2021: This book seems to fit perfectly into a distinct niche in my soul, where the Japanese temperament, Chinese history, Buddhism, caves, archaeology, Central Asia (especially the western reaches of China), deserts, and a love of manuscripts all intersect in an oddly-specific, uniquely-fulfilling manner. I can't quite explain it, but reading it produced a mélange of feelings similar to finding the long-missing piece to one's 10,000-piece puzzle — relief, ecstasy, wonder, bafflement, comfort, peace. Or perhaps it is more akin to opening a sealed grotto a thousand years closed . . .
The writing is subdued and straightforward. It is historical fiction that is far more historical than fictional in style. Inoue writes as though he were piecing together a story from antiquated scrolls and historical accounts (which, to an extent, he was); he lets the weight of history do most of the work on the reader, and his narrative sits lightly, almost airily, atop that larger, more prominent structure. Most historical fiction tends to be overwrought and a bit gaudy, as if history requires prodigious embellishment to either interest or make sense to the modern reader; yet this work, centered as it is on events that took place almost a millennium ago, feels fresh, stirring, and without affectation. Some have decried it as boring, but I don't quite think that's the case. Or, if it is, it is purposefully so. Rather, the book has all the taciturnity of a sand dune, and, when it speaks, it does so matter-of-factly and without pretense. Some have also decried the characters as rather flimsy or lacking in substance. But, again, I disagree: Inoue simply eschews the desire to give pages of diegesis to each of his character's actions, whims, and emotions. He prefers to say things like: "He was moved by powerful and deep feelings" and leaves it at that. In a way, it is purer and truer to speak of feelings and perceptions in such a manner, as any rationale we give to our feelings is by nature a post-hoc exercise in retroactive meaning-making. To say simply that we are moved, and that we know not why — what could be more honest, more humble?
In short, the book moved me, and I know not why.