My Individualism

Exported from Wikisource on August 30, 2026.

My Individualism
Author: Natsume Soseki
1914

TextInfo templateBibliographic information

Note: This work contains expressions that may be considered inappropriate from today's perspective. While noting this here, the work is published in its original form.

　　　　—Delivered at the Gakushuin Hojin-kai on November 25, 1914—

　Today is the first time I have set foot inside this Gakushuin. To be sure, I had previously assumed that Gakushuin was probably situated around this area, but I did not know for certain. Naturally, today is indeed the first time I have entered it.

　As Mr. Okada mentioned a moment ago in his introduction, I was asked this spring to give a lecture, but at that time something came up—Mr. Okada, who seems to remember the details better than I do myself, has just explained the situation to you in a way that I trust you found satisfactory—and in any case, I found myself obliged to decline for the time being. Yet it struck me as too discourteous to refuse outright, so I added the condition that I would come on a later occasion. When I asked Mr. Okada, just to be sure, when that later occasion might be, he replied that it would be in October of this year, so I roughly counted the days from spring to October in my mind and, thinking that with that much time I could surely manage something, I clearly accepted the invitation. As luck would have it, however, I fell ill, and while I lay in bed through the whole of September, the promised October arrived. By October I was no longer bedridden, but I was still so unsteady on my feet that giving a lecture was rather difficult. Still, I could not forget my promise, and inwardly I kept thinking that they would surely come to call on me sooner or later, and I was secretly dreading it.

　In time, my unsteadiness finally healed completely, yet from my side I let the days pass with no word from them until the end of October. I had, of course, not notified them of my illness, but since it was said that a line or two had appeared in a couple of newspapers, I began to assume that perhaps someone had discerned the circumstances and given the lecture in my place, and so I grew at ease. Then, suddenly, Mr. Okada appeared again. Mr. Okada had taken the trouble to come wearing boots. (Though it may also have been because it was a rainy day.) In that attire he made his way deep into Waseda, and his message was that the lecture in question had been postponed until the end of November, and he wished me to fulfill my promise as agreed. I had thought myself already free of the responsibility, so I was in fact somewhat taken aback. Still, there remained more than a month of leeway, and thinking that something could be managed in that time, I again replied that I would be glad to do it.

　As described above, from this spring through October, and again from the end of October until November twenty-fifth, I could easily have found ample time to prepare a coherent lecture. Yet somehow I felt unwell, and the very thought of such matters became so tiresome that I could hardly bear it. So I took the lazy resolve that I need not worry until November twenty-fifth arrived, and I drifted along day after day in a sluggish, procrastinating manner. Only two or three days before the deadline drew near did I feel a slight urge that I ought to think of something, but still the thinking was so unpleasant that I ended up spending my time painting pictures. When one says painting pictures, it may sound as though I produced something impressive, but in truth I painted trivial things, pasted them on the wall, and simply sat gazing at them in a daze for two or three days by myself. Just yesterday, I believe, someone came by and told me that this picture was very interesting—no, that was not what he said; he said it looked like a picture painted in an interesting mood. Then I explained to him my state of mind, saying that I had painted it not because I was pleased, but because I was displeased. Just as there are people in this world who, unable to sit still from delight, pour their feelings into painting, calligraphy, or writing, so too are there those who, because they are unhappy, take up the brush to create a picture or a piece of writing, hoping somehow to reach a better state of mind. And curiously enough, when these two different mental states manifest themselves in the result, they often turn out to coincide remarkably well. But this is merely a passing remark, and since it is not a matter bearing on the thread of my talk, I shall not dwell on it further. —In any case, I spent my days merely gazing at that strange picture, without assembling the content of my lecture in the slightest.

　At last the twenty-fifth arrived, and whether I liked it or not, I was obliged to show my face here. So this morning I tried to gather my thoughts a little, but my preparation seems quite inadequate. I fear I cannot deliver a talk that will fully satisfy you, so I ask for your forbearance with that in mind.

　I do not know when this gathering first began or how it has continued to this day, but I readily grant that it is in no way irregular, by general custom, for you to bring in outside speakers each time to give a lecture. Yet, seen from another angle, I also think that a lecture as interesting as you seem to hope for is not easily heard, no matter where or whom you might bring in. Is it not simply that outsiders strike you as novel?

　Among the stories I heard from a rakugo storyteller, there is one with a satirical bent. — Once, two feudal lords went falconry near Meguro, and after riding about here and there, they grew extremely hungry. Unfortunately, they had no provisions with them, and having become separated from their retainers, they could not obtain any food to satisfy their hunger. In desperation, the two rushed into a dirty peasant's house nearby and demanded that something, anything, be fed to them. The old man and old woman of that farmhouse, taking pity on them, roasted some Pacific saury they had on hand and offered barley rice to the two lords. The two finished their meal with that saury as a relish, finding it exceedingly delicious, and left the place. But even the next day, the aroma of yesterday's saury lingered pungently in their nostrils, and they simply could not forget its taste. So one of the two invited the other to a feast of saury. The one who was astonished upon hearing this was the retainer. Yet, since it was his lord's command, he could hardly defy it, so he ordered the cook to pluck out the fine bones of the saury one by one with tweezers, soak them in mirin or the like, and roast them just right before serving them to the lord and his guest. But the eaters were not hungry, and even when they poked at this odd dish, which had lost the taste of saury due to the excessively fussy preparation, it was not delicious in the least. So the two looked at each other and uttered a strange saying to the effect that, after all, saury is best at Meguro — and that is the punchline of the tale. From my perspective, however, it seems that you, who in this fine institution called Gakushuin are constantly in the company of distinguished teachers, and who have been willing to wait from spring until the end of autumn to hear a lecture from someone like me, may indeed be in the position of having grown weary of the feast of a great lord and thus feeling a desire to sample Meguro's saury for a change.

　Professor Omori, who is present in this audience, graduated from the university around the same time as I did, perhaps a year or so before or after. On one occasion, that same Professor Omori told me that he found it troubling that his students these days did not listen carefully to his lectures, and that it was improper that they lacked sufficient seriousness. I recall that his remark was not about the students of this school, but rather about those of some private school somewhere. In any case, at that time I said something rather rude to Professor Omori.

　I am almost embarrassed to repeat myself here, but at that time I said, "What country has students who are grateful enough to listen to lectures like yours?" To be sure, my intent may not have gotten through to Professor Omori at that moment, so I will take this opportunity to prevent any misunderstanding. During our student days, when we were about your age, or perhaps a little older, we were far more impertinent than you are now, to the point where one could fairly say we hardly ever listened to our teachers' lectures. Of course, since I am speaking from the standpoint of myself and those around me, this may not apply to those outside that circle, but looking back now, I somehow feel that this was indeed the case. In fact, I myself, though appearing docile on the surface, was by no means the sort to lend an ear to lectures. I was always idle and loafing about. When I look at today's serious students with that memory in mind, I cannot bring myself to attack them as Professor Omori does. It was in that sense that I inadvertently spoke rudely to Professor Omori. I did not come here today specifically to apologize to him, but since the opportunity presents itself, I will offer my apology before everyone present.

　Since I have strayed rather far from the point, let me return to the main thread and put things in proper order; the matter comes down to this.

　You have entered an excellent school and receive constant guidance from excellent teachers, and you listen every day to their lectures, whether specialized or general in nature. Yet you go out of your way to bring in someone like me from outside and attend a lecture of mine. This strikes me as much the same as the feudal lords I mentioned a moment ago savoring Meguro's saury—that is to say, it seems to me your intention is simply that, finding me a novelty, you wish to have a taste. To speak frankly, the words of the regularly employed teachers whose faces you see every day are likely far more beneficial and far more interesting than anything I could offer. Even I, were I a professor at this school, doubt that such a crowd would gather with the earnestness or curiosity to hear my lecture, if only because there would be no fresh stimulus—but what do you think?

　Why do I make such an assumption? Because I myself once actually tried to become a teacher at Gakushuin. It is not as though I campaigned for the position on my own, but an acquaintance of mine at the school recommended me. At that time I was such a careless fellow that until just before graduation I had no idea how I might earn my keep, but when at last I stepped out into the world, I realized that even if I stood idly with my hands in my pockets, boarding house rent would not come in on its own. So, setting aside the question of whether I could truly become an educator, I needed to find a place to slip into somewhere, and thus I set about making my case to the school, following my acquaintance's advice. At that time I had a rival. Yet my acquaintance kept assuring me that everything would surely work out, so I went about feeling as though I had already been appointed, even asking what sort of clothing a teacher was expected to wear. He told me that one could not appear in the classroom without a morning coat, so before the matter was even settled, I had one tailored. And yet I hardly knew where Gakushuin was, which is rather strange. When at last the morning coat was finished, what should happen but that the Gakushuin position I had so counted on was decided against me. The other man was chosen to fill the vacant post of English teacher. I have since forgotten his name—perhaps because I felt no particular regret about it. I heard he was a man who had returned from America. And so, had that man not been selected and I, by some stroke of luck, become a teacher at Gakushuin and remained there to this day, it may well be that I would never have had the opportunity to receive such a courteous invitation and speak to you from this elevated position. The fact that you are willing to wait from this spring all the way to November to hear me is, in itself, proof that I failed to become a teacher at Gakushuin and am regarded by you as something as rare as Meguro's saury.

　I would now like to say a few words about myself after I failed to become a teacher at Gakushuin. I hope you will listen to this not merely because it follows the order of my previous remarks, but because it is a necessary part of today's lecture.

　I failed to get into Gakushuin, but I did have my morning coat. Since I had no other Western clothes to wear, there was nothing else to be done. Where do you suppose I went wearing that morning coat? In those days, unlike now, the path to employment was quite easy. It seemed that no matter which way I turned, suitable positions were open. That was probably because there was a shortage of people. Even someone like me received offers from the Higher School and the Higher Normal School at almost the same time. I gave a half-hearted acceptance to the senior who had arranged the position at the Higher School for me, but I also gave a vague reply to the Higher Normal School, so matters became awkwardly entangled. Since I was young, I was prone to oversights and lapses, and in the end it came back to haunt me—there was nothing to be done about that, but it was certainly a trying situation. I was summoned before the senior professor of the Higher School, my elder, who rebuked me, saying that while I had told them I would come there, I had also consulted with others, and that put him, as the intermediary, in a difficult position. Being young and hot-tempered, I thought it would be best to turn down both offers outright, and I began the process of doing so. Then one day I received a notice from Mr. Kuhara, who was then the principal of the Higher School and now, I believe, serves as President of the College of Science in Kyoto, asking me to come to the school. When I went, I found there Jigoro Kano, the principal of the Higher Normal School, along with the same senior who had arranged the position for me, and they advised me that the matter had been decided—I need not feel constrained by the other offer, and it would be best for me to go to the Higher Normal School. Given how things had developed, I could hardly say no, so I gave my consent. But in my heart I could not help feeling that I had landed myself in a troublesome situation. For, though it seems presumptuous to say so now, I did not hold the Higher Normal School in such high regard. Even when I first met Mr. Kano, I hesitated, saying that if he expected me, as an educator, to serve as a model for students in the way he seemed to be asking, I was not sure I could fulfill such a role. Mr. Kano was a skillful man, and when I declined so honestly, he said that my frankness only made him want me all the more, and he would not let me go. And so, though I, in my immaturity, had no greedy intention of trying to keep both schools on the hook, I ended up causing unnecessary trouble to those involved before finally going to the Higher Normal School.

　But since I lacked from the very beginning the qualifications that would have allowed me to become a great educator, I found the whole situation stifling and quite overwhelming. Even Mr. Kano remarked that I was too honest for my own good, so perhaps I might have been better off being a little more brazen. Yet no matter how I looked at it, I could only feel that this was not the right place for me. To speak frankly and without reserve, I was at that time like a fishmonger who had gone to help out at a confectioner's shop.

　After a year, I finally took up a post at a middle school in the countryside. It was the middle school in Matsuyama, Iyo. You may laugh when you hear of the Matsuyama middle school, but no doubt you have read my "Botchan." In "Botchan" there is a character nicknamed Red Shirt, and in those days I was often asked just who that was supposed to be. Who could it be? At the time, I was the only one at that middle school who could claim the title of Bachelor of Arts, so if one were to take every character in "Botchan" as corresponding to a real person, then Red Shirt would have to be none other than me—which is a piece of good fortune for which I can only express my deepest gratitude.

　I stayed in Matsuyama for only a single year. When I was leaving, the governor tried to persuade me to remain, but since I had already reached a private understanding with the other party, I declined and departed. Then I settled into the Higher School in Kumamoto. In this manner, I have had the experience of teaching successively from middle school to Higher School, and from Higher School to university, though I have yet to set foot in an elementary school or a girls' school.

　I remained in Kumamoto for a considerable time. It was, I believe, several years after arriving in Kumamoto that the Ministry of Education suddenly approached me privately about the possibility of studying abroad in England. At the time, I considered declining the opportunity. My reasoning was that someone like myself, going abroad without any particular purpose, would hardly be of any special service to the nation. However, the head teacher who conveyed the Ministry's intentions told me that since this was their expectation, there was no need for me to evaluate myself, and that I would do well to go in any case. Having no compelling reason to resist, I went to England as instructed. And sure enough, there was nothing for me to do there.

　To explain that, I must first speak a little about what I was up to that point. That account will itself form part of today's lecture, so I ask that you listen with that in mind.

　I studied English literature as my specialty at university. You may ask what English literature truly is, but even after three years of specializing in it, I was utterly bewildered. At that time, a man named Dixon was my teacher. Before him, I was made to read poetry and prose aloud, to write compositions, and was scolded for dropping articles or for mispronouncing words. The examinations were filled with questions such as in what year Wordsworth was born and died, how many folio editions of Shakespeare exist, or to arrange Scott's works in chronological order. You, being young, can probably imagine whether this was truly English literature. Leaving English literature aside for a moment, there was no way to understand what literature itself was through such means. And as for mastering it on my own, it was like a blind man peeping over a fence—no matter where I wandered in the library, I could find no clue. This was not only due to my own inadequacy, but also, I think, to the scarcity of books on the subject. In any case, after three years of study, I ended up without ever understanding literature. I can safely say that my anguish was rooted first and foremost in this.

　With such an uncertain attitude, I went out into the world and ended up becoming a teacher—or rather, I was made into one. Fortunately, even if my language skills were questionable, I could manage to muddle through well enough, so each day passed without much trouble, but inside I was perpetually empty. If I had been truly empty, perhaps I could have been more decisive, but there was something unpleasant, half-baked, and vague lurking everywhere that I could not endure. Moreover, I could not muster the slightest interest in teaching, the profession I had taken up. I knew from the start that I lacked the very disposition of an educator, but since merely teaching English in the classroom was already a burden, there was no helping it. I was constantly in a half-rising state, always thinking that if a chance came, I would leap into my true calling—yet that true calling seemed to exist and not to exist at the same time, and no matter which direction I turned, I could not bring myself to make the leap.

　Having been born into this world, I felt I must do something, yet I had not the slightest idea what to do. I stood frozen, like a solitary man trapped in a fog. Rather than hoping that a ray of sunlight might break through from somewhere, I wished to use a searchlight of my own to see clearly ahead, even if only a single beam's length. Unfortunately, no matter which direction I gazed, everything was hazy, indistinct. I felt like a person stuffed into a sack, unable to get out. I fretted endlessly, thinking that if only I had a single awl in my hand, I could pierce through somewhere—but that awl was neither given to me by others nor could I discover it myself, and so I spent my days in gloomy solitude, wondering in the depths of my heart what would become of me.

　Carrying this unease, I graduated from university, moved from Matsuyama to Kumamoto with the same unease, and finally crossed to a foreign land with similar unease folded at the bottom of my heart. But once I went abroad to study, I was bound to become newly aware of a certain degree of responsibility. So I made every effort to do something, working as hard as I could. Yet no matter what books I read, I still could not escape from the bag. The awl to pierce through this bag seemed nowhere to be found, even if I searched all of London. I pondered in a room of my lodgings. I felt it was futile. I resigned myself to the fact that no matter how many books I read, they would not satisfy my inner hunger. At the same time, I began to lose sight of the very purpose of reading books.

　It was at this moment that I first realized that the only way to save myself was to fundamentally build up, through my own efforts, a concept of what literature truly is. Until then, I had been entirely other-centered, drifting aimlessly like rootless duckweed, and I finally came to see that this was why I had failed. By 'other-centeredness' I mean the so-called mimicry of others—letting someone else drink your wine and then accepting their verdict as unquestionably correct, no matter what. Put that way, it sounds so foolish that one might doubt anyone would engage in such mimicry, but the truth is far from that. Whether it is the lately fashionable Bergson or Eucken, it is always Westerners who make a fuss about them, and the Japanese follow suit and raise a clamor in their wake. All the more so in those days—whatever a Westerner said, people blindly obeyed and took pride in it. Thus men who proudly paraded katakana words and boasted of them to others were everywhere you look. This is not a criticism of others; I myself was exactly such a man. For instance, if I read a Westerner's critique of another Westerner's work, I would never consider whether the critique was sound or not—whether it resonated with me or not—but would simply spread that critique about indiscriminately. In short, it might be called swallowing whole, or mechanical knowledge; it was something utterly alien that could never be called my own possession, my own flesh and blood, yet I paraded it about as if it were mine. And because the times were what they were, everyone praised me for it.

　Yet no matter how much one is praised by others, since one is originally strutting about in borrowed glory, there is unease within. It is like wearing peacock feathers without earning them and putting on airs. Even so, I began to realize that unless I set aside such superficiality and cling to what is genuine and solid, my inner self could never find peace, no matter how long I waited.

　For instance, even if a Westerner says this is a fine poem or that its diction is excellent, that is merely that Westerner's view; while it may not be without use as a reference for me, if I myself do not feel it to be so, it is by no means something I should retail to others. As long as I am an independent Japanese individual and by no means a servant of the Englishman, I must possess at least this much discernment as a member of the nation; moreover, from the standpoint of honoring the morality of honesty common to the world, I must not bend my own opinion.

　However, I was specializing in English literature. If what the critics of that homeland said contradicted my own thoughts, it would, in ordinary circumstances, make me feel rather diffident. So I had to consider from where such contradictions truly arose. Customs, human sentiments, habits, and, going further back, the very character of a nation—all of these must certainly be causes of such contradictions. Ordinary scholars, however, simply confuse literature with science and proceed under the mistaken assumption that what pleases one nation is bound to win the admiration of another, as if such necessity were inherent. That, I must say, is where the error lies. Even if it were impossible to reconcile this contradiction, it ought to be possible to explain it. And even that explanation alone, I thought, could cast a ray of light upon the literary world of Japan. —Such was what I realized for the first time at that moment. It is a terribly belated realization, and I am deeply ashamed of it, but since it is the truth, I state it without pretense.

　From that point on, in order to solidify—or rather, to newly construct—my own foundation in relation to literature, I began reading books that had absolutely nothing to do with literature. In a word, I finally conceived of the phrase "self-centeredness," and in order to substantiate that self-centeredness, I plunged into scientific research and philosophical contemplation. Times are different now, so matters of this sort should be well understood by anyone with a modicum of intelligence, but in those days, on top of my own immaturity, society had not yet advanced to that degree, so my approach was truly unavoidable.

　Once I grasped this word "self-centeredness" in my own hands, I became immensely stronger. I gained the spirit of asking, "Who are they, after all?" To me, who had until then been lost in a daze, the one who pointed the way and said, "Stand here, and proceed along this path," was truly this four-character phrase, "self-centeredness."

　To confess, I set out anew from those four characters. And thinking that, unlike my present state of merely riding on the coattails of others and making a hollow fuss, it would be most reassuring—indeed, if I could splendidly cast before them the unshakable reason why one need not imitate Westerners so much, I myself would surely be delighted, and others would surely rejoice as well—I resolved to make its accomplishment, through books and other means, the great work of my life.

　At that moment, my anxiety vanished completely. I looked upon gloomy London with a light heart. To use a metaphor, after years of anguish, I felt as though I had at last struck my pickaxe squarely against an ore vein. To put it another way, it was as if one who had been confined in fog had, at a certain angle, been clearly shown the path he must take.

　By the time I was thus enlightened, more than a year had already passed since my arrival abroad. And so I came to feel that I could never complete my work in a foreign land; rather, I resolved to gather as much material as possible and, after returning home, bring the matter to a proper conclusion. In other words, though it was by chance, I gained a certain strength upon returning home that I had not possessed when I first went abroad.

　Yet no sooner had I returned than the duty to earn my daily bread arose at once. I attended the Higher School, and I attended the university. Later, because my funds were insufficient, I also taught at a private school. On top of that, I fell ill with neurasthenia. Finally, I found myself obliged to publish trivial literary pieces in magazines. Owing to various circumstances, I abandoned the enterprise I had planned halfway. The Literary Theory I wrote is not so much a memorial of that ambition as the corpse of its failure. Moreover, it is the corpse of a deformed child—or perhaps the ruins of an unfinished city, toppled by an earthquake before it could be properly built.

　Nevertheless, the idea of self-centeredness that I arrived at in those days still persists. Indeed, it has grown steadily stronger with the passing years. Though my literary enterprise ended in failure, the conviction I then firmly grasped—that the self is primary and all else subordinate—has given me extraordinary confidence and peace of mind to this day. I feel that I am still able to live precisely as a continuation of that conviction. In fact, it may well be owing to that very strength that I now stand upon this elevated platform and deliver a lecture to you all.

　What I have just related is merely a rough account of my own experience, yet my purpose in telling it stems entirely from a well-meaning solicitude—the hope that it might serve as some reference for you. You will all soon leave school and go out into the world. Some of you may still have considerable time before that, while others may soon be active in the real world; but I suspect that, in one way or another, you are likely to repeat the same anguish I once passed through, even if its nature differs. I imagine there are many who, like me, long to break through but find no way to do so, or who reach for something only to find it slipping away like a kettle handle, smooth and maddening. If any of you already possess a path you have carved out by your own efforts, you are the exception; and I would never say that those who follow others, content to advance along the old, established road, are wrong—provided that peace of mind and confidence are firmly attached to their selves. But if that is not the case, then you must by all means press forward until you strike a vein with your own pickaxe. I say "must" because, if you fail to strike it, you will spend your life in discontent, forever half-rising, hovering restlessly before the world. It is solely for this reason that I emphasize this point; it is by no means my intention to hold myself up as your model. Even a worthless person like me—if I possess the self-awareness that I have been able to advance while hewing my own path—then however insignificant that path may appear in your eyes, that is a matter for your criticism and observation, and it does me not the slightest harm. For my part, I intend to be satisfied with it. But just because I derive confidence and peace of mind from it, you must not misunderstand me into thinking that I believe the same course should serve as your model.

　Be that as it may, I am convinced that the kind of anguish I experienced is bound to arise frequently in your own cases—what do you think? If that is so, then pressing on until one strikes something is necessary, is it not, for those who pursue learning and receive an education, whether as a lifelong undertaking or as a task of ten or twenty years? Ah, here lies the path I must take! At last I have struck it! When you cry out such an interjection from the depths of your heart, only then can you begin to set your mind at ease. Does not a confidence that cannot easily be shattered rise up, swelling, along with that cry? Some among the many may already have reached that stage, but if there are any of you still agonizing midway through fog or mist, I believe it would be well—whatever sacrifice it may cost—to press on until you strike the spot where you can say, "Ah, it is here." It is not solely for the sake of the nation that I say this. Nor do I speak merely for the sake of your families. I say it because I believe it is absolutely necessary for your own happiness. If you have already passed beyond the kind of road I traveled, then there is nothing to be done; but if there is any lingering obstruction, you must advance until you trample it underfoot. —Of course, since you cannot know how to proceed even when you do advance, there is no choice but to go on until you collide with something. I have no intention whatsoever of forcing my advice upon you, but when I think that it might become one of the sources of your future happiness, I cannot remain silent. I say this because I believe that if you go on vaguely, harboring a sea-cucumber-like spirit—indecisive, never seeing things through, torn between this way and that—you will only make yourselves unhappy. If you say you are not unhappy, then so be it; and if you say you have already passed beyond such unhappiness, that too is well. I pray that you may indeed have passed beyond it. But I myself, after leaving school, could not pass beyond it until past thirty. That pain was, to be sure, a dull ache, yet it was nonetheless a pain I felt year after year. Therefore, if there is anyone among you afflicted with the same malady as mine, I cannot help but hope that you will press forward with courage. I say this because I believe that if you can reach that point, you will discover the fact that here, indeed, was a place for you to settle down, and you will be able to grasp lifelong peace of mind and confidence.

　What I have said thus far corresponds to Part I of this lecture, and I now propose to move on to Part II. The school called Gakushuin is regarded by society as a school attended by people of good social standing, and that is probably indeed the fact. If, as I suspect, no great number of the poor come here, and rather the children of the upper class alone gather here, then the first thing that must be mentioned among what will attach itself to you hereafter is power. In other words, when you go out into the world, you will be able to wield more power than the poor can when they take their place in society. As I said before, pressing on with your work until you strike something is, to be sure, for the sake of your happiness and peace of mind; but the reason it brings happiness and peace of mind is that your inborn individuality, colliding with that something, at last finds its footing. And as you settle down there and gradually advance forward, that individuality develops more and more. Only when your work and your individuality fit together harmoniously can you at last say, "Ah, here was my place of rest."

　In the same sense, if we examine the power I have just spoken of, power is a tool for forcibly imposing one's individuality, of which I spoke earlier, upon the heads of others. If it is too strong to declare it outright a tool, it is at least an instrument that can be used as such.

　Next to power comes financial power. You no doubt possess more of this as well than the poor do. Viewed in the same light, this financial power becomes an extremely convenient thing that can be used as a tool of temptation over others in order to expand one's individuality.

　Seen in this light, power and money power must be called extremely convenient tools, in that they allow one to impose one's individuality upon others more than the poor can, or to lure others in that direction. Because one possesses such power, one may appear great, but in truth it is extremely dangerous. Earlier I spoke of individuality as developing only when one reaches the place where one should settle, chiefly in matters of scholarship, literature, or taste; but in reality its application is exceedingly broad and is by no means confined to the arts and learning. I know of two brothers: the younger one prefers to stay at home and read books, while the elder wastes himself away on his fishing hobby. The elder brother, then, regards his younger brother's introverted habit of shutting himself up at home as something utterly detestable. Concluding that it is because the younger brother does not fish that he has become so world-weary, he tries to drag him out fishing at every turn. The younger brother finds this unbearably unpleasant, but because the elder, with high-handed pressure, makes him carry a fishing rod and a creel and commands him to accompany him to the fishing pond, he closes his eyes, tags along, catches a creepy crucian carp or two, and returns reluctantly. But did the younger brother's character change as the elder planned? Not in the least; rather, he grows all the more rebellious against this business of fishing. In other words, fishing and the elder brother's nature fit together perfectly, with no gap between them; but that is what may be called the elder brother's individuality, and it has absolutely nothing to do with the younger brother. This is, of course, not an example of money power; it serves to illustrate power that intimidates others. For the elder brother's individuality oppresses the younger and forces him to fish. To be sure, in certain cases—for instance, when receiving lessons, when one becomes a soldier, or when military life is made the principal rule even in a dormitory—in all such cases, some degree of this high-handed means cannot be avoided. But I am speaking chiefly of the time when you stand on your own and go out into the world, so you must listen with that in mind.

　Thus, as I said before, when one happens upon what one believes to be good, what one loves, what suits one's nature, and in the course of developing one's individuality through it, one forgets the distinction between self and other and comes to feel, "I must somehow drag that fellow into my circle too." At such a time, if one has power, a strange relationship like that of the brothers I mentioned earlier comes into being; and if one has money power, one scatters it about, trying to fashion others into one's own likeness. In other words, one uses money as a tool of temptation, seeking through its seductive force to transform others into beings who please oneself. Either way, a very great danger arises.

　And so I have long held the following view. First, unless you press forward until you discover work that fits you perfectly, settling yourself in a place where your individuality can develop, you will be unhappy for life. Yet if society permits you to respect your own individuality to that degree, then it naturally follows that you should also acknowledge the individuality of others and respect their inclinations. To my eyes, this is nothing less than necessary and right. If I am by nature inclined to face right, to declare that another's facing left is inexcusable seems to me quite unreasonable. To be sure, when it comes to questions of good and evil, right and wrong, which are formed from the convergence of complex elements, I cannot speak without calling upon somewhat intricate powers of analysis; but in cases where such questions do not arise, or where they arise without complication, I can only believe that so long as one enjoys freedom from others, one must grant others an equal measure of freedom and treat them on equal terms.

　Lately, people seem to use the words "self" and "self-awareness" as a license to do whatever they please, claiming it matters not what they do; yet among such claims there are many that are highly suspect. While they speak of respecting their own self to the utmost, they utterly fail to acknowledge the self of others. I firmly believe, without the slightest doubt, that so long as one possesses a fair eye and a sense of justice, one must, while developing one's own individuality for one's own happiness, also grant that same freedom to others. We must not, without adequate reason, obstruct others from freely developing their individuality for the sake of their own happiness. I use the word "obstruct" here because many of you will one day stand in positions where you are truly able to obstruct others. For among you there are those who can wield power, and many who can wield money power.

　In the strictest sense, there can be no such thing in this world as power without duty attached to it. Since I stand here on this elevated platform, looking down upon you and reserving the right to have you listen quietly to what I say for an hour or two, I too am obliged to deliver a discourse worthy of keeping you in silence. Even if I were to give an ordinary lecture, my bearing and demeanor ought to possess sufficient dignity to command your respectful attention. I might say, if I chose, that I am the guest and you are the hosts, and therefore you must remain quiet—such an argument could indeed be made—but that would amount to nothing more than surface ceremony, a mere convention bearing no relation to the spirit of the matter, and thus hardly worthy of serious discussion. To take another example: you are no doubt sometimes scolded by your teachers in the classroom. But if there were in this world a teacher who only scolded and did nothing else, such a person would surely be unqualified to teach. In place of scolding, a teacher is bound to take pains in instructing you. For a teacher who holds the right to scold must also bear the duty to teach. A teacher will fully exercise the right granted for maintaining discipline and preserving order, but unless he likewise fulfills the duty inseparable from that right, he cannot properly discharge the office of a teacher.

　The same holds true for financial power. In my view, there should be no such thing in this world as a person of wealth who fails to understand responsibility. Let me explain the reason in a word. Money is an exceedingly convenient thing, adaptable freely and without hindrance to any purpose whatsoever. For example, if I were to speculate here and gain a hundred thousand yen, with that hundred thousand yen I could build a house, buy books, or enliven the pleasure quarters—in short, it can transform itself into any shape whatsoever. Among these possibilities, the fact that it can be used as a means to purchase the human spirit is surely a frightful thing. That is to say, one can scatter it about to buy up people's moral conscience, making it a tool for corrupting their souls. If money earned through speculation can exert such great force in moral and ethical matters, then one must call it a most improper application. One must think so, and yet, since money actually does operate in that way, there is no helping it. The only way to prevent the corruption of the human heart is for those who possess money to manage it with a proper moral conscience, putting it to use in ways that do no harm from the standpoint of moral principle. And so I am moved to say that responsibility must invariably accompany financial power. A person who is the owner of such wealth must cultivate the discernment to grasp that if it is used in this way in this direction, such results will follow, and if applied in that way to that society, such effects will ensue—and beyond that, he must dispose of his wealth responsibly, in accordance with that discernment, or he will have failed the world. Indeed, I would say he will have failed even himself.

　To summarize the argument thus far: first, if you wish to fully develop your own individuality, you must at the same time respect the individuality of others. Second, if you intend to exercise the power you possess, you must understand the duty that accompanies it. Third, if you desire to display your financial power, you must honor the responsibility that attends it. In short, it all comes down to these three principles.

　To put it another way, unless one is a person who has, in an ethical sense, cultivated a certain degree of moral training, one is worthy neither of developing one's individuality, nor of wielding power, nor of using financial power. To restate it once more: in order to freely enjoy these three things, one must come under the governance of the moral character that should stand behind them. If a person without moral character recklessly tries to develop his individuality, he obstructs others; if he tries to use power, he falls into abuse of it; if he tries to employ financial power, he brings about the corruption of society. Such a person comes to present exceedingly dangerous phenomena. And since these three things are what you will find easiest to approach in the future, I believe you must, by all means, become people of sound moral character.

　I digress a little, but as you know, England is a country that greatly values freedom. For all its love of freedom, there is no country more orderly than England. To be honest, I do not care for England. I dislike it, but since it is a fact, I mention it reluctantly. A country so free and yet so well-ordered is probably unmatched anywhere in the world. Japan cannot even begin to compare. But they are not merely free; from childhood they receive a thorough social education that teaches them to love their own freedom while respecting the freedom of others. Hence, behind their freedom there is always the idea of duty. The famous words of Nelson, "England expects every man to do his duty," are by no means a mere passing sentiment. They are surely a thought with deep roots, developed hand in hand with their freedom.

　When they have grievances, they often hold demonstrations. Yet the government never interferes in a meddlesome way; it simply leaves them alone. For their part, those who stage demonstrations know well enough not to resort to reckless violence that would inconvenience the government. Recently, the newspapers have shown people like the suffragists committing all sorts of outrages, but those are, well, exceptions. If one says they are too numerous to be called exceptions, there is nothing to be said, but it seems we have no choice but to regard them as such. Whether it is because they cannot marry, cannot find employment, or because they exploit the long-cultivated custom of respecting women, in any case that is not the usual demeanor of the Englishman. Slashing famous paintings, going on hunger strikes in prison to harass the warders, binding themselves to the benches of Parliament and deliberately shouting at the top of their voices—these are surprising phenomena, though perhaps they act on the assumption that since men will defer to women no matter what they do, it does not matter. But whatever the reason, it strikes me as something irregular. The general English temperament, as I have just described, seems to love freedom only to the extent that it never departs from the sense of duty.

　I do not mean to hold England up as a model in any way, but in short, I believe that freedom unaccompanied by a sense of duty is not true freedom. This is because such selfish freedom can never truly exist in society; even if it did, it would surely be rejected and trampled upon by others. I earnestly desire that you may be free, and at the same time I cannot but hope that you will come to understand what duty means. It is in this sense that I make no hesitation in declaring myself an individualist.

　There must be no misunderstanding about the meaning of this individualism. Especially since you are young people, I would feel responsible if I were to instill a misconception in you, so I ask that you pay close attention to this point. As time is pressing, I shall explain as briefly as possible: individual freedom is extremely necessary for the development of individuality, as I mentioned earlier, and since that development of individuality in turn has a profound bearing on your happiness, it seems to me that, as long as it does not affect others, one must both maintain for oneself and grant to others the freedom to the extent that it is permissible for me to look to the left and for you to look to the right. That, in essence, is what I mean by individualism. The same holds true in matters of financial power and power: what would happen if one were to abuse them—saying, for instance, "He is a fellow I dislike, so let us do away with him," or "He does not please me, so let us crush him," even when no wrong has been committed? Not only would human individuality be utterly destroyed thereby, but human unhappiness would inevitably arise from it as well. For example, suppose I have done nothing improper, yet simply because the government does not favor me, the Superintendent General of the Metropolitan Police were to have police officers surround my house—what would that be like? The Superintendent General may have that much power, but morality does not permit him to use such power in that way. Or again, suppose a wealthy merchant such as Mitsui or Iwasaki, merely because he dislikes me, were to bribe the servants of my household to defy me at every turn—what would that be like? If there were even a modicum of moral character behind their financial power, they could never bring themselves to commit such lawlessness.

　These evils all arise from a failure to understand morally grounded individualism; they are nothing but the selfishness of trying to spread oneself alone, whether through power or financial power, over everyone else. Therefore, individualism—the individualism I speak of here—is by no means something that endangers the state, as common people think. Rather, my interpretation is that one respects one's own existence at the same time as respecting the existence of others, and so I consider it a noble principle.

　To put it more plainly, it is a principle that has no factional spirit but has a sense of right and wrong. It is about not forming cliques or creating groups, and not engaging in blind action for the sake of power or financial power. That is why, lurking beneath its surface, there is a loneliness unknown to others. Since it is not a faction, one simply goes one's own way along the path one must take, and at the same time, because one does not obstruct the path others must take, there are times and occasions when people must go their separate ways. That is what is lonely about it. Once, when I was in charge of the literary section of the Asahi Shimbun, I wrote something unflattering about someone—whoever it was—Miyake Setsurei. Of course, it was not a personal attack, merely a critique. And it was only two or three lines at that. When it appeared, I cannot say exactly, but since I was the editor, though I was ill at the time, it may have been during that illness, or perhaps it was not, and I had determined it was fit to publish. At any rate, that critique appeared in the literary section of the Asahi. Then the crowd at "Japan and the Japanese" grew angry. They did not come to me directly, but they demanded a retraction from the man who was then working under me. And it was not from the man himself. It was from one of Setsurei's henchmen—though calling him a henchman sounds rather like something out of a gambler's world, which is odd—but in any case, a contributor, as it were, who insisted that the critique must be retracted. If it were a matter of fact, that would be one thing, but since it was a critique, what could be done about it? On my side, there was no recourse but to say it was my freedom to do so. Moreover, what made it even more astonishing was that among those who demanded the retraction, there were people in the "Japan and the Japanese" circle who wrote unflattering things about me in every issue. I did not negotiate directly, but when I heard the story indirectly, I felt a strange sensation. For it seemed that while I was acting on individualism, they were operating on factionalism. At the time, I had even published in my own literary section critiques that spoke ill of my own works, so I was both surprised and found it strange that their so-called contributors should all take offense at once because they disliked a comment about Setsurei. With all due respect, I also thought it was behind the times. It seemed to me like the groups of people from the feudal era. Yet, thinking so, I could not escape a certain loneliness. I believed that differences of opinion could not be helped even between the closest of friends, and so, although I might offer advice to the young people who came and went from my house, I never, unless there was some grave reason, imposed suppression on their expression of opinions. I recognize the existence of others to that degree—that is, I grant them that much freedom. Therefore, even if they are not inclined to help, no matter how much I might feel a sense of humiliation, I can never ask for their assistance. That is the loneliness of individualism. Because individualism, before deciding one's stance based on other people, first clarifies right and wrong and then determines one's course, there are times when one is left utterly alone and feels a lonely heart. That is only to be expected. Even a bundle of brushwood feels secure when bound together.

　Now, to prevent another misunderstanding, I would like to add one remark. It seems that when one hears the word 'individualism,' it is often taken as the opposite of nationalism, something that seeks to tear it down. But it is not such a vague, illogical thing. In general, I am not particularly fond of the word 'ism,' for I do not believe that human beings can be neatly categorized under a single doctrine. However, for the sake of explanation, I will reluctantly speak of various matters under the heading of 'ism' here. Some people proclaim and believe that present-day Japan cannot survive unless it embraces nationalism. Moreover, there are not a few who advocate that unless individualism is trampled underfoot, the nation will perish. Yet such a ridiculous notion can never be true. In fact, we are at once nationalists, cosmopolitanists, and also individualists.

　Individualism, which should serve as the foundation of personal happiness, certainly has personal freedom as its content, but the freedom each person enjoys rises and falls like a thermometer according to the safety or danger of the nation. This might better be called a theory derived from fact rather than mere theory—that is, it is the natural state of things. When the nation is in danger, personal freedom is narrowed; when the nation is at peace, personal freedom expands. That is only natural. Anyone with moral character, so long as he possesses it, would never misstep so far as to fixate only on the development of his individuality, heedlessly, at a time when the nation is on the verge of ruin or survival. Please understand that my individualism also contains a warning to those who, after the fire is over, still insist that a fire hood is needed and complain of discomfort for no reason. To give another example: in the old days, when I was at the Higher School, I helped establish a certain society. I have forgotten the details of its name and its principles, but in any case it was a vociferous society that championed nationalism. It was certainly not a bad society or anything of the sort. Kinoshita Hiroji, the principal at the time, seemed to support it considerably. All the members wore badges on their chests. I alone declined the badge, but I was still made a member. Of course, since I was not one of the founders, I had considerable objections, but I joined on the principle that there could be no harm in belonging. Now, when the inaugural ceremony was held in a large hall, on some occasion or other, one of the members stood on the platform and delivered something like a speech. Although I was a member, I disagreed with much of his opinion, and I recall that I had already attacked the society's principles considerably beforehand. Yet when the inaugural ceremony finally came and I listened to the speech of the man I have just mentioned, it was nothing more than a refutation of my own arguments. Whether it was deliberate or accidental I cannot say, but inevitably I felt the need to respond. Reluctantly, I ascended the platform after him. My bearing and manners at the time were, I think, exceedingly unseemly, but even so I said what needed to be said, briefly, and stepped down. You may ask what I said on that occasion, but it was extremely simple. I said this: "The nation may be important, but to go on about the nation from morning till night, as though possessed by it, is simply not something we can do. There may be those who say one must think of nothing but the nation at all times, but in fact no one can think of a single thing without interruption. When the tofu seller walks about selling tofu, he does not do so for the sake of the nation. His fundamental purpose is to earn his own living. Yet whatever his own intention, the result, in supplying something society needs, may indirectly benefit the nation. In the same way, if at noon today I ate three bowls of rice and in the evening increased it to four, that increase or decrease was not necessarily for the sake of the nation. To speak honestly, it was decided by the condition of my stomach. But even these things, if traced through indirect after indirect, are not without some influence on the world—indeed, depending on how one looks at it, they may even have some relation to the great trends of the world. However, it would be terrible if the person concerned, thinking such thoughts, were made to eat for the nation, wash his face for the nation, or go to the toilet for the nation. It is all very well to encourage nationalism as much as one likes, but to pretend, as though one were acting for the nation, to do what is in fact impossible, is nothing but hypocrisy." My reply was roughly of that sort.

　Indeed, when the nation is in danger, there is not a single person who does not think of its safety. The safer the country is—the fewer the fears of war and the less the fear of being invaded by others—the more the national consciousness ought to diminish, and it is only natural that individualism should step in to fill that void; there is no other way to put it. Japan today is not so secure as all that. It is poor, and moreover, the country is small. Therefore, anything might happen at any time. From that standpoint, we must keep the nation in mind. Yet, so long as Japan is not a country on the verge of immediate collapse or threatened with ruin, there should be no need to run about shouting 'nation, nation' as we do. It is just like dressing up in fire gear before any fire has broken out and running through the whole neighborhood in discomfort. In the end, this is really a matter of degree: when war actually breaks out, or in a moment of crisis, those with the capacity to think—those who have cultivated their moral character so that they cannot help but think—will naturally turn in that direction, and it may well be said that it is only natural for them to devote themselves to the nation even at the cost of restricting personal freedom and curtailing personal activity. Therefore, I firmly believe that these two principles are by no means the troublesome sort that are always in contradiction and always at each other's throats. I should like to speak more fully on this point as well, but since there is no time, I shall leave it here. There is just one more thing I wish to note for your attention: national morality appears to be of a far lower order when compared with individual morality. Originally, between nation and nation, however loud the diplomatic language may be, there is not much moral conscience to be found. There is deception, there is trickery, there is fraud—it is a thoroughly messy affair. Therefore, if one takes the nation as the standard, if one regards the nation as a single body, one must be content to put up with a considerably lower grade of morality without complaint; yet when one thinks from the foundation of individualism, that morality becomes very much higher, and this is something we must consider. Hence, in times of national peace, it seems to me unquestionably right to place greater weight on individualism with its high moral conscience. On that point, since there is no time, I cannot say more than this today.

　Since I have been honored with this invitation, I have come today to preach the necessity of individualism to you who should live your personal lives to the fullest. This is because I believe it will be of some help to you after you have gone out into the world. I do not know whether my words have truly reached you, but if there is any part of my meaning that remains unclear, it must be because my manner of speaking has been insufficient or poor. Therefore, if there is any ambiguity in what I have said, do not settle for a vague understanding—please come to my house. I intend to explain as fully as I can at any time. And if, without such trouble, you have fully grasped my true intention, then my satisfaction could not be greater. As time is growing long, I shall take my leave here.

This work was published before January 1, 1931, and it is in the public domain in all countries and regions because the author died (or, in the case of a collective work, it was published or created) more than 100 years ago.

Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse

About this digital edition

This e-book comes from the online library Wikisource[1]. This multilingual digital library, built by volunteers, is committed to developing a free accessible collection of publications of every kind: novels, poems, magazines, letters...

We distribute our books for free, starting from works not copyrighted or published under a free license. You are free to use our e-books for any purpose (including commercial exploitation), under the terms of the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported[2] license or, at your choice, those of the GNU FDL[3].

Wikisource is constantly looking for new members. During the realization of this book, it's possible that we made some errors. You can report them at this page[4].

The following users contributed to this book:

CES1596

Sakoppi

Sat.d.h.

Vanished user 9fc6831189f74d3556ecc64228ec08b7

Sorafumi

Minorax

Rocket000

Nk

DieBuche

Crt

Nickshanks

Alvesgaspar

Boris23

KABALINI

Bromskloss

Tene~commonswiki

AzaToth

Bender235

PatríciaR

↑ https://wikisource.org

↑ https://www.creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0

↑ https://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html

↑ https://wikisource.org/wiki/Wikisource:Scriptorium