Pathway to Japanese Literature

Meiji Literature: A Personal View

I. Pleasure and Utility

Meiji literature had already reached its twenty-sixth year of robust maturity; what progress occurred during these years, what regressions took place, what elements and what spirit had entwined themselves within this literature and manifested outwardly as phenomena—researching these matters was of critical importance. Yet to this day, no historian had attempted to apply their skills within this scope; only Mr. Aizan of the Kokumin Shimbun had directed his keen observations toward this domain.

Though there were aspects of his critiques with which I could not fully concur, I found myself astonished by their incisive boldness—a skill that left even seasoned scholars wide-eyed in amazement.

Though I was of limited talent and shallow learning—hardly one qualified to venture into such critiques—I nevertheless wished, by virtue of having previously engaged in critical work through the pages of Hakuhyō Women's Education Magazine, to set forth what little I had observed and aspire to study the general contours of Meiji literature.

If one were to think that because I had previously critiqued Mr. Aizan’s writings, I harbored some ambition to reignite conflict on this subject—that would have been nothing short of grave folly.

This constituted one matter for which I wished to request the reader’s attention in advance, as I undertook to delineate the framework of Japanese literary history.

I resolved to become a student of Japanese literary history—not with any design to monopolize this field as my exclusive stage—and made this clarification because certain parties had previously misconstrued my position; as a scholar committed to earnestly studying what ought to be studied, even should others assail me with criticisms of whatever nature, I would not feel compelled to respond to them, nor would I lightly dispute others' arguments. Moreover, being one who remained a complete novice in aesthetics and pure philosophy while presuming to discuss literature, I had to particularly emphasize in advance that numerous inadequacies would inevitably arise. Furthermore, given the scarcity of leisure time, inadequate access to books, and consequent limitations in factual compilation—circumstances that inevitably predisposed one toward dogmatic criticism—I humbly requested your prior understanding of these constraints.

I had a particular word to address to Mr. Yamaji Aizan.
Some might find it strange that I speak of this here, but I had originally hoped for kind guidance regarding the critiques I made; however, Mr. Aizan took a position of attacking matters beyond my arguments, offering no instruction that could be deemed satisfactory, and since I saw no need to elaborate on the attacks I received, I let them pass unaddressed.
Fundamentally, the nature of literary work remains clear even without borrowing the razor-sharp blade of exegesis, and as for literature's engagement with human life—though one may speak of "anyone"—none would doubt this.
If Mr. Aizan considers these two matters his own discoveries, I cannot acknowledge their validity.
I do not dispute these two matters; that I challenged the arguments of my esteemed friend Mr. Aizan—out of a heart loving truth for today's literature—could it possibly stem from hollow self-importance?
Therefore, I did not respond to Mr. Aizan's rebuttal.
Yet who could have imagined that beyond this—whether through others seeking to critique my arguments or acting with hidden agendas—I would come to witness papers clearly explicating the thesis that literature *must* engage with human life, emerging from the very hands of esteemed scholars?
If this matter meant these works emerged either opposing my arguments or moved by them, I would not hesitate to express gratitude for such utmost fortune.
However, what I consider most unfortunate is having no right to respond to these writings.
That literature interacts with human life is a truth I too believe; in all creation, there likely exists no fool who would declare literature must not engage with human life.
However, what I criticized was: (1) using societal benefit as an aim; (2) wielding it like a hero's sword; (3) fixing upon tangible targets rather than piercing emptiness; (4) rejecting ornate phrases—then concluding literature must engage with human life.
Therefore, should any theory of literature's life-engagement lack these conditions, regardless of its proponent's eminence, I have no right to rebut.
Yet as I stated in *Mountain Hut Miscellany*—right and wrong resist easy superficial judgment—my prose's roughness or fervent writing led to such grievous misreading. Thus disregarding my inadequacies, I shall now discuss Meiji literature's nature in *Critique*, striving to avoid misinterpretation.

In undertaking this, it is not fundamentally to re-examine Mr. Aizan’s arguments; yet should there be matters within my convictions that ought to prompt your instruction, I humbly entreat you to deign to impart them with magnanimity.

I shall commence by addressing the nature of Meiji literature.
To comprehend this nature requires observing what principles reside within it.
In pure literary circles, critical spheres, and even realms of current affairs alike, I behold arrays of distinguished figures.
Yet in critiquing living individuals, I apprehend two disquieting prospects: first, that praise might be misconstrued as flattery; second, that censure might be taken for slanderous attack.
The second concern arises from humanity's Passion-driven nature—we inevitably cling to personal views (or more charitably termed ideologies), such that when conflicting perspectives collide, we risk descending into that vituperative criticism now fashionable.
Therefore though I shall forbear direct criticism toward extant masters, should elemental observations along my path collide with theirs, I may engage such critique as circumstances demand.

I would discuss 'Pleasure' and 'Utility' as the first part of *Meiji Literature: A Personal View*.

"Pleasure" and "Utility" are undoubtedly elements of "Beauty"; there is no need to invoke Plato here.

Matthew Arnold stated: “In poetry as a criticism of life, insofar as it conforms to the principles of poetry and the established laws of poetic beauty, it can console life and sustain life.”

That literature, on one hand, serves as a critique of life is something I do not doubt.
However, as Arnold states, poetry as a critique of life must also combine both the principles of poetry and the beauty of poetry.
Those who study literature must not merely make the critique of life their sole pursuit; they must also delve into the principles of poetry and the beauty of poetry.

From the fact that it consoles life, one could discern that Pleasure constitutes an indispensable element in poetry's beauty.
From the fact that it sustains life, one must recognize Utility as an essential component in poetry's principles.
To truly console life and truly sustain life required not merely observing and critiquing life with authenticity, but also interpreting it truthfully.
To interpret life demanded perceiving life.
Thus those endowed with innate poetic talent needed to possess clear comprehension of human nature.
Failing this, Genius became naught but genuine madness—a mere imbecile incapable of becoming either cobbler or secretary.

The matter called Life (人生) had been a perplexing problem since humanity's dawn; that even in philosophers' dreams this conundrum could never be fully unraveled—so declared the ancients. As for matters of social existence, a sharp observer's discerning eye might perhaps penetrate them; but when it came to life's vitality, none could know it save the omnipotent God. Therefore, a poet's entire existence became one that studied Life in accordance with the measure of revelation they received and consoled and sustained Life in accordance with the measure of their responsiveness.

Pleasure and Utility, though in subjectivity they are elements of Beauty, in objectivity become Beauty's results; though internally they constitute Beauty, in external phenomena they manifest as Beauty's achievements.
Before discussing these two elements, we must first address

Why does life require Beauty?

I must say a few words regarding this.

Why is music necessary in human life?
Why is painting necessary in human life?
Why are even the most trivial ornaments necessary in human life?
Why does song exist?
Why does poetry exist?
Why does the Beauty of gentle women exist?
Why does the Beauty of flowers exist?
Why does the Beauty of landscapes exist?
Do all these things exist solely to satisfy the vices of idle and dissolute humans?
If that were so, life could sustain itself without any of these beauties.
Yet throughout history, why have the most barbaric tribes possessed the most inferior concepts of beauty, while the most advanced races have possessed the most superior concepts?
Even among the most barbaric tribes, the presence of an impulse to seek beauty in some form remains an evident sociological fact—whether through imitating birdsong or crudely sketching beautiful flowers, such practices exist even among the most primitive peoples.
Moreover, even the most immature infant will smile upon seeing beautiful playthings and listen attentively to musical sounds—this stands as an ordinary fact.
From this we see how clearly fallacious is the view that civilization—that monstrosity—first created the need for beauty by driving humanity into idleness and dissipation.
Indeed, it must be acknowledged that Beauty is something naturally desired through both the instinct of human life and humanity's very nature.
Having come to recognize that Beauty is desired through these primal forces, we may advance one step further—

Is human life something that requires pleasure or not?

We had to resolve this single question.

For what purpose was pleasure necessary in human life?
Could human life sustain itself without pleasure?
Even were one to climb to Puritanism’s furthest extremes or ascend utilitarianism’s highest peaks, this remained an irrefutable truth: human life could not endure without some form of pleasure—a self-evident fact requiring no consultation with that keen-eyed master called Common Sense.

Pleasure was Consolation.
Observing in detail the state of human life—swarming and murmuring, it might have seemed devoid of any charm or delight. Yet in truth, each individual possessed their own unique pleasures, and people partook in varied forms of consolation.
Dissolute pleasure lay in banqueting and sensual indulgence; steadfast pleasure in tranquil domestic leisure; passionate pleasure in the aims and hopes of loyalty, filial piety, benevolence, and righteousness; sincere pleasure in ordering one’s household and governing one’s life.
However, these were merely specific pleasures; when speaking of universal pleasure, it lay in delighting the senses of sight and hearing through beautiful things.
To hear sounds with the ears and see things with the eyes—this marked the very inception of desiring pleasure.
However, as the mind (intellect, emotion, will) developed, they could no longer be satisfied with these simple pleasures; therefore, they came to desire pleasure within the moral life.
When one came to desire pleasure in the moral life, it became an inevitable consequence that they could not attain true satisfaction through art that merely imitated nature; therefore, it was only natural that they came to cherish beauty wrought by the hands of creative genius.
Beauty, from the very beginning, remained unchanged—without increase or decrease in weight or measure—yet in the realm of art, it was for this reason that it had to progress.
When we investigated from this perspective, it would not have been difficult to judge that those who possessed the most advanced Moral Life (道義の生命) were precisely those who desired beauty in its most sound and perfect form.
When we examined this through the great law of societal progress, it was an evident fact that a nation possessing the most perfect Moral Life existed in the most advanced state; consequently, it could be readily perceived that a race endowed with the most complete pleasure and desiring the most perfect Beauty formed the most advanced nation.

We shall further,

The relationship wherein Moral Life (the term "life" [ライフ] may alternatively be rendered as "human life") interacts with Pleasure—concerning this, I must offer some remarks.

When using the term “moral principles,” it was essential to appeal to religion and philosophy to explicate its meaning; however, as we stated in the preface, we employed this term here in as common a manner as possible—that is, if one may use the expression “common people’s perspective”—leaving it to general comprehension akin to magazine commentary.

Life progresses physically while advancing morally; as the Physical world expands, so too does the Moral world expand.
Therefore, even in the pleasure they require, it becomes insufficient to merely delight the senses.
Moreover, because the development of intellect, emotion, and will gives rise to diverse thoughts of every kind, the pleasure they require must be sufficient to satisfy these developed faculties of intellect, emotion, and will.
Therefore, without appropriate pleasure that engages with moral life, moral principles themselves will wither, and life itself will inevitably become devoid of flavor.
Herein arises the necessity to savor, through the soul at the core of Moral Life, the cosmic truth of Beauty that lies at the heart of its expression.
The cosmic truth of Beauty is called by some the Sublime and by others the Beautiful—a problem that aestheticians diligently investigate, yet not something to be easily expounded upon.
However, since I have discussed an aspect of this matter in an essay titled *What Does It Mean for Literature to Engage with Life?*, I humbly request that you read it. Henceforth,

"The Dual Aspects of 'Pleasure' and 'Utility'"

I shall say a few words regarding this.

“Pleasure” and “Utility” are distinct entities yet share an extremely close relationship.
It would not be impossible to assert that pleasure entirely divorced from utility is absolutely nonexistent.
The other meaning of pleasure as Consolation is something I have previously discussed.
Consolation does not stand upon an isolated foothold; rather, it exists in duality with something else.
For the progenitors dwelling in the Garden of Eden, there was no need for Consolation.
The existence of this [Consolation] arises from the presence of pain in human beings.
Therefore,

Why does pain exist in human life?

We find ourselves compelled to answer this fundamental question.

The answer dwells in desire—that demonic force inhabiting human existence.
All sin, all evil, all transgression arise from this presence of craving.
Within life's inner realms where sin and error remain unformed, desire wages ceaseless war against justice—an indispensable truth for any observer of human affairs.
This conflict's wounds upon life's soul become the very pain we experience in our Moral Life.
These bloodstains, these crimson tears—they are none other than what has stained humanity's essence since antiquity.
Thus from necessity emerges Consolation: beauty must soften desire's edge and dull its venomous blade.
Yet where necessity exists, Consolation too partakes of utility's nature.
Allow me to illustrate through example.

Comparison of Plum Blossoms and Cherry Blossoms

Plum blossoms and cherry blossoms were what Eastern poets most cherished.
The plum blossom served solely for consolation through its flowers; however, through its fruit, it became an object of utility.
Thus did something consolatory in its inherent nature become utilitarian in its secondary attributes (see also examples of the opposite case).
When one questioned whether cherry blossoms—bearing no fruit—existed solely to provide consolation, their indispensability in nobles' gardens suggested they possessed some measure of utilitarian quality.
(The relationship between plum and cherry blossoms and Eastern literature shall be discussed in detail on a future occasion.) In the same manner, alongside utilitarian furniture and building materials, certain decorative items too were found to possess practical qualities.
A folding screen was a practical item; yet why did one never encounter a plain white folding screen?
The intimate connection between decoration and utility could be discerned from this.
Hence,

The Origin of Utility

I must say a few words regarding [the origin of utility].

This problem was exceedingly difficult.
However, if we analyze this in an extremely eclectic and speculative manner—as I had previously stated regarding the origin of “pleasure”—since humans are creatures of desire, their inherent nature to seek tools or intangibles required to appropriately satisfy both mind and flesh for their own fulfillment, in proportion to their harmonization with said desires: this constituted the origin of utility.
And that “utility” also progressed in accordance with the degree of cultural advancement became evident through the same logical principle previously discussed.
Since cultural progress consisted of advancement in both aspects—material life and moral life—it followed naturally that “utility,” which initially sufficed to fulfill material needs, must progressively extend to satisfy moral needs.
When viewed from another perspective, one could say that the distinction between barbarians and civilized people lay in whether morality had developed or not.
Herein, we must recognize that literature which ought to engage with moral life had to be that which satisfied human morality.

Hence,

The Utility of Moral Life

we must now turn to the question: What is the utility of moral life?

That which advances humans toward proper knowledge (academic principles) was the first; that which advances humans toward proper moral principles (ethics) was the second; that which elevates humans to their proper position (Beauty) was the third.

Through such an outline as we had developed thus far, we gained a glimpse into the position held by what we termed poetry within the spheres of pleasure and utility.
Pleasure—that is, consolation—proved indispensable to moral life, and we observed that utility too stood equally indispensable to moral life.
However, consolation inherently pertained primarily to moral life; while utility, in objective terms, concerned material life, yet as I had previously stated, it must ultimately extend to moral life in subjective terms (this matter would likely require more detailed examination).

I accomplished a rough interpretation concerning the nature of “Pleasure” and “Utility,” as well as how these two relate to human life.
Henceforth,

“In what manner do ‘Pleasure’ and ‘Utility’ relate to literature?”

We shall now proceed to this inquiry.

Pleasure and Utility are literature’s twin wings, its paired wheels; without them, a bird cannot fly, nor a carriage advance.
Yet Pleasure and Utility are not literature’s essence.
Pleasure and Utility are Beauty’s aim (Aim).
Beauty’s result (Effect).
Beauty’s function (Use).
The essence of Beauty does not reside in Pleasure and Utility.
Moreover, even within poetry’s expansive realm, pleasure and utility remain merely its aim, its result, its function—that there exists another instinct intrinsic to poetry must be acknowledged as an indubitable fact.

If one attempts to discuss the true value of things by taking only their aim, result, and function as standards, this will inevitably lead to various errors; unless we observe their results, functions, and aims in conjunction with instinct and inherent nature, we cannot know what is permissible.
Therefore, in critiquing literature, one must first delve into its instinct and inherent nature, and only then consult the jury of function, result, and purpose.

That pleasure and utility are the two great elements which poetry must necessarily possess was beyond doubt. However, to assert that poetry must occupy a position subservient to these two great elements constituted a grave error.

When we undertook the study of Japanese literary history, the first thing we had to observe was what doctrines, what critical perspectives, what theories had occupied and continued to occupy the principal positions. And yet we unfortunately found that doctrines such as social benefit-ism (the theory that literature must benefit public morality and popular sentiment), didacticism (the theory that literature must encourage good and punish evil), and purposivism (the theory that literature must be created with some defined objective in mind) had occupied the principal positions most frequently since ancient times. In this manner, they made sacred literature subordinate to utility and pleasure. How fitting it was that the literary fortune of our nation had remained in such a pitiable position until this day!

In the next issue, I would discuss how Tokugawa-era literature contained two major divisions: “Pleasure” and “Utility.”

The distinction between commoner literature and aristocratic literature.
The Relationship Between Ethics and Utility.
By discussing these matters，I aimed to gradually glimpse the truth of Meiji Literature.
(Writing from my sickbed.
The phrasing remains most unrefined; I beg your understanding.)

II. Freedom of Spirit

Among the laws governing all creation, life and death were the immutable great law.
Where there was life, there had to be death.
Death had to come treading upon life.
Humans were beings floating on the stream called “life” and drifting ashore to the sea called “death”—their voyage not being very long—yet a human’s lifetime, journeying from “life” to “death,” appeared to have something that could not be determined as the final destiny.
A human’s life was a journey; however, the station called “life” neighbored the station called “death,” and through this brief journey, one could not bring all things to rest.
What preceded life was a dream; what followed life was also a dream. We could not know what lay before life, nor could we know what lay beyond death. Yet we were permitted but a glimpse of the present “life”—this present “life” itself being a dream—and whether what came after “life” would be an awakening, we could not know that either.

There is one thing we can clearly know: that the present “life” is finite. However, what is finite is not the human spirit but the material aspect of humans.
The world does not exist without meaning; it necessarily advances while harboring some hope. Were this not so, all civilization and all cultural development would be false.
The world’s hope is humanity’s hope; what then is humanity’s hope? It is this: to align with that infinite purpose within the finite nature of the individual.
The finite converges toward the center within its bounded sphere; the infinite exists freely beyond direction. The finite binds through attraction; the infinite achieves autonomy through inherent freedom. And humanity truly wanders between finite and infinite—constrained by flesh yet liberated in spirit—for the existence of good, evil, righteousness, and depravity in humans ultimately arises from the conflict between finite and infinite within their inner realm. What seeks unification is material; what requires harmony is material. But spirit—from its very origin—is free; from its very origin, it exists independently.

Humans acted, and activity revolved around the 'I'; when separated from this 'I', all sounds fell silent. The self’s 'I' competed for survival; the law’s 'I' aspired to truth. Yet the human race rarely engaged in activities beyond competing for survival—even under noble names like patriotism or sacrifice, ultimately there lay the meaning of survival. Humans sought something; they could not escape emotion; they loved themselves. Before upholding ethics and morality, humans were inevitably enslaved to their own desires. Thus, in the realm of will, humanity stood imprisoned.

Human life stood thus fraught with manifold sorrows and complexities; however, those thoughts that existed and progressed alongside the world did not appear to navigate without a compass. We doubted dreams—yet dreams were not wholly detached from humanity; we questioned imagination—yet imagination was not mere delusion; we marveled at ideals—yet ideals were not entirely unrelated to humankind. Dreams, imagination, ideals—these were no sorcery belonging to the Sphinx; they seemed to teach us something, to reveal some truth, to demonstrate that we did not drift like duckweed upon the waves. Moreover, when we reflected and observed ourselves—bereft of hope or purpose, acquiescing to conventional ethics, rigidly adhering to established morality, plunging into some enterprise to conclude our lives—we seemed unable to resign ourselves to this state. What stood truly questionable was this state of affairs.

Are ethics and morality nothing more than an ink line binding humanity?
Are the great undertakings of true sages merely products of circumstance, environment, and place?
Are life’s fluctuations entirely surrendered to chance’s tyranny?
We could not consent.
There exists a distinct entity called spirit: human awakening is spirit’s awakening, human slumber spirit’s slumber. Ethics and morality do not blind humanity—they must appeal to spirit; great achievements do not arise absolutely from circumstances—they must root in spirit’s divine movement; life’s vicissitudes are not chance’s arbitrations—they must follow spirit’s motions.
Spirit exists of itself; spirit knows of itself; spirit moves of itself. Yet spirit’s self-existence, self-knowledge, self-movement are not confined to humanity alone—their counterpart dwells in another realm. That otherworldly spirit may move human spirit, yet only commensurate with human spirit’s degree of awakening.
Therefore history recording humanity must record spirit’s motions; though material changes follow spirit and should not be neglected, history’s true purpose lies in studying human spirit.
Human life is truly boundless—not meaninglessly so—for ultimately it journeys through deserts seeking spiritual freedom. Here hope resides; here progress germinates; without this, all becomes falsehood.

Literature was a kind of enterprise that studied humanity and the infinite; as an enterprise, this held true, and its originating cause lay in sating humans' desire to fulfill their own satisfaction within the present “life.” Literature equipped life with pleasure; literature supplemented life with preservation. However, when studying literature historically, we had to regard it as a mirror of human life and view it as a reflection of life’s desires and satisfactions. Human life retained its skeletal remains within literary history; its religion and philosophy lingered there in scattered forms; its desires and satisfactions became undeniable facts upon that stage. And we—before observing desires, before assessing satisfactions, before scrutinizing conditions—had first to know life’s spirit. We acknowledged observation’s paramount importance, yet prior to observing states, we had to behold the naked spirit; we had to apprehend it; only thereafter could we observe that spirit’s activity.

Spirit remains eternally one; however, human life is finite. Within finitude, the essence of infinity undergoes transformation.
The East's greatest misfortune lies in having never known spiritual freedom from its inception until now—though this applies solely to its political organization, with its religious sphere showing marked difference.
A nation that neither knew nor sought spiritual freedom from its founding shall inevitably regress; it shall inevitably fade beyond history's margins.
To seek spiritual freedom through religion severed from politics signals a nation's departure from political engagement.
Were religion to remain wholly divorced from politics, a nation's thought would inevitably spawn two extremes: one faction of extreme idealists, another of extreme pragmatists.
We shall examine this when later addressing Japanese literature's relation to national polity; for now, we merely note that while Japan's political structure permits individual freedom, it denies collective liberty, and though its religious framework allows subjective spiritual freedom, such freedom can only be enjoyed in lives detached from societal bonds—public freedom having never taken root upon this foundation.

Here, it became necessary for us to urge our readers to return to the topic addressed in the previous issue.
Humans take spirit as life’s elemental principle; however, human life’s needs do not extend beyond solace and preservation—nor can literature’s direct purpose exclude these two.
Though there exist manifold varieties of literature, those deviating from this direct purpose cannot be called true literature; as for what might be deemed most fitting for this purpose—that lies beyond our present subject.

The truth of Tokugawa-era literature should be studied in detail when discussing its period; however, I had already begun my research from the reverse path—to know, however crudely, the general outline of Meiji Literature was my present subject.
It is rare to truly know the child without knowing the father.
Therefore, today I desired to observe—through a most disorderly research method—one or two characteristics that Tokugawa literature transmitted to Meiji literature.

The origin of literature lies in natural emergence; literature should arise simultaneously with humans possessing voice and sight. However, its development flourishes by accompanying life’s vicissitudes. Literature that brings joy to life and contributes to life must progress alongside humanity.
Thus, a nation’s literature cannot transcend its era; the spirit of the age envelops literature. People live according to their surroundings—their voices and eyes cannot by any means depart from these surroundings.

Before the Tokugawa clan, literature had belonged to Buddhist institutions, and the fact that Buddhist practitioners had become detached from humanity became the principal reason literature of that era remained divorced from human concerns.
When the Tokugawa clan established their hegemony—much like the rise of Confucian philosophy in Han China—they simultaneously wrested literary authority from Buddhist clergy and inundated the realm with Confucian sensibilities as if breaching a tidal wave.
However, since the Tokugawa clan's hegemony constituted a revolution in form rather than essence, the resulting literary revolution merely transferred stewardship from Buddhist clergy to Confucian scholars while remaining fundamentally sufficient for only half the populace. Undoubtedly literature revived during this era—yet this revival amounted to nothing beyond substituting Buddhism with Confucianism, ultimately serving only to be applied to higher social strata.
Moreover, because the Tokugawa clan dedicated themselves to making literature serve as political reinforcement, Confucianism itself transformed into a Tokugawa-styled variant; unless it supplemented moral edification, benefited social ethics, and suited the Tokugawa epoch, literature could not be esteemed by society as true literature.
This stood as the paramount reason why samurai literature—the literature of the privileged class—became tightly bound within ethical confines and developed solely within those parameters during the Tokugawa era.

However, to constrict literature’s destiny through the utility of ethics was something the Muse of Poetry would never permit.
Here haikai poetry abruptly reached maturity, while plays and novels simultaneously sprang into existence.
When warfare subsided and peace prevailed, there inevitably emerged conditions for literary prosperity; yet setting aside these circumstances to examine the early Tokugawa period reveals a dichotomy—on one front stood greatly encouraged utilitarian literature, while on the other vigorously arose writings serving purely hedonistic aims.
The samurai remained shackled by ethics, whereas commoners—guided by free will—fashioned literature of indulgence.
Herein commoner thought first cast its reflection upon literature’s clear mirror—a revolution in letters demanding special notation in Japan’s literary annals.

We shall not delve into a detailed discussion of the evolution of commoner thought here; we merely wish to remind readers that this developed commoner thought is a manifestation of the human spirit’s pursuit of freedom—a freedom of thought that, neither ethics nor indulgence, neither utility nor pleasure, surges forth aspiring toward spiritual freedom as its ultimate aim, and will not cease until it has brought about a great revolution in the intellectual world.

The Restoration Revolution’s overthrow of old customs in the phenomenal world of politics was universally acknowledged by all.
However, we would rather have believed that we had achieved a far greater revolution in the inner realm of thought.
That which made samurai and commoners into a single body of citizens was indeed this revolution; that which severed the long-entwined ropes of class in Eastern societal organization was this very revolution.
And if we speak from the perspective of investigating the history of ideas, we could not recognize this great revolution as having arisen solely from political activity; natural law was the greatest force. The commoners had advanced in their thought to the point where they could no longer remain submissive under the old order. Though the Meiji Revolution might have appeared to have been achieved through samurai swords and spears, in truth, it had resided largely in the spontaneous movement of ideas.

Meiji literature arose alongside such a great revolution; its transformations were remarkable, its hopes vast. The desire for spiritual freedom is a great law of human nature, and its ultimate destination lies solely in each individual's freedom. In political organization we had attained but half of this objective; yet in the realm of thought there were no restraints. Where then lay the hope toward which the Japanese people wished to advance? How foolish—those scholars who wandered at crossroads clutching relics of the old order like loyalty to sovereign and love of country! I beseech you to watch intently what would unfold a hundred years hence.

III. The Era of Transition

The last lamp sputtered out as the Tokugawa clan’s shogunate administration left behind three centuries of fruitless endeavors; the dawn of imperial rule gradually rose, abruptly transforming the general course of events—there remained no affair or object that did not alter its form.
Moreover, as if a levee holding back material civilization had burst, everything from the highest political institutions down to the living conditions of the masses—every branch and leaf—completely transformed in hue.

The giants of the old world—Yamaga, Seigan, Ekiken, Sokken—prophets now slumbering in tombs or cast aside by time's raging tides, their dawn-star brilliance dimmed; while Yokoi, Sakuma, Fujita, Yoshida and other reformist luminaries too had successively sunk into history's scrolls. Only yesterday's rōnin—those who once roamed the realm with long swords at their hips—now embraced by fortune's favor seized politics' vital mechanisms: having dissolved both great and minor domains, then forbidden samurai from bearing blades. Though nominal distinctions between warrior clans and commoners persisted, across the land they shared equal duties and rights alike, all uniformly cleansed beneath imperial grace.

Literature was a gift of peace; in times of war and turmoil, it would inevitably retreat to places removed from the active world—as seen in the final days of the Ashikaga clan.
Yet the warfare of the Restoration proved brief; Buddhism, which had served as literature's patron during the Ashikaga clan's decline, had by this time lost its vitality and could no longer bear the honor of protecting literature.
Instead, literature became a servant to the active world, ultimately compelling loyalists, passionate advocates, and other eminent figures to attach themselves to political endeavors.

Here, there is something that must be stated.

We are not those who argue that literature must necessarily be kept separate from politics in any era.
Literature is the mirror of its era, the echo of a nation’s spirit; therefore, when the masses cannot find peace day and night, this does not mean it should detach itself and direct its heart toward some ethereal realm.
Ultimately, literary figures are no different in their elemental nature from military personnel; it is only the era that shapes them into poets or soldiers.
A people constantly desire activity; a people constantly create their giants; through these giants, a people constantly give voice to their spirit; by giving voice to their spirit, a people meet their destiny of rise and decline. When the spirit withers, when the giants vanish, when activity fades—then does a people already show the signs of decline and extinction.
Therefore, giants must necessarily be the created beings of the people, and moreover, they must become the creators of the people.
When a nation faces many affairs, there will inevitably arise those who can govern the realm; when a nation lacks virtue, there will inevitably emerge saintly and pure gentlemen into the world; when a nation enjoys peace and ease, there will inevitably appear masters of poetry and prose who might be called the park of a nation. If these do not come to pass, the nation is half-dead, its people’s hearts half-asleep, approaching a state devoid of all hope.
Do not misunderstand, O reader—we are not those who adhere stubbornly to narrow theories; we hope to allow the people to express their spirit as freely as possible.
The people ever lend their ears to religion, philosophy, and indeed literature; and the second venerable creator—"Era"—leads them to hear the sermons of those giants they themselves created.

The thought of the early Meiji period was indeed a second chaos.
Why call it chaos?
Behold—had not the moral principles of old completely slackened? Behold—had not the hearts of the people across the land, having lost all guides of the former world, been left with none to heed? Behold—had not the greater part of Confucian morality, encountering the new air of the West, dissolved like jade dew vanishing fleetingly in the morning sun?
Yet this chaos was not akin to primordial chaos—it was a chaos swiftly pregnant with new order, a chaos poised to enter a new era.
And within this chaos, while outwardly no particular abnormalities manifested, internally one could clearly observe two great currents surging forth—one from the East, the other from the West—each advancing toward directions where they were fated to collide.

Let us observe these two mutually hostile great currents.

To explain this in the simplest terms: the first was Eastern thought, the second Western thought. Yet when examining these two ideologies' inner spirits, the former constituted republican thought that had confirmed public freedom through experience and academic theory and seized it; while the latter acknowledged only the personal freedom of superiors, remained ignorant of national public independence and freedom, recognized through both experience and theory that the state must stand as a central entity, yet refused to acknowledge that each individual's self possessed its own center—thus being patriarchal system-based thought.

The Meiji Revolution had already broken down the solid walls between nobility and commoners; with politics having thus transformed, the "thought" that formed the lifeblood within the nation also swiftly followed in the wake of political revolution. At this juncture, that which jolted the people’s thought from the periphery, making them raise their heads to gaze forward—what could this be but material civilization accompanying Western thought (or rather, material civilization embracing Western thought)?

I have heard that Mr. Fukuzawa Yukichi’s *Seiyō Jijō* (Conditions in the West) reached even the remotest villages and isolated regions.
However, those who preached Western civilization were but the voice of its machinery and tools; the general populace’s astonishment naturally gave rise to reverence. The civil and military ministries invited Westerners to deliberate on paths of reform; many exchange students were heavily utilized, ascending to positions of national importance. Moreover, the government shattered its long-held dream of isolation, gradually initiating diplomatic affairs; merchants from various nations came to each open port bearing strange yet practical implements. The chonmage topknot became an object of ridicule by the newly coined term “stubborn”; Western clothing became the attire of honorable officials.
They drove the entire nation into frenzied pursuit of importing material civilization, while all subjective thought—the old wallowed in chaos’s long night of slumber, the new had yet to sprout like spring grasses—and like Moses-less Israelites wandering the wilderness, quietly awaited fate’s turning.

In such an era of transition, the majority of the people heeded no prophets whatsoever; and even prophets great and small in the world of thought could not stand upon principles potent enough to move them.
Therefore, if there existed in the intellectual world that which held greatest power, it would be a prophet preaching doctrines of utmost simplicity to the people.
To reiterate: one should not hope for prophets daring to lead the nation toward some destination in such an era.
One could expect little from thinkers who skillfully aligned with national trends, meticulously followed its inclinations—in other words, those whose primary aim was to cater to popular whims.
Here in the realm of novels and popular fiction, we cannot overlook the name of Mr. Kanagaki Robun.
As for more refined writers of playful literature, one must not fail to recommend Mr. Narushima Ryūhoku.
Indeed, those like Mr. Robun inherited the mantle of Tokugawa-era gesaku writers, representing in this chaotic age the very pinnacle of indulgence.
As for Mr. Ryūhoku—he was a pure product of that chaotic age, one who mocked all moral principles under heaven, cast aside societal ethics and human sentiments, ruining himself in panicked aestheticism.
We do not presume to reproach Messrs. Robun and Ryūhoku; we merely declare—with sorrow—that in such chaotic times, what must align with leaderless popular thought is none other than literature of this kind.

If we turn our gaze to one side, we see Mr. Fukuzawa of Mita steadily expanding his domain within the realm of thought.
As a man of letters, he diligently aided the advancement of material knowledge; though he was not one intoxicated by Western cultural artifacts, he was believed to have firmly held faith in propagating Western external civilization.
As an educator, he opened the path of practical economics, created a wellspring of talent, and rigorously established preparations to meet the administrative needs of all sectors of society.
Therefore, the dark clouds in Western civilization’s intellectual realm once gathered over him and then scattered in all directions.
He was indeed the principal prophet for the common people.
As stated in the previous issue, since the Restoration Revolution was an unprecedented revolution—one that sought to publicly apportion spiritual freedom—what this era most required were those suited to this purpose; thus, as its foremost exemplar, Mr. Fukuzawa of Mita answered Heaven’s summons.
Yet let none misunderstand us to be worshippers of Mr. Fukuzawa; we are those who seek to study history impartially—emotion is not our ally in this matter. We recognize Mr. Fukuzawa as the prophet who first spread doctrine among the common people in Meiji; this is not to say he was a perfect prophet.

To Mr. Fukuzawa, we did not hesitate to bestow the title of “pure child of his age.” Though he was born in the old world, he was a man who thoroughly cast it off. Though he possessed an expansive territory in the new world, not even a single finger did he place in the old world. He was a tranquil great reformer; however, his reforms were rather external ones and did not guide the nation’s ideals.

At this time, standing opposite Mr. Fukuzawa and occupying one side of the intellectual world was Professor Keiu.

Professor Keiu was not a reformer but a pragmatic synthesizer.
A tranquil conservative who nonetheless exerted great effort in infusing Western civilization.
Within him, Eastern and Western civilizations were harmonizing in a narrow sense.
He saved Confucianism and Taoism from their decline while applying Western civilization on the other hand.
With his Confucian Chinese thought, he revered Smiles’ *Self-Help*.
In him there existed honest adoption but no zealous enterprises; there was gentle reverence but no obsessive worship.
What prevented him from becoming a lost child of the Meiji Revolution was this application, this adoption, and this reverence.
That he stood out among the many scholars who prioritized Chinese classical thought, skillfully adapted to the revolutionary momentum, and made significant contributions to the establishment of Meiji thought was indeed due to these characteristics.
While Professor Keiu was by no means a great figure as a reformer, as a conservative he was at least one of the intellectual world’s great figures.
The old world and the new world, existing within him, had achieved a unique harmony.

Mr. Fukuzawa and Professor Keiu stood as the most visible specimens of these two great old and new currents; we shall take leave of these two great men with an exceedingly cursory critique.
Having arrived at this juncture, we must now shift our gaze to observe the transformations within the political sphere.

IV. Political Changes

The true nature of the patriarchal system was a spider’s web.
At its center gathered all spirits suited to that system.
Hundreds and thousands of small streams emerged from this center to form a golden ring encircling it, only to pour back once more into the center from that golden ring.

We recognize this same truth within our feudal system.
The fundamental difference between the feudal systems experienced by European nations and our own feudal system lay precisely in this point.
Yet it was only in the Tokugawa clan that we see patriarchal feudalism brought to its fullest perfection.
The Ashikaga clan remained perpetually embroiled in troubles and left behind no institutions worthy of note; though the Hōjō clan retained actual power, their condition resembled that of a shop manager administering his master’s household.
As for the Minamoto clan, they were utterly devoid of scale and governance, while those like the Fujiwara clan amounted merely to clerks who temporarily embezzled their lord’s estate.
In the Fujiwara era, a portion of political authority still resided with the imperial court.
During the ages of the Minamoto and Hōjō clans, though political power had largely reverted to military houses, literature and religion still clustered about the royal court.
When we come to the Tokugawa clan, they gathered politics, religion, and literature entirely under their unified authority through grand design.
The Tokugawa perfected the feudal system—this “perfection” meaning it was so precisely fitted into every aspect of Japanese society that one might say the spirit of the Japanese race found “satisfaction” within its structure through thorough completion.

The Tokugawa clan established such a perfected institution as a feudal system.
Therefore, the decline of the Tokugawa clan could be nothing but the decline of the feudal system itself.
Japanese civil rights gained all their experience of the feudal system under the Tokugawa clan; in its failure, they saw all feudal governments' failures—the Emperor's direct rule stands as its inevitable result.

The Tokugawa clan's failure became the feudal system's collapse.
The Meiji Revolution possessed two aspects: first, Imperial Direct Rule; second, governance by a coalition government.
To elaborate: on one side existed the royal court's authority that had triumphed over military commanders' control.
On the other emerged victorious a coalition of forces united amidst a single governing body's collapse.
The militaristic government that had ruled the realm as conquerors ended with the Tokugawa clan, while broadly witnessing public opinion's first triumph.
We must never forget that diplomatic issues precipitated this transformation.

Nothing so invigorated a nation’s vitality as diplomatic affairs.
Without them, people would drift into self-indulgence, indolence, complacency, and hollow formalities—ultimately succumbing to an uncertain fate.
When the Tokugawa clan governed the realm, their legal system operated with rigorous precision—so exacting that over three centuries, their political authority nearly eclipsed even the imperial court’s dignity. Yet though such a collapse might have stemmed from profound internal decay, we must principally ascribe it to diplomatic matters.
And concerning those diplomatic matters, we must indeed recognize the people’s fervently awakened vitality opposing them as the foremost cause that tore out the Tokugawa regime by its roots.

The people's spirit was awakened through diplomatic affairs. As a result, they caused Sonnō Jōi ideology to permeate the realm and made numerous masterless samurai wander east and west with their solitary swords. The full account of the shogunate’s decline is sufficiently known through Ōchi Koji’s meticulous narrative. We have no leisure to discuss this in detail; we merely wish to confirm with our readers that this awakened people’s spirit could not be satisfied unless it not only overthrew the Tokugawa clan but also shattered all existing organizations and completely destroyed all previous systems.

The Meiji government was established as the counterpart to the people's spirit.
The people's spirit achieved its satisfaction through the Meiji government; here diplomatic issues too reached their provisional resolution. Until around Meiji 6-7 [1873-74], the united forces maintained a solid alliance and devoted their efforts solely to destructive enterprises. Yet the Meiji government's initial coalition constituted rather a destructive union—as the objectives requiring destruction diminished, they proved unable to avoid clashing in matters of constructive undertakings.
Herein occurred the great collapse of the Seikanron [Korean Expedition debate]; events like the Saga Rebellion and Ten Years' War likely marked its consequences.
From this point onward, all competitions within the government derived from a tendency to shift from coalition to unitary body—a phenomenon seen in all despotic regimes, making us find nothing peculiar about the Meiji government alone in this regard.

Let us turn our gaze and observe the unprecedented and unparalleled germination of an ideology within our nation's history.

This was the individual spirit that arose under the banner of civil rights.
When tracing this spirit's origins, we find ourselves compelled by numerous reasons to attribute its genesis to the very spiritual impulse that served as revolution's primary cause.
With the revolution's success, it appeared to subside—yet this was not true subsidence but dormancy.
Until the revolution's consummation, this had been a spiritual movement directed toward the imperial household and the state.
Having attained this objective, through what form should its activity now manifest?

The people had already broken the old system in the political realm and shouldered the rights and duties of citizenship for all citizens.
These "rights" and "duties" developed of their own accord; the development of rights and duties was none other than the development of the individual spirit.
Those with talent were appointed to handle the government’s administrative affairs.
And even those without talent became stages for independent rights and duties in every village and town, thereby coming to enjoy personal freedom.
The power of wealth promptly surged.
The glory of ability gradually began to emerge.
Necessity compelled the government to import laws. In short, through its great strides of progress, the individual spirit seized the territory of national spirit in its narrow sense.
As weapons to protect civil liberties, forces like speech, assembly, and publication gradually emerged into society.
The government had not yet learned how to confront these new trends.
The Meiji government single-mindedly sharpened its focus on shifting from coalition to unitary governance.
Though the Ten Years’ War had partially achieved its objectives, since various discordant elements harboring mutual animosities remained entrenched within the government, one must conclude that while appearing solidly organized on the surface, it constituted an exceedingly unstable national structure in reality.

(April 1893)