Early in his Kyoto days at Kōshō-ji (1230–34), Dōgen began assembling what’s now called the “75-fascicle” Shōbōgenzō. Each month he delivered lectures, then refined them into polished essays. Those early pieces bear a more spontaneous, even experimental, flavor—glimpses of a young teacher still feeling his way.

When the move north to Echizen’s Eihei-ji unfolded in 1243, Dōgen’s editorial zeal went into overdrive. Fresh snowfall on the temple grounds seemed to inspire him to wipe the slate clean and start anew. He revisited his Kyoto texts, pruning repetitions, reshaping arguments, and occasionally excising entire fascicles that no longer fit his maturing vision of practice-realization.

By the late 1240s, two new editions emerged side by side. The compact “12-fascicle” collection boiled down core teachings into digestible bites—ideal for monks pressed by rigorous monastic routine. Meanwhile, the more ambitious “95-fascicle” version spread out like an unfolding scroll, weaving in later talks and deeper commentaries on the Buddhist canon.

Rather than simply tacking on new material, Dōgen re-ordered essays thematically. The famed “Genjōkōan” moved to the front as a spiritual manifesto, signaling a shift from scholastic exegesis to lived insight. Language grew denser, more allusive; poetic flourishes began to dance around metaphors of mountains, rivers, even the soaring flight of a hawk. In places, passages were hammered into sharper focus—a bit like a sculptor chipping away marble until only the essence remained.

In today’s digital age, where scholars pore over online manuscripts and museums in Kyoto showcase Edo-period woodblock prints of Shōbōgenzō, Dōgen’s layered revisions still spark fresh debate. His editorial journey—from the rolling hills of Kōshō-ji to Eihei-ji’s frozen peaks—paints a portrait of a teacher forever refining both text and self. That restless drive, trimming away the fat to uncover living truth, keeps these writings as vibrant now as they were eight centuries ago.