Pathway to Japanese Literature

Today was said to be the age of science.

Space rockets soared, and computers controlled them.
Nuclear generators were installed on two-thousand-meter-thick ice at the North Pole; viruses endowed with life were extracted as crystals—truly, this was the age of science.

However, despite living in a world where “science, science” had been so clamored about, when asked “What is science?”, most people gave extremely vague answers.
Rockets, computers, and nuclear power were all things created by science; they could not easily be called science itself.

"It would be better to say that science is a discipline that treats things existing in nature as things and examines their essence along with the regularities—that is, laws—found among various phenomena."
However，even this would likely have been met with confusion，people saying they didn’t quite grasp what it was about.
Not understanding was closer to the truth，for if one came to feel they comprehended through such abstract terms，that was precisely where the problem lay.

Therefore, let me present an example and attempt an explanation.

Suppose there was a river here.
Various people came to visit this riverbank.
Someone said: “This flow isn’t too fast—it’s a good river.”
He thought: “If we build a factory around here and utilize boat transport—that would be quite convenient.”
This person was a businessman who viewed the river from a profit-driven perspective.

Another person stood on the riverbank, gazed at the surrounding scenery, and said, “Ah, what a beautiful view. The color of the water over there is magnificent.” This person was a painter and viewed the river from an aesthetic perspective.

Another person stood on the riverbank for a while, then crouched down and dipped their fingertips into the water.
And recalled playing in a backyard stream during childhood.
They murmured to themselves, "There probably aren’t any shrimp left in that river anymore either."

This person was a poet and thus viewed the river through a poetic lens.

However, there were also people who viewed things completely differently from these individuals.
How much water flowed through this river in one minute?
How much did the flow speed differ between surface and bottom?
Could there have been places in those deep areas where water did not move at all along the riverbed?
In that shallow stretch，the sand on its bed was likely being washed away considerably.
Such a person was a scientist and viewed this river scientifically.

When people speak of something being "scientific" or refer to "science," it’s not at all something difficult.
It is simply a matter of treating the river as a river and observing its state as thoroughly as possible, without personal bias.

However, people who want to understand things will not be satisfied with just this.
To truly understand things, one must observe not only the things themselves but also their movements or functions.
In science, such movements and functions are referred to as phenomena.
In the current example, water is a thing, and its flow is a phenomenon.
Putting this into words, it could be said that science begins with observing the nature of things and the reality of phenomena.

When considering both essence and phenomena, examining only a portion proved insufficient. Comprehensive observation became necessary. To mistake an elephant’s trunk for the entire elephant was an error born of partial viewing. Similarly, observing the trunk solely in its hanging state left its full functionality misunderstood.

Regarding rivers, measuring flow speed at midstream alone offered inadequate data. Measurements across the entire width revealed faster currents at the center and slower ones near the banks. Depth measurements further showed progressive deceleration toward the riverbed. Repeated measurements across varying times and locations consistently yielded these patterns. Through such observations emerged discernible regularities in river flow—regularities we designate as laws.

However, this regularity was not confined solely to the phenomenon of flow itself. A relationship existed between water's movement and distinct phenomena like the erosion of riverbanks and beds.

Natural rivers were never perfectly straight. They all twisted and turned in what we call meandering. This meandering arose from regularities between flow velocity and erosion that caused rivers to assume such shapes through their own dynamics.

In Japan, the Ishikari River of Hokkaido often served as an example of this meandering, while globally, Alaska's Yukon River stood as the foremost instance. The vision of a great river writhing magnificently through endless wilderness far from human habitation powerfully conveyed nature's primordial force.

In nature, there were no straight rivers; if such things existed, they had to be artificially created.
The notion that there existed beings on Mars—so-called Martians—more advanced than humans on Earth had persisted for some time.
It all began when an astronomer proposed that numerous straight lines were visible on Mars' surface.

If such straight features existed, they could not be natural formations but must have been artificial constructs.
They were likely canals.
Moreover, if visible from Earth, they must have been colossal waterways.
If they could execute such grand civil engineering projects, these beings would need to surpass human capabilities.
Advanced organisms would presumably possess large heads to accommodate developed brains.
Since they would presumably rely entirely on machinery, their limbs might have atrophied.
Presuming their diet consisted solely of easily digestible, nutrient-dense foods, their digestive systems would likely be simplified.
Consequently, their abdomens wouldn't require the robust cylindrical form characteristic of Earth humans.
Having followed this chain of reasoning, scientists conceived of the creatures called Martians.

In this way, [the story] became embellished with various exaggerations and grew more inflated, but when traced back to its origin, it was simply a matter of having seen straight lines.
The lines themselves also became doubtful in subsequent observations.
Even so, the fact that the sole basis for Martians was a single drawing of Mars is a rather amusing story.

Knowledge of popular science could sometimes be fiction beyond fiction itself.
Within the current boom of space travel fantasies, similar tendencies were likely at play.

Returning to earthly matters, careful observation of a river bend would always reveal swifter currents near the outer bank compared to the inner bank.
This followed the same principle as runners on an athletic track—those in outer lanes had to move faster to cover their longer path.

Now，water that flowed quickly was usually muddy.
During floods，it was invariably a torrent of muddy water.
This was because fast-flowing water carried soil and mud.
In mountain valleys，clear，fast-flowing streams were often seen，but this was because the soil and mud on the riverbed had already been completely washed away，leaving no sediment to be carried.

However，if you collected muddy water and let it stand，the soil and mud settled to the bottom，and the water became clear.
Of course，this occurred when the flow stopped，but even when it slowed，a portion of the soil and mud settled.
Thus，the river eroded the riverbed where the flow was fast and deposited sediment where it had slowed.

At a river bend, where the flow along the outer curve accelerates, both the bank and riverbed become prone to erosion.
The bank is particularly prone to erosion because the flow collides directly against it.
However, on the inner side, because the flow is slow, sediment carried from upstream accumulates.
As a result, the inner side of the curve is gradually filled in, while the outer side is eroded away.
Therefore, at a river bend, the curve gradually develops on its own.

Natural rivers meander slightly from their very inception.
There exists no terrain where a perfectly straight river can form.
However, for the reasons just described, these meanders gradually develop on their own.
Therefore, all the rivers we see today are meandering.
This occurs due to the regularity existing between two phenomena: flow velocity and erosion.
In this way, there exists regularity among various phenomena, and that is precisely what constitutes a scientific law.

Since rivers possess these properties, if any of you are considering purchasing land along a river, it would be advisable to buy property on the inner curve—that is, the side protruding toward the river. Over several years, the land will gradually expand. If, conversely, you purchase land on the outer curve, it will become considerably narrower by your grandchildren’s generation, resulting in a loss.

Suppose someone stands on the riverbank observing the river’s form.
If they hit upon this principle of meandering and come to an understanding alone—thinking Ah, so that’s how it works—then they are a scientist.
Now if they were to think “Then it would be better to buy the inner land,” they would instantly transform into a businessperson.

Furthermore if while studying the river’s flow they pause to look around and think Ah what a beautiful view then it becomes evident that science and art coexist.
If they also consider land prices in the process commerce too becomes part of the equation.

Science is one aspect of human intellectual activity; it does not conflict or contradict other spheres of activity such as art or profit-making.
Moreover, science does not dominate other intellectual activities.
When incorporating science into life, it is necessary to fully understand this.

If one does not understand "what science is," they may either blindly revere science or, conversely, unjustly underestimate it.
In this day and age, it might be argued that there could be no one who disregards science.
However, there are indeed many such people, and politicians who bandy about terms like “scientific advancement” and “scientific governance” while making no effort to actually use science would be prime examples of this.

＊

As stated earlier, science is not merely about understanding the essence of things; it is a discipline that observes their movements—that is, phenomena—and further investigates the regularities existing among various phenomena.

This is exactly as stated and is not incorrect.
However, there is one point that should be noted here.
When I spoke of knowing essence and phenomena, I did not mean knowing them in their entirety.
If science were indeed such a thing, it would become far too powerful a force.

Humans, in the sense that they exist within the natural world, are entities, and mental functions ultimately amount to phenomena.
If science were to fully elucidate the true nature of both substance and phenomena, then at the ultimate stage of its development, science would become omnipotent.
If that were the case, human life in its entirety would come to be governed by science—a truly terrifying prospect.
However, there is no need for that concern.

Science can create hydrogen bombs capable of annihilating a million people in an instant.
In that sense, it is an immensely powerful force.
However, even if all the intelligence of modern science were gathered, it cannot capture the heart of a single lover.
In that sense, it is utterly powerless.

Science, in this way, intertwines both formidable power and inherent limitations.
The reason for this is that science does not encompass all natural phenomena—it is a discipline that deals only with certain aspects of them.
Here, and henceforth, the term “natural phenomena” is used in a broad sense that includes humans.

Science possesses both remarkably powerful and surprisingly fragile aspects, yet typically only its strengths tend to capture public attention. And because its fragile aspects are overlooked, science tends to be perceived as omnipotent.

There will undoubtedly be objections to this point.
When it comes to human mental functions such as capturing a lover’s heart, that may indeed be the case.
However, regarding natural phenomena, science constitutes an immensely powerful force, and there exists the view that any problem ought to be solvable through scientific means.

This issue becomes malleable depending on how one interprets the meaning of “ought,” but in reality, natural phenomena contain countless problems that remain unsolvable or pose extreme difficulty.
A prime example lies in America’s first manned rocket.
Having launched a human beyond Earth’s atmosphere and safely retrieved them, this stood as a grand experiment that amply demonstrated science’s formidable power.
Yet there was one notable aspect to this experiment.
Specifically, the inaugural launch had been aborted mid-process due to adverse weather conditions.

All launch preparations had been completed, and they finally commenced the final countdown. Inside the capsule, Commander Shepard must have steeled his resolve and waited intently second by second. However, just before launch, signs of worsening weather appeared, so the launch was abruptly canceled. This cancellation proved fortunate when fifteen to twenty minutes later, a violent thunderstorm struck, plunging everything into severe weather conditions with roaring thunder.

This point was particularly intriguing—while they could launch a manned rocket, they couldn’t forecast the weather just a few hours later.
Ultimately, they had to start over from scratch: replacing the fuel, readjusting the machinery, waiting for the weather to clear—and thus succeeded in the second launch.

Since the second attempt succeeded, there may be those who say, “Isn’t that good enough?”
However, this act of starting over was an enormous undertaking.
Part of the fuel used liquid oxygen—commonly called liquid air—which has a boiling point of minus 183 degrees Celsius.
As a result, the rocket body cooled down completely, leaving it covered in frost after removal.
They had to warm it up, thoroughly dry it, and then refill it—a monumental task indeed.
It also required significant time.
Once aborted, it took two days until the second attempt—about what one would expect.
This was all the more remarkable considering thousands of people had worked nearly around the clock for several days on the initial preparations.

If that thunderstorm could have been forecast a day or half a day earlier, such waste could have been avoided. Therefore, it should be understood that they did not fail to make the forecast at that time—they were unable to do so. In fact, current weather forecasting can make fairly accurate predictions—such as approximately when a typhoon will arrive in which region or that southern Kanto will have rain tomorrow.

However, accurately forecasting the weather at a specific time and location remains extremely difficult.
Especially in cases such as thunderstorms or hail, it is virtually impossible.
After hail passes through an area, one field often lies devastated while its neighboring field remains completely unharmed.
Current science cannot predict which fields will be damaged in such situations.

Science can launch humans into space and safely return them.
This demonstrates its powerful aspect.
Yet it cannot forecast weather conditions at a launch site even half a day in advance.
This reveals its vulnerable aspect.
When practically applied, these two facets of science inevitably become intertwined.

To this as well, there may be those who harbor doubts.
In this experiment, the recovery of the manned rocket constituted nearly the entirety of its achievement, while weather forecasting likely contributed no more than about one millionth to this success.
As for the weather, if conditions were unfavorable, one could simply wait—it hardly warranted consideration as an issue.
Such opinions would undoubtedly arise.
However, this point required consideration one step further.

In this case, while it was fortunate that the capsule was safely recovered in the second attempt, had there been even a slight meteorological anomaly at the recovery site, it would have been unclear what might have transpired.
For instance, let us assume that until the capsule had been retrieved by helicopter, the crew member inside remained unharmed.
Under those conditions, one could say the manned rocket experiment was 99.99... percent successful.

However, let us suppose that during the final transport of the capsule onto the warship, a sudden gust of wind caused the helicopter to sway unsteadily, and the capsule clanged against the warship’s hull.
It could not be definitively stated that there was absolutely no possibility of the crew member inside suffering a concussion and dying from the impact.
If such a thing had occurred, this experiment would ultimately have been deemed a failure in its outcome.
No matter how excellent a rocket’s performance might have been, if localized weather forecasting could not have been achieved, the entire endeavor would have lost its significance.

America reportedly spent an astronomical sum of ninety billion yen on this manned rocket, yet even this grand experiment of the century could have failed in its final moment. When considered in this way, even such modest problems as weather forecasting specifying time and location take on significant importance.

However, science in such fields makes little progress.
Indeed, the first launch was canceled precisely because of this.
Now then, why science in such fields has failed to progress—there are two reasons for this.

First, localized weather forecasting is cited as being extremely difficult.
In principle, it is more difficult than rockets.
It may sound quite outlandish, but in the case of rockets, the principle itself is simple.
As for that point, we will explain it in detail later.
Weather forecasting that specifies time and location—as previously explained with the hail example—possesses discontinuities and experiences intense fluctuations, making it extremely difficult to capture any single variation.

Second, when it comes to weather conditions for endeavors like manned rockets, there’s an advantage in being able to avoid problems through postponement. By waiting for calm weather before acting, one could achieve objectives without confronting such issues. With phenomena like hail damage—where evasion isn’t possible—people resign themselves to these rare occurrences.

This ability to sidestep issues through delay reveals an intriguing facet: modern science has evolved precisely by cherry-picking from natural phenomena those it can competently handle through its methodologies. This dynamic explains why science wields immense power in certain domains while remaining fragile in others.

*

The question of whether phenomena can or cannot be addressed by current scientific approaches carries two distinct implications.
In cases where phenomena are extremely complex and occur only rarely, they can be resolved by constructing massive facilities and investing enormous amounts of money, but there are also instances where this is not done because it is not deemed worth the effort.

However, beyond these, there also exist types of problems that fundamentally cannot become objects of science or are inherently difficult to address.
This aspect proves more crucial when considering the essence of science.
Since science is ultimately a product of the human brain, examining how the mind functions becomes necessary when contemplating this issue.

While the workings of the human mind are multifaceted and diverse, the modes of thought employed in science remain limited to only a few.
Among these, there are three fundamental ones: causality, analysis and synthesis, and statistical consideration.
It may seem like an exceedingly complex matter, but in plain terms, it can be summarized as follows.

Let us begin by explaining causality.

We frequently use expressions like "X happened because of Y" in daily life.
The first element is what we call the cause, and the latter element is the effect.
When there exists something—that is to say, a result—we consider its cause.
A teacup breaks because it is dropped.
Day follows night and returns again because the Earth rotates.
This manner of thought—that where there is a cause, a result emerges—is termed causality.
It is also known as the law of cause and effect.

Next is the method of analysis and synthesis; this too constitutes a mode of thought we employ constantly in daily life.
Things in the natural world are composed of various combinations of properties.
If observed all at once, one cannot comprehend what they entail; therefore, we separate and examine each property individually.

For example, suppose there were a single pot here: first examining its shape, then its weight, followed by its glaze, its color—separating each property in this manner and investigating them individually—this constitutes analysis.
By compiling the knowledge obtained through this analysis—that is to say, through synthesis—we take this synthesized whole to represent the pot’s overall properties.
This is analysis and synthesis.

If that's all there is to it, doesn't everyone already know this perfectly well?
There's no need to use such cumbersome terms as analysis and synthesis.
I imagine such protests would inevitably arise—but this itself proves how thoroughly your minds have been scientized.
Within natural phenomena exist those amenable to this method of analysis and synthesis, and those resistant to it.
Of these, only the applicable phenomena become subjects for modern science.

Finally, statistical consideration—this too was not complicated.
Trains transported vast numbers of people daily.
Occasionally they would run someone over.
Yet no one claimed trains were machines for crushing people.
A train's function lay in transporting people ninety-nine point ninety-nine... percent of the time.
Thus by disregarding an error margin of about one in a million, people declared trains to be transportation machines.
This practice of defining a thing's essential nature through its predominant characteristics was what we called statistical consideration.

Scientific laws all describe predominant properties; strictly speaking, they possess only statistical significance.
Within scientific truth, there exists no perfect and flawless truth.
They invariably involve some margin of error, and the smaller this error is, the greater the scientific value of the law.

However, no matter how minuscule the error may be, when considering the error itself, it remains fundamentally a deviation from the law.
In such individual instances within the whole, statistics holds no meaning.
Therefore, science based on statistics cannot solve such problems.
There exists a limitation here as well, and this holds significant meaning when discussing the relationship between science and religion.

As has become clear from the above, science deals only with those natural phenomena to which concepts such as causality, analysis and synthesis, and statistical consideration apply.
Therefore, science may prove extremely powerful in addressing certain problems while remaining entirely powerless in others.

Some of you may harbor a question at this juncture. To take causality as a mode of thought is absurd. The question here is this: since it is precisely through causes that effects arise, doesn’t the law of cause and effect exist in nature independently of human involvement? You may harbor similar doubts regarding analysis and synthesis or statistical consideration.

However, such doubts arise precisely because your way of thinking has become thoroughly assimilated to modern scientific modes of thought.
Upon careful reflection, you will recognize that these all constitute patterns of thinking residing within the human mind; concerning this matter, let us begin by scrutinizing causality.

*
When we speak of cause and effect, it is often thought that there first exists a cause from which an effect subsequently arises.
However, that is mistaken.
From among the various phenomena present in nature, when we extract two distinct phenomena and consider them through the framework of cause and effect—that is, when the phenomena are well explained or new knowledge is obtained—we designate one as the cause and the other as the effect.
This framework exists within the human mind; it does not reside in nature itself.

To illustrate this point, let us consider a somewhat extreme example.

Because the dog was barking too much, someone threw a stone at it.
But suppose the stone missed and struck the glass window instead, breaking it.
In such cases, people often argue that the dog’s barking was the cause and the glass shattering was the result.
Yet upon closer examination, this reasoning proves rather peculiar.

Even if the dog had barked, this incident would never have occurred had someone not thrown the stone.
Thus, the true cause lies in the act of throwing.
However, had the stone not struck the glass window, it would not have broken.
This makes striking the glass appear as the cause.
But even if it had hit, had the stone’s impact force been weaker, the glass would have remained intact.

This then raises the question of where the cause lies, but to clarify this point, one must first understand what kind of phenomenon occurs when a stone strikes and breaks glass.
First, regarding the phenomenon of breaking: as long as the molecules constituting the glass remain bonded to one another, it maintains its integrity as a single pane of glass.
However, when an external force acts upon it and severs the intermolecular attractive forces, the glass breaks at that point.

When a stone struck glass, the glass underwent deformation.
Put simply, it momentarily became slightly concave.
Most solids possessed elasticity; when an external force was applied, they became slightly concave.
It was the same as with a rubber ball, differing only in the smaller degree to which it became concave.
The act of becoming concave—that is, undergoing deformation—was the displacement of the molecules constituting the glass from their normal positions.

The intermolecular attractive force has a certain fixed strength.
Thus, even when an external force is applied, as long as it does not reach this strength, the molecules merely shift from their normal positions.
In other words, the glass remains deformed but does not break.

Thus, the true cause lies in imparting sufficient strain to break the glass.
“Strain sufficient to cause breaking” refers to molecules being pulled apart—in other words, breaking.
Thus, if we pursue this line of reasoning to its logical conclusion, we find that the breaking itself becomes the cause of the breaking.
Cause and effect end up being two sides of the same phenomenon.

When phrased this way, some readers might feel they're being hoodwinked.
One might counter that since someone actually threw a stone because the dog barked, surely the barking must be considered the cause.
But following that logic, we could infinitely regress through causes—the dog's ownership being the cause, the owner's existence being the cause, that owner's mother giving birth being the cause.
Thus this reasoning culminates in arguing that life's emergence on Earth caused this particular window's shattering.

However, surely no one would seriously make such an argument. Admittedly, there are those who rush to assign blame—"It's so-and-so's fault" or "It's his fault"—whenever something occurs, but such individuals might be somewhat questionable. As this makes clear, cause and effect are not phenomena that exist separately in nature, connected by a single thread. It means humans think about things by establishing cause-effect sequences.

When this ordering yields new knowledge, we say causality applies; when it does not, we simply say it does not.
The old Japanese comic tale—"If the wind blows, the bucket shop prospers"—is a parable that skillfully illustrates this principle.
Even when systematically analyzing both the wind's blowing and the bucket shop's prosperity, we gain no new knowledge.
In such cases, it is concluded that no causal relationship exists.

Since some might not know the comic tale of *the wind and the bucket shop*, I added a brief explanation for clarity's sake. When the wind blew, dust rose. When dust rose, many people developed eye problems as a result. Then the number of people who went blind increased. Blind people became shamisen players or masseurs. Therefore, many shamisens were needed. As shamisen bodies used cat pelts, cats were killed in large numbers. Then mice multiplied and gnawed on buckets. That was how the bucket shop prospered.

However, among natural phenomena there were many cases where organizing them through causality yielded useful knowledge.
For example, regarding weather we had various experiences.
Some days it rained and some days the weather was fine.
When measuring atmospheric pressure some days it was high and some days was low.
Even if one had a great deal of such knowledge it was neither useful nor did it constitute science.

However, when one collected and organized such knowledge, in most cases the weather would worsen when a low-pressure system approached.
Therefore, one concluded that the weather worsened because a low-pressure system approached.
In this case, when considering the two phenomena of a low-pressure system and the weather in terms of causality, new knowledge could be obtained.
In other words, causality was applied.
Such phenomena could become objects of scientific study, and it was on this basis that meteorology became established.

Thinking of things in terms of cause and effect is not something that began with the advent of science.
This represents one of humanity’s inherent cognitive patterns—science has merely systematized it.
"The sins of the father are visited upon the son" existed as a concept long before modern scientific methodology reached Japan.
When misfortune occurred, people would interpret it as an effect and attribute its cause to ancestral misdeeds.

In this way, causal thinking was a more universal cognitive function predating science.
However, when incorporating it into science, it took on a somewhat limited form.
Science assumed there were no entities too minuscule or feeble to be measured.
One could assert that something *should* exist, but to claim it *did* exist required that it be measurable.
Therefore, when applying causality in science, the phenomena corresponding to both cause and effect had to be measurable.

Since this condition holds significant meaning, I shall discuss it in detail in the next chapter.

Setting that matter aside as a separate issue, in our present age, causal thinking has become thoroughly ingrained in all minds.
To consider that “this follows from that” seems natural—indeed, many believe mental activity cannot exist without this “because.”
Yet this constitutes falling unwittingly into an illusion shaped by science’s influence.
In truth, countless mental operations exist where “because” finds no foothold.

Here was a young man who had come to like a certain young lady.
In such cases, his mind became highly active, but within it, there was typically no "because"—indeed, this absence was proper.

"Statements like 'I like her because her family is wealthy' or 'I like him because his father is a company president' were beyond consideration," he observed, "but even in somewhat purer cases, saying 'I like her because she's beautiful' remained a rather empty declaration."
Beauty was a combination of various elements—the nose's height being so many centimeters and millimeters, the eyes' vertical-to-horizontal ratio being something like one-point-something, their geometric arrangement being such-and-such, and the colors corresponding to certain numbers on the Ostwald color chart.
Thus, saying "I like her because she's beautiful" amounted to claiming one liked her because of how those elements were combined.

In truth, such things were not the case; he simply liked her.
There remained no room for "because" to intrude.
The declaration "I like her because she’s beautiful" amounted to coy pretense—in reality, no causal "because" existed at all.

"This 'due to such-and-such' reasoning constitutes science’s most vital intellectual method."
Thus science could never infiltrate mental processes requiring no such framework.
Therefore, however far science might progress, one need never fear its dominion over these matters.

That said, there was not entirely no cause for concern.
This was the case when humans were the ones undergoing transformation.
If the feeling of “simply liking something” were to vanish from all human minds, and people came to perceive affection only through “because of such-and-such” in every instance, the day would come when humans became enslaved to science.
We must not forget that the problem lay not with science itself, but with humanity.

This was not limited solely to instances of "liking."
The statement "I dislike..." constituted nothing more than a form of liking bearing a minus sign, existing within the same conceptual dimension.
Thus, even when one disliked something, it was not due to any particular reasons—one simply disliked it.

Newspapers often have advice columns for household matters, but their answers tend to be uninteresting.
In most cases, even though they simply dislike something, they try to tack on “because of such-and-such,” which renders their answers devoid of appeal.

In the human mind, there exists a chord that resonates keenly when it encounters truth.
When that chord vibrates, one senses true depth.
To fabricated tales—no matter how artfully constructed—this chord remains inert.
That is why they prove unsatisfying.
Even among advice columns, genuinely compelling responses exist, though they are scarce.
Should all humanity come to resonate with that hollow approach, the day would dawn when humankind becomes subservient to science.

All hail science.

＊

Deep in the mountains lay a beautiful basin. The surrounding peaks were shrouded in dense primeval forests, while within the basin itself, lush green pasture grass grew thickly, like a woolen blanket spread across the land.
Blessed with abundant water, a stream like molten crystal meandered gently through this sea of pasture grass.
The climate too left nothing to desire; when early spring arrived, the snow melted swiftly, and the sun sparkled brilliantly upon this stream.

The Peach Blossom Spring of Wuling from Chinese legend must have been a place like this.
There, both the people and their livestock all lived happily.
Yet there was one strange thing about this paradise.
It was that cows simply would not thrive in this land.
Wanting somehow to establish dairy farming, they repeatedly brought in sturdy healthy cattle, but within months the animals would gradually weaken and ultimately die.

They tried every possible means, but the cows simply would not thrive.
It wasn’t due to poor climate either.
Nor could it be considered that the pasture grass was to blame.
In a place where excellent pasture grass grew, horses and sheep actually thrived remarkably well.
As a precaution, they had sent the pasture grass to the university for examination, and it came back with a certificate attesting to its excellent nutritional value.

And so the villagers, completely worn out, finally decided to abandon cattle farming.
However, just to be thorough, when they looked into various things from the past, they found one suggestive clue.
It was that long ago, there had been a hot-tempered village headman in this village who had killed cows brought from outside using cruel methods—a record of this had emerged.
It was likely that the vengeful spirits of those cows had cursed the land, causing cattle to cease thriving there afterward.
Now that they understood the reason, the villagers accepted this explanation and abandoned dairy farming altogether.

Even within the minds of these villagers, there properly existed a concept of causality.
Since there was the result that cows did not thrive, they considered various causes.
However, it was found that the cause lay neither in the climate, the pasture grass, nor the water.
At this point emerged what could be considered a cause—the vengeful spirits of cattle—and thus by taking this as the cause, they arrived at a provisional resolution to the problem.

However, this naive causality of the villagers differed slightly from the causality employed in science.
As mentioned earlier, in the causality of the scientific world, both the cause and the effect must be observable.
The result of cows dying was an obvious fact that required no observation.
However, the vengeful spirits that were considered the cause cannot be measured through observation.
Therefore, this conclusion conforms to causality in the broad sense but does not constitute science.
It is not that vengeful spirits are unscientific because they are vengeful spirits, but rather that attributing the cause to something beyond observation or measurement is what makes it unscientific.

However, even though there were no other conceivable causes, the result of cows failing to thrive undeniably existed.
This was a fact.
As for how to explain this fact scientifically, it proved simple.
"There must be some cause we don't know"—this alone sufficed.
Or rather, there had been no better way to explain it.
Attempting to force scientific-sounding rationalizations only rendered matters unscientific.

This being an interesting problem worth deeper examination, we needed first to reorganize our understanding of "cause" and "effect."
Earlier I had stated that nature contains no inherent causes or effects themselves.
On that point there could be no mistake.

However, in nature there exist numerous instances where arranging two phenomena in causal sequence clarifies their relationship.
In this book, we shall designate one as "cause" and the other as "effect" in such cases.
We define this process of aligning both to derive new knowledge as being able to "handle them causally."

When discussing science, one must necessarily become familiar with several technical terms.
This parallels how one needs to understand phrases like “filleting into three pieces” or “stir-frying in oil” when following culinary discussions.
Among these terms stand “infinitesimal” and “finite.”
Here I shall briefly clarify their meanings.

In physics, the term "infinitesimal" is frequently used, but this does not mean "nonexistent"; rather, it signifies something so minuscule or faint that it escapes detection.
We do not say infinitesimal quantities do not exist, but in practice, we treat them as equivalent to zero.
In contrast, things that can be measured are considered finite.
Even a trace amount on the order of one-hundredth of a milligram is considered finite if it can be measured.

Among the natural phenomena we encounter daily, there are many instances where both causes and effects remain finite.
It can be said that modern physics has been built by taking such phenomena as its subject.
There are phenomena where both the cause and effect are infinitesimal, but these cases are straightforward.
They can simply be ignored and left alone.

However, there was another troublesome phenomenon.
It was the case where the cause remained infinitesimal while the result manifested as finite.
The previous story about cattle’s vengeful spirits served as an example of this scenario.
There must have been some cause—one infinitesimal in scale—with only the result emerging in the finite form of cattle deaths.
In such cases, acknowledging ignorance constituted the most scientific explanation.

Now, regarding this tale of bovine curses—to speak truthfully—no such place actually existed in Japan.
Yet authentic instances of this nature did occur abroad.
Dr. Yamao Fumio’s book *Atomic Energy for Peaceful Use* documented one such case.
Through atomic energy’s application, this protracted enigma had finally been unraveled.
Ultra-trace elements—previously immeasurable—became quantifiable via isotope utilization, thereby resolving the longstanding puzzle.

In recent years, atomic energy research advanced, and analytical methods using isotopes emerged.
Isotopes—frequently appearing in newspapers these days—are atoms of the same element that differ in atomic mass.
I will omit an explanation of isotopes, but this new method enabled analysis of ultra-trace amounts down to one part per hundred million or even per billion.

Using this method to analyze the composition of pasture grass deemed cursed by vengeful spirits revealed cobalt deficiency in this grass.
The artificial cobalt isotope with mass number 60 emits convenient radiation levels and thus sees frequent use in such cases.
This is what newspapers often call cobalt-60.
Through research advancement using this cobalt-60, scientists uncovered something remarkably intriguing.

It was found that when cobalt content dropped below four parts per hundred million, cattle lost their appetite.
An ultra-trace amount like four parts per hundred million simply did not show up in chemical analysis.
If something did not appear even after analysis, there was no choice but to regard it as nonexistent.
That such ultra-trace amounts could be detected by cattle was truly mysterious, but since they were indeed detected, there was no help for it.
Horses appeared to be less sensitive than cattle and would eat pasture grass without cobalt without issue.
Thus, horses thrived, but cattle did not.

This was an extremely fascinating account.
When proteins, carbohydrates, and all other known nutrients were fully present, people commonly declared it to be "nutritionally complete."
However, this was mistaken.
That such nutrients were necessary went without saying—but this constituted merely a necessary condition.
It was not a sufficient condition.
The fact that these elements were required and the notion that their mere presence sufficed stood entirely apart.
What demanded caution was the attempt to regulate nature through half-baked nutritional science.
This principle applied not solely to nutritional science but to all scientific disciplines.

Issues such as movement and the maintenance of body temperature are phenomena relatively close to physicochemical phenomena.
In such problems, it is unlikely that infinitesimal quantities will bring about finite effects.
However, in cases of mental functions like appetite, it is not at all surprising that trace amounts too small to be measured could influence the entire body’s functions.

At first glance, it may seem strange that cattle possess such acute senses, yet there are indications that human senses may be even more sensitive.

Human senses are considered dull, and it is generally thought that machines are more precise.
There are such cases, but there are also instances where humans can clearly distinguish minute differences that machines or analysis cannot detect.

In Issue 59 of Kurashi no Techo, there was a discussion of research on food spoilage; in that study, the approach of investigating the onset of spoilage through odor detection strikes one as an extremely insightful idea.
This is because there are hardly any machines as sensitive as the nose or tongue.

When considering smell, if a piece of camphor were left in a room for some time, part of the camphor would sublimate and evaporate, dispersing into the indoor air.
In this case, even if one were to measure the decrease in camphor’s weight, it would likely amount to no more than about one-tenth or one-hundredth of a milligram.

That small amount of camphor vapor mixed thoroughly with the air filling an eight-tatami-mat room. If we assumed the amount of air entering the nostrils at one time to be one cubic centimeter, the quantity of camphor within it amounted to about one trillionth of a gram—a measurement no machine could ever detect. Yet humans perceived it instantaneously.

While quantitative smell research must undoubtedly yield more detailed findings, even without such specialized knowledge, this example illustrated just how sensitive the human nose was. Dogs, however, proved even more acute.

It is often said that Akashi sea bream is delicious, but no matter how thoroughly one analyzes Akashi sea bream and those from other regions, the difference will likely never be found.

In the case of cobalt in pasture grass, it was an intriguing fact that what cattle could discern could not be determined through even the most meticulous chemical analysis.
To be sure, since the mystery of the cattle's vengeful spirits had been solved through the isotope method, science remained formidable indeed.

However, there remained countless other mysteries.
Unraveling them one by one constituted science's mission, yet the day when all would be unraveled would never arrive.
This did not constitute disparagement of science.
These words extolled science in the sense that nature's mysteries were infinite and science existed precisely to pursue them ceaselessly.

*

Among educated young married women of a past era, there were those who brandished their knowledge of nutritional science with great vigor.

Those in their circle generally disdained Japanese cuisine—which enticed through color and form—and favored Western dishes high in nutritional value.
Even when a husband partial to matsutake mushrooms would plead, “Let me have matsutake just once in a while,” his appeals seldom met approval.
“Matsutake? They’re zero calories.”
“Just pricey and utterly devoid of nutritional value,” she’d retort, brushing him off.

That calories are nutritionally necessary is a scientifically proven fact.
That matsutake mushrooms have very few calories is also an established fact.
From these two facts emerged the conclusion that matsutake lack nutritional value - seemingly perfectly scientific, yet omitting the most crucial point.

However, from around that time, the term "vitamin" began gaining popularity.
When vitamin A was first marketed by RIKEN as a tuberculosis remedy, many people strained themselves to purchase this then-exorbitantly priced drug.
Though foods containing vitamin A were plentiful and far cheaper, they deliberately bought expensive versions—believing only extracted forms bottled as medicine were effective—likely due to their worship of science.
In the end, they even experienced such byproducts as vitamin A overdose symptoms.

Subsequently, it was discovered that there were dozens of types of vitamins—A, B, C…—each with different effects, and thus began the vitamin craze era. By that time, this young wife had matured considerably and began enthusiastically serving matsutake mushrooms, declaring, “They say matsutake are excellent for vitamin D supplementation.” This unperturbed quality was greatly scientific. As I have stated before, science involves viewing things as they are, free from personal bias.

The ones who rejoiced at vitamins gaining popularity were the drugstores.
Various vitamin supplements emerged like bamboo shoots after rain, and all of them sold vigorously.
Such products, whose effectiveness could not be known unless taken continuously over a long period, were a godsend for drugstores.
Among them were quite a few shoddy items, and it is said that in the early post-war years, more than half of commercially available vitamin supplements were virtually ineffective.

These vitamins all exist within natural foods.
However, when made into tablets and bottled without a label clearly stating "vitamin" on the front, people seemed convinced they wouldn't be effective.
Once processed, they tended to believe that anything could be inside as long as the label bore the word "vitamin."
In that sense, natural foods were safer—yet even this approach had its complications.

It was generally said that spinach contained vitamin A and mandarin oranges contained vitamin C.
Of course, this might generally hold true, but there were thought to be significant differences even among spinach plants depending on individual specimens.
Dr. T of Hokkaido University’s Faculty of Agriculture had conducted research on the vitamin content of alpine plants, with results that proved extremely unexpected.
Even among plants of the same species, vitamin content varied markedly depending on soil type and environmental conditions.
In Hokkaido, aconite plants grew everywhere, but only those from Zenibako and Hidaka possessed toxins potent enough to kill bears.
This difference stemmed not from plant varieties but environmental factors—knowledge the Ainu people had long held.

What was even more surprising was that vitamin content varied drastically depending on the time of collection.
Even among plants of the same variety grown in identical locations, it was said that "the differences between morning, noon, and evening were so pronounced they might as well be entirely different species."
This was why scholars with professional integrity rarely made definitive claims.

Though mandarin oranges were said to contain vitamin C, this only held true when they were fresh.
Vitamin C remained stable under acidic conditions, but reportedly diminished significantly in sweet varieties consumed after New Year's.
Sour summer oranges enjoyed an advantage here—a welcome circumstance for someone like me who appreciated their tartness.

When dozens of vitamins were identified, nutritional science truly appeared to have reached the pinnacle of its progress.
As a result, many people thought all nutritional problems had been resolved through calories and vitamins.
However, minerals now entered the picture.
It became clear that calories and vitamins alone were insufficient, and that minerals—albeit in small amounts—were absolutely necessary.
Calcium had long been recognized, but phosphorus, iron, and others also appeared to be required in surprisingly large quantities.
In American milk formulated for elderly people, a daily serving contained 800 mg of phosphorus and 16 mg of iron.
While milk seemed ideal for supplementing phosphorus and iron, American women took to enthusiastically munching raw carrots after hearing they too were rich in iron.

Because Japanese people were intelligent, when minerals became deemed necessary, various mineral supplements immediately flooded the market all at once.
This tendency was not being criticized here.
While trusting science remained worthy of encouragement, one needed to take care not to assume everything could be resolved with current knowledge alone.

Even when calories, vitamins, and minerals were all properly arranged, without appetite it amounted to nothing.
However, appetite appeared influenced by ultra-trace substances undetectable through chemical analysis.
This understanding itself had barely been gleaned from cattle studies—how many such trace substances were required or how they functioned remained entirely unknown.

Ultimately, eating as wide a variety as possible of what one considers fresh and delicious becomes the safest approach.
However, even this matter of what we consider delicious is far from straightforward.
Dr. Kikunae Ikeda’s definitive assertion—that no combination of the five traditional tastes (sweet, sour, salty, bitter, and pungent) could produce what we call deliciousness, and that this deliciousness constitutes a sixth taste—was indeed a brilliant insight.

It was from this groundbreaking discovery that Ajinomoto came into being.
While the discovery of Ajinomoto marked an epoch in culinary history, it does not mean that the question of what makes something delicious has been resolved.
Ajinomoto is sodium glutamate and constitutes the main component of umami in kombu.
Furthermore, in nature, there exist various other types of umami—such as katsuobushi and shiitake mushrooms—each distinct in flavor.
Thus, seasonings containing components such as inosinic acid sodium—the main flavor component of katsuobushi—and guanylic acid sodium—the main component of shiitake mushrooms—have been marketed.

While this certainly made flavors more complex and undeniably represented a step forward, it did not mean the problem of deliciousness had been entirely resolved by this alone. First, these chemical products were the main components of a food’s umami, but they were not the entirety of that umami. The same could be said about compound seasonings.

What was more important than that was the relationship between these seasonings and appetite.
Some praised Ajinomoto-seasoned dishes as delicious, while some patients complained they found them cloying.
Whether those who disliked them were experiencing pathological phenomena or whether those who found them delicious had simply become accustomed to artificial seasonings—rendering their palates taste-blind—would have been difficult to conclusively determine.
Of course, there was also the problem of how they were used.

The issue of appetite appeared to be an important aspect within nutritional science; however, according to a certain prominent medical scholar, this area remained largely unexplored territory in modern medicine.
It might have been tentatively considered acceptable to think that things which stimulated appetite contained something the body needed.
However, there might also have been cases of pathologically skewed preferences.
Such matters were not for someone like me, outside the field of medicine, to comment on.

However, as a general principle of science, let us quote the following words from William James, founder of pragmatism (practicalist philosophy):

“Science is a discipline that can speak of what exists, but not of what does not exist.”

This seemed to me to be a phrase that skillfully expressed the essence of science.