Rarity, Reputation, and the Myth of Perfection
A woman who has nothing to recommend her is as rare as one who is perfect in every way. — Murasaki Shikibu
—What lingers after this line?
One-minute reflection
What's one small action this suggests?
A Witty Claim About Two Extremes
Murasaki Shikibu’s line pivots on a sly comparison: the woman with “nothing to recommend her” is as uncommon as the woman who is “perfect in every way.” In other words, both extremes are largely imaginary. By placing total deficiency beside total perfection, she exposes how social judgments often drift toward absolutes, even though real people usually live in the middle—mixed in strengths, flaws, and contradictions. From the outset, the quote reads less like a harsh verdict on women than a critique of simplistic evaluation itself. If perfection is a myth, then so is the notion of a person entirely without merit; what we call “recommendation” is often a selective lens rather than an objective tally.
Recommendation as a Social Currency
To understand the sting of the observation, it helps to notice that “recommend” points to reputation—what can be said for someone in public or within a courtly circle. Especially in elite settings, a person’s value could be narrated through talent, lineage, taste, conversational skill, or the ability to fit expectations. Thus, having “something to recommend” is not only about inner worth; it is also about being legible and appreciable to others. Seen this way, Murasaki implies that nearly everyone has some socially appreciable quality, even if small, because communities are quick to assign roles and attributes. Yet those recommendations can be contingent: what is praised in one room can be ignored—or punished—in another.
Perfection as an Unreal Standard
The second extreme—being “perfect in every way”—functions as the mirror image of the first. Perfection suggests completeness, unassailable virtue, and the absence of social risk. But the very breadth of “every way” reveals the impossibility: moral purity, beauty, charm, intelligence, tact, and flawless conduct rarely harmonize without conflict. An admired candor can become a social blunder; exceptional talent can trigger envy. As the thought unfolds, Murasaki nudges the reader to recognize perfection as a story people tell rather than a state people inhabit. The myth of the perfect woman can be as distorting as the myth of the worthless one, because both erase complexity.
A Heian-Era Lens on Judgment
Although the quote stands on its own, it gains depth when placed near Murasaki Shikibu’s world and sensibility. In The Tale of Genji (early 11th century), attraction and status often hinge on a mix of refinement, discretion, artistic ability, and the shifting interpretations of observers. People are appraised through glimpses—letters, poetry exchanges, rumors—so “recommendation” becomes a performance as much as an essence. Following that logic, the quote suggests that total condemnation is usually unearned, because most individuals display at least some redeeming grace when seen under the right light. At the same time, total idealization is equally suspect, because courtly narratives tend to polish away what doesn’t fit.
How Extremes Flatten Human Reality
Moving from context to implication, the saying challenges a habit of binary sorting: admirable or contemptible, angelic or hopeless. Such categories are rhetorically convenient, but they flatten the textured reality of character. A person can be generous and vain, brilliant and careless, loyal and fearful—often within the same day. Consequently, the quote becomes a warning about our own perceptions. When we believe someone has “nothing” to recommend her, we may be revealing the narrowness of our criteria or the limits of our attention. Likewise, when we declare someone perfect, we may be projecting desires and anxieties rather than seeing the person herself.
A More Humane Measure of Worth
The final turn is practical: if both extremes are rare, then most lives are lived in the ordinary middle where virtues and faults mingle. That recognition can soften the impulse to judge harshly or to idolize, replacing it with curiosity—what, precisely, is admirable here, and what is merely expected, exaggerated, or misunderstood? In that sense, Murasaki’s wit becomes an ethic of realism. By treating “perfection” and “nothingness” as twin fantasies, she invites a more humane approach: evaluate people in particulars, allow for change, and notice that recommendation often depends as much on the storyteller as on the one being described.