Japanese writer
Yoshida Kenkō (Japanese: 吉田兼好; 1283? – 1350?) was a Japanese author and Buddhist monk. His most famous work is Tsurezure-Gusa (Essays in Idleness), one of the most studied works of medieval Japanese literature. Born Urabe Kaneyoshi (卜部兼好).
From: Wikiquote (CC BY-SA 4.0)
Native Name:
吉田兼好
Alternative Names:
Yoshida Kenko
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Yoshida Kenkou
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Urabe no Kaneyoshi
From Wikidata (CC0)
They flock together like ants, hurry east and west, run north and south. Some are mighty, some humble. Some are aged, some young. They have places to go, houses to return to. At night they sleep, in the morning get up. But what does all this activity mean ? There is no ending to their greed for long life, their grasping for profit.
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Things which seem in poor taste: too many personal effects cluttering up the place where one is sitting; too many brushes in an ink-box; too many Buddhas in a family temple; too many stones and plants in a garden; too many children in a house; too many words on meeting someone; too many meritorious deeds recorded in a petition. Things which are not offensive, no matter how numerous: books in a book cart, rubbish in a rubbish heap.
One would like to leave behind a glorious reputation for surpassing wisdom and character, but careful reflection will show that what we mean by love of a glorious reputation is delight in the approbation of others. Neither those who praise nor those who abuse last for long, and the people who have heard their reports are like likely to depart the world as quickly. Before whom then should we feel ashamed? By whom should we wish to be appreciated? Fame, moreover inspires backbiting. It does no good whatsoever to have one's name survive. A craving after fame is next foolish.
If man were never to fade away like the dews of Adashino never to vanish like the smoke over Toribeyama, but lingered on forever in the world, how things would lose their power to move us! The most precious thing in life is its uncertainty. Consider living creatures- none lives so long a man. The May fly waits not for the evening, the summer cicada knows neither spring nor autumn. What a wonderfully unhurried feeling it is to live even even a single year in perfect serenity.