Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Yamaji Aizan

Introduction

A cascading torrent plummets three thousand zhang; one might doubt the Milky Way has fallen from the ninth heaven.

Is this not the supreme phrase to describe the intellectual world of Meiji? How could those who studied the leisurely literary history of the Feudal Era and entered into that of Meiji avoid dizziness and heart palpitations?

Literature is none other than the epidermis of thought; let us examine the transformations of that thought.

Japan, entranced in its feudal cradle, abruptly awoke. Minds long confined by Japanese and Chinese learning breathed freedom. Things that had been hardened like iron dissolved like mud. At the dawn of the Restoration, the spirit of seeking knowledge from the world surged forth irresistibly. The people's hearts and minds pursued new ideas and knowledge with ravenous hunger. Just as they flipped brocade banners to march down the Tokaido, established deliberative councils treating public debate as political standard while aspiring to emulate America—the world's foremost democratic nation—in such splendid, terrifying political adventures, so too did the intellectual sphere of that time possess momentum sufficient to leave even Meng Ben gaping in astonishment. Were we to divide Japan's intellectual history from Meiji's first year to today into three periods, the early era would be one of utmost boldness and vitality: when Mr. Kato Hiroyuki authored *The Essence of True Governance* arguing popular political participation arose from natural covenant; when Mr. Fukuzawa Yukichi pioneered commoner literature through works like *Conditions in the West*, declaring "Heaven creates no man above another"; when the Meirokusha group—through leaders Nishi Amane, Tsuda Masamichi and Mori Arinori—advocated unprecedented debates about abolishing swords and emperorship without restraint; when Professor Nakamura Keiu translated *Self-Help* and received Christian baptism; all these being unprecedented ventures reaching beyond their predecessors' imaginings.

Its momentum resembled floodwaters breaching dikes to soak plains—torrential and unstoppable. A dragon steed of thousand-leagues broke free from stable, iron hooves aimed at flying winds as it galloped—none could restrain its charge, nothing anticipate its course.

Those who had run their course had grown weary.
The Era of Retrospection had arrived.
Why did Messrs. Narushima Ryūhoku and Kurimoto Joun come to delight so many readers as newspaper journalists?
Was it not that Chinese-style poetry and prose—once thought destined for the wastepaper heap—were again held in high esteem, while the torrential tides of miscellanies in the Chōya Shimbun and Kagetatsu Shinshi, as if drawn by the moon’s pull, suddenly began circling back to former shores?
Why did those who came carrying 'English Steps' and 'Reader' to the gates of Western studies teachers then abandon them to visit Chinese studies academies and listen to the teachings of venerable old teachers?
Was this not because having raced ahead too precipitously had necessitated a great rest?

However, the prevailing currents of the Nineteenth Century exerted backward pressure.
Though wearied, they could not cease.
With thunderous drums resounding and blades already crossed, this momentum had inevitably to decide victory or defeat.
The entire army could not alter its stratagem merely because one soldier had grown weary.
Excluding Mr. Fukuzawa Yukichi—at a time when senior scholars had already shown near-complete exhaustion—Mr. Taguchi Ukichi championed free trade theory in economics; Mr. Baba Tatsui expounded popular rights in politics; Mr. Nakae Chōmin debated democratic principles in society; Messrs. Hoshi and Ōi proclaimed legal doctrines—these men resisted this retrogressive tide, rallied the people's spirit to hold fast at this critical juncture, and sought to steer it toward progressive horizons.
This indeed constituted the medieval period of Meiji intellectual history.

Thought had arrived. How then should literature give this form? Indeed, that which is uttered before being fully conceived in the mind represents the proper sequence that should govern the intellectual realm—for thought must ever precede rhetoric. Those endowed with ideas must inevitably seek language adequate to their proper expression. The new ideas born in this reborn Japan, as previously outlined, had for years been seeking literary vessels through which to manifest themselves. These labors—akin to groping through darkness—first materialized as the New Style Poetry of Messrs. Toyama Masakazu and Yatabe Ryōkichi, producing works that from our present vantage appear crude or even resembling nonsensical incantations, yet were hailed as masterpieces in their day—verses proclaiming "I am the navy; my foe is history's peerless hero" or "this man's body that cannot become a crab"—then further evolved into works like Mr. Yano Fumio's *Keikoku Bidan* serialized in the Hochi Shimbun, striving resolutely to articulate nineteenth-century thought and discover literary forms capable of voicing contemporary sensibilities. This constitutes what we term the third stage of Meiji intellectual history—styles dubbed "Colloquial Style," "Translation Style," "Eclectic School," and "Genroku Manner"—all being rhetorical approaches that have yet to coalesce into unified form even now.

As rhetorical issues flourished in this manner, aesthetic literature (that is, literature in the narrow sense) vigorously arose at the same time.
Indeed, those who take rhetoric to be the entirety of literature are those who have not yet understood literature.
Rhetoric is merely the form of literature.
However, just as water cannot flow without a canal, in the absence of forms through which thought can manifest, even the most intricate and exquisite aesthetic concepts ultimately cannot develop freely.
Therefore, aesthetic literature must inevitably await the development of rhetoric before it can develop.
And Meiji literature too, unable to escape this universal rule, saw aesthetic literature arrive alongside the era of rhetoric.
The ideals of loftiness, grandeur, beauty, and truth were sung; things such as the study of love, mercy, friendship, and patriotism—though imperfect—were indeed first depicted with some precision during this period.
With such layered turbulence, what course should this literary current take? Whither shall it rush?
The past is none other than that which designates the destiny of the future; the future is none other than the shadow of the past.
Allow me to observe Meiji Literary History.

Three Editorial Guidelines

The work's organizational structure was disorganized.

I discussed in the Introduction that Meiji literature comprised three stages.
To properly systematize this work's structure, I would need to commence from Meiji's first year and initiate discussion with Messrs. Fukuzawa, Nishi, Nakamura and other scholars.
Yet undertaking this would require materials not yet available.
Comparison, selection and compilation demand considerable time.
Were I granted sufficient leisure, I would truly wish to proceed thus.
My regret lies in circumstances forbidding this pursuit.

Therefore, I commenced writing from where I had obtained materials, recorded as I proceeded, did not adhere to chronological order, did not discuss individuals, observed without neglect anything that had arisen as phenomena of Meiji literature and critiqued them, and ultimately intended to make comprehensive observations.

My Explication of So-called Literature

Literary writing being a social endeavor—this I believed without doubt.
To declare all social endeavors as literary writing would naturally be erroneous.
Yet literature not engaging with society merits no discussion.

There was a man named Mr. Kitamura Tōkoku.
I had criticized him for disputing my article at the beginning of Sanyō-ron that advocated revering literature as social endeavor.
Yet he had fundamentally misunderstood me.
He spoke as if declaring my writing worthless unless addressing those global undertakings that religious figures, poets, or philosophers might recognize.
How could his vision become so skewed?
He elevated himself, proclaiming concepts like loftiness, grandeur, beauty, nobility, and love as his exclusive domain—as though philistines like myself (as he judged us) had no right to engage with such matters.
He slandered me by attributing thoughts I never harbored.

The reason I declared that literary composition constitutes a social endeavor lies in its nature as the activity of thought—for once thought becomes active, it inevitably exerts influence upon the world. Should a work fail to produce even the slightest impact upon society—that is, if it contributes not an iota toward bettering this world or advancing its happiness—then such a creator merits neither the name of poet nor man of letters. Were one to interpret the term "social endeavor" as denoting merely visible achievements, or to construe "engaging with the world" as interaction solely with material reality, then my assertion that literary composition constitutes a social endeavor would indeed be fallacious. But knowing that Christ's work transcended three years of ministry (his being a spiritual endeavor spanning all ages), and understanding as Emerson did that great writers possess brief biographies (their worldly engagement residing in the spirit animating their texts), my statement stands revealed as self-evident truth.

What is criticism?

I set out to critique the works and authors of Meiji.
What is criticism? How could those who inject personal affection or enmity into their critiques, who freely employ jealous flattery or abusive language, who loudly proclaim reckless arguments and lofty theories while worshipping themselves and belittling others, who establish their own doctrines to rank people hierarchically—how could such individuals possibly comprehend the essence of criticism?

“Mr. Tokoku further stated:

‘When one seeks to criticize others, one most often becomes aware of one’s own faults.
Recently provoked by certain matters, I drafted a polemical essay—something I have inherently disdained since birth.
Having completed it and quietly reflected, I find the pen that censures others equally poised to censure oneself.
Right and wrong cannot be lightly judged.
Rather than presuming to measure others’ faults, I should devote myself to cultivation and refinement.’”

I realized he had already erred at criticism’s very threshold.
Is criticism truly that which passes judgment on others?

My criticism seeks nothing more than to accurately delineate others. If biography can be called the external record of a person, then criticism is solely the internal record of a person.

The reason I recorded this here was solely to preemptively silence them—fearing that those narrow-minded individuals, those self-aggrandizing literary Pharisees who belittle others, might raise a clamorous uproar.

Mr. Taguchi and His Writings (Part 1)

A child who read Western books together with Mr. Nakane Yoshikimi during the Keiō era.
A child who studied at a local school in Numazu, Suruga.
A student who studied at the Numazu Military Academy supervised by Mr. Ehara Soroku.
Beneath a magnanimous exterior he harbored a sensitive disposition; behind a seemingly foolish demeanor lay mathematical, systematic, and analytical abilities; within inarticulate speech accumulated genius. Born into a family that had shared the fate of the defeated with the shogunate's collapse, he endured this well and forged his own destiny through unaided efforts.
The name Taguchi Ukichi had already gained prominence across the nation by around the twelfth and thirteenth years of Meiji.

When Mr. Carlyle discussed Mr. Burn, a Scottish farmer-poet, he declared: "Dwarves wielding steam engines may move mountains, yet he could not cover them with a plow," thereby praising his greatness as a literary figure despite his lack of formal education.
I too possess the right to speak thus of Mr. Taguchi.
From the perspective of those endowed with modern privileges, he would appear a man of meager learning.
His prose seems devoid of literary artistry.
In manifold aspects, he might be mocked for the incompleteness of his scholarship.
His Chinese-style compositions could well have been derided by classical scholars.
His historical theories may contain elements that textual critics refuse to endorse.
As for his specialized economics—that discipline which prompted his witticism about forgiving idiosyncrasies through 'distant' economics—some may deny its place within the antiquated Manchester School.
Though numerous flaws may be discerned across these dimensions, let none marvel—he lacked both opportunity for prolonged study and means for thorough inquiry.

If one can think deeply with little learning, then that little learning is rather something he should take pride in.

Those who forge their own destinies in this world are all those who have achieved great things through imperfect tools.

I beg to first say a few words regarding its general outline before undertaking a detailed critique of his writings.

(1) Through his crystalline comprehension, I could at last discern in him a bedrock of robust thought.
He clearly understood what he spoke of; his intellect was well-ordered.
There existed literary scholars of the world who, even as they wrote believing their words were not empty, found that when their thoughts—entangled and clashing incoherently—were logically distilled to their essence, they ultimately transformed into empty theories, leaving even themselves astonished.

The structure of their treatises might appear splendid, akin to a mirage, but because they were not grounded in robust thought, once a flaw emerged, they collapsed into fragments.
In extreme cases, there were those who prattled on about things they knew nothing of, making even half-informed experts retch.
However, in Mr.Taguchi's treatises, there was not a trace of such flaws.
He possessed clarity in discerning principles.
Therefore, whether one explained it horizontally or argued it vertically, no matter what attacks he encountered or what praise he received, he could not be moved.
The phrase 'The white flag stands unshaken; the barracks remain tranquil' served as an excellent descriptor for his treatises.

Mr. Taguchi Ukichi and His Writings (Part 2)

(2) Mathematical Mind || Mathematics, though the foundation of all disciplines, had long been despised among our scholars.

Great masters such as Seki Shinsuke, Shibukawa Harumi, and Nakane Genkei—scientists who might well be called Japan's Newtons—contrary to becoming household names like Arai Hakuseki and Rai Sanyo, passed through history scarcely known.
Yet it was the water flowing silently through subterranean rocks that enriched the soil; through their unrecognized perseverance, those mathematicians nurtured our people’s reasoning faculties, enabling them to align with the nineteenth century’s rampant currents of science.
Indeed, advocates of economics emerged from the descendants of mathematicians; Mr. Taguchi’s reasoning ability—though I have heard it attributed to his maternal lineage through Sato Issai—in fact stemmed from his paternal lineage.
His late father, referred to as a certain Mr. Taguchi, was indeed a mathematician.
Although he had led an obscure life as an official in the Tokugawa shogunate's astronomy department, the mathematical intellect he cultivated blossomed into Mr. Taguchi's analytical and systematic genius, ultimately earning acclaim in the Meiji era.

The extent to which his mind was mathematical became evident through how all his writings stood systematically ordered like geometric proofs. I seized upon his statistical tables, calculation charts, and market reports—skillfully wielding them—and marveled at how masterfully he persuaded others with a tone declaring two plus two equals four.

As for those works resembling endless rings coiling a single principle from start to finish—lacking order, logical structure, introduction or conclusion; akin to Changshan's serpent moving head and tail as one whole; where every extracted passage held complete meaning yet flowed without paragraph breaks like Emerson's essays or Mr. Uemura Masahisa's prose that might rather be termed poetic—not a single example could be found among Mr. Taguchi's writings.
He could not become such—nor did he wish to.

(3) Swiftness That Overlooks Nothing When Tokutomi Sohō published *The Future Japan*, he astonished society through unexpected quotations in his treatise arguing that the world's future would lean productively—citing Du Fu's poetry and passages from *Karachiyohagi* while emerging from unanticipated textual junctions.
What significance could straw floating on water hold? Yet if the direction of its drift aligns with the water's current, even a single straw holds meaning.
Where does one seek reading's joy? In plum blossoms' bloom lies cosmic essence.
He was one who comprehended the inner workings herein.
And in this respect, Mr. Taguchi greatly resembled Mr. Sohō.
When he sought to expound on the necessity of fire insurance and life insurance, he cited Kyokutei Bakin's Mūsōbei; when discussing the history of gold and silver prices in Japan, he quoted Zhu Shunshui's statement from *Sentetsu Sōdan*: "Japanese gold is cheap—China's is a hundredfold dearer."
Those who truly perceive beyond the page—it is through such reading that books first come alive.
The world's books may be freely read by anyone.
However, though many readers enter the treasure mountain, they return empty-handed.
People speak of secrets, but unless they possess keen insight, they cannot grasp them.
The materials Mr. Taguchi employed in *Shikai* differed not from those others had used before.
However, once they passed through Mr. Taguchi's hands, they emerged transformed into something new.
Midas turned all things his staff touched into gold.
Mr. Taguchi took whatever came before his eyes and immediately made it material for his own arsenal.

(4) Earnestness He was too astute to deceive, too sensitive to flatter. Because he perceived with clarity, he could not deceive. The prick of conscience proved too sharp; therefore, he could not resort to flattery. He often spoke as if engaging in self-flattery. Yet the very act of publicly declaring this self-flattery demonstrated his fundamental honesty. His writings frequently employed witty turns of phrase like "cursed by all wives" and "eyes wide as saucers"—yet these served merely as cunning tactics to mask his inherent sincerity and sensitivity.

Try directing a single rebuttal at him. He would inevitably rebut or offer a cold critique; he could not rest without taking some action. He made not the slightest concession in securing his own position; he cared deeply about whether he was said to have won or lost debates. Let no one say this was his shortcoming. When I viewed this through my own lens, it revealed his fundamental honesty. He would have disliked being called a boor himself. However, his very boorishness was precisely what prevented him from selling his integrity for fame and profit, allowing him to remain independent and steadfastly uphold his arguments to that day. It was precisely what prevented him from becoming a celebrated genius of the Meiji era like Mr. Fukuchi Gen’ichirō and spreading a frivolous reputation.

(5) Confidence: Having forged himself through adversity to emerge into society through his own abilities and establish himself in literary circles through original ideas, experience had taught him confidence.
"Mother, you must not visit Mr. Enomoto so frequently—he dislikes being petitioned," declared the pale-faced youth who had already believed in his own capabilities since that time.
He showed no surprise at Mr. Toyama Masakazu's rebuttal.
Mr. Toyama had indeed once brandished a hammer of scornful criticism akin to Voltaire's within our literary world.
He paraded Mill, Spencer, Bentham, Huxley—whatever came to hand—flaunting his erudition with a haughtiness matching how Dr. Inoue today enumerates Frenchmen, Germans, Russians, Italians, and Spaniards to mock the unlearned masses.
(To Dr. Inoue I say: I go by Yamaji Yayoshi—no pseudonymous debater evading responsibility.)
Yet he contended with Mr. Toyama and secured firm ground.
When Mr. Katō Hiroyuki published *A New Theory of Human Rights* and—premised on declaring "survival of the fittest is natural law"—drew his bizarre conclusion that one must not advocate popular rights but submit obediently to government, officials, and nobility, just as he basked in self-satisfaction, he [Taguchi] launched a lethal critique sharp as a dagger's point.
When Mr. Fukuzawa Yukichi presented his currency theory, deploying sophistry as if paper money and coinage held no distinction, he [Taguchi] denounced it without mercy; never one to stand awestruck before society's revered authorities—believing steadfastly in his own powers—he refused facile conformity to others.

(6) Meticulousness: He could not be said to possess excessive vigor. He likely did not have even half the stamina of Kyokutei Bakin. Yet when it came to his painstaking efforts in gathering materials far and wide, I found myself compelled to admire him. If "painstaking" were indeed a writer's essential trait, then he unquestionably possessed it. How meticulous were the statistical tables he created, the chronological records he compiled! He had once praised Arai Hakuseki, lauding not only his synthesizing power but also his capacity for meticulous precision. In this exacting attention to detail, he truly resembled Mr. Hakuseki.

(7) If one were to speak of his shortcomings—it was that his excessive confidence often led him into dogmatism.
For instance, like the "cloud-summoning and rain-bringing techniques" that Mr. Takahashi Gorō denounced as absurd theories, he would lightly dismiss even physics beyond his understanding.
Such as when he once entered Christianity only to later depart from it, or when he advocated spiritualism, or his religious theories (I had previously pointed this out in my critique in Shikai)—he reached rather significant conclusions all too easily.

He was dogmatic; therefore, he was narrow-minded.
He grasped several principles and attempted to judge all human affairs using them.
He deemed that nothing could escape these principles.
The reason his historical theories were often deductive rather than inductive (as seen in works like *A Short History of Japanese Civilization* and *Ancient History*) lay in this very tendency.

Mr. Taguchi Ukichi and His Writings (Part 3)

Endowed with this mind and these hands, he emerged as a free trade advocate.
He emerged as a pure—or rather extreme—Manchester School economic theorist.
Free Trade and Mr. Taguchi Ukichi became inextricably linked names—much like Jia Sheng and his Strategies for Governance, Darwin and Darwinism (theory of evolution), or Spencer and the theory of the Unknowable—such that to speak of him inevitably conjured this association.
He expounded without restraint on extreme individualism, laissez-faire doctrine, and what might be termed worldism.
The world was astonished by him; some feared his boldness, others were daunted by the rigorously systematic nature of his arguments that seemed invincible.
He became Japan's economist without being promoted by anyone or endorsed by anyone.
The Economic Magazine came to be warmly received by society—students read it, officials read it, businesspeople read it—spreading across the seas without wings, overwhelming competitors, crushing opponents, and displaying prestige as ascendant as the morning sun; this occurred from around Meiji 15-16 [1882-1883] through Meiji 18-19 [1885-1886].

I must refrain from commenting on the Economic Magazine at present.
However, I must not omit a word here regarding why it was once so welcomed by society.
For from the early Meiji years onward, the economic theories Western scholars introduced to society largely belonged to the old school that expounded Adam Smith's doctrines—taking the individual as their unit and upholding laissez-faire principles—thus making economics essentially free trade theory.
And Mr. Taguchi skillfully grasped this doctrine and applied it to factual matters.
This constituted one reason why it gained so many readers.
Moreover, our national conditions also contained elements that fostered this doctrine's growth.
From the Meiji era's inception, the government's most earnest efforts had lain in importing foreign culture and material goods.
Though the Okubo Cabinet and its successors adopted conservative policies in one aspect of governance—suppressing free speech and promoting aristocratic rule—in economic matters they nevertheless pursued proactive strategies, implementing government omnipotence while devoting great efforts to industrial promotion. This created an environment where subordinates sought to exceed their superiors' expectations, leading local officials to frequently seize private enterprises and convert them into prefectural projects to curry favor with high authorities.
The Economic Magazine arose during precisely such times.
Because its critical and destructive arguments skillfully exposed these harmful effects, the public could not help but read it.
This marks the second reason.

Among Mr. Taguchi's writings, the work that deserves special mention in literary history is his *A Short History of Japanese Civilization*.

In the days before the outbreak of the Satsuma Rebellion—a major chapter in Meiji political history—there arose within the mind of a still-frail young man a grand aspiration: to write a history of Japanese civilization.
He boldly embarked upon this enterprise, and before long, *A Short History of Japanese Civilization* was brought into the world.
Remember, this distinctive history—novel in its framework—indeed emerged in this manner.

I found many shortcomings in *A Short History of Japanese Civilization*. Yet when I considered that this was the work of young Taguchi, and reflected that it had been written during the time when I myself was still in the countryside flying paper kites and spinning tops, my impulse to criticize could not overcome my impulse to cherish it. Considering that this was written by Mr. Taguchi—the author of the present-day *Shikai*—one could not help but be astonished at how his talent had been rather precocious and how the Taguchi of old remained unchanged, much like the Taguchi of today. Human talent is like iron; once tempered, it cannot be changed thereafter. Was it that his efforts at self-cultivation had lacked the final measure, causing progress to be halted midway? Or perhaps Mr. Taguchi could not escape this Japanese characteristic—quick to rise and quick to decline—encapsulated in the saying 'a child prodigy at ten, a genius at fifteen, but ordinary by twenty'?

I once considered that the foremost merit of *A Short History of Japanese Civilization* lay in its observation of both intellectual development and material progress. In Volume 4 of this work, which chronicled the transitions of Japanese literature—commencing from Prince Shōtoku's Seventeen-Article Constitution, critiquing Heian-period parallel prose, then advancing to describe how vernacular writing emerged and language gradually grew more intimate with literary expression—its keen observational power blazed like fire.
In its conclusion spanning from Heian-period literature to Kamakura literature, it states:

When monarchical rule reverted to weakness and became unable to protect scholars, our nation's literature finally began to sprout independence; it was only when it reached the verge of collapse that works worthy of attention first appeared.

This conclusion stands as an unalterable iron verdict; although many have written on Japanese literary history in the decade since—such as scholars Mikami and Takatsu—none have yet demonstrated such incisive critical discernment.
And his attention to material progress was an inherent characteristic of him as an economist, as it should be.

Regarding Mr. Taguchi Teiken, Aizan states:

"The reason you were labeled Manchester School lies in your having advocated free trade, argued that insurance enterprises should not fall under government control, discussed the value of nation-building, and promoted individualism and worldism.
However, as I am a complete layman in this matter, I have no knowledge of whether you are truly aligned with McLeod or Bastiat or such things.
Such detailed systematization shall follow the command of you, the expert.
The two matters—my having regarded you as a descendant of the Tenmongata and your denial of your maternal lineage to the Enomoto clan—were things I had heard in family discussions during my time in Shizuoka; hence I wrote them believing them true.
However, if you yourself declare it to be mistaken, then it cannot possibly be mistaken.
Whether your Chinese prose is masterful or clumsy—I, being a mere layman, cannot possibly judge.
“However, since there was a rumor that a certain elderly scholar had said, 'Taguchi is commendable, but his Chinese prose leaves one at a loss,' I have simply recorded it as is.”
“To my own eyes, I have the honor of viewing it as a magnificent, esteemed piece of writing.”"

Mr. Taguchi Ukichi and His Writings (Part 4)

Regarding Mr. Taguchi's historical theories, what I perceived as a major flaw was that he did not place sufficient importance on individuals.
His historical theories were overly fixated on causality.
He was one who preemptively deduced human affairs—predicting that "if this is done, that will result; in such circumstances, such phenomena will arise"—and then evaluated history.
If one places young men and women in a single room, romantic talk may sometimes arise; yet there may also be times when it does not. If we are to discuss all human affairs solely through uniform sensibilities, then this world would truly be governed by an unalterable destiny.
However, humanity is not such a being; heroic deeds may at times leap beyond the ordinary. Though the times shape people, people also shape the times.
The historian’s eye must never be divorced from individuals.

It was not that Mr. Taguchi entirely neglected individuals; however, unfortunately, the individuals he wrote about were ordinary ones—his pen could not depict heroes. He lacked sympathetic sentiment toward individuals. As for feelings of reverence and worship toward historical figures—these were utterly absent in Mr. Taguchi. Passion might at times lead people to errors in judgment; however, without passionate individuals, one could not depict living characters. In both *Shikai* and *A Short History of Japanese Civilization*, we found no traces of hero worship in him.

Character analysis was not something that logic could accomplish; were one to attempt analyzing individuals through logic, one would only destroy them.
The foremost way to know a person lay in intuition, empathy, and poetic discernment—unfortunately, he lacked these.

Mr. Fukuzawa Yukichi and His Writings (Part 1)

Though much remains to be said regarding Mr. Taguchi, I shall present those matters here on another occasion when the opportunity arises; I entreat you to allow me now to turn my gaze to Mr. Fukuzawa Yukichi—a giant in the history of Meiji literature.

From February 1872 to October 1877, *Encouragement of Learning* sold a total of 590,846 copies; one need only observe the monumental influence this work exerted upon Meiji's enlightenment history.
He was truly a king without a crown.
Heroic endeavors may succeed once and fail once; Saigō Takamori, the great leader of the Restoration, vanished like dew on Shiroyama, leaving behind only wounds and national debt.
Matsukiku and Kōtō sleep in vain in their graves, while their disciples and former officials prosper in vain.
And during this time, the commoner scholar who surveyed the realm with a disdainful gaze transformed the hearts and minds of the Japanese people; at the very least, he formed what might be called the Fukuzawa sect among them.

On Genius

I beg the reader's indulgence; before discussing Mr. Fukuzawa, I must first attempt a discourse on genius.

To revere the garments without revering the person was humanity's universal failing.

Those who discussed the figures of our age by judging through official ranks, through court ranks, through academic degrees—such individuals were naturally not worth mentioning.
And as for those who judged people by their scholarship—they too mostly belonged to the category of worshipping garments. What could one do?

When the people of the world yielded to scholars, they invariably extolled Mr. Inoue Tetsujirō and invariably praised Mr. Takahashi Gorō.
I was fortunate enough to witness the debate between these two gentlemen in the pages of Kokumin no Tomo.
When Mr. Inoue cited Latin, Italian, and Spanish, Mr. Takahashi critiqued each source point by point.
To an unlearned fool like myself, the two gentlemen’s erudition appeared so vast that I could offer no comment whatsoever.
Yet the question remained—was erudition ultimately worthy of reverence or not?
If one must read Shakespeare to grasp the essence of drama, then what did he read to become Shakespeare?
If one must be versed in foreign affairs to become a great literary master, then were writers born in a country not yet opened to diplomacy truly worth three coppers?
While the erudition of these two gentlemen commanded utmost admiration, erudition alone held little value; not that it was worthless, of course, yet strangely enough, the public esteemed these erudite individuals as scholars, and while relegating scholarship to secondary status, they praised those with innate wisdom and talent as "geniuses," all the while diminishing them through such acclaim.
Was this not precisely those who revered the garments while forgetting the person’s character?

O genius! O genius! I am one who sides with true genius.

What, then, is this "genius" we speak of? A genius is one who possesses wisdom. What is wisdom? It is that which emanates from within; it is not that which comes from without. It is one who reaches the truth of things; it is not one who merely glimpses their surface. It is one’s own; it is not another’s. One who does not possess wisdom cannot move the world; one who does not possess wisdom cannot teach others. To elaborate in greater detail: Wisdom is that which unites practical experience with ideals; that which binds empirical knowledge to scholarship; that which can be expounded while seated yet must be put into action when risen. If one lacks this, they are not worthy of respect.

In evaluating people, I had to solely and rightly inquire into their wisdom.
Even if one discussed profound philosophy, if it was not his own philosophy but merely book-bound philosophy, how could it have been worthy of deep respect?
Even if one discussed beauty and expounded on loftiness, if that person did not love beauty and cherish loftiness, how could they have been worth a moment's consideration?
Without attaining anything through personal realization and merely borrowing others' words at random—how could such arguments ever have possessed brilliance or vividness?
Why was it that doctors and bachelors were as numerous as clouds, yet so few of their words proved worth hearing?
This was because their learning was not self-acquired and did not emanate from within.
They merely expounded materialism as such; they had never personally embodied it themselves.
Therefore, they never tasted the pain, loneliness, and disappointment that materialists ought to experience.
When they expounded on the constitution, they did so merely as the constitution; they had never discussed it as citizens of a constitutional nation. Therefore, their words remained insufficient to elicit others' sympathy.
Their arguments did not arise from their experience; their knowledge never became their own.

Meiji Literary History owes much to what I call "geniuses," while those scholars and professors have achieved nothing—this is precisely why.

Those Who Live Through Facts

Allow me to return to Mr. Fukuzawa.
I know him to be a man who dwells within facts.

As one read through Mr. Fukuzawa's works, it was as if accompanying him on a journey through Meiji history; fools who had composed pretentious texts riddled with Chinese phrases while pompously waving their arms, old men clinging to outdated ways with their traditional topknots who had spouted stubborn arguments while yearning for the former shogunate era and despising Meiji civilization, or merchants clutching abacuses as they rushed about treaty ports—all these scenes of markets, countryside, shops, and schools appeared vividly before my eyes as though captured in photographs.
Mr. Fukuzawa was truly one who lived and breathed within facts.
Ah, this was an indispensable trait that no literary hero throughout history could lack.
Those who instructed the age and moved the times—all were people who comprehended the times.

Mr. Fukuzawa Yukichi and His Writings (Part 2)

Titled Encouragement of Learning, titled An Outline of a Theory of Civilization, titled On Civil Economics, titled Minor Essays on Current Affairs—how prodigiously Mr. Fukuzawa’s writings had moved the world! When I resided in my hometown, I once read Mr. Fukuzawa’s *Sekai Kunizukushi* and thereby first came to comprehend the world’s broader currents. “Heaven creates no man above another”—how profoundly did this single phrase become ingrained in the minds of Japan’s youth! How spectacularly did the argument that “Kusunoki’s loyalty resembled Kurosuke’s beheading” set public opinion ablaze! And how mightily did the Keio University faction wield influence within society!

The extreme abundance of both praise and censure proved that person's extraordinariness.
"Lies for Fukuzawa, untruths for Yukichi"—from the moment this derisive chant first assailed him until today, criticisms of every stripe had been hurled his way: that he resembled a vulgarian, a self-serving petty man, a charlatan. Yet like an oak sinking deep roots into barren soil, unafraid of rain or wind, he gradually achieved a stature that pierced the heavens.
Amidst both rightful praise and wrongful censure, he developed into a Meiji-era master; in an age when Mr. Nakamura Keiu had died in the Senate, and esteemed scholars like Nishi Amane and Kanda Takahira had faded into obscurity—or rather, in this present day when Meiji’s literary currents had birthed a new era—he yet remained a titan within the literary world.
The Jiji Shinpō continued to present his arguments to the world even today.
Though his arguments might be eclectic, though they might lack rigor, the turbid spring of his brain flowed unabated even then, never running dry.
Was this not truly astonishing?

What I admired about him was precisely this: that he stood unwaveringly in the world as a "commoner". He was truly one who found satisfaction in being Mr. Fukuzawa. He knew his own duties; he knew his own skills. He was not one to boast to others through attire or official rank; he knew that his dignity resided within himself. In this manner he navigated the world; in this manner he disciplined himself, and together with these, he instructed society. Who but he was the one who provided a commoner model in the Meiji era and interpreted commoner-ism through his own life?

And the second point at which I admired him was this administrative ability.
The so-called executive talent could indeed first be observed in him.
When writing for his Jiji Shinpō, he would note even trivial typographical errors and correct them with extraordinary meticulousness.
I had on occasion seen his manuscripts; where revisions were made, he would blacken them with ink so thoroughly that no trace of the deleted characters remained, never resembling the crude emendations of an ordinary student. Ah, was this not a prime cause of his success?
He approached all matters with earnestness.
That light yet graceful prose of his fundamentally emerged from relentless refinement.
He was a man of sincerity.
The dignity in his eyes and the tautness of his mouth—as though forming a single written character—clearly manifested the essence of his character.

Mr. Fukuzawa Yukichi as a Literary Figure

1. Commoner Literature
Essays from the Meirokusha, Mr. Kishida Ginko's newspaper, and publications like the Tokyo Nichi Nichi Shimbun were all written nearly entirely in the colloquial style.
"Even Kumakodō used opening phrases like 'At such times, Mr. Kyūhei...' with many works composed in a manner readable by anyone."
In this regard, it must be said that the intellectuals of that era surpassed today's literati.
The purpose of writing lies in conveying meaning effectively.
That simplicity and universal accessibility were considered virtues stood as something everyone at the time wholeheartedly endorsed.

And Mr. Fukuzawa’s prose had not altered its style in the slightest from that time to the present day; not only was it easily comprehensible to all, but it also possessed a certain flavor when read through.
Though exceedingly plain in style, it never wearied; before one knew it, the reader had reached the volume's end.
Though I had heard that Rennyo’s Ofumi represented his ideal literature, when evaluated purely as writing, his prose surpassed Rennyo’s by several degrees.

(2) He possessed self-acquired insights—what accounted for this distinctive flavor in his prose?
It was because he spoke from self-acquired insights.
He certainly did not possess profound philosophy.
Though he may have lacked the transcendent intuition that perceived divine spirits through the exaltation of heaven and earth, he undeniably possessed experience in what was called life.
He had grasped several principles that pervaded society, politics, economy, and human relations.
Therefore, when he spoke of this, it was as though drawing from his own storehouse.
He did not speak through translation-like imitation, nor did he speak vicariously; he spoke directly from his own mind, and thus his words were naturally compelling to hear.

Mr. Fukuzawa Yukichi

His Vocation

Ducks have short legs, cranes long necks; willows are green, flowers red—how can people possibly be the same as I? The glory of this star differed from the glory of that star. Mr. Fukuzawa’s vocation lay in teaching the Japanese people practical and applied wisdom for living. It lay in creating clever merchants, agile officials, and generous yet profit-astute landowners. He always walked the earth; he always went where ordinary people went. He was constantly striving to create an honest and upright model for the Japanese people.

The feudal system had collapsed, yet the dreams of yesterday remained unawakened.
In the early years of Meiji—when a new world harbored an old spirit—how his proclaimed doctrine was welcomed by progressives and shocked conservatives!
He came to be viewed as a god by some and a demon by others—all owing to this.
However, the galloping tide of the times daily added to his faction, until a portion of the realm had nearly transformed in Fukuzawa-esque fashion.
He has fulfilled his vocation.

He was merely the leader of a faction; he was not a national leader.

However, he was merely the leader of a faction; he was not a national leader.
The reason being that he himself did not represent all that the Japanese people demanded.
Behold how his disciples often drifted into materialism (not in philosophy, but in practice), and how those called Fukuzawa-style geniuses all too readily made the mere improvement of daily life their ultimate purpose.

If one were to amass wealth in their hometown, occasionally distribute it to benefit others, build bridges, construct roads, and consider such minor acts of charity sufficient, then Mr. Fukuzawa would indeed be the foremost teacher in the land. However, society could not be governed solely by people of minor virtues; a republican government formed from ordinary and mediocre individuals would be the most base. Therefore, the world required hero worship. And Mr. Fukuzawa did not teach this. People were not those who found satisfaction merely in living well; deep within the human heart lay something unsatisfied by coarse robes. Therefore, the world required religion; for this reason, it required philosophy. And yet Mr. Fukuzawa did not teach this—these were all the greatest demands of the age. And he observed this with dispassionate eyes. This was why he remained merely the ringleader of his faction's imps (pardon the irreverent phrasing—it carried no ill meaning, being akin to your own analogy of Kusunoki-ko and Gonsuke) rather than becoming a national mentor.

If I may speak honestly, were the world to listen solely to Mr. Fukuzawa’s sermons, it would render this world unfit for habitation.
His religion, when all is said and done, was merely a technique for worldly success.
The great path of nirvana transmitted by ancient Indian sages who abandoned their thrones, severed ties with wives and children, and dwelled beneath trees and upon rocks; the gospel of Christ sealed with his own living blood; all truths purchased by the world's great figures and heroes at the cost of their lives—we must view these as nothing more than tools for survival, no different from grains, hemp, and flax.
Though the maxim "Heaven does not create men above men" may contain one aspect of truth, it is precisely for this reason that we must venerate those of the highest human character.
If we were to forget the other aspect of the truth—that the greatest models are objects of our reverence—we must forever consort with mediocre petty individuals.
When they did not advocate preserving the beauty of Matsushima and Miyajima because it was beautiful, but instead came to argue that Japan's lands—being rich in natural beauty—should be made into a world paradise to make foreigners shake their money bags, then even the natural blessings of clear winds and bright moons became merely materials for iron-making.
Such a cramped and narrow world—how could this possibly be a place fit for human habitation?

Fortunately, the world was not composed solely of Mr. Fukuzawa’s disciples; this world had not yet completely transformed into a wholly materialistic, skeptical, and cynical realm.

(Meiji 26 [1893], March 1 – May 7)