Pathway to Japanese Literature

**Title: Imitation and Independence**

“Today, having unexpectedly received your kind invitation, I have come here rather abruptly—but I am one who was raised at this school long ago, and for me, this institution holds deep personal connections.”
“Nevertheless, until today I had never stood before you all through an invitation from the Debate Club.”
“To be precise, there had been no such requests.”
“Nor had I any intention of doing so.”
“The Hayami-kun who has just introduced me is an acquaintance of mine.”
“In former days he was my disciple; now he is a friend—no, rather a person of greater stature than a friend.”
“However, though we are acquainted, it was not at Mr. Hayami’s request that I appear here.”
“The reason for my presence today is Abe Yoshishige—another esteemed individual whom I once taught—who happens to be closely connected with your Debate Club.”
“At that time I had truly wished to decline.”
“The reason being that my head has lately been in poor condition—or rather, my mental faculties have deteriorated to such an extent that I am now ill-suited for delivering an organized address. To put it plainly, finding it too troublesome, I initially offered my refusal.”
“Yet because my manner of refusal was perhaps excessively candid—‘If I must do it I shall come, but pray forgive me’—I responded in this fashion.”
“But they insisted it absolutely must be done.”
“In retrospect, I believe I was too honest by half.”
“Admittedly, while one might question why it must absolutely be done, it was not a matter worth pressing—and so I have come here under compulsion of necessity.”
“Abe-kun is a gentleman.”
“He is that variety of gentleman who seeks to compel acceptance of his requests.”
“Hayami-kun too is a gentleman.”
“This being the sort of gentleman who makes no requests—the gentleman who receives polite refusals.”

“So that’s why I came here today—though making excuses before my speech seems rather cowardly—but I don’t think I can say anything particularly interesting, and even if there were topics to discuss, I doubt I could present them as orderly as a school lecture.”
Abe-kun had said, “Say whatever you like—they’ll listen gladly.”

I had once been a teacher at this school.
None of my students from those days likely remain here now—they must have all graduated—but you all might be called their descendants, or successors resembling subordinates, and since I often tormented those leaders in this very classroom, I assumed those who might count as their children or grandchildren would hold no grudges—so things didn’t go smoothly enough for me to prepare properly and come forth.

I served as a teacher at this school for four years.
Not only that, but even before then—as students here like yourselves—(though I can’t recall how many years exactly) you mustn’t assume I failed.
Originally, I didn’t enter this institution.
This school was called Yobimon and stood just beyond Hitotsubashi.
The entire district where today’s Higher Commercial School resides constituted this combined school-university complex.
In Meiji 17 [1884], before any of you were born, I entered that place.
Then—truth be told—I failed.
While I lingered in academic limbo, this school came into existence.
Those who rushed into its newest incarnation weren’t solely me—but I was certainly among them.
Our classroom occupied the northernmost edge of the main building—the very space now serving as dining hall.
In the liberal arts wing.
This would have been around Meiji 22 [1889].
Comparing our era’s students to you present company—we were roughnecks with delinquent tendencies, though some might call it spirited resolve.
We swaggered about bearing imaginary responsibility for national affairs.
Our elders perpetually extol their youth while disparaging yours—a view I’ve never shared.
I still reject it now.
Standing before you today reinforces this conviction.
You surpass our generation entirely.
Though Mr. Hayami keeps repeating “magnificent,” I find you far more disciplined and accomplished.
We were truly uncouth.

There are countless examples of such mischief.
I did not ascend this podium to recount those stories; I speak to confess how terribly we behaved—so you must not imitate such conduct.
In that very classroom sat the teacher’s desk.
First, during breaks between classes, we bought sugar-coated peas and ate them inside the classroom.
When leftover peas remained, we would put them into the teacher’s desk drawer.
Among the history teachers was a man named Nagasawa Ichizō.
We nicknamed him Kappādoshiya.
As for why we called him Kappādoshiya—there was apparently some place in Greece called Kappādoshiya or something of the sort.
I have now forgotten, but when teaching Greek history, that teacher would repeat “Kappādoshiya, Kappādoshiya” countless times within a single hour.
Thus came the nickname “Kappādoshiya.”
I recall this occurring during Professor Nagasawa’s class. When he tried to write “Kappādoshiya” boldly on the board and opened his desk drawer to search for chalk, peas came clattering out from within—or so the story goes.
This was not meant to insult him, nor was it deliberately done for his notice, but in any case, we students of that era at Yobimon and such places conducted ourselves roughly indeed.
We even walked through this school in geta clogs.
I too was one who always wore geta—and since the occasion presents itself, I will mention that when I first entered this institution, Principal Sugiura Jugō had just become its prominent figure.
At that time, I believe I was twenty-eight years old.
Though still young and notable, before long such notices began appearing:
“Walking through the school in geta clogs is prohibited.”
That was only natural, but I suspect we had been wearing geta so persistently that they felt compelled to post the notice.
Yet even after it had been posted for some time, I continued walking in geta clogs.

One day, it was just past three o'clock.
Thinking that by now there would likely be no one around, I put on my geta, resolved to walk with swagger, and clacked my way forward.
As I turned the corner in the corridor, I suddenly came face to face with Mr. Sugiura Jugō.
I was not a rowdy student.
I was an extremely timid and quiet person.
What do you suppose I did upon encountering Mr. Sugiura?
I suddenly jumped off the geta.
Not only did I jump off, but upon landing, I immediately grabbed the clogs and fled at full speed.
Thus I escaped without being scolded or caught—it all ended without incident.
This is something I've kept to myself until now—today being nearly the first time I speak of it—but recently I met Mr. Sugiura again at a certain place after many years.
He had aged considerably.
When I said to him, "Do you remember this incident, sir? How I clattered about in geta like this," Mr. Sugiura replied: "No—that's quite a misunderstanding! I wholeheartedly approved of wearing geta in school. Those prohibition notices were entirely the Ministry of Education's doing."
"The Ministry always fusses over trivialities," he continued. "I was actually an advocate for geta."
Surprised, I asked: "What grounds did you have for supporting geta, Mr. Sugiura?"
He explained: "Fundamentally, geta have only two teeth. However much one might stride about school wearing them, only those two small surfaces would contact the floorboards. Whereas shoes—don't their entire soles press against the wood from heel to toe?"
"If both footwear types soiled floors equally," he reasoned, "shoes would dirty a far greater area than geta! Therefore I persistently argued that geta caused no harm—but since Ministry officials couldn't grasp this logic, they reluctantly posted those notices."
"In that case," he added with a laugh, "there was no need for you to flee! You should have received commendation instead—what wasted effort!"
At that time Mr. Sugiura himself was about twenty-eight and still young—likely vexing Ministry officials with such unconventional arguments.
I maintain there's no particular merit in favoring geta.

Well, if you all were to imagine such an era, you would likely understand that there were quite a lot of rowdy fellows, but in reality, there were far more mischievous scoundrels than there are now.
We would stoke the stove vigorously to subject the teacher to a fiery assault, or plunge the classroom into pitch darkness so that even if a teacher suddenly entered, they couldn’t see a thing—it was only after going through such antics that we were finally admitted into this school.

After spending about two years at this school, I entered university, neglected contact for quite some time, then went abroad, returned from abroad, and once again entered this school.
It wasn’t exactly a triumphant return home, but I did become a teacher and came back.
And the first ones I taught were what we now call Mr. Abe Yoshishige and others.
After leaving this school, graduating from university, and wandering through various places, it was Hayami-kun here whom I taught.
The period during which I taught Hayami-kun was when I was living a teaching life in Kumamoto as a transient student.
When I was teaching Hayami-kun, I wasn’t great—or perhaps I didn’t know what greatness was; one or the other.
In any case, it is certain that I taught Hayami-kun.
Formally.
Of course, as I was not a great person, I did not teach in a way that truly enlightened them, but it is certain that I stood in the classroom, was called "teacher," and called others "students."
If I may confess further, I had just arrived in Kumamoto.
Someone had been in charge of English before me, and I took over afterward.
It was a certain book by Edmund Burke—a book I detest.
There is no book as incomprehensible as this one.
If even a speech is something the English can understand, then there should be no reason why the Japanese cannot understand it by consulting a dictionary.
But it is a book that remains actually incomprehensible.
When I taught that incomprehensible material, Hayami-kun happened to be my student at the time—so perhaps this thought of "not great, not great" never fades away.
So after that, I taught English quite extensively and built up seniority—Hayami-kun, let me declare—but even with my English skills as developed as they are today, I still cannot understand that Burke essay.
If you doubt this, Hayami-kun, try teaching that material yourself—you’ll understand immediately.—I’m sure I’m being a nuisance, prattling on about such trivialities and wasting your time, but in truth, I say these things precisely to kill time.
It’s nothing of consequence.

Now, regarding that earlier mention of a lecture title—since there isn't really such a thing, please devise some suitable title yourselves later.
I suppose it's something rather lofty—too complex to make for a simple title.
I had thought to speak about something, but given the circumstances I mentioned earlier—with no time today and people coming—I can't think of anything at all.
So what I'm saying isn't anything particularly significant.
But I shall beg your pardon and speak about some rather rough ideas for a little while longer.

I went to see the Bunten Exhibition the other day.
(As you know, given my profession—since my talks often revolve around general matters or take examples from literature, I apologize to those with no interest in such topics, but well, there's no helping it—please bear with me.) As I mentioned earlier, I went to see the Bunten Exhibition the other day.
Having seen the Bunten Exhibition, I felt something.
Though I am someone who has opposed the Ministry of Education's exhibitions and resigned from a professorship—making me quite unwelcome by the Ministry—while I did not publicly write about this year's Bunten Exhibition, I found it not at all interesting.
This particularly holds true for Japanese paintings, I should say.
Though the same could be said of Western paintings, I shall set that aside for now and speak about Japanese paintings.

They were not at all interesting. None of those paintings were interesting. While there may have been exceptions among them, none were interesting to look at. Simply saying they were uninteresting wouldn’t convey much, so I must explain—no matter which one I looked at, they all felt flat. To say they were flat was to remark on their skillful execution—if you think this was praise, it was not. In the sense of criticism, their technique was remarkably good. To put it another way, they had technical skill—they had craftsmanship. Then, if you asked where they fell short—they lacked intellect. They lacked intellect and drew only with their hands. They were like something made by craftsmen. If I were to go that far, it would be unkind, so I won’t make that public.—What I’ve already made public is more than enough—I was not particularly criticizing the painters or the Bunten Exhibition; I was not speaking ill of the painters personally. I mention this only because it was somewhat necessary to convey what I felt, but they were utterly flat. For example, there were no stains, no blotches, no inconsistencies—the finish was beautifully executed. That kind of technical skill would have required five or ten years of apprenticeship to master, but if asked whether there was anything beyond that, I could not say. To put it in human terms, I thought they closely resembled what we call gentlemen. If you asked what a gentleman was, a gentleman was merely flat. It wasn’t just their faces. They were people whose manners—their attitude and behavior—were flat, yet they extended their hands for handshakes. Lower-class women often said things like “That man has a proper demeanor,” but for a man to be loved by women merely for having a proper demeanor—I found that disgraceful. To say someone had a proper demeanor meant they didn’t drive people away.

It amounted to superficial pleasantries.
It meant they weren’t overly gaudy and avoided causing offense.
Vibrant, composed, and truly proper.
I did not consider this a bad thing.
Associating with such people was preferable to dealing with barbarians.
Better than those who’d eject you over trifling slights.
I wasn’t condemning this, but it didn’t touch upon matters of character.
To say it wasn’t about character meant—even if they stopped short of outright theft or illegality—they engaged in underhanded cruelties and sundry misdeeds, inhabited grand homes, rode about in motorcars, yet when encountered, proved perfectly agreeable, refined, and utterly vacant.
And regarding character? Likely many proved less than admirable.
You mustn’t mistake this for true gentility.
Yet such men passed as gentlemen.
To put it plainly: while genuine gentlemen upholding dignity through character might exist, far more common were those who cast character aside and paraded as gentlemen through manners alone.
Well—I estimated eighty percent fell into this category.
Thus when appraising Bunten’s paintings to discern which variety prevailed, they proved works starved of character.
To call them character-deficient wasn’t to imply painters were thieves.
No such insult was intended.
But neither was respect implied.
They sorely lacked—how to phrase it—loftiness in conception.
View them yourself and you’d comprehend.
Loftiness didn’t mean depicting Fuji or Shakyamuni or *sennin* ascetics thereby achieved it.

Even if one were to depict a horse, it could exude loftiness.
If one were to paint a cat—it might still radiate grandeur.
Plants, trees, birds, beasts—no matter how small or seemingly insignificant the subject, countless works achieve this elevated quality.
The Bunten Exhibition remains utterly bereft of paintings embodying such significance.
To invert the proposition: Bunten itself actively excludes such works.
For this reason, every piece must display uniformly polished technique.
Those lacking technical proficiency all fail—whether this holds true or not, I cannot say—but regardless, I recognized this pattern at Bunten and juxtaposed its artistic traits against the characteristics of those we call gentlemen.

Then, next, someone returned from abroad and held an exhibition; I went to see it.
There were two of them.
When I looked at one of their paintings, I saw they had created various Western-style works in oil.
They had also painted Impressionist-like works.
They had even painted classical works closely resembling those of Rubens.
He belonged to the French school, but when considered impartially, where did his distinctiveness lie?
He was painting someone else’s paintings.
There seemed to be no trace of one’s own self anywhere.
Regardless of skill, they could paint any number of works resembling what others had created—but when it came to where their own self resided, the paintings shown at the exhibition seemed to leave no trace of it whatsoever.
Next, I saw another painting by someone who had returned from abroad.
It was a refined, restrained painting.
And so, it was a painting that—no matter who saw it—wouldn’t provoke any ill feelings.
I thought about buying one of them and hanging it in my study.
But I stopped.
Still, I did think it would have been acceptable to buy.
Why do I say it would have been acceptable? Because it was sufficiently well-made.
The reason I considered bringing one home was that these English-style paintings were competently executed and, as room decoration, seemed neither eccentric nor overly plain—just ordinary enough to be somewhat appealing. I thought about purchasing one, but ultimately did not.
That person’s paintings were such that anyone who saw them could tell they were imitative works.
It was a painting that had advanced through study to a certain level.
That is why they were not unsightly—this much was clear.

However, there was not a single painting that required its creator’s unique hand to exist. For instance, even if you chose one to hang in your home, it was precisely the sort of work that could be replicated without involving that particular artist—commission another painter, and they could likely produce its equal. Then I viewed another exhibition. This featured foreign-style paintings by artists residing in Japan. The previous two I had seen at distinguished establishments—the Imperial Hotel and Seiyōken restaurant. The clientele there were decidedly ostentatious types. Among them were women wearing long-sleeved kimonos; I marveled that such patrons could appreciate the works at all. The third exhibition proved entirely different. Its venue was the third floor of the Yomiuri Shimbun building. The visitors, while gentlemen of our standing, consisted entirely of peculiar specimens—enigmatic figures who might have been painters, characters straight from Punch magazine advertisements, individuals in long cloaks and pointed hats resembling Dutch colonials—altogether a most singular crowd. The paintings matched this atmosphere. Not a single refined soul graced the audience. I must say those works lacked proper composition even by modest standards. Yet I distinctly sensed these artists were painting from their own vision. That said, I consider the muddily colored pieces unfinished works. Thus while I sympathize with and respect their creators, they were all paintings I would never trouble to purchase for my study.

Given that there are various different paintings in this manner, I shall commence my discussion from this point.
Thus, the Bunten artists and the two who returned from the West do not paint their own works.
Then, those in present-day Japan paint their own paintings, but they are unfinished works.
Those are all my impressions, though.
Regarding that, I shall make it into a philosophy—or rather, contrive it into a philosophy to give this speech the form of a proper lecture.
The problem lies in how to contrive this.
If that goes well, it would be a lecture worth listening to.
If it doesn’t go well, that’s all there is to it.
Well, whether my approach in settling this is skillful or clumsy hardly matters.

Human beings are truly remarkable creatures.
Were I to stand here alone like this, what might you all think?
Though asking what you think may seem vague—what do you think?
Not that I mean what important people or Hayami-kun might suppose.

I would seize upon a single person walking down the street and observe them thus.
This person is a representative of humanity.
This is what I think.
Of course they're not a deity's representative—they're undoubtedly humanity's representative.
Not a beast's representative—they're undoubtedly humanity's representative.
Therefore, when I stand here like this, I am standing here representing the human race.
If I alone represent the entirety of humanity, there may be those who maliciously say that Fukann-kun is a cat.
If you all were to say this—if you did—then I intend to assert: "No, not a cat—I am representing the human race."
There should be no objections, I presume.
If that's the case, then that is acceptable.

At the same time, if you were to say that’s all there is to it—well, that isn’t quite the case.
Now, if you ask what they represent, that single person simultaneously represents all of humanity while also representing themselves alone.
It may be a trivial matter, but that’s how it is.
I stand here as a representative of all humanity while simultaneously standing as a representative of myself.
I am neither you nor them; I represent a single entity known as Natsume Sōseki.
At this moment I am not something general; I am something special.
I represent myself; no one other than me is being represented.
Parents are not being represented; children are not being represented—they represent the individual themselves.
No—they are the individual themselves.

If that is so, human beings would then be representing two aspects in such a manner—though to put it that way might be misleading—or rather, they would amount to two aspects.
"There it is, there it is—if I don’t mention that, it won’t be properly understood."

So, considering this from the perspective of representatives of the Human Race—what distinctive features and inherent traits do human beings possess?
First, as a defining characteristic of humans representing all humanity, I would foremost put forward imitation.
Human beings are creatures that imitate others.
I myself grew to this stature by imitating others.
Even the small children in my household show an extreme propensity for mimicry.
There exists a pair of brothers with but a year between them; when the older brother demands "Give me something," the younger echoes "Give me something."
Should the elder declare "I don't want it," the younger parrots "I don't want it."
If the older says "I need to relieve myself," the younger insists "I need to relieve myself."
This verges on the pathological.
He replicates every utterance of his brother.
One might imagine him treading step-for-step in the elder's shadow.
To a degree both fearsome and astonishing, he stands as the consummate imitator.

Though it is not a book I have read recently, Mantegazza’s *Physiology and Expression* contained numerous examples concerning imitation; however, I do not presently recall many instances of humans being imitative creatures—though I do have a few here. For example, if a person walking along the street attempts to open an umbrella, the woman accompanying them is sure to open hers as well. To some extent, this holds true in general. When someone gazes at the sky in the street, two or three people will gather for no apparent reason. So does this mean there’s something in the sky? It’s not like there’s an airship flying or anything. But if someone mentions an airship or something of that sort, a large crowd will invariably look up at the sky. At such times, it’s not impossible that there might actually be an airship or something in the sky to warrant their gaze.

To such an extent are human beings made to imitate others—pitiable creatures indeed.
Thus, this act of imitating others begins in childhood and extends beyond trivial matters into moral, artistic, and social realms.
Fashion naturally involves imitation.
When we were children in Tokyo, they would never dress us in Satsuma kasuri fabric.
It was worn only by country folk.
Yet nowadays, nearly all students wear Satsuma kasuri.
Perhaps because it’s inexpensive—regardless, everyone has adopted it.
Then there was that phase when they’d take the long white cords of their haori coats—woolen or whatnot—and tie them like this, draping them from chest to back around the neck.
That too followed the pattern—one person does it, then all follow suit.
In our youth, we wore haori with a single family crest and preened at being called sophisticates.
Now they’ve taken to sporting five crests.
Even those large crests seem to have shrunk gradually—I wonder how small they’ve become these days.
I myself reduced my crests’ size to keep pace with trends—such is fashion’s tyranny over us.
Though perhaps “tyranny” misleads—we rush toward trends of our own accord.
Imitation is nearly instinctual for humans as social mimics.
The urge to copy others arises unbidden.
Even these Western clothes—garments from twenty years past—find few wearers now.
I recently saw someone clad thus and found it absurd.
Truly an unsightly spectacle.
Women especially—photographs of ladies from two decades past appear utterly ludicrous.

They themselves do not consider it laughable in its original sense, but upon thorough examination, placing such weight on imitation inevitably renders anything differing from themselves or deviating from societal norms absurd.
This principle can similarly be applied to the moral domain.
In the artistic realm, this goes without saying.
I could furnish numerous such examples, but as time constraints prevail, I shall refrain from elaboration.
In any event, that people take profound pleasure in imitation arises from their own volition—it constitutes no external coercion.
They act willingly; they imitate willingly.

At the same time, society contains what we call laws and principles that try to lump humanity together through external pressure. You too are lumped together and educated. You receive your education in haphazardly grouped batches. If we didn't handle things this way, matters would never conclude—hence we reluctantly apply this external pressure to you all. This too constitutes a social compact, for education would face insurmountable difficulties otherwise. These compacts and principles exist in politics, education, and social etiquette alike. Consider how one mustn't eat with noisy slurping and splattering—such things exemplify what we might term laws. Then there's moral law—this goes without saying—which establishes that borrowed money must absolutely be repaid. Then we have artistic laws. Traditional Japanese paintings, Noh theater, stage dances—these all labor under stiffly rigid, cumbersome fixed principles that cannot be budged. While it would serve us well to list each example individually, I shall refrain from doing so. Omitting illustrations makes for dullness, but since brevity prevails, I'll sacrifice thoroughness to conclude swiftly.

Moreover，laws exist in social，moral，and legal realms，but none prove more severe than those governing military discipline．
Even in art，this species of law persists，compelling compliance through societal pressure．
On one flank lies imitation—humans instinctively copying others．
On another，these very laws exert external force，enforcing conformity．
These twin pressures erode humanity’s distinctive essence，steering all toward bland uniformity．
Thus qualified，I alone may claim authority to represent humankind entire．

I represent humanity while simultaneously representing myself.
When I consider this starting point of representing myself, Independence must take precedence over Imitation.
It is not that I act because others do.
If people do so—others eat rice porridge for breakfast; I eat bread.
Others eat soba; I eat zōsui. We act as we please—you have three bowls; I have five—such things are not Imitation.
If others eat four bowls, I eat six.
That may not be Imitation—I cannot say—but there are times when they deliberately oppose it.
This is unavoidable.
In this world there exist what we call eccentrics—people who find no interest in ordinary matters and cannot rest unless acting contrary to others.
Among them are those who do it for advertisement.
Since ordinary things hold no interest, they want to try something special—growing out their hair or wearing winter-summer hats—behaviors quite common among students here.
But that likely stems from indifference.
When people notice others wearing winter hats, they’ll want to wear them too.
Were I to deliberately wear a summer hat on such days, I would become quite the eccentric.
What I mean by Independence here is that it eliminates this deliberateness.
Next, it eliminates eccentrics.
What goes unnoticed also remains unaccounted for.
Then what constitutes Independence?
Human beings innately possess a natural tendency toward independence.
Human beings harbor on one hand Imitation, and on the other Independence and self-respect.

If we distinguish among them, there are the lazy ones, those who aren’t lazy, and those who aren’t lazy but act lazy out of ignorance—sleeping until ten by natural inclination rather than rising at eight.
That is undoubtedly Independence, though perhaps a rather undesirable form of it.
It is willfulness and laziness yet also natural; though it may become Independence, this too must be eliminated.
What remains in the end—let us call it temptation among you.
Even when feeling tempted to keep pace with others, somehow I find myself unable to yield.
It’s precisely like dragging a lame man into military drills—try as I might, my stride refuses to align.
That is to say—though I wish to act in unison with you all, it simply won’t do. This we call *Independence*.
Of course, this isn’t some bodily demand—it’s spiritual, a positive inner imperative.
This may manifest in moral realms.
Or in artistic realms.
When considering spiritual matters—though this may seem an antiquated example—monks uphold the doctrine of abstaining from meat and marriage.
Yet in the Shin sect, they’ve eaten meat and taken wives since ancient times.
This constitutes nothing less than an ideological revolution.
For Shinran Shōnin to have achieved such reformation required extraordinary ideas from the outset—tremendous power and profoundly rooted convictions.
To rephrase: Shinran must be called a man of extraordinary Independence.
To accomplish such feats demanded a proper foundation from the very beginning.
Thus the path one must take becomes clear—though I might wish to match steps with other monks, it doesn’t mean I, being solitary, merely crave a wife and meat.
In those days—as now—not only declare your intent to marry and eat meat boldly, but carry it through.
There’s no telling what persecution you’ll face.
Of course, if you fear persecution, you’ll never accomplish such things.

If you worry about such trivial matters, you’ll never manage such things.
There lies that person’s confidence and unwavering spirit.
It is only when an authority governs that person that such things become possible.
Therefore, Shinran Shōnin may well be a representative of all humanity on one hand—but on the other, he remains a striking representative of the self.

I had just given an old example, but if I were to present a more recent one this time, there was the case of Ibsen.
As you are aware, Ibsen’s moralism declared that the old morals were simply no good.
To explain what made them no good—they had been fashioned to suit men’s convenience.
He stated that what had passed for morality until today was this: strong men, disregarding women entirely and seeking their own convenience to wield their rights, devised sanctions or laws to ignore weaker women and confine them within iron-barred cells.
Therefore, Ibsen’s morality had to be divided into two types.
It had to be divided into men’s morality and women’s morality.
From women’s perspective, it conversely had to be—well—the opposite, so to speak.
Within Ibsen’s works existed those written starting from that very thought and principle.
The most striking example was a work like *Nora*.
That very Ibsen demonstrated the unique quality of being both a representative of humanity and a representative of himself.
That was not Imitation.
Since existing morality was as it was, this was not the kind of self that—even while recognizing its inconveniences—leisurely resigned itself to following along simply because there was no other choice.
It was a far more special and fierce self.
It was for this reason that Ibsen faced great persecution.
Of course, he had in fact been an unfortunate man.
Not only that, but he was a peculiar man who represented himself far more than he represented humanity as a whole.
So he left the country and wandered various places, and even when he occasionally returned home, his reputation being unfavorable, he seldom went back.
On one occasion, he returned to his country.
Even when he returned to his country, having no home, he stayed at an inn.
At that time, when a man named Brandes proposed holding a welcome party since Ibsen had come, Ibsen said, "I want no part of such a welcome party."

However, emphasizing that this was a specially planned gathering with only twelve attendees, they finally succeeded in persuading Ibsen.

To avoid trouble, they decided to hold the event at the inn where Ibsen was staying—a place resembling the Imperial Hotel—and when the day finally arrived at the appointed hour, Brandes went to Ibsen’s room, knocked on the door, and asked from outside if he had prepared his clothes. Ibsen replied that he owned no such garments and that he had never altered his attire.
He was wearing a shirt.
Even if you call it a shirt—in places like Russia during winter days like this, they keep indoor temperatures around seventy degrees.
When reading books, he would remove his jacket.
When going out, he would wear such garments.
When someone pointed out that while his shirt was acceptable, everyone else had come in tailcoats, Ibsen retorted that his luggage contained no tailcoat—if wearing one was required, he would respectfully decline.
They had invited guests, and with all those guests now gathered, it would be disastrous if he refused—so they pleaded, “Please don’t say such things and just come out,” which led him to agree to attend. But when Brandes—who had initially claimed there were only twelve people—let slip that the number had swelled to twenty-four, he declared that if they were lying, he would refuse to go after all.
Brandes himself wrote of how truly troublesome it had been.
After all sorts of troubles arising from this, they finally managed to bring him along and had him sit properly.
However, he was in a great sulk and didn’t utter a single word; he remained silent.

There are more interesting stories I could share, but let us wrap this up here for now.
In any case—whether representing humanity or beasts—it would be more precise to state that Ibsen represented Ibsen himself.
To put it most accurately: Ibsen was quintessentially Ibsen.
Such was his distinctive nature.
Though this anecdote may appear simplistic, when considered through Ibsen’s moral framework as previously outlined, we must conclude he positioned himself squarely against Imitation.

Therefore, among humans there exist these two types of people.
When stated this way, it may appear as though the two sides are divided like red and white factions, but it is most accurate to say that a single individual possesses both aspects.
People often speak of there being two distinct categories among humans—this is gravely mistaken.
For then one side would seem to possess only the traits of that single aspect.
Those who argue in such terms consequently fall into discussions divorced from factual foundations.
While people claim there are two types of humans, the truth lies in this dual nature we all carry.
However original one may be, elements of imitation linger within them somewhere.
Considering Imitation’s perspective—what defines an imitator? Fundamentally, imitators mimic others.
Hence they lack personal standards.
Or if such standards exist, they want the fierce courage needed to uphold them consistently.
Yet those aligned with Independence maintain their own internal measure.
When Ideal Sensation becomes personalized, they cannot rest until expressing and actualizing it.
Though deemed eccentric—no matter how others censure them or cry “You’re peculiar!”—they cannot act otherwise.
The bush-glaring types persist in gazing sideways regardless.
These are individuals overabundant in Independence’s essence.
Thus such people prove truly vexing, incapable of marching in step with society.
“Hey—join me at the baths?” “I’ll douse myself with cold water.” “Care to stroll?” “I’ll sit in zazen.” “Won’t you eat?” “I’ll take bread.” Such Independents become wholly ungovernable.
Cohabitation proves utterly unfeasible.
Yet if asked whether they pity the trouble caused—no such sentiment exists.
They simply cannot spare thought for such matters.

That must indeed be called a true independent person.
Though troublesome compared to imitators or those lacking personal standards—who remain unobjectionable by being error-free and thus reassuring—even possessing one’s own standards makes such individuals more worthy of forbearance and esteem. Were I to say this aloud, who knows what manner of critic might emerge? Yet truthfully speaking, there do exist those deserving such regard.
In any event, I maintain there remains something to be permitted where independents are concerned.

Originally, I held this kind of view.
Those who were imprisoned for theft; those who faced the gallows for murder—though these acts were legally deemed criminal because they constituted moral offenses and were thus publicly punished—if the perpetrators could lay bare the pathways of their own minds as they truly were, and if they could impress this truth upon others, I believed all crimes would cease to exist.
I believed none would come into existence.
The thing that best compelled one to think so was a novel written exactly as things were—a well-crafted novel.
If there existed someone capable of writing things exactly as they were—then even if that person had done what could be deemed wrong by any measure—should they manage to depict reality without concealment or omission; they could truly attain Buddhahood through the merit of their depiction.
They violated the law; they would be sentenced to imprisonment.
But I believed that person’s sins could be sufficiently purified by what they had depicted.
I certainly believed this to be true.
However—this did not mean we needed no laws or such things in society; nor did we need to impose imprisonment—that was not what I meant.
To put it clearly: even if one were to write things appearing madly immoral from an external perspective; or commit acts of immoral conduct—if they could depict the entire process without concealing or posturing; laying bare their innermost thoughts exactly as they were—then I considered such a person would have written proof splendid enough to fully erase their sins. Therefore—in the sense that refusing to bend Independence’s standards contained something worthy of forgiveness—I believed we could rightfully deem them deserving of full forgiveness.

However, while such independent people may indeed be forgivable and even admirable at times, the spirit of independence must conversely be intensely vigorous.
Not only must it be intensely vigorous, but it must also be supported by thoughts or emotions bearing an immensely profound background behind them.
The reason being that if there is only a weak background, one will merely misuse independence, bringing harm to the world and making success utterly unattainable.

At this point, the meaning of "success" also requires explanation.
Moreover, while the matter of a strong background also requires explanation, when we ask what constitutes a strong background, it proves inseparable from its context.
For instance, were I to assert, declare, and act against societal conventions,
if my actions lacked foundation, then no matter how necessary or inevitable they might seem to me personally,
they would bring no benefit to others.
They could exert no influence.
Should I prove incapable of exerting influence, I would become mere Independence inscribed on paper; having performed what that written Independence dictates,
I must ultimately perish as Independence confined to letters.
Not only would such Independence fail to impact others,
it would injure human sentiments,
disturb what we call laws,
and merely cultivate disquiet among people.
Now then—what manner of profound background must one possess?
Consider examples like the intensely individualistic French Revolution or even our Meiji Restoration.
Though the Tokugawa family ultimately wielded limited power after becoming shogun,
the shogun nonetheless held political authority with His Majesty the Emperor above him.
Overthrowing the shogunate—an institution sustained by custom precisely because it defied universal law—
could only succeed if sympathy resided in people's hearts during that upheaval,
and if that sympathy could be awakened.
Thus one must not lightly profess Independence.
Human self-awareness advances ever forward,
step by step.
Should you lag one step behind,
you must advance one step behind others.
Since people carry within them a destiny to become what they ought when their time arrives,
we must enlighten them one step ahead.
This—if we may call it so—constitutes a strong and profound background.
Without it,
success remains unattainable.

I gave examples from history regarding success,but to avoid misunderstanding,I wished to present another more immediate example.A school disturbance occurred,and the principal of that school was replaced.This was not that school.Later,a new principal would arrive.He set about quelling that school disturbance.At that time he engaged in various deliberations and required plans.There were various reforms as well.If things proceeded smoothly，that person was said to have succeeded.When people spoke of someone having succeeded，even if their methods involved neither renewal，reform，nor reorganization—if people judged solely by favorable results—they declared，"That person succeeded；indeed，that person was remarkable."However，the disturbance grew increasingly larger.Everything that person had done up to then was criticized.If people carried out identical actions with favorable results，it was called success；but with unfavorable results，they immediately declared those methods flawed.They made such judgments without observing actual methods，focusing solely on results.They passed judgment based solely on outcomes without considering merits.People might speak of success or failure，but my concept did not hold such simplistic meaning.Even if results ended in failure，if an act carried out goodness evoking notions worthy of sympathy and respect，that was success.It was this kind of success I wished to call success.Even crucified on a cross，it was success.This might not seem admirable success，but remained undeniably so.This indicated temporal meaning，not religious significance.

General Nogi passed away, you know.
That death of General Nogi's was one born of utmost sincerity.
Yet in some quarters, it yielded adverse effects.
A great many went so far as to imitate it unto death.
I believe most who mimicked this death grasped nothing of General Nogi's underlying spirit—they merely aped its outward form.
Even granting these imitators' emergence was regrettable, we cannot deem General Nogi himself unsuccessful.
However flawed its consequences may appear, the sincerity permeating his act moves you all.
This I recognize as success.
Success in precisely this sense.
Thus while independence is commendable, only independence rooted in profound background can achieve success.
When I speak of success's meaning, it is this meaning I intend.

As I have just stated, humankind possesses two aspects—Imitation and Independence. One represents unity: those who imitate others or are bound by rules.
The other proceeds along the path of freedom and independence.
This constitutes that very variety of humankind.
Though we possess these dual aspects, let me emphasize—all that has been termed revision, reform, or renewal until today—in this context—the foundation for enriching knowledge, emotions, and experiences cannot be established without the emergence of independent individuals.
Were this impossible to achieve, we need only reflect upon how impoverished our historical record appears—thereby understanding clearly how profoundly such individuals have enriched our collective experience.
In this sense, Independence becomes absolutely essential.
I do not condemn Imitation; yet mental development proves impossible if we strip away those noble qualities inherent to humanity.
Mental development springs from this aspiration we call Independence and from the sentiment of freedom—hence both we and you must cultivate yourselves in this sphere.
One may survive without such cultivation.
Moreover, those lacking inner conviction need not affect superficial eccentricities.
Let those content with Imitation remain so—this suffices perfectly well.
Let those desiring Independence through their labors proceed accordingly—this too suffices perfectly well.
For those endowed with Independence’s qualifications—since discarding them would be tragic—their development brings happiness for themselves, for Japan, and for society at large.
This is my meaning.

I repeat: I do not consider Imitation to be in any way bad.
No matter how original a person may be, there exists not a single individual who—separated from others and detached from themselves—can forge an entirely new path alone.
Even when considering painters and their works, one finds they cannot exclusively produce such novel creations.
Gauguin was French yet painted peculiar images of savages.
Though born in France, his ability to create those works after entering savage territories stemmed from having observed various paintings during his prior residence in France.
However original one might be, I believe none could have obtained such numerous hints without having first seen others' paintings.
There exists a distinction between gaining hints and imitation, yet when a hint advances one step further, it becomes imitation.
Nevertheless, I maintain that Imitation does not serve to enlighten.

Furthermore, Imitation, being an externally enforced law and regulation, was not something that should simply be destroyed.
When no longer needed, it would naturally crumble.
It merely depended on the relative weight of benefit and existential purpose whether it would collapse ten years earlier or later than expected.
Whether the original died out sooner or the imitation perished first made little real difference.
I would never say either was inherently bad.
Both existed because each held its own reason for being.
Were rules abolished for those like you receiving education, matters would grow utterly unmanageable.
Military drills too would become impossible.
While children might heed only their parents' words at first, Independence naturally developed as they matured into full-fledged individuals.
It arrived when development became seasonally proper.
My argument was never for advocating Independence alone without condition.

However, upon observing recent trends and the state of society at large, I find myself generally supportive of Independence.
Let me clarify—this does not mean I advocate disregarding school rules to act self-indulgently under current circumstances.
That remains a separate issue. When considering Japan’s present condition, if we must choose where to place emphasis, I believe we should prioritize Independence and advance with that resolve.
We Japanese have permitted ourselves to exist as a nation of imitators.
And indeed, this has become our reality.
Where once we did nothing but mimic China, now we do nothing but mimic the West—such defines our current state.
The reason lies in the West’s relative advancement; thus it becomes the object of widespread imitation.
Consider how young people like yourselves, standing before someone you revere as great—whether you actually think so or not—might assume you must follow your predecessors’ path to reach their stature. So too does Japan, facing the West, come to believe it must replicate that very path to attain comparable standing—such a mentality inevitably arises.
And this reflects reality.
Yet upon reflection, should we not have already reached the time to cease mere imitation and become true Originals—true Independents—from within ourselves?
Indeed, that time should be upon us.

The Russo-Japanese War was a highly original event.
It was an independent endeavor.
Had they continued that course a little longer, they might have lost.
They concluded it at the opportune moment.
However, they did not gain substantial wealth in return.
Yet regardless, that very event stands as evidence that military personnel possess independence.
The time has already come for Japan to demonstrate its independence in art vis-à-vis the West.
Though Japan tends to succumb to Russophobia or even fear nations like China, I hold such attitudes in contempt.
I do not consider them so fearsome.
I say this to encourage you all.
Moreover, when Japanese people view trivial works appearing in magazines and claim they pale in comparison to Western ones—that is falsehood.
My own novels appear in such magazines, but I do not speak of those.
I must avoid misunderstanding.
As for other works, those written by eminent figures in literary circles are generally commendable.
They are by no means inferior.
Compared to Western works, they are not lacking in capacity to astonish.
It is merely a difference between vertical and horizontal reading.
The perception that horizontal reading appears more skillful is erroneous.
Though we ourselves possess such originality yet remain unaware of it—even without endlessly extolling Western greatness—I wish we would grow somewhat more independent; if not to the extent of vanquishing the West, at least to moderately restrain such imitation.
This extends beyond the realm of art.

As I am deeply involved in literature, I tend to draw examples from that realm; however, this does not mean other fields are by any means lagging behind.
In monetary matters, keeping up may be uncertain—I cannot say for certain—but in intellectual matters, I do not believe they are anything like that.
You too must engage with university and do so ever more independently until you become truly new people of a new kind.
It is not some novel version of reheated leftovers.
That sort of thing will not do.

In conclusion, if we ask which holds greater importance, both are important—each has its significance.
Humans inherently possess two aspects.
In expressing myself here, I simultaneously express what it means to be human.
That constitutes humanity.
I believe one cannot be called human without embracing both dimensions.
Yet when considering where emphasis should lie today, I maintain that those who seek to act from personal initiative prove far more vital to Japan's current condition than those who merely trail behind others.

Even when viewing the Bunten Exhibition，it indeed appeared that this aspect was lacking；therefore，I particularly emphasized that point and presented it for your reference．

(Transcribed from the First Higher School Alumni Association Magazine)

—December 12, 1913 (Taishō 2), at First Higher School—