Pathway to Japanese Literature

Introduction

The following short text outlines a brief lecture delivered in spring 1936 at the Third General Meeting of the Nagano Prefecture Erosion Control Association.
The assembled individuals—that is, the composition of the audience—comprised those from relevant departments within the prefectural office, engineers diligently engaged in erosion control projects at actual collapse sites across various regions, and mayors along with deputy mayors from municipalities throughout Nagano Prefecture who faced annual hardships due to direct landslide damage—numbering over three hundred participants.

The gathering took place in Kisofukushima Town, with a tour of collapse sites and erosion control works in the Kiso region scheduled for the following day.

Therefore, he endeavored to base the lecture materials on actual examples from various parts of Shinshu while deliberately incorporating a slightly disproportionate amount of data from the Kiso region.
However, given that this lecture fundamentally addressed an assembly of individuals who—facing such collapses and damage while standing in circumstances requiring perpetual opposition to nature’s immense power—leaned toward such positions, one could hardly deny that some participants approached these challenges with notions and determination resembling “conquest of nature.”
Even if not consciously holding such ideas, there remained ample concern that these concepts had become subconsciously embedded in their minds at some indeterminate time.

Of course, within collapse phenomena in mountainous areas, there exist two causes: (1) artificial factors such as deforestation, land reclamation, or reckless road construction; and (2) natural factors such as uplift and subsidence of the local bedrock. In many cases, the combination of both factors may occur most frequently. Therefore, when it comes to these natural causes, our human power simply cannot prevail. Rather, it is only natural that we adopt an attitude of making beneficial use of such collapses. In any case, the notion of “conquest of nature” must be completely eradicated. Although the allotted time was a mere hour and half—a brief period utterly insufficient to achieve substantial results—I placed primary emphasis on this very point.

Of course, it goes without saying that our great—nay, direct—mission as geography educators lies in elevating and disseminating "proper recognition and understanding of regional characteristics"; however, since these regional characteristics themselves constitute a part and element of grand nature itself, to obtain thorough recognition and understanding of them, we must further emphasize the general populace's proper recognition and understanding of nature itself as foundational. Moreover, depending on perspective, even the direct objective of geographical education—the recognition and understanding of regional characteristics—should ultimately be viewed as one stage in progressing toward recognition and understanding of nature itself.

Therefore, in this lecture, though I have not directly brandished geography itself to the forefront—and no matter how crude that discussion may be—as it is my lecture, I never for a moment forgot the direct purpose of geographical education.

However, given that all attendees here were individuals occupying positions of leadership—and if I may indulge in boldness—I did not merely hope these ideas of natural worship and harmony with nature would permeate their guiding principles and ethos, but rather become their foundational tone. My greatest aspiration in taking this podium was that even one or two among them might resolve to wield such principles in their daily leadership duties.

Main Discussion

Some time ago, upon receiving the kind invitation to deliver a brief address at today’s distinguished gathering held here, I—though inadequately equipped—accepted the request. However, as I am not directly engaged in research within this field under ordinary circumstances, I deliberated extensively on what remarks I might offer. Ultimately resolving to present a fragment of my humble views under the topic you have graciously displayed here, I prepared this modest manuscript.
However, as I am unable to present a particularly coherent address and given that this follows the highly beneficial remarks we have just heard, I sincerely apologize for any inconvenience but would like to beg your kind attention for a short while.

First, when considering today’s circumstances from a cultural-historical perspective, one of the most conspicuous phenomena to catch our eye was likely the development of transportation.
On the seas there were steamships; on land, trains, streetcars, and automobiles; in the skies, airplanes; and in communications—needless to mention the widespread development of telegraphs and telephones—wireless, radio, and television. All these were advancing with truly remarkable momentum, spreading and developing moment by moment and from region to region.
Indeed, even here in the Kiso region—a place once regarded as the most formidable stretch of the Nakasendō highway—trains and automobiles now traversed the area in great numbers. This development had consequently brought transformative effects, extending from the region’s renowned livestock industry into agricultural sectors and even aspects that ordinary people might scarcely notice—so it had come to be.

In truth, having some time earlier, I took the opportunity to investigate this region's rice nursery fields—a subject I had long wished to examine—but are you aware of this? What do you think? The nursery fields here possess a distinctive characteristic in their form: namely, while the extensive winter-flooded fields represent a common sight in areas irrigated during winter—nothing particularly remarkable in themselves—it concerns those nursery fields that remain scattered across various locales even now, constructed like islands at the center of these broad flooded plots.
This dates back to when trains and automobiles had yet to reach this region—during early spring days when local farmers would daily release their workhorses to graze freely—and constitutes an ingenious countermeasure developed to protect rice seedlings from equine depredation; however, as I previously mentioned, once rail and road transport began traversing the area, free-range grazing became impossible, rendering such nursery field configurations obsolete.
The reason they can still be found scattered about various locations today reportedly lies in the practical advantage of pre-forming ridges so transplanting may immediately follow rice planting into those nursery plots.
For a region so concerned with gaining even a single day in transplanting schedules, this style remains entirely natural—yet its substance, that is to say its significance, has fundamentally changed.

In any case, this was but one example of such developments in transportation; however, I must emphasize that we must take heed of how these advancements exert profound influence and effect transformations in even unexpected domains.

It is a self-evident truth that the development of such transportation systems stems directly from what we call the "development of science."

Therefore, while modern times may indeed be characterized as an era of transportation progress, depending on perspective, it might be more appropriate to term this a "scientific development era"—I believe.

That is to say, all those machines and mechanisms had been developed through science's power.

Consequently, as science advanced ever further—and as you well know—such convenient devices proliferated accordingly, until finally the very notion of “scientific omnipotence” had even come to be voiced anonymously throughout society.

However, whether science is truly omnipotent can be immediately resolved by considering its very essence—it is by no means such a complicated matter.
As you are aware, science represents an orientation we humans possess that strives to elucidate the truth of things through our five senses—or rather, solely through those five senses.
Yet as you will apprehend with even brief consideration, it remains doubtful whether the truth of things can ever be fully revealed through our five senses alone.
This would likely prove supremely arduous—nay, one cannot help but deem it impossible.
Of course, through diligent investigation we may approach closer to that truth.
However, scholars directly engaged in scientific work daily have thoroughly comprehended this limitation.
Those immersed in scientific inquiry—indeed, the more authoritative among them—declare: "The more we investigate, the less we understand."
Furthermore, regarding those who sustained research as university professors for decades before retiring under tenure systems, one such individual reflected: "I felt I understood matters most clearly upon graduating."
"But after graduation," they lamented, "when I finally undertook independent research myself, I found myself merely deepening doubts about all prior studies without gaining any true comprehension"—and I know several such cases.
There also exist scientists who proclaim: "By accumulating effort upon effort, we believe we may eventually grasp the truth," persisting daily in their inquiries.
Yet this remains conditional upon "belief" and deferred to "eventually"—never a present reality.
We must exercise utmost vigilance regarding this point.

To put it simply, while today’s science has indeed advanced considerably in material sciences such as electricity and magnetism, how does it fare in life sciences? As you are aware, not even a single amoeba has yet been artificially created.
On the contrary, among biologists who should make elucidating the essence of life their very mission, there are even scholars who declare things like “Life is an eternal mystery” and dare not lay hands upon it.
Moreover, I trust you can well imagine how immature fields such as spiritual science remain at present.

"This is by no means to suggest negligence on the part of scholars in those fields. All things follow their proper sequence, and we have simply not yet reached that stage of advancement. Therefore, we remain utterly distant from any notion of scientific omnipotence. I would even deem it fitting to regard this as an era of most elementary beginnings."

Of course, while fully aware that these are but provisional lodging, we often attempt to provide "explanations" for the "facts" we have investigated.
However, I believe we must not conflate facts and explanations.
An explanation is, ultimately, nothing but a provisional lodging.
That is to say, it is a hypothesis.
Among scientists, it is by no means rare to find those who, unable to endure this anxiety, have come to hold a deep interest in religion—even if not fully converting to it.
I, too, consider this to be truly a natural outcome.
Even material science cannot possibly provide sufficient explanations unless there is progress in life sciences and spiritual sciences.

However, this pertains to scholars directly engaged in scientific research, while unfortunately among those outside the scientific community—due to an incomplete understanding of science—there appear to be no small number who hold views such as “scientific omnipotence.” Moreover, as this construct called science emerged from human ambition, it ultimately spawned ideologies like “human omnipotence.” In reaction, humanity erected grand nature—divested of human volition—as its opposing entity. To rephrase: by pitting nature against humanity, what was once mankind’s object of awe—nay, even a symbol of reverence—has now become subjected not merely to the phrase “conquest of nature,” but to the very ideology itself—an undeniable fact. The recent profligate use (if one may call it such) of “conquest” in newspapers, magazines, and popular media seems starkly illustrative of this trend—that airplanes traverse skies becomes “aerial conquest,” that steamships cross seas “maritime conquest,” that summer vacationers scale local peaks “mountain conquest.” These terms are bandied about with such nonchalance—even as climbers cling perilously to cliffs—that I would deem this careless usage emblematic of our age’s ethos. Fortunately, your Mount Ontake here remains sacred now as ever—yet not Ontake alone—all mountains everywhere should inherently be sacred peaks. To ascend them and proclaim “conquest”—such thinking can only be perceived as contemptible however one considers it—what a wretched paucity of reverence this betrays!

While it is certainly true that the number of mountaineers has increased in recent years, I consider this waning sense of reverence to be a major cause—indeed, even the very reason—behind the frequent occurrence of such accidents.

I believe anyone would concur, but in fact, are airplanes not modeled after the forms of birds and dragonflies, steamships after fish, and trains after snakes? Whether fortunately or unfortunately, since birds and fish do not speak in any language we can readily understand, we remain oblivious—or rather, I should say, conceited—but how must those birds and beasts view our actions? “Humans have certainly gone and imitated us like this,” they must be thinking—half-impressed and half-bewildered—to such an extent that I can almost imagine it.

If we closely examine those facts that people in the world claim as “conquest of nature,” each and every one of them is in fact “adhering to nature’s grand laws.” That is to say, it is precisely through discovering the laws inherent in nature and fully adhering to them that we may appear—externally—to have conquered it.

Fundamentally, nature—both temporally and spatially—exists as a grand synthesis. That trees appear as mere trees and stones as mere stones—that they seem to exist as separate, individual entities—is because we humans arbitrarily, or rather deliberately, choose to perceive them thus. This grand universe consists of celestial bodies said to include even those possessing diameters two hundred—at times five hundred—times that of our Sun, whose own diameter measures one hundred and nine times that of Earth; moreover, these Sun-class celestial bodies exist in such vast numbers—ninety followed by twenty zeros, a magnitude so immense one struggles to recall its very nomenclature—scattered across a radius of nine followed by ten zeros light-years, a span requiring ninety billion years to traverse even at light’s speed. Therefore, “we must acknowledge its immense power.” When compared to us humans—who cannot even easily depart for a mere trip to America or Europe without first being made to hold farewell parties at three or four different places—it becomes utterly insignificant. When we examine this, nature stands revealed as an undeniably transcendent entity. It is grand nature itself. It is indeed “God” and “Great Life”—there is no position for us but to consider it thus. In fact, it is precisely through such consideration that we may first establish our position there. That is to say, all things are divine. We humans too, when we have utterly discarded those desires unique to our kind, sincerely merged with grand nature, and become entirely one with it, can of course attain divinity. That is to say, this is what we call *sokushin jōbutsu*—attaining Buddhahood in one’s present form. Yet herein lies the tragedy inherent to human nature—that is by no means an easy feat.

However, if one considers these inescapable desires and earthly attachments—if one seeks to fulfill them as fully as possible—then boldly immersing oneself into grand nature, entering its embrace, or positioning oneself against its backdrop (or, to phrase it in religious terms, attaining a state of unity between humanity and divinity) may indeed be a method to harmonize those very desires. I believe this to be so.

Indeed, I consider it reasonable to regard many tools of civilization emerging today—whether airplanes or steamships, as previously cited—as products born from adapting not only to seawater's and atmosphere's properties but also to those of electricity and gas.

Any who presume to undertake river works must first consult that very river; those who would conduct mountain works must inquire of that very mountain—following their counsel is what we might call the shortcut to success.
I regret that I cannot recall the precise place name, but there is said to be a shrine called Haruno Shrine in Kōchi Prefecture.
This recounts an episode from the era of Nonaka Kenzan—renowned as a promoter of industrial development and civil engineering—who, seeking to draw irrigation water from a certain river, first embarked on damming it, painstakingly proceeding to block the flow from both banks.
However, just as they were on the verge of completing the dam, all their hard-won work would be swept away by the river’s formidable force.
They tried repeating this process numerous times, but they simply could not achieve their objective.

One day, as this was happening, an old woman named Haruno happened to pass by the site.
The old woman stood at the riverbank and watched the construction work for a while, but eventually muttered, “With this method, damming this river will be utterly impossible,” and began to leave.
The officials who overheard this were already irritated at that very moment, so they initially became concerned—wondering what insolence this was—with someone exclaiming, “How impertinent!” However, when one superior among them said, “Well, let us at least inquire what idea she has,” and they asked, “Then how exactly do you propose we dam it?” the old woman replied, “There’s no use asking me—even I would be at a loss.”
“I don’t know.”
“But ‘If you intend to lay hands on a river, you must first ask the river itself—otherwise it’s a false start.’”

“What? The river can talk?”
“No, it doesn’t speak.”
“But depending on how you ask, the river’s intentions become clear enough.”
“For this, have people stand on both banks holding either end of a rope. Gently let it flow into the current, then build your embankment following the shape the rope takes—shouldn’t that dam it properly?” With that, she left.
Finding merit in her suggestion, they followed the old woman’s instructions exactly—and succeeded brilliantly for the first time.
Thus transcending their initial fury, they repaid her with deep gratitude, ultimately enshrining her as Haruno Shrine on that riverbank—a place enduring to this day.

This concept of “consulting and observing the river” remains truly essential.

When building roads along mountain bases, determining appropriate gradient steepness through topographic survey—by following, that is “heeding,” the terrain’s inherent slopes—has long been recognized as standard practice.

Landslides and slope failures manifest across diverse regions.
For devising countermeasures against such phenomena too, I maintain that we must first seek counsel from those very mountains or valleys before initiating any interventions.

From our perspective, these phenomena termed landslides and ground subsidence are all forms of ground erosion phenomena—that is to say, manifestations of hydraulic activity.
Fundamentally, the water upon this earth’s surface perpetually carries out erosion against highlands while performing deposition upon lowlands.
Thus, highlands are largely formed through ground uplift, while lowlands result from subsidence.

If one gave it even a moment’s thought—"How could this ground possibly endure such constant rising and sinking?"—they might worry, but in truth, this ground shifts ceaselessly both vertically and horizontally.
The adage “as immovable as mountains” arose from observations made over extremely brief periods through crude methods, but today’s precise surveying has clearly proven continuous uplift and subsidence of the earth’s crust.
When measuring elevation changes at benchmark points installed every two kilometers along roads including the Nakasendō, Sanshū Kaidō, and Itoigawa Kaidō—and further along the Chikuma to Shinano Rivers in northern Shinano—we found regions that had risen by as much as 200 millimeters in just over thirty years alongside others that had subsided by nearly 100 millimeters.
Speaking of Shinshū alone, its southwestern part generally uplifts while the northeastern part subsides.
To rephrase—mountainous regions encompassing areas such as Hida, Kiso, and Akaishi uplift while downstream reaches of the Chikuma River subside.
In short, these mountainous regions continue uplifting year after year at present.
Today’s towering mountain ranges are ultimately considered products of this uplift.
Moreover geologically speaking—regions with granite-based systems appear to uplift more significantly than sedimentary rock areas.
Indeed—the very exposure of plutonic rock at the earth’s surface demonstrates both ongoing uplift there and resulting erosional processes accompanying it.

In geomorphology, we refer to such erosion accompanying uplift as “revitalization” or “rejuvenation.” This rejuvenation phenomenon first manifests itself in the riverbeds of such regions. When examining how the riverbed gradually rises along its course from downstream, one finds what are termed knickpoints—specific locations where the rate of elevation increase becomes notably steep. By determining how many such knickpoints exist along the river course, one can roughly ascertain that region’s rejuvenation factor. Here in our Shinshū alone, two or three particularly distinct locations appear in every river.

Moreover, such rejuvenation phenomena manifest not only in rivers themselves but also appear along both banks as those terrace landforms.
Therefore, these too can generally be divided into two or three major levels, though there are also areas—such as along both sides of the Tenryū River—where each level is further subdivided into numerous smaller tiers.
In any case, all of these have appeared as results of ground uplift and subsidence, along with the accompanying erosion and deposition.
Furthermore, in areas of ancient terrain, it also manifests in changes to the slope angles of mountain ridges.
I will omit overly technical details, but the terrain we see before us today has been formed by these ground movements and river activity—though of course various other forces also contribute—and we classify its developmental stages into three periods: youth, maturity, and old age.

Therefore, if one were to construct roads through such terrain, their placement would be largely predetermined according to whether the landscape was in its youthful, mature, or old stage.
In youthful-stage terrain, roads were customarily built along ridge areas.
Though termed ridges, these areas paradoxically contained broad flat surfaces despite their valleys being extremely narrow—with floors almost entirely occupied by riverbeds and banks forming near-vertical cliffs.
In mature-stage terrain however, roads descended to valley floors, while in old-stage terrain they shifted to mid-slope positions.
Consequently, any new roads constructed contrary to these principles would require annual repairs post-construction, consuming budgets and creating immense difficulties.

For example, regarding the road along the Azusa River valley from Inakōshi—which leads to Kamikōchi—through Nakagawa Crossing and Naka-no-Yu: while the Japanese Alps' macro-topography currently represented mature-stage terrain, that particular area had undergone rejuvenation during its mid-mature stage, and now its valley section clearly exhibited youthful-stage terrain features.
Therefore, if roads were to be constructed in such locations, even though we spoke of ridge areas, since they were in their mature stage and had undergone rejuvenation again, there were no flat surfaces there.
Therefore, opening the pathway at a position considerably elevated from the current riverbed—specifically at the uppermost part of the youthful-stage valley walls, corresponding to the former mature-stage valley floor—was believed to be the safest method for the future.
If, based on mere five or six years of observation, one had constructed a road there under the assumption that the valley floor had some margin of safety, then during a major flood—the kind occurring once every few years or even once every dozen years—the entire valley floor would have been overtaken by the river’s waters, and even what we humans might have considered impressively sturdy concrete structures would have been effortlessly, utterly destroyed.
And each time, it eroded not only the road itself but also both valley walls flanking it.
Regarding the repeated destruction occurring along the road from Nakagawadari upstream to the vicinity of Kama Tunnel, I believed that such factors were likely the most significant cause.
However, in contrast to this, the roads downstream from Nakagawadari had been constructed in remarkable harmony with the local terrain and, as you were aware, had been elevated significantly, thus appearing relatively safe.
This was indeed the natural consequence of a valley currently undergoing rejuvenation.
This was undeniably a natural phenomenon brought about by the great power of nature, and we had no choice but to humbly comply with it.

That said, among collapses—as was also mentioned in Dr. Satō’s esteemed lecture earlier—there are by no means uncommon cases where we humans, through heedlessly cutting down mountain trees, cultivating steep slopes, or even when planting trees that are disproportionately tall relative to their shallow roots, end up promoting such collapses—that is to say, erosion—instead. I must consider this bears reflection.
On that point—as it already falls within the esteemed expertise of this distinguished audience—I shall refrain from further elaboration. In essence, phenomena arising naturally, much like earthquakes and volcanic eruptions, remain utterly beyond the reach of human power.
To those who believe that raising levees alone can prevent river flooding—though I doubt any such individuals are present here—should such a person exist by any chance, we must conclude they are an exceedingly simple-minded individual.
In other words, if levees are heightened, the riverbed will rise; once the riverbed rises, even if the river water does not necessarily overflow those levees, this time it will seep beneath them into the lowlands on both sides, elevating the water table there and ultimately bringing about results similar to so-called flooding.
However, while earthquakes cannot be prevented from occurring, it is said that we can avoid suffering disaster from them.
However, similarly to this—while landslides themselves cannot be eliminated—it may not be entirely impossible to eliminate the disasters they cause.
While I remain a complete layman with no expertise, I cannot help but think that future research efforts should perhaps be directed more extensively toward these very areas.

Indeed, depending on our approach here, we are compelled to consider that it may be possible not merely to adapt to such landslides but even actively utilize them.
I have observed these facts in various locations.

The vicinity of Hayama on Kanagawa Prefecture’s Miura Peninsula is renowned as an exceptionally favorable location for hastening peas to market year after year. As you are aware, though peas are a crop unsuitable for continuous cropping, the red soil there—crumbling roughly under nearly daily frost columns forming on its slopes every winter—supplies new soil to the fields, allowing peas to be cultivated in the same plots annually.
Furthermore—and this is something we see quite commonly in many areas—in regions such as southern Shimoina District, Saku, and Suwa, people utilize small collapses along cut slopes of roads and fields made by carving into mountain foothills during spring thaw to practice blanching cultivation of udo. Separately, just a few days ago, when I visited Zenkoji Hot Springs outside Nagano City, I was served a dish of softened thistles said to grow naturally within landslide sand beneath the cliffs of the back mountain there.
However, these are of such a minor scale that whether they can properly be termed landslides remains somewhat unclear.

As an example of slightly larger-scale landslide utilization, I recall Shirazawa hamlet in Nishiharuhika Village, Kamiina District. There, while the entire region consists of red soil terrace land, one particular area has formed a wide gravel zone displaced by a landslide from its rear mountain.
In their case, they specifically utilize this section as mulberry fields dedicated solely to spring silkworms.
The mulberry trees’ germination occurs earlier than in red soil areas, which they report as being truly advantageous.
They had even temporarily used it as mulberry fields for silkworm egg production at one point.

Another example was the hamlet of Shimooōka in Ōoka Village, Sarashina District—a mere settlement of over a dozen households formed near the valley floor of the Sai River—yet it stood as an exceptional persimmon-growing village, producing over ten cartloads of fresh persimmons annually.
Moreover, that biennial bearing phenomenon commonly seen elsewhere was hardly observed in the trees of this hamlet.
As for their cultivation method, there had been nothing particularly elaborate—year after year, during autumn’s persimmon ripening season, they merely erected supports under weak branches to prevent breakage, which constituted the extent of their efforts.
Upon careful examination, it was found that within this hamlet, the locations yielding particularly favorable persimmon results were riverside areas periodically inundated during floods where new sediment gradually accumulated, along with one other site—an old landslide scar on the mountainside above the hamlet. There, the soil pushed out by the landslide ran deep, allowing persimmon trees to develop extensive root systems. This proved advantageous for these persimmons, which tended to have weak drought resistance, resulting in annual bountiful harvests at this location.

Furthermore, in the hamlet of Wakuike in Sōfu Village, Sarashina District—also famous as the site of a major landslide during the Zenkoji Earthquake—the ground remained unstable to this day, causing ongoing difficulties.
However, mysteriously enough, throughout this entire area, soybean growth proved remarkably vigorous; while typically sown two seeds per hole elsewhere, there they were sown one seed per hole, yet grew splendidly large and bore excellent fruit.
While soybeans tended toward being moisture-loving crops, when I considered how they were blessed with deep soil there—a condition stemming from it being a landslide area—it occurred to me that there was truly nothing in this world that was entirely useless or without purpose. The famous adage “To dismiss something as trivial reveals a small mind” and the maxim “Uselessness lies not in things themselves, but in our failure to utilize them” struck me as profoundly resonant.

In an example from this region, I had seen those stones—massive granite blocks pushed out by landslides of old, stretching from Mitake in Kiso, which you would inspect tomorrow during your esteemed visit, further southward—that were traded at prices reaching 1,000 yen per piece.
Granite was by no means a rare rock; however, in recent years, as various large-scale buildings were being planned across many locations, there now arose a demand for stones that ensured not only quality but also uniformity in color.
For this purpose, small, scattered pieces would not be useful; therefore, it was considered that large ones—moreover, those obtainable near railways—being convenient, had led to this situation.

Regarding stones in the Inarimura Village area of Kamiina District—while the Minamigawa River flowing there floods nearly every year, greatly inconveniencing local residents—we must note that this river originates from Paleozoic strata spanning the Akaishi Mountain Range.
Historically, Japan's renowned bonseki production areas like Kamogawa and Nachigawa Rivers correspond precisely to downstream regions possessing Paleozoic strata in their basins or upper reaches.
However, this Minamigawa River too contains extensive Paleozoic strata within its basin, leading me to conclude its riverbed holds full qualification as a bonseki production site.
Indeed last summer, when I wandered this riverbed for an hour or two with the village's young leaders, I was astonished by naturally elegant stones catching my eye at every turn.
When these become depleted after initial collection, subsequent floods conveniently replenish them with new gravel from upstream.
Of course railways have yet to reach this village.
Moreover, as bonseki far surpass granite and other construction materials in value, transportation costs would prove negligible.
Yet this riverbed promises more than just bonseki production.
It shows particular potential for cultivating thistle burdock requiring virgin soil—indeed large quantities already grow wild here, harvested by locals for tempura ingredients.
To presume flood benefits belong solely to Egypt's Nile Basin would betray profound ignorance, I must emphasize.

Even in this Kiso region, the rocky mountains along both banks of the rejuvenating Kiso River—their valley walls—are already known as a production region for bonsai plants. Moreover, having visited the villages in this area, I have rarely encountered elsewhere villages where bonsai are cultivated in every household to such an extent as here.
While I question whether it should be pursued as a full-time occupation, I do believe it merits serious consideration as a sideline occupation for the future.

Unbeknownst to me, our discussion had shifted toward agricultural and mountain village industries, which might perhaps inconvenience this esteemed gathering. However, given that most attendees here directly engage in agriculture and forestry, I considered this fortunate and wished to humbly present my views on this matter while seeking your corrections.
I would request a little more of your time.

If I may speak frankly, I could not help but think that what modern agricultural villages cultivate—eggplants, cabbages, tomatoes—consists entirely of vegetables over-domesticated to maturity. Rather, cultivation has become excessively focused on such crops alone, with an almost desperate tendency to grow them in one's own village at all costs.
Some years prior, when consulted about potential crops for Kirigamine in Suwa—now known as a ski area—I visited that region with its developed kuro-noppe soil, meaning humus-rich black earth. Observing what Suwa locals called simply "this plant"—recognizable to me as the alarmingly proliferating gibōshi—I had proposed cultivating it there using fertilizer, though by "fertilizer" I meant human waste from guests at the hütte.
Yet these efforts gradually showed results, and last year I heard they ultimately could not meet demand from Tokyo—specifically from a single restaurant there.
(See Figures 1 and 2)

“This is by no means limited to ‘this’ alone.”
“As I mentioned briefly before—taking ‘thistle’ as an example, or ‘dandelion’ and ‘shepherd’s purse’—”
“Even with something like ‘shuude’—though cultivating shuude does present certain difficulties—it is precisely what we term ‘wild vegetable cultivation’ that I wish to emphasize.”
“Of course, even that requires first ‘asking each locality,’”
“In other words—after investigating what mountain herbs thrive there—it goes without saying that one should make selections accordingly.”

Furthermore, there are not a few cases where one can achieve considerable profits without even going to the trouble of what might properly be termed cultivation.
Admittedly, this may be a special case, but it is by no means uncommon in this region—the story of those tara-no-me shoots. How does that strike you?
This is an account from a friend of mine: A few years ago, when he invited four or five friends to dine at a certain renowned restaurant in Ginza, those tara-no-me shoots happened to appear among the dishes served.
They were served in small dishes with merely about two buds each, presented as if they were rare delicacies.
“They were indeed delicious.”
The entire party was so delighted that they asked for seconds.
Then they brought out a slightly larger bowl containing about twenty buds.
However, when checking the bill at payment time, that single bowl was priced at three yen.

He thought this strange, but suspecting a mistake given the exorbitant price, he inquired. "There's no error whatsoever," they replied. "These trees grow deep in the mountains, covered in thorns—if you're pricked by one, the flesh rots." "Harvesting these shoots apparently requires risking one's life," came the justification that made such pricing seem entirely reasonable—a reply that left him more astonished than the price itself.
(See Figure 2)

The other diners, all having been born and raised in Tokyo, each and every one of them had listened with great interest.
Thereupon, my friend, upon returning home, promptly hired day laborers for a day to have them gather those tara-no-me shoots, and sending them in abundance—packaged into one straw bale—delivered it to one of the individuals who had attended the recent dinner.
Before long, they sent back an extremely courteous letter of thanks along with two sets of children’s clothing and enough fabric for one adult’s outfit—in total, items clearly worth approximately forty yen at market value.
I was told by the person himself some time ago that he had been astonished by this as well.

Admittedly, even considering they are tara-no-me shoots, ten or fifteen sen each does seem somewhat excessive. However, have not mountain people until now placed too little value on the mountains—dismissed them too readily—with attitudes like “If you go to the mountains, there’s plenty to be found” or “They’re just mountain things,” treating mountain resources far too carelessly?
We must not forget that mountains are mountains—that is to say, “mountainous regions possess absolute value in themselves.”
Urban areas tend to be abundant in artificial items, while rural areas are rich in natural elements.
Therefore, urban items unfortunately often contain imitations.
If they were mere imitations, one might still endure them, but the fact that they go beyond this to include even poisons and hazardous substances is something I believe you are all aware of from occasional newspaper reports.

In contrast, rural items—that is, natural products—are truly pure and true.
They are the divine form itself.
They are by no means negligible, I must say.
As you know well, even industrial cooperatives—now facing various issues—should place their primary purpose in demanding and supplying pure products, I believe. What are your thoughts?
I consider this to be where the fundamental significance of industrial cooperatives' existence should lie. May I ask for your agreement? I humbly request your consideration.

Well now, I must say my digression has gone rather far afield—I shall leave such matters for another occasion and return to our main subject—but in any case, this is not limited to mountain vegetables alone.
In recent years, even within the realm of fruit cultivation—which has come to attract considerable public attention—I do not mean to suggest that cultivating apples and pears is undesirable, but I am inclined to request your attention to what might be termed "mountain fruits," such as walnuts, chestnuts, *sankazura*, *shirakuchizuru*, and *matatabi*.
Already in confections, we find ourselves in an era where products like Ōshima yōkan and Ōshima senbei—made primarily with Ōshima's brown sugar—are becoming more appreciated than those using heavily processed sugars such as *sanbon* or *daihaku*. This development, I believe, merits our careful consideration.
Admittedly, these too constitute processed products, so we must remain vigilant regarding their adherence to labeling claims. Nevertheless, I would emphasize that even such nomenclature alone has acquired considerable power to captivate consumers.

Of course, in this case as well, it goes without saying that after thoroughly consulting the local natural environment, selections should be made and cultivation methods devised.
"In essence, I believe that the philosophy of 'utilizing the local land—that is, the local natural environment' must form the very foundation."

This concerns observations from the Hime River basin along the Shin'etsu border: In those mountainous areas—particularly the virgin lands formed by avalanches—plants favoring undisturbed soil thrived luxuriantly, beginning with horsetail, followed by thistle, and notably mountain celery. Moreover, I had heard that when this mountain celery first sprouted beneath the snow in early spring, its flavor and tenderness were truly without fault.

In other words, this was a product made possible entirely by the deep snow there.

"It is by no means only yukina that constitutes a vegetable utilizing heavy snow."

"Why don't you produce more of it and send it to central markets?"—this was what I had been proposing.

Furthermore, the so-called mulberry trees thriving throughout those mountain fields served as the primary feed for spring silkworms in that region, while simultaneously—precisely because they were mulberry trees—producing abundant and delicious fruit.

However, as matters stood at that time, they appeared utilized only minimally—indeed, merely in part—as playthings for local children. That not a single initiative had been undertaken to market them as fruit, much less produce canned goods, manufacture jam, or brew mulberry wine from them as raw materials, struck me as nothing short of a profound waste—a conclusion I had reached through careful observation.

Now regarding such rural industries—as I have already cited examples here—while I do not deny that further processing local products constitutes one meaningful path, I have come to believe there are numerous instances where we must focus our efforts on aspects holding far greater significance as truly authentic local industries.
However, what I consider both unfortunately and mysteriously overlooked by far too many people is ultimately this: rather than merely pursuing the idea of establishing industries in a given region, the primary emphasis is not being placed on "progressively harnessing the local climate and natural features"—that is to say, on developing industries truly aligned with those regional characteristics.

As for raw materials—given today’s developed transportation and its future advancements—all but highly perishable specialty items like water or fruits such as peaches can withstand considerable transport. Thus, I see no necessity to forcibly manufacture them at their production sites. However, regional climate and natural features are entirely untransportable, and it is precisely industries grounded in these that I consider to possess true strength—what might be called meaningful local industries.
As you are all already aware, immediately to the north here at Torii Pass—on its northern side lies the lacquerware-producing village of Hirasawa, while on the southern side stands Yabuhara, the long-renowned birthplace of those Oroku combs as were displayed at this venue’s entrance today.
However, in lacquerware production—if I may put it this way—dry air conditions prove desirable, whereas in comb manufacturing, since one must painstakingly carve each delicate tooth individually, humid atmospheric conditions are preferred.
Indeed, all comb factories in Yabuhara were strategically positioned to avoid exposure to the western sun.
Furthermore, investigations across both villages reveal that while Yabuhara artisans report achieving their finest work during June and July’s rainy season, their Hirasawa counterparts state this same period combined with September’s rains makes their craft most challenging.
Even so, here in Hirasawa they maintain year-round production except during exceptionally humid years, though other lacquerware-producing prefectures reportedly suspend operations entirely during these rainy periods.

However, when we examined this phenomenon across both northern and southern slopes of Torii Pass and studied the vegetation there, we observed a striking contrast: while large bush clover (*hagi*)—remarkably drought-resistant specimens reaching several meters in height—proliferated abundantly on the pass’s northern side, their presence on the southern slope proved so scarce that one might question whether even offering a reward would yield significant findings.

This disparity resulted entirely from wind patterns that had developed in response to the pass’s topography.
Southerly winds blew persistently throughout the year in this mountainous area.
Fortunately, a forest observatory at the pass’s summit provided authoritative data through its meteorological recordings. The observations revealed that when southerly winds crept up the southern slope—sometimes generating fog—then descended northward, they transformed into a foehn-type wind that paradoxically created arid conditions.
In fact, the observatory’s data confirmed fog occurred frequently on the southern side but remained exceptionally rare to the north.

Of course, unlike agriculture, in industrial sectors where workplaces required relatively limited space, to a certain extent it was possible to artificially create a climate—that is, an artificial environment—that met the industry’s requirements.
However, this alone caused production costs to rise.
Of course, since possessing a natural climate that perfectly met an industry’s requirements could not be expected to occur frequently, some degree of artificial climate control had to always be implemented to compensate. That said, raising low temperatures proved easier than lowering excessively high ones, and increasing humidity was conversely simpler and more cost-effective than reducing it.
Therefore, for such industries, I believed it could be considered that climates which were somewhat too cold or too dry were more favorable than those possessing opposite characteristics.
Hirasawa’s lacquerware was clearly blessed in this regard.
Having originated as a cottage industry during the Keichō era (1596–1615), today nearly the entire village had been industrialized for lacquerware production, with 400 employees achieving annual production of 33,000 yen—driven by aspirations to expand to nearly 50,000 yen in the near future—a present state of affairs I contended was by no means coincidental.
Indeed, both villages exemplified truly splendid local industries that skillfully harnessed their natural environments—this being the praise I offered.

In recent years, even regarding the early-pickled daikon that has been emerging across our Nagano Prefecture, while I consider it a splendid example of an industry interwoven with Nagano’s regional characteristics—for its production is indeed aided by our prefecture’s early winter climate, which compensates for the fact that high-quality daikon is said to require the autumn winds that typically precede its cultivation—the current state of affairs, wherein sugar and pigments are being added beyond rice bran and daikon during manufacturing to artificially and transiently enhance flavor and color, compels deep reflection.
Rather than such practices, I consider the true path to be this: leveraging Nagano’s cool climate to produce daikon of the highest possible quality, using only pure ingredients like daikon itself and rice bran to gradually pickle them over an extremely long period, and furthermore, releasing them to market slightly earlier than the next year’s early-pickled daikon arrives.

Out of a desire to bring it to market even a single day sooner, they sowed the long-day daikon as early as the beginning of May—which of course bolted—and upon bolting, deliberately broke off the flower stalks and furthermore cut away the hardened upper portion of the daikon before pickling it. This utterly forced and contrived industry was one I regretfully could not endorse or encourage as a sustainable practice.
It simply could not be considered true land use.

When considering “land use” in its fundamental aspect—I maintain—the essential problem lies in capturing as completely as possible the daily influx of solar heat and light along with other forms of energy delivered to each parcel of land.
In this region alone, the annual quantity of heat received from the sun amounts to approximately six million calories.
Contrastingly, our annual caloric requirement for sustaining human life stands at roughly two million calories per individual.
Thus were we able to fully harness the thermal energy delivered to each tsubo of land—were such complete capture achievable—this would theoretically enable three persons to subsist per tsubo.
Through such means would Japan’s perceived crises of limited land and overpopulation naturally resolve themselves.
This “thermal capture” constitutes what I regard as land use’s foundational challenge.
At our current stage of understanding, no superior alternative exists beyond “surface greening”—the vigorous propagation of vegetation to exploit chlorophyll’s transformative power.
However favorable market prices might appear for wheat cultivation on patently unsuitable terrain—where spindly crops blighted by frost damage resemble balding scalps—I must state unequivocally (though some may deem this extreme) that allowing deep green grasses to flourish proves more productive.
Naturally significant portions of such vegetation remain unsuited for direct consumption or craft applications.
Yet through strategic animal husbandry—for which we owe nature gratitude—these plants become fodder convertible through milk production, meat provision or labor utilization into manifold human benefits.

The famines in Tohoku—which in recent years had been publicized as if they were sudden calamities striking periodically—were nothing but the inevitable consequence of recklessly, or rather forcibly, attempting to cultivate rice (a crop inherently demanding high temperatures and humidity) in that cold region. In our nation of Japan today, I believed there existed no locality—regardless of how cold and damp the year—where grasses could not grow. Were one to focus on raising goats or sheep around these grasses, would this not splendidly suffice for both clothing and sustenance?
In short, if I might put it thusly, the Tohoku famine—I went so far as to assert that it constituted a form of “artificial famine.”

In essence, land use requires consulting the land on one hand and listening to the crops or livestock on the other, then maintaining both in their most harmonious state—or to rephrase, in a form closest to that natural condition.
More fundamentally, it involves greening the terrain there—rendering it as densely verdant as possible.
If addressing mountains, I maintain we should cultivate trees while further promoting the flourishing of undergrowth and ground cover in such fashion.
Admittedly, this already constitutes an endeavor to which you all—particularly through your day-and-night devoted labors—are committed, and from this perspective too, erosion control works represent a truly meaningful and noble undertaking. Yet it is precisely this approach that I unshakably believe we must adopt.

Rain, snow, wind, cold—and indeed, mountains and rivers—there can be nothing inherently bad within nature itself. Good and evil are matters solely of the human realm. “The water that drowns is also the water that lifts”—this is how it must be understood.

From this perspective, we must consider that not a single tree or stone should be carelessly discarded. In cases such as our Shinshu region’s major industry of summer-autumn sericulture, there appear to be many instances where it is not so much differing as being made to differ. In short, that is an insect that requires coolness. Therefore, instances where excellent rearing conditions are achieved by improving ventilation or at most establishing shade trees—naturally while considering airflow and further cultivating such trees—are so numerous as to be beyond enumeration. Regarding this matter, as I have already published a portion of my humble views in the Nagano Prefecture Agricultural Association Bulletin in previous years, I wish to keep today’s explanation concise.

As one of the significant—indeed pivotal—causes behind the flourishing sericulture in Ina Valley, I firmly believe that its status as a region where winds blow through unimpeded must not be overlooked; this must not be ignored.
Due to these winds, silkworms—particularly summer-autumn varieties—prove relatively easy to raise. While one must naturally devise methods to channel this beneficial airflow into rearing chambers, more importantly, those fearsome parasitic maggot flies lay fewer eggs on mulberry leaves in wind-swept fields. Furthermore, consistent moderate winds fortify the leaves themselves and enhance their nutritional value—thus demonstrating wind’s truly profound efficacy.
Excessive winds do pose challenges, yet as you will readily appreciate upon reflection, preventing such gusts through measures like windbreak forests incurs minimal expense. By contrast, artificially generating such winds day and night would demand extraordinary financial resources.

The same holds true for snow.
Even today, this practice continues in the Kaitamura area of Kiso, where they utilize the snow there for bleaching hemp cloth, while in the Iiyama region, they employ that same snow to bleach kozo bark—the raw material for paper.
That beautiful and durable paper’s production is indeed in part a gift of this snow.

The dazzlingly beautiful tulip fields that spread across the alluvial lands along the lower reaches of the Shinano River in April and May are indeed an effect of that region’s heavy snowfall.
Setting aside the Shinetsu border region, even here in Nagano—where snowfall is relatively light—tulips cultivated in shaded locations snow-covered throughout winter grow particularly vigorously and produce beautiful flowers without fail. Furthermore, in years of exceptional snowfall like this one, while parent bamboo unfortunately suffered frost damage, bamboo shoots conversely emerged in unusual abundance—examples of which I have observed and heard about from various quarters. All these phenomena must be attributed to the work of snow.
However, if one were to deliberately make this snow fall, that would indeed be a massive undertaking and, of course, impossible.

This applies to both objects and people, but focusing solely on one aspect—and particularly the harmful aspect, that is, only the shortcomings—is said to be a worker’s mentality. We must strive to recognize its strengths as much as possible and enable them to be fully utilized, always maintaining what is human-like—or to rephrase—a “commander’s disposition.”

Whether cultivating crops or raising livestock, extending from industry to commerce—nay, even to your esteemed field of civil engineering—the most meaningful regional development lies in investigating the local environment on one hand and thoroughly studying the nature of those crops, livestock, manufactured goods, and earthworks on the other, then selecting and incorporating elements that harmonize and blend these two aspects. To rephrase, it means shaping them into forms closest to nature. It is only by considering ourselves humans as playing the straightforward role of a "catalyst" that we may truly fulfill our role as humans—that is to say, our divine mandate—as I both think and firmly believe.

In short, it is not a matter of conquering nature.
Moreover, it is of course not something that can be conquered.
No—on the contrary, it is precisely this ideology of "vitalizing nature" that I wish to assert as being of utmost importance.
And thus, this will in time become our truly robust “pathway for human existence.”
Moreover, to truly vitalize this—or in our anthropocentric parlance, to “utilize” it—we must consult great nature in all matters, that is to say, adapt and collaborate with it; this I believe must be regarded as the foundational principle from the very origin.

The pursuit of scientific research is by no means for discovering weapons to conquer nature; rather, it must be an endeavor to seek paths of adaptation to nature—this is what I firmly believe.
“The development of regions must also stem from a proper understanding of their natural environments”—this is the motto I have always maintained.
In recent years, the concept of “self-reliance” has been encouraged and promoted.
While this is undoubtedly commendable, I am convinced that such self-reliance can only be achieved when there exists a strong aspiration for ‘natural power revitalization’ at its very foundation.

I, taking this opportunity of having met you all today, seek the support of this entire assembly so that we humanity may stand with great nature as our foundation in all endeavors; may we always consult nature and act in obedience to divine will—that is, nature itself—thus vitalizing nature while enabling humanity to grow greater still; or to rephrase further, I unceasingly yearn for a future where humanity becomes both greater and happier through truly embodying the mindset of “unity of god and humanity.”

Finally, I have heard that Napoleon—renowned worldwide as a heroic figure whom all surely know, and who himself is said to have declared, “The word ‘impossible’ does not exist in my dictionary”—left behind words to this effect: “All illnesses arise from our failure to humbly comply with nature; thus, once afflicted, one must limit oneself to obediently following nature.” If even Napoleon had been submissive to great nature—as indeed he should have been, and as we all must be—this speaks volumes.
Yet in truth, I find myself compelled to nod in agreement at the notion that even Napoleon’s greatness was but a reflection—a daily and quiet possession of nature’s true magnificence as his underlying foundation.
I would like to append these matters here for your reference.

I presented a truly disjointed and long-winded talk.
I found myself utterly unable to contain my profound embarrassment.
Nevertheless, despite this, I expressed my deepest gratitude for your kind attention over such an extended period and stepped down from this podium.

Afterword

This was my first time standing at the podium after my illness, coupled with this gathering not being particularly research-oriented in nature—and what particularly concerned me was that whether they were prefectural office officials, local branch office personnel, or municipal office representatives, all attendees were primarily leaders in their respective positions—even though my allotted time was merely an hour and a half, further complicated by Dr. Satō Ringaku having already spoken for over an hour before me—I feared attendees might leave midway through my lecture or engage in side conversations.

Therefore, while proceeding with his humble talk with due attention to this matter, about an hour had passed, yet fortunately no such signs were visible.
As he proceeded with his talk, grateful for this development, a small paper was passed from the executives’ seats nearby.
When he looked, it read: “You may extend your talk by thirty minutes or even an hour beyond the scheduled time—please present your thoughts thoroughly.”
Now, if this was indeed a result of having received some measure of resonance from the audience, he felt profoundly grateful and his vigor multiplied severalfold. However, as he had already prepared a manuscript and lacked the capacity to make sudden alterations, he simply presented the planned matters in a somewhat more leisurely manner before withdrawing to the waiting room.

In the waiting room only the Chairman, Vice-Chairman, and three or four executives had gathered; their discussion—centered on what I had just presented in the hall—gradually deepened into more concrete, practical, and region-specific matters until growing interest led them to embark on a field visit observing both persimmon trees' wind-shaped forms in Fukushima Town’s outskirts (caused by summer’s prevailing winds) and *sugi-goke* (cedar moss) growing on their trunks from atmospheric humidity that I had surveyed pre-lecture; despite all being exceptionally busy that day these individuals graciously spared valuable time to stand together outdoors with us.

Moreover, that was not all.
In the end, the Chairman—who in his esteemed hometown served concurrently as both village mayor and agricultural association president—had even come to accept the weighty responsibility of engaging in conducting a field survey of the village’s regional characteristics.

Although it had been an exceedingly crude lecture, it had indeed managed to gain at least some degree of resonance from the executives.

However, I recall that about a month later, an executive from the so-called Municipal Officials Committee—comprising Suwa District where I then resided and Okaya City within it—came to visit me, stating: “Though I am one who directly heard your address at the recent Kiso assembly, we wish for all our officials—not merely ourselves—to hear such discourse.” Accordingly, I received a notice that read: “As there will fortunately be a general meeting of those members this time, you should attend it.”

However, fortunately, this further led to him being granted an opportunity—through the kindness of a certain village mayor who had attended that officials’ general meeting—to participate in a joint gathering of his village’s youth association and agricultural association.

Naturally, as the subject matter ranged from encompassing all of Shinshu to all of Suwa or at times merely a single town or village, he resolved to provide as many practical examples—that is, instances directly observable or examinable by the attendees themselves at each occasion—as possible according to the scope’s breadth or narrowness, while altering the lecture topic each time accordingly. Yet regarding the core of fulfilling his mission—or to rephrase, “enhancing and disseminating recognition and understanding of regional characteristics”—there was not an iota of difference.

In short, as could be inferred from the lecture outlines presented above, he had not presented any particularly novel perspectives or ideas.
That what he considered an utterly ordinary presentation—one that could even be deemed mundane depending on perspective—nonetheless resonated with so many people sufficiently revealed how this field had unfortunately tended to be particularly neglected in recent social trends, or indeed remained forgotten even now.
This would not do.
Though his abilities were limited, he must press forward to advocate this more widely and deeply.
I keenly feel the gravity and urgency of this mission; however, my current ailing body simply will not permit it.
Therefore, while fully aware of its considerable inadequacies, he decided here once again to present the outlines of his humble lectures from that time and seek broader critique and correction.