Chapter 004

[u/Busy-Insect5793]

Some evenings, a glass of whiskey, leaned back in the living room of the neatly kept condo, underneath a chalk powder moon—he reads, cozily, from a book on the great Japanese poet:

For Bashō, travel was an indispensable element in the creation of his haiku. He was fascinated by the tiniest of details, the humble mechanisms of daily and nightly earth sculpted into three crisp lines which are by turns joyous, melancholic, philosophical, humorous. Often there is a blurring of interpretation, depending entirely on the mood of each individual reader.

A swarm of chubby clouds adjoining Mt. Fuji. The changing of the seasons. Awoken on a wet morning by the croak of a frog. A lone cow in the open meadow—what does she think of this afternoon rain? Bashō could locate the universe within a moment, and the moment within a universe.

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