Hateful Things in 1002 AD

When I say The Pillow Book, written by Sei Shōnagon in the late 990s AD, reads like a Tumblr, you might reasonably assume I'm being wry and somewhat exaggerated: "ohhhh, this thing from 1000 years ago is just like things we write today [if you squint real real hard]!"

But I'm not: The Pillow Book just very meaningfully reads like a Tumblr, or possibly a LiveJournal. If Shōnagon was somehow magically resurrected today and started posting on her pillowblog, she could immediately participate in modern gender discourse and you would not realize she is literally one thousand and sixty years old.

For example, in her list titled Hateful Things (she loves making Lists, because of course she does), she frets about her texts after she sends them:

When you send a poem to someone and, after it has gone, think of some small alteration—perhaps only a couple of letters—that would have improved it.

She laments The Ick:

It’s very tiresome when a lover who is leaving one at dawn says that he must look for a fan or pocket-book that he left somewhere about the room last night. As it’s still too dark to see anything, he goes fumbling about all over the place, knocking into everything and muttering to himself, ‘How very odd!’

When at last he finds the pocket-book he crams it into his dress with a great rustling of the pages, or if it’s a fan he has lost, he swishes it open and begins flapping it about. So that when he finally takes his departure, instead of experiencing the feelings of regret proper to such an occasion, one merely feels irritated at his clumsiness....

And being aired / left on read:

When you put a lot of effort into writing a letter and send it off, then spend all your time waiting for a reply, convinced it must be coming any minute.

Finally, after what feels like forever, your own letter gets handed back to you—still folded or tied exactly as you sent it, but so finger-marked and smudged that even the address is barely legible. "The family isn’t home," the messenger says, returning it. Or, "It’s a day of observance; they said they’re not accepting any letters today."

Such experiences are dismally depressing.

The book is composed of standalone segments which are largely either 1) lists, or 2) stories about her days hanging out with the girlies, swapping letters with boys, and pulling off pranks. I'm telling you, Sei Shōnagon just is a blogger, inexplicably writing in 1000 AD. Look at this list of Pretty Things and tell me it couldn't be a series of image macros hashtagged #justprettythings:

The face of a child who has their teeth dug into a melon.

A baby sparrow hopping towards you when you call ‘chu, chu,’ or being fed by its parents with worms or what not

A little girl [with bangs] tossing back her head to get the hair away from her eyes when she wants to look at something.

If you replace the servants/maids with a roommate and switch the voice to first person, you could absolutely make selfie tiktoks out of Shōnagon's laments about waiting for a booty call:

When you have been expecting someone, and rather late at night there is a stealthy tapping at the door. You send a maid to see who it is, and lie waiting, with some slight flutter of the breast. But the name you hear when she returns is that of someone completely different, who does not concern you at all. Of all depressing experiences, this is by far the worst.

Or this one:

Someone comes, with whom one has decided not to have further dealings. You pretend to be fast asleep, but some servant comes to wake you up, and pulls you about, with a face as much as to say ‘What a sleepyhead!’ This is always exceedingly irritating.

Or this bit about Hot Priests:

A preacher ought to be good looking. For if we are to properly understand his worthy sentiments, we must keep our eyes on him while he speaks. Should we look away, we may forget to listen. Accordingly, an ugly preacher may well be the source of sin. But I really must stop writing this sort of thing.

Unbelievably, there is even some absolutely literal Delivery Driver Tipping Discourse:

A messenger arrives with a present at a house where a child has been born, or where someone is about to leave on a journey. How depressing for him if he gets no reward! People should always reward a messenger, though he may bring only herbal balls or hare-sticks. If he expects nothing, he will be particularly pleased to be rewarded. On the other hand, what a terrible let down if he arrives with a self-important look on his face, his heart pounding in anticipation of a generous reward, only to have his hopes dashed!

I could go on, but you should read the book. I recommend one of the modern-er translations: I'm reading the 1967 version by Ivan Morris, and there is a 2006 version by Meredith McKinney. I got some of the quotes for this post from the 1928 version by Arthur Waley, and find it a little fusty; it blows my mind that a century-old translation can feel super old-fashioned, while millenium-old content feels fresh.

Let me leave you, like a good lover, with this one. Sei Shōnagon, we lift our pillows to you.

It is important that a lover should know how to make his departure. To begin with, he ought not to be too ready to get up, but should require a little coaxing: ‘Come, it is past daybreak. You don’t want to be found here ...’ and so on.

One likes him, too, to behave in such a way, that one is sure he is unhappy at going and would stay longer if he possibly could. He should not pull on his trousers the moment he is up, but should first of all come close to one’s ear and in a whisper finish off whatever was left half-said in the course of the night. But though he may in reality at these moments be doing nothing at all, it will not be amiss that he should appear to be buckling his belt.

Then he should raise the shutters, and both lovers should go out together at the double-doors, while he tells her how much he dreads the day that is before him and longs for the approach of night. Then, after he has slipped away, she can stand gazing after him, with charming recollections of those last moments.

Indeed, the success of a lover depends greatly on his method of departure. If instead he springs to his feet with a jerk and at once begins fussing round, tightening the waist-band of his breeches, or adjusting the sleeves of his Court robe, collecting a thousand odds and ends, and thrusting them into the folds of his dress, or pulling in his over-belt—one begins to hate him.