Pathway to Japanese Literature

It was exceedingly hot, and I imagined it must have been quite trying for all of you to gather in such large numbers and listen to a speech in this heat.
I had heard there was another lecture event just yesterday, and with such similar events following one after another, even those guaranteed to be of some value must have felt somewhat overdone—I could only surmise how trying it must have been for you to listen to yet another one.
Yet putting oneself in the position of delivering a speech was no easy task either.
Particularly now that I had received Mr. Maki’s introductory remarks—which included what amounted to advertisement-like praise about how Mr. Sōseki’s speeches possessed such subtle complexities—when I attempted to deliver an address befitting his commendation, it felt as though I had mounted this platform specifically to perform feats of elaborate intricacy for your observation, such that unless I fully achieved those subtleties, I could not possibly step down; thus I found myself constrained in an increasingly difficult predicament.
In truth, before coming out here, I had consulted with Mr. Maki beforehand.
This was meant to remain confidential, but I resolved to disclose it to you.
It was not exactly a secret of such magnitude, but truth be told, I had felt I lacked sufficient material to speak at length to all of you today, which was why I asked Mr. Maki, "Might you be able to extend your part somewhat?"
Thereupon, Mr. Maki gave me a reassuring reply that his part could be extended as much as needed, so I immediately felt as steady as a ship in calm waters and requested, "In that case, I would like you to extend it a little."
As a result of this, while I remained grateful that an attempt at a brief critique of my speech—whether in the opening remarks or introduction—had originated from my own request, it was also an undeniable fact that this had conversely made things rather awkward.
Given that I had dared to make such a pathetic request in the first place, this speech ought to proceed straight to its conclusion and end precisely there—there could be no room for complexities.
By no means did I possess materials sufficient to achieve the subtleties of modulation and intricate complexity—not even if I wished to use them as medicine.
Having said that, it was not as though I had ascended the podium in a complete daze—so I had indeed made some degree of preparation to come out here.
To be sure, my coming to Wakayama had not been part of the original plan; however, as I had requested the Kinki region, the company had allocated Wakayama to me from within it.
Thanks to this arrangement, I had gained the convenience of being able to explore unfamiliar places and notable sites, which proved most advantageous.
It was not that I was giving a speech incidentally—no, rather, I had visited places like Tamatsushima and Kimiidera on the occasion of this speech. Therefore, I could not possibly come empty-handed to these historic sites and scenic spots either.
The topic of my talk had been duly decided upon in Tokyo.

The title is "The Civilization of Modern Japan," but whether the character for "modern" comes below or above makes no difference to me—it could just as well be "Modern Japan's Civilization" or "Japan's Modern Civilization," and I would hardly mind.
"There is the character for 'modern,' there is 'Japan,' there is 'civilization,' and if you imagine the character for 'of' inserted between them, that tells the whole story."
Without any complications, it is merely this straightforward matter called the civilization of present-day Japan.
If asked what should be done about this civilization, the truth is that my capabilities offer no solution, so I intend only to explain civilization itself before leaving the matter to your esteemed judgments.
"What purpose does explaining civilization serve?"
You might pose this question, but I suspect you do not fully comprehend what is meant by modern Japan's civilization.
It may be impolite to suggest you have not fully grasped this, but I believe it remains poorly understood by the general Japanese populace.
Even I do not claim thorough understanding myself.
However, being in circumstances that allow me more leisure than all of you to devote extra thought to such matters, my primary aim is to seize this opportunity to have you hear my personal reflections.
After all, we are all Japanese born in modern times—neither people of the past nor future—and currently under civilization's influence. Thus, these three terms—modern times, Japan, and civilization—are undeniably and inseparably bound to us all. Yet if we remain indifferent to modern Japan's civilization or lack clear understanding, everything becomes inconvenient. Therefore, I deem it prudent that we mutually study this subject and clarify what can be clarified.
This approach may seem somewhat academic, but I believe we must begin by examining civilization's general nature—unconstrained by specific adjectives like "Japan" or "modern times."
Though we all use the term "civilization" daily with constant repetition, when pressed rigorously about its true meaning, we often discover our assumed mutual understanding proves unexpectedly divergent or remains hopelessly vague. For this reason, I wish to commence by establishing civilization's definition.

However, if one was not extremely careful when formulating a definition, something outrageous would result.
If I were to phrase this in complex terms, once a definition was established, that which had been defined became rigid, like starch-paste craftwork.
When we examined the definitions scholars had formulated, we often found that while one could not help but admire the skill and intellectual prowess with which they neatly encapsulated complex characteristics, one also had to lament the oversight inherent in their work.
To explain this flaw in the simplest terms, it was because they took something living and entombed it in a rigid, four-cornered coffin of definitions, deliberately rendering it inflexible.
Of course, definitions such as those in geometry—where a circle was defined as a shape where all points on the circumference were equidistant from the center—were perfectly acceptable; they served the convenience of definition without causing harm and were quite commendable.
However, this was not so much an explanation of round objects existing in the real world as it was an ideal agreement to fix within our minds what we called a circle—a concept that had remained unchanged throughout time and was thus rigidly adhered to under this single definition.
As for other shapes—be they squares or triangles—so long as they existed geometrically, once defined, there might be no need to ever alter them.
Unfortunately however, those circles, squares, and triangles existing in the real world that remained unchanged across past, present, and future were exceedingly few.
Particularly in things endowed with their own vitality and existence, transformations and fluctuations were inseparably attached.
Today’s square might well become tomorrow’s triangle, and one could not say that tomorrow’s triangle would not someday collapse into a circle.
In short, unlike geometry—where definitions existed first and phenomena were constructed from them—when one created definitions to explain preexisting phenomena, unless those definitions inherently anticipated the phenomena’s transformations and encompassed their evolving significance, they became what might be called inflexible, by-the-book definitions—utterly devoid of perceptiveness.
It was akin to photographing a single instant of motion—precisely when the nature of movement was least apparent—as a train came roaring in, then proclaiming "This was a train! This was a train!" as though one had captured the entirety of the train on a single photographic plate, which was generally how such things were presented.
Indeed, no matter how you looked at it, there could be no doubt that it was a train.
However, since this photograph failed to capture the essential motion inherent in a train—the very aspect one must not overlook—we had to conclude that it differed so profoundly from an actual train as to be beyond comparison.

There exists something known as amber, as you are aware.
Within amber, there are occasionally specimens containing flies.
When held up to light, it undeniably appears as a fly—yet ultimately remains motionless.
While one cannot deny it being a fly, it scarcely qualifies as living.
Among definitions formulated by scholars exist those resembling this photographed train or amber-trapped fly—seemingly vivid yet requiring judgment as lifeless.
Hence arises the necessity for caution.
That is to say: capturing changing phenomena through definitions that forbid their very mutability.
Were we to rigidly define policemen from inception as white-uniformed saber-bearers, even constables themselves would find this insufferable.
Returning home, such an officer couldn't even change into yukata attire.
How pitiable—sword-bearing through summer's heat!
Cavalrymen ride horses.
While indisputably true, must these horsemen remain perpetually mounted?
Surely they crave dismounting occasionally.
Endless such examples existing, I shall conclude appropriately.
Truthfully—having pledged to define civilization yet straying into definitional complexities—I offer profound apologies.
However, through such precautions when summarizing civilization's essence, I believe we may evade scholarly pitfalls while gaining practical advantage.

Now I shall finally return to Civilization, but Civilization itself moves much like trains, flies, policemen, or cavalry.
Thus, one cannot capture a single moment of Civilization perfectly in a camera and then go around proclaiming this as Civilization.
I visited Wakaura yesterday, but among those who have seen it, there are people who say that Wakaura is a place with very rough waves.
On the other hand, there are also those who say it is an extremely tranquil place.
It’s unclear which is better.
Upon closer inquiry, it turned out that the story took on these two contrasting aspects because one group had gone when the waves were extremely rough, while the other had gone when they were extremely calm.
Since they are based on actual observations, neither account is false.
But neither are they entirely true.
Definitions resembling this are not entirely without their use.
But since it is clear that they are both useful and harmful, it is my hope that the definition of Civilization will contain as few such inconveniences as possible.
But if we do that, it becomes vague.
The regrettable thing is that it becomes vague.
However, even if it becomes vague, as long as it can be distinguished from other things, that should suffice.
As Mr. Maki mentioned in his introduction, it seems that Mr. Natsume’s lectures—much like their written counterparts—can at times prove tedious in the journey from gate to entrance hall, which is truly a pitiable tale; yet having attempted it myself, I find this indeed to be the case.Now that we have finally reached the entrance hall, let us boldly move on to the true definition.

Civilization is the path through which human vitality manifests itself. This is what I wished to assert. Not just me—all of you would surely say the same. Of course, even were I to state this, it is neither found in books nor novel in any way—it is merely what I choose to declare, though in return it remains utterly unremarkable. Yet this definition proves exceedingly vague. After delivering such an interminable preamble only to subject you to this meager formulation alone, one might think I mock my audience—but in truth, ambiguity compels us to establish this starting point. Thus, as human vitality—as I have just described—manifests itself along time’s current while shaping civilization, I resolved to acknowledge—nay, do indeed acknowledge—two fundamentally distinct modes of activity.

Of these two types, one is positive and the other negative.
I must apologize for offering such a commonplace explanation, but when we employ the term "positive" in discussing the manifestation of human vitality, it signifies the expenditure of energy.
Conversely, the other type comprises activities or devices that strive to prevent energy expenditure as much as possible—hence my designation of it as negative in contrast to the former.
It is through these two mutually contradictory activities—clashing and intermingling in discord—that what we call civilization takes form.
Even now, this may remain too abstract for full comprehension, but I trust my meaning will become self-evident as we proceed.
Fundamentally, what we term human life or existence may assume varied meanings and complexities through interpretation; yet since these concepts ultimately admit no description beyond manifestations, progressions, or continuations of vitality—as I previously stated—it follows that through meticulous observation of how this vitality reacts to external stimuli, we may broadly apprehend humanity's living conditions. That the aggregation of these conditions across multitudes from past to present constitutes civilization itself requires no further elaboration.
Now, while our vitality's responses to external stimuli must naturally exhibit infinite variety given their complexity, I maintain they ultimately resolve into two categories: first, devices to restrict and conserve vitality when stimuli arrive, minimizing its use; second, means of actively seeking agreeable stimuli to expend vitality here for pleasure.
Let us provisionally name the former "actions of energy conservation" and the latter "inclinations toward energy expenditure." These conservation efforts arise specifically in response to stimuli bearing what we moderns commonly term "duty."
Though traditional moral education—indeed even contemporary pedagogy—enthusiastically promotes bold initiative in duty fulfillment, this remains confined to morality's domain: it addresses only what morality demands or deems socially beneficial. Yet when observing vitality's manifestations and the fundamental fact governing their structural evolution, we must interpret matters precisely as I have outlined.
We too perpetually believe mutual duties must be fulfilled and feel satisfaction afterward; yet probing deeper through introspection reveals an enduring disposition within our hearts—a desire to escape duty's bonds swiftly, to compress and expedite tasks compelled by others through sheer necessity.
This very disposition becomes devices for energy conservation—constituting a prime driving force of what we call civilization.

In contrast to this passive struggle to conserve energy, there exists on the other hand an active spirit seeking to expend energy freely wherever possible—a spirit that in turn constitutes half of what we call civilization.
The method of its manifestation naturally grows more complex as society progresses, but if we simplify this greatly and explain in what aspects it appears, it would be easiest to understand if we first state that it arises from stimuli referred to as “pleasure” in common parlance.
When it comes to pleasure, everyone knows what it is.
There are various examples such as fishing, playing billiards, engaging in Go, or shouldering a rifle to go hunting.
These require no explanation—they are all instances of people taking pleasure in expending their own energy of their own accord, without compulsion.
Advancing further, this spirit becomes literature, science, or philosophy; thus, even things that at first glance appear quite complex are all merely manifestations of pleasure.

I contend that these two spirits—the passive energy conservation responding to duty’s stimulus and the active energy expenditure answering pleasure’s provocation—advance side by side, clashing and blending chaotically as they evolve, thereby giving form to this infinitely complex phenomenon we call civilization.
The outcome reveals itself plainly when observing our present society’s actual conditions.
From energy conservation’s standpoint, people devise methods to minimize labor while maximizing productivity within shrinking timeframes.
These contrivances accumulate into marvels like steam trains and telegraphs—yet trace their lineage to mere shortcuts born of indolent minds avoiding inconvenience.
When ordered to run an errand from Wakayama City to Wakanoura, any soul would beg exemption if possible.
But compelled to comply, one seeks comfort and speed.
Bodies remain idle where feasible.
Thus rickshaws materialize by necessity.
Demanding luxury breeds bicycles.
Persistent caprice transmutes these into trams, automobiles—even aircraft—through nature’s arithmetic.
Yet countering this, despite railways and telephones’ convenience, two or three annual days arise when leisure’s urge swells—when one must walk the full distance today.
They embrace bodily exertion and court fatigue.
Our daily strolls—that modest extravagance—constitute part of this active vitality expenditure governing life’s management.
Ideally, commands to “go forth” would align with heightened pleasure-seeking moods—but reality rarely obliges.
Oftentimes summons arrive when walking seems least desirable.
Hence we engineer contactless errand-running.
Thus visits morph into letters, letters into telegrams, telegrams into telephones.
Ultimately this willful scheme—to fulfill life’s demands without labor if possible; this indignant outcry against self-immolation for survival (“This farce insults reason!”)—might reasonably be seen as humanity’s petulant ingenuity birthing monstrous mechanical efficiency.

Through this monster’s power, distances shrank, time contracted, and efforts were spared—all obligatory labor having been pared down to its minimum possible level, then pared down further still until one could not tell how far this compression would go. Meanwhile, that pleasure-seeking tendency he had named the opposing energy expenditure also exerted itself to the utmost in unfettered indulgence; this too advanced boundlessly, developing with ceaseless immediacy as naturally as flowing water.
As for this development of the pleasure-seeking tendency, were we to let moralists have their say, they would likely have decried it as improper.
But that remained a matter of morality and did not constitute a factual issue.
From the broad perspective of fact, this spirit of ingenuity—expending energy where we pleased—was ceaselessly at work and ceaselessly developing around the clock.
It was precisely because society existed that humans were compelled to perform obligatory actions; yet if left to their own devices, they would naturally act self-centeredly, so expending their minds and bodies on stimuli they favored became an unavoidable course of events.
Even if they freely expended their energy in response to their favorite stimuli, it did not necessarily mean they were doing anything wrong.
Pleasure was not limited to keeping company with women.
To engage in what one pleased was a matter that spanned every conceivable aspect permitted by civilization.
If one wished to paint, they would try to paint as much as possible.
If one wished to read books, they would try to read as many as possible as long as circumstances permitted.
Or there were sons who, claiming to love scholarship, entered their studies without understanding their parents’ hearts and turned pale from overwork.
To an outside observer, it was impossible to comprehend what was happening.
Although the father struggled to secure tuition through strained calculations, hoping that once his child graduated, he could have him earn a salary and retire early, there were cases where the child was utterly indifferent to matters of livelihood, instead spouting idealistic notions about wanting to discover the truths of heaven and earth while leaning over his desk in frustration.
The parents considered it training for livelihood, yet the child only agreed that it was scholarship for pleasure.
For this reason, the vitality of pleasure could not be stamped out by any moralist.
Indeed, when one considered what forms its manifestations took in the world and how conspicuously they appeared, even those so devoted to their family business that they would outright deny pleasure’s very right to exist in this fiercely competitive age could not help but acknowledge it once they paid the slightest attention.
I had stayed at Wakanoura the previous night, and upon going there, I saw various things—the sagari pine trees, Gongen-sama, Kimiidera Temple—but among them was an elevator labeled “the first in the Orient, 200 shaku above sea level,” ceaselessly ferrying visitors up and down from the inn’s rear to the summit of a low rocky hill.
In truth, I too had been one of those who entered that iron-barred cage like a zoo bear and was lifted up to the mountain’s summit.
But that contraption was neither situated in a particularly necessary location for daily life nor was it such an indispensable device—well, it was something of an oddity.
It merely went up and down.

Undoubtedly it manifests this pleasure-seeking spirit—with curiosity and advertising desire perhaps contributing—yet remains largely unrelated to practical livelihood.
This serves as but one example; none can deny that such luxuries multiply as civilization advances.
Not only does this luxury proliferate daily, but grows ever more intricate.
Within larger structures form multiple concentric rings that deepen like a funnel.
Simultaneously they extend into previously overlooked domains, their reach broadening year by year.

In short, the two intermingled paths I have just outlined—namely, the realm of various inventions and mechanical forces arising from the desire to conserve labor as much as possible, and the realm of pleasure seeking to expend energy as freely as possible—became warp and weft, ever-changing and intricately interwoven to create what we now beheld: the chaotic, baffling phenomenon of civilization.

Thereupon arose what might be termed a curious sort of paradox—something that might sound strange at first hearing but constituted a phenomenon none could deny.
When we inquired why humankind had manifested these two forms of vitality while advancing along civilization’s current to reach the present day, we found no answer but that they were born with such predisposition.
To state this inversely meant our very existence now derived solely from this inherent tendency.
To elaborate further compelled us to conclude that remaining idle with hands tucked in sleeves would render survival impossible—thus were we successively driven from stage to stage until achieving this development.
Considering how thousands of years’ labor had gradually brought us to modernity’s position through these dual vitalities’ cumulative ingenuity since antiquity—life assuredly should have grown easier than bygone days.

But what is the reality?
To speak frankly, our lives remain exceedingly difficult.
We all share the awareness that we live under hardships yielding not an inch to those endured by people of old.
No—the more civilization advances, the more competition intensifies, making life seem ever more arduous.
Undoubtedly, civilization has been won through these two vital forces clashing fiercely.
Yet while this civilization has generally elevated living standards, it by no means follows that survival's anguish has been relatively eased.
Just as elementary pupils suffer academic competition differently than university students—varying in degree but equivalent in proportional strain—so too when measuring how modern people differ from ancients in happiness or unhappiness: though great disparity exists in energy expenditure and conservation techniques, the anxiety and effort born of survival competition have not eased one whit from former times.
No—it may have grown more painful than ever before.
In antiquity, people contended over life and death itself.
They had no choice but to exert such efforts—else perish.
They acted from sheer necessity.
Moreover, as avenues for pleasure remained closed regardless of inclination, both the scope and intensity of desires—this whim or that—were exceedingly faint; we might imagine them content merely to occasionally stretch their legs or rest their hands.
Today we have largely transcended life-or-death dilemmas.
This has transformed into a competition of living versus living, so to speak.
To speak of "living versus living" may sound peculiar, but it means we must agonize over whether to exist in condition A or condition B.
Taking an example from energy conservation: it has become a contest between earning one's keep by pulling a rickshaw or gripping an automobile's steering wheel.
Whichever you choose as your vocation won't endanger life itself—yet claim not that both demand equal labor!
Pulling a rickshaw likely makes one sweat far more profusely.
Should you become an automobile driver taking passengers—though owning such a vehicle would obviate needing fares—you could traverse great distances briefly.
Not a shred of backbreaking effort need be spent.

As a result of energy conservation, work could be done with ease.
Now, leaving aside the past when there were no automobiles, once they had been invented, rickshaws were fated to lose out to automobiles.
If defeated, they had to pursue.
Thus, when something that could slightly reduce labor and gain an advantage appeared on the horizon, stirring up turbulence there, a phenomenon akin to a low-pressure system arose within civilization; it was human nature to remain in flux until proportional balance was restored and equilibrium recovered.
This same undulation held true when viewed from active vitality’s manifestation—to put it plainly, though one might have been content until then to smoke Shikishima or similar, when the man next door was savoring Egyptian tobacco with evident relish, they too came to crave a taste.
Upon trying it, they inevitably found it superior.
Ultimately, those who smoked Shikishima came to feel excluded from human society itself, and a competition emerged where one had no choice but to switch to Egyptian tobacco.
In common parlance, humans grew extravagant.
Moralists perpetually admonished against luxury from ethical positions.
While commendable in principle, being injunctions contrary to natural trends, their inevitable failure became clear when considering how much more luxurious humans had become from antiquity to the present day.
If this intensifying competition across both active and passive dimensions represented civilization’s inexorable trend, then though we might have painstakingly developed to our current state through long ages of devising various ingenuities and wringing out wisdom, when considering the psychological distress life imposed upon our inner selves, I believed the degree of suffering showed no real difference whether speaking of now, fifty years prior, or even a century before.
Therefore, even in this present age where labor-reducing devices had been perfected to such an extent, and even now when avenues for freely expending vitality through leisure stood prepared, existence’s pain remained unexpectedly acute—indeed, it might well merit being termed extraordinary.
Given that we could be born into an era permitting such labor reduction yet feel no gratitude for that privilege in our minds, or witness entertainment’s varieties and scope expand so vastly yet remain blind to its value—under these circumstances, it might indeed be permissible to inscribe “extraordinary” upon our suffering.
This, I concluded, was the great paradox civilization had produced.

Now I shall turn to Japan’s civilization, but if general civilization is indeed as I have described—since Japan’s civilization constitutes but one variety thereof—this lecture might well conclude here with the admission that it should suffice. Yet it does not.
However, owing to a particular circumstance there, Japan’s civilization does not proceed thus.
Why does it not proceed thus?
To elucidate this constitutes the principal aim of today’s lecture.
Were I to declare this, you might feel as though we had merely passed through the entryway and just now reached the parlor—and be rather astonished.
Yet it shall not be overly prolonged; this lecture proves unexpectedly brief in depth.
Even for myself as speaker, lengthy discourses prove wearisome; thus intending to curtail it promptly in accordance with energy conservation’s law—pray endure but a little longer.

Thus, the question arises: how does modern Japan’s civilization differ from the general civilization I previously described? Were I to resolve this matter in a single phrase, I would declare thus: Western civilization—that is, general civilization—is internally driven, while modern Japan’s civilization is externally driven. By “internally driven,” I refer to that which emerges and develops naturally from within, much like a flower blooming as its bud spontaneously bursts open and petals turn outward. By “externally driven,” I mean that which is compelled by forces pressing from without to adopt certain forms out of necessity.

To elaborate further, Western civilization operates with the natural ease of drifting clouds and flowing water, whereas Japan’s civilization since the Meiji Restoration and its subsequent engagement with foreign nations has followed a markedly different trajectory. Naturally, any nation with neighboring relations inevitably receives external influences; thus even Japan has never developed in complete isolation through its own vitality alone.

There were periods—whether under the influence of the Three Han States or China—when Japan became deeply immersed in foreign cultures. Yet surveying this long span of history broadly, one might say it advanced through comparatively internally driven civilization.

It would be accurate to state that Japan had never before in its recorded history experienced such an intense shock as being suddenly roused by Western cultural stimuli after two centuries of narcotic seclusion under national isolation policies.

Japan’s civilization began twisting abruptly from that moment onward.

It had received an impulse demanding such contortions.

Expressed through my earlier terminology: what had until then unfolded through internal momentum suddenly lost its capacity for self-direction, finding itself coerced by external pressures into compliance—reaching a state where survival necessitated obedience.

This is no transient condition.

The notion that Japan could withstand being shoved once forty or fifty years ago and simply hold its ground describes no gentle prodding.

Not only has Japan been pushed intermittently—moment by moment—to reach its present state, but it must continue enduring such pressures for years to come, perhaps perpetually, merely to persist as Japan itself; thus we have no choice but to deem it externally driven.

The reason for this is self-evident: returning to my earlier detailed definition of civilization, the Western civilization we first encountered forty or fifty years ago—and still cannot avoid confronting today—possesses energy-conserving mechanisms dozens of times more efficient than ours, alongside methods for actively expending vitality in pleasure-seeking pursuits dozens of times more sophisticated than our own.

Crude though this explanation may be, it signifies that just as we—through internal development—had attained a civilizational complexity of ten, from some unforeseen quarter there abruptly appeared a civilization of twenty or thirtyfold complexity assailing us with sudden violence.

Under this pressure, we find ourselves compelled into unnatural development; hence Japan’s present civilization advances not through steady plodding but through desperate leaps and bounds.

Lacking leisure to traverse each civilizational stage sequentially, we must stitch our way forward using the coarsest needles available.

The points where our feet touch earth amount to barely one shaku per ten shaku crossed—the remaining nine shaku left untrodden, as per ordinary practice.

I trust my intended meaning of “externally driven” has now become sufficiently clear.

When we considered what psychological effects such externally driven civilization might have on us, it appeared rather peculiar.
I must apologize for broaching such complex matters outside a psychology lecture, but as I intended to present only essential points simply before returning to my main topic, I asked you to bear with me briefly.
Our minds were ceaselessly moving.
You were listening to my lecture; I stood before you speaking these words; both parties shared this awareness.
Moreover, our mutual minds were in motion.
They were functioning.
This was what we called consciousness.
If one extracted a portion of this consciousness—say, about a minute’s worth when accumulated—from the ceaselessly moving vast consciousness and examined it, it would still be in motion.
This mode of movement was by no means something I had invented; I merely introduced it because I found most reasonable what Western scholars had written in their books. However, whether we spoke of one minute’s consciousness or thirty seconds’, from the perspective of their contents being clearly reflected in the mind, they did not remain fixed as if glued to a single spot—possessing uniform intensity throughout, indifferent to time’s passage.
It was always in motion.
As it moved, points of clarity and obscurity emerged.
If we represented these highs and lows with a line, a flat straight line proved inadequate; it inevitably required an arc with some slope—a curved line shaped like a bow.
Explaining this might have made it more convoluted, but scholars tended to present understood matters obscurely, while laypeople feigned comprehension toward things they didn’t grasp—so blame was equally divided.
To unpack what I meant by arcs and curves: even when glancing at an object, time was required for recognition—consciousness ascending from below over duration to reach clarifying peak before arriving at “Ah, this is it.”
If one continued gazing, vision gradually dulled and blurred; thus consciousness’ upward direction turned downward again toward dimness.
This became clear through experimentation.
No machinery was needed.
Since your mind was structured thus, you noticed through simple trying.
Even when reading with sequentially arranged words A, B, and C, comprehension progressed naturally—A imprinting clearly while B remained subconscious.
When B began ascending consciousness’ stage, A had already faded toward awareness’ periphery.

When moving from B to C, it was merely repeating the same process; thus, no matter how one extended the examples, it remained identical. This was an analysis scholars had conducted by dissecting fleeting moments of consciousness and presenting them to us—a dissection applicable not only to an individual’s minute-long awareness but also to society’s collective consciousness, indeed extendable to spans of a day, month, year, or even decade. Its defining characteristic, I maintained conviction, stayed wholly unchanged regardless of participant numbers or duration.

To illustrate: a large assembly such as yourselves were then listening to my lecture there. Some might not have been attending, but well—I proceeded under the assumption you were. Consequently, my lecture’s content clearly entered your collective consciousness rather than individual minds. Simultaneously, your pre-lecture experiences—the rain that had drenched garments en route, or the sweltering journey’s hardships—gradually grew indistinct and uncertain as the address commanded your focus.

Furthermore, once concluding and stepping outside to feel a cooling breeze, your minds became wholly absorbed in that “Ah, how pleasant” sensation, utterly forgetting the lecture’s substance. From my standpoint, this was thoroughly unwelcome yet unavoidable fact. Even had I demanded you retain my lecture through all daily activities—waking or sleeping—none would consent to requirements contradicting psychological processes.

Similarly examining your group’s conscious contents revealed that whether spanning months or years, each month possessed consciousness demarcating its span, each year consciousness encapsulating its duration—all successively waxing and waning through transitions. Our own retrospections showed middle school eras or university periods as distinctly named epochs with coalesced awarenesses.

The Japanese collective consciousness had four or five years prior become wholly engrossed in Russo-Japanese War awareness. An ensuing era had been dominated by Anglo-Japanese Alliance consciousness. Extending psychologists’ dissections through such inferences to collective and prolonged consciousness compelled concluding civilization’s trajectory—as humanity’s vitality-developing path—advanced through wave-like undulations of interlinked arcs.

Undoubtedly these waves were infinite in number, each length and height infinitely varied; yet Wave A necessarily summoned Wave B, Wave B in turn beckoned Wave C—sequential progression remained imperative. In brief summation: I wished to declare civilization’s progression fundamentally false unless internally driven.

A modest narrative formed my present lecture’s substance. From your listenerly perspective, initial ten minutes left my emphasis unclear; around twenty minutes brought coherent flow; thirty minutes saw engagement kindled; forty brought wandering focus; fifty induced tedium; sixty elicited yawns. Whether events matched this projection remained uncertain—but if so, my persisting two or three hours against your psychological processes would prove equally futile.

The reason lay in such circumstances rendering this lecture externally driven—contrary to your natural inclinations.

No matter how much I shouted until my throat strained and voice grew hoarse, it would not do—you had already passed beyond the point where my lecture met your needs.
You would sooner crave tea and sweets than listen here—yearn for alcohol or ice water rather than endure this address.
Yet this follows nature’s course without compulsion, being internally driven.

Having laid this groundwork safely behind us, let us return our focus to modern Japan’s civilization.
The pressing question remains whether Japan’s progress flows through natural undulations—Wave A organically birthing Wave B which propels Wave C onward—yet regrettably this proves untrue, constituting our gravest dilemma.
For when we had barely reached complexity level twenty in energy conservation and expenditure’s twin domains, external pressures violently thrust us toward thirty—we now charge forward like men snatched by tengu demons through nightmare realms.
Our path unfolds with scarcely any conscious direction.
True civilization shifts from Wave A to B only when satiation with A’s every virtue and flaw compels new waves through inner necessity—only after draining both sweet nectar and bitter dregs may fresh phases properly emerge.
Thus we shed Wave A’s husk without regret like serpents discarding skins.
Nor do we feel costumed imposters when battered by Wave B’s onset.
Yet Japan’s current surges under Western tides—we who ride them being un-Western must play uneasy guests with each new breaker’s crash.
Before grasping old waves’ true essence after arduous escape comes fresh abandonment.
Imagine banquets cleared ere discerning dishes served—trays replaced while still marveling at their arrangement.
A nation thus civilized must nurse voids within.
Restlessness and disquiet must fester somewhere.
Those preening as if this progress sprang from native soil do wrong.
This hollow Western mimicry proves improper.
Falsehood compounded by superficiality.
Though still children unable to distinguish tobacco’s taste should we affect connoisseurs’ airs? Such presumption!

The Japanese people, who cannot sustain themselves without daring to do this, must be called a truly pitiable nation.
Though we might hesitate to apply the term civilization, you need only observe social interactions between Westerners and Japanese to perceive something amiss.
Once we engage with Westerners, any Japan-centric approach proves fundamentally untenable.
To say we need not interact would settle matters—yet pitifully, Japan's present condition leaves us no alternative to engagement.
When interacting with stronger parties, we must inevitably discard our own ways and adopt their customs.
That we take pride in criticizing others—saying things like "He doesn't know how to tend a corn" or "She can't properly hold a knife"—amounts to nothing more than empty posturing, born solely of Westerners' superior strength.
Were we stronger, we could easily make them imitate us here and there, reversing our positions as host and guest.
But since this remains impossible, we find ourselves imitating them instead.
Moreover, being unable to suddenly alter customs that developed naturally over time leaves us no recourse but to mechanically memorize Western etiquette.
Such borrowed formalities—unfermented by natural internal development—hang upon us like ill-fitting garments, glaringly incongruous.
This is not civilization—not even a fragment of it—yet even in these trifles, our actions remain externally driven rather than arising from within.
To state it plainly: modern Japan's civilization ultimately amounts to superficial veneer.
I do not claim this applies universally without exception.
While extreme language must be tempered when addressing complex issues, we cannot avoid concluding that much—indeed most—of our civilization remains superficial however we might flatter ourselves otherwise.
Yet I do not say you should cease because it is flawed.
It is an inescapable reality; we must swallow our tears and continue skimming this shallow surface.

Now, someone might suggest we cease imitating a child carried on another's back while attempting to walk alongside adults, and instead advance by methodically following development's proper sequence—but would that even prove feasible?
Were such a proposal raised, I would concede it not entirely impossible.
Yet should we Japanese seek to compress into ten years the civilization that required a century to develop in the West—moreover executing this transition in a manner evading accusations of emptiness while appearing undeniably internally driven to all observers—we would again descend into dire consequences indeed.
To accomplish a century's experience within ten years without superficial skimming—given the timeframe reduced tenfold—our vitality must multiply tenfold; even one versed in arithmetic's basics would readily assent to this necessity.
Taking scholarship as illustration proves most expedient for comprehension.
Setting aside those who parrot half-digested Western theories with empty bravado, let us posit one who truly accumulates research—progressing from Theory A to B, then B to C—eschewing trend-chasing vulgarity and novelty-flaunting vanity, advancing through natural, internally driven stages of order; further assuming we Japanese have attained through forty-odd post-Restoration educational years the specialization extremes Westerners required a full century to reach.
Were we to traverse with glaring clarity—in under half the time, ignoring pioneer hardships—what Westerners of superior physical and mental vigor spent a century achieving, then this astonishing knowledge-harvest we might boast would simultaneously afflict us with neurasthenic collapse beyond recovery, leaving us gasping faintly by life's roadside—an inevitable phenomenon arising as natural consequence.
Consider calmly: would not most who labor strenuously as university professors for ten years tend toward neurasthenia?
To declare all hale-appearing scholars fraudulent invites misunderstanding—yet surely succumbing to neurasthenia seems more natural expectation than exception.
I invoke scholars merely for clarity; this logic applies equally to civilization's every aspect.

No matter how much civilization may progress, it is surprising how feeble the degree of security we receive as its blessing remains, and when we factor in the anxieties of having to grow irritable from competition and other pressures, our happiness seems scarcely different from that of barbaric times—as I previously explained—to which we must add that due to the unique circumstances in which modern Japan finds itself—as I just described—our civilization is compelled to change mechanically, merely skimming the surface, and if in striving not to slip further we succumb to neurasthenia, then truly, whether we call it pitiable or lamentable, the Japanese people have fallen into an unspeakably dire predicament.
My conclusion does not extend beyond that. I am not saying you should do this or must do that.
There is nothing we can do; it is an extremely pessimistic conclusion that amounts to nothing more than sighing over how truly dire it all is.
It would perhaps have been better had we not arrived at such a conclusion.
Truth is something one desires to know while unaware of it, but there are times when, having come to know it, one thinks, *Ah, it would have been better not to know.*
In Maupassant’s novel, there is a story about a man who, having grown weary of his common-law wife, leaves her behind with a note or some such thing and goes to hide at a friend’s house.
Thereupon, the woman became furious and finally tracked down the man’s whereabouts to storm into his place. When the man produced severance money to begin negotiations for ending their relationship, she slammed the payment onto the floor, declaring: “I didn’t come here because I wanted this! If you truly intend to abandon me, I’ll die—I’ll throw myself from that window there (on the third or fourth floor) and die!”
The man, feigning composure, made a gesture that almost said “Go ahead,” inviting the woman toward the window.
Then the woman suddenly ran over and jumped out of the window.
She did not die but was left irreparably disabled.
Now, this is the plot of Maupassant’s novel: faced with such irrefutable proof of the woman’s sincerity before his very eyes—having until now regarded her as no different from a frivolous prostitute and doubted her chastity—the man evidently came to regret his suspicions, returned to their former marital bond, and devoted himself to nursing his ailing wife. Yet had he tempered his doubts to a more reasonable degree, such calamity might have been avoided; but in that case, his skepticism would never have been thoroughly resolved in his lifetime.
Moreover, if one were to press this far, the woman’s sincerity would indeed become clear—but looking back after having fallen into an irreparable, cruel outcome, one would surely wish they had left her uncrippled even if it meant never understanding that truth which holds no real worth.
The truth of modern Japan’s civilization is much like this story—precisely when we do not understand it, we may indeed wish to study it, but once its nature becomes so starkly clear, we cannot help but feel that the past, when we did not understand, was happier.
In any case, if my dissection of the matter holds true, we cannot help but grow pessimistic about Japan’s future.
It seems that nowadays few are foolish enough to boast to foreigners about our country having Mount Fuji, yet one hears arrogant proclamations everywhere that we have become a first-class nation since the war.
I suppose one can manage if they adopt a rather carefree perspective.
Even if I were asked how to overcome this crisis, as I stated earlier, I have no brilliant plans or anything of the sort.
I have no choice but to say something presentable about proceeding to change in an internally driven manner to the extent possible without succumbing to neurasthenia.
I deeply apologize for having shamelessly laid bare bitter truths before you all, thereby causing even an hour’s discomfort to your fortunate selves; yet I earnestly request your sympathy in viewing leniently any shortcomings given that what I have presented here also constitutes a sincere opinion born of substantial reasoning and proportionate contemplation.