Treating the Kojiki like a straightforward chronicle of events is a bit like relying on a family photo album to tell every story accurately—it captures key moments, but leaves out plenty of nuance. Commissioned in 712 CE under the guise of legitimizing the Yamato court’s divine lineage, the Kojiki blends myth, legend and a pinch of political spin. Tales of Amaterasu’s sunlit emergence from the cave or Susanoo’s slaying of the eight-headed serpent serve more as cultural cornerstones than precise bullet-point history.

Archaeological digs at Yoshinogari and recent 2024 findings near Nara have helped corroborate aspects of early Yamato administration—rice cultivation, clan networks and burial practices—aligning with certain Kojiki passages. Yet, it’s wise to take names and dates with a grain of salt. Genealogies stretch back into a miasma of gods, and events are often packed with moral lessons or ritual prescriptions rather than straightforward reportage.

Modern scholars tend to view the Kojiki as a mirror reflecting 8th-century court politics: asserting imperial unity, codifying Shinto rites and weaving local clan mythologies into one national tapestry. It’s the bread and butter for anyone studying how religion and governance intertwined on ancient Japanese soil. On the flip side, turning it into a literal history textbook overlooks its role as a living document—one that shaped, and was shaped by, rituals that endure in Shinto shrines today.

In the rush of contemporary debates—like last year’s NHK special on Shinto revival or discussions around cultural heritage preservation—there’s a fresh appreciation for the Kojiki’s narrative power rather than its strict factual accuracy. It remains invaluable for understanding early Japanese worldview, even if the line between myth and history wades into murky waters.