by Kamo no Chōmei

The Hōjōki (方丈記, "An Account of My Hut," also known as "The Ten-Foot-Square Hut") was written by Kamo no Chōmei (鴨長明, 1155–1216) in the third month of the second year of Kenryaku (1212), at his hermitage in the hills of Hino, southeast of Kyoto. It is one of the three great zuihitsu — "following the brush" essays — of Japanese literature, alongside Sei Shōnagon's Pillow Book and Yoshida Kenkō's Tsurezuregusa.

Chōmei was the son of the head priest of the Kamo Shrine, one of the most prestigious positions in the capital. When he was passed over for his father's post, his fortunes declined; he took the tonsure at fifty, retreated to Mount Ōhara, and finally built the hut described in this essay on Mount Hino. The work's opening passage — "the flow of the river never ceases, and yet the water is never the same" — ranks among the most famous lines in Japanese literature.

The essay is structured in two movements: first, a chronicle of five great disasters that struck the capital during Chōmei's lifetime (the Angen fire, the Jishō whirlwind, the moving of the capital to Fukuhara, the Yōwa famine, and the Genryaku earthquake); then, a description of his hermit life and a searching self-interrogation that refuses to resolve into comfort. The whole work is suffused with the Buddhist teaching of impermanence (mujō, 無常) and asks whether even the renunciant's peace is itself an attachment.

This is a Good Works Translation from Classical Japanese (文語体). The source text is the Aozora Bunko digital edition, based on the Koten Nihon Bungaku Zenshū (Chikuma Shobō, 1962), with variant readings noted in parentheses.

The flow of the river never ceases, and yet the water is never the same. Foam gathers in the still pools, vanishing here, forming there — never lingering long. So it is with people and their dwellings in this world.

In the jewelled capital, the houses of high and low stand roof to roof and tile to tile, and though they seem to endure from age to age, if you ask whether this is truly so, the houses that stood in the past are rare. One burned last year and was rebuilt this year; a great house crumbles and becomes a small one. The people who dwell in them are no different. The place does not change, and the people are many, yet of those I knew in the past, barely one or two remain among twenty or thirty. Those who die in the morning, those born in the evening — the custom is like nothing so much as foam on water.

I do not know: where do the newly born come from, where do the dying go? Nor do I know: for whose sake do we torment our hearts over these temporary shelters, and for what reason do we delight our eyes? The master and the dwelling vie with one another in impermanence — they are no different from the morning glory and the dew upon it. Sometimes the dew falls and the flower remains. It remains, yet it withers in the morning sun. Sometimes the flower fades and the dew has not yet vanished. It has not vanished, yet it will not last until evening.

The Great Fire

In the more than forty springs and autumns since I first understood the nature of things, I have witnessed many strange occurrences in this world.

On the twenty-eighth day of the fourth month of the third year of Angen, if I recall, a fierce wind blew and would not be still. Around the hour of the Dog, fire broke out from the southeast of the capital and spread to the northwest. In the end it reached the Suzaku Gate, the Great Hall of State, the Imperial University, and the Ministry of Popular Affairs — all turned to dust and ash in a single night. The fire is said to have started at the corner of Higuchi and Tomi no Kōji, in a temporary shelter housing the sick. As the confused wind drove the flames this way and that, they spread like an opening fan. Distant houses choked on smoke; nearer ones were drenched in flame pressed flat against the ground. Ash was flung into the sky, and in the crimson glow of firelight reflected everywhere, flames torn free by the wind flew forward like birds, leaping one or two blocks at a time.

Those caught within — how could they have kept their wits? Some fell gasping in the smoke; some were swallowed by the blaze and died at once. Others escaped with nothing but their lives, unable to carry out any of their goods. The seven treasures and ten thousand precious things — all became ash. The losses are beyond reckoning. In that fire, sixteen houses of the great lords burned. As for the rest, the number is unknown. In all, the fire consumed two-thirds of the capital. Men and women who died numbered in the thousands; of horses and cattle, there was no way to know.

Of all the follies of humankind, to spend treasure and torment the heart building houses in the perilous heart of the capital — this is supremely futile.

The Whirlwind

Around the twenty-ninth day of the fourth month of the fourth year of Jishō, a great whirlwind arose near the intersection of Nakanomikado and Kyōgoku and swept violently through to the area of Rokujō. In the space of three or four blocks it raged — every house within, great and small, was destroyed without exception. Some collapsed completely flat; others were reduced to bare posts and beams. Gates were ripped from their hinges and flung four or five blocks away; fences were blown down and neighbours' properties merged into one.

As for the possessions within those houses, they flew up into the sky beyond counting — shingles and boards tumbled through the air like winter leaves in the wind. Dust was whipped up like smoke so that nothing could be seen. In the terrible roar, not a word could be heard. Even the winds of hell, I thought, could be no worse than this.

Not only were houses destroyed, but in the effort to repair them, many were injured and became crippled. The wind shifted southwest and brought grief to many. Whirlwinds are common, yet nothing like this had been seen before. It was no ordinary thing — people suspected it was a warning from the heavens.

The Moving of the Capital

Again, in the sixth month of that same year, the capital was suddenly moved — an utterly unexpected event.

By all accounts, from the time of the Saga Emperor, when the capital was established here, more than several hundred years had passed. Such a thing should not be changed without extraordinary cause, and the people's distress was more than understandable. Yet protest was useless: from the Emperor down, all the great lords and ministers moved to Naniwa in the province of Settsu. Of those who served at court, who would remain behind in the old capital? Those whose hopes were set on rank and who depended on the favour of their lords vied with one another to move quickly, even for a single day. Those who had lost their moment and had no place in the world remained behind in sorrow.

The houses that once competed for splendour fell to ruin day by day. Houses were dismantled and floated down the Yodo River, and the land before one's eyes became fields. People's hearts changed entirely — now only horses and saddles mattered. No one wanted ox-drawn carriages. People desired estates in the southwest; no one cared for holdings in the northeast.

At that time, some chance brought me to the new capital at Naniwa. Seeing the lay of the land, I found the area too narrow to divide properly into blocks and avenues. To the north the hills rose high; to the south the land sloped down near the sea. The waves were constantly loud, the sea wind fierce. The palace was set in the mountains, and I thought of the old tales of the rustic log-cabin palace — there was a rough charm about it. But the houses dismantled and sent down the river each day — where were they being rebuilt? Open lots were still many; finished houses, few. The old capital was already in ruins, and the new one not yet complete. Every soul felt like a drifting cloud. Those who had lived there from the start mourned their lost land; the newcomers lamented the trouble of building.

On the roadsides I saw men who should have ridden in carriages riding on horseback, and those who should have worn court caps and robes going about in hitatare. The manners of the capital had changed in an instant — everything now resembled nothing so much as country warriors. They said these were the omens of a world in disorder, and so it proved: day by day the world grew more unsettled, people's hearts refused to be calmed, and the common people's distress proved no idle thing. That same winter, the court returned to the old capital. But what of the houses that had been dismantled? Not a single one was restored to what it had been.

I hear that in the wise reigns of old, the land was governed with compassion — that the palace roof was left unthatched, and when the Emperor saw that smoke rose thinly from the people's hearths, he forgave even the appointed taxes. This was because he loved his people and aided the age. The present state of the world is easily known by comparing it with the past.

The Famine

Also, around the time of Yōwa — it has been so long I cannot be certain — for two years the world starved, and the misery was beyond words. In one season drought, in another storms and floods — calamity followed calamity, and the five grains refused to ripen. In vain the spring was plowed and summer planted — there was no joy of autumn harvest or winter gathering. People abandoned their land and crossed their borders, or forgot their homes and went to live in the mountains. Every manner of prayer was begun, and extraordinary rites performed, yet nothing availed.

The ways of the capital depend on the countryside — but with nothing coming up from the provinces, how could anyone keep up appearances? Driven beyond endurance, people threw away their treasures piece by piece, but no one even glanced at them. Those who happened to trade valued gold lightly and prized millet heavily. Beggars lined the roadsides; the sound of lamentation filled the ears.

The first year passed in this agony. Surely the next would bring recovery — but to famine was added pestilence, and misery compounded until nothing was left. As people starved to death day by day, the comparison of fish in a shrinking pond was apt. In the end, even those wearing good clothes and shoes went begging from house to house. You would see them walking, and then suddenly they would fall dead. The corpses of the starved lay countless along the walls and in the roadways. Since there was no way to dispose of them, the stench filled the world, and as the faces and bodies changed, the sights were more than the eye could bear. In the riverbed, there was not even room for horses and carriages to pass.

The lowliest woodsmen and mountaineers, exhausted of their strength, found that even firewood grew scarce, and those who had nowhere to turn dismantled their own houses to sell at market — yet the value of what one person could carry was not enough to sustain a single day of life. Strange to tell, among such firewood could be seen pieces of wood with red lacquer and gold and silver leaf still clinging to them. When this was investigated, it proved that desperate people had gone to old temples, stolen the Buddha images, torn apart the temple furnishings, and broken them up for sale. Born into this world of defilement, I was fated to witness such heartbreaking deeds.

There was also another dreadful thing. Those who had wives or husbands from whom they could not part — the one whose love was deeper always died first. This was because, setting aside their own needs, they gave whatever morsel they had managed to find to the one they loved. So between parent and child, invariably the parent died first. There were even infants who did not know their mother had died, still suckling at the breast of the body that lay there.

The prelate Ryūgyō of the Jison'in at Ninnaji, grieving at the countless dead, persuaded many holy men to go about writing the Sanskrit letter A upon the foreheads of corpses, to forge a bond with the Buddha. Wanting to know the number, they counted for four or five months: within the capital, from Ichijō in the north to Kujō in the south, from Kyōgoku in the east to Suzaku in the west, the bodies lying by the roadsides numbered more than forty-two thousand three hundred. And this does not include those who died before and after that count, nor those in the riverbed, in Shirakawa, in the western capital, and in the outlying districts — to say nothing of the seven provinces and circuits across the land.

I have heard that something similar occurred in the time of the Sutoku Emperor, during the Chōshō era, but I know nothing of those times. What I saw before my own eyes was truly extraordinary and grievous.

The Earthquake

Also, around the second year of Genryaku, a great earthquake struck — no ordinary tremor. Mountains crumbled and buried rivers; the sea tilted and flooded the land. The earth split and water surged up; boulders cracked and tumbled into valleys. Boats near the shore drifted helplessly on the waves; horses on the road could not find their footing. Around the capital, not a single hall, shrine, or pagoda remained whole. Some crumbled, some toppled — dust and ash rose like thick smoke. The sound of the earth shaking and houses breaking was no different from thunder. Inside a house, you were about to be crushed; running outside, the ground split open. Without wings, you could not fly into the sky. Without being a dragon, you could not ride the clouds. Of all terrors, I learned then, the most terrible is the earthquake.

Among those caught in it, there was a warrior's only child, six or seven years of age, who had built a little playhouse under the shelter of a mud wall and was innocently playing there when the wall suddenly collapsed and buried the child, crushing the body completely flat, so that the two eyes protruded an inch from the face. The father and mother held the child and wept without restraint — I have never seen such pitiful grief. In the grief for a child, even the bravest forget their pride. I felt deeply for them, and I understood.

The violent shaking subsided after a time, but the aftershocks continued without end. Tremors that would startle in ordinary times came twenty or thirty times a day. Ten or twenty days later they gradually lessened — four or five times a day, then two or three, then once every other day, then once every two or three days — and so the aftershocks continued for about three months. Of the four great elements, water, fire, and wind constantly do harm, but the earth had never before produced such a calamity. Long ago, in the Saikō era, there was a great earthquake — the head of the Great Buddha at Tōdai-ji fell — but even that was said to be less than this one.

For a time, everyone spoke of the vanity of all things, and the impurity of people's hearts seemed to lighten. But as the months and years piled up and time passed, no one even spoke of it again.

The World's Misery

In all, the difficulty of living in this world — the frailty of ourselves and our dwellings — is as I have described. Beyond this, the sorrows that come from our circumstances and station are too many to count.

If you are a person of no standing who lives beside a great house, though you may have deep joy, you cannot fully rejoice; though you may have sorrow, you cannot raise your voice and weep. Your every movement is anxious and fearful — you are like a sparrow near a hawk's nest. If you are poor and live beside a rich house, you are ashamed of your shabby appearance as you come and go, and the envy of your wife, children, and servants, and the scorn of the rich man — these stir the heart ceaselessly and give no peace.

In a cramped neighbourhood, you cannot escape when fire breaks out nearby. In a remote place, the road is troublesome and bandits are hard to avoid. The powerful are consumed by greed; those without connections are despised. Wealth brings many fears; poverty brings bitter grief. Depend on others and you become their slave; care for others and your heart is bound by affection. Follow the ways of the world and your body suffers; refuse to follow and you seem mad.

Where can you dwell, what can you do, to shelter this body for a moment and give the heart a little peace?

My Retreats

I inherited my grandmother's house on my father's side and lived there a long time. Afterward, my connections were cut, my fortunes declined, and though I had many reasons to stay, I could not hold my place. Past thirty, I built a simple hut of my own choosing. Compared to my former dwelling, it was a tenth the size. I had barely more than a living space — there was no way to build a proper house. I put up a wall of sorts but had no means to build a gate. I used bamboo for pillars and parked my carriage there. With every snow and wind, it was not without danger. The place was near the riverbed, so the threat of floods was real, and the fear of waves was never far.

For more than thirty years I endured this world not meant for me, and in the failures I met along the way, I came to know my short fortune. At fifty I left my house and turned away from the world. Having neither wife nor children, I had no ties hard to sever. Having no rank or stipend, what was there to cling to? I spent five empty years among the clouds of Mount Ōhara.

The Ten-Foot-Square Hut

Now, approaching sixty, as the dew of my life grew harder to sustain, I wove a new shelter for my last years. I was like a hunter making a hut for a single night, or an old silkworm spinning its cocoon. Compared to my dwelling in middle age, it was not even a hundredth the size. As the years have passed, my age has grown and my dwellings have grown smaller.

This hut is unlike any ordinary house. It is barely ten feet square and less than seven feet high. Because I did not choose a fixed place, I did not claim the land to build on it. I laid a foundation, set up a rough roof, and fastened each joint with clasps — so that if the place displeased me, I could easily move it elsewhere. What trouble would there be in rebuilding it? The load fills barely two carts, and beyond the cost of the cartman, there is no other expense.

Since I hid myself in the depths of Mount Hino, I have extended a rough awning to the south and laid a bamboo mat there. To the west I made a shelf for sacred water-offerings. Inside, against the western wall, I enshrined a painting of Amida Buddha, catching the setting sun to serve as the light between his brows. On the doors of the altar curtain I hung images of Fugen and Fudō. Above the sliding door to the north I built a small shelf and placed on it three or four black leather boxes containing excerpts from collections of waka, music, and the Ōjō Yōshū. Beside them I set up a koto and a biwa, one of each — the folding koto and the jointed biwa. To the east, along the wall, I spread out bracken fronds and straw mats for my bed at night. Through a window in the eastern wall I placed a writing desk. By my pillow there is a brazier — my means for burning brushwood. North of the hut I enclosed a small plot with a rough fence to make a garden, where I planted various herbs.

Such is the appearance of my temporary hut.

The Pleasures of Hino

As for the surroundings: to the south there is a bamboo pipe that catches water, and stones are piled to form a basin. The woods come close to the eaves, so there is no shortage of brushwood to gather. The place is called Toyama. Vines of creeping evergreen cover the paths. Though the valley is thick with trees, the view to the west is open — there is nothing to hinder contemplation.

In spring I gaze at the wisteria, which trails like purple clouds fragrant toward the west. In summer I listen to the cuckoo, who with each call promises to guide me on the mountain path of death. In autumn the voice of the evening cicada fills my ears — as though mourning this husk of a world. In winter I watch the snow with tenderness. Its piling and melting is like the burden and release of sin.

When reciting the nembutsu grows weary, or when reading the sutras loses its earnestness, I rest by my own will and am idle by my own choosing — there is no one to interfere, no one before whom to feel ashamed. Though I have not taken a special vow of silence, living alone, I naturally avoid the sins of speech. Though I do not deliberately keep the precepts, with no temptations around me, against what would I break them?

On mornings when I liken my life to a white wake trailing behind a boat, I watch the ships coming and going near the shore at Okanoya, and I steal the spirit of the poet Mansha. On evenings when the wind through the katsura trees rustles the leaves, I think of the river at Xunyang, and I follow the style of the musician Minamoto no Tsunenobu. When the mood carries me further, I blend the sound of the wind in the pines with the melody of Autumn Wind, or match the music of flowing water to the song of Flowing Spring. Though my skill is poor, it is not meant to please the ears of others. I play alone, I chant alone, and simply nourish my own heart.

The Mountain Boy

At the foot of the hill there is another hut of brushwood — the dwelling of the mountain guardian. A boy lives there and comes to visit from time to time. When I have nothing to do, I take him as my companion and go walking. He is sixteen; I am sixty. The difference in our ages is vast, yet the comfort we find is the same.

Sometimes we pull silvergrass or pick rock-pears. Sometimes we gather berries or pick parsley. Sometimes we go to the rice paddies at Susowa and gather fallen grain to make sheaves. If the day is fine, we climb to the ridge and gaze far off at the sky over my old home. We see Mount Kohata, the village of Fushimi, Toba, and Hatsukashi. A beautiful place has no owner, so there is nothing to hinder the heart's delight.

When the walking is easy and the spirit reaches far, we follow the ridges, cross over Mount Sumiyama, pass through Kasatori, and visit the temple at Iwama, or worship at Ishiyama. Or we cross the plain of Awazu and visit the site where the poet Semimaru lived, or ford the Tagami River and seek the grave of Sarumaru. On the way home, according to the season, we pick cherry blossoms, seek autumn leaves, gather bracken, or collect nuts — some to offer to the Buddha, some to bring home as gifts.

If the night is still, I think of old friends by the moon in the window, and my sleeve grows wet at the cry of the monkeys. Fireflies in the grass are confused with the distant watchfires on the island of Maki. The dawn rain sounds of itself like leaves blown by the storm. When I hear the mountain pheasant's cry of horo-horo, I wonder: is it calling for its father or its mother? When the deer from the peaks come near and unafraid, I know how far I have withdrawn from the world. Sometimes I stir the buried embers to keep an old man company through the wakeful hours. It is not a frightening mountain, yet the owl's cry moves me to pity. The beauties of the mountain, season by season, are inexhaustible. How much more must this be true for one who thinks deeply and knows deeply — for such a person, these pleasures would have no end.

When I first came to live here, I thought it would be only for a little while, but already five years have passed. The temporary hut has become something of an old dwelling — decayed leaves lie deep on the eaves, and moss has grown on the foundation.

When news of the capital reaches me by chance, I learn that since I retired to this mountain, many noble persons have died. As for those of lesser rank, the number cannot be known. How many houses have been lost to the repeated fires? Only in this temporary hut is there calm and nothing to fear. It is small, but there is a bed for the night and a seat for the day. For one body, there is no lack.

The hermit crab loves a small shell — it knows its own measure. The osprey nests on the rocky shore — it fears the presence of people. I am like them. Knowing myself and knowing the world, I neither wish for things nor mingle with others. I seek only stillness as my desire and freedom from sorrow as my joy.

In general, when people build dwellings, they do not necessarily build them for themselves. Some build for wives, children, and relatives; some for friends and acquaintances. Some build for their lords, their teachers, and even for their goods, their horses, and their cattle. I have built this hut for myself alone, not for others. The reason is this: in the way of the present world and in my own circumstances, there is no companion to accompany me and no servant to depend upon. Even if I had built something grand, whom would I shelter, whom would I house?

On Solitude

When it comes to friends, people esteem wealth and prefer those who are attentive. They do not necessarily love those who are sincere and upright. Better, then, to make friends of music and moonlight, of blossoms and the wind. When it comes to servants, they watch for heavy punishment and reward and value generous treatment. They do not truly wish for kindness and care, or for ease and rest. Better, then, to make my own body my servant.

If there is something to be done, I use my body myself. It is sometimes wearisome, yet easier than depending on others and watching over them. If there is somewhere to walk, I walk there myself. It is hard, yet better than troubling my heart over horses, saddles, and ox-carts. Now I divide this one body into two uses — my hands serve as servants, my feet as vehicles, and they suit my will well. When my body knows its own fatigue, I rest it. When it is well, I put it to use. I use it, but not to excess; when it is weary, I do not let that trouble my heart. And indeed, to walk often and to work often — is this not the way to nourish life? Why sit idle for no reason? To cause others suffering is itself a sin. Why should I borrow the strength of others?

It is the same with clothing and food. A robe of wisteria fibre, a quilt of hemp — I cover my body with whatever I can find. Silvergrass from the fields, nuts from the ridges — just enough to sustain life. Since I do not mingle with others, I have no cause to be ashamed of my appearance. Since food is scarce, my simple fare tastes all the sweeter.

I do not say these things to compare myself with the wealthy and fortunate. I merely compare my present with my past, for my own sake.

In general, since I fled the world and forsook my old life, I have no resentment and no fear. I leave my life to heaven's fortune, neither clinging to it nor resenting it. I liken my body to a drifting cloud — I depend on nothing, and I regret nothing. The pleasures of a lifetime reach their height on the pillow of an afternoon nap. The aspirations of a whole life remain in the beauty of the passing seasons.

The Heart Alone

Now, the three realms of existence are nothing but the heart alone. If the heart is not at peace, elephants, horses, and the seven treasures are worthless; palaces and towers hold no promise. In this lonely dwelling, this single room, I love it of my own accord. When I happen to go to the capital and must beg for alms, I feel ashamed — but returning here, I feel pity for those caught in the dust of the world.

If anyone doubts what I say, consider the fish and the birds. The fish never tires of the water — but unless you are a fish, how can you know its heart? The bird desires the forest — but unless you are a bird, you cannot know its heart. The taste of this recluse life is the same. Unless you live it, how can you understand?

The Last Question

And now, the moon of my lifetime tilts toward setting, and the years remaining draw near the mountain's edge. Soon I shall face the darkness of the three evil paths — what deeds will I carry as my plea? The Buddha's teaching is this: cling to nothing. And yet my love for this grass hut is itself an attachment. My pleasure in solitude is itself an obstacle. Must I waste time recounting useless pleasures, spending these precious hours in vain?

In the still of the early dawn, I consider this truth and question my own heart: You left the world and entered the mountain forest to cultivate the heart and walk the Way. Yet your outward form resembles a holy man while your heart is steeped in impurity. Your dwelling may follow the trace of Jōmyō Koji, but what you practice barely reaches even the level of Shuri Handoku. Is this the suffering born of past karma, or is it the madness of a deluded heart?

To this, my heart had no answer. I could only set my tongue to work and recite two or three repetitions of Amida's name — an offering unasked for — and let it end.

Written by the monk Ren'in at his hut beyond Toyama, around the last day of the third month of the second year of Kenryaku.

The moon's light — even the mountain rim where it sets is cruel. If only I could see that light which never fades.

Colophon

The Hōjōki (方丈記) was written by Kamo no Chōmei (鴨長明, 1155–1216) at his hermitage on Mount Hino in the spring of 1212. It is one of the foundational works of Japanese prose literature and a cornerstone of Buddhist zuihitsu. Its meditation on impermanence — through the lens of five great disasters and a life of increasing withdrawal — remains one of the most honest accounts of the relationship between the self and the world ever written.

Good Works Translation from Classical Japanese (文語体) by Fumi (文, Translator Instance 02), New Tianmu Anglican Church, 2026. Translated independently from the Aozora Bunko digital edition (based on Koten Nihon Bungaku Zenshū, Chikuma Shobō, 1962). Section headings are editorial additions for readability; the original text is continuous prose divided by paragraph marks (』). No reference English translation was consulted. The closing poem is Chōmei's own, traditionally regarded as the work's envoi.

Compiled and formatted for the Good Work Library by the New Tianmu Anglican Church, 2026.

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Source Text: 方丈記

Classical Japanese source text from the Aozora Bunko (青空文庫) digital edition, based on the Koten Nihon Bungaku Zenshū (古典日本文学全集), Chikuma Shobō (筑摩書房), 1962. Presented here for reference, study, and verification alongside the English translation above.

行く川のながれは絶えずして、しかも本の水にあらず。よどみに浮ぶうたかたは、かつ消えかつ結びて久しくとゞまることなし。世の中にある人とすみかと、またかくの如し。玉しきの都の中にむねをならべいらかをあらそへる、たかきいやしき人のすまひは、代々を經て盡きせぬものなれど、これをまことかと尋ぬれば、昔ありし家はまれなり。或はこぞ破れ（やけイ）てことしは造り、あるは大家ほろびて小家となる。住む人もこれにおなじ。所もかはらず、人も多かれど、いにしへ見し人は、二三十人が中に、わづかにひとりふたりなり。あしたに死し、ゆふべに生るゝならひ、たゞ水の泡にぞ似たりける。知らず、生れ死ぬる人、いづかたより來りて、いづかたへか去る。又知らず、かりのやどり、誰が爲に心を惱まし、何によりてか目をよろこばしむる。そのあるじとすみかと、無常をあらそひ去るさま、いはゞ朝顏の露にことならず。或は露おちて花のこれり。のこるといへども朝日に枯れぬ。或は花はしぼみて、露なほ消えず。消えずといへども、ゆふべを待つことなし。

およそ物の心を知れりしよりこのかた、四十あまりの春秋をおくれる間に、世のふしぎを見ることやゝたびたびになりぬ。いにし安元三年四月廿八日かとよ、風烈しく吹きてしづかならざりし夜、戌の時ばかり、都のたつみより火出で來りていぬゐに至る。はてには朱雀門、大極殿、大學寮、民部の省まで移りて、ひとよがほどに、塵灰となりにき。火本は樋口富の小路とかや、病人を宿せるかりやより出で來けるとなむ。吹きまよふ風にとかく移り行くほどに、扇をひろげたるが如くすゑひろになりぬ。遠き家は煙にむせび、近きあたりはひたすらほのほを地に吹きつけたり。空には灰を吹きたてたれば、火の光に映じてあまねくくれなゐなる中に、風に堪へず吹き切られたるほのほ、飛ぶが如くにして一二町を越えつゝ移り行く。その中の人うつゝ（しイ）心ならむや。あるひは煙にむせびてたふれ伏し、或は炎にまぐれてたちまちに死しぬ。或は又わづかに身一つからくして遁れたれども、資財を取り出づるに及ばず。七珍萬寳、さながら灰燼となりにき。そのつひえいくそばくぞ。このたび公卿の家十六燒けたり。ましてその外は數を知らず。すべて都のうち、三分が二（一イ）に及べりとぞ。男女死ぬるもの數千人、馬牛のたぐひ邊際を知らず。人のいとなみみなおろかなる中に、さしも危き京中の家を作るとて寶をつひやし心をなやますことは、すぐれてあぢきなくぞ侍るべき。

また治承四年卯月廿九日のころ、中の御門京極のほどより、大なるつじかぜ起りて、六條わたりまで、いかめしく吹きけること侍りき。三四町をかけて吹きまくるに、その中にこもれる家ども、大なるもちひさきも、一つとしてやぶれざるはなし。さながらひらにたふれたるもあり。けたはしらばかり殘れるもあり。又門の上を吹き放ちて、四五町がほど（ほかイ）に置き、又垣を吹き拂ひて、隣と一つになせり。いはむや家の内のたから、數をつくして空にあがり、ひはだぶき板のたぐひ、冬の木の葉の風に亂るゝがごとし。塵を煙のごとく吹き立てたれば、すべて目も見えず。おびたゞしくなりとよむ音に、物いふ聲も聞えず。かの地獄の業風なりとも、かばかりにとぞ覺ゆる。家の損亡するのみならず、これをとり繕ふ間に、身をそこなひて、かたはづけるもの數を知らず。この風ひつじさるのかたに移り行きて、多くの人のなげきをなせり。つじかぜはつねに吹くものなれど、かゝることやはある。たゞごとにあらず。さるべき物のさとしかなとぞ疑ひ侍りし。

又おなじ年の六月の頃、にはかに都うつり侍りき。いと思ひの外なりし事なり。大かたこの京のはじめを聞けば、嵯峨の天皇の御時、都とさだまりにけるより後、既に數百歳を經たり。異なるゆゑなくて、たやすく改まるべくもあらねば、これを世の人、たやすからずうれへあへるさま、ことわりにも過ぎたり。されどとかくいふかひなくて、みかどよりはじめ奉りて、大臣公卿ことごとく攝津國難波の京に（八字イ無）うつり給ひぬ。世に仕ふるほどの人、誰かひとりふるさとに殘り居らむ。官位に思ひをかけ、主君のかげを頼むほどの人は、一日なりとも、とくうつらむとはげみあへり。時を失ひ世にあまされて、ごする所なきものは、愁へながらとまり居れり。軒を爭ひし人のすまひ、日を經つゝあれ行く。家はこぼたれて淀川に浮び、地は目の前に畠となる。人の心皆あらたまりて、たゞ馬鞍をのみ重くす。牛車を用とする人なし。西南海の所領をのみ願ひ、東北國の庄園をば好まず。その時、おのづから事のたよりありて、津の國今の京に到れり。所のありさまを見るに、その地ほどせまくて、條里をわるにたらず。北は山にそひて高く、南は海に近くてくだれり。なみの音つねにかまびすしくて、潮風殊にはげしく、内裏は山の中なれば、かの木の丸殿もかくやと、なかなかやうかはりて、いうなるかたも侍りき。日々にこぼちて川もせきあへずはこびくだす家はいづくにつくれるにかあらむ。なほむなしき地は多く、作れる屋はすくなし。ふるさとは既にあれて、新都はいまだならず。ありとしある人、みな浮雲のおもひをなせり。元より此處に居れるものは、地を失ひてうれへ、今うつり住む人は、土木のわづらひあることをなげく。道のほとりを見れば、車に乘るべきはうまに乘り、衣冠布衣なるべきはひたゝれを着たり。都のてふりたちまちにあらたまりて、唯ひなびたる武士にことならず。これは世の亂るゝ瑞相とか聞きおけるもしるく、日を經つゝ世の中うき立ちて、人の心も治らず、民のうれへつひにむなしからざりければ、おなじ年の冬、猶この京に歸り給ひにき。されどこぼちわたせりし家どもはいかになりにけるにか、ことごとく元のやうにも作らず。ほのかに傳へ聞くに、いにしへのかしこき御代には、あはれみをもて國ををさめ給ふ。則ち御殿に茅をふきて軒をだにとゝのへず。煙のともしきを見給ふ時は、かぎりあるみつぎものをさへゆるされき。これ民をめぐみ、世をたすけ給ふによりてなり。今の世の中のありさま、昔になぞらへて知りぬべし。

又養和のころかとよ、久しくなりてたしかにも覺えず、二年が間、世の中飢渇して、あさましきこと侍りき。或は春夏日でり、或は秋冬大風、大水などよからぬ事どもうちつゞきて、五※［＃「穀」の「禾」に代えて「釆」、544-14］ことごとくみのらず。むなしく春耕し、夏植うるいとなみありて、秋かり冬收むるぞめきはなし。これによりて、國々の民、或は地を捨てゝ堺を出で、或は家をわすれて山にすむ。さまざまの御祈はじまりて、なべてならぬ法ども行はるれども、さらにそのしるしなし。京のならひなに事につけても、みなもとは田舍をこそたのめるに、絶えてのぼるものなければ、さのみやはみさをも作りあへむ。念じわびつゝ、さまざまの寳もの、かたはしより捨つるがごとくすれども、さらに目みたつる人もなし。たまたま易ふるものは、金をかろくし、粟を重くす。乞食道の邊におほく、うれへ悲しむ聲耳にみてり。さきの年かくの如くからくして暮れぬ。明くる年は立ちなほるべきかと思ふに、あまさへえやみうちそひて、まさるやうにあとかたなし。世の人みな飢ゑ死にければ、日を經つゝきはまり行くさま、少水の魚のたとへに叶へり。はてには笠うちき、足ひきつゝみ、よろしき姿したるもの、ひたすら家ごとに乞ひありく。かくわびしれたるものどもありくかと見れば則ち斃れふしぬ。ついひぢのつら、路頭に飢ゑ死ぬるたぐひは數もしらず。取り捨つるわざもなければ、くさき香世界にみちみちて、かはり行くかたちありさま、目もあてられぬこと多かり。いはむや河原などには、馬車の行きちがふ道だにもなし。しづ、山がつも、力つきて、薪にさへともしくなりゆけば、たのむかたなき人は、みづから家をこぼちて市に出でゝこれを賣るに、一人がもち出でたるあたひ、猶一日が命をさゝふるにだに及ばずとぞ。あやしき事は、かゝる薪の中に、につき、しろがねこがねのはくなど所々につきて見ゆる木のわれあひまじれり。これを尋ぬればすべき方なきものゝ、古寺に至りて佛をぬすみ、堂の物の具をやぶりとりて、わりくだけるなりけり。濁惡の世にしも生れあひて、かゝる心うきわざをなむ見侍りし。

又あはれなること侍りき。さりがたき女男など持ちたるものは、その思ひまさりて、心ざし深きはかならずさきだちて死しぬ。そのゆゑは、我が身をば次になして、男にもあれ女にもあれ、いたはしく思ふかたに、たまたま乞ひ得たる物を、まづゆづるによりてなり。されば父子あるものはさだまれる事にて、親ぞさきだちて死にける。又（父イ）母が命つきて臥せるをもしらずして、いとけなき子のその乳房に吸ひつきつゝ、ふせるなどもありけり。仁和寺に、慈尊院の大藏卿隆曉法印といふ人、かくしつゝ、かずしらず死ぬることをかなしみて、ひじりをあまたかたらひつゝ、その死首の見ゆるごとに、額に阿字を書きて、縁をむすばしむるわざをなむせられける。その人數を知らむとて、四五兩月がほどかぞへたりければ、京の中、一條より南、九條より北、京極より西、朱雀より東、道のほとりにある頭、すべて四萬二千三百あまりなむありける。いはむやその前後に死ぬるもの多く、河原、白河、にしの京、もろもろの邊地などをくはへていはゞ際限もあるべからず。いかにいはむや、諸國七道をや。近くは崇徳院の御位のとき、長承のころかとよ、かゝるためしはありけると聞けど、その世のありさまは知らず。まのあたりいとめづらかに、かなしかりしことなり。

また元暦二年のころ、おほなゐふること侍りき。そのさまよのつねならず。山くづれて川を埋み、海かたぶきて陸をひたせり。土さけて水わきあがり、いはほわれて谷にまろび入り、なぎさこぐふねは浪にたゞよひ、道ゆく駒は足のたちどをまどはせり。いはむや都のほとりには、在々所々堂舍廟塔、一つとして全からず。或はくづれ、或はたふれた（ぬイ）る間、塵灰立ちあがりて盛なる煙のごとし。地のふるひ家のやぶるゝ音、いかづちにことならず。家の中に居れば忽にうちひしげなむとす。はしり出づればまた地われさく。羽なければ空へもあがるべからず。龍ならねば雲にのぼらむこと難し。おそれの中におそるべかりけるは、たゞ地震なりけるとぞ覺え侍りし。その中に、あるものゝふのひとり子の、六つ七つばかりに侍りしが、ついぢのおほひの下に小家をつくり、はかなげなるあとなしごとをして遊び侍りしが、俄にくづれうめられて、あとかたなくひらにうちひさがれて、二つの目など一寸ばかりうち出されたるを、父母かゝへて、聲もをしまずかなしみあひて侍りしこそあはれにかなしく見はべりしか。子のかなしみにはたけきものも耻を忘れけりと覺えて、いとほしくことわりかなとぞ見はべりし。かくおびたゞしくふることはしばしにて止みにしかども、そのなごりしばしば絶えず。よのつねにおどろくほどの地震、二三十度ふらぬ日はなし。十日廿日過ぎにしかば、やうやうまどほになりて、或は四五度、二三度、もしは一日まぜ、二三日に一度など、大かたそのなごり、三月ばかりや侍りけむ。四大種の中に、水火風はつねに害をなせど、大地に至りては殊なる變をなさず。むかし齊衡のころかとよ。おほなゐふりて、東大寺の佛のみぐし落ちなどして、いみじきことゞも侍りけれど、猶このたびにはしかずとぞ。すなはち人皆あぢきなきことを述べて、いさゝか心のにごりもうすらぐと見えしほどに、月日かさなり年越えしかば、後は言の葉にかけて、いひ出づる人だになし。

すべて世のありにくきこと、わが身とすみかとの、はかなくあだなるさまかくのごとし。いはむや所により、身のほどにしたがひて、心をなやますこと、あげてかぞふべからず。もしおのづから身かずならずして、權門のかたはらに居るものは深く悦ぶことあれども、大にたのしぶにあたはず。なげきある時も聲をあげて泣くことなし。進退やすからず、たちゐにつけて恐れをのゝくさま、たとへば、雀の鷹の巣に近づけるがごとし。もし貧しくして富める家の隣にをるものは、朝夕すぼき姿を耻ぢてへつらひつゝ出で入る妻子、僮僕のうらやめるさまを見るにも、富める家のひとのないがしろなるけしきを聞くにも、心念々にうごきて時としてやすからず。もしせばき地に居れば、近く炎上する時、その害をのがるゝことなし。もし邊地にあれば、往反わづらひ多く、盜賊の難はなれがたし。いきほひあるものは貪欲ふかく、ひとり身なるものは人にかろしめらる。寶あればおそれ多く、貧しければなげき切なり。人を頼めば身他のやつことなり、人をはごくめば心恩愛につかはる。世にしたがへば身くるし。またしたがはねば狂へるに似たり。いづれの所をしめ、いかなるわざをしてか、しばしもこの身をやどし玉ゆらも心をなぐさむべき。

我が身、父の方の祖母の家をつたへて、久しく彼所に住む。そののち縁かけ、身おとろへて、しのぶかたがたしげかりしかば、つひにあととむることを得ずして、三十餘にして、更に我が心と一の庵をむすぶ。これをありしすまひになずらふるに、十分が一なり。たゞ居屋ばかりをかまへて、はかばかしくは屋を造るにおよばず。わづかについひぢをつけりといへども、門たつるたづきなし。竹を柱として、車やどりとせり。雪ふり風吹くごとに、危ふからずしもあらず。所は河原近ければ、水の難も深く、白波のおそれもさわがし。すべてあらぬ世を念じ過ぐしつゝ、心をなやませることは、三十餘年なり。その間をりをりのたがひめに、おのづから短き運をさとりぬ。すなはち五十の春をむかへて、家をいで世をそむけり。もとより妻子なければ、捨てがたきよすがもなし。身に官祿あらず、何につけてか執をとゞめむ。むなしく大原山の雲にふして、またいくそばくの春秋をかへぬる。

こゝに六十の露消えがたに及びて、さらに末葉のやどりを結べることあり。いはゞ狩人のひとよの宿をつくり、老いたるかひこのまゆをいとなむがごとし。これを中ごろのすみかになずらふれば、また百分が一にだもおよばず。とかくいふ程に、よはひは年々にかたぶき、すみかはをりをりにせばし。その家のありさまよのつねにも似ず、廣さはわづかに方丈、高さは七尺が内なり。所をおもひ定めざるがゆゑに、地をしめて造らず。土居をくみ、うちおほひをふきて、つぎめごとにかけがねをかけたり。もし心にかなはぬことあらば、やすく外へうつさむがためなり。そのあらため造るとき、いくばくのわづらひかある。積むところわづかに二輌なり。車の力をむくゆるほかは、更に他の用途いらず。いま日野山の奧にあとをかくして後、南にかりの日がくしをさし出して、竹のすのこを敷き、その西に閼伽棚を作り、うちには西の垣に添へて、阿彌陀の畫像を安置したてまつりて、落日をうけて、眉間のひかりとす。かの帳のとびらに、普賢ならびに不動の像をかけたり。北の障子の上に、ちひさき棚をかまへて、黒き皮籠三四合を置く。すなはち和歌、管絃、往生要集ごときの抄物を入れたり。傍にこと、琵琶、おのおの一張をたつ。いはゆるをりごと、つき琵琶これなり。東にそへて、わらびのほどろを敷き、つかなみを敷きて夜の床とす。東の垣に窓をあけて、こゝにふづくゑを出せり。枕の方にすびつあり。これを柴折りくぶるよすがとす。庵の北に少地をしめ、あばらなるひめ垣をかこひて園とす。すなはちもろもろの藥草をうゑたり。かりの庵のありさまかくのごとし。その所のさまをいはゞ、南にかけひあり、岩をたゝみて水をためたり。林軒近ければ、つま木を拾ふにともしからず。名を外山といふ。まさきのかづらあとをうづめり。谷しげゝれど、にしは晴れたり。觀念のたよりなきにしもあらず。春は藤なみを見る、紫雲のごとくして西のかたに匂ふ。夏は郭公をきく、かたらふごとに死出の山路をちぎる。秋は日ぐらしの聲耳に充てり。うつせみの世をかなしむかと聞ゆ。冬は雪をあはれむ。つもりきゆるさま、罪障にたとへつべし。もしねんぶつものうく、どきやうまめならざる時は、みづから休み、みづからをこたるにさまたぐる人もなく、また耻づべき友もなし。殊更に無言をせざれども、ひとり居ればくごふををさめつべし。必ず禁戒をまもるとしもなけれども、境界なければ何につけてか破らむ。もしあとの白波に身をよするあしたには、岡のやに行きかふ船をながめて、滿沙彌が風情をぬすみ、もし桂の風、葉をならすゆふべには、潯陽の江をおもひやりて、源都督（經信）のながれをならふ。もしあまりの興あれば、しばしば松のひゞきに秋風の樂をたぐへ、水の音に流泉の曲をあやつる。藝はこれつたなけれども、人の耳を悦ばしめむとにもあらず。ひとりしらべ、ひとり詠じて、みづから心を養ふばかりなり。

また麓に、一つの柴の庵あり。すなはちこの山もりが居る所なり。かしこに小童あり、時々來りてあひとぶらふ。もしつれづれなる時は、これを友としてあそびありく。かれは十六歳、われは六十、その齡ことの外なれど、心を慰むることはこれおなじ。あるはつばなをぬき、いはなしをとる（りイ）。またぬかごをもり、芹をつむ。或はすそわの田井に至りて、おちほを拾ひてほぐみをつくる。もし日うらゝかなれば、嶺によぢのぼりて、はるかにふるさとの空を望み。木幡山、伏見の里、鳥羽、羽束師を見る。勝地はぬしなければ、心を慰むるにさはりなし。あゆみわづらひなく、志遠くいたる時は、これより峯つゞき炭山を越え、笠取を過ぎて、岩間にまうで、或は石山ををがむ。もしは粟津の原を分けて、蝉丸翁が迹をとぶらひ、田上川をわたりて、猿丸大夫が墓をたづぬ。歸るさには、をりにつけつゝ櫻をかり、紅葉をもとめ、わらびを折り、木の實を拾ひて、かつは佛に奉りかつは家づとにす。もし夜しづかなれば、窓の月に故人を忍び、猿の聲に袖をうるほす。くさむらの螢は、遠く眞木の島の篝火にまがひ、曉の雨は、おのづから木の葉吹くあらしに似たり。山鳥のほろほろと鳴くを聞きても、父か母かとうたがひ、みねのかせきの近くなれたるにつけても、世にとほざかる程を知る。或は埋火をかきおこして、老の寐覺の友とす。おそろしき山ならねど、ふくろふの聲をあはれむにつけても、山中の景氣、折につけてつくることなし。いはむや深く思ひ、深く知れらむ人のためには、これにしもかぎるべからず。大かた此所に住みそめし時は、あからさまとおもひしかど、今ま（すイ）でに五とせを經たり。假の庵もやゝふる屋となりて、軒にはくちばふかく、土居に苔むせり。おのづから事のたよりに都を聞けば、この山にこもり居て後、やごとなき人の、かくれ給へるもあまた聞ゆ。ましてその數ならぬたぐひ、つくしてこれを知るべからず。たびたびの炎上にほろびたる家、またいくそばくぞ。たゞかりの庵のみ、のどけくしておそれなし。ほどせばしといへども、夜臥す床あり、ひる居る座あり。一身をやどすに不足なし。がうなはちひさき貝をこのむ、これよく身をしるによりてなり。みさごは荒磯に居る、則ち人をおそるゝが故なり。我またかくのごとし。身を知り世を知れらば、願はずまじらはず、たゞしづかなるをのぞみとし、うれへなきをたのしみとす。すべて世の人の、すみかを作るならひ、かならずしも身のためにはせず。或は妻子眷屬のために作り、或は親昵朋友のために作る。或は主君、師匠および財寳、馬牛のためにさへこれをつくる。我今、身のためにむすべり、人のために作らず。ゆゑいかんとなれば、今の世のならひ、この身のありさま、ともなふべき人もなく、たのむべきやつこもなし。たとひ廣く作れりとも、誰をかやどし、誰をかすゑむ。

それ人の友たるものは富めるをたふとみ、ねんごろなるを先とす。かならずしも情あると、すぐなるとをば愛せず、たゞ絲竹花月を友とせむにはしかじ。人のやつこたるものは賞罰のはなはだしきを顧み、恩の厚きを重くす。更にはごくみあはれぶといへども、やすく閑なるをばねがはず、たゞ我が身を奴婢とするにはしかず。もしなすべきことあれば、すなはちおのづから身をつかふ。たゆからずしもあらねど、人をしたがへ、人をかへりみるよりはやすし。もしありくべきことあれば、みづから歩む。くるしといへども、馬鞍牛車と心をなやますにはしか（二字似イ）ず。今ひと身をわかちて。二つの用をなす。手のやつこ、足ののり物、よくわが心にかなへり。心また身のくるしみを知れゝば、くるしむ時はやすめつ、まめなる時はつかふ。つかふとてもたびたび過さず、ものうしとても心をうごかすことなし。いかにいはむや、常にありき、常に働（動イ）くは、これ養生なるべし。なんぞいたづらにやすみ居らむ。人を苦しめ人を惱ますはまた罪業なり。いかゞ他の力をかるべき。

衣食のたぐひまたおなじ。藤のころも、麻のふすま、得るに隨ひてはだへをかくし。野邊のつばな、嶺の木の實、わづかに命をつぐばかりなり。人にまじらはざれば、姿を耻づる悔もなし。かてともしければおろそかなれども、なほ味をあまくす。すべてかやうのこと、樂しく富める人に對していふにはあらず、たゞわが身一つにとりて、昔と今とをたくらぶるばかりなり。大かた世をのがれ、身を捨てしより、うらみもなくおそれもなし。命は天運にまかせて、をしまずいとはず、身をば浮雲になずらへて、たのまずまだしとせず。一期のたのしみは、うたゝねの枕の上にきはまり、生涯の望は、をりをりの美景にのこれり。

それ三界は、たゞ心一つなり。心もし安からずば、牛馬七珍もよしなく、宮殿樓閣も望なし。今さびしきすまひ、ひとまの庵、みづからこれを愛す。おのづから都に出でゝは、乞食となれることをはづといへども、かへりてこゝに居る時は、他の俗塵に着することをあはれぶ。もし人このいへることをうたがはゞ、魚と鳥との分野を見よ。魚は水に飽かず、魚にあらざればその心をいかでか知らむ。鳥は林をねがふ、鳥にあらざればその心をしらず。閑居の氣味もまたかくの如し。住まずしてたれかさとらむ。

そもそも一期の月影かたぶきて餘算山のはに近し。忽に三途のやみにむかはむ時、何のわざをかかこたむとする。佛の人を教へ給ふおもむきは、ことにふれて執心なかれとなり。今草の庵を愛するもとがとす、閑寂に着するもさはりなるべし。いかゞ用なきたのしみをのべて、むなしくあたら時を過さむ。

しづかなる曉、このことわりを思ひつゞけて、みづから心に問ひていはく、世をのがれて山林にまじはるは、心ををさめて道を行はむがためなり。然るを汝が姿はひじりに似て、心はにごりにしめり。すみかは則ち淨名居士のあとをけがせりといへども、たもつ所はわづかに周梨槃特が行にだも及ばず。もしこれ貧賤の報のみづからなやますか、はた亦妄心のいたりてくるはせるか、その時こゝろ更に答ふることなし。たゝかたはらに舌根をやとひて不請の念佛、兩三返を申してやみぬ。時に建暦の二とせ、彌生の晦日比、桑門蓮胤、外山の庵にしてこれをしるす。

「月かげは入る山の端もつらかりきたえぬひかりをみるよしもがな」。

Source Colophon

The source text is taken from the Aozora Bunko (青空文庫) digital edition of Kamo no Chōmei's Hōjōki, digitised from the Koten Nihon Bungaku Zenshū (古典日本文学全集), Volume 27, Chikuma Shobō (筑摩書房), 1962. The text preserves historical kana usage (歴史的仮名遣い) and includes variant readings in parentheses from other manuscript traditions. Aozora Bunko texts are in the public domain in Japan and freely available for use.

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