Download - Moving Dharma

Harrison Blum
Buddhist Bodies
Spring 2010
The Path Made Visible:
Toward a Culture of Embodied Buddhist Ritual Art
Buddhism’s blossoming in the West poses questions of tradition and
adaptation. Countries such as the United States are steeped in paradigms of
individuality and freedom. U.S. convert Buddhists may often find themselves
exercising this spirit of autonomy in a twice-removed Buddhist inheritance. A first
layer exists between the Westerners bringing or Asians taking Buddhism from East
to West, and the changes resulting from this transition. A second layer may also be
present in how a Western convert Buddhist selectively subscribes to a combination
of Buddhist entities. Surely, some convert Buddhists have one teacher and go to one
center. Perhaps it is realistic to conjecture, however, that more common is the
practitioner who reads a few different Dharma magazines, has been influenced by
teachers of multiple lineages, and has sat, if at all, at more than one retreat center.
While access across different schools of Buddhism may enrich learning
through increased availability and crosspollination of teachings and practices, it has
not entailed the transference of monastic culture from East to West. We in the West
may be enjoying the greatest exposure to diversity of Buddhist philosophies while
engaging the least in monastic practice. Monastic life has been the backbone of the
Buddhist tradition since its inception. What does it mean, then, for Buddhism to
take root in Western lives without a strong monastic presence? Shy of establishing
dozens of monasteries in the West and recruiting practitioners to move in, what can
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be learned and salvaged from Buddhist monasticism as the tradition prepares to
take off its Western training wheels? Realistically, how can these monastic facets be
applied to real and relevant Western pursuits?
One arena toward which monastic efficacy can be distilled is a culture of
embodied Buddhist ritual art, a culture this paper will show to be both timely and
promising. A parallel review of Korean and Chinese Buddhist monastic practices
along side the Japanese contemplatively Dharmic movement forms of Nō Drama and
Butō dance illumines a multitude of similarities—in their philosophies and
approaches as well as their contradictions and paradoxes. Familiarizing ourselves
with these examples of Buddhism’s past interweavings with artistic embodiment
can help create guidelines and models for forging a culture of embodied Buddhist
ritual art that is, if not uniquely, authentically Western.
A central theme common to Nō, Butō, and Buddhist monasticism is bodily
discipline and exertion. Robert Buswell’s Training in the Meditation Hall outlines
the rigor involved in current Korean Buddhist monastic life for monks focused on
meditation. Though these make up just 5% of monastics in the country, they enjoy
an elite status, one not without its demands (Buswell, 167, 161). These monks sit in
meditation for upwards of fourteen hours a day and abide by a comprehensive list
of meditation hall rules (Buswell, 168). This list, first formalized in the 1920’s and
still used today, includes such requirements as not stretching one’s legs, reading, or
going to sleep before midnight (Buswell, 165-7). Beyond these standard protocols,
meditators at times choose to undergo additional austerities. On the milder side are
the practices of eating a raw food diet or not speaking (Buswell, 190, 195). More
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demanding endeavors include not lying down, even to sleep, and, less commonly,
ritually burning off one’s finger—completely (Buswell, 194, 196). Though not
scarring, at least physically, the “week of ferocious effort” is another unforgiving
undertaking. This annual event, conceived as “a kind of ritual reenactment of the
fervent practice performed by the Buddha before his enlightenment,” requires
monks to go without sleep for a full week (Buswell, 187).
In The Practice of Chinese Buddhism 1900-1950, Holmes Welch focuses on a
slightly earlier period in describing monastic life in another Asian context. Here,
too, rules were of primary import. Welch highlights how the initial ordination
period centered in learning and living by scores of monastic protocols. These
included studying minute details of “how to eat, how to dress, how to lie when
sleeping, how to make their beds, how to pack their belongings for a journey, how to
stand and walk, how to enter the great shrine-hall, how to make a prostration to the
buddha image, how to receive guests, how to hand over the duty…and so on”
(Welch, 287). Once these daily life norms were digested, monks and nuns would
immediately move on to studying the hundreds of Pratimoksa vows and, if
Mahayana, an additional 58 bodhisattva vows (Welch, 290, 294). Akin to the
burning off fingers, though less severe, it was standard for Chinese monks to brand
their skulls with hot incense (Welch, 299).
An earlier text from Chinese monastic Buddhism, Daily Life in the Assembly,
illustrates the pervasive place of monastic regulations going back to the early
thirteenth century. This text also focuses on meditator monks, assigning
prescriptions and restrictions on activities such as how to fold one’s blanket, wash
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one’s teeth, bathe, use the toilet, and even with which foot to enter the meditation
hall (Foulk, 462-71). The intricacy of these mandates is well exemplified in the
guidelines for setting out one’s bowl.
Using the left hand, take the bowls, and place them on the mat. Using both
thumbs, remove the bowls and set them out in order, beginning with the
smallest. Do not knock them together and make a noise. Always hold back
your fourth and fifth fingers; as impure fingers, and they are not to be used.
(Foulk, 465)
More than a situational formality in monastic life, this regime was viewed as
a prerequisite to making meditative progress. “From morning to night, to avoid
every particular offense, one must straightaway obey every single provision. Only
after that may one presume to say that one has investigated the self, illumined the
mind, understood birth, and penetrated death” (Foulk, 462). The body was
intimately tied into most of these provisions, producing a prominent monastic
choreography in the project of enlightenment.
The artistic mediums of Nō and Butō also stress embodied discipline. Nō is a
Japanese form of theater, dating back to the fifteenth century. While demanding
precisely measured movements in the portrayal of a limited number of roles, also
required is an impeccable clarity of presence. On Nō founder Zeami’s approach,
Japanese mind-body theorist Yuasa Yasuo speaks of the training as “a discipline for
shaping one’s body into a form. Art is embodied through cumulative training; one
comes to learn an art through one’s body” (105). The life of a Nō actor required
years, or often a lifetime, of such viscerally grounded discipline toward artistic
mastery (Zeami, 106). Zeami himself “conceived of the Way of the nō…in a manner
similar to that of the Way of…the Buddhist adept…[entailing] commitment, constant
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practice, and a genuine humility on the part of the one who is sincere in seeking a
true path toward enlightenment or excellence” (Zeami, xxi-xxii).1 This commitment,
beyond being sandwiched between the beginning and end of rehearsal sessions,
carried over into the broader life and lifestyle of the Nō actor. “The path of the nō
actor must be one of monastic dedication: sex, gambling, heavy drinking are
distractions to be avoided” (Zeami, xi).
Ohno Kazuo, twentieth century founder of Butō dance, also advocates for
pervasive, embodied training. The technique of Butō is largely grounded in a
dancer’s physical response to specific imagery and motivations. While the
movements of Butō are not exactly prescribed, their process of embodied
intentionality is no less demanding. At one point during a workshop, Ohno asked of
his participants a level of exertion reminiscent of the above-described ascetic
practices. “From now on, just continue until such point that you can no longer
breathe. Don’t let yourself be distracted; keep at it until you’re fit to faint. Take
yourself to the very edge…You’ll never undergo a radical transformation unless you
plunge wholeheartedly into yourself” (Ohno & Ohno, 293). As with a monk’s Vinaya
vows following him outside of the monastery gates, or the Nō actor’s commitment
outside of rehearsals, Ohno saw Butō more as a way of life than an activity or
profession. Ohno’s son, Yoshito, writes of him, “he puts his heart and soul into it, no
matter what the circumstance. As far as he’s concerned, the stage and life are one
and the same” (Ohno & Ohno, 70).
1
Though passages from the Zeami text cited from Roman numeral pages appear in introductory
chapters of the book and are written by modern authors, I use Zeami’s name for parenthetical
citations to avoid confusion over which volume is being referred to. Recognition of these modern
authors is given in the Reference citation.
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While parallels can be drawn between embodied disciplines of Buddhist
monasticism, Nō, and Butō, it is not in discipline that they most closely mirror each
other but in the goals they make for human consciousness. Buddhism’s goals have
somewhat varied across time and place, and it is beyond the scope of this paper to
summarize them. Too, there is no shortage of Buddhist studies materials outlining
practitioners’ motivations. Perhaps, instead of offering such a reduction, a passage
quoted earlier could serve to portray something of the Buddhist monastic goals
from the times and places in discussion. Taking this phrase from Daily Life in the
Assembly and changing the verb tense, we arrive at the mission statement to
“investigate the self, illumine the mind, understand birth, and penetrate death”
(Foulk, 462). Each item on this agenda could be, and indeed is, expanded into
voluminous texts of philosophical and practical discourse. Useful here, however, is
not expounding on their meaning, but digesting it; groking it, if you will. In this light,
we may understand these monastics as undertaking projects driven toward
experiential knowledge of the building blocks of perception and existence. As such,
they are evocative of Merleau-Ponty’s phenomenological call to take into account
the starting blocks from which we spring before constructing complex ontologies,
the perennial, yet deeply personal, quest to “rediscover phenomena” and “reawaken
perception” (Merleau-Ponty, 66).
These rediscovered, reawakened steps are ideally those taken by Nō and
Butō artists. Zeami speaks of this as “an essence that is a distillation, a crystallizing
of experience, the flowering of one’s talent that leads to an understanding of a
Zenlike essence of the human condition in a single gesture or a turn of the head”
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(Zeami, xi). The flowering image is Zeami’s often used representation of artistic
mastery, whereby the actor’s experience of himself and the audience’s perception of
his presence is constantly refreshed and revitalized (Zeami, xxxiv). Although the
word “spiritual” has become vague enough to be of questionable currency, it is
nevertheless worth noting Zeami’s (translated) testimony that a performer’s ability
to maintain this revitalization stems from “that internal spiritual power that lies
within him” (119).
Ohno names this spiritual power as originating in no less than selftranscendent cosmic union. Philosophically, he implores us, “we’ve got to realize
that we belong to, and are part of this entire universe” (Ohno & Ohno, 264).
Artistically, he relates, “my body won’t come alive in performance unless my way of
interacting with the immediate world undergoes a significant shift” (Ohno & Ohno,
25). Illustrating the radical nature of this proposed shift is an exercise Ohno once
led wherein dancers attempted to convince themselves of their ability to walk
through steel doors (Ohno & Ohno, 301). With the right level of focus and belief,
Ohno suggested they might just find themselves on the other side of the door. His
point was not so much that steel doors should be passed through, but that
assumptive and habituated patterns of the mind should be examined and
deconstructed.
Working toward these goals of illumined, flowering, cosmic consciousness
engenders a degree of transcendence of the discipline and technique foundational to
each practice community. Realization of, or merely progress toward, a desired
mind-body climate lessens a practitioner’s need to attend to a tradition’s
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choreography with as much mental effort or physical consistency. Buswell testifies
to such breathing room within the highly structured meditation halls. “The hall’s
atmosphere is formal enough to provide a stable environment in which a monk can
develop his practice, yet its schedule is flexible enough so that a monk can make
minor adjustments in his style of practice to suit his particular training needs at the
moment” (Buswell, 161). Such adjustment to particular momentary needs
privileges inner experiences over outer dictates. In addition to adapting the
schedule, clothing requirements were also malleable. In the hot summer months,
Buswell reports, pants were often rolled up and socks and shirts removed, not to
mention formal robes (172-5). The position of the monastic meditation monk itself
was largely relegated to neophytes, “junior monks whose meditation is not yet
mature enough to practice effectively alone in a hermitage” (Buswell, 161). Once a
monk’s proficiency in practice had advanced sufficiently, he could opt for the
freedom of solitary practice. The communal controls of the meditation hall were
thus an initiation on the way to exercising greater self-control, a control offering
greater customization and variety.
Welch describes how a three-tier system of monastic rules formalized such
pliancy. The first and oldest layer was the Vinaya, enumerating the classic monastic
prohibitions. Pai-chang’s Pure Rules, compiled in the ninth century by a Ch’an
monk, constituted a second layer of rules concerning organization of the monastery
and enactment of rituals. Thirdly, texts known as kuei-yüeh were unique to each
monastery and described the particulars of how Pai-chang’s Rules were to be
administered. These kuei-yüeh were not static documents, and “new rules were
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issued by the abbot as required,” resulting in a “monastic system [that] was always
in the process of slight but steady change” (Welch, 107). Though not explicitly
stated, it is inferable that this flexibility in monastic regulations arose partly, if not
primarily, from the primacy of illumining the mind over adhering to behavioral
mandates.
Zeami’s way of Nō, though methodologized in a familial legacy, uplifts
idiosyncratic specificity. “Even though it might be said that our art consists of
passing on the principles inherited from earlier generations, still there is much in a
successful performance that comes from an actor’s individual creativity” (Zeami,
38). Some of this individual creativity is apparent in contrasting the first two of
Zeami’s Five Skills of dancing. The first, the Skill of Self-Conscious Movement,
concerns normative physical techniques for performance. The second, Movement
beyond Consciousness, expands on these prerequisites.
It is the creation of an atmosphere central to that method of performance in
which the appearance of the actor can go beyond mere techniques and
concrete forms. Such a performer resembles a bird that opens its wings and
trusts itself to the movements of the winds. (Zeami, 79-80)
In this mode of formless authenticity, the actor “can forget about each
specific gesture and facial expression, while keeping hold on the continuous flow of
consciousness” (Zeami, xl). Perhaps cave dwelling monks would relate somewhat to
their self-imposed regiments as trusting their wings to the movements of the winds.
The activity of Butō , though informed by visceral impulse over formulaic
movements, entails more than unpracticed, whimsical improvisation. “There’s more
to spontaneity, as I see it, in any case, than simply dancing any old way…You can
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[not] step out there and improvise without some preparation on your part” (Ohno &
Ohno, 215). This preparation, however, does not mean memorization and
reproduction of set work. It is preparation, rather, to be incisively spontaneous.
“Imposing a structure, in itself, does not give birth to dance: we have to create the
dance within ourselves” (Ohno & Ohno, 131). Training is thus for the moment, not
for itself.
Both Zeami and Ohno speak of opening one’s wings, of creating the dance
within ourselves, as a process through which practitioners transcend the role of
performer. Yoshito Ohno writes, “The atmosphere Kazuo evokes onstage doesn’t in
the slightest hinge on the actual physical location or conditions in which a
performance takes place. Rather, it depends on the way in which he draws forth his
inner world and renders it perceptible” (Ohno & Ohno, 43). As Kazuo’s inner world
is apparently housed within vast proportions, and his deportment reportedly
similar on and off stage, we might say that Kazuo’s performances are litmus tests of
his embodied mystical experience more than isolated contrivances on the
audience’s behalf. Zeami complements this idea, stating “in the case of an actor of
the highest skill…he will have no consciousness that he is practicing it at any given
moment” (Zeami, 98). The actor and the act merge into “a state in which the flow of
movement has become so well assimilated that the actor loses even the
consciousness of controlling it” (Zeami, xli).
Japanese philosopher Nishida Kitarō presents a compelling theory of this
shift from conscious discipline to spontaneous, authentic expression. He
distinguishes between what he terms the bright and dark consciousness. The bright
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consciousness manages “external perceptions and motor sensations” (Yuasa, 186).
It is in this realm that our awareness generally lies. The dark consciousness houses
the subtler, inner sensations of nerves and organs and their accompanying emotions
(Yuasa, 186). Though elusive to discern, happenings in the dark consciousness
effect events perceivable in the bright consciousness. Dark consciousness, then,
may be understood as a “‘unifying force at the bottom of our thinking and willing’”
(Yuasa, 62).
The relationship between bright and dark consciousness is at play in actions
and character. Actions, as observable events, are more easily identified, while
character, one’s way of being in the world, is more slippery to define. Character
manifests action, as dark consciousness seeds bright consciousness. This dynamic
may also be reversed, however, when chosen action—discipline—goes to work on
character.
The bright consciousness self-consciously imposes a pattern or form on the
body-mind so that eventually the dark consciousness can act spontaneously in
a creative and spiritually significant manner. In a sense, the bright
consciousness trains the dark consciousness so that the dark consciousness
can eventually take over. (Yuasa, 81)
Through this reversal, “intuition becomes active and action passive…and the
bodily behavior, guided by this intuition, simply follows the path made visible”
(Yuasa, 68 & 199).
From meditation hermitages to performance stages, discipline is embraced
toward making the path visible, an elucidation that in turn circles back to affect the
extent or quality of discipline required. Returning to the main project of this paper,
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how might this model of form and transcendence aid in developing guidelines and
models for a culture of embodied Buddhist ritual art?
A first step is to check our understanding of this endeavor. A true culture of
embodied Buddhist ritual art will embrace each aspect of this equation as
necessarily complementary. Elements of practitioner interaction, bodily expression,
Dharmic wisdom, rite performance, and creative freedom are each essential in
forging this modern flowering. This is not an ideology, but an inherent, transitive
dynamic apparent in the full fruition of any one of these elements. How can
Dharmic wisdom not be embodied, and how can this bodily attunement not transfer
into relations with others? How can authentic expression not involve freedom, and
how could this expression be other than ritual performance? The investment
required by this process would extend beyond one’s actions into one’s character,
molding dark consciousness with bright, infusing action with intuition. Full
blooming, more than finite rehearsals toward distinct performances, would
constitute a way of life.
Toward conceiving of this art as a way of life, social anthropologist Edmund
Leach offers a helpful conceptual tool in the functional-expressive ritual continuum.
Acknowledging the poles of the sacred and the profane, Leach asserts that most of
what we do is composed of elements of the two. “‘From this point of view technique
and ritual, profane and sacred, do not denote types of action but aspects of almost
any kind of action’” (Asad, 127). A world in which the sacred perpetually
interweaves with the profane is one in which every action in every moment may be
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considered ritual performance. This is the world in which Dharmic artists must
walk.
Also helpful is ritual theorist Catherine Bell’s preferencing the term
ritualization over ritual. In a move similar to Leach’s dissolution of the boundary
between the sacred and the profane, Bell steps away from the separation induced by
considering rituals to be discrete events. “I do not wish to imply or designate some
independently existing object, named ritual, with a set of defining features that
characterize all instances of ritual” (Bell, 218-9). She thus speaks of ritualization
along with, or instead of, ritual to accentuate the possibility of ritualization
occurring in any moment by way of intentional action in contradistinction to a
theoretical ritual existing in a vacuum.
Happily, there are specific features in the current climates of Western dance,
art, and performance culture tilting the continuum toward ritualization. In the
dance world, sacred improvisational dance events are becoming a trend. From one
direction, this stems from barefoot boogie communities, founded in the 1970s as
free-form dance venues, continuing with some members incorporating greater
spiritual dimensions to the jams. This author is one such individual, having
produced monthly spiritually inclined dance jams since 2006 after being steeped in
the dance jam culture since 1999. In the past two years under the name Moving
Dharma, these events, along with workshops and performances, have been explicitly
Buddhist in orientation. Northampton Massachusetts’ collectively produced Dance
Spirit is another example with barefoot boogie origins. From another direction,
spiritual dance jams are sprouting up in yoga studios as a fleshing out of yoga’s
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body-based awareness into other embodied modalities. Examples include the
Kripalu Center’s Yoga Dance and Beth Rigby’s Yoga Meets Dance. Thirdly, there is
momentum toward spiritual dance jams from eclectic and charismatic individuals in
contemporary dance and healing arts. Jams of this nature include Sacred Groove,
JourneyDance, 5 Rhythms, Soul Motion, and Spiritweaves. These types of events are
becoming more established and ubiquitous, giving rise to residential retreats and
teacher trainings. This overt spiritualization of improvisational dance is also its
ritualization, as participants co-create rites from dance floors to yoga studios.
Meanwhile, art and performance venues are dissolving the boundary
between artists and performers and their audiences. Museums across the country
are hosting experiments or interventions, wherein the museum stays open for a
night of site specific performances. These pieces are often interactive and
multifaceted, molting the passive art viewer model for one that is more relational
and unpredictable. Theatrically, club theater is gaining popularity. Instead of
locating a dance or dramatic performance on a stage before an audience, club
theater takes away the seats and immerses the performers amidst the crowd, often
salvaging aisles, balconies, and bar tops as sites to execute routines. Locally,
Harvard Square’s Club Oberon is a hub for club theater, and South Boston’s Institute
of Contemporary Art produces periodic experiment nights.2 These moves take art
off the wall and dance off the stage, initiating the pedestrian into the performative
and embedding the performative into the everyday.
2
I have recently had the pleasure of contributing to these types of events, having performed in “Hot
Snow” at Club Oberon two weeks ago, and now rehearsing for a dance role in “Experiment America”
at the ICA, which will happen—as of my writing this—tomorrow night.
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It would be a stretch to claim these containers as the realization of a Dharmic
ritual culture. What they can be seen as are environments welcoming this culture’s
development. Further needed are models and role models to bridge potentiality
into actuality, and herein lies the need for structure and discipline. Heeding Ohno,
there’s more to forming this culture “than simply dancing any old way” (Ohno &
Ohno, 215). Essential will be skilled Buddhist, movement, and dance teachers
working in tandem to create formative programming. Such regimes would feature a
confluence of monastic and kinesthetic training styles. Perhaps offered initially for
only a weekend at a time, these programs could expand into weeks and months, and
at some point even established schools of contemporary Dharmic dance.
Dancing with Dharma retreats could consist of a vigorous pairing of seated
meditation with contemporary dance instruction. Wings could then be opened and
entrusted to the winds of spontaneous Dharma ritual. Outside the retreat context,
Dharma dancers could integrate their ritualized, performative sense of embodiment
into the routines and interactions of daily life. One small step toward this vision was
a day-long Dharma Dancing retreat I co-taught in October, 2009, at the Insight
Meditation Center of the Pioneer Valley. Interspersed with meditation instruction
and practice, I led two movement and dance sessions—the first largely instructional
and the second improvisational. Feedback was quite positive, and the retreat is
likely to be offered again.
It should be mentioned that the present suggestion to wed moving bodies
with awakening minds is not meant to overshadow other Dharmic partnerships.
Surely, there is value in aligning Buddhist perspectives with other activities, a value
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attested to by the presence of numerous workshops and retreats at meditation
centers doing just that. From reflective writing to archery to painting, Dharma
centers are on board with the “Zenning” of creative and leisure pursuits. I would
humbly suggest, though, that a tradition with such a high regard for bodily
awareness should invest significantly in practices honoring and nurturing that
awareness. Partly from a desire to ease the stress of sitting, but also to encourage
continued embodiment, many Western Buddhist centers include optional daily yoga
sessions during retreats. So, too, should they provide optional daily contemplative
movement spaces, in which practitioners might be afforded the rare opportunity to
sidestep assumed methods of being bodies and examine the starting blocks from
which they walk, stand, sit, and lie down. Such sessions would be offerings as well
as experiments, rituals as well as releases.
The call to dance with Dharma is also not meant as competition for the
variety of spiritual dance jams and practices already available. There are numerous
skillful entryways to expressed, embodied insight. An advantage of partnering with
Buddhism on the dance floor, however, is its tried and true technologies of selfrealization, tested and sustained over the past many hundreds of years. While
current, New Age cocktails do have their lessons to offer and might have languages
of greater appeal, it would be shortsighted to dismiss traditions such as Buddhism
as outdated.
Additionally, the move to add dance to Buddhist practice is not one away
from these established technologies. Certainly, such fixtures as seated and walking
meditation, as well as Dharma talks, must remain present on retreat centers’
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bulletins of daily events. Likewise, a discipline of Dharmic dance is not a
replacement for Western Buddhist monasticism. Buddhist monasteries do exist in
the West, such as California’s Abhayagiri Monastery and the UK’s Chithurst
Monastery, and are comprised largely of Western convert Buddhists. Realistically,
however, monastic life is not a large draw for Westerners not socialized within
cultures of monasticism. As such, a lay life with a strong practice of ritual Buddhist
dance is one viable avenue for Western practitioners to pursue disciplines and
structures toward Dharmic flowering. With well-documented models such as Nō
and Butō, growing enthusiasm around sacred dance, and the broadening conception
of art and performance, the time is ripe for Western convert Buddhists to enfold
values of monastic discipline into the forging of a new culture of embodied Buddhist
ritual art. More than being a spiritual metaphor, dance can once again be a primary
practice.
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References
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Christianity and Islam. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press.
Bell, Catherine. (1992). Ritual Theory, Ritual Practice. New York: Oxford University
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Buswell, Jr., Robert. (1992). The Zen Monastic Experience: Buddhist Practice in
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Foulk, T. Griffith. (1995). Buddhism in Practice. (Lopez, Jr., Donald, ed.) Princeton:
Princeton University Press.
Merleau-Ponty, Maurice. (2008). Phenomenology of Perception. (Smith, Colin,
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Ohno, Kazuo, and Ohno, Yoshito. (2004). Kazuo Ohno’s World: From Without &
Within. (Barrett, John, trans. ). Middletown: Wesleyan University Press.
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Yuasa, Yasuo. (1987). The Body: Toward an Eastern Mind-Body Theory. (Kasulis,
T.P., and Shigenori, Nagatomo, trans., Kasulis, T.P., ed.). New York: State
University of New York Press.
Zeami, Motokiyo. (1418-29). On the Art of Nō Drama: The Major Treatises of Zeami.
(Masakazu, Yamazaki, and Rimer, Thomas, trans., Chappell, Wallace, cont.).
Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1984.
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