This was the genius of our ancestors, that by cutting off the light from
this empty space they imparted to the world of shadows that formed there
a quality of mystery and depth superior to that of any wall painting or
ornament. The technique seems simple, but was by no means so simply
achieved. We can imagine with little difficulty what extraordinary pains
were taken with each invisible detail-the placement of the window in the
shelving recess, the depth of the crossbeam, the height of the
threshold. But for me the most exquisite touch is-the pale white glow of
the shoji in the study bay; I need only pause before it and I forget the
passage of time.
The study bay, as the name suggests, was originally a projecting window
built to provide a place for reading. Over the years it came to be
regarded as no more than a source of light for the alcove; but most
often it serves not so much to illuminate the alcove as to soften the
sidelong rays from without, to filter them through paper panels. There
is a cold and desolate tinge to the light by the time it reaches these
panels. The little sunlight from the garden that manages to make its way
beneath the eaves and through the corridors has by then lost its power
to illuminate, seems drained of the complexion of life. It can do no
more than accentuate the whiteness of the paper. I sometimes linger
before these panels and study the surface of the paper, bright, but
giving no impression of brilliance.
In temple architecture the main room stands at a considerable distance
from the garden; so dilute is the light there that no matter what the
season, on fair days or cloudy, morning, midday, or evening, the pale,
white glow scarcely varies. And the shadows at the interstices of the
ribs seem strangely immobile, as if dust collected in the corners had
become a part of the paper itself. I blink in uncertainty at this
dreamlike luminescence, feeling as though some misty film were blunting
my vision. The light from the pale white paper, powerless to dispel the
heavy darkness of the alcove, is instead repelled by the darkness,
creating a world of confusion where dark and light are
indistinguishable. Have not you yourselves sensed a difference in the
light that suffuses such a room, a rare tranquility not found in
ordinary light? Have you never felt a sort of fear in the face of the
ageless, a fear that in that room you might lose all consciousness of
the passage of time, that untold years might pass and upon emerging you
should find you had grown old and gray?