Think of Shinto not as a faith built on a single “holy book” but as a tapestry woven from ancient chronicles, ritual handbooks and living oral tradition. At the very heart lie two eighth-century texts:

• Kojiki (Records of Ancient Matters), 712 CE
– The oldest extant Japanese narrative, stitching together creation myths, kami genealogies and the divine origins of the imperial line. Its poetic language still echoes through shrine rites today.

• Nihon Shoki (Chronicles of Japan), 720 CE
– More elaborate and influenced by Chinese historiography, this volume fills in gaps left by the Kojiki, often with multiple versions of the same myth. It’s the go-to source when scholars debate how Amaterasu first hid in that celestial cave.

Beyond those twin pillars, a handful of other writings shape Shinto’s everyday face:

• Fudoki (Records of Wind and Earth)
– Local reports commissioned around 713 CE, blending geography, folklore and agricultural notes. When wandering through countryside shrines, those village legends still feel freshly minted.

• Engishiki (Procedures of the Engi Era)
– Compiled in the early 10th century, it’s essentially a medieval ritual manual, detailing how to conduct offerings, festivals and purification rites. Shrine priests still crack it open when planning year-end ceremonies.

• Norito (liturgical prayers)
– Not a single volume, but a genre of invocations recited by priests to call down kami blessings. These invocations are as fluid as the seasons, evolving with each shrine’s local flavor.

No modern “New Testaments” have supplanted these texts; instead, Shinto’s strength lies in how those ancient pages continue to inform Tokyo’s subway-station shrines, rural harvest festivals and even environmental movements calling for a renewed respect for nature spirits. The absence of a closed canon means Shinto keeps its hand firmly on the pulse of the land—and the people who live close to it.