A Japanese room might be
likened to an inkwash painting,

the paper-paneled shoji being the
expanse where the ink is thinnest,

and the alcove where it is darkest.

Whenever I see the alcove of a
tastefully built Japanese room,

I marvel at our comprehension
of the secrets of shadows,

our sensitive use of shadow and light.

For the beauty of the alcove is not
the work of some clever device.

An empty space is marked off with
plain wood and plain walls,

There is nothing more.

And yet, when we gaze into the darkness
that gathers behind the crossbeam,

around the flower vase,
beneath the shelves,

though we know perfectly well it is mere shadow,

we are overcome with the feeling that in this small corner of the atmosphere there reigns complete and utter silence;

that here in the darkness immutable tranquility holds sway.

The "mysterious Orient" of which Westerners speak probably refers to the uncanny silence of these dark places.

Where lies the key to this mystery?

illtimately it is the magic of shadows.

Were the shadows to be banished from its comers,

the alcove would in that instant revert to mere void.