The Pillow Book

It was on my fourth birthday...

When my aunt was reading

Sei Shonagon...

That I saw my father and

his publisher together...

For the first time.

Though I'm certain that any clear

understanding of what I had witnessed...

Would have to wait

until I was much older.

on my sixth birthday...

At the Matsuo Tiasha shrine

in Kyoto,

Encouraged by my aunt,

I vowed I would keep

a diary.

A pillow book of my own.

I would fill it with

all manner of observations,

Just like Sei Shonagon.

Perhaps one day, like her,

I could fill it with accounts

of all my lovers.

on the same day as I started

to keep my own pillow book,

I met my future husband

for the first time.

I was six.

He was ten.

We did not exchange a word.

He had been handpicked

by my father's publisher.

like Sei Shonagon, my sense

of smell was very strong.

I enjoyed the smell of paper

of all kinds.

It reminded me

of the scent of skin.

my mother had

taught me mandarin.

When my father painted

a Japanese greeting...

On my face on my birthday,

She played her favorite

Chinese record.

It had been popular when my

parents had met in shanghai.

in remembrance of my father

and in memory of Sei Shonagon,

I was determined to take lovers

who would remind me...

Of the pleasures

of calligraphy.

I could not be sure

which was more important-

An indifferent calligrapher

who was a good lover...

Or an excellent lover who

was a poor calligrapher.

I became a wife.

I married.

I acquired a husband.

Whichever way you say it,

It was bound to end badly.

I had a ceremonial wedding

in style.

separated from my parents

and my aunt,

I confided in my own pillow book

more and more frequently.

Like the pillow book of Sei

Shonagon, it was full of lists.

Unlike Sei Shonagon,

all the lists were negative.

that was the first fire.

There was to be a second.

Both fires marked

a big change in my life.

when I first arrived

in Hong Kong, I hid.

I lived in Kowloon city in the

cheapest rooming houses I could find.

I did not want to be found

by my parents...

Or by my husband.

I tried hard to improve the

Chinese my mother had taught me.

In the meantime,

I was determined...

To keep alive

my father's tradition.

I learned to type

on my 21st birthday,

I tried to give myself

my father's blessing.

I found work in the offices

of a Japanese designer.

And I was determined to speak

English with an American accent.

I was planning

to go to California.

Twenty meter of pale

green organdy, pattern 14.

A meter of type-b tulle.

Uh, the small net size.

The type-b tulle

with the small net size.

we went to Kyoto,

back to japan,

To work

in the Matuso Tiasha shrine,

Which Sei Shonagon

had visited regularly.

I couldn't give up

such an opportunity.

I was also

a little homesick.

We didn't finish walking

the catwalk until midnight...

When all the audience

had gone.

Sei Shonagon had watched

the moon rise in that garden...

A thousand years ago.

I could have walked up and down

that path all night long.

you are not in a position

to preach clean living.

oh, yes, I am.

And in blood red.

You could join us.

I'm too beautiful...

And too rich.

What's wealth got to do with

it? A great deal, I'd think.

I design material.

You can wear it.

Frighten the buyers.

Then I'd soon

cease to be wealthy.

You wouldn't need to be paid.

You would do it for free.

Oh, yeah?

what else would you

do for free?

I've been waiting to waste

my talent on your body...

For a little reward.

my search for the ideal

lover-calligrapher continued.

But it was becoming less and

less likely that I would find him.

If they were old, they were

invariably in no position...

To take advantage

of what I had to offer.

And if they were young, they

were often easily distracted.

It's them!

Don't look!

Don't look.

What are you doing here?

Are you responsible for this?

You shrimp!

What do you think you're doing?

Shut up!

they were children

playing a game.

They used hoki, the Japanese

photographer from Tokyo,

As a pawn to find me.

I want those photos.

I had once kissed him on the

cheek in a moment of happiness.

You're a creep.

I'm sorry.

I have watched you,

followed you everywhere.

It's only too obvious.

And I could help you.

Oh? You haven't done

too well so far.

You are very beautiful.

I employed a calligrapher...

With an obsession

for mathematics.

While his wife sang

and waited in the kitchen,

This account clerk

filled my back with additions,

My front with subtractions.

I contacted

a magazine designer...

Who insisted that I came back to

his apartment in the new territories,

Where he could show me off to his

parents who wanted grandchildren.

Write "dear Nagiko. "

what?

I took risks.

Where?

Here

I can't.

Yes, you can. Who knows what casual

meeting would produce a surprise.

Nagiko?

Some of the great

Japanese calligraphers...

Were very modest

and unassuming men.

Humble clerks by day,

daring poets by night.

Good. Now write

something else here.

with great trepidation,

I sought to move away

from what I knew best.

After all, there were other

great calligraphic traditions.

What have you written?

That's for you to find out.

How am I

going to do that?

You know, some cultures

permit no images.

Perhaps some cultures ought

to permit no visible text.

I need writing.

Don't ask me why.

Just take out your pen and,

Please, write your name

on my arm.

Go on.

I met an English translator

at the cafe typo.

He said he spoke four languages,

including Yiddish.

I'll give you

another chance.

Write on my back.

Well,

what shall I write?

Write...

"we met for the first time

at the cafe typo. "

Write in three languages-

Japanese, French

and English.

Waitress!

Are we going to do

more writing?

Perhaps.

You smell strange.

Do you use perfume?

And your fingers.

What's wrong

with my fingers?

I'll give you another chance.

The last one.

Write on my breasts.

A little inappropriate.

I'll decide what's

inappropriate.

Write in Yiddish.

What's Yiddish for "breasts"?

If you're a writer, surely

you'd write on anything?

This is not going to work.

You're not a writer.

This is not writing;

it's scribbling.

Distasteful scribbling.

Get out.

You're not a writer;

you're a scribbler.

I've watched you with your little

typewriter go click, click, clack.

Get out. Go!

You could show me.

Go on.

No. I can't.

How can I get pleasure

writing on you?

You have to write on me.

Go on.

Use my body

like the pages of a book.

Of your book.

not a special

writing instrument at all.

I began very tentatively,

Thinking of Sei Shonagon's

lists of anatomical comparisons.

The thoughts were often hers,

But the words

were entirely mine.

For my first experiment

in using flesh as paper,

I made a deal with an Englishman who was

entirely ignorant of oriental languages.

Hoki, this is where you can prove

you have my interests at heart.

Come here quickly.

off you go.

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