Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

"Culture is the product of national land and history."
In other words, it is the form of existence forged by the blood and destiny of a people.
When speaking of "nation" here, I wish to consider it not in the narrow sense of racial discrimination but rather as referring to a politically unified entity bound spiritually—and ultimately also meaning a composite nation that should enter a completely homogeneous cultural sphere under the name of its citizens.

Now, Japan’s “culture” is the fruition of our Yamato people’s ancestors—who revered successive Emperors peerless in civil and martial arts as divine parents, upheld the grand ideal of making the world their “household,” channeled the glory and duty of being devoted subjects into loyal service, and single-mindedly devoted themselves to developing national fortune and enriching a “beautiful” national ethos.

There have indeed been times when dark clouds shrouded the imperial majesty and the people’s hearts grew despondent, but in this divine nation where light emerges from chaos and strength wells up when violated—both past and present—we firmly believe that the imperial destiny alone remains as boundless as heaven and earth.

Above all, Japanese culture is a creation that has taken as its central axis both this unshakable National Polity and the spirit of sacred imperial teachings successively inherited through generations—a creation accumulated and refined over three millennia through the seamless ingenuity rooted in the unique disposition of the Yamato people.

Whether we speak of continental cultural influences or imitation, those influences were assimilated through digestion rather than mere replication.

Even if culture were to extend its invasive reach, our nation has never surrendered itself to foreign cultural incursions—save for certain superficial phenomena observed in modern times.

Though it may be said that culture naturally flows from higher to lower, the height of culture has thus far been measured by various standards.

To give an example, there exists a perspective that seeks to determine cultural superiority through the refinement and skill of technology—particularly the techniques of systematizing, rationalizing, and analytically breaking down objects—as encapsulated in the very term "technical culture."

In areas such as the enactment of laws, development of transportation networks, enhancement of educational facilities, systematization of scholarship, unification of defense capabilities, and rationalization of production methods, it must indeed be said that Japan was lagging behind.
However, from another perspective, it can also be said that due to prolonged national isolation policy, there had been no necessity politically or economically—and once these became indispensable requirements for national self-defense and development, Japan not only reached parity within mere decades with nations that had prided superiority in those aspects, but in some respects far surpassed them.

To explain why this was possible: it was because what we call the “standards” of culture had been positioned in an entirely different realm—specifically, an approach that fulfilled needs through simple pathways rather than creating complex systems; that focused on moral cultivation over rationalization; that managed affairs through synthesis and intuitive power without exhausting itself in analysis and specialization. Unintentionally, this very approach became the foundational strength enabling the mastery and utilization of other methodologies.

Thus, what had been perceived as “low culture” from one approach must be understood by those capable of understanding—that in truth, it constituted a “high culture” of an entirely unexpected methodology, and moreover, one that stood upon its own considerable merits.

Consider the richness of lived emotions and vigor of expression found in our classical literature: at a time when the West was merely beginning to produce narratives through rudimentary techniques, Japan’s courtly age had already brought forth literary works of profoundly mystical depth such as *The Tale of Genji*.

Though it may be said that the exquisite realms of waka and haiku as poetic forms transcend comparison, if we consider the quintessence of art—painting, sculpture, architecture, and crafts—there are indeed countless apt examples demonstrating the acuity and profundity of the Japanese spirit.

In the realm of scholarship as well, according to recent research—setting aside the pursuit of abstract theories such as philosophy—it is said that the development of natural sciences, particularly mathematics, had been remarkable prior to the Meiji period.

Some anticipate that the value of collecting, observing, and experimenting with medicinal herbs as part of materia medica studies may someday overturn the very foundations of world medicine.

Regarding this field, I am merely repeating what I have heard, so I cannot state facts with conviction, but at the very least, when considering the Japanese characteristics of those deemed scholars since ancient times, what proves most intriguing is that they consistently held aloft aspirations of statecraft and people’s welfare, cultivated “learning,” “virtue,” and “art” as an integrated whole, and while engaging in civil pursuits as their vocation, also maintained martial discipline as spiritual preparedness.
In other words, they consistently regarded themselves as scholar-officials.

If we return once more to the realm of art, the Japanese ideal of “beauty” was not merely sensory; it invariably sought what might be called refinement, spiritual resonance, and dignity—in other words, ethical elevation.
At the same time, it is only when they—constantly departing from formal imitation of nature—penetrate its very soul, discard objective minutiae, and grasp symbolic nakedness that it comes to be called supreme art.
There exists a solemnity there that one might even say carries a religious quality.

However, on the other hand, that treasures of extremely humble folk art were unobtrusively woven into the fabric of everyday life is also a phenomenon unique to Japan.
*Ukiyo-e* is one such example.
Many crafts are likewise.
The aesthetic value of everyday utensils—now dismissed as “crude objects” that once lay scattered in every household—bears witness to how our ancestors unconsciously cherished beauty and excelled at calmly creating beautiful things.

Be that as it may, the most important characteristics of Japanese culture lie, as previously mentioned, in the nation’s unique intuitive power and synthetic capacity—traits that manifest not merely in art and scholarship but across various facets of life, consistently fostering a distinctive development of lifestyle while taking on the hues of each successive era.

In every aspect of clothing, food, and housing, there exist forms entirely unparalleled in the world and the concepts underpinning those forms; it is within these that we grow, acquire corresponding habits, and through them continue to undergo cultivation of our minds.

Even in today’s world where so-called Western clothing, Western food, and Western-style houses have become so widespread, on the other hand, Japanese clothing is never abandoned, Japanese food remains rather the daily fare, and houses with tatami mats and shōji are regarded as comfortable dwellings.

This is not merely due to inertia.
Even when we speak of “custom,” it should not be dismissed as mere attachment to the past.

From the perspective of modern demands, there are likely many irrationalities and inconveniences therein.
However, despite knowing this—nay, precisely because we are Japanese—we find ourselves drawn to purely Japanese styles of clothing, food, and housing.
For in that style lies the pursuit of life’s ideals through the Japanese people’s intuitive power, and simultaneously, one can observe the unified integration of all life’s functions grounded in its synthetic capacity.

For example, the dignified bearing of crested formal kimonos, the informal ease of yukata-clad figures, the childlike innocence of a youngster’s raised shoulders, the crisp elegance of white tabi—the Japanese people’s innermost sentiment was that these could never be replicated in Western clothing.

Even when considering housing, there are nuances only Japanese people can fully comprehend—the central weight and stability maintained by a single tokonoma alcove, or how replacing the family dining space with a dining room creates a space too exclusively for “eating,” evoking a certain loneliness.

When it comes to meals, this feeling grows even stronger.
Firstly, the Japanese people’s inherent way of thinking about meals differs profoundly from that of Westerners.
While Christianity does have prayers to God at the table, the Japanese people possess their own inherent food culture spirit: the greetings spoken before meals—“Itadakimasu” (I humbly receive)—and after meals—“Gochisōsama” (Thank you for the feast)—are by no means limited to children addressing parents or guests addressing hosts as commonly practiced today. These expressions inherently contain a far broader, profound gratitude toward the myriad forces and blessings that grant us this “food.”

Along with this, their approach to tableware also becomes something uniquely solemn yet warmly intimate—a quality unseen in other nations. As for rice bowls and chopsticks, there exists no other example where each family member treats them as personal belongings—almost as extensions of their own bodies. And when one observes each piece of tableware—varying to the utmost in shape, color, respective purpose, and according to the personality of those who use them—alongside a somewhat formal meal arrangement, one comes to understand how this richly embodies the harmoniously integrated beauty of Japanese life in microcosm.

II

Western lifestyles undeniably possess their own refined 'flavor,' particularly evident in the comfortable atmosphere brought forth by modern civilization's development; however, these aspects predominantly represent artificial, technical elements that have risen to prominence—elements centered on materiality and designed for individual pleasure and comfort.
Of course, concerning life techniques—particularly the discipline of personal conduct shaped through social training and the coordination of production-consumption dynamics for collective groups—there indeed exists a necessity for us to learn these from them.

However, at the very least, the family-unit-based "house" lifestyle—as long as the "house" tradition remains vital within it—stands perfected beyond any need for further refinement. I maintain that even should superficial reforms and renewals occur with time’s passage, the fundamental standards must not be displaced by even a hair’s breadth.

To such an inseparable degree are Japan’s "house" and "life" bound; yet this very "house" serves as both womb and motive force of Japanese culture. While we cannot claim that our family system’s most sound spirit and form remain universally inherited today, restoring these to their original essence constitutes modern Japan’s urgent imperative—the bedrock labor for constructing a new national culture.

The character of Japan’s “house” system—manifested in terms such as family headship, family name, family traditions, and family codes—becomes a radiant tradition precisely because it carries within its veins the grand spirit of “the nation as one family” and the unity between sovereign and subjects.

The house’s festivals must connect to the nation’s festivals; the house’s honor must link to the nation’s honor; the house’s dignity must align with the flow of national character; and the house’s code must be founded upon the way of loyal subjects.

Thus, Japan’s “family” becomes a fundamental unit of the nation centered on the household head and evolves into a stage of national cultivation where raising descendants constitutes its primary duty.

In that environment—amidst the rich tapestry of rituals, daily routines, and family gatherings—we were taught the true path and purpose of living, where under our parents’ care, discipline was imparted with both warmth and rigor.

I intend to discuss this household discipline in detail in a later chapter, but fundamentally, this should form the very foundation of national cultivation—a matter of grave importance that concerns not merely the rise and fall of individual households, but indeed the prosperity and decline of the nation itself.

And the splendid effects of discipline not only enhanced the dignity of both individuals and households but also imparted grace and resilience to a nation’s myriad social phenomena—particularly the customs of each era—thereby vividly demonstrating the elevated standards of its culture.

There was once a Swedish botanist named Thunberg—a rather perceptive individual—who came to Japan.
This was three hundred years ago; at that time when speaking of Westerners, they possessed scarcely any knowledge about Japan—an isolated island in the East.
Thunberg too had likely crossed distant seas with intentions divided between documenting foreign customs here—gathering academic research materials on one hand while collecting curious travel anecdotes on the other.

However, when he undertook the long journey from Nagasaki to Edo, instead of being captivated by the scenery along the way, he exclaimed in astonishment at the unexpectedly "civilized" nature of the people living there.
When he speaks of “civilized people,” it becomes clear upon reading his travel diary that he intends this to mean not merely that they are not uncivilized savages, but rather something stronger—a people possessing splendid culture.

We were well aware of such matters even without being taught by Thunberg, but among Westerners of that time, those who made such observations were rare.
He primarily cited as reasons for being “civilized people” the Japanese populace’s courtesy, truthfulness, maintenance of dignity, love of cleanliness, respect for courage, discernment of foreigners’ ambitions without letting down their guard, ample possession of respect and curiosity toward scholarship, and sensitivity to beauty.
While this perspective strikes one as quintessentially Western, if I may elaborate further, I believe the Japanese excellence he likely intuited more profoundly stemmed from how people of all classes comported themselves toward him—a foreigner—their demeanor and conduct, though uniformly gentle, carried an undercurrent of solemn dignity, for they naturally possessed human character of inherent refinement.

There is no measure as accurate and direct as a people’s demeanor and conduct when gauging a nation’s culture.
And this demeanor and conduct—more than people realize—represents nothing less than the full embodiment of the “house” itself, reflecting the will and preferences of those who undertook children’s discipline, beginning with the parents.

III

As a simple example for understanding the synthetic nature of Japanese culture, I wish to consider what we call "refinement."
I intend to devote a later chapter to explaining this matter more fully, but what we call "refinement" represents the ideal of Japanese cultivation—it consistently aims for the harmonious development of intellect, emotion, and will in their fullest expression. When we speak of someone possessing deep refinement, we mean they completely fulfill three essential conditions: being morally good, intellectually truthful, and aesthetically beautiful in sensibility.

If we were to present one interesting example: when a certain person speaks, they deliberately adopt an odd voice.
Then people mock this as "a voice lacking refinement."
The reason for this is that the voice possessed a foolish, frantic, mocking tone utterly inappropriate for the setting.
For this would expose triple flaws in that individual: calling their virtue into question, revealing their lack of wisdom, and presenting a tone that proves unpleasant to the ear.

Since “refinement” is fundamentally something acquired through training, value judgments of things function through this cultivated intuition in a comprehensive manner, which consequently becomes the infallible criterion for discerning the soundness of “culture.”

IV

Furthermore，as distinctive features of Japanese culture were its possession of inclusiveness；its strong assimilative power；and moreover，that this assimilation did not merely homogenize things into uniformity but allowed heterogeneous forms to persist in their original states while letting them find their place in parallel—an assimilative power of impartial benevolence．

The absorption of foreign cultures consistently succeeded in enriching and diversifying Japan’s land through this inclusiveness and assimilative power．

At present，this form had reached its most extreme manifestation—even from the perspective of customs，aspects somewhat beyond control became visible，and voices expressing concern for our national culture’s future could be heard．But this was undoubtedly due to reckless imitation of Western culture and artifacts；while external appearances indeed reached a state of utter disgrace，there were grounds to believe，based on my observations，that Japanese life itself—though existing under these influences—had not been shaken to such an extent．

The first is that Western-style living has not taken root among us whatsoever.
This in fact constitutes a major cause of social disorder and the proliferation of vulgar tastes alongside the loss of traditional living techniques, but be that as it may, there should indeed be opportunities for reflection.
I rather expect that from within this phenomenon will arise both a natural selection of the dubious aspects of “Western-style things” and efforts to fully digest and truly internalize their “good elements.”

In particular, regarding “Western-style clothing” and “Western-style buildings,” it was thought that we would increasingly have no choice but to utilize these as collective life developed in the future; however, our research concerning this point had traditionally been exceedingly slipshod. Consequently, the due attention that should have been paid in their utilization—the consideration regarding their impact on our life’s efficiency, health, and dignity—had been sorely lacking. To take an example: when considering who taught men or women wearing Western clothing for the first time the proper way to wear it, the reality was that there was essentially no one to instruct them. They ended up wearing it haphazardly through observation and imitation. And there was no one to laugh at this either. There was no reason they would take root. If the way one wore a kimono was even slightly off, there would surely be someone who pointed it out. The mother would likely be the first to take their hand and teach them. This came through habit rather than knowledge. Unless such intuition came into play, the functions of daily life could not fully serve their purpose. Japan’s “Western-style” had not yet become fully ours.

At a certain school not long ago, during a ceremony, many students collapsed from cerebral anemia in the auditorium.
The cause lay in having tightly closed all the windows under the pretext of cold.
To the principal’s puzzled expression that seemed to say, “This has never happened before,” a teacher presented an intriguing report.
It appeared that until then, whenever using the auditorium, a foreign teacher had always personally gone around opening the rotating windows.
It was there they finally understood this incident had occurred immediately after that foreign teacher’s recent return home following war’s outbreak.
The lapse of judgment by Japanese people—who remained unaccustomed to living in purely Western-style buildings yet underestimated their own oversight—ultimately brought about this outcome.

Now, on the other hand, such cases also exist.
This too is a recent occurrence: a certain organization had invited several dignitaries from China for an exchange, and on that occasion prepared a banquet at a famous Chinese restaurant in Tokyo one evening. When the meal was served, the Chinese guests remarked to their Japanese hosts with composed smiles: "What exceptionally delicious Japanese cuisine this is."
They had likely intended it to be Chinese cuisine, but it bore no resemblance to Chinese food whatsoever.
This could be inferred as a euphemistic way of stating that the flavors were entirely different.

I cannot say whether this outcome matched the hosts' expectations, but such phenomena do frequently occur—perhaps representing an exceptional manifestation of Japanese assimilative power. While this might be deemed acceptable depending on interpretation, from my perspective of Japan, I believe it rather demonstrates how our fastidiousness—which utterly rejects anything ersatz—refuses to countenance such matters.

If we reverse perspectives and consider being served Westernized sashimi or miso soup imbued with Chinese overtones as "Japanese cuisine," one would likely not even feel inclined to pick up their chopsticks.
Setting aside matters of flavor, I sense something akin to sacrilege—an ethical impurity—lurking within such acts.

If they strive and still fall short, there is nothing to be done about it.
However, it is necessary to know one’s limitations, and since they know them, I believe they should come to understand their counterparts.

Assimilation proves to be an exceedingly difficult matter indeed—it is not merely a question of painting foreign elements with a Japanese veneer.

Chinese cuisine should be eaten by those who like Chinese cuisine and those who can appreciate its authentic flavors.
Alternatively, incorporating Chinese-style dishes into Japanese cuisine and blending in a single foreign element to the extent that it does not disrupt harmony could prove interesting.
However, could this be considered anything but un-Japanese insensitivity—to adulterate authentic Chinese cuisine until it suits Japanese palates less attuned to its nuances, then boast of it as genuine Chinese fare?
We express this with the term “unseemly.”
It signifies a deficiency in refinement.

The same applies to Western cuisine.
I have always maintained that the proliferation of inferior Western-style fare would be better off nonexistent; this constitutes not merely an unsightly case of counterfeit Western food but a pernicious influence that gravely corrupts Japanese palates.
Should one persist in consuming such fare nonchalantly, I warrant they will lose all capacity to discern proper Japanese cuisine.
Within Western cuisine too exists both restaurant-style preparations and home-style cooking.
There are formal menus and their informal counterparts.
To provide affordable meals, one need only present home-style dishes through simplified menus.
Yet nowhere does one find Western-style restaurants practicing such methods.
While American-style lunches may exist, these bleakly utilitarian meals fail to gratify Japanese stomachs.
No sooner does one think this than they affix absurd numbers of plates—slavishly imitating ceremonial menus—to fixed-price set meals.
The inevitable result being that not a single plate contains a truly satisfying dish.
This Western-derived approach to adoption stands as both a national disgrace and colossal loss.
Here manifests yet another specimen of contemporary mores—ludicrous in its absurdity, barren in spirit, and consummate in vulgarity.

V

In general, I believe the greatest cause that disrupts customs, distorts daily life, tarnishes the nation’s dignity, and ultimately diminishes its vital strength lies in what might be called a deficiency of spirit—the tendency to settle for “good enough” in all matters and grow accustomed to falling short even after exerting one’s utmost efforts.
This “makeshift” principle speaks to a lack of capacity to focus on anything beyond immediate crises—a consequence of urgent problems arising one after another and being constantly overwhelmed by their management. Yet even so, the fact that this has become a commonplace occurrence, with no one questioning such a trend, can never be excused by such pretexts.

“Haphazardness” generally begets “slipshod work,” while temporary measures invariably create so-called “barracks-style” makeshift structures—fostering an expedient mentality that as long as one can scrape through the immediate situation, things will somehow work out thereafter. And “being passable” means “somehow making do,” and this “making do”... Once this is done, both oneself and others come to endorse an extremely facile attitude that relegates the true value of things solely to second place, deeming them not particularly important.

I believe that this lifestyle attitude of the entire nation, combined with the administration of national governance, has created a worrisome void in Japan’s modern culture.

In situations where various circumstances prevent us from doing things fully, we are quick to say we will “endure”—but even in this endurance lies a proper way of enduring.
First and foremost arises the question: what exactly does “doing things fully” refer to?
Needless to say, this must indicate a proper ideal.
If that holds true, then when considering what deficiencies hinder realizing this ideal—are we not often inclined first to cite shortages of material or funds?
Next would likely come a shortage of “time.”
Thus when reaching that most critical juncture—how to compensate for these deficiencies—we end up setting aside any notion of “ideals” far removed from reality, focusing solely on meeting minimal practical requirements and resigning ourselves to “making do.”
To clarify what this entails: it means we scarcely consider ingenuity and effort—the utmost compensation for shortages of material, funds and time through physical and mental exertion of human capability.
A tendency becomes apparent where phrases like “After all there’s no material,” “After all there’s no money,” “After all there’s no time”—a mood verging on resignation or abandon—take precedence until we lose all drive to exert our utmost efforts.
This marks an extremely perilous threshold.

For from this tendency arise two lamentable phenomena.

The first is an evasion of responsibility—"No regard for anything as long as one avoids loss"—and the second is a gambler’s mentality—"Trying to reap benefits without exerting undue effort."

Now, even if matters do not reach such extremes, this tendency—often intertwined with a form of realism—numbs cultural sensibility, leaving people capable only of utilitarian judgments toward immediate problems. In their excessive haste to secure safe outcomes, they come to deem the most “vulgar” means as optimal, thereby producing aggressive “doers” who charge ahead with reckless zeal.

If this was not indeed the glaring cause that brought about an entire generation’s moral decline and cultural stagnation, then what could it be?

The “Makeshift” Since Meiji

If we consider how this makeshift principle has rendered aspects of our national life profoundly fragile, then even as we endure shortages of materials and labor under these circumstances—and strive to compensate for them through some means by similarly resolving to “make do”—we must never resign ourselves to settling for “good enough.”
We must persist in upholding our pride as a nation, hold aloft the ideal of magnificently fortifying wartime life, refuse to settle for “making do with what we have,” actively embody our noble customs in daily clothing and meals, return to the unadulterated tradition of “waste-free yet abundant living,” and—from this very moment—firmly implant within the hearts of all citizens the joy and significance of serenely sharing a single bowl of food among compatriots, no matter what crises may arise.

“Endure!” and “Make do!”—the nation, especially its youth, must not take these words from policymakers at face value.
There must, of course, also be a sense of “consideration” contained within those words.
However, Japan’s future—its advancement and prosperity—will never be secured by such “lukewarm” passive attitudes.

VI

Japan’s modern culture, however, was not composed solely of the vulgar phenomena previously described.

The healthy common sense of the people generally despised, mocked, and even hated this.
However, unwittingly growing accustomed to it and becoming unresponsive, they eventually came to resign themselves, thinking, "I suppose this is how things must be."

Then where does our beautiful history and tradition worthy of pride exist?

Wherever one looked in modern-style towns, such things seemed nowhere to be found.
Then came to mind scenes of classical Japanese households maintaining their dignified form.

They probably existed even in large cities if one searched.
In regional small cities, they still remained to an extent noticeable to travelers’ eyes.
However, I believed that what most commonly and firmly took root everywhere—here and there—was rural areas removed from urban centers.

To see a pitifully dilapidated farmhouse was more disheartening than witnessing what were called slums in cities; yet conversely, when I chanced upon the tranquil figure of an elderly woman spinning thread while watching over a grandchild on the sunlit veranda of a main house—its modest old structure surrounded by several standing trees, facing a not-spacious but swept-clean inner courtyard with daikon radishes and persimmons hung from the eaves—just that sight alone made my head bow in reverence and my chest grow warm.
There lingered an indescribable scent of the Japanese "house," where one could feel something akin to the nobility of history.
This was a ray of hope.

Such “households” should still exist in countless numbers throughout modern Japan.
Is this not Japan’s strength?

That Japan’s rural districts occupy a crucial position as pillars of national strength stems not merely from their role as primary food-producing regions or healthiest breeding grounds for its youth—this significance, I maintain, constitutes the very meaning of being deemed an agrarian nation. This derives partly from how our nation’s essential character remains firmly rooted in these communities spiritually, where Japan’s household traditions have been preserved with relative integrity.

Such traditions of the household system were linked with local traditions, and love for one's hometown represented the developmental process toward love for the homeland. Therefore, Japanese patriotism became a devotion to the homeland, with reverence for ancestors as the warp and loyalty to the Emperor as the woof.

VII

When we spoke of “devotion,” within the activities centered on the house system there appeared what might be called the most quintessentially Japanese form of devotion.

They were women as mothers and wives.

The term “Japanese mother” had come to be used frequently in those days—an expression likely extolling Japanese women’s maternal greatness unmatched worldwide.
This no longer referred to what people commonly called “motherly love.” While one might describe it as instinctual, it was more than that—it was the wholehearted practice of household principles and, though often unconscious, stood as a noble aspiration that might be termed life-risking service to the nation’s vital treasures.

Japanese households are a paradise for children—that’s what foreigners say.
This is likely due to the presence of such mothers, but while this represents foreigners’ perspective, it can also be interpreted as a satirical remark on modern Japanese households’ somewhat distorted prioritization of being “child-centered.”

The devotion of a mother to her child is akin to that of a wife to her husband.
This, too, would likely prove difficult for Westerners who champion gender equality and marital parity—let alone other Eastern nations reared on ideologies of male supremacy and female subordination—to comprehend.

For devotion does not necessarily arise from hierarchical relationships; it can also manifest as the tragic form of love that annihilates the self. This, too, should be seen as encompassing not merely a wife’s affection for her husband as a man, but a supra-personal service to something greater that lies beyond him. That is the “household,” the “nation,” and consequently, the husband’s “work.”

Such fundamental matters, when transmitted from generation to generation merely as customs existing entirely outside conscious awareness—as mere form—found that this form was sometimes easily broken, and at other times remained nothing more than a hollow shell.
This was precisely why it, together with many other customary phenomena, tended to be regarded as mere convention devoid of value.

In this sense, the present age may be called a crisis for tradition; yet precisely because of this, no small number of corrupt customs have taken root within household life under the guise of convention.

These corrupt customs arise from various causes—some belonging to superstition, others stemming from overreach by household heads, what might be termed family individualism, or the prejudiced narrow-mindedness of the elderly—but they can primarily be attributed to a distortion of the household’s spirit and the hollowing of tradition.

Therefore，adopting rationalism as a method to break and correct this invites even greater new dangers.

Fundamentally，the concept of “household，” much like Japan’s concept of “nation-state，” even when traced back to its most sound origins，is by no means compatible with what is called today’s rational standpoint．Within it lie “destiny，” “faith，” and the mystery of “blood．”

Conflicts between old and new ideologies within households were often discussed in the past，but excluding individual exceptional cases，it was thought that in most instances these arose from “young rationalists” confronting older conservative non-rationalists．

VIII

If various phenomena grounded in the concept of "household" constitute one distinguishing feature of Japanese culture, then the principles permeating Japanese daily life through the philosophy of "Way" must also stand out as culturally distinctive.

The usage of the term "Way" is indeed vast—to list examples exhaustively would prove endless—but what we mean here by "Way" refers to the true essence of cultivation rooted in the unity of spirit and technique, extending from martial arts through calligraphy, tea ceremony, flower arrangement, and beyond.

In foreign countries, there exist various "techniques for wielding weapons," yet they do not even collectively term these as "martial arts." Moreover, when the Japanese advance a step beyond "martial arts" to name it "the Way of martial arts," foreigners could never fathom their true intent. Similarly, while there may be *calligraphic techniques* (shohō), there exists no *Way of calligraphy* (shodō); particularly in the cases of *tea ceremony* (sadō) and *flower arrangement* (kadō), these were born entirely from a uniquely Japanese view of life.

The ultimate destination of the Way lies in human perfection and life's enrichment through any "Way." It was said that by honing technique, one simultaneously develops inner fortitude and grows as a person. Whether this truly unfolds as envisioned remains uncertain—yet there precisely resides the ideal.

While budo differs from bushido, it constitutes the spirit and technique for determining victory; when we speak of “the Way of martial arts,” this does not strictly denote budo itself but rather signifies preparedness for wartime—understood in contrast to “the Way of letters.” Consequently, mastery of both literary and martial arts was not only considered the highest cultivation for samurai but also defined true Japanese people—even non-samurai trained in “the Way of martial arts” as mental fortitude against emergencies.

“Calligraphy,” “tea ceremony,” and “flower arrangement” all fell under artistic Ways; these artistic Ways were commonly acquired bit by bit as refined accomplishments by both men and women who had the leisure to do so.
Each had a specialized master，and as one delved deeper into the path，a “license” was conferred.

Each of these had given birth to numerous schools, but today their distinctions have grown somewhat chaotic.

Originally, these artistic Ways were ritualized and recreational aspects of daily life; however, particularly in tea ceremony and flower arrangement’s case, there appeared a marked tendency for them to be co-opted into leisure-class socializing—thereby drifting from the spiritual essence inherent in being a “Way.”

Yet when tracing their developmental history, we cannot overlook how they manifested the quintessence of “Way,” serving as rich symbols of Japanese life that became norms governing daily existence.

The spirit of "harmony-respect-purity-tranquility" in tea ceremony suggested what might be considered the ideal of Japanese personal life.

Be that as it may, these artistic Ways showed traces of their varied influences and dominance permeating all aspects of Japanese living.

What are generally called "hobbies"—methods of utilizing leisure time encompassing activities beyond one’s primary occupation such as reading, music, or handicrafts; mountaineering and hiking now classified under physical education; pursuits like golf and billiards straddling sports and entertainment; even indoor games extending to Go, shogi, and mahjong—were such that there was scarcely anyone who did not possess at least one or two of them, however deeply or shallowly engaged they might be.

When that “hobby” intensified slightly and the ambition to improve one’s technical skills arose, it already stepped beyond the realm of mere hobby; conversely, even within the same hobby, there existed an approach that valued spirit over technique—here, those who loved something despite lacking skill were permitted to immerse themselves in it while calling it a “pastime,” savored the pleasure of leisurely contentment, found joy in self-imposed solitude, or even attained spiritual satisfaction through patient endurance while awaiting their moment.

The mindset of those who meticulously arrange bonsai pots in every nook of their cramped dwellings differed entirely from that of Westerners decorating their windowsills with flower pots.

When a "hobby" became a "devoted pursuit," its extreme manifestation demanded that no matter what one did—so long as it qualified as dōraku—mere casual interest would not suffice, requiring wholehearted physical and mental commitment without regret.

The term dōraku carried delicate nuances—potentially sounding disreputable to others or suggesting self-deprecation—yet exuded an undercurrent of pride in one’s dedication, thought to stem from how the character michi ("Way") evoked an indefinable sacredness that offered self-consolation.

Indeed, while pursuits like angling dōraku, culinary dōraku, and competitive dōraku might seem universally relatable, the Japanese distinctive lay in often couching these obsessions in quasi-philosophical frameworks that bewildered others—for better or worse.

IX

As one of the distinctive features of Japanese culture manifested in customs, I would like to contemplate "gift-giving"—or in recent terms, "the exchange of gifts."

In Essays in Idleness, there is a passage that states: "There are three kinds of good friends—the first being a friend who gives gifts."
Indeed, there appears to be no nation as fond of giving and receiving things as the Japanese people.
In this regard, there is no difference between past and present; however, what must be noted here is that the spirit of this Japanese custom appears to have changed significantly from then to now.

While there certainly existed admirable people among us who maintained time-honored customs in both giving and receiving—preserving the ancients’ spirit within their hearts—the majority now performed these acts either as formal obligations or calculated gestures, resulting in circumstances where one seldom encountered the genuine sentiment of sharing from a common source.

However, even so, it was not uncommon for Japanese people—driven by a simple yet mysterious psychology that was neither obligation nor calculation, but rather a mere desire to display generosity or witness the recipient’s surprised and delighted face—to eagerly give things without much consideration for propriety, while recipients themselves accepted them with relative nonchalance.

To foreigners this appeared utterly incomprehensible—so much so that some even characterized it as Japanese naivety.
To be viewed with such naivety was not necessarily a disgrace.
Yet such a tendency ultimately represented a dissociation between spirit and form—an instance where acts that ought to be beautiful lost their beauty.

The sentiments that Japanese people entrust to objects as gifts are imbued with such profound meaning that one might wish to compose them into song or poetry.
Whether bracken ferns from a distant mountain, persimmons grown in one’s backyard, local sake from one’s hometown, renowned regional yōkan confections, jars fired by specific artisans, or daughters’ hand-sewn chanchanko coats—when giving or receiving such items, there exists not the slightest artifice; they carry friendship’s breath and smile warmly.
The nostalgia of a hand-carried gift lies not in monetary value—naturally—but in the giver’s gaze and brief words of explanation.
Sometimes they would attach a letter and send it through a messenger.
No letter surpasses one beautifully composed.
To respond with a haiku in return becomes an elaborate affair.
Even without such affectations, I wish to reclaim once more that spirit which defines Japanese gift-giving.

In my view, there was one reason why gift exchanges had needlessly proliferated in recent times under labels like social obligation and formal courtesy—why establishments even posted audacious signs reading “Gift Section,” and why such ill-conceived innovations as merchandise stamps for presents had emerged.
To explain why this was the case—it might have been due to profit-driven strategies capitalizing on the Japanese fondness for giving and receiving, but more importantly, it was that modern Japanese people had become remarkably inept at conveying their true feelings to others.

This is an evident fact.

In this so-called materialistic age, where goods hold such sway and most matters can be freely managed with money, there is likely some connection to the trends of the times.
There is even a term like "policy of hospitality," where people go so far as to set up lavish banquets and devote themselves to entertaining guests—these too would fall into that category.
However, I do not think that is the only reason.
Then, if one were to ask whether such practices are carried out even more in countries that are more materialistic than Japan, it is absolutely not the case.

For example, suppose someone had received help finding employment.
Rather than what token of gratitude to bring, it became a real headache deciding what degree of gift to present.
There was no story more absurd than this; rather than that, one should have truly devoted their mind to figuring out how to fully convey feelings of gratitude.
Fundamentally, rather than devoting one’s mind to such things, if one expressed gratitude with sincerity, it should have conveyed to the other party.
However, did not thinking that one lacked confidence in "expressing gratitude with sincerity" and doubting whether it would satisfy the recipient amount to acknowledging one’s own poverty of expressive ability?
When merely meeting to express gratitude felt somehow insufficient—whether one attached twenty-yen merchandise stamps when presenting it, embeds the gratitude within those stamps while adding formal remarks—in any case, such acts revealed how profoundly lightly they considered direct heart-to-heart human exchange; it became clear how thoroughly the Japanese people of that time never departed from clichéd phrases when speaking, let greetings degenerate into platitudes, lost both the fervor to voice true feelings and the candor to do so, until finally both self and others had no choice but to take this facile path of entrusting hearts to material objects.

When viewed in this manner, Japanese culture’s characteristics have aspects where they demonstrate their strengths and appeal as distinctive traits, and aspects where those traits lose their spirit to become mere formalities or where those forms are corrupted by impure motives; we must strive to clearly distinguish between these, preserve and utilize the true characteristics of Japanese culture, and reform them into a sound state.

X

Therefore, I shall now discuss two traditional philosophies that we must deeply reflect upon as distinctive characteristics of Japanese culture today and through which we must carve out our future destiny.

That is, one is the Japanese view of nature, and the other is their view of life and death.

I will not attempt any complex interpretations here.
In any case, the view of nature refers to how the Japanese people have traditionally regarded what is called 'nature.'

In a word, we—unlike Westerners—do not set nature and humanity in opposition, but regard humans as part of nature.

Consequently, our eyes that view nature are ones that—seeing it as that which gave birth to us, that which nurtures us, and that into whose embrace we shall eventually return—are filled with even infinite familiarity and gratitude.

The notion of conquering nature through human power was originally absent in Japan; rather, the might of nature was regarded as nothing less than divine will—literally an irresistible force—to be accepted as heavenly decree.

Therefore, even what are called natural disasters—while the Japanese people may fear nature, they have no reason to despise it—and the vivid changes of the seasons remain an irreplaceable blessing of nature.

The harshness of Japan’s climate, which could hardly be called gentle, had been accepted with patient resignation; the annual disasters termed nature’s fury were faced almost invariably as trials met only through collective resolve; and the efforts toward “reconstruction” throughout our long history seemed to have cultivated within us an ever-deepening, indispensable courage each time they recurred.

To commune with nature—for the Japanese people—was therefore not a mode of appreciation where beautiful nature existed there for their sake, as with Westerners, but rather resided in an assimilative process through which they felt purified by making nature’s heart their own.

Westerners too extol nature’s beauty and become intoxicated by it, but this could be said to represent an engagement with nature born of leisure.
In the case of the Japanese people, rather, the expression of feelings—such as gazing contemplatively at nature and letting out a deep sigh—most often becomes a celebration of nature itself.

Since this is how we feel toward 'nature,' life itself cannot be sustained apart from it.
A life without soil is desolate, and the greenery of plants is as essential as sunlight.
Moreover, even the form of daily life being close to nature comes to be regarded as ideal.

Therefore, the Western-style concept that 'culture' is a term used in opposition to 'nature' does not quite apply here; rather, it could be said that Japanese culture has given rise to sophisticated techniques that do not destroy nature through artifice but instead harness it.

For instance, even when examining food alone: in what constitutes pure Japanese cuisine, chefs most demonstrate their skill by preserving ingredients' natural forms, colors, and flavors while creating menu variations through simple seasoning. The particular esteem given to wild grasses—so-called mountain vegetables—even within haute cuisine not only evidences a uniquely Japanese refined palate absent among foreigners but simultaneously manifests the traditional Japanese view of nature inherent therein.

The Japanese people also desired for their dwellings to be as integrated with nature as possible.
This manifested in using timber in its natural, unvarnished state and favoring the tactile sensation of tatami—one might say these too stemmed from that very principle.
The creation of gardens was, needless to say, an imitation of natural beauty or incorporated nature’s very form; moreover, the structure of this replicated “nature” used unchanging materials rather than changing ones, signifying a refinement of taste and sensibility.
progressing from flowering plants to cultivated trees, and further still to stones.

This love of nature among the Japanese people extends even to spiritual dimensions, and in both words and deeds, being wholly 'natural' is considered most beautiful.
This is not limited to Japan alone—wherever one looks, conspicuous artifice in all matters is spurned by those of discernment as evidence of immaturity or a frivolous attitude, but particularly among us Japanese people, and especially within the general populace, 'forcedness' is vehemently rejected.

This certainly speaks to purity and intelligence as a way of life on one hand, but on the other, when this exceeds its proper bounds and becomes an obsession, it gives rise to a phenomenon where priorities are inverted—leading people to fall into the very unnaturalness of affectation in pursuit of 'naturalness.'
A certain type of Japanese people, due to this “unnaturalness,” often receive unintended misunderstandings, invite resentment, and commit blunders.

When a certain high-ranking official visited a foreign country as an official guest, citizens of the capital city filled the streets and raised cheers of welcome. The official, from within his open car while holding his hat in one hand, offered a slight bow.
That became the issue.
For contrary to the citizens’ expectations, the official’s expression remained utterly composed—as if to say, “I receive such welcomes every day.”

Of course, Japanese people are not adept at the kind of expressions laden with flattery that Westerners employ.
However, might we not infer that the gentleman’s mindset at that moment—as a high-ranking official of a great nation—was something along the lines of: “If I make too delighted an expression, it will compromise my dignity; I must respond to the citizens’ welcome as ‘naturally’ as possible, maintaining my ordinary demeanor”?
While this may seem a reasonable consideration, there had already been a miscalculation there—because he failed to account for that subtle psychological twist where attempting to be 'natural' inevitably leads to unnaturalness.

Truly, there exists no greater discipline required for ordinary people than to be splendid in 'naturalness.' Here too, one comes to deeply sense that the true essence of Japan's ancient 'cultivation'—that practice of not revealing joy, anger, sorrow, or pleasure upon one's countenance—resides in self-refinement.

That we so frequently encounter the most natural yet admirable attitudes among the simplest common folk likely stems from their embodiment of 'nature's' very vitality—devoid of any affectation, accepting their station without complaint, and never contorting themselves through forced pretense.

XI

The Japanese view of life and death had likely already taken clear form alongside their view of nature even before the arrival of Buddhism, it seems.
Of course, it is not that there was no influence from Buddhist thought in later periods, but rather we can decisively state without error that its roots lie in the sincere loyalty of dedicating one’s life to public service that sprouted alongside the nation’s founding.

“Resolved never to return—my name halts among numberless catalpa bows.” (Kusunoki Masatsura)

Since offering one’s life for sovereign and country constitutes the true intent of subjects, to adorn one’s final moments means to die in the most purposeful manner, while a meaningless death is deemed the utmost disgrace.

“The way of the warrior is found in death” remains Hagakure’s famous dictum, but here they came to consider dying itself as loyalty—nay, as the samurai’s ultimate aspiration.
The valorous spirit that deems nothing irredeemable through death and the enlightened realization that one can only truly live through death became one; this philosophy still retains power sufficient to inspire the people’s spirit today.

On one hand, this view of life and death in Bushido influenced even the common people; simultaneously, it imparted to the concept of “life and death” among all Japanese people a characteristic that transcended Buddhist pessimism—something more intense and, in one aspect, a trait verging on indifference.

There is nothing more eerie than the startling nonchalance with which they regard the act of dying.
To others, it may seem eerie beyond measure, but to the Japanese themselves, this is perfectly natural.

However, this was not unrelated to how the Japanese people conceived of 'life'. When examining to what extent they seriously considered the meaning of 'living' and how profoundly they reflected upon their 'way of life', I recognized this matter entailed various problems.

The truth that to die nobly was to live nobly had been grasped uniquely by the Japanese people—a supreme revelation understood to sever attachment to life itself.

But is there no path to living splendidly except through splendid death?

Answering "There is none" is easy.
Indeed, nothing gives life meaning as much as a splendid death.
The Japanese people live precisely to die such a "death"—one might even say this symbolic expression holds true.

In this instance, I wish to consider that the phrase "splendid death" already encompasses within it the meaning of "splendid life."
In other words, those who cannot live splendidly cannot achieve a splendid way of dying.

For today’s Japanese people to live splendidly is not something that should make an issue of one’s own “life and death.” Moreover, the notion that one can live purely for oneself alone is absolutely impermissible. Devising a “way of life” that in some manner benefits the nation of Japan and the Japanese people as a whole—each according to their station—is what will ultimately make “dying splendidly” possible.

“A life worth living” refers precisely to this.
And such a way of life constitutes not merely the most joyful existence but indeed a blessed lifetime.

Unless this truth becomes fully self-evident to them, what we call the Japanese “view of life and death” shall never attain its power to wholly safeguard Japan and guide her toward prosperity.

That impression of the Japanese people being prone to neglect their daily lives and forget life’s inherent sanctity—though not arising solely from their view of mortality—nonetheless demands that our contemporary “philosophy of living” be elevated through grounding in the most wholesome “Japanese view of life and death,” thereby raising the nation’s capacities to their fullest expression.

With this, I believe I have outlined the essential elements that form the distinctive characteristics of Japanese culture.

While I may have treated these exceedingly vast and complex issues with somewhat excessive brevity—and while I believed more detailed and profound studies might be found in other suitable guidebooks—my intent here was primarily to establish a provisional reference point by examining contemporary Japanese cultural phenomena and attempting numerous reflections, one that we might rely upon when considering future cultural matters.