Pathway to Japanese Literature

—Delivered at Gakushuin Fujinkai on November 25, Taisho 3 (1914)—

Today was my first time entering this institution called Gakushuin.
To be sure, I had long assumed Gakushuin was likely this sort of place, though I had never known for certain.
Needless to say, stepping inside today marked my initial visit.

As Mr. Okada briefly mentioned earlier during his introduction, there had been a request this spring for me to deliver a lecture; however, due to certain complications at that time—and since Mr. Okada appears to remember better than I myself do about such matters, having just provided you with a satisfactory explanation—it became necessary for me to decline provisionally.
Yet deeming a simple refusal too discourteous, I appended the condition that I would attend next occasion.
At that juncture—wishing to confirm details—I inquired of Mr. Okada: “When might this next engagement occur?” Upon hearing his reply that it would be this October, I mentally tallied the days from spring through October and concluded that with such span of time at my disposal, I could likely manage preparations adequately—thus clearly assenting with a “Very well.”
Yet whether through fortune or misfortune, illness befell me; while confined to bed throughout September, October—the month promised—arrived.
Though no longer bedridden come October, my lingering frailty rendered lecturing rather challenging.
Nevertheless bound by my pledge, inwardly I kept anticipating their imminent approach with demands—a prospect I secretly dreaded.

In time, even my feebleness finally healed, but from my side there had been no communication whatsoever until October's end passed unnoticed.
While I had not informed them of my illness, as the matter apparently appeared briefly in several newspapers, they must have discerned the circumstances—so I began feeling relieved, speculating someone had kindly delivered the lecture in my stead.
Then once more Mr. Okada abruptly materialized.
Mr. Okada had gone to the particular trouble of wearing long boots for his appearance.
(Though this was likely due to the rainy day,) thus attired he came all the way to Waseda's depths to announce they had postponed the lecture until November's end and wished me to honor our original agreement—such being his message.
Having already considered myself absolved of responsibility, I found myself genuinely startled.
Yet with still a full month's leeway remaining, thinking something would surely resolve itself meanwhile, I once more replied with "Very well."

Given these circumstances, between spring through October and again from late October through November 25th, I could have easily made time to prepare some coherent remarks; however, I felt rather unwell and grew utterly weary of even contemplating such a task.
So, adopting a lazy resolve that I wouldn't trouble myself until November 25th arrived, I ended up idling away each day as they came.
When the date finally loomed just two or three days prior, I felt some faint compulsion that I must think of something; but as thinking remained disagreeable, I ultimately spent my days painting instead.
When I speak of painting, it may sound as though I produce something grand, but in truth, I merely sketch trifling things and spend two or even three days vacantly gazing at them alone after pasting them on the wall.
Was it yesterday? Someone came and said of this painting, "It's quite intriguing"—no, they didn't say "intriguing"; rather, they observed that it appeared to be something painted in a cheerful mood.
Then I explained my mental state to the man, telling him that I had not painted out of cheerfulness, but rather from being uncheerful.
In this world, there are people who take up brush to create paintings, calligraphy, or writings precisely because they're so cheerful they cannot sit still; just as there are those who take up brush to produce paintings or writings because being uncheerful makes them wish to somehow attain a better frame of mind.
And yet strangely enough, when observing how these two mental states manifest in their results, instances occur where they align remarkably well.
However, this is merely an incidental remark unrelated to my main topic; therefore I shall not explore it deeply.
——In any event, I spent my days simply gazing at those peculiar paintings without structuring my lecture's content whatsoever.

In time, the twenty-fifth finally arrived, so whether willing or not, I found myself compelled to appear here.
Thus this morning I attempted to organize my thoughts somewhat, yet my preparations remain decidedly insufficient.
Being quite incapable of delivering remarks that might satisfy you, I must beg your forbearance with this understanding.

I do not know when this meeting began or how it has continued until today, but I fully acknowledge that having you bring in outside individuals to deliver lectures each time is not at all improper as a general convention; yet from another perspective, I also believe that lectures as interesting as you hope for would not be easily heard, no matter where you bring them from or whom you might procure.
Could it be that outsiders appear to you merely as novelties?

In a satirical tale I once heard from a rakugo storyteller, there was this account: Long ago, two daimyos went hawking near Meguro and, after galloping about hither and thither, grew terribly hungry. Unfortunately, no provisions had been prepared, and having become separated from their retainers, they found themselves unable to procure any sustenance to fill their bellies. With no other recourse, the two rushed into a grubby peasant house nearby and demanded, “Give us something—anything—to eat!”

Thereupon, the old man and woman of the farmhouse took pity on them and, grilling some sanma they had on hand, offered barley rice to the two daimyos—or so the story goes.

The daimyos finished their meal most satisfactorily with that sanma as accompaniment and departed from the place. Yet even the following day, the aroma of yesterday’s sanma still assailed their nostrils so pungently that they found themselves utterly unable to forget its flavor.

Thus one of them invited the other for a sanma feast.

The retainers were astonished when receiving these orders.

Nevertheless, being unable to defy their lord’s command, they instructed the cook to extract each of the sanma’s slender bones one by one with tweezers, marinate them in mirin or some such liquor, grill them to perfection, and present this dish to their lord and guest.

Yet those partaking were not hungry to begin with, and when they prodded at this peculiar fare—its sanma essence lost through absurdly fastidious preparation—it proved entirely unpalatable.

At this juncture, the two exchanged glances and uttered that curious remark which forms the tale’s punchline: “Truly, sanma must be tasted in Meguro!” From my perspective however—you who attend this august institution of Gakushuin and constantly engage with distinguished instructors—that you would wait from spring through autumn’s end to hear a lecture from one such as myself strikes me as akin to those who, having gorged on grand banquets’ delicacies, develop a passing fancy to sample Meguro’s humble sanma.

Professor Omori, who is present here today, graduated university in the same year as myself or thereabouts. This Professor Omori once remarked to me how troublesome it was that students these days did not listen properly to his lectures and how their lack of seriousness posed an inconvenience. I recall that his criticism was not directed at students of this school but rather at those of some private school; regardless, I must confess that I spoke rudely to him at the time.

Here I must repeat—though it is mortifying to do so—that at the time I declared, “Where in the world would there be students who would gratefully attend lectures by someone like you?” However, as my main point may not have gotten through to Mr. Omori at that time, I shall take this opportunity to prevent any misunderstanding: during our student days—when we were your age or slightly older—we were far more indolent than you are now, to the extent that one might say we hardly ever attended our professors’ lectures. Of course, as this is stated based on myself and those around me as our standard, it may not apply to those outside our circle; however, looking back now, I cannot help but feel that such an impression lingers somewhere. While my outward demeanor may have appeared docile, I was never one to lend an ear to lectures. I was constantly lazing about. With that memory in mind, when I look at today’s earnest students, I simply cannot muster the courage to criticize them as Professor Omori did. It is in that sense that I ended up saying something rude and inexcusable to Mr. Omori. Today I have not come specifically to apologize to Mr. Omori; however, since the opportunity presents itself, I shall offer my apology here before everyone.

Since my talk had strayed onto an unexpected tangent, were I to return to its origin and present matters coherently, this would be its essence.

You are enrolled in a prestigious school, constantly receiving guidance from distinguished teachers, and moreover, you attend their specialized or general lectures daily.
Yet despite this, your act of deliberately bringing in someone like me from outside to listen to a lecture strikes me as akin to those daimyo I mentioned earlier savoring Meguro’s sanma—in short, I infer it stems from a mindset of wanting to take a bite simply because it is novel.
To tell the truth, I believe that the talks given by the permanently employed teachers you see every day would be far more beneficial and likely more interesting than anything from someone like me.
Even supposing it were me—had I become a professor at this school—I cannot help but think that, if only for the lack of novel stimulation, neither this number of people gathering nor such enthusiasm or curiosity to hear my lecture would arise. What do you think?

The reason I make such an assumption is that I did in fact once attempt to become a teacher at this Gakushuin.
Though I had not actively campaigned for it myself, an acquaintance of mine at this school recommended me.
At that time, I was such a feckless individual that I had no idea how to secure my livelihood even as graduation approached; yet upon finally venturing into society, I realized that idly waiting with folded arms would not bring boarding fees, so regardless of whether I could become an educator or not, I needed to worm my way into some position—and thus I began actively pursuing this school as my acquaintance advised.
At that time, I had one adversary.
However, my acquaintance kept offering reassurances, so I began feeling as though already appointed and even went so far as to inquire what manner of attire a teacher should wear.
Thereupon, since the man stated one could not enter the classroom without a morning coat, I proceeded to have one tailored before matters were settled.
And yet I did not even know where Gakushuin was located—a most peculiar circumstance.
Now when the morning coat was finally completed, lo and behold, the very Gakushuin I had earnestly courted concluded by rejecting me.
Thus another man came to fill the vacant English teacher position.
What was that man’s name? I have now forgotten it.
Likely because I felt neither particular regret nor anything about it.
I heard it was someone returned from America.
——And so, had that American-returned man not been hired then, and had I by some fluke become a Gakushuin teacher persisting until today, this ceremonious invitation to address you all from an elevated position might never have materialized.
That you have waited from spring through November to hear me speak is nothing less than proof that having failed as a Gakushuin teacher, I am now regarded by you all as a novelty akin to Meguro’s sanma—is it not?

I would now like to speak briefly about myself following my rejection from Gakushuin.
I ask that you listen to this not merely because it continues my previous remarks in sequence, but because I regard it as an indispensable component of today's lecture.

I failed at Gakushuin, but I did have a morning coat. I had no other Western clothes to wear, so it couldn’t be helped. Where do you suppose I went wearing that morning coat? Back then, unlike now, finding employment was much easier. Whichever way I turned, suitable positions seemed available—in short, likely due to a shortage of candidates. Even someone like me received simultaneous offers from both a high school and the Higher Normal School. While giving half-hearted consent to the senior who arranged my high school position, I made casual overtures to the Higher Normal School too, which led to a complicated situation. Being young and prone to oversights, it’s natural this rebounded on me—though the distress was real enough. My senior—a veteran professor at the high school—summoned and reprimanded me: “If you consult others while leaning my way, you’ll only complicate matters for us both.” Young and hot-headed as I was, I resolved to decline both offers outright and began procedures accordingly. Then came a summons from Mr. Kuhara—then a high school principal, now Kyoto Science University’s president—to visit his office. There sat Mr. Kano Jigoro of the Higher Normal School alongside my mediating senior. Their verdict was settled: “No need for reservations here—you’d best take the Higher Normal post.” Circumstances left me no refusal; I acquiesced. Yet inwardly I chafed at this troublesome outcome—a regrettable stance in hindsight, for I held little esteem for the Higher Normal School. When first meeting Mr. Kano, had he demanded I become students’ exemplar as educators should, I’d have balked outright at such expectations. But Mr. Kano proved astute: “Your very refusal makes me want you more,” he insisted, refusing my withdrawal. Thus this greenhorn—devoid of any ambition to straddle both institutions yet having troubled all involved—ultimately went to the Higher Normal School.

However, since I lacked from the very beginning the qualifications to rise as an educator, I found myself utterly constrained and overwhelmed.
Mr. Kano himself said that I was too honest for my own good, so perhaps I could have been more lax in my approach.
No matter how I looked at it, I could only think that it was unsuitable for me.
To speak openly and without reservation, I at that time was like a fishmonger going to help out at a confectioner’s shop.

After a year, I finally took up a post at a rural middle school.
That was a middle school located in Matsuyama in Iyo.
"You may laugh when you hear 'Matsuyama Middle School,' but I suppose most of you have read my novel *Botchan*."
"In *Botchan*, there is a person with the nickname Red Shirt, but I was often asked back then who that was supposed to be."
"Whom else could it be? At that time, I was the only Bachelor of Literature at that middle school. So if one were to recognize every character in *Botchan* as based on real individuals, then Red Shirt would have to correspond to none other than myself—a most fortunate coincidence indeed, I must say."

I remained in Matsuyama for only a single year.
When preparing to depart, the governor sought to keep me there, but having already made private arrangements elsewhere, I ultimately declined and took my leave.
Thus did I this time establish myself at Kumamoto Higher School.
Through this sequence—from middle school to high school, then from high school to university—I accumulated teaching experience, though elementary schools and girls' schools remain territories my feet have never trodden.

I stayed in Kumamoto for quite a long time.
I wonder how many years it had been since arriving in Kumamoto when there came an informal proposal from the Ministry of Education suggesting I study in England.
At that time, I considered refusing this opportunity to study abroad.
This was because I judged that someone like myself—venturing overseas without clear purpose—could hardly prove useful to the nation.
However, the vice-principal who relayed the Ministry’s private overture insisted: “Since this stems from their expectations, you need not assess your own qualifications—it would be best to go regardless.” Having no absolute grounds for refusal, I departed for England as instructed.
Yet as anticipated, there proved nothing for me to do.

To explain that, I must first speak about myself up to that point.
That account constitutes a part of today’s lecture, so I ask that you please listen with this understanding.

I majored in English literature at university.
You may ask what exactly this English literature was, but even I, who had studied it for three years, remained utterly bewildered by it all.
At that time, there was a teacher named Jikson.
I was made to read poems and passages in front of that teacher, compose essays only to be scolded for omitting articles or reprimanded for mispronunciations.
The exams consisted solely of questions such as “In what year was Wordsworth born and in what year did he die?” or “How many folios of Shakespeare exist?” or “Arrange Scott’s works in chronological order.”
Even you young people can likely imagine whether this truly constituted English literature.
Setting aside English literature for a moment, there was simply no way to understand what literature itself even was under such circumstances.
If you then ask whether I could grasp it through my own efforts, it was rather like a blind man groping along a fence—even after entering the library and wandering about every which way, there was simply no foothold to be found.
I think this was not only due to my own insufficient capabilities but also because there were few books related to that field available.
In any case, after three years of study, I ended up never understanding literature.
I might state that my anguish was primarily rooted there.

With such an uncertain attitude, I entered society and ended up not so much becoming a teacher as being made into one. Fortunately, though my command of languages was dubious, I managed to muddle through each day without incident—yet my heart remained perpetually hollow. Had it been mere emptiness, I might have cleanly severed ties, but instead there lingered this unbearable sense of vague, unresolved disquiet permeating everything around me. Moreover, I could find not the slightest interest in this teaching profession I had taken up. I knew from the outset I lacked the innate qualities of an educator, but since merely teaching English in the classroom had already become burdensome, there was nothing to be done. I remained perpetually poised to leap toward my true calling should an opportunity arise, yet that calling seemed both present and absent—no matter where I turned, I could never quite summon the resolve to make that final leap.

Since I was born into this world, I must do something—yet I had not the slightest notion what that something might be. I stood transfixed, like a solitary soul confined within fog. Rather than hoping some stray sunbeam might pierce through from above, I yearned to wield a searchlight myself—even a single beam—to illuminate the path ahead. Yet whichever direction I gazed, all remained blurred. Enveloped in haze, I felt like one bound within a sack with no means of escape. In desperation I agonized—if only I possessed a single drill to breach this confinement! But that tool was neither granted by others nor discovered through my own efforts; thus I passed my days in shadowed melancholy, silently wondering what fate awaited me.

It was with this anxiety that I graduated from university, carried the same anxiety with me when moving from Matsuyama to Kumamoto, and finally crossed to foreign shores with this identical anxiety tucked deep within my heart.
Yet once I went abroad to study, I was inevitably made newly aware of some degree of responsibility.
Thus I strained every nerve to accomplish something.
But no matter what books I read, I still could not emerge from the sack.
Though I scoured all of London, there seemed no drill that could pierce through this sack.
I sat thinking in my boarding house room.
It’s pointless, I thought.
I resigned myself that no amount of book-reading would ever fill my stomach.
At the same time, I myself began losing grasp of why I even read books.

It was at this time that I first realized there was no path to save myself other than fundamentally constructing through my own efforts a concept of what literature truly was.
Only now did I finally understand that my failure stemmed from having been completely other-centered, drifting haphazardly like rootless duckweed.
When I speak here of “other-centeredness,” I mean what might be called imitation of others—having someone else drink your sake, then afterward accepting their critique as absolute truth regardless of its reasonableness.
To state it so bluntly may sound absurd enough to make one doubt whether anyone would engage in such mimicry, but reality contradicts this entirely.
Consider how nowadays people clamor over Bergson or Eucken simply because Westerners make a fuss about them—Japanese too jump on this bandwagon.
All the more so back then: anything said by Westerners was blindly followed with pompous self-importance.
Thus there proliferated men who would thoughtlessly string together katakana terms and boastfully peddle them—so many you could say they littered every corner.
This is no slander of others.
I myself stood among them.
For example, upon reading some Westerner’s critique of another Westerner’s work, they would mindlessly spread that evaluation without considering its validity or whether it resonated personally.
You might call this swallowing things whole or mechanical knowledge—they went about arrogantly spouting these alien concepts that could never become their own flesh and blood.
Yet given the spirit of those times, everyone praised this very conduct.

But no matter how much people praise them, since they’re merely strutting about in borrowed trappings, their hearts remain uneasy. It’s as if they’re effortlessly donning peacock feathers and putting on airs. It was then that I began to realize: unless I cast off superficiality and grounded myself in sincerity, my inner self would never find peace—no matter how much time passed.

For example, even if Westerners say this is an excellent poem or that its cadence is superb—that is their perspective as Westerners, and while it may serve as a reference for me—if I do not perceive it as such myself, I should by no means parrot their views. As I am an independent Japanese individual and by no means a servant of the British, I must possess at least this degree of discernment as a member of the nation. Moreover, from the standpoint of valuing honesty—a virtue common to all the world—I must not bend my own opinions.

However, I was majoring in English literature.
If my own ideas were to conflict with what critics in its homeland said, I would naturally feel hesitant.
Thus I was compelled to consider where exactly such contradictions originated.
Customs, human sentiments, habits—and indeed the very character of our people—must all lie at the root of these contradictions.
Ordinary scholars, conflating literature with science, mistakenly presume that what pleases Nation A must inherently contain the necessity of earning Nation B’s acclaim.
That is precisely where they err—I must declare.
Even should reconciling these contradictions prove impossible, one ought at least to explain them.
And that explanation alone could shed a ray of light upon Japan’s literary world.
—Thus did I first come to realize this truth.
Though it shames me profoundly to recount this belated awakening, being truth itself I shall speak without dissembling.

From then on, to strengthen—or rather, to newly construct—my own foothold in literature, I began reading books that had no connection whatsoever to literary arts. In short, I had finally conceived the four-character phrase “self-centeredness,” and to substantiate this self-centeredness, I immersed myself in scientific research and philosophical inquiry. Now that times have changed, matters in this area should be well understood by those with some intellect, but back then, as I was immature and society had not yet advanced to such a degree, my approach was in fact unavoidable.

From the moment I took hold of this term “self-centeredness” in my own hands, I became immeasurably stronger.
A defiant resolve surged within me: Who were they to impose their terms?
What truly guided me—who until then had wandered lost in bewilderment—standing there and directing that I must advance thus along this path, was indeed these four characters of self-centeredness.

To confess plainly, it was from those four characters that I embarked anew.
Since continuing merely to ride others’ coattails and raise empty clamor as I did then would leave one profoundly insecure, I resolved that if I could splendidly present before them irrefutable reasons why we need not affect Western airs—thereby bringing myself gratification and others delight—I would make achieving this through writings and other means my life’s work.

At that time, my anxiety completely disappeared. I gazed upon gloomy London with a buoyant heart. To speak metaphorically, after years of agonizing, I felt as though I had finally struck my pickaxe with a solid clang upon a mineral vein. To reiterate, what had been confined in the fog until now was, from a certain angle, clearly shown the path I ought to advance upon.

By the time I had attained this enlightenment, more than a year had already passed since I began my studies abroad. Therefore, it became clear that I could not possibly complete my work in a foreign country, so I resolved to gather as much material as possible and then return home to properly settle everything. In other words, it turned out that upon returning home, I had gained a certain power by chance—more than when I had gone abroad.

However, no sooner had I returned than I was immediately obliged to work for my sustenance.
I taught at high schools.
I taught at universities.
Later, finding my funds insufficient, I took on a private school.
On top of this, I succumbed to neurasthenia.
Finally, I was reduced to publishing trivial creative works in magazines.
Through various circumstances, I abandoned my undertaking halfway.
The literary theory I produced stands not as a commemoration but rather as the corpse of failure.
Moreover, it is the corpse of a monstrosity.
Or perhaps it resembles the ruins of an unfinished city—destroyed by earthquake before achieving proper completion.

However, the idea of self-centeredness I gained at that time continues to persist.
No—rather, as years pass, it gradually grows stronger.
Though my literary enterprise ended in failure, that conviction I firmly grasped then—that the self must be sovereign and others secondary—has granted me immense confidence and peace of mind up to this day.
As a continuation of that conviction, I feel I am able to keep living even now.
In truth, my standing upon this high podium to deliver this lecture to you all may also owe itself to that very power.

The above is merely a rough account of my own experiences; however, the reason I have related this account stems entirely from an officious concern that it might serve as some reference for you all.
You will all soon leave school and venture forth into society.
For some of you, this may still require considerable time, while others may soon become active in the practical world—but I surmise that all of you will likely repeat the anguish I once underwent (even if its nature differs).
I believe there are likely many people like me who, though wishing to break through somewhere, find themselves unable to do so, and who, though wanting to grasp something, grow frantic with frustration as it slips away like trying to grip a polished kettle lid.
If those among you who have already forged your own path through your own efforts are exceptions, and I would never say it is wrong for others to follow behind, content with that, and proceed along the conventional old path (provided that peace of mind and confidence firmly accompany the self), then if that is not the case, you must advance until you have struck upon something with your own pickaxe.
The reason it will not do is that if one fails to strike upon it, that person will spend their entire life in discomfort, forever half-crouched and floundering about in society.
The reason I emphasize this point is entirely for that purpose—it is by no means to suggest that you should take me as your model.
Even someone as insignificant as myself—if I possess the awareness that I was able to advance while forging my own path—then no matter how trivial that path may seem to you all, it remains your criticism and observation, and not the slightest harm comes to me.
I myself intend to be satisfied with that.
However, just because I myself possess confidence and peace of mind through this path, by no means do I consider that same path to be a model for you all—so do not misunderstand.

Be that as it may, I concluded that anguishes like those I experienced must frequently arise in your cases as well—what do you think? If that were indeed the case, then would it not be necessary—whether as lifelong work or as a pursuit spanning ten or twenty years—for those who engage in scholarship and those who receive education to persist until they strike upon something? Ah, here was the path I ought to take! I had struck upon it at last! It is when such interjections are cried out from the depths of your heart that you can finally set your minds at ease. Does not an unshakable confidence swell forth alongside that cry? While there may indeed be many among you who have already reached that state, if there are any still tormented by fog or mist along the way, I believed it would be best to press onward at any cost until you reach the place where you can strike upon that “Ah, here it is!” moment. It was not necessarily solely for the sake of the nation. Nor was it for your families that I spoke. It was because I believed it absolutely necessary for your happiness that I spoke of this. If you had already passed through a path like mine, then there would be nothing to be done—but if any lingering attachment remained, you must press onward until you trample it underfoot. Of course, even if you press onward, you may not know how best to proceed; so you would have no choice but to keep going until you collide with something. I had not the slightest intention of imposing presumptuous advice upon you, but when I considered that this might become one source of your future happiness, I found myself unable to remain silent.

I say this because I imagine that if one were to embrace a half-formed mind in one's gut—incomplete and wavering between this and that like a sea cucumber—and remain idle in such a state, one would find oneself most disagreeable. If you say it is not unpleasant, then so be it; if you say you have moved beyond such unpleasantness, that too is well and good. It is my earnest wish that you have already moved beyond it. However, I myself could not move beyond it even after leaving school until past thirty. That pain was certainly a dull ache, yet it differed not from the pain felt year after year. Therefore, if there are any among you who have contracted an illness like mine, I ceaselessly hope that you will advance with courage. I say this because if you can reach that point—if you can discover for yourselves the fact that there was indeed a place here where I could settle myself—then you will be able to grasp lifelong peace of mind and confidence.

What I related up to now corresponds to Part One of this lecture, but I considered moving on to its Part Two.

The school known as Gakushuin is regarded by society as an institution where people of good social standing enroll.
And that is likely the case.
If my conjecture holds true—that no significant paupers come here but rather only scions of the upper class gather—then the foremost thing that will accompany you henceforth must be power.
To put it another way: when you all enter society, this means you will wield more power than paupers do when they take their place in the world.
As I mentioned earlier, working and advancing until you strike upon something undoubtedly serves your happiness and peace of mind—but why does this bring happiness and peace? It must be because only when your innate individuality collides with that something do you finally gain solid footing.
And once you settle there and gradually move forward, that individuality will develop ever further.
Ah, here was my place of settled existence!—it is likely only when your work and your individuality align perfectly that you can first utter these words.

In much the same sense, when we examined what I had just referred to as power through this lens of meaning，we found that power was precisely what served as an instrument for forcibly pressing one’s own individuality—as previously discussed—upon others’ heads.
If declaring it outright as a “tool” proved difficult，then it must instead be called an implement capable of functioning as such.

What followed next after power was financial power.
This too you all undoubtedly possessed in greater measure than paupers.
When observed from this same perspective，this financial power transformed into an invaluable asset—a veritable instrument of temptation wieldable upon others for expanding one’s individuality.

Thus，when considering how power and financial power allow you to impose your individuality upon others in greater measure than the poor or lure others into that sphere，we must conclude they are exceedingly convenient tools.
Because you possess such power，it may seem impressive，but in reality，it is exceedingly dangerous.

Earlier, I had explained that individuality primarily develops once one reaches where one should settle oneself regarding scholarship, literature, and hobbies; but in truth, its application is exceedingly broad and by no means confined solely to academic and artistic pursuits. Among brothers I knew, there was a case where the younger preferred staying home reading books while the older devoted himself entirely to angling. This older brother considered his younger sibling’s reclusive disposition—his tendency to remain shut indoors—utterly detestable. Concluding it was precisely the lack of fishing that made him so pessimistic, he tried relentlessly to drag his brother out to fish. Though the younger found this unbearable, since the elder would imperiously make him shoulder rods and carry creels while commanding attendance at fishing ponds, he would reluctantly comply—closing his eyes as he trailed along—only to return grudgingly after catching unsettling crucian carp. As for whether this reformed the younger’s nature per the elder’s design? By no means—it only bred greater resentment toward fishing itself. That is to say, while angling aligned perfectly with the older brother’s nature—what we call his individuality—it held no connection whatsoever to the younger’s. This illustrates not financial power but rather power’s capacity for coercion. The elder’s individuality oppressed the younger, compelling him to fish. Of course, certain situations—attending classes, military service, dormitory life modeled on barracks discipline—cannot entirely avoid such high-handed methods. However, I speak chiefly of when you all stand independently in society—thus I must ask you to listen with that understanding.

Thus, as I mentioned earlier, when you develop your individuality by engaging with things you find good, things you like, things that suit your nature—if you are fortunate enough to encounter them—you will forget the distinction between self and others and come to feel: "I must drag that fellow into my group too." At such times, if you possess power, that peculiar relationship between the brothers I mentioned earlier will form; and if you have financial power, you will flaunt it and attempt to fashion others into something resembling yourselves. That is, you use money as a tool of temptation, attempting through its seductive power to alter others to suit your own preferences. In either case, tremendous danger arises.

Therefore, I have always thought as follows.
First and foremost, you all must press onward until you discover work that perfectly suits you so as to settle yourselves in a place where your individuality can develop; otherwise, it will mean a lifetime of unhappiness.
However, if society permits you to respect your own individuality to that extent, it would naturally follow that you would also recognize others’ individuality and respect their inclinations.
That can only appear to me as both necessary and correct.
Because I am naturally inclined to face right, I think it problematic to deem it outrageous for that person to face left.
When it comes to questions of good and evil or right and wrong formed by the convergence of complex elements, I cannot speak definitively without resorting to somewhat intricate analytical dissection; but in cases where such problems do not arise or prove uncomplicated even when they do, I have no choice but to believe that so long as you enjoy freedom from others, you must grant others an equal degree of freedom and treat them equivalently.

Lately, there are those who invoke terms like “self” and “self-awareness” as emblems to justify acting however they please, but among these usages lie a great many that are highly dubious.
They insist on respecting their own selves to the utmost while not recognizing others’ selves in the slightest.
As long as one possesses an impartial eye and a sense of justice, I believe without doubt that one must develop one’s individuality for one’s own happiness while simultaneously granting others that same freedom.
We must not hinder others from freely developing their individuality for their own happiness without sufficient reason.
The reason I employ the term “hinder” here is that many of you will in future occupy positions where you can legitimately obstruct others.
For among you exist those who can wield power, and also many who can wield financial power.

Fundamentally speaking，there could be no such thing as power in this world unaccompanied by obligations.
As long as I retained the right to look down upon you from this high podium and have you listen quietly to my words for an hour or two，I believed I was obliged to present an argument compelling enough to enforce your silence.
Even were I delivering an ordinary lecture，my attitude and demeanor needed to possess sufficient dignity to make you all observe proper decorum.
One might have argued—had one been so inclined—that since I was a guest and you all were hosts，you ought to remain quiet；but this would have amounted merely to superficial etiquette，a convention utterly divorced from true moral substance，and thus unworthy of serious debate.
To offer another example：you all were surely sometimes scolded by teachers in classrooms.
Yet if there existed a teacher who did nothing but scold，such a person was unquestionably unqualified to conduct classes.
Rather than scolding，they would inevitably take pains to instruct you.
For teachers possessing the right to scold necessarily bore the duty to teach.
Teachers would fully exercise the rights granted them to rectify discipline and maintain order.
However，unless they also fulfilled obligations inseparable from those rights，they could not properly discharge their teaching duties.

The same holds true for financial power.
According to my view, holders of financial power who do not acknowledge responsibility must not exist in the world.

To explain this concisely: money proves an extraordinarily convenient instrument, adaptable to any purpose whatsoever. Were I to earn 100,000 yen through speculation here today, I could use those funds to build houses, purchase books, or enliven pleasure quarters—indeed, transform it into any conceivable form. What renders this truly terrifying is how such money can purchase human spirits itself—does this not horrify? They scatter it to monopolize people's moral conscience, employing it as a tool to corrupt souls. When money gained through speculation wields such potent moral-ethical force, we must inevitably deem this an improper application. However lamentable, we cannot deny money's actual functioning thus. The sole remaining path to prevent societal corruption requires those possessing wealth to wield it with commensurate moral integrity through ethically harmless applications. Therefore I assert financial power must invariably bear responsibility. As one now holding such wealth, one must not only cultivate discernment to understand how employing funds thus in this sphere yields such consequences, and deploying them thusly in that society produces such effects—but must also manage one's wealth responsibly according to such discernment. Otherwise, one cannot answer to society—nay, cannot even satisfy oneself.

Summarizing the arguments thus far, the first point is that if one wishes to accomplish the development of one’s own individuality, one must simultaneously respect the individuality of others.
Second, if one wishes to use the power one possesses, one must understand the obligations that accompany it.
Third, if one wishes to demonstrate one’s financial power, one must attach due weight to the responsibility that accompanies it.
In short, it ultimately comes down to these three articles.

To rephrase this in other words: unless one is—ethically speaking—a person who has cultivated oneself to some degree, there can be no value in developing individuality, wielding power, or exercising financial power.
To restate this once more: to freely enjoy these three things requires submitting to the governance of that moral character which ought to underlie them.
Should those devoid of moral character recklessly seek to develop their individuality, they hinder others; attempt to wield power, and it descends into abuse; employ financial power, and social corruption ensues.
This culminates in an exceedingly perilous phenomenon.
And since these three things are what you will most readily encounter in times ahead, I maintain you must without exception become upstanding persons of moral character.

The story may digress slightly, but as you know, England was a country that greatly valued freedom.
While being a nation that cherished liberty so profoundly, there existed no land as orderly as England.
To speak truthfully—though I disliked England—
I disliked it yet must state this fact regardless.
There likely was no other country worldwide so free yet so thoroughly ordered.
Japan could not begin to compare.
Yet they were not merely free.
From childhood they had received proper social education—to love their own liberty while respecting others'.
Thus behind their freedom surely lay entwined duty's concept.
Nelson's famed words—"England expects every man"—held meaning far beyond momentary significance.
This had to be an ideology with deep roots grown inseparable from their liberty.

They often held demonstrations when they had grievances.
However, the government never interfered intrusively.
It left them alone without a word.
On the other hand, those conducting demonstrations were fully aware and did not engage in reckless violence that would trouble the government.
Lately, newspapers had been showing suffragists and such engaging in disruptive acts, but those were, well, exceptions.
If one were to say there were too many to be considered exceptions, then that would be that—but it seemed there was no choice but to view them as exceptions.Whether because they could not marry, could not find employment, or were exploiting the long-standing custom of respecting women—in any case, that did not appear to be British people's usual attitude.
They tore up masterpieces; they went on hunger strikes in prison to harass the guards; they tied themselves to parliamentary benches and made deliberate uproars.
This was an unexpected phenomenon—it might be that women were acting under the assumption that men would refrain from interfering no matter what they did.
However, no matter the reason, it seemed rather irregular.
The general British disposition appeared to love freedom precisely to the extent that they did not abandon their sense of duty, as I had just described.

Therefore, I do not mean to hold England up as a model in any way, but in short, I consider freedom without a sense of duty not to be true freedom.
The reason for this is that such selfish freedom can never exist in society.
For even if it were to exist, it would surely be immediately excluded and crushed by others.
I earnestly hope that you will be free.
At the same time, I ceaselessly hope that you will come to understand duty.
In this sense, I intend to declare without hesitation that I am an individualist.

There must be no misunderstanding regarding the meaning of this individualism. Especially since I cannot rest easy should misunderstandings take root among young people such as yourselves, I earnestly request your careful attention to this matter. As time presses upon us, I shall explain concisely: individual freedom is utterly essential for developing one's individuality—as previously discussed—and since this development profoundly impacts your happiness, we must both maintain for ourselves and grant others such liberty that, provided it causes no harm, I may face left while you face right without impediment. This constitutes precisely what I term Individualism. The same principle applies to financial power and authority: consider the consequences should one declare "I'll crush that detestable fellow" or "I'll destroy whoever displeases me," wielding these forces wantonly despite no wrongdoing existing. Human individuality would thereby face utter destruction, while human misery would inevitably arise therefrom. Imagine if—though I commit no transgression—the Superintendent General ordered officers to surround my home merely because the government disapproves of me. While he may possess such authority, morality forbids its exercise. Or suppose wealthy merchants like Mitsui or Iwasaki bribed my servants into opposing me at every turn solely out of personal dislike—what then? Were even a shred of moral character behind their financial power, they could never countenance such lawlessness.

All these harmful effects arise from a failure to understand moral individualism; they are nothing but the selfishness of attempting to propagate oneself through power or financial power.
Therefore, individualism—the individualism I describe here—is by no means something that endangers the state as laypeople believe, for my interpretation holds that respecting others’ existence while respecting one’s own constitutes its essence. Thus, I consider it a commendable doctrine.

To put it more plainly, it is a doctrine devoid of partisanship yet grounded in moral discernment. It means not forming cliques or factions to act blindly for power or financial gain. Therefore, within its depths lies a loneliness unknown to others. Since we are no longer bound by factions, we simply follow our own paths freely while never obstructing others' rightful courses—thus there inevitably arise times when people must scatter apart. That is where the loneliness lies. When I once oversaw the Asahi Shimbun's literary column, an incident occurred where someone—I cannot recall who—wrote disparaging remarks about Mr. Miyake Setsurei. It was no personal attack, merely criticism spanning two or three lines at most. The exact timing escapes me—though serving as editor, I had been ill at the time—so it may have been published during my convalescence or perhaps with my approval when recovered. In any case, that critique appeared in the Asahi's literary section. Then the *Japan and the Japanese* contingent grew incensed. Though they never approached me directly, they demanded a retraction through a subordinate of mine—not from the man himself, mind you. Mr. Miyake's underlings—forgive the term's gangster-like connotations—or rather his coterie members insisted on recantation. While understandable for factual errors, this concerned mere opinion—what could be done? My only recourse was asserting editorial freedom. The irony deepened knowing some from that very *Japan and the Japanese* group regularly criticize me in their issues. Though I avoided direct confrontation, hearing this secondhand left me unsettled—for here lay stark contrast between my individualist principles and their factionalist maneuvering. At the time, I had even published works critiquing my own writings in my column; thus their collective outrage over slighting Mr. Miyake struck me as both astonishing and absurd.

I must say, I also thought them rather behind the times.
I also thought of them as resembling a band from the feudal era.
However, having thought this way, I ultimately found no means to escape a certain loneliness.
Since I believed differences in opinion were inevitable regardless of intimacy, though I offered advice to the young people frequenting my home, I never suppressed their expression of views unless grave cause demanded it.
In recognizing others' existence to that degree—that is to say, in granting them such freedom—
even were I to feel profound humiliation, I could never request assistance from those disinclined to give it.
Therein lies the loneliness of individualism.
For individualism requires clarifying right and wrong before determining one's stance toward others; thus there arise moments when one finds oneself utterly alone, steeped in solitude.
This is only natural.
Even mixed trees gain fortitude when bound together.

Furthermore, to prevent another misunderstanding, I would like to add one more point: while individualism is often perceived as diametrically opposing nationalism and intent on destroying it, it is not such an illogical, formless notion.
Generally speaking, I particularly dislike labeling things as "-isms," and I do not believe human beings can be neatly pigeonholed under any single doctrine. However, for explanatory purposes, I must reluctantly discuss various matters under this banner of "doctrine."
Some people go about proclaiming—and indeed believing—that present-day Japan cannot endure unless it adopts nationalism.
Moreover, there are not a few who advocate that unless we trample individualism underfoot, the nation will perish.
However, such an absurd notion is utterly inconceivable.
In truth, we are simultaneously nationalists, internationalists, and individualists.

Although individualism—which ought to form the foundation of personal happiness—undoubtedly has individual freedom as its essence, the freedom enjoyed by each person rises and falls like a thermometer in accordance with the nation’s stability or peril.
This might be better described as a theory arising from facts rather than mere theory—in other words, it is the natural state that comes to be so.
When the state is in peril, individual freedom is restricted; when the state is at peace, individual freedom expands—this is only natural.
As long as one possesses moral character, there should be no one who would misapply it—who, in a situation where the nation’s survival hangs in the balance, would make such a fundamental error as to blindly focus solely on the development of individuality.
Please understand that within what I call individualism is also included advice for those who—having declared they still need a fire hood even after the fire has been extinguished—needlessly constrain themselves without cause.
To give another example, when I was in high school, there was someone who established a certain group.
I have forgotten the exact name and detailed principles of this group, but in any case, it was a vociferous society that championed nationalism.
Of course, it wasn’t a bad group or anything.
It appears that Mr. Kinoshita Hiroji, the principal at the time, was quite supportive.
All the members wore medals on their chests.
I begged to be excused from wearing medals myself, but even so, I was made a member.
Of course, since I was not a founder, I had considerable objections; however, I joined based on the reasoning that there would likely be no harm in entering.
However, when the founding ceremony was held in a large auditorium, on some occasion or other, one member stood at the podium and delivered something resembling a speech.
However, although I was a member, as there were many aspects of my own opinions that I strongly disagreed with, I recall having vigorously attacked the group’s principles prior to that.
However, when it finally came time for the founding ceremony and I listened to that man’s speech I mentioned earlier, it turned out to be nothing but a rebuttal of my own arguments.
Whether it was intentional or accidental, I cannot say, but consequently, I found it necessary to respond to it.
I had no choice but to follow that man onto the podium.
I believe my demeanor and conduct at the time were rather unsightly, but even so, I managed to state my points concisely before withdrawing.
Now, you may inquire as to what I said at that time, but it was quite simple.

I said this.

“The state may indeed be important, but carrying on about ‘the state, the state’ from dawn till dusk as if possessed by it is hardly something we can sustain.”
“There may exist those who insist they must think of nothing but state affairs whether sitting or lying down, but in truth no human can maintain such unbroken single-mindedness.”
“When a tofu seller makes his rounds selling tofu, he absolutely does not do this for the state’s sake.”
“His fundamental motive lies in securing his own food and clothing.”
“Yet regardless of his personal intentions, through supplying what society requires, he may indirectly benefit the nation.”
“By this same logic, when I ate three bowls of rice at noon and increased to four in the evening, this adjustment was not made for the state’s benefit.”
“To speak plainly, it was determined by my stomach’s condition.”
“Yet even these acts—viewed through multiple layers of indirection—might still exert some influence upon society; nay, depending on perspective, they could bear relation to broader global currents.”
“But imagine if this very individual were compelled by such reasoning—forced to eat meals for the state’s sake, wash his face for the state’s sake, even visit the privy for the state’s sake—what an intolerable existence that would be.”
“Promoting nationalism poses no inherent problem however vigorously done, but feigning impossible actions as state-serving deeds constitutes falsehood.”—This was roughly the substance of my rebuttal.

When a nation faces peril, there is not a single person who does not consider its welfare.
The stronger a nation becomes—the fewer its concerns about war or invasion—the more naturally nationalistic notions should diminish; that individualism enters to fill this void is nothing but an inevitable consequence we must recognize.
Present-day Japan is not so stable.
It is poor, and moreover, the country is small.
Thus one cannot know when or what sort of events may arise.
From this perspective, we must contemplate the nation.
Yet so long as Japan is not a country facing imminent collapse or ruin, there should be no need to clamor “the nation, the nation” in such frenzy.
It is no different from donning firefighting garb before any blaze has broken out and anxiously rushing about the neighborhood while feeling constrained.
Ultimately these matters are questions of degree; when war erupts or existential crises emerge, those with discerning minds—people of cultivated character who cannot help but reflect—naturally turn in that direction, and even if individual freedoms are restricted and activities curtailed, their dedication to the nation becomes what one might call perfectly natural.
Therefore I firmly believe these two doctrines are by no means such troublesome things as to remain perpetually contradictory and forever locked in mortal combat.
On this point too I would like to elaborate further, but as time is short I shall conclude here.
Let me add one more observation for your consideration: what we call national morality appears far inferior in stature when compared to personal morality.
Fundamentally, however vehement nations may be in diplomatic rhetoric, they possess scant moral integrity.
They practice fraud, engage in deception, employ trickery—it is sheer bedlam.
Thus so long as we take the nation as our standard—so long as we regard it as a collective—we must acquiesce to rather base morality and remain unperturbed; yet when considered from individualism’s foundation, since this morality becomes vastly elevated, we must give it earnest thought.
Therefore during times of national tranquility, it seems to me utterly natural that we should place greater emphasis on individualism endowed with high moral integrity.
As there is no time today, I cannot elaborate beyond this point.

In response to your kind invitation, I came here today and expounded upon the necessity of individualism to you who ought to lead individual lives.
This is because I believe it will serve as a reference for you all after you enter society.
Whether my words have truly reached you all, I do not know; but if parts of my meaning remain unclear, I believe it must stem from my own inadequacy or poor delivery.
If there are ambiguous points in what I have said, please do not content yourselves with vague understanding—come to my residence.
For I stand ready to explain thoroughly at any time.
If my true intent has been fully comprehended even without such trouble, no satisfaction could surpass this.
As this has grown too lengthy, I shall now take my leave.