Some people are one-book people; their lives and their workare dominated, usually with conscious complicity, by a single book.William Pitt, first Earl of Chatham (1708-78), seems to have found a"politician's vade-mecum" in Spenser's Faerie Queene.1 Umberto Eco,despite the vast range of reference apparent in all that he writes, in-sists that the guiding star of it all is Gerard de Nerval's Sylvie (1853). Kujo Tanemichi (1507-94), when asked by Satomura Joha (1527-1602)what he was currently reading, what he regarded as the most valuablereference for poets, and whom he would most welcome as a compan-ion of his leisure hours, answered "Genji, Genji, Genji."3Yosano Akiko (1878-1942), had she ever been asked a similarset of questions, could with equal sincerity and accuracy simply haverepeated Tanemichi's reply. The poems cited above, from the begin-ning and the end of Akiko's literary life, bracket the career of thisauthor, another one-book person. Her book, too, was The Tale of Genji. Striking though the resemblances are, however, it seems more likelythat Akiko's poem is an allusive variation on a poem that appears inthe 'Yokobue' (The Flute) chapter of Genji. One autumn evening,Yugiri visits Kashiwagi's widow, the Second Princess. He is receivedby the Princess's mother Miyasudokoro. Yugiri plays on the koto astrain that he had often heard Kashiwagi play, and he suggests thatthe Princess play something too, but her response is reluctant andbrief. As he prepares to leave, Miyasudokoro presents him with a flutethat had been a favorite of Kashiwagi and he sounds a few notes onthe instrument.