Pathway to Japanese Literature

1.

I began from an odd point.

I am currently working on a somewhat long play, but even if I finish writing it, I have no prospect of where to publish it—a predicament that troubles me deeply.
This has been true for some time now, but since Japan’s defeat in the war, magazines across the country have developed an utter detestation for publishing plays.
The reasons appear manifold: editors’ preferences and biases that favor novels; plays’ excessive page consumption; playwrights’ general inability to produce quality works; and above all, this entrenched belief that readers inherently dislike dramatic formats.

One could refute each of these reasons if they wished, but they were all reasons that would prove futile to counter—or impossible to fully refute. But of all these, the final reason—that readers wouldn’t welcome it—stung the most.

Current readers, it seemed, wouldn’t buy a magazine unless the names of popular novelists were lined up in rows like a haberdashery’s storefront—and the content of those neatly arrayed works was comparatively unimportant, they said. It was an utterly absurd situation in this regard—the very editors of those magazines themselves utterly despised such readers. To be clear, even someone like me despised such readers. However, if such readers didn’t buy the magazines, they lost the sales competition and got left behind. It was editors who made a living by doing such work, and writers who made a living by selling manuscripts to such magazines; therefore, in reality, they couldn’t afford to despise such readers. Ants that depended on aphids declaring their contempt for them was meaningless. For now, it was like an insurmountable wall.

For that reason, requests for me to write novels or essays and critiques occasionally come in, but requests to write plays hardly ever do.
There are one or two magazines that will publish plays if I ask them, but if I do so too often, I fear I’d become a nuisance and can’t bring myself to ask casually.
The reason I have no prospect of publishing the work I am currently writing is also because of that.
And, as you know, I rarely write novels or critiques, and when I do, the page count is small, so the income from them is extremely meager.
I have no assets or savings.
I have no other means but to cover my monthly living expenses with manuscript fees.
It is truly a hand-to-mouth existence.

I generally required three months to complete a single play, but since I had never once had sufficient living expenses when beginning to write, I usually borrowed from others.
I borrowed a certain amount each month, finished writing the work three months later, sold it somewhere to get money, and when I repaid the debts with that, usually nothing remained, or only a tiny amount was left.
If the work didn’t sell, the debt had to be entirely shouldered.

Up until then, thankfully, they had mostly sold, but when I imagined a scenario where they didn’t sell, my spine chilled even as I was writing.
If I wasn’t careful, my entire family would have to go hungry.
While vividly seeing the figures of my starving family and myself beyond the desk, I wrote plays with a pale face.
In such circumstances, I worked.

But then, what exactly is this playwright called me? Yes, I have been writing plays for over twenty years. Although I haven’t written any particularly outstanding works, if one were to select ten representative playwrights in Japan today, I would likely be among them. That is the state in which I am working. I am not saying this out of resentment. I do not consider it unjust either. I am merely stating facts. And yet, I think someone like me might still be fortunate. At least I am in a state where I can continue my playwriting work.

For playwrights at the time, it was generally impossible to make a living through playwriting alone.
This was partly due to magazines in general excluding plays, as previously mentioned, but also because theater itself lacked economic sustainability.
It might have sounded strange to phrase it this way, but the reality remained that while various theatrical genres existed, none were economically viable—a fact we had no choice but to accept.
It would not be an exaggeration to say there was not a single theater troupe that could sustain itself independently through box office revenue alone to cover personnel costs and all other expenses.
Most depended on film or broadcasting, or persisted in a state of performing plays while accumulating severely irregular deficits.
Since discussing others would cause them trouble, I decided to use myself as an example.

Recently, the Mingei Theatre Company performed my works two or three times, and all of them were hits with over 100% capacity attendance.
However, when all production costs were paid from that income, there was almost no net profit left—it either broke even or ended up in deficit.
The monthly salaries for the entire theater troupe did not come from that income at all.
The salaries came from funds that the troupe members pooled together by contributing money earned from appearing in films and radio programs.
Although royalties were of course paid to the author, due to these circumstances, they could not help but be extremely minimal.
Generally speaking, they likely amounted to about one-fifth or one-eighth of what an independent screenwriter in Japan at the time received from a film company for writing a single script.
Moreover, this payment occurred only once when the play was performed; the author’s daily livelihood remained completely unguaranteed, and the theater companies themselves lacked the capacity to provide such guarantees.
Therefore, we playwrights could not rely on theater companies to make a living and continue our work.

Such, roughly, were the actual conditions in which I found myself.

2

Novelists and critics may not face circumstances quite this dire.
Yet upon closer reflection, I think this is merely a difference in degree—that novelists and others are essentially exposed to similar circumstances, save for a select few darlings of the moment. What do you make of this?
How many literary figures in Japan today are working without the anxiety of day-to-day survival?

I cannot forget that newspaper article reporting how Hara Tamiki, who committed suicide not long ago, had a single ten-yen bill left in his pocket when he died.

It is true enough that literary figures outside of popular favorites being economically disadvantaged did not begin now.
This has been so since antiquity, and so it is everywhere in the world.
Yet such facts offer no consolation now—moreover, Japan’s current state is far too extreme.

In other words, literary figures—the more their work truly deserves to be called literature—are being driven to the very brink of vagrancy.
And I cannot agree with sentimental notions like “Literary figures are people who try creating things nobody needs of their own volition without being asked by anyone—so their poverty and starvation can’t be helped.”
I will not permit others to think this way—nor will I permit myself to think this way.

Literary figures are born through society's implicit mandate and stand bearing its responsibility.
This constitutes neither my personal claim nor aspiration—it exists as objective reality.
They must not starve, nor should they be made to starve.

"In such cases: 'There are many starving people in society.' If they possessed sincerity sufficient to not ignore that, literary figures should lay down their pens and devote themselves to the salvation of society as a whole," went the argument—a view that struck me as hopelessly naive. There could be no such thing as a 'literary figure' without a pen, and the notion that literature might become a 'tool' for other purposes struck me as both arrogant and a servile delusion.

Literary figures did not become what they are due to some insect’s whim or passing fancy.
Nor did they become literary figures through hobby or charity.
They became what they are inexorably and helplessly—like stones sinking through water.
How could they possibly protest?
There remained no choice but to stand resolutely with both feet planted on the solid ground of present reality and speak out.

Therefore，they must not starve．
However，reality stood precisely on the brink of starvation．
Moreover，we were abandoned to complete free competition as a whole．
In an era when even day laborers had unions，intellectual workers did not possess a single proper one．
（Writers’ unions did exist，but at the time they resembled societies more than unions．）
Of course，even so，it was better that they existed than not．）

One might say our professional consciousness was so low, our perception of reality so scattered, and our concentration so lacking that we could not maintain even that.
If about a hundred more people like Hara Tamiki had appeared, perhaps things would not have been this way.
For now, there was no help for it.
Each individual had no choice but to rely solely on themselves and weather the waves of free competition.
In reality, we found ourselves in essentially the same state as Hara Tamiki—carrying nothing but a single 10-yen bill in our pockets, and having to walk while taking care not to be run over by trains.
Whether pitiable or not, whether justified or not, this was the situation we found ourselves in.

Now, resistance was being discussed amidst such circumstances.
The resistance against political, military, and cultural forces being imposed or likely to be imposed from outside was being discussed within these very conditions.
That it was being discussed was good.
In any circumstance, important matters ought to be discussed.
Yet if this discussion occurred divorced from our actual situation—conducted solely in abstract generalities—I suspected I would find it rather uninspiring.
And to my eyes, there seemed altogether too many such uninspired theories of resistance.

When considering, advocating for, and discussing any matter—unless done in a way that permeates every fiber of one’s entire life and being—the theory itself becomes both meaningless and powerless. It doesn’t fill one’s belly. That is empty theorizing. The empty theorizing about starvation that plump bourgeois engage in while lounging on their sofas is ludicrous enough. Yet there are even cases where people actually starving set aside this fact of their starvation as something unrelated and indulge in empty theorizing about hunger itself. This becomes doubly ludicrous and pitiable. Are we resistance theorists not overdoing this doubly ludicrous and pitiable act?

As evidence—though calling it "evidence" feels slightly odd—even when reading many resistance theorists' papers, one often cannot discern where their subjective stance lies.
Even if we could comprehend a theory's main thrust, when attempting to implement it as practical wisdom, we found ourselves at a loss regarding how to proceed.

I will give an example.
While I have long respected Shimizu Ikutaro as a brave and tenacious resistance theorist, I must admit there are moments when I suspect he might simply be an up-to-date journalist.
Yet unable to settle on that view entirely, I still find myself thinking he must after all be a progressive patriot.
And though we agree with his vehement arguments against rearmament, war, and America's military base expansion—when we actually consider what ought to be done—we find ourselves utterly at a loss.
At minimum, beyond giving lip-service opposition through our words alone—we truly don't know what action to take.

Moreover, however much we might agree with Shimizu’s resistance theories, they could not serve as a basis for judging whether it would be good or bad to take employment at an American munitions factory if unemployed—nor did they even become a reliable guide for forming attitudes about whether one should eat bread made from American-donated flour, whether to abstain from it, or how to think about consuming it if one did.

I believe this ultimately stems from Shimizu not laying bare his own subjectivity—not combing through it down to the roots—and thus failing to present his arguments in a concrete form declaring, “This is how I will resist.”
I believe this is because he has not conceived his ideas while standing on such a foundation.
In other words, “placing his own circumstances on a shelf”
because he is placing his own circumstances on a shelf.
Of course, I do not think Shimizu acts this way out of slyness or malice.
I think it’s simply because “it hurts.”
Exposing oneself to public scrutiny and combing through every strand—this is painful for anyone.
This applies not only to Shimizu but to most other resistance theorists as well.

However, for my own sake, I feel uneasy and cannot be satisfied with resistance theories as they are currently conducted.
Therefore, I will attempt to expound my own ideas—but to do so, I first thought that whether for better or worse, dragging myself down from the shelf, exposing myself to public scrutiny, combing through every strand—in short, making myself experience a little pain—would be the first step.
And so, through this kind of personal grumbling akin to what I wrote in the previous section, I have begun to feel that pain.
I will continue this a little further.

3

As previously mentioned, my life is difficult, and continuing my work remains quite challenging.
Moreover, I see practically no prospect that things will become easier or more manageable going forward.
Therefore, I must admit there are times when I wonder why on earth I chose this line of work of all things and find myself in a mood to curse it.
When my heart grows exhausted and utterly worn out, there are even moments when I suddenly want to die like some despairing schoolboy.
Yet there exist family members who rely solely on this inadequate self to survive and dear ones depending on me as their irreplaceable staff of life.
When I think of that, dark tears flow unbidden from eyes grown heavy with failure.

Now, while living in such a state and writing plays, am I screaming?
At the extremity of my scream, would there ever come a time when I abandon writing plays?
And at that extremity, might I die in a manner resembling Hara Tamiki?
No, I am not screaming.
I will never stop writing plays.
I will not die in a manner similar to Hara Tamiki.
I can laugh cheerfully; I will write plays composedly until objective circumstances make that absolutely impossible; and I will not die until someone or something seizes and beats me to death.
With cold certainty, I can say that.

It was not because I was optimistic about the various conditions surrounding me.
Rather, it was because I was utterly pessimistic.
It was because I had no hope.
It was because I was, so to speak, almost in a state of despair.
I was not engaging in sophistry.
This was simply how it appeared when I thought honestly.
That was because it seemed to me as follows.

My current situation was indeed a troubled one.
But somehow or other, I could manage.
As long as I could manage, I would keep managing this way.
If I could no longer manage at all, I would either print my works or make handwritten copies and sell each for one hundred yen.
Throughout the country, I had at least ten thousand readers.
Probably, a thousand or five hundred of them would buy it.
Then 50,000 to 100,000 yen would enter my hands.
With that amount of money, my family and I could live for three months.
In those three months, I would write my next work and sell it again.
If I could no longer do even that, I would look for light labor I could manage.
If that too became impossible, I would become a paper theater performer.
When it came to paper theater, I had considerable confidence in my ability to perform it skillfully.
And I would write plays on days off and at night.

Now, if I can no longer do even that, there’s no help for it—I’ll become a beggar.
And I will use whatever time and energy I can spare solely for writing plays.

"As you read this, you can probably keep laughing.
Admittedly, considering such things may be too sentimental and neurotic.
However, for me, this is neither a laughing matter, nor sentimentality, nor oversensitivity.
It is an utterly ordinary, cold deliberation.
It is a concrete, practical perspective I can maintain—having accepted my present conditions as a clearly defined limiting circumstance and connecting them accordingly—and not an arbitrary or escapist assumption.
Therefore, I have resolved that when the situation comes to that, I will do so."

Once I had made this resolution, I became calm.
There was anxiety.
Anxiety would likely follow me no matter how far I went.
However, at a fundamental level, I felt relieved.
In other words, regarding the relationship between my life and work and potential difficulties that might arise—after sinking deeper and deeper into water—my feet finally reached the ground at the bottom.
It was an exceedingly meager patch of ground—about one shaku square—but made of solid rock where I could stand.

If I could stand there, then should I need to resist forces imposed from without, I could resist. I could resist until my legs lost the strength to support me.

Current journalism and universities were no different from a quagmire as foundations for life and work. There was probably a bottom, but that bottom had not been grasped in any verified form. Did the writers and university professors who depended on journalism and universities—who felt secure merely through that dependence as they expounded their resistance theories—realize that the moment the quagmire submerged their legs, their chests, their hands, and finally their heads would mark the end of their resistance? In other words, the problem lay in where one gave up.

During the war, I want you to recall that there were quite a number of progressives who did not convert when merely threatened by the Information Bureau but immediately converted when threatened by the military. I do not want to say whether that was good or bad. If one cannot resist the military—and if one does not stand on a foundation that allows such resistance—then it would be better not to resist the Information Bureau either. At least that is meaningless. I think one could say such things.

Those who currently engage in resistance theories while relying on journalism, universities, and other institutions—if they get shut out from these platforms due to their resistance or other reasons—where will they plant their feet to keep resisting?
Furthermore, these resistance theorists now conduct their resistance by rejecting the military force America gives us—since they dislike it—while accepting only essential supplies; but if this turns into America saying “If you refuse military aid, we’ll cut off supplies too,” or if providing us military force escalates to being enforced through military might itself—what exactly do they plan to do?
I don’t understand.
They probably know themselves but stay silent—so I suppose it remains beyond my grasp.
But is that truly how it is?
For something I’m convinced must be true—it feels far too universally baffling.

Can these people really conceal their own thoughts from others so thoroughly and with such unanimity?
I find it utterly perplexing.
Therefore, perhaps these people have not considered things to that extent—which would mean their resistance theories are either of a type that anticipates possible bad eventualities going forward and fires warning flares toward them in advance, or else something purely conceptual—existing only in the realm of ideas—like a dog barking at a distance; this is what I find myself concluding.

Now, when it comes to this point as well, other people's affairs are, for the time being, of no concern.
First, I must illuminate my own footing.
I have thought about these matters.
The thoughts I have arrived at may be as shallow and naive as ever, but I understand them.
I will attempt to state that.

4

To be honest, I do not want to engage in any kind of resistance against anything.
I want to avoid doing unreasonable things like resistance and devote myself solely to my impoverished life and work.
However, various pressures are applied from various directions.
No matter how much I flee, I can never truly escape.
Then I must accept it.
If accepting it is unbearable, then I must resist.
I have no choice but to do so.
That said, however poor I may be, I do not wish to cast aside what holds primary meaning for me—devoting myself to my life and work—along with humanity's most basic requirements, and take up resistance as something separate from these—or frame resistance as something distinct.
If possible, I want my work—the very work I devote myself to in my life and livelihood—to exist in such a way that, when viewed from a different angle, it becomes resistance itself in its entirety.
—That is how I am trying to put it.

This is a self-serving idea.
Humans, however, are all self-serving animals.
I am too.
The problem is whether that is possible.
I think it is possible.
At least to some extent, I think it is possible.

In front of the window where I wrote like this stood an aged peach tree.
When rain fell, it got wet; when wind blew, it swayed.
Even if children climbed it or borer insects gnawed at its trunk, it could not shake them off.
It did not put up any visible resistance.
However, the peach tree lives on, and when the time comes, it blooms and bears fruit.
The trunk and branches were already beginning to decay, but it did not yet look likely to fall.

As it is merely a natural object, it may be meaningless to connect this to the resistance I discuss now—but there was a great storm one day when I saw this peach tree thrashing about with branches nearly torn off, its trunk swaying violently from the base—and I could not help thinking that how this tree stood there was none other than resistance itself.

If one could see it that way, then this peach tree's form comes closest to the posture of resistance I previously described as my ideal.
In other words, it is a posture that simultaneously and unifiedly contains both purpose and means within itself; that remains independent without oppressing or exploiting others in any sense; and that maintains such independence as it stands, thereby constituting resistance itself against external pressures occasionally imposed.
To resist most effectively means adopting a posture of not resisting at all.

Of course, humans cannot become peach trees.
However, we can learn from them.
We can bring our posture closer to that of the peach tree and make it resemble theirs.
To some extent, we can maintain a life and work where living and labor are not split into ends and means—where the end is the means and the means is the end—depending on our own efforts.

To achieve this, above all else, we ourselves must take up work we truly love—work we genuinely feel worth doing—and discard all other work as swiftly and completely as possible.
It means doing what people often call “work worth dying for.”
I must discard as much as possible any other work that holds no importance for me.
For that purpose, even if financial accounts become chaotic, government offices lose their officials, or stores stand empty, shouldn’t such things be of no concern?

No matter how long humans live, they cannot survive beyond a hundred years or so. I’ll die while still thinking of doing that after finishing this and that first. While alive, there are things people must know. There are things one must experience. Discard everything else without delay.

Then I avoid oppressing or exploiting others as much as possible. When I speak of oppression and exploitation here, I do not mean them in any philosophical sense.

It was not derived from vocabulary stemming from so-called “primitive” human wisdom—that logic claiming how merely having two people in a room means one inevitably oppresses the other without action, or how buying vegetables constitutes exploiting farmers—wisdom existing for no more than three thousand years.
I speak of more direct, physical oppression and exploitation.
Not engaging in that.
At least avoiding it as much as possible.
This isn’t particularly difficult.
For ordinary decent people, oppressing or exploiting others proves harder than refraining from such acts.
Next comes maintaining independence by neither relying on others’ care nor burdening them unnecessarily.
This too isn’t difficult.
For ordinary sound individuals, it’s something achievable through natural conduct.

If one carries out just this, their stance will come to resemble that of a peach tree.
And when resisting external pressures, they can maintain their original essence without distortion or loss—thus achieving resistance that proves both most effective and enduring.
I too strive toward this.
I cannot say it goes particularly well.
Yet somehow, I cling to work that feels most worthwhile for myself.
It is the work of creating art.

And even while frequently failing, there are times when I can manage to unify that work and my life in such a way that each serves as both an end and a means for the other. Then I have been able to discard a considerable number of things that seem unimportant to me. Then I have been living without oppressing or exploiting others much. Then without relying on others—no, that's not right—I've relied too much on others' care. At best, what I can manage is working myself to barely get by in terms of eating, clothing, and shelter—that is to say, only to the extent of maintaining an independent livelihood without causing trouble to others in the ordinary sense.

Even so, with this, I can say that I am somewhat closer to the peach tree than politicians, officials, capitalists, Communist Party members, bankers, black-market dealers, ruffians, merchants, religious figures, military personnel, and the like.
Therefore, I think I can also engage in resistance somewhat resembling that of the peach tree.
I should clarify that this is not because I am exceptionally great or strong compared to others.
Rather, it is because I am an utterly ordinary and weak human.
I will write about that later.

Now, why do I go into such tedious detail about these matters? There are roughly four reasons.

First, the resistance theories currently being discussed around us struck me as primarily tracing back to—or at least grounded in—the resistance movements that French cultural figures waged against the German occupation forces during the war.
That was all well and good, but the resistance carried out by French cultural figures had been directed against Nazi military force during the war—a type of violence that was among the clearest and most immediately recognizable as evil—and while this made it all the more difficult and dangerous, I believed the opponent’s violence did not possess such a permeability and corrosive power that could seep into our side unnoticed.

However, present-day Japan is not at war, and the various pressures currently imposed upon it—or those likely to be imposed in the future—are not direct military force but rather indirect political, economic, ideological, cultural, and lifestyle-related forces; though not violent in themselves and broadly gradual in nature—lacking immediately visible difficulties or dangers—they consequently possess an intensely strong permeability and corrosive power with long-lasting effects.
Therefore, resistance against this could be said to differ considerably in nature from what French cultural figures experienced—in a sense, being more difficult and dangerous, requiring a hundred times more endurance.
Because I do not see current theories of resistance being developed on the basis of having grasped these characteristics.

The second reason is that many of these resistance theories appear to me to be leaning too far forward.
This means that the target of resistance becomes excessively limited to a single objective, with theorists' eyes becoming too fixated on it—losing any capacity to survey their surroundings—while their arguments' emphasis leans so far forward that they remain poised to topple ahead with even a slight nudge from behind.
Countless such examples could be listed, but I will omit them for now.
This stems from sensing a danger akin to someone so engrossed in avoiding being struck by an automobile approaching head-on that they risk being run over by a carriage coming from behind.
The eyes must remain free to survey all directions.
The body must stand stable yet mobile in every direction—meaning it must root itself in its own natural state.

The third reason was that resistance theories were almost exclusively expounded by critics and scarcely addressed by those engaged in other specialized professions.
Of course, since criticism constituted critics' primary vocation, there was nothing objectionable about them writing resistance theories or lecturing on the subject—nor about earning their livelihood thereby.
"But how much of this 'daily resistance'—concretely practiced by workers through labor, farmers through agriculture, and all professions through their specialized work—were critics themselves implementing?"
The crucial point remained that, as had been true of many matters in Japan heretofore, when issues became excessively "trivialized" through pen and speech, the vital real-world significance inherent to resistance risked failing to take root among the populace and merely passing over their heads.

The fourth reason was that "resistance activists" would likely resist up to a certain point, but once that limit was exceeded, they would probably flee elsewhere—that is, go into exile—and moreover, they could do so.
However, we cannot flee elsewhere—nor do we wish to—because we have a primary vocation we must pursue in this land.
It is because I believe that the resistance theories conceived by such theorists and the resistance we must conceive must differ fundamentally from their very inception.

Thus, we have managed to row our discussion to the point where our natural posture might be the best stance for our resistance—though whether this is achievable remains unclear, I feel that to some extent it can be done depending on how we approach it.

Let us proceed to the next topic.

Before that, I will try to recall the story of the veteran soldier from the Chinese Communist Army’s partisan unit under the Nationalist regime that I heard from an eyewitness during the war.

He had apparently already fought in partisan warfare for ten years by then—his gaunt body whip-tough and supple, his wind-and-rain-battered cheeks sprouting moss-like growths. Astride a single horse laden with all his combat and living essentials, he resembled a beggar relocating with utter indifference; he never ran short of a small liquor supply, while an old kokyū dangled from his saddlebow.
No matter where he encountered enemies, he fought skillfully—always cheerful, sleeping anywhere—and when battles lulled, he’d release his grip on the rifle stock to pluck his kokyū and sing merrily, or so they said.

Therefore, he did not particularly feel temporary excitement or interest in the partisan resistance he was engaged in, but it was said that he appeared never to tire of it—at any time and for all time.
For him, battle was no longer battle but life itself.
Resistance was no longer resistance but became the very act of living itself.

I detest war.
I reject combat too.
That's why I refuse to become that sort of partisan.
But if we must wage battle in a more profound sense—a weaponless struggle to make ourselves truly ourselves, to make our nation truly ours, and to secure the fundamental "freedom" that neither I nor my country can ever forfeit—then in that moment, I want my stance to mirror that old soldier's bearing.
And that old soldier's bearing resembles the peach tree's form.

5

My own theory of resistance is in fact a simple and plain one that can be itemized in about ten lines.
However, before that, there is something I want to mention.
That is what I said in the previous section: "I will write about that later."

As for me—no matter how much I might delude myself—I am not so great.
Nor am I that strong.
I possess nothing more than ordinary intellect, emotions, and will; I am weak.
However, many resistance theories currently being discussed everywhere are ones that require one to be an exceptionally great and strong person to put into practice.
Nearly all excellent resistance theories that have existed thus far have been established with the standard of requiring a considerably great and strong person—an ideal human.

For example, Gandhi’s doctrine of nonviolence is truly an exemplary resistance theory, and a person like me can draw infinite lessons and encouragement from it; however, to put this into practice, it presupposes individuals of the highest moral character—immensely strong and complete beings grounded in religious conviction.
It is resistance that can only be advanced by such people that is being promoted.
I find this enviable, but such things remain largely impossible for ordinary humans to implement.

I am not great, incomplete, a coward, have no religious convictions, and think I will likely remain largely this way in the future.
Therefore, I possess neither the qualifications to pursue resistance theories that presuppose even marginally ideal humans nor, truth be told, any interest in them.
I can only conceive of resistance that is feasible for me to execute myself.

Next is the fact that I am a terrible coward.
I do not wish to be craven and strive against it—this much I can somewhat correct—but my cowardly nature cannot be mended.
Everything that threatens to endanger body and mind terrifies me.
I also possess an innate constitutional hypersensitivity.
At times this escalates pathologically into phobic states.
My daily life and work could be described without exaggeration as an unbroken sequence of great fears and small fears.
Moreover, manifestations of extraordinary destructive power and violence—from atomic bombs at the apex down to street brawls in the gutters—frighten me to my core.
Regarding livelihood anxieties, I am truly timorous.
Though I possess some measure of courage and can struggle against fear to an extent, fear typically prevails.

Therefore, I am cautious.
Not because my nature is cautious, but out of cowardice.
I don't want to cross dangerous bridges.
When I must cross a bridge, I test it first by knocking.
Even then, I cross with legs trembling.
For someone like me—a coward—to act, what I instinctively focus on is always anticipating the worst-case scenario.
It is upon that anticipation that I harden my resolve.
Otherwise, I cannot make a single decision.
If I try to do something while imagining even slight success, fear takes precedence—my legs stiffen and lock up, losing their freedom, causing me to fail even at what should be possible.

When I jump into the sea，I can only do so after anticipating that I will hit the rocks on the seabed and split my head open.
When I get into a fight with someone，I cannot lift a hand unless I have anticipated that I will be killed.
It means that I must always conceive and commence from nothingness.
It means dragging out affirmation from complete negation.
Such philosophical and spiritual disciplines of life had existed in both the West and the East.
In particular，the majority of profound wisdom born in the East contained this kind of spiritual discipline.
Laozi and Zhuangzi；Taoism；Zen；Shingon；the methods of figures like Dogen，Nichiren，and Shinran；and the styles of great masters who had emerged in tea ceremony history—these were likely representative examples.

However, mine is nothing so lofty. It's a method I reached after endless deliberation—born from having to endure terror through sheer cowardice. To call it methodology would be pretentious; it's more like when a foolish monkey peels layer after layer from a pickled shallot someone gave it, shrieks upon finding nothing inside, then resolves that no matter what people offer next, it'll assume emptiness from the start and keep peeling anyway.

I resolve from the outset to hold no expectations or hopes whatsoever, yet remain unable to completely abandon the faint hope that perhaps—just perhaps—there might be something edible within, even in the smallest measure, and thus decide to try peeling it anyway. It's truly a miserable state of affairs for me. However, this is the only way I can do it. Therefore, my theory of resistance remains that of a coward's—one that anticipates the worst while still clinging to the faintest sliver of hope.

Next, I must speak of the weakness of my body.
When I speak of physical weakness, I do not mean my sickly constitution.
Even when the mind has firmly resolved to act a certain way, once confronted by reality and ignited instinctually and impulsively from it, the body will often betray that resolve through its actions.
That physical frailty.

One might say that even a thesis painstakingly formulated through logical reasoning is often betrayed by emotions when exposed to actual circumstances.
The body and emotions—constrained by tangible reality or driven to desperation—frequently contradict or override ordinary calm deliberation.
That "physical fragility" is what I mean.

Most people possess that physical frailty.
Especially for someone like me—an instinctive, emotional human being who in a certain sense even affirms that being instinctive and emotional like an animal is a very fortunate and good thing—the body of such a person proves exceedingly fragile.
Despite hating fights and being such a coward, when confronted with situations where I or those close to me face unjust insults from others, I sometimes flare up and end up brawling.

Even during that last war, it was so.
Both before and during the war, my ideology opposed the conflict and my reason had long foreseen Japan's defeat—yet as I watched countless compatriots slaughtered before my eyes, my vision darkened; I became convinced we must not lose, grew to hate the enemy, and when I came to my senses found myself standing in some corner clutching a button meant to bolster Japan's military strength.

This is my shame.
This is the shame I inflicted upon myself.
It is the insult my instincts and sensibilities have inflicted upon my spirit and reason.
That my body could betray and insult my spirit speaks to how profoundly my flesh and mind were fractured.
This must be the greatest humiliation among all human disgraces.
To ensure such disgrace is never repeated, I must act.
I intend to do so.
I think I can probably do that.

However, no matter how much I hold such resolve and think it through again and again, my body may yet betray me once more.
Perhaps the body is inherently that sort of thing.
Moreover, perhaps in modern times, it is natural and reasonable for the body and reason to be split to some extent.
Moreover, perhaps the current stage of humanity in history is one where such a split between body and intellect exists.
Moreover, perhaps it is precisely this split between body and intellect that has sustained humanity and advanced its culture up to now.
Of course, now this split has become a negative force that brings chaos and weakness to the world and humanity, but there may have been a time when it was a positive one.
The modern era might be an interim report—a transitional stage leading to the final reckoning of these positives and negatives.
Moreover, perhaps this current split state between the human body and intellect—this landscape of a deep valley—might be what lies immediately before ascending to the peak of their higher integration.
...Various things can be considered.

In any case, as a present fact, I love my body, but I cannot fully trust it.
Even if my mind were to formulate an unshakable resistance theory by harmoniously integrating my body's conditions and inherent nature into its considerations, I cannot definitively say that my body will never betray my resistance theory in the future.
There remains a shred of anxiety within me about myself.
I must not conceal this anxiety.
And yet, I cannot conceal it.
I am not a hero.
I am not an exceptional individual.
I am an ordinary person in every sense.

My theory of resistance is a theory of resistance that stands on such a foundation.

6

Having made you understand this much, I will now concretely list the acts of resistance I intend to carry out.

First, what will I resist?

In this, there exist those in a broad sense and those in a narrow sense.
By "those in the broad sense," I mean resisting all internal and external forces that—across every domain of politics, economy, language, culture, education, customs, and lifestyles—hinder, corrupt, eradicate, distort, insult, or colonize the good within the traditions upon which Japan and the Japanese people stand.
By "those in the narrow sense," I mean resisting all internal and external violence that clearly and visibly harms or seizes Japanese lives, property, and land—most significantly through the mobilization of military force as its ultimate manifestation.

These two are unified and carried out simultaneously.
And resistance is carried out through all means, but only one means—that of violence—is strictly excluded.

When I speak of violence here, I do not mean what is currently commonly referred to as “verbal violence,” “violence of wealth,” “tyranny of the majority,” or any other violence used adjectivally or metaphorically.
It refers to “a destructive force applied externally toward an organic entity, acting against that entity’s will with the aim or trajectory of damaging or destroying its life or functions.”

Needless to say, resistance movements in the broad sense must include both the Japanese people’s efforts toward human self-perfection and the work of reorganizing and reaffirming Japanese culture.
For regrettably, we must acknowledge that our degree of self-perfection as Japanese people remains exceedingly low—both intrinsically and relative to the average level demanded by today’s world.
Moreover, within Japanese culture, elements from medieval and feudal eras lie intermingled with modern ones in disarray, while Eastern and Western components coexist in confused disharmony.

Through and through, I want to remain Japanese.
I do not want to leave Japanese soil.
To do so, I must become a good Japanese person and must build a good Japan.
And a good Japanese person is one who clearly identifies and affirms the good qualities and elements among the Japanese people and strives to firmly protect them.
And to confirm the good qualities and elements among the Japanese people, it is impossible without ingesting, digesting, and absorbing the knowledge and education that the present world demands—concretely speaking, the knowledge and education of Europe and America, or at least their fundamental nourishing elements. This means that one cannot become a good Japanese person without first becoming a good citizen of the world.

The state of proximity in relations between nations and peoples across the globe may well be considered to have already reached such a stage.
Therefore, the more I desire to remain Japanese, the more thoroughly impossible it becomes for me to be exclusive toward foreigners and foreign cultures.

I welcome Americans and American culture.
I welcome Soviets and Soviet culture.
I welcome any other foreigners and their cultures.
Please come.
Please give us good things.
We too shall give you good things.
Let us get along well.
But do not forget that we are Japanese people, that this is Japan.
You need not show any particular respect for the Japanese people or Japan.
If we are treated normally, as ordinary humans, we will be satisfied. That is to say, we will not endure—nor do we wish to—being treated as sub-ordinary humans, a grade lower than yourselves.

Particularly regarding all movements by America to make Japan and the Japanese people into watchdogs for American capitalism (no matter how good it may be) in the East, or attempts to turn them into such watchdogs, we cannot cooperate.

At the same time, I cannot help but oppose all movements by which the Soviet Union—knowing full well as a matter of fact that the collective will of the Japanese people does not desire it—attempts to impose the expansion and propagation of its own totalitarianism (even if it were hypothetically good) by encouraging or directing a minority of Japanese people.

Therefore, even if we were to feel immense gratitude for the various good things and warm assistance America has given postwar Japan—and in fact we are grateful—separately from this, should they attempt to colonize Japan under the pretext of the "Security Treaty" or any other justification, try to turn some Japanese into collaborators or streetwalkers, or oppress, hinder, or disrupt the livelihoods, production, and customs of the Japanese people, we cannot help but despise and scorn this.

Regarding those matters, I resist.
Of course, I also resist those Japanese and domestic forces within Japan that cooperate with and act as agents for such foreign movements I must oppose.
Because my resistance involves no violence, it must remain exceedingly feeble.
However, possessing the foundation and stance I have previously described allows me to continue long-term.

In the narrow sense, my resistance against violence—that is, military force—can be stated very simply.

By what I have written so far, I think you have come to understand that I am opposed to Japan’s rearmament.
However, the problem has already moved beyond that stage.
Considering the actual conditions of the Security Forces and other entities, I think it can be said that rearmament may already be considered to have begun.
There’s no use being deceived by interpretative wordplay.
Moreover, where does military buildup as a whole begin?
It could be argued that without atomic bombs, it cannot be called military buildup, but one might also argue that from the very moment people lace up their boots, it already constitutes military buildup.
Protesting rearmament now—if one merely protests—would be almost equivalent to doing nothing at all.
So, having thought it through in my own way, I have created a concrete prescription that even someone as poor, weak, and cowardly as myself can implement.
It is as follows.

From now on, no matter who from any country offers me a weapon, I will politely decline and place it on the ground.
Weapons—from sabers to atomic arms—are all tools for killing people.
Whether given by a foreigner or a Japanese person, I will place it on the ground and not use it.

In that case, depending on the circumstances, I may be punished.
It’s frightening and hateful.
I will ask the other party to avoid such an outcome as much as possible.
But if I am inevitably punished, I will accept it.
I think I probably won’t be killed immediately.
In any case, it’s frightening—but not as much as taking up a weapon and killing people.

My resistance against violence—that is, military force—is in fact just this much.
Of course, various problems will arise from this, but they are all secondary matters. If I can carry out even that one thing, I believe I will manage to handle the rest as they come.

The remaining problem was the weakness of body and emotion I had written about before—the question of whether I could refrain from taking up weapons until the very end, even if forced to watch my innocent compatriots being slaughtered before my eyes.

This was something I couldn't clearly comprehend no matter how much I pondered it now. I couldn't say for certain. Were some nation's army to trample Japanese soil with intent to invade, begin massacring our people, and were this fact confirmed beyond doubt—were my anger to completely consume me—I might perhaps take up a knife to stab the enemy before me, or even join others sharing my views to form partisan units and fight.

If by any chance that were to happen, I would grieve and resign myself.
I mourn and resign myself—for the sake of all humanity—to the fate of having no choice but to fight due to this incompleteness and weakness, recognizing that my own growth as a person has regrettably only reached this extent thus far, and that others like me remain similarly incomplete and weak.
I resign myself because there is no other way.
If we do so, most of us who fight and the enemy will die, but some will survive.
The survivors will, in time, become complete and strong humans who can live together without resorting to such foolish means as war.

(June 1952)