I possess no specialized knowledge of architecture, 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: like
most buildings of the past their roofs give the impression of possessing far greater weight, height, and
surface than all that stands beneath the eaves.
A light room would no doubt have been more convenient for us, too, than a dark room. The quality that
we call beauty, however, must always grow from the realities of life, and our ancestors, forced to live
in dark rooms, presently came to discover beauty in shadows, ultimately to guide shadows towards
beauty's ends.