Early summer rains – water and weather in swordsmanship

Travellers sheltering from the rain

‘This endless rain’ wrote Ki no Tsurayuki in the 10th century in a poem about the rainy season. This is a sentiment shared by many in Japan at this time of year, although as that season, exceptionally short this year, ended more than two weeks ago, perhaps less so than usual. Nevertheless, I seem to have been dodging sudden downpours ever since – what is known here as guerilla rain – culminating in heavy rain last week on the very day of the Gion Matsuri procession, when richly decorated wooden floats, some weighing several tons, are pulled through the streets of downtown Kyoto. I’m sure many of those involved in the festival could sympathize with Ki no Tsurayuki’s feelings.

It rains elsewhere, of course, but Japan seems particularly well supplied in this respect. The country is criss-crossed with streams and rivers (often concreted over in the cities) with many, like the gentle Kamogawa which runs through Kyoto, transformed into raging torrents after heavy rain. In times gone by, people must have been acutely aware of the power and danger of these natural forces.

My local stream on a rainy day

It is hardly surprising, then, that they worked their way into the martial disciplines of the time, serving as metaphors for changeability, flow, power and softness. Miyamoto Musashi wrote of water as representing the clarity of his teachings, as well as the key principle of adaptability. In this case, he used the example of the way water can adapt to the shape of its container, as well as the many forms it can appear in. ‘Take water,’ he said, ‘as the model for my school of strategy.’

Although a closer reading doesn’t offer much more specifically on the topic, it is this kind of passage that is suggestive of the depth of his studies and the way in which he intended them to be applied. We can infer that the subsequent techniques are really strategies or tactics that should be applied in a range of situations. And given his statement that he didn’t believe in inner and outer teachings, which is to say ‘secrets’ that were taught to some of his students and not to others, these may be seen as key aspects of his art. 

A detail from a print by Toyokuni showing Musashi fighting
the evil monk, Kainen (from the popular novel A Tale of Two
Swords - Sasaki Miyamoto Eiyo Nito den). Note the water themed background.

To take this further, we have to look at the way concepts are embodied in kata practice in other schools. There is a tendency in Japanese culture not to explain, but to have students repeat their actions until they get it – or not, as the case may be. Those who are familiar with Japanese arts and crafts may well have seen this – it is not limited to martial arts – and there seems to have been a general feeling that this combination of dedication and single-minded striving is the ‘correct’ path to developing skill. It enables practitioners to feel the skill in their body. If that is the way you have developed it yourself, it is probably not easy to conceptualise it verbally, especially in a culture given to vagueness and allusion in its language.

These arts contain a range of strategic and tactical principles that are largely hidden within the movements of the kata. Master practitioners might embody these principles naturally, or they might have been revealed more explicitly to students at the higher levels.

Musashi, then, in observing the nature of water, it’s clarity, mutability, and ability to take on the shape of its container, tells us that the spirit of his art, or his art itself, is present in every move. His pointing to the clarity of water indicates that these deeper principles are there to be seen, not hidden in the kata (unlike, he suggests, most other schools of his time).

It is tempting to read into Musashi’s words that his approach was to explain the concepts as he introduced the techniques to his students, and this might, indeed, be so. One thing that we can be sure about, however, is that he would have required a lot of unforgiving practice to ensure these principles were really reflected in the techniques.

While water is related to flow and change, related phenomena such as mist or fog (kasumi) and thunder also figure in martial lore. Mist indicates things that may be hidden or unclear – in a country as full of mountains as this, often partially obscured by mist or approaching rain, perhaps it is no wonder that this was used as a metaphor (though by no means universal); lightning refers to techniques that strike with extreme speed, usually directly downwards, a cutting through of distractions or barriers.

Familiarity with these elements was a kind of cultural literacy, useful as an aide memoire, but perhaps more so in pointing towards the deeper secrets of the energies of the natural world, energies that were surely recognised and utilized in the disciplines of war. Though these were largely concepts involving patterns of movement, rhythm and mindset, they could also be more esoteric. One of the more interesting techniques involved a way of reading the ki of a situation based on visual clues. This is illustrated in old manuals like mist rising above the mountains or enemy encampments, but the details of how this was perceived and trained remain obscure. 

 

This text shows two kinds of ki - the one on the left is roki – if 'smoke' is broken and and does not rise gradually ... it is defeat; it is weakness; it is evil. The other, ritsuki, shows the 'smoke' rising straight, without a break. the commentary explains that this is a great blessing for all things. Although the text talks about 'smoke', this is not meant literally.

Those techniques may have been lost, but weather continues to feature strongly in Japan’s cultural consciousness. Rain has been used to particularly good effect in the film world, where it is used both to highlight and increase emotional tension, and here, Kurosawa is the master. The final battle in The Seven Samurai is a case in point, but it also goes beyond the creation of heightened drama to create its own distinct aesthetic. It plays an important part in other movies of this genre - Rashomon comes to mind, but more familiar to many in the western audience would be the scene in The Last Samurai where Tom Cruise is soundly beaten by Hiroyuki Sanada, and in doing so, earns his grudging respect. While the aesthetic effect is not as strong as in Kurosawa’s work, its use to heighten tension and mark the significance of an event is similar.

From Rashomon, Kurosawa's first use of rain as a dramatic element

Now, as we approach August, and the heat of summer is truly with us, we might wish for a bit more of that rain from time to time. But not too much of it – the typhoon season is only just around the corner!

Everyday Training the Samurai Way

All study and no (sword)play... what is a bushi to do?

It is sometimes tempting to think of the practice and training of martial arts in pre-modern times in monolithic terms, as if there was an ideal model, perhaps followed by a master in retreat at some secluded temple or shrine. On closer inspection, this seems unlikely as social conditions and the role of the warrior changed as the times moved from a period of perpetual war to one of relative peace, not to mention the varying requirements dictated by different roles and relative professional positions, even within the warrior class in Japan.

Having given that caveat, it must be conceded that traditions of martial practice in Japan enjoyed far greater continuity than those of Western Europe, even if it is generally acknowledged that the techniques that have reached us today are very likely not the same as those practiced by the founders of those traditions. One aspect that must have been of great concern at all periods was how to develop and refine skill.

 

There was, of course, the demanding, often repetitive physical training that must have formed the basis of most trainees’ experience. This is likely to have been intense, and yet quite unlike the military style drill common in some more modern disciplines, a development that seems to have gone hand-in-hand with the rise of militarism in the early 20th century.  

Omori Sogen performing a kata

There were other sides to practice, too. Omori Sogen (1904-1994), a 20th century Zen priest and practitioner of the Jikishinkage ryu who had clearly put plenty of time and energy into his physical practice (this was a style which includes strong elements of both kata and sparring (in the style of kendo) in its curriculum), spoke of his approach to the practice of kendo in his younger years. He explained that he developed the attitude that life itself was a perpetual series of contests. Every encounter or situation in life could be seen as a clash with an opponent in which any negative reactions he felt meant the situation had scored a point over him.

 

As he matured, he saw the mind that could be developed during kendo practice as being the same as that developed by the practice of Zen:

 “For example, a person who practices Kendo holds his bamboo sword and faces his opponent. If he forgets his opponent and his ego, enters samadhi, and truly experiences this state, then even when he puts his bamboo sword down, he must be able to maintain this frame of mind. Usually, however, it is a different world when he puts his bamboo sword down.”

(Omori Sogen: The Art of a Zen Master by Hosokawa Dogen)

 

 

A kendo dojo from a postcard dated 1915

This might be seen as typical of the Zen inspired approach of the later C19th and early C20th, a time when a measure of social freedom combined with the idea that personal efforts could reshape the world (efforts that were often centered around violence, it must be said). It seemed to have a particular appeal to young men, and was a direct factor in Japan’s road to war, both with the wave of assassinations that removed some of the less militaristic politicians from office in the 1920’s and 30’s, as well as the precipitating event in the invasion of China. It must also be said that Sogen was closely involved with groups advocating such methods, (to the point of being hunted for by the police) although his own account stresses that he felt the time was not right for assassination. (He also attempted to persuade Prince Konoe to appoint a less hawkish minister of war, so it is difficult to categorize him in political terms).

This approach, to life as well as martial arts, stresses the power of intention and the strength of will over technique. To be sure, this is always a major factor in confrontation, but one that has inherent weaknesses (exemplified in aspects of Japanese military doctrine in WWII, not to mention the unfortunate tendency to veer towards extremism). Older martial disciplines were shaped by the greater range of resources, technical, psychological and social, from which they drew the elements of their curricula.

Detail from a painting by Noguchi Tetsuya

 

While Sogen pursued mastery in Zen, swordsmanship and calligraphy, seeing commonalities in them all, Matsura Seizan (1760-1841), writing some 150 years earlier, presents an interesting contrast. A man of wide learning, he is known principally for his literary accomplishments, in particular his multiple volume collection of essays, Kasshi Yawa (Nighttime Tales of The Year of the Rat). He came from a very different social background – he was the daimyo of Hirado, a small island just off the coast of northwest Kyushu (where the English sailor, Will Adams, landed) – and although he retired at the age of 46, prior to that he set up a school for academic and martial studies, the Ishinkan, and a library that eventually had some 10,000 volumes (Rakusaikan Bunko). He was also a noted swordsman and author of several works on that topic.

It is clear from his writings that he considered sword use far more broadly than Sogen did, which is unsurprising, as swords were routinely carried by bushi until 1876. What may be more significant is that he stresses care and attention to surroundings rather than Sogen’s emphasis on single-minded determination, as a key to understanding the deeper teachings of the art, a reflection both of the more complex demands of Seizan’s social position, as well as the perspective of swordsmanship as training for use (in protection and for ceremonial uses as well as, potentially, for war), rather than primarily for personal and spiritual development. (It may added that it is entirely possible that Sogen did not receive the deeper teachings of his style – Sogen says his teacher did not consider any of his students to be his successor.) The flavor of his writing may be seen here:

“…for those who are recommended to accompany their father, older brother, or master, it is necessary to be familiar with etiquette. Because this spirit of etiquette stems from the spirit of vigilance, if you perform this duty well, it will carry over to the heart of swordsmanship. Those who feel they cannot understand this roundabout explanation do not have the real spirit of swordsmanship. But when it is time to impart the himitsu ken (lit. the secret sword) from the inner teachings of our school, those who have resolved to maintain this excellent spirit of caution in daily life will already have the necessary attitude and approach.” 

(From Joseishi Kendan in The Samurai Mind by Christopher Hellman, p.54)

Training in calligraphy started young for a well-brought up samurai.

 

To take this a step further, Seizan’s insights may also reflect another aspect of many traditional ryu-ha. These schools possessed great depth and breadth of teachings, some of which were reserved for those of the requisite social or professional standing. They might include teachings on strategy and generalship, as well as more esoteric subjects such as divination. Students who were generals or daimyo were likely to be exposed to more than simply fighting techniques and tactics, and though Seizan’s writings give no direct evidence of specific teachings, it is very likely that his social position would have had some influence on the teaching he received.

While Sogen saw kendo as a way to achieve the same state of mind that was sought through seated Zen meditation, Seizan’s approach was rooted in everyday experience:

“The master always said, you should go beyond the importance of winning contests in the practice hall. On the contrary, your normal state is of primary importance.”… (here he uses the example of maintaining a serious demeanor at a mourning ceremony to show that a superior man does not show his true feelings in his countenance.) “…for those who value courtesy, we might put the analogy forcefully and say this is the essence of swordsmanship…The wise certainly took care not to lower their guard. Swordsmen also think like this.”

(The Samurai Mind, pp 92-3)

I will leave the last word (almost, anyway) to Miyamoto Musashi from Alexander Bennett’s translation of Gorin no Sho:

“The mindset in the Way of combat must be no different from one’s normal state of mind. In the course of your daily life, and when engaged in strategy, there should be no change whatsoever in your outlook.”

Miyamoto Musashi exhibiting heijo-shin.

 

(Actually, this is Mifune Toshiro in one of the films in Inagaki Hiroshi's Samurai Trilogy)

This is what terms Musashi heijo-shin (everyday mind); however, it is not everybody’s ‘everyday mind’. As Hidy Ochiai (A Way to Victory: The Annotated Book of Five Rings) comments, “The everyday mind of an ordinary person is not called heijo-shin, for it is not based on the true inner strength that can be attained only through a hard and authentic training.”

And that is something I’m sure both Omori Sogen and Matsura Seizan would agree on.

For more about Omori Sogen: 

http://ichijoji.blogspot.com/2015/02/spirit-forging-hard-training-of-meiji.html

For more about Matsura Seizan - I spelt his family name wrong – it should have a single rather than double u – at the time I was translating his work I took the pronunciation to be the same as the nearby Matsuura City (written with the same character).

http://ichijoji.blogspot.com/2010/08/matsuura-seizan-swordsman-and-scholar.html

 

Miyamoto Musashi, The Book of Five Rings and the Olympic Connection

 

Musashi's painting of Hotei watching two 
cocks facing off - this is about as close as
Musashi got to sports, although he did
briefly mention the game commonly
known as kemari - somewhat akin to
 hacky sack in Gorin no sho

The 2020 Tokyo Olympics and Paralympics are just over as I write this. It might seem strange to suggest a connection between Miyamoto Musashi and what is possibly the most famous international modern sporting event, but a connection there is. As anyone living in Japan is probably aware, the Olympic Games are commonly referred to here as Gorin - the same gorin (or five rings) as The Book of Five Rings or Gorin no Sho. Of course, this is just a coincidence…or is it?

When I first heard the Olympics referred to in this way, I was pleased that I recognised the term from Musashi’s work, and the online searches that brought up results such as ‘Musashi’s Olympic book’, seemed weird but amusing. Five rings are five rings, and the reference to the Olympic symbol was clear enough. Besides, this was about the time that some more serious commentary began to appear on Musashi (beyond occasional articles in Black Belt or Fighting Arts), and some quite well-known names had explained that the gorin of Musashi’s work might more properly be referred to as spheres, or elements, rather than rings. Perhaps, early translators had been influenced by the Olympics? Anyway, I put it to the back of my mind as an interesting cultural peculiarity and thought no more of it. However, with the games being held in Tokyo, it was a coincidence I couldn’t ignore.

A poster advertising the 
1940 Olympic games

For first use of the term Gorin for the Olympics, we have to go back to 1936 -Japan is looking ahead to the possibility of the first Tokyo Olympics, scheduled for 1940 (Japan pulled out two years later, deciding they needed to devote more of their resources to the war in China), and Nobumasa Kawamoto, sports editor of the Yomiuri Shinbun newspaper, had been conducting interviews on the Japanese bid for the 1940 Olympics.

For a newspaper editor, space is an important commodity, and the Olympics was proving to be something of a problem, taking up six characters when rendered into Japanese using the phonetic alphabet (オリンピック), the usual practice with foreign words. Kawamoto had recently been reading the well known literary figure Kan Kikuchi on Gorin no Sho. He was impressed by Kan’s assessment of Musashi as a National treasure who should be counted amongst the great artists and philosophers, and saw parallels with the Olympics, an event that brought together the best athletes from around the world. Not only did the Olympic symbols consist of five rings, but to the Japanese ear, Gorin sounds very much like the first two syllables of Olympics (Orin in Japanese pronunciation, with equal stress on the two syllables).

Nobumasa Kawamoto (photo courtesy 
of Sasakawa Sports Foundation)

Kawamoto used Gorin in the article ‘Reconstruction of the Capital on the Olympic Flame’ (August 6 1936), and it was quickly picked up by other newspapers, whose editors were pleased to be able to shorten the unwieldy オリンピック.   Kawamoto continued to be closely connected with the Olympics, eventually becoming a member of the Japanese Olympic Committee after the war. By then, the use of Gorin had been standard for many years.

Yet even though Gorin is a direct reference to Musashi’s work, Musashi himself might not have recognised the title. He did not, in fact, give his work a title, merely stating, “This treatise is divided into five Ways. The quintessence for each Way is conveyed in five scrolls.” (Bennett’s translation). It seems Gorin no sho was first used by two later teachers of his school to refer to the otherwise untitled document: Nagaoka Naoyuki (who studied directly under Musashi when young, but mainly under his successor, Terao Magonojo) and his one-time attendant, Toyota Masakata, who brought together the teachings of several of Musashi’s students, and became a domain instructor. 

It is easy to understand their need to call it something – Masataka was busy collecting all the material he could about Musashi, which he was later to pass on to his son, Masanaga, who wrote one of the major source documents for Musashi lore, the Bukoden. Of course, although it is usually translated as ‘book’ in English, it was actually written as five separate scrolls, Earth, Water, Fire, Wind, Void. Early translators may well have known this, despite accessing it in book form themselves, and wisely opted for the euphonious ‘book’ instead of cumbersome alternatives such as ‘treatise’. Once again, the name stuck – The Book of Five Rings. 

It is a curious journey for an unnamed text by a 17th century swordsman to a sporting event watched by millions around the world. I suspect that although Musashi may not have entirely disapproved of the motto ‘faster, higher, stronger’ the art he developed was a world away from the sporting achievements that are celebrated at the Olympics.

Happy 2021 - Year of the Ox

 

Fast Bull - a beautifully painted work by an unknown
painter from the Kamakura period - originally a hand scroll, 10 Fast Bulls,
it was remounted as a hanging scroll (courtesy of Tokyo National Museum).

Cattle do not seem to occupy a great place in samurai lore. Though they were not uncommon in Japan, they seemed to have been used either as agricultural beasts of burden, or for pulling the carriages of nobles – neither occupation seeming to appeal particularly to the warrior class.

 

They appear in art in both these roles, as well as part of the 12 animals of the zodiac, and in Zen art as well. Perhaps they are best known in this connection in the 10 ox herding pictures, which provide an analogy to the path to enlightenment. These were formulated from earlier versions by Guo-an Shi-yuan (Kakuan Shien) in the 12^thcentury, and illustrated most memorably by the 15^thcentury priest-painter, Shubun. The pictures lose some of their charm when they are reproduced – the originals are small – intimate in their scale and detail, but I don’t think they have been equalled by later artists who tackled the subject.

 

No. 6 in Shubun's series of Ox herding pictures

As I mentioned in my New Year post last year, the bull also appears in Musashi’s writing – Rat’s head, bull’s neck is an entry in Gorin no Sho to describe a sudden switch in approach. I mentioned some commentary on the possibility of the original being horse, rather than bull (the two characters are very close) but given their places in the progression of the 12 animals, I think the combination of rat and bull was well known, and would thus have made sense to Musashi. The story of the order of animals also suggests some sense of a sudden change: the bull agreed to give the rat a ride to the place where the 12 animals were to meet; as they arrived, the rat jumped off the bull and so became the first to arrive.

 

Musashi also depicted a bull in a relatively unknown painting of Hotei. Here, he is riding on the back of one. This may have been a nod to the 10 oxherding pictures, and given Musashi’s connections, it is quite possible that he had seen Shubun’s works. Whatever its inspiration, it displays brushwork typical of Musashi, and establishes a dynamic rhythm in terms of contrast of line and volume and light and dark. Like many of Musashi's paintings, the tone seems lighthearted - they seem to be enjoying life. In Buddhist iconography, where Buddhas are depicted riding on animals, these may be interpreted as control of the physical passions. In this case, Hotei and the bull appear to have different ideas on where to go next, so perhaps his control was not as complete as he thought.

Below: Musashi's painting of Hotei Riding a Bull - this is from the book "Miyamoto Musashi no Suibokuga" (Miyamoto Musashi's ink paintings). Relatively unknown, I couldn't find any reproductions online. 

 

 

Lastly, despite my initial comment, the bushi did not totally disregard the nature of the bull – the famous daimyo Kuroda Nagamasa famously had at least two helmets made with sweeping water buffalo horns as decoration. Later generations of his family had similar helmets made, as well. This was in marked contrast to the upturned bowl design of his father, Kuroda Kanbei, who was known for his brilliance as a strategist. Although he fought successfully in several campaigns, Nagamasa lacked his father’s brilliance and may have felt that the image of a bull, powerful and straight-forward, expressed his personality better.

A Happy New year to all my readers - let's hope it's a good one!

Two of Kuroda Nagamasa's helmets - another one of his famous helmets was shaped in an abstraction of the cliff at Ichinotani, where Minamoto Yoshitsune led a charge down steep cliffs to carry the day. Perhaps Nagamasa was emphasising that he, too, was a man of action. (Click on the picture to see both helmets).

2020 – Year of the Rat

A rat nibbling New Year mochi from Ehon Shuyo
of 1751 (printsofjapan.com)

2020 is, in the Japanese tradition, the Year of the Rat (or mouse...take your pick – the term nezumi covers both in Japanese). The rat is usually considered a symbol of good luck, being associated with Daikokuten, the god of wealth. This association is usually explained as rats and mice being attracted by wealth (i.e. surplus food), and so signs of rodent activity, particularly nibbled mochi at New Year, were traditionally seen as good luck. It was also believed that rats stored up food for the winter, and this added to their reputation as animals of good fortune.

Kobayashi Issa reflected something of this in the following haiku:
      New Year's shelf –
      from a dark nook
      a lucky mouse

(Toshi-dana ya kurai hō yori fuku nezumi)

Connections with the bushi are, not surprisingly, not particularly common – warriors generally took more powerful animals as their symbols. The timorous mouse seems an unlikely symbol for a class that prided itself on courage. Rats, however, can be bold: Neko no Myojutsu (The Mysterious Skills of the Old Cat) is a well-known story that concerns one such animal. A ferocious rat is wrecking havoc in the house of a samurai, Shoken.

Shoken getting serious with the rat.

The rat proves too strong for his house cat, and even Shoken himself finds himself in trouble when he confronts it, so he enlists the aid of the local cats, famous for their rat-catching skills. Alas, they are also no match for the rat. whose speed and ferocity prove too much for them.

Finally, much to their surprise, Shoken's final gamble – a famous mouser whose rat-catching days seem long gone – pays off, and the old cat succeeds in catching the rat with ease. Later that evening, Shoken overhears the old cat explain how he was able to succeed where the others failed. This explanation is an account of some of the mental teachings involved in swordsmanship, and is said to have been connected to (or even part of) the teachings of the Itto ryu. For those interested, several translations are available...mine is available here.

Rats featured in other stories as well. This one is from a children's story book, Neko Nezumi Kassen (The War between the Cats and the Rats), illustrated by Utagawa Yoshitora c1840-1860, a one-time pupil of the famous Utagawa Kuniyoshi.

In the story, the general of the cats decides to attack the rats, and battle ensues...
The text for these pages reads:

On the other side there was a rat general called Lucky Rat. One day, the white rat, the general’s lieutenant, rushed in, gasping for breath, “Emergency, emergency!” White Rat: “It is terrible! Cat General Nekomata is on his way to attack us with a huge army. They are almost here.” Lucky Rat: “What? This is a crisis!” Lucky Rat immediately called on his mighty warriors among the white rats, red rats, tortoise-shell rats, China rats, mice, top-spinning rats, sewer rats, and with all others waited for the cat army to arrive. 

(https://www.kodomo.go.jp/gallery/edoehon/nekonezumi/index_e.html)

This battle ends happily for both sides with deus ex machina in the form of the intervention of ...Daikokuten.

Although rats and mice were not closely linked to martial culture, Minamoto Musashi's 'Rat's head – ox's neck' (or horse's neck – the character is very similar, and as the original no longer exists, it is not possible to say which was originally intended) from the Fire Scroll of Gorin no sho should not be forgotten. The contrast between these two elements is a reminder to maintain a dual perspective that sees detail at the same time as the broader picture. Musashi noted that this is important in both small and large scale combat.

Although Musashi left no examples of rats or mice in his art, several artists have found them to be fine subjects – netsuke artists in particular, took advantage of the qualities offered by the rat/mouse's

 form. However, rather than netsuke, I will finish with a painting by Watanabe Shōtei which nicely displays his controlled and elegant brushwork.

Watanabe Shōtei (1852-1918)

Victor Harris - the original Book of Five Rings

 

Perhaps the best cover of any version of Gorin no Sho - and the picture is one of Kuniyoshi's depictions of Musashi.



Published by Overlook Press in 1974, this was the first translation of Musashi’s work into English, and for a long time, the only one. One might occasionally pick up fragments in other works – I am particularly reminded of one story in an illustrated book on samurai in my secondary school library, a story about a fan-wielding master of saiminjutsu who managed to persuade Musashi that he was carrying a sword). It has been around for so long, certainly in my life, that it has become part of the landscape. The phrases it used, even the title itself – A Book of Five Rings (Scrolls of the Five Elements would be more accurate, but it doesn’t have quite the same ring) have become familiar. Other translators may have chosen to alter some of these classic formulations, sometimes for better, sometimes for worse, but the shadow of the original continues to hang over them. It is not easy to assess. But this is escaping the issue. Does it deserve respect for more than its merits as a forerunner in this genre?

 

First, it should be noted how well it has stood up in the forty-five years since it was first published. Victor Harris (who died in 2017) was an experienced kendoka, an expert on the Japanese sword (President of the Token Society of Great Britain), and head of the Japanese Department of the British Museum. He was deeply involved in this field. For all that, A Book of Five Rings was a relatively early work. Would he have liked to change anything? I have no idea, but I have read that he would sometimes refer to Musashi in his teaching, so I am sure his understanding and appreciation of the work deepened and matured over the many years since he first worked on the translation.

 

Despite the fact that I no longer use it as my translation of choice, it is still a good choice for anyone interested in Musashi’s writing, although its strengths as a book (at least in the original version) perhaps weigh stronger than the absolute qualities of the translation. Compared to all the subsequent works, it is better set out as a book – the care given to the layout and spacing of the text makes it exceptionally easy to read and consult; the front matter, although not extensive, is relevant (especially for those days when very few in the west had heard of Musashi). It is clear and well-written, and despite being somewhat dated (Musashi ‘scholarship’ has come on a lot since those days) provides a good overview of the standard view of Musashi’s life and significant duels. There is a slip in the general historical background when he confuses his shogunates, but this is a minor detail (and shouldn’t be used to judge what is a serious and well-considered work.) It has atmosphere, and this is something that is often overlooked – it shouldn’t be. There is also a good choice of art and photographic references – most of the subsequent translations have followed his lead on this – including some difficult-to-find pictures which are rarely seen elsewhere.

 

There are weaknesses, but these are not fatal flaws. Chief among these is the writing style, which has a tendency to be somewhat opaque. I do not necessarily feel that translations should read as if the writers were our contemporaries – given Musashi’s background and class, (and style in the original) there is a degree of terseness that is not easy to preserve in English, but in this work, the meaning is not always as clear as it might be. I feel that there is a lack of authority, perhaps because of the author’s lack of grounding in the technique (although he was a serious kendo practitioner and was later involved in older styles of Japanese sword arts, kendo and kenjutsu are different animals), as if he didn’t quite understand the finer points of the techniques he was writing about. I hesitate to say it, especially in view of his continued involvement in the field and obvious facility with the language, but it looks to me as if he was unsure of what it was Musashi was saying in some places. This is natural enough, especially in descriptions of sword technique, but translation is also an act of imaginative creation: as a writer, the translator attempts to reimagine the meaning of the words and translate their message with reference to the wording and style of the original as necessary. I feel as if Harris sometimes gives more weight to the words than to the meaning, with the result that something that is quite clear in the Japanese is suddenly open to a range of interpretations in English. But this is the translator’s art – any translation may be more or less successful at this. Some of his successors have made more informed decisions, better decisions I feel – but they also had something to work with, as Harris did not.

 

Yes, it still stands on its own merits. For anyone serious about looking into Gorin no Sho, I would recommend other versions as well, or perhaps primarily, and if your Japanese is up to it, versions in Japanese, preferably in both the modern and original Japanese. The language Musashi uses is not generally difficult (although a few sections might prove problematic) and the Japanese certainly gives a more visceral feel to the work. But if this is a step too far at the moment, you won’t go far wrong with the Victor Harris translation – a book to inform and inspire.