Even after we reached the capital, when I begged my mother, "Find me tales to read," she wrote to a relative who served at the Sanjo palace as the lady Emon no Myobu, and she, pleased at the novelty, sent several fine booklets in the lid of an inkstone box, saying they were cast-offs from her mistress. I was overjoyed and did nothing day and night but read them, and I wanted to read others too, but newly arrived in the capital, who was there to find tales for me?
Meanwhile I was sent to see an aunt who had come up from the country, and she said, "How sweetly you have grown," looking at me fondly and curiously; and when I left, she said, "What shall I give you? Something practical would be dull. I'll give you what I hear you want," and gave me the fifty-odd chapters of The Tale of Genji, box and all, and with them tales called Zai Chujo, Tohogimi, Serikawa, Shirara, Asauzu and others, in a bag; my joy as I carried them home was beyond words.
The Tale of Genji, which I had only seen in bits, never understanding the plot, so frustrating, I could now read from the first chapter, disturbed by no one, lying behind my curtain and pulling out one chapter after another: what would being empress be compared to that feeling? It was better.
All day long, and at night as long as I was awake, I kept a lamp close by and did nothing but read, so that naturally I learned it by heart, and the words of the tale would come to me unbidden. I thought this was wonderful, but I dreamed that a very pure-looking monk in a yellow surplice came and said, "Learn the fifth scroll of the Lotus Sutra quickly." I told no one, had no thought of learning it, and thought only of tales: "I am not pretty now, but when I come of age, I will surely be beautiful beyond compare, and my hair will be wonderfully long. I will be like Yugao, the Shining Genji's lady, or Ukifune, the Uji Captain's lady." That heart of mine was, first of all, truly foolish and absurd.