Pathway to Japanese Literature

Just now, we had Maki-kun's Manchuria problem—a logically clear and well-ordered speech concerning matters like Manchuria's past and future.
Now according to Maki-kun's introduction, I—appearing after him—am expected to deliver an even more interesting talk, but I fear I cannot manage it as skillfully as Maki-kun.
I particularly suspect it shall lack any semblance of order.
Just moments ago came a request from the main office—since they intend to publish this in tomorrow's newspaper—demanding I condense a summary of the lecture into some twenty lines, but I refused outright, declaring myself incapable of such compression.
You might well ask, "Then why speak at all?"—and yet here I stand doing precisely that.
There are indeed things I wish to say, but as matters of structure and organization remain neither clearly partitioned nor neatly arranged within my mind, I anticipate there may be digressions, confusions, and portions altogether trying to follow.
Moreover, considering your minds must already be considerably wearied, I shall strive to make my remarks as brief as possible.

What I will discuss is not difficult in the slightest.
“Unlike external issues like Manchuria or Annam, it’s an extremely simple title: ‘Hobbies and Professions.’”
The content is accordingly simple as well.
“Well, I would like to share just a little bit about that.”

Originally, I had never imagined coming to such a place to give a lecture, but given that they insisted, “You must come,” I said that if so, I would need time to think of a topic, and upon this request, the newspaper company agreed and granted me an appropriate period. Thus I couldn’t claim to have come without preparing, nor could I outright refuse to appear—and so I have ended up standing here. However, while I knew Akashi was a place for sea bathing, I didn’t know it was a venue for lectures until arriving last night. I must admit I struggled to comprehend why they would plan such an event here. Yet when I came and saw it—this extraordinarily large building—and was informed by someone that lectures were held there, I finally understood. Indeed, when one erects such an edifice, they must summon lecturers from somewhere lest it become what we call a treasure left to molder. Therefore, though the western sun blazes scorchingly hot, one might say you all have reason to visit this splendid structure, while we lecturers have our duty—and so under this rationale, I have taken the podium.

Hence the title: "Hobbies and Professions."
When we speak of *dōraku*—if taken pejoratively—it refers to drinking alcohol or frequenting pleasure quarters, what’s colloquially called a “prodigal son.” Such behavior gets labeled *dōraku*.
“Yet the *dōraku* I mean here isn’t so narrow—it’s a broader, more adaptable form of hobby.”
“Whether we can use ‘*dōraku*’ in a positive sense—a genuinely positive sense—I don’t know, but I expect it’ll clarify itself as I go on.”
“If that proves impossible, we’ll simply take its negative meaning and be done with it.”

By placing the term “hobbies” on one side and “professions” on the other—much like east and west, north and south, or fire and water—I aimed to discuss how hobbies and professions came into conflict; that was the gist of it.
In other words, I would first explain how hobbies and professions related to one another and where they clashed—though of course, since you all were already well acquainted with both hobbies and professions, there was no need for me to elaborate on such matters, nor did I particularly wish to force the issue. However, given the circumstances I mentioned earlier that compelled me to come there in the first place, I privately assumed my role would be fulfilled if, through my efforts, I could make these concepts even one step clearer to you than they already were.

Now, we often casually refer to “professions” in a single breath, but as I had mentioned to someone recently, I doubted anyone truly knew how many types of professions existed in Japan then or how much that number had grown compared to the past.
In today’s world, the number of professions had become increasingly complex.
I had once considered whether to establish a course on occupational studies at universities.
I did not propose it, but I had merely thought about it.
The reason was that many students graduated from universities.
They emerged from the highest institutions of education.
Of course, assuming that brilliant talents entered the world, what did these talents do after emerging? They spent their days from morning till night searching for some means to eke out a living or some foothold for survival.
It was economically wasteful to leave brilliant talents idle while making them search frantically for some opportunity—each day they remained idle became a day’s loss.
If left idle for two days, it meant a two-day loss.
In times like those when rice prices were high, the loss grew even greater.
If employment had been provided sooner, both parents and guardians would have felt at ease, and they themselves would have felt reassured.
National society too would have benefited to that extent.
Thus, while this would have seemed to bring benefits in every direction, despite these brilliant talents rushing about frantically, dripping with sweat as they searched, there appeared to be few so-called professions available.
Far from being merely scarce—they were practically nonexistent.
Despite professions being distributed in such numbers—hundreds or thousands of types spread across the land—and despite these adaptable talents desperately rushing about everywhere, there remained a scarcity of professions to entrust their lives to.
While one pitied those idling for three or four months, there were already others who had spent a year or two listlessly living in boarding houses with nothing to do.
Among those I knew, there was a man who had shut himself up in a boarding house for over a year and still hadn’t paid a single penny in rent, remaining in a daze.
To be sure, the boarding house owner trusted him enough to keep lending the room, and he himself seemed reassured, thinking things would somehow work out—but from the perspective of the national economy, it was an utterly absurd state of affairs.
Since I was somewhat acquainted with him, I felt sorry for his situation and had asked around repeatedly if there might be any work available—any work at all—but unfortunately, as no such positions were lying about anywhere, he remained as he was for now.
However, as I had just mentioned, since there were hundreds of types of professions, logically speaking, they should have been able to find a match somewhere—or so one would have thought.

It was just like seeking a bride—one’s destined match must exist somewhere, and clearly they too are searching—yet if matters don’t align smoothly, the union remains perpetually delayed.
In precisely the same way, no matter how brilliant one’s talents might be, there’s simply nothing to be done unless one chances upon a suitable profession.
This is why I thought—if universities were to establish courses in occupational studies explaining how professions develop through academic principles,
and what vocations emerge in which eras as part of natural evolutionary processes,
then by laying out every detail systematically—much like how Tokyo City’s map clearly demarcates wards such as Ushigome, Koishikawa, and others—we might create a framework where the significance of professional specialization, their regional distributions, and their cyclical fortunes could all be comprehended at a glance. Wouldn’t it then be remarkably convenient if one could simply leap into whichever field they preferred? That was my thought.
Of course, this is mere fantasy.
Having never attempted it myself, I cannot say for certain—but I suspect it would prove unworkable.
I merely entertain the notion that it might be desirable if achievable.
It would likely prove most economical.

It is to such an extent that I entertain these thoughts that I believe there are an extraordinary number of professions in Japan today, and moreover, that these professions are in a state of chaotic disorder. Just the other day, while walking through the streets, I came across a most peculiar trade. That was a business of dragging houses and storehouses along, so I was astonished. It is a business of taking this public hall to other locations as it is. No matter how vigorously urban planning is carried out in Tokyo, the city does not change in such a way that houses built just the previous year must be relocated every single time—indeed, it does not. In fact, my house has remained untouched by urban planning from the time it was built until today. It must be because it’s located in quite a remote place. However, even if someone lives in a bustling area, there aren’t people who constantly need to have their houses dragged around. However, since there are people who make a specialized business of it, I thought Tokyo must be vast. In Bakin’s novels, there is a character called the Earwax Removal Chief, but I wonder if others actually made a profession of removing earwax. In the West, there are businesses that clean nails neatly and improve one’s appearance. Lately in Japan, specialists have emerged who offer various beauty treatments under the name of biganjutsu—extracting facial impurities, applying creams, and other forms of makeup—but such businesses likely did not exist in the past. If professions had not spread like sweet potato vines from one thing to another and multiplied in various types as they do today, I think such minute businesses as beauty techniques would likely not exist. However, in the past, there were trades that no longer exist today. In my childhood, vendors would come around calling out things like “willow insects and red frogs.” As for what they were used for, now I only remember the vendors’ calls. Then there were also those who would walk through the streets carrying a flag and calling out, “Any mischief-makers around?” Since we were children, whenever we heard that voice, we would say, “There he comes!” and run away. Upon listening carefully, it turned out they had come to sell rat poison. It was the mischief of mice and not that of humans, so we were finally able to feel relieved.

Such peculiar trades had nearly vanished of late, but when considering the total aggregate, I couldn't help thinking professions today were far more numerous.
Not only were professions changing—they were becoming increasingly specialized.
Until recently, imported goods stores had sold practically everything.
There were collars and collar ornaments, undershorts, tabi-socks, umbrellas, shoes—nearly every common item.
One might say without exaggeration they handled all foreign-made goods meant to be worn on the body.
But recently this changed—shirt shops specialized solely in shirts, umbrella shops in umbrellas, shoe shops in shoes—each neatly divided into distinct domains.
Tabi-shoe shops... They didn't seem to have their own specialty yet, but I suspected they soon would.
In fact, Japanese tabi shops had already become specialized.
Ask for ten-mon tabi and they'd provide ten-mon tabi; demand eleven-mon ones and they'd supply eleven-mon.
The reason I didn't accept speech requests on the spot was that unlike tabi shops, I had no ready-made products at hand.
People would order me—"Give us a ten-mon lecture," or protest "We'll be in trouble without an eleven-mon high-toned speech over there."
Had I become that much of a lecturing specialist there'd be no issue, but my skills hadn't developed such specialized proficiency.
Since this involved an amateur traveling all the way from Tokyo to Akashi out of obligation, matters never proceeded smoothly.
Setting tabi shops aside, even among food establishments proper specialists existed.
While some places served both beef and chicken, others specialized solely in beef or refused anything but poultry.
Some took specialization further—establishments serving nothing but duck.
Eventually we might see shops offering only bird claws or restaurants specializing exclusively in beef liver.
Once they started dividing, there was no telling how far it might go.
Given society's fierce competitiveness, I feared things would end disastrously.
At any rate, as civilization advanced, professions multiplied so remarkably their proliferation struck one as astonishing.

However, this is only natural—whether we call it societal change from an academic research perspective, or a vague social tendency—it is an inevitable trend that they divide and become increasingly specialized.
This is neither a fact I’ve discovered nor anything original; it’s something people have been saying since ancient times.
Old professions were broad and encompassed everything.
It can safely be said that the general state of affairs was such that they, much like rural drapery stores where one moment they would be selling fabrics, the next umbrellas or oil—a shop selling everything under the sun, making it impossible to tell what exactly they specialized in—gradually leaned toward specialization; branching into various directions until reaching a point of minute fragmentation scarcely imaginable.

Now, what would happen if we were to take this fact and, through sheer imagination, trace it far back into the past? Perhaps even imagination cannot trace back that far; but what if we were to regress backward through the logical force contained within this fact? As I have just said, in the past, the number of businesses was small. Since the number of professions was limited and people were satisfied with those few enterprises, it is not impossible that there was a time when one might go to buy an umbrella and find none available, or seek clothing items and come away empty-handed. I was once in Kumamoto when I went to purchase a spittoon on one occasion. However, they informed me there were none available. When I asked if they could be found anywhere in Kumamoto, they replied there likely weren't any. Now, if you were to suggest that people in Kumamoto don't smoke or spit phlegm, the truth is they do indeed smoke. When I inquired, "Then how does one manage a spittoon?" they instructed me to go into the bamboo grove out back, cut some bamboo, and fashion one myself. In a society where people consider it sufficient to cut bamboo from the rear thicket and make do with a green bamboo spittoon, such items naturally find no market. Therefore, there could be no expectation of them being sold. In such a manner, there must have been an era when people would go into the back grove to cut bamboo and make their own spittoons without troubling others—an age when one had to supplement one's immediate surroundings as much as possible without relying on others' assistance. Now, if we trace that fact to its extreme conclusion, we arrive at the speculation that there must have been a period when people managed all aspects of their lives—clothing, food, shelter, and every other matter—entirely through their own efforts, without benefiting from anyone else's help. The concept of a human being existing completely alone in society may verge on the unimaginable, and there might be no necessity to pursue logical reasoning to such extremes—but since we cannot properly call this a lecture without venturing that far, we shall proceed with that assumption. That is to say, let us envision an era when human beings existed without depending on anyone's assistance. For instance, suppose there was a time when I wove this kimono myself, fashioned this collar myself, managed all my affairs independently, and required no one's help whatsoever. Or perhaps we might even posit that such a time existed. I don't mean to assert there actually was such an era, but let us suppose it hypothetically for our purposes. Wouldn't such a time precisely warrant the proper application of the term 'true independence and self-reliance'? There would be no anxiety about receiving monthly wages from others, nor the burden of having to greet people with "Good morning" upon rising lest they take offense.

Since they lived without causing others the slightest trouble in their daily lives, they remained unperturbed. As they caused no inconvenience to others and incurred no obligations from them, there could be nothing more convenient than this. Such people had to be called truly independent human beings in the proper sense. In reality, though we could not act this way due to the demands of the times, deep down we wished to manage entirely on our own without relying on others; thus, in one aspect, we lived idealizing these people of antiquity. Yet in practice, it could not be helped—since there was no alternative, when putting on clothes we relied on drapers, and when preparing meals we relied on tofu shops. We ended up buying rice others had pounded rather than pounding it ourselves. In exchange, I performed some specialized task equivalent in degree to pounding my own rice and weaving my own clothes for others. I had never woven clothing nor sewn tabi-socks; however, in place of the tabi-socks I did not sew and the clothing I did not weave myself, I made up for it by writing trivial things for newspapers or coming to places like this to give talks. I was not alone in this—everyone did the same. Thus, this step toward specialization meant nothing other than directing oneself toward areas where one’s abilities were excessive—that is, points where one excelled beyond others—to perform twice the work others would, then using that doubled compensation to have others address one’s deficiencies, thereby sustaining one’s livelihood while maintaining mutual equilibrium. Were one to express this in an extremely complex form, it would become a phrase hinting at the philosophy that what one does for oneself is precisely what one does for others. If this remained unclear, then putting it in more mathematical terms revealed an equation where the amount of work one did for oneself equaled the amount one did for others. Since the quantity done for others was precisely the quantity done for oneself, it followed naturally that the less one did for others, the less benefit accrued to oneself. Conversely, the more extra work benefiting others one performed, the more it became one’s own benefit—this too being an evident causal relation. What most simply and clearly expressed this relationship was money. In other words, if I received a monthly salary of fifteen yen by taking fifteen yen, this meant I was devoting fifteen yen’s worth of labor to others; consequently, that fifteen yen directly served as a gauge indicating the amount of work I could perform for people. I expended fifteen yen’s worth of effort for others, and if fifteen yen in cash came in, then that fifteen yen was merely fifteen yen benefiting my own sake. By the same token, if one could perform a thousand yen’s worth of work for others, one could accordingly spend a thousand yen on oneself—a most admirable arrangement. Consequently, you all, by exerting yourselves as diligently as possible in working for others’ benefit, would undoubtedly create increasing margins to afford luxuries for yourselves without exception. Thus, I believed it would be prudent for you to exercise discernment in striving to work for others’ benefit.

However, even if we say it’s for one’s own benefit, there are various ways in which it can be beneficial.
First of all, one must pay taxes and such from those.
We pay taxes to provide people with their monthly salaries, hire police officers, or even have cabinet ministers ride in carriages.
Of course, one person alone cannot accomplish all this; we, the many, contribute money together—but ultimately, even those taxes are paid for our own sake.
Even if someone says it’s outrageous that cabinet ministers ride in carriages or automobiles, that’s what a boor would say.
Since we pay taxes to let them ride—it’s not for the cabinet ministers’ sake—if you consider it for your own sake, you’re not mistaken.
Therefore, I think it would be acceptable to occasionally go borrow an automobile or something.
Leaving taxes aside, what remains for oneself consists of clothing, food, shelter, and other luxury expenses.
When summed up, it averages income and expenses like a bank ledger.
In other words, the equation that the amount of work one does for others directly equals the amount one does for oneself clearly manifests itself in numerical terms.
Of course, there may be some who are stingy and save—but this is an exception.
Though an exception—if they save—they merely carry over that amount of labor to the future; thus it still follows the same logic.
People often criticize others as hateful for idling around or enviable for lounging about as the wealthy do—but fundamentally, humans are not creatures who can survive by idleness.
The reason they appear idle is that the money in their pocket works for them—and that money did not come into being merely by idling without doing things for others.
There may be money with ill-begotten origins—commemorating a father’s sweat-drenched brow or a grandmother’s scrimping—but in any case: some token of service done for others—that reward for having worked on their behalf—becomes one’s own money; thus thanks to that—one can idle with hands tucked in sleeves.
The nature of professions is—in general—something like this.

Now then, you were not to misunderstand the meaning of "working for others."
If one were to interpret this as meaning exerting spiritual or moral influence through education or guidance for others' benefit, that would create complications indeed.
When I say "for others," it refers to what might be called the vulgar sense of simply obeying others' words or catering to their desires—or more bluntly put, amounting to little beyond currying favor.
One might just as well rephrase it as flattering others.
So observe this:
In society there existed professions that appeared quite improper when viewed through moral lenses.
Yet those making livelihoods through such supposedly improper professions often led far grander existences than ours.
However one-sidedly unobjectionable they might appear from certain angles, however morally dubious when scrutinized—from a factual standpoint they performed what most benefited others; thus it must be stated that this also most benefited themselves, enabling lives of utmost luxury.
This was not a moral issue but a matter of fact.
Take geisha—though my limited acquaintance with such matters leaves me ill-informed on details—top-ranking geisha appeared to possess such means that they could casually select rings from among items priced at 1,000 or 500 yen.
Here I possessed nothing but a nickel watch.
While some might doubt whether I didn't serve others in nobler ways than geisha did, it seemed equally evident that I failed to please people as geisha did.
Thus we arrived at this conclusion: geisha could afford such luxuries precisely because they were virtuous souls, while those lacking virtue—however learned, however disliked—had no choice but to content themselves with nickel watches.
Therefore when I spoke of "working for others," I meant it in the broad sense of catering to people's weaknesses and preferences—not narrow morality (though morality itself isn't narrow, being but one facet of reality).
Not that high-minded yet constricted sense of "working for others," but rather a "working for" encompassing nature's own truths—welcomed by people through and through—
This was what I termed work.

Now then, I asked that you retain in memory the aforementioned distinction between “for oneself” and “for others” in professional contexts. Though I risked backtracking, as previously stated, the development of human affairs had caused professions to fracture into ever-finer divisions, producing peculiar consequences for us all. I would briefly address these consequences before proceeding further.
In my observation, while there were various influences we received from the differentiation and complexity of professions, among them lay one peculiar kind that could not be overlooked.
To put it plainly, the more the tide of civilization’s progress advanced, and the more professions became divided in nature, the more this peculiar phenomenon occurred where we became socially incomplete humans.
In other words, as one’s business became increasingly specialized, and due to survival competition requiring what was once accomplished with twice as much work as others to now demand double, triple, or even quadruple the speed merely to keep up, one tended to expend all time and stamina solely in that direction—while simultaneously becoming utterly unable to comprehend matters concerning one’s immediate neighbors, let alone those further removed.
In this way, when humans came to traverse only a single line among thousands upon thousands of professional paths, with no leeway to shift to others, it meant our social knowledge was narrowed and constricted—a result equivalent to voluntarily crippling ourselves. Broadly speaking, one might assess that modern civilization advanced by daily breaking down complete humans into incomplete ones.
In the utmost barbaric age, when one did not rely on others at all—searching out garments to clothe oneself, digging wells to drink water, gathering nuts or whatever to eat—if one lived without inconvenience or want, or if want arose endured it without a pained expression then indeed such a person had to be called a complete human: in being utterly independent in all matters and in having equipped oneself with all knowledge necessary for living.

However, in contemporary society of that time, no matter where or how one searched, there existed not a single person who lived independently without relying on others.
In this sense alone, they were all nothing but incomplete beings.
Moreover, their specialties—day by day, month by month, and inevitably year by year—needed only to continue growing narrower and more detailed to suffice.
They increasingly took on a form that could aptly be described as digging wells with needles.
I could have explained this by taking any profession as an example, but I believed what best exemplified this condition were specialist scholars and their ilk.
Scholars of old appeared to have shouldered all knowledge single-handedly, but modern scholars—myself included—stood assembled as socially incomplete beings who knew nothing beyond their own research.
Even someone like me was occasionally treated as a scholar by society’s standards—but when that happened,I too became merely one such socially incomplete being.
Indeed,I was certainly socially incomplete; at very least,I knew nothing of ordinary matters.
I did not know how to write relocation notices for ward offices,nor even what procedures to follow for selling land.
I could not comprehend which part of cotton plants yielded fiber or how it was processed.
As for egg tofu’s preparation—that too remained unknown.
I knew consumption but possessed no knowledge of creation.
Regarding other matters—mirin seasoning or soy sauce or anything else—I stood utterly ignorant.
In terms of knowledge,I had no choice but to declare myself profoundly socially incomplete.
Yet instead of universal understanding,I held deeper knowledge in one or two narrow fields.
Having spent all my time solely in those directions,I grew ever more distant from complete humanity until finally becoming something truly aberrant.
Nor was I alone—those so-called Doctors stood equally compromised.
You might have imagined Doctors knew everything about human affairs and cosmic truths,but reality proved precisely opposite—those attaining social incompleteness’ most extreme development became Doctors.

That was why I refused the Doctor title.
"But you all—even if you clap your hands—it’s no use."
"You’re already being deceived by that ‘Doctor’ label—that’s why!"
Take Akashi for instance—suppose we have a Doctor of Medicine opening practice there while across town sits an ordinary medical graduate.
Naturally people flock to the Doctor.
"No matter how you applaud—it’s futile! You’re hoodwinked!"
The truth about doctoral research? Most resemble digging wells with needlepoints.
Deep? Undeniably.
A borehole plunges far down indeed—but its girth stays pitifully narrow.
Yet society mistakes these specialists for polymaths—believing their narrow shafts represent universal wisdom.
Examine actual doctoral dissertations and you’ll find them burrowing into minutiae fascinating only to their authors.
But since they parade as Doctors of Medicine/Literature/Law...
Perhaps this stems from Ministry blunders.
Better we rebrand them clearly—Doctors of Cholera! Doctors of Typhoid! Doctors of Dysentery!
Imagine consumptives consulting dysentery doctors—no crime there...
...but when tuberculosis treatment hinges on credentials earned through diarrheal studies?
Enough about doctors—to summarize:
Civilization’s current sweeps us toward collective incompleteness.
We become beings incapable of solitary survival.
Specialists gain freakish depth in singular fields...
...while transforming into oddities bereft of common knowledge.

In my professional capacity, I had begun with the terms “for oneself” and “for others,” but having strayed onto a side path to discuss socially incomplete beings in vocations, I wished to take this opportunity to briefly address the implications of such incompleteness before returning to my main argument on self versus others.
I asked your indulgence for this disordered sequence—such was the nature of a lecture carried away by the flow of words.

In society—particularly from the perspectives of old moral values, traditional parental opinions, or general societal trust—when someone devoted themselves wholeheartedly to their family business, people lavished praise, declaring it admirable.
The so-called admirable person who dedicated themselves entirely to their family business was ultimately nothing more than someone toiling until blackened with grime—an individual lacking general knowledge—which struck me as rather amusing.
Bluntly put, society praised human beings who willingly became socially incomplete.
Be that as it may, if—as in our present age—each person’s profession grew ever narrower and deeper, with the breadth of knowledge and interests constricting daily, then we who ostensibly led socially communal lives would in reality fall into a state where each stood isolated as though barricaded in mountains; neighbors dwelling side by side yet living with hearts worlds apart—such was the condition we could only describe ourselves as having reached.
Under such circumstances, neither mutual understanding nor sympathy could arise; even clustered together in life, our inner existence remained scattered and utterly devoid of connection.
Like desiccated rice cakes—each grain isolated—it proved fundamentally joyless, would you not agree?
When human professions specialized and each individual plunged headlong into their own field, leaving no capacity to survey the broader world, they became unable to comprehend anything beyond immediate concerns.
Moreover, the inclination to foster understanding in others rarely emerged.
One might claim this sufficed, yet even when thoroughly mastering their trade through relentless study, focusing solely thereon inevitably bred an internal sense of lack—a vague incapacity to savor fully human sentiments—leaving no alternative but resignation.
Therefore, this malady of isolation and fragmentation demanded rectification.
As I had not ascended this podium specifically to expound remedies, I refrained from detailed discussion—though even had I done so, you already grasped the essence—but allowing natural progression, I touched upon it briefly.
If individual isolation sprang from mutual ignorance and sparse sympathy, then despite being souls harried by trades and professions—possessing time inadequate even for daylight hours—we needed devise methods to apportion our meager leisure toward broadly understanding humanity and cultivating mutual warmth sufficient for compassion’s germination.
To this end, erecting public halls like ours and periodically inviting lecturers for intellectual enlightenment offered one practical approach; yet as exclusive focus on such cerebral pursuits grew stifling, employing so-called social institutions to exhaust mutual goodwill presented another sound method.
At times, one might even permit alcohol and women’s use as expedient tools.
That businessmen concluded arduous consultations in unlikely establishments owed entirely to these venues functioning as mechanisms dissolving human rigidity through liquor and feminine charm—environments where, under such influences, interactions occurred through rounded sympathy and human-like sentiment.
One must understand that even the practical notion of “settling matters” originated from this non-utilitarian state of mutual openness between people as human beings.
This might render me peculiar—as though wantonly advocating spirits and courtesans—yet my essential argument remained: even employing flawed instruments like alcohol, women, or teahouses as social mechanisms among elites, humans could not endure isolating themselves individually while spurning harmony and compassion to obsess over specialized vocations.
Truthfully speaking, rather than such social contrivances, I hoped you would devote spare hours beyond professional obligations to reading literary works.

This may appear like channeling water to my own field—a self-serving argument—but literary works are by nature not specialized treatises; being attempts at criticism or narration regarding aspects common to humanity at large, they connect bare humanity with bare humanity regardless of profession or class, breaking down all other barriers. Thus I consider them the most splendid and least flawed institution for our mutual connection as human beings.
The effect seems at least equal to—if not surpassing—that of summoning geisha to pour sake.
Since you all have mustered the courage to gather in this sweltering hall and listen silently to one such as myself, I would suggest using such spare moments for reading.
“Though our growing professional specialization and busyness render us socially incomplete, I shall table the question of rectification and return instead to my initial argument about ‘self-interest versus altruism’ to conclude this lecture.”

Therefore, when observing professions from the previously stated perspective of acting for oneself versus others, we had to inevitably establish the fundamental principle that professions were ultimately things done for others.
Since the result of acting for others became beneficial to oneself, it had to fundamentally remain others-centered.
As it was already others-centered, one had to guide all efforts—the selection of types and quantity—according to external standards.
In short, the authority to adopt or discard, to continue or abolish—none of it remained in one’s own hands.
Consequently, even if one recommended to society the work one considered best and society paid no heed whatsoever, or even if one wished to rest due to feeling unwell yet society capriciously made demands as usual—in all cases, one had to bend oneself entirely to others’ will for business to succeed.
While bending the self was crucial for success, psychologically it proved most disagreeable.
The most disagreeable aspect lay in the moment when, no matter how favorable the path, being compelled beyond a certain degree caused its nature to gradually transform into aversion.
However, as I had stated before, professions and specializations involved working beyond one’s own needs in that field and offering up those unnecessary parts for others’ use; therefore, from a self-centered perspective, this meant forcing oneself to do what was unnecessary and unpleasant from the very beginning.
People often said that once something became a business, they grew to dislike everything about it—the reason for this aversion lay entirely in what I had just described.
As long as it remained a hobby, one might freely engage in work at their own discretion and in suitable measure—undoubtedly an enjoyable pursuit.
Yet the moment that hobby transformed into a profession, the authority once held by the self abruptly passed into others’ hands, and thus it was inevitable that pleasure swiftly turned to pain.
An activity pursued openly was enjoyable precisely because it was done for oneself; once shackled with the obligation to perform it for others, it was bound to become thoroughly uninteresting.

Fundamentally, abandoning oneself meant—from the perspective of morality, one might inevitably commit immoral acts; from knowledge, lower one’s standards to spout ignorance; from human bonds, debase one’s duty to engage in shady dealings; from taste, degrade one’s artistic discernment to indulge in vulgar preferences—and nine times out of ten, matters tended to go awry, hence the problem.
For instance, even if one were to establish a newspaper—though thinking it best not to write anything too vulgar—once it became a business, they had to cater to public taste to the extent necessary for commercial viability.
In short, once something bore the name of a profession—be it a pursuit of taste, morality, or knowledge—it was only natural that general society became the central deity, and one had to live by heeding the whims of this deity.

However, there exist professions in society that absolutely cannot function as others-centered. These would be scientists, philosophers, or artists—in short, we have no choice but to regard them as a special class unto themselves. Philosophers and scientists devote themselves solely to researching areas far removed from society's practical life; thus, even were they to attempt pleasing society, they would not succeed. And while society rarely judges their research based on their personal attitudes, observing such individuals laboring in laboratories from dawn till dusk out of pure curiosity, or shutting themselves in studies to ponder deeply while neglecting all else, one cannot help but feel there exists nothing in this world so thoroughly self-centered.

Then there are artists. From an outsider's perspective, one might wish to advise them—"Do this to improve your reputation," or "Try that to secure your livelihood"—but the artists themselves harbor no such schemes; they simply paint or create as they please when they please. Of course, being human with material desires, they occasionally compromise with societal expectations—yet fundamentally they remain self-absorbed, appearing from the standpoint of conventional morality as the epitome of willfulness and self-indulgence.

As I previously stated, any true profession must involve serving others—aligning with popular tastes and courting public favor. Yet these so-called hobby-centric scientists, philosophers, and artists have from their very foundations lost the essential nature of being professions. The current era makes this starkly clear: while nominally recognized as professions, they receive such meager compensation that their status becomes questionable.

In reality, scientists and philosophers cannot sustain themselves through direct engagement with society—most barely survive by becoming government-protected university professors. Even among artists, those persisting in natural principles without societal acceptance often sink into destitution. Consider Taigadō, whom you know as a great painter today—yet in his time, having never created works pandering to public taste, he spent his life hidden in a Mugurahara hovel, living like a beggar.

Jean-François Millet of France too endured constant material deprivation during his lifetime. Beyond individual examples, consider Japan's historical Zen monastic practices—extreme embodiments of nature-centered self-indulgence. These monks abandoned all worldly concerns to pursue enlightenment through zazen meditation. How could sitting silently benefit others? Viewed through their complete societal detachment—whether admirable or not—these Zen monks stand as exemplary hobbyists.

They received no material compensation for their ascetic trials, clad in hemp robes while subsisting on barley as they relentlessly pursued the Way. The principle remains simple: material benefit grows through serving others materially, while spiritual self-focus brings material disadvantage.

Leaving aside whether the aforementioned scientists, philosophers, or artists can properly exist as professions, it seems evident they cannot succeed unless remaining self-centered.
For were these done for others' sake, the very concept of 'self' would vanish.
An artist devoid of self resembles a cicada's shed shell—utterly useless.
In work where one cannot create inspired pieces but labors solely wishing to be welcomed by others, the self's spirit cannot dwell.
All becomes borrowed matter with no space for the soul.
I may not merit being called an artist, but as I engage in literary works, I likely belong to this category.
Moreover, I sustain myself by writing.
In brief terms: I make literature my profession.
Yet I believe the truth lies not in viewing my literary engagement as a profession—done for others through self-abandonment to court society—but rather as acting for myself: natural manifestations of artistic mentality that coincidentally benefit others, material rewards echoing back being merely what pleased people.
Were this by nature a profession existing solely for others—requiring fundamental self-distortion—I might have to abandon literature resolutely.
Fortunately, my self-centered hobbies or critiques coincidentally aligned with your tastes, read only by those they resonated with—receiving at least material compensation (or gratitude) solely from them—persisting until today.
However considered, it remains chance's result.
Should this coincidence collapse regarding which principle to adopt—I must base myself on my own principles; else my works hold no value to me.
Not just I—any artist would think thus.
Therefore in such cases, one must cling to artists rather than society attracting them.
Not clinging means the end.
Artists and scholars prove self-willed here—precisely why they succeed in their path.
In other words: their hobby constitutes their very profession.
They neither write nor create except at their preferred time with beloved subjects.
Utterly negligent pleasure-seekers—yet excusable as nature compels hobby-centered professions.

Forcing such people to abandon themselves merely to subsist, or compelling them against their will to distort their inherent nature—this ultimately amounted to the same result as killing them outright.
I maintain newspaper affiliations, yet fortunately have never once received such external pressures from the proprietor—whether crude demands to write readily marketable novels or directives to produce works in greater quantity.
The company has broadly permitted me to create works according to my self-centered principles.
In exchange they refrain from raising my salary—though even were they to substantially increase it, were they to alter this arrangement and dictate both the nature and volume of my output based purely on commercial priorities, that would assuredly present an insurmountable difficulty.
This applies not merely to myself but to all artists, scientists, and philosophers without exception.
For they are beings who live unwaveringly according to their hobbies.
However willful this may appear, such remains the incontrovertible truth.
Consequently, lacking permanent assets as they do, scientists and philosophers must—absent governmental or private patronage—resign themselves to living by standards comparable to Zen monks of antiquity.
As for artists who directly engage with society—should their writings or creations fail to yield material recompense despite resonating within some societal stratum—they face no alternative but starvation.
This stems from the fundamental incompatibility between self-distortion and their essential work.

I first devoted some remarks to the nature and distinctive features of professions; discussed their impact on society within civilization’s progression; and finally elucidated the relationship between professions and hobbies—in its concluding portion venturing to touch upon a certain hybrid form that might be termed avocational professions—through which I trust I have afforded you all a general comprehension of where my own occupation remains a profession and where it verges into being a hobby.
With this, I shall bring this lecture to its close.

――Delivered in Akashi, August 1911 (Meiji 44)――