The Demon's Sermon – a swordsman’s perspective

A print by Kawanabe Kyosai (2 panels of a triptych) showing Ushiwakamaru
(later known as Minamoto Yoshitsune) practicing swordsmanship with the tengu.

The Asian martial arts are intimately connected with language and concepts that seem esoteric and difficult to pin down. This is partly exacerbated by the problems of translation, where specific, and sometimes technical, terms become glossed into language that is general and quite difficult to pin down. Typical of this are terms such as kokoro or shin, i, and ki. The problem lies partly with the way in which the term is used in the original language, and partly with our own knowledge of these areas as reflected in our own language.

Take kokoro. This is often translated as mind, or heart, or heart-mind, or spirit. Though this gives us a general idea of the concept, it is quite difficult to conceptualize without further points of reference. When specific instruction on this point is being explained, it can make it almost impossible to grasp the real meaning of a text – all the more so when other terms that refer to related mental or physical faculties are used.

Nearly all the famous texts on swordsmanship include these terms, but I feel that much of the specific flavour and, indeed, meaning, is difficult to grasp without a clear personal understanding of what these terms refer to – a perfectly good translation may or may not provide this understanding.

But that is not all. Sometimes the original writer may not understand what he is talking about. 

Print by Utagawa Kunisada showingg Ushiwakamaru training with tengu
in the mountains of Kurama, outside Kyoto.

Let us take the Tengu Geijutsuron, written by Chozan Issai and translated by William Scott Wilson as The Demon’s Sermon on the Martial Arts. This is a good translation, and worth reading, especially since it appears to have been quite widely read in its time and to have influenced several other works. It is, I believe, the first Japanese work on swordsmanship written for a general readership.

It is not an easy text to follow, however, and the author’s own admission that he was not an expert in swordsmanship may put doubts into the reader’s mind, not least of which might be, “Is it worth trying to understand exactly what he’s saying?” And this is an important point, because he talks at some length and in some detail about a variety of topics pertaining to learning and developing skill in the martial arts. From my own perspective, there are aspects of it that are interesting, mingled with others that smack of armchair theory… and this is just what Otsuka Yoshioka wrote in his work Kenjutsuron, which appeared in the mid 18^th century, not so long after Tengu Geijutsuron.

Otsuka himself was a third generation student of Miura Mugan, who created the Mugan Ryu of swordsmanship. He also founded his own school, the Otsuka Ryu, and so his opinions are worth considering. What is more, his criticisms include his own explanations of these quite abstruse concepts and make for interesting reading in their own right. It is also interesting as it is not often that we get to see a master of swordsmanship directly criticize another work on the subject.

In fact, he is critical of a number of points in Tengu Geijutsuron, but to begin with, lets look at how the two writers explain the relationship between mind (kokoro) and ki (which Wilson calls ch’i, following the Chinese pronunciation.)

Tengu Geijutsuron

“Listen, form follows ch’i and ch’i follows the mind. When the mind does not move, there is no movement of ch’i; when the mind is at peace and there is nothing to agitate it, the ch’i is also in harmony, follows the mind, and technique responds to circumstances naturally. When there is something in the mind, ch’i is obstructed and the arms and legs cannot respond with their function. When the mind resides in technique, the ch’i is hindered and is not in harmony.”

The Demon’s Sermon on the Martial Arts p. 97

Otsuka comments on the passage as follows:

“He writes, ‘when the mind is still, the ki does not move.’ To say ‘the mind does not move’ is correct. ‘The ki does not move’ is incorrect. As mentioned previously, the ki must move, up and around, without stopping even for a moment. It preserves the outer circulation. If this energy doesn’t stop circulating even for a moment, it cannot respond to outer influences. Therefore it is called ki. You should think of preserving ki. If it does not move, does not circulate, it is not living ki. Usually, those who discourse on the state of mind and ki, blithely confuse the two.”

As you can see, the first passage closely links the mind and ki, making them, in effect, manifestations of the same phenomenon, as if ki is a slightly more solid version of mind. Otsuka, however, draws a clear distinction between them, envisaging them as complementary concepts. He goes on to explain them in greater detail – if you have an understanding of what he is referring to, this can be understood without too much difficulty; certainly, it is possible to recognize the use of mind and ki from ones own training. Without this personal experience, it might be difficult.

For those interested, I have included some of his further descriptions of mind and ki:

“The movement of the mind holds back the ki. If the ki is still it holds back the mind. When it is held back by the mind, the ki should ride over the mind. When the mind is held back by the ki, it should master the ki. If you cannot use the mind to master the ki, or use the ki to ride over the mind, you will be unable to reach the level where you can respond with complete freedom. This is not limited to swordsmen; among scholars too, there are many who keep their minds fixed and undistracted and have learnt not to stop the movement of their ki.”

This makes sense if ki is understood as something physical; if you think of it as an intangible energy, it might be more difficult to make sense of this.

“To settle the ki is not like a cloud settling on the edge of a mountain. Settling the mind is certainly like the wind stopping and the rain ceasing, when everything becomes calm. Settling the ki is more like settling affairs of state, making good use of everything, neglecting nothing. The ways of settling the mind and the ki are completely different.”

A superb late 18th century suit of armour
designed to look like a tengu.

The Tengu Geijutsuron also speaks at length on settling the mind and the ki, but the images it presents do not really distinguish between the two. The basic message is that if you do something for long enough, even difficult tasks will become natural for you, you will do them easily, thus your mind will be settled. If your mind is settled, your ki can move freely as the occasion demands. The examples he gives, such as a boatman running up and down the deck of a fast moving boat, ignore the one problem that has beset practitioners of fighting arts over the ages, and came to be a topic of contention during the Edo period in Japan ­– it is all very well to develop merely physical skills, such as moving on a boat, by repetition, but how do you train someone to fight, when not only is the situation continually changing, but someone is actively trying to hurt you just as you are trying to hurt them? How do you keep the mind ‘still’ in this kind of situation? How do you have the leisure to learn in such a lethal environment? And how do you develop skills that are sufficiently superior to your adversary’s to ensure a high probability of survival?

These are questions that continue to tax martial artists to this day. Tengu Geijutsuron doesn’t really offer any answers. Otsuka’s comments suggest that he did have answers, and I believe it is this level of insight that the masters of swordsmanship tried to convey in their writings, and what makes them worth reading.

I will leave Otsuka to have the last word for now:

“Even if we outline the method of distinguishing the mind and the ki nevertheless, it is for the most part insufficient - is it not necessary to complete intense training?”

Wisdom from Samurai High School

Sanada Yukimura gives advice to the young hero

This is a lighthearted but fun drama series from 2009. (Broadcast by NTV).  It stars Miura Haruma, who does a very good job, both as a goofy high school kid and as the samurai whose spirit possesses his body. It may not be to everybody's taste, of course, but if you like light comedy and bear in mind that it's aimed at teenagers, it's actually pretty good.

Every episode, the hero is taken over by the spirit of his ancestor at a critical point and goes into action. We get to see an idealized young samurai in modern times –  his disciplined outlook on life is contrasted strongly with his lackadaisical but likable modern descendant... of course everything works out happily in the end.

By putting a samurai into a modern day setting, it provides an interesting example of the way 'samurai' are seen in the present day. Not surprisingly, it is more nuanced than the typical view we are used to in the west. It is also, of course, idealized.

It also raised more serious points: one which I will discuss below is something often missed in western treatment of samurai and bugei, and one that has quite important ramifications to serious students of martial arts.

Perhaps this quote is typical of the way in which samurai are viewed (in a non-academic context, of course):

The fighter is to be always single-minded with one object in view: to fight, looking neither backward nor sidewise. To go straight forward in order to crush the enemy is all that is necessary for him.
(D.T. Suzuki, Zen and Culture, p. 62)

Although he was talking generally about the attraction of Zen for the warrior class, the limitations of this point of view were raised nicely by a flashback scene in Episode 2, where the samurai youth is talking to his lord, Sanada Yukimura.

The conversation runs something like this...

'Are you ready for your first battle?'

'Yes! I plan to cut through the outer defenses and go directly for the enemy general to take his head.'

'Well said. It is a fine plan for someone 17 years old.'

This is the crux of it – this attitude of rushing straight in and carrying the day with your determination is vital, but it is not everything.

The bugei do vary in their treatment of the psychology of combat, but there is a tendency to treat them monolithically.  Even within a single style, there are differences in stages of teaching during which different approaches are appropriate. Although much writing (especially, but not limited to, that which is connected to Zen) tends to emphasize the power of determination, this is not necessarily equally stressed at all points of training.

In the late Edo period, there seems to have been a consistent effort to stress the development of this aspect of swordsmanship. For various reasons not wholly related to combat, this aspect was further emphasised during the Meiji and Taisho periods, and aspects of this are still visible in modern day kendo.

The older bugei were not so simplistic. This is especially evident in the teachings (and writings) that are closer to the warring states period. Not only were different attitudes emphasised at different stages of training, but the aims of training differed within and between ryu-ha. Those destined to be leaders would be taught tactics and strategy at a greater level of detail than simple warriors, with much of the higher level material being based on the physical skills that had been mastered in training with weapons. Some ryu-ha, such as the Shinkage ryu, seem to have had quite a strong strategic component, and were patronised by higher ranking warriors. There were also ryu-ha of strategy, which dealt specifically with managing troops. I suspect that, beyond this, there were family teachings and traditions, probably mainly oral, that were passed from generation to generation. There is some evidence of this in the Tokugawa family, with the instructions Tokugawa Ieyasu passed on to his successors; the Sanada family is also an example in which a high level of tactical ability was evident in several generations of the family (with two successive generations bringing the Tokugawa war machine to a halt).

Different writings may be seemingly contradictory, but this is not always the case. The courage and dynamism expressed in sentiments such as those expressed in the Suzuki quote may be very attractive, and certainly are impressive as isolated quotes. However the real strength of the bugei, in my opinion, is that they contain but are not limited to this approach. They are able to harness and build on this fierce attacking energy, but not be controlled by it.

To return to Samurai High School, Sanada Yukimura continues to advise his young vassal:

'In war, things do not always go as expected... a warrior who is certain of victory is arrogant. He only sees what is straight ahead. We must look to the left... to the right... and above us.'

Still, it is hard not to admire the teenage samurai's admonishment to his enemies before he ploughs into school bullies and local hoods:

'I cannot help but pity your miserable existence!'

In Business - The Book of Five Rings

Corporate Kendo - Tips for the Marketplace (from Samurai Businessman, New York, June 29, 1981)

Back in the 1980’s, The Book of Five Rings was partly popularized by selling it to the business crowd – touted as the secret of Japan’s economic success, managers and executives of all stripes were encouraged to read it and benefit from the insights their competitors’ thinking.

I came to Musashi myself through a teenage interest in the exotic, of which martial arts were part, and this was certainly pretty far from its use for business, but Musashi’s popularity in the USA was, indeed, business driven. An article from a 1981 edition of New York Magazine makes for interesting reading, explaining that one of the early proselytizers, the advertising executive George Lois said:

"I have some advice for American businessmen who are trying to figure out why the Japanese excel in business. Buy and study a copy of Musashi's A Book of Five Rings."

It also includes the corrective from a senior correspondent for the Nihon Keizai Shinbun, who said that Japanese businessmen were “far too concerned with the future to be rummaging around in the past.” (Flippo, C. (1981) Samurai Businessman, New York, June 29, 29-31).

Interestingly, he was turned on to it by Kaneda Masaichi, a famous baseball pitcher. (perhaps it was in the air - Oh Sadaharu, a contemporary of his, practiced batto (drawing and cutting with the sword) to improve his batting).

I recently came across an article addressing historical sources of East Asian strategy and their application to business. It dealt with Gorin no Sho, the Three Kingdoms and Sun Tzu, highlighting connections between them and giving guidelines for using some of the key concepts they contain in business.

Here are the main points it presented with respect to Gorin no Sho:

1) Grasping relationships and multiple perspectives… To gain new knowledge or find innovative solutions, the student must avoid unilateral thinking and the limitations of a one-track mind.

2) Seeking knowledge and information. Victory may be achieved when the “rhythm of each opponent” is known.

3) Being patient. It is best to wait for the opponent to make the first move, according to Bushido (the way of military men).

4) Training and disciplining oneself.

5) Disguising emotions and intentions. “(A)lways be the same way in any situation, and keep your mind in the Middle Way attitude,” wrote Musashi… Furthermore, people should never reveal their honne (real intentions) and always “ act in such a way as to not reveal the depth of your spirit to others, “ Musashi stated.

6) Possessing flexibility. Despite Musashi’s advocacy of the middle-of-the-road approach, he emphasizes physical, psychological, and emotional flexibility during a confrontation.

7) Using diversion. Wrote Musashi: “Once you have distracted {your opponent}, gain the advantage by following with your attack.” While promoting patience, Musashi also advocates swift action at the opportune moment… (here the author goes on to expand this point rather than talking about diversion).

8) Divide and conquer. “(W)hen you have seen that the ranks of the opponents have been disarrayed… push in and strike strongly without allowing any time to lapse.”

9) Assessing the terrain. Musashi’s analysis is analogous to Sun Tzu’s statement that “it is of utmost importance to force the opponent into a disadvantageous position.”

Tung, R.L. (1994) Strategic Thought in East Asia, Organizational Dynamics, Vol 22(4), 55-65.

This brings up a couple of interesting points.

Firstly, I’m not sure I would be able to reduce my understanding of Musashi’s work into only nine or ten points, but I find it interesting to see the ideas of someone who has done so, if only because examining someone else’s view of a work enables you to reassess your own view of that work. It gives you a tool to measure or assess your own understanding.

Secondly, it calls into question the value of works such as Gorin no sho, that were clearly written with regard to specific contexts, for a specific audience, and referenced things with which the average reader no longer has knowledge of. The concepts outlined above are not particularly profound – whether or not they are particularly useful in a business context, I am not qualified to say. I suppose they might provide some food for thought, especially for those involved in business with East Asian companies, who were not familiar with the culture.

Sun Tzu, which was also discussed in the article, is referred to much more commonly – despite the lack of a familiar context, it seems to have become a much used text in a variety of contemporary business and military contexts. There have been far more incisive and focused texts on strategy and tactics in these areas, but it has remained one of the most often cited works, famously quoted by Gordon Gecko and assigned as reading by the USMC for officer training. Perhaps the very fact it is so general that it allows for creative interpretation for its readers and broad applicability across a variety of fields and situations.

In Japan, too, Sun Tzu has been written about in a business context, but a quick perusal of the book shelves suggests that it is less often used as inspiration than The Romance of the Three Kingdoms and other, home grown sources. In this latter category, it is not Musashi who features most often, but the generals of the Sengoku period, the Age of the War.

Yes, there's plenty of interesting material there!

The Spirit and the Swordsman: the spiritual side of martial arts

Detail of a painting by Takahashi Deishu, friend of the more famous
Katsu Kaishu (and Yamaoka Tesshu). The calligraphy on this piece
(not shown) muses on the inevitability of death.

Asian martial arts have always had something of an air of mystery in the west, and part of that is their connection with the spiritual and religious traditions of their countries of origin. However, many people mistake these connections for spiritual content. Characteristics such as slowness and deliberateness of movement, exotic clothes, unfamiliar terminology, not to mention the age and ethnicity of practitioners, are sometimes taken as further evidence of spirituality. Of course, things are not so simple, and there are some hard questions to be asked about just what is 'spiritual' about martial traditions.

There are also those who dismiss the spiritual side completely, and perhaps this is a wise course. In many cases it has been overplayed - the connection between Zen and traditional Japanese martial arts is just one example - but still, there is something in Asian martial arts that lends itself to such misunderstandings, something that seems quite different from European traditions, and it might be that such an interest is not so terribly misplaced after all.

To examine this issue properly, you would have to look at:

-the nature of the spiritual traditions
-their role and status in society
-relationship by proximity,
-personal religious preferences of practitioners of martial arts
-the nature of the martial disciplines themselves

...at the very least.

Below are a few of the thoughts I have had on the subject:

The place of the 'spiritual' in society
Part of this difference must lie in the difference in religious traditions between Europe and East Asia. The Christian tradition was, historically speaking, militantly monotheistic and intolerant, both of other religions and variations of its own teachings. Religious practice was organised and centred on the church. Alternative spiritual practices were forbidden. Usually on pain of torture, death, or some combination of the two.

This led to a comparatively narrow definition of what constituted 'spiritual' practices.

In the far-east (I am most familiar with China and Japan, but much of this is quite general) a number of different religious and spiritual practices were tolerated and practiced in geographically close communities - often within a single community. Not only did differing schools of each particular religion co-exist, but also different religions. This allowed extensive cross-fertilisation, and the development of collateral disciplines. Many of these were concerned, to some degree, with the use and development of particular mental states, breathing, concentration etc., some of which had obvious value to the warrior. Whether or not these were directly absorbed, the higher levels of bugei were also concerned with 'inner' factors that gave the warrior access to superior performance. It is safe to say that whatever the relationship between these two sets of skills, those involved in spiritual practices were more likely to have developed a vocabulary to describe and help pass on this knowledge. Much in the way that scientific terms have become generally used in society today, terms stemming from religious/spiritual practice were adopted by bugei, and often appear in writings on the subject. This does not mean that the arts were directly influenced by the practices, but to an outsider, this may appear to be the case.

Another factor that seems relevant is the role of religious buildings in community life. Markets, festivals, village meetings - all of them could be held within temple or shrine precincts. In Japan, larger temples were also used for a variety of civic and private functions, including lodging visiting dignitaries, makeshift barracks for military forces, artist's studios, dance performances, administrative centres and so on. They were also ideal places for the practice of martial arts. Even the simplest temple or shrine in Japan would include a flattened area of beaten down earth that would make a suitable practice area. Unlike western churches and cathedrals, temples and shrines usually consisted of a number of discrete structures within the grounds, with plenty of open space in between. Many included sub-temples which themselves consisted of a series of buildings. This physical organisation was highly suitable for the promotion of a whole range of activities that might have no direct connection with the teachings of the temple/shrine itself, and brings us to the subject of proximity.

The Japanese martial traditions have grown up in close proximity to religious practices, and the creation of fixed kata or forms, may even have originated as ritual dances performed at Shinto shrines. The oldest traditions seems to have been passed on within families of shrine officials, and there are many accounts of the founders of different traditions going into seclusion in shrines or temples to refine their arts. 

Additionally, (especially, but not exclusively, in the latter part of the Edo period and the beginning of Meiji), there were several influential figures who practiced Zen alongside their swordsmanship. Other swordsmen were of other religious or philosophical persuasions - although this may have coloured their teachings, it doesn't necessarily imbue the arts with spiritual content. The terminology and/or conceptual underpinnings of their preferred spiritual disciplines may have been used a means of explaining concepts within the art - which could lead to some confusion for those familiar with the art chiefly from writings on it.

Katsu Kaishu, an important political figure of the Meiji Restoration,

swordsman and Zen practitioner, brushed this: 理事忘遠心 : Mind far away, theory and practice forgotten.

(Courtesy of/robynbuntin.com)

Much of this seems to have been taken as evidence of spiritual content, and as we are separated by several hundred years, it is difficult to view it from an accurate perspective, but I think it would be safer to say that it speaks of proximity, rather than evidence that martial disciplines can function as vehicles for spiritual development.

The 'spiritual' in the arts

Morally ambivalent swordsmanship is the subject of 'The Sword of Doom'.

Of course, the very terminology used by the arts does much to reinforce the impression of spiritual content, and certainly much of it does refer to the mysterious world of the mental and subconscious. Concepts such as will, spirit, ki, hara, do indeed speak of something beyond the physical - but this does not make it spiritual, however nice it might be to think so.

However, training these qualities might have benefits beyond the merely practical realm of fighting, and this is what the early developers of the modern budo disciplines clearly felt. Practicing these arts brings about valuable changes in behavioural/psychological/emotional areas, even if these are by-products - it is clear that writers in 18th century Japan recognized this and were trying to position swordsmanship as something more than just a practical skill for fighting. We can see several works that criticize swordsmanship of other schools as 'animalistic' or 'savage' - which was Neo-Confucian terminology for learning which was not concerned with moral development on a Confucian path - as well as arguments that show how swordsmanship can be a vehicle for this kind of development - the Great Path - leading towards enlightenment or sagehood.

Interestingly, at least one writer also argued that although swordsmanship was, in itself, a minor art, the same could also be said for sutra reading and meditation. Simply engaging in mechanical tasks would not lead to spiritual development, but that once one was on a spiritual path, any discipline could be practiced as a vehicle for furthering development on the path.

On the other hand...

... any path is what you make it.

As Shimada Toranosuke (incidentally the teacher of Katsu Kaishu, whose calligraphy is shown above) famously put it... 'The sword is the mind; if the mind is not correct, the sword will not be correct. To study the sword, first study the mind.' This 'mind' is the Japanese kokoro, a concept that resists exact definition, but which lies close to the root of much of Japanese thinking. Sometimes translated as 'heart-mind', it is often set in opposition to the intellect, and contains elements of feeling and sub-concious processes. There is even something of a moral element in it. In the sense that spiritual teachings also, ultimately, aim to affect the kokoro, this does offer support to claims of spiritual content in the martial arts, but once again, I would think it safer to say that there are parallels and points of intersection, rather than make any grandiose claims. 

For film buffs, of course, Shimada Toranosuke, played by Mifune Toshiro, and the amoral killer, Ryunosuke meet in The Sword of Doom (Daibosatsu Tōge), giving an interesting look at the role of skill and morality in the sword. For those of you who have always wondered what happens after the final frame of the movie, you might like to know that there were at least two other film versions of the same film. These were trilogies, with Part One of both covering the same story as The Sword of Doom. Parts 2 & 3 cover the further adventures of Ryunosuke. Oh, and of course the novel on which it was based runs to about 20 volumes. I believe the author died before he had brought it to a conclusive finish...but I digress....

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.