Artist: Toshiaki Kato 
 Without stories like these about the old days, though, how would we ever pass the time when there is nothing else to do? Besides, among these lies there are certainly some plausibly touching scenes, convincingly told; and yes, we know they are fictions, but even so we are moved and half drawn for no real reason to the pretty, suffering heroine. We may disbelieve the blatantly impossible but still be amazed by magnificently contrived wonders, and although these pall on quiet, second hearing, some are still fascinating. Lately, when my little girl has someone read to her and I stand there listening, I think to myself what good talkers there are in this world, and how this story, too, must come straight from someone's persuasively glib imagination- but perhaps not. 
 This reading of the Tale of Genji, my second, was through a glass darkly. The first time through, I had a superficial understanding of what was going on, and it was so foreign and so different to my previous conceptions of human behavior that I gave up a third of the way in. This time, I have a basic understanding of the course of events, but little understanding of why they happened. Court rituals, titles, poetry, all pass by in a bare haze, even with all of the summaries and glossaries in the back of the book. I read only in the most minimal meaning of the word, and there was very little understanding of the text and the characters. 
 Despite this general lack of understanding, however, there are brief flashes of brilliance which help me to understand why this book has such long-lasting appeal. The cited part above, in Chapter 25, is one of the first appeals on the meaning of fiction, and how such stories have a greater meaning beyond just passing the time. This, perhaps, is Murasaki's own justification for this novel idea, and the sort of idea which endures long after her. 
 But still the book is so alien that I am confused by it. The first section of the plot concerns the Shining Price Genji's sexual escapades with a variety of women. Some of these have the air of young romance, but others are in so different from our idea of 'romance' that I was left completely distant from them. This is not only a matter of cultural norms, but some things which I personally found disgusting - rape and pseudo-incest among them. This is supposed to be romance? 
 There is a gap of one thousand years between us and this novel. Is human nature really so different that we could not understand what all this is? Or is it just being overwhelmed by technical details, and forgetting the emotions which underlie the story? I suspect many of us will remain outside the pavilion forever, left to only gaze at the flowers.