The Kojiki stands at a threshold between myth and history, and its reliability must be understood in light of that liminal position. Compiled under imperial commission and drawing on long-circulating oral traditions, it weaves together divine genealogies, clan lineages, and accounts of early rulers into a single, Yamato-centered narrative. Its primary intention was not neutral record-keeping, but the sacralization of the imperial house by tracing its origin to heavenly kami. As a result, mythic episodes, symbolic geography, and political claims are tightly interlaced, with little internal guidance on where legend ends and historical memory begins.

Because of this, the Kojiki is most dependable when approached as a mirror of religious imagination and political ideology rather than as a straightforward chronicle. The early “Age of the Gods” material, with its creation stories and divine conflicts, speaks more to cosmology, ritual logic, and the spiritual status of the imperial line than to verifiable events. Even in the more ostensibly historical sections, genealogies and successions often appear systematized to support a particular vision of authority, while rival lineages and regional powers are minimized or left in the shadows. The text thus reveals as much through its silences and omissions as through its explicit claims.

Yet this does not render it useless for historical inquiry; it simply demands a more contemplative and critical reading. When its narratives are set alongside other chronicles and material evidence, certain names, events, and patterns of early state formation gain partial support, especially in periods closer to its compilation. At the same time, many accounts remain uncorroborated or are contradicted, underscoring the need for caution. In this sense, the Kojiki is best treated as a carefully crafted vision of the past, shaped by devotion, memory, and power, rather than as an objective window onto what actually occurred.

For those drawn to the spiritual heart of the tradition, the text is profoundly reliable in a different register: it preserves early Shinto myths, the sacral aura of the imperial institution, and glimpses of social and ritual life that informed the religious sensibility of its age. Its value lies in illuminating how a community understood its place between heaven and earth, how it narrated its origins, and how it clothed political order in sacred language. Approached with both reverence and discernment, the Kojiki becomes less a ledger of facts and more a guide to the inner landscape of early Japan, where myth and memory intertwine.