, the foolish logic that equates the Edo period with simple feudalism would never arise.

It was not only samurai—sword-bearing, adhering to strict etiquette, and dedicating their lives to the domain or Shogunate—who reigned for centuries. There were many who, even if it meant discarding the status of the warrior class spoken of as privilege, chose to live in accordance with their own convictions. However, because such people were called yosutebito—those who cast aside the world—they do not remain in documentary records. The history that remains in documents is but a mere sediment. The deception and violence that erect this sediment as "general history" constantly mistake the truth, becoming the foundation for the sophistry of ideologies asserted in the modern day. Yet, very rarely, there were yosutebito who remained in the records. The symbolic existence among them is Chikamatsu Monzaemon (1653-1725).

To speak of Chikamatsu Monzaemon’s evaluation today is to view him as the highest peak in the history of Japanese classical theater. Indeed, having lived his life as a playwright, Chikamatsu left behind many works. However—a fact that is surprisingly not the focus of attention today—Chikamatsu was originally a samurai. Born into a warrior family in 1653, roughly half a century after the beginning of the Edo period, the first half of his life, like that of his contemporaries, is largely obscured in shadow. It is presumed that his father served the Fukui Domain in Echizen, and subsequently the Yoshie Domain (present-day Sabae City, Fukui Prefecture). At the very least, Chikamatsu was born and raised somewhere in Fukui Prefecture. However, after 1664, his father suddenly left the service of the domain, becoming a ronin (masterless samurai) and drifting to Kyoto; it is known that Chikamatsu accompanied him in this migration. Yet, this was an era of political stability within the Edo period. After half a century of peace, even the samurai, who had specialized in warfare for centuries, had grown accustomed to a world without war. The "pride of the warrior" was likely a hollow name, and they surely wondered for what purpose they still carried two swords at their waist. When I reflect upon this, I am reminded of Japan in 1985—half a century after the Second World War. It was the era of the bubble economy, when a mood that worshiped money as an absolute value had spread, as if a world war had never been fought. While not identical, the atmosphere of Chikamatsu's time may have been dangerously close.

At this juncture, the rigid philosophy later narrated as "bushido" had not yet been born, leaving us with the eternal mystery of how the samurai of this era lived in a world without war. At the very least, based on their status, they did not have to actively labor; thus, some may have felt that life would be lighter if they simply quit such a station. In fact, that is exactly what Chikamatsu Monzaemon did. It is known that by the age of 19, Chikamatsu had moved from Fukui to Kyoto, where he is said to have served the court noble Ekan Ichijo. However, in 1672, Ichijo passed away, and in the same year, Genrin Yamaoka, whom Chikamatsu looked up to as a mentor, also died. Yamaoka was a town doctor living in Kyoto, a figure known as a jui (Confucian doctor)—combining Confucian lecturing with medical practice—but he was also deeply versed in haikai poetry and Japanese classical studies, possessing exceptionally high insight. For the young Chikamatsu, who revered this man and devoted himself to learning, it is highly probable that he acquired his grasp of classics and haikai through these two men. To lose both in the same year must have been a profound turning point. Yet, the life surrounding these events remains entirely unknown.

Mystery calls forth mystery, for as early as the following year, 1673, numerous joruri (puppet theater narrative) works by Chikamatsu Monzaemon were already being written. In other words, was he a samurai, a haikai poet, or a joruri writer? Because no one knows exactly what he was, he continues to puzzle researchers to this day. However, the reason I am captivated by Chikamatsu Monzaemon is that he himself confessed, in a monologue, that he did not know who he was. If the man himself did not know, how could researchers of later generations possibly claim to know? When viewed this way, an interest wells up regarding this singular man, Chikamatsu. It suggests that the shock to the status of the samurai was, due to the nature of the era, just that immense.

Tracing back to 1639, the Tokugawa Shogunate, wary that missionary activity might draw Japan under outside influence as it had other lands, issued the isolation edicts, officially closing the doors to the outside world. This must have been a substantial shock to the warrior class, but using this as a catalyst, a new force began to rise within the country, capturing the breath of the new era. These were the chonin (町人), the townspeople. It is somewhat complex, but "chonin" was not a strict class definition, but rather a vague image of people living in urban centers like Edo, Kyoto, and Osaka who were not samurai; as a class, they largely corresponded to merchants. The townspeople, having amassed financial power through commerce, rose rapidly to replace the samurai who were bewildered by the absence of war. Because the isolation orders were issued, they could concentrate their entire nervous system on the blooming of the domestic market. Backed by financial power, they began to resist the authority of the samurai. The spirit of rebellion against the authority of the era is, in any age, the wellspring of new culture. This era was no exception, and from here, Japan surged toward a golden age of culture led by the townspeople. Since Chikamatsu was born in 1653, he would have been captivated by the astonishing momentum of the townspeople heading toward this cultural zenith.

However, he was born and raised in Fukui, in the Hokuriku region; even if one speaks of townspeople culture there, it was not as flamboyant or vibrant as in Edo, Kyoto, or Osaka. Yet, for reasons uncertain, the result was that his father left the domain and drifted to Kyoto as a ronin, bringing Chikamatsu face-to-face with the figures of townspeople living with explosive energy. In such situations, in any era, young people wander in confusion and fall to the depths. Why is it that while my generation lives with such vitality, I behave rigidly, claiming the pride of a samurai while holding a sword I do not use? What on earth am I doing? After all, my father quit the domain's work and drifted here as a ronin, making him equivalent in status to those of unknown origin in the eyes of Kyoto people. With both the noble I served and the master who educated me in culture now dead, where is the meaning in continuing to live as a samurai? Perhaps it would be better to simply quit this status and live like a townsperson. In this short life, if I do not decide here and now, will my life not simply end?

Deeply moved by the momentum of the vibrant townspeople opposing the samurai, Chikamatsu Monzaemon was inspired to rebel against his own warrior class. He abandoned all the responsibilities and duties of a samurai and began a life of revelry with the townspeople. This must have suited his skin. In any age, chances for a new era come to those who know how to play, and this era was the same. Though it is unclear how they met, once Chikamatsu distanced himself from the life of serving nobility, he began writing joruri works under Kadayu Uji, a joruri narrator who was beginning to gain a reputation in Kyoto. Kadayu Uji (1635-1711) would later change his name to Kaganojo Uji, and this meeting would drastically move Chikamatsu’s life. In fact, during this period, his brothers were employed by other domains and continued their lives as samurai, but Chikamatsu was already living a life unrelated to such movements. This indicates that the sensitive Chikamatsu, in his twenties, no longer possessed the will to live as a warrior and had already voluntarily cast aside that status. Above all, it was fortunate for Chikamatsu that the ideal Kaganojo Uji held was the modernization of joruri.

The history of joruri is deeply fascinating, but as it is too abyssal, I will omit it here. However, to state one thing: the image of joruri until the late 17th century had not yet reached the dimension of being recognized as a singular art form; it carried the negative image of a vulgar art. Yet, the era was heading toward a cultural flourishing for the townspeople; through the rise of their energy, the protagonist of the times was shifting from the traditional warrior class to the townspeople. Kaganojo Uji, capturing this once-in-a-lifetime flow, dedicated his life in earnest to wiping away the negative image of traditional joruri and having it recognized as high art. It is significant that Chikamatsu, who by strange fortune began collaborating with him here, came to show deep insight and respect for joruri even before he became a kabuki writer—which would later become his primary profession for a time. It can be said that Chikamatsu viewed the joruri, refined through trial and error in collaboration with Kaganojo Uji, as a pioneering culture that embodied the energy of the townspeople.

And Chikamatsu, having discarded his samurai status to survive solely on his own existence, was second to none in passion. He struggled in his own way, and most interestingly, he made moves to assert his name as an author. Until this era, it was common for works of joruri and kabuki not to display the author's name. This was simply because what the audience wanted to see was not the author, but the actors. Later, however, Chikamatsu created a current that elevated the raison d'être of the author; records remain of criticism he received for displaying "Author: Chikamatsu" in the 1680s. Furthermore, to fully unleash his talent, he lived among people of unknown origins gathering in Kyoto, helped repair stage props, and actively involved himself in everything related to the cultural art of theater. However, no matter how much one wishes to persist in such a way of life, if the times do not ally with you, such an existence cannot flourish. Fortunately, Chikamatsu grasped the chance to leap forward through a sudden turn of the era. After all, the timeline had entered the Genroku era (1688-1704). This Genroku period was unique; under the administration of the 5th Shogun, Tsunayoshi Tokugawa (reign: 1680-1709), the culture of the cities called Kamigata (Osaka and Kyoto) entered its golden age—hence it is called Genroku culture.

This originated from the continued economic boom caused by Tsunayoshi Tokugawa’s excellent economic policies, but above all, it is known that the Shogun himself was a man of character and commanded wide and deep respect. In fact, during Tsunayoshi's era, symbolic creators of culture appeared one after another: Chikamatsu Monzaemon in joruri and kabuki, Saikaku Ihara in literature, Basho Matsuo in haikai, and Korin Ogata in the Rimpa school of painting. At the same time, Tsunayoshi stood at the forefront of reform, boldly renewing the vested interest groups that were parasitic on the Edo Shogunate system; he carried out the forfeiture or reduction of domains for 46 daimyo and punished approximately 1,300 hatamoto and gokenin for neglect of duty or corruption. In short, he executed a bold reform of the bureaucratic apparatus. This improved the ventilation of society, creating the soil for the culture of the townspeople to rise. A characteristic of Genroku culture was the simultaneous rise of aristocratic miyabi (雅), or elegance, and the townspeople's jocho (情緒), or sentiment, in arts and culture. As the urban townspeople gained financial power, the movement to independently support artists accelerated. Artists, in turn, no longer needed to rely on aristocrats or samurai as patrons and entered a vibrant era of devoting their all to the cultural rise of the townspeople. Chikamatsu Monzaemon was indeed one of the symbolic figures who lived in tandem with this Genroku culture.

His activities shifted in a great flow from joruri to kabuki, and then back to joruri. When the Genroku culture met its end, he moved his residence from Kyoto to Osaka. Here, while writing for the two important genres of theater at the time—jidaimono (時代物), historical plays, and sewamono (世話物), plays of everyday life—he searched for the next possibility. Sewamono were works aimed at the townspeople who symbolized the era, reflecting the events and figures of their society, and even the social conditions of the time. On the other hand, jidaimono took as their subject matter events and figures from the court noble and samurai societies of eras prior to the Edo period, such as the Heian or Sengoku periods. However, Genroku kabuki was divided into three genres: period plays, domestic plays, and martial arts plays (Budo Kyogen). While period plays had a strong Edo temperament, the home ground for martial arts plays and domestic plays was Osaka.

Chikamatsu Monzaemon accumulated achievements working exclusively as a kabuki scriptwriter for about 20 years, starting around the age of 30, writing mainly for Tojuro Sakata, who was acclaimed as a celebrated actor based in Kyoto. At the same time, he continued to write joruri scripts for the aforementioned Kaganojo Uji. For Chikamatsu, who seized his chance in the Genroku era—the very zenith of townspeople culture—these were days of dizzying busyness. Thus, he released many works, but at this point, no work that could be called his masterpiece had been born. And so, he reached the age of 50—the age Confucius spoke of as knowing the will of Heaven. For him, the days spent with kabuki were days of ascetic practice, constantly questioning how to follow, break, and reform tradition and convention, premised on the realistic, physical character of kabuki with living actors. In fact, it was this struggle with kabuki that created the foundation for Chikamatsu to bloom in joruri works after passing 50. That foundation was to escape the dimension of a lifeless play where joruri puppets are merely moved, and instead to give life to the puppets themselves to enact the drama. In other words, against the evaluation of joruri as a vulgar art, Chikamatsu saw the future in innovation through unfolding a living joruri drama.

In fact, he stated:

「昔の浄瑠璃は今の祭文同然にて花も実もなきものなりしに、某出でて加賀掾より筑後掾へうつりて作文せしより、文句に心を用ふること昔にかはりて一等高く」

Put simply, what he intends to say here is a self-assurance that he is the one who elevated the art of joruri to the realm of true Art. The essence is this: the joruri of the past had neither brilliance nor substance. It lacked artistic beauty, narrative content, and emotional power; it was no more than a saimon (祭文), a prayer text, offered to gods and buddhas. But since he became involved in joruri and began writing scripts in partnership with the two great reciters, he began to pour his heart into every single word, making it decidedly higher in level than in the past. And through the fateful encounter with Gidayu, who possessed the genius talent to narrate with life the scripts Chikamatsu had imbued with life, joruri escaped the dimension of merely following a plotline and acquired resonance of language, psychological depiction, and high dignity. Because this marks the beginning of joruri as literature, Chikamatsu Monzaemon is still revered as a god in this field.

This was realized because he invented a revolutionary method of introducing the character of kabuki—which he had digested over years—into joruri, which had stagnated as a medieval, flat narrative form. That is, under the strong conviction that joruri must not merely be narrated but must be narrated alive, he breathed life into mere puppets (then called deku or wood blocks), incorporating the realism of kabuki to give them human breath. That said, this is a story of the era around Genroku culture, characterized by the social momentum of townspeople, rapid economic growth, and the appearance of craftsmen called masters. Naturally, we cannot see the joruri of that time, so it is impossible to feel this state in a modern dimension. If so, where was the core of Chikamatsu Monzaemon positioned? The key to knowing this lies hidden in the ultimate art theory he reached. It is called kyojitsu hiniku (虚実皮膜), the thin membrane between falsehood and truth.

kyojitsu hiniku is a philosophy reached only by Chikamatsu, who mastered joruri; it is the concept that "Art exists on the narrow border between the fake and the real." What is important in grasping this concept is not to feel as though one understands it merely by looking at it. For from this kyojitsu hiniku, one feels an unidentifiable tension. In other words, it is not a low-dimensional issue of whether something is fake or real in the modern sense, but that the very location of the fake and the real is entirely different between then and now. It is, so to speak, to stare into the narrow border where the fake and the real of one's own existence confront each other; it lies in seeing the rift between reality itself and the "actuality" that has been estranged from it. In Chikamatsu's eyes, the way townspeople lived was exactly this rift itself, the boundary itself. Therefore, he grasped that in joruri, neither a realism pursuing the complete real nor a complete fiction would suffice. It can be said that he saw that truth lies in the realm where the two are unified in non-separation, without separating the real and the fake. Because this boundary, existing in a tension of the utmost limit, is also the boundary of life and death, by gouging this out through joruri, time and space are nullified for the audience while the play is performed; the "actuality" estranged as fiction sits side by side with the anxiety of reality itself, and there, the existence called 'self' confronts life and death.

The language of the Edo period is untranslatable into modern terms, but kyo (虚), void or falsehood, does not equal "fake," and jitsu (実), substance or truth, does not equal "real." Furthermore, hiniku (皮膜), the membrane, expresses that the fake and the real do not exist in separate domains but are back-to-back, separated by a thin membrane—they are non-separate. And he thought that the true emotion of art occurs when the expression of an extreme state of tension, sewing through the gap of this membrane, is realized. This kyojitsu hiniku applies not only to joruri but naturally to kabuki as well. Even if a real woman appears on stage, she is not necessarily beautiful in a womanly way. It is precisely because a man becomes a woman (kyo), researching ideal female gestures to perform, that he appears more womanly (jitsu) and erotic than a real woman. Judging from his argument, we can understand that he had already perfectly discussed modern issues.

Chikamatsu's kyojitsu hiniku presents the truth of art, or rather, of the world itself. And there existed a predecessor in Japan who reached this truth 200 to 300 years before him. That is Zeami (est. 1363-1443), the perfecter of noh. Today, Zeami's theoretical book on Noh, Fushikaden, is famous domestically and internationally, but this book was a secret transmission for about 600 years, basically passed down from father to one son. Since it was only after it was made public in the early 20th century that it came to be read widely, Chikamatsu would not have had the opportunity to see it. However, the profound theory recorded in Fushikaden is identical to Chikamatsu's kyojitsu hiniku. It is a prime example showing that two great perfecters of art, transcending eras, reached the same horizon.

Chikamatsu Monzaemon's kyojitsu hiniku releases a radiance that does not fade even in the modern age. Especially for us living in the AI era, it is visibly clear that only those who can embody this perspective of kyojitsu hiniku faster than anyone else will move forward. In the next article, we will explore the world of words Chikamatsu left behind as he approached his death.