Pathway to Japanese Literature

Osaka Mainichi Newspaper was holding a lecture meeting to celebrate their 15，000th issue，and I had come here at their request.
However，this lecture meeting had at times been perceived by some as a celebration of Mainichi Newspaper’s 15，000th issue，by others as a celebration of Greater Osaka，and occasionally even appeared as a lecture on Greater Osaka’s cultural history.
Regarding that，I would like to make a brief clarification—I am opposed to metropolitanism.
Therefore，since I had come for the celebration of the 15，000th issue，it was not for extolling Greater Osaka that I came.
This much I must clarify.

(Applause) Since there will likely be ample praise for Greater Osaka today, I will briefly state this much.

Great Genius Furukawa Nakai

"The topic I will address concerns 'Furukawa Nakai, the Merchant-Class Scholar of Osaka.' This rather lengthy title was selected by Mr. Iwai of Mainichi Newspaper—I had no involvement in its creation."
"However, my wish to discuss this subject was indeed my own initiative."

"Regarding this matter, I had previously delivered a lecture on it at some point."
"In Osaka there exists an institution called Kaitokudo Academy, where I once lectured in 1921."
"At that time there remained works by Furukawa that we wished to examine but could not locate, which I found regrettable; however, through good fortune these were discovered last spring, and being overjoyed, I promptly published them through great personal effort despite limited means."
"This is the book titled 'Okina no Fumi'."
"As I have brought copies here today, you may inspect them afterward."
"Though I should note that even if you wished to purchase numerous copies, very few remain available."
"I must emphasize this point."
"The book I published is this one—(indicating the original text)—being the volume discovered last year."

This person called Furukawa Nakai is one whom I deeply revere.
Among those associated with Osaka, there must be various geniuses and eminent individuals.
Toyotomi Hideyoshi, who should have been discussed yesterday, was also a tremendous genius—a genius of Japan.
Then there must be the literary figure Chikamatsu Monzaemon.
However, the person who was truly born in Osaka—moreover born into an Osaka merchant household—and who may rightly be called Japan's first-class genius, I believe to be Furukawa Nakai.

I had revered this man from my youth onward, with my first trivial writings about him dating back to Meiji 26 (1893). Among those now gathered here listening to my talk, some might not yet have been born during Meiji 26 - such ancient history it seems! From those early days I held him in profound esteem after reading his renowned work Shuttei Gogo - this very volume here! (Holding up book) Do examine it later at your leisure!

Then gradually I also came across various writings by others on this matter through my research efforts over time．Furthermore．through investigating these materials thoroughly—though even today I cannot pinpoint his exact year of death—I managed．to establish roughly when he lived．Through persistent inquiry．his origins too became significantly clearer．What you see displayed there constitutes stone rubbings from Furukawa family graves．These rubbings were made at my request by Mr．Iwai．as those very graves still exist today at Nishishōji Temple in Shimoderamachi．Let me clarify—this discovery wasn't ours originally．others had known about them long before．My first viewing occurred quite far back．in Meiji37（1904）．That precise Kinoe-Tatsu（Wood Dragon）year coincided with．the outbreak of Russia-Japanese War．Shuttei Gogo（Post-Samadhi Discourse）was completed during Enkyo1（1744）．exactly160 years prior．Moreover．this year marked100 years since passing of Osaka-born Venerable Jiun．Prompting several colleagues and me．to organize memorial gathering at Nishishoji．There we exhibited works by both Furukawa Nakai and Katsuragi Jiun．honoring these two minds．Venerable Jiun revolutionized Sanskrit studies while contributing original Buddhist insights—though differing from Furukawa's path．he too deserves genius designation．Whatever sound Buddhist understanding I possess stems from his legacy．During this event．I first surveyed Furukawa family graves only.to find Nakai's own marker missing．Grandparents' tombs remained intact alongside parents'．an elder brother's．and other relatives'—all still positioned originally then．Rumors suggest recent lateral displacement within cemetery grounds though.I haven't verified post-relocation status personally．Regardless．family stones persist.with Nakai's details explicitly recorded on maternal tombstone enabling factual verification．While death specifics elude us still.maternal epitaph provides approximate lifespan parameters．

In this manner, I had already been paying some attention to this man for some time, so when in Taisho 10 (1921) at Kaitokudo Academy various people successively gave lectures concerning Osaka’s merchant-class scholars, I too, as one of them, took on the task of speaking about Furukawa.
Then, last year, this *Okina no Fumi* was discovered, and around that same time, a historical society was formed among the faculty and students of Kyoto’s Ryukoku University. There, I was asked to give a talk, and so I spoke briefly on that occasion. However, speaking at such a distinguished gathering of learned individuals as this is my first time today.
Therefore, this man does not belong to Greater Osaka, but to the Osaka of old—the foremost genius produced by that Osaka. Though there may indeed be many scholars in Osaka, I consider him one who can unquestionably be counted among first-rate geniuses, which is why I wished to speak of him at this lecture meeting.

The transcriptions of numerous lectures concerning Osaka merchant-class scholars from Kaitokudo Academy were in fact supposed to have been published by now; however, as the manuscript of these transcriptions burned at a Tokyo bookstore during the earthquake disaster, the book did not come to fruition.
However, mine was indeed not burned.
Because I—being lazy—had kept the manuscript without revising it, mine did not get burned.
Subsequently, my lecture served as the foundation upon which a biography of Furukawa Nakai was produced.
That did not mean only Nakai’s biography had been compiled into a single volume.
In the northern part of Osaka lies a place called Ikeda-chō.
Through the work of philanthropic individuals from Ikeda-chō, they published various writings by people hailing from Ikeda-chō.
And they published something called *Ikeda Jinbutsushi* (Records of Ikeda Figures), within which was included a biography of Furukawa Nakai.
In truth, while Osaka City’s appropriation of such a man naturally seemed unwelcome, since Ikeda-chō had sufficient reason for this appropriation—though I cannot say whether they would lose if taken to court—due to their legitimate connections, the people of Ikeda-chō wrote about Furukawa in *Ikeda Jinbutsushi*.
Furukawa had a younger brother named Araki Rankō, who was adopted into the Araki family of Ikeda.
Therefore, both brothers studied under the scholar Tanaka Kōtō residing in Ikeda, which accounted for their deep connections to Ikeda.
In Ikeda remained poems created by Furukawa.
And there were also writings left behind.
From the fact that various materials no longer existing in Osaka remained in Ikeda, the people of Ikeda—owing both to their marked partiality toward Furukawa and their connection with Araki Rankō—included Furukawa’s account alongside others in *Ikeda Jinbutsushi*.
To put it another way, that Osaka—which was striving to become Greater Osaka (or perhaps had already become so)—proved so unaware as to let Ikeda-chō appropriate this first-class genius cultivated by Osaka itself might perhaps serve as a good lesson.
Even if he had been appropriated, one might not have been able to voice much complaint about this.
That may be a digression, but let me state directly why we admire this man.

Buddhism's Research and Its Doctrines ―― *Shuttei Gogo*

What makes Furukawa Nakai remarkable is precisely that he became known to the world through this two-volume work called *Shuttei Gogo* ("Post-Samadhi Discourse").
I believe the printing blocks for this work may still exist at some Osaka bookstore even now, but to speak of its contents—it constitutes a study of Buddhism.
When I refer to Buddhist research here, it is not the kind that reveres Buddhism as sacrosanct, like recent practitioners of Zen studies who seek to cultivate spiritual fortitude.
This was Japan’s first written work to critically examine Buddhism.
Moreover, it stands as a work beyond which no greater treatise has ever been produced.
I consider this methodology of Buddhist research truly remarkable.
After this book’s publication, Buddhists raised considerable uproar, with many renowned figures composing rebuttals against it.
There was a temple formerly located in Kyoto’s Teramachi district—Ryōren-ji Temple—which has since relocated within Hyakumanben.
The current head priest maintains friendly relations with us, but Musō Bun'yū of that temple from over a century ago was an extraordinary scholar of the Jōdo-shū sect.
Beyond his expertise in Jōdo-shū doctrine, he achieved greatness in Chinese character phonology—indeed, he may rightly be called Japan’s first academic researcher in this field.
This monk authored *Hishuttei* ("Against Post-Samadhi"), a work attacking Furukawa’s *Shuttei Gogo*.
It was never printed, surviving only through manuscript transmission.
I had long sought this text myself, and having alerted Ryōren-ji’s current head priest several years prior, his diligent efforts led to its discovery at the Imperial Library—it has now become known among researchers in that field.
This constitutes a simplistic critique of *Shuttei Gogo*.
However, these criticisms of *Shuttei Gogo* research prove rather trivial and unworthy of serious consideration.

Afterward there appeared Ekaichōon of the Shinshū sect—a monk born in Edo’s Asakusa district.
As a Shinshū priest he proved exceptionally unconventional; though belonging to a sect that normally eschewed strict asceticism, he maintained monastic precepts by abstaining from meat and marriage—this renowned Shinshū scholar nevertheless produced a work refuting *Shuttei Gogo*.
The volume bore an exceedingly cumbersome title—*Sōresshamō-hen*—spanning two tomes filled with diverse rebuttals.
While certainly containing some valid corrections of Furukawa’s minor errors, it failed to engage substantively with his foundational theories.
Regardless of such critiques, Furukawa’s writings endure as peerless achievements within Buddhist scholarship.

Now, to explain why the monks attacked him—in essence, this man was Japan’s first proponent of what we call the Mahayana Non-Buddha’s Words Theory: that Mahayana was not Śākyamuni’s teaching, that these sutras did not originate from Buddha himself.
It was precisely for this reason that Buddhist monks became frantic in their attacks against him.
However—and this must be emphasized—Furukawa’s assertion that Mahayana was not Buddha’s teaching was never intended as disparagement of Buddhism itself.
If we allow Buddhists to frame this matter through their lens of orthodoxy—and indeed they do—they will claim he wrote these works to slander Dharma itself and grow indignant over it; but let me state clearly that slandering Dharma was never his purpose.
His sole aim was to study Buddhism through historical and academic inquiry.
In those days—and let us remember this was not unique to Japan—any attempt at such historical-academic scrutiny would inevitably draw censure.
This phenomenon knew no geographical bounds.
Even Western scholars faced condemnation for their astronomical research—Galileo comes immediately to mind.
Wherever academic inquiry first emerges into tradition-bound fields of knowledge—be it East or West—its pioneers invariably face reprimand.
Now regarding what makes his methodology remarkable—while advocating Mahayana Non-Buddha’s Words Theory certainly has its merits—it was never his conclusions that commanded our respect.
What truly compelled our admiration was precisely this man’s construction of research methodology itself.
When considering logical methodology-building as an intellectual discipline—let me speak plainly—the Japanese tradition has historically been woefully deficient.
To be sure—and I say this with full awareness of Jinsai’s and Sorai’s towering legacies—our scholarly history abounds with brilliant insights and novel discoveries; yet when it comes to systematically constructing rigorous methodological frameworks grounded in logical principles—frameworks whose foundations withstand exacting scrutiny—our tradition shows itself startlingly impoverished.
Yes—Itō Jinsai and Ogyū Sorai were giants in their own right—but if we speak of Japanese scholars who built comprehensive research methodologies upon logical foundations? One could say Furukawa Nakai stands alone.
This—this methodological architecture—is where our profoundest admiration lies.

Buddhism was an exceedingly peculiar thing.
To call it strange might seem a vague characterization, but as modern scholarship's fundamental principle holds: without concepts concerning space and time, no intellectual foundation could be established.
Yet regarding this very point, Buddhism proved extraordinarily free—or rather than free, fundamentally undisciplined.
In its teachings about past, present and future as the Three Periods—where eons arise within a finger-snap and Mount Sumeru manifests on a mustard seed—we find its signature disregard for temporal-spatial coherence.
While containing undeniably fascinating philosophical concepts when viewed as pure thought systems, these became profoundly problematic when subjected to historical analysis.
Since Buddhist doctrine developed through ideas largely ignoring spacetime parameters, even Śākyamuni Buddha's teachings intermingle narratives of hundred-million-year-old events with last night's occurrences and present realities until all temporal bearings dissolve.
Statements placing Amitābha Tathāgata's Pure Land simultaneously beyond ten trillion western realms and immediately accessible epitomized this incoherence.
Such textual practices rendered historical reconstruction impossible.
The Indians' fundamental historical indifference compounded this—they treated chronology with shocking negligence.
Thus we cannot distinguish Śākyamuni's actual words from later disciples' interpolations.
Though all sutras claim Buddha authorship, their six-to-seven thousand volumes—how many preserving authentic Indian foundations?—defy temporal organization through sheer chronological abandon.
Reconstructing Buddhism's developmental history from this chaos presented immense challenges.
Traditional approaches like Tendai sect's Five Periods framework—dividing Śākyamuni's life into phases from Hīnayāna teachings to Lotus Sutra supremacy—dominated for centuries.
Yet Furukawa broke from these inherited theories to discover an innovative methodology.

1. The "Addition Principle"

This special method—to explain its essence—involved establishing a fundamental principle.
In Furukawa's *Shuttei Gogo* (Post-Samadhi Discourse), we find these words:
What he discovered was what we call the "Addition Principle."
The Addition Principle operates thus: There exists an initial foundation, upon which each subsequent thinker builds higher concepts.
The next generation then contemplates matters loftier still.
As earlier theories grew inadequate, they progressively devised superior ones through upward conceptual layering.
He theorized that inadequate initial doctrines formed the base from which grander narratives gradually evolved.
This appears in Shuttei Gogo's chapter titled "Doctrinal Origins and Developments."
Regarding Buddhism's Hinayana and Mahayana traditions—including Mahayana's various sects—he argued their sequential emergence followed this Addition Principle.

Fundamentally, Buddhism—in India, there was Brahmanism, and it worshipped deities.
This Brahmanism gradually developed, successively adding higher heavens upon existing ones, until later periods saw them systematically layered as the Twenty-Eight Heavens and Thirty-Three Heavens—each new tier asserting its superiority over prior ones deemed erroneous. Broadly categorized, these became known as the Three Realms: Desire Realm, Form Realm, and Formless Realm.
In general, this led to the formation of increasingly exalted heavens—the Twenty-Eight Heavens, the Thirty-Three Heavens—each layer being built up successively.
The heavens had been piled up so excessively high that there was no use stacking any more heavens atop them, so Śākyamuni Buddha overturned this and instead established something that was not heavens—the Buddha.
In other words, that was a concept formed through addition upon the heavens.
Having considered such matters—and recognizing that Śākyamuni Buddha’s original conception was the Śrāvaka teachings (what later came to be called Hīnayāna)—he posited that over centuries, his disciples successively built upon this foundation, their contemplations ascending layer by layer until the Mahayana Buddhist teachings developed; this discovery of what we call the Addition Principle constitutes Furukawa’s theory.

This was ultimately considered from an ideological perspective, and thus he established a method for discerning historical chronology through ideology.
When considering eras without historical records from a historical perspective, there was no more reliable method than this.
After all, the most logically rigorous doctrines would undoubtedly emerge gradually over time.
The very first doctrines must have been the simplest, and from there gradually transformed through various logical reasoning systems, overturning and ascending layer by layer—therefore, when confronting records like those of Buddhism that disregarded time and space, there had been no alternative but to consider them through this methodology.

However, while Furukawa’s methodology might appear unremarkable from today’s perspective, those capable of such discoveries are exceedingly rare.
It was Furukawa who made this discovery.
This was an achievement I consider truly extraordinary.

This principle proves immensely valuable when researching ancient histories across nations today.
Furukawa applied this methodology to Chinese studies.
He further attempted its application to Japanese subjects.
The approach extends beyond philosophical concepts—even factual legends become researchable through such methods.
Yet while many recognize the Addition Principle’s significance,

2. The "Difficulty in Reconciling Different Sect Names" Principle

Additionally, there are many people who fail to recognize the preciousness of Furukawa’s principles.
That is the "Difficulty in Reconciling Different Sect Names" Principle.

There are even those among today’s historical researchers who remain unaware of this principle’s precious significance.
To explain what this means: even if there exists a single fundamental matter at the root, once various academic sects emerge, each sect’s transmission causes the original narrative to be passed down differently, making it exceedingly difficult to restore them to their original unity.
When a single foundational story becomes altered into three or four versions, determining which was truly the original, which had been transformed, and which were correct or erroneous becomes an extraordinarily challenging task.
Therefore, Furukawa declared that differing sect names could not necessarily be reconciled.
In other words, he asserted that because distinct transmissions had developed within each sect through their respective schools, restoring them to their original unity proved difficult.
I consider this an exceptionally remarkable accomplishment.

Historians tend to fixate on identifying some singular event here.
When there emerges a theory specifying the exact month and day of an event, followed by conflicting theories—when two or three accounts exist debating which is true and which false—they insist on settling on one as factual while dismissing the remainder as falsehoods.
Historians find it quite difficult to resign themselves to not knowing which is true when all accounts seem somewhat plausible.
There is a tendency to want to settle on one certain version.
However, in eras with records, it is sometimes possible to determine it definitively.
Yet regarding eras without records—those transmitted orally—they remain ultimately difficult to pin down.
Such matters are better left undecided from the outset, yet everyone persists in trying to resolve them.
That he established this very difficulty of determination as a principle strikes me as truly remarkable.

In China's ancient past, there had existed theories contemplating such concepts. Within China's Gongyang Commentary on the Spring and Autumn Annals appeared the distinctions between "differences in eyewitness accounts," "differences in hearsay," and "differences in transmitted legends," which scholars had established as a historical principle. This too stemmed from variances between what was seen, heard, and legendarily transmitted, making it impossible to definitively determine which version constituted fact. Regarding matters of these legendary eras, resolutely accepting their indeterminacy proved preferable. Historians nevertheless persisted in attempting to establish single accounts as factual while dismissing others as errors or fabrications—an approach that paradoxically resulted in losing grasp of actual truths. Traditions like Buddhism, initially transmitted orally without written records before later codification, frequently contained multiple conflicting transmissions of identical events that resisted definitive resolution. Consider Śākyamuni Buddha's biographical details: some accounts claimed he renounced worldly life at nineteen, achieved enlightenment at thirty, and died at eighty-one; others asserted he took vows at twenty-five, attained awakening at twenty-eight or twenty-nine, then passed at eighty-one—with sects adopting divergent chronologies according to their traditions. Even his birth era remained contested between theories placing it 2,800-2,900 versus 2,300-2,400 years prior, each sect favoring different timelines. Furukawa Nakai had however presented what he deemed the most credible theory regarding Śākyamuni's death year in his Shuttei Gogo (Post-Samadhi Discourse). Contemporary scholars particularly recognized this aspect of Furukawa's research as groundbreaking. Ultimately, this difficulty in establishing singular truths about legendary periods constituted what we call the 'Difficulty in Reconciling Different Sect Names' principle—concepts I consider profoundly valuable for studying antiquity.

3. "The Logic of Three Substances and Five Categories of Discourse"

And besides that, he had conceived something truly remarkable.
He had proposed what he called the "Three Substances in Discourse."
This formed the structural framework of Furukawa's logic.
It consisted of what he termed "discourse having persons," "discourse having eras," and "discourse having categories."
He further divided these categorical discourses into five classifications.
These were categorized as Han (Generalization), Iso (Intensification), Han (Reversal), Chō (Exaggeration), and Ten (Adaptation).
Compiling these elements, he established what he called the "Three Substances and Five Categories of Discourse," which constituted Furukawa's research methodology and logical framework.

When explaining what was meant by "discourse having persons," this referred to how transmissions and theories varied according to individuals.
Thus even regarding identical matters, interpretations differed by person, transmissions diverged, and these variations arose through different individuals.
In China this was called ikkagen - distinctive doctrines - where transmissions differed by individual, representing precisely the same phenomenon as the "Difficulty in Reconciling Different Sect Names."

"As for 'discourse having eras,' this refers to how things differ depending on the era," he explained.
That was exemplified by Buddhist translation practices.
When Buddhism was being translated in China, regarding Sanskrit renderings, Xuanzang Sanzang and others frequently documented how certain Sanskrit terms should be interpreted in Chinese, criticizing previous translations as erroneous.
Thus emerged a distinction in Chinese Buddhism between old translations predating Xuanzang Sanzang and new translations from his era - old ones being deemed unreliable versus new ones considered accurate. This critique extended beyond semantics to phonetic transliteration into Chinese characters. For instance, while earlier versions rendered "bhikṣu" as 比丘, newer translations used 苾芻 - declaring the latter correct and the former mistaken. However, Furukawa maintained that dismissing all old translations as errors missed the point: India being a linguistic crucible where words evolved across eras in both pronunciation and meaning, with these translations reflecting different stages of that evolution.
Between Buddhism's initial Chinese translations and Xuanzang's era lay several centuries - ample time for shifts in both sound and semantics within India's source language.
Therefore, he reasoned, since language transforms thus through time, researchers risk methodological error unless accounting for these changes.

"As for 'discourse having categories,' it was divided into the following five classes."
"The first category called 'Han' referred to how something originally being a specific name, concept, or proper noun would later transform into a common noun."
"What began as a name for something particularized and definitive gradually expanded in meaning to become a common term—this was termed 'Han.'"
"The 'Iso' category likely derived from the phrase 'must not be used as a foothold' found in Mencius."
"It involved speaking words vehemently, emphasizing them through intensified meaning."
"While not quite amounting to exaggeration, this process could create slight shifts in word meanings."
"The 'Han' category consisted of interpreting previous theories in direct opposition."
"The 'Chō' category meant exaggeration—expressing established meanings in amplified terms."
"Furukawa provided an example regarding Buddhahood attainment: he divided all existence into sentient and non-sentient beings, with original doctrine restricting enlightenment to sentient beings."
"However, as Buddhist teachings expanded to claim 'mountains, rivers, plants and trees all attain Buddhahood'—extending even to non-sentient minerals and vegetation—this doctrinal amplification exemplified 'Chō.'"
"The 'Ten' category indicated semantic adaptation—not complete reversal like 'Han,' but transformative shifts in meaning."
"Furukawa illustrated this through how initial teachings excluding icchantikas from Buddha-nature later evolved to include even them."
"In such fashion, word meanings underwent gradual transformation."
"Since doctrinal development occurred through these Five Categories' operation, Furukawa maintained that Buddhist research required understanding them."

4. Other Theories

Furthermore regarding this matter, Furukawa discussed additional points in his arguments. While Buddhist scholars often asserted that India’s language—Sanskrit—was polysemous and rich in meaning, thereby venerating it as sacred, Furukawa countered that all nations’ languages were inherently polysemous, providing examples from Osaka’s colloquial speech to illustrate this.
In Osaka, libertines were referred to as 'tawake' during that period.
Nowadays they say 'gokudō' and rarely use 'tawake' anymore.
The term 'tawake' for libertines could not be fully captured by the Chinese character 放蕩 (libertine) alone when considering its meaning in Osaka dialect.
In Osaka, the term 'tawake' contained many meanings beyond just "libertine."
In any nation’s language, he argued, that nation’s language possessed distinctive characteristics and contained multiple meanings; when explained through another nation’s language, it contained multiple meanings. Sanskrit was not uniquely some precious, splendid language endowed with polysemy—this was his assertion.

Through these ways of thinking, he deduced various matters.
For example, he considered things in this manner:
Buddhist texts would invariably begin with "Thus have I heard."
In traditional Buddhist accounts regarding this phrase, they explained that Śākyamuni Buddha's teachings had been transmitted through his disciple Ānanda—a man of prodigious memory who had served as the Buddha's attendant for many years, thereby hearing all manner of doctrines.
After Śākyamuni Buddha's passing, they began compiling his teachings—though of course, this "compilation" did not involve written records. In those days, compilation meant oral collation: people would gather and share what they had heard.
Someone might say they'd heard certain teachings, then everyone would discuss their recollections, pooling their accounts to commit them firmly to memory—for ancient scholarship revolved around memorization. It was through such gatherings that the compilation was achieved.
In Buddhism, this process is called a council.
At the first council, since Ānanda possessed the keenest memory, they gathered and asked him to recount what he had heard. Ānanda began by declaring, "Thus have I heard."
The other disciples—who until just yesterday had heard directly from Śākyamuni Buddha—were said to have lamented that now they must receive these teachings through Ānanda's mouth as "Thus have I heard." This account has been passed down as a most fascinating, almost novelistic episode.
Thus it came to be claimed that those who directly heard Śākyamuni Buddha's words were the ones referenced by "Thus have I heard."
However, Furukawa argued this was impossible—he maintained that "Thus have I heard" emerged centuries after Śākyamuni Buddha's death, when people began saying things like "Long ago, Śākyamuni Buddha supposedly said such things" or "There was once such a story." Therefore, he reasoned, those who directly heard the teachings would have had no need to use such phrasing.
This constituted a profoundly ironic perspective.

Originally, Furukawa was someone who approached everything with such an ironic perspective. However, there were instances where such an ironic perspective was articulated with academic precision. In Buddhism, the sutras, vinaya, and abhidharma are referred to as the Tripiṭaka: the "sutras" being teachings directly expounded by Śākyamuni Buddha; the "abhidharma" being expositions of the Buddha’s teachings by his bodhisattva disciples; and the "vinaya" consisting of precepts established by Śākyamuni Buddha—that is, moral regulations. In addition to these, there existed exegesis that interpreted the sutras, vinaya, and abhidharma—meaning those transmitting the teachings had further interpreted them—thus explaining their chronological relationship of formation. However, Furukawa stated this was not the case. From Śākyamuni Buddha’s own time onward, there were sutras, vinaya, and abhidharma, and they posed no issue. These treatises contained both gāthās and prose commentaries. Gāthās condensed meanings with great simplicity, compiling them into verse forms akin to poetry or songs, while prose commentaries meticulously explained these verses’ meanings and presented them in an easily comprehensible written form. These gāthās and prose commentaries appeared throughout the treatises as well. First came short four-line, eight-line, or ten-line gāthās, followed by prose commentaries elaborating their meanings. Regarding why gāthās were created, Buddhism explains their origins through eight meanings, but Furukawa maintained that the fifth and sixth among these represented their true significance. The fifth reason was that rendering these hymns in verse made them easier to read due to universal preference for poetic form, while the sixth was that verse proved easier to memorize—these dual purposes accounted for gāthās’ emergence as verse forms. The words of ancient scriptures were all written as gāthās to facilitate memorization and aural comprehension, with prose commentaries developing later to explain them—a process anyone might have conceived. Yet Furukawa recognized this principle applied equally in China and Japan. In China, not only the Book of Songs but even the Book of Documents contained verse. The I Ching and Laozi—all such ancient texts included verse. Just as with Indian gāthās, verse existed both because scholars desired it and because it aided memorization. In Japan too, within old oral traditions existed syllabic structures through which material was memorized. For instance, Shinto ritual prayers all followed a singular rhythm that enhanced memorization. Such mnemonic devices originated in primitive times precisely for ease of retention—all ancient texts followed this pattern. It was through such oral recitation that gāthās emerged—hence their origin—with prose commentaries developing subsequently. Since India undoubtedly followed this developmental sequence, the vinaya, sutras, and abhidharma must have existed from the very beginning. The distinction labeling sutras as Śākyamuni Buddha’s writings and treatises as bodhisattvas’ works—he asserted—was arbitrarily established later and did not reflect their original nature.

In this manner, when researching Buddhism—considering both China and Japan’s actual ancient primitive eras and conducting comparative studies—this makes it clear that he possessed an exceptionally brilliant mind for historical research.

Research Methodology and Theoretical Value

Generally speaking, Furukawa’s research methodology consisted solely of these elements. Yet with just these, one could conduct research on any ancient era’s records—no matter how ambiguous their temporal or spatial aspects might be.

The discovery of such principles constituted an extraordinary achievement. In Japan, there had been those who studied China and those who studied Japan, yet none had established a logical foundation for their research methodology in this manner.

It was appropriate to say that this Furukawa was the first to establish it.

In this regard, I believed it was fitting to state that he stood as a splendid first-rate scholar—not merely a genius produced by Osaka, but rather one cultivated by Japan itself.

When I previously stated at Kaitokudo Academy that if one were to list five genius scholars in Japan, Furukawa would undoubtedly be among them, it appeared the note-taker had erred by omitting the five and instead recorded Furukawa as the primary figure following them—as evidenced by the transcript that reached me.

The Ikeda Jinbutsushi compiled based on that also presented him in such a manner, but that was a misrepresentation—I held Furukawa in significantly higher esteem.

Osaka had boasted numerous scholars, but when it came to approaching scholarship with what we would today term a scientifically systematic methodology, there existed no one but this man.

This extended beyond Osaka—throughout all of Japan, there was none who matched his caliber.

It was precisely this aspect that I found truly remarkable.

Then, Furukawa considered that scholarship possessed a national character. During that period, he had analyzed the national characters of India, China, and Japan in this manner. He characterized the Indian national character in a single word as 'illusion,' the Chinese as 'ornamentation,' and the Japanese as 'simplicity' or 'constricted'—though 'constricted' here denoted excessive honesty bordering on narrowness—reducing each to a single-character critique. I believe this characterization achieved remarkable precision through minimalism. Indians displayed a penchant for fantastical concepts—as I had previously mentioned—conceiving outlandish notions like Mount Sumeru manifesting on a mustard seed, akin to a magician’s artifice. Thus, what Śākyamuni termed non-Buddhist sects—India’s other religious groups—dealt in illusion, while Buddhism concerned itself with supernatural powers. Though illusion and supernatural powers were said to differ, he asserted they were fundamentally identical, arguing that magicians crafted religions mirroring Indians’ affinity for trickery. The Chinese favored ornamentation in all matters; they embellished even language itself, rejecting plainness outright—hence their national character being 'ornamentation.' The Japanese maintained an exceedingly straightforward and honest mindset; encountering illusion-like ornamentation or dazzling complexities left them bewildered and disoriented. Thus, honest brevity proved most effective for them, resulting in their characterization as 'simplicity' or 'constrictedness.' With these three national characters established, each nation constructed religions accordingly—meaning foreign religions required adaptation to local character for successful transplantation. India’s illusionary religion—with its ceaseless concepts like “a hundred thousand billion lands”—could never suit Japan. To resonate with Japanese sensibilities, simplification became imperative. Even Chinese texts failed to take root if their ornamentation grew overly intricate. Furukawa stressed that for Japan, further streamlining remained essential—though he acknowledged this insight wasn’t wholly original. During China’s Sui dynasty, Wenchangzi had observed: “Buddhism, being the Western Sage’s teaching, becomes mired in rigidity when imposed on China unchanged.” Furukawa referenced this precedent before concluding through Sino-Japanese comparison that religions form according to national character—a principle demanding recognition as visionary when viewed today. While numerous details remain unaddressed, this constitutes Shuttei Gogo’s essential framework.

Principles of Chinese Studies and Critique of Shinto — “Setsuhei”
・“Okina no Fumi” (The Elder’s Writings)

In addition to these works, there exists a book by Furukawa Nakai titled “Setsuhei,” which is said to have criticized Confucianism, though its contents remain poorly understood today.
However, with the emergence of “Okina no Fumi” (The Elder’s Writings), I have come to partially grasp what was written in “Setsuhei.”

To explain what kind of book this “Okina no Fumi” is and what it contains: since it was written four or five years prior to “Shuttei Gogo” (Post-Samadhi Discourse), I believe it was likely composed during Furukawa’s twenties.
He is thought to have possessed an extraordinary intellect even in his twenties.
The content matches that of “Setsuhei,” providing principles for Chinese scholarly research.
He generally conceived it as follows.
At the time of Confucius’s birth, that era marked the flourishing age of the Five Hegemons.
Duke Huan of Qi and Duke Wen of Jin were the hegemons of that period.
During this zenith of hegemonic influence, Confucius—observing how people revered hegemonic rule—applied the Addition Principle by invoking Kings Wen and Wu of Zhou.
After Confucius came Mozi, who built upon Kings Wen and Wu to introduce Yao and Shun.
Next, Yang Zhu brought up Huangdi atop these foundations.
Then Xu Xing—mentioned in Mencius—added Shennong to this lineage.
This constitutes China’s Addition Principle.
From a philosophical perspective, Gaozi—recorded in Mencius—advocated the theory that human nature lacks inherent good or evil.
Mencius promoted innate goodness; Xunzi championed innate evil—this progression itself exemplifies the Addition Principle.
Yet unaware that these theories emerged through such additions, Japan’s Itō Jinsai deemed Mencius correct, while Ogyū Sorai asserted Confucius’s Way directly followed the Former Kings’ path, claiming Zisi and Mencius had deviated from it. By fixating on trivial disputes without discerning origins—when examining how theories arise—they gradually stemmed from layered ideological additions, their core purposes remaining identical.
He concluded that this fixation arose precisely because scholars kept proposing novel theories in succession.
Though “Setsuhei” no longer exists today, through this [“Okina no Fumi”], we can comprehend its general framework.

Okina no Fumi also contains critiques of Japanese Shinto.
As for Japanese Shinto—of course, in Furukawa's era being before Motoori and Hirata had emerged, when modern national scholars' Shinto did not yet exist—he made his judgments based on the Shinto practiced at that time.
Generally speaking, what we call Shinto did not exist from ancient times.
These all originated from the medieval period.
The first to emerge was Ryōbu Shūgō—the unification of Buddhism and Shinto.
The Ryōbu Shūgō theory first arose, followed later by honjaku engi—by which I mean determining which Buddha served as the original essence (honji) of which kami, considering that such-and-such kami were manifestations (suijaku); they conceived that Buddhas were the fundamental entities while kami were those actually manifesting in the world.
Thus following the Ryōbu Shūgō theory, the honji suijaku theory arose, and subsequently there emerged a contrarian theory that inverted this relationship, positing kami as the original essence and Buddhas as their manifested traces.
Then came a theory unifying both Buddhism and Shinto, and further—through the Addition Principle—they advanced what was called Yuītsu Shūgen (Unique Sect Origin), attempting to interpret everything solely through Shinto.
These were the medieval Shinto traditions formed from the Heian period through the Kamakura and Ashikaga periods.
Afterwards during the Tokugawa period arose what was called Ōdō Shintō.
This purported to explain Shinto through Confucianism.
Though Furukawa did not state it explicitly, I believe he refers here to Ise priests who interpreted Shinto through the I Ching, as well as Yamazaki Ansai—who emerged later—interpreting Shinto through Confucianism.
While this ostensibly expounded Shinto, its essence remained Confucianism.
In this manner Shinto too gradually developed through the Addition Principle—though it is said to have been transmitted since ancient times, in reality it was not preserved unchanged; moreover, he states that simply because old things are deemed good does not mean we should revert our present lives to primitive simplicity—such things cannot be incorporated into our contemporary existence.

“The New Theory of ‘Okina no Fumi’ (The Elder’s Writings)”

The point where Furukawa’s distinctive opinion manifests in *Okina no Fumi* lies in his exposition that scholarly theories are products of their eras.
It was a remarkably novel concept that even religions and rituals which once held great efficacy in antiquity had become obsolete in his present day. This asserted that not only did national character permeate religion and morality, but beyond it lay zeitgeist.
People today speak of anachronisms, but such matters had already been considered by Furukawa some one hundred eighty years prior.
He therefore concluded that contemporary people required a “Path of Sincerity” suited to their era—asserting that beyond Shinto, Buddhism, and Confucianism there must exist this ethical framework to serve as practical morality for modern life.
This formed the essential thesis of *Okina no Fumi*.
In essence, he posited that national character shifts across eras and regions; since doctrines transform through time, each age demands its corresponding intellectual systems.
What had been known of Furukawa’s arguments until then might well be said to amount precisely to this.
Though deceptively simple, these propositions alone revealed the extraordinary acuity of his thought.

The fact that he established a logical foundation for academic research methodologies was already a truly remarkable achievement for a Japanese mind.
Beyond recognizing distinctions of national character in religion and morality, as well as distinctions of zeitgeist, he maintained awareness across all aspects.
This constitutes the reason we hold him in such profound esteem, and I consider it no exaggeration to state he was one of Japan's foremost geniuses.

Family Lineage and Scholarly Pursuits

I would like to briefly add that this genius was Osaka's own creation.
Among the displayed rubbings there, the very first showed the monument to Furukawa's grandparents, with Tokutsū being Nakai's father.
From the preface of Okina no Fumi and other materials, one might infer that his ancestors likely came from Harima Province.
Harima Province curiously produced numerous merchant-scholars in Osaka—including Yamagata Bantō, whom I once lectured about at Kaitokudo Academy.
I believe Furukawa's ancestors too may have originated from Harima.
His father had already settled in Osaka by then, making Nakai undoubtedly a true Osakan native through and through.
He had siblings—the one called Kisai Koji there being his elder brother.
They were half-brothers sharing a mother whose epitaph appears there (gesturing toward the displayed rubbing)—she being Nakai's birth mother—though between Nakai and Kisai Koji existed another sibling whose name remains lost to history.
Furukawa's birth mother bore three sons, all apparently accomplished scholars.
The second son became Araki Rankō through adoption into Ikeda; the third was Masashige—though his common name eludes us.
He too excelled academically, having composed a preface to Araki Rankō's collected works in classical Chinese.
Nakai's father—real name Tokutsū, pseudonym Hōshun—stood as a scholar of note among Kaitokudo Academy's five founders, operating a soy sauce business under the trade name Dōmyōjiya Kichizaemon in what was then Yodoyabashi Nimagawachō (modern Kitahama).
The household inheritance fell to Nakai's elder brother Kisai.
While Nakai's common name remains uncertain, a recent discovery in Awaji Province of an Okina no Fumi manuscript—copied by contemporary scholar Nakano Yasuo—identifies its author as "Dōmyōjiya Saburōbei," which I take to be his trade designation.

Undoubtedly intelligent from a young age, he studied under Miyake Sekian, the head of Kaitokudo Academy.
There is a tradition stating that during this period, he wrote a book titled *Setsuhei* attacking Confucianism and was expelled by Sekian; however, *Ikeda Jinbutsushi* cites Mr. Nishimura Tenshū’s argument that since Furukawa would have been fifteen or sixteen when Sekian died, expulsion would have been unlikely even if he had authored such works—and indeed, I find this reasoning most plausible.
The claim that he was expelled by Miyake Sekian originated as a tradition among Buddhists, who appear to have fabricated various facts to malign Furukawa.
Furukawa Nakai read Buddhist scriptures from the Ōbaku edition of the canon—the printing blocks for the Tripiṭaka still exist today though created by Tetsugen sixty to seventy years before his time—having been employed to collate these blocks which likely led him to study Buddhism; subsequently criticized Buddhism in writing leading Shin Buddhist monk Keikaichōon to accuse him of having “greatly betrayed Buddhism’s benevolence.”
This follows narratives evolving through sectarian variations including *Dainichi Hishi Kōsetsushū* by a Jōdo sect monk claiming Furukawa contracted leprosy as retribution.
It further states he repented by requesting monks burn *Shuttei Gogo*’s blocks and copying Amitābha Sūtra scrolls—yet died leprous without divine response.
This legend emerged during Bunka-Bunsei when slander flourished amid Buddhist resentment.
The expulsion claim being another such legend remains highly questionable.
That he viewed Ōbaku’s canon however appears factual.
His poems describe familial discord.
This likely stemmed from his mother being his elder brother’s stepmother though she appears exceptionally wise.
Her epitaph was probably written by his younger brother Araki Rankō.
Amid domestic strife Furukawa temporarily left home possibly visiting Ōbaku then.
He likely read scriptures during this period.
Other Buddhist slanders remain untrustworthy.
The block-burning claim proves false as Hirata Atsutane later found them in an Osaka bookstore’s storehouse for reprinting.
When slandering Buddhists curiously use vulgar language shouting indiscriminately.
This I find utterly unadmirable.

Original Insights

Regarding the significance of *Shuttei Gogo* and *Okina no Fumi*, I have lectured extensively in various venues, but the importance of Furukawa’s writings was first recognized by the kokugaku scholar Motoori Norinaga and recorded in *Tamakatsuma*.
Hirata Atsutane, upon encountering this, subsequently sought out the texts and authored a work titled *Shuttei Shōgo*.
We became aware of this book through that work and thereafter read *Shuttei Gogo* itself, though it appears Furukawa had already attracted some attention even in his own time—Yuasa Jōzan, who lived nearly contemporaneously with Furukawa, critiqued his book in *Bunkai Zakki* (Miscellaneous Scholarly Notes), recording someone’s claim that a text called *Shikyōgi Shūge Hyōshishō* existed through which one could grasp Buddhism’s essentials, and that *Shuttei Gogo* had been derived from this source.
I too encountered this assertion in my youth and investigated *Shikyōgi Shūge Hyōshishō*, only to discover its author was a monk named Baikoku from Sendai—a profoundly erudite Buddhist scholar—yet the notion that Furukawa Nakai derived his understanding of Buddhism from this work is entirely baseless.
This constitutes criticism from those who neither properly read *Shikyōgi Shūge Hyōshishō* nor properly engaged with *Shuttei Gogo*.
Some thirty years prior, I had contemplated how we must remain attentive to the unexpected acuity occasionally found in past scholars’ critiques.

In other words, Furukawa's Buddhist criticism emerged entirely from his own original insight and original genius.
It was not some trivial matter—something taught by others or conceived through others' writings.
Even *Okina no Fumi* appeared to have impressed a scholar of Inokai Keisho's caliber, who wrote upon reading it that it was remarkably profound.
After we had long been searching for this book, it was by chance discovered by Kameda Jirō, a literary scholar who had been a professor at Osaka University of Foreign Studies until last spring.
It was I who finally managed to put this into print.
Such were, in general terms, this scholar's theories, his biography, and the circumstances of my involvement with them.
Though this has grown lengthy, I earnestly hope people will long remember this man as the great genius he was—even as Osaka becomes Great Osaka.
Such a genius did not emerge simply because Osaka became Great Osaka.
Moreover, just because Osaka of the past produced such a genius does not mean I can ever guarantee that twice as many eminent geniuses will emerge should Osaka become Great Osaka in the future.

“I will now take my leave.”
(Applause)

(Lecture delivered on April 5, 1925; published in *Osaka Cultural History* in August of the same year)