The brilliant white castle towering above gleams dully in the overcast sun, its curved, winglike rooflines and gables giving it the appearance of being about to take flight, despite its immensity. While lovingly restored inside and out, I can't help but wonder what it must have been like when it was lived in, with princes and courtiers and samurai walking its halls in soft soled stockings, wearing the wood down to a sheen, and servants preparing food and shuttling bedclothes from room to room, privy to every secret, gossiping quietly in corners.
I know the logic, of course: landmark treasures such as this one, the last of its kind in Japan, must be preserved, and using it as a residence, as it was it in the past, would only hasten its decay.
But I think they might have got it wrong - the only way some houses can live is if they're lived in, and the house in which no one lives moves closer to death
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