The Confucian Swordsman II

Confucius, from the recent film of the same name

It's difficult to generalise about neo-Confucian writings on the sword - they need to be read, and then pondered over. Their rationalist approach has a certain clarity, but it also demands some work on the part of the reader - all the more so as the idiom in which they are written is unlikely to be familiar to most readers nowadays.

Part of the difficulty lies in the use of terms in unfamiliar ways: 'principle', 'virtue' and 'filial piety' are all terms we recognise, but they also seem strangely out of place in a work about swordsmanship. Obviously there is a moral dimension to learning and teaching martial arts, but it has become almost second nature to reject formulations that promise success to the virtuous and doom for the unjust as unrealistic.

For these to make sense, the reader has to be able to perceive the way they correlate to the practical concerns of sword use. The ability to do this is partly dependent upon ones own experience in these arts, but this is part of what makes the writing valuable.

Fact or Fantasy?

The danger of this approach is that it can fall in to the trap of wish-fulfilment or creative imagination, somewhat in the manner in which authors have taken famous Chinese/Japanese texts, comparing and combining various translations of the originals to give new versions, supposedly more relevant 'for our times'. While there may be some merit in this approach, I doubt it gets us any closer to the meaning of the originals, which is what interests me.

The neo-Confucian texts were not meant to be coded, secretive works which would reveal their knowledge only to chosen initiates (and even Yagyu Munenori's Heihokadensho, which has a good deal of neo-Confucian content as well as the more often noted Zen aspects, makes a point of pointing out which terms are coded) - they were meant for a far wider readership. This means they should be accessible to readers today.

This, in turn, requires a little knowledge of the conventions of the genre. Some of the works are fairly self-explanatory, (e.g. Joseishi Kendan) while others use terms that were actually key concepts in a wider discourse, and thus have additional connotations which might not be immediately obvious.

Filial Piety

The latitude allowed for interpretation of these concepts can be found in the writings of some of the major thinkers of neo-Confucianism in both China and Japan. A good example is ‘filial piety’ – certainly a concept that seems more at home in a moral text than one about swordsmanship. When a writer says something like:

You should simply adopt an underlying attitude of loyalty and filial respect.  - Kimura Kyuho

are we justified in applying it in a wider context? One of the early figures of Japanese neo-Confucianism, Nakae Toju (1608-1648), had this to say about it:

What gives birth to Heaven, to earth, to human existence, and to all things is nothing but this filial piety.

Nakae Toju

(Even as basic an education as those offered in the village school, the terakoya, taught: “…it is the beginning of filial piety to take care and preserve yourself from injury.”)

Clearly it means more than just taking care of your parents – in the abstract, it is a statement of relationships. Seeing it in such broad terms enables us to apply this kind of reading to these works across the board.

Interestingly, there have been some voices in the field of Confucian studies (e.g. Robert Eno) that recognise that earlier Confucian writers (Confucius and Mencius, for example) were referring to something like this in their writings - 'right' was a psycho-physical state as much as an ethical construct. the insistence on the importance of doing things the right way was to entrain this state, rather than to enforce conformity.

Wild beasts

Another concept that appears intermittently, and somewhat confusingly, is that of ‘wild beasts’. It can be found both in Tengu Geijutsuron and Kenjutsu Fushikihen, as well as the Kenpo Sekiun Sensei Soden, written by Odagiri Ichiun and seems somewhat out of place – it is used as a pejorative term for those schools of swordsmanship that emphasise techniques - until we realize that it was a metaphor used to describe those who engaged in all manner of activities without regard to ri. Of course, this has a moral dimension, but it also allows a practical interpretation to the term, depending on how we interpret ri in swordsmanship.

And in English…?

Although there were many, many works in the Japanese martial tradition that were shaped by the currents of neo-Confucian thought, very few are accessible to the English reading public. (It must also be said, that they have received, on the whole, little sustained interest in Japan, either… at least in recent years.)

For the interested reader, I recommend Tengu Geijutsuron, translated by W.S. Wilson in The Demon’s Sermon on the Martial Arts, and Joseishi Kendan and Kenjutsu Fushiki Hen, both of which are in my The Samurai Mind. As I mentioned earlier, I don’t regard Tengu Geijutsuron as terribly authoritative in the deeper areas of sword practice, but it does provide a philosophical justification of bugei practice along neo-Confucian lines. Kenjutsu Fushiki Hen provides a rebuttal to some of the points in Tengu Geijutsuron, and is written with knowledge of the earlier work. It is, importantly, claiming to represent authentic teachings of a swordmaster, and is thus a sort of companion to Tengu Geijutsuron – they both touch on many of the same points and the authors appear to have had a similar grounding in neo-Confucianism, though we do not know the extent of their learning.

Minagawa Kien

We are on firmer ground with Matsura Seizan, the writer of Joseishi Kendan. Seizan was the student of a well-known Confucian scholar, Minagawa Kien, and was himself known as a scholar as well as a swordsman. He embodied many aspects of neo-Confucian ideals in himself and his writing. Rather than explain a theory of how swordsmanship can embody the universal principle, he display in his writing several of the over-riding concerns of his schools of thought, such as education and the doctrine of kakubutsu chichi – the importance of investigating diverse areas to gain a greater understanding of the way in which the universal principle underlies everything.

His work includes passages on numerous aspects of daily life which he ties in to the discipline of swordsmanship. Though this might at first glance seem to be merely an intellectual exercise knowing that he was also a master of the sword requires us to assess it in a new light. The no-nonsense advice he gives further reinforces this – where he does directly refer to Confucianism, the impression he gives is very far from the empty theorizing of an armchair swordsman – which criticism is often leveled at Confucians, either explicitly or by implication.

There are also, as I mentioned above, neo-Confucian currents in Yagyu Munenori’s Heihokadensho, which has been translated by both Thomas Cleary and Wilson. It is an interesting exercise to read it with an eye to these, rather than the more often noted Zen aspects.

An underlying theory

Finally, neo-Confucian thinking gives us a theoretical justification for the study of martial arts: this is ri, the underlying principle (of life, the universe and everything). Because it is underlying, it is also connecting – the search and discovery of it in one area can affect our performance in other areas because they all share the same principles. This became a powerful (though unstated) component of the modern budo disciplines, and provides, at some level, an answer to the question, “How does this discipline make me a better person?”

Perhaps this is what separates this school of thought from other theoretical currents that informed the bugei. Neo-Confucianism is fundamentally concerned with life, with being a part of society, and pursuing one’s way within these boundaries. And that’s what makes it so rewarding to read.

The Confucian Swordsman I

Kano Eitoku - Scholars playing weiqi (go in Japanese)

Preamble
Confucianism often gets a bad rap - in its Japanese context it is characterised as a form of not so enlightened paternalism, intent on preserving the hierarchical authority and keeping women and peasants in their place.

The trouble is, that even as I read decidedly anti-Confucian works like the Tao of Pooh (or was it the Te of Piglet?), I couldn't help sympathising with the Confucians - the ideals ascribed to them, though a little outdated, seemed to me more attractive than the muddle-headed approach of the bear with very little brain. Nobility, loyalty, humanity - they don't sound too bad.

Meanwhile, Zen, of course, has received a lot of attention with regard to it's role in various arts and ways. Too much attention, many would say. This is not to deny that it did have influence in a number of fields, but perhaps not as much as its supporters would like to have us believe. Part of the problem is that many disciplines share the same vocabulary and related or analogous concepts. So, while Zen is cool, (Daoism even more so), Confucianism is straight-laced and conservative - anything that sounds interesting is habitually ascribed to Zen, and anything connected with hierarchy, paternalism or empty theorising, is blamed on Confucianism.

A little balance?
In terms of Japanese martial arts, Draeger had some interesting things to say about neo-Confucianism, chiefly dwelling on the role of the Wang Yangming school (O-Yomei in Japanese), with its emphasis on action, on the main figures of the anti-government movement which culminated in the overthrow of the Tokugawa government in the 1860s. For Draeger, an ex-marine, the philosophies of action seemed attractive (he was also a populariser of the theory of Zen influence in Japanese martial arts), but he didn't touch on the deeper influence of neo-Confucian thought in the disciplines themselves. However, even his description O-yomei neo-Confucian sounded suspiciously like a Zen substitute.

The first work available in English that did look at this issue on its own terms was a translation of the Tengu Geijutsuron (a translation from German into English, as it happens - although William Scott Wilson's far better version is now available). The title, Zen and Confucius in the Art of Swordmanship alerted the reader to the subject matter, although rather misleadingly, threw Zen into the mix- probably out of habit. Unfortunately, for the sake of our understanding, the original writer seems to have lacked the authority of a real master of the sword. An enthusiast he may have been, but he appears to have only partially understood some of the deeper aspects of the art. That his work was criticised by his near contemporaries, and on quite specific points, also attests to its popularity and influence on other writers.

It does, however, provide an interesting counterpoint to the better informed works, and can be usefully read with them.


So, why look at neo-Confucianism anyway?
Firstly, because it did influence classical Japanese martial arts, and this influence has stayed with them, in one way or another until the present day. Gaining an understanding of these influences can help us understand a little more of the arts themselves.

Secondly, Neo-Confucianism offers an interpretive framework that is firmly rooted in its own time, and yet is also fairly accessible to us in the present day. Its thinking is recognisably rational and, more-or-less, logical, rather than mystical or religious, and it seeks to explain with reference to the everyday. A number of writers used it as such, knew what they were doing, and so provided us with authentic perspectives of these martial arts when they were in a very different state than today. The terms and the analogies they use may be unfamiliar, but they are open to analysis and exploration, making the study of works written from this perspective to be quite rewarding. They appeal to our understanding, but the best of them stand as something more than theoretical interpretations.

Finally, due to their concern with life and living, they situate the practice and ideals of martial arts within daily life, providing a perspective on issues that are still very relevant to practitioners today.

Ryozen Historical Museum - Ryoma and the Shinsengumi

Ishi-chan, the museum mascot.
What have things come to!?

At last I got round to visiting the Ryozen Museum.

I had put it off for a long time as I had heard that a lot of the information about the exhibits was in Japanese and I'd always felt it was a bit pricey for what I was likely to get out of it.

Now that my Japanese is better and my background knowledge of the period has also improved, I felt ready to brave it.

The museum is on the far eastern edge of Kyoto, tucked behind the scenic Higashiyama tourist trail, up a fairly steep slope. It's not difficult to find, but you aren't likely to pass that way by chance, unless you have a thing for graveyards and instinctively head away from the crowd.

It was an interesting visit, but there are a few caveats for anyone interested in going themselves. Firstly, the museum is dedicated to the Bakumatsu Period, which is comparatively little known amongst non-Japanese, even among those with an interest in Japanese history - it features a large cast of characters, some of whom are quite famous (while others, equally important, are not) who were involved in a complex series of events that developed and came to fruition in a remarkably short period of time.

Not surprisingly, most of the sources are in Japanese, but even those in English (some of which are excellent) can be confusing, reflecting the chaotic nature of the period itself. The museum concentrates on several of the big names and big incidents (the Ikedaya, the Shinsengumi, the death of Sakamoto Ryoma), but it has lots else besides, including artifacts belonging to or associated with some people I had never heard of.

This would not be problematic if there were explanations in English, but unfortunately, this is not the case. Not that I'm complaining - one shouldn't expect there to be, but visitors beware. As in most museums, the items on display have the title in English, but the explanatory text is only in Japanese. What is a pity, however, is that there is no catalogue. I would have been happy to buy one and work my way through the entriesat my leisure - in real time, it required a bit more time  and patience on the part of my companions than they were willing to give, so rather than bore them stupid as I peered at the explanations, making notes and sketches, I resolved to come back on my own next time.

The items on display were quite mixed, including swords, armour, banners, letters, paintings and photographs - enough physical memorabilia to be interesting to those who would have trouble reading Japanese, but perhaps not so interesting if you really didn't have a clue who the Kondo Isami or Sakamoto Ryoma were. However, I was glad of the chance to see them.

Kondo's armour: http://www.ryozen-museum.or.jp/

Kondo Isami's practice bokuto (wooden sword) and keikogi (practice jacket) with the embroidered skull on the back, were interesting to see - the bokuto itself was fairly standard in size, although the wood looked quite dense, but the tsuba was unusual in its thckness, this must have altered the balance quite a bit, and may have been a means of increasing the weight of the whole thing, or a matter of balance. There was also one of the heavy bokuto the Tennen Rishin Ryu (practiced by Kondo and Hijikata) sometimes use, as a hands-on exhibit which the public are allowed to touch and feel the weight of (it was fixed so it couldn't be swung, so it wasn't really possible to get a proper feel for what it would be like to wield it) - it felt extremely heavy. Also on display were Kondo's mail armour jacket and Hijikata Toshizo's sword. This was interesting - despite the generally received opinion that shorter swords were handier when it came to action (as expressed by Ryoma, among others) it was fairly long, and broad in the blade, with a long tsuka (hilt). The sword he favored later (by Izumi no kami Kanesada) is in the Hijikata Museum in Saitama (and is, indeed, shorter) but this one is similar in length to one Kondo mentioned in a letter in which he wrote about Hijikata's swords {this sword is 2 shaku, 6 sun, 9 bu (81.5cm): the one mentioned in the letter was 2 shaku, 8 sun (84.8)}. Also on display were the swords of Katsura Hayonosuke, one of which was used to kill Ryoma (and which I wrote about in a previous post).

This shows the two dioramas - from the museum
pamphlet.

Another interesting part was the model corner - there were two scale models - one showed the attack on the Ikedaya, and the other Ryoma's death. They were both very nice models (complete with figures) and made it much easier to envisage these two incidents as they might have been. There was also a '3d' film explaining the death of Ryoma... it was really a narrated walkthrough of the model, but I didn't have time for that.

It seems that the exhibits change from time to time, but I suspect the more interesting and well-known ones remain fairly constant. Overall, recommended for history buffs, but if you're not so familiar with the period, you might find better places to spend your time.

Go Grrrls - Ishida Mitsunari, the Musical

The Takurazuka Revue is not really my cup of tea, but the poster looks dramatic.

For those of you who don't know, Takurazuka is an all female affair - playing to almost permanently packed houses, composed of devotees and wannabees. Like much of Japanese theatre, it is an institution and a way of life. There is a continual procession of new plays, many of them set in romantic European settings, with the rather odd combination of platinum blond wigs and Japanese faces (not to mention the cross-dressing and moustaches). In this poster, they look the best I have seen them - although a little 'manga-chic'.

Ishida Mitsunari is the star of this production, although he is not one of the more charismatic characters from this period. Of course, he suffers from the usual fate of the loser, whose faults seem overwhelming when he is cast as the foil to Tokugawa Ieyasu in his successful bid for power, which culminated in the Battle of Sekigahara. Wheras Ieyasu was a cunning straegist and battlefield general, who had benefitted from his close association with Oda Nobunaga and had the sense to allow himself to take a subsidiary position to both his predecessors while preserving a degree of independence, Mitsunari's strong skills lay in his powers of administration. Although he could command close loyalties, he had made personal enemies of several of Hideyoshi's generals in Korea (for reporting them for mismanagement of funds), and was not, primarily, a military leader.

Despite Ieyasu's skill in intrigue and politicking, it was still a close run thing (as someone said of another decisive battle).

Like many westerners, my first exposure to him was in James Clavell's Shogun, where he is portrayed as a cruel, power-hungry despot, set on controlling the country. Japanese portrayals tend to be kinder, making him a loyal follower of Hideyoshi, well-meaning but ultimately out-matched. This story, cashing in on the current NHK Taiga drama, concerns the relationship between Mitsunari and  Chacha, who was to become Hideyoshi's mistress. The title: "A Beautiful Life - Ishida Mitsunari, his eternal love and loyalty".

Mon - the gateway

A quick sketch I did the other day - a typical mon in Japan

The gateway (or gate), which is called mon in Japanese, is an inescapable part of the landscape, both in the city and in the countryside. Perhaps it is not odd that such a powerful architectural feature should have become part of the conceptual landscape of the culture, but the way in which it has done so is quite different from what the simple words in English might suggest.

The image of a gate where I grew up, is essentially rural – the traditional five-bar gate so common in the countryside of southern England springs to mind – and even where it occurs in the town, it was usually in the context of a garden or back yard. Of course, there was also the school gate, and had I lived in a more industrial area, no doubt the factory gates would also have figured in my consciousness. But all of these are similar in respect to their essential character… they are barriers, but semi-permeable ones. They have bars, but you can see through them. They may be strong, but even so, they are not solid.

The mon, on the other hand, has a massive quality to it. Like the city gates of medieval Europe, they announce their presence at the same time as denying entry. They are markers as well as barriers, indicating the way in and denoting the passage between two worlds.

Despite their strong presence, their role may be largely symbolic, and other, more convenient points of access are used in the comings and goings of everyday life. They may not even be, as the western gate tends to be, the main point of entry in an encircling wall or fence. Sometimes, and this is especially so in the case of shrine gates (torii) they are simply free-standing, with no attached structures. The entrant is perfectly free to walk around instead of through the entrance-way.

This symbolic function exists on several levels.

From their role as the gateways to temples, the term has taken on the meaning of school, and thus someone who studies under a teacher might be known as a monjin or monsei (literally, gate + person, meaning one who has passed through the gate); to join a school was known as nyumon (to enter the gate); to be expelled from a school was known as hamon (breaking the gate).

Indeed, learning itself took on the mon as a concept. Not only did students have to pass through the gate to begin study, but successive stages had their own gates, and higher teachings were barred from those who had nor entered, with more or less elaborate ceremonies and swearing of oaths as part of the process.

This is something that is mentioned both by Miyamoto Musashi and Yagyu Munenori in their most well-known writings, and points to the prevalence of the practice. Munenori is at some pains to explain that the concept shows that skill is not the same as the methods we use to achieve it. After entering the gate, we proceed further within the temple. The gate is not to be mistaken for the temple itself. In the same way, the forms that are used in studying a fluid, ever-changing art are not the art itself, but a way to develop that art.

Musashi, went further, declaring he had no use for gates (and thus presumeably) for teaching structured in levels that had to be passed through before going on to the next body of teaching. He likened the process to passing through the mountains… although you may enter through one gate, you may emerge from another – passing through, you come to the entrance again - who is to say which is the more advanced teaching?

Actually, Musashi’s comment is likely a criticism of the Yagyu approach – his principal patron in later life, Hosokawa Tadaoki, had trained in that style As the Yagyu had become official instructors of the Shogun, the family’s services were in high demand, and they were required to teach a range of pupils, of lesser or greater ability, despite their often high status. No doubt this required some ordering of their curriculum, and the appointment of subsidiary instructors – not everyone could expect to be taught by the instructor to the shogun – resulting in a somewhat standardized curriculum. On the other hand,  Musashi remained essentially a free agent throughout his life.

Instinctively, I tend to follow Musashi’s opinion on this, but at the same time, I have found the concept of a gate as an entryway from one way of seeing things to another, or the first technique in the process of developing a difficult stage of a skill is an apt and useful concept. Seeing these as gates that open out onto to another area of experience or skill is a metaphor I had not internalized before my time in Japan; I don’t think I have been specifically taught using this metaphor, but Musashi’s use of it must have resonated quite deeply as I have found certain specific techniques or skills fit the idea perfectly. I suppose the equivalent concept in English would be a ‘first step’. You can actually see this reflected in book titles… textbooks with the title “xxx Nyumon” are the counterpart of “First Steps in xxx”.

Still, somehow, the image of a gateway seems more resonant than that of a first step. From my own experiences, I can see how apt the concept can be – it represents the searching for a way out of a learning plateau and into a new period of growth. In this sense, sometimes the way out is quite specific and the gate, with its opening onto new vista’s serves very well. However, for some reason, this seems to be distinctly a mon and not a western gate.

Perhaps it is just my latent romanticism coming through.

The Inner secrets - Questioning Old Manuals

Issun saki wa yami - an inch ahead is darkness
Of course, here,  the disastrous events of the 11th are on everyone's mind.
With a rising death toll and thousands missing, even for those not directly involved, it serves as a reminder of just how precarious life can be. This is something that has formed a continuous theme in many expressions of Japanese culture, artistic and literary, and has colored many aspects of life here. Perhaps it is why a premium has been put on keeping orderly records of so many things - a surprising number of which still survive despite their frailty.

Scrolls from the Chikubushima Ryu of bojutsu

Preserving Knowledge
The type of knowledge handed developed and handed down by schools of bujutsu was primarily transmitted person to person in a close and trusted relationship between master and student, and learned through long, intense application. Over the years, much of this knowledge has been lost - schools and styles have died out and the teachings seem less relevant with changes in society and technology. Although the passing on of this kind of knowledge and skill was primarily a person to person affair, written texts did play a role as well. And a surprising number of them exist till this day.

As the translator of a collection of old works on swordsmanship, the question of what can we actually learn from these kinds of works is close to my heart. Of course, they have an intrinsic value for those with historical bent, but what we can learn beyond that, whether they contain anything that we can utilise in our own lives and practice is one that, I suspect, is at the back of many readers' minds.

Some of the works in this, and related, genre have certainly stood the test of time and achieved a canonical status. Sun Tzu's The Art of War, in particular has been read widely - for perhaps two thousand years, in fact, and in the late twentieth century, Miyamoto Musashi's Gorin no Sho achieved a wide international readership. This is despite (or perhaps because of) the vagueness or lack of precise detail that allows a variety of interpretations. Though these kinds of works conjure up a feeling, an image of knowledge,  they do not always deliver on their promise, remaining tantalizingly vague and frequently obscure.

So to rephrase the question above, perhaps what we should be asking is whether they contain more than these vague and attractive generalisations, some core of 'deep' knowledge?

If the answer to this is 'yes', we should then ask if we can access that knowledge. With a work like Sun Tzu, the range of notes and interpretations, stretching back a very long way, tell us that not only have many seen it as a valuable work, but that it is one that invites, and perhaps requires, explanation.

The same questions may also be asked of other works. One of the enduring attractions of Musashi's Gorin no sho is the fact that he was a superlative swordsman. The practical value of his work may depend on our ability to interpret it, but Musashi's ability seems to stand as surety of the riches it contains, making it worth the effort to study what he wrote.


We might expand our enquiry to give us the following questions:

    1) Does the original work contain 'deep' knowledge?
        i. Who was the writer? How much did he know?
        ii. To what degree was the writer able to accurately put his knowledge into written form?
        iii. How much did the writer want to reveal?
       
    2) Is the meaning accessible?   


Who was the writer?
Sometimes this is how we come to the work in the first place - we hear about someone and then find out they have written something. Often, it is the other way round - the written work is what makes the writer famous. How many of Sun Tzu's contemporaries were equal or superior to him?

Of course, a 'track record' is a good reason for reading something in this genre. The notes on Sun Tzu written by Cao Cao, or Zhuge Liang's book on The Art of War, or in the west, Julius Caesar or Napoleon's own works suggest knowledge and understanding that come direct from a master. Whether or not they were concerned with explaining their tactical insights or doing a PR job (as in Caesar's case) might have further bearing on how interesting their writing is.

Sometimes, however, we know little about the writer save what he has written, and it is from this that we must judge his skills. Though it may be unwise to judge prematurely, it is usually possible to gauge something of a writer's skill through the way he writes, the tone he takes, what he mentions and what he doesn't.

To what degree was the writer able to accurately put his knowledge into written form?
There are so many variables in this field, that this question may be almost impossible to answer, relevant as it is. Some, such as Julius Caesar, are recognised as good writers, but this is not always the case. Sometimes a less practised writer may be able to convey the essence of meaning more effectively than  one who is more stylistically accomplished. In any case, although it should be borne in mind that the most skilled practitioner in a field may not be the best writer, it is also true that in this field, authentic knowledge and skill is generally held to be of paramount importance - this is the way these arts were taught and this attitude extends to primary sources in the field. We want to hear what the masters had to say.

How much did the writer want to reveal?
Often these kinds of works were written for a small inner circle of initiates or students of a tradition, sometimes just for one person, and so include references and jargon that only someone already privy to those teachings can readily understand. The Heiho Kadensho, written by Yagyu Munenori, expressly states that it was just for members of the family. Many of the terms used are opaque and not easily understood by outsiders to the Yagyu school of swordsmanship - in fact there is even acknowledgment of this within the text.

Other works give even less information - they are just lists of names of techniques or diagrams that serve to indicate relative importance of particular issues. If Heiho Kadensho is difficult to understand, these might be considered truly impenetrable for outsiders.

There are yet others which use 'coded language'. They might, in fact be quite didactic and even intended for a relatively large audience, but still held something back. Many Taoist work seem to fall into this category, with short-hand or jargon inserted for particular concepts that would only have been explained orally. Works in many other genre fall into this category as well - secrets were valued and well kept in these societies. Though some of them may seem to us to be of little direct value, and others are easily dismissed as being 'merely' this or that, in a world where such things could mean the difference between success and failure, riches and poverty, and ultimately life and death, it ill becomes us to belittle them. In the medieval realm of poetry, one of the most powerful and influential families, the Reizei family, kept secrets that were an important part of its position and power. They included, in this world of hand-copied manuscripts and long memories, copies of poetry collections held by almost no-one else and knowledge of the correct pronunciation of certain words.

Not all writings were meant for such a restricted audience, however, and it is from these that we can expect to gain a greater understanding of the meaning as the writer intended.

Translation
Of course, for works in other languages, this is an important consideration. As well as understanding the straight-forward meaning, the technical terms and the specific nuances as they relate to the subject are extremely important; to a practitioner the differences can be small but important, and transform a sentence from a general statement into something with weight and authenticity. In particular, it should allow a seasoned practitioner to be able to understand the intent of the writer, which can be a somewhat different thing from merely transposing the words into fluent English. This is particularly important in the case of terminology for which there is no exact English equivalent, (ki, i, & kokoro spring to mind) and when an inexact choice of words can render a concept devoid of all practical meaning... although sounding fine in English.

And the secrets?
After all that, I must say that I find these works endlessly fascinating. The most interesting of these works are rich in experience and knowledge, sometimes well hidden, and sometimes clearly explained. As with any art or field of study, the advanced teachings are built upon a foundation - the lay person may find them difficult to understand at first, but with a growing familiarity with the concepts and approaches on which they are built, the deeper meanings can become clear. Which is not to claim that I understand everything myself, merely that much of what seems obscure was not meant to be so, and much that is deep, and useful, was not necessarily hidden or secret.

Plum Blossom Lore

Yamamoto Baiitsu (1783-1856)

Although it's only the first week of February, the last few days have seemed quite spring-like.. despite the snow that is still visible on the mountains to the north of Kyoto, and the dead grass that covers the banks of the Kamo River. It should have been no surprise to find that February 4th is the day known as Rishun, which marks the start of spring in the old Japanese calendar. This early spring period runs through the 18th of the month, and is closely associated with plum blossom.

The ume - more properly an apricot, it seems, but generally known as plum - is just coming into flower during this period, though it won't come into full bloom until near the end of the month. I associate it particularly strongly with China and Japan, and it often appears in literature and art here, not to mention as a favorite plant in gardens. The sweet scent of a plum orchard in flower is quite strong, and if you go to a plum bonsai exhibition, such as the one held in Nagahama every year, almost unbelievably concentrated and quite beautiful, even - I would think- for non-flower lovers.

The plum tree itself is quite striking, with its delicate flowers, characteristically a mix of full blossom and new buds set against the angular and harshly pruned branches, making it a popular motif in visual art, both in China and Japan. (If I had to make a generalisation, I would say Chinese paintings tend to emphasise profusion, and Japanese ones, sparseness in their depictions.)

The particular angularity of the plum is also the subject of a proverb:
                     Sakura kiru baka; ume kiranu baka
It's stupid to prune a cherry tree - and stupid not to prune a plum - a comment on the failings of a 'one size fits all' policy.

The plum is also included among 'The three friends of winter' and 'The four gentlemen' (as the translations usually go) - traditional groupings of plants that often appear in art. The three friends, sho-chiku-bai, are pine, bamboo and plum, which all have positive associations connected with strength and endurance during the cold months of winter. The four gentlemen, shikunshi, is a closely related theme that was popular in Chinese art and later adopted in Japan. The plants - plum, orchid, bamboo and chrysanthemum, each represent one of the seasons, as well as noble virtues. In fact the word kun (jun Ch.) is one of those untranslatable words with connotations of nobility and virtue, but which tends to sound a bit hokey in English. It is Confucius's 'virtuous man'.

The four gentlemen also form part of the foundation of the art of ink painting - especially in the literati (and now hobbyist) style. As well as their symbolic nature, they also serve as a bridge for  well-practiced brush wielding scholars to move from the field of calligraphy into picture-making, using the same brush strokes they had been using for years, but in a more graphic role.

In Japan, there seems to have been little direct relation with the martial world, other than that provided by the cultural associations common to society at large. By way of contrast, the connections in the Chinese martial arts world are many and varied - and include a famous style of Northern boxing, Meihua quan (Plum Flower Fist/Boxing) and its off-shoots, as well as a number of forms in different styles that bear its name.

Nevertheless, there are several stories that feature plum blossom, with their own, uniquely Japanese, atmosphere.

Oshukubai - The plum where the nightingale dwells (bai is another reading of the character for plum)

By Tsuchiya Koitsu - from the Ohmi Gallery Website

This tale concerns the old plum tree of the emperor, which stood on one side of the entrance to the imperial palace, the Sakon no Ume, or plum of the left, along with its counterpart, Ukon no Tachibana, sweet orange of the right (sa and u are alternative readings for the characters left and right). Seeking a replacement, his courtiers found one in the garden of Ki no Tsurayuki (872-945), the famous poet. Before they carted it off (tree transplanting was a well developed art), Tsurayuki's daughter wrote the following poem, which she hung from its branches:

Choku nareba itomo kashiko shi uguisu no yado wa to towaba ikaga kotaemu
Since my lord commands, I can but obey.
but what shall I tell the nightingale when it cannot find its nest?

The emperor Murakami was obviously touched by this, and returned the tree, planting a cherry tree in its place. The nightingale (otoguisu or bush warbler, to be more exact), is often paired with the plum blossom in art - in fact Keats is said to have composed the first draft of 'Ode to a Nightingale' while sitting under a plum tree.

(Interestingly, Tsurayuki's poem in the famous collection Hyakunin Isshu (number 35) is about the plum blossom, where he compares its reliability to the changeability of the human heart.)

 Abe no Muneto
A more amusing anecdote concerns the aftermath of a rebellion by Abe no Sadato, who was beaten and slain after a protracted series of campaigns by Minamoto Yoriyoshi and his son. Yoshiie, Sadato's younger brother, Muneto, was brought back to court and condemned to exile. While he was waiting for the sentence to be carried out, a courtier, curious about this semi barbarian from the northern provinces, brings a branch of flowering plum and asks, "What do you call this?"
Muneto replied:
In my country, where I saw it often
we call it ume,
But for the true name,
we need a courtier to tell us.

Genda Kagesuye (by Kuniyoshi)

Kajiwara Genda Kagesuye
This fierce warrior fought at the battle of Ikuta (in the Gempei War, on the side of the Minamoto) with a branch of plum blossom thrust into his quiver (ebira), a reminder of his love  and was the inspiration for the noh drama of that name. During the battle, he lost his helmet, and the motif of a helmet with a branch of plum blossom was sometimes used in art.
There is a lot more to be said about him, but that will have to wait for another time. The same is also true of....

...Maeda Toshiie
Finally, I couldn't miss out the famous general Maeda Toshiie, who fought under Oda Nobunaga and Toyotomi Hideyoshi, and whose crest was the plum blossom, as you can see here:

Late 19th century print showing Maeda Toshiie in action - he was famous for his use of the spear

The Bushu Denraiki - source document for the Musashi story

This was my winter reading - well a bit of it, anyway.

The commonly told of Miyamoto Musashi is a much patched version taken from a variety of sources of varying reliability, stitched together in what has become a familiar pattern, including large doses of speculation and outright fiction. Of course, much of the fiction comes from Yoshikawa Eiji's novel, which many of the subsequent movie and TV versions were based on. His version, which drew heavily from previous versions and documents, some of which contained greater or lesser amounts of reliable historical information, has become a kind of de facto story of Musashi's life.

It was only when reading through William de Lange's new(ish) translation of the Bushu Denraiki, one of these source documents, that I realised how little detail there is on these documents in English, even when you include William Wilson's 'The Lone Swordsman' and Kenji Tokitsu's 'Miyamoto Musashi: his life and writings'. While Wilson used a wide variety of sources, he steers clear of discussing them individually, and while Tokitsu is good on Musashi's own writings (and lots else besides), he gives less information on sources about Musashi's life.

De Lange is particularly good on just this sort of thing, laying the historical context out clearly and providing extensive notes and background on the major figures involved (albeit tangentially, in some cases) in Musashi's life. He gives a valuable explanation of the relationships between these major sources, which goes a long way to helping us understand the roots of the legend.

The source documents which form the basis of what we know about Musashi's life fall into two parallel streams: the Bushu Denraiki (1727) itself, written by a 4th generation successor to the Niten Ichi-ryu, Tachibana Minehira, and the Hyoho (sometimes written as Heiho) Senshi Denki (1782) which was written by a 'grand-student' of Minehira's, who had left Fukuoka and settled in Harima, one Niwa Nobuhide, and based his account on what he could remember of  Minehira's original, embroidering where necessary to fill in the gaps. This stream of knowledge was Kyushu based, and was connected with the Kuroda clan, with whom Musashi had strong connections early in his career.

The other stream was connected with the Hosokawa family, with whom Musashi was close to in his later life. Tokitsu also mention this, (though he gives different readings of the names, as well as different dates). According to de Lange, the Bukoden (1755) was compiled by Toyoda Masanaga, then rewritten in an updated and clearer form by his son, Toyoda Masashige (1776) as the Nitenki (which is perhaps the source most commonly quoted from).

In addition, there is the Kokura Hibun, which is not a document as such, but a stone monument set up by Musashi's adopted son Iori in 1654. This is the earliest account of Musashi's life, and although it is generally considered accurate, it must be considered a partisan account. (There are other, contemporary, references to Musashi, but not accounts of his life).

The book, 'The Real Musashi: Origins of a Legend - the Bushu Denraiki' is valuable as being one of the earliest and purest of the accounts of Musashi's life. There are many details that will probably be unfamiliar to Musashi fans, even ones who are fairly well-read - it gives details of Musashi's involvement in a seige in Kyushu at the time of Sekigahara, rather than fighting in that battle, as well as an alternative, and quite interesting, account of the duel on Ganryujima. As de Lange admits, although some of the stories are almost certainly untrue, there is also much that appears factual, some of which has also been corroborated by other sources - in any case, the whole combines to give a fresh and vivid impression of the master swordsman, written by someone who was concerned to give as accurate a portrait as he could, based on the stories and recollections of his own masters.

This is a nice book - it is well written and presented, with the original text and the accompanying notes clearly differentiated by the use of different fonts. It is limited in  its scope, but purposely so, which gives it a nice compactness. Although I have one or two minor quibbles, they are not really worth detailing here, but as they are particularly germane to this blog I will just mention two.... the place where Musashi fought the Yoshioka's in his final 'duel' with them, is sagarimatsu not kudarimatsu, and the Ichijo Temple (Ichijoji) was not still standing in Musashi's day, as de Lange has it.

Overall, however, de Lange has a firm and confident hand with both the translation and the notes. (It is worth saying, however, that the notes take up as much or more space than the translation, which is not particularly long). It is certainly worth reading if you are interested in Musashi, but it is a rather specialised volume, and is probably best digested after reading some of the broader based works, such as the two mentioned above, to get a more balanced perspective. It is also a touch pricey for its size, at least the imported version was. I noticed that de Lange's accompanying volume, The accompanying volume, The Bukoden, is due out this spring, and it seems de Lange also plans a biography of Musashi. I think I will probably be getting it.

By the way, in case you were wondering, the 'Bushu' in the title Bushu Denraiki, is an early pronunciation of Musashi. The title means "The Recorded Transmissions of Musashi".

The Symbolism of Yagyu Tsuba

Suigetsu                                 Marunami

 

General remarks

This is just a rather general introduction to the symbolism of these tsuba, as I understand it, based on a number of years of desultory research and mulling it over. The illustrations are drawings I did to illustrate a few of the more significant motifs – photos can be found here and there, but there is surprisingly little on the web. Mind you, determined searching has turned up some quite interesting examples.

Symbolism in classical martial arts falls into several categories – when interpreting these symbols we should bear in mind that a number of different interpretations may be plausible, and some of these may be what the symbol was originally intended to convey. Others may be ‘correct’ in that they represent the present teachings of the school (though whether these are still close to the art as it was practiced several hundreds of years ago is not always easy to ascertain), or they may represent concepts or metaphors that are entirely accurate and consistent with the teachings of the schools but are the result of personal insight on the part of the instructor, and were not necessarily passed on from previous generations. Then there are guesses. Some of these may be very good, but some of them may be way off.

Yagyu tsuba incorporate a number of motifs which are familiar to those involved in the martial arts and which relate to the principles of Yagyu heiho. Many of the designs include a combination of symbols in a single image – the symbolism may be composite, or it may contain references which are not apparent to those unfamiliar with the teachings of the ryu. Some of these may be interpreted broadly, but, of course, someone who has undergone extensive training in the Yagyu tradition is likely to have a more subtle understanding of the concept as it is embodied in the ryu. I believe that some of the symbolism operates on several levels, so even a relative beginner in the style may be able to associate certain motifs with the names of kata or techniques, but an advanced practitioner will be able to attach a deeper meaning to the same design.

Categorising the motifs

The designs can be categorised in several different ways – some of the names appear to relate directly to names of kata or concepts which are mentioned in writings of the Yagyu family, while for others I can find no direct written references, but seem connected to concepts that are important in Yagyu heiho. Some of the motifs seem quite obvious at first glance, while others are more abstract, either in terms of the conection to heiho, or in the design itself. Finally, there are those which are merely illustrative.

Another way of looking at the designs is to consider the degree to which the treatment of the motif is related to its meaning. For example, is the way bamboo depicted telling us anything important with regard to heiho, other than the fact of it being bamboo? I believe that the answer is yes in some cases – the repetition of the sinuous line in the water motifs is repeated in well ropes clouds and cords – it is tempting to believe that this has something of the quality of movement employed in Yagyu swordsmanship. Other designs have a symmetry that conveys force and balance…. very different from the wave designs, but perhaps also illustrative of imporant atributes in swordsmanship. Some of the more decorative tsuba from other schools also depict water, waves,bamboo and any number of  motifs, but in none of them do I have the feeling that they are connected in any way to swordsmanship beyond the choice of motif itself.

I have never heard any reliable estimate of the total number that exist – I have seen something like fifty or more different designs, and I am sure there are more.

What do they mean?

Perhaps the most distinctive motif is water. This recurs in a number of different designs, but in each, sinuous ripples and waves fill the tsuba We can imagine Renyasai discussing the design and saying, “Yes, it should be like this.” In terms of heiho, this may relate to the relationship between a swordsman and his opponent, where the superior swordsman, with no pre-planned strategy, responds naturally to the moves of his opponent, slipping into the gaps that appear in his opponent:s defense, flowing around his attacks, filling the empty spaces, just as water does. Though water may not have its own shape, it does have a characteristic movement, and this is what is depicted.

The water motif is perhaps most commonly depicted in ‘The moon in the water’ (suigetsu), which is well known through its connections with Zen Buddhism，although it has older antecedents and connections to other schools of Buddhism and the Confucianism of Chu Hsi. Even outside its martial context you can see different interpretations, depending on what aspect of the relationship between the moon and its relection are being highlighted. I have seen it discussed as referring to the aim in Yagyu swordsmanship of reflecting the opponent’s movements in the same way that water reflects the image of the moon: that is, akind of melding with the opponent’s movement without the intervention of the conscious mind. This interpretation usually lays stress on the calmness of the water as a pre-requisite for accurately reflecting the image of the moon. Similarly, it is said, the swordsman’s mind must be calm. Interestingly, the water in Renyasai’s tsuba is anything but calm, having the same sinuous lines as in his other designs. This reinforces my feelings about the quality of movement that is required, but also makes me think that the specifics of ‘the moon in the water’ are not so easily explained.

Even within the Yagyu school, we can see there are different explanations for suigetsu, and without being personally taught, I think it is difficult to appreciate the precise meaning of the phrase, and the way in which the different descriptions relate to the imagery of the concept. Suffice to say, despite its derivation from philosophy, it is not a theory, but the title of a technique or skill, but one that I think is properly categorized as mukei – shapeless (or not dependent on specific moves or positions).

Visually, there is, of course, a moon in the top of the design, and its image is reflected in the waves at the bottom – although it is sometimes hard to see.

sangaku, dōsasa and tsurubenawa

Another well-known design is one known variously as ippon take, take kirikabu and dōsasa, which shows the base of growing bamboo with twigs and a few leaves. This is an important design, as it was the one Renyasai had on his own sword, Kagotsurube (well basket – suggesting a well bucket made of woven bamboo… obviously not very efficient in drawing up water). The typical image of bamboo as a symbol in the martial arts conjures up images of pliability, bending to release its load of snow, unlike the more rigid trees which eventually break under the weight. In this case, it is clearly being referred to somewhat differently. I have not seen an explanation which strikes me as being entirely correct (perhaps someone with personal experience of this could put me right, but I have my own ideas). I have seen it related to the first technique, itto ryodan, (cutting in two with one stroke) of the first set of Shinkage-ryu kata, but the relationship is not immediately clear. On reflection, I think it probably refers to the importance of the roots and base of the bamboo, which allow the rest of the bamboo to display its characteristic flexibility. This blend of strength and pliability is important in swordsmanship, and similarly, it is the strength of the hips and legs that allow the freedom of movement in the sword and the upper body.

On the subject of itto ryodan, this is also supposed to be the inspiration for the design called tsurube-nawa (well rope), which shows a pair of well buckets and the attached rope. You have to look carefully to make out the buckets – it took me quite a while to see them (that was before I checked the title). If you are familiar with double-bucketed Japanese wells, the symbolism is fairly clear. If you let a full bucket go, it would immediately drop back in to the well, bringing the other one up. Of course, they pass each other on parallel paths, very much like the itto ryodan technique. It is easy to see how this relationship and the immediate descent of the bucket, acting entirely unconsciously, can be applied to the movement of the sword. Likewise, I have seen it applied to raito (lightning sword), a shinkage-ryu technique from a jodan position, which is, I believe, a variation or closely related to itto ryodan.

Also interesting are the motifs that have a theoretical rather than pictorial basis. These include sangaku (three learnings) which is also referenced in the first chapter of Yagyu Munenori’s Heihokadensho, The Shoe Offering Bridge, which came down from Yagyu Sekishusai. They are posture, limbs, and sword. This triangle motif, and the related mitsuboshi (three stars) are repeated in a variety of combinations. This is probably a clue to a deeper meaning – in Legacies of the Sword, Karl Friday describes it as ’code’ for ‘sangaku-no-en’ denoting the way in which the motion of the sword is. or contains a spiral motion built on three points – a triangle within a circle. Also quite common are the square and diamond shapes. These appear to refer to the ability to be centred and maintaining a kamae that has no deviation one way or another – it is facing all four sides.  The wheel is another common motif – it occurs in various technique names and the design known as namiguruma (waves and wheel) or suisha (waterwheel) was used by Renyasai for his wakizashi, Sasa-no-tsuyu (dew on the bamboo grass). It relates directly to various techniques and the ‘wheel’ kamae but in a deeper sense, to the kind of movement that inspired names such as suisha, hana-guruma, oni-guruma.

Yagyu-gasa, marobashi, jumonji, namiguruma

Lastly, for the moment, there are two motifs linked to some key concepts of the school: marobashi, which relates to the freedom to move in any direction, like a rolling ball, and jumonji,  (cross), the meaning of which is better left to those who actually train in shinkage-ryu. (I gather no-one is particularly happy with the translations/explanations that have been given in published versions of Heihokadensho).

I would be glad of any comments or information from shinkage-ryu practitioners (or anyone else, for that matter) who can shed any more light on this fascinating subject.

Yagyu Renyasai and the Yagyu Tsuba

Miyamoto Musashi might be the best known, but he was not the only bugeisha who was intimately connected with the visual arts: Yagyu Renyasai (1625-94), headmaster of the Owari branch of the Yagyu Shinkage Ryu, is well known for the the tsuba he produced as well as being a master swordsman. These are fairly well-known amongst sword (and tsuba) collectors, but martial artists seem less familiar with them, and there is very little written about them in English.

I first saw pictures of them in Dave Lowry's book, Autumn Lightning, which was also the first time I had really heard about the Shinkage Ryu. What struck me about them was the way in which they incorporated elements of the school's strategic principles into the design. Later, when my language ability had inched it's way up to a suitable level, they were one of the first things I researched in Japanese... greatly aided by a combination of pictures and short captions, I was just about able to make some sense of what I was reading.

The world of swords and their accoutrements is a large and complex one, particularly when it comes to appreciation and collecting, and my knowledge is admittedly slight. As seems to be common in many fields, there is a mixture of truth and story in the sword world, and ferreting out verifiable facts is not easy - it is quite common to repeat stories but they are not always substantiated.

As with many Japanese crafts, the making of tsuba was often a collaborative effort, and Renyasai employed skilled specialists at different stages of the operation. The basic tsuba were forged by a number of different smiths - among whom, it was said, was Kotetsu Gozaemon. The story goes that these rough pieces were placed in a rice mortar and Renyasai pounded them with a heavy mallet to test their durability. Those that survived unharmed progressed to the next stage, which involved working the designs into the metal, through a variety of drilling, cutting and filing processes. The designs themselves are also the subject of some uncertainty, though the best were traditionally all ascribed to the painter Kano Tanyu. An examination of the dates involved makes it unlikely he designed all of them, but it is possible that he designed some of them. The metalwork was performed by members of the Goto family. After they had been shaped, they would be tested again with, as the story goes, an axe. Those that passed were accepted, and were then patinated to give the desired finish.

 There are several points here that I'm not sure of - it seems that the Yagyu family has an album of tsuba designs which includes stories about them, several of which have become quite well known. There are some doubts as to their authenticity - the collaborations with Kotetsu, Kano Tanyu and the artisans of the Goto house have not been proven, and in fact, seem unlikely, though I have seen suggestions that Kano Tsunenobu, Tanyu's nephew, was involved in the design stage. The connection with the Goto house, who were, among other things, keepers of the Tokugawa mint, has actually been described as 'unthinkable'. Likewise, the picturesque story of Renyasai pounding tsuba in a rice mortar seems to originate from 19th century sources.

On the subject of mortar pounding, here is a short section written in the early 1900s, taken from Jim Gilbert's site on tsuba,

 "As to the mortar story. It is very doubtful, for what use was there in pounding them up? Is this the proper way to test a tsuba? There are certain methods in trying weapons, if one wishes spoil anything by rough usage. One might smash even a Myochin armor or a Bizen sword. To pound tsuba is the same. Mr. Yagyu is the man known as the best fencer and a clever man appointed by the 2^nd or 3^rd Shogun Tokugawa. If so he would not dare to play such a foolish game. This opinion must be taken from tradition of Yagyu people, or storytellers' jokes. Since I was a young man I have seen may thousands of tsuba, but only two or three with sword marks (kizu). So that we must think whether tsuba were struck by the sword in actual fight. In real fighting it is a question of a moment whether to kill or be killed. Why should one prefer to cut an arm rather than a head, which would not kill. After examining many blades a tsuba, not only with sword marks, almost no mark is seen on the habaki moto, but generally near the boshi. The mementos of the fighting period: Kamakura tsuba are very thin, Kanayama as well, especially the later ones have large piercings, which made them look very dangerous for real fighting, besides, the work of Kaneie I, Myoju, are thin, especially that of Myochin. Not only are they thin, but even made of shakudo, copper, or brass, and those soft metal tsuba are not thick. All these facts suffice to kill the story of pounding tsuba in a mortar. Some people might say that most of the tsuba made by armor makers are thick, that proves that they were made for defense. So that Yagyu's mortar trick was not so foolish. That opinion at first sound reasonable, but I can't agree with it, as my idea is that the thick heavy tsuba was intended to give weight to the hand, so as to give a greater strike (momentum) to the hand." 

Note that Akiyama was born in 1843 and was at age 9 named a page under lord Yamanouchi Yodo Toyonobu of Tosa. Akiyama was not only an authority on sword fittings, but also grew up wearing swords.

(originally from the early 1900's journal "Token Kai Shi" part four, Articles by Akiyama Kyusaku Translated by Henri L. Joly, Annotated by Robert E. Haynes)


I must say that although the tsuba is not meant to be used as a defense, it would require a particularly bold swordsman not to have one on his sword, although this was, in fact, the case with one of Uesugi Kenshin's swords. Yagyu tsuba are very sturdy in feel and appearance, and I am sure this reflected the practical value of swordsmanship. However, testing with an axe, although possible, would have left its mark on the metal, so this must be regarded as nothing but a story (or an isolated incident).

There also seems to be no reliable record of Renyasai's personal role in all of this - presumably he oversaw the process, offering opinion and suggesting changes, as Rikyu did with the artisans who worked for him. Whether or not he had a hand in the physical work is something we don't know - it is quite possible that he supplied rough designs which were worked up further by skilled artisans. As for the designs themselves, it has come to be accepted that they reflect aspects of Yagyu heiho, or martial arts, and I shall discuss this next.