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.

The Book of Five Rings…but which one?

An imaginative recreation of Musashi in the cave at Reigendo where he wrote Gorin no Sho.

Miyamoto Musashi’s Gorin no Sho is one of the most famous books in the field of martial arts. Since the first commercial translation in 1974 (Victor Harris, Overlook Press) there have been a host of others, all of which have their own strengths and weaknesses – the publication of another translation in 2018 (Alexander Bennett, Tuttle) makes it worth considering the merits of some of the most significant of these.

Reigendo, the cave where Musashi lived for the last two years of his life.

Written in the last two years of his life when he was living in the cave Reigendo, in Mount Iwato in Kyushu, he finished it a few days before he died on the 19^thday of the 5^thmonth, 1645. he passed it to his student Terao Magonojo. The original five scrolls, bearing only the titles of the elements, (rather than the name Gorin no Sho) were destroyed by a castle fire less than fifty years later – fortunately several copies had been made.

When it comes to translations, it is difficult to say one version is better than another; personal taste plays a major role here – the writing style of one translator may just sit with a reader better than another does. 

So, what is it that I look for in a translation?

Primarily, fidelity to the original – in content and in tone. You might think this is pretty much a given – surely all translators try to be accurate in their work? Translation requires more than linguistic skill, and some translators make it a virtue that their work is more approachable than the original (or previous versions). But for me, this may well make it less useful.

The brevity of Japanese gives translators a great deal of leeway, and although all of the significant translations of Gorin no Sho are, for the most part, accurate (anyone can be forgiven for a minor error), for a text like this something more is required. Words and phrases in either language have a value or effect beyond their outward meaning. Some words are stronger, some more subtle, they have rhythm and energy. Some have additional connotations; a translator’s sensitivity to  these is important, particularly if they are translating a document as something that speaks to us now, rather than a historical curiosity.

Perhaps, then, it ismerely a matter of personal opinion. There are certainly inconsistencies, infelicities of language and even inaccuracies in even the best of translations, but each of those currently available have something to offer. Personally, I like to be able to hear the voice of the original writer coming through. It is true that some of Musashi’s instructions can be difficult to follow, but if I cannot begin to imagine what he was actually saying from reading the translation, I think something has been missed.

As a word or warning – don’t believe the editor and fanboy reviews you may find on Amazon or elsewhere for some of these versions. I don’t consider any of them to be more definitive than the others in any substantial way. Nor do I feel that the authors’ experience in martial arts or lack of it necessarily makes a difference…it can do, but even those practising traditional martial arts may be a long way from the kind of art Musashi was writing about.

There is also the question of familiarity: I first read Gorin no Sho at the age of about 15, and over the years, certain phrases have become familiar. Subsequent translators will naturally write in their own style; though perfectly accurate, the difference may not be to the reader’s liking if they are already familiar with the text. Alternatively, the reader may find a new translation speaks to them in a different voice and what was previously opaque becomes clearer. 

Finally, the prospective reader might also consider the design of the book. How big is it? How has it been laid out? What illustrations are there? What additional background, notes, introduction etc. the author has seen fit to include? Some books are just more pleasant or easier to read and use as reference. Others have more useful or interesting notes and explanations. It depends on what the reader is looking for, but there are significant differences.

Having laid out these brief considerations, I will look at some of my favourite versions in the next few posts.

Hyoshi: timing, rhythm and translation

The cover of the Victor Harris translation

This is a slightly expanded version of a post I made on the forum at sonshi.com with reference to a question about the difference between background timing and distance timing as mentioned in The Book of Five Rings. This seemed to ring a bell with me, and a quick look at the old Victor Harris translation confirmed that it was from there. The section concerned (from the Earth Book) reads:

'...and from among the large and small things and the fast and slow timings find the relevant timing, first seeing the distance timing and the background timing.'

Translation can be a tricky business. In this case, the trouble is, Musashi did not actually write this.  Much as I like the Harris version, some of the subsequent versions, particularly those by William Scott Wilson and Kenji Tokitsu, are generally more accurate. Wilson’s is generally reckoned a solid translation; Tokitsu's is the most transparent, as he goes into some length about the reasons for various aspects of his translation (as well as much else).

In this case, the section that most closely matches the one the questioner was referring to is this one. What Musashi actually wrote was:

...daisho chisoku hyoshi no naka ni mo, ataru hyoshi wo shiri, ma no hyoshi wo shiri, somuku hyoshi wo shiru koto

There is no pairing of background and distance timing/rhythm. In fact, there is no term relating directly to background rhythm as such.

Wilson translates this section as: 

‘Within the rhythms of large and small, slow and fast, know the rhythm of contact, the rhythm of spacing and the rhythm of resistance to rhythm.’

This is a good, straightforward translation. However, Wilson is not a swordsman, and doesn't always catch the subtleties of technical terms. ‘The rhythm of spacing’ is actually a little problematic. 

The classic scene from The Seven Samurai when Kyuzo
shows the importance of finesse in timing.

Although ma has something of the meaning of distance/spacing, it is more correct to see it as interval – it is capable of referring either to space or time (i.e. the time between two things happening or between two things happening). In this case, the sense of ‘time’ is probably meant rather than ‘space’; if this is so (there are other instances in Musashi’s writings that suggest it is) the meaning is thus closer to ‘rhythm between actions’, e.g. the time between the opponent finishing one move and starting another. At a deeper level, the ma would be much smaller than this suggests, a tiny gap in perception rather than action.

I would translate it as:
Within the rhythm of large and small, fast and slow, you should understand the rhythm of striking, the rhythm between actions, and the use of counter rhythms.

..which is not perfect, but does address ma no hyoshi. It is also worth noting that in his 35 Articles on Strategy, Musashi has a section on hyoshi no ma (the gaps in rhythm) in which he deals with more or less the same issue.

Having said 'more or less', I should note that the Gorin no sho is open to interpretation due to the way it is written, and that once translated, this problem is magnified. Musashi certainly meant his strategy to be widely applicable, but while he could generalize, he could also be quite specific. In fact, the ability to make fine distinctions was crucial to his art.
Though he might be glad that readers of his work were pondering deeply on the difference between the different hyoshi he mentioned, he would, of course, be quick to point out that this understanding should be based on practice, not mere cogitation.

Momiji - Autumn Leaves and their symbolism

This is the season of momiji or koyo - the brilliant autumn leaves of the maples.

It is one of the principal images of autumn in Japan - appearing in plays, poems and paintings. In fact now is the peak of the maple leaf viewing season in Kyoto - the popular sites are heaving with crowds of tourists engaged in momijigari - maple leaf hunting.

Momiji Uchi - The red leaves cut
Those interested in swordsmanship will probably be aware of its use in Miyamoto Musashi's Gorin no Sho - in the Water chapter is a section describing the Red Leaves Cut. As noted by Victor Harris in his translation, "Presumably Musashi is alluding here to falling, dying leaves." As the technique refers to knocking down the enemy's sword, knocking it out of his hands in fact, this seems very likely.

It seems that Musashi was not the only person to use this term to denote a technique. According to the respected researcher and historian Watatani Kiyoshi, it was used in the Kyo-hachi-ryu... a term that is generally thought to refer to the 8 principle schools taught in the Kyoto area during the Muromachi period, and probably including the Yoshioka school, which, as we know, Musashi and his father both had dealings with. In fact, Watatani identifies it as being specific to the Kyoto area - as Musashi spent some time in the city, this makes it quite likely that he adopted a term already in use.

This is fairly common practice - many schools share terms for similar and sometimes quite different techniques. Some of these clearly share a common origin, while in others, the connection is not so clear.
However, the common name suggests the possibility that the name itself shared a common referent, and possibly included an additional layer of symbolism.

Momiji Kasane - the art of layering

                                                              

For us, the connotation of autumn leaves might very well be that they will fall from the trees - my image of autumn leaves strongly features piles of them lying on the ground. In Japan, I have the feeling that the primary image is of them being on the trees. The striking colours of their foliage are best seen before they fall, and artistic and poetic images consistently depict them in this way. Indeed, they are far more arresting, and the eye barely glances at the dried, fallen leaves on the ground while the bright reds, oranges and yellows are still on the trees.

Momiji-gasane... the colours are pretty close
to the photo at the top of the page

This was reflected in their use as a symbol for layering. A prime example of this is the multiple layers of kimono that were worn by women in the court. These had a variety of names, depending on the colour combinations, but several of them were referred to by the term momiji gasane.

This term is also used in Heki-ryu kyudo, where it refers to the te no uchi or grip of the left hand, which holds the bow. More specifically, it refers to the way the grip is formed, with the fingers layered on top of each other, moving independently to form the ideal grip (presumeably combining strength and pliability). Interestingly, this school also had its roots in Kyoto, so it is possible that it shares the meaning of the term with sword schools.

Forming the grip - momiji kasane - in Kyudo.
From the Il bersaglio di paglia blog (which is well-worth
checking out, if you have even the slightest interest in kyudo).

This suggests the possibility that the use of momiji in sword teachings may have an additional meaning, beyond that of knocking the sword down - it could refer to the way the sword is 'layered' on top of the opponent's weapon in the same way that the beauty of the autumn leaves is enhanced by the layers of different colours.

Then again, I may be grasping at straws, but even so, I was struck by the use of the same symbol in several different ryu.

Musashi's Monkey design Part 2

Recently, I found this picture of Musashi's monkey, which has finally allowed me to understand what the piece looked like.

It is actually an origane (soritsuno, kaeritsuno are some of the alternative names) - a small hook that fastened onto the underside of the obi (sash) and kept the sword from moving around too much. They were not used universally - presumably to the owner's taste, and were more common on wakizashi than on longer swords. 

Unfortunately, the photo is not very high quality (it looks like it's from an old auction catalogue), but it is still possible to see the overall design. At last, here was Musashi's monkey!!

What I had originally seen was this:

From Victor Harris's Go Rin no Sho
Left: the origane; right: kurigata. Note the crescent moon just visible at the bottom

From the picture below you can see how the two parts were fitted on the saya - and from this angle, would appear as in the above photo, with the monkey reaching towards the left.

A wakizashi showing positioning of the kurigata and origane (as it appears
to be made of horn, a kaeritsuno in this case). (Original source)

Being an origane, it is only small to start with, and consistent with its purpose, which is to slide over the bottom of the obi, its contours are smoothed out - perhaps this is what suggested to Musashi the form of a sinuous, long-armed monkey. From the top view in Victor Harris's book, it was not possible to see the long, relaxed curve of the monkey's arm, but the side view shows this very nicely. One might be tempted to read something into this about the importance of certain attributes in swordsmanship. After all, his tsuba also portray creatures known for their smoothness and suppleness, and the gibbon is, of course, particularly noted for the liquid quality of its movement.

Despite the function of the proverb in Zen, which is to illustrate the folly of the monkey's action (thus making it the only motif I can think of, off the top of my head, used in sword fittings which depicts an animal not to be admired), I am sure Musashi would have depicted it as embodying the qualities he found so important in swordsmanship.

The Autumn Monkey

Musashi also made a well-known written reference to monkeys.

In both Heihosanjugokajo and Gorin no Sho, Musashi writes of the 'shuko', which is written as 'Autumn monkey' and clearly refers to a monkey that does not stretch out its arms.
"Te wo dasanu kokoro nari"... 'Do not stretch out your arms', he says.

A Japanese macaque, by the painter and gifted lacquer
artist Shibata Zesshin (1807-1891)

Clearly he is not talking about gibbons, but the native Japanese monkey, which is a kind of macaque. Compared to the gibbon, these are, indeed, short-armed. The term, autumn monkey is still a little puzzling. Philology is an inexact discipline, so I am not sure there is really an answer to this. I have read one theory that suggests it refers to the behavior of the pregnant or nursing female during the autumn - normally monkeys dash forward and snatch food at arms length, but during this time, females are more cautious and only take food that doesn't necessitate such smash-and-grab tactics.

It certainly seems reasonable, but I don't know enough about the habits of the Japanese macaque to confirm this. It does have a seasonable mating period (unlike the gibbon) so there may be some truth to this.

Japanese macaques are widespread across Japan, and Musashi would undoubtably have been familiar with them, and probably have observed them at fairly close quarters. I have seen them on the outskirts of Kyoto myself. It is quite clear to an observer, that when they move, they move with the whole body - they rarely sit and stretch their arms out for food, but move their whole body to get it. Their arms retain a characteristically greater degree of curve than a human's. It may be this that made them so characteristically 'short-armed' rather than any peculiarities of the mating season. Philologically speaking, it seems just as likely that autumn was the period when they were most likely to show up in the fields to steal the ripening fruit from the farmers, or an allusion to their red faces.

Whatever the reason, it seems likely that it's usefulness as an example is strengthened by an awareness of the symbolism of 'the monkey reaching for the moon'. If reaching out gets you dead, then you shouldn't reach out. I imagine this meaning was uppermost for Musashi and those associated with him, while later generations took it primarily at face value, as suggested by the Zen story, as a warning against striving for illusory goals and earthly pleasures.

The monkey(gibbon) reaching for the moon as a motif
The use of this theme in art seems to have been comparatively well-established in Musashi's time - it is difficult to date when it was first adopted as a motif for the bushi class. Works featuring this motif have been attributed to Sesshu (1420-1506), and certainly Sesson (1504-1589) used it in several major works. The tsuba maker Kaneie may have been the first to have adopted it for sword furniture. The name Kaneie was, in fact, used by a line of famous tsuba makers rather than a single person, the first generations of whom established a new pictorial style of tsuba decoration, which included the use of designs inspired by famous painters, such as Sesshu.

Tsuba by 2nd generation Kaneie

This particular Kaneie was the 2nd generation of the line. Rumor has it that he was also a student of the sword, and also possibly a student of Musashi, (although I have seen no proof of this). He was originally based in Fushimi, later moving to Higo (present day Kumamoto) where Musashi lived in his later years, so it is certainly possible that he studied with Musashi. This is the kind of oral lore that is passed down through sword lineages and makes up much of the colour and breadth of traditional teaching.

It is an interesting connection, and certainly made me look a little harder at his tsuba - despite the delicacy of the designs, they have a robust quality which I think a swordsman would value. Fushimi was the one-time residence and administrative centre of Toyotomi Hideyoshi's rule, with many of the most important men of the realm gathered there (and Kyoto just a few kilometres up the river). Hideyoshi's promotion of the arts would have meant that Kaneie was in the right place to see plenty of fine examples of the finest painters of the time, including the Kano family and Hasegawa Tohaku.

The motif was not uncommon on swords during the Edo era, but by then it was, I presume, used without any particular reference to swordsmanship. Here is a nice example from this website:

Finally, I couldn't finish without including this contemporary painting by Enoki Toshiyuki entitled 'Autumn Monkey' in which he combines the autumn theme and the monkey reaching for the moon.