but I understand that in the Gothic cathedral of
the West, the roof is thrust up and up so as to
place its pinnacle as high in the heavens as
possible-and that herein is thought to lie its
special beauty.
In the temples of Japan, on the other
hand, a roof of heavy tiles is first laid
out, and in the deep, spacious
shadows created by the eaves the rest
of the structure is built. Nor is this
true only of temples; in the palaces of
the nobility and the houses of the
common people, what first strikes the
eye is the massive roof of tile or
thatch and the heavy darkness that
hangs beneath the eaves.
Even at midday cavernous darkness spreads over
all beneath the roof's edge, making entryway,
doors, walls, and pillars all but invisible.
The grand temples of Kyoto-Chion'in, Honganji-
and the farmhouses of the remote countryside
are alike in this respect:
In making for ourselves a place to
live, we first spread a parasol to
throw a shadow on the earth, and in
the pale light of the shadow we put
together a house.
but they are less to keep off the sun than to keep off
the wind and the dew; even from without it is
apparent that they are built to create as few shadows
as possible and to expose the interior to as much
light as possible.
If the roof of a Japanese house is a parasol, the roof of a
Western house is no more than a cap, with as small a
visor as possible so as to allow the sunlight to penetrate
directly beneath the eaves. There are no doubt all sorts
of reasons-climate, building materials-for the deep
Japanese eaves.
The fact that we did not use glass, concrete, and bricks,
for instance, made a low roof necessary to keep off the
driving wind and rain. A light room would no doubt have
been more convenient for us, too, than a dark room.
forced to live in dark rooms,
presently came to discover beauty
in shadows, ultimately to guide
shadows towards beauty's ends.
