Pathway to Japanese Literature

Preface

"The meaning of the topic assigned to me, 'The Japanese View of Nature,' appeared quite straightforward at first glance, but upon closer examination, I found it to be unexpectedly ambiguous."
"It appeared that some preliminary examination and analysis were required before putting pen to paper."
"This seemed to primarily mean how the Japanese people perceived and reacted to their environment, 'Japan's nature,' and what distinctive characteristics this held when compared to how non-Japanese foreigners viewed and responded to their respective foreign natural environments."
"And secondarily, the question arose of how foreigners' perspectives on Japan's nature differed from those of the Japanese people themselves."

If nature were uniform in appearance across the entire globe, then Japan's nature and foreign nature would necessarily be identical, rendering any examination of the aforementioned issues superfluous. However, in reality, nature's appearance exhibits such astonishing diversity and variation everywhere that its transformations prove too complex to be collectively referred to simply as "nature."
From this perspective, even the term "Japan's nature" itself proves in fact to be far too vague a concept.
Even excluding Hokkaido, Korea, and Taiwan, discussing the nature of regions such as Nankaido Kyushu and Tohoku as a single entity would hardly seem appropriate depending on the type of problem at hand.

When I considered this matter, the substance of the term "Japanese people" began to appear rather hollow and diffuse.
Even when comparing residents of Kyushu with those of Tohoku while setting aside individual personalities, one clearly recognizes the distinct dominance of their respective regional characteristics.
Thus we see that concepts like "the Kyushu view of nature" or "the Tohoku view of nature" could each admirably stand as independent entities.
However, I understood my assigned task to be examining the view of nature held by this abstracted "general Japanese people" - a synthesized Japan that subsumes and summarizes these regional particularities.
This realization made it abundantly clear that the problem was far from straightforward.

We customarily set nature and humans in opposition for convenience's sake and regard both as separate entities.
This constitutes both the strength and weakness of modern scientific methodology.
These two in fact combine to form a single organic entity and ultimately cannot be considered as independently separable.
Just like all plants and animals, humanity too has been nurtured in nature's embrace over long, long ages and developed to adapt to its environment; it seems reasonable to think that every environment's uniqueness would leave some distinct imprint—however slight—upon those who have grown within it.

Setting aside the question of where Japanese ancestors were born or migrated from, it seems beyond doubt that the Japanese people—having become indigenous to this land for over two thousand years of recorded history—have received from Japan's environment such an accumulation of experiences as to largely overshadow whatever genetic memories they might possess, have strived to adapt themselves as thoroughly as possible to it, and have at least partially achieved success in this endeavor.

Therefore, if I seek to consider the problem of the Japanese view of nature, it seemed reasonable that the first step should be to examine what Japan's nature actually consisted of and what characteristics it possessed.

Admittedly, had Japan's nature undergone abrupt abnormal changes over the past two thousand years, the problem would have become complicated; however, since we could assert with near certainty that no major geographical or climatic changes of the sort observed during geological epochs had occurred in Japan since the advent of recorded history, we might safely assume—without fear of grave error—that Japan's current natural environment faithfully reflected that of our ancestors' time.

Therefore, I will first attempt to list an extremely general outline of various aspects regarding the peculiarities of Japan's nature. Then, if I consider what lifestyle patterns the Japanese people have selected in response to such an environment, I believe that this alone would already constitute the greater part of my personal answer to the problem assigned to me. As for detailed and profound examinations concerning the philosophical and religious thought, literature, and art that emerged only after there existed both the nature that gave birth to the Japanese people and the lifestyle formed within it, I believe there will be no shortage of others more qualified than myself to undertake such studies.

Japan's Nature

At the foundation of nature's manifold peculiarities in Japan lay the country's unique geographical position on Earth - a fundamental principle that appeared to govern all aspects.

First is the climate.
Present-day Japan lies on an island chain stretching from the Karafuto border to Taiwan, encompassing all climatic zones from subtropical to near subarctic.
However, this was an extremely recent development - prior to the Sino-Japanese War, the climate that had nurtured what we might call authentic Japanese people remained largely confined to temperate zones.
Moreover, it meticulously encompassed every gradation from coldest to warmest regions within those temperate parameters.
That such mutually compatible yet finely differentiated climatic phases could coexist within this narrow landmass held profound significance in itself.
To grasp this uniqueness fully, one need only consider how no comparably vast region like Africa could boast equivalent climatic diversity.

The defining characteristic of the temperate zone lies in its annual cycle of seasons.
In the tropics, there are many lands where the concept of seasons as we think of them hardly exists.
In the South Seas, there are islands where it is summer all year round; phenomena such as the rainy and dry seasons caused by monsoon shifts in places like India diverge considerably from the cycle of spring, summer, autumn, and winter in temperate zones—these might rather be termed "regular long-term weather variations."
However, the very term "weather" also holds meaning exclusively within temperate zones.
It is precisely because it undergoes such varied and unpredictable changes that we can call it 'weather'.
The same applies to polar regions.
There exist "day and night," but there are neither seasons nor "weather."

The seasonal transitions and weather variations in temperate zones cultivate human wisdom.
This is because adapting to an environment that exhibits complex changes—whether periodic or non-periodic—requires humans to maintain constant vigilance and employ diverse adaptive strategies.

Even within such temperate zones, Japan possesses various peculiarities when compared to other countries.
The main cause appears attributable to the fact that Japan exists both as a continental periphery and an island nation encircled by seas.
Admittedly, in this regard, the British Isles occupy a remarkably similar position; however, climatologists have long noted that various differences exist between the western and eastern sides of continents due to the effects of atmospheric and ocean current circulation.
If anything, countries like Japan—situated on the eastern side of continents and western side of oceans—find themselves in climatically disadvantageous conditions.
This becomes evident when comparing Korea and Manchuria with Western European nations at corresponding latitudes.
Yet Japan, owing to the narrow sea separating its territory from the adjacent continent, receives the severe influence of atmospheric activity centers deep within Siberia in a somewhat moderated form.

That Japan remained connected to Korea via the Tsushima area until a relatively recent geological age appears proven by fossils of elephants and rhinoceroses, among other evidence; furthermore, many scholars acknowledge that were one to block the Tsushima-Korea strait and prevent warm currents from entering the Sea of Japan, this would cause quite remarkable climatic changes in Japan. From this single consideration alone, it becomes understandable that Japan's climate—made possible precisely by its particular geographical position and unique land-sea distribution—stands as entirely distinct among all so-called temperate zones across the globe.

For these reasons, Japan's climate exhibits a complex intermingling of continental and oceanic elements, while temporally, alongside periodic seasonal cycles, irregular and abrupt alternations are observed.
That is to say, the weather is diverse and its changes are frequent.

When it came to rainfall alone, there truly existed numerous and varied ways it fell, and regarding the point of having distinct names corresponding to each type, Japan was likely unparalleled in the world. If one were to attempt finding appropriate foreign language equivalents for terms like "harusame" (spring rain), "satsukiame" (early summer rain), and "shigure" (drizzle), one would likely experience considerable perplexity. Even concerning phenomena such as *hanagumori* (the hazy skies during cherry blossom season), *kasumi* (spring mist), and *inazuma* (lightning over rice fields), it remained doubtful whether precisely identical manifestations could be observed in any country outside Japan. For example, Germany's *Wetterleuchten*, while physically nearly identical to lightning over rice fields, never streaked through the darkness of paddies. As all accompanying meteorological conditions differed, their effects on human sensibility seemed entirely different entities.

Not limited to this phenomenon, since the intercourse between nature and humans within their combined organic entity remains fundamentally organic, it goes without saying that even phenomena considered scientifically or meteorologically identical would acquire entirely different significance depending on their combination with other concomitant elements.
In this sense, I maintain that neither "spring rain" nor "autumn wind" exists in the West; moreover, I consider that within these very terms themselves lie densely compressed fragments of the Japanese view of nature.

Among the unique meteorological phenomena in Japan, the most remarkable would likely be typhoons.
This too was a phenomenon attendant upon Japan’s unique geographical position.
“autumn typhoon”
“the 210th-day storm marker”
To foreigners, such terms likely rang hollow as mere empty words.

Next in importance to climate are the topographical and geographical elements resulting from the undulating terrain and intermingling of land and water.

There were various theories regarding the origin of Japan's island chain.
However, there appeared no doubt that Japan's land consisted essentially of fragments crushed from a continental margin.
This fact was closely linked to Japan's geological structure—and consequently to both the complex diversity of topographical formations governed by it and the minute scale of their intricate configurations.
Indeed, even when opening a geological map of Japan and comparing this mosaic dyed in multicolored hues with those of many continental nations at equivalent scales, this characteristic proved not difficult to imagine.
Such geological diversity—born from tectonic movements and secondary causes arising from stratigraphic variations—had produced an extraordinarily complex distribution of terrain features and an interpenetration of land and water; moreover, the frequent volcanic phenomena peculiar to this land seemed to have further endowed these transformations with distinctive qualities.

The complex topographical features inevitably exerted significant influence on both the distribution of residents' settlements and the development of transportation networks between them.
In each topographical unit minutely divided by the interweaving of mountain ranges and rivers, the beginnings of small cities developed—these would later form the foundation for feudal-era fragmentation.
Such topography proved ill-suited to nomadic ethnic tendencies and rather inclined to root peoples to the land.
The settled inhabitants gradually differentiated while adapting to all climatic features arising from these topographical characteristics, cultivating their own regional particularities over time.
Simultaneously they fostered deep-rooted attachment to their settled lands.
When envisioning comparison with peoples wandering vast Steppes and Pampas, the spiritual significance of Japan's topographical characteristics grows all the more clearly comprehensible.

The tectonic activity from past geological eras that formed the underlying cause of this geological and topographical complexity continues to resonate faintly even in modern times. That is, earthquakes and volcanic phenomena.

As for earthquakes so slight they can barely be detected by seismographs, there are few days when one or two do not occur somewhere in Japan, and there is no month without one or two earthquakes that can be called notable or somewhat notable. Even those destructive enough to collapse houses and cause casualties—if one waits three or four years—will undoubtedly erupt somewhere within the imperial territory. This phenomenon has likely been repeating with roughly the same frequency since our nation’s founding as it does in modern times. In Volume 16 of the *Nihon Shoki*, which records a song bestowed by the Prince upon a man named Tai, the word “*nai*” appears; furthermore, Volume 29 contains a record of the great earthquake in Tosa Province during Emperor Tenmu’s reign and the accompanying land subsidence.

Tsunamis triggered by earthquakes also frequently—likely striking some coastal inlet of Ōyashima-kuni once or twice in a human lifetime—seemed to have swept away no small number of people, livestock, and property.

The very ground beneath our feet—invoked as a metaphor for immovability—occasionally trembled violently; it would hardly have been surprising if nations that had inherited such experiences and those that had not showed considerable divergence in their conceptions of nature.

When we considered that these terrifying phenomena of tectonic activity were but faint reverberations of the massive crustal shifts that had shaped Japan’s complex landscape beauty in the past, it seemed we might also have come to view the occasional tremors of our present-day earth with a renewed perspective.

The same could be said of volcanic eruptions.
Moreover，the influence that volcanoes' existence exerted on our spiritual life was not solely oppressive in nature.

It was well known that Japan’s scenic beauty owed much to its volcanoes.
It had already been noted by many that among landscapes designated as national parks，those related to volcanoes proved remarkably numerous.
Volcanoes were often likened to goddesses.
Indeed，there appeared no volcano that failed to exhibit beautiful variations in its curvilinear form.
Not only were their forms inherently beautiful，but through consistently erupting into basins between mountains，they imparted complex diversity upon surrounding landscapes.
Furthermore，volcanic eruptions could be considered agents of rejuvenation，revitalizing aged soils threatening plant ecosystems.

Thus in our homeland Japan, the ground beneath our feet serves simultaneously as "Mother Earth" that nurtures us with profound benevolence, while also fulfilling the role of a "strict father" who frequently wields the whip of punishment to rein in our hearts that tend toward indolence.
Only in a national character that has achieved the proper balance between the strictness of a strict father and the benevolence of a loving mother can there be prospects for the development of the highest human culture.

The complexity of the crustal structure signified both the diversity and abundance of mineral deposits contained within the earth; yet simultaneously, when focusing on specific mineral resources, one might sense their output proved somewhat inadequate.
Though coal, oil, and iron were produced in considerable quantities, none would likely have matched the output volumes of world-renowned production areas for these resources.
While Japan had remained content with self-sufficiency under isolation, this fact would come to exert a profound influence on national policy when attempting to emerge as a world power.
Be that as it may, it might indeed have been said that this state of various elements each being present in small quantities constituted Japan's natural characteristics in every aspect.

In seismic phenomena, while small and medium earthquakes occur continuously in piecemeal fashion, extraordinarily large-scale earthquakes such as those seen in Central Asia appear rather rare.
This fact remains fundamentally connected to the aforementioned theories regarding mineral resources.
In other words, this occurs because Japan's crustal structure consists of a fine mosaic—forming what might be described as a miniature compressing various regions of the world within a narrow area.

As secondary effects arising from complex topography, diverse microclimatological differences emerge between various regions that are relatively close in distance.
As everyone knows, even across modest mountain ranges' opposing slopes, there exist rather marked differences in all climate elements—sunlight exposure and rainfall patterns consequently creating distinct conditions.
The most visible manifestation of these effects appears in regional variations of vegetative landscapes.
For instance, along an east-west mountain stream in Shinshu region, one might find dense broadleaf forests akin to Hokkaido's growth flourishing on south-facing slopes, while across the waterway's sun-bathed northern banks, sparse coniferous stands interspersed with subtropical species occasionally emerge.

Not only microclimatic differences but also the diversity of plant landscapes resulting from varied geological changes contribute to the complexity of Japan’s land physiognomy.
For example, between mountains composed solely of weathered granite and those of young Paleozoic strata still undergoing erosion, there appear to be not only differences in mountain morphology but also striking variations in the plant communities that adorn them.
Even in volcanic foothills, depending on whether the land is covered in ash and sand or exposes lava, as well as the recency of eruptions, flora appears to naturally differentiate.

While recently examining Dr. Nakai’s *East Asian Plants*, among the various aspects that piqued my interest, what I found particularly fascinating was how plants from regions spanning East Asia’s north to south intermingle and intertwine within Japan’s botanical realms across its regions—a phenomenon that should likely be explained and understood through Japan’s unique geographical position.
Among them are also mysterious phenomena that cannot be easily explained.
For example, it is said that certain plants found in Shinshu’s mountainous areas share characteristics with those of Manchuria and Korea yet remain absent elsewhere in Honshu.
Furthermore, there is also the fact that a peculiar plant like *Yakkosō*—which one would never have imagined finding in Japan—has recently been discovered.
While these facts pertain to plants, they must be said to shed significant illuminating light for those seeking to examine the origins of the diverse racial and ethnic elements composing the Japanese people and their migration pathways.

In contrast to the diversity of natural flora, the diversity of Japan’s agricultural crops also seemed incomparable to that of Western countries I had seen with my own eyes.
Admittedly, since these were cultivated by humans, they were influenced by whether the people’s regular diet leaned more toward meat or vegetables, as well as by population density relative to the land. However, in any case, underlying the fact that most crops could be grown somewhere in Japan if one wished to do so must have lain the essential condition of climatic and topographical diversity.

The diversity of agricultural crops also colored and shaded Japan’s mosaic-like landscape in varied hues.
The complexity of the topography prevented large-scale farming methods, curved the outlines of fields, and carved their elevation levels into minute gradations.
There was a story that when a Soviet Russian film director made a film titled *Japan* and screened it in the Russian capital, the audience burst out laughing upon seeing farmers working in tiny rice paddies partitioned into small plots.
It seemed there were those who took this to heart as a national disgrace.
However, the Slavic people—who had never seen the face of the Earth beyond the boundless plains of the “Original Continent”—could not possibly comprehend the profound significance of the “moon over each rice paddy.”
Here, one could discern one of the unscientific fundamental errors of certain thinkers who attempted to regard Japanese people as being the same as Russians.

When gazing upon landscapes where rice paddies, mulberry fields, and potato fields stretched endlessly, making one think there existed no place throughout Japan untouched by plow or hoe, there nevertheless remained—not far from these cultivated lands—mixed forests with thick undergrowth and desolate wastelands along riverbanks.
If one took a train, before long one could see primeval forests untouched by axes and hatchets, as well as pastures where wildflowers swayed gently in the breeze.
In snowy ravines, one could gather alpine plants, and in the volcanic deserts of crater plains, collect specimens of dwarf grasses.

The remarkable differentiation among plants of the same species was truly considerable.
When one came to the highlands of Shinshu during summer vacation and attempted to glimpse into the world of plants as an amateur while consulting a field guide, they would find numerous plant families sharing nearly identical forms yet each possessing slightly distinct characteristics—and there was no shortage of those that seemed to form chains or bridges connecting one family to another.
It is said that even just considering the diversity of differentiation among azalea species, Japan stood unparalleled, with Shinshu being particularly remarkable in this regard.

The discussion concerns plants.
However, could it be that this very diversity of climate and environment—which gave rise to such diverse differentiation in plants—fails to exert some analogous effect of differentiation, extending through the physiology of the Japanese people even into their psychological realm?
This is a problem that cannot be rashly dismissed without at least careful examination.
Not only that, but we must also not forget that the natural diversity born from this environment further participates in the aforementioned primary effects as a secondary influence.

The plant kingdom dominates the animal kingdom.
When the first grass seed sprouts in barren land, it attracts insects, the insects attract birds, and the birds’ droppings introduce new plant seeds; as various beasts begin migrating there, a single "society" gradually emerges.
The diversity of Japan’s plant kingdom also appears to indicate the potential richness of the animal kingdom it harbors.

To take an extreme opposite example, consider this perplexing question: What is the largest "terrestrial animal" inhabiting the vast Antarctic continent? The correct answer would be "a wingless species of mosquito."
When we consider that such lands exist, we may fully appreciate the good fortune of being born in Japan—a land where we have mosquitoes but also horses and cattle, yet lack tigers and lions.

I was staying at a guesthouse at the foot of Mount Asama, writing this manuscript while enjoying the calls of Japanese bush warblers, cuckoos, lesser cuckoos, and various other songbirds.
I heard what sounded like a pheasant’s call.
The tapping sounds of what seemed to be a rail often entered my dreams at midnight.
The songs of these birds were celebrated since ancient times in classical poetry and haiku as symbols of the seasons.
Moreover, due to its geographical position, Japan naturally serves as a pathway for various migratory birds, which also greatly contributes to the diversity of this country's seasonal landscapes.
The comings and goings of wild geese and swallows likely served as a kind of calendar for farmers of old.

The variety of wild animals did not seem particularly abundant.
This was probably because Japan was separated from the continent by the sea.
During the geological era when Japan had been connected by land to Korea, elephants, rhinoceroses, and other such animals that had migrated there likely became extinct due to climatic changes, leaving behind only some fossils today.

Why tigers found in Korea did not exist in Japan despite their climates not being so different? It was thought that perhaps after Japan’s landmass had separated from the continent, these animals entered the Korean Peninsula.
Cats were said to have been imported from Korea during the Heian period.
As with tigers, the brown bears of Hokkaido related to geological history: the Tsugaru Strait was thought to have been connected by land when the Tohoku region of Japan formed, but this land bridge was later severed through tectonic shifts and eroded wide and deep by tidal currents. It was then imagined that brown bears migrated into Ezo (present-day Hokkaido) from elsewhere after this separation.
If it were indeed true that no foxes existed in Shikoku, this fact too might hold similar geological significance.
Be that as it may, Japan’s unique geographical condition of being extremely close to the continent yet separated by certain straits—and how this influenced its fauna—could be understood from the various facts mentioned above.

In ancient times, deer and monkeys were apparently quite abundant, providing a plentiful supply of game for hunting—a fact recorded even in accounts from Emperor Yūryaku’s reign found in the *Kojiki*. However, as the population grew, game became relatively scarce, and it is possible that this scarcity influenced the development of agriculture. This situation, combined with the arrival of Buddhism, may have barely prevented the extinction of these game animals in Japan.

The abundance in both variety and quantity of aquatic organisms was likely considered second to none compared to any other region in the world.
This was partly due to Japan’s long coastline spanning a wide range of latitudes, but it was further a gift of the warm and cold currents that circulated along the coasts from various directions, carrying diverse temperature, salinity, and gas components while intermingling.
These ocean currents not only brought the bounty of the sea in this manner but also appeared to act as a factor governing the bounty of the land by exerting a secondary influence on our country’s climate.

The indigenous people have left shell mounds.
Their fishing grounds were likely limited to the immediate shores and coasts, but the development of boats and fishing gear gradually expanded the fishing grounds offshore while increasing the variety of catches.
Now they have extended the realm of oceanic bounty to nearly a thousand nautical miles offshore by equipping motorized ships with refrigerators and wireless equipment.

Not only fish and shellfish but various seaweeds enliven the daily meals of the people; these seem to contain various vitamins that Westerners could scarcely imagine.
As for the rejuvenating drugs contained in sea urchins and salted fermented foods, science probably still knows nothing.
Long before doctors recognized the efficacy of cod liver oil and other organ-based pharmaceuticals, the Japanese people had been eating bonito livers and drinking black sea bream gallbladders.

In summary, Japan’s natural world—viewed through climatological, topographical, biological, and all other lenses—possesses all stages of remarkably diverse differentiation both temporally and spatially. This spectrum of multicolored elements paints our land with virtually every conceivable combination of its varied constituents, while these hues shift moment by moment, keeping nature’s stage in ceaseless motion.

The question of what influence such diversity and dynamism of nature have exerted upon a people nurtured within this environment would seem self-evident, requiring little elaboration.
The constant conscious or unconscious efforts to adapt to complex environmental changes invariably lead to and cultivate precise and agile observation of that environment.
At the same time, it should also foster a heightened sensitivity to the profound depths of nature’s wonders and mysteries.
The deeper humans come to know nature's mysteries and power, the more obedient they become toward nature; rather than opposing it, they learn from nature as their teacher and strive to adapt to nature's environment by making nature's own primordial experiences their own.
As I have mentioned before, nature is both a loving mother and a strict father.
Submitting to the strict father’s stern teachings is as necessary for ensuring our peaceful existence as indulging in the loving mother’s tender affection.

The effort to conquer nature through human power spurred the development of science in the West.
The question of why science in Japan—an Eastern cultural nation—did not progress at the same pace as its Western counterpart remains exceedingly complex; however, it may be surmised that among the diverse factors causing this disparity, at least one involves the aforementioned uniqueness of Japan’s natural environment.
That is to say, in Japan, nature’s maternal affection runs so deep that its benevolence readily satisfies people’s needs, allowing residents to rest securely embraced within its bosom; while simultaneously, they have profoundly internalized nature’s paternal severity—the dread of its strict discipline and keen understanding of the peril in defying its prohibitions.
As a result, they came to fully receive nature’s blessings while abandoning rebellion against it, devoting themselves instead to gathering and accumulating empirical knowledge for adaptation.
This ethnic wisdom undeniably constitutes a form of Weisheit and scholarship.
Yet it remains a discipline fundamentally distinct in type from analytical science.

For example, when creating settlements and erecting structures, the ancient Japanese people knew to first assess the land.
Modern Japanese people who imported Western science ignored the significant differences in natural environments between the West and Japan; consequently, they disregarded traditional land assessment knowledge and constructed artificial structures in places where building should not have occurred.
And then, with a single lash of the whip wielded by nature’s strict father—which they believed they had conquered—their constructions were utterly obliterated without resistance; yet even as they witnessed this before their very eyes, they remained oblivious to their own errors. Such instances seemed to be occurring frequently of late.
The history of wind and flood disasters in just Showa 9 and 10 alone more than sufficiently demonstrated this.

One of the things I felt when traveling through Western countries was the surprising lack of nature’s motherly benevolence in these lands.
I was astonished by the abundance of peatlands, sandy areas, and otherwise bald rocky mountains that appeared to be relics from the Diluvial period, but simultaneously sensed nature’s strict father lacked sufficient dignity.
There were many countries that knew neither earthquakes nor typhoons.
It was truly thought to be an ideal foundation for the development of science that seeks to conquer nature without fearing it.

If the Japanese people—who have inherited the fruits of Western science developed through such means without exertion—were to deeply recognize and understand the uniqueness of Japan's nature, learn to appropriately utilize these powerful tools, and thereby strive to not only more advantageously enjoy the already abundant natural blessings but also mitigate and avoid the calamitous disasters peculiar to our country, then it is thought that there would likely be few nations in the world as exceptionally well-suited as ours.
Yet it appears that modern Japan has become solely engrossed in enjoying natural blessings while entirely neglecting disaster prevention—a truly regrettable state of affairs.

In summary, I believe I have now examined Japan's natural peculiarities in a very general manner.

Therefore, next I wish to consider what lifestyle the Japanese people, embraced by such nature, have adopted in response to their environment.

Daily Life of the Japanese People

First, let us consider food—the most important among clothing, food, and shelter.

The ancient indigenous people and immigrant groups may have regularly consumed fish, shellfish, and the meat of birds and beasts.
It is something anyone could imagine—that at some point in time, various agricultural methods were introduced from the South Seas or Shina, while on the other hand, with the spread of Buddhism that abhors meat-eating, vegetarianism developed, and before one knew it, rice became the principal food.
However, we must not forget that an even more fundamental reason lies in whether such agriculture was perfectly suited to our country’s natural environment or at least could develop while gradually adapting to it.

The "na" in "sakana" can signify both "vegetable" and "fish." Side dishes consist primarily of fish and shellfish along with vegetables. This likely stems naturally from these two categories' abundant variety and quantity. Furthermore, the relative ease of obtaining comparatively fresh specimens—or the fact that major population centers were distributed in areas facilitating such access—appears to have exerted a distinctive influence on food preparation methods. They understand that preserving ingredients' unspoiled state—ingesting their inherent flavors along with valuable vitamins while avoiding excessive seasoning that masks their true taste—proves most comfortable and effective.

In the travelogue of a certain Westerner who was treated to a meal by a Chinese dignitary during his journey through Central Asia, he writes something to the effect that all of the dozens of dishes served were uniformly permeated by a moldy odor.

Another characteristic evident in the daily diet of the Japanese people would likely concern the seasonality of food. As can be seen by perusing a haiku seasonal almanac, the annual cycle of edible vegetables, fish, and shellfish corresponding to the seasons alone brings color to the daily lives of the Japanese.

The Japanese—who delight in early seasonal offerings and prize peak freshness—maintain daily living patterns quite distinct in this regard from Westerners and Chinese munching year-round on uniformly stored potatoes and onions while eating preserved fish and salt-cured foods or indiscriminately consuming pork and beef regardless of season, or from tropical residents subsisting on nearly identical fruits throughout the year.

This difference was by no means superficial—it constituted a fundamental divergence in kind.

When it comes to clothing as well, various aspects could be considered.
For much the same reasons that vegetarian cuisine developed, plant-based hemp and cotton fabrics became the primary materials, while furs and woolen textiles became imported goods.
That cotton and hemp fabrics were suited to Japan's climate was likewise thought to be a fact.
As sericulture was introduced and happened to suit the climate and soil, silk fabric later became an export product.

Although clothing styles were not insignificantly influenced by Shina, they were ultimately governed by Japan’s unique climate and natural features along with the corresponding lifestyle patterns, thereby undergoing distinctive development and differentiation over time.
In modern times, Western clothing was popularized, but the day when traditional Japanese clothing would disappear was hard to imagine.
For instance, whether Western clothing—developed in a winter-wet and summer-dry Western Europe—truly offered superior physiological effects compared to traditional Japanese clothing in Japan’s opposite climate of winter-dry and summer-wet conditions could not be readily determined without scientific investigation.
However, just by considering how Westerners visiting Japan preferred to wear yukata in summer or stroll through Karuizawa town in nothing but a shirt, it seemed likely that evidence proving traditional Japanese clothing was not entirely impractical could be found elsewhere if one were to search for it.
However, what was strange was that among Japanese scholars, there seemed to be no one who had yet conducted sufficiently detailed research into the climatological, physical, and physiological significance of traditional Japanese clothing.
This did not seem to be solely due to my own lack of knowledge.
One suspected that the peculiar academic climate in contemporary Japan, which took no pleasure in researching such matters, might be preventing the emergence of such studies.

This may be a digression, but the other day when I saw a farmer in the countryside wearing a straw raincoat, I was newly impressed by both the ingenious construction and exceptional functionality of its design.
This too may have originally been introduced from regions like Shina, but likely became naturalized through adaptation to Japan's climate.
In terms of allowing good air circulation while preventing rain and storm intrusion, I suspect it may be far superior to Burberry’s raincoats.
One imagines this too represents ingenuity gained by studying the structure of birds’ and beasts’ feathers formed through natural design.
Today it has nearly become a museum relic.

The primary reason Japanese houses developed primarily as wooden structures was undoubtedly the ready availability of high-quality timber that grew abundantly everywhere; furthermore, to withstand frequent earthquakes and typhoon onslaughts, single-story construction or at most two-story buildings became the standard.
The Five-Story Pagoda stands as a special exception, but the engineering talent of ancient people demonstrated in its construction astonishes modern scholars.

Ensuring proper underfloor ventilation to prevent foundation rot proved absolutely essential in a warm and humid climate; yet cultural housing built while ignoring this saw its floor joists decay within mere years, whereas century-old houses in rural areas remained standing unaffected.
The inclusion of eaves and verandas to block sunlight and repel rain and snow also constituted a clever design adapted to Japan’s climate.
Westerners appeared to have finally conceived of constructing bungalow-style verandas only after arriving in the warm regions of the East.

Shoji screens proved an unexpectedly ingenious invention. Against light, they produced an effect akin to milky glass lampshades—diffusing illumination without diminishing its intensity—while against wind, they mitigated its force while regulating airflow appropriately.

There had been a Westerner who advanced the theory that Japanese people originated from the South Seas because their houses were built in a South Seas style suited for summer. While primordial Japanese dwellings might not have lacked lineage tracing back to those regions, present-day houses had evolved to suit Japan’s climate, achieving differentiated development across regions according to local climatic characteristics. In features like roof pitch and eave depth, one could observe somewhat distinct characteristics between southern and northern regions.

Recently, reinforced concrete houses appeared to be gradually increasing.
While these possessed unquestionable resistance to earthquakes, typhoons, and fires, one problematic issue arose: due to those thick walls' slow thermal conductivity, indoor humidity tended to remain high during summer's first half, while severe dryness prevailed through half of winter.
This would have been ideal for regions like Western countries where summer corresponded to a dry season and winter to a wet season, but Japan experienced precisely opposite conditions. During summer, already abundant humidity entered indoors, cooled down, and increased relative humidity. Consequently, the colder indoor walls became, the more severe saturation grew, causing concrete walls to tend to function as a type of distiller.
In winter, conversely, indoor humidity was completely wrung out to the exterior.

In Japan, I feel that merely attaching wooden planks to the exterior of earthen walls may have been intended to strike an almost appropriate compromise in terms of achieving both cold and heat protection along with humidity regulation.

There are reports that in some regions of Taiwan, the rebar in reinforced concrete structures has become completely corroded, causing difficulties in dealing with the situation.
Even in mainland Japan, the preservation period for these types of structures will eventually expire, and dealing with them at that time could become a source of needless worry.
Even concrete construction will only take root in this land after undergoing numerous climatic trials over a long future.
The trials lie ahead.

The gardens attached to residences are also something unique to Japan and are often cited as an ideal example for explaining the characteristics of the Japanese view of nature.
While many Westerners delight in creating geometric gardens by arbitrarily fitting nature into handmade molds, the Japanese strive to draw natural landscapes near their dwellings without spoiling them, finding joy in being enveloped by that nature and feeling assimilated into it.

While Chinese gardens were originally modeled after nature, to many Japanese with pure Japanese tastes, those Shina-style gardens that indiscriminately pile up bizarre rocks into monstrosities resembling shellwork must appear as nothing less than assaults upon nature by minds with distorted psyches.

Even things like bonsai and ikebana are, for the Japanese people, both an extension of gardens and in a sense their compression.
A miniature garden is, quite literally, a small-scale replica of a garden.
The act of hanging scrolls depicting landscapes, flowers, and birds in the tokonoma could also be considered another variation of this.
In the West as well, people arrange flowers in vases, line balconies with geraniums, and place evergreens in dining rooms; however, these appear to serve primarily as masses of color or as natural perfume bottles.
A term like "branch configuration"—referring to the natural arrangement of boughs—is likely untranslatable into Western languages.
In even the most modest back alley, one can find a morning glory planter.
As long as this can be seen, the Japanese people cannot fully become Westerners, and Western ideas and -isms will not be able to take root in Japanese soil in their original forms—this is what I have always thought.

Among Japanese recreational activities, what are called flower-viewing excursions are in a sense an extension of gardens.
Those who incorporate nature into their gardens also expand those gardens into mountains and fields.

They engaged in moon viewing.
They held star festivals.
It might not be an exaggeration to say this too represented an attempt to extend gardens' natural essence into the cosmic realm, if one were to phrase it somewhat forcefully.

The productive occupations of Japan’s overwhelming majority being tied to plant cultivation inherently contained garden-like elements.
Beyond ordinary farming, activities like tea processing, silk production, and sericulture—when contrasted with mining or modern manufacturing—still retained a garden-like quality.
It was precisely the Japanese people who counted wind-swayed rice paddies and dew-bathed potato fields among nature’s objects worthy of aesthetic contemplation.

Farmers, among all occupations, are those who take the greatest interest in the seasonal transitions of nature and fear its abnormal phenomena.
This fact directs their constant attention to the observation of nature and compels them to strive—through obedient submission to its commands—to avoid its severe punishments and enjoy its blessings.

Taking the opposite example makes it easier to understand.
Among my acquaintances, there is a businessperson who remains busy throughout the year.
One time when I spoke to this person about the beauty of the young leaves before my eyes, they said, "Ah, so it's the season of young leaves now," and looked around the garden as if noticing it for the first time.
Being so busy left them no time to even consider what season it currently was.
If there were only people like this, agriculture would not be possible.

The fishermen harvesting the sea's bounty in every inlet and shore, along with the sailors and boatmen moving from port to port, are also keen observers and predictors of daily weather patterns with each changing season.
The elders among them possess a keen intuitive insight into subtle signs—the hue of the sky, the breath of the wind, the behavior of clouds, and the undulations of waves—that even meteorologists have yet to comprehend.
This stems from scientific knowledge transcending conventional science—acquired through long years of study that risked their lives.
Through this, they have learned to receive the sea's blessings while avoiding its calamities.
Therefore, even if fishermen themselves, driven by their livelihoods, do not consciously articulate the sea’s natural phenomena, it is through them that the sea’s nature has permeated the majority’s view of nature, gradually forming a uniquely Japanese marine perspective.
It is beyond doubt that the contact and blending of marine and terrestrial life—as symbolized in the myth of Yamasachihiko and Umisachihiko—enriched and diversified the residents of the Great Eight-Island Country’s perspective toward nature.

The uniqueness of Japan's natural environment as discussed above, along with the uniqueness of Japanese daily life regulated by it, must inevitably exert their necessary effects upon their spiritual life.
Regarding this aspect, I must confess my profound ignorance; however, given the progression of the aforementioned arguments, I would like to append a few extraneous remarks.

The Spiritual Life of the Japanese People

There was someone who said monotheism arises in monotonous and desolate desert countries.
In a country like Japan with such diverse and ceaselessly transforming nature, it was only natural that myriad gods were born and have continued to be worshipped.
Mountains, rivers, and trees—each one was a god while simultaneously being human.
It was precisely through revering and obeying this that life and livelihood became guaranteed.

Due to the influence of topography—which determined residents' sedentary and rooted existence—guardian shrines were erected in every settlement. This too remains a distinctive feature of Japan.

That Buddhism—transplanted from distant lands—took root, developed, and persisted must be because various elements within its doctrine adapted to Japan’s climate and soil.
I believe that the concept of impermanence underlying Buddhism finding harmony with the Japanese people’s innate view of nature may indeed constitute one such factor.
Needless to cite Kamo no Chōmei’s Hōjōki, for those inhabiting a land where earthquakes and wind-water calamities strike frequently yet unpredictably, natural impermanence had become genetic memory inherited from distant ancestors—seeping into their very viscera.

In Japan, there were likely various reasons for the delayed development of science, but one of them was presumably connected to the uniqueness of the Japanese view of nature as discussed above.
In desert countries without rain, astronomy tended to develop easily, but it was conceivable that in rainy countries, this development was hindered.
As mentioned earlier, it was conceivable that in countries where natural blessings were scarce but nature’s violence was mild, the desire to control nature tended to arise.
The Japanese people, continuously battered by utterly unpredictable earthquakes and typhoons, appeared to direct their wisdom toward researching concrete measures to mitigate and avoid these disasters rather than investigating the causes of such phenomena.
Perhaps Japan's nature was too diverse and too impermanent for Western-style analytical science to have been born.

Even if science in its current form did not exist, the fact that the Japanese people’s daily interactions with nature—from ancestral times onward—have remained highly rational even when viewed through the lens of modern science is exemplified by their clothing, food, and housing as discussed in the preceding section.
I cannot help but feel that the task of "discovering" and "proving" this rationality may be the field of work left for future scientists.

In any case, I believe it is certain that analytical science did not develop in Japan due to environmental constraints rather than any inferiority in Japanese intellect.
As evidence, there exist countless instances where sciences disregarding Japan's ancient wisdom suffered disgrace.

Among the various phenomena of Japanese spiritual life, what most clearly summarizes the manifestations of Japan's nature, the Japanese view of nature, or the holistic organic entity encompassing both Japan's nature and its people—while also recording the governing principles of these phenomena—is likely Japanese literature and arts.

It may be inaccurate to classify the Kiki as literature, but I will omit discussion of the uniqueness of geophysical phenomena implied in their myths, as I have previously addressed this matter.

Even in fairy tales, legends, or oral traditions, there seems to be none that do not suggest the peculiarities of Japan’s nature and the distinctive nature of its human interactions.

Even if one were to peruse works such as *The Tale of Genji* and *The Pillow Book*, one can recognize that they contain within them a kind of catalog worthy of reference when identifying every aspect of "Japan's" features.

In this regard, what stands out above all as the most representative examples are tanka and haiku.
What these two short poetic forms encapsulate can, in many cases, be seen as the most eloquent record of the voice through which Japan—a holistic organic entity born from the integration of Japanese nature and its people—narrates itself.
The nature that appears in these poems differs entirely in character from that which scientists handle—nature divorced from humanity.
Nor is it simply something borrowed from elsewhere and added as mere background.
It would not be excessive to say this resembles harmonious tones spontaneously arising when people assimilate into nature, when nature becomes assimilated by humanity, and when both live and move as a complete holistic organism.
While traces of such tendencies may exist in both Western and Chinese poetry, within the bounds of my limited knowledge, foreign verse always presents too stark an opposition between self and external world—from which reasoning emerges and moral lessons get constructed.
In *Manyō* tanka and *Shōmon* haiku, I find it profoundly difficult to discover such seamless fusion of humans and nature as seen there.

The most accessible catalog and index of natural features appearing in tanka and haikai poetry along with their accompanying Japanese sensibilities would be the Haikai Saijiki. When tracing the historical origins of what are called seasonal topics in haiku through renga—regarded as the father of haikai—there appear to be numerous examples that can be traced back from works such as *The Pillow Book* and *The Tale of Genji* all the way to the age of the *Manyōshū*. These so-called seasonal topics seemed to serve both as temporal coordinates necessary for determining the concreteness of various cross-sections within what I term the holistic world and as spatial markers. While there are certainly no shortage of tanka without seasonal topics when viewed individually, one would recognize that when considering an author’s entire body of work as a continuous series, the uniquely Japanese sensibility toward seasonal topics permeates throughout.

The mysterious phenomenon unique to Japan known as makurakotoba (pillow words) still lacks a thorough explanation. I sense that one key to unraveling this mystery lies partially hidden within the theories discussed earlier. While I haven't conducted statistical research, my tentative examination of pillow word vocabulary revealed an overwhelming number of terms denoting natural scenery, many overlapping with what we call seasonal motifs. Though these phrases superficially resemble mere phonetic chains—or worse, frivolous wordplay—most Japanese instinctively recognize their functional distinction from crude puns or trivialities. Yet articulating why this distinction exists proves challenging. My private theory suggests pillow words act as stage machinery—first unfurling an associative landscape to construct environments where subjective elements might later perform. To rephrase, they function like incantations summoning specific atmospheres. However, this magic works only for those sharing Japan's unique natural sensibility. For peoples conditioned to view nature solely through logical-scientific lenses—oblivious to alternative perspectives—such devices become nonsensical at best, distasteful at worst.

Just by considering this matter, one could comprehend how faint were the hopes in any attempt to make foreigners appreciate waka through mere translation into foreign languages.
Moreover, it seemed possible to perceive how thoroughly artificial were those movements that sought to produce new haiku lacking seasonal themes.

It is thought that what differentiated the peculiarity of the Japanese people's unique view of nature into a particular aspect and propelled its extraordinary development in that direction was the popularity of haikai hokku among the general populace. Whereas tanka poetry—which appears to have been popular among the people in ancient times—gradually became a tool for courtiers' intellectual games from the mid-classical period onward or provided a poetic form well-suited for monks' world-renouncing philosophies, its later transformation from the renga form gradually freed it from such class constraints as it evolved into haikai and then hokku, thereby remarkably expanding its sphere of activity and enriching the scope of poetic material it could incorporate. At the same time, one can imagine this also produced the effect of widely disseminating Japan's unique view of nature—nurtured and built up by poets since antiquity—among the general populace. As a certain French scholar who has studied haiku and attained some understanding of it observes, every single Japanese person is a poet. This is not merely because the haiku form is brief and easily imitable by anyone; one must not think it is solely due to that. One must not overlook the fundamental fact that the significant principle enabling such a poetic form resides precisely within—and is grounded upon—the uniqueness of the Japanese view of nature. One must not forget that this essential condition—the complete permeation of such a unique natural perspective throughout the entire nation—has been thoroughly fulfilled.

Though one cannot necessarily fault those who, based solely on the simplistic rationale that tanka and haiku have become overused, plan to discard these poetic forms and dream of fundamental innovation in content, I fear that unless one first thoroughly investigates and comprehends what I refer to here as Japan's holistic anatomy and physiology before embarking on such an endeavor, even the most painstakingly conceived plans may ultimately prove futile.

The influence of the Japanese people's view of nature reflected in art and crafts could also be found throughout.

In Japanese painting, broadly speaking, beyond the imported elements of Buddhist and Chinese poetic traditions, one could recognize a triangular tension between waka-esque and haiku-esque elements; it seemed possible to chart every painter's position using a sort of triangular coordinate system defined by this trinity.
Might we not position the Kano school, Tosa school, and Shijo school near the three vertices of this triangle?

What emerges through these various schools' paintings is this essential truth: whether depicting humans or nature, the paintings developed through Japan's cultural importation and creation never presented mere objective reality opposed to artistic subjectivity, but rather embodied expressions of that holistic world where both interpenetrate.
There exists a theory that Western painters only came to recognize painting's true mission in such works rather recently—a realization said to have dawned when traditional objective-analytical painting faced existential crisis from advancing reproduction technologies, with Japanese ukiyo-e unexpectedly suggesting salvation.

Next, what of music?
Even within Japanese folk music, forms such as sankyoku—which prioritize pure instrumental expression over lyrical content—often seek to embody sounds of the natural world, while natural acoustics are frequently invoked to describe the instruments' refined tones.
It also appears that through sound itself, the Japanese people strive to achieve symbiosis with nature.

Conclusion

To summarize the above arguments: Japan’s natural world was complex and diverse both spatially and temporally; it bestowed infinite blessings upon its inhabitants while simultaneously governing them with irresistible force. As a result, they learned to fully enjoy these blessings by submitting to this nature. This special attitude toward nature exerted a unique influence on all aspects of Japanese material and spiritual life.

This influence possessed merits while simultaneously bearing demerits.
That proved disadvantageous to the development of natural science.
It might also have had to accept censure for constricting the scope of art's mission.
Yet this was unavoidable.
Just as Japan's climate and biosphere cannot be freely controlled by human power, so too was this an inescapable natural phenomenon.

The fact that Japan had long maintained a closed country policy due to its geographical conditions and finally came into contact with other parts of the world could also be seen as partly owing to scientific advancements that gradually developed transportation systems.
The development of transportation systems shrank the Earth's scale and brought profound changes to geographical relationships.
A distant place became closer in terms of transportation than a nearby one, so to speak twisting and distorting space itself.
The measures of distance and time grew inconsistent in various ways.
Thus people acquired clairvoyance and clairaudience, obtaining the wings of birds they had once dreamed of.
If we supposed that nature changed and humans became different from those of old, it seemed inevitable that the Japanese view of nature in question would have to undergo corresponding transformations.
Accordingly, it appeared these new Japanese people would require considerable training over many years before adapting to this new nature.
They seemed destined to accumulate bitter experiences of repeated failures and errors.
Indeed, we were already tasting such experiences everywhere at that very moment.

That being said, the Japanese people remained the Japanese people, and Japan’s nature remained largely unchanged from times of old.
Even through science’s power, reforming the racial characteristics of the Japanese people or freely controlling Japan’s entire climate proved impossible.
Nevertheless, this self-evident truth was frequently forgotten.
To imagine that merely mimicking Westerners’ clothing, food, housing, and inherited ideologies could utterly transform the Japanese people’s anatomical specificity—or even substitute Japan’s climate and natural features—was careless.

This may be a digression, but classifying races based solely on skin color approaches being a meaningless categorization.
From the perspective that unites humans and nature into a single organic entity, I cannot help but feel the Chinese and Japanese are by no means closely related races.
To collectively label all as Orientals remains an exceedingly hollow term.
Within the vast region termed the Orient, Japan’s climate and its people still form an "island" utterly distinct from its surroundings.

I believe that recognizing all of Japan’s unique characteristics, adapting them to the surrounding environment while harnessing their potential, constitutes the mission and raison d’être of the Japanese people, as well as their contribution to the sound progress of humanity.
If cherry blossoms were to disappear from the world, the world would indeed become that much lonelier.

(Postscript) While I was writing the above, the August special issue of the journal Bungaku titled "Nature in Literature" was published.

Within it, the relationship between Japanese literature and Japanese nature had been discussed in detail by scholars from various fields. Readers were advised to refer to these insightful discussions. They were further directed to consult Mr. Watsuji Tetsuro's essay titled "Fuudo no Gensho" ("Phenomena of Climate") featured at the journal's forefront, along with the most original holistic view of nature presented in his recent publication "Fuudo" ("Climate"), for which that essay served as an introductory chapter. In my aforementioned arguments, no small number of points appeared to have been influenced by Mr. Watsuji's many previously published discourses on the relationship between nature and humans. Moreover, I recognized numerous instances where I had drawn inspiration from the works of my friends Mr. Komiya Toyotaka and Mr. Abe Yoshishige.

Furthermore, it would be most fortunate if readers could also consult the essays on haikai and rengu included in my work Jōhatsuzara ("Evaporation Dish"), as well as the various writings on natural disasters found in Keikōban ("Fluorescent Screen").

(October 1935, Tōyō Shichō)